University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
WAGER OF BATTLE.

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 scared 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—

The castle gates rolled open on their hinges, grating harsh
thunder; and forth came a proud procession, the high-justiciary
and his five associate judges, with their guard of halberdiers,
and the various high officers of the court, among
these the sheriff, whose anxious and interested looks, and, yet

more, whose pale and lovely daughter, hanging on his arm,
so firm and yet so wan and woe-begone, excited general
sympathy.

And when it was whispered through the multitude, as it
was almost instantaneously—for such things travel as by instinct—that
she was the betrothed of the young appellant,
and that, to win her with his spurs of gold, he had assumed
this terrible emprize, all other excitement was swallowed up
in the interest created by the cold and almost stern expression
of her lovely features, and her brave demeanor.

And more ladies than one whispered in the ears of those
who were dearest to them; “If he be vanquished, she will
not survive him!”

And many a manly voice, shaken in a little of its firmness,
made reply;

“He may be slain, but he can not be vanquished.”

Scarcely had the members of the Court been seated, with
those of the higher gentry and nobility, who had waited to
follow in their suit, when from the tower of a neighboring
Cistercian house, the clock struck ten; and, now, as in that
doleful death-scene in Parisina;

While those bells were yet tolling, and before the echoes
of the last stroke of ten had died away, two barefooted friars
entered the lists, one at either end, each carrying a Bible and
a crucifix; and at the same moment the two champions
were seen advancing, each to his own end of the lists, accompanied
by his sureties or god-fathers, all armed in complete
suits of chain-mail; Sir Aradas as appellant, entering at the
east, Sir Foulke at the left, end of the inclosure.

Here they were met each by one of the friars; the constable
and mareschal riding close up to the barriers, to hear the
plighting of their oaths.

And at this moment, the eyes of all the multitude were
riveted on the forms of the two adversaries, and every judgment
was on the stretch to frame auguries of the issue, from
the thews, the sinews, and the demeanor, of the two champions.

It was seen at a glance that Sir Foulke d'Oilly was by far
the stronger-built and heavier man. He was exceedingly
broad-shouldered, and the great volume of his humeral muscles
gave him the appearance of being round-backed; but he was
deep-chested, and long-armed; and, though his hips were
thick and heavy, and his legs slightly bowed—perhaps in consequence
of his almost living on horseback—it was evident
that he was a man of gigantic strength, impaired neither by
excess nor age, for he did not seem to be more than in his
fortieth year.

Sir Aradas de Ratcliffe, on the contrary, was nearly three
inches taller than his opponent, and proportionately longer in
the reach; but altogether he was built more on the model of an
Antinous than a Hercules. If he were not very broad in the

shoulders, he was singularly deep and round in the chest, and
remarkable for the arched hollow of his back and the thinness
of his flanks. His arms and legs were irreproachable, and, all
in all, he trod the firm earth with

But it was from the features of the two men that most took
their auspices, and that the friends of Aradas drew confident
augury of his triumph.

The face of Sir Foulke d'Oilly was flaccid and colorless, with
huge over-lapping brows shading his small keen eyes with a
pent-house of grizzly bristles, large pendant cheeks, a sinister
hooked nose, and a mouth indicative of lust, cruelty, and iron
firmness—altogether, a sordid vulturine type of man.

The features of Aradas, on the contrary, were clean, clear,
fleshless, and finely marked; a broad, smooth forehead,
straight-cut black eyebrows, well-opened hazel eyes, with a
tawny flash when excited, like to that of a lion or an eagle, a
nose slightly aquiline, and a mouth not less benevolent than
resolute. No one could look at him and his opponent, without
thinking instinctively of the gallant heaven-aspiring falcon
matched with the earthly, carrion vulture.

Nor was there less meaning or omen in the tone of their
voices, as they swore.

Men paused to listen breathlessly; for among the lower
classes on the field there were heavy bets pending on the
issue, and the critical judges of those days believed that there
was much in the voice of a man.

As each entered the lists, he was met by a friar, who

encountered him with the question, “Brother, hast thou confessed
thy sins this morning?”

To this, D'Oilly muttered a reply, inaudible to the questioner;
but Aradas made answer, in a voice that rang like a
silver bell, “I have confessed my sins, father, and, thanks to
the Lord Jesus, have received absolution and the most holy
sacrament of his body.”

The questions were then put to both, to be answered with
the hand on the evangelists and the lip on the crucifix—

“Do you hereby swear that your former answers and
allegations are all true; that you bear no weapons but those
allotted by the court; that you have no charms about you;
that you place your whole trust in God, in the goodness of
your cause, and in your own prowess?”

To this solemn query, Sir Foulke replied only by the two
words, “I swear!” and those so obscurely uttered, that the
constable called on him to repeat them.

