"All good to me is lost.Evil, be thou my good."Milton.
"All good to me is lost.Evil, be thou my good."
Milton.
Great was the chagrin and rage manifested by Vigneau, Count de Montfort, and the Normans generally, at this unexpected rebuff; and increased cruelties and indignities were heaped upon the hapless and degraded Saxons who had accepted the yoke of villeinage. Indeed, the lives of these Saxons were of no account whatever; and the honour of the Saxon women was at the mercy of besotted and degraded Norman troopers. Very few indeed were there amongst the Saxons who had not grievous cause to cherish the most deadly hatred against these ruthless oppressors and usurpers, the Normans.
It was too much to expect that, amid the general confiscation, the monastery should continue to be governed by myself, and that monks of Saxon origin should minister to the poor and the sick, and have control of our endowments. So, as I had expected, one fateful day, my office was taken from me and bestowed upon a Norman Father, who, with a number of monks, had followed at the heels of the conquerors, and were as greedy for the emoluments of the Church, as their brethren-in-arms were for the possessions of the Saxon laymen. So one Father Vigneau, who was a brother of Baron Vigneau, became our Abbot, and degradation and much oppression was meted out to us Saxons, with the object of driving us forth to other shelter, or to become mendicant friars or mere hedge priests. Some of my subordinates went forth, like Abraham, to seek a country. Some cast in their lot with their outlawed countrymen, and, I am sorry to say, not unfrequently became as great adepts at the wielding of carnal weapons as they were at saying Mass or burying the dead. But I had so many ties, and such affection for my flock, that I resolved to stay and bear the heavy yoke; counting it no small honour to be found worthy to suffer like my Master.
I was also greatly fortified in this my resolve by the friendship and help which I received at the hands of Alice De Montfort, who proved to be a real friend, not only to myself, but to all who were in suffering and distress.
Our new Abbot, I found, had not been trained to the service of the Church, but had been, at one time, a soldier by profession. Latterly he had taken to the Church, as I suspect because he found the sacred calling less arduous, and could be made to serve his inordinate desire for idleness and good living. His god was indeed his belly, and his life loose and irregular to great excess. He was a man of florid countenance, and much too pursy for a man whose first duty was to crucify the flesh. His garments, also, ill became a man in the sacred office he had assumed. He was an exceedingly vain man, and loved to adorn his person, and affect the airs and swaggering gait of a young gallant. By his side he constantly dangled a sword, and under his monk's robes he usually wore a coat of link-mail—which, I suspected, arose from a cowardly fear of assassination; for, despite his swaggering deportment, I ever found him to be an arrant coward, and, like every coward, relentless and cruel, loving to oppress and to insult those whose position made it easy for him so to do.
Amongst the monks who came with him I found not one truly holy and devoted man. Most of them were so ignorant as to be totally unable to read the sacred books in the Latin tongue. These men, like their superior, lived loose, irregular lives; habitually neglecting prayers, fasting, and abstinence from carnal indulgences. Indeed, of most of them, if it had not been for their dress they could not have been distinguished from the riotous and disorderly soldiery.
Our new Abbot and his brother, Baron Vigneau, were spending the night together, indulging in one of those nightly carousals which were a disgrace and a crying scandal to our ancient and holy monastery, which had earned itself a good repute by the piety and learning of the brotherhood, and by the wise and charitable administration of the princely revenues which appertained to it. Never had it been known, in times past, that any palmer, or wandering minstrel, had been turned away from its hospitable doors, unhoused and unfed; and any distressed or suffering peasant was sure to have sympathy in trouble, and relief in want. But since the advent of the Normans, its revenues were dissipated by rioting and drunkenness, chambering and wantonness, and in entertaining Norman riff-raff and debauching Saxons, who were willing to sell themselves for the gluttonous eating and drinking to which they were treated. In vain it was for us Saxons to preach virtue and chastity to the poor peasantry, whose cattle, implements of husbandry, and homes, had been destroyed, and who could not till the ground, knowing that they would be despoiled of their harvest. The poor were at best half starved, and subjected to most gross and cruel treatment.
To-night, however, more than ordinarily weighty matters were being discussed over their wine by the brothers.
"What progress, then, have you made in the matter?" said the Abbot.
"Well, I have, by a most determined effort, forced the Count, much against his will, to name a day for the fulfilment of his promise. But the jade, his daughter, takes high ground, and I fancy to get her nose to the grindstone will be no easy task."
"I suppose it is the old excuse the vixen makes?"
"Yes; my tongue is not smooth enough, and my manners do not suit her dainty notions. She's in a precious dudgeon just now over a Saxon wench I took a fancy to; and she's as flighty as a two-year-old filly, and as proud as Lucifer. In fact, she gets more stately and arrogant from day to day. Never mind!" said he, bringing his fist down upon the table. "I'll take her ladyship down a peg or two by-and-bye. I scarcely know whether I love or hate her most, now. She's got a pretty face and figure, or I'd as soon try steel upon her as wed her."
"Well, I must confess she's a very handsome wench, brother—not a finer in Britain; but I never see her without feeling that I would give something to humble her pride. You think the Count would be out of it if he knew how to get, do you?"
