"His lot forbade, nor circumscribed aloneHis growing virtues but his crimes confined,Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind."
"His lot forbade, nor circumscribed aloneHis growing virtues but his crimes confined,Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind."
"His lot forbade, nor circumscribed aloneHis growing virtues but his crimes confined,Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind."
"His lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone
His growing virtues but his crimes confined,
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind."
Still, let it be remembered, that in Stephen's days we see only the worst side of the Norman nobility. In less than a century the barons rallied around that man of God, Stephen Langton, and wrested Magna Charta from the tyrant John, the worst of the Plantagenets. Proud by that time of the name "Englishmen," they laid the foundations of our greatness, and jealously guarded our constitutional liberties; and it was not until after the Wars of the Roses, in which so many of the ancient houses perished, that a Norman baron was said to be "as scarce as a wolf," that the Bloodstained House of Tudor was enabled to trample upon English liberty, and to reign as absolute monarchs over a prostrate commonalty.
All through the summer our boys were very happy, in spite of Evroult's occasional longings for the world. Theycultivated a garden hard by their cave, and they gathered the roots and fruits of the forest for their frugal repast. They parched the corn; they boiled the milk and eggs which the rustics spontaneously brought; they made the bread and baked the oatcakes. They were quite vegetarians now, save the milk and eggs; and throve upon their simple fare; but it took, as our readers perceive, a long course of vegetable diet to take the fire out of Evroult.
Then came the fall of the leaf, when the trees, like some vain mortals, put on their richest clothing wherein to die; and damps and mists arose around, driving them within the shelter of their cave; then winter with its chilling frosts, keener then than now, and their stream was turned into ice. And had they not, like the ants, laid by in summer, they would have starved sadly in winter.
In the inner cave was a natural chimney, an orifice communicating with the outer air. Fuel was plentiful in the forest, and as they sat around the fire, Meinhold told them stories of the visible and invisible world, more or less, of course, of a supernatural character, like those we have already heard. His was an imaginary world, full of quaint superstitions which were very harmless, for they left the soul even more reliant and dependent upon Divine help; for was not this a world wherein Angels and demons engaged in terrestrial warfare, man's soul the prize? and were not the rites and Sacraments of the Church sent to counteract the spells and snares of the phantom host?
And as they sat around their fire, the wind made wild and awful music in the subterranean caves: sometimes it shrieked, then moaned, as if under the current of earthly origin there was a perpetual wail of souls in pain.
"Father, may not these passages lead down to Purgatory, or even to the abode of the lost?"
"Nay, my child, I think it only the wind;" but he shuddered as he spoke.
"You thinktheylie beneath the earth, Richard?"
"Yes, the heavens above the stars, which are like thegolden nails of its floor; the earth—our scene of conflict beneath; and the depths below for those who fail and reject their salvation," said Meinhold, replying for the younger boy.
"Then the burning mountains of which we have heard are the portals of hell?"
"So it is commonly supposed," said the hermit. The reader will laugh at his simple cosmogony: he had no idea, poor man, that the earth is round.
"Please let me explore these caves," said Evroult.
"Art thou not afraid?" said Meinhold.
"No," said he; "I am never afraid."
"But I fearforthee; there are dark chasms and a black gulf within, and I fear, my child, lest they be tenanted by evil spirits, and that the sounds we hear at night be not all idle winds."
"You once said they were winds."
"Yes, but do winds utter blasphemies?"
"Never."
"Of course not. Is it not written, 'O all ye winds of God, bless ye the Lord?' Now as I lay on my bed last night, methought the sounds took articulate form, and they were words of cursing and blasphemy, such as might have come from a lost soul."
A modern would say that the hermit had a sort of nightmare, but in those credulous days the supernatural solution was always accepted.
"And, my son, if there be, as I fear, evil spirits who lurk in the bowels of the earth, and lure men to their destruction, I would not allow thee to rush into danger."
"No, brother, think no more of it," said Richard.
And Evroult promised not to do so, if he could help it.
"There be caves in the African deserts, of which I have heard, where fiends do haunt, and terrify travellers even to death. One there was which was, to look upon, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land, but they who passed a night there—and it was the only resting-place in the desertfor many weary miles—went mad, frightened out of their senses by some awful vision which blasted those who gazed."
"But ought Christian men to fear such things?"
"No; neither ought they without a call to endanger themselves: 'He shall give His Angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways.' Now our way does not lie through these dark abodes."
So the caves remained unexplored.
But we must return to Wallingford Castle again, and the active life of the fighting world of King Stephen's days. Suffice it for the present to say, that the lives of the hermit and his two pupils, for such they were, continued to roll on uneventfully for many months—indeed, until the occurrence of totally unexpected events, which we shall narrate in due course.
An excessive rainfall during the late summer of this year destroyed the hopes of the harvest,—such hopes as there were, for tillage had been abandoned, save where the protection of some powerful baron gave a fair probability of gathering in the crops. In consequence a dreadful famine succeeded during the winter, aggravated by the intense cold, for a frost set in at the beginning of December and lasted without intermission till February, so that the Thames was again frozen, and the ordinary passage of man and horse was on the ice of the river.
The poor people, says the author ofThe Acts of King Stephen, died in heaps, and so escaped the miseries of this sinful world,—a phrase of more meaning then, in people's ears, than it is now, when life is doubtless better worth living than it could have been then, in King Stephen's days, when horrible and unexampled atrocities disgraced the nation daily, and the misery of the poor was caused by the cruel tyranny of the rich and powerful.
