FOOTNOTES:[13]The disease of leprosy has been deemed incurable, and so practically it was; but it was long before it proved fatal; it ordinarily ran its course in a period not less than ten, nor exceeding twenty, years.The first symptoms were not unlike those of malarious disease; perhaps leprosy was not so much contagious as endemic, bred of foul waters, or the absence of drainage, or nourished in stagnant marshes; but all men deemed it highly contagious.The distinctive symptoms which next appeared were commonly reddish spots on the limbs; these by degrees extended, until, becoming white as snow in the centre, they resembled rings; then the interior became ulcerous, and as the ulcer ate into the flesh, the latter presented the tuberous or honey-combed appearance which led to the disease being calledleprosa tuberosa. Especially did the disease affect the joints of the fingers, the wrists, and the elbows; and limbs would sometimes fall away—or "slough off," as it is technically called.By degrees it spread inward, and attacking the vital organs, particularly the digestive functions, the sufferer died, not so much from the primary as from the secondary effects of the disease—from exhaustion and weakness.[14]Chronicle of St. Evroultin loco.
[13]The disease of leprosy has been deemed incurable, and so practically it was; but it was long before it proved fatal; it ordinarily ran its course in a period not less than ten, nor exceeding twenty, years.The first symptoms were not unlike those of malarious disease; perhaps leprosy was not so much contagious as endemic, bred of foul waters, or the absence of drainage, or nourished in stagnant marshes; but all men deemed it highly contagious.The distinctive symptoms which next appeared were commonly reddish spots on the limbs; these by degrees extended, until, becoming white as snow in the centre, they resembled rings; then the interior became ulcerous, and as the ulcer ate into the flesh, the latter presented the tuberous or honey-combed appearance which led to the disease being calledleprosa tuberosa. Especially did the disease affect the joints of the fingers, the wrists, and the elbows; and limbs would sometimes fall away—or "slough off," as it is technically called.By degrees it spread inward, and attacking the vital organs, particularly the digestive functions, the sufferer died, not so much from the primary as from the secondary effects of the disease—from exhaustion and weakness.
[13]The disease of leprosy has been deemed incurable, and so practically it was; but it was long before it proved fatal; it ordinarily ran its course in a period not less than ten, nor exceeding twenty, years.
The first symptoms were not unlike those of malarious disease; perhaps leprosy was not so much contagious as endemic, bred of foul waters, or the absence of drainage, or nourished in stagnant marshes; but all men deemed it highly contagious.
The distinctive symptoms which next appeared were commonly reddish spots on the limbs; these by degrees extended, until, becoming white as snow in the centre, they resembled rings; then the interior became ulcerous, and as the ulcer ate into the flesh, the latter presented the tuberous or honey-combed appearance which led to the disease being calledleprosa tuberosa. Especially did the disease affect the joints of the fingers, the wrists, and the elbows; and limbs would sometimes fall away—or "slough off," as it is technically called.
By degrees it spread inward, and attacking the vital organs, particularly the digestive functions, the sufferer died, not so much from the primary as from the secondary effects of the disease—from exhaustion and weakness.
[14]Chronicle of St. Evroultin loco.
[14]Chronicle of St. Evroultin loco.
It was the day of St. Calixtus, the day on which, seventy-three years earlier in the history of England, the Normans had stormed the heights of Senlac, and the brave Harold had bitten the dust in the agonies of death with the despairing cry, "Alas for England."
Of course it was ever a high day with the conquering race, that fourteenth of October, and the reader will not be surprised that it was observed with due observance at Dorchester Abbey, and that special thanksgiving for the victory was offered at the chapter Mass, which took place at nine of the clock.
Abbot Alured had just divested himself of the gorgeous vestments, in which he had officiated at the high altar, when the infirmarer craved an audience—it was granted.
"The wounded guest has partially recovered, his fever has abated, his senses have returned, and he seems anxious to see thee."
"Why does he wish to see me particularly?"
"Because he has some secret to communicate."
"And why not to thee?"
"I know not, save that he knows that thou art our father."
"Dost think he will ever fight again?"
"He will lay lance in rest no more in this world."
"Nor in the next either, I presume, brother. I will arise and see him."
Passing through the cloister—which was full of thehum of boys, like busy bees, learning their tasks—and ascending a flight of steps to the "dorture," the Abbot followed the infirmarer to a pleasant and airy cell, full of the morning sunlight, which streamed through the panes of thin membrane—such as frequently took the place of glass.
There on a couch lay extended the form of the victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count, his giant limbs composed beneath the coverlet, his face seamed with many a wrinkle and furrow, and marked with deep lines of care, his eyes restless and wandering.
