"It is the house of prayer,Wherein Thy servants meet;And Thou, O God, art there,Thy hallowed flock to greet."
"It is the house of prayer,Wherein Thy servants meet;And Thou, O God, art there,Thy hallowed flock to greet."
"It is the house of prayer,Wherein Thy servants meet;And Thou, O God, art there,Thy hallowed flock to greet."
"It is the house of prayer,
Wherein Thy servants meet;
And Thou, O God, art there,
Thy hallowed flock to greet."
Here they met seven times daily, to recite their offices, as also at the midnight office, when only the professed brethren were present. In these active times men may consider so much time spent in church a great waste of time, but we cannot judge other generations by our own ideas. A very sharp line was then drawn between the Church and the world, and they who chose the former possessed a far greater love for Divine worship than we see around us now, coupled with a most steadfast belief in its efficacy. "Blessed are They who dwell in Thy house; they will be alway praising Thee," was the language of their hearts.
Here men who had become the subjects of intense grief—from whom death, perhaps, had removed their earthly solace—the partners of their sorrow or joy—found refuge when the sun of this world was set. Here, also, studious men, afar from the clamour and din of arms, preserved for us the wisdom of the ancients. Here the arts and sciences lived on, when nought save war filled the minds of men outside. Well has it been said, that for the learning of the nineteenth century to revile the monastic system is for the oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.
But most of all, when the shadow of a great horror of himself and his past fell upon a man, how blessed to have such an institution as a mediæval monastery wherein tohide the stricken head, and to learn submission to the Divine Will.
Such a home had Wulfnoth found at Dorchester Abbey.
The year of his novitiate had passed, and he had won the favour of his monastic superiors. We do not say he had always been as humble as a novice should, or that he never, like Lot's wife, looked back again to Sodom, but the good had triumphed, and the day came for his election as a brother.
Every day after the Chapter Mass which followed Terce, the daily "Chapter" was held, wherein all matters of discipline were settled, correction, if needed, administered, novices or brethren admitted by common consent, and all other weighty business transacted. Here they met four centuries later, when they affixed their reluctant seal to their own dissolution, to avoid worse consequences.
It was here that, after the ordinary business was over, the novice Alphege, the once sanguinary Wulfnoth, rose with a calm and composed exterior, but with a beating heart, to crave admission into the order by taking the life vows.
The Abbot signed to him to speak.
"I, Wulfnoth the novice, crave admission to the full privileges and prayers of the order, by taking the vows for life, as a brother professed."
There was silence for a space.
Then the Abbot spoke—
"Hast thou duly considered the solemn step? Canst thou leave the world behind thee—its friendships and its enmities? and hast thou considered what hard and stern things we endure?"
"I have, Father Abbot."
"And the yet harder and sterner discipline which awaits the transgressor?"
"None of these things move me: I am prepared to bear yet harsher and sterner things, if so be I may save my soul."
"The Lord Jesus Christ so perform in you what for His love's sake you promise, that you may have His grace and life eternal."
"Amen," said all present.
The rule of the order was then read aloud.
"Here," said the Abbot, "is the law under which thou desirest to serve: if thou canst observe it, enter; but if thou canst not, freely depart."
"I will observe it, God being my helper."
"Doth any brother know any just cause or impediment why Alphege the novice should not be admitted to our brotherhood?"
None was alleged.
"Do you all admit him to a share in your sacrifices and prayers?"
The hands were solemnly raised.
"It is enough: prepare with prayer and fasting for the holy rite," said the Abbot.
For there was of course a solemn form of admission into the order yet to be gone through in the Church, which we have not space to detail.
It was not necessary that a monk should take Holy Orders, yet it was commonly done; and dismissing the subject in a few words, we will simply say that Wulfnoth took deacon's orders after he had taken the life vows, and later on was ordained priest by Bishop Alexander of Lincoln, aforesaid.
His lot in life was now fixed: no longer was he in any danger from the Lord of Wallingford; nor could he execute vengeance with sword and woe for the household stricken so sorely by that baron's hands at Compton on the downs. It was over—he left it all to Him Who once said, "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay." Nor mindful of his own sins, did he pray for such vengeance. Heleft it, and strove to pray for Brian.