All this time our young friend Osric continued to be the favourite squire of Brian Fitz-Count, and, we grieve to say, became habituated to crime and violence. He no longer shuddered as of yore at the atrocities committed in the dungeons of the castle, or in the constant raids: the conscience soon became blunted, and he felt an ever-increasing delight in strife and bloodshed, the joy of the combat, and in deeds of valour.
Facilis descensus averno, wrote the poet, or, as it has been Englished—
"The gate of Hell stands open night and day,Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;But to return and view the upper skies,In this the toil, in this the labour lies."
"The gate of Hell stands open night and day,Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;But to return and view the upper skies,In this the toil, in this the labour lies."
"The gate of Hell stands open night and day,Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;But to return and view the upper skies,In this the toil, in this the labour lies."
"The gate of Hell stands open night and day,
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;
But to return and view the upper skies,
In this the toil, in this the labour lies."
For a long period he had not visited his grandfather—the reader will easily guess why; but he took care that out of Brian's prodigal bounty the daily wants of the old man should be supplied, and he thought all was well there—he did not know that the recipient never made use of Brian's bounty. He had become ashamed of his English ancestry: it needed a thunder-clap to recall him to his better self.
There were few secrets Brian concealed from his favourite squire, now an aspirant for knighthood, and tolerably sure to obtain his wish in a few more months. The deepest dungeons in the castle were known to him, the various sources of revenue, the claims for feudal dues, the tribute paid for protection, the rentals of lands, the purchase of forest rights, and, less creditable, the sums extracted by torture or paid for ransom,—all these were known to Osric, whose keen wits were often called on to assist the Baron's more sluggish intellect in such matters.
Alain was seldom at Wallingford; he had already been knighted by the Empress Maude, and was high in her favour, and in attendance on her person, so Osric lacked his most formidable rival in the Baron's graces.
He could come and go almost when he pleased; he knew the secret exit to the castle, only known to a few chief confidants—two or three at the most, who had been allowed to use it on special necessity.
It led to a landing-place on the bank of the river, and blindfolded prisoners, to be kept in secret, were sometimes introduced to their doleful lodgings through this entrance.
Active in war, a favourite in the bower, possessing a good hand at games, a quick eye for business, Osric soonbecame a necessity to Brian Fitz-Count: his star was in the ascendant, and men said Brian would adopt him as his son.
Constitutionally fearless, a born lover of combat, a good archer who could kill a bird on the wing, a fair swordsman, skilled in the exercises of chivalry,—what more was needed to make a young man happy in those days?
A quiet conscience? Well, Osric had quieted his: he was fast becoming a convert to Brian's sceptical opinions, which alone could justify his present course of action.
The castle was increasing: the dungeon aforementioned had been built, called Brian's Close,[24]with surmounting towers. The unhappy William Martel was its first inmate, and there he remained until his obstinacy was conquered, and the Castle of Shirburne ceded to Brian, with the large tract of country it governed and the right of way across the Chilterns.
Brian Fitz-Count was now at the height of his glory—the Empress was mistress of half the realm; he was her chief favourite and minister—when events occurred which somewhat disturbed his serene self-complacency, and seemed to infer the existence of a God of justice and vengeance.
It was early one fine day when a messenger from the woods reached the castle, and with some difficulty found access to Osric, bringing the tidings that his grandfather was dying, and would fain see him once more before he died.
"Dying! well, he is very old; we must all die," was Osric's first thought, coupled with a sense of relief, which he tried to disguise from himself, that a troublesome Mentor was about to be removed. Now he might feel like aNorman, but he had still a lingering love for the old man, the kind and loving guardian of his early years; so he sought Brian, and craved leave of absence.
"It is awkward," replied the Baron; "I was about to send thee to Shirburne. We have conquered Martel's resolution at last. I threatened that the rack should not longer be withheld, and that we would make him a full foot longer than God created him. Darkness and scant food have tamed him. Had we kept him in his first prison, with light and air, with corn and wine, he would never have given way. After all, endurance is a thing very dependent on the stomach."
"I will return to-morrow, my lord;" and Osric looked pleadingly at him.
"Not later. I cannot go to Shirburne myself, as I am expecting an important messenger fromQueenMaude (of coursehecalled her Queen), and can trust none other but thee."
"It is not likely that any other claim will come between me and thee, my lord; this is passing away, and I shall be wholly thine."
The Baron smiled; his proud heart was touched.
"Go, then, Osric," he said, "and return to-morrow."
And so they parted.
Osric rode rapidly through the woods, up the course of the brook; we described the road in our second chapter. He passed the Moor-towns, left the Roman camp of Blewburton on the left, and was soon in the thick maze of swamp and wood which then occupied the country about Blewbery.
As he drew near the old home, many recollections crowded upon him, and he felt, as he always did there, something more like an Englishman. It was for this very reason he so seldom came "home" to visit his grandfather.
He found his way across the streams: the undergrowth had all been renewed since the fire which the hunters kindled four years agone; the birds were singing sweetly, for it was the happy springtide for them, and they were little affected by the causes which brought misery to less favoured mankind; the foliage was thick, the sweet hawthorn exhaled its perfume, the bushes were bright with"May." Ah me, how lovely the woods are in spring! how happy even this world might be, had man never sinned.
But within the hut were the unequivocal signs of the rupture between man and his Maker—the tokens which have ever existed since by sin came death.
Upon the bed in the inner room lay old Sexwulf, in the last stage of senile decay. He was dying of no distinct disease, only of general breaking-up of the system. Man cannot live for ever; he wears out in time, even if he escape disease.
