Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

by G. P. R. James

"The honour of a knight," said another old soldier, in an authoritative and somewhat pedantic tone, "should be as bright as his shield, as clear and cutting as his sword, and as pointed and steady as his lance. What he has once asserted, that he should maintain to the death; for whatever cause there may be for retracting, an imputation on his courage will still lie, if he make a moment's delay in meeting an enemy in the field."

Hugh de Monthermer remained calm and pale, but the cheek of Alured de Ashby flushed as if every word he heard was fire. As soon as possible after the banquet, he quitted the hall and sought his apartments, with a hurried and irregular step.

He found the armourers still busy in their task, as he passed through the outer chamber; and, pausing at the bench where they were working, he gazed down upon the weapons under their hands with a thoughtful but abstracted look. Then, with a sudden start, clenching his hand tight, he said, "See that all be firm and strong, Mapleton, yet not too heavy."

"Fear not, my lord--fear not," replied the armourer, "there never was better steel in all the world; and these poylins are a rare invention for the defence of the elbows and knees. I have prepared a garland, too, my lord, for your neck. I know you love it not, but 'tis much safer, if you will but wear it, though it does spoil the look of the hauberk, it must be confessed. But very often I have known the blow of a lance right in the throat kill or disable a knight, though the spear went not through the rings--'tis a trick with the Lord Hugh, too, I hear, to aim at the throat. They say he killed two men so at Evesham, and the Soldan of Egypt's brother, when he was in Paynimrie."

Alured de Ashby had long ceased to listen; but with his brow bent and his eyes fixed upon the arms, he stood thinking of other things, till the armourer ceased and looked up in his face; and then, turning away, he quitted the room without any reply. When in his own chamber, he closed the door, and for nearly two hours his foot might be heard, walking to and fro, sometimes, indeed, pausing for a minute or two, but still resuming its heavy tread.

Who can depict all the stormy passions that agitated him at that moment--the struggle that was taking place in his bosom, so different from that which had torn the heart of Hugh de Monthermer, though as violent in its degree, and proceeding from the same events. To fight in an unrighteous quarrel!--to go, solemnly appealing to Heaven for the justice of his cause, and to feel that that cause was unjust!--deliberately to persist in charging an innocent man with a horrible crime, of which he knew him to be innocent!--It was a fearful contemplation for one in whom conscience had not been smothered under many evil deeds, notwithstanding the faults and follies which sometimes blinded his eyes to right and wrong. But yet, to retract the accusation he had made--to acknowledge that he had erred--to own that he had been rash and weak--to see Hugh de Monthermer triumph--all this was repugnant to the most powerful vices of his character--to jealous pride and irritable vanity.

Nevertheless, this he might have overcome; for, as we have shown, there was a high sense of honour in his nature, and the voice of conscience was strong enough, when the question was one of such mighty moment, to overpower the busy tongue of passion, and lead him to what was right; but, alas! there was another consideration. He feared the loss of renown! The very suspicion of any dread of his adversary was enough to put every good resolution to flight; and, unhappily, the laws of chivalry opposed a barrier to his pursuing the only course of rectitude, which would have been difficult enough to surmount even had his natural disposition been different from what it was.

Then came back the remembrance of the conversation which had taken place at the banquet. It seemed to him as if the two old knights, who had declared the rules of arms, had been sitting in judgment on the cause pleaded by the disputants in his own bosom. They had pronounced against the voice of conscience--they had given sentence in favour of that fantastic honour which was based more on personal courage than on truth.

Good Heaven! he thought, that the world should suspect he was afraid to meet in arms the man he had accused! That he should fear Hugh de Monthermer--that he should take advantage of any new risen doubt to withdraw a charge which he had solemnly made, and shrink from a combat which he had himself provoked! How would men jeer at his name--how silent would the heralds stand, when he entered the court or the tilt-yard? He pictured to himself a thousand imaginary insults:--he saw knights refusing to break a lance with one who had shrunk from the wager of battle he had demanded; he saw ladies turning away their heads in scorn from the craven knight who had feared to meet an equal in the field. He could not--he would not do it!--and yet conscience still cried aloud; ay, and the voice of Kate Greenly rang in his ears, telling him that conscience was powerful to overthrow as well as to admonish; prophesying to him that he would fall before the lance of the man he knowingly injured, and that shame and defeat, as well as injustice and falsehood, would be his companions on that fatal field.

"Foul befal the girl!" he cried, "for putting such thoughts into my head; they hang upon me like a spell--they will cling to me in the hour of battle. Many a man has fought in an unjust cause--ay, and many a one has fallen. In this ordeal, is the judgment of God shown, or is it not? Is it possible to conceive that we can appeal to Him, and call upon Him to defend the right, and solemnly swear that our cause is just, all the time having a lie upon our lips, and that He will not punish? He were worse than the God of the Moslemah, if he did not. What then shall I gain? For the first time in life, I shall soil my soul with an untruth--I shall take a false oath--I shall be defeated, disgraced, with the judgment of God pronouncing that I am perjured, and die, leaving a stained and blackened name behind.--And yet, to withdraw the charge is impossible!" he continued. "Better disgraced, and hide me from contumely in the grave, than live and meet the scornful looks of every knight in Europe! My only chance is in the Prince--perhaps he may stop it. Would he were here!--I would give him the paper now! Yet I must show no desire to recant the accusation. I remember how his proud lip curled when that braggart, De Poix, slunk from the mêlée at the Northampton tournament, on pretence that his horse was lame. Curses on my own precipitate haste!--but still deeper curses on that traitor, Richard, who urged me on!--Would I could know the truth.--Oh! if I thought that it was so, I would tear his heart from his body, and trample it quivering in the dust.--The foul villain!--And my father so good to him!"