FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[4]Sir Milo was Sheriff of Gloucester, and was afterwards created Earl of Hereford by the Empress Maude.[5]Otherwise ceorls and theowes, tenant farmers and labourers, the latter, bondsmen, "adscripti glebæ," bought with the land, but who could not be sold apart from it.

[4]Sir Milo was Sheriff of Gloucester, and was afterwards created Earl of Hereford by the Empress Maude.

[5]Otherwise ceorls and theowes, tenant farmers and labourers, the latter, bondsmen, "adscripti glebæ," bought with the land, but who could not be sold apart from it.

"It was a stag, a stag of ten,Bearing his branches sturdily."

"It was a stag, a stag of ten,

Bearing his branches sturdily."

We left the grandson of the recluse setting forth in quest of the stag.

Forth he and his dog bounded from the thick covert in which their cottage was concealed, and emerging from the tall reeds which bordered the brook, they stood beneath the shade of the mighty beech-trees, whose trunks upbore the dense foliage, as pillars in the solemn aisles of cathedrals support the superstructure; for the woods were God's first temples, and the inhabitants of such regions drew from them the inspiration from which sprang the various orders of Gothic architecture.

Here Osric, for such was his name, paused and hid in a thicket of hazel, for he spied the stag coming down the glade towards him, he restrained the dog by the leash: and the two lay in ambush.

The hunted creature, quite unsuspecting any new foes, came down the glen, bearing his branches loftily, for doubtless he was elate, poor beast, with the victory which his heels had given him over his human and canine foes. And now he approached the ambush: the boy had fitted an arrow to his bow but hesitated, it seemed almost a shame to lay so noble an animal low; but hunger and want are stern masters, and men must eat if they would live.

Just then the creature snuffed the tainted air, an instant, and he would have escaped; but the bow twanged, and the arrow buried itself in its side, the stag boundedin the death agony towards the very thicket whence the fatal dart had come; when Osric met it, and drawing his keen hunting-knife across its throat, ended its struggles and its life together.

He had received a woodland education, and knew what to do; he soon quartered the stag, whose blood the dog was lapping, and taking one of the haunches on his shoulders, entered the tangled maze of reeds and water wherein lay his island-home.

"Here, grandfather, here is one of the haunches, what a capital fat one it is! truly it will be a toothsome morsel for thee, and many tender bits will there be to suit thy aged teeth; come, Judith, come and help me hang it on the tree; then I will go and fetch the rest, joint by joint."

"But stop, Osric, what sound, what noise is that?" and the old man listened attentively—then added—

"Huntsmen have driven that stag hitherwards, and are following on its trail."

The breeze brought the uproarious baying of dogs and cries of men down the woods. It was at that moment, that, as stated in our last chapter, the fox had crossed the track, and baffled them for the moment.

Alas for poor Osric, only for the moment, for the huntsmen had succeeded in getting some of the older and wiser hounds to take up the lost trail, and the scent of their former enemy again greeting their olfactory organs, they obeyed the new impulse—or rather the old one renewed, and were off again after the deer.

And as we see a flock of sheep, stopped by a fence, hesitating where to go, until one finds a gap and all follow; so the various undecided dogs agreed that venison was better than carrion, and the stag therefore a nobler quarry than the fox; so, save a few misguided young puppies, they resumed the legitimate chase.

The huntsmen followed as fast as the trees and bushes allowed them, until, after a mile or two, they all came to asudden stand, where the object of the chase had already met its death at the hands of Osric.

Meanwhile the unhappy youth had heard them drawing nearer and nearer. He knew that it would be impossible to escape discovery, unless the intricacies of their retreat should baffle the hunters, whom they heard drawing nearer and nearer. The dogs, they knew, would not pursue the chase beyond the place of slaughter. Oh! if they had but time to mangle it before the men arrived, so that the manner in which it had met its death might not be discovered—but that was altogether unlikely. And in truth clamorous human cries mingled with wild vociferous barkings, howlings, bayings, and other canine clamour, showed that the hunt was already assembled close by.