"Thou hast craved to speak with me, my son," said Abbot Alured.
"Alone," was the reply, in a deep hoarse voice.
"My brother, leave us till I touch the bell," said the Abbot, pointing to a small handbell which stood on the table.
The infirmarer departed.
"And now, my son, what hast thou to tell me? First, who art thou? and whence?"
"I am in sanctuary here, and none can drag me hence; is it not so?"
"It is, my son, unless thou hast committed such crime as sacrilege, which God forbid."
"Such crime can none lay to my charge. Tell me, father, dost thou think it wrong for a man to slay those who have deprived him of his loved ones, of all that made life worth living?"
"'Vengeance is Mine,' saith God."
"Well, I took mine into my own hand, and now my task is ended. I am assured that I am a cripple, never to strike a fair blow again."
"The more time for repentance, the better for thy soul. Thou hast not yet told me thy name and home?"
"I tell it thee in confidence, for thou wilt not betray me to mine enemy."
"Not unless justice should demand it."
"Well, I will tell thee my tale first. I was a husband and a father, and a happy one, living in a home on the downs. In consequence of some paltry dispute about black-mail or feudal dues, Brian Fitz-Count sent men who burnt my house in my absence, and my wife and children perished in the flames."
"All!"
"Yes, I found not one alive, so I took to the life of a hunted wolf, rending and destroying, and slew many foreigners, for I am Wulfnoth of Compton; now I have told thee all."
"God's mercy is infinite, thy provocation was indeed great. I judge thee not, poor man. I never had wife or child, but I can guess how they feel who have had and lost them. My brother, thine has been a sad life, thy misery perhaps justified, at least, excused thy life as a leader of outlaws; I, who am a man in whose veins flows the blood of both races, can feel for thee, and pardon thy errors."
"Errors! to avenge her and them."
"The Saviour forgave His murderers, and left us an example that we should follow His steps. Listen, my brother, thou must live for repentance, and to learn submission to God's will; tell thy secret to no man, lest thy foe seek thee even here, and trouble our poor house."
"But I hoped to have seen him bite the dust."
"And God has denied thee the boon; he is a man of strife and blood, and no well-wisher to Holy Church; he seldom hears a Mass, never is shriven, at least, so I have been told in confidence, for in this neighbourhood men speak with bated breath of Brian Fitz-Count, at least within sight of the tall tower of his keep. We will leave him to God. He is a most unhappy man; his children are lepers."
"No, at least notone."
"So I have heard; they are in the great Leper House at Byfield, poor boys; my cousin is the Chaplain there."
"And now, father, I will tell thee more. Thou knowest I have been delirious, yet my senses have been awake to other scenes than these. Methought my dear wife came to me in my delirium, came to my bedside, sat in that seat, bathed my fevered brow, nay, it was no dream, her blest spirit was allowed to resume the semblance of throbbing flesh, and there she sat, where thou sittest now."
The Abbot of course saw in this only a phase of delirium, but he said nought; it was at least better than visions of imps and goblins.
"Alas, dear one," continued he, as in a soliloquy, "hadst thou lived, I had not made this life one savage hunting scene, caring only to rush in, knock down, and drag out the prey, and now I am unfit to be where thou art, and may never meet thee again."
"My brother," said the sympathising Alured, "thou believest her to be in Paradise?"
"I do, indeed; I know they are there."
"And thou wouldst fain meet them?"
"I would."
"Repent then, confess, thou shall be loosed from thy sins; and since thou art unfitted for the active walks of life, take upon thee the vows of religion."
"May I? what order would admit me?"
"We will; and thus strive to restore thee to thy dear ones again."
"And Brian Fitz-Count will escape?"
"Leave him to God."
"Well, I will; doubtless he will die and be damned, and we shall never see him; Heaven would not be Heaven if he were there."
The Abbot sighed.
"Ah, brother, thou hast much yet to learn ere thou becomest a true follower of Him, Who at the moment of His supremest agony prayed for His murderers."
But the patient could bear no more, hot tears were streaming down his cheeks.
"Brother, peace be with thee, from the Lord of peace, all good Saints aid thee; say nought of this to any one but me and thou wilt be safe."
He touched the bell, the infirmarer came in.
"God hath touched his heart, he will join our order; as soon as possible he shall take the vows of a novice and assume our garb, then neither Brian Fitz-Count nor any other potentate, not the king himself, can drag him forth."
The last words were uttered in a sort of soliloquy, the infirmarer, for whom they were not meant, did not catch them.
