"A bold, bad man."—Spenser.
"A bold, bad man."—Spenser.
To return to myself. I paced to and fro in the abbey grounds in anguish and suspense, waiting for Badger's return, yet almost dreading it, lest he should bring ill news. But midnight passed, and the small hours of the morning came on, with no tidings of Ethel. I feared for her personal safety, and I feared also the effects upon her mind. For I must state here, for the benefit of the reader, that Ethel's surroundings had been such as to strongly imbue her mind with the heathenish beliefs of her ancestors. Her father came of an old viking stock, and rigidly adhered to the superstitions of his forefathers. He had likewise given to Ethel a large measure of his stern and aggressive temperament, and had striven to instil into her mind his own religious beliefs. I had seen also at times the strange flashing of the fierce fire within her, when deeply stirred. Yet I saw there were elements of gentleness and delicacy in her composition, inherited in all probability from her mother, who was Saxon, and a devout Christian. With my whole energy I had striven, at the request of her dying mother, to train her in the Christian faith: but my opportunities had been of a most desultory nature. Then when I began to hope that my work would be accomplished, this terrible invasion occurred. Thus efforts to show her how the fierce passions and reckless bloodshedding of the Norsemen—her father's ancestors—were cruel and heathenish, and their religion a gross superstition, were frustrated by this war of usurpation inflicted upon us by a Christian nation, with the approbation and blessing of the Pope, whilst at the head of their army they carried sacred banners and holy relics of saints. Thus the Christian religion was made to sanction bloodshed and massacre, unsparing and fiendish in its extent and in its mercilessness. In the train of these professedly Christian soldiery also, there followed nameless horrors and offences, which outdid the excesses of Norseman and Dane tenfold. But, worse than all, her father and her two brothers had been massacred—their home levelled—and she, having to fly to the shelter of the sanctuary, only found that the sanctuary was no sanctuary to her, and no protection against violence and brutality. It is utterly impossible to imagine any one more completely shorn of every prop and stay than she was; and I feared much also for her faith. I knew that there was that in her which would not permit her to tamely submit to indignities. But where would her revolt end?
Well, feeling that it would be better to be doing something to effect her rescue than to be absorbed in these painful cogitations, I decided I would start at once for the Norman camp. It was a long and a weary tramp in the darkness through the forest, but still, I hoped, by patient plodding forward, I should reach the camp by daylight. Happily I found I had not overrated my powers. As I drew near, I was challenged by the outpost. There was a considerable parleying, and a determination evinced to prevent my farther advance. But my sacred calling, coupled with the fact that I was unarmed, and that it was now broad daylight, ultimately prevailed, and I was conducted to a tent not far from the one occupied by Lady Alice de Montfort, with whom, after some time, I received an audience, and whom we will in future call Alice. To her I related all that I knew of the outrage, with such description of the persons taking part in it as I had been able to gather. From my description of the leader, she had no difficulty in identifying Pierre as the man.
"Well, Father, I may as well tell you at the outset, that this is what I expected. I warned this Saxon lady of the risks she ran by staying at the monastery, but I could not persuade her to accept my protection."
"She has been a great sufferer, gracious madame," I replied, "during these wars; and she was, no doubt, greatly afraid. Probably, also, she was greatly averse to joining your camp; though it was unquestionably a generous offer on your part."
"Well, reverend Father, I am not saying this to excuse my inaction now, but I assure you from what I know, and what I suspect of the participants in this outrage, that it would have been far easier to keep the prey from the jaws of the lion than it will be to force his den and wrest it from him. I will do my utmost, I assure you. Jeannette," said she, turning to her maid, "let our guest have some refreshment, for he will be weary and faint, I am sure." So saying, she departed I know not where.
She returned in the course of half an hour; but she gave me little hope of success, though she said the Count, her father, had gone out in quest of the persons whom he suspected. She was most gracious to me, and asked most anxiously as to whether we were treated properly by the soldiers quartered upon us. I suspected very strongly that the comparative immunity from personal molestation we had hitherto enjoyed arose in great part from her goodwill and protection. She asked many questions with regard to our books; to our endowments; especially to the great relief we had been able to extend to the poor, and to strangers. I was highly impressed, not only with the charms of her person, but with her highly cultivated mind, and gracious demeanour.
I hastened my departure with as little delay as decency would permit; for to tell the truth, I was driven back upon my first hopes, that Badger's cunning and prowess would be equal to the emergency. I was thus extremely anxious to get me back to the monastery, that I might learn how he had fared. So I hurried over the open plain, and gat me into the forest as quickly as I could. For in very deed I felt myself anything but safe, as I noticed jealous eyes watching me narrowly. But I had scarcely entered the forest when I found myself in the presence of the ungodly Norman who had desecrated the sanctuary, and endeavoured to carry off Ethel—whom, also, I strongly suspected of being at the bottom of this latest outrage. I involuntarily crossed myself, and uttered a prayer for help, for I felt instinctively that I had myself in very truth fallen into the jaws of the lion.
"Well, shaveling," said he, "thou hast said thy prayers, I perceive. Thou hast done well to be prepared, lest the devil should get thee. What has been thy errand to the camp so early? Be explicit and prompt, or thou wilt rue it."
"I have had particular business there, my lord."
"I knew that already, dolt! Let us have details. With whom hast thou had business?"
"With Lady de Montfort."
"So I thought. What was the matter that disturbed your saintly bosom, old smooth-pate? Out with it!"
"There has been an outrage committed upon us, and one of our refugees carried off by force from the monastery."
"Ah! that was terrible! So you first despatched a posse of your bog-trotting Saxon churls to murder two of my men; then you dragged your battered old shins through the woods, to raise a hullaballoo at the camp. It was well done. Now, what shall I give you for your trouble? I think a broken neck is about your deserts."
So, without more ado, he laid violent hands upon me, and tore my cloak from my back. Then he tried to strangle me; but I had been stout of limb, and agile as any of my fellows, when I was young, so I resisted with all my might. I was delighted to find, in spite of the disadvantage of a score of years, he was more blown than I was. Eventually, I was able to slip from his grasp, and immediately took to my heels. He was younger, but stout and bulky; and I found in this point, also, I was greatly his superior, and quickly increased the distance between us. So he gave up the chase, and permitted me for the time being to go in peace. For this wonderful deliverance I gave God thanks.
"Cry 'Havock!' and let slip the dogs of war."—Shakespeare.
"Cry 'Havock!' and let slip the dogs of war."—Shakespeare.
In the meantime, the Normans had made diligent preparation for an assault on the castle. Now the castle could not be described as a very formidable stronghold, or one designed to withstand a regular siege. It had been built mainly to resist the incursions of the Scots, who periodically raided in force into these parts, their purpose being plunder and cattle-lifting. They overran the country quickly, getting them back as speedily as possible, before the Saxons had time to concentrate, so that no very great powers of resistance were needed to repel them, or weary them. Occasionally also the Danes carried fire and sword to our parts; but since the conquest of Northumbria and the north of England generally, by Halfdane, and the settlement of so many of his followers in the land, we had not been afflicted much with their incursions in this part of the kingdom, during my lifetime. Thus, the strength of the castle being sufficient for our hereditary foes, it still was not such as would be likely to long resist the experienced and numerous foes now pitched before it. The castle itself stood on an eminence; was built of good solid masonry, with a battlemented tower rising from its centre, but without any special design. It was strengthened by a wall which ran completely round, forming a spacious enclosure, in which cattle could be speedily and safely housed in cases of emergency. This wall was lofty and fairly proportioned, but its great length made it difficult to man by the handful of Saxon defenders. It is well also to note that, as in the case of nearly all the strongholds of the land, it was provided with a secret passage, known only to the trusted followers of Oswald—a passage which could be entered by the initiated at a certain place in the circular stair which led to the turret. This underground passage had an emerging place, carefully concealed in a dense wood some distance away.