"Not a shadow of a doubt of it. He would murder me at a minute's notice, if he could get possession of those letters I told you about. But he knows you are fully informed about them, and of his treachery to William, and he dare not resort to violence until he knows how to secure the letters by his effort. I have come to the conclusion to hand them over to you; they will be safer than in my possession."
"They contain conclusive evidence of his treachery, don't they?"
"No mistake about that. They are in his own handwriting, and sealed with his own crest and coat-of-arms. They make offer upon certain considerations, to sell his influence and his men to the Saxons during William's absence. He was also fool enough to give me a written promise of his daughter's hand, in consideration of my fidelity to him. Nothing in the world could be clearer and straighter than the whole thing. He sees now pretty clearly thathisgame is up; but I'll show him thatmygame is not up, or likely to be, until he hands over his stately daughter."
"He must have greatly miscalculated the odds when he put his head into a noose like that."
"Yes; he's not played many false cards in his life, but that was one, and he will lose his head by it if he does not play up square with the remainder. I'll promise him that much at least."
"What cause had he to quarrel with the king?"
"Oh, jealousy. He prides himself upon the services he has rendered to William, and he expected in consequence to be high in the king's favour, and in his council. He expected to have some fat lands too, near to London. William, however, did not think so highly of his services, or else he had been prejudiced against him by some courtezan, which is more probable. Anyhow, no sooner was William firmly seated on the throne than he gave De Montfort the cold shoulder. He made Odo, Lanfranc, and Fitz-Osborne his chosen counsellors.
"Now, a mortal feud existed between Odo and De Montfort, and he quickly got the cold side of his master's favours. He had given to him a paltry estate in the Fen country, where he had that Saxon devil, Hereward, hanging on to his skirts, and foraging all over his possessions, whenever hunger drove him from his infernal den in the marshes. The slight which he received rankled, I can promise you; and when the insurrection broke out whilst William was in Normandy, and when the Saxons took York, and put to the sword the garrison of three thousand Normans, with the Danes swarming into the Humber ripe for plunder, and the Atheling trooping in from Scotland—why, the cunning of the wily one was at fault for once. He thought the thing would succeed; and succeed it would have done, sure enough, if it had not been levelled against that devil's own favourite, William. He sent me with letters to Waltheof and the others, offering to put his men into the field on condition that he received ample reward. He hoped no doubt, also, that he would get a little revenge upon his enemies at Court.
"When I got to York I was not foolish enough to rush into the thing until I saw how matters looked. I had a bit of respect for my own neck, whether I had for De Montfort's or not. If he was willing to risk his head to gratify his spite, the prospect was not alluring enough for me. Well, I did not like the look of Waltheof, and whilst I waited, William hurried across the Channel, and, with a stroke of matchless craft, he bought off the rascally Danes. The double-dyed traitor and coward, Waltheof, very soon succumbed to the same influences; and away also went the Atheling, full speed, for Scotland. I saw the thing was burst up. A few of the smaller chieftains, like this Saxon Oswald, held their ground and fought it out; but it was a nine days' wonder, and nothing more.
"Well, I thought I would try a cast of my own net. I had followed the fortunes of De Montfort to very little profit as yet. I had thought by following the fortunes of a leader like him, I should get a tolerably fair share of the spoils; and I had an understanding that I should have the hand of his daughter. But, I had already begun to notice that the damsel was not made altogether of pleasant humours, and probably she would require a good deal of persuading to complete the bargain. So I told him I had handed the letters to a brother of mine who was in the Church, and held in favour by Lanfranc; and, brother, that accounts for your being installed in such a snug crib as this. I flaunt these letters, metaphorically speaking, pretty regularly before him, to keep him to the mark. The operation makes him wince; but, whether he likes it or not, it will be done, and to greater purpose, I can assure you, if his word is not made good shortly, and his friskish daughter brought to her senses."
"Well, take the letters," said the Baron, tossing them across to his brother. "Pour out a flagon of good old sack; preaching is dry throat-work. I say, what has become of that pretty Saxon wench I found here at first? Have you any idea? I had no notion they bred cattle of that quality amongst these louts of Saxons. You have not seen anything of her about, have you, since you came?"
"No. I heard of that little stroke of yours, but I've not seen the wench at all; but I have a notion that old Saxon snake, Adhelm, knows all about it. I would have made an end of him long before this, but that minx Alice has taken him under her protection. I would take an oath he's in league with those rats on the hill, and he is making mischief among our own brotherhood! One fellow, who has half the brains of the monastery, has given utterance to sundry remonstrances which I shall not tolerate; and I find that he and Adhelm are very friendly."
"Well, take care of the letters anyhow; I shall feel safer when they are out of my custody."
"True love's the gift which God has givenTo man alone beneath the heaven:
"True love's the gift which God has givenTo man alone beneath the heaven:
It is the secret sympathy,The silver link, the silken tie,Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,In body and in soul can bind."Scott.
It is the secret sympathy,The silver link, the silken tie,Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,In body and in soul can bind."
Scott.