"I will go forth and own the deed: then perhaps they will not inquire further——"

"Nay, my son, await God's Will here."

And the old man restrained the youth.

At length they heard such words as these—

"He cannot be far off."

"He is hidden amongst the reeds."

"Turn in the dogs."

"They have tasted blood and are useless."

"Fire the reeds."

"Nay, grandfather, I must go, the reeds are dry, they will burn us all together. They may show me mercy if I own it bravely."

"Nay, they love their deer too well; they will hang thee on the nearest beech."

"Look! they have fired the reeds."

"It may be our salvation: they cannot penetrate them when burning, and see, if the smoke stifle us not, the fire will not reach us; there is too much green and dank vegetation around the brook between us and the reeds."

"Ah! the wind blows it the other way; nay, it eddies—see that tongue of flame darting amongst the dry fuel—now another: that thick smoke—there it is changed toflame. Oh, grandfather, let us get off by the other side—at once—at once."

"Thou forgettest I am a cripple; but there may be time for you and Judith to save yourselves."

"Nay," said Osric, proudly, "we live or die together."

"Judith will stay with her old master," said the poor thrall, "and with her young lord too."

They were yet "lords" in her eyes, bereft although they were of their once vast possessions.

"Perhaps we are as safe here; their patience will wear out before they can penetrate the island. See, they are firing the reeds out yonder. Normans love a conflagration," said the old man.

In fact, it was as much with that inherent love of making a blaze, which had marked the Normans and the Danes from the beginning, when church, homestead, barn, and stack, were all kindled as the fierce invaders swept through the land; that the mischievous and vindictive men-at-arms had fired the reeds, wherein they thought the slayer of the deer had taken refuge, when they found that the dogs would not enter after him. There was little fear of any further harm than the clearing of a few acres. The trees were too damp to burn, or indeed to take much harm from so hasty and brief a blaze: so they thought, if they thought at all.

But the season had been dry, the material was as tinder, and the blaze reached alarming proportions—several wild animals ran out, and were slain by the bystanders, others were heard squeaking miserably in the flames; but that little affected the hardened folk of the time, they had to learn mercy towards men, before the time came to start a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals.

"He cannot be there or he would have run out by this time."

"He has escaped the other side."

"Nay, Alain and his men have gone round there to look out."

"But they cannot cross the brook on foot, and even a horse would get stuck in the mire."

"They will do their best."

The three in the cottage saw the flames rise and crackle all round them, and the dense clouds of smoke were stifling. Osric got water from the brook and dashed it all over the roof and the more inflammable portions of their dwelling, lest a spark should kindle them, and worked hard at his self-imposed task, in the intense heat.

But the conflagration subsided almost as rapidly as it arose from sheer want of fuel, and with the cessation of the flames came the renewal of the danger of discovery.

Other voices were now heard, one loud and stern as befitted a leader:—

"What meaneth this? Who hath kindled the reeds without my order?"

"The deer-slayer lurketh within."

"What deer-slayer? Who struck the stag?"

"We know not. It could not have been many minutes before we arrived; the carcase was still warm."

"He must be caught; thou shalt not suffer a poacher to live, is the royal command, and mine too; but did you not set the dogs after him?"

"They had tasted blood, my lord."

"But if he were hidden herein, he must have come forth. If the bed of reeds were properly encircled—it seems to cover some roods of forest."

"A shame for so fine a beast to be so foully murdered."

"It was a stag of ten branches."

"And he gave us good sport."

"We will hang his slayer in his honour."

"A fine acorn for a lusty oak."

"When we catch him."

"He shall dance on nothing, and we will amuse ourselves by his grimaces."

"Nothing more laughable than the face apendumakes with the rope round his neck."

"Has anybody got a rope?"

"Has anybody found the poacher?"

A general laugh.

"Silence, listen."

A dry old oak which had perhaps seen the Druids, and felt the keen knife bare its bosom of the hallowed mistletoe, had kindled and fallen; as it fell sending forth showers upon showers of sparks.