The features were worn and haggard, the eye was yet bright, the mind powerful to the last.
He saw the delight of his eyes, the darling of his old age, enter, and looked sadly upon him, almost reproachfully. The youth took his passive hand in his warm grasp, and imprinted a kiss upon the wrinkled forehead.
"He has had all he needed—nothing has been wanting for his comfort?" said Osric inquiringly.
"We have been able to keep him alive, but he would not touch your gold, or aught you sent of late."
"Why not?" asked Osric, deeply hurt.
"He said it was the price of blood, wrung, it might be, from the hands of murdered peasants of your own kindred."
Ah! that shaft went home. Osric knew it wasjust. What else was the greater portion of the Baron's hoard derived from, save rapine and violence?
"It was cruel to let him starve."
"He has not starved; we have had other friends, but the famine has been sore in the land."
"Other friends! who?"
"Yes; especially the good monks of Dorchester."
"What do they know of my grandfather?"
Judith pursed up her lips, as much as to say, "That is my secret, and if you had brought the thumb-screws, of which you know the use too well, you should not get it out of me."
"Osric," said a deep, yet feeble voice.
The youth returned to the bedside.
"Osric, I am dying. They say the tongues of dying men speak sooth, and it may be because, as the gates of eternity open before them, the vanities of earth disappear. Now I have a last message to leave for you, a tale to unfold before I die, which cannot fail of its effect upon your heart. It is the secret entrusted to me when you were brought an infant to this hut, which I was forbidden to unfold until you had gained years of discretion. It may be, my dear child, you have not yet gained them—I trow not, from what I hear."
"What harm have mine enemies told of me?"
"Thatthou shalt hear by and by; meanwhile let me unfold my tale, for the sands of life are running out. It was some seventeen years ago this last autumn, that thy father——"
"Who was he—thou hast ever concealed his name?"
"Wulfnoth of Compton."
Osric started.
"Doth he live?"
"He doth."
"Where?"
"He is a monk of Dorchester Abbey. I may tell the secret now; Brian himself could not hurt him there."
"Why should hewishto hurt him?"
"Listen, and your ears shall learn the truth. Thy father was my guest in this hut. Seventeen years ago this last autumn he had been hunting all day, and was on the down above, near the mound where Holy Birinus once preached, as the sun set, when he perceived, a few miles away, the flames of a burning house, and knew that it was his own, for he lived in a recess of the downs far from other houses. He hurried towards the scene, sick with fear, but it was miles away, and when he reached the spot he saw a dark band passing along the downs, a short distance off, in the opposite direction. His heart told him they were the incendiaries, but he stopped not for vengeance. Love to hiswife and children hurried him on. When he arrived the roof had long since fallen in; a few pitying neighbours stood around, and shook their heads as they saw him, and heard his pitiful cries for his wife and children. Fain would he have thrown himself into the flames, but they restrained him, and told him he had one child yet to live for, accidentally absent at the house of a neighbour.—It was thou, my son."
"But who had burnt the house? Who had slain my poor mother, and my brothers and sisters, if I had any?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford."
"Brian Fitz-Count!" said Osric in horror.
"None other."
Osric stood aghast—confounded.
"Because your father would not pay tribute, maintaining that the land was his own freehold since it had been confirmed to his father, thy paternal grandfather, by the Norman courts, which acknowledged no tenure, no right of possession, dating before the Conquest; but Wigod of Wallingford was thy grandfather's friend, and he had secured to him the possession of the ancestral domains. This Brian denied, and claimed the rent of his vassal, as he deemed thy father. Thy father refused to obey, and appealed to the courts, and Brian's answer was this deed of murder."
Osric listened as one in a dream.
"Oh, my poor father! What did he do?"
"He brought thee here. 'Henceforth,' he said, 'I am about to live the life of a hunted wolf, my sole solace to slay Normans: sooner or later I shall perish by their hands, for Satan is on their side, and helps them, and God and His Saints are asleep; but take care of my child; let him not learn the sad story of his birth till he be of age; nor let him even know his father's name. Only let him be brought up as an Englishman; and if he live to years of discretion, thou mayst tell him all, if I return not to claim him before then.'"
"And he has never returned—never?"
"Never: he became a captain of an outlawed band, haunting the forests and slaying Normans, until, four years ago, he met Brian Fitz-Count alone on these downs, and the two fought to the death."
"And Brian conquered?"
"He did, and left thy father for dead; but the good monks of Dorchester chanced to be passing across the downs from their house at Hermitage, and they found the body, and discovered that there was yet life therein. They took him to Dorchester, and as he was unable to use sword or lance again, he consented to take the vows, and become a novice. He found his vocation, and is now, I am told, happy and useful, fervent in his ministrations amongst the poor and helpless; but he has never yet been here.
"And now, Osric, my son," for the youth sat as one stunned, "what is it that I hear of thee?—that thou art, like a cannibal,[25]preying upon thine own people; that thy hand is foremost in every deed of violence and bloodshed; that thou art a willing slave of the murderer of thy kindred. Boy, I wonder thy mother has not returned from the grave to curse thee!"
"Why—why did you let me become his man?"
The old man felt the justice of the words.
"Why did you not let me die first?"
"Thou forgettest I was not by thee when thou didst consent, or I might have prevented thee by telling thee the truth even at that terrible moment; but when thou wast already pledged to him, I waited for the time when I might tell thee, never thinking thou wouldst become awillingslave or join in such deeds of atrocity and crime as thou hast done."
"Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
"Thou canst not return, now thou knowest all."
"Never; but he will seek me here."
"Then thou must fly the country."
"Whither shall I go? are any of my father's band left?"
"Herwald, his successor, fell into the power of Brian, and we know not what was done with him; nor whether he is living or dead."
But Osric knew: he remembered the chest half filled with sharp stones and its living victim.
"One Thorold succeeded, and they still maintain a precarious existence in the forests."
"I will seek them; I will yet be true to my country, and avenge my kindred upon Brian. But oh, grandfather, he has been so good to me! I am his favourite, his confidant; he was about to knight me. Oh, how miserable it all is! Would I had never lived—would I were dead."
"He has been thy worst foe. He has taught thee to slay thine own people, nay, to torture them; he has taught thee—tell me, is it not true?—even to deny thy God."
"It is true, he has; but not intentionally."
"Thou owest him nought."
"Yet I did love him, and would have died sooner than be faithless to him."
"So do sorcerers, as I have been told, love Satan, yet it is happy when they violate that awful faith. Choose, my son, between thy God, thy country, thy slaughtered kindred, and Brian."
"I do choose—I renounce him: he shall never see me again."
"Fly the country then; seek another clime; go on pilgrimage; take the cross; and employ thy valour and skill against the Saracens—the Moslems, the enemies of God."
"I will, God being my helper."
"Thou dost believe then in the God of thy fathers?"
"I think I always did, save when Brian was near. I tried not to believe, happily in vain."
"Hewill forgive thee—Heis all-merciful. The prodigal son has returned. Now I am weary: let me rest—let me rest."
Osric wandered forth into the woods. Who shall describe his emotions? It was as when S. Remigius said to the heathen Clovis, "Burn that thou hast adored, and adore that thou hast burnt." But the terrible story of the destruction of his kindred, familiar as he was with like scenes, overcame him; yet he could not help blaming his father for his long neglect. Why had he disowned his only surviving son? why had he not trained him up in the ways of the woods, and in hatred of the Normans? why had he left him to the mercies of Brian Fitz-Count?
Then again came the remembrance of that strange partiality, even amounting to fondness, which Brian had ever shown him, and he could but contrast the coldness and indifference of his own father with the fostering care of the awful Lord of Wallingford.
But blood is thicker than water: he could no longer serve the murderer of his kindred—Heaven itself would denounce such an alliance; yet he did not even now wish to wreak vengeance. He could not turn so suddenly: the old man's solution was the right one—he would fly the country and go to the Crusades.
But how to get out of England? it was no easy matter. The chances were twenty to one that he would either meet his death from some roving band or be forcibly compelled to join them.
The solution suddenly presented itself.
He would seek his father, take sanctuary at Dorchester, and claim his aid. Even Brian could not drag him thence; and the monks of all men would and could assist him to join the Crusades.
Strong in this resolution, he returned to the cottage.
"Your grandfather is asleep; you must not disturb him, Osric, my dear boy."
"Very well, my old nurse, I will sleep too; my heart is very heavy."
He lay down on a pile of leaves and rushes in the outer room, and slept a troublous sleep. He had a strange dream, which afterwards became significant. He thought that old Judith came to him and said—
"Boy, go back to Wallingford; 'Brian,' not 'Wulfnoth,' is the name of thy father."
The sands of old Sexwulf's life were running fast. The last rites of the Church were administered to him by the parish priest of Aston Upthorpe on the day following Osric's arrival. He made no further attempt to enter into the subject of the last interview with his grandson. From time to time he pressed the youth's hands, as if to show that he trusted him now, and that all the past was forgiven; from time to time he looked upon him with eyes in which revived affection beamed. He never seemed able to rest unless Osric was in the room.
Wearied out, Osric threw himself down upon his couch that night for brief repose, but in the still hours of early dawn Judith awoke him.
"Get up—he is passing away."
Osric threw on a garment and entered the chamber. His grandfather was almost gone; he collected his dying strength for a last blessing, murmured with dying lips, upon his beloved boy. Then while they knelt and said the commendatory prayer, he passed away to rejoin those whom he had loved and lost—the wife of his youth, the children of his early manhood—passing from scenes of violence and wrong to the land of peace and love, where all the mysteries of earth are solved.
FOOTNOTES:[24]"The last trace of a dungeon answering the above description, with huge iron rings fixed in the walls, disappeared about sixty or seventy years ago."—History of Wallingford(Hedges).[25]It was a remark of this kind which turned Robert Bruce when fighting against his own people. "See," said an Englishman, as he saw Bruce eating with unwashed and reddened hands, "that Scotchman eating his own blood!"
[24]"The last trace of a dungeon answering the above description, with huge iron rings fixed in the walls, disappeared about sixty or seventy years ago."—History of Wallingford(Hedges).
[24]"The last trace of a dungeon answering the above description, with huge iron rings fixed in the walls, disappeared about sixty or seventy years ago."—History of Wallingford(Hedges).
[25]It was a remark of this kind which turned Robert Bruce when fighting against his own people. "See," said an Englishman, as he saw Bruce eating with unwashed and reddened hands, "that Scotchman eating his own blood!"
[25]It was a remark of this kind which turned Robert Bruce when fighting against his own people. "See," said an Englishman, as he saw Bruce eating with unwashed and reddened hands, "that Scotchman eating his own blood!"
Sad and weary were the hours to Osric which intervened between the death and burial of his grandfather. He gazed upon the dear face, where yet the parting look of love seemed to linger. The sense of desolation overwhelmed him—his earthly prospects were shattered, his dreams of ambition ended; but the dead spake not to console him, and the very heavens seemed as brass; his only consolation that he felt his lapse had been forgiven, that the departed one had died loving and blessing him.
