 | CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner |  |
8. CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE.
THE GROUP CLUSTERED BESIDE THE CASTLE-GATE
ARE STARTLED BY THE PEAL
OF A STRANGE TRUMPET.
“Well-a-day! It's a sad thing to dwell in this
lonely place, now that all of the ancient house are
dead and gone!”
“`Dead and gone,' sir huntsman! Where
didst learn to shape thy words? The Count Aldarin
lives!”
“By my troth, he does, good Balvardo; and a
day or so past. Here have we no boisterous merriment,
no sound of your squeaking pipe or tabret
awakes the silence of these walls, no runlets of
wine flow in the beakers of the banquet hall. All
is quiet and still. Thanks to Our Lady for't!”
“Such quiet and such stillness, i'faith! Why,
man, you cannot walk along the solitary corridors
of the castle, without trembling at your own
starved shadow. Didst ever see a place swept by
the plague—all its living folk carried to the grave-yard,
leaving old Death to take care of deserted
chamber and lonely hall? Look around the court-yard
of Albarone, and ask your heart—if heart
you have—whether a plague has not swept this
place? The saints defend me! it chills my soul
to look upon these lonesome walls!”
“And I—look ye, gossips—I, Griselden, tire-woman
of my Ladye Annabel, have never, damosel
or dame, for two score long years—I am two
score and six years, come next Mass o' Christ,
not an hour more, i'faith—I have never, for two
score long years, felt so dead in heart as I do
now! In my Ladye's bower lie her garments of
price: the tunic of blue and gold which she wore
in her happy days, the white plume that once
drooped over her fair brow, the snow-white bridal
dress—all, all are there! But where is my Ladye
Annabel? Grammercy, but these are doleful
days!”
“Blood o' th' Turk! Tell me, good folk, are
ye paid to howl in chorus? Hugo, didst ever
hear such growling?”
“Faith, they do growl somewhat like a herd of
untamed bears! Yet, Balvardo, bethink thee—
there's reason for't. W-h-e-w! When I think
of the queer things that have chanced within these
few days, I might wonder, I might growl; yes,
Balvardo, I might growl, I might wonder!”
“Here, for three long days, since my lord of
Florence left the castle, have we seen no sight of
the Count Aldarin,” exclaimed the huntsman.—
“Mayhap he has buried himself alive—mayhap
he has gone up to heaven, or more likely he has
gone to—'s life, what a stitch in my side!”
“Softly, softly, sir huntsman, softly! Wise
folk speak not lightly of the Count Aldarin. The
rope on yonder gibbet swings loosely in the summer
wind—thy neck may be the first to stretch
its fibres!”
“Blood o' th' Turk, yet it does seem queer when
one comes to think of it! Not three days ago, it
was nothing but `saddle me your horses, scour
every road, bring back the traitor Guiseppo, and
hew off his caitiff head! Now—blood o' th'
Turk, it puzzles me!”
“Now, sir Balvardo, the word is: `Pay all respect
to Guiseppo; honor the youth as myself—
he is dear to me in blood, dear to me in heart,
honor Guiseppo, he rules the castle in my absence.”
“Sancta Maria!” cried the ancient tire-woman.
“Tell me, gossip, tell me, sir huntsman, how
came this about?”
“Not two nights agone, there enters the castle
gate a wandering palmer, clad in rags. Not satisfied
with asking alms at the hall door, he must
wander along the corridors of the castle, and prowl
around the door of the cell where the damsel Rosalind
is imprisoned. My Count Aldarin's suspicions
are roused: he flings the beggar's robes from
the palmer's face, and we all behold the—trim
page Guiseppo!”
“Wonder of all wonders! Now, I'll never be
astonished again in all my life!”
“Not even if any one should chance to believe
the story of thy age, which thou art wont to tell!
Hugo, look at gossip tire-woman, how her eyes
are dropping from their sockets!”
“There stood the page Guiseppo—there stood
the Count Aldarin! Nice group—eh? Axes
and gibbets were the mildest things in our
thoughts, when my lord takes the page by the
hand, smiles kindly, and leads him away. An
hour passes: the supper is spread in the banquet
hall: my Lord Aldarin appears, and with him
comes Guiseppo, clad in garments of cost—”
“And then comes the word: `Pay Sir Guiseppo
all respect—honor him as myself.' Is't not so
good gossip?”
