"Like the Truce of GodWith earthly pain and woe."
"Like the Truce of GodWith earthly pain and woe."
"Like the Truce of GodWith earthly pain and woe."
"Like the Truce of God
With earthly pain and woe."
Never were they happier—never so full of joy andresignation—these two unfortunates, as the world deemed them; bearing about the visible sentence of death on themselves, but they had found the secret of a life Death could not touch.
And in their walk they came suddenly upon a man, who reposed under the shadow of a tree; he seemed asleep, but talked and moaned as if in a feverish dream.
"Father, he is a leper like us, look."
"God has sent him, perhaps, in the place of Evroult."
They woke him.
"Where am I?"
"With friends. Canst walk to our home; it is not far?"
"Angels from Heaven. Yes, I can walk—see."
But without their assistance he could never have reached the cave.
They gave him food; he took little, but drank eagerly.
"How did you come here?"
He told them of the plague at Byfield, and of the death of the Chaplain.
"Happy man!" said Meinhold; "he laid down his life for the sheep the Good Shepherd had committed to his care." And so may we, he thought.
That night the poor man grew worse; the dark livid hue overspread him. Our readers know the rest.
Voices might have been heard in the cave the next day—sweet sounds sometimes as if of hymns of praise.
The birds and beasts came to the hermit's cave, and marvelled that none came out to feed them—that no crumbs were thrown to them, no food brought forth. A bold robin even ventured in, but came out as if affrighted, and flew right away.
They sang their sweet songs to each other. No human ear heard them; but the valley was lovely still.
Who shall go into that cave and wake the sleepers? Who?
Then came discordant noises, spoiling nature's sweetharmony—the baying of hounds, the cries of men sometimes loud and discordant, sometimes of those who struggled, sometimes of those in pain.
Louder and louder—the hunt is up—the horse and hound invade the glen.
A troop of affrighted-looking men hasten down the valley.
Look, they are lepers.
They have cause to fear; the deep baying of the mastiffs is deepening, drawing near.
They espy the cave—they rush towards it up the slope—in they dash.
Out again.
Another group of fugitives follow.
"The cave! the cave! we may defend the mouth."
"There are three there already," said the first.
"Three?"
"Dead of the Plague."
And they would have run away had not the hunters and dogs come upon them, both ways, up and down the glen.
They are driven in—some two score in all.
The leaders of the pursuing party pause.
"I think," says a dark baron, "I see a way out of our difficulty without touching a leper."
"Send the dogs in."
"In vain; they will not go; they scent something amiss."
"This cave has but one opening."
"I have heard that a hermit lived here with two young lepers."
"Call him."
"Meinhold! Meinhold!"
No reply.
"He is dead long ago, I daresay."
"If he does not come out it is his own fault."
"There were two young lepers who dwelt with him."
"What business had he with lepers?"
"All the world knew it, and he had caught it himself."
"Then we will delay no longer. God will know His own." And then he gave the fatal order.
"Gather brushwood, sticks, reeds, all that will burn, and pile it in the mouth of the cave."
They did so.
"Fire it."
The dense clouds of smoke arose, and as they hoped in their cruelty, were sucked inward.
"There must be a through draught."
"Can they get out?"
"No, lord baron."
"Watch carefully lest there be other outlets. We must stamp this foul plague out of the land."
Then they stood and watched.
The flames crackled and roared; dense volumes of smoke arose, now arising above the trees, now entering the cave; the birds screamed overhead; the fierce men looked on with cruel curiosity; but no sound was heard from within.
At this moment the galloping of horsemen was heard. "Our brother of Kenilworth, doubtless."
But it was not. A rider in dark armour appeared at the head of a hundred horsemen.
"What are you doing?" cried a stern voice.
"Smoking lepers out."
"Charge them! cut them down! slay all!"
And the Wallingford men charged the incendiaries as one man. Like a thunderbolt, slaying, hewing, hacking, chopping, cleaving heads and limbs from trunks, with all the more deadly facility as their more numerous antagonists lacked armour, having only come out to slay lepers.
The Baron of Hanwell Castle was a corpse; so was the knight of Cropredy Towers; so was the young lord of Southam; others were writhing in mortal agony, but within a quarter of an hour more, only the dead and dying disputed the field with the Wallingford men. The rest had fled,finding the truth of the proverb, "There be many that come out to shear and go back shorn."
"Drag the branches away! pull out the faggots! extinguish the fire! scatter it! fight fire as ye have fought men!"
That was done too. They dispersed the fuel, they scattered the embers; and hardly was this done than Brian rushed in the cave, through the hot ashes. But scarce could he stay in a moment, the smoke blinded—choked him.
Out again, almost beside himself with rage, fear for his boys, and vexation.
In again. Out again.
So three or four abortive attempts.
At last the smoke partially dispersed, and he could enter.
The outer cave was empty.