The only true consolation in such hour of distress is that afforded by religion, but poor Osric could feel little of this; he had strayed so far from the gentle precepts which had guarded his boyhood: if he believed in religion, it was as when Satan looked into the gates of Paradise from afar. It was not his. He seemed to have renounced his portion and lot in it, to have sold himself to Satan, in the person of Brian Fitz-Count.
Yet, he could not even nowhatethe Baron, as he ought to have done, according to all regulations laid down for such cases, made and provided, ever since men began to write novels. Let the reader enter into his case impartially. He had never known either paternal or maternal love—the mother, who had perished, was not even a memory; while, on the other hand, the destroyer had adopted him as a son, and been as a father to him, distinguishing him from others by an affection all the more remarkable as coming from a rugged nature, unused to tender emotions. Again, thehorror with which we moderns contemplate such a scene as his dead grandfather had described, was far less vivid in one to whom such casualties had been of constant experience, and were regarded as the usual incidents of warfare. Our readers can easily imagine the way in which he would have regarded it before he had fallen under the training of Wallingford Castle.
But it was his own mother, and Brian was her murderer. Ah, if he had but once known the gentle endearment of a fond mother's love, how different would have been his feelings! There would have been no need then to enforce upon him the duty of forsaking the life but yesterday opening so brightly to his eyes, and throwing himself a waif and a stray upon the world of strife.
He walked to and fro in the woods, and thought sometimes of all he was leaving. Sometimes of the terrible fate of her who had borne him. At another moment he felt half inclined to conceal all, and go back to Wallingford, as if nothing had happened; the next he felt he could never again grasp the hand of the destroyer of his kindred.
The hour came for the funeral. The corpse was brought forth on the bier from the hut which had so long sheltered it in life. They used no coffins in those days—it was simply wrapped in the "winding-sheet." He turned back the linen, and gazed upon the still calm face for the last time ere the bearers departed with their burden. Then he burst into a passion of tears, which greatly relieved him: it is they who cannot weep, who suffer most. His grandfather had been father, mother, and all to him, until a very recent period: and the sweet remembrances and associations of boyhood returned for a while.
The solemn burial service of our forefathers was unlike our own—perhaps not so soothing to the mourners, for whom our service seems made; but it bore more immediate reference to the departed: the service was forthem. The prayers of the Church followed them, as in all ancient liturgies, into that world beyond the grave, as stillmembers of Christ's mystical body, one with us in the "Communion of Saints."
The procession was in those days commonly formed at the house of the deceased, but as Sexwulf's earthly home was far from the Church, the body was met at the lych gate, as in modern times. First went the cross-bearer, then the mourners, then the priest preceding the bier, around which lighted torches were borne.
Psalms were now solemnly chanted, particularly theDe Profundisand theMiserere, and at the close of each the refrain—
"Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord,And let perpetual light shine upon him."
"Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord,And let perpetual light shine upon him."
"Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord,And let perpetual light shine upon him."
"Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord,
And let perpetual light shine upon him."
Then followed the solemn requiem Mass, wherein the great Sacrifice, once offered on Calvary, was pleaded for the deceased. When the last prayer had been said, the corpse was sprinkled with hallowed water, and perfumed with sweet incense, after which it was removed to its last resting place. The grave was also sprinkled with the hallowed water, emblematical of the cleansing power of the "Blood of Sprinkling"; and the body of the ancient thane was committed to the earth, sown in corruption, to be raised in joy unspeakable, and full of glory.
Around the grave were but few mourners. Famine, pestilence, and war had removed from time to time those who had known the old thane in his poverty (for thane he was by birth), but there stood two or three of a different stamp from the care-worn peasants—men clad in jerkins of leather, tall, rugged, resolute-looking fellows. One of these watched Osric closely, and when the last rites were over and the grave-digger commenced his final labour of filling up the grave, he followed the funeral party on their homeward road, as they returned to the desolate home. At last he approached Osric.
"I believe you are Osric, grandson of the true Englishman we have now laid in the earth?"
"I am that unhappy man."
"Thou art the son of a line of patriots. Thy father died fighting against the oppressor, and thou art the sole representative of his family. Canst thou remain longer in the halls of the tyrant?"
"Who art thou?"
"A true Englishman."
"Thorold is thy name, is it not?"
"How didst thou know me?"
"Because my grandfather before he died revealed all to me."
"Then thou wilt cast in thy lot with us?"
"I think not. My father yet lives; you are mistaken in thinking him dead. He is a monk in Dorchester Abbey."
"He is dead at least to the world; Brian's lance and spear slew him, so far as that is concerned."
"But I go to ask his advice. I would fain leave this unhappy land and join the Crusaders."
"And renounce the hope of vengeance upon the slayer of thy kindred?"
"I have eaten of his bread and salt."
"And thou knowest all the secrets of his prison-house. Tell us, hast thou heard of one Herwald, a follower of thy father?"
"I may not tell thee;" and Osric shuddered.
"The Normans have spoilt thee then, indeedand intruth. Wilt thou not even tell us whether Herwald yet lives?"
"I may not for the present; if my father bid me tell thee, thou shalt know. Leave me for the present; I have just buried my grandfather; let me rest for the day at least."