It is a lovely morning in August; the hush of perfect restfulness is in the air. The cattle have retired from the heat and glare of the sun, and are quietly chewing the cud beneath the sheltering foliage of the plantain trees; whilst here and there, through the long vistas between the trees, may be seen a tall stag with two or three hinds at his heels, venturing within sight of the haunts of men, as though timidly inviting man's protection against the foes of the forest. This lovely morning has tempted forth from the castle the two females who are directing their steps to a rustic house on the banks of the river, where there are housed a couple of boats. One boat is of delicate trim and dainty workmanship. The oars are small and carefully made, the handles having a rich silken covering, showing they are intended for delicate hands to wield.
This is Alice's favourite recreation, and dearly she loves to have a quiet hour on the still bosom of the river, with Jeannette to row, and she, book in hand, to sit and read or sit and muse in quiet rapture as she gazes on the noble scenery around. The dip and plash of the oars, as Jeannette beats up against the current, is as the soothing tones of delicate music. Then to float slowly and in perfect stillness down stream, beneath the tall trees that line the banks, where busy insects dance and sing, and where the trout leap to catch their prey; to catch the scents from the wooded bank, where breathing shrub, and plant, and flower, and tree, load the air with their perfumed exhalations. Truly to the lover of Nature the smell of a wood is "as the smell of a field which the Lord hath blessed!" On this day everything seems exceptionally lovely, and, slowly as Jeannette is pulling, the confines of the park are quickly overpassed, and the castle is cut off from view by embowering woods.
"We are already past the limits of the park, my lady," said Jeannette. "Shall I put the boat about now, and drift back with the stream?"
"Oh, no, not just yet, Jeannette. Let us go a little farther to-day. It is such a charming morning, and I have been longing for a great while to explore a little more of this delightful river."
"But you are forgetting the Count's express commands, my lady. You know he bade us be very careful not to go beyond sight of the castle."
"Never fear, Jeannette. I think we may safely venture a little farther. You know we have never so much as seen any human being in these excursions."
"No, my lady; but you know what horrid, wild people these Saxons are; and they may be lurking in the woods and shoot their arrows at us, and wound or kill us before the least help could reach us."
"I don't think we have any enemies amongst the Saxons, Jeannette. You and I, at least, do not merit their vengeance, and I am quite prepared to trust them."
"But it is really dangerous, my lady," remonstrated the maid. "And Paul Lazaire has told me that they really kill and eat people, do these horrid Saxons!"
"Fie, fie, Jeannette! What a coward you are, and a simpleton to boot, to believe all the silly tales you hear about the Saxons! Look how exquisitely lovely the river is ahead of us. Pull a little farther up stream."
Truly it was as Alice said, exquisitely lovely. The huge mountains on either side spread out their bases down to the water's edge, whilst deep, dense woods clothed the river's brink with well-nigh impenetrable depths of undergrowths and foliage. The huge trees on either side spread out their long arms across the river as though anxious to shake hands with their giant neighbours on the opposite bank. Ahead, each bend of the river through the tortuous hills was obscured from view; and it looked in the distance as though it was issuing from the bowels of the mountain promontory in front, through a thick bower of foliage, whilst here and there, as they voyaged on, the bare and frowning limestone crags jutted out through the slender covering of the green fir-tree tops which vainly strove to hide them—lonesome, fearsome, and grand, the solitude all around. The strange wildness and grandeur of the scene stirred the soul of Alice to its very depths, and it is needless to say she was perfectly oblivious to everything save the sweet voice of Nature.
As the boat and its occupants moved slowly up stream, numbers of water-hens rushed off into the impenetrable recesses of foliage and undergrowths, or dived hurriedly beneath the roots of trees or overhanging embankment.
Yonder in the distance, in the bared and tortuous roots of a huge tree overhanging the water, an otter is sitting, warily watching his finny prey disporting themselves beneath; but at sight of these unwelcome visitors he drops from the root of the tree on which he sits, with hasty plunge, leaving no trace of his whereabouts saving the streaming headline in the water indicating the direction in which he hastes for safety.
Fearlessly also, ahead, a flock of wild-duck are floating regally on the limpid waters, unconscious of danger, and gabbling in utmost glee and content; but at this unlooked-for intrusion they set up a startled cry, take hurriedly to wing, and are quickly lost in the distance.
Looking carefully, also, at the entrance of yon water-course, which comes tumbling over its rocky bed from the hills, a heron stands pensively watching for any incautious trout that, quitting the deep waters, comes to the lips of the mountain stream for food; but, disturbed, he utters a scream, and spreading out his long wings, with low and measured beat mounts into the air, probably to rest not until the far-away sea-coast is reached.
Kingfishers too—haunters of quiet river-stretches—in coats of the loveliest green and gold, flit over the bosom of the water with quiet assurance. Snipe, also, in goodly numbers, with swift, arrow-like flight, dart ahead up stream, or, rising high over the tops of the trees, circle back again to the rear of the boat.
Alice is in raptures, and Jeannette's cautions and remonstrances alike, fall on ears which are preoccupied with other sounds, and are quite deaf to everything but the peaceful harmonies of nature.
"Look, Jeannette, at those fine hazel nuts, which hang in ripe and ruddy clusters there! Pull to the side at once, and let us gather them!"
Jeannette's caution is completely upset at this tempting sight, and the order is scarcely given ere it is executed. Eagerly the pair stand up in the boat to reach the brown clusters, totally oblivious and regardless of danger and molestation. Presently, with increasing boldness, they fasten the boat's chain round the bole of a tree, and clamber upon the bank. With nimble feet and nimble fingers they rush from tree to tree, stripping them of their dainty burden, and coming again and again with their hands full of nuts, and showering them into the bottom of the boat.