In a very few days the Normans had prepared themselves with scaling ladders, and had cut long poles from the forest for the purpose of pushing the defenders from the wall. Mantelets were prepared of boards fastened together, behind which the attacking parties could advance on the defenders, without exposing themselves to the arrows and javelins which would be hurled at them. The leaders also had pavises, or large shields, which covered the person from head to foot. The time had now come when the assault might be made, it was believed, with impunity, so the Norman forces were put into battle array, a small number only being appointed to the task of protecting the women and the camp.
It was a fine sight to see these disciplined men as they moved to the attack in orderly array. Everything bore evidence to the fact that the plan of attack, and the marshalling and disposition of the forces, was the work of a competent general, one who was well versed in the art of war.
The Norman bowmen were thrown out in companies on either flank, for the protection of the forces who were to conduct the assault, and also for the purpose of distracting and harassing the defenders as they strove to repel the attack of the besiegers.
It needed little military knowledge to see that the issue could not be doubtful. The meagre band of Saxons, stretched in thin line over the extent of wall, could never hold it against the multitude who swarmed to the attack. Oswald alone, of all the Saxons, was fully equipped for the resistance of the clouds of barbed arrows about to be poured amongst them. His second in command, Wulfhere, was partly clad in a light coat of mail; but, for the most part, leathern jerkins were the only protection they had. Had it been an attack in the open, in which the forces were equal, these rough Saxons would have given a good account of themselves. Any one of them could have been depended upon to bring down a stag at a hundred paces. Whilst, if it had been a hand-to-hand struggle with their broadswords, or their pikes, they would have fought with the ferocity of tigers. But here they were outnumbered by ten to one, and so circumstanced that they could not hurl themselves upon their adversaries, and by sheer bravery strike terror into their ranks. They must wait to be attacked, and for every arrow they shot, and for every javelin they flung, there would be half a dozen returned.
Vigneau, Reynard, Jules Reynard and other leaders, were grouped together with De Montfort, who gave orders for successive movements of the besiegers, as though, with the prevision which comes of a carefully matured plan, he could see every act of the stirring drama about to be enacted.
Now the order for assault is given. The attacking party, with their mantelets mounted on rude wheels, steadily advance across the plain, the archers disposing themselves to the right and left in advance of the main body, giving the attacking forces the form of a crescent. The archers, dodging adroitly beneath the trees, were able to get near the wall, thus threatening to put the defenders between a cross fire. The Saxons, with bow in hand and pike at their feet, but without a shout or the wasting of a single arrow, stood grimly awaiting the onset. The Norman archers commenced the attack by letting fly a volley of arrows, but at too great a distance to be effective. Some of them fell short, and the others were easily dodged by the Saxons, who, as yet, had no pressing call upon their attention. But now the attacking party draw near, and, as they do so, they become more exposed. At a signal from Oswald a stinging volley of arrows from the Saxons come hissing amongst them with galling effect. At this the pace of the besiegers is quickened, and their archers are quickly within distance to do deadly execution with their arrows.
The Saxons, too, find it necessary to let go their bows, and grasp their javelins and spears to deal with foes in close contact, who by this time have begun to scale the wall. The foremost Normans were met with a merciless slaughter, and it is probable that never a Norman that day would have kept a foothold on the wall had it not been for the support of their archers. These, being now at close quarters, pour their arrows in pitiless showers into the ranks of the defenders, and many a stout Saxon falls with dozens of these barbed messengers of death in his body. Where the attack is hottest, the Saxons reel and stagger, a foothold on the wall is gained, and the Normans are swarming upon it. Oswald immediately dashes to the spot and his battle-axe descends in thunder strokes. Right and left the Normans are beaten down before him; and, with a shout, the Saxons signal the wall clear again.
But the respite is brief, for quickly Oswald's attention is directed elsewhere by the loud shouts of the Normans. He turns a hurried glance thitherward, only to see that the Normans there have gained a foothold on the wall, and are rapidly overbearing his handful of men, though Wulfhere manfully stems the tide, and deals out to the Normans many a deadly blow. In a moment, Oswald also is on the spot to the rescue, and once more the tide of victory smiles upon the Saxon cause. Again it is only for a brief span, for like an oncoming and resistless tide the Normans surge upon the wall, and beat back the slender ranks of the Saxons. One advantage, however, the Saxons now reap; the combatants are so mingled in one deadly hand-to-hand struggle, that the Norman archers dare not let fly their shafts, and can only stand, and, with bated breath, watch the sanguinary struggle.
In the distance yonder, and at the entrance to the tent, there stand Alice and her maid Jeannette, who shudderingly watch the carnage proceed. Oswald and Wulfhere are now fighting back to back, with shield on arm, and having exchanged their axes for their broadswords. Together they cleave down the ranks of the enemy, until like sheep they quail before these stalwart Saxons.
"What matchless valour this pair of Saxon chieftains display, Jeannette! If ever heroism and valour deserved to win a battle, surely this is the time!"
"How frightened our men-at-arms seem to be!" said Jeannette. "Do you see how frantically the Baron raves there at the foot of the wall, and shouts at the men? He boasts him of his valour. Why does he not mount the wall and face this Saxon?"
"What human lives are being sacrificed! 'Tis most dreadful! May God send us peace quickly!" murmured Alice, shading her eyes at the spectacle before her. "These are our people, Jeannette, but I must confess my sympathies are with the Saxons. This leader, too, defends his home with the courage of a hero. God grant he may not fall into the hands of our men alive, or he will be tortured with fiendish brutality for this day's work!"
The struggle still proceeds with gathering intensity and fierceness. Baron Vigneau, indeed, as Jeannette had described him, does rave and gesticulate frantically. "Down with him! Now, men, rush on him two or three together! Close with him! Push him from the wall! Hurl something at him!" But nevertheless he makes no effort to mount the wall himself.
De Montfort also stands there nervously directing the attack. "Here, man," said he, to a stalwart soldier by his side, "heave up this long pole and aim a blow at the Saxon." The man heaves up the pole, and, with a run and a powerful blow, he struck Oswald on the head. The blow completely staggers the Saxon; for a moment or two he hovers on the edge of the wall endeavouring to recover his balance; but, alas! it is all in vain, and he drops, with his heavy harness on, down into the castle yard a dozen feet or more.
At this untoward event the Saxons, in a perfect panic, rush for the drawbridge thrown across to the wall from one of the barbicans, and intended as a means of retreat by Oswald in the last resort. But the Normans have intercepted them and cut them off from this, and the custodians, seeing that this would be seized by the Normans, immediately withdraw it. Then the Saxons wildly leap from the wall, and for dear life's sake, rush like hunted hares, for the neighbouring thicket.
For a little while attention is distracted from the fallen chieftain by the efforts of the Normans to cut off these flying Saxons. But down there in the castle yard lies Oswald, stunned, bleeding, and insensible; helpless to fight or to fly. Wulfhere witnesses the helpless condition of his leader, and down he leaps and lifts him up and detaches his visor. As he does so, a deep sob escapes from the parted lips of Oswald; but there is no further sign of life or returning consciousness.
Whilst this has been transpiring, the attention of the Normans has been distracted from the leaders by the necessity to clear the walls of the few Saxons who, disdaining to seek safety in flight, die fighting most determinedly at their posts. Now, however, the Normans turn their attention to the two Saxon leaders entrapped within the castle yard. Immediately they send up a yell of fiendish delight, as they behold the almost frantic efforts of Wulfhere to arouse his unconscious master, and restore him to his senses.