One bright day at the close of July the Abbot called him to ride with him, for the order was not strictly a cloisteredone, nor could it indeed be; they had their landed estates, their tenantry, their farms to look after. The offices were numerous, of necessity, and it was the policy of the order to give each monk, if possible, some special duty or office. Almost all they ate or drank was produced at home. The corn grew on their own land; they had their own mill; the brethren brewed, baked, or superintended lay brothers who did so. Other brethren were tailors, shoemakers for the community; others gardeners; others, as we have seen, scribes and illuminators; others kept the accounts—no small task.[23]In short, none led the idle life commonly assigned in popular estimation.
They rode forth then, the Abbot Alured and Alphege, the new brother. First into the town without the gates, far larger then than now, it was partly surrounded by walls, partly protected by the Rivers Isis and Tame; but within the space was a crowd of inhabitants dwelling in houses, or rather huts; dwelling even in tents, like modern gypsies, crowding the space within the walls, with good reason, for no man's life was safe in the country, and here was sanctuary! Even Brian Fitz-Count would respect Dorchester Abbey: even if some marauding baron assailed the town, there was still the abbey church, or even the precincts for temporary shelter.
But food was scarce, and here lay the difficulty. The abbey revenues were insufficient, for many of the farms had been burnt in the nightly raids, and rents were ill-paid. Everything was scarce: many a hapless mother, many a new-born babe, died from sheer want of the things necessary to save; the strong lived through it, the weak sank under it: there may have been those who found comfort, and said it was "the survival of the fittest."
Day by day was the dole given forth at the abbey gates; day by day the hospitium was very crowded. The hospitaller was at his wits' end. And the old infirmarer happening to die just then, folk said, "It was the worry."
"Who is sufficient for these things?" said Abbot Alured to his companion, as they rode through the throng and emerged upon the road leading to the hamlet of Brudecott (Burcot) and Cliffton (Clifton Hampden).
Their dress was a white cassock under a black cloak, with a hood covering the head and neck and reaching to the shoulders, having under it breeches, vest, white stockings and shoes; a black cornered cap, not unlike the college cap of modern days, completed the attire.
"Tell me, brother," said the Abbot, "what is thy especial vocation? what office wouldst thou most desire to hold amongst us?"
"I am little capable of discharging any weighty burden: thou knowest I have been a man of war."
"And he who once gave wounds should now learn to heal them. Our brother the infirmarer has lately departed this life, full of good works—would not that be the office for thee?"
"I think I could discharge it better than I could most others."
"It is well, then it shall be thine; it will be onerous just now. Ah me, when will these wars be over?"
"Methinks there was a great fire amongst the Chilterns last night—a thick cloud of smoke lingers there yet."
"It is surely Watlington—yes it is Watlington; they have burned it. What can have chanced? it is under the protection of Shirburne."
"I marvel we have had none of the people here, to seek hospitality and aid."
They arrived now at Brudecott, a hamlet on the Thames. One Nicholas de Brudecott had held a mansion here, one knight's fee of the Bishop of Lincoln; but the house had been burnt by midnight marauders. The place was desolate: on the fields untilled a few poor people lived in huts, protected by their poverty.
They rode on to Cliffton, where the Abbot held three "virgates" of land, with all the farm buildings and utensilsfor their cultivation; the latter had escaped devastation, perhaps from the fact it was church property, although even that was not always respected in those days.
Upon the rock over the river stood the rustic church. Wulfnoth had often served it as deacon, attending the priestly monk who said Mass each Sunday there, for Dorchester took the tithes and did the duty.
Here they crossed the river by a shallow ford where the bridge now stands, and rode through Witeham (Wittenham), where the Abbot had business connected with the monastery. The same desertion of the place impressed itself upon their minds. Scarcely a living being was seen; only a few old people, unable to bring themselves to forsake their homes, lingered about half-ruined cottages. The parish priest yet lived in the tower of the church, unwilling to forsake his flock, although half the village was in ruins, and nearly all the able-bodied had taken refuge in the towns.
They were on the point of crossing the ford beneath Synodune Hill, situated near the junction of Tame and Isis, when the Abbot suddenly conceived the desire of ascending the hills and viewing the scene of last night's conflagration from thence. They did so, and from the summit of the eastern hill, within the entrenchment which still exists, and has existed there from early British times, marked the cloud of black smoke which arose from the ruins of Watlington.