But they would not have been so content and composed had they but known that two pairs of Saxon eyes had been watching intently the progress up stream of the frail bark, and the fair Norman women who occupied it. One, at least, has determined, if chance offers, he will have a word of thanks with them for his deliverance. These Saxons are Oswald and his almost inseparable comrade, Wulfhere. So the two slowly push aside the foliage and, unnoticed, emerge in close proximity to the eager nutters. Jeannette utters a scream, and narrowly escapes an attack of hysterics.
"Calm your fears, ladies," said Oswald. "We are too much your debtors to wish you ill. Allow me, fair lady, to tender to you on this, the first opportunity I have had, my undying gratitude for the life you so magnanimously gave me a while ago. Though we Saxons, I am afraid, must appear to you as rude and uncivilised islanders, I assure you we are not insensible to, or ungrateful for, any favours bestowed upon us—much less such favours as you have conferred on myself."
"Sir Knight," said Alice, much assured by the sincere and courteous tone in which the valiant and virtuous Saxon chieftain had addressed her, "we did but do what pity and admiration combined moved us to. Heaven made us two weak women, and we played a woman's part. But we have not repented in that we did an act prompted by those intuitions of mercy which are our woman's heritage."
"I am made a life-long debtor, fair lady, for that womanly act, and I trust I may find opportunity to repay so generous a loan."
"I am glad we have met a Saxon who is our debtor, or we should have fared badly for our boldness this morning."
"My people, lady, will not injure a hair of your head, nor permit any one else to do so. You may roam at will; far or near, you are perfectly safe."
"This river scenery is perfectly enchanting, Sir Knight. If I may presume upon the friendship and goodwill of your people, I should like to explore it thoroughly?"
"The river, lady, becomes even finer as you push into the solitudes. If that craft were not so frail, we two would give you a merry spin for a mile or two. Indeed, if you dare trust yourself with a Saxon, let me pull you up stream. I think I can promise you a rare treat. Wulfhere, my comrade, will take care of your maid until we return."
"I dare venture. It would not be knightly conduct to betray a woman's confidence. But will it be safe to leave Jeannette?"
"Perfectly! Wulfhere and the hound are a pair of faithful and valiant defenders."
"No, no!" almost shrieked Jeannette. "You must not go! You will be killed and eaten! I have heard for certain that these horrid Saxons eat people!"
"Nonsense, Jeannette! Don't be foolish, and don't listen to such silly tales!"
"Oh, dear! I shall be eaten if you aren't! Holy Mother protect me!" said she, crossing herself; and, pulling her rosary out of her bosom, she began counting her beads most violently.
"Come, my pretty," said Wulfhere, in his blandest tones. "If I were a cannibal I wouldn't eat you. Sit on this fallen tree; I and the hound will keep a respectful distance." So saying, he retreated half a dozen paces from her, and began putting the dog through some capers.
"If you eat Jeannette, Wulfhere, I shall call you to account when I come back," said Oswald laughingly, as the boat sped away.
In the meantime, Jeannette sat rocking herself in great distress, watching the receding boat, and telling her beads at a great pace, whilst Wulfhere continued his play with the hound, quite oblivious—or apparently oblivious—of the tearful maiden. But nothing to this pretty Frenchwoman was so insupportable as to be ignored. So, after bemoaning her distressing circumstances without finding any special calamity happening, she began casting furtive glances at her Saxon comrade, and she gradually dropped her cries and tears, at his nonchalant behaviour, and her beads began to pass much more slowly through her fingers. To her coquettish fancy there was something piquant in the indifference of this stalwart Saxon. Her curiosity was excited, and this speedily passed into admiration for the muscular limbs and well-developed frame of Wulfhere. For it is not in the disposition of many daughters of Eve—much less in such as this coquettish Frenchwoman was—to look upon such a fine piece of muscular anatomy as Wulfhere's, without falling into admiration of it. This did not pass unmarked by him, despite the hypocritical indifference which he had assumed. Presently he turned his gaze upon Jeannette, and a good-humoured grin spread over his features, developing into a broad smile, as he ventured to break the silence.
"I say, pretty one, you'll not run away whilst I'm gathering a few sticks to make the fire with, will you, eh?"
"Fire!" exclaimed Jeannette, clutching her beads, which had dropped into her lap. "What do you want a fire for?"
"Want a fire for! Why, I couldn't think of eating you raw!" and he twirled on his heel, to laugh.
Jeannette uttered an inimitable little scream. "You horrid man, I shall jump into the water if you stir! I'm sure I shall!" Then, bursting into a little laugh, all the more bewitching as it came, rainbow-like, betwixt smiles and tears, she said, "You are trying to frighten me, I know; but all the same you Saxons do eat people. I've heard it said hundreds of times. And once, as we came along, we saw a pile of bones, and Paul Lazaire said they were the bones of people whom the Saxons had eaten. So you see we know all about you."
"Oh, but that's all fudge, pretty one. You shall be my sweetheart, and then you'll soon learn quite different."