* * * * *
And so the days sped on towards the Feast of All Saints, darkening days and long nights too, often reddened by the light of distant conflagrations, for that terrible period of civil strife—nay, of worse than civil strife—was approaching, when, instead of there being only two parties in the land, each castle was to become its own centre of strife—declaring war upon all its neighbours; when men should fear to till the land for others to reap; when every man's hand should be against every man; when men should fill their strongholds with human devils, and torture for torture sake, when there was no longer wealth to exact; when men should say that God and His Saints were asleep—to such foul misery and distress did the usurpation of Stephen bring the land.
But those days were only beginning, as yet the tidings reached Dorchester slowly that the Empress was the guest of her mother-in-law, the Queen-Dowager, the widow of Henry the First, at Arundel Castle, in Sussex, under the protection of only a hundred and forty horsemen; then, that Robert, Earl of Gloucester, leaving his sister in comparative safety, had proceeded through the hostile country to Bristol with only twelve horsemen, until he was joined midway on his journey by Brian Fitz-Count and his troop from Wallingford Castle; next, that Henry, Bishop of Winchester, and brother of the king, had declared for her,and brought her in triumph to Bristol. Lastly, that she had been conducted by her old friend, Milo, Sheriff of Gloucester, in triumph to that city, and there received the allegiance of the citizens.
Meanwhile, the storm of fire and sword had begun; wicked men took advantage at once of the divided state of the realm, and the eclipse of the royal authority.
They heard at Dorchester that Robert Fitz-Hubert, a savage baron, or rather barbarian, had clandestinely entered the city of Malmesbury and burnt it to the ground, so that divers of the wretched inhabitants perished in the flames, of which the barbarian boasted as though he had obtained a great triumph, declaring himself on the side of the Empress Queen; and, further, that King Stephen, hearing of the deed, had come after him, put him to flight, and retaken Malmesbury Castle.
So affairs progressed up to the end of October.
It was All Saints' Day, and they held high service at Dorchester Abbey; the Chant of William of Fescamp was introduced, without any of the dire consequences which followed it at Glastonbury.
It was a day never to be forgotten by our reclaimed outlaw, Wulfnoth of Compton, he was that day admitted to the novitiate, and received the tonsure; dire had been the conflict in his mind; again and again the old Adam waxed strong within him, and he longed to take advantage, like others, of the political disturbances, in the hope of avenging his own personal wrongs; then the sweet teachings of the Gospel softened his heart, and again and again his dear ones seemed in his dreams to visit him, and bid him prepare for that haven of peace into which they had entered.
"God hath done all things well," the sweet visitants of his dreams seemed to say; "let the past be the past, and let not its black shadow darken the glorious future—the parting was terrible, the meeting shall be the sweeter."
The ceremony was over, Wulfnoth of Compton had become the Novice Alphege of Dorchester, for, in accordance with custom, he had changed his name on taking the vows.
After the long ceremony was over, he sat long in the church undisturbed, a sensation of sweet peace came upon him, of rest at last found, the throbbing heart seemed quiet, the stormy passions stilled.
And now, too, he no longer needed the protection of carnal weapons, he was safe in the immunities of the church, none could drag him from the cloister—he belonged to God.
What a refuge the monastic life afforded then! Without it men would have been divided between beasts of burden and beasts of prey.
And when at last he took possession of his cell, through the narrow window he could see Synodune rising over the Thames; it was a glorious day, the last kiss of summer, when the "winter wind was as yet suspended, although the fading foliage hung resigned."
Peace ineffable filled his mind.
The hills of Synodune for one moment caught his gaze, they had been familiar landmarks in his days of war, rapine, and vengeance, the past rose to his mind, but he longed not after it now.
But was the old Adam dead or only slumbering? We shall see.
Amidst a scene of great excitement, the party of Brian Fitz-Count left Wallingford Castle, a hundred men, all armed to the teeth, being chosen to accompany him, while at least five hundred were left behind, capable of bearing arms, charged with the defence of the Castle, with orders, that at least two hundred of their number should repair to a rendezvous, when the progress of events should require their presence, and enable the Baron to fix the place of meeting by means of a messenger.
The day was—as it will be remembered—the second of October, in the year 1139; the season was late, that is, summer was loth to depart, and the weather was warm and balmy. The wild cheers of their companions, who envied them their lot, contrasted with the sombre faces of the townsfolk, foreboding evil in this new departure.
By the Baron's side rode Milo of Gloucester, and they engaged in deep conversation.
Our young friend Osric was committed to the care of the senior page Alain, who anticipated much sportive pleasure in catechising and instructing his young companion—such a novice in the art of war.
