Bab Bab 17 · A ROYAL BANQUET

A ROYAL BANQUET

Madame, seeing me pacific and unresentful, no doubt judged that

I was deceived by her excuse; for her fright dissolved away, and

she was soon so importunate to have me give an exhibition and kill

somebody, that the thing grew to be embarrassing. However, to my

relief she was presently interrupted by the call to prayers. I will

say this much for the nobility: that, tyrannical, murderous,

rapacious, and morally rotten as they were, they were deeply and

enthusiastically religious. Nothing could divert them from the

regular and faithful performance of the pieties enjoined by the

Church. More than once I had seen a noble who had gotten his

enemy at a disadvantage, stop to pray before cutting his throat;

more than once I had seen a noble, after ambushing and despatching

his enemy, retire to the nearest wayside shrine and humbly give

thanks, without even waiting to rob the body. There was to be

nothing finer or sweeter in the life of even Benvenuto Cellini,

that rough-hewn saint, ten centuries later. All the nobles of

Britain, with their families, attended divine service morning and

night daily, in their private chapels, and even the worst of them

had family worship five or six times a day besides. The credit

of this belonged entirely to the Church. Although I was no friend

to that Catholic Church, I was obliged to admit this. And often,

in spite of me, I found myself saying, “What would this country

be without the Church?”

After prayers we had dinner in a great banqueting hall which was

lighted by hundreds of grease-jets, and everything was as fine and

lavish and rudely splendid as might become the royal degree of the

hosts. At the head of the hall, on a dais, was the table of the

king, queen, and their son, Prince Uwaine. Stretching down the hall

from this, was the general table, on the floor. At this, above

the salt, sat the visiting nobles and the grown members of their

families, of both sexes,--the resident Court, in effect--sixty-one

persons; below the salt sat minor officers of the household, with

their principal subordinates: altogether a hundred and eighteen

persons sitting, and about as many liveried servants standing

behind their chairs, or serving in one capacity or another. It was

a very fine show. In a gallery a band with cymbals, horns, harps,

and other horrors, opened the proceedings with what seemed to be

the crude first-draft or original agony of the wail known to later

centuries as “In the Sweet Bye and Bye.” It was new, and ought

to have been rehearsed a little more. For some reason or other

the queen had the composer hanged, after dinner.

After this music, the priest who stood behind the royal table said

a noble long grace in ostensible Latin. Then the battalion of

waiters broke away from their posts, and darted, rushed, flew,

fetched and carried, and the mighty feeding began; no words

anywhere, but absorbing attention to business. The rows of chops

opened and shut in vast unison, and the sound of it was like to

the muffled burr of subterranean machinery.

The havoc continued an hour and a half, and unimaginable was the

destruction of substantials. Of the chief feature of the feast

--the huge wild boar that lay stretched out so portly and imposing

at the start--nothing was left but the semblance of a hoop-skirt;

and he was but the type and symbol of what had happened to all

the other dishes.

With the pastries and so on, the heavy drinking began--and the talk.

Gallon after gallon of wine and mead disappeared, and everybody

got comfortable, then happy, then sparklingly joyous--both sexes,

--and by and by pretty noisy. Men told anecdotes that were terrific

to hear, but nobody blushed; and when the nub was sprung, the

assemblage let go with a horse-laugh that shook the fortress.

Ladies answered back with historiettes that would almost have made

Queen Margaret of Navarre or even the great Elizabeth of England

hide behind a handkerchief, but nobody hid here, but only laughed

--howled, you may say. In pretty much all of these dreadful stories,

ecclesiastics were the hardy heroes, but that didn't worry the

chaplain any, he had his laugh with the rest; more than that, upon

invitation he roared out a song which was of as daring a sort as

any that was sung that night.

By midnight everybody was fagged out, and sore with laughing; and,

as a rule, drunk: some weepingly, some affectionately, some

hilariously, some quarrelsomely, some dead and under the table.

Of the ladies, the worst spectacle was a lovely young duchess, whose

wedding-eve this was; and indeed she was a spectacle, sure enough.

Just as she was she could have sat in advance for the portrait of the

young daughter of the Regent d'Orleans, at the famous dinner whence

she was carried, foul-mouthed, intoxicated, and helpless, to her bed,

in the lost and lamented days of the Ancient Regime.

Suddenly, even while the priest was lifting his hands, and all

conscious heads were bowed in reverent expectation of the coming

blessing, there appeared under the arch of the far-off door at

the bottom of the hall an old and bent and white-haired lady,

leaning upon a crutch-stick; and she lifted the stick and pointed it

toward the queen and cried out:

“The wrath and curse of God fall upon you, woman without pity,

who have slain mine innocent grandchild and made desolate this

old heart that had nor chick, nor friend nor stay nor comfort in

all this world but him!”

Everybody crossed himself in a grisly fright, for a curse was an

awful thing to those people; but the queen rose up majestic, with

the death-light in her eye, and flung back this ruthless command:

“Lay hands on her! To the stake with her!”