But 'twas in vain. Oswald's head had been rudely jammed by the steel helmet in the shock of falling; and it was soon apparent to Wulfhere that the brief respite was now exhausted, without bringing any signs of returning consciousness. He threw his left arm around the waist of his helpless chieftain, and drew him, harness and all, upon his hip, and, grasping his broadsword in his right hand, he made with all the speed he could command for the door of the castle, hoping by this manœuvre to gain time.
But the stalwart and muscular form of Oswald, encumbered as it was by heavy armour, made progress painfully slow. In the meantime, the Normans reversed their scaling ladders and slid down into the quadrangle, and came trooping after the fugitives. Wulfhere saw his task was hopeless, and with a cry of pain like a wounded deer he dropped his helpless burthen on the greensward, and, furious as some wild beast, sprang at the yelling foe, cutting down the foremost at a blow. Following up the others, who quailed before him, he quickly laid half a dozen corpses in a ghastly circle round his master. But there was no end to the stream of furious assailants who were fast surrounding him. "'Tis in vain!" he pitifully exclaimed. "Oh, had I here but a score of stout men to make a rampart of steel, we would defy the yelling crew! God forgive me for this coward's act, my master! I would gladly die with you, but I know I shall better do your will by reserving my worthless life for service to your followers."
So saying, he bounded over the prostrate form of Oswald, and across the sward, mounting the half-dozen steps at the terrace entrance at a spring, and dashing through the open door.
The Normans followed him in concert; but when it became a question of single file to pass the portal, without knowing whether Wulfhere was lurking within, why then they in "honour preferred one another," with the result that they one and all ceased following Wulfhere, and courageously returned to help their fellows to heap indignities upon the prostrate Earl.
Meanwhile, the gates had been burst open and the Norman soldiers, camp followers and all, had pressed into the enclosure, Alice and Jeannette, with the women, bringing up the rear.
"Whatever are they clambering and yelling so about, Jeannette? Is it the dead chieftain?"
"I think so, my lady. They are like wolves worrying their prey."
"It is a pity so brave a man should perish. If he be not dead I will beseech my father for his life; though I am afraid it will be to little purpose."
"See, my lady, he is not dead; he is standing up."
Oswald had recovered consciousness, and, stripped of his helmet, looked around, though deathly pale and half-dazed.
"Do not kill him, men!" roared Vigneau. "We'll have some sport to-morrow, and then you may cut his throat if he survives."
"Do you hear what that beast in human form is saying, Jeannette?"
"It is horrible, my lady. Let us go away; I am quite sickened."
"Stay a minute, Jeannette. Let us have a good look at him. How pale he is! But look at his noble countenance—handsome and expressive as a hero's should be! Such countenances have men only who live temperately and think purely. Contrast, Jeannette, the blotched and bleared countenance of Vigneau. There is a tell-tale and an index at once to the beastly life and foul imagination. How my heart revolts at the sight of him! I would prefer the touch of a vampire."
Meanwhile, Wulfhere threaded his way by a path familiar to him, until he reached the foot of the circular stair which led to the turret, ascending which, and watching through a loophole, he heard the command to spare Oswald's life until the morrow.
"Thank Heaven! Whilst there is life there is hope. If a desperate effort to rescue him will succeed, I count upon a few daring spirits to venture it."
But the tramp of heavy feet resounding through the corridors warned him to delay no longer. Turning his face towards a farther ascent, he ran his hand along the wall in the darkness until the feel of a certain stone arrested his attention, applying his strength to which, it slowly revolved, disclosing an aperture into which a man might drop.
Into this aperture Wulfhere disappeared; and the stone revolved to its place again.
"O woman! lovely woman! nature made theeTo temper man; we had been brutes without you."Otway.
"O woman! lovely woman! nature made theeTo temper man; we had been brutes without you."
Otway.
It was only by the exercise of the utmost energy that the soldiery and camp followers of the Normans were prevented from looting the castle. They were somewhat appeased by an unlimited supply of ale from the cellars, and promises of money. Bonfires were lit in the enclosure, and carcasses of sheep and oxen roasted thereat, the whole resolving itself into a grand carousal of drinking, singing, and rough jollity. A certain number of the better class were admitted to the castle, where the same kind of thing was repeated in much the same fashion.
In the large hall the leaders feasted and drank with little more of refinement and seemliness than the vulgar people, except that they drank wine and mead.
"Well, Captain Reynard!" said the Count. "Is all well?"
"All well, sire; the gates secured, the place explored, and, I think I may add, the Saxons so thoroughly routed and cowed that they will have little stomach for more fighting yet awhile."
"That may be; but I fancy we should be found very unprepared if they dared venture an attempt to rescue their leader."
"You may depend upon me, Count, to keep a sharp look-out; I shall not close my eyes in sleep until the sun rises to-morrow. But I have no fear the Saxons will attempt a rescue. As I said, they are so thoroughly beaten, and the remnant so glad to be able to escape with their lives, that they will venture no more."
An exceedingly busy and anxious time was spent by Alice and her maids in their efforts to protect the domestics left in charge from the drunken frolics of both officers and men-at-arms. This would have been a task utterly beyond their powers but for the watchful eye and stern discipline of the Count, who, despising the drunken excesses of his lieutenants, with ceaseless care and watchfulness kept watch and ward within and without the castle.
Alice and Jeannette, too, with the curiosity of their sex, and with ever-increasing interest, explored the rooms of the castle, marvelling greatly at the many tokens of taste and refinement manifested therein, and which they little expected to find in the castle of a Saxon chieftain.
Said Alice, "My interest grows strangely from day to day, Jeannette, in this Saxon chieftain. I see no evidence of the boorishness I have always associated with the lives of the Barons of England. Now also that he is in such sore distress, and hath so sad a fate before him, my heart grieves sorely for him."
"Yes, my lady, I cannot help thinking that these Saxons would despise the beastly orgies proceeding under this roof, and outside."
"Yes, Jeannette; but what will it be on the morrow, when this Saxon is given over to their cruelty? It makes my blood curdle! Would I knew how to set him free! My heart tells me it would be an act of mercy done to my own people as well as to him; for to spare my people the humiliation and degradation of the morrow's inhumanity were indeed a good deed, whether they would appreciate it or not."
"My lady, if you wish it, I warrant we can do it. I know how to set about it. Paul Lazaire mounts guard, and I can coax the simpleton into obeying me. I declare if I had to bid him stand on his head he would do it."
"But, Jeannette, that would probably get Paul into trouble. Perhaps it would cost him his life. That would not do."
"Well, if you will not let me manage Paul, I cannot tell how to help you."
"But cannot we manage it without implicating Paul. I could make a sleeping draught which would put him to rest speedily."
"Oh, that would be fine, my lady! Just the very thing! Put it in some mulled ale, and I will dose him."
"But how then, Jeannette? Have we courage to open the prison doors? I am afraid our nerves would fail us down in those damp and ghostly cells."
"Not at all, my lady. I will go; my heart will not fail me, for it would just suit me to do it."
"Well, it sounds strange we should thus plot to deceive our people; but my heart prompts me to do this deed, come what may."
"Yes, let us do it; but, as I said, let it be mulled ale, for I declare ale is never too muddy for them, and they will drink it, no matter what stuff you put in it."
"But how shall we convey it to him when it is made? That is our next difficulty, Jeannette."
"Oh, I'll convey it, never fear for me, lady. The little soft is fool enough to think I admire him. It will be such fun! I shall almost burst with laughter when he gulps it down. I'll take him a tit-bit also, for his supper. The simpleton will be overjoyed, and I expect he'll begin maundering something about love," and Jeannette clapped her hands and skipped about gleefully. This was a matter that just jumped with her madcap humour, and her high spirits could any time carry her through a frolic of this sort; but when fairly cornered, her nerves were subject to complete collapse, and she became as helpless as any bird before the swoop of a hawk, unable to do anything but cower and helplessly flutter.