"But I'm not going to be your sweetheart. So you see. I wouldn't have any one for a sweetheart with hair and beard as long as yours. Normans have more sense than to wear horrid beards."
"Oh, but you shall cut my hair, and trim my beard; and I would try to look like a little Norman ninny of five feet six. Then you wouldn't be frightened in the least, would you?"
Jeannette thought to herself she would rather take him as he was, though she kept the matter to herself. The upshot of the whole was this: Wulfhere found himself sitting by her side on the fallen tree, with the hound in front, and neither party very anxious for the return of the boat and its occupants.
"So they say we eat such as you, do they, sweetheart?"
"Yes, they do. And they don't call me 'Sweetheart,' either. And don't you think I don't know you, for I saw you fighting on that wall."
"Well, don't be offended now; but what do they call you?"
"They call me Jeannette—and that's nothing to you."
"Oh dear, no! nothing whatever. And do they really say that we eat such as you?"
"Yes, they do! And it's quite true besides! for everybody says so."
"Well, that's dreadful, anyhow. And how many do you suppose I shall have eaten like you?"
"You wouldn't have to eatonelike me. If you did, Paul Lazaire would kill you for it."
"Paul Lazaire? Oh, I suppose Paul Lazaire will be a sweetheart of yours. Is that so, Jeannette dear?"
"Yes, he is my sweetheart. But I'm not going to marry him for all that! So you see."
"No, I wouldn't havehim, I'm sure. Tell him you have got a better now—a Saxon."
"Fancy! That is fine, to be sure! Don't you think it! I'm not going to have a husband at all. They are horrid things, for they are never happy but when they are swilling ale. Just to think of my marrying a Saxon! That would be fine indeed!"
"Really now, my pretty Jeannette, I really am over head and ears in love with you; and if you were my wife, why, I should take great care of you."
"Wife, to be sure! The wife of a Saxon? Just think of it! I suppose I should have to run about in the woods all day, clothed in sheepskins; then I suppose I should have to creep into a hole in the earth at night. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
Wulfhere burst into a horse-laugh. "Perhaps you would prefer sleeping up a tree to creeping into a hole, would you?"
"I'm not going to do either. Besides, I daresay you have got a Saxon wife somewhere, for you are all deceitful—Norman and Saxon alike."
"Nonsense, Jeannette! I have no wife, or sweetheart either, and I have made up my mind now, that my wife shall be Norman—just such a wife as yourself, Jeannette."
"Why, what would such a giant as you want a wife like me for?"
"Why? Well, I can hardly answer that question, I declare. But something must be put down to your pretty face, something to your slender waist, and a good deal to something I can't explain; but I never felt anything like it before, for no sooner did I set eyes upon that pretty face of yours than I felt I should like to kiss it."
"Oh, you horrid, naughty man!" said Jeannette, slipping her slender hand into Wulfhere's huge paw, and unconsciously hitching closer to him on the log, "to try and deceive me with such nonsense! I know you are deceiving me! Why, where should we live? I don't know whereyoulive now. I should die if I had to live in the woods, and had no home. I should like a home of my own, where I could play my guitar and spin my wool, and make you some better garments than those coarse ones you wear."
"Oh, you shall not be my wife until I can find you a home, and protect you! We shall probably have to teach the Normans another lesson or two. Then they will listen to reason. When we have got a settlement of our own, then you shall be my wife, Jeannette."
"Oh, but I dare not! I should be frightened to live amongst the Saxons. But you wouldn't harm a little woman like me? That would be cowardly."
"I think it would, Jeannette," said Wulfhere, passing his arm around her slim waist, drawing her to him, and planting a kiss on her sunny cheek. "When I go to war I should like a sturdier foe to wreak my vengeance on."
"But would you be a serf, and wear one of those horrid iron collars the serfs wear? I shouldn't like a husband who was a bondman."
"No, my pretty one, I have never been a bondman; and, what is more, I never shall. I am a Saxon freeman."
"A 'freeman'? What is a 'freeman'?"
"A freeman is one who tills his own land, and is no man's vassal or bondman. I shall remain a freeman, and my sons shall be freemen after me."
At this juncture the hound gave a start, and threw back his head, at the same time giving utterance to a low, fierce growl. Presently a footstep is heard, not approaching stealthily, but crashing through the trees and underwood. Wulfhere springs to his feet; his bow is unslung, and an arrow affixed in a moment. The hound also starts to his feet, his eyeballs glitter, and the veins of his neck and body are distended almost to bursting. The low branches are put aside, and the burly form of Sigurd, the dispossessed viking chieftain, emerges before them. His lowering brow and impetuous manner tell but too plainly that there is a tempest raging within him.
"Wulfhere," said he, "what does this mean?"
"What does what mean, my lord?"
"Why, the drivelling folly I have witnessed for the last half hour or more! Fitter stuff for a Norman libertine than for a Saxon freeman, and one who makes pretence of valour!"
"I am at a loss to know what you mean, my lord."
"I mean? Why, I mean that whilst I and others of thy countrymen are lurking near the haunts of these French dogs, that we may have revenge upon them, thou and thy master are toying and fooling with their women. But enough of this! Make an end of this woman, and an end of thy folly at a blow, and thou hast then made amends."
"Indeed I shall do no such thing. This maiden and her noble mistress gave my chief his life, and it will be woe to the man who dares injure either the one or the other."
