Wager of Battle: A Tale of Saxon Slavery in Sherwood Forest

by Henry William Herbert

Sir Triamour.

The fatal third day had come about, and with it all the dreadful preparations for the judicial combat.

With what had passed in the long interval between, to those whose more than lives, whose very hearts and souls, whose ancient names and sacred honors, were staked on the event, it is not for us to know or inquire. Whether the young champion, for it was generally known that Sir Aradas de Ratcliffe, invested with the golden-spurs and consecrated with the order of knighthood, by the sword of the earl mareschal, in order to enable him to meet the appellee on equal terms, was appointed, with the full consent of the Court of Chivalry, champion for the appellant—whether, I say, the young champion ever doubted, and wished he had waited some fairer opportunity, when he might win the golden-spurs without the fearful risk of dying a shameful death, and tarnishing forever an unblemished name, I know not. If he did, it was a human hesitation, and one which had not dishonored the bravest man who ever died in battle.

Whether the young and gentle maiden, the lovely Guendolen, the most delicate and tender of women, who scarce might walk the earth, lest she should dash her foot against a stone; or breathe the free air of heaven, lest it should blow on her damask cheek too rudely—whether she never repented that she had told him, "for this I myself will gird the sword upon your thigh," when she thought of the bloody strife in which two must engage, but whence one only could come forth alive; when she thought of the mangled corpse; of the black gibbet; of the reversed escutcheon; of the dishonored name; whether she never wept, and trembled, and almost despaired, I know not. If she did not, she was more or less than woman. But her face was pale as ivory, and her eyes wore a faint rose-colored margin, as if she had either wept, or been sleepless, for above one night, when she appeared from her lodging on that awful morning; though her features were as firm and rigid as if they had been carved out of that Parian marble which their complexion most resembled, and her gait and bearing were as steady and as proud as if she were going to a coronation, rather than to the awful trial that should seal her every hope on earth, of happiness or misery.

They little know the spirit of the age of chivalry, who imagine that, because in the tilt, the tournament, the joust, the carrousel, all was pomp and splendor, music and minstrelsy, and military glory, largesse of heralds and love of ladies, los on earth and fame immortal after death, there was any such illusion or enchantment in the dreadful spectacle of an appeal to the judgment of God by wager of battle.

In it there were no gayly decorated lists, flaunting with tapestries and glittering with emblazoned shields; no gorgeous galleries crowded with ladies, a galaxy of beauty in its proudest adornment; no banners, no heralds in their armorial tabards, no spirit-thrilling shouts, no soul-inspiring music, only a solitary trumpet for the signals; but, instead of this, a bare space strewed with sawdust, and surrounded with naked piles, rudely-fashioned with the saw and hatchet; an entrance at either end, guarded by men-at-arms, and at one angle, just without the barrier, a huge black-gibbet, a block, with the broad ax, the dissecting-knife, and all the hideous paraphernalia of the headsman's trade, and himself a dark and sordid figure, masked and clad in buff of bull's hide, speckled and splashed with the gory stains of many a previous slaughter, leaning against the gallows. The seats for the spectators—for, like all other tragedies of awful and engrossing interest, a judicial combat never lacked spectators—were strewed, in lieu of silken-hangings and sendal-cushions, with plain black serge; and the spectators themselves, in lieu of the gay, holiday vestments in which they were wont to attend the gay and gentle passages of arms, wore only their every-day attire, except where some friend or favorer of the appellant or appellee, affected to wear white, in token of trust in his innocence, with a belt or kerchief of the colors worn by the favored party.

Amid all this gloom and horror, the only relieving point was the superb surcoats and armor of the constable and mareschal, and the resplendent tabard of the king-at-arms, who sat on their caparisoned horses without the lists, backed by a powerful body of men-at-arms and archers, as judges of the field, and doomsters of the vanquished in that strife which must end in death and infamy to one or the other of the combatants.

From an early hour, long before the first gray dawn of day, all the seats, save those preserved for certain distinguished personages, had been occupied by a well-dressed crowd; all the avenues to the place were filled, choked, to overflowing; the roofs, the balconies, the windows of every house that commanded a view of the lists, the steeples of the neighboring churches, the battlements and the bartizans of the gray old castle, already gray and old in the second century of Norman dominion, were crowded with eager and excited multitudes—so great was the interest created by the tidings of that awful combat, and the repute for prowess of the knights who were pitted in it to meet and part no more, until one should go down forever.

And now the shadow was cast upon the dial, close to the fated hour of ten, from the clear winter sun, to borrow the words of the greatest modern poet—

"Which rose upon that heavy day, And mocked it with its steadiest ray."