"Nay, I must sleep."
"For thy son's sake," whispered Alain; and she persevered.
"Ah! here is the river; take care."
They had nearly fallen into a diversion of the stream at Sandford; but they followed the course of the river, until they reached Radley, and then they heard the distant bell of the famous abbey ringing for Matins, which were said in the small hours of the night.
Here they found some kind of track made by the passage of cattle, which had been driven towards the town, and followed it until they saw the lights of the abbey dimly through the gloom.
Spent, exhausted with their toil, they entered the precincts of the monastery, on the bed of the stream which, diverging from the main course a mile above the town, turned the abbey mills and formed one of its boundaries. Thus they avoided detention at the gateway of the town, for they ascended from the stream within the monastery "pleasaunce."
The grand church loomed out of the darkness; its windows were dimly lighted. The Matins of St. Thomas were being sung, and the solemn strains reached the ears of the weary travellers outside. The outer door of the nave was unfastened, for the benefit of the laity, who cared more for devotion than their beds, like the mother of the famous St. Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, a century later, who used to attend these Matins nightly.
Our present party entered from a different motive. It was a welcome shelter, and they sank upon an oaken bench within the door, while the solemn sound of the Gregorian psalmody rolled on in the choir. Alain meanwhile hastened to the hospitium to seek aid for the royal guest; which he was told he would find in a hostel outside the gates, for although they allowed female attendance at worship, they could not entertain women; it was contrary to their rule—royal although the guest might be.
FOOTNOTES:[19]The historical course of events during these two years may be briefly summed up. The English at first embraced the cause of Maude with alacrity, because of her descent from their ancient monarchs, and so did most of the barons. A dire civil war followed, in which multitudes of freebooters from abroad, under the name of "free lances," took part in either side. Hereford, Gloucester, Bristol, Oxford, Wallingford—all became centres of Maude's power; and at last, at the great battle of Lincoln—the only great battle during the miserable chaos of strife—Stephen became her prisoner.Then she had nearly gained the crown: Henry, Bishop of Winchester, Papal legate and brother of Stephen, joined her cause, and received her as Queen at Winchester. The wife of King Stephen begged her husband's liberty on her knees, promising that he should depart from the kingdom and become a monk. But Maude was hard-hearted, and spurned her from her presence, rejecting, to her own great detriment, the prayer of the suppliant; and not only did she do this, but she also refused the petition of Henry of Winchester, that the foreign possessions of Stephen might pass to his son Eustace. In consequence, the Bishop abandoned her cause, and Maude found that she had dashed the cup of fortune from her hand by her harsh conduct, which at last became past bearing. She refused the Londoners the confirmation of their ancient charters, because they had submitted to the rule of Stephen; whereupon they rose,en masse, against her, and drove her from the city. She hastened to Winchester, but the Bishop followed, and drove her thence; and in the flight Robert, Earl of Gloucester was captured. He was exchanged for Stephen, both leaders were at liberty and the detestable strife began,de novo.Then Maude took up her abode at Oxford, where Stephen came and besieged her, as related in the text.[20]Maude did not venture to call herself Queen, but signed her deeds Domina or Lady of England.
[19]The historical course of events during these two years may be briefly summed up. The English at first embraced the cause of Maude with alacrity, because of her descent from their ancient monarchs, and so did most of the barons. A dire civil war followed, in which multitudes of freebooters from abroad, under the name of "free lances," took part in either side. Hereford, Gloucester, Bristol, Oxford, Wallingford—all became centres of Maude's power; and at last, at the great battle of Lincoln—the only great battle during the miserable chaos of strife—Stephen became her prisoner.Then she had nearly gained the crown: Henry, Bishop of Winchester, Papal legate and brother of Stephen, joined her cause, and received her as Queen at Winchester. The wife of King Stephen begged her husband's liberty on her knees, promising that he should depart from the kingdom and become a monk. But Maude was hard-hearted, and spurned her from her presence, rejecting, to her own great detriment, the prayer of the suppliant; and not only did she do this, but she also refused the petition of Henry of Winchester, that the foreign possessions of Stephen might pass to his son Eustace. In consequence, the Bishop abandoned her cause, and Maude found that she had dashed the cup of fortune from her hand by her harsh conduct, which at last became past bearing. She refused the Londoners the confirmation of their ancient charters, because they had submitted to the rule of Stephen; whereupon they rose,en masse, against her, and drove her from the city. She hastened to Winchester, but the Bishop followed, and drove her thence; and in the flight Robert, Earl of Gloucester was captured. He was exchanged for Stephen, both leaders were at liberty and the detestable strife began,de novo.Then Maude took up her abode at Oxford, where Stephen came and besieged her, as related in the text.
