Graham's Magazine, Vol. XIX, No. 6, December 1841

THE HAWKERS.

OR THE LADY ISABEL.

BY D. MAXWELL.

It was a merry day in Torbay castle. Never had a brighter sun shone on a fair lady than that which now poured its mellow beams over the gay hawking party assembled in the court yard,—while, as if all were exhilarated by the unclouded sky above, shouts, jests, and sallies, sly compliments and merry laughter saluted the ear on every hand. There was the ringing of bridles, the champing of bits, the barking of dogs, the shouts of serving men, the orders of the falconers, the low whispers of gay gallants, or the half suppressed laughter of a bevy of merry young girls, making altogether a concord of sounds, strange and yet somewhat sweet, and not a little in unison with the old grim walls around and the bracing character of the morning. Foremost in the group, and directly under the massy archway of the gate, stood a rugged old falconer, who looked as if he might have been an appanage of the castle from the time of the conqueror, sustaining several casts of toure and leses of hawks, hooded and ready for the field. To his right was the favorite page of the mistress of the castle, holding the white palfrey of the Lady Isabel, the only daughter of the Earl. A few dogs lay about awaiting the setting forth of the cavalcade. In the rear the hawking party was assembled in what seemed at first a promiscuous group, but it would have been found on a closer examination, that the younger cavaliers had each placed himself as near to his lady’s bridle as possible, while the older sportsmen were drawn apart by themselves, eagerly canvassing the chances of the day’s sport.

At length the cavalcade set forth, and leaving the castle to the right, diverged towards the hills that skirt the neighborhood of Torbay, with the object of gaining the little river Wyse, a small stream that runs through that delightful vicinity, and is bordered by high overhanging banks.

We have said that the younger gallants each sought his lady’s bridle rein, but it might have been noticed as a little singular that perhaps the two handsomest knights rode by themselves, keeping in the rear of the “goodly companie,” and seemingly engaged in earnest conversation. It might also have been noticed that the Lady Isabel rode unattended, except by her father, and that now and then, she cast a sly and perhaps uneasy glance back at the two cavaliers. She did this so often, that at length it attracted their attention, and the shorter of the two companions said to the other,

“There, Herbert, take heart, man—do you not see that my fair coz is not indifferent to you—there, as I am a knight, she is looking back again.”

“It is but to chide you for deserting her,” said the other. “I may not be so happy as to think she cares for me. Did you mark how chilling a reception she gave me this morning?”

“Faith, man, and you deserved it,” answered his more mercurial companion, “after your strange humor last evening. Do your beauties and heiresses endure all the whim of jealous suitors without resentment? Will you never take heart of grace, leave off this diffidence, and come boldly out and woo my cousin in your own true and frank character? You may depend on it she has not forgotten you since you were playmates together, and though ten years of absence have elapsed since then, and she has been sought and is now sought by a score of gentlemen, yet has she not heard of your valor continually through my letters, and does she not blush and turn pale whenever you come suddenly on her? What more would you want? Tut, man, you are as blind in love as a bat. If you had to charge a battery you would do it without winking an eye-lid, but here you cannot attack a fair lady’s heart without quaking like a friar, and being in a dozen humors a day, according as your mistress chances to smile on you or not. Take my word for it, Isabel cares very little whether her madcap cousin is at her bridle rein or away from it; but she does care whether Sir Herbert Glendower is there or not, especially just now, when her conscience is twitching her, I dare swear, for having looked coldly on him a half hour since, and thus driven the poor knight almost into the notion of hanging himself. But this jesting I see you do not like—so let us push on and join the group, or we shall be suspected of talking treason,” and with a gay laugh the mercurial young man pricked his steed and pushed forward. His companion hesitated but an instant and then followed.

Sir Herbert Glendower had known—as his fellow soldier said—the heiress of Torbay castle in childhood; for his own father dying, the Earl of Torbay had filled the place of guardian to the young orphan. At the age of fourteen, Glendower had joined the army, but even at that early period he had imbibed a passion for the young Isabel of which he was not himself fully conscious, until years of watching, strife and absence had convinced him that she was, after all, nearer to his heart than aught beside. During a separation of ten years from Isabel, his bosom companion had been her reckless cousin, and perhaps the conversation of the two young soldiers had often turned on the young heiress and thus insensibly deepened the passion felt for her by Glendower. Certain it is, that when the young knight met her on his return to England, and saw that she had grown up more beautiful than he had imagined her even in his dreams, he felt his passion for her increased to such an extremity that her love became thenceforth necessary to his very being. Yet, like too many who love devotedly, the very depth of his passion prevented his success, by filling him with uncalled for doubts and fears. Usually frank and daring, he became reserved and timorous. The slightest appearance of coldness, although unintentional, was sufficient to overthrow all his hope. At such times he would throw himself on his pride, and affect a reserve to Isabel, the consequence of which would be a coldness on her part. Such had been the case on the morning in question.