"What can have happened to the town—it is well defended with palisades and trench?"
Just then a powerful horseman, evidently a knight at the least, attended by two squires, rode over the entrance of the vallum, and ascended to the summit of the hill. He saluted the Abbot with a cold salute, and then entered into conversation with his squires.
"It is burning even yet, Osric; dost thou mark the black smoke?"
"Thatch smoulders a long time, my lord," replied the squire addressed.
The Abbot Alured happened to look round at Wulfnoth; he was quivering with some suppressed emotion like an aspen leaf, and his hand involuntarily sought the place where the hilt of his sword should have been had he possessed one.
"What ails thee, brother?" he said.
"It is the destroyer of my home and family, Brian Fitz-Count," and Wulfnoth drew the cowl over his head.
The Abbot rode down the hill; he felt as if he were on the edge of a volcano, and putting his hand on his companion's rein, forced him to accompany him.
It was strange that Wulfnoth did not also recognise his ownson.
FOOTNOTE:[23]Many monastic rolls of accounts remain, and their minuteness is even startling.
[23]Many monastic rolls of accounts remain, and their minuteness is even startling.
[23]Many monastic rolls of accounts remain, and their minuteness is even startling.
The morning watch looked forth from the summit of the lofty keep, which rose above Wallingford Castle, to spy the dawning day. From that elevation of two hundred feet he saw the light of the summer dawn break forth over the Chiltern Hills in long streaks of azure, and amber light flecked with purple and scarlet. The stream below caught the rays, and assumed the congenial hue of blood; the sleepy town began to awake beyond the castle precincts; light wreaths of smoke to ascend from roof after roof—we can hardly say of those days chimney after chimney; the men of the castle began to move, for there was no idleness under Brian's rule; boats arrived by the stream bearing stores from the dependent villages above and below, or even down from Oxford and up from Reading, for the river was a great highway in those days.
Ah, how like the distant view was to that we now behold from the lessened height of the ruined keep! The everlasting hills were the same; the river flowed in the same channel: and yet how unlike, for the cultivated fields of the present day were mainly wood and marsh; dense forests of bush clothed the Chilterns; Cholsey Common, naked and bare, stretched on to the base of the downs; but on the west were the vast forests which had filled the vale of White Horse in earlier times, and now were but slightly broken into clearings, and diversified with hamlets.
But still more unlike, the men who began to wake into life!
The gaolers were busy with the light breakfasts of their prisoners, or attending to their cells, which they were forced sometimes to clean out, to prevent a pestilence; the soldiers were busy attending to their horses, and scouring their arms; the cooks were busy providing for so many mouths; the butler was busy with his wines; the armourers and blacksmiths with mail and weapons; the treasurer was busy with his accounts, counting the value of last night's raid and assigning his share of prize-money to each raider, for all had their share, each according to rank, and so "moss-trooping" was highly popular.
Even the Chaplain, as he returned from his hastily said Mass, which few attended—only, indeed, the Lady of the Castle, Maude d'Oyley, and her handmaidens—received his "bonus" as a bribe to Heaven, and pocketed it without reflecting that it was the price of blood. He was the laziest individual in the castle. Few there confessed their sins, and fewer still troubled him in any other spiritual capacity. Still Brian kept him for the sake of "being in form," as moderns say, and had purposely sought out an accommodating conscience.
In the terrace, which looked over the glacis towards the Thames, of which the remains with one windowin situmay still be seen, was the bower of Maude d'Oyley, wife of Brian Fitz-Count and sister of the Lord of Oxford Castle, as we have before observed. It was called otherwise "the solar chamber;" perhaps because it was best fitted with windows for the admission of the sunlight, the openings in the walls being generally rather loopholes than windows.
The passion for great reception-rooms was as strong in mediæval days as in our own, and the family apartments suffered for it,—being generally small and low,—while the banqueting-hall was lofty and spacious, and the Gothic windows, which looked into the inner quadrangle, were of ample proportions. But the "ladye's bower" on the second floor consisted of, first an ante-chamber, where a handmaiden always waited within hearing of the littlesilver hand-bell; then a bower or boudoir; then the bedroom proper. All these rooms were hung with rich tapestry, worked by the lady and her handmaidens. For in those days, when books were scarce, and few could read, the work of the needle and the loom was the sole alleviation of many a solitary hour.