And it may be added in equitation, for we need not say old Sexwulf kept no horses, and Osric had much ado to ride, not gracefully, but so as to avoid the jeers and laughter of his companions.
The young reader, who remembers his own first essay in horsemanship, will appreciate poor Osric's difficulty, andwill easily picture the suppressed, hardly suppressed, laughter of Alain, at each uneasy jolt. However, Osric was a youth of good sense, and instead of turning red, or seeming annoyed, laughed heartily too at himself. His spirits were light, and he soon shook off the depression of the morning under the influence of the fresh air and smiling landscape, for the tears of youth are happily—like an April shower—soon followed by sunshine.
They rode across Cholsey common, then a wide meadowed space, stretching from Wallingford to the foot of the downs; they left the newly-restoredor ratherrebuiltChurch of St. Mary's of Cholsey on their right, around which, at that time, clustered nearly all the houses of the village, mainly built upon the rising ground to the north of the church, avoiding the swampy common.[15]
Farther on to the left, across the clear and sparkling brook, they saw the burnt and blackened ruins of the former monastery, founded by Ethelred "the unready," in atonement for the murder of his half-brother, Edward the Martyr, and burnt in the same terrible inroad; one more mile brought them to the source of the Cholsey brook, which bubbled up from the earth amidst a thicket of trees at the foot of a spur of the downs.
Here they all stopped to drink, for the spring was famous, and had reputed medicinal properties, and, in sooth, the water was pleasant to the taste of man and beast.
A little beyond was a moated grange belonging to the Abbot of Reading, a pleasant summer residence in peaceful times; but the days were coming when men should avoid lonely country habitations; there were a few invalid monks there, they came forth and gazed upon the party, thenshook their tonsured heads as the burgesses of Wallingford had done.
Another mile, and they began to ascend the downs, where, according to tradition, the battle of Æscendune had been fought, in the year of grace, 871. Arriving at the summit, they looked back at the view: Wallingford, the town and churches, dominated by the high tower of the keep, was still in full view, and, beyond, the wavy line of the Chilterns stretched into the misty distance, as described in the preface to our tale.
But most interesting to Osric was the maze of woodland which filled the country about Aston (East-tun) and Blewbery (Blidberia), for there lay the hut of his grandfather; and the tears rose to the affectionate lad's eyes at the thought of the old man's future loneliness, with none but poor old Judith to console him for the loss of his boy.
Before them rose Lowbury Hill—dominated then by a watch-tower—which they ascended and stood on the highest summit of the eastern division of the Berkshire downs; before them on the south rose the mountainous range of Highclere, and a thin line of smoke still ascended from the bale-fire on the highest point.
Here a horseman was seen approaching, and when he came near enough, a knight, armedcap-a-pie, was disclosed.
"Friend or foe?" said Alain to his companion.
"If a foe, I pity him."
"See, the Baron rides forth alone to meet him!"
They met about a furlong from the party; entered into long and amicable conference, and soon returned to the group on the hill; the order brought news which changed their course, they turned to the west, and instead of riding for Sussex, followed the track of the Icknield Street for Devizes and the west.
This brought them across the scene of the midnight encounter, and Alain's quick eyes soon detected the traces of the combat.
"Look, there has been a fight here—see how the groundis trampled, and here is a broken sword—ah! the ground is soaked with blood—there has been a gallant tussle here—would I had seen it."
Osric was not yet so enthusiastic in the love of strife.
Alain's exclamations brought several of the riders around him; and they scrutinised the ground closely, and they speculated on the subject.
The Baron smiled grimly, and thought—
"What has become of the corpse?" for he doubted not he had fed fat his ancient grudge, and slain his foe.
"Look in yon thicket for the body," he cried.
They looked, but as our readers anticipate, found nought.
The Baron wondered, and said a few confidential words to his friend Milo, which none around heard.
Shortly afterwards their route led them by Cwichelm's Hlawe, described before; the Baron halted his party; and then summoning Osric to attend him, rode into the thicket.
The reputed witch stood at the door of her cell.
"So thou art on thy way to battle; the dogs of war are unslipped."
"Even so, but dost thou know this boy?"
"Old Sexwulf's grandson, down in the woods; so thou hast got him, ha! ha! he is in good hands, ha! ha!"
"What means thy laughter, like the noise of an old croaking crow?"
"Because thou hast caught him, and the decrees of fate are about to be accomplished."
"Retire, Osric, and join the rest."
"Now, mother, tell me what thou dost mean?"
"That thy conjunction with this youth bodes thee and thine little good—the stars have told me that much."
"Why, what harm can he dome, a mere boy?"
"The free people of old taught their children to sing, 'Tremble, tyrants; we shall grow up.'"