The fall of the tree opened a sort of vista in the flames, and revealed——

"Look," said the Baron, "I see something like the roof of a hut just beyond the opening the tree has made."

"I think so too," said Sir Milo of Gloucester.

"Very well, wait here awhile, my men; these reeds are all burnt, and the ground will soon cool, then you may go in and see what that hut contains: reserve them for my judgment. Here, Tristam, here, Raoul, hold our horses."

Two sprightly-looking boy pages took the reins, and Brian and Milo, if we may presume to call them by such familiar appellations, walked together in the glade.

Deep were their cogitations, and how much the welfare of England depended upon them, would hardly be believed by our readers. We would fain reveal what they said, but only the half can be told.

"It can be endured no longer!"

"Soon no one but he will be allowed to build a castle!"

"But to lay hands upon two anointed prelates."

"The Bishops of Sarum and Lincoln."

"Arrested just when they were trusting to his good faith."

"The one in the king's own ante-chamber, the other in his lodgings eating his dinner."

"The Bishop of Ely only escaped by the skin of his teeth."

"And he, too, was forced to surrender his castle, for the king vowed that the Bishop of Salisbury should haveno food until his nephew of Ely surrendered, and led poor Roger, pale and emaciated, stretching forth his skinny hands, and entreating his nephew to save him from starvation, to and fro before the walls, until he gained his ends, and the castle was yielded."

"He is not our true king, but a foul usurper."

"Well, my good cousin, a few hours may bring us news. But, listen; can our folk have caught the deer-slayers? let us return to them."

In the absence of their leaders, the men-at-arms, confiding in the goodness of their boots and leggings, had trodden across the smoking soil in the direction where their leader had pointed out the roof of a hut amidst leafy trees, and had quickly discovered their victims, crossed the brook, and surrounded the house.

"Come forth, Osric, my son," said the old man, "whatever befalls, let us not disgrace our ancestry; let nothing become us in life more than the mode of leaving it, if die we must."

"But must we die? what have we done?"

"Broken their tyrannical laws. Judith, open the door."

A loud shout greeted the appearance of the old man, his beard descending to his waist, as he issued forth, leading Osric by the hand.

"What seek ye, Normans? wherefore have ye surrounded my humble home, whither tyranny has driven me?"

A loud shout of exultation.

"The deer—give up the deer—confess thy guilt."

"Search for it"—"a haunch was gone"—"if in the house, we need no further trial"—"to the nearest tree."

The house was rudely entered—but the haunch, which had been removed from the tree and hidden by Judith, could not be found.

"Ye have no proof that we have offended."

They searched a long while in vain, they opened cupboard and chest, but no haunch appeared.

"Examine them by torture: try the knotted cord."

"One should never go out without thumbscrews in this vile country; they would fit that young poacher's thumbs well."

Just then the Baron was seen returning from his stroll with his guest.

"Bring them to the Baron! bring them to the Baron!"

"And meanwhile fire the house."

"Nay, not till we have orders; our master is stern and strict."

"What shall he have who killed the deer?"

The return of Brian Fitz-Count and his companion from their stroll in the woods probably saved our aged friend Sexwulf and his grandson from much rough treatment, for although in the presence of express orders from their dread lord, the men-at-arms would not attempt aught against thelifeof their prisoners, yet they might have offered any violence and rudeness short of that last extremity, in their desire to possess proof of the slaughter of the deer.

Poor beast, the cause of so much strife: it had behoved him to die amongst the fangs of the hounds, and he had been foully murdered by arrow and knife! It was not to be endured.

But no sooner did the Baron return, than the scene was changed.

"What means this clamour? Shut your mouths, ye hounds! and bring the deer-slayers before me; one would think Hell had broken loose amongst you."

He sat deliberately down on the trunk of a fallen tree, and called Milo to be his assessor (amicus curiæ), as one might have said.

A circle was immediately formed, and the old man and boy, their arms tied behind them, were placed before their judge.

He looked them sternly in the face, as if he would read their hearts.

"Whose serfs are ye?"

"We were never in bondage to any man."