The windows looked over the river, and were of horn, not very transparent, only translucent; the outer world could but be dimly discerned in daylight.
There was a hearth at one end of the bower, and "dog-irons" upon it for the reception of the logs, of which fires were chiefly composed, for there was as yet no coal in use.
There were two "curule" chairs, that is, chairs in the form of St. Andrew's Cross, with cushions between the upper limbs, and no backs; there were one or two very small round tables for the reception of trifles, and "leaf-tables" between the windows. No one ever sat on these "curule" chairs save those of exalted rank: three-legged stools were good enough for ladies in waiting, and the like.
The hangings, which concealed the bare walls, were very beautiful. On one set was represented Lazarus and Dives; Father Abraham appeared very much in the style of a mediæval noble, and on his knee, many sizes smaller, sat Lazarus. In uncomfortable proximity to their seats was a great yawning chasm, and smoke looking very substantial, as represented in wool-work, arose thence, while some batlike creatures, supposed to be fiends, sported here and there. On the other side lay Dives in the midst of rosy flames of crimson wool, and his tongue, which was stretched out for the drop of water, was of such a size, that one wondered how it ever could have found space in the mouth. But for all this, the lesson taught by the picture was not a bad one for the chambers of barons, if they would but heed it; it is to be feared it was little heeded just then in Wallingford Castle.
There was no carpet on the floor, only rushes, from themarshes. The Countess sat on her "curule" chair in front of the blazing fire. Three maidens upon three-legged stools around her were engaged on embroidery. They were all of high rank, entrusted to her guardianship, for she liked to surround herself with blooming youth.Shewas old,—her face was wrinkled, her eyes were dull,—but she had a sweet smile, and was quite an engaging old lady, although, of course, with the reserve which became, or was supposed to become, her high rank.
A timid knock at the door, and another maiden entered.
"Jeannette, thou art late this evening."
"I was detained in Dame Ursula's room; she needed my help, lady."
"Wherefore?"
"To attend to the wounded of last night's raid."
"Ah, yes, we have heard but few particulars, and would fain learn more. Send and see whether either of the young squires Osric or Alain can come and give us the details."
And shortly Osric entered, dressed in his handsomest tunic—the garb of peace, and properly washed and combed for the presence of ladies.
He bowed reverently to the great dame, of whom he stood in more awe than of her stern husband: he was of that awkward age when lads are always shy before ladies.
But her kind manner cheered him.
"So thou didst ride last night, Osric?"
"I did, my lady."
"Come, tell us all about it."
"We started, as thou knowest, soon after the arrival of the prisoner William Martel, to harry his lands."
"We all saw you start; and I hear the Crowmarsh people saw you too."
"And assailed us at Bensington."
"And now tell me, my Osric, didst thou not slay one of Lord Ranulph's people?"
"I did, by my good fortune, and his ill-luck."
"And so thou shouldst receive the meed of valour from the fair. Come, what sayest thou, ladies?"
"He should indeed; he is marvellous young to be so brave."
"We are short of means to reward our brave knights and squires, but take this ring;" and she gave one containing a valuable gem; "and we only grieve it is not of more worth."
So Osric, encouraged, continued his tale; and those fair ladies—and fair they were—laughed merrily at his narration of the burning of Watlington, and would have him spare no details.
"Thou hast done well, my Osric. Come, thou wilt be a knight; thou dost not now pine for the forest?"
"Not now; I have grown to love adventures."
"And it is so exciting to ride by night, as thou didst last winter with the Empress Queen."
"But I love the summer nights, with their sweet freshness, best."
"Thou dost not remember thy boyhood with regret now, and wish it back again?"
"Not now." And Osric made his bow and departed.
"There is a mystery about that youth; he is not English, as my lord thinks; there is not an atom of it about him," said the Countess, and fell into a fit of musing.
From the halls of pleasure let us turn to the dungeons beneath; but first a digression.