"What care I for thy master's scruples? These Normans owe us satisfaction for a thousand Saxon lives they have taken. So stand aside; I'll do my own business."
"Indeed you will do no such thing, until you have disposed of me;" and Wulfhere threw himself boldly in front of Sigurd.
"Ah, art thou insolent into the bargain, dog? I will chastise thy bravado out of thee if thou stand not aside;" and he grasped the hilt of his sword.
Wulfhere, seeing the movement, and having no sword, sprang upon him and dealt him a stinging blow with his clenched fist. So violently was this given that, sturdy as he was, Sigurd reeled back several paces.
"Ah, is that it, my buck? Then I'll have thee with thine own weapon, for I do not need to take any advantage of a varlet like thyself!"
So saying, he rushed on Wulfhere, with intent to come to close quarters. But Wulfhere knew well the great personal strength of his bulky antagonist, so he dodged with great agility every effort Sigurd made to grapple with him. And he did not fail to deal him repeatedly heavy blows with his clenched fists. This so exasperated Sigurd that he was as furious as a mad bull, and for a considerable time it seemed to be a battle between brute force and agility, the balance being much in favour of the more agile. Unfortunately, a trip on the part of Wulfhere, over the root of a tree, gave Sigurd the chance he had been vainly striving for. Ere he could recover himself, Sigurd gripped him in his powerful embrace, and gathering him up as though he were a child, he hurled him to the ground, exclaiming, "Now I will kill thee, churl!" and he grasped him by the throat. The hound, which had been dancing round the combatants during the fray, with many furious and irresolute darts at Sigurd, seeing Wulfhere in such desperate straits, sprang upon Sigurd, and buried his teeth in the fleshy part of his arm.
"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."Shakespeare.
"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."
Shakespeare.
The boat containing Oswald and Alice, impelled by the strong arms of the Saxon chieftain, sped along swiftly through the magnificent scenery.
"Now, lady, what think you? Did I speak truly when I praised the scenery?"
"Yes. Truly it would be an earthly paradise if it were not for the greed and cruelty of man. I think it richer and grander in these leafy solitudes than anything I have seen; or else it is because it fits my taste so wondrously."
"Yes. I cannot say, lady, that I hope you and your people will long enjoy the new home you have found, for I confess to you I cherish most ardent desires to be its lord again; though I think I can renounce my hopes, and well-nigh welcome exile if you are to be its mistress, and I may be permitted to look with unsinning eyes upon a form which has become even dearer to me than freedom and home. I doubt me, however, this latter wish may not be, for I hear some Norman knight claims your hand."
"My father has affianced me to one of the knights of his retinue; but this betrothal is without my consent, if I may be so bold as to confess it to a stranger. Indeed, I care not to disguise the fact that it is a most hateful alliance, and most abhorrent to me. I shall much prefer, if I may be permitted, to retire to a convent in my native land, rather than wed a man so incapable of inspiring either my love or my respect as this Baron Vigneau."
"I am afraid it is I who am too bold, in intruding in so delicate a matter, and one so remote from my concerns. But I would fain think, and hope, that the Count will not press a loveless marriage upon you; to do such violence to your affections would be cruel."
"My father is a soldier, Sir Knight, seared and blunted by his calling, and sentiment has little place in his nature. Latterly, also, I have noticed moroseness of disposition creeping over him; and upon this question he is more stern and peremptory than ever he was wont to be, and I lose heart and hope. Indeed, I am in sore straits. And your intrusion—if intrusion it be—I recognise is dictated by sympathy; and I stand much in need of this."
"I would I could convey to you, lady, in adequate terms—terms in which I should not be presumptuous—how honoured I should be if I could serve you in any way whatever. My resources, my men—nay, believe me, lady, for exaggeration would be most gross—my life is at your disposal, fully and unreservedly."
"I would fain accept of you as an ally and a friend, for I stand alone, and have not even a confidante, saving my maid, and I find the iron wills of my father and Vigneau completely bear me down; and if I escape from the toils of Vigneau, some stronger arm will have to interpose a rescue."
"I am but a Saxon outlaw, lady, a wolfshead, landless, penniless, and hunted; but if you can bethink you how I may serve you, my arm is strong, and my sword's edge unblunted. If time but tarry a while, I am confident something may be done to set you free from the life-long misery of a union with Vigneau; and I know enough of him to convince me that there is no community of taste or of disposition between you. I dare not say more, for my presumptuous heart runs riot with my understanding, and I may say things most unbefitting my present desperate estate."
"Make no apology, worthy knight," said Alice, blushing scarlet, then pale and trembling, "for your worldly misfortunes. A knight despoiled, but not disgraced, has no need to humble himself to me. Gold and lands are at best but an accident, but virtue and nobility of character are the slow growth of virtuous thinking and noble endeavour. And which, think you, valiant Saxon, are most highly valued by a simple maiden like myself? You are my debtor, you say; then here is an enterprise will tax your wisdom—I fear your prowess also. Doughty knights have in past times, it is said, effected wonderful deliverances for maidens in distress. Is it only the language of romance? I will not affectedly profess that I do not understand your language; but there is a challenge for you. If lightly won, Sir Knight, I may be lightly worn."
