Wolfert's roost and other papers, now first collected |
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THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL,
OR
A JUDICIAL TRIAL BY COMBAT. |
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 | Wolfert's roost |  |
THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL,
OR
A JUDICIAL TRIAL BY COMBAT.
The world is daily growing older and wiser. Its institutions
vary with its years, and mark its growing wisdom; and none
more so than its modes of investigating truth, and ascertaining
guilt or innocence. In its nonage, when man was yet a fallible
being, and doubted the accuracy of his own intellect, appeals
were made to heaven in dark and doubtful cases of atrocious accusation.
The accused was required to plunge his hand in boiling oil, or
to walk across red-hot ploughshares, or to maintain his innocence
in armed fight and listed field, in person or by champion. If he
passed these ordeals unscathed, he stood acquitted, and the result
was regarded as a verdict from on high.
It is somewhat remarkable that, in the gallant age of chivalry,
the gentler sex should have been most frequently the subjects
of these rude trials and perilous ordeals; and that, too, when assailed
in their most delicate and vulnerable part—their honor.
In the present very old and enlightened age of the world,
of its own concerns, and needs no special interposition of
heaven in its affairs, the trial by jury has superseded these superhuman
ordeals; and the unanimity of twelve discordant minds is
necessary to constitute a verdict. Such a unanimity would, at
first sight, appear also to require a miracle from heaven; but
it is produced by a simple device of human ingenuity. The
twelve jurors are locked up in their box, there to fast until abstinence
shall have so clarified their intellects that the whole jarring
panel can discern the truth, and concur in a unanimous decision.
One point is certain, that truth is one, and is immutable
—until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be right.
It is not our intention, however, to discuss this great judicial
point, or to question the avowed superiority of the mode of investigating
truth, adopted in this antiquated and very sagacious
era. It is our object merely to exhibit to the curious reader, one
of the most memorable cases of judicial combat we find in the annals
of Spain. It occurred at the bright commencement of the
reign, and in the youthful, and, as yet, glorious days, of Roderick
the Goth; who subsequently tarnished his fame at home by his
misdeeds, and, finally, lost his kingdom and his life on the banks
of the Guadalete, in that disastrous battle which gave up Spain a
conquest to the Moors. The following is the story:—
There was once upon a time a certain duke of Lorraine, who
was acknowledged throughout his domains to be one of the wisest
princes that ever lived. In fact, there was no one measure adopted
by him that did not astonish his privy counsellors and gentlemen
in attendance; and he said such witty things, and made such
well nigh dislocated from laughing with delight at one, and gaping
with wonderat the other.
This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate lived for half
a century in single-blessedness; at length his courtiers began to
think it a great pity so wise and wealthy a prince should not have
a child after his own likeness, to inherit his talents and domains;
so they urged him most respectfully to marry, for the good of his
estate, and the welfare of his subjects.
He turned their advice over in his mind some four or five
years, and then sent forth emissaries to summon to his court all
the beautiful maidens in the land, who were ambitious of sharing a
ducal crown. The court was soon crowded with beauties of all
styles and complexions, from among whom he chose one in the
earliest budding of her charms, and acknowledged by all the
gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and loveliness. The courtiers
extolled the duke to the skies for making such a choice, and
considered it another proof of his great wisdom. “The duke,”
said they, “is waxing a little too old, the damsel, on the other
hand, is a little too young; if one is lacking in years, the other
has a superabundance; thus a want on one side, is balanced by an
excess on the other, and the result is a well-assorted marriage.”
The duke, as is often the case with wise men who marry
rather late, and take damsels rather youthful to their bosoms, became
dotingly fond of his wife, and very properly indulged her in
all things. He was, consequently, cried up by his subjects in
general, and by the ladies in particular, as a pattern for husbands;
and, in the end, from the wonderful docility with which
he submitted to be reined and checked, acquired the amiable and
enviable appellation of Duke Philibert the wife-ridden.
There was only one thing that disturbed the conjugal felicity
of this paragon of husbands—though a considerable time elapsed
after his marriage, there was still no prospect of an heir. The good
duke left no means untried to propitiate Heaven. He made vows
and pilgrimages, he fasted and he prayed, but all to no purpose.