Even mediæval barons were forced to keep their accounts, or to employ, more commonly, a "scrivener" or accountant for that purpose; and all this morning Brian was closeted with his man of business, looking over musty rolls and parchments, from which extract after extract was read, bearing little other impression on the mind of the poor perplexed Baron than that he was grievously behind in his finances. So he despatched the scrivener to negotiate afarther advance—loan he called it—from the mayor, while he summoned Osric, who was quick at figures, to his presence.
"There is scarcely enough money to pay the Brabanters, and they will mutiny if kept short: that raid last night was a god-send," said Brian to himself.
Osric arrived. The Baron felt lighter of heart when the youth he loved was with him. It was another case of Saul and David. And furthermore, the likeness was not a superficial one. Often did Osric touch the harp, and sing the lays of love and war to his patron, for so much had he learned of his grandsire.
They talked of the previous evening's adventures, and Brian was delighted to draw Osric out, and to hear him express sentiments so entirely at variance with his antecedents, as he did under the Baron's deft questions.
So they continued talking until the scrivener returned, and then the Baron asked impatiently—
"Well, man! and what does the mayor say?"
"That their resources are exhausted, and that you are very much in their debt already."
The reader need not marvel at this bold answer. Brian dared not use violence to his own burghers; it would have been killing the goose who laid the golden eggs. In our men of commerce began the first germs of English liberty. Men would sometimes yield to all other kinds of violence, but the freemen of the towns, even amidst the wild barons of Germany, held their own; and so did the burgesses of Wallingford: they had their charter signed and sealed by Brian, and ratified by Henry the First.
"The greedy caitiffs," he said; "well, we must go and see the dungeons. Osric, come with me."
Osric had seldom been permitted to do this before. He had only once or twice been "down below." Perhaps Brian had feared to shock him, and now thought him seasoned, as indeed he seemed to be the night before, and in his talk that day.
And here let me advise my gentler readers, who hate to read of violence and cruelty, to skip the rest of this chapter, which may be read by stronger-minded readers as essential to a complete picture of life at Wallingford Castle. What men once had to bear, we may bear to read.
They went first to the dungeon in the north tower, where William, Lord of Shirburne, was confined. Tustain the gaoler and two satellites attended, and opened the door of the cell. It was a cold, bare room: a box stuffed with leaves and straw, with a coverlet and pillow for a bed; a rough bench; a rude table—that was all.
The prisoner could not enjoy the scenery; his only light was from a grated window above, of too small dimensions to allow a man to pass through, even were the bars removed.
"How dost thou like my hospitality, William of Shirburne?"
"I suppose it is as good as I should have shown thee."
"Doubtless: we know each other. Now, what wilt thou pay for thy ransom?"
"A thousand marks."
Brian laughed grimly.
"Thou ratest thyself at the price of an old Jew."
"What dost thou ask?"
"Ten thousand marks, or the Castle of Shirburne and its domains."
"Never! thou villain—robber!"
"Thou wilt change thy mind: thou mayst despatch a messenger for the money, who shall have free conduct to come and go; and mark me, if thou dost not pay within a week, thou shalt be manacled and removed to the dungeons below, to herd with my defaulting debtors, and a week after to a lower depth still."
Then he turned as if to depart, but paused and said, "It is a pity this window is so high in the wall, otherwise thou mightst have seen a fine blaze last night about Shirburne and its domains."
He laughed exultantly.
"Do thy worst, thou son of perdition; my turn may yet come," replied Martel.
And the Baron departed, accompanied still by Osric.
"Osric," said he, "thou hast often asked to visit the lower dungeons: thou mayst have thy wish, and see how we house our guests there; and also in a different capacity renew thine acquaintance with the torture-chambers: thou shalt be the notary."
"My lord, thou dost recall cruel memories."
"Nay, it was for love of thee. I have no son, and my bowels yearned for one; it was gentle violence for thine own good. I know not how it was, but I could not even then have done more than frighten thee. Thou wilt see I can hurt others without wincing. Say, wouldst thou fear to see what torture is like? it may fall to thy duty to inflict it some day, and in these times one must get hardened either to inflict or endure."
"I may as well learn all I have to learn; but I love it not. I do not object to fighting; but in cold blood——"
"Well, here is the door which descends to the lower realms."