"If he proved false, a blow would rid me of so frail an encumbrance."
"Which thou mightest hesitate to strike."
"Tell me why; I thought he might be my stolen child, but the lips of old Sexwulf speak truth, and he swears the lad is his grandson."
"It is a wise grandfather who knows his own grandson."
"Thou knowest many things; the boy is so like my poor——" he hesitated, and suppressed a name; "that, hard as my heart is, he has softened it: his voice, his manner, his gestures, tell me——"
"I cannot as yet."
"Dost thou know?"
"Only that old Sexwulf would not wilfully deceive."
"And is that all thou hast to say?"
"No, wait, keep the boy near thee, thou shalt know in time; thy men are calling for thee—hark thee, Sir Brian, the men of Donnington are out."
"That for them," and the Baron snapped his fingers.
When he rejoined his troop, he found them in a state of great excitement, which was explained when they pointed to moving objects some two or three miles away on the downs; the quick eye of the Baron immediately saw that it was a troop which equalled his own in numbers.
"The witch spoke the truth," he said; and eager as a war-horse sniffing the fray afar, he gave the word to ride towards the distant party, which rapidly rose and became distinct to the sight.
"I see their pennons, they are the men of Donnington, and their lord is for King Stephen; now, my men, to redden our bright swords. Osric, thou art new to all this—Alain, thou art young—stay behind on that mound, and join us when we have done our work."
Poor Alain looked grievously hurt.
"My lord!"
"Well?"
"Do let me share the fight!"
"Thou wilt be killed."
"I will take my chance."
"And Osric?"
"I am not afraid, my lord," said Osric.
"But thou canst hardly ride, nor knowest not yet the use of lance and sword; here, old Raoul, stay with this lad."
"My lord!"
"And thou, too; well, boy, wilt thou pledge me thy word not (he lowered his voice) to attempt to escape?"
He marked a slight hesitation.
"Remember thy grandfather."
"My lord, I will do as thou biddest—stay where thou shalt bid me, or ride with thee."
"Stay on the crest of yonder hill."
All this time they had been riding forward, and now the enemy was within hearing.
Both parties paused.
Brian rode forward.
A knight on the other side did the same.
"For God and the Empress," said the former.
"For God and the King," cried the latter.
Instantly the two charged, and their followers waited to see the result: the lance of the King's man broke; that of Sir Brian held firm, and coming full on the breast, unhorsed the other, who fell heavily prone, on his head, like one who, as old Homer hath it, "seeketh oysters in the fishy sea."
The others waited no longer, but eager on either side to share their leader's fortunes, charged too. Oh, the awful shock as spear met spear; oh, the crash, the noise, the wild shouts, the splintering of lances, then the ringing of swords upon armour; the horses caught the enthusiasm of the moment and bit each other, and struck out with their fore-legs: it was grand, at least so they said in that iron age.
But it was soon decided—fortune kept steadfast to her first inclinations—the troops fared as their leaders hadfared—and those who were left alive of the Donnington men were soon riding southward for bare life.
Brian ordered the trumpeter to recall his men from the pursuit.
"Let them go—I have their leader—he at least shall pay ransom; they have been good company, and we feel sorry to see them go."
The poor leader, Sir Hubert of Donnington, the eldest son of the lord of that ilk, was lifted, half-stunned, upon a horse behind another rider, while Brian remembered Osric.
What had been the feelings of the latter?
Did the reader ever meet that story in St. Augustine's Confessions, of a young Christian taken against his will to see the bloody sports of the amphitheatre. His companions dragged him thither, he said they might have his body, but he shut his eyes and stopped his ears until a louder shout than usual pierced through the auricular protection—one moment of curiosity, he opened his eyes, he saw the victor thrust the trident into the palpitating body of the vanquished, the demon of blood-thirstiness seized him, he shouted too, and afterwards sought those cruel scenes from choice, until the grace of God stopped him.
So now with our Osric.
He felt no desire at first to join themêlée, indeed, he knew how helpless he was; but as he gazed a strange, wild longing came over him, he felt inclined, nay, could hardly restrain himself from rushing in; but his promise to stay on the hill prevailed over him: perhaps it was hereditary inclination.
But after all was over, he saw Alain wiping his bloody sword as he laughed with savage glee.
"Look, Osric, I killed one—see the blood."
Instead of being shocked, as a good boy should have been, Osric envied him, and determined to spend all the time he possibly could in mastering the art of jousting and fencing.
They now rode on, leaving twenty of their own deadon the plain, and forty of the enemy; but, as Napoleon afterwards said—"You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs."