The guards left their posts to obey. It was a shame; it was a

cruel thing to see. What could be done? Sandy gave me a look;

I knew she had another inspiration. I said:

“Do what you choose.”

She was up and facing toward the queen in a moment. She indicated

me, and said:

“Madame, _he_ saith this may not be. Recall the commandment, or he

will dissolve the castle and it shall vanish away like the instable

fabric of a dream!”

Confound it, what a crazy contract to pledge a person to! What if

the queen--

But my consternation subsided there, and my panic passed off;

for the queen, all in a collapse, made no show of resistance but

gave a countermanding sign and sunk into her seat. When she reached

it she was sober. So were many of the others. The assemblage rose,

whiffed ceremony to the winds, and rushed for the door like a mob;

overturning chairs, smashing crockery, tugging, struggling,

shouldering, crowding--anything to get out before I should change

my mind and puff the castle into the measureless dim vacancies of

space. Well, well, well, they _were_ a superstitious lot. It is

all a body can do to conceive of it.

The poor queen was so scared and humbled that she was even afraid

to hang the composer without first consulting me. I was very sorry

for her--indeed, any one would have been, for she was really

suffering; so I was willing to do anything that was reasonable, and

had no desire to carry things to wanton extremities. I therefore

considered the matter thoughtfully, and ended by having the

musicians ordered into our presence to play that Sweet Bye and

Bye again, which they did. Then I saw that she was right, and

gave her permission to hang the whole band. This little relaxation

of sternness had a good effect upon the queen. A statesman gains

little by the arbitrary exercise of iron-clad authority upon all

occasions that offer, for this wounds the just pride of his

subordinates, and thus tends to undermine his strength. A little

concession, now and then, where it can do no harm, is the wiser policy.

Now that the queen was at ease in her mind once more, and measurably

happy, her wine naturally began to assert itself again, and it got

a little the start of her. I mean it set her music going--her silver

bell of a tongue. Dear me, she was a master talker. It would not

become me to suggest that it was pretty late and that I was a tired

man and very sleepy. I wished I had gone off to bed when I had

the chance. Now I must stick it out; there was no other way. So

she tinkled along and along, in the otherwise profound and ghostly

hush of the sleeping castle, until by and by there came, as if

from deep down under us, a far-away sound, as of a muffled shriek

--with an expression of agony about it that made my flesh crawl.

The queen stopped, and her eyes lighted with pleasure; she tilted

her graceful head as a bird does when it listens. The sound bored

its way up through the stillness again.

“What is it?” I said.

“It is truly a stubborn soul, and endureth long. It is many hours now.”

“Endureth what?”

“The rack. Come--ye shall see a blithe sight. An he yield not

his secret now, ye shall see him torn asunder.”

What a silky smooth hellion she was; and so composed and serene,

when the cords all down my legs were hurting in sympathy with that

man's pain. Conducted by mailed guards bearing flaring torches,

we tramped along echoing corridors, and down stone stairways dank

and dripping, and smelling of mould and ages of imprisoned night

--a chill, uncanny journey and a long one, and not made the shorter

or the cheerier by the sorceress's talk, which was about this

sufferer and his crime. He had been accused by an anonymous

informer, of having killed a stag in the royal preserves. I said:

“Anonymous testimony isn't just the right thing, your Highness.

It were fairer to confront the accused with the accuser.”

“I had not thought of that, it being but of small consequence.

But an I would, I could not, for that the accuser came masked by

night, and told the forester, and straightway got him hence again,

and so the forester knoweth him not.”

“Then is this Unknown the only person who saw the stag killed?”

“Marry, _no_ man _saw_ the killing, but this Unknown saw this hardy

wretch near to the spot where the stag lay, and came with right

loyal zeal and betrayed him to the forester.”

“So the Unknown was near the dead stag, too? Isn't it just possible

that he did the killing himself? His loyal zeal--in a mask--looks

just a shade suspicious. But what is your highness's idea for

racking the prisoner? Where is the profit?”

“He will not confess, else; and then were his soul lost. For his

crime his life is forfeited by the law--and of a surety will I see

that he payeth it!--but it were peril to my own soul to let him

die unconfessed and unabsolved. Nay, I were a fool to fling me

into hell for _his_ accommodation.”

“But, your Highness, suppose he has nothing to confess?”

“As to that, we shall see, anon. An I rack him to death and he

confess not, it will peradventure show that he had indeed naught

to confess--ye will grant that that is sooth? Then shall I not be

damned for an unconfessed man that had naught to confess

--wherefore, I shall be safe.”

It was the stubborn unreasoning of the time. It was useless to

argue with her. Arguments have no chance against petrified

training; they wear it as little as the waves wear a cliff. And

her training was everybody's. The brightest intellect in the land

would not have been able to see that her position was defective.