For a few minutes he mused silently, and then said to himself:

“He may be right after all; and if so, am I not a fool? I will watch Isabel narrowly to-day, and if I see the least glimmering of hope, I will know all. If not, or if she refuses me”—he paused and added sadly, “why then a foreign service and a foreign grave will be mine.”

Meantime the hawkers had gained the river, and while the serving men, with their dogs, descended into the ravine to rouse the birds from the marshy margin of the stream, the cavalcade continued its progress along the high banks above, in momentary expectation of the appearance of the prey. Foremost amongst the hawkers was the father of Isabel; but the heiress, although usually eager for the sport, appeared to-day to partake in the pastime only as a spectator, having surrendered her high-bred falcon to the hands of her favorite page. Isabel herself was silent and apparently lost in thought. And as Glendower, in pursuance of his new determination, hovered around her, he fancied he detected in her manner a slight confirmation of her cousin’s assertion. The hopes of the young knight beat high at the very thought. He drew his steed nearer to that of Isabel, and would have addressed her, but at that instant the shouts of the serving men beneath, in the margin of the river, announced that the prey had been roused, and with a scream a huge heron, followed by one of smaller size, rose above the bank, and stretching out their long thin legs behind them, the quarry sailed away up into the sky.

“Isabel,” said the Earl, “you promised to give a cast at yonder bird—quick, unhood.”

“Ay, Tremaine,” said the clear silvery voice of the maiden, assuming a sudden animation, and turning quickly away from Glendower to her page, “throw off my bird. You have often wished for the chance. Now, ladies and gallants, all, we shall see rare sport unless my falcon fails me.”

The happy page, blushing, however, to find all eyes directed towards himself, trotted out a few paces in advance of the group, and removing the hood from the eyes of the noble bird, held the falcon on his left wrist as he extended it over his horse’s head. The hawk shook himself for an instant, gazed around him until he caught sight of the herons, when he flapped his wings, and, as the page flung him off, darted away like an arrow in pursuit.

To any other person than Glendower, the turning of Isabel from him to her page would at such a moment, have seemed trivial, but the proud and sensitive nature of the lover instantly magnified it into a rebuke, and drawing his rein around somewhat haughtily, he gave up his original intention of keeping at her side, and dashed madly on, leading the pursuit, as the cavalcade galloped off in the direction where it was expected the quarry would fall. A gallant sight it was to see that gay party sweeping along the banks of the stream. The caparisoned steeds, silken scarfs, waving plumes, and proud demeanor of the nobles, knights and pages; and the spirited palfreys, flowing robes, and brilliant costumes of the maidens, with the trains of attendants pressing in the rear, gave the cavalcade a gorgeousness which later days, in reviving this courtly sport, have in vain attempted to imitate.

“No, she loves me not,” said Glendower as he galloped furiously on—“it is folly for me to pretend to win her regard. Well—”

“Ho, sir knight of the woful countenance,” shouted the merry voice of Isabel’s cousin as he drew up by Glendower, “you are leaving the route altogether, and faith your conduct will attract notice if it has not already done so. Come, man, in despair again—away with it—if you won’t ride at Isabel’s bridle and say things such as maidens love to hear, why e’en forget her for to-day and attend to the sport—see how her falcon mounts into the clouds; shade your eyes—there—by St. George he has the heron now.”

As the knight spoke, the hawk, which had been ascending above the heron spirally, gradually narrowing the circles as it rose, suddenly stooped from its height and shooting like a thunderbolt down on the quarry bore it to the earth. The shout of the hawkers announced that all had seen the stroke, and instantly spur and whip were put to every steed to reach the spot where the quarry fell, in order, if necessary, to assist the falcon. Glendower was among the first to lead the chase, for he felt that his conduct was attracting attention, and he resolved during the remainder of the day to adhere to the advice of Isabel’s cousin, let what might take place.

“A wager that I reach the quarry first, and win a smile from Isabel for assisting her falcon,” laughingly said the mercurial soldier, “ho! Sir Glendower, do you close with me?”

“Even so,” said Glendower; “I will distance you a score of paces and more, or my steed belies his former feats. Your fair cousin shall smile on me, or rebuff me fairly, for once.”

At the word, the two cavaliers darted forwards at an increased pace; and instantly every eye, forgetful of the quarry, was directed towards the race. Both the knights rode splendid horses, and as the animals were now pressed to show their greatest speed, their riders seemed borne along the earth as if they were mounted on the enchanted steeds of fairy land. The cavaliers behind encouraged them with shouts, while the ladies waved their scarfs and laughed gaily. For a few minutes the horses scoured along head and head; but, when within a few paces of where the two birds had fallen, Glendower suddenly dashed away from his competitor and reaching the quarry first, threw his bridle to a youthful page who had just arrived from the margin of the stream below, and springing from the saddle lost not a moment in assisting the falcon to overcome the tall and powerful bird against which hitherto it had maintained a doubtful fight.