The outlaw, for such he was, ceased to importune him at this plaintive cry; then like a man who takes a sudden resolution, stepped aside, and Osric passed on. When he reached home he half expected to find a messenger from Wallingford chiding his delay; then he sat a brief while as one who hardly knows what to do, while old Judith broughthim a savoury stew, and bade him eat. Several times she looked at him, like one who is burning to tell a secret, then pursed up her lips, as if she were striving to repress a strong inclination to speak.
At length Osric rose up.
"Judith," he said, "I may stay here no longer."
"Thou art going to Dorchester?"
"I am."
"What shall I say when the Lord of Wallingford sends for thee?"
"That I am gone to Dorchester."
"Will that satisfy them?"
"I know not. It must."
"I could tell thee all that thou wilt learn at Dorchester."
"Do so. It may save me the journey."
"I may not. I swore on the Gospels I would not tell the secret to thy"—she paused—"to Wulfnoth."
"What! another secret?"
"Yes; and one thou dost not, canst not, suspect; but, I think, didst thou know it, thou wouldst at once return to Wallingford Castle."
"Tell me—tell me all."
"Wouldst have me forsworn? No; seek thyfather." She emphasised the word, and then added, "Ask him to let me tell thee the whole truth, if he will not do so himself; then return and learn more than thy dead grandfather has told thee, or could have told thee, for he knew not the truth."
"Judith, I will seek my father, and return at once after I have seen him."
"But the roads are dangerous; beware!"
Osric rose; put on his tunic over a coat of light chain mail; girded his sword to his side; put on a leathern cap, padded inside with steel, for in those days prudent men never travelled unarmed; then he bade Judith farewell, and started for Dorchester, making for the Synodune Hills, beyond which well-known landmarks Dorchester lay, and beneath the hills was a ford across the Thames.
He had not gone far—not half a mile—when he heard a rustling of the branches beyond the brook, and a stern voice cried—
"Stand."
"Who art thou?" he cried.
"Good men and true, and thou art our prisoner."
"If so, come and take me."
"Wilt thou yield thyself unharmed, on the pledge that no harm is intended thee?"
"I will not. I know thee, Thorold: I seek Dorchester and my father."
"Thou wilt hardly reach it or him to-day. Stand, I say, or we must take thee by force."
"No man shall make me go with him against my will," cried Osric, and drew his sword.
Thorold laughed and clapped his hands. Quick as thought five or six men dashed from the covers which had hidden them in all directions. Osric drew his sword, but before he could wield it against a foe who met him face to face, another mastered his arms from behind, and he was a prisoner.
"Do him no harm; he is his father's son. We only constrain him for his good. Bring him along."
They led, or rather bore, him through the woods for a long distance, until they came to a tangled swamp, situated amidst bog and quagmire, wherein any other men save those acquainted with the path might easily have sunk up to the neck, or even lost their lives; but in the centre was a spot of firm ground, and there, beneath the shade of a large tree, was a fire, before which roasted a haunch of venison, and to the right and left were sleeping hutches, of the most primitive construction.
"Canst thou eat?"
"I will not eat with thee."
"Thy father's son should not disdain thy father's friend. Listen; if we have made thee a prisoner, it is to save thee from thyself. The son of a true Englishman should notshed the blood of his countrymen, nor herd with his oppressors. Has not thy grandfather taught thee as much?"
"He has indeed; and no longer will I do so, I promise thee."
"Then wilt thou go a little farther, and help us to deliver thy country?"
"Can it be delivered? What canyoudo?"
"Alas! little; but we do our best and wait better times. Look, my lad, when things are at their worst the tide turns: the darkest hour is just before the dawn. Think of this happy land—happy once—now the sport of robbers and thieves! Think of the hideous dungeons where true Englishmen rot! Think of the multitudes of innocent folk burnt, racked, tortured, starved, driven to herd with the beasts! Think of the horrors of famine! Think of the unburied dead—slain foully, and breeding a pestilence, which oft destroys their murderers! Think, in short, of Wallingford Castle and its lord——"
A deep murmur of assent from the recumbent outlaws stretched on the turf around.
Osric's features twitched; he felt the force of the appeal.
"What do you want of me?"
"Our leader is a miserable captive in the devil's hold you have quitted, and of which you know the secrets."
"What can I do? They were told me in confidence. Can I break my honour?"
"Confidence! honour! If you had promised the Devil's dam to sell your soul, would you feel bound to do so?"
"In short," said another, "wewillhave the secret."
"Nay, Grimbald, patience; he will come right in time. Force is no good with such as he. He must do what is right, because itisright; and when he sees it, he will join us heart and soul, or he is not the son of Wulfnoth."
"He has shown little paternal care for me; yet when you seized me I was about to seek his direction. Why not let me go, and let him decide for me?"
"A truce to folly. We know what Wulfnoth of old would have said, when he was our leader. He gave himself heart and soul to the cause—to avenge thy slaughtered kinsfolk. And now that one whom he trusted and loved well is a prisoner in that hell which you have left, can we think that he would hesitate about your duty? Why then waste time in consulting him? I appeal to your conscience. Where is Herwald?"
Osric was silent.
"By the memory of thy grandfather."
Still silence.
"Of thy murdered mother, expiring in the flames which consumed thy brothers and sisters."
Osric gave a loud cry.
"No more," he said, "no more; I will tell thee: Herwald lives."
"Where?"
"In the lowest dungeon of Wallingford Castle."
"Hast thou seen him?"
"Yes."
"Does he suffer torture?"
"Terribly."
"Of what nature?"
"I hardly dare to tell thee."
"The sachentage?"
"As bad as that; the crucet-chest—the——"
"Stay—wilt thou help us to deliver him?"
