FOOTNOTES:

"Come hither, fatal cloud of death,O'er England breathe thy hateful breath;Breathe o'er castles, churches, towns,Brood o'er flat plain, and cloud-flecked downs,Until the streams run red with gore,From eastern sea to western shore.Let mercy frighted haste away,Let peace and love no longer stay,Let justice outraged swoon away,But let revenge and bitter hateAlone control the nation's fate;Let fell discord the chorus swell,Let every hold become a hell——Let——"

"Come hither, fatal cloud of death,

O'er England breathe thy hateful breath;

Breathe o'er castles, churches, towns,

Brood o'er flat plain, and cloud-flecked downs,

Until the streams run red with gore,

From eastern sea to western shore.

Let mercy frighted haste away,

Let peace and love no longer stay,

Let justice outraged swoon away,

But let revenge and bitter hate

Alone control the nation's fate;

Let fell discord the chorus swell,

Let every hold become a hell——

Let——"

"Nay, nay, mother, enough! Thou ravest. Every hold a hell! not at least Wallingford Castle!"

"That worst of all, Brian Fitz-Count. There are possibilities of evil in thee, which might make Satan laugh! Thy sword shall make women childless, thy torch light up——"

"Nay, nay, no more, I must away. My men will go mad when they see these fires. I must home, to control, advise, direct."

"Go, and the powers of evil be with thee. Work out thy curse and thy doom, since so it must be!"

FOOTNOTES:[6]See a similar instance in Thierry'sNorman Conquest, vol. i.[7]I have told the story of this Danish invasion inAlfgar the Dane.[8]"Stephanus" signifies "a crown."

[6]See a similar instance in Thierry'sNorman Conquest, vol. i.

[7]I have told the story of this Danish invasion inAlfgar the Dane.

[8]"Stephanus" signifies "a crown."

We fear that Brian Fitz-Count must have sunk in the reader's estimation. After the perusal of the last chapter, it is difficult to understand how a doughty warrior and belted knight could so demean himself as to take an old demented woman into his consultations, and come to her for guidance.

Let us briefly review the phases of mind through which he had passed, and see whether we can find any rational explanation of his condition.

The one great desire of Brian's life was to have a son to whom he could bequeath his vast possessions, and his reflected glory. Life was short, but if he could live, as it were, in the persons of his descendants, it seemed as if death would be more tolerable. God heard his prayer. He had two sons, fine lads, by his Countess, and awhile he rejoiced in them, but the awful scourge of leprosy made its appearance in his halls. For a long time he would not credit the reality of the infliction, and was with difficulty restrained from knocking down the physician who first announced the fact. By degrees the conviction was forced upon him, and the law of the time—the unwritten law especially—forced him to consign them to a house of mercy for lepers, situated near Byfield in Northamptonshire. Poor boys, they wept sore, for they were old enough to share their father's craving for glory and distinction; but they were torn away and sent to this living tomb, for in the eyes of all men it was little better.

Brian wearied Heaven with prayers; he had Masses innumerable said on their behalf; he gave alms to all the churches of Wallingford for the poor; he made benefactions to Reading Abbey and the neighbouring religious houses; he helped to enrich the newly-built church of Cholsey, built upon the ruins of the edifice the Danes had burnt. But still Heaven was obdurate, the boys did not recover, and he had to part with the delight of his eyes.

And then ensued a sudden collapse of faith. He ceased to pray. God heard not prayer: perhaps there was no God; and he ceased from his good deeds, gave no alms, neglected Divine service, and became a sceptic in heart—secretly, however, for whatever a man might think in his heart in those days of ecclesiastical power, the doughtiest baron would hesitate to avow scepticism; men would condone, as, alas, many do now, an irreligious life, full of deeds of evil, if only the evil-doerprofessedto believe in the dominant Creed.

When a man ceases to believe in God, he generally comes to believe in the Devil. Men must have a belief of some sort; so in our day, men who find Christianity too difficult, take to table turning, and like phenomena, and practise necromancy of a mild description.

So it was then. Ceasing to believe in God, Brian Fitz-Count believed in witches.

The intense hatred of witchcraft, begotten of dread, which kindled the blazing funeral pyres of myriads of people, both guilty—at least in intention—and innocent of the black art, had not yet attained its height.

Pope Innocent had not yet pronounced his fatal decree. The witch inquisitors had not yet started on their peregrinations, Hopkins had yet to be born, and so the poor crazed nun who had done no one any harm, whom wise men thought mad, and foolish ones inspired, was allowed to burrow at Cwichelm's Hlawe.

And many folk resorted to her, to make inquiries about lost property, lost kinsfolk, the present and the future.Amongst others, a seneschal of Wallingford, who had lost a valuable signet ring belonging to his lord.

"On your return to the castle seize by the throat the first man you meet after you pass the portals. He will have the ring."

And the first man the seneschal met was a menial employed to sweep and scour the halls; him without fear he seized by the throat. "Give me the ring thou hast found," and lo, the affrighted servitor, trembling, drew it forth and restored it.

Brian heard of the matter; it penetrated through the castle. He gave orders to hang the servitor, but the poor wretch took sanctuary in time; and then he rode over to Cwichelm's Hlawe himself.

What was his object?

To inquire after his progeny.

One son, a beautiful boy, had escaped the fatal curse, but it was not the child of his wife. Brian had loved a fair English girl, whom he had wooed rather by violence than love. He carried her away from her home, a thing too common in those lawless days to excite much comment. She died in giving birth to a fair boy, and was buried in the adjacent graveyard.

After he lost his other two children by leprosy, Brian became devoted to this child; the reader has heard how he lost him.

And to inquire whether, perchance, the child, whose body had never been found, yet lived, Brian first rode to Cwichelm's Hlawe.