But Sir Aradas raised his head, and looked about him
with a frank and princely air. “I hereby swear,” he said,
“that which I swore heretofore—that Sir Foulke d'Oilly is a
murderer, a liar, and a traitor—to be true, and on his body I
will prove it; that I have not, nor will use any weapons save
what the court allot me; that I wear neither charm nor talisman;
and that, save in my good cause, my own right hand,
and my trust in God, I have not whereon to rest my hope,
here, or hereafter. So may He help me, or desert me at my
utmost need, on whose evangelists I am now sworn.”

Then the godfathers led the men up face to face, and each
grasping the other by the mailed right hand, they again
swore—

The appellant, “My uttermost will I do, and more than my
uttermost, if it may be, to slay thee on this ground whereon
we stand, or to force thee to cry `craven'—so help me God,
in his most holy heaven!”

And the appellee, “My uttermost will I do, and more, if
may be, than my uttermost, to prove my innocence upon thy
body, on this ground whereon we stand—so help me God, in
the highest!”

The same difference was observed in the voices of the two
men, as they again swore; for while the tones of Aradas had
the steel-tempered ring of the gallant game-cock's challenge,
the notes of Sir Foulke were liker to the quavering croak of
the obscene raven.

Then the godfathers retired them, till they stood face
to face, with thirty feet between them, and delivered to them
the arms allotted by the court. These were—a dagger, with
a broad, flat blade, eighteen inches in length, worn in a scabbard
on the right side, behind the hip; an estoc, or short
sword, of about two feet six, with a sharp point, and grooved
bayonet-blade, hanging perpendicularly on the left thigh; and
a huge two-handed broadsword, four feet from guard to point,
with a hilt of twenty inches, and a great leaden pommel to
counterbalance the weight of the blade in striking.

Their defensive arms were nearly similar. Each wore a
habergeon, or closely-fitting shirt of linked mail, with mail
sleeves, mail hose, poldrons, genouillieres, and shoes of plated
splints of steel; and flat-topped helmets, with avantailles and
beavers. But the neck of Sir Foulke d'Oilly was defended by
the new-fashioned gorget of steel plates, while Aradas adhered
to the old mail-hood or tippet, hooked on to the lower rim of

his beaver. And it was observed that while D'Oilly wore his
small heater-shaped shield on his left arm, De Ratcliffe threw
his over his shoulder, suspended from the chain which held it
about his neck, so as to leave both his arms free to wield his
mighty war-sword.

Beyond this, it was only noted that in the casque of Sir
Aradas was a lady's glove, and on his left arm an azure scarf,
fringed with gold, such as the pale girl on the seneschal's arm
wore, over her snow-white cymar, crossing her left shoulder
and the region of her heart.

And now the godfathers left the lists, and none remained
within them save the two champions facing each other, like
two pillars of steel, as solid and as motionless, until the word
should be given to set on, and the two barefooted friars,
crouching on their knees in the angles of the lists, muttering
their orisons before the crucifixes, which they held close
before their eyes, as if to shut out every untoward sight which
might mar their meditations.

Then a single trumpet was blown. A sharp, stern, warning
blast. And a herald made proclamation;

“Oyez! oyez! oyez! This is champ clos, for the judgment
of God. Therefore, beware all men, to give no aid or comfort
to either combatant, by word, deed, sign, or token, on pain of
infamy and mutilation.”

Then the constable rose in his stirrups, and cried aloud—

“Let them go!”

And the trumpet sounded.

“Let them go!”

And, again, the trumpet sounded.

“Let them go! Do your duty!”

And the earl mareschal answered,

“And may God defend the right!”

And, the third time, the trumpet sounded, short and direful
as the blast of doom; and at that deadly summons, with
brandished blades, both champions started forward; but the
first bound of Sir Aradas carried him across two thirds of the
space, and his word fell like a thunderbolt on the casque of
his antagonist, and bent him almost to his knee. But that
was no strife to be ended at a blow; and they closed, foot to
foot, dealing at each other sweeping blows, which could not
be parried, and could scarcely be avoided, but which were
warded off by their armor of proof.

It was soon observed that Sir Foulke d'Oilly's blows fell
with far the weightier dint, and that, when they took effect, it
was all his lighter adversary could do to bear up against
them. But, on the other hand, it was seen that, by his wonderful
agility, and the lithe motions of his supple and elastic
frame, Sir Aradas avoided more blows than he received, and
that each stroke missed by his enemy told almost as much
against him as a wound.

At the end of half an hour, no material advantage had
been gained; the mail of either champion was broken in
many places, and the blood flowed, of both, from more
wounds than one; that of Aradas the more freely.

But as they paused, perforce, to snatch a moment's breath,
it was clear that Sir Aradas was the fresher and less fatigued
of the two; while Sir Foulke was evidently short of wind,
and hard pressed.