And now, alas, the eggs were human lives—men made in the image of God—too little accounted of in those days.
They now passed Letcombe Castle,—a huge circular camp with trench and vallum, capable of containing an army; it was of the old British times, and the mediæval warriors grimly surveyed this relic of primæval war. Below there lay the town of Wantage,—then strongly walled around,—the birthplace of Alfred. Three more miles brought them to the Blowing Stone, above Kingston Lisle, another relic of hoar antiquity; and Alain, who had been there before, amused Osric by producing that deep hollow roar, which in earlier days had served to alarm the neighbourhood, as he blew into the cavity.
Now the ridgeway bore straight to the highest summit of the whole range,—the White Horse Hill,—and here they all dismounted, and tethering their horses, prepared to refresh man and beast. Poor Osric was terribly sore and stiff, and could not even walk gracefully; he was still able to join Alain in his laughter, but with less grace than at first.
But we must cut this chapter short; suffice it to say, that after a brief halt they resumed their route; camped that night under the shelter of a clump of trees on the downs, and the next day, at Devizes, effected a junction with the troops of Earl Robert of Gloucester, who, having left his sister safe in Arundel Castle, was on his way to secure Bristol, attended by only twelve horsemen.
FOOTNOTE:[15]It was a cruciform structure, a huge tower on the intersection of the arms of the cross, the present chancel was not then in existence, a smaller sanctuary of Norman architecture supplied its place. The old church had been destroyed with the village in that Danish invasion of which we have told in the tale ofAlfgar the Dane, which took place in 1006, and the place had lain waste till the manor was given to Reading Abbey, under whose fostering influence it had risen from its ashes.
[15]It was a cruciform structure, a huge tower on the intersection of the arms of the cross, the present chancel was not then in existence, a smaller sanctuary of Norman architecture supplied its place. The old church had been destroyed with the village in that Danish invasion of which we have told in the tale ofAlfgar the Dane, which took place in 1006, and the place had lain waste till the manor was given to Reading Abbey, under whose fostering influence it had risen from its ashes.
[15]It was a cruciform structure, a huge tower on the intersection of the arms of the cross, the present chancel was not then in existence, a smaller sanctuary of Norman architecture supplied its place. The old church had been destroyed with the village in that Danish invasion of which we have told in the tale ofAlfgar the Dane, which took place in 1006, and the place had lain waste till the manor was given to Reading Abbey, under whose fostering influence it had risen from its ashes.
For many days Evroult and Richard, the sons—unhappy, leprous sons—of Brian Fitz-Count, bore their sad lot with apparent patience in the lazar-house of Byfield; but their minds were determined, come weal or woe, they would endeavour to escape.
"Where there is a will," says an old proverb, "there is a way,"—the chance Evroult had spoken of soon came.
It was the hour of evening recreation, and in the spacious grounds attached to the lazar-house, the lepers were walking listlessly around the well-trodden paths, in all stages of leprous deformity; it was curious to note how differently it affected different people; some walked downcast, their eyes on the ground, studiously concealing their ghastly wounds; some in a state of semi-idiotcy—no uncommon result—"moped and mowed"; some, in hopeless despair, sighed and groaned; and one cried "Lost, lost," as he wrung his hands.
There were keepers here and there amongst them, too often lepers themselves. The Chaplain, too, was there, endeavouring to administer peripatetic consolation first to one, then to another.
"Well, Richard, well, Evroult, my boys, how are you to-day?"
"As well as we ever shall be here."
"I want to get out of this place."
"And I."
"Oh will you not get us out? Can you not speak tothe governor? see, we arenearlywell." Then Richard looked at his hand, where two fingers were missing, and sobbed aloud.
"It is no use, my dear boys, to dash yourselves against the bars of your cage, like poor silly birds; I fear the time of release will never come, till death brings it either for you or me—see, I share your lot."
"But you have had your day in the world, and come here of your own accord; we are only boys, oh, perhaps with threescore and ten years here before us, as you say in the Psalms."
"Nay, few here attain the age the Psalmist gives as the ordinary limit of human life in his day, and, indeed, few outside in these days."[16]
"Well, we should have been out of it all, had you not interfered."
"And where?"
Echo answered "Where?"—the boys were silent.
The Chaplain saw that in their present mood he could do no good—he turned elsewhere.
Nothing but an intense desire to alleviate suffering had brought him to Byfield lazar-house. The Christianity of that age was sternly practical, if superstitious; and with all its superstition it exercised a far more beneficent influence on society than fifty Salvation Armies could have done; it led men to remember Christ in all forms of loathsome and cruel suffering, and to seek Him in the suffering members of His mystical body; if it led to self-chosen austerities, it also had its heights of heroic self-immolation for the good of others.