"Have I given the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?" was his bitter cry. "Doth the child yet live?"

The supposed sorceress, after incantations dire, intended to impress the mind, replied in the affirmative.

"But where?"

"Beware; the day when thou dost regain him it will be the bitterest of thy life."

"But where shall he be found?"

"That the dead have not told me."

"But they may tell."

"I know not, but thou shalt see him again in the flesh. Come again in the vine-month, when the clouds of war and rapine shall begin to gather over England once more, and I will tell thee all I shall have learned."

"The clouds of war and rapine?"

"Yes, Brian Fitz-Count. Dost thou, the sworn ally of the banished Empress, mistake my words?"

And we have seen the result of that last interview—in the second visit.

* * * * *

When Brian rode from the barrow—out on the open downs—he gazed upon the beacons which yet blazed, and sometimes shouted with exultation, for like a war-horse he sniffed the coming battle, and shouted ha! ha! He gave his horse the reins and galloped along the breezy ridge—following the Icknield way—his hound behind him.

And then he saw another horseman approaching from the opposite direction, just leaving the Blewbery down. In those days when men met it was as when in a tropical sea, in days happily gone by, sailors saw a strange sail: the probability was that it was an enemy.

Still Brian feared not man, neither God nor man, and only loosing his sword in its sheath, he rode proudly to therencontre.

"What ho! stranger! who? and whence?"

"Thy enemy from the grave, whither thou hast sent my kith and kin."

"Satan take thee; when did I slay them? If I did, must I send thee to rejoin them?"

"Try, and God defend the right. Here on this lonely moor, we meet face to face. Defend thyself."

"Ah! I guess who thou art: an outlaw!"

"One whom thou didst make homeless."

"Ah! I see, Wulfnoth of Compton. Tell me, thou English boar, what thou didst with my child."

"And if I slew him, as thou didst mine, what then?"

A mighty blow was the reply, and the two drawing their swords, fell to work—the deadly work.

And by their sides a canine battle took place, a wolf-hound, which accompanied the stranger, engaged the boar-hound of the Baron.

Oh! how they strove; how blow followed blow; how the horses seemed to join in the conflict, and tried to bite and kick each other with their rampant fore-feet; how the blades crashed; how thrust, cut, and parry, succeeded each other.

But Norman skill prevailed over English strength, and the Englishman fell prone to the ground, with a frightful wound on the right shoulder, while his horse galloped round and round in circles.

And meanwhile the opposite result took place in the struggle between the quadrupeds: the wolf-hound had slain the boar-hound. Brian would fain have avenged his favourite, but the victor avoided his pursuit, and bow and arrows had he none, nor missile of any kind, for he had accidentally left his hunting spear behind.

He looked at his foe who lay stretched on the turf, bleeding profusely. Then dismounting, he asked sternly—

"Say what thou didst with my boy!"

"Strike; thou shalt never know."

And Brian would have struck, but his opponent fell back senseless, and he could not strike him in that condition: something restrained his hand.

"Poor Bruno," he said, as he gave his gallant hound one sigh. "Less fortunate than thy lord; that mongrel cur hath slain thee: but I may not stay to waste tears over thee," and remounting, he rode away unscathed from the struggle, leaving the horse of the vanquished one to roam the downs.

And as he rode, his thoughts were again on his lost child, and on the boy whom he had seen on the previous day, and sent before him in durance. Was it possiblethis was his son? Nay, the old man, who would not lie to save his life, had affirmed the contrary. Still he would make further inquiries, and keep the lad in sight, if not assured of his birth and parentage.

A thought struck him: should he threaten the torture to the aged Englishman, and so strive to wring the secret—if there were one—from him. Yet he hesitated, and debated the question with its pros and cons again and again, until the greater urgency of the coming struggle extinguished all other thoughts in his mind.

He had enemies, yes, bitter ones, and now that the dogs of war were allowed to be unchained, he would strike a blow for himself, as well as for Maud. Why, there was that hated rival, the Lord of Shirburne, who boasted that he kept the Key of the Chilterns in his hand—there was his rival of Donnington Castle over the downs—what splendid opportunities for plunder, vainglory, and revenge.

In such meditations did the Lord of Wallingford ride home through the forest, and adown the Moreton brook.

* * * * *

Meanwhile his defeated foe, upon whom the victor had scarcely bestowed a passing thought, lay stiff and stark upon the ground.

The night wind sang a dirge over him, but no human being was there to see whether the breath was yet in him. But a canine friend was there—his poor wolf hound—mangled by the teeth of his foe, but yet alive and likely to live. And now he came up to the prostrate body of his master and licked his face, while from time to time he raised his nose in the air, and uttered a plaintive howl, which floated adown the wind an appeal for help.

Was it a prayer for the living or the dead?

Surely there were the signs of life, the hues of that bloodless cheek are not yet those of death; see, he stirs! only just a stir, but it tells of life, and where there is life there is hope.

But who shall cherish the flickering spark?

The aspect of nature seems all merciless. Is there mercy yet in man?

A faint beating of the heart; a faint pulsation of the wrist—it might be quickened into life.

Is it well that he should live?

A typical Englishman, of Saxon lineage, stout, thickset. Did we believe in the transmigration of souls, we should say he had been a bull in some previous state of existence. Vast strength, great endurance, do find their incarnations in that frame: he might have felled an ox, but yet he went down before the subtlety of Norman fence.

Is it good that he should live, an outlaw, whose life any Norman may take and no questions asked? Look at that arm; it may account for many a Norman lost in solitary wayfaring. Oh! what memories of wrong sleep within that insensible brain!

Happily it is for a wiser power to decide.

Listen, there is a tinkling of small bells over there in the distance. It draws nearer; the dog gives a louder howl—now the party is close.