"Really, Jeannette, I think you treat this poor fellow rather too badly," said Alice.
"It's only a joke, my lady. I like to tease him, he amuses me so!"
"Well, get him some supper, then, and I will make him some mulled ale. For this once, at least, we must ignore our consciences; but indeed, I almost think the end will justify the means, for this worthy Saxon deserves some better fate than the one awaiting him, and I care not if I permit the claims of humanity and of chivalry to triumph, even though it be at the expense of my own people, of whose cruelty and greed I am heartily ashamed."
The evening hours were advancing rapidly towards the twelfth. Much of the clamour of the early hours of the night was effectually hushed in the drunken slumbers of both officers and men, and at the dread hour the attempt at rescue was to be made; so Jeannette, fortifying herself for her humorous but somewhat daring feat, tripped boldly along the corridors, torch in hand, bearing the repast prepared for her would-be lover.
"There, you false man, that is a great deal too good for you!" she said, accosting Paul Lazaire, who was mounting guard over the cell in which Oswald was confined, and who, in great trepidation and fear, shrank before the ghostly advent of an unknown and muffled visitant at the dread hour of night.
"Oh! goodness me, my pretty Jeannette, is it you? I was quite startled. I thought it was a ghost, and I declare it's an angel."
"You thought it was that ugly Saxon wench I caught you kissing, you false man! That is what you thought."
"Tush, tush, Jeannette! Whenever will you forget that? You know I love only you. Give me a kiss, and let us be friends. I vow I will never look at another Saxon wench as long as I live."
"Now, get off with you, if you please. You make a mistake if you think I am going to be kissed by you, when you are so fond of kissing any dirty hussy you meet."
"Now, don't, my fiery little wife! This is too bad—too bad for anything, Jeannette! You never have done with it."
"Don't you imagine you will have me for a wife unless you mend your manners very greatly. You shall have that dirty hussy of a Saxon for a wife, and I will have Jaques Leroux. He is a smarter man than you are, any day; and if I but put up my finger to him, he will run after me."
"You don't mean it, Jeannette! Now, don't be cruel! You might just as well say that you love me, for I know you do at heart, and you are only teasing me, as usual. I know you wouldn't have brought me this nice supper if you hadn't thought something of me. Now, isn't it so, Jeannette? Just give me a kiss, and say you forgive me for that Saxon wench, and then I shall be happy;" and Paul endeavoured gallantly to plant a kiss on Jeannette's rosy cheek.
"Here, get off, will you, or else I'll scratch you!" said Jeannette, violently pushing Paul away. "I'm not going to go shares with a dirty Saxon. Mark that, Paul Lazaire! You will have to mend your manners before you kiss me, I can tell you that much!"
"There you go again, Jeannette. You never will forget about that Saxon wench, I do believe; and you know it was only a joke."
"Now, just get your supper, and give up fooling, will you? or your ale will be cold, and I shall go away and leave you," was the very irresponsive reply of the dame.
Paul was really madly in love with Jeannette, but still he had to spare a considerable amount of affection for the steaming tankard of mulled ale and the victuals, which she had brought him. So he raised the tankard to his lips, and gave a hearty drink.
"Bravo, Jeannette!" said he, smacking his lips. "What a lovely brew it is to be sure! How it warms the pit of my stomach! You'll make me a happy man some day, I do declare, Jeannette."
"Now you are fooling again!" said Jeannette, giggling most immoderately at the gusto with which, unsuspectingly, he swallowed the potion. "Now, get your supper. I cannot spend the whole night with you here. So be quick, or I shall be missed."
Thus exhorted, Paul fell on the victuals with right good will, and drained to the dregs the tankard of spiced ale, all the while interspersing his feeding by casting pitiful glances at Jeannette, which made that mercurial young damsel giggle more immoderately still.
"Don't go, Jeannette," said he beseechingly, as Jeannette was about to turn away. "It is a long time to the next watch, and you can't imagine how creepy I feel in this passage, with that fearful Saxon inside clanking his irons, and tearing about, and not a soul within call if he should break loose."
"Is that the cell in which he is confined?"
"Yes, but he is very quiet just now. Perhaps he hears us talking; but I can hear him tugging at the chains sometimes as though he would tear the place down. He makes me feel as if next moment he'd burst open the door, and murder me. He is a most desperate fellow. You should have seen how he fought on that wall; and there was another one who escaped, a fearful man, too, at his weapons."
"Oh, I saw them, and I noticed how frightened you all were into the bargain. But are those the keys you have at your girdle?"
"Yes; this is the one for the door, and this other one for the manacles," said Paul, holding up a pair of rusty keys to Jeannette's view. "I wish the watch was over," he added, shuddering, "or I hadun bon camarade."
"Eh, bien! bon nuit, mon bonhomme," said Jeannette, gathering up the empty tankard, and flitting along the lonesome corridors back again to her mistress, who was waiting with feverish impatience for her return.
"What news have you, Jeannette? Did all go well?"
"Beautiful, my lady. He drank the ale, and praised it finely. I knew he would do that, for those horrid men always praise ale. But the wonder to me is that the beastly stuff did not turn his stomach."
"Did you see the cell, then, in which the Saxon is confined?"
"Yes; and Paul showed me which is the key for the door, and which is for the manacles; for he is chained fast to the wall, it appears."
"Oh, dear, I wish it was over, for I tremble from head to foot. It is a desperate enterprise, and would be both rash and indelicate if the mercifulness of it did not demand the sacrifice. Dost thou fear to venture it, Jeannette?"
"Not a bit, my lady; I like to outwit those men folk, for they count us nothing, and it will be such a joke to see their blank looks in the morning! And won't the Baron rage and swear at the men-at-arms?"
"Oh, do hush, you foolish child, it is far too serious to jest about. I wish your courage and lightheartedness may not fail you before our task is accomplished! If a merciful Heaven do not help us, I fear me we shall never accomplish our purpose."
"Let us make vow to Notre Dame, before we venture, that we will repeat fifty Aves and Credos if she help us, and give twenty silver pennies to the holy Father at the next gathering of the Romescot."[1]
"Well, we will see about that; but we had better get ready, for the draught will soon take effect upon this sweetheart of yours."
"Stuff, my lady! He is a little finikin fellow, and simple to boot. I do but tease him. He amuses me so much I really cannot help joking him."
Ere long these two frail women stole along the lonesome passages, having fortified themselves as best they could for their task. Alice was dreadfully nervous, but determined of purpose. Jeannette, however, was jaunty enough at starting, and had it been the congenial task of tricking poor Paul Lazaire, her volatile temperament would have carried her through; but she soon began to manifest, by many hysterical starts, that this dramatic adventure, which might become a tragedy, was telling powerfully upon her nerves.
They soon reached the place, however, where, as they anticipated, Paul was found in a state of blissful insensibility to either friend or foe. He had speedily felt the soothing effect of the drug, and had sat down with his back to the wall. But he had quickly slidden from that position and was now lying flat along, in a sound sleep, and breathing heavily.
"Oh, dear!" almost shrieked Jeannette, as she witnessed Paul's insensible condition. "He's not dead, is he, my lady?"
"No, he is not, you simpleton! Now let us be quick, Jeannette! Reach the keys from his girdle. May Heaven help us!" said Alice, devoutly crossing herself. But she dared not give utterance to her fears in presence of her maid, whose condition was plainly visible to her.