But in the next subterranean chamber lay a black corpse—a full-grown man. Brian knew him not. He crossed this cave and entered the next one, and by the altar knew it was their rude chapel.
Before the altar lay two figures; their hands clasped in the attitude of prayer; bent to the earth; still—motionless.
Their faces, too, were of the same dark hue.
The one wore the dress of a hermit, the other was a boy of some sixteen years.
Brian recognised his younger son in the latter, rather by instinct and by knowledge of the circumstances than otherwise.
"It is my Richard. But where is Evroult?"
"Here," said a voice,—"read."
Upon the wall was a rude inscription, scratched thereon by Meinhold, his last labour of love—
EVROULT IN PACE.
Little as he possessed the power of reading, Brian recognised his son's name, and understood all. Thestrong man fell before that altar, and for the first time in many years recognised the Hand which had stricken him.
They dragged him away, as they felt that the atmosphere was dangerous to them all—as indeed it was.
"Leave them where they are—better tomb could they not have; only wall up the entrance."
And they set to work, and built huge stones into the mouth of the cave—
"Leaving them to rest in hope—Till the Resurrection Day."
"Leaving them to rest in hope—Till the Resurrection Day."
"Leaving them to rest in hope—Till the Resurrection Day."
"Leaving them to rest in hope—
Till the Resurrection Day."
And what had become of the other lepers?
Driven by the smoke, they had wandered into the farthest recesses of the cave—once forbidden to Evroult by the hermit.
Whether they perished in the recesses, or whether they found some other outlet, and emerged to the upper day, we know not. No further intelligence of the poor unfortunates reached the living, or has been handed down to posterity.
And now, do my readers say this is a very melancholy chapter? Do they pity, above all, the hermit and Richard, struck down by the pestilence in an act of which Christ would have said, "Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these My brethren, ye did it unto Me"?
The pestilence saved them from the lingering death of leprosy, and even had they lived to grow old, they had been dust and ashes seven centuries ago. What does it matter now whether they lived sixteen or sixty years? The only point is, did they, through God's grace, merit to hear the blessed words, "Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of your Lord"?
And we think they did.
FOOTNOTE:[29]So called by St. Francis of Assisi.
[29]So called by St. Francis of Assisi.
[29]So called by St. Francis of Assisi.
Had the Abbot of Reading seen fit, or rather had the business on which he came to Lollingdune allowed him to return home on the day in which he had decorated Osric with the red cross, it had been well for all parties, save the writer; for the entangled web of circumstance which arose will give him scope for another chapter or two, he trusts, of some interest to the reader.
As it was, Osric was thrown upon his own resources for the rest of that day, after the Mass was over; and his thoughts not unnaturally turned to his old home, where the innocent days of his childhood had been spent, and to his old nurse Judith, sole relict of that hallowed past.
Could he not bid her farewell? He had an eye, and he could heed; he had a foot, and he could speed—let Brian's spies watch ever so narrowly.
Yes, hemustsee her. Besides, Osric loved adventure: it was to him the salt of life. He loved the sensation of danger and of risk. So, although he knew that there must be a keen hunt on foot from Wallingford Castle after the fugitives, and that the old cottage might be watched, he determined to risk it all for the purpose of saying good-bye to his dear old nurse.
So, without confiding his purpose to any one, he started on foot. He passed the old church of Aston Upthorpe, where his grandfather lay buried, breathing a prayer for the old man, as also a thanksgiving for the teaching which had at last borne fruit, for he felt that he was reconciledto God and man, now that he had taken the Holy Vow, and abandoned his godless life at Wallingford Castle. Then passing between the outlying fort of Blewburton and the downs, he entered the maze of forest.
But as he approached the spot, he took every precaution. He scanned each avenue of approach from Wallingford; he looked warily into each glade; anon, he paused and listened, but all was still, save the usual sounds of the forest, never buried in absolute silence.
At length he crossed the stream and stood before the door of the hut. He paused one moment; then he heard the well-known voice crooning a snatch of an old ballad; he hesitated no longer.
"Judith!"
"My darling," said the fond old nurse, "thou hast come again to see me. Tell me, is it all right? Hast thou found thy father?"
"I have."
"Where? Tell me?"
"At Dorchester Abbey of course."
Judith sighed.
"And what did he say to thee?"
"Bade me go on the Crusades. And so I have taken the vow, and to-morrow I leave these parts perhaps, for ever."
"Alas! it is too bad. Why has he not told thee the whole truth? Woe is me! the light of mine eyes is taken from me. I shall never see thee again."
"That is in God's hands."
"How good thou hast grown, my boy! Thou didst not talk like this when thou camest home from the castle."
"Well, perhaps I have learnt better;" and he sighed, for there was a reproach, as if the old dame had said, "Is Saul also amongst the prophets?"
"But, my boy," she continued, "is this all? Did not Wulfnoth—I mean Father Alphege—tell thee more than this?"
"What more could he tell me?"