Five or six horses, a sumpter mule, five or six ecclesiastics in sombre dress, riding the horses, the hoods drawn back over the heads, the horses richly caparisoned, little silver bells dependent here and there from their harness.

"What have we here, brother Anselm? why doth the dog thus howl?"

"There hath been a fray, brother Laurentius. Here is a corpse; pray for his soul."

"Nay, he yet liveth," said a third, who had alighted. "I feel his heart beat; he is quite warm. But, oh! Saint Benedict! what a wound, what a ghastly gash across the shoulder."

"Raise him on the sumpter mule; we must bear him home and tend him. Remember the good Samaritan."

"But first let me bind up the wound as well as I can, and pour in oil and wine. I will take him before me.Sancta Maria! what a weight! No, good dog, we mean thy master no harm."

But the dog offered no opposition; he saw his master was in good hands. He only tried as well as his own wounds would let him to caper for joy.

"Poor dog, he hath been hurt too. How chanced it? What a mystery."

Happily the good brothers never travelled without medicinal stores, and a little ointment modifies pain.

So in a short time they were on their road again, carrying the wounded with them.

They were practical Christians, those monks.

The Abbey of Dorchester stood on the banks of the river Tame, a small stream arising near the town of the same name, and watering the finest pasture land of the county of Oxfordshire, until, half a mile below the Abbey, it falls into the Isis, which thence, strictly speaking, becomes the Thames (Tamesis).

This little town of Dorchester is not unknown to fame; it was first a British town, then a Roman city. Destroyed by the Saxons, it rose from its ashes to become the Cathedral city of the West Saxons, and the scene of the baptism of Cynegils, son of Ceol, by the hands of St. Birinus. The see was transferred to Winchester, but afterwards it became the seat of the great Mercian bishopric, and as its jurisdiction had once reached the Channel, so now it extended to the Humber and the Wash.

Cruelly destroyed by the Danes, it never regained its importance, and on account of its impoverished state,[9]the see was again removed by Remigius, the first Norman Bishop, to Lincoln, in the year 1092. But although the ancient city was thus deserted, the Bishop strove to make it some amends. He took care that an abbey should be created at Dorchester, lest the place should be ruined, or sunk in oblivion; and some say the Abbey was built with the stones which came from the Bishop's palace, the site of which is still marked by a farm called "Bishop's Court."

But the earlier buildings must have been of small extent,for at the time of our story, Alexander, Bishop of Lincoln, was busy with a more magnificent structure, and he had already removed into the buildings, as yet but incomplete, a brotherhood of Black Canons, or Augustinians, under the rule of Abbot Alured.

The great church which had been the cathedral—the mother church of the diocese—had been partially rebuilt in the Norman style,[10]and around stood the buildings of the Abbey, west and north of the church.

In the scriptorium, overlooking the Tame, sat Abbot Alured. The Chapter Mass, which followed Terce (9A.M.), had been said, and he was busy with the librarian, arranging his books. Of middle stature, with dark features, he wore an air of asceticism, tempered by an almost feminine suavity, and his voice was soft and winning.

He was the son of a Norman knight by an English wife, who had brought the aforesaid warrior an ample dowry in lands, for thus did the policy of the Conqueror attempt the reconciliation of conflicting interests and the amalgamation of the rival races of conquerors and conquered. For a long time the pair were childless, until the mother—like Hannah, whose story she had heard in church—vowed, if God would grant her a child, to dedicate it to God. Alured was born, and her husband, himself weary of perpetual fighting and turmoil, allowed her to fulfil her vow. The boy was educated at Battle Abbey, and taught monastic discipline; sent thence to Bec, which the fame of Lanfranc and Anselm—both successively translated to Canterbury—had made the most renowned school of theology in Northern Europe. There he received the tonsure, and passed through the usual grades, until, attracting the attention of Bishop Alexander, during a visit of thatprelate to Bec, he was selected to be the new Abbot of Dorchester.

And now he was in the library, or scriptorium—the chamber he loved best in his Abbey. What books, forsooth, had he there in those dark ages!

First there were all the books of the Old Testament in several volumes and in the Latin tongue; then the New Testament in three volumes; there were all the works of St. Augustine, in nineteen large tomes, with most of the books of the other fathers of the Western Church; the lives of the great monastic Saints, and the martyrology or acts of the Martyrs. There were books of ecclesiastical history, and treatises on Church music, with various liturgical works. Of light reading there was none, but the lives of the Saints and Martyrs furnished the most exciting reading, wherein fact was unintentionally blended with fiction.

"What a wonderful mine of wealth we have here in this new martyrology! Truly, my brethren, here we have the patience and faith of the Saints to encourage us in our warfare," said the Abbot, opening a huge volume bound in boar's hide, and glancing round at the scribes, who, pen in hand and ink-horn at their girdles, with clear sheets of vellum before them, prepared to write at his dictation.

"This book was lent us by the Abbot of Abingdon, now six months ago, and before Advent it must be returned thither—not until every letter has been duly transcribed into our new folios. Where didst thou leave off yesterday?"

"At the 'Acts of St. Artemas.'"

And the Abbot read, while they wrote down his words: "Artemus was a Christian boy, who lived at Puteoli, and who was sent, at the instigation of heathen relations, to the school of one Cathageta, a heathen. But the little scholar could not hide his faith, although bidden to do so, lest he should suffer persecution. But what is deep in the heart comes out of the mouth, and he converted two or threeschoolfellows, so that at the next festival, in honour of Diana, they omitted to place the customary garlands on her image. This aroused inquiry, and the young athlete of Christ was discovered. The master, bidding him renounce his faith in vain, severely scourged him, but the boy said: 'The more you scourge me the more you whip my religion into me.' Whereupon Cathageta, turning to the other scholars, said: 'Perhaps your endeavours will be more successful than mine in wiping out this disgrace from the school;' and he departed, leaving him to the mercies of the other boys, who, educated in the atrocities of the arena, stabbed him to death with their stili or pointed iron pens."[11]

"Poor boy," murmured the youngest copyist—himself but a boy—when the dictation was finished.