[19]The historical course of events during these two years may be briefly summed up. The English at first embraced the cause of Maude with alacrity, because of her descent from their ancient monarchs, and so did most of the barons. A dire civil war followed, in which multitudes of freebooters from abroad, under the name of "free lances," took part in either side. Hereford, Gloucester, Bristol, Oxford, Wallingford—all became centres of Maude's power; and at last, at the great battle of Lincoln—the only great battle during the miserable chaos of strife—Stephen became her prisoner.
Then she had nearly gained the crown: Henry, Bishop of Winchester, Papal legate and brother of Stephen, joined her cause, and received her as Queen at Winchester. The wife of King Stephen begged her husband's liberty on her knees, promising that he should depart from the kingdom and become a monk. But Maude was hard-hearted, and spurned her from her presence, rejecting, to her own great detriment, the prayer of the suppliant; and not only did she do this, but she also refused the petition of Henry of Winchester, that the foreign possessions of Stephen might pass to his son Eustace. In consequence, the Bishop abandoned her cause, and Maude found that she had dashed the cup of fortune from her hand by her harsh conduct, which at last became past bearing. She refused the Londoners the confirmation of their ancient charters, because they had submitted to the rule of Stephen; whereupon they rose,en masse, against her, and drove her from the city. She hastened to Winchester, but the Bishop followed, and drove her thence; and in the flight Robert, Earl of Gloucester was captured. He was exchanged for Stephen, both leaders were at liberty and the detestable strife began,de novo.
Then Maude took up her abode at Oxford, where Stephen came and besieged her, as related in the text.
[20]Maude did not venture to call herself Queen, but signed her deeds Domina or Lady of England.
[20]Maude did not venture to call herself Queen, but signed her deeds Domina or Lady of England.
Meanwhile Brian Fitz-Count himself, with Osric by his side and a dozen horsemen, rode to and fro on the road to Oxford, which passed through the forest of Bagley; for to halt in the cold was impossible, and to kindle a fire might attract the attention of foes, as well as of friends. How they bore that weary night may not be told, but they were more accustomed to such exposure than we are in these days.
Again and again did Brian question Osric concerning the interview with Alain, but of course to no further purpose; and they might have remained till daylight had not they taken a shepherd, who was out to look after his sheep, and brought him before the Count, pale and trembling, for it was often death to the rustics to be seized by the armed bands.
"Hast thou seen any travellers this night?"
"I have, my lord, but they were not of this earth."
"What then, fool?"
"They were the ghosts of the slain, five of them, all in white, coming up from the river, where the fight was a month agone."
"And what didst thou do?"
"Hid myself."
"Where were they going?"
"Towards Abingdon."
"Men or women?"
"One was muffled up like a lady; the others were like men, but all in white."
"My lord," interrupted Osric, "I bore thy recommendation that they should wear white garments, the better to escape observation in the snow, and Alain promised me that such precaution should be taken: no doubt the shepherd has seen them."
"Which way were the ghosts going, shepherd?"
"They were standing together, when all at once the boom of the abbey bell came through the air from Abingdon, and then they made towards the town, to seek their graves, for there many of the slain were buried."
"Requiescant in pace," said Osric.
"Peace, Osric; do not you know that if you pray for a living man or woman as if they were dead, you hasten their demise?" said Brian sarcastically. "Let the old fool go, and we will wend our weary way to the abbey. They give sanctuary to either party."
The snow ceased to fall about this time, and a long line of vivid red appeared low down in the east: the snow caught the tinge of the coming day, and was reddened like blood.
"One would think there had been a mighty battle there, my squire."
"It reminds me of the field of Armageddon, of which I heard the Chaplain talk. I wonder whether it will come soon."
"Dost thou believe in all those priestly pratings?"
"My grandfather taught me to do so."
"And the rough life of a castle has not yet made thee forget his homilies?"
"No," sighed Osric.
The sigh touched the hardened man.
"If he has faith, why should I destroy it?" Then he added as if almost against his will—
"Keep thy faith; I would I shared it."
The fortifications of the town, the castle on the Oxford road, the gateway hard by, came in sight at the next turn of the road, but Brian avoided them, and sought a gatelower down which admitted to the abbey precincts, where he was not so likely to be asked inconvenient questions.
He bade one of his men ring the bell.
The porter looked forth.
"What manner of men are ye?"