They descended through a yawning portal to the dungeons. The steps were of gray stone: they went down some twenty or thirty, and then entered a corridor—dark and gloomy—from which opened many doors on either side.
Dark, but not silent. Many a sigh, many a groan, came from behind those doors, but neither Brian nor his squire heeded them.
"Which shall I open first?" said Tustain.
"The cell of Nathan, the Abingdon Jew."
The door was a huge block of stone, turning upon a pivot. It disclosed a small recess, about six feet by four, paved with stone, upon which lay some foul and damp litter. A man was crouched upon this, with a long, matted beard, looking the picture of helpless misery.
"Well, Nathan, hast been my guest long enough? Will not change of air do thee good?"
"I have no more money to give thee."
"Then I must bid the tormentor visit thee again. Thy race is accursed, and I cannot offer a better burnt-offering to Heaven than a Jew."
"Mercy, Baron! I have borne so much already."
"Mercy is to be bought: the price is a thousand marks of gold."
"I have not a hundred."
"Osric," said Brian; and gave his squire instructions to fetch the tormentor.
"We will spare thee the grate yet awhile; but I have another plan in view. Coupe-gorge, canst thou draw teeth?"
"Yes," said the tormentor, grinning, who had come at Osric's bidding.
"Then bring me a tooth from the mouth of this Nathan every day until his ransom arrive. Nathan, thou mayst write home—a letter for each tooth." And with a merry laugh they passed on to the other dungeons.
There was one who shared his cell with toads and adders, introduced for his discomfort; another round whose neck and throat a hideous thing called asachentagewas fastened. It was thus made: it was fastened to a beam, and had a sharp iron to go round a man's neck and throat, so that he might nowise sit or lie or sleep, but he bore all the iron.
In short, the castle was full of prisoners, and they were subjected to daily tortures to make them disclose their supposed hidden treasures, or pay the desired ransom. Here were many hapless Jews, always the first objects of cruelty in the Middle Ages; here many usurers, paying interest more heavy than they had ever charged others; here also many of the noblest and purest mixed up with some of the vilest upon earth.
Well might the townspeople complain that they were startled in their sleep by the cries and shrieks which came from the grim towers.
And the Baron, followed by Osric, went from dungeon to dungeon; in some cases obtaining promises of ransom to be paid, in others hearing of treasures, real or imaginary, buried in certain places, which he bid Osric note, that search might be made.
"Woe to them who fool me," he said.
Then they came to a dungeon in which was a chest, sharp and narrow, in which one poor tormented wight lay in company with sharp flints; as the light of the torch they bore flashed upon him, his eyes, red and lurid, gleamed through the open iron framework of the lid which fastened him down.
"This man was the second in command of a band of English outlaws, who made much spoil at Norman expense. Now I slew his chief in fair combat on the downs, and this man succeeded him, and waged war for a long time, until I took him; and here he is. How now, Herwald, dost want to get out of thy chest?"
A deep groan was the only reply.
"Then disclose to me the hidden treasures of thy band."
"We have none."
"Persevere then in that lie, and die in thy misery."
Osric felt very sick. He had not the nerves of his chief, and now he felt as if he were helping the torture of his own countrymen; and, moreover, there was a yet deeper feeling. Recollections were brought to his mind in that loathsome dungeon which, although indistinct and confused, yet had some connection with his own early life. What had his father been? The grandfather had carefully hidden all those facts, known to the reader, from Osric, but old Judith had dropped obscure hints.
He longed to get out of this accursed depth into the light of day, yet felt ashamed of his own weakness. He heard the misery of these dens turned into a joke by Alain and others every day. He had brought prisoners into the castle himself—for the hideous receptacles—and been complimented on his prowess and success; yet humanitywas not quite extinguished in his breast, and he felt sick of the scenes.
But he had not done. They came to the torture-chamber, where recalcitrant prisoners, who would not own their wealth, were hanged up by the feet and smoked with foul smoke: some were hanged up by the thumbs, others by the head, and burning rings were put on their feet. The torturers put knotted strings about men's heads, and writhed them till they went into the brain. In short, the horrid paraphernalia of cruelty was entered into that day with the utmost zest, and all for gold, accursed gold—at least, that was the first object; but we fear at last the mere love of cruelty was half the incitement to such doings.