"It is a lie—all Englishmen are in serfdom."

"Time will deliver them."

"Do you dare to bandy words with me; if so, a short shrift and a long halter will suffice: you are within my jurisdiction, and your lives are as much in my power as those of my hounds."

This was not said of hot temper, but bred of that cool contempt which the foreign lords felt for the conquered race with which, nevertheless, they were destined to amalgamate.

"Your names?"

"Sexwulf, son of Thurkill, formerly thane of Kingestun."

"Whose father fell in the fight at Senlac (Hastings), by the side of the perjured Harold; and is this thy son? brought up doubtless to be a rebel like thyself."

"He is my grandson."

"And how hast thou lived here, so long unknown, in my woods?"

"The pathless morass concealed us."

"And how hast thou lived? I need not ask, on my red deer doubtless."

"No proof has been found against us," said the old man, speaking with that meek firmness which seemed to impress his questioner.

"And now, what hast thou done with the haunch of this deer?"

"I have not slain one."

"But the boy may have done so—come, old man, thou lookest like one who would not lie even to save his neck; now if thou wilt assure me, on the faith of a Christian, and swear by the black cross of Abingdon that thou knowest nought of the deer, I will believe thee."

A pause—but Brian foresaw the result of his appeal.

"I cannot," said the captive at length; "I did not slay it, yet if, according to your cruel laws, a man must die for a deer: I refuse not to die—I am weary of the world."

"Nay, the father shall not bear the iniquity of the son; that were contrary to Scripture and to all sound law."

"Grandfather, thou shalt not die," interrupted the boy; "Baron, it was I; but must I die for it? we were so hungry."

"Oh my lord, crush not the young life in the springtime of youth. God has taken all my children in turn from me, He has deprived me of home and kin: but He is just. He has left this boy to comfort my old age: take not away the light of the old man's eyes. See I, who never asked favour of Norman or foreign lord before, bow my knees to thee; let the boy live, or if not, let both die together."

"One life is enough foronedeer."

"Nay, then let me die."

"Who slew the deer?"

"I, my lord, and I must die, not my grandfather."

"It was for me, and I must die, as the primal cause of the deed," said the old man.

"By the teeth of St. Peter, I never saw two thralls contending for the honour of a rope before," said Milo.

"Nor I, but they have taken the right way to escape. Had they shown cowardice, I should have felt small pity, but courage and self-devotion ever find a soft place in my heart; besides, there is something about this boy which interests me more than I can account for. Old man, tell the truth, as thou hopest for the life of the boy. Is he really thy grandson?"

"He is the son of my daughter, now with the Saints."

"And who was his sire?"

"An oppressed Englishman."

"Doubtless: you all think yourselves oppressed, as my oxen may, because they are forced to draw the plough, but the boy has the face of men of better blood, and I should have said there was a cross in the breed: but hearken! Malebouche, cut their bonds, take a party of six, escort them to the castle, place them in the third story of theNorth Tower, give them food and drink, but let none have access to them till I return."

Further colloquy was useless; the Baron spoke like a man whose mind was made up, and his vassals had no choice but to obey.

Therefore the party broke up, the rest of the train to seek another stag, if they could find one, but Brian called the Sheriff of Gloucester aside.

They stood in a glade of the forest near a tree blown down by the wind, where they could see the downs beyond.

"Dost see that barrow, Sir Milo?"

"I do."

"It is called Cwichelm's Hlawe; there an old king of these English was buried; they say he walks by night."

"A likely place."

"Well, I have a curiosity to test the fact, moreover the hill commands a view unrivalled in extent in our country; I shall ride thither."

"In search of ghosts and night scenery, the view will be limited in darkness."

"But beacon fires will show best in the dark."

"I comprehend; shall I share thy ride?"

"Nay, my friend, my mind is ill at rest, I want solitude. Return with the hunting train and await my arrival at the castle; and the Baron beckoned to his handsome young page Alain, to lead the horse to him.

"Well, Alain, what didst thou think of the young Englishman? He confronted death gallantly enough."