"Travellers lost in the snow come to seek the hospitality prescribed by the rule of St. Benedict."
"Enter," and the portal yawned: no names were asked, no political distinctions recognised.
They stood in the outer quadrangle of the hoar abbey, the stronghold of Christianity in Wessex for five centuries past; and well had it performed its task, and well had it deserved of England. Founded so long ago that its origin was even then lost in conflicting traditions, surviving wave after wave of war, burnt by the Danes, remodelled by the Normans—yet this hoary island of prayer stood in the stream of time unchanged in all its main features, and, as men thought, destined to stand till the archangel's trump sounded the knell of time.
"They built in marble, built as theyWho thought these stones should see the dayWhen Christ should come; and that these wallsShould stand o'er them when judgment calls."
"They built in marble, built as theyWho thought these stones should see the dayWhen Christ should come; and that these wallsShould stand o'er them when judgment calls."
"They built in marble, built as theyWho thought these stones should see the dayWhen Christ should come; and that these wallsShould stand o'er them when judgment calls."
"They built in marble, built as they
Who thought these stones should see the day
When Christ should come; and that these walls
Should stand o'er them when judgment calls."
Alas, poor monks, and alas for the country which lost the most glorious of her architectural riches, the most august of her fanes, through the greed of one generation!
"Have any other travellers sought shelter here during the night?"
"Five—a lady and four knights."
"Where be they?"
"The lady is lodged in a house without the eastern gate; the others are in the guest-house, where thou mayst join them."
Have my readers ever seen the outer quadrangle of Magdalene College? It is not unlike the square of buildings in which the Baron and his followers now stood. On three sides the monastic buildings, with cloisters looking upon agreen sward, wherein a frozen fountain was surmounted by a cross; on the other, the noble church, of which almost all trace is lost.
In the hospitium or guest-house Brian found Sir Ingelric of Huntercombe, with Alain and the other attendants upon the lady's flight. They met with joy, and seated before a bright fire which burned upon the hearth, learned the story of each other's adventures on that gruesome night, which, however, had ended well. Osric had gone in charge of the horses to some stables outside the gates, which opened upon the market-place, but he now returned, and Alain greeted him warmly.
Soon thedéjeûneror breakfast was served, of which the chief feature was good warm soup, very acceptable after the night they had passed through. Scarcely was it over when the bells rang for the High Mass of St. Thomas's Day.
"Yes, we must all go," said Brian, "out of compliment to our hosts, if for no better reason."
They entered the church, of which the nave and transepts were open to the general public, while the choir, as large as that of a cathedral church, was reserved for the monks alone. The service was grand and solemn: it began with a procession, during which holy water was sprinkled over the congregation, while the monks sang—
"Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor,Lava me, et super nivem dealbabor."
"Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor,Lava me, et super nivem dealbabor."
"Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor,Lava me, et super nivem dealbabor."
"Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor,
Lava me, et super nivem dealbabor."
Then followed the chanted Mass at the High Altar. There were gleaming lights, gorgeous vestments, clouds of incense. All the symbolism of an age when the worship of the English people was richer in ceremonial than that of Continental nations was there. It impressed the minds of rude warriors who could neither read nor write with the sense of a mysterious world, other than their own—of dread realities and awful powers beyond the reach of mortal warfare. If it appealed rather to the imagination than the reason, yet it may be thought, it thereby reachedits mark the more surely. The Church was still the salt of the earth, which preserved the whole mass from utter corruption, and in a world of violence and wrong, pointed to a land of peace and joy beyond this transitory scene.
So felt Osric, and his eyes filled with tears as emotions he could hardly analyse stirred his inmost soul.
And Brian—well, he was as a man who views his natural face in a glass, and going away, forgets what manner of man he was.
After Mass the Empress Maude greeted her dear friend and faithful follower Brian Fitz-Count with no stinted welcome. She almost fell upon his shoulder, proud woman though she was, and wept, when assured she should soon see her son, Prince Henry, at Wallingford, for she was but a woman after all.
She insisted upon an interview with the Abbot, from which Brian would fain have dissuaded her, but she took the bit in her teeth.
After a while that dignitary came, and bowed gracefully, but not low.
"Dost thou know, lord Abbot, whom thou hast entertained?"
"Perchance an Angel unawares: all mortals are equal within the Church's gate."
"Thy true Queen, who will not forget thy hospitality."
"Nor would King Stephen, did he know that we had shown it, lady. I reverence thy lofty birth, and wish thee well for the sake of thy father, who was a great benefactor to this poor house: further I cannot say; we know nought of earthly politics here—our citizenship is above."