And all this time Brian sat as judge, and directed the torturers with eye or hand; and Osric had to take notes of the things the poor wretches said in their delirium.
At last it was over, and they ascended to the upper day.
"How dost thou like it, Osric?" said Alain, whom they met on the ramparts.
Osric shook his head.
"It is nothing when you are used to it; I used to feel squeamish at first."
"I never shall like it," whispered Osric.
The whisper was so earnest that Alain looked at him in surprise; Osric only answered by something like a sigh. The Baron heard him not.
"Thou hast done well for a beginner," said Brian; "how dost thou like the torture chamber?"
"I was there in another capacity once."
"And thou hast not forgot it. But we must remember thesecanailleare only made for such uses—only to disgorge their wealth for their betters, or to furnish sport."
"How should we like it ourselves?"
"You might as well object to eating venison, and say how should we like it if we were the deer?"
"But does not God look upon all alike?"
They were on the castle green. Upon the sward some ants had raised a little hill.
"Look at these ants," said Brian; "I believe they have a sort of kingdom amongst themselves—some are priests, some masters, some slaves, one is king, and the like: to themselves they seem very important. Now I will place my foot upon the hill, and ruin their republic. Just so are the gods to us, if there be gods. They care as little about men as I about the ants; our joys, our griefs, our good deeds, our bad deeds, are alike to them. I was in deep affliction once about my poor leprous boys. I prayed with all my might; I gave alms; I had Masses said—all in vain. Now I go my own way, and you see I do not altogether fail of success, although I buy it with the tears and blood of other men."
This seemed startling, nay, terrible to Osric.
"Yet, Osric, I can love, and I can reward fidelity; be true to me, and I will be truer to you than God was to me—that is, if there be a God, which I doubt."
Osric shuddered; and well he might at this impious defiance.
Then this strange man was seized with a remorse, which showed that after all there was yet some good left in him.
"Nay, pardon me, my Osric; I wish not to shake thy faith; if it make thee happy, keep it. Mine are perchance the ravings of disappointment and despair. There are times when I think the most wretched of my captives happier than I. Nay,keepthy faith if thou canst."
We are loth to leave our readers too long in the den of tyranny: we pant for free air; for the woods, even if we share them with hermits and lepers—anything rather than the towers of Wallingford under Brian Fitz-Count, his troopers and free lances.
So we will fly to the hermitage where his innocent sons have found refuge for two years past, under the fostering care of Meinhold the hermit, and see how they fare.
First of all, they had not been reclaimed to Byfield. It is true they had been traced, and Meinhold had been "interviewed"; but so earnestly had both he and the boys pleaded that they might be allowed to remain where they were, that assent was willingly given, even Father Ambrose feeling that it was for the best; only an assurance was required that they would not stray from the neighbourhood of the cell, and it was readily given.
Of course their father was informed, and he made no opposition,—the poor boys were dead to him and the world. Leprosy was incurable: if they were happy—"let them be."
So they enjoyed the sweet, simple life of the forest. They found playmates in every bird and beast; they learned to read at last; they joined the hermit in the recitation of two at least of the "hours" each day—LaudsandVespers, the morning and evening offerings of praise. They learned to sing, and chantedBenedictusandMagnificat, as well as the hymnsEcce nunc umbræandLucis Creator optime.
"We sing very badly, do we not?"
"Not worse than the brethren of St. Bernard."
"Tell us about them."
"They settled in a wild forest,—about a dozen in number. They could not sing their offices, for they lacked an ear for music; but they said God should at least be honoured by theMagnificatin song; so they did their best, although it is said they frightened the very birds away.
"Now one day a wandering boy, the son of a minstrel, came that way and craved hospitality. He joined them at Vespers, and when they came to theMagnificat, he took up the strain and sang it so sweetly that the birds all came back and listened, entranced; and the old monks were silent lest they should spoil so sweet a chant with their croaking and nasal tones.
"That evening an Angel flew straight from Heaven and came to the prior.
"'My lady hath sent me to learn whyMagnificatwas not sung to-night?'
"'It was sung indeed—so beautifully.'
"'Nay, it ascended no farther than human ken; the singer was only thinking of his own sweet voice.'