Jeannette snatched the keys from Paul's girdle, and Alice thrust the clumsy piece of metal into the door; but she had to apply her utmost strength ere the rusty bolt shot back with a loud snap. Then, applying her strength to the heavy oaken door, it recoiled slowly on its rusty hinges, with a horrid, creaking noise which grated fearfully on the excited nerves of the pair. Immediately, as the torch's flickering light fell dimly across the cell, their eyes fell upon the captive chief, who was chained to the wall by heavy chains, but nevertheless stood erect, with distended nostrils, clenched hands, and threatening attitude. He was evidently expecting a midnight assassin, and though manacled and bound hand and foot, he would fight it out to the end. Alice started back, trembling violently, as she beheld the fierce attitude of Oswald; and the last spark of Jeannette's courage disappeared, for, with a shriek, she clutched the arm of her mistress and tried to drag her away.
"Hush, Jeannette! Be still," cried Alice beseechingly; "we shall be discovered if you do not be quiet."
The scene was a graphic one truly. The two timid women stood on the threshold of the cell, cowed by the savage attitude of the captive, and afraid to advance a step, though bent on doing a deed of mercy. Oswald also was strangely bewildered at the sight of such gentle visitors; for, as the torch was held aloft, the uncertain light revealed to him the forms of two timid and graceful women, and one of them, at least, bearing evidence of gentle blood and gentle manners. His muscles relaxed and his manacled hands fell to his side, and the heavy irons clanked horribly in the vaulted cell. This still further terrified the visitors, and Jeannette, whose nerves were at their utmost tension, with a shriek involuntarily bounded over the sleeping form of Paul Lazaire, and fled like the wind along the corridors, leaving her mistress alone with the captive chieftain. The awful silence was broken by Oswald, who said, "Be not afraid, gentle lady. I was expecting some red-handed murderer and the cold steel; but methinks so fair a messenger should bear a message of mercy."
"We have at least a merciful intent, Saxon. We saw your brave defence of the castle, and we would fain set you free if we can, for we know the brutal designs of some of our people, and we would save our own people from dishonour, and you from a cruel death."
"Ah! then pity still exists in the breast of woman! I thought the world was emptied of such things."
"This can never be, sir knight, whilst honour and chivalry inspire the deeds of knights and warriors; for such can never fail to inspire the sympathies of us weak women."
"Will you dare, then, fair lady, to carry out your beneficent purpose, and give me my liberty again, enemy though I be to thy people?"
"I have counted all costs, sir knight; and I dare, if so be that my woman's strength can effect it."
"Here is my right hand, then. Ten thousand blessings on your woman's heart if you can set it free once more!"
As he spoke he stretched out his right arm, loaded with the heavy and rusty fetters.
Alice boldly advanced and thrust the key into the lock, but her utmost strength was insufficient to force back the catch, whilst Oswald's fetters prevented him from reaching one hand with the other. Alice unloosed from her shoulders a collarette of rich lace, and wrapped it round the rusty key, the angles of which hurt her hand. Then, applying again her utmost strength, happily she succeeded in forcing back the stubborn bolt, and thus liberating Oswald's right hand.
"Thank Heaven for a limb at liberty! My good right hand, too," said he, stretching it to its utmost length for very joy. "Give me the key, now, fair lady, for I can myself undo the rest." Soon, one by one, the fetters were stripped off from his cramped and lacerated limbs, and he bounded from them free. Falling on his knees before Alice, he seized her hand and pressed it to his lips, exclaiming, "Tell me the name of my benefactress, lady, for it shall be enshrined in my memory for ever."
"I am Alice de Montfort, and that was my maid," said Alice timidly, and blushing crimson.
"Alice de Montfort!" said Oswald, starting to his feet as one bewildered at the avowal. Then, seizing the other trembling hand, he passionately exclaimed, "Nay, never blush, lady! So noble a name, so fair a form, and so generous a deed are worthily associated."
"Alas! I fear me, sir knight, some men, if they knew that I thus acted falsely to my father and to my people, would despise me; but I have learnt to despise the opinions of men, when the cause of humanity and of chivalry claims my feeble help. We noticed your brave defence of your home, and the evil fortune which befel you; and we two weak women were overtaken with pity, which is our woman's weakness. Thus we have ventured this deed. I would you should accept it as some atonement for the violence and greed of my people. But tarry not, sir knight, I beseech you, lest this act be marred ere it be accomplished."
"How can I express my gratitude to you, gentle lady, for adventuring so much in order that you might give me my life! But I would that the curse of Heaven may be upon me as an ingrate, if I forget, even for an hour, the debt I owe to you, and, if opportunity serve, I return not with interest to thee and thine this act of mercy done to me in my extremity. But the time is urgent, as you say. So adieu, lady."
"Stay, sir knight; there is one other point—how will you make good your escape? Had you not better go with us to our women's quarters? Then we may devise with greater leisure some further means to ensure your escape."
"If you will but lend me your cloak, lady, to disguise my form, I know this castle's resources, and I shall not fail to make my escape. As a token of this, I will leave the cloak at the foot of the stair leading to the tower. Adieu, lady! We shall meet again under happier auspices."
So saying, he bounded from the dungeon and disappeared in the darkness.
"Midnight brought on the dusky hour,Friendliest to sleep and silence."Milton.
"Midnight brought on the dusky hour,Friendliest to sleep and silence."
Milton.
The pall of darkness is spread over the face of Nature, and the bold outlines of the mountains are shrouded in its embrace. Under cover of the darkness, a cordon of vigilant and daring sentinels are closing in upon the castle and its carousing inmates. One stealthy figure glides peeringly from tree to tree amongst the clump of towering chestnuts, until he reaches one near the wall, when, throwing his legs around it, and catching hold of the tough and sinewy shoots in the bole, he mounts aloft, and perches daringly amid the branches of the tree, watching the remnant of the Normans who still are able to keep up the orgie. But most of them are now fast in the arms of a sodden sleep.
Another figure, on hands and knees, with snake-like motion has left the thicket of laurel, hazels, and flowering currants at the foot of the slope in front, and wriggles his way up the rising ground on which the castle is built, until he comes daringly close to the wall; whilst the short, sharp scream of the night-owl, issuing from first one point and then another, tells that concerted action is afoot. The secret of it is, that Wulfhere has rallied a band of the hardiest Saxons, if needs be, to dare a desperate deed of rescue on behalf of their captive chieftain. Many a fierce Saxon, with naked sword and eagerly listening ear, is lurking around, ready for any deed that may be required of him.
Wulfhere and a trusty comrade are standing together at the foot of a gigantic oak in an adjoining wood. The capacious trunk tells that for many centuries it has looked down upon its contemporaries. The decayed and verdureless branches, clustered around its centre, tell also that the process of decay has been progressing for a longer span of time than is permitted in the life of mortals. If we ascend it for a few yards we shall find that, just where its stout limbs divide themselves from the bole, a yawning cavern has taken the place of its once stout heart, into which a man would find no difficulty in descending.
"I think there are none of the enemy on the alert, and we may venture," said Wulfhere to his companion. So saying, he mounted the tree and disappeared in the recess, and, sliding down until he reached the ground, he quietly removed some leaves and otherdébris; then there was visible a trap-door, which he raised, revealing a flight of steps, which he descended, followed by his companion. Drawing forth a horn lantern, with tinder-box and flint, he struck a light, and the pair began slowly marching along in the direction of the castle. But they had not proceeded very far before they were saluted by a familiar voice.
"What ho, Wulfhere! what are you venturing?"
After the first violent consternation, Wulfhere found his tongue.
"We essayed a rescue, my lord, but you have saved us the trouble. How is this? We scarcely hoped to find you alive at this time, much less a free man."
"A miracle, Wulfhere! I account it a miracle, for I am as one given back from the dead. But more anon. Let us haste for the present, for I tremble lest it should turn out that it is but a dream, and that there will follow a horrid awakening."
