Read Ebook: The Life of Sir John Falstaff by Brough Robert B Robert Barnabas Cruikshank George Illustrator

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Ebook has 1058 lines and 92501 words, and 22 pages

It was a quaint old building--situated in a wide, flat valley, between low, sloping hills. The site appeared too well chosen to have been the selection of any of the thriftless, blundering race who had held the soil for so many generations. Rumour, indeed, asserted that the estate had been wrested by an early Falstaff from an order of Saxon monks. The rich surrounding plains--nicely watered by a brisk, gurgling stream, on the surface of whose waters the word "trout" was written in letters of burnished silver--and the thickly wooded uplands, certainly made it a very likely looking monastic site. Still, as the building itself presented no trace of ecclesiastical architecture, Rumour might be safely defied on this question.

The house was an old three-sided, one-storied Saxon grange, enclosing a quadrangle. Its original form, however, was not easy of detection at a glance. Here and there, where the thatched roof had fallen in, some ambitious proprietor had run up a turret, apparently with no other design than that of "playing at castles." In one place, a Gothic transept had been attempted, with a tolerably handsome mullioned window; but the hall, which the window had been intended to illuminate, not having been constructed, that ornament had been backed up with slanting thatch, and served only to enlighten the family cows, by whom its beauties were, doubtless, appreciated. Eccentric sheds, outhouses, and supplementary wings of all shapes and dimensions,--except the symmetrical or the grand,--clustered round the parent edifice like limpets on a stone. The whole was surrounded, at some distance, by a goodly moat , which had long been ceded as a perpetual seat of war between the ducks and tadpoles. The approach to the house was by a drawbridge, that had not been raised for many years, and was now incorporated with the common road, till such time as its rotten timbers should give way, and possibly precipitate a load of wheat or so into the ditch beneath. The bridge was backed by a small but well-built turreted gate of the early Norman school. In this there were the grooves for a portcullis. But if the iron grillage had ever been furnished, it had disappeared before the recollection of the oldest clodhopper. A low wooden gate had once supplied its place, but had lost its hinges, and lay halfburied in farm-yard refuse. The arched gateway, black with age and neglect, was surmounted by a dazzling, jaunty-looking freestone shield,--on which the arms of the family had been newly carved by no inartistic hand,--marvellously suggestive of a new patch on an old jerkin or a jewel in a swine's ear.

At some distance from the main building, and close inside the moat--for Geoffrey Falstaff's magnificent architectural dreams had conceived the covering of almost the entire enclosure--stood the really splendid tower of William of Wykeham, which had given the name of Folly to the family mansion. This was a most imposing and picturesque object. Though barely twenty years had elapsed since its construction, it presented all the aspects of a venerable ruin. Being built of soft Norman stone, which rapidly crumbles and darkens in our climate; being roofless and windowless in the upper stories; having been utterly neglected and being overrun by ivy and other creeping plants, nourished by a scarcely credible waste of farm ordures heaped on the soil beneath, the tower looked like the last proud relic of some mighty fortress long since swept away by the ravages of war--the original building appearing like a heap of ignoble fabrics constructed from its ruins.

On the compulsory abandonment of his building mania, Geoffrey Falstaff had been seized by a counterpoise one for economy. He had resolved on converting the tower into a mill; and even went so far as to dam the moat and construct a water-wheel. He was thinking about borrowing money to purchase mill-stones, when he died. His son Gilbert, having no turn for such ignoble pursuits, neglected to supply the deficiency. The dam was allowed to stagnate and the wheel to rot--adding much to the picturesqueness of the place.

There was one little oasis, of prim, quakerlike neatness, amid this unkempt desert of thriftlessness. On the left wing of the building a little horn-latticed door opened upon a garden leading down to the moat. Here the grass was shorn like a friar's poll, and interlaced with shingle-walks as even and well-ordered as the galloon on a lackey's coat. It was streaked with little beds of jet-black earth that might have been dug with silver spoons and raked with my lady's comb. On these the snowdrops and crocuses lay already dead, and the primroses were drooping. But the daffodils still held their own bravely. The Kentish roses were also budding about the walls and hedges in this enclosure--for it was a sheltered spot looking to the south, and the season was early. On one side was a straight bed, showing as yet no vegetation, but studded with little cleft pegs surmounted by wooden labels. This was evidently the department of medical simples of the rarest virtues, and was shut out from its more holiday neighbour by a hedge of apple-trees trained espalier-wise. Two or three more fruit trees--cherry, apple, and plum--rose above the flower beds, evidently of a choice description, and all smothered in white or pink blossoms. There was also a goodly vine, trained against the house, and forming a green porch over the latticed door.