The courtiers were all astonished at the circumstance. They
could not account for it. While the meanest peasant in the
country had sturdy brats by dozens, without putting up a prayer,
the duke wore himself to skin and bone with penances and fastings,
yet seemed farther off from his object than ever.
At length, the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and felt his
end approaching. He looked sorrowfully and dubiously upon his
young and tender spouse, who hung over him with tears and sobbings.
“Alas!” said he, “tears are soon dried from youthful
eyes, and sorrow lies lightly on a youthful heart. In a little
while thou wilt forget in the arms of another husband him who
has loved thee so tenderly.”
“Never! never!” cried the duchess. “Never will I cleave
to another! Alas, that my lord should think me capable of such
inconstancy!”
The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by her assurances;
for he could not brook the thought of giving her up even
after he should be dead. Still he wished to have some pledge of
her enduring constancy:
“Far be it from me, my dearest wife,” said he, “to control
thee through a long life. A year and a day of strict fidelity will
appease my troubled spirit. Promise to remain faithful to my
memory for a year and a day, and I will die in peace.”
The duchess made a solemn vow to that effect, but the uxorious
find,” thought he; so he made a will, bequeathing to her all his
domains, on condition of her remaining true to him for a year and
a day after his decease; but, should it appear that, within that
time, she had in anywise lapsed from her fidelity, the inheritance
should go to his nephew, the lord of a neighboring territory.
Having made his will, the good duke died and was buried.
Scarcely was he in his tomb, when his nephew came to take possession,
thinking, as his uncle had died without issue, the domains
would be devised to him of course. He was in a furious
passion, when the will was produced, and the young widow declared
inheritor of the dukedom. As he was a violent, highhanded
man, and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears
were entertained that he might attempt to seize on the territories
by force. He had, however, two bachelor uncles for bosom counsellors,—swaggering
rakehelly old cavaliers, who, having led loose
and riotous lives, prided themselves upon knowing the world, and
being deeply experienced in human nature. “Prithee, man, be
of good cheer,” said they, “the duchess is a young and buxom
widow. She has just buried our brother, who, God rest his soul!
was somewhat too much given to praying and fasting, and kept
his pretty wife always tied to his girdle. She is now like a bird
from a cage. Think you she will keep her vow? Pooh, pooh—
impossible!—Take our words for it—we know mankind, and,
ahove all, womankind. She cannot hold out for such a length of
time; it is not in womanhood—it is not in widowhood—we
know it, and that's enough. Keep a sharp look-out upon the
widow, therefore, and within the twelvemonth you will catch her
tripping—and then the dukedom is your own.”
The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and immediately
placed spies round the duchess, and bribed several of her servants
to keep watch upon her, so that she could not take a single step,
even from one apartment of her palace to another, without being
observed. Never was young and beautiful widow exposed to so
terrible an ordeal.
The duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon her.
Though confident of her own rectitude, she knew that it is not
enough for a woman to be virtuous—she must be above the reach
of slander. For the whole term of her probation, therefore, she
proclaimed a strict non-intercourse with the other sex. She had
females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, through whom she
transacted all her public and private concerns; and it is said that
never were the affairs of the dukedom so adroitly administered.
All males were rigorously excluded from the palace; she
never went out of its precincts, and whenever she moved about its
courts and gardens, she surrounded herself with a body-guard of
young maids of honor, commanded by dames renowned for discretion.
She slept in a bed without curtains, placed in the centre
of a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four ancient
spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons of watchfulness,
who only slept during the daytime, kept vigils throughout the
night, seated in the four corners of the room on stools without
backs or arms, and with seats cut in checkers of the hardest
wood, to keep them from dozing.
Thus wisely and warily did the young duchess conduct herself
for twelve long months, and slander almost bit her tongue off
in despair, at finding no room even for a surmise. Never was
ordeal more burdensome, or more enduringly sustained.