"He is only half an Englishman; I am sure he has Norman blood,noblesse oblige," replied the boy, who was a spoiled pet of his stern lord, stern to others.

"Well, the old man feared the cord as little."

"He has not much life left to beg for: one foot in the grave already."

"How wouldst thou like that boy for a fellow-page?"

"Not at all, my lord."

"And why not?"

"Because I would like my companions to be of known lineage and of gentle blood on both sides."

"The great Conqueror himself was not."

"And hence many despised him."

"They did not dare tell him so."

"Then they were cowards, my lord; I hope my tongue shall never conceal what my heart feels."

"My boy, if thou crowest so loudly, I fear thou wilt have a short life."

"I can make my hands keep my head, at least against my equals."

"Art thou sorry I pardoned the lad then?"

"No, I like not to see the brave suffer; had he been a coward I should have liked the sport fairly well."

"Sport?"

"It is so comical to see deer-stealers dance on nothing, and it serves them right."

Now, do not let my readers think young Alain unnatural, he was of his period; pity had small place, and the low value set on life made boys and even men often see the ridiculous side of a tragedy, and laugh when they should have wept: yet courage often touched their sympathies, when entreaty would have failed.

But the Lord of Wallingford was in a gentle frame of mind, uncommon in him: he had not merely been touched by the strife, which of the two should die, between the ill-assorted pair, but there had been something in every tone and gesture of the boy which had awakened strange sympathy in his heart, and the sensation was so unprecedented, that Brian longed for solitude to analyse it.

In truth, the prisoners had not been in great danger, for although their judge was pleased to try their courage, he had not the faintest intention of proceeding to any extremities with either grandsire or grandson—not at least after he had heard the voice of the boy.

The party broke up, the Baron rode on alone towards the heights, the sheriff, attended by young Alain, returneddown the course of the stream towards the castle. The rest separated into divers bands, some to hunt for deer or smaller game, so as not to return home with empty hands, to the great wrath of the cooks and others also. Malebouche with six archers escorted the prisoners. They rode upon one steed, the boy in front of his sire.

"Old man, what is the stripling's name?"

"Osric."

"And you will not tell who his sire was?"

"If I would not tell your dread lord, I am not likely to tell thee."

"Because I have aguess: a mere suspicion."

"'Thoughts are free;' it will soon be shown whether it be more."

"Which wouldst thou soonest be in thy heart, boy, English or Norman?"

"English," said the boy firmly.

"Thou preferrest then the deer to the lion?"

"I prefer to be the oppressed rather than the oppressor."

"Well, well, each man to his taste, but I would sooner be the wolf who eats, than the sheep which is eaten; of the two sensations I prefer the former. Now dost thou see that proud tower soaring into the skies down the brook? it is the keep of Wallingford Castle. Stronger hold is not in the Midlands."

"I have been there before," said old Sexwulf.

"Not in my time."

Our readers may almost have forgotten the existence of the poor thrall Judith during the exciting scene we have narrated.

She loved her masters, young and old, deeply loved them did this hereditary slave, and her anxiety had been extreme during the period of their danger: she skipped in and out of the hut, for no one thought her worth molesting, she peered through the bushes, she acted like a hen partridge whose young are in danger, and when they bound Osric,actually flew at the men-at-arms, but they thrust her so roughly aside that she fell; little recked they. An English thrall, were she wife, mother, or daughter, was naught in their estimation.

Yet she did not feel the same anxiety in one respect, which Sexwulf felt. "I can save him yet," she muttered; "they shall never put a rope around his bonnie neck, not even if I have to betray the secret I have kept since his infancy."

So she listened close at hand. Once or twice she seemed on the point of thrusting herself forward, when the fate of her dear boy seemed to hang in the balance, but restrained herself.

"I promised," she said, "I promised, andhewill grieve to learn that I was faithless to my word. The old woman has a soul, aged crone though she be: and I swore by the black cross of Abingdon. Yet black cross or white one, I would risk the claws of Satan, sooner than allow the rope to touch his neck: bad enough that it should encircle his fair wrists."

