Fair Margaret

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE FALCON STOOPS

  It was the marriage day of Margaret and Peter. Clad in white armour thathad been sent to him as a present from the queen, a sign and a token ofher good wishes for his success in his combat with Morella, wearing theinsignia of a Knight of St. James hanging by a ribbon from his neck, hisshield emblazoned with his coat of the stooping falcon, which appearedalso upon the white cloak that hung from his shoulders, behind him asquire of high degree, who carried his plumed casque and lance, andaccompanied by an escort of the royal guards, Peter rode from hisquarters in the prison to the palace gates, and waited there as he hadbeen bidden. Presently they opened, and through them, seated on apalfrey, appeared Margaret, wonderfully attired in white and silver, butwith her veil lifted so that her face could be seen. She was companionedby a troop of maidens mounted, all of them, on white horses, and at herside, almost outshining her in glory of apparel, and attended by all herhousehold, rode Betty, Marchioness of Morella--at any rate for thatpresent time.

  Although she could never be less than beautiful, it was a worn and paleMargaret who bowed her greetings to the bridegroom without those palacegates. What wonder, since she knew that within a few hours his lifemust be set upon the hazard of a desperate fray. What wonder, since sheknew that to-morrow her father was doomed to be burnt living upon theQuemadero.

  They met, they greeted; then, with silver trumpets blowing before them,the glittering procession wound its way through the narrow streets ofSeville. But few words passed between them, whose hearts were too fullfor words, who had said all they had to say, and now abided the issue ofevents. Betty, however, whom many of the populace took for the bride,because her air was so much the happier of the two, would not be silent.Indeed she chid Margaret for her lack of gaiety upon such an occasion.

  "Oh, Betty!--Betty!" answered Margaret, "how can I be gay, upon whoseheart lies the burden of to-morrow?"

  "A pest upon the burden of to-morrow!" exclaimed Betty. "The burden ofto-day is enough for me, and that is not so bad to bear. Never shall wehave another such ride as this, with all the world staring at us, andevery woman in Seville envying us and our good looks and the favour ofthe queen."

  "I think it is you they stare at and envy," said Margaret, glancing atthe splendid woman at her side, whose beauty she knew well over-shadowedher own rarer loveliness, at any rate in a street pageant, as in thesunshine the rose overshadows the lily.

  "Well," answered Betty, "if so, it is because I put the better face onthings, and smile even if my heart bleeds. At least, your lot is morehopeful than mine. If your husband has to fight to the death presently,so has mine, and between ourselves I favour Peter's chances. He is avery stubborn fighter, Peter, and wonderfully strong--too stubborn andstrong for any Spaniard."

  "Well, that is as it should be," said Margaret, smiling faintly, "seeingthat Peter is your champion, and if he loses, you are stamped as aserving-girl, and a woman of no character."

  "A serving-girl I was, or something not far different," replied Betty ina reflective voice, "and my character is a matter between me and Heaven,though, after all, it might scrape through where others fail to pass. Sothese things do not trouble me over much. What troubles me is that if mychampion wins he kills my husband."

  "You don't want him to be killed then?" asked Margaret, glancing at her.

  "No, I think not," answered Betty with a little shake in her voice, andturning her head aside for a moment. "I know he is a scoundrel, but, yousee, I always liked this scoundrel, just as you always hated him, so Icannot help wishing that he was going to meet some one who hits a littleless hard than Peter. Also, if he dies, without doubt his heirs willraise suits against me."

  "At any rate your father is not going to be burnt to-morrow," saidMargaret to change the subject, which, to tell the truth, was anawkward one.

  "No, Cousin, if my father had his deserts, according to all accounts,although the lineage that I gave of him is true enough, doubtless he wasburnt long ago, and still goes on burning--in Purgatory, I mean--thoughGod knows I would never bring a faggot to his fire. But Master Castellwill not be burnt, so why fret about it."

  "What makes you say that?" asked Margaret, who had not confided thedetails of a certain plot to Betty.