The year passed away. The last, odd day arrived, and a long,
long day it was. It was the twenty-first of June, the longest day
in the year. It seemed as if it would never come to an end. A
thousand times did the duchess and her ladies watch the sun from
the windows of the palace, as he slowly climbed the vault of
heaven, and seemed still more slowly to roll down. They could
not help expressing their wonder, now and then, why the duke
should have tagged this supernumerary day to the end of the
year, as if three hundred and sixty-five days were not sufficient to
try and task the fidelity of any woman. It is the last grain that
turns the scale—the last drop that overflows the goblet—and the
last moment of delay that exhausts the patience. By the time
the sun sank below the horizon, the duchess was in a fidget that
passed all bounds, and, though several hours were yet to pass
before the day regularly expired, she could not have remained
those hours in durance to gain a royal crown, much less a ducal
coronet. So she gave orders, and her palfrey, magnificently
caparisoned, was brought into the court-yard of the castle, with
palfreys for all her ladies in attendance. In this way she sallied
forth, just as the sun had gone down. It was a mission of piety
—a pilgrim cavalcade to a convent at the foot of a neighboring
mountain—to return thanks to the blessed Virgin, for having
sustained her through this fearful ordeal.
The orisons performed, the duchess and her ladies returned,
ambling gently along the border of a forest. It was about that
mellow hour of twilight when night and day are mingled, and
all objects are indistinct. Suddenly, some monstrous animal
sprang from out a thicket, with fearful howlings. The female
body-guard was thrown into confusion, and fled different ways.
gathered once more together; but the duchess was not to be
found. The greatest anxiety was felt for her safety. The hazy
mist of twilight had prevented their distinguishing perfectly the
animal which had affrighted them. Some thought it a wolf,
others a bear, others a wild man of the woods. For upwards of
an hour did they beleaguer the forest, without daring to venture
in, and were on the point of giving up the duchess as torn to
pieces and devoured, when, to their great joy, they beheld her
advancing in the gloom, supported by a stately cavalier.
He was a stranger knight, whom nobody knew. It was impossible
to distinguish his countenance in the dark; but all the
ladies agreed that he was of noble presence and captivating
address. He had rescued the duchess from the very fangs of the
monster, which, he assured the ladies, was neither a wolf, nor a
bear, nor yet a wild man of the woods, but a veritable fiery dragon,
a species of monster peculiarly hostile to beautiful females in the
days of chivalry, and which all the efforts of knight-errantry had
not been able to extirpate.
The ladies crossed themselves when they heard of the danger
from which they had escaped, and could not enough admire the gallantry
of the cavalier. The duchess would fain have prevailed on
her deliverer to accompany her to her court; but he had no time
to spare, being a knight-errant, who had many adventures on hand,
and many distressed damsels and afflicted widows to rescue and
relieve in various parts of the country. Taking a respectful leave,
therefore, he pursued his wayfaring, and the duchess and her train
returned to the palace. Throughout the whole way, the ladies
were unwearied in chanting the praises of the stranger knight;
the dragon to have enjoyed the happy deliverance of the duchess.
As to the latter, she rode pensively along, but said nothing.
No sooner was the adventure of the wood made public,
than a whirlwind was raised about the ears of the beautiful duchess.
The blustering nephew of the deceased duke went about, armed to
the teeth, with a swaggering uncle at each shoulder, ready to back
him, and swore the duchess had forfeited her domain. It was in
vain that she called all the saints, and angels, and her ladies in
attendance into the bargain, to witness that she had passed a year
and a day of immaculate fidelity. One fatal hour remained to be
accounted for; and into the space of one little hour sins enough
may be conjured up by evil tongues, to blast the fame of a whole
life of virtue.
The two graceless uncles, who had seen the world, were ever
ready to bolster the matter through, and as they were brawny,
broad-shouldered warriors, and veterans in brawl as well as
debauch, they had great sway with the multitude. If any one
pretended to assert the innocence of the duchess, they interrupted
him with a loud ha! ha! of derision. “A pretty story, truly,”
would they cry, “about a wolf and a dragon, and a young widow
rescued in the dark by a sturdy varlet, who dares not show his face
in the daylight. You may tell that to those who do not know
human nature; for our parts, we know the sex, and that's enough.”