She rocked herself to and fro.
"Imusttell him; but oh, my vow——"
"Osric, my child, my bonnie boy, thou dost not even yet know all, and I am boundnotto tell thee. But I was here when thou wast brought home by Wulfnoth, a baby-boy; and—and I know what I found out—I saw—God help me: but I swore by the Black Cross of Abingdon I would not tell."
"Judith, what can you mean?"
"If you only knew, perhaps you would not go on this crusade."
"Whither then? Imustgo."
"To Wallingford."
"ButthatI can never do. I have broken with them and their den of darkness for ever."
"Nay, nay; it may be all thine own one day, and thou mayst let light into it."
"What can you mean? You distract me."
"I cannot say. Ah!—a good thought. You may look—I didn't say I wouldn't show. See, Osric, I will show thee what things were on thy baby-person when thou wast brought home. Here—look."
She rummaged in her old chest and brought forth—a ring with a seal, a few articles of baby attire, a little red shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden's hair.
"Look at the ring."
It bore a crest upon a stone of opal.
The crest was the crest of Brian Fitz-Count.
"Well, what does this mean?" said Osric. "How came this ring on my baby-self?"
"Dost thou not see? Blind! blind! blind!"
"And deaf too—deaf! deaf! deaf!" said a voice. "Dost thou not hear the tread of horses, the bay of the hound, the clamour of men who seek thee for no good?"
It was young Ulric who stood in the doorway.
"Good-bye, nurse; they are after me; I must go."
"What hast thou done?"
"Let all their captives loose. Farewell, dear nurse;" and he embraced her.
"Haste, Osric, haste," said the youthful outlaw, "or thou wilt be taken."
They dashed from the hut.
"This way," said Ulric.
And they crossed the stream in the opposite direction to the advancing sounds.
"I lay hid in the forest and heard them say they would seek thee in thine old home, as they passed my lurking-place."
"Now, away."
"But they may hurt Judith. Nay, Brian has not yet returned,cannotyet have come back, and without his orders they would not dare. He forbade them once before even totouchthe cottage."
They pressed onward through the woods.
"Whither do we go?" said Osric, who had allowed his young preserver to lead.
"To our haunt in the swamp."
"You have saved me, Ulric."
"Then it has been measure for measure, for didst thou not save me when in direful dumps? Wilt thou not tarry with us, and be a merry man of the greenwood?"
"Nay, I am pledged to the Crusades."
Ulric was about to reply, when he stopped to listen.
"There is the bay of that hound again: it is one of a breed they have trained to hunt men."
"I know him—it is old Pluto; I have often fed him: he would not hurt me."
"But he woulddiscoverthee, nevertheless, andIshould not be safe from his fangs."
"Well, we are as swift of foot as they—swifter, I should think. Come, we must jump this brook."
Alas! in jumping, Osric's foot slipped from a stone on which he most unhappily alighted, and he sank on the ground with a momentary thrill of intense pain, which made him quite faint.
He had sprained his ankle badly.
Ulric turned pale.
Osric got up, made several attempts to move onward, but could only limp painfully forward.
"Ulric, I should only destroy both thee and me by perseverance in this course."
"Never mind about me."
"But I do. See this umbrageous oak—how thick its branches; it is hollow too. I know it well. I will hide in the tree, as I have often done when a boy in mere sport. You run on."
"I will; and make the trail so wide that they will come afterme."
"But will not this lead them to the haunt?"
"Water will throw them when I come to the swamps. I can take care."
"Farewell, then, my Ulric; the Saints have thee in their holy keeping."
The two embraced as those who might never meet again—but as those who part in haste—and Ulric plunged into the thicket and disappeared.
Osric lay hidden in the branches of the hollow tree. There was a comfortable seat about ten feet from the ground, the feet hidden in the hollow of the oak, the head and shoulders by the thick foliage. He did not notice that Ulric had divested himself of an upper garment he wore, and left it accidentally or otherwise on the ground. All was now still. The sound of the boy's passage through the thick bushes had ceased. The scream of the jay, the tap of the woodpecker, the whirr of an occasional flight of birds alone broke the silence of the forest day.
Then came a change. The crackling of dry leaves, the low whisper of hunters, and that sound—that bell-like sound—the bay of the hound, like a staunch murderer, steady to his purpose, pursuing his prey relentlessly, unerringly, guided by that marvellous instinct of scent, which to the pursued seemed even diabolical.
At last they broke through the bushes and passed beneath the tree—seven mounted pursuers.
"See, here is the trail; it is as plain as it can be," cried Malebouche; for it was he, summoned in the emergency from Shirburne, the Baron not having yet returned—six men in company.
But the dog hesitated. They had given him a piece of Osric's raiment to smell before starting, and he pointed at the tree.
Luckily the men did not see it; for they saw on the ground the tunic Ulric had thrown off to run, with the unselfish intention that that should take place which now happened, confident he could throw off the hound.