She did not appreciate his doctrines, but turned to Brian.
"Have we any gold to leave as a benefaction in return for this hospitality; it will purchase a Mass, which, doubtless, we need in these slippery times, when it is difficult always to walk straight."
Brian drew forth his purse.
"Lady, it needs not," said the Abbot; "thou art welcome, so are all the unfortunate, rich or poor, who suffer in these cruel wars, to which may God soon give an end."
"Lay the blame, lord Abbot, on the usurper then, and pray for his overthrow; but for him I should have ruled as my father did, with justice and equity. If thou wishest for peace, pray for our speedy restoration to our rightful throne. Farewell."
So the Empress and her train departed, and crossing the river at Culham, made for the distant hills of Synodune, across a country where the snow had obliterated nearly all the roads, and even covered the hedges and fences. So that they were forced to travel very slowly, and at times came to a "standstill."
However, they surmounted all difficulties; and travelling along the crest of the hills, where the wind had prevented the accumulation of much snow, they reached Wallingford in safety, amidst the loudest of loud rejoicings, where they were welcomed by Maude d'Oyley, Lady of Wallingford—the sister of the Lord of Oxford and wife of Brian.
How shall we relate the festivities of that night? it seems like telling an old tale: how the tables groaned with the weight of the feast, as in the old ballad of Imogene; how the minstrels and singers followed after, and none recked of the multitude of captives who already crowded the dismal dungeons beneath. Some prisoners taken in fair fight, some with less justice prisoners held to ransom, their sole crime being wealth; others from default of tribute paid to Brian, be it from ill-will or only from want of means.
But of these poor creatures the gay feasters above thought not. The contrast between the awful vaults and cells below, and the gay and lighted chambers above, was cruel, but they above recked as little as the giddy children who play in a churchyard think of the dead beneath their feet.
"My lady," said Brian, "we shall keep our Christmas yet more merrily, for on the Eve we hope to welcome thy right trusty brother of Gloucester and thy gallant son."
The mother's eyes sparkled.
"My good and trusty subject," she said, "how thou dost place me under obligations beyond my power to repay?"
"Nay, my queen, all I have is thine, for thy own and thy royal father's sake, who was to me a father indeed."
The festivities were not prolonged to a very late hour; nature must have its way, and the previous night had been a most trying one, as our readers are well aware. That night was a night of deep repose.
On the following day came the news that Oxford Castle had surrendered, and that Robert d'Oyley, lord thereof, was prisoner to Stephen; it was at first supposed that the king would follow his rival to Wallingford, but he preferred keeping his Christmas in the castle he had taken. Wallingford was a hard nut to crack.
It was Christmas Eve, and the Empress stood by the side of the lord of the castle, on the watch-towers; the two squires, Alain and Osric, waited reverently behind.
The scenery around has already been described in our opening chapter. The veil of winter was over it, but the sun shone brightly, and its beams glittered on the ice of the river and the snow-clad country beyond: one only change there was—the forts on the Crowmarsh side of the stream, erected in a close of the parish of Crowmarsh—then and now called Barbican; they were so strong as to be deemed impregnable, and were now held against Brian by the redoubtable Ranulph, Earl of Chester. The garrisons of the two fortresses, so near each other, preyed in turn on the country around, and fought wherever they met—to keep their hands in; but they were now keeping "The Truce of God," in honour of Christmas.
"It is a lovely day. May it be the harbinger of betterfortune," said Maude. "When do you think they will arrive?"
"They slept at Reading Abbey last night, so there is little doubt they will be here very soon."
"If they started early they might be in sight now: ah, God and St. Mary be praised! there they be. Is not that their troop along the road?"
A band, with streamlets gay and pennons fair, was indeed approaching the gates of the town from the south, by the road which led from Reading, along the southern bank of the Thames.
"To horse! to horse!" said the Empress; "let us fly to meet them."
"Nay, my liege, they will be here anon—almost before our horses could be caparisoned to appear in fit state before the citizens of my town." The fact was, Brian had a soldier's dislike of a scene, and would fain get the meeting over within the walls.
And the royal mother contented herself with standing on the steps of the great hall to receive her gallant son, Henry Plantagenet, the future King of England, destined to restore peace to the troubled land, but whose sun was to set in such dark clouds, owing to his quarrel with the Church, and the cruel misbehaviour of his faithless wife and rebellious sons.
But we must not anticipate. The gallant boy was at hand, and his mother clasped him to the maternal breast: "so greatly comforted," said the chronicler, "that she forgot all the troubles and mortifications she had endured, for the joy she had of his presence." Then she turned to her right trusty brother, and wept on his neck.