Now this high-born maiden was cultured, virtuous, womanly, and, moreover, she was young—a matter to be taken note of, for maidens then do not often dilute the gift of the heart with worldly considerations; but only few men are capable of winning such love. Does it require great tact, address, astuteness—such as men employ to catch some young colt, unbroken, shy, and suspicious? No. Whenever such love is won, it is won easily, without laying of siege, or clever generalship; in fact, astuteness, or tactics of any sort, are fatal to success. It is not a bargain, a hucksteringquid pro quo. It is an inspiration, an intuition. It is a rush of all that is holiest, truest, tenderest, and trustful in woman towards the man who is capable of inspiring it, and of setting free the abounding wealth of a woman's heart. What conditions does it demand? Well, these are essentials: it asks for broad and ample strength to lean upon without misgiving. It demands an integrity that may be trusted to the uttermost, beyond the bounds where prudence, discretion, and kindred virtues cry halt. It asks the frankness and transparency of soul where nothing is hidden, and where there are no dark corners, suspicious and unreadable, suggestive of things to be disguised with care. When these qualities are present, they are luminously visible to a woman's intuitions, and the citadel of her heart is won easily and without capitulation terms. There are more hearts won at short notice than cynics would allow; but it is the spontaneous embrace of the divine that is in us, and alas! there is little of the divine in most mortals.
As the foregoing words fell from the lips of Alice, Oswald started forward as though electrified, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Believe me, lady," said he, "I never dared to dream such a cup of blessedness would be held to my lips; and I assure you I needed no other stimulus than the debt of gratitude I owe to you for my deliverance from death, in order to brave anything and everything for you. But if there be hope, however remote, of winning a place in your affections, as my desperate estate has already moved your compassion, and that some day, in happier circumstances, I may even dare to ask you to be my bride, such an inpiration will nerve my arm and brace my energies, so that difficulties shall be most desperate if I overcome them not."
"I fear me, Sir Knight, if you undertake so desperate an enterprise as this, with success, it will require matchless skill and daring, coupled with deadliest peril. I fear, also, it will have to be a sharp sword that severs so unholy and hated a bond."
Alice hesitated a moment, as though feelings of delicacy forbade farther advances; then, although the blushes on her countenance deepened, she said,—
"Having confided so much of the story of my sorrows—I fear at the peril of my modesty—may I venture farther confidence?"
"I dare not ask you for confidences you hesitate to give, fair lady, for I am deeply conscious my worthiness to receive them has not been put to the proof. Consult your own heart in this, for it is your best and safest guide."
"I think I may safely venture everything, and trust you, Saxon, even to the uttermost and with all my heart. This involves my father's secret, and his deadly peril also, for this Vigneau has obtained a fatal ascendency over him. He holds documents most compromising to my father, in addition to the promise given long ago; and which my father might possibly have revoked with impunity had not Vigneau obtained possession of these treasonable documents. These he uses with brutal terrorism to enforce his claim to my hand. In an unhappy moment my father entered into negotiations with the leaders of the late Saxon rebellion, and he made use of Baron Vigneau as his intermediary. The Baron never delivered those letters, but with brutal cunning he still holds them, and he uses them with deadly effect to enforce his claims."
"Ah! I have a distinct remembrance of this," said Oswald, as the memorable scene at the Council, in York, presented itself to his mind. "I remember too well this traitor entering our assembly, under pretext of joining our ranks in opposition to the king; and I remember well, also, I met him face to face in combat next day, and 'tis a quarrel still unsettled, but which may be fought to the bitter end some day. Take heart, lady; some means will assuredly be devised for circumventing the purposes of this unscrupulous braggart, Vigneau. But if this should not be accomplished by human agency, I would fain think and hope, if the wisdom and the valour of man should fail, a kindly Providence has in store a happier lot for one so fair, so virtuous, and so good. Let us foster hopes of brighter days; these are troublous times, and one revolution of Fortune's wheel may bring momentous changes. Perhaps the asperities and hatreds of race, engendered by these cruel wars, may be soothed and healed again, and Saxon and Norman may be blended in one united people."
"Alas! can this ever be? My people seem drunk with greed and blood, and thy people given to fierce reprisals."
"This reconciliation does not seem as though it were near, truly, lady. Our peasantry have been massacred by scores. The more spirited of them have taken to outlawry, and would as soon take the life of a Norman as the life of a stag. We have also chieftains amongst us who have lost all, and live only for revenge; fierce and implacable, they cherish mad schemes of re-conquest, which are utterly futile. But all the same, it will be woe to the man who argues for peace in the Saxon witan in the presence of these implacable men."
"Is there anything I can do to soothe these hatreds?"
"You have begun well, and it seems marvellous to report, your deeds of mercy and kindness are being talked about through the countryside where Saxons meet together. These acts of kindness make for peace with mightier force than deeds of arms or years of a rule of force."
"But what is to be the solution of this race difficulty? Some of our people speak and act as though there were no solution but the extermination of all those who offer any resistance to their being reduced to villeinage the most abject."