If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they would suddenly
knit their brows, swell, look big, and put their hands upon
their swords. As few people like to fight in a cause that does
not touch their own interests, the nephew and the uncles were
suffered to have their way, and swagger uncontradicted.
The matter was at length referred to a tribunal composed of
all the dignitaries of the dukedom, and many and repeated consultations
were held. The character of the duchess, throughout
the year was as bright and spotless as the moon in a cloudless
night; one fatal hour of darkness alone intervened to eclipse its
brightness. Finding human sagacity incapable of dispelling the
mystery, it was determined to leave the question to Heaven; or
in other words, to decide it by the ordeal of the sword—a sage
tribunal in the age of chivalry. The nephew and two bully uncles
were to maintain their accusation in listed combat, and six months
were allowed to the duchess to provide herself with three champions,
to meet them in the field. Should she fail in this, or should
her champions be vanquished, her honor would be considered as
attainted, her fidelity as forfeit, and her dukedom would go to the
nephew, as a matter of right.
With this determination the duchess was fain to comply. Proclamations
were accordingly made, and heralds sent to various
parts; but day after day, week after week, and month after month,
elapsed, without any champion appearing to assert her loyalty
throughout that darksome hour. The fair widow was reduced to
despair, when tidings reached her of grand tournaments to be
held at Toledo, in celebration of the nuptials of Don Roderick,
the last of the Gothic kings, with the Morisco princess Exilona.
As a last resort, the duchess repaired to the Spanish court, to implore
the gallantry of its assembled chivalry.
The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry
on the event of the royal nuptials. The youthful king, brave,
ardent, and magnificent, and his lovely bride, beaming with all
the radiant beauty of the east, were hailed with shouts and acclamations
other in the luxury of their attire, their prancing steeds, and
splendid retinues; and the haughty dames of the court appeared
in a blaze of jewels.
In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful, but afflicted
Duchess of Lorraine made her approach to the throne. She was
dressed in black, and closely veiled; four duennas of the most
staid and severe aspect, and six beautiful demoiselles, formed her
female attendants. She was guarded by several very ancient,
withered, and grayheaded cavaliers; and her train was borne by
one of the most deformed and diminutive dwarfs in existence.
Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and,
throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful that
half the courtiers present were ready to renounce wives and mistresses,
and devote themselves to her service; but when she made
known that she came in quest of champions to defend her fame,
every cavalier pressed forward to offer his arm and sword, without
inquiring into the merits of the case; for it seemed clear that so
beauteous a lady could have done nothing but what was right; and
that, at any rate, she ought to be championed in following the
bent of her humors, whether right or wrong.
Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suffered herself
to be raised from the ground, and related the whole story of
her distress. When she concluded, the king remained for some
time silent, charmed by the music of her voice. At length: “As
I hope for salvation, most beautiful duchess,” said he, “were I
not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to my kingdom, I myself
would put lance in rest to vindicate your cause; as it is, I here
give full permission to my knights, and promise lists and a fair
Toledo, in presence of my assembled court.”
As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a
strife among the cavaliers present, for the honor of the contest.
It was decided by lot, and the successful candidates were objects
of great envy, for every one was ambitious of finding favor in the
eyes of the beautiful widow.
Missives were sent, summoning the nephew and his two
uncles to Toledo, to maintain their accusation, and a day was appointed
for the combat. When the day arrived, all Toledo was
in commotion at an early hour. The lists had been prepared in
the usual place, just without the walls, at the foot of the rugged
rocks on which the city is built, and on that beautiful meadow
along the Tagus, known by the name of the king's garden. The
populace had already assembled, each one eager to secure a favorable
place; the balconies were filled with the ladies of the
court, clad in their richest attire, and bands of youthful knights,
splendidly armed and decorated with their ladies' devices, were managing
their superbly caparisoned steeds about the field. The king
at length came forth in state, accompanied by the queen Exilona.
They took their seats in a raised balcony, under a canopy of rich
damask; and, at sight of them, the people rent the air with acclamations.
