Вальтер Скотт
The Prose Marmion
At dawn the chapel doors unclosed, and after a hasty mass from Friar John, a rich repast was served to knight and squire.
"Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse:
Then came the stirrup-cup in course;
Between the Baron and his host
No point of courtesy was lost;
Till, filing from the gate, had passed
That noble train, their Lord the last.
Then loudly rang the trumpet call;
Thundered the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,
And hid its turrets hoar;
Till they rolled forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there."
CHAPTER II
The breeze which swept away the rolling smoke from Norham, curled not the Tweed alone. Far upon Northumbrian waters, it blew fresh and strong, bearing on its wings a barque from the Abbey of Whitby on the coast of Yorkshire, sailing to St. Cuthbert's at Lindisfarne, on Holy Isle.
"The merry seamen laugh'd to see
Their gallant ship so lustily
Furrow the green sea-foam.
Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,
With five fair nuns, the galley graced.
"'T was sweet to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage;
How timid, and how curious, too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage."
Light-hearted were they all, except the Abbess and the novice Clare. Fair, kind, and noble, the Abbess had early taken the veil. Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were bounded by the cloister walls; her highest ambition being to raise St. Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample fortune – to build its bowers, to adorn its chapels with rare and quaint carvings, and to deck the relic shrine with ivory and costly gems. The poor and the pilgrim blessed her bounty and shelter.
Her pale cheek and spare form were made more striking by the black Benedictine garb. Vigils and penitence had dimmed the luster of her eyes. Though proud of her religious sway and its severity, she loved her maidens and was loved by them in return.
The purpose of the present voyage was most unhappy, and to the Abbess most painful. She came to Lindisfarne upon the summons of St. Cuthbert's Abbot, to hold with him and the Prioress of Tynemouth an inquisition on two apostates from the faith, if need were, to condemn them to death.
On the galley's prow sat the unhappy sister Clare, young and beautiful, lovely and guileless, as yet a nun unprofessed. She had been betrothed to Ralph de Wilton, whom she supposed now dead, or worse, a dishonored fugitive. After the disgrace brought upon her lover, Clare had been commanded by her guardians to give her hand to Lord Marmion, who loved her for her lands alone. Heartbroken at the fate of her true-love, and to escape this hateful marriage, she was about to take the vestal vow, and in the gloom of St. Hilda hide her blasted hopes, her youth and beauty.
As the vessel glided over the waters, she gazed into their depths, seeing only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave murmured, no breeze sighed. Again she saw a loved form on the burning sands: the dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.
Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland. Towns, towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of maidens. Tynemouth's Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair nuns told their beads. At length the Holy Island was reached. The tide was at its flood. Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their way to the island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the island and the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim's staff and sandalled foot.
As the galley flew to the port, higher and higher, the castle and its battled towers rose to view, a huge, solemn, dark-red pile. In Saxon strength the massive arches broad and round, row on row, supported by short, ponderous columns, frowned upon the approaching visitor. It stood at the very water's edge, and had been built long before the birth of Gothic architecture. On its walls the tempestuous sea and heathen Dane alike had vainly poured their impious rage. For more than a thousand years, wind, wave, and warrior had been held at bay. The deep walls of the old abbey still stood worn but unsubdued.
As they drew near, the maidens raised St. Hilda's song. Borne on the wind over the wave, their voices met a response of welcome in the chorus which arose upon the shore. Soon, bearing banner, cross, and relic, monks and nuns filed in order from the grim cloister down to the harbor, echoing back the hymn. Among her maidens, conspicuous in veil and hood, stood the Abbess, even then engaged in holy devotion.
When the reception at harbor and hall was over, and the evening banquet ended, the vestal maidens and their visitors, secure from unhallowed eyes, roamed at will through each holy cloister, aisle, gallery, and dome. Though it was a summer night, the evening fell damp and chill, the sea breeze blowing cold, and the pure-minded girls closed around the blazing hearth, each in turn to paint the glory of her favorite saint.
While, round the fire, legends were rehearsed by the happy group, a very different scene was taking place in a secret underground aisle, where a council of life and death was being held. The spot was more dark and lone than a dungeon cell. Light and air were excluded, as it was a burial place for those who, dying in sin, might not be laid within the Church. It was also a place of punishment, whence if a cry pierced the upper air, the hearer offered a prayer, thinking he heard the moaning of spirits in torment.
Few save the Abbot knew the place, and fewer still, the devious way by which it was approached. When taken there, victims and judge were led blindfold. The walls were rude rocks, the pavement, gravestones sunken and worn. The noxious vapor, chilled into drops, fell tinkling on the floor. An antique lamp, hanging from an iron chain, gave a dim light, which strove with darkness and damp to show the horrors of the scene. Here the three judges were met to pronounce the sentence of doom.