Such a self-immolation was certainly our Chaplain's. He walked amongst these unfortunates as a ministering angel; where he could do good he did it, where consolationfound acceptance he gave it, and many a despairing spirit he soothed with the hope of the sunny land of Paradise.
And how he preached to them of Him Who sanctified suffering and made it the path to glory; how he told them how He should some day change their vile leprous bodies that He might make them like His own most glorious Body, until the many, abandoning all hope here, looked forward simply for that glorious consummation of body and soul in bliss eternal.
"Oh! how glorious and resplendentShall this body some day be;Full of vigour, full of pleasure,Full of health, and strong and free:When renewed in Christ's own image,Which shall last eternally."
"Oh! how glorious and resplendentShall this body some day be;Full of vigour, full of pleasure,Full of health, and strong and free:When renewed in Christ's own image,Which shall last eternally."
"Oh! how glorious and resplendentShall this body some day be;Full of vigour, full of pleasure,Full of health, and strong and free:When renewed in Christ's own image,Which shall last eternally."
"Oh! how glorious and resplendent
Shall this body some day be;
Full of vigour, full of pleasure,
Full of health, and strong and free:
When renewed in Christ's own image,
Which shall last eternally."
But all this was lost on Evroult and Richard. The inherited instincts of fierce generations of proud and ruthless ancestors were in them—as surely as the little tigerling, brought up as a kitten, begins eventually to bite and tear, so did these poor boys long for sword and lance—for the life of the wild huntsman or the wilder robber baron.
Instincts worthy of condemnation, yet not without their redeeming points; such were all our ancestors once, whether Angle, Saxon, Jute, or Northman; and the fusion has made the Englishman what he is.
* * * * *
The bell began to ring for Vespers; there was quite a quarter of an hour ere they went into chapel.
It was a dark autumnal evening, the sun had just gone down suddenly into a huge bank of dark clouds, and gloom had come upon the earth, as the two boys slipped into the bushes, which bordered their path, unseen.
The time seemed ages until the bell ceased and they knew that all their companions were in chapel, and that they must immediately be missed from their places.
Prompt to the moment, Evroult cried "Now, Richard," and ran to the wall; he had woven a rope from his bed-clothes, and concealed it about his person; he had wrencheda bar from his window, and twisted it into a huge hook; he now threw it over the summit of the lofty wall, and it bit—held.
Up the wall the boys swarmed, at the very moment when the Chaplain noticed their missing forms in their seats in chapel, and the keepers, too, who counted their numbers as they went in, found "two short," and went to search the grounds.
To search—but not to find. The boys were over the wall, and running for the woods.
Oh, how dark and dismal the woods seemed in the gloom. But happily there was a full moon to come that night, as the boys knew, and they felt also that the darkness shielded them from immediate pursuit.
Onward they plunged—through thicket and brake, through firm ground and swamp, hardly knowing which way they were going, until they came upon a brook, and sat down on its bank in utter weariness.
"Oh, Evroult, how shall we find our way? And we have had no supper; I am getting hungry already," cried the younger boy.
"Do you not know that all these brooks run to the Cherwell, and the Cherwell into the Thames? We will keep down the brook till we come to the river, and then to the river till we come to Oxnaford."
"Listen, there is the bay of a hound! Oh, Evroult, he will tear us in pieces! It is that savage mastiff of theirs, 'Tear-'em.' The keepers are after us. Oh, what shall we do?"
"Be men—like our father," said the sterner Evroult.
"But we have no weapons."
"I have my fist. If he comes at me I will thrust it down his foul throat, or grasp his windpipe, and strangle him."
"Evroult, I have heard that they cannot track us in water. Let us walk down the brook."
"Oh, there is a fire!"
"No, it is the moon rising over the trees; that is thelight she sends before her. You are right—now for the brook. Ah! it feels clear and pebbly, no mud to stick in. Come, Richard! let us start. No, stay, I remember that if the brute finds blood he will go no farther. Here is my knife," and the desperate boy produced a little pocket-knife.
"What are you going to do?"
"Drop a little blood. There is a big blue vein in my arm."
And the reckless lad opened a vein in his arm, which bled freely.
"Let me do the same," cried the other.
"No; this is enough." And he scattered the blood all about, then looked out for some "dock-leaf," and bound it over the wound with part of the cord which had helped them over the wall.
"Now, that will do. Let us hurry down the brook, Richard, before they come in sight."
Such determination had its reward; they left all pursuit behind them, and heard no more of the hound.