“By my huntsman's word, it is even so! Now
tell me, sir sentinels, waiting at the castle gate,
while the Count Aldarin is buried in the depths of
the earth, sir Hugo and Balvardo, sir steward and
dame Griseldea, all of ye servitors of Albarone, is
not this matter enough for a nine day's wonder?
By'r our Lady, I never heard the like!”
“Blood o' th' Turk, 'tis wonderful!”
“W-h-e-w! 'Tis passing strange!”
“Hist—Hugo! What sound is that? 'Tis
like the tramp of war steeds!”
“Hark! The peal of a trumpet! This is
wondrous!”
And for a single moment the strangely contrasted
group gathered at the castle gate, in the mild
evening hour, stood motionless as statues, with the
figure. There was Hugo, with his vacant face
and sinister eye, clad like his comrade, Balvardo
of the beetle brow, in glittering armor of Milan
steel, each standing breast to breast, as, with pikes
half raised, they listened to the trumpet peal swelling
from the distance; there was the bluff huntsman
of the castle, his rugged visage affording a
striking contrast to the sharp features of the ancient
steward, and the thin, withered countenance
of the tire-woman, standing on either side, while
all around were clustered the servitors of Albarone,
their gay liveries flashing in the light of the setting
sun.
“Hark, Balvardo! The trumpet peal swells
louder. I hear the trampling of an hundred
steeds. Up, up to the tower of the castle gate,
and tell us what is to be seen!”
Balvardo hastily disappeared, and while the
group clustered round the lofty pillar awaited the
result of his observations with the utmost suspense,
ascended to the tower by a staircase built in the
massive wall.
“What dost see, comrade?” shouted Hugo
“The trumpet peal grows louder, and I hear the
tramp of war steeds pattering along the road to
the castle gate. What dost see, Balvardo?”
“I see a strange sight, i'faith! Horsemen issue
from the shadow of the wood toward Florence
—horsemen arrayed in strange robes, black as
night. I count one, two, three,—by my life,
there's thirteen o' them, all mounted on cream-colored
steeds!”
“Are they men-at-arms? Bear they a pennon
at their head?”
“Blood o' th' Turk, I see no men-at-arms!
They are clad in long robes, that fall sweeping almost
to the very ground. Their robes are black
as the death-pall, yet are they faced with a goodly
border of glittering gold. Now the wind sweeps
the robe of the foremost horseman aside. By my
sword, he is clad in the attire of a paynim dog!
Loose, flowing garments, with a belt of curious
embroidery, while a dark turban surmounts his
swarthy form.”
“Ride they toward the castle?”
“They ride forward two abreast; the tall figure
rides at their head. Tramp, tramp—God send
they be not wizards in disguise! A new wonder,
comrade, one of the party spurs his cream-colored
barb to the front—he is speeding toward the
astle gate! Blood o' th' Turk, he holds a trumpet
in his grasp!”
“A trumpet, Balvardo? This should be the
herald of the companie.”
“He rides up the hill, he reins his steed on the
very edge of the moat. Hark, how his trumpet
peals!”
And while the shrill and piercing sound of the
trumpet broke on the air, the group listening beside
the castle gate were startled by the sound of
a measured footstep. With one start they turned
in the direction of the sound, and beheld the person
of the new comer. He was a young cavalier,
with a smooth face, unvisited by beard, yet stamped
with the marks of premature and sudden experience,
while his slender form, clad in a jewelled
doublet, was half hidden by the folds of a sweeping
robe of purple, that fell from his shoulders, varied
by a border of snow-white ermine.
“It is him—the page Guiseppo,” murmured the
huntsman. “Mark ye, how changed he looks!
His arms folded, and his merry face clad in a
frown. Well-a-day! The world is all bewitched,
or I'm no sinful man!”
“The page Guiseppo,” whispered the shrillvoiced
steward. “Know ye not his new title?
`My Lord Guiseppo, Baron of Masserio'—nephew
of the Count Aldarin. Masserio is the name of
one of the smaller baronies annexed by my lord of
Florence to the domains of Albarone. 'Tis said
'twas confiscated to the state, because its master
meddled with the strange Order of the Steel, whose
fame has been in our ear for these four months
past.”
“Sir sentinel, canst tell me what means this
peal of trumpet, this clamor at the gates of Albarone?”
As Guiseppo advanced and spoke, every one in
the group was impressed to the very heart with
the change that had so lately passed over the appearance
and manner of the page. A score of
years could not have added more solemnity to his
visage, or given a more deep-toned sternness to
his voice.