The men thrust it to the dog's nose, thinking it Osric's,—they knew not there weretwo—and old Pluto growled, and took the new scent with far keener avidity than before, for now he was bidden to chase one he might tear. Before it was a friend, the scent of whose raiment he knew full well. They were off again.
All was silence once more around the hollow tree for a brief space, and Osric was just about to depart and try to limp to Lollingdune, when steps were heard again in the distance, along the brook, where the path from the outlaws' cave lay.
Osric peered from his covert: they were passing about a hundred yards off.
Oh, horror! they had got Ulric.
"How had it chanced?"
Osric never knew whether the dog had overtaken him, or what accident had happened; all he saw was that they had the lad, and were taking him, as he judged, to Wallingford, when they halted and sat down on some fallen trees, about a hundred yards from his concealment. They had wine, flesh, and bread, and were going to enjoy a mediæval picnic; but first they tied the boy carefully to a tree, so tightly and cruelly that he must have suffered much unnecessary pain; but little recked they.
The men ate and drank, the latter copiously. So much the worse for Ulric—drink sometimes inflames the passions of cruelty and violence.
"Why should we take him home? our prey is about here somewhere."
"Why not try a little torture, Sir Squire—a knotted string round the brain? we will make him tell all he knows, or make the young villain's eyes start out of his forehead."
The suggestion pleased Malebouche.
"Yes," he said, "we may as well settle his business here. I have a little persuader in my pocket, which I generally carry on these errands; it often comes useful;" and he produced a small thumbscrew.
Enough; we will spare the details. They began to carry out their intention, and soon forced a cry from their victim—although, judging from his previous constancy, I doubt whether they would have got more—when they heard a sound—a voice—
"Stop!let the lad go; he shall not be tortured for me. I yield myself in his place."
"Osric! Osric!"
And the men almost leapt for joy.
"Malebouche, I am he you seek—I am your prisoner; but let the boy go, and take me to Wallingford."
"Oh, why hast thou betrayed thyself?" said Ulric.
"Not so fast, my young lord, for lord thou didst think thyself—thou bastard, brought up as a falcon. Why should I let him go? I have you both."
But the boy had been partially untied to facilitate their late operations, which necessitated that the hands cruelly bound behind the back should be released; and while every eye was fixed on Osric, he shook off the loosened cord which attached him to the tree, and was off like a bird.
He had almost escaped—another minute and he had been beyond arrow-shot—when Malebouche, snatching up a bow, sent a long arrow after him. Alas! it was aimed with Norman skill, and it pierced through the back of the unfortunate boy,who fell dead on the grass, the blood gushing from mouth and nose.
Osric uttered a plaintive cry of horror, and would have hurried to his assistance, but they detained him rudely.
"Nay, leave him to rot in the woods—if the wolves and wild cats do not bury him first."
And they took their course for Wallingford, placing their prisoner behind a horseman, to whom they bound him, binding also his legs beneath the belly of the horse.
After a little while Malebouche turned to Osric—
"What dost thou expect when our lord returns?"
"Death. It is not the worst evil."
"But what manner of death?"
"Such as may chance; but thou knowest he will not tortureme."
"He may hang thee."
"Wait and see. Thou art a murderer thyself, for whom hanging is perhaps too good. God may have worse things in store for thee. Thou hast committed murder and sacrilege to-day."
"Sacrilege?"
"Yes; thou hast seized a Crusader. Dost not see my red cross?"
"It is easy to bind a bit of red rag crossways upon one's shoulder. Who took thy vows?"
"The Abbot of Reading; he is now at Lollingdune."
"Ah, ah! Brian Fitz-Count shall settle that little matter; he may not approve of Crusaders who break open his castle. Take him to Wallingford, my friends. I shall go back and get that deer we slew just before we caught the boy; our larder is short."
So Malebouche rode back into the forest alone.
Let us follow him.
It was drawing near nightfall. The light fleecy clouds which floated above were fast losing the hues of the departing sun, which had tinted their western edges with crimson; the woods were getting dim and dark; butMalebouche persisted in his course. He had brought down a fine young buck with his bow, and had intended to send for it, being at that moment eager in pursuit of his human prey; but now he had leisure, and might throw it across his horse, and bring it home in triumph.
Before reaching the place the road became very ill-defined, and speedily ceased to be a road at all; but Malebouche could still see the broken branches and trampled ground along which they had pursued their prey earlier in the day.
At last he reached the deer, and tying the horse to a branch of a tree, proceeded to disembowel it ere he placed it across the steed, as was the fashion; but as he was doing this, the horse made a violent plunge, and uttered a scream of terror. Malebouche turned—a pair of vivid eyes were glaring in the darkness.
It was a wolf, attracted by the scent of the butchery.