"Then they sent that boy away; and, doubtless, he found his consolation amongst troubadours and trouveres. So you see, my children, the heart is everything—not the voice."
"Yet I should not like to sing so badly as to frighten the birds away," said Richard.
So the months passed away; and meanwhile the leprosy made its insidious progress. The red spot on the hermit's hand deepened and widened until the centre became white as snow; and so it formed a ghastly ring, which began to ulcerate in the centre, the ulcer eating deep into the flesh.
Richard's arm was now wholly infected, and the elbow-joint began to get useless. Evroult's disease extended to the neighbouring regions of the face, and disfigured the poor lad terribly.
Such were the stages of this terrible disease; but there was little pain attending it—only a sense of uneasiness, sometimes feverish heats or sudden chills, resembling in their nature those which attend marsh or jungle fevers, ague, and the like. Happily these symptoms were not constant.
And through these stages the unfortunate boys we have introduced to our readers were slowly passing; but the transitions were so gradual that the patient became almost hardened to them. Richard was so patient; he had no longer a left hand, but he never complained.
"It is the road, dear child, God has chosen for us, and His Name is 'Love,'" said the hermit. "Every step of the way has been foreordained by Him Who tasted the bitter cup for us; and when we have gained the shore of eternity we shall see that infinite wisdom ordered it all for the best."
"Is it really so? Can it be for the best?" said Evroult.
"Listen, my son: this is God's Word; let me read it to you." And from his Breviary he read this extract from that wondrous Epistle to the Romans—
"'For we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, who are the called according to His purpose.'"
"Now God has called you out of this wicked world: you might have spent turbid, restless lives of fighting and bloodshed, chasing the phantom called 'glory,' and then have died and gone where all hope is left behind. Is it not better?"
"Yes,it is," said Richard; "it is, Evroult, is it not—better as it is?"
"Nay, Richard, but had I been well, I had been a knight like my father. Oh, what have we not lost!"
"An awful doom at the end perhaps," said Meinhold. "Let me tell you what I saw with mine own eyes. A rich baron died near here who had won great renown in thewars, in which, nevertheless, he had been as merciless as barons too often are. Well, he left great gifts to the Church, and money for many Masses for his soul: so he was buried with great pomp—brought to be buried, I mean, in the priory church he had founded.
"Now when we came to the solemn portion of the service, when the words are said which convey the last absolution and benediction of the Church, the corpse sat upright in the bier and said, in an awful tone, 'By the justice of God, I am condemned to Hell.' The prior could not proceed; the body was left lying on the bier; and at last it was decided so to leave it till the next day, and then resume the service.
"But the second day, when the same words were repeated, the corpse rose again and said, 'By the justice of God, I am condemned to Hell.'
"We waited till the third day, determined if the interruption occurred again to abandon the design of burying the deceased baron in the church he had founded. A great crowd assembled around, but only the monks dared to enter the church where the body lay. A third time we came to the same words in the office, and we who were in the choir saw the body rise in the winding-sheet, the dull eyes glisten into life, and heard the awful words for the third time, 'By the justice of God, I am condemned to Hell.'
"After a long pause, during which we all knelt, horror-struck, the prior bade us take the body from the church, and bade his friends lay it in unconsecrated ground, away from the church he had founded. So you see a man of blood cannot always bribe Heaven with gifts."
"It is no use then to found churches and monasteries; I have heard my father say the same," said Evroult.
"Yet in any case it is better than to build castles to become dens of cruelty—to torture captives and spread terror through a neighbourhood."
"It is pleasant to be the lord of such a castle," saidthe incorrigible Evroult, "and to be the master of all around."
"And, alas, my boy, if it end in like manner with you as with the baron whose story I have just related, of what avail will it all be?"
"Yes, brother, we are better as we are; God meant it for our good, and we may thank Him for it," said Richard quite sincerely.
Evroult only sighed as a wolf might were he told how much more nutritious grass is than mutton; inherited instinct, unsubdued as yet by grace, was too strong within him. But let us admire his truthfulness; he would not say what he did not mean. Many in his place would have said "yes" to please his brother and the kind old hermit, but Evroult scorned such meanness.
There is little question that had he escaped this scourge he would have made a worthy successor to Brian Fitz-Count, but—