In the pale light sat the Abbess of St. Hilda. Closely she drew her veil to hide the teardrops of pity. Near her was the Prioress of Tynemouth, proud and haughty, yet white with awe. Next was the aged Abbot of St. Cuthbert, or, as he was called, the "Saint of Lindisfarne." Before them, under sentence, stood the guilty pair. One was a maiden who, disguised in the dress of a page, had been taken from Marmion's train. The cloak and hood could not conceal or mar her beauty. On the breast of her doublet was Lord Marmion's badge, a falcon crest, which she vainly attempted to conceal.
At the command of the Prioress, the silken band that fastened the young girl's long, fair hair was undone, and down over her slender form fell the rich golden ringlets. Before them stood Constance de Beverley, a professed nun of Fontevraud. Lured by the love of Marmion, she had broken her vow, and fled from the convent. She now stood so beautiful, so calm, so pale, that but for the heaving breast and heavy breathing, she might have been a form of wax wrought to the very life.
Her companion in misery was a sorry sight. This wretch, wearing frock and cowl, was not ashamed to moan, to shrink, to grovel on the floor, to crouch like a hound, while the accused frail girl waited her doom without a sound, without a tear.
Well might she grow pale! In the dark wall were two niches narrow and high. In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water. Close to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which the culprits were to be immured.
Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be enclosed in the new made tombs. Twice he stopped, as the woeful maiden, gathering her powers, tried to make audible the words which died in murmurs on her quivering lips. At length, by superhuman effort, she sent the blood, curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein. Light came to her eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was broken, she gathered strength at every word. It was a strange sight to see resolution so high in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.
"I speak," she said, "not to implore mercy, for full well I know it would be vain. Neither do I speak to gain your prayers, for a lingering, living death within these walls will be a penance fit to cleanse my soul of every sin. I speak not for myself, but for one whom I have wronged though he never did me wrong; one who, if living, is now an exile under the ban of the King. I speak to clear the fair name of Ralph de Wilton, and to accuse Lord Marmion of Fontenaye, the traitor, to whose false words of love I listened when I left my veil and convent dear.
"Long, weary days, I bowed my pride, and humbled my honor, to ride as squire to this false knight, who daily promised me marriage. To be his slave, hoping to be his wife, I forfeited all peace on earth, all hope beyond the grave; but when he met the betrothed of Ralph de Wilton, the Lady Clare, when he learned of her vast wealth and broad lands, when he saw her face more fair than mine, he foreswore his faith. I, Constance, was beloved no more. It is an old story, often told.
"The King approved the scheme of Marmion. Vainly de Wilton pleaded his right to the hand of Clare, and when all fair means were exhausted, Ralph was accused of treason. By my woman's unworthy hand, at the command of Marmion, was forged the papers which sealed de Wilton's fate. The two men fought in mortal combat.
"'Their prayers are prayed,
Their lances in the rest are laid.'
"The result was told by the loud cry, 'Marmion! Marmion! De Wilton to the block!' Justice seemed dead, for he, ever loyal in love and in faith, was overthrown by the falsehearted. This packet will prove de Wilton innocent of treason, how innocent, these letters alone can tell, and I now give them to the sacred care of the Abbess of St. Hilda. Guard them with your life, till they rest in the hands of the King."
She paused, gathered voice and strength and proceeded:
"The Lady Clare hated the name of Marmion, mourned her dishonored lover, and fled to the convent of Whitby. The King, incensed at her action, declared she should be his favorite's bride even though she were a nun confessed. Marmion was sent to Scotland and I, cast off, determined to plan a sure escape for Clare and for myself. This false monk, whom you are about to condemn with me, promised to carry to Clare the drugs by means of which she would soon have been the bride of heaven. His cowardice has undone us both, and I now reveal the story of the crime, that none may wed with Marmion, that his perfidy may be made known to the King, who, when he reads these letters, will see his favorite deserves the headsman's axe. Now, men of death, do your worst. I can suffer and be still.
"'And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but death who comes at last.'"
The old Abbot raised his sightless eyes to heaven and said:
"'Sister, let thy sorrows cease;
Sinful brother, part in peace!'"
Up from the direful place of doom, to the light of day and to the fresh air, passed those who had held this awful trial. Shrieks and groans followed the winding steps. The peasant who heard the unearthly cries bowed his head, the hermit told his beads, the brother crossed himself, even the stag on Cheviot hills bounded to his feet, listened and then trembling lay down to hide among the mountain ferns.