  "I don't know, but I am sure that Peter will get him out somehow. He isa very good stick to lean on, Peter, although he seems so hard andstupid and silent, which, after all, is in the nature of sticks. Butlook, there is the cathedral--is it not a fine place?--and a great crowdof people waiting round the gate. Now smile, Cousin. Bow and smile asI do."

  They rode up to the great doors, where Peter, springing to the ground,assisted his bride from her palfrey. Then the procession formed, andthey entered the wonderful place, preceded by vergers with staves, andby acolytes. Margaret had never visited it before, and never saw itagain, but all her life the memory of it remained clear and vivid in hermind. The cold chill of the air within, the semi-darkness after theglare of the sunshine, the seven great naves, or aisles, stretchingendlessly to right and left, the dim and towering roof, the pillars thatsprang to it everywhere like huge forest trees aspiring to the skies,the solemn shadows pierced by lines of light from the high-cut windows,the golden glory of the altars, the sounds of chanting, the sepulchresof the dead--a sense of all these things rushed in upon her,overpowering her and stamping the picture of them for ever onher memory.

  Slowly they passed onward to the choir, and round it to the steps of thegreat altar of the chief chapel. Here, between the choir and the chapel,was gathered the congregation--no small one--and here, side by side tothe right and without the rails, in chairs of state, sat their Majestiesof Spain, who had chosen to grace this ceremony with their presence.More, as the bride came, the queen Isabella, as a special act of grace,rose from her seat and, bending forward, kissed her on the cheek, whilethe choir sang and the noble music rolled. It was a splendid spectacle,this marriage of hers, celebrated in perhaps the most glorious fane inEurope. But even as Margaret noted it and watched the bishops andpriests decked with glittering embroideries, summoned there to do herhonour, as they moved to and fro in the mysterious ceremonial of theMass, she bethought her of other rites equally glorious that would takeplace on the morrow in the greatest square of Seville, where these samedignitaries would condemn fellow human beings--perhaps among them herown father--to be married to the cruel flame.

  Side by side they knelt before the wondrous altar, while theincense-clouds from the censers floated up one by one till they werelost in the gloom above, as the smoke of to-morrow's sacrifice wouldlose itself in the heavens, she and her husband, won at last, won afterso many perils, perhaps to be lost again for ever before night fell uponthe world. The priests chanted, the gorgeous bishop bowed over them andmuttered the marriage service of their faith, the ring was set upon herhand, the troths were plighted, the benediction spoken, and they wereman and wife till death should them part, that death which stood so nearto them in this hour of life fulfilled. Then they two, who already thatmorning had made confession of their sins, kneeling alone before thealtar, ate of the holy Bread, sealing a mystery with a mystery.

  All was done and over, and rising, they turned and stayed a moment handin hand while the sweet-voiced choir sang some wondrous chant.Margaret's eyes wandered over the congregation till presently theylighted upon the dark face of Morella, who stood apart a little way,surrounded by his squires and gentlemen, and watched her. More, he cameto her, and bowing low, whispered to her:

  "We are players in a strange game, my lady Margaret, and what will beits end, I wonder? Shall I be dead to-night, or you a widow? Aye, andwhere was its beginning? Not here, I think. And where, oh where shallthis seed we sow bear fruit? Well, think as kindly of me as you can,since I loved you who love me not."

  And again bowing, first to her, then to Peter, he passed on, taking nonote of Betty, who stood near, considering him with her large eyes, asthough she also wondered what would be the end of all this play.
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  Surrounded by their courtiers, the king and queen left the cathedral,and after them came the bridegroom and the bride. They mounted theirhorses and in the glory of the southern sunlight rode through thecheering crowd back to the palace and to the marriage feast, where theirtable was set but just below that of their Majesties. It was long andmagnificent; but little could they eat, and, save to pledge each otherin the ceremonial cup, no wine passed their lips. At length sometrumpets blew, and their Majesties rose, the king saying in his thin,clear voice that he would not bid his guests farewell, since veryshortly they would all meet again in another place, where the gallantbridegroom, a gentleman of England, would champion the cause of hisrelative and countrywoman against one of the first grandees of Spainwhom she alleged had done her wrong. That fray, alas! would be nopleasure joust, but to the death, for the feud between these knights wasdeep and bitter, and such were the conditions of their combat. He couldnot wish success to the one or to the other; but of this he was sure,that in all Seville there was no heart that would not give equal honourto the conqueror and the conquered, sure also that both would bearthemselves as became brave knights of Spain and England.