"Nay; glorious Martyr, you mean. He has his reward now. You have heard me speak of the martyrdom of St. Euthymius; that was a harder one. It follows here.

"St. Euthymius was a Bishop of the African Church, who, being taken by his persecutors, and refusing to offer sacrifice to the idols, was shut up in a close stone cell with a multitude of mice. A wire, attached to a bell outside, was placed near his hand, and he was told that if he were in distress he might ring it, and should obtain immediate assistance; but that his doing so would be taken as equivalent to a renunciation of Christ. No bell was heard, and when on the third day they opened the cell, they found nought but a whitened skeleton and a multitude of fattened mice."

Every one drew in his breath, some in admiration, some in horror.

The young novice had suspended his labours to listen.

"Benedict, you are neglecting your gradual," said the Abbot. "The music must be completed for the coming festival of All Saints; it is the chant of Fescamp—somewhat softer to our ears than the harsher Gregorian strains.Yet many love the latter well; as did the monks of Glastonbury."

Here he paused, and waited until he saw they were all open-mouthed for his story; for such was monastic discipline, that no one ventured to say: "Tell us the story."

"Well," he said, "the English monks of Glastonbury had endured much unmerited severity at the hands of Thurstan, their Norman Abbot, but they bore all, until he bade them leave off their crude Gregorian strains, and chant the lays of William of Fescamp. Then they stoutly refused; and he sent for a troop of men-at-arms. The monks rushed to the great church and barred themselves in, but the men-at-arms forced a way into the church, and slew the greater part of the monks with their arrows. So thick was the storm of piercing shafts, that the image of the Christ on the rood was stuck full of these sacrilegious missiles."

"And what became of Thurstan?" asked one of the elder brethren.

"The king deposed him, as unfit to rule; suggesting that a shepherd should not flay his sheep."

"And that was all?" said an indignant young novice, whose features showed his English blood.

"Hush! my son Wilfred. Novices must hear—not speak. Speech is silver; silence is golden."

At that moment the Prior made his appearance in the doorway.

"My father Abbot, the brethren have returned from our poor house at Hermitage, and they bring a wounded man, whom they found on the downs."

"English or Norman?"

"The former, I believe, but he has not yet spoken."

"Send for the almoner and infirmarer. I will come and look at him myself."

Leaving the scriptorium, the Abbot traversed the pleasant cloisters, which were full of boys, learning their lessons under the superintendence of certain brethren—some declining Latin nouns or conjugating verbs; somereading the scanty leaves of parchment which served as lesson books, more frequently repeating passagesviva voceafter a master, while seated upon rude forms, or more commonly standing. So were the cloisters filled—the only schools for miles around. They looked upon an inner quadrangle of the monastery, with the great church to the south. Passing through a passage to the west of the nave, the Abbot reached the gateway of the abbey, somewhere near the site of the present tower, which is modern. The view to the south from this point stretched across the Thames to Synodune; nearer at hand rose to left and right the towers of two parish churches,[12]the buildings of the town (or city, as it had hitherto been), poor and straggling as compared with the ecclesiastical dwellings, lay before them; the embankment of the Dyke hills then terminated the town in this direction, and beyond rose the stately clumps of Synodune.

Inside the porch rested the wayfarers; their beasts had been led to the stables, and on a sort of hand-bier before them, resting on tressels, lay the prostrate form of the victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count.

"Where didst thou find him?" asked the Abbot.

"Near the spot on the downs where once holy Birinus preached the Evangel."

"And this dog?"

"Was with him, wounded by teeth as the master by sword. It was his moans and howls which attracted us."

The Abbot bent over the prostrate form.

"Has he spoken since you found him?"

"No, my lord; only moans and gasps."

"I see he is much hurt; I fear you have only brought him hither to die."

"Houselled, anointed and annealed?"

"If he recover his senses sufficiently."

Just then a moan, louder than before, made them all start, then followed a deep, hollow, articulate voice.

"Where am I?"

"At the Abbey of Dorchester."

"Who brought me hither?"

"Friends."

He gazed wildly round, then sank with a deep groan back on the bier.

"Take him to the infirmary, and on the morrow we will see him."

A chance medley on the downs—a free fight between two who met by chance—was so common, that the Abbot thought far less of the matter than we may imagine.

"Insooth, he is ghastly," he said, "but in the more need of our aid. I trust we shall save both soul and body. Let the dog also have food and shelter."

But the dog would not leave his master's side, and they were forced to move both into the same cell, where the poor beast kept licking the hand which dropped pendent from the couch.

"My lord Abbot, there are weightier matters to consider than the welfare of one poor wounded wayfarer, who has fallen among thieves."

"What are they?"

"Didst thou mark the bale-fire on Synodune last night?"

"We did, and marvelled what it could mean."

"They were lighted all over the country: Lowbury, Highclere, White Horse, Shirburne Beacon—all sent their boding flames heavenward."

"What does it portend?"

"There were rumours that Matilda, the Empress Queen, had landed somewhere in the south."

"Then we shall have civil war, and every man's hand will be against his brother, which God forbid. Yet when Stephen seized our worthy Bishop in his chamber, eating his dinner of pulse and water——"

"Pheasant, washed down with malmsey, more likely," muttered a voice.

The Abbot heard not, but continued—

"And shut him in a dungeon—the anointed of the Lord—and half starved him——"

"Making him fast for once, in earnest!"

"Until he should deliver his castles of Newark and Sleaford——"

"Pretty sheepfolds for a shepherd to keep!"