When at last the suspense was over, and the grandsire and grandson were ordered to be taken as prisoners to the castle, she seemed content.

"I must see him," she said, "and tell him what has chanced: he will know what to do."

Just then she heard a voice which startled her.

"Shall we burn the hut, my lord?"

A moment of suspense: then came the stern reply.

"He that doth so shall hang from the nearest oak."

She chuckled.

"The spell already works," she said; "I may return to the shelter which has been mine so long. He will not harm them."

The time of the separation of the foe had now come; the Baron rode off to his midnight watch on Cwichelm; Malebouche conducted the two captives along the road to the distant keep; the others, men and dogs, circulated right and left in the woods.

The woods and reeds were still smoking, the atmosphere was dense and murky, as Judith returned to the hut.

She sat by the fire which still smoked on the hearth, and rocked herself to and fro, and as she sat she sang in an old cracked voice—

"They sought my bower one murky night,They burnt my bower, they slew my knight;My servants all for life did flee,And left me in extremitie:But vengeance yet shall have its way,When shall the son the sire betray?"

"They sought my bower one murky night,

They burnt my bower, they slew my knight;

My servants all for life did flee,

And left me in extremitie:

But vengeance yet shall have its way,

When shall the son the sire betray?"

The last line was very enigmatical, like a Delphic response; perhaps our tale may solve it.

Then at last she arose, and going to a corner of the hut, opened a chest filled with poor coarse articles of female attire, such as a slave might wear, but at the bottom wrapped in musty parchment was something of greater value.

It was a ring with a seal, and a few articles of baby attire, a little red shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden's hair.

She kissed the latter again and again, ere she looked once more at the ring: it bore a crest upon a stone of opal, and she laughed weirdly.

The crest was the crest of Brian Fitz-Count.

It was a wild and lonely spot, eight hundred feet above sea level, the highest ground of the central downs of Berkshire, looking northward over a vast expanse of fertile country, as yet but partially tilled, and mainly covered with forest.

A tumulus or barrow of huge dimensions arose on the summit, no less than one hundred and forty yards in circumference, and at that period some fifty feet in height; it had been raised five hundred years earlier in the history of the country over the remains of the Saxon King Cwichelm, son of Cynegils, and grandson of Ceol, who dwelt in the Isle of Ceol—or Ceolseye—and left his name to Cholsey.

A wood of firs surrounded the solemn mound, which, however, dominated them in height; the night wind was sighing dreamily over them, the heavens were alternately light and dark as the aforesaid wind made rifts in the cloud canopy and closed them again—ever and anon revealing the moon wading amidst, or rather beyond, the masses of vapour.

An aged crone stood on the summit of the mound clad in long flowing garments of coarse texture, bound around the waist with a girdle of leather; her hair, white as snow, streamed on the wind. She supported her strength by an ebony staff chased with Runic figures. Any one who gazed might perchance have thought her a sorceress, or at least a seer of old times raised again into life.

"Ah, he comes!"

Over the swelling ridges of the downs she saw a horseman approaching; heard before she saw, for the night was murky.

The horseman dismounted in the wood, tied his horse to a tree, left it with a huge boar-hound, as a guard, and penetrating the wood, ascended the mound.

"Thou art here, mother: the hour is come; it is the first day of the vine-month, as your sires called it."

"Yes, the hour is come, the stars do not lie, nor did the mighty dead deceive me."

"The dead; call them not, whilst I am here."

"Dost thou fear them? We must all share their state some day."

"I would sooner, far sooner, not anticipate the time."

"Yet thou hast sent many, and must send many more, to join them."

"It is the fortune of war; I have had Masses said for their souls. It might have chanced to me."

"Ha! ha! so thou wouldst not slay soul and body both?"

"God forbid."

"Well, once I believed in Priest and Mass—I, whom they call the witch of 'Cwichelm's Hlawe': now I prefer the gods of war, of storm, and of death; Woden, Thor, and Teu; nay, even Hela of horrid aspect."