  Then the trumpets blew again, and the squires and gentlemen who werechosen to attend him came bowing to Peter, and saying that it was timefor him to arm. Bride and bridegroom rose and, while all the spectatorsfell back out of hearing, but watching them with curious eyes, spokesome few words together.

  "We part," said Peter, "and I know not what to say."

  "Say nothing, husband," she answered him, "lest your words should weakenme. Go now, and bear you bravely, as you will for your own honour andthat of England, and for mine. Dead or living you are my darling, anddead or living we shall meet once more and be at rest for aye. Myprayers be with you, Sir Peter, my prayers and my eternal love, and maythey bring strength to your arm and comfort to your heart."

  Then she, who would not embrace him before all those folk, curtseyedtill her knee almost touched the ground, while low he bent before her, astrange and stately parting, or so thought that company; and taking thehand of Betty, Margaret left him.

  * * * * *

  Two hours had gone by. The Plaza de Toros, for the great square wheretournaments were wont to be held was in the hands of those who preparedit for the _auto-da-fe_ of the morrow, was crowded as it had seldom beenbefore. This place was a huge amphitheatre--perchance the Romans builtit--where all sorts of games were celebrated, among them the baiting ofbulls as it was practised in those days, and other semi-savage sports.Twelve thousand people could sit upon the benches that rose tier upontier around the vast theatre, and scarce a seat was empty. The arenaitself, that was long enough for horses starting at either end of it tocome to their full speed, was strewn with white sand, as it may havebeen in the days when gladiators fought there. Over the main entranceand opposite to the centre of the ring were placed the king and queenwith their lords and ladies, and between them, but a little behind, herface hid by her bridal veil, sat Margaret, upright and silent as astatue. Exactly in front of them, on the further side of the ring in apavilion, and attended by her household, appeared Betty, glittering withgold and jewels, since she was the lady in whose cause, at least inname, this combat was to be fought _a l'outrance._ Quite unmoved shesat, and her presence seemed to draw every eye in that vast assemblywhich talked of her while it waited, with a sound like the sound of thesea as it murmurs on a beach at night.

  Now the trumpets blew, and silence fell, and then, preceded by heraldsin golden tabards, Carlos, Marquis of Morella, followed by his squires,rode into the ring through the great entrance. He bestrode a splendidblack horse, and was arrayed in coal-black armour, while from his casquerose black ostrich plumes. On his shield, however, painted in scarlet,appeared the eagle crowned with the coronet of his rank, and beneath,the proud motto--"What I seize I tear." A splendid figure, he pressedhis horse into the centre of the arena, then causing it to wheel round,pawing the air with its forelegs, saluted their Majesties by raising hislong, steel-tipped lance, while the multitude greeted him with a shout.This done, he and his company rode away to their station at the northend of the ring.

  Again the trumpets sounded, and a herald appeared, while after him,mounted on a white horse, and clad in his white armour that glistened inthe sun, with white plumes rising from his casque, and on his shield thestooping falcon blazoned in gold with the motto of "For love and honour"beneath it, appeared the tall, grim shape of Sir Peter Brome. He, too,rode out into the centre of the arena, and, turning his horse quitesoberly, as though it were on a road, lifted his lance in salute. Nowthere was no cheering, for this knight was a foreigner, yet soldiers whowere there said to each other that he looked like one who would noteasily be overthrown.

  A third time the trumpets sounded, and the two champions, advancing fromtheir respective stations, drew rein side by side in front of theirMajesties, where the conditions of the combat were read aloud to them bythe chief herald. They were short. That the fray should be to the deathunless the king and queen willed otherwise and the victor consented;that it should be on horse or on foot, with lance or sword or dagger,but that no broken weapon might be replaced and no horse or armourchanged; that the victor should be escorted from the place of combatwith all honour, and allowed to depart whither he would, in the kingdomor out of it, and no suit or blood-feud raised against him; and that thebody of the fallen be handed over to his friends for burial, also withall honour. That the issue of this fray should in no way affect anycause pleaded in Courts ecclesiastical or civil, by the lady whoasserted herself to be the Marchioness of Morella, or by the most nobleMarquis of Morella, whom she claimed as her husband.