The following day was the birthday of the "Prince of Peace," and these children of war kept it in right honour. They attended Mass at the Church of St. Mary's in the town in great state, and afterwards banqueted in the Castle hall with multitudes of guests. Meanwhile Ranulph, Earl of Chester, had returned home to keep the feast; but hisrepresentatives kept it right well, and the two parties actually sent presents to each other, and wished mutual good cheer.
The feast was over, and the maskers dropped their masks, and turned to the business of life in right earnest—that was war, only war. The Empress Maude, with her son, under the care of her brother, shortly left Wallingford for Bristol, where the young prince remained for four years, under the care of his uncle, who had brought him up.
But all around the flames of war broke out anew, and universal bloodshed returned. It was a mere gory chaos: no great battles, no decisive blows; only castle against castle, all through the land, as at Wallingford and Crowmarsh. Each baron delved the soil for his dungeons, and raised his stern towers to heaven. All was pillage and plunder; men fought wherever they met; every man's hand was against every man; peaceful villages were burnt daily; lone huts, isolated farms, were no safer; merchants scarcely dared to travel, shops to expose their wares; men refused to till the fields for others to reap; and they said that God and His Saints were fast asleep. The land was filled with death; corpses rotted by the sides of the roads; women and children took sanctuary in the churches and churchyards, to which they removed their valuables. But the bands of brigands and murderers, who, like vultures, scented the quarry afar, and crowded from all parts of the Continent into England—unhappy England—as to a prey delivered over into their hands, did not always respect sanctuary. Famine followed; men had nought to eat; it was even said that they ate the bodies of the dead like cannibals. Let us hope this ghastly detail is untrue, but we do not feelsureit is; the pangs of hunger are so dreadful to bear.
Then came pestilence in the train of famine, and claimed its share of victims. And so the weary years went on—twelve long years of misery and woe.
Summer had come—hot and dry. There had been no rain for a month. It was the beginning of July, in the year 1142. Fighting was going on in England in general; at Wilton, near Salisbury, in particular. The king was there: he had turned the nunnery of that place into a castle, driving out the holy sisters, and all the flock of the wounded and poor to whom, with earnest piety, they were ministering. The king put up bulwark and battlement, and thought he had done well, when on the 1st of July came Robert of Gloucester from Bristol, and sat down before the place to destroy it.
The king and his brother—the Papal legate, the fighting Bishop of Winchester, the turncoat—were both there, and after a desperate defence, were forced to escape by a secret passage, and fly by night. Their faithful seneschal, William Martel, Lord of Shirburne, and a great enemy and local rival of Brian, remained behind to protract the defence, and engage the attention of the besiegers until his king had had time to get far enough away with his affectionate brother Henry; and his self-devotion was not in vain, but he paid for it by the loss of his own liberty. He was taken prisoner after a valiant struggle, and sent to Wallingford, to be under the custody of Brian Fitz-Count, his enemy and rival.
In sketching the life of a mediæval castle, we have dwelt too much upon the brighter side of the picture. There was a darker one, contrasting with the outward pomp and circumstance as the dungeons with the gay halls above.
What then was the interior of those dark towers, which we contemplate only in their ruined state? Too often, the surrounding peasants looked at them with affright: the story of Blue-Beard is not a mere tale, it is rather a veritable tradition: what was the lord to his vassals, whom his own wife regarded with such great fear? We know one of the brood by the civil process issued against him—Gilles de Retz—the torturer of children. It has been said that the "Front de Boeuf" of Sir Walter Scott is but a poor creature, a feeble specimen of what mediæval barons could be. A more terrible portrait has been given in recent days by Erckmann-Chatrian, in their story,The Forest House.
And such, we regret to say, by degrees did Brian Fitz-Count become. Few men can stand the test of absolute power, and the power of a mediæval lord was almost absolute in his own domain.
And the outbreak of civil war, by loosening the bonds of society, gave him the power of doing this, so that it was soon said that Wallingford Castle was little better than a den of brigands.
The very construction of these old castles, so far as one can see them, tells us far more than books can:men-at-arms, pages, valets, all were shut in for the night, sleeping in common in those vaulted apartments. The day summoned them to the watch-towers and battlements, where they resembled the eagle or hawk, soaring aloft in hope of seeing their natural prey.
Nor was it often long before some convoy of merchandise passing along the high road, some well appointed travellers or the like, tempted them forth on their swift horses, lance in hand, to cry like the modern robber, "Your money or your life," or in sober truth, to drag their prisoners to their dungeons, and hold them to ransom, in default of which they amused themselves by torturing them.