Malebouche rushed to the aid of his horse, but before he could reach the poor beast it broke through all restraint in its agony of fear that the wolf might prefer horse-flesh to venison, and tearing away the branch and all, galloped for dear life away, away, towards distant Wallingford, the wolf after it; for when man or horse runs, the savage beast, whether dog or wolf, seems bound to follow.
So Malebouche was left alone with his deer in the worst possible humour.
It was useless now to think of carrying the whole carcass home; so he cut off the haunch only, and throwing it over his shoulder, started.
A storm came drifting up and obscured the rising moon—the woods grew very dark.
Onward he tramped—wearily, wearily, tramp! tramp! splash! splash!
He had got into a bog.
How to get out of it was the question. He had heard there was a quagmire somewhere about this part of the forest, of bottomless depth, men said.
So he strove to get back to firm ground, but in the darkness went wrong; and the farther he went the deeper he sank.
Up to the knees.
Now he became seriously alarmed, and abandoned his venison.
Up to the middle.
"Help! help!" he cried.
Was there none to hear?
Yes. At this moment the clouds parted, and the moon shone forth through a gap in their canopy—a full moon, bright and clear.
Before him walked a boy, about fifty yards ahead.
"Boy! boy! stop! help me!"
The boy did not turn, but walked on, seemingly on firm ground.
But Malebouche was intensely relieved.
"Where he can walk I can follow;" and he exerted all his strength to overtake the boy, but he sank deeper and deeper.
The boy seemed to linger, as if he heard the cry, and beckoned to Malebouche to come to him.
The squire strove to do so, when all at once he found no footing, and sank slowly.
He was in the fatal quagmire of which he had heard.
Slowly, slowly, up to the middle—up to the neck.
"Boy, help! help! for Heaven's sake!"
The boy stood, as it seemed, yet on firm ground. And now he threw aside the hood that had hitherto concealed his features, and looked Malebouche in the face.
It was the face of the murdered Ulricupon which Malebouche gazed! and the whole figure vanished into empty air as he looked.
One last despairing scream—then a sound of choking—then the head disappeared beneath the mud—then a bubble or two of air breaking the surface of the bog—then all was still. And the mud kept its secret for ever.
Meanwhile Osric was brought back as a prisoner to the grim stronghold where for years his position had been that of the chartered favourite of the mighty Baron who was the lord thereof.
When the news had spread that he was at the gates, all the inmates of the castle—from the grim troopers to the beardless pages—crowded to see him enter, and perhaps to exult over the fallen favourite; for it is not credible that the extraordinary partiality Brian had ever shown Osric should have failed to excite jealousy, although his graceful and unassuming bearing had done much to mollify the feeling in the hearts of many.
And there was nought common or mean in his behaviour; nor, on the other hand, aught defiant or presumptuous. All was simple and natural.
"Think you they will put him to the torture?" said a youngster.
"They dare not till the Baron returns," said his senior.
"And then?"
"I doubt it."
"The rope, then, or the axe?"
"Perchance the latter."
"But he is not of gentle blood."
"Who knows?"
"If it were you or I?"
"Hanging would be too good for us."
In the courtyard the party of captors awaited the ordersof the Lady Maude, now regent in her stern husband's absence. They soon came.
"Confine him strictly, but treat him well."
So he was placed in the prison reserved for the captives of gentle birth, or entitled to special distinction, in the new buildings of Brian's Close; and Tustain gnashed his teeth, for he longed to have the torturing of him.
Unexpected guests arrived at the castle that night—that is, unexpected by those who were not in the secret of the letters Osric had written and the Baron had sent out when Osric last played his part of secretary—Milo, Earl of Hereford, and Sir Alain of St. Maur, some time page at Wallingford.
At the banquet the Lady Maude, sorely distressed, confided her griefs to her guests.
"We all trusted him. That he should betray us is past bearing."
"Have you not put him on the rack to learn who bought him?"
"I could not. It is as if my own son had proved false. We all loved him."
"Yet he was not of noble birth, I think."
"No. Do you not remember the hunt in which you took part when my lord first found him? Well, the boy, for he was a mere lad of sixteen then, exercised a wonderful glamour over us all; and, as Alain well knows, he rose rapidly to be my lord's favourite squire, and would soon have won his spurs, for he was brave—was Osric."
"Lady, may I see him? He knows me well; and I trust to learn the secret," said Alain.
"Take this ring; it will ope the doors of his cell to thee."
"And take carethoudost not make use of it to empty Brian's Close," said Milo ironically.
Alain laughed, and proceeded on his mission.
"Osric, my fellow-page and brother, what is the meaning of this? why art thou here?"
He extended his hand. Osric grasped it.
"Dost thou not know I did a Christlike deed?"
"Christlike?"
"Yes. Did He not open the prison doors of Hell when He descended thither, and let the captives out of Limbus? I daresay the Dragon did not like it."
"Osric, the subject is too serious for jesting."
"I am not jesting."
"But what led thee to break thy faith?"