"Avaunt thee, witch! wouldst worship Satan!"

"Since God helped me not: listen, Brian Fitz-Count. I, the weird woman of the haunted barrow, was once a Christian, and a nun."

"A nun!"

"Yea, and verily. A few of us had a little cell, a dozen were we in number, and we lived under the patronage—a poor reed to lean on we found it—of St. Etheldreda.[6]Now a stern Norman like thyself came into those parts after the conquest; he had relations abroad who 'served God'after another rule; he craved our little home for them; he drove us out to perish in the coldest winter I remember. The abbess, clinging to her home and refusing to go, was slain by the sword: two or three others died of cold; we sought shelter in vain, the distress was everywhere. I roamed hither—I was born at the village of Hendred below—my friends were dead and gone, my father had followed Thurkill of Kingestun, and been killed at Senlac. My mother, in consequence, had been turned out of doors by the new Norman lord, and none ever learned what became of her, my sweet mother! my brothers had become outlaws; my sisters—well, I need tell thee no more. I lost faith in the religion, in the name of which, and under the sanction of whose chief teacher, the old man who sits at Rome, the thing had been done. They say I went mad. I know I came here, and that the dead came and spoke with me, and I learned mysteries of which Christians dream not, yet which are true for good or ill."

"And by their aid thou hast summoned me here, but I marvel thou hast not perished as a witch amidst fire and faggot."

"They protect me!"

"Who are they?"

"Never mind; that is my secret."

"Thou didst tell me that if I came to-night I should see the long-expected signal to arm my merrie men, and do battle for our winsome ladie."

"Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war. Well, I told thee truly: the hour is nigh, wait and watch with me; fix thine eyes on the south."

Dim and misty the outlines of the hills looked in that uncertain gloaming; here and there a light gleamed from some peasant's hut, for the hour of eight had not yet struck, when, according to the curfew law, light and fire had to be extinguished. But our lone watchers saw them all disappear at last, and still the light they looked for shone not forth.

"Why does not the bale-fire blaze?"

"Baleful shall its influence be."

"Woman, one more question I have. Thou knowest my family woes, that I have neither kith nor kin to succeed me, no gallant boy for whom to win honour: two have I had, but they are dead to the world."

"The living death of leprosy."

"And one—not indeed the lawful child of my spouse—was snatched from me in tender infancy; one whom I destined for my heir: for why should that bar-sinister which the Conqueror bore sully the poor child. Thou rememberest?"

"Thou didst seek me in the hour of thy distress, and I told thee the child lived."

"Does it yet live? tell me." And the strong man trembled with eagerness and emotion as he looked her eagerly in the face.

"They have not told me; I know not."

"Methinks I saw him to-day."

"Where?"

"In the person of a peasant lad—the grandson of an old man, who has lived, unknown, in my forest, and slain my deer."

"And didst thou hang him, according to thy wont?"

"No, for he was brave, and something in the boy's look troubled me, and reminded me of her I once called my 'Aimèe.' She was English, but Eadgyth was hard to pronounce, so I called her 'Aimèe.'"

"Were there any marks by which you could identify your boy? Pity such a race should cease."

"I remember none. And the grandfather claims the lad as his own. Tell me, is he mine?"

"I know not, but there is a way in which thou canst inquire."

"How?"

"Hast thou courage?"

"None ever questioned it and lived."

"But many could face the living, although girt in triple mail, who fear the dead."

"I am distracted with hope."

"And thou canst face the shrouded dead?"

"I would dare their terrors."

"Sleep here, then, to-night."

"Where?"

"In a place which I will show thee, ha! ha!"

"Is it near?"

"Beneath thy feet."

"Beneath my feet?"

"It is the sepulchre of the royal dead."

"Of Cwichelm?"

"Even he."

"May I see it? the bale-fire blazes not, and it is cold waiting here."

"Come."

"Lead on, I follow."

She descended the sloping sides of the mound, he followed. At the base, amidst nettles and briars, was a rude but massive door. She drew forth a heavy key and opened it. She passed along a narrow passage undeterred by a singular earthy odour oppressive to the senses, and the Baron followed until he stood by her side, in a chamber excavated in the very core of the huge mound.