The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed
cap-a-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers of their own
roystering cast, great swearers and carousers, arrant swashbucklers,
with clanking armor and jingling spurs. When the people of
Toledo beheld the vaunting and discourteous appearance of these
knights, they were more anxious than ever for the success of the
frames of these warriors, showed that whoever won the victory
from them, must do it at the cost of many a bitter blow.
As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the
field, the fair widow appeared at the other, with her suite of grave
grayheaded courtiers, her ancient duennas and dainty demoiselles,
and the little dwarf toiling along under the weight of her train.
Every one made way for her as she passed, and blessed her beautiful
face, and prayed for success to her cause. She took her seat
in a lower balcony, not far from the sovereigns; and her pale face,
set off by her mourning weeds, was as the moon, shining forth
from among the clouds of night.
The trumpets sounded for the combat. The warriors were
just entering the lists, when a stranger knight, armed in panoply,
and followed by two pages and an esquire, came galloping into the
field, and, riding up to the royal balcony, claimed the combat as a
matter of right.
“In me,” cried he, “behold the cavalier who had the happiness
to rescue the beautiful duchess from the peril of the forest,
and the misfortune to bring on her this grievous calumny. It
was but recently, in the course of my errantry, that tidings of her
wrongs have reached my ears, and I have urged hither at all
speed, to stand forth in her vindication.”
No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the knight than
she recognized his voice, and joined her prayers with his that he
might enter the lists. The difficulty was, to determine which of
the three champions already appointed should yield his place,
each insisting on the honor of the combat. The stranger knight
would have settled the point, by taking the whole contest upon
length determined, as before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the
chance retired murmuring and disconsolate.
The trumpets again sounded — the lists were opened. The
arrogant nephew and his two drawcansir uncles appeared so completely
cased in steel, that they and their steeds were like moving
masses of iron. When they understood the stranger knight to be
the same that had rescued the duchess from her peril, they greeted
him with the most boisterous derision:
“O ho! sir Knight of the Dragon,” said they, “you who pretend
to champion fair widows in the dark, come on, and vindicate
your deeds of darkness in the open day.”
The only reply of the cavalier was, to put lance in rest, and
brace himself for the encounter. Needless is it to relate the particulars
of a battle, which was like so many hundred combats that
have been said and sung in prose and verse. Who is there but
must have foreseen the event of a contest, where Heaven had to
decide on the guilt or innocence of the most beautiful and immaculate
of widows?
The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of judicial combats,
can imagine the encounter of the graceless nephew and the
stranger knight. He sees their concussion, man to man, and horse
to horse, in mid career, and sir Graceless hurled to the ground,
and slain. He will not wonder that the assailants of the brawny
uncles were less successful in their rude encounter; but he will
picture to himself the stout stranger spurring to their rescue, in
the very critical moment; he will see him transfixing one with his
lance, and cleaving the other to the chine with a back stroke of
his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead upon the field,
title to the dukedom, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
The air rang with acclamations; nothing was heard but
praises of the beauty and virtue of the duchess, and of the prowess
of the stranger knight; but the public joy was still more increased
when the champion raised his visor, and revealed the countenance
of one of the bravest cavaliers of Spain, renowned for his gallantry
in the service of the sex, and who had been round the world in
quest of similar adventures.
That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded, and remained
for a long time ill of his wounds. The lovely duchess,
grateful for having twice owed her protection to his arm, attended
him daily during his illness; and finally rewarded his gallantry
with her hand.
The king would fain have had the knight establish his title to
such high advancement by farther deeds of arms; but his courtiers
declared that he already merited the lady, by thus vindicating
her fame and fortune in a deadly combat to outrance; and
the lady herself hinted that she was perfectly satisfied of his
prowess in arms, from the proofs she had received in his achievement
in the forest.
Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnificence. The
present husband of the duchess did not pray and fast like his predecessor,
Philibert the wife-ridden; yet he found greater favor in
the eyes of Heaven, for their union was blessed with a numerous
progeny—the daughters chaste and beauteous as their mother;
the sons stout and valiant as their sire, and renowned, like him,
for relieving disconsolate damsels and desolated widows.
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