But it was not at the feast I looked—not at the gallant table already flashing back the gleaming crimson lights from its stored magnificence. There round that hall in groups and two and threes, chatting while they waited, laughing and talking over the incidents of the day, were some hundred warlike English nobles. And amid them, the most renowned warrior where all were famous, the tallest and most resolute-looking in a circle of heroes, stood the King. His quick, restless eye saw me enter, and he came toward me, slighting my reverence, and taking my hand like one good soldier welcoming another. He led me round that glittering throng, making me known to prince and captain, and knight and noble, and ever as we went a hush fell upon those gallant groups. Maybe ’twas all the King’s presence, but I doubt it. It was not on him all eyes were fixed so hard, it was not for him those stern soldiers were silent a spell and then fell to whisper and wondering among themselves as we passed down the pillared corridor—ah! nor was it all on account of that familiar, knightly host that the page-boys in gaping wonder upset the red wine, and the glamoured servers forgot to set down their loaded dishes as they stood staring after us! No matter! I was getting accustomed to this silent awe, and little regarded it. It was but the homage, I thought, their late-born essences paid unwitting to my older soul.
Well! we talked and laughed a spell, seeming to wait for something, the while the meat grew cold, and then the arras over the great arch at the bottom of the hall lifted, and with hasty strides, like those late to a banquet, came in two knights. The first was black from top to toe—black was his dancing plume, black was his gleaming armor, black were his gloves and gyves, and never one touch of color on him but the new golden spurs upon his heels and the broad jewel belt that held his cross-handled sword.
As this dusky champion entered a smile of pleasure shone over the King’s grave face. He ran to him and took his hand, the while he put his other affectionately on his shoulder.
“My dear boy!” he said, forgetting monarch in father, “I have been thinking of thee for an hour. You are working too hard; you must be weary. Are there no tough captains in my host that you must be in the saddle early and late, and do a hundred of the duties of those beneath you, trying with that young hand of yours each new-set stake of our evening palisades, sampling the rude soldiers’ supper-rations, seeing the troop go down to water, and counting and conning the lay of the Frenchman’s twinkling watch-fire? My dear hungry lad, you are over-zealous—you will make me grieve for that new knighthood I have put upon you!”[3]
[3] The Black Prince, then sixteen years old, was knighted on the Normandy beach, where the expedition landed.
“Oh, ’tis all right, father! I am but trying to infuse a little shame of their idle ways into this silken company of thine. But I do confess I am as hungry as well can be—hast saved a drink of wine and a loaf for me?”
“Saved a loaf for thee, my handsome boy! Why, thou shouldst have a loaf though it were the last in France and though the broad stream of England’s treasure were run dry to buy it. We have waited—we have not e’en uncovered.”
“Why, then, father, I will set the example. Here! some of you squires discover me; I have been plated much too long!” and the ready pages ran forward, and with willing fingers rid the young prince of his raven harness. They unbuckled and unriveted him, until he stood before us in the close-fitting quilted black silk that he wore beneath, and I thought, as I stood back a little way and watched, that never had I seen a body at once so strong and supple. Then he ran his hands through his curly black hair, and took his place midway down the table; the King sat at the head; and when the chaplain had muttered a Latin grace we fell to work.
It was a merry meal in that ample hall, still littered under the arches with the broken rubbish of the morning’s fight. The courteous English King sat smiling under the stranger canopy, and overhead—rocking in the breeze that came from broken casements—were the tattered flags our dead foeman’s hands had won in many wars. Our table shone with heaped splendor shot out from the spoil-carts at the door; the King’s seneschal blazed behind his chair in cloth of gold; while honest rough troopers in weather-stained leather and rusty trappings (pressed on the moment to do squires’ duty) waited upon us, and ministered, after the fashion of their stalwart inexperience, to our needs. Amid all those strange surroundings we talked of wine, and love, and chivalry; we laughed and drank, tossing off our beakers of red burgundy to the health of that soldier Sovereign under the daïs, and drank deep bumpers to the gray to-morrow that was crimsoning the eastern windows ere we had done. Indeed, we did that night as soldiers do who live in pawn to chance, and snatch hasty pleasures from the brink of the unknown while the close foeman’s watch-fires shine upon their faces, and each forethinks, as the full cups circle, how well he may take his next meal in Paradise. Of all the courtly badinage and warrior-mirth that ran round the loaded table while plates were emptied and tankards turned, but one thing lives in my mind. Truth, ’twas a strange chance, a most quaint conjunction, that brought that tale about, and put me there to hear it!
I have said that when the Black Prince entered the banquet hall there came another knight behind him, a strong, tall young soldier in glittering mail, something in whose presence set me wondering how or where we two had met before. Ere I could remember who this knight might be, the King and Prince were speaking as I have set down, and then the trumpets blew and we fell to meat and wine with soldier appetites, and the unknown warrior was forgotten, until—when the feast was well begun, looking over the rim of a circling silver goblet of malmsey I was lifting, at a youth who had just taken the empty place upon my right—there—Jove! how it made me start!—unhelmeted, unharnessed, lightly nodding to his comrades and all unwotting of his wondrous neighborhood, was that same Lord Codrington, that curly-headed gallant who had leaned against me in the white moonlight of St. Olaf’s cloisters when I was a blessed relic, a silent, mitered, listening, long-dead miracle!