"My faith to a higher Master than even the Lord of Wallingford, to whom I owed so much."
"The Church never taught me that much: if all we do is so wrong, why are we not excommunicated? Why, we are allowed our chapel, our chaplain—who troubles himself little about what goes on—our Masses! and we shall easily buy ourselves out of Purgatory when all is over."
Too true, Alain; the Church did grievously neglect her duty at Wallingford and elsewhere, and passively allow such dreadful dens of tyranny to exist. But Osric had learnt better.
"I do not believe you will buy yourselves out. The old priest who served our little church once quoted a Saint—I think they called him 'Augustine'—who said such things could only profit those whose lives merited that they should profit them. But you did not come here to discuss religion."
"No, indeed. Tell me what changed your mind?"
"Things that I heard at my grandfather's deathbed, which taught me I had been aiding and abetting in the Devil's work."
"Devil's work, Osric! The tiger preys upon the deer, the wolf on the sheep, the fox on the hen, the cat on the bird,—it is so all through creation; and we do the same. Did the Devil ordain the laws of nature?"
"God forbid. But men are brethren."
"Brethren are we! Do you think I call the vile canaille my brethren?—not I. The base fluid which circulates in their veins is not like the generous blood which flows in the veinsof the noble and gallant. I have no more sympathy with such folk than the cat with the mouse. Her nature, which God gave, teaches her to torture, much as we torment our captives in Brian's Close or elsewhere; but knights, nobles, gentlemen,—they are my brethren. We slay each other in generous emulation,—in the glorious excitement of battle,—but we torture them not.Noblesse oblige."
"I cannot believe in the distinction; and you will find out I am right some day, and that the blood of your victims, the groans of your captives, will be visited on your head."
"Osric, you are one of the conquered race,—is it not so? Sometimes I doubted it."
"I am one of your victims; and I would sooner be of the sufferers than of the tyrants."
"I can say no more; something has spoilt a noble nature. Do you not dread Brian's return?"
"No."
"Why not? I should in your place. He loved you."
"I have a secret to tell him which, methinks, will explain all."
"Wilt not tell it me?"
"No; I may not yet."
And Alain took his departure sorrowfully, none the wiser.
The sound of trumpets—the beating of drums. The Baron returns. He enters the proud castle, which he calls his own, with downcast head. The scene in the woods near Byfield has sobered him.
One more grievous blow awaits him,—one to wound him in his tenderest feelings, perhaps the only soft spot in that hard heart. What a mystery was hidden in his whole relation to Osric! What could have made the tiger love the fawn? Was it some deep mysterious working of nature?
Can the reader guess? Probably, or he has read our tale to little purpose.
Osric knows it is coming. He braces himself for the interview. He prays for support and wisdom.
The door opens—Brian enters.
He stands still, and gazes upon Osric for full five minutes ere he speaks.
"Osric, what means this?"
"I have but done my duty. Pardon me, my lord, but the truth must be spoken now."
"Thy duty! to break thy faith?"
"To man but not to God."
"Osric, what causes this change? I trusted thee, I loved thee, as never I loved youth before. Thou hast robbed me of my confidence in man."
"My lord, I will tell thee. At my grandfather's dying bed I learnt a secret I knew not before."
"And that secret?"
"I am the son of Wulfnoth of Compton."
"So thy grandfather toldme—Iknew it."
"But I knew not that thou didst slay my kindred—that my mother perished under thy hands in her burning house—and I alone escaped. Had I known it, could I have loved and served thee?—Never."
"And yet repenting of that deed, I have striven to atone for it by my conduct to thee."
"Couldst thouhopeto do so? nay, I acknowledge thy kindness."
"And thou wouldst open my castle to the foe and slay me in return?"
"No; we shed no blood—only delivered the helpless. Thou hadst made me take part in the slaughter, the torture of mine own helpless countrymen, whose blood God will surely require at our hands, if we repent not. I have repented, but I could not harm thee. See, I had taken the Cross, and was on my way to the Holy Wars, when thy minions seized me and brought me back."
"Thou hast taken the Cross?"
"I have."
"I know not whether thou dost think that I can let thee go: it would destroy all discipline in my castle. Right and left, all clamour for thy life. The late-comers from Ardennes swear they will desert if such order is kept as thy forgiveness would denote. Nay, Osric, thou must die; but thy death shall be that of a noble, to which by birth thou art not entitled."
The choking of the voice, the difficulty of utterance which accompanied this last speech, showed the deep sorrow with which Brian spoke. Brutus sacrificing his sons may have shown less emotion. Osric felt it deeply.
"My lord, do what you think your duty, and behead your former favourite. I forgive you all you have done, and may think it right yet to do. I die in peace with you and the world."
And Osric turned his face to the wall.
The Baron left the cell, where he found his fortitude deserting him.
As he appeared on the ramparts he heard all round the muttered words—
"Death to the traitor! death!"