  These conditions having been read, the champions were asked if theyassented to them, whereon each of them answered, "Aye!" in a clearvoice. Then the herald, speaking on behalf of Sir Peter Brome, bycreation a knight of St. Iago and a Don of Spain, solemnly challengedthe noble Marquis of Morella to single combat to the death, in that he,the said marquis, had aspersed the name of his relative, the Englishlady, Elizabeth Dene, who claimed to be his wife, duly united to him inholy wedlock, and for sundry other causes and injuries worked towardshim, the said Sir Peter Brome, and his wife, Dame Margaret Brome, and intoken thereof, threw down a gauntlet, which gauntlet the Marquis ofMorella lifted upon the point of his lance and cast over his shoulder,thus accepting the challenge.

  Now the combatants dropped their visors, which heretofore had beenraised, and their squires, coming forward, examined the fastenings oftheir armour, their weapons, and the girths and bridles of theirhorses. These being pronounced sound and good, pursuivants took thesteeds by the bridles and led them to the far ends of the lists. At asignal from the king a single clarion blew, whereon the pursuivantsloosed their hold of the bridles and sprang back. Another clarion blew,and the knights gathered up their reins, settled their shields, and settheir lances in rest, bending forward over their horses' necks.

  An intense silence fell upon all the watching multitude as that of nightupon the sea, and in the midst of it the third clarion blew--to Margaretit sounded like the trump of doom. From twelve thousand throats onegreat sigh went up, like the sigh of wind upon the sea, and ere it diedaway, from either end of the arena, like arrows from the bow, likelevens from a cloud, the champions started forth, their stallionsgathering speed at every stride. Look, they met! Fair on each shieldstruck a lance, and backward reeled their holders. The keen pointsglanced aside or up, and the knights, recovering themselves, rushed pasteach other, shaken but unhurt. At the ends of the lists the squirescaught the horses by the bridles and turned them. The first coursewas run.

  Again the clarions blew, and again they started forward, and presentlyagain they met in mid career. As before, the lances struck upon theshields; but so fearful was the impact, that Peter's shivered, whilethat of Morella, sliding from the topmost rim of his foe's buckler, gothold in his visor bars. Back went Peter beneath the blow, back and stillback, till a
lmost he lay upon his horse's crupper. Then, when it seemedthat he must fall, the lacings of his helm burst. It was torn from hishead, and Morella passed on bearing it transfixed upon his spear point.

  "The Falcon falls," screamed the spectators; "he is unhorsed."

  But Peter was not unhorsed. Freed from that awful pressure, he let dropthe shattered shaft and, grasping at his saddle strap, dragged himselfback into the selle. Morella tried to stay his charger, that he mightcome about and fall upon the Englishman before he could recover himself;but the brute was heady, and would not be turned till he saw the wall offaces in front of him. Now they were round, both of them, but Peter hadno spear and no helm, while the lance of Morella was cumbered with hisadversary's casque that he strove to shake free from it, but in vain.

  "Draw your sword," shouted voices to Peter--the English voices of Smithand his sailors--and he put his hand down to do so, then bethought himof some other counsel, for he let it lie within its scabbard, and,spurring the white horse, came at Morella like a storm.

  "The Falcon will be spiked," they screamed. "The Eagle wins!--the Eaglewins!" And indeed it seemed that it must be so. Straight at Peter'sundefended face drove Morella's lance, but lo! as it came he let fallhis reins and with his shield he struck at the white plumes about itspoint, the plumes torn from his own head. He had judged well, for upflew those plumes, a little, a very little, yet far enough to give himspace, crouching on his saddle-bow, to pass beneath the deadly spear.Then, as they swept past each other, out shot that long, right arm ofhis and, gripping Morella like a hook of steel, tore him from hissaddle, so that the black horse rushed forward riderless, and the whitesped on bearing a double burden.