There was no approach to this spot but from the house. The two sides leading down to the moat were jealously guarded by stout hedges of blackthorn and sweetbriar, overrun with luxuriant hop-bines, at that time a rarity, in what has since grown to be the hop-garden of the world.

This was the private garden of Lady Alice Falstaff, tended almost exclusively by her own hands. There was, haply, not such another at the time in all rich, improvident England. But Mistress Alice Bacon had been a travelled merchant's daughter, and had brought more than flower seeds with her from the land of the patient, thrifty Flemings.

A broad, uneven horse-track led from the front gate by a rough wooden bridge over the trout stream, and then wound its way to the right up what had once been Falstaff Chase, keeping in sight for full half a mile till it disappeared behind a hill.

Now, mark what happened at Falstaff Castle on the bright May morning I have spoken of.

There came, cantering and jingling over the hill and down the chase towards the castle, a gay troop of cavaliers, with pennon streaming and steel caps flashing in the sun.

Now, it was a time of peace. Had it not been, Falstaff Keep was in no condition to stand a siege. And yet, from the effect caused by the sight of these horsemen, an observer would have thought to hear drums beating and horns blowing--with drawbridge up and portcullis down in a crack of time. For no sooner had the sound of hoofs roused a neatherd from a comfortable nap by the banks of the trout stream , than he leaped to his feet, and, leaving his cows to enjoy themselves in the field opposite, scampered towards the house like one possessed, as fast as his hob-nailed cowskins would let him, and roaring at the top of his voice--

There was only one point of strict discipline really enforced at Falstaff. This was, that on the approach of strangers, the lord of the castle, if at home, should be immediately apprised thereof. Many awkward accidents had occurred from the breach of this rule.

The neatherd rushed unceremoniously into the presence of Sir Gilbert Falstaff, and the lady Alice, his wife, cowskins, hob-nails and all. Fortunately, there were no carpets in those days.

The knight was pricking arms on vellum, at a little side table, with a flagon by his side. The lady Alice, helped by two neat little maids, was mending hose at a window.

"Volk a horseback coming down park," said the breathless messenger.

Sir Gilbert started up in alarm.

"How many? What kind? How far off?"

"Ten or fifteen, mayhap. Steel-caps, speards, and a penance."

The knight wrung his hands, and rushed to the window to reconnoitre. It was pitiful to see his distress as he whimpered,--

"Alack! alack! 'Tis a knight and his following. Pestilence seize them! What seek they here? Certes some Lord of the Court,--and to see me in this plight--with darned hose! Bar the shutters! Say the knight and lady are at court--at their castle in the north--in-Flanders. Plague on them! Would I were dead!"

The hind moved to depart, scratching his head, with a confused notion as to his general orders.

"Stay, good fellow," the lady Alice said, rising from her seat. She was a comely English matron, well grown, with blue eyes and golden hair,--yet fair to look on; though with a face harder in expression than it doubtless had once been, for she had been sorely tried in her married lifetime.

"Shame on you, Sir Gilbert Falstaff, to teach your hinds such base artifices! How can you hope they will serve you truly? Bid them welcome, Jankin, to such poor cheer as we can give them. Why, man! there is not an inn within eight leagues."

"Even so. One of those whose office it is to keep poor knights from starving." "I will not send these away an hungered. Come, maidens, away with the hose-baskets, and busily with me to the kitchen." Lady Alice, followed by her two little maidens, left the room. The sound of the horses' feet approached rapidly. There was no time to be lost. Sir Gilbert clutched Jankin nervously by the arm, and said to him in hurried tones,--

"Take thou brown Crecy; thou wilt find her in the orchard ; saddle and gallop like wind to Sir Simon Ballard's. Bid him lend me his new green velvet surcoat,--that with the gold stars. Dost heed? Say a nobleman of the court is with me, who desires one like it. Then to Dame Adlyn, the yeoman's wife. Say I have a wager with a certain earl, who lies here, that the weight of her gold chain is greater than his. Bid her lend it me for an hour. Spare not whip or spur, and I will owe thee a guerdon. Stay!--if these riders question thee, say the knight is gone out with his hawks. Speed!"

Jankin departed with a beaming face. He had no great faith in the promised guerdon, but he was fond of horse exercise.

The cavalcade was at the gate.