The trio quickly retraced their steps, and stood together in the wood, Wulfhere uttering a series of peculiar calls well known to every Saxon comprising the band of rescuers. Quickly, one by one, they rallied to the spot; and when they saw their chieftain safe and well their demonstrations of joy were most exuberant—almost frantic—many of them dancing round him like satyrs in the dim light of the wood, each and all most anxiously demanding by what strange chance he had obtained his liberty. As they hastily retreated to the hills, Oswald briefly related to his followers the circumstances of his release by two Norman women, who at dead of night had boldly opened the prison door and unfettered him—Oswald carefully laying upon his followers the injunction that no harm should be done to the Norman women, and that special regard should be paid to the Norman lady, daughter of Count de Montfort. He also enjoined upon them the strictest secrecy as to the agents who had taken part in it.
Early on the morrow there was a grand muster of the Norman men-at-arms in the castle yard. Many of them who had taken part in the assault on the castle were not followers of the Count, but mercenaries, who were eager for further advance in quest of plunder. To this multitude who had fought for him, and stayed their hand from plunder and burning, at his request, a liberal donative of gold was distributed; and presently three-fourths of the soldiery shouldered arms and marched northwards to swell the ranks of the desolating host which carried fire and sword throughout the north of England, and to the borders of Scotland. Blood-curdling were the dreadful scenes of slaughter that were enacted; not less than two hundred thousand Saxons perishing in that ruthless massacre.
Alice and Jeannette were astir betimes in the morning also; in fact, Alice had not closed her eyes during that night of suspense. With considerable daring, in the morning she and Jeannette passed from room to room, from basement to roof, in search of evidence that the Saxon had made good his escape, starting and trembling violently as the wild shouts of the men fell upon their ears, lest it should be but the herald of Oswald's recapture.
"There remains but the tower, Jeannette," said Alice, after they had explored, as best they could, the various rooms of the castle. So towards the dismal winding stair of the tower they hastened, and there in the semi-darkness they came across the cloak which Alice had lent the fugitive. Then Alice remembered the parting words of the Saxon,—that 'she would find the cloak at the bottom of the stair.' Slowly they scrambled up these stairs, often-times having literally to grope their way. When they reached the top they peered anxiously around, but no trace of Oswald was to be seen. Looking over the battlements, they beheld Vigneau, Pierre, and a number of men making preparation for what they considered a morning's sport. Some had fenced round a small enclosure, and others had kindled a large fire, in which were heating pincers and long iron spikes wherewith they purposed torturing the Saxon chieftain. Vigneau, casting a glance up at the castle, perceived Alice and Jeannette peering over the battlements and watching the fiendish preparations.
"Pierre," said Vigneau, "do you seela grande damewatching us? We shall find her sport soon the mawkish damsel will sicken at, I warrant. I would like to tie her to the spot and make her look on whether she will or no."
"You will win no gracious smiles by this work, I doubt, my lord; it would have been better done farther away," said Pierre.
"I neither care for her smiles nor her tears. I have got the hook in her gills and I'll land her in my own fashion, and she may struggle and flounder as she will. I can bring her ladyship or her precious sire to their knees as I like. You shall see presently. But come along, bring half a dozen of your men with you; we'll have Samson up now."
So away they hastened to the cells to fetch their prisoner.
"Jeannette," said Alice, "I am ready to faint! Do you think the Saxon has escaped? I fear he could never scale that horrid wall; and if he be but hiding on the roof or in the cells he will be surely caught."
"If I could push these huge stones upon the Baron's head I would do it freely," said Jeannette.
Just at that moment a wild shout came pealing up the stair.
"Oh, Jeannette," said Alice, "let me sit down! They have found him, I fear! This is sickening!"
Just at that moment a soldier was seen to dash from the door of the castle and fly across the enclosure and through the gate. This was the sentinel who had taken Paul Lazaire's place; and who, as soon as he found the prisoner gone had himself fled for life and was seen no more.
Speedily a hue and cry was raised. The castle was searched within and without with the utmost minuteness. Vigneau's violence and rage were fearful, and his demeanour that of a wild beast baulked of his prey.
It is needless to say that I was well-nigh overjoyed when Badger brought me the wonderful news of Oswald's deliverance. I gave God praise, for truly it was little less than a miracle. Badger, by some means or other, seemed to be constantly in possession of all information as regarded the movements of the Normans as well as the Saxons. Truly, he seemed ever on the alert. By night he was constantly in conference with the outlaws. Marvellously, also, he gained the goodwill of the Normans, and he became a repository of all their secrets. Unfortunately for us, Vigneau and his men quartered themselves at the abbey; and, fearful for Ethel's safety, I made Badger the bearer of the following letter to Oswald, who had, I was pleased to hear, found a retreat which promised some prospect of immunity from molestation; and, as I said, I had become most nervously anxious for the welfare of Ethel now that Vigneau had taken up his abode so near to her retreat."To the most noble and valiant Ealdorman Oswald, greeting.—Having been assured by yourself that you purpose devoting your great wisdom and undoubted valour to the most worthy cause of protecting and succouring your unfortunate and distressed countrymen, in these most perilous times, I would fain bring to your notice that most evil times have befallen the house of your late neighbour, the Thane Beowulf, in that his lands, like your own, have become forfeit. But, what is even more distressing, he, along with his son, has been slain whilst endeavouring to prevent the spoliation of their possessions by the Normans. His lovely and accomplished daughter Ethel had fled to these cloisters for safety; but inasmuch as this most holy sanctuary is involved in the general ruin, being seized by violent hands, and remains at this present in possession and under the control of beings who are little better than fiends—men who have no regard for sacred things, and who in their cruelty and lust spare neither age nor sex—violent hands have been laid upon Ethel, but happily she hath been delivered out of their hands as a 'bird from the fowler,' by the combined address and valour of the bearer of this message. Unfortunately there is no place of safety for her, for the remnant of her father's housecarles and fiefs are a scattered band, and outlaws. She hath for the present, however, found a temporary place of shelter in the dwelling of one of her father's rangers, who hath a rude abode in 'Hooded Crow's Gyll.' But this is at best a precarious refuge, for, as soon as the Normans muster courage to explore the forest, she will inevitably fall into their hands again. If thou canst befriend this orphaned one, the God of the friendless and distressed bless thee! If thou canst offer her a more secure shelter, the bearer of this missive—whom doubtless thou wilt know—may be safely trusted to guide thee to the herdsman's hut. Most sorrowfully I salute thee."Adhelm, Abbot,"Monastery of ——.[symbol: cross]
It is needless to say that I was well-nigh overjoyed when Badger brought me the wonderful news of Oswald's deliverance. I gave God praise, for truly it was little less than a miracle. Badger, by some means or other, seemed to be constantly in possession of all information as regarded the movements of the Normans as well as the Saxons. Truly, he seemed ever on the alert. By night he was constantly in conference with the outlaws. Marvellously, also, he gained the goodwill of the Normans, and he became a repository of all their secrets. Unfortunately for us, Vigneau and his men quartered themselves at the abbey; and, fearful for Ethel's safety, I made Badger the bearer of the following letter to Oswald, who had, I was pleased to hear, found a retreat which promised some prospect of immunity from molestation; and, as I said, I had become most nervously anxious for the welfare of Ethel now that Vigneau had taken up his abode so near to her retreat.