  Grasping desperately, Morella threw his arms about his neck, andintertwined, black armour mixed with white, they swayed to and fro,while the frightened horse beneath rushed this way and that till,swerving suddenly, together they fell upon the sand, and for a momentlay there stunned.

  "Who conquers?" gasped the crowd; while others answered, "Both aresped!" And, leaning forward in her chair, Margaret tore off her veil andwatched with a face like the face of death.

  See! As they had fallen together, so together they stirred androse--rose unharmed. Now they sprang back, out flashed the long swords,and, while the squires caught the horses and, running in, seized thebroken spears, they faced each other. Having no helm, Peter held hisbuckler above his head to shelter it, and, ever calm, awaited theonslaught.

  At him came Morella, and with a light, grating sound his sword fell uponthe steel. Before he could recover himself Peter struck back; butMorella bent his knees, and the stroke only shore the black plumes fromhis casque. Quick as light he drove at Peter's face with his point; butthe Englishman leapt to one side, and the thrust went past him. AgainMorella came at him, and struck so mighty a blow that, although Petercaught it on his buckler, it sliced through the edge of it and fell uponhis unprotected neck and shoulder, wounding him, for now red bloodshowed on the white armour, and Peter reeled back beneath the stroke.

  "The Eagle wins!--the Eagle wins! Spain and the Eagle" shouted tenthousand throats. In the momentary silence that followed, a singlevoice, a clear woman's voice, which even then Margaret knew for that ofInez, cried from among the crowd:

  "Nay, the Falcon stoops!"

  Before the sound of her words died away, maddened it would seem, by thepain of his wound, or the fear of defeat, Peter shouted out his war-cryof _"A Brome! A Brome"_! and, gathering himself together, sprangstraight at Morella as springs a starving wolf. The blue steel flickeredin the sunlight, then down it fell, and lo! half the Spaniard's helm layon the sand, while it was Morella's turn to reel backward--and more, ashe did so, he let fall his shield.

  "A stroke!--a good stroke!" roared the crowd. "The Falcon!--the Falcon!"

  Peter saw that fallen shield, and whether for chivalry's sake, asthought the cheering multitude, or to free his left arm, he cast awayhis own, and grasping the sword with both hands rushed on the Spaniard.From that moment, helmless though he was, the issue lay in doubt nolonger. Betty had spoken of Peter as a stubborn swordsman and a hardhitter, and both of these he now showed himself to be. As fresh to allappearance as when he ran the first course, he rained blow after blowupon the hapless Spaniard, till the sound of his sword smiting on thegood Toledo steel was like the sound of a hammer falling continually onthe smith's red iron. They were fearful blows, yet still the tough steelheld, and still Morella, doing what he might, staggered back beneaththem, till at length he came in front of the tribune, in which sat theirMajesties and Margaret. Out of the corner of his eye Peter saw theplace, and determined in his stout heart that then and there he wouldend the thing. Parrying a cut which the desperate Spaniard made at hishead, he thrust at him so heavily that his blade bent like a bow, and,although he could not pierce the black mail, almost lifted Morella fromhis feet. Then, as he reeled backwards, Peter whirled his sword on high,and, shouting "_Margaret!_" struck downwards with all his strength. Itfell as lightning falls, swift, keen, dazzling the eyes of all whowatched. Morella raised his arm to break the blow. In vain! The weaponthat he held was shattered, the casque beneath was cloven, and, throwinghis arms wide, he fell heavily to the ground and lay theremoving feebly.

  For an instant there was silence, and in it a shrill woman's voice thatcried:

  "The Falcon has stooped. The English hawk _has stooped!_"

  Then there arose a tumult of shouting. "He is dead!" "Nay, he stirs.""Kill him!" "Spare him; he fought well!"

  Peter leaned upon his sword, looking at the fallen foe. Then he glancedupwards at their Majesties, but these sat silent, making no sign, onlyhe saw Margaret try to rise from her seat and speak, to be pulled backto it again by the hands of women. A deep hush fell upon the watchingthousands who waited for the end. Peter looked at Morella. Alas! hestill lived, his sword and the stout helmet had broken the weight ofthat stroke, mighty though it had been. The man was but wounded in threeplaces and stunned. "What must I do?" asked Peter in a hollow voice tothe royal pair above him.