"Such a king has little hold of his people; and it may be, God's just judgments are impending over us. And what shall we do if we cannot save the poor sheep committed to our charge; for be the one party or the other victorious, the poor will have to suffer. Therefore, my dear brethren, after Sext, we will hold a special chapter before we take our meridiana" (noontide nap, necessitated when there was so much night rising), "and consider what we had best do. Haste ye, my brother Ambrose; take thy party to the cellarer, and get some light refreshment. This is the day when he asks pardon of us all for his little negligencies, and in return for the Miserere we sing in his name, we get a better refection than usual. So do not spoil your appetites now. Haste, and God be with you. The sacristan has gone to toll the bell for Sext."

FOOTNOTES:[9]"Quæ urbs propter parvitatem Remigio displicebat."—John of Brompton.[10]It consisted of the present nave, exclusive of the south aisle, and extended some distance beyond the chancel arch, including the north aisle as far as the present door. The cloister extended northward, covering the small meadow which separates the manor-house grounds from the church. The latter were probably the gardens of the abbey.[11]This true story is the foundation ofThe Victor's Laurel, a tale of school life in Italy, by the same author.[12]Leland thus marks their site—three in all besides the abbey church—one a little by south from the abbey, near the bridge; one more south above it (nearer the Dyke); and "there was the 3 Paroch Chirch by south-west" (towards Wittenham).

[9]"Quæ urbs propter parvitatem Remigio displicebat."—John of Brompton.

[10]It consisted of the present nave, exclusive of the south aisle, and extended some distance beyond the chancel arch, including the north aisle as far as the present door. The cloister extended northward, covering the small meadow which separates the manor-house grounds from the church. The latter were probably the gardens of the abbey.

[11]This true story is the foundation ofThe Victor's Laurel, a tale of school life in Italy, by the same author.

[12]Leland thus marks their site—three in all besides the abbey church—one a little by south from the abbey, near the bridge; one more south above it (nearer the Dyke); and "there was the 3 Paroch Chirch by south-west" (towards Wittenham).

When Brian Fitz-Count returned to his castle it was buried in the silence and obscurity of night; only the sentinels were awake, and as they heard his password, they hastened to unbar the massive gates, and to undraw the heavy bolts, and turn the ponderous keys which gave admittance to his sombre castle.

The fatigue of a long day had made even the strong man weary, and he said nought to any man, but sought his inner chamber, threw himself on his pallet, and there the man of strife slept, for he had the soldier's faculty of snatching a brief nap in the midst of perplexity and toil.

In vain did the sentinels look for some key to the meaning of the bale-fires, which had blazed all round; their lord was silent. "The smiling morn tipped the hills with gold," and thereveilléeblew loud and long; the busy tide of life began to flow within the walls; men buckled on their armour, to try if every rivet were tight; tried the edge of their swords, tested the points of their lances; ascended the towers and looked all round for signs of a foe; discussed, wondered, argued, quarrelled of course, but all without much result, until, at the hour ofdéjeûner(or breakfast), their dread lord appeared, and took his usual place at the head of the table in the great hall.

The meal—a substantial one of flesh, fish, and fowl, washed down by ale, mead and wine—was eaten amid the subdued murmur of many voices, and not till it was ended,and the Chaplain had returned thanks—for such forms did Brian, for policy's sake, if for no better motive, always observe—than he rose up to his full height and spoke—

"Knights and pages, men-at-arms all! I have good news for you! The Empress—our rightful Queen—has landed in Sussex, and this very day I go to meet her, and to aid in expelling the fell usurper Stephen. Who will follow in my train?"

Every hand was upraised, amidst a clamour of voices and cheers, for they sniffed the battle afar, like the war-horse in Job, and delighted like the vulture in the scent of blood.

"It is well. I would sooner have ten free-hearted volunteers than a hundred lagging retainers, grudgingly fulfilling their feudal obligations. Let every man see to his horse, armour, sword, shield, and lance, and at noontide we will depart."

"At what time," asked the Chaplain, "shall we have the special Mass said, to evoke God's blessing on our efforts to dethrone the tyrant, who has dared to imprison our noble Bishop, Alexander?"

"By all means a Mass, it will sharpen our swords: say at nine—a hunting Mass, you know." (That is, a Mass reduced to the shortest proportions the canons allowed.)

When the household had dispersed, all save the chief officers who waited to receive their lord's orders about the various matters committed severally to their charge, Brian called one of them aside.

"Malebouche, bid Coupe-gorge, the doomster, be ready with his minions in the torture-chamber, and take thither the old man whom we caught in the woods yestere'en. I will be present myself, and give orders what is to be done, in half an hour."

Malebouche departed on the errand, and Brian hastened to accomplish various necessary tasks, ere the time to which he looked forward with some interest arrived. It came at last, and he descended a circular stone staircasein the interior of the north-west tower, which seemed to lead into the bowels of the earth.

Rather into a vaulted chamber, curiously furnished with divers chains and pulleys, and hooks, and pincers, and other quaint instruments of mediæval cruelty. In one corner hung a thick curtain, which concealed all behind from view.

In the centre there was a heavy wooden table, and at the head a massive rude chair, wherein the Baron seated himself.

Before the table stood the prisoner—the aged Sexwulf—still preserving his composure, and gazing with serene eye upon the fierce Baron—the ruthless judge, in whose hands was his fate.

Two lamps suspended from the roof shed a lurid light upon the scene.

"Sexwulf, son of Thurkill, hearken, and thou, Malebouche, retire up the stairs, and wait my orders on the landing above."

"My lord, the tormentor is behind the curtain," whispered Malebouche, as he departed.

Brian nodded assent, but did not think fit to order the departure of the doomster, whose horrible office made him familiar with too many secrets, wrung from the miserable victims of his art, and who was, like a confessor, pledged to inviolable secrecy. A grim confessor he!