"A murrain on them!" Sir Gilbert muttered. "Would they were in the Red Sea! And yet I lack court news sorely. Pray Heaven that miser Ballard, and that farmer's jade, Adlyn, stand me in good stead."

Sir Gilbert having impressed upon the household the fiction he was desirous of keeping up, retired to bite his nails in a garret, till such time as Jankin should return with the borrowed plumes.

The visitors were met at the gate by one of Lady Alice's little maids. Falstaff was rather bare in the commodity of men-servants, and those it possessed were none of the most presentable. Master Lambert, the Reve or Steward, who was believed to be much richer than his master, had been called to Sandwich on business of his own, leaving his master's to take care of itself.

The leader of the cavalcade was a handsome young man of some one or two and twenty. He was

"His here his berde was like safroun, That to his girdle raught adoun; His shoon of cordewane; Of Brugges were his hosen broun, His robe was of ciclatoun, That coste many a Jane."

Read further the description of Sir Thopas, and you will have a good idea of the sort of mediaeval exquisite who announced himself to the little maiden as Sir Thomas Mowbray, who having, with certain other poor gentlemen of his company, mistaken his way, was desirous of paying his respects to the fair lady of the castle.

The little maid, with much blushing, but going through her task right cleverly, invited them to enter, and pointed out to them where their steeds might be bestowed. She then led the way to the hall, where spiced sack, and, what was then termed, a "shoeing-horn," but what, in this unpoetical age, we call broiled rashers of bacon, awaited them, spread temptingly on a Snowy napkin.

Then the little maid told them, in a pretty set speech, that her mistress would be with them presently, if they would be so good as to entertain themselves the while; adding that Sir Gilbert Falstaff was gone out with his falcons, but would doubtless be home in time to welcome his guests to their poor family dinner.

The visitors fell busily to work on the sack, and used the shoeing-horn unmercifully. It would seem that they required no other entertainment, having brought in some excellent jest with them, at which they had been laughing immoderately, when the little maid first met them at the gate, and which kept them laughing, at intervals, for a good half-hour after their being seated at table; at the end of which time Jankin was seen to gallop into the courtyard on Brown Cr?cy--now white Cr?cy with foam--with a bundle before him on the saddle. Jankin appeared in high spirits, and had indeed enjoyed his ride immensely.

The travellers only checked their laughter, when, a few minutes later, the hangings were raised, and Sir Gilbert Falstaff entered the hall, leading the lady Alice by the hand. The knight wore a green velvet surcoat, embroidered with golden stars, and twirled a massive gold chain, as became a gentleman of his rank and ancestry. His dame was clad in a plain cloth gown, without ornament, befitting her origin as a wool-merchant's daughter.

The visitors were welcomed by Sir Gilbert Falstaff with much ceremony.

This was to Sir Thomas Mowbray's two esquires, who, not joining in the conversation, had bethought them of their late jest, and were convulsed once more.

Sir Gilbert liked not laughter in his presence. He always imagined himself to be its object.

"Nay, Sir Gilbert," said the young knight, "forgive their lack of manners. We have all had good cause for laughter, on our way hither, as you shall own when you have heard the jest."

Sir Gilbert felt relieved. They were not laughing at him. He twiddled Mistress Adlyn's gold chain with courtly ease, and simpered,--

"Doubtless some court pleasantry. Let me know it, I pray you. I am sadly behind date in such matters, gentlemen. But a fallen house, you know--"

"Boys!"

Sir Gilbert Falstaff and the lady Alice exchanged glances.

"Aye, real English, true Kentish boys,--a score of them perhaps,--of all sorts and sizes. Ragged boys, warm-clad boys, shock-headed boys, and shorn boys,--after no good, I warrant me, for they were armed with bows and arrows, poles, cords, and knives."

Again Lady Alice glanced at her husband. This time Sir Gilbert looked in another direction.

"Excuse my friend. He speaks very little English. He is a French priest, though he does'nt look it."

The alleged priest was dressed in the wildest extravagance of the current fashion; he had deep hanging sleeves, "purfled" with fur, and the toes of his Cordovan boots were a foot and a half long.

Monsieur Jean shook off his apathy, like a true Frenchman, at the mention of a lady's looks. He bowed graciously, and showed a splendid set of teeth, as he replied,

"I believe you are speaking of my own son, gentlemen," was the quiet reply of Lady Alice, who understood a little French. "He left home at daybreak; on what errand, or in what company, I know not."

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