Such inmates of the castles were only happy when they got out upon their adventures—and as in the old fable of "The Frogs and the Boys,"—what was sport to them was death to their neighbours.
It was eventide, the work of the day was over, and Brian was taking counsel with Malebouche, who had risen by degrees to high command amongst the troopers, although unknighted. Osric was present, and sat in an embrasure of the window.
"A good day's work, Malebouche," said Brian; "that convoy of merchandise going from Reading to Abingdon was a good prize—our halls will be the better for their gauds, new hangings of tapestry, silks, and the like; but as we are deficient in women to admire them, I would sooner have had their value in gold."
"There is this bag of rose nobles, which we took from the body of the chief merchant."
"Well, it will serve as an example to others, who travel by by-roads to avoid paying me tribute, and rob me of my dues. Merchants from Reading have tried to get to Abingdon by that road over Cholsey Hill before."
"They will hardly try again if they hear of this."
"At least these will not—you have been too prompt with them; did any escape?"
"I think not; my fellows lanced them as they fled, which was the fate of all, as we were well mounted, save a lad who stumbled and fell, and they hung him in sport for the sake of variety. They laughed till the tears stood in their eyes at his quaint grimaces."[21]
Brian did not seem to heed this pleasant story. Osric moved uneasily in his seat, but strove to repress feelings which, after all, were less troublesome than of yore; all at once he spied a sight which drove merchants and all from his mind.
"My lord, here is Alain."
"Where?"
"Just dismounting in the courtyard."
"Call to him to come up at once; he will have news from Wilton."
Osric leant out of the narrow window, which in summer was always open.
"Alain! Alain!" he cried, "come up hither, my lord is impatient for your tidings."
Alain waved back a friendly greeting and hurried up the stairs.
"Joy, my Lord, joy; thine enemy is in thy hands."
"Which one, my squire? I have too many enemies to remember all."
"William Martel, Lord of Shirburne."
"Ah, now we shall get Shirburne!" cried Osric.
"Silence, boys!" roared Brian; "now tell me all: where he was taken, and what has become of him."
"He was taken by Earl Robert at Wilton, and will be here in an hour; you may see him from the battlements now. The good Earl has sent him to you to keep in durance, and sent me to command the escort: I only left them on the downs—they are descending the hills even now; I galloped forward to 'bring the good news.'"
"By our Lady, I am indeed happy. Alain, here is a purse of rose nobles for thee; poor as I am, thy news are all too good. Send the gaolers to me; have a good dark dungeon prepared; we must humble his spirits."
"We are getting too full below, my lord."
"Orders are given for another set to be dug out at once, the architect only left me to-day; it is to be called Cloere Brien—or Brian's Close, and the first guest shall be William Martel; there shall he rot till he deliver up Shirburne and all its lands to me in perpetuity. The Castle of Shirburne is one of the keys of the Chilterns."
"Now, my lord, they are in sight—look!"
And from the windows they saw a troop of horse approaching Wallingford, over Cholsey Common.
"Let us don our robes of state to meet them," said Brian; and he threw on a mantle over his undress; then he descended, followed by his two pages, and paced the battlements, till the trumpets were blown which announced the arrival of the cortege.
Brian showed no womanly curiosity to feast his eyes with the sight of a captive he was known to hate, but repaired to the steps of the great hall, and stood there, Alain on one side, Osric on the other; and soon the leading folk in the castle collected about them.
The troop of horse trotted over the three drawbridges, and drew rein in front of the Baron; then wheeling to right and left, disclosed their prisoner.
"I salute thee, William Martel, Lord of Shirburne; my poor castle is too much honoured by thy presence."
"Faith, thou mayst well say so," said the equally proud and fierce captive. "I take it thou hast had few prisoners before higher in rank than the wretched Jews you torture for their gold; but I trust you know how to treat a noble."
"That indeed we do, especially one like thyself; not that we are overawed by thy grandeur; the castle which has entertained thy rightful sovereign may be quite good enough for thee. Companions thou shalt have, if but thetoad and adder; light enough to make darkness visible, until such time as thy ransom be paid, or thou submit to thy true Queen."
"To Henry's unworthy child—never. Name thy ransom."
"The Castle of Shirburne and all things pertaining thereto."
"Never shall it be thine."