In a moment the Lord Guiseppo—such is now
his title—was possessed of the cause of the clamor
at the castle-gate, and was about to speak, when
the trumpet peal ceased, and the clear bold voice
of the herald, broke upon the air.
“Peace to the Lord Julian of Albarone! My
master salutes the gallant knight and craves entrance
into the shelter of his lordly castle! Peace
to the Lord Julian of Albarone!”
“Be thy master, the Paynim, Mahound himself,
or the Devil his father”—rang out the hoarse tones
days behind old Death in his salutation. Lord
Julian of Albarone sleeps in the Charnel-House!”
“Then Sir Warder of the castle-gate, by thy
soldierly courtesy, I pray thee inform me—doth
his brother, the Scholar Aldarin yet live?”
“The Count Aldarin reigns Lord of Albarone!'
“Then I pray thee, bear the salutation of my
master to the Count Aldarin, and with his greeting
bear this scroll!”
“'S life—here's a net for a man to tangle his
feet with!” the group below heard the growling
words break from Balvardo—“My Lord Guiseppo”—he
exclaimed aloud, looking from the window
of the tower—“What answer shall I make to this
Wizard Herald of yon Paynim band!”
A sudden contortion passed over the features of
Guiseppo, he raised his hand wildly to his brow,
and trembled as he stood beside the castle-gate.
The spasm-like expression that passed over his
face, was scarce human in its meaning, and the
spectators started back with a sudden fear. There
are times, when the soul is shaken to its centre
by the fierce war of contending emotions, when
the heart struggles with the brain, while the reason
totters, and the intellect reels on its throne. A
contest wild as this, seemed warring between the
heart and brain of Guiseppo, the new created Lord
of Masserio.
“One moment, good Balvardo—Hugo, I am faint
—some wine, I prithee!”
Hugo offered his arm to the tottering Guiseppo,
and in a moment the Lord of Masserio, found
himself sitting on a rough bench of stone, within
the confines of the lower chamber of the Warder's
Tower, while Hugo stood motionless before
him, holding the brimming goblet of wine.
“Thanks, good Hugo—retire a moment, and I
will be my own man again—let me think,” he muttered
in a half-whisper as the Sentinel retired—
“Its like a dream—and yet the reality presses on
my brain like—lead! I feel no joy in my lordship.
Three little days—Saints of Heaven—behold
the change! Three days ago, a poor Page,
journeyed with a band of gallant soldiers! He
disappeared, no one save himself knew whither.
He came to this castle in his Palmer's rags and
perilled his life to rescue his Ladye love. He was
discovered—he already beheld the object of omen,
held above his head—he expected the axe—and
Sincta Maria! A coronet fell glittering at his feet.
His son—his son! Great God how dark the mystery!
My brain whirls—the wine, ha, ha—the
wine.”
“Sir Sentinel”—arose the voice of the Herald
without—“Wilt thou bear this scroll to the Lord
Aldarin?”
“And she is yet imprisoned! He my father!
As God lives I'm bound to stand by him to the
death! Robin's story—is it, is it true? The dark
hints of the men at-arms, with their leader Sir Geoffry—might
not this trumpet peal serve to unvarel
their meaning? The wine gives me nerve—my
brain whirls no more. And Adrian and Annabel
—must I desert their cause? Methinks I feel my
heart strings crack, at the very word! And he is
my father; he loads me with favors, burdens me with
kindness—the half crazed Guiseppo looked around
the confined chamber with a fixed and steady eye
—“I will stand by my father Aldarin to the
death!”
“Sir Warden, this delay is far from courteous
—For the last time, wilt thou bear the scroll!”
“Let the men-at-arms be ranged, along the castle
gate—“spoke the determined voice of Lord
Guiseppo, as with a steady step and unfaltering
manner he issued from the lower chamber of the
Warden's Tower—“Call the men-at-arms of his
Grace of Florence, now loitering in the halls of
the castle, call the vassals of Albarone, silently
yet hastily hither! Away Hugo—and thou Sir
Huntsman! Let it be done without delay. Balvardo—mark
ye, when I give the word let the
drawbridge be lowered and the portcullis raised.
We shall see what manner of men are these strangers—the
Lord Aldarin shall judge them by their
scroll!”
| CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE CASTLE GATE. The Ladye Annabel, or, The doom of the poisoner | |