Tired out at last, they espied with joy an old barn by the brook side, turned in, found soft hay, and, reckless of all consequences, slept till the sun was high in the heavens.
Then they awoke, and lo! a gruff man was standing over them.
"Who are you, boys?"
"The sons of the Lord of Wallingford."
"How came you here?"
"Lost in the woods."
"But Wallingford is far away to the south."
"We are on our road home; can you give us some food?"
"If you will come to my house, you shall have what I can give you. Why! what is the matter with that hand, that cheek? Good heavens, ye are lepers; keep off!"
The poor boys stood rooted to the spot with shame.
"And ye have defiled my hay—no one will dare touch it. I have a great mind to shut you both in, and burn you and the hay together."
"That you shall not," said the fierce Evroult, anddashed through the open door, almost upsetting the man, who was so afraid of touching the lepers that he could offer no effective resistance, and the two got off.
"That was a narrow escape, but how shall we get food?"
A few miles down the brook they began to feel very faint.
"See, there is a farm; let us ask for some milk and bread."
"Richard, you are not marked as I am, you go first."
A poor sort of farm in the woods—farmhouse, ricks, stables, barns, of rude construction. A woman was milking the cows in a hovel with open door.
"Please give us some milk," said Richard, standing in the doorway; "we are very hungry and thirsty."
"Drink from the bowl. How came you in the woods?"
"Lost."
"And there is another—your brother, is he?—round the door. Drink and pass it to him."
They both drank freely, Evroult turning away the bad cheek.
As Richard gave back the bowl, the woman espied his hands.
"Mother of mercy! why, where are your fingers? you are a leper, out! out! John, turn out the dogs."
"Nay! nay! we will go; only throw us a piece of bread."
"Why are you not shut up? Good Saints!"
"Please do not be hard upon us—give us some bread."
"Will you promise to go away?"
"Yes, if you will give us some bread."
"Keep off, then;" and the good woman, a little softened, gave them some oaten cakes, just as her husband appeared in the distance coming in from the fields.
"Now off, before any harm come of it; go back to Byfield lazar-house."
"It was so dreadful; we have run away."
"Poor boys, so young too; but off, or my good man may set the dogs at you."
And they departed, much refreshed.
"Oh Evroult, how every one abhors us!"
"It is very hard to bear."
At midday, still following the brook, they were saluted with a stern "Stand, and deliver!"
A fellow in forester's garb, with bow and arrow so adjusted that he could send the shaft in a moment through any body, opposed their passage.
"We are only poor boys."
"Whither bound?"
"For Wallingford."
"Why, that is three days' journey hence; come with me."
He led them into an open glade; there was a large fire over which a cauldron hung, emitting a most savoury stew as it bubbled, and stretched around the fire were some thirty men, evidently outlaws of the Robin Hood type.
"What are these boys?"
"Wanderers in the woods, who say they want to go to Wallingford."
"Whose sons are ye?"
"Of Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford."
"By all the Saints! then my rede is to hang them for their father's sake, and have no more of the brood. Have you any brothers? Good heavens! they are lepers."
"Send an arrow through each."
"For shame, Ulf, the hand of God hath touched them; but depart."
"Give us some food."
"Not unless you promise to go back to the lazar-house, from which we see you have escaped."
Poor boys, even hungry as they were, they would not promise.
"Put some bread on that stump," said the leader, "and let them take it; come not near: now off!"
It was the last food the poor boys got for many hours, for every one abhorred their presence and drove them off with sticks and stones, until, wearied out, Richard sank fainting on the ground on the eventide of that weary day.
Evroult was at the end of his resources, and at last felt beaten; tears were already trickling down his manly young face.
An aged man bent over them.
"Why do you weep, my son? what is the matter with your companion?"
It was an old man who spoke, in long coarse robe, and a rope around his waist. Evroult recognised the hermit.
"We are lepers," said he despairingly.
The old man bent down and kissed their sores.
"I see Christ in you; come to my humble cell—there you shall have food, fire, and shelter."
He helped them to ascend the rocky side of the valley, until they came to a natural cave half concealed by herbage—an artificial front had been built of stone, with door and window; a spring of water bubbled down the rock, to find its destination in the brook below. Far over the forest they could see a river, red in the light of the setting sun, and the buildings of a town of some size in the dim distance. The river, although they knew it not, was the Cherwell, the town, Banbury.
He led them and seated them by a fire, gave them food, then, after he had heard their tale—
"My dear children," he said, "if you dread the lazar-house so much, ye may stay with me while ye will; go not forth again into the cruel, cruel world, poor wounded lambs."
And the good man put them to bed upon moss and leaves.