It was not the young man's game to give his enemy time
—so, before half a minute had passed, he set on him again,

with the same fiery vigor and energy as before. His opponent,
however, saw that the long play was telling against
him, and it appeared that he was determined to bring the
conflict to a close by sheer force.

One great stride he made forward, measuring his distance
accurately with his eye, and making hand and foot keep time
exactly, as he swung his massive blade in a full circle round
his head, and delivered the sweeping blow, at its mightiest
impetus, on the right side of his enemy's casque.

Like a thunderbolt it fell; and, beneath its sway, the
bacinet, cerveilliere, and avantaille of Aradas gave way, shattered
like an egg-shell. He stood utterly unhelmed, save that
the beaver and the base of the casque, protecting the nape of
his neck and his lower jaw, held firm, and supported the
mailed hood of linked steel rings, which defended his neck to
the shoulder. All else was bare, and exposed to the first
blow of his now triumphant antagonist.

The fight seemed ended by that single blow; and, despite
the injunction of the herald, a general groan burst from the
assembly. Guendolen covered her face with her hands for a
second, but then looked up again, with a wild and frenzied eye,
compelled to gaze, to the last, on that terribly fascinating scene.

But then was it shown what might there is in activity,
what resistless power in quickness. For, leaping and bounding
round the heavy giant, like a sword-player, letting him
waste his every blow on the empty air or in the impassive
sawdust, Aradas plied his sword like a thrasher's flail, dealing
every blow at his neck and the lacings of his casque, till
fastening after fastening broke, and it was clear that D'Oilly,
too, would be unhelmed in a few more moments.

The excitement of the people was ungovernable; they
danced in their seats, they shouted, they roared. No heralds,
no pursuivants, no men-at-arms, could control them. The
soul of the people had awakened, and what could fetter it?

Still, wonderful as they were, the exertions of Aradas, completely
armed in heavy panoply, were too mighty to last.
The thing must be finished. Down came the trenchant blade
with a circling sweep, full on the jointed-plates of D'Oilly's
new-fangled gorget. Rivet after rivet, plate after plate, gave
way with a rending crash; his helmet rolled on the ground.
He stood bare-headed, bare-throated, unarmed to the shoulders.

But the same blow which unhelmed D'Oilly disarmed Aradas.
His faithless sword was shivered to the hilt; and what
should he do now, with only that weak, short estoc, that
cumbrous dagger, against the downright force of the resistless
double-handed glaive?

Backward he sprang ten paces. The glittering estoc was
in his right, the short massive dagger in his left. He dropped
on his right knee, crouching low, both arms hanging
loosely by his sides, but with his eye glaring on his foeman,
like that of the hunted tiger.

No sooner had Sir Foulke rallied from the stunning effects
of the blow, and seen how it was with him, his enemy disarmed,
and, as it seemed, at his power, than a hideous sardonic
smile glared over his lurid features, and he strode forward
with his sword aloft, to triumph and to kill. When he was
within six paces of his kneeling adversary, he paused, measured
his distance—it was the precise length for one stride,
one downright blow, on that bare head, which no earthly
power could now shield against it.

There was no cry now among the people—only a hush.
Every heart stood still in that vast concourse.

“Wilt die, or cry `craven?”'

The eye of Aradas flashed lightning. Lower, he crouched
lower, to the ground. His left hand rose slowly, till the
guard of his dagger was between his own left, and his enemy's
right eye. His right hand was drawn so far back, that the
glittering point of the estoc only showed in front of his hip.
Lower, yet lower, he crouched, almost in the attitude of the
panther couchant for his spring.

One stride made Sir Foulke d'Oilly forward; and down,
like some tremendous engine, came the sword-sweep—the
gazers heard it whistle through the air as it descended.

What followed, no eye could trace, no pen could describe.
There was a wild cry, like that of a savage animal; a fiery
leap through a cloud of whirling dust; a straight flash
through the haze, like lightning.

One could see that somehow or other that slashing cut was
glanced aside, but how, the speed of thought could not trace.

It was done in a second, in the twinkling of an eye. And,
as the dust subsided, there stood Aradas, unmoved and calm
as the angel of death, with his arms folded, and nothing in
his hand save the dagger shivered to the guard. And at his
feet lay his enemy, as if stricken by a thunderbolt, with his eyes
wide open and his face to heaven, and the deadly estoc buried,
to the gripe, in the throat, that should lie no more forever.

Pass we the victor's triumph, and the dead traitor's doom;
pass we the lovers' meeting, and the empty roar of popular
applause. That was, indeed, the judgment of God; and
when God hath spoken, in the glory of his speechless workings,
it is good that man should hold his peace before him.