  Now the king, who seemed moved, was about to speak; but the queen bentforward and whispered something to him, and he remained silent. Theyboth were silent. All the intent multitude was silent. Knowing what thisdreadful silence meant, Peter cast down his sword and drew his dagger,wherewith to cut the lashings of Morella's gorget and give the _coupde grace_.

  Just then it was that for the first time he heard a sound, far away uponthe other side of the arena, and, looking thither, saw the strangestsight that ever his eyes beheld. Over the railing of the pavilionopposite to him a woman climbed nimbly as a cat, and from it, like acat, dropped to the ground full ten feet below, then, gathering up herdress about her knees, ran swiftly towards him. It was Betty! Bettywithout a doubt! Betty in her gorgeous garb, with pearls and braidedhair flying loose behind her. He stared amazed. All stared amazed, andin half a minute she was on them, and, standing over the fallen Morella,gasped out:

  "Let him be! I bid you let him be."

  Peter knew not what to do or say, so advanced to speak with her, whereonwith a swoop like that of a swallow she pounced upon his sword that layin the sand and, leaping back to Morella, shook it on high, shouting:

  "You will have to fight me first, Peter."

  Indeed, she did more, striking at him so shrewdly with his own swordthat he was forced to spring sideways to avoid the stroke. Now a greatroar of laughter went up to heaven. Yes, even Peter laughed, for nosuch thing as this had ever before been seen in Spain. It died away, andagain Betty, who had no low voice, shouted in her villainous Spanish:

  "He shall kill me before he kills my husband. Give me my husband!"

  "Take him, for my part," answered Peter, whereon, letting fall thesword, Betty, filled with the strength of despair, lifted the senselessSpaniard in her strong white arms as though he were a child, and hisbleeding head lying on her shoulder, strove to carry him away, butcould not.

  Then, while all that audience cheered frantically, Peter w
ith a gestureof despair threw down his dagger and once more appealed to theirMajesties. The king rose and held up his hand, at the same timemotioning to Morella's squires to take him from the woman, which, seeingtheir cognizance, Betty allowed them to do.

  "Marchioness of Morella," said the king, for the first time giving herthat title, "your honour is cleared, your champion has conquered, andthis fierce fray was to the death. What have you to say?"

  "Nothing," answered Betty, "except that I love the man, though he hastreated me and others ill, and, as I knew he would if he crossed swordswith Peter, has got his deserts for his deeds. I say I love him, and ifPeter wishes to kill him, he must kill me first."

  "Sir Peter Brome," said the king, "the judgment lies in your hand. Wegive you the man's life, to grant or to take."

  Peter thought a while, then answered:

  "I grant him his life if he will acknowledge this lady to be his trueand lawful wife, and live with her as such, now and for ever, stayingall suits against her."

  "How can he do that, you fool," asked Betty, "when you have knocked allhis senses out of him with that great sword of yours?"

  "Perhaps," suggested Peter humbly, "some one will do it for him."

  "Yes," said Isabella, speaking for the first time, "I will. On behalf ofthe Marquis of Morella I promise these things, Don Peter Brome, beforeall these people here gathered. I add this: that if he should live, andit pleases him to break this promise made on his behalf to save him fromdeath, then let his name be shamed, yes, let it become a byword and ascorn. Proclaim it, heralds."

  So the heralds blew their trumpets and one of them called out thequeen's decree, whereat the spectators cheered again, shouting that itwas good, and they bore witness to that promise.

  Then Morella, still senseless, was borne away by his squires, Betty inher blood-stained robe marching at his side, and his horse having beenbrought to him again, Peter, wounded though he was, mounted and gallopedround the arena amidst plaudits such as that place had never heard,till, lifting his sword in salutation, suddenly he and his gentlemenvanished by the gate through which he had appeared.

  Thus strangely enough ended that combat which thereafter was alwaysknown as the Fray of the Eagle and the English Hawk.