“Fleming, it shall be compensated to thee with an overflowing measure. The liberality of Gwenwyn is as the summer rain.”
“My whole mills and buildings have been this morning burnt to the earth—”
“Thou shalt have a thousand marks of silver, man, in the place of thy goods,” said the Welshman; but the Fleming continued, without seeming to hear him, to number up his losses.
“My lands are forayed, twenty kine driven off, and—”
“Threescore shall replace them,” interrupted Jorworth, “chosen from the most bright-skinned of the spoil.”
“But my daughter—but the Lady Eveline”—said the Fleming, with some slight change in his monotonous voice, which seemed to express doubt and perplexity—”You are cruel conquerors, and—”
“To those who resist us we are fearful,” said Jorworth, “but not to such as shall deserve clemency by surrender. Gwenwyn will forget the contumelies of Raymond, and raise his daughter to high honour among the daughters of the Cymry. For thine own child, form but a wish for her advantage, and it shall be fulfilled to the uttermost. Now, Fleming, we understand each other.”
“I understand thee, at least,” said Flammock.
“And I thee, I trust?” said Jorworth, bending his keen, wild blue eye on the stolid and unexpressive face of the Netherlander, like an eager student who seeks to discover some hidden and mysterious meaning in a passage of a classic author, the direct import of which seems trite and trivial.
“You believe that you understand me,” said Wilkin; “but here lies the difficulty,—which of us shall trust the other?”
“Darest thou ask?” answered Jorworth. “Is it for thee, or such as thee, to express doubt of the purposes of the Prince of Powys?”
“I know them not, good Jorworth, but through thee; and well I wot thou art not one who will let thy traffic miscarry for want of aid from the breath of thy mouth.”
“As I am a Christian man,” said Jorworth, hurrying asseveration on asseveration—”by the soul of my father—by the faith of my mother—by the black rood of—”
“Stop, good Jorworth—thou heapest thine oaths too thickly on each other, for me to value them to the right estimate,” said Flammock; “that which is so lightly pledged, is sometimes not thought worth redeeming. Some part of the promised guerdon in hand the whilst, were worth an hundred oaths.”
“Thou suspicious churl, darest thou doubt my word?”
“No—by no means,” answered Wilkin;—”nevertheless, I will believe thy deed more readily.”
“To the point, Fleming,” said Jorworth—”What wouldst thou have of me?”
“Let me have some present sight of the money thou didst promise, and I will think of the rest of thy proposal.”
“Base silver-broker!” answered Jorworth, “thinkest thou the Prince of Powys has as many moneybags, as the merchants of thy land of sale and barter? He gathers treasures by his conquests, as the waterspout sucks up water by its strength, but it is to disperse them among his followers, as the cloudy column restores its contents to earth and ocean. The silver that I promise thee has yet to be gathered out of the Saxon chests—nay, the casket of Berenger himself must be ransacked to make up the tale.”
“Methinks I could do that myself, (having full power in the castle,) and so save you a labour,” said the Fleming.
“True,” answered Jorworth, “but it would be at the expense of a cord and a noose, whether the Welsh took the place or the Normans relieved it—the one would expect their booty entire—the other their countryman’s treasures to be delivered undiminished.”
“I may not gainsay that,” said the Fleming. “Well, say I were content to trust you thus far, why not return my cattle, which are in your own hands, and at your disposal? If you do not pleasure me in something beforehand, what can I expect of you afterwards?”
“I would pleasure you in a greater matter,” answered the equally suspicious Welshman. “But what would it avail thee to have thy cattle within the fortress? They can be better cared for on the plain beneath.”
“In faith,” replied the Fleming, “thou sayst truth—they will be but a trouble to us here, where we have so many already provided for the use of the garrison.—And yet, when I consider it more closely, we have enough of forage to maintain all we have, and more. Now, my cattle are of a peculiar stock, brought from the rich pastures of Flanders, and I desire to have them restored ere your axes and Welsh hooks be busy with their hides.”
“You shall have them this night, hide and horn,” said Jorworth; “it is but a small earnest of a great boon.”
“Thanks to your munificence,” said the Fleming; “I am a simple-minded man, and bound my wishes to the recovery of my own property.”
“Thou wilt be ready, then, to deliver the castle?” said Jorworth.
“Of that we will talk farther tomorrow,” said Wilkin Flammock; “if these English and Normans should suspect such a purpose, we should have wild work—they must be fully dispersed ere I can hold farther communication on the subject. Meanwhile, I pray thee, depart suddenly, and as if offended with the tenor of our discourse.”
“Yet would I fain know something more fixed and absolute,” said Jorworth.
“Impossible—impossible,” said the Fleming: “see you not yonder tall fellow begins already to handle his dagger—Go hence in haste, and angrily—and forget not the cattle.”
“I will not forget them,” said Jorworth; “but if thou keep not faith with us—”
So speaking, he left the apartment with a gesture of menace, partly really directed to Wilkin himself, partly assumed in consequence of his advice. Flammock replied in English, as if that all around might understand, what he said,
“Do thy worst, Sir Welshman! I am a true man; I defy the proposals of rendition, and will hold out this castle to thy shame and thy master’s!—Here—let him be blindfolded once more, and returned in safety to his attendants without; the next Welshman who appears before the gate of the Garde Doloureuse, shall be more sharply received.”
The Welshman was blindfolded and withdrawn, when, as Wilkin Flammock himself left the guardroom, one of the seeming men-at- arms, who had been present at this interview, said in his ear, in English, “Thou art a false traitor, Flammock, and shalt die a traitor’s death!”
Startled at this, the Fleming would have questioned the man farther, but he had disappeared so soon as the words were uttered. Flammock was disconcerted by this circumstance, which showed him that his interview with Jorworth had been observed, and its purpose known or conjectured, by some one who was a stranger to his confidence, and might thwart his intentions; and he quickly after learned that this was the case.
Chapter VI
Blessed Mary, mother dear,
To a maiden bend thine ear,
Virgin undefiled, to thee
A wretched virgin bends the knee.
HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.
The daughter of the slaughtered Raymond had descended from the elevated station whence she had beheld the field of battle, in the agony of grief natural to a child whose eyes have beheld the death of an honoured and beloved father. But her station, and the principles of chivalry in which she had been trained up, did not permit any prolonged or needless indulgence of inactive sorrow. In raising the young and beautiful of the female