At last he spoke out fiercely.
"Stop your throats, ye hounds, barking and whining for blood. Justice shall be done. Here, Alain, seek the doomster Coupe-gorge and the priest; send the priest to your late friend, and tell the doomster to get his axe ready; tell Osric thyself he dies at sundown."
A loud shout of exultation.
Brian gnashed his teeth.
"Bring forth my steed."
The steed was brought.
He turned to a pitying knight who stood by, the deputy-governor in his absence.
"If I return not, delay not the execution after sunset. Let it be on the castle green."
A choking sensation—he put his hand to his mouth; when he withdrew it, it was tinged with blood.
He dashed the spurs into his steed; the drawbridges fell before him; he rode at full gallop along the route by the brook described in our second chapter. Whither was he bound?
For Cwichelm's Hlawe.
It is a wonder that he was not thrown over and over again; but chance often protects the reckless while the careful die. He rides through the forest over loose stones—over protruding roots of trees—still he kept his seat; he flew like the whirlwind, but he escaped projecting branches. In an hour he was ascending the slope from Chiltune to the summit of the hill.
He reined his panting steed at the foot of the barrow.
"Hag, come forth!"
No reply.
He tied up his steed to a tree and entered her dread abode—the ancient sepulchre.
She sat over the open stone coffin with its giant skeleton.
"Here thou art then, witch!"
"What does Brian Fitz-Count want of me?"
"I seek thee as Saul sought the Witch of Endor—in dire trouble. The boy, old Sexwulf's grandson"—he could not frame his lips to say Wulfnoth's son—"has proved false to me."
"Why hast thou not smitten him, and ridden thyself of 'so frail an encumbrance'?"
"I could not."
"Did I not tell thee so long syne? ah, ha!"
"Tell me, thou witch, why does the death of a peasant rend my very heart? Tell me, didst thou not give me a philter, a potion or something, when I was here? My heart burns—what is it?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, there is one who can solve the riddle—seek him."
"Who is he?"
"Ride at once to Dorchester Abbey—waste no time—ask to see Father Alphege, he shall tell thee all. When is the boy to die?"
"At sundown."
"Then there is no time to be lost. It is now the ninth hour; thou hast but three hours. Ride, ride, man! if he die before thy return, thy heart-strings will crack. Ride, man, ride! if ever thou didst ride—Dorchester first, Father Alphege, then Wallingford Castle."
Brian rushed from the cavern—he gave full rein to his horse—he drove his spurs deep into the sides of the poor beast.
Upon the north-east horizon stood the two twin clumps of Synodune, about ten miles off; he fixed his eyes upon them; beyond them lay Dorchester; he descended the hill at a dangerous pace, and made for those landmarks.
He rode through Harwell—passed the future site of Didcot Station, where locomotives now hiss and roar—he left the north Moor-town on the right—he crossed the valley between the twin hills—he swam the river, for the water was high at the ford—he passed the gates of the old cathedral city. Every one trembled as they saw him, and hid from his presence. He dismounted at the abbey gates.
The porter hesitated to open.
"I have come to see Father Alphege—open!"
"This is not Wallingford Castle," said the daring porter, strong in monastic immunities.
Brian remembered where he was, and sobered down.
"Then I would fain see the Abbot at once: life or death hang upon it."
"Thou mayst enter the hospitium and wait his pleasure."
He waited nearly half an hour. They kept him on purpose, to show him that he was not the great man at Dorchester he was at Wallingford. But they were unwittingly cruel; they knew not his need.
Meanwhile the Abbot sought Father Alphege, and told him who sought him.
"Canst thou bear to see him?"
"I can; it is the will of Heaven."
"Then he shall see thee in the church; the sacred house of God will restrain you both. Enter the confessional; he shall seek thee there."
Then the Abbot sought Brian.
"Come with me and I will show thee him thou seekest."
Brian was faint with exhaustion, but the dire need, the terrible expectation of some awful secret, held him up. He had had no food that day, but he recked not.
The Abbot Alured led him into the church.
The confessional was a stone cell[30]in the thickness of the wall, entered by the priest from a side chapel. The penitent approached from the opposite side of the wall from the nave of the church.
"I am not come to make a confession—yes I am, though, yet not an ordinary one."
"Go to that aperture, and through it thou mayst tell your grief, or whatever thou hast to say, to Father Alphege."
Brian went to the spot, but he knelt not.
"Father Alphege, is it thou?" he said.
"It is I. What does Brian Fitz-Count seek of me? Art thou a penitent?"
"I know not. A witch sent me to thee."
"A witch?"
"Yes—Hertha of Cwichelm's Hlawe."
"Why?"
"Listen. I adopted a boy, the son of a man I had slain, partly, I think, to atone for a crime once committed, wherein I fired his house, and burnt his kith and kin, save this one boy. I loved him; he won his way to my heart; he seemed like my own son; and then hebetrayedme. And now he is doomed to death."