"To the most noble and valiant Ealdorman Oswald, greeting.—Having been assured by yourself that you purpose devoting your great wisdom and undoubted valour to the most worthy cause of protecting and succouring your unfortunate and distressed countrymen, in these most perilous times, I would fain bring to your notice that most evil times have befallen the house of your late neighbour, the Thane Beowulf, in that his lands, like your own, have become forfeit. But, what is even more distressing, he, along with his son, has been slain whilst endeavouring to prevent the spoliation of their possessions by the Normans. His lovely and accomplished daughter Ethel had fled to these cloisters for safety; but inasmuch as this most holy sanctuary is involved in the general ruin, being seized by violent hands, and remains at this present in possession and under the control of beings who are little better than fiends—men who have no regard for sacred things, and who in their cruelty and lust spare neither age nor sex—violent hands have been laid upon Ethel, but happily she hath been delivered out of their hands as a 'bird from the fowler,' by the combined address and valour of the bearer of this message. Unfortunately there is no place of safety for her, for the remnant of her father's housecarles and fiefs are a scattered band, and outlaws. She hath for the present, however, found a temporary place of shelter in the dwelling of one of her father's rangers, who hath a rude abode in 'Hooded Crow's Gyll.' But this is at best a precarious refuge, for, as soon as the Normans muster courage to explore the forest, she will inevitably fall into their hands again. If thou canst befriend this orphaned one, the God of the friendless and distressed bless thee! If thou canst offer her a more secure shelter, the bearer of this missive—whom doubtless thou wilt know—may be safely trusted to guide thee to the herdsman's hut. Most sorrowfully I salute thee.
"Adhelm, Abbot,"Monastery of ——.[symbol: cross]
"Adhelm, Abbot,"Monastery of ——.[symbol: cross]
This epistle duly reached Oswald, who, as I surmised, lost no time in setting about a rescue. Calling Wulfhere, three horses were quickly saddled—one for Oswald, one for Wulfhere, and one for Badger, who was to act as guide.
"Lead the way," said the Earl; "and keep by the hills as far as possible, for the Normans as yet have had no time to spare from their eating, drinking, and plundering, to explore the hill country, and, I doubt not, we shall go unmolested."
With these directions, the three horsemen started off, keeping to the hills, where their vision could sweep the valleys and lowlands with so much accuracy that it would have been impossible for an enemy to come at any time within a couple of miles of steep climbing without being perceived. A little more than an hour's ride brought them to the point from whence they must strike the forest and lowlands. They paused for a minute or two, calmly surveying the hillsides, and minutely scrutinising every object which had any indefiniteness or uncertainty about it. But the curlews swept the long circle of the hills, uttering their plaintive cries, and the hawks glided over the tops of the trees, or darted in and out amongst them to start their prey into the open, or, on poised wing, they rested motionless in the air, scanning with keen vision the ground beneath them, and ready to pounce like a flash upon any luckless mouse or tiny rabbit that had ventured on an excursion from its hole.
"The presence of man—or, at least, of men—is not here," said Oswald, "or these shy denizens of the solitudes of Nature would betray it by their unrest. Lead on, Badger; we shall not be molested, I trust."
So Badger struck out for the lowlands at a rapid pace, presently plunging into the head of the wood which ran up the valley some half-mile beyond the unbroken forest. In the bottom of this valley or gorge, a water-course was speeding away from the hills, occasionally leaping over falls of several yards. But, amongst the unsolvable mysteries of Nature, trout in goodly numbers had penetrated beyond them, and in every pool or temporary resting-place of the waters, these enterprising denizens of the flood abounded. The three followed a rough path by this water-course for a considerable distance, until it merged in the well-nigh interminable forest.
Suddenly Badger diverged from the path, and, dismounting, led his horse through the thicket, putting aside the branches as he passed. Presently a rude dwelling became visible, with a little clearing around it. This was the spot where the herdsman, or, more properly speaking, the ranger, dwelt. It was a rough and primitive sort of building, made of wood. Stout oak limbs, deeply inserted into the ground, and from which the bark had been removed, formed the main supports, whilst the arched roof and interspaces of the sides were interlaced in most fantastic shapes by smaller branches of the oak, all carefully peeled. Upon this framework of oaken branches the roof and sides were dexterously thatched by heather from the neighbouring moor, and over all a rude daubing of mud and lime mixed; the whole making a rude, but, nevertheless, a warm and dry abode. Around the entrance there was a few yards paved with smooth limestone pebbles gathered from the neighbouring brook. Amid these were interspersed most fantastically the knuckle-bones of deer, sheep, wolves, and other animals. Grotesque and whimsical all this seemed, but it jumped with the fancy of the architect, who was literally a child of the forest. Badger, as he drew nigh, heard hasty scuffling of feet and barricading of the door. But when he gave a knock all was as still as death in a moment.
"Hillo, within there!" shouted Badger. "There is nothing but good Saxons here."
The ranger's wife recognised at once the voice of Badger, and undid the door; and the three entered, leaving their horses standing together. Ethel, meanwhile, was listening within in great trepidation, but when she discovered that their unexpected visitants were Saxon, she emerged from an inner room. As her eyes rested upon Oswald, who had removed his helmet, the burning blushes mounted in a deep crimson glow to her face and neck, and she cast an anxiously nervous look at her disarranged toilette.
"Ah!" said Oswald, taking her hand and raising it to his lips, "is this the sweet little Ethel who used to watch us rough boys play at the joust, and fence with our broadswords?—whom we used to accompany through the Bruneswald on her hawking expeditions? Why, how you have grown, too! To be sure, these terrible times have left no opportunities for neighbourly amenities. Why, 'tis three years since I last set eyes upon you. Ah, I know 'tis very sad," said he, as he saw the tears start into her eyes; "but dry those eyes, timid one, we will endeavour to find a covert where you may hide; and we will put about it a girdle of steel, and woe shall be to the Norman who obtrudes his hated presence near."
But these gentle words only seemed to open the floodgates still wider, and the frail frame of the fair girl quivered with emotion. Recently she had passed through sufferings, privations, terrors innumerable; but as she looked upon the mailed warrior before her, it seemed as though a very tower of refuge had been found. The most casual observer would have been powerfully impressed by the striking contrast in these two human beings—Ethel, with her fair complexion, deep blue eyes, and rich tresses of fair hair falling with unkempt gracefulness over her shoulders, being a picture of maidenly grace, and an ideal high-born Saxon maiden; whilst the Earl's tall, muscular frame, well-shapen head, and curly locks, seemed like a modern Hercules made for the times, and equipped by Nature to play a conspicuous part in a troublous epoch,—times, in which personal prowess, dauntless courage, and a commanding presence were essential qualities in one who aspired to be a leader of men.
We can scarcely wonder that there should be a touch of more than wonted gentleness in the tone of his voice, as he spoke to this fair and sorrowing maiden.
"We heard of your misfortunes, fair one," said Oswald, "and we have come to offer you such succour as a dispossessed Saxon can still offer. I fear me it will be but a rude shelter for so gentle a guest. It may be precarious, and subject to alarms, too; but I warrant it shall have a measure of safety, if you will accept of it."
"Thank you, my lord. Alas! that is all that I have to offer for your great kindness. I will gladly accept your offer, and I will try not to be altogether a burden to you."
"Now, my worthy dame," said Oswald, addressing the ranger's wife, "you have done a good deed in sheltering this lady."
"We have but done our duty. She is our lawful mistress. We have fed on her father's bounty, and enjoyed his protection, and the sorrow is to see her brought to this pass."
"Where is thy husband?"
"He is adown the Gyll on the watch."
"Canst thou call him?"
"Presently, my lord, if you wish to see him."
"Yes, let us see his face. We may be able to befriend him, and he us."
The woman reached from the side of the dwelling a small whistle, made from a branch of the plaintain tree, and, going to the door, she blew a low and peculiar note, then listened for a second; but there was no response. Then a little louder she blew the same note. Immediately there came trembling through the wood a response.
"He will be here soon," said the woman, coming back to the dwelling.
Presently, the ranger pressed through the bushes into the enclosure; in one hand a dish of fine trout dangled on a string, and in the other hand a pheasant. But there was no mark of surprise on Bretwul's countenance as he beheld his visitors.