"Save my honour."
"Honour! honour! honour!" and they laughed the word to scorn, till the woods caught the echoes, and seemed to repeat it, "Honour! honour!"
"Get that delusion out of thy mind. To fight for one's country, nay, to die for it, that is true honour; to deliver the outcast and poor, to save them from the hands of the ungodly,—it is for this we have brought thee here. Let me tell thee what I have seen, nay, thou hast seen as much, and of the woes of thy bleeding country, bleeding at everypore. If the memory of thy mother stir thee not up, then thou artNIDDERING."
At the sound of this word—this term of utter reproach to an English ear, worse than "coward" a thousand times, suggesting a depth of baseness beyond conception—Osric started.
"And deservest to die," said the outlaw who had just spoken.
Osric's pride took alarm at once; his downcast look changed.
"Slay me, then," he said; "the sooner the better."
"Nay, brother, that is not the way—thou wilt spoil it all; we would win him byconviction, not by threats."
"Let me have an hour to think."
"Take some food."
"No."
They left him alone, but he knew he was watched, and could not escape, nor did he wish to; he was yielding to his destiny.
One hour of such mental anguish—the boast of chivalry, the pomp of power, the false glamour, all giving way to theconvictionthat the Englishmen wereright, and their cause that of truth and justice, nay, of God!
At the end of the hour he rose to his feet and looked around. The men were seated at their repast. He approached them.
"Give me of your food."
They did so. Thorold's eyes sparkled with delight; he saw what it meant.
They waited for him to speak; but he satisfied hunger first, then he drank, and afterwards said calmly—
"Is there any oath of admission to your band?"
"Only to swear to be true to England and Englishmen till death, and to wage war against their oppressors, of whatsoever degree, with all your powers. So help you God."
Osric repeated the oath solemnly and distinctly.
The outlaws shouted with joy.
"And now," he said, "let us talk of Herwald, and I will do all I can to help you to deliver him; but it will be a difficult task. I must take time to consider it."
Meanwhile old Judith sat at home in the lonely hut, as she had done on the occasion recorded in the fourth chapter of our tale. Again she sat by the fire which smoked on the hearth, again she sang quaint snatches of old songs.
"It is a wise son which knows his own sire," she said, and going to a corner of the hut, opened once more her poor old rickety chest, from which she took the packet of musty parchment, containing a ring with a seal, a few articles of infant attire, a little red shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden's hair.
"Poor Ethra," she said, "how strange thy fate!" and she kissed the lock of hair again and again. "And now thy boy may inherit his father's honours and titles unchecked, for his supposed grandfather is here no longer to claim him, and his half-brothers are lepers. Wulfnoth never loved him—never. Why, then, should he not give him up to his true father? Vengeance! to be sure, he should not desire this now. A monk, fie! fie! Wulfnoth might seek it; Father Alphege cannot, may not. He will tell Osric the whole truth, or refer him to me; and he may go back with a clear conscience to Wallingford; and I shall have the proofs ready, which the Lord of Wallingford would give all he has to possess. Here they are, stripped from the dead attendants or found on the helpless babe."
Just then she heard steps approaching; she jealously hid her treasures.
A page dismounted from his horse at the door of the hut.
"Is the squire Osric within?"
"Enter."
A youth of fourteen summers, just what Osric had been when hebegan, entered the door, and looked curiously around. "What! wasthisOsric's home—Osric, the Baron's favourite?"
"He has gone to Dorchester Abbey."
"Dorchester Abbey! he was to have returned last night to Wallingford."
"He stayed for the funeral."
The boy looked amazed. What was an old man's funeral compared with Brian's orders?
"And his grandfather, dying, bade him go to Dorchester, whence he will speedily return, and bring, yes, bring with him that shall make full atonement for his offence, if offence it be."
"It had need be something very valuable then. It might cost some of us our heads, did we do the like."
"They will not hurt a hair of his, I am sure. You shall have him with you soon. Ah, yes! very soon."
The boy shook his head, looked once more curiously at the old woman and the hut, and departed, muttering—
"I should be sorry to stand in Osric's shoes; but then he is a favourite;" and young Louis of Trouville, page to Brian for the good of his education, rode down the brook.
"After all, he is no gentleman. Why did my lord choose a page from amongst the peasants?"
Many had asked that question before.
The time had passed away slowly at the lazar-house at Byfield. Life was tedious there to most people, least of all to the good Chaplain, Father Ambrose; for he loved his poor lepers with a love which could only come direct from Him Who loved us all. He did not feel time lag. Each day had its appointed duties: in holy offices of prayer and praise, or in his labour of love, the days sped on. He felt the strain, it is true, but he bore it. He looked for no holiday here; it could never come. He was cloistered and confined by that general belief in the contagion of leprosy, which was so strong in the world that many would have slain a leper had they met him outside the defined boundaries, or set their mastiffs to tear him in pieces.
One day Father Ambrose was seated in his cell after Terce, when one of the attendants came to him with a serious and anxious face.
"I should be glad for you to come and see Gaspard; he has been very ill all night, and there are some strange symptoms about him."
The Chaplain rose, and followed the "keeper" into the chamber above, where in a small "cubicle," separated by a screen from the other couches, the sick man tossed.
"He is delirious; how long has he been so?"
"Nearly all the night."
"And in a raging fever?—but this blackness; I never saw one so dark before."
It was, alas, too true. The body was fast assuming astrange dark, yet livid, hue, as if the blood were ink instead of red blood.
"Lift up the left arm," said the Chaplain.