"To dieWHEN?" almost shrieked the priest.
"At sundown."
"God of Mercy! he must not die. Wouldst thou slay thy son?"
"He is not my son by blood—I only meant by adoption."
"Listen, Brian Fitz-Count, to words of solemn truth, although thou wilt find them hard to believe. He is thineownson—the son of thy bowels."
Brian felt as if his head would burst beneath the aching brain. A cold sweat bedewed him.
"Prove it," he said.
"I will. Brian Fitz-Count, I am Wulfnoth of Compton."
"Thou? I slew thee on the downs in mortal combat."
"Nay, I yet breathed. The good monks of Dorchester passed by and brought mehere. I took the vows, and here I am. Now listen: thou didst slay my loved and dearest ones, but I can forgive thee now. Canst thou in turn forgive me?"
"Forgive thee what?"
"In my revenge, I robbed thee of thy son and brought him up as my own."
"But Sexwulf swore that the lad was his grandson."
"He believed it. I wilfully deceived him; but the old nurse Judith has the proofs—a ring with thy crest, a lock of maiden's hair."
"Good God! they were his mother's, and hung about his little neck when we lost him. Man, how couldst thou?"
"Thou didst slay all mine, and I made thee feellikepangs. And when the boy came to me after his deadly breach with thee, although I had forgiven thee, I could not tell him the truth, lest I should send him to be a murderer like unto thee; but I did my best for him. I sent him to the Holy Wars, and——"
He discovered that he spake but to the empty air.
Brian was gone.
A crowd was on the green sward of the castle, which filled the interior between the buildings. In the centre rose a scaffold, whereon was the instrument of death, the block,the axe. A priest stood by the side of the victim, and soothed him with holy rite and prayer. The executioner leant on his axe.
From the courtyard—the green of the castle—the sun was no longer visible; but the watchman on the top of the keep saw him from that giddy height descending like a ball of fire towards Cwichelm's Hlawe. It was his to give the signal when the sun sank behind the hill.
Every window was full—every coigne of vantage to see the sight. Alas! human nature is ever the same. Witness the precincts of the Old Bailey on hanging mornings in our grandfathers' days!
The man on the keep saw the sun actually touch the trees on the summit of the distant hill, and bathe them in fiery light. Another minute and all would be over.
In the intense silence, the galloping of a horse was heard—a horse strong and powerful. Down went the drawbridges.
The man on the keep saw, and omitted to give the signal, as the sun disappeared.
"Hold! hold!" cried a commanding voice.
It was Brian on his foaming steed. He looked as none had ever seen him look before; but joy was on his face.
He was in time, and no more.
"Take him to my chamber, priest; executioner, put up thine axe, there will be no work for it to-day. Men of Wallingford, Osric is my son—my own son—the son of my bowels. I cannot spare you my son. Thank God, I am in time."
Into that chamber we cannot follow them. The scene is beyond our power of description. It was Nature which had all the time been speaking in that stern father's heart, and now she had her way.
On the following morning a troop left Wallingford Castle for Reading Abbey. The Baron rode at its head,and by his side rode Osric. Through Moulsford, and Streatley, and Pangbourne—such are their modern names—they rode; the Thames on their left hand, the downs on their right. The gorgeous abbey, in the freshness of its early youth, rose before them. Would we had space to describe its glories! They entered, and Brian presented Osric to the Abbot.
"Here, my lord Abbot, is the soldier of the Cross whom thou didst enroll. He is lame as yet, from an accident, but will soon be ready for service. Meanwhile he would fain be thy guest."
The Abbot was astonished.
"What has chanced, my son? We wondered that thou didst not rejoin us, and feared thou hadst faltered."
"He has found a father, who restrained his freedom."
"A father?"
"But who now gives his boy to thee. Osric is my son."
The Abbot was astonished; as well he might be.
"Go, my Osric, to the hospitium; let me speak to my lord Abbot alone."
And Brian told his story, not without strong emotion.
"What wilt thou do now, my Lord of Wallingford?"
"He shall fulfil his vow, for himself and for me. But, my lord, my sins have come home to me. What shall I do? Would I could go with him! but my duties, my plighted faith to my Queen, restrain me. Even to-morrow the leaders of our cause meet at Wallingford Castle."
"Into politics we enter not here. But thy sin, if thou hast sinned, God hath left the means of forgiveness. Repent—confess—thou shall be loosed from all."
"I have not been shriven for a long time, but I will be now."
"Father Osmund is a meet confessor."
"Nay, the man whom I wronged shall shrive me both as priest and man—so shall I feel forgiven."
They parted—the father and son—and Brian rode toDorchester, and sought Father Alphege again. Into the solemn secrets of that interview we may not enter. No empty form was there; priest and penitent mingled their tears, and ere the formal absolution was pronounced by the priest they forgave each other as men, and then turned to Him of Whom it is written—