"Then here shalt thou rot. Tustain, prepare a chamber—one of the dungeons in the north tower, until a more suitable one be builded. And meanwhile it may please thee to learn that we purpose a ride to look at your Shirburne folk, and see the lands which shall be ours; this very night we may light a bonfire or two to amuse them."
And they led the captive away.
Now lest this should be thought a gross exaggeration, it may as well be said that the ungovernable savagery of this contest, the violent animosities engendered, did lead the nobility so called, the very chief of the land, to forget their chivalry, and treat their foes, not after the fashion of the Black Prince and his captive, the King of France, but in the brutal fashion we have described.
And probably Brian would have fared just as badly at William Martel's hands, had their positions been reversed.
"Trumpeter, blow the signal to horse; let the Brabanters prepare to ride, and the Black Troopers of Ardennes—the last comers. We will ride to-night, Alain. Art thou too wearied to go with us?"
"Nay, my lord, ready and willing."
"And Osric—it will refresh thee; we start in half an hour—give the horses corn."
In half an hour they all rode over a new bridge of boats lower down the stream, and close under the ordnance of the castle,[22]for the forts at Crowmarsh commanded the lower Bridge of Stone. They were full three hundred in number—very miscellaneous in composition. There was a new troop of a hundred Brabanters; another of so-called FreeCompanions, numbering nearly the same. Scarce a hundred were Englishmen, in any sense of the word, neither Anglo-Norman nor Anglo-Saxon—foreigners with no more disposition to pity the unfortunate natives than the buccaneers of later date had to pity the Spaniards, or even the shark to pity the shrinking flesh he snaps at.
Just before reaching Bensington, which paid tribute to both sides, and was exempt from fire and sword from either Wallingford or Crowmarsh, a troop from the latter place came in sight.
Trumpets were blown on both sides, stragglers recalled into line, and the two bodies of horsemen charged each other with all the glee of two bodies of football players in modern times, and with little more thought or care.
But the Wallingford men were strongest, and after a brief struggle the Crowmarsh troopers were forced to fly. They were not pursued: Brian had other business in hand; it was a mere friendly charge.
Only struggling on the ground were some fifty men and horses, wounded or dying, and not a few dead.
Brian looked after Osric with anxiety.
The youth's bright face was flushed with delight and animation. He was returning a reddened sword to the scabbard; he had brought down his man, cleaving him to the chine, himself unhurt.
Brian smiled grimly.
"Now for Alain," he said; "ah, there he is pursuing these Crowmarsh fellows. We have no time to waste—sound the recall, now onward, for the Chilterns."
Alain rejoined them.
"Thou art wasting time."
"My foe fled; Osric has beaten me to-day."
"Plenty of opportunity for redressing the wrong—now onward."
They passed through Bensington. The gates—for every large village had its walls and gates as a matter of necessity—opened and shut for them in grim silence; they did noharm there. They passed by the wood afterwards called "Rumbold's Copse," and then got into the territory of Shirburne, for so far as Britwell did William Martel exact tribute, and offer such protection as he was able.
From this period all was havoc and destruction—all one grim scene of fire and carnage. They fired every rick, every barn, every house; they slew everything they met.
And Osric was as bad as the rest—we do not wonder at Alain.
Then they reached Watlington, "the wattled town," situated in a hollow of the hills. Its gates were secured, and it was surrounded by a ditch, a mound, and the old British defence of wattles, or stakes pointed outwards.
Here they paused.
"It is too strong to be taken by assault," said the Baron. "Osric, go to the gate with just half a dozen, who have English tongues in their heads, and ask for shelter and hospitality."
Osric, to his credit, hesitated.
Brian reddened—he could not bear the lad he loved to take a more moral tone than himself.
"Must I send Alain?"
Osric went, and feigning to be belated, asked admittance, but he did not act it well.
"Who are you? whence do ye come? what mean the fires we see?"
"Alain, go and help him; he cannot tell a fair lie," said Brian.
Alain arriving, made answer, "The men of Wallingford are out—we are flying from Britwell for our lives—haste or they will overtake us—we are only a score."
The poor fools opened, and were knocked on the head at once for their pains.
The whole band now galloped up and rushed in.
"Fire every house. After you have plundered them all, if you find mayor and burgesses, take them for ransom; slay the rest."
The scene which followed was shocking; but in this wretched reign it might be witnessed again and again all over England. But many things shocked Osric afterwards when he had time to think.
Enough of this. We have only told what we have told because it is essential to the plot of our story, that the scenes should be understood which caused so powerful a reaction in Osric—afterwards.