"Now, old man," said the Baron, "I am averse to wring the truth from the stammering lips of age. Answer me, without concealment, the truth—the whole truth!"

"I have nought to conceal."

"Whose son is the boy I found in thy care?"

"My daughter's son."

"Who was his father?"

"Wulfnoth of Compton."

"Now thou liest; his features proclaim him Norman."

"He has no Norman blood."

"And thou dost persist in this story?"

"I have none other to tell."

"Then I must make the tormentor find thee speech. What ho! Coupe-gorge!"

The curtain was drawn back with a clang, and revealed the rack and a brasier, containing pincers heated to a gray heat, and a man in leathern jerkin with a pendent mask of black leather, with two holes cut therein for the eyes, and two assistants similarly attired—one a black man, or very swarthy Moor.

The old man did not turn his head.

"Look," said Brian.

"Why should I look? I have told thee the very truth; I have nought to alter in my story. If thou dost in thy cruelty misuse the power which God has given thee, and rend me limb from limb, I shall soon be beyond thy cruelty. But I can tell thee nought."

"We will see," said Brian. "Place him on the rack!"

"It needs not force," said the aged Englishman. "I will walk to thy bed of pain," and he turned to do so.

Again this calm courage turned Brian.

"Man," he said, "thou wouldst not lie before to save thy life; nor now, I am convinced, to save thy quivering flesh, if it does quiver. Tell me what thou hast to tell, without being forced to do so."

"I will. Thou didst once burn a house at Compton—the house of Wulfnoth."

"I remember it too well. The churl would not pay me tribute."

"Tribute to whom tribute is due," muttered the aged one; then, aloud, "One child escaped the flames, in which my daughter and her other poor children perished. A few days afterwards the father, who had escaped, brought me this child and bade me rear it, in ignorance of the fate of kith and kin, while he entered upon the life of a hunted but destroying wolf, slaying Normans."

"And he said the boy was his own?"

"And why should he not be? He has my poor daughter's features in some measure, I have thought."

"She must have been lovely, then," thought Brian, but only said—

"Tormentor, throw aside thy implements; they are for cowards. Old man, ere thou ascend the stairs, know that thy life depends upon thy grandson. Canst thou spare him to me?"

"Have I any choice?"

"Nay. But wilt thou bid him enter my service, and perchance win his spurs?"

"Not for worlds."

"Why refuse so great an opening to fame?"

"I would sooner far follow him to his grave! Thou wouldst destroy the soul."

"Fool! has he a soul? Have I or you got one? What is it? I do not know." Then he repressed these dangerous words—dangerous to himself, even in his stronghold.

"Malebouche!"

Malebouche appeared.

"Take the grandsire away. Bring hither the boy."

He waited in a state of intense but subdued feeling.

The boy appeared at last—pale, not quite so free from apprehension as his grandsire: how could any one expect a real boy, unless he were a phenomenon, to enter a torture chamber as a prisoner without emotion? What are all the switchings, birchings, and canings modern boys have borne, compared with rack, pincer, and thumbscrew—to the hideous sachentage, the scorching iron? The very enumeration makes the hair rise in these days; only they are but a memory from the grim bad past now.

"Osric, whose son art thou?"

"The son of Wulfnoth."

"And who was thy mother?"

The boy flushed.

"I know not—save that she is dead."

"Does thy father live?"

"I know not."

"Art thou English or Norman?"

"English."

"Thou art not telling the truth."

"Not the truth!" cried the boy, evidently surprised.

"No, and I must force it from thee."

"Force it from me!" stammered the poor lad.

"Look!"

Again the curtain opened, and the grisly sight met the eyes of Osric. He winced, then seemed to make a great effort at self-control, and at last spoke with tolerable calmness—

"My lord, I have nought to tell if thou pull me in pieces. What should I hide, and why? I have done thee no harm; why shouldst thou wish to torture me—a poor helpless boy, who never harmed thee?"

The Baron gazed at him with a strange expression.

"Thou knowest thou art in my hands, to do as I please with thee."

"But God will protect or avenge me."

"And this is all thou hast to say? Dost thou not fear the rack, the flame?"

"Who can help fearing it?"

"Wouldst thou lie to escape it?"

"No, God helping me. That is, I would do my best."

The Baron drew a long breath. There was something in the youth which fascinated him. He loved to hear him speak; he revelled in the tones of his voice; he even liked to see the contest between his natural courage and truthfulness and the sense of fear. But he could protract it no longer, because it pained while it pleased.

"Boy, wilt thou enter my service?"

"I belong to my grandsire."

"Wouldst thou not wish to be a knight?"

"Nay, unless I could be a true knight."

"What is that?"

"One who keeps his vow to succour the oppressed, and never draw sword save in the cause of God and right."

Again the Baron winced.

"Wilt thou be my page?"

"No."

Brian looked at him fixedly.

"Thou must!"

"Why?"

"Thy life is forfeit to the laws; it is the only avenue of escape."

"Then must I die."

"Wouldst thou sooner die than follow me?"

"I think so; I do not quite know."

"And thy grandsire, too? Ye are both deer-stealers, and I have hanged many such."

"Oh, not my grandsire—not my poor grandfather!" and the boy knelt down, and raised his hands joined in supplication. "Hang me, if thou wilt, but spare him."

"My boy, neither shalt hang, if thou wilt but hear me—be my page, and he shall be free to return to his hut, with permission to kill one deer per month, and smaller game as he pleases."

"And if I will not promise?"

"Thou must rot in a dungeon till my return, when I will promise thou wilt be glad to get out at any price, andhemust hang to-day—and thou wilt know thou art his executioner."

The boy yielded.

"Imustgive way. Oh! must I be thy page?"