"How now, friend. Thou art not alarmed, I see," said Oswald.
"No; I have one eye for the hills, and another for the dales, and I know a Saxon any gait, and my old comrade Badger in any guise."
"So thou hast busied thyself in securing these dainties for thy mistress, I presume?"
"Yes, I have sent one of my trusty shafts after this dainty bird, and I have poked under a few stones in the brook for these trout. Here," said he, throwing his quiver on the floor, "are a score of cloth-yard shafts, and every one a trusty friend, and never fails. I have taken great pains in the rearing of them. I have tried them all at a mark, and I have all their peculiarities logged up in my brain-pan. I have taken the swerve out of them, as nearly as I can, by paring their heads, and twisting their tails; but they have all a mind of their own at the finish. But I know their minds as well as they know themselves, and I can allow, to a shadow, what they require and I can shoot a Norman's eye out at fourscore paces with any of them. Look, also; all these heads have been made by Sweyn, the Sheffield armourer; all of them forked ye see, and make a dainty little slit between a Norman's ribs as they enter; but gramercy! getting them out, there's the rub! I have been watching for many a day down the Gyll, for the Normans have been getting bold, ransacking the forest in quest of Saxon refugees. A slice of luck, and a crumb of comfort, has fallen to me this morning."
"Oh! Hast thou had some of them within reach of thy cloth-yard shafts, then, this morning?"
"Marry, that I have! and I have tickled one or two of them with a long stick; but they didn't laugh, mark you."
"Oh, then, we'll have thy story, Bretwul, for we are all anxious to hear how they like messages from our woodsmen."
"Well, it came about thus. There is a little path from the valley leads up to our cot. 'Twas worn, before these dogs came, be assured, for we shall make no further tracks, yet awhile. As I was out this morning, on the rough side of my cottage—that is, the side turned to the foe—and on the look-out for them, three or four of these Normans had come across the track, and, of course, they naturally thought there would be something at the end on't. Well, there was something in the middle that satisfied them. No sooner did I see them coming, than I says to myself, 'Come on, my bucks! I've got something warm for you, and you can have it for nothing but love.' I planted myself in the bush not forty paces away, and I selected my choicest shaft. This is him," said he, pulling one out of the quiver, still red with blood. "I'd trust my life on this shaft, master, for he never fails. Well; on they came, and I gave him all the strength of my arm, and plump in the throat my arrow struck the foremost Norman, and he dropped in the path. Gramercy! His fellows didn't even stop to say to him, 'Are you much hurt?' or even to inquire if there was any more of the same sort about; but they turned tail, master, if you believe me, and they ran—why, Badger here couldn't have overhauled them, and he's the nimblest fellow in these parts. Well, I says to myself, 'I should not like you to go empty away, any of you, if I can help it.' So I lodged another of my shafts pretty securely, I warrant, in the buttocks of the last one, and the fellow never halted for a moment to inquire what it was, but he carried off my shaft. I suppose they will be busy now inviting it to come out; but, depend upon it, it will hold its own as closely as any Norman could stick to a Saxon's goods. I've lost a good shaft over him, but it will tickle him for many a day yet; and he'll want nobody to scratch the place, either. There, marry! it's bad manners to stand prating before my betters, but a bit of news of this sort I like, either to hear or tell it."
"It is news good either to hear or tell," said Oswald, "and we shall be glad to hear more of thy stories when thou hast any as good as this. But prithee, my good fellow, what is this bundle of shafts in the corner?"
"These, master, are my youngsters, and they haven't quite finished their schooling. They are trusty shafts enough when you come to close quarters, but, like an unbroken colt, a trifle skittish when accurate work has to be done. I'll make them steady goers by-and-bye. Wife haven't you a drink of mead or a bite of anything for our guests? This is Oswald, our only chieftain in these parts. Don't you remember his coming to the hall and playing joust and broadsword with Master Beowulf? A stout rogue he was, too, in those days. This is Wulfhere, Folkfree and Sacless (lawful freeman); Badger, too, a merry fellow—like myself, though, thrall and bondman, but as trusty a knave, I trow, as breathes."
"I like thy mettle, Bretwul, if such be thy name; but what dost thou purpose to do? Wilt thou stay here and take thy luck single-handed, or dost thou intend to make terms with the Normans, and accept such mercies as they may bestow?"
"'Down with the Normans,' is the Saxon's good word now, and it has been mine from the first. The Bruneswald, and the company of the merry outlaws who range it, would suit me best; but hopping about in the woods, like a squirrel from tree to tree, does not suit the womenfolk and my toddlers. But shift I must now; after to-day's business there will be no staying here. I left yon fellow across the path as a sort of warning to trespassers, but it won't act long, for the Normans will come again in larger numbers, and the game will soon be up."
"Maybe thou hast heard that we have made a stand on the hills yonder?"
"Ay, ay! that I have, master."
"If thou likest to bring thy wife to Tarnghyll, where we are sheltering for the present, she and the little ones will be much safer, and thy wife Eadburgh will be useful to Lady Ethel. By-the-bye, thou hast a brace of falcons and some fishing gear, I see; and I warrant there is a ferret or two in that hutch outside. Every man to his craft, and marry, thine is a serviceable one just now. If thou wilt do thine office for thy mistress and the rest of us, why then bring thy tackle, and thou shalt ply thy craft for us, and be assured we shall not grumble if thou waste an occasional shaft upon the buttocks of any bold or prying Norman. Hast thou any of thy comrades, servants of the worthy Thane Beowulf, hiding hereabouts who are willing to take a new master? If there are, bring them along with thee, for any one sturdy enough to despise the Norman yoke, and anxious to loose a shaft in defence of the Saxon's cause, will be heartily welcomed, for we purpose a venture in which a man who can shoot straight will do us good service."
"That will be blithe news, I trow, for there are a number of the housecarles of the worthy Thane, my late master, who are casting about for something more settled-like than the wolf's-head life of the forest. In truth, there will be a merry gathering of stout outlaws at the hermit's cave on Crowfell at nightfall. I would be keen to carry your message to this trysting. At our last gathering the talk ran much on your defence of the castle, and some of these are forest men and outlaws who range the woods as far south as Sherwood. Anyway, I warrant me the natives of these parts will hear the news with rare glee, for a dalesman likes to keep in the shadow of his hills and fells. Stout men at a push you'll find them, and ready to stand to their weapons with the best, and as slippery as eels when they must shift for themselves. Say the word, and I'll see it runs through these parts like a heather-fire in a stiff breeze."
"Good! Bretwul, stir up these fellows, the more the merrier, for we are not going to play hide-and-seek with these Normans, and the stouter the mustering the better we can deal with them."
Bretwul's wife set before the visitors a stout repast—spoils of the chase and the flood—for Bretwul was an adept at his vocation. The visitors also were well supplied with hunger-sauce, and they did rare justice to it.
"Well, Badger," said Oswald, "you seem to have taken such a liking to your new friends that you could not bear parting with them on any terms, so we must leave you behind, and wish them joy of their friend."
"Gramercy, master, it is true! I am such a simple fellow that I can wag a paw with these Normans in all meekness and humility; but I have a snare or two set on my own account, and the game always finds its way fellward. Leave me alone, I'll wriggle through it somehow; and, by our Lady, I've had no broken bones thus far."
So Oswald, Wulfhere, and Ethel sped them on their way—Ethel being accommodated with the spare horse.
"Come, Ethel, my girl, you must dry those eyes, for I shall take note each day, be assured, to see how the sunshine comes back again to your countenance," said Oswald, pleasantly.
"I am afraid I shall prove to be a great burden, and very little of a help to you in your struggles."