As we entered the rack-cell I caught a picture that will not go

from me; I wish it would. A native young giant of thirty or

thereabouts lay stretched upon the frame on his back, with his

wrists and ankles tied to ropes which led over windlasses at either

end. There was no color in him; his features were contorted and

set, and sweat-drops stood upon his forehead. A priest bent over

him on each side; the executioner stood by; guards were on duty;

smoking torches stood in sockets along the walls; in a corner

crouched a poor young creature, her face drawn with anguish,

a half-wild and hunted look in her eyes, and in her lap lay a little

child asleep. Just as we stepped across the threshold the

executioner gave his machine a slight turn, which wrung a cry

from both the prisoner and the woman; but I shouted, and the

executioner released the strain without waiting to see who spoke.

I could not let this horror go on; it would have killed me to

see it. I asked the queen to let me clear the place and speak

to the prisoner privately; and when she was going to object I spoke

in a low voice and said I did not want to make a scene before

her servants, but I must have my way; for I was King Arthur's

representative, and was speaking in his name. She saw she had

to yield. I asked her to indorse me to these people, and then

leave me. It was not pleasant for her, but she took the pill;

and even went further than I was meaning to require. I only wanted

the backing of her own authority; but she said:

“Ye will do in all things as this lord shall command. It is The Boss.”

It was certainly a good word to conjure with: you could see it

by the squirming of these rats. The queen's guards fell into line,

and she and they marched away, with their torch-bearers, and woke

the echoes of the cavernous tunnels with the measured beat of their

retreating footfalls. I had the prisoner taken from the rack and

placed upon his bed, and medicaments applied to his hurts, and

wine given him to drink. The woman crept near and looked on,

eagerly, lovingly, but timorously,--like one who fears a repulse;

indeed, she tried furtively to touch the man's forehead, and jumped

back, the picture of fright, when I turned unconsciously toward

her. It was pitiful to see.

“Lord,” I said, “stroke him, lass, if you want to. Do anything

you're a mind to; don't mind me.”

Why, her eyes were as grateful as an animal's, when you do it

a kindness that it understands. The baby was out of her way and

she had her cheek against the man's in a minute and her hands

fondling his hair, and her happy tears running down. The man

revived and caressed his wife with his eyes, which was all he

could do. I judged I might clear the den, now, and I did; cleared

it of all but the family and myself. Then I said:

“Now, my friend, tell me your side of this matter; I know

the other side.”

The man moved his head in sign of refusal. But the woman looked

pleased--as it seemed to me--pleased with my suggestion. I went on--

“You know of me?”

“Yes. All do, in Arthur's realms.”

“If my reputation has come to you right and straight, you should

not be afraid to speak.”

The woman broke in, eagerly:

“Ah, fair my lord, do thou persuade him! Thou canst an thou wilt.

Ah, he suffereth so; and it is for me--for _me_! And how can I bear it?

I would I might see him die--a sweet, swift death; oh, my Hugo,

I cannot bear this one!”

And she fell to sobbing and grovelling about my feet, and still

imploring. Imploring what? The man's death? I could not quite

get the bearings of the thing. But Hugo interrupted her and said:

“Peace! Ye wit not what ye ask. Shall I starve whom I love,

to win a gentle death? I wend thou knewest me better.”

“Well,” I said, “I can't quite make this out. It is a puzzle. Now--”

“Ah, dear my lord, an ye will but persuade him! Consider how

these his tortures wound me! Oh, and he will not speak!--whereas,

the healing, the solace that lie in a blessed swift death--”

“What _are_ you maundering about? He's going out from here a free

man and whole--he's not going to die.”

The man's white face lit up, and the woman flung herself at me

in a most surprising explosion of joy, and cried out:

“He is saved!--for it is the king's word by the mouth of the king's

servant--Arthur, the king whose word is gold!”

“Well, then you do believe I can be trusted, after all. Why

didn't you before?”

“Who doubted? Not I, indeed; and not she.”

“Well, why wouldn't you tell me your story, then?”

“Ye had made no promise; else had it been otherwise.”

“I see, I see.... And yet I believe I don't quite see, after all.

You stood the torture and refused to confess; which shows plain

enough to even the dullest understanding that you had nothing

to confess--”

“I, my lord? How so? It was I that killed the deer!”

“You _did_? Oh, dear, this is the most mixed-up business that ever--”

“Dear lord, I begged him on my knees to confess, but--”

“You _did_! It gets thicker and thicker. What did you want him

to do that for?”

“Sith it would bring him a quick death and save him all this

cruel pain.”

“Well--yes, there is reason in that. But _he_ didn't want the

quick death.”

“He? Why, of a surety he _did_.”

“Well, then, why in the world _didn't_ he confess?”

“Ah, sweet sir, and leave my wife and chick without bread and shelter?”

“Oh, heart of gold, now I see it! The bitter law takes the convicted

man's estate and beggars his widow and his orphans. They could

torture you to death, but without conviction or confession they

could not rob your wife and baby. You stood by them like a man;

and _you_--true wife and the woman that you are--you would have

bought him release from torture at cost to yourself of slow

starvation and death--well, it humbles a body to think what your

sex can do when it comes to self-sacrifice. I'll book you both

for my colony; you'll like it there; it's a Factory where I'm going

to turn groping and grubbing automata into _men_.”