"Yes, foolish boy—a good thing for thee, too."

"If I must, I will—but only to save his life. God forgive me!"

"God forgive thee? For what?"

"For becoming a Norman!"

"Malebouche!" called Brian.

The seneschal descended.

"Take this youth to the wardrobe, and fit him with a page's suit; he rides with me to-day. Feed the old man, and set him free."

He sent for Alain, the chief and leader amongst his pages—a sort of cock of the walk.

"Alain, that English boy we found in the woods rides with us to-day. Mark me, neither tease, nor bully him thyself, nor allow thy fellows to do so. Thou knowest that I will be obeyed."

"My lord," said the lad, "I will do my best. What is the name of our new companion?"

"'Fitz-urse'—that is enough."

"I should say Fitz-daim," muttered the youngster, as soon as he was outside.

The scene was the bank of a large desolate pond or small lake in Northamptonshire. It was on high table-land, for the distant country might be seen through openings in the pine-trees on every side: here and there a church tower, here and there a castle or embattled dwelling; here and there a poverty-stricken assemblage of huts, clustering together for protection. In the south extended the valley of the Cherwell, towards the distant Thames; on the west the high table-land of North Oxfordshire sank down into the valley of the Avon and Severn.

It was a cold windy autumnal morning, the ground yet crisp from an early frost, the leaves hung shivering on the trees, waiting for the first bleak blast of the winter wind to fetch them down to rot with their fellows.

On the edge of a pond stood two youths of some fifteen and thirteen years. They had divested themselves of their upper garments—thick warm tunics—and gazed into the water, here deep, dark, and slimy. There was a look of fixed resolution, combined with hopeless despair, in their faces, which marked the would-be suicides.

They raised their pale faces, their eyes swollen with tears, to heaven.

"O God," said the elder one, "and ye, ye Saints—if Saints there be—take the life I can bear no longer: better trust to your mercies than those of man—better Purgatory, nay, Hell, than earth. Come, Richard, the rope!"

The younger one was pale as death, but as resolved asthe elder. He took up a rope, which he had thrown upon the grass, and gave it mechanically, with hands that yet trembled, to his brother.

"One kiss, Evroult—the last!"

They embraced each other fervently.

"Let us commend ourselves to God; He will not be hard upon us, if He is as good as the Chaplain says—He knows it all."

And they wound the rope around them, so as to bind both together.

"We shall not be able to change our minds, even if the water be cold, and drowning hard."

The younger shivered, but did not falter in his resolution. What mental suffering he must have gone through; for the young naturally cling to life.

But the dread secret was all too visible.

From the younger boy two fingers had fallen off—rotted away with the disease. The elder had a covering over the cheek, a patch, for the leprosy had eaten through it. There was none of the spring and gladness of childhood or youth in either; they carried the tokens of decay with them. They had the sentence of physical death in themselves.

Now they stood tottering on the brink. The wind sighed hoarsely around them; a raven gave an ominous croak-croak, and flew flapping in the air. One moment—and they leapt together.

There was a great splash.

Was all over?

No; one had seen them, and had guessed their intent, and now arrived panting and breathless on the brink, with a long rope, terminated by a large iron hook, in his hand. Behind him came a second individual in a black cassock, but he had girded up his loins to run the better.

The man threw the rope just as the bodies rose to the surface—it missed and they disappeared once more. He watched—a moment of suspense—again they rose; he threw once more. Would the hook catch? Yes; it is entangledin the cord with which they have bound themselves, and they are saved! It is an easy task now to draw them to the land.

"My children! my children!" said the Chaplain, "why have ye attempted self-murder; to rush unsummoned into the presence of your Judge? Had we not been here ye had gone straight to eternal misery."

The boys struggled on the shore, but the taste of the cold water had tamed them. The sense of suffocation was yet upon them; they could not speak, but their immersion was too brief to have done them much harm, and after a few minutes they were able to walk. No other words were said, and their rescuers led them towards a low building of stone.

It was a building of great extent—a quadrangle enclosing half an acre, with an inner cloister running all round. In the centre rose a simple chapel of stern Norman architecture; opening upon the cloister were alternate doors and unglazed windows, generally closed by shutters, in the centre of which was a thin plate of horn, so that when the weather necessitated their use, the interiors might not be quite destitute of light. On one side of the square was the dining-hall, on the other the common room; these had rude cavernous chimneys, and fires were kindled on the hearths; there was no upper story. In each of the smaller chambers was a central table and three or four rough wooden bedsteads.

In the cloisters were scores of hapless beings, men and boys, some lounging about, some engaged in games now long forgotten; some talking and gesticulating loudly. All races which were found in England had their representatives—the Norman, the Saxon, the Celt.

It was the recreation hour, for they were not left in idleness through the day; the community was mainly self-supporting. Men wrought at their own trades, made their own clothes and shoes, baked their own bread, brewed their own beer, worked in the fields and gardens withinthe outer enclosure. The charity of the outside world did the rest, upon condition that the lepers never strayed beyond their precincts to infect the outer world of health.

The Chaplain, himself also enclosed, belonged to an order of brethren who had devoted themselves to this special work throughout Europe—they nearly always took the disease.[13]Father Ambrose quite understood, when he entered upon his self-imposed task, that he would probably die of the disease himself, but neither priests, physicians, nor sisters were ever wanting to fulfil the law of Christ in ministering to their suffering brethren, remembering His words: "Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

The day was duly divided: there was the morning Mass, the service of each of the "day hours" in the chapel, the hours of each meal, the time of recreation, the time of work; all was fixed and appointed in due rotation, and could the poor sufferers only have forgotten the world, and resigned themselves to their sad fate, they were no worse off than the monks in many a monastery.