Near the armpits were two or three swellings about the size of a pigeon's egg. The Chaplain saw them and grew serious.
"It is the black fever—the plague!" almost screamed the horrified attendant.
"Keep cool, brother John; nothing is gained by excitement, and all is lost by fear; put your trust in God."
"But I havetouchedhim—drawn in his infected breath—I am a dead man."
The Chaplain heeded him not.
"Brother, canst thou speak?" he said to the sick man.
A moan was the only reply.
"Brother, dost thou know that thou art dying?"
A moan again.
"And that the best of us have not lived as we should?"
Another sigh, so dolorous.
"And dost thou believe that God's dear Son died for thee?"
A faint gesture of assent.
"Say thou, brother, 'I put the pitiful Passion of Thy dear Son between me and my sins.'"[26]
"I do, oh God. Sweet Jesus, save me."
And then he relapsed into an unconscious state, in which he continued till he died.
"We must bury him directly, brother John."
The attendant shuddered.
"Yes, we two; we have been in danger, no one else need come. You go and tell the grave-digger to have the grave ready directly, and the moment it is ready we two will bury him."
"Oh God! I am a dead man," said poor brother John.
"Nay, we cannot die till our time come, and if so, thewayHechooses is best. We all oweHima death, you know. Fear is the worst thing you can entertain now; it brings on the very thing you dread. Overcomethat, at all events, if you can."
And the poor frightened fellow went out to do as he was bidden.
Then the brave and good man composed the corpse; placed a crucifix on its breast; drew the bed-clothes round it to serve as a winding-sheet, for they must be buried or burned; said the commendatory prayers; and walked for a time in the fresh air.
He knew his own danger, but he heeded it not. All things, he was persuaded, worked together for good to them that loved God; besides, what had he to live for?—his poor sheep—the lepers? Yes; but God could raise up a better man than he, so in his humility he thought; and if he were—called home——
Did not the thought of that Purgatory, which was in the Creed of his time, come between him and the notion of rest?
Not at all; he was content to leave all that; if his Father thought he needed such correction, he was willing to pass through it; and like a dear son to kiss the rod, as he had done on earth, safe in the hands of his Father.
Neither did his thoughts turn much to the Saints. Of course he believed, as every one did then, that it was right to invoke them—and he had done so that day in the prescribed commendatory prayers for the dying; but, as stars fade away in the presence of the sun, so did all these things fade away before his love for the central sun of his soul—his crucified Lord.
The hours passed away in rapt emotion; he never felt so happy as that afternoon.
Then came the grave-digger.
"The grave is ready."
"Tell brother John to come and help."
"I do not think he is able; he seems unwell himself."
"Then you and I must do it."
"Willingly—where you lead I follow."
"Come up the stairs."
They went to the dormitory; took the sad burden, wrapped in the bed-clothing as it was, and bore it to the grave; the priest said the burial office; the grave-digger filled up the grave; and all was over with poor Gaspard.
But before that sun set the Chaplain was called to brother John, and that same night the poor fellow died of the fever—fear, doubtless, having been a predisposing cause.
The terror began; the facts could not long be concealed. At Evensong that night the Chaplain spoke to them in a short address, so full of vivid faith and Christian hope that those who heard it never forgot it.—"Why should they fear death? They had led a living death, a dying life, these many years. Their exile was over. The Father called them home. They had long done with this wretched world. The Christian's true fatherland was Heaven."
So he spoke rather like an Angel than a man. But they could not all rise to it—how could it be expected? life clings to life. When Newgate was on fire in the great riots, the most anxious to be saved were some condemned criminals left for execution on the morrow.
But for a select few, all fear was gone.
Such men were needed: they had their senses about them; they could help others to the last; they, and they alone, dared to attend the dying, to bury the dead.
Now came the great trial—the confinement. The lepers mutinied against being shut up with death, they longed for liberty, they panted for it; they would not be imprisoned with the plague.
Then began positive fighting. The poor patients had to be restrained by main force, until the Chaplain came, and by his great power over their minds, persuaded them to stay.
Every one was asking, "How came it amongst us?" and the mystery was explained when they were told of a bale of cloth for their tailor consigned to the house from theLevant, viâBristol, and which in all the long tedious voyage had retained the infection ever living in the East.
Day by day fresh victims were carried to the grave. The plague was probably simply a malignant form of typhus, nourished in some human hotbed to the highest perfection. Thebacillusor germ is, we trust, extinct, but otherwise enough might be bred in a bottle to poison a county, as we have heard stated.
All at once the heaviest blow fell upon them.
Father Ambrose was walking in the grounds, taking rest of mind after intense mental and bodily exertion, when he felt a sudden throb of violent heat, followed by an intense chill and a sickening sensation accompanied by faintness. He took off his cassock—he saw the fatal swelling.
"My summons is come," he said. "Oh, my Father, I thank Thee for calling me home; but these poor sheep whom Thou hast committed to my care, what shall they do?"
Then he walked quietly to his cell and lay down on his bed. He had watched the disease in others; he entertained no hope of recovery. "In a few hours I shall see Him face to face Whom I have loved," said he.
They came and found him. Never was man more patient; but that mediæval idea of intense self-denial was with him to the last. He refused water: they thought him delirious.
"Hewould not drink," he said.
They saw his thoughts were on the Cross, and that he was treading the pathway opened by the Crucified One, and they said no more.
He had received the Holy Communion that morning—his last Communion; the usual rites could not be attempted now. Before he relapsed into the last stage, they heard the words in his native tongue—