There, in the centre, was a large stone coffin, and within lay a giant skeleton.

"It is he, who was king of this land."

"Cwichelm, son of Ceol, who dwelt in the spot they now call Ceolseye."

"And the son of the Christian King of Wessex—they mingled Christian and Pagan rites when they buried him here. See his bow and spear."

"But who burrowed this passage? Surely they left it not who buried him?"

"Listen, and your ears shall drink in no lies. Folk said that his royal ghost protected this spot, and that if theheathen Danes came where the first Christian king lay, guarding the land, even in death, they should see the sea no more. Now, in the Christmas of the year 1006, aided by a foul traitor, Edric Streorn, they left the Isle of Wight, where they were wintering, and travelling swiftly, burst upon the ill-fated, unwarned folk of this land, on the very day of the Nativity, for Edric had removed the guardians of the beacon fires.[7]They burnt Reading; they burnt Cholsey, with its church and priory; they burned Wallingford; they slew all they met, and left not man or beast alive whom they could reach, save a few most unhappy captives, whom they brought here after they had burned Wallingford, for here they determined to abide as a daring boast, having heard of the prophecy, and despising it. And here they revelled after the fashion of fiends for nine days and nights. Each day they put to death nine miserable captives with the torture of the Rista Eorn, and so they had their fill of wine and blood. And as they had heard that treasures were buried with Cwichelm, they excavated this passage. Folk said that they were seized with an awful dread, which prevented their touching his bones or further disturbing his repose. At length they departed, and each year since men have seen the ghosts of their victims gibbering in the moonlight between Christmas and Twelfth Day."

"Hast thou?"

"Often, but covet not the sight; it freezes the very marrow in the bones. Only beware that thou imitate not these Danes in their wickedness."

"I?"

"Yes, even thou."

"Am I a heathen dog?"

"What thou art I know, what thou wilt become I think I trow. But peace: wouldst thou invoke the dead king to learn thy future path? I can raise him."

Brian Fitz-Count was a brave man, but he shuddered.

"Another time; besides, mother, the bale-fire may be blazing even now!"

"Come and see, then. I foresee thou wilt return in time of sore need."

They reached the summit of the mound. The change to the open air was most refreshing.

"Ah! the bale-fire!!"

Over the rolling wastes, far to the south, arose the mountainous range now called Highclere. It was but faintly visible in the daytime, and under the uncertain moonlight, only those familiar with the locality could recognise its position. The central peak was now tipped with fire, crowned with a bright flickering spot of light.

And while they looked, Lowbury caught the blaze, and its beacon fire glowed in the huge grating which surmounted the tower, whose foundations may yet be traced. From thence, Synodune took up the tale and told it to the ancient city of Dorchester, whose monks looked up from cloistered hall and shuddered. The heights of Nettlebed carried forward the fiery signal, and blazing like a comet, told the good burgesses of Henley and Reading that evil days were at hand. The Beacon Hill, above Shirburne Castle, next told the lord of that baronial pile that he might buckle on his armour, and six counties saw the blaze on that beacon height. Faringdon Clump, the home of the Ffaringas of old, next told the news to the distant Cotswolds and the dwellers around ancient Corinium; and soon Painswick Beacon passed the tidings over the Severn to the old town of Gloucester, whence Milo came, and far beyond to the black mountains of Wales. The White Horse alarmed Wiltshire, and many a lover of peace shook his head and thought of wife and children, although but few knew what it all meant, namely, that the Empress Maud, the daughter of the Beauclerc, had come to claim her father's crown, which Stephen, thinking it right to realise the prophecy contained in his name,[8]had put on his own head.

And from Cwichelm's Hlawe the curious ill-assorted couple we have portrayed beheld the war beacons' blaze.

She lost all her self-possession, she became entranced; her hair streamed behind her in the wind; she stretched out her aged arms to the south and sang—did that crone of ninety years—

Back to Index Next