But the hideous form of the disease was always there; here an arm in a sling, to hide the fact the hand was gone;here a footless man, here an eyeless one; here a noseless one, there another—like poor Evroult—with holes through the cheek; here the flesh livid with red spots or circles enclosing patches white as snow—so they carried the marks of the most hideous disease of former days.

Generally they were the objects of pity, but also of abhorrence and dread. The reader will hardly believe that in France, in the year 1341, the lepers were actually burnt alive throughout the land, in the false plea that they poisoned the waters, really in the cruel hope to stamp out the disease.[14]

Outside the walls were all the outhouses, workshops, and detached buildings, also an infirmary for the worst cases; within the enclosure also the last sad home when the fell destroyer had completed his work—the graveyard, God's acre; and in the centre rose a huge plain cross, with the wordPaxon the steps.

It was a law of the place that no one who entered on any pretence might leave it again: people did not believe in cures; leprosy was incurable—at least save by a miracle, as when the Saviour trod this weary world.

The Chaplain took the poor boys to his own chamber, a little room above the porch of the chapel, containing a bed, over which hung the crucifix, a chair, a table, and a few MS. books, a gospel, an epistle, a prophetical book, the offices, church services; little more.

He made them sit in the embrasure of the window, he did not let them speak until he had given each a cup of hot wine, they sat sobbing there a long time, he let nature have its way. At length the time came and he spoke.

"Evroult, my dear child, Richard, how could you attempt self-murder? Know you not that your lives are God's, and that you may not lay them down at your own pleasure."

"Oh, father, why did you save us? It would have been all over now."

"And where would you have been?"

The boy shuddered. The teaching about Hell, and the horrors of the state of the wicked dead, was far too literal and even coarsely material, at that time, for any one to escape its influence.

"Better a thousand times to be here, only bear up till God releases you, and He will make up for all this. You will not think of the billows past when you gain the shore."

"But, father, anything is better than this—these horrid sights, these dreadful faces, and my father a baron."

"Thou art saved many sins," said and felt the priest; "war is a dreadful thing, strife and bloodshed would have been thy lot."

"But I loved to hunt, tofight; I long to be a man, a knight, to win a name in the world, to win my spurs. Oh, what shall I do, how can I bear this?"

"And doyoufeel like this, Richard," said the priest, addressing the younger boy.

"Indeed I do, how can I help it? Oh, the green woods, the baying of the hounds, the delightful gallop, the sweet, fresh air of our Berkshire downs, the hall on winter nights, the gleemen and their songs, their stories of noble deeds of prowess, the——"

"And the tilt-yard, the sword and the lance, the tournament, themelée," added the other.

"And Evroult, so brave and expert; oh what a knight thou wouldst have made, my brother."

"And our father loved to see us wrestle and fight, and ride, and jump, and called us his brave boys; and our mother was proud of us—oh, how can we bear the loss of all?"

What could be said: nature was too strong, the instincts of generations were in the boys, the blood of the sea-kings of old ran in their veins.

"Oh, can you not help us? we know you are kind; shall we never get out? is there no hope?"

The tears streamed down the venerable man's cheeks.

"We know you love us or you would not be here; they say you came of your own accord."

He glanced at a glowing circle of red on his right hand, encircling a spot of leprous flesh as white as snow.

"Ah, my dear boys," he said, "I had your feelings once; nay, I was a knight too, and had wife and children."

"Do they live?"

"Yes, but not here; a neighbour, Robert de Belesme, you may have heard of him——"

"As a cruel monster, a wicked knight."

"Stormed my castle in my absence, and burnt it with all therein."

"And did you not avenge them?"

"I was striving to do so, when the hand of God was laid upon me, and I woke from a burning fever to learn that He has said, 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay.'"

"And then?"

"I came here."

"Poor Father Ambrose," said Richard.

"If I could get outIwould try to avenge him," said Evroult.

"The murderer has gone before his Judge; leave it," said the priest; "there the hidden things shall be made clear, my boys,noblesse oblige, the sons of a baron should keep their word."

"Have we ever broken it?"

"Not so far as I am aware, and I am sure you will not now."

"What are we to promise?"

"Promise me you will not strive to destroy yourselves again."

They looked at each other.

"It is cowardly, unworthy of gentlemen."

"Cowardly!" and the hot blood rose in their faces.

"Base cowardice."

"None ever called me coward before; but you are a priest."

"My children, will you not promise? Then you shall not be confined as you otherwise must be——"

"Let them confine us; we can dash our heads against the walls!"

"For my sake, then; they hurt me when they hurt you."

They paused, looked at each other, and sighed.

"Yes, Evroult?" said Richard.

"Yes, be it then, father; we promise."

But there was another thought in Evroult's mind which he did not reveal.

The bell then rang for chapel, but we fear the boys did not take more than their bodies there; and when they were alone in their own little chamber—for they were treated with special distinction (their father "subscribed liberally to the charity")—the hidden purpose came out.

"Richard," said Evroult, "we must escape."

"What shall we do? where can we go?"

"To Wallingford."

"But our father will slay us."

"Not he; he loves us too well. We shall recover then. Old Bartimœus here told me many do recover when they get away, and live, as some do, in the woods. It is all infectionhere; besides, Imustsee our mother again, if it is only once more—MUSTsee her, I long for her so."

"But do you not know that the country people would slay us."

"They are too afraid of the disease to seize us."

"But they keep big dogs—mastiffs, and would hunt us if they knew we were outside."

"We must escape in the night."

"The gates are barred and watched."

"A chance will come some evening, at the last hour of recreation before dark, we will hide in the bushes, and as soon as the others go in make for the wall; we can easily get over; now, Richard, are you willing?"

"Yes," said the younger, who always looked up to his elder brother with great belief, "I am willing, but do not make the attempt yet; let us wait a day or two; we are watched and suspected now."

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