Laden with spoil, with shout and song, the marauders returned from their raid. Along the road which leads from Watlington to the south, with the range of the Chilterns looking down from the east, and the high land which runs from Rumbold's Copse to Brightwell Salome on the west, they drove their cattle and carried their plunder; whilst they recounted their murderous exploits, and made night hideous with the defiant bray of trumpets and their discordant songs.
And so in the fire and excitement of the moment the sufferings of the poor natives were easily forgotten, or served to the more violent and cruel as zest to their enjoyment.
Was it so with our Osric? Could the grandson of Sexwulf, the heir of a line of true Englishmen, so forget the lessons of his boyhood? Alas, my reader, such possibilities lurk in our fallen nature!
"Ah, when shall come the timeWhen war shall be no more?When lust, oppression, crime,Shall flee Thy Face before?"
"Ah, when shall come the timeWhen war shall be no more?When lust, oppression, crime,Shall flee Thy Face before?"
"Ah, when shall come the timeWhen war shall be no more?When lust, oppression, crime,Shall flee Thy Face before?"
"Ah, when shall come the time
When war shall be no more?
When lust, oppression, crime,
Shall flee Thy Face before?"
We must wait until the advent of the Prince of Peace.
They got back to Wallingford at last. The gates were opened, there was a scene of howling excitement, and then they feasted and drank until the small hours of the night; after which they went to bed, three or four in one small chamber, and upon couches of the hardest—in recesses of the wall, or sometimes placed, like the berths of a ship, one over the other—the robbers slept.
For in what respect were they better than modern highwaymen or pirates?
Osric and Alain lay in the same chamber.
"How hast thou enjoyed the day, Osric?"
"Capitally, but I am worn out."
"You will not sleep so soundly even now as the fellow you brought down so deftly in that first skirmish. You have got your hand in at last."
Osric smiled with gratified vanity—he was young and craved such glory.
"Good-night, Alain." He could hardly articulate the words from fatigue, and Alain had had even a harder day.
They slept almost as soundly as the dead they had left behind them; no spectres haunted them and disturbed their repose; conscience was hardened, scarred as with a hot iron, but her time was yet to come for Osric.
FOOTNOTES:[21]Rien de plus gai que nos vieux contes—ils n'ont que trois plaisanteries—le desespoir du mari, les cris du battu, la grimace du pendu: au troisieme la gaiete est au comble, on se tient les cotés.—Michelet.[22]i.e.Mangonels, arbalasts, and the like.
[21]Rien de plus gai que nos vieux contes—ils n'ont que trois plaisanteries—le desespoir du mari, les cris du battu, la grimace du pendu: au troisieme la gaiete est au comble, on se tient les cotés.—Michelet.
[21]Rien de plus gai que nos vieux contes—ils n'ont que trois plaisanteries—le desespoir du mari, les cris du battu, la grimace du pendu: au troisieme la gaiete est au comble, on se tient les cotés.—Michelet.
[22]i.e.Mangonels, arbalasts, and the like.
[22]i.e.Mangonels, arbalasts, and the like.
From the abode of strife and turmoil to the home of peace, from the house of the world to the house of religion, from the Castle of Wallingford to the Abbey of Dorchester, do we gladly conduct our readers, satiated, we doubt not, with scenes of warfare.
What wonder, when the world was given up to such scenes, that men and women, conscious of higher aspirations, should fly to the seclusion of the monastic life, afar from
"Unloving souls with deeds of ill,And words of angry strife."
"Unloving souls with deeds of ill,And words of angry strife."
"Unloving souls with deeds of ill,And words of angry strife."
"Unloving souls with deeds of ill,
And words of angry strife."
And what a blessing for that particular age that there were such refuges, thickly scattered throughout the land—veritable cities of refuge. It was not the primary idea of these orders that they should be benevolent institutions, justifying their existence by the service rendered to the commonwealth. The primary idea was the service of God, and the salvation of the particular souls, who fled from a world lying in wickedness and the shadow of death, to take sweet counsel together, and walk in the House of God as friends.
Later on came anoblerconception of man's duty to man; and thence sprang the active orders, such as the Friars or Sisters of Mercy, as distinguished from the cloistered or contemplative orders.
Of course, in the buildings of such a society, the Church was the principal object—as the ruins of Tintern orGlastonbury show, overshadowing all the other buildings, dwarfing them into insignificance. Upon this object all the resources of mediæval art were expended. The lofty columns, the mysterious lights and shadows of a Gothic fane, the sculptures, the statues, the shrines, the rich vestments, the painted glass—far beyond aught we can produce, the solemn music,—all this they lavished on the Church as the house of prayer—