"In a policy of force there is no other conclusion. If you were to take yonder sapling and tie its head down to earth, there would be unceasing resistance to the ignoble bond. And why? Because the Creator made it to be free, to rear its head aloft, contemporaneous with its fellows. The human spirit loves its freedom even better than yon sapling, and its resistance to all tyranny is eternal. Force may fetter it, but perpetual force will be necessary to keep it fettered. Mark me, lady, it is easier to talk of extermination than to effect it. I command at present a band of men who are the pick of my race for valour, who will defy thy people with impunity, and are capable of striking fierce blows of revenge in every unguarded moment. If ever the hour of thy nation's weakness should come, terrible will be the revenge, if some strong hand curb not the wild spirit."
"This unholy strife between our peoples is madness. How may we avert it?" said Alice.
"I confess, lady, that but a little while ago I had no feelings but those of undying hatred to thy race. But as I lay in that dungeon beneath the castle, an angel in human form, by an act of pure mercy, gave me liberty and life. 'Twas wonderful! The cold, frozen blood at my heart turned, at a stroke, to warmth. I felt that there is a passion of the human heart more potent than hatred, and some obligations more binding than an oath. Let those who do not love strife, but love mercy, work for mercy and reconciliation; and I think I see the day when there shall be such a blending of races that each shall be strengthened by the other."
"I shall welcome the day, Sir Knight. But had we not better return? Jeannette, I am afraid, will be in great trouble."
"I am not a knight, lady; we Saxons are slow at learning the language of chivalry. If it be not presumptuous to ask it, call me Oswald; 'twill bring us so much nearer."
"Then if you have not learnt the language of chivalry, you will be the better able to call me Alice. Is it agreed?"
"With all my heart, Alice. It is a compact. Let me again assure you that you and your maid are perfectly safe in the woods or anywhere, so far as my followers and vassals are concerned. There is just one thing I would caution you about," said he, with a twinkle in his eye. "One Saxon has a very great admiration for the very spots which you are likely to choose; and I warn you, if he see a certain light in his lady's eyes, never more look for peace."
"Really this does sound like the language of our Norman gallants, after all. But come, now, if you are really heart-hungry, just a crumb of comfort will sustain you; for our Norman ballads declare very loudly that valorous knights for their lady-loves will do and dare, or suffer and wait,—well, really, without going through the list, it is wonderful what valiant knights will do for love and chivalry—in books. I used to see the said valiant knights in books, but latterly I have been face to face with the reality; and alas! I find them most devoted to wine and ale, and incontinence. So, Sir Knight,—for such I will call you once more—he who wins Alice de Montfort will have a knightlier soul than this."
"Well, I will not sound a trumpet before me, as the hypocrites do, so no more of this. Let time declare it. But did you learn how I made my escape from the castle that fateful night?"
"No. Pray tell me now? I am most curious to know it."
"Wait a little. But let me tell you I can enter the castle when I like. If you wish an interview with me at any time, you need but make some signal from the tower, and at nightfall I will meet you there whenever you wish."
"But can you come with perfect safety?"
"With absolute safety."
"Then that shall be our trysting-place, to which I will summon my Saxon ally when good news stirs—but I fear me more often when my sad heart needs cheering. But I sorely fear your coming there will be full of peril. Could I not meet you elsewhere?"
"Courage, dear one! and take no thought for me. Let your heart be stout, for the future is luminous with hope."
As the boat rounded a bend in the river, Oswald beheld the fierce struggle going on between the two Saxons, and, with an exclamation of pain, he gave two or three lusty strokes which sent the boat flying amongst the trees which lined the embankment. Hastily springing upon the bank, he tore Sigurd from the prostrate form of Wulfhere.
"Jarl!" said he, "how is this? Making war upon your friends! This will not do, mark me!"
"And how is this?" retorted Sigurd fiercely. "You and this chicken-hearted slave making love to deadly enemies. This will not do,mark that!"
"Enough, enough!" said Oswald, gathering up the prostrate form of Jeannette, who was in a dead swoon. He lifted her into the boat and dashed a few drops of cold water in her face. "There, now," said he, "she is all right." And in a whisper he said to Alice, "Pull away, dearest. Remember the tryst, and be not dismayed. This man is a scion of the untamed Vikings who linger in the land. I shall know how to deal with him."
Oswald watched the boat and its occupants glide away, and waving a last adieu he turned to his companions, and said, "Let us go. Sigurd," he continued, in tones of severity, "this fierce quarrel bodes no good to the Saxon cause."
"Does this dawdling with Norman women bode some good to the Saxon cause? I wot Viking, or Dane, or old-time Saxon would not have warred like this. Are we going to avenge ourselves upon our enemies by simpering to their women? My ancestors have conquered with the sword, and I will thrust through any Norman I can—aye, and their women, too! To spare the dam to suckle cubs will not do for me!"
"Sigurd, mark me, thy fierce, implacable temper will hurt the Saxon cause more than ever thy sword will aid it. Kindly understand that I am lord in these parts, and my will shall be law. If thou art not satisfied, well, thou had better return to thy own domain of Lakesland, and make war according to thy own notions. If thou succeed better than us, well, then we may copy thy methods; but here we will have no slaying of defenceless women and children. As for these two in particular, they gave me my life, and whoever injures a hair of their heads is my mortal foe. Let that suffice, Jarl."
"Tut, tut! Fine, no doubt; but I like not such modes of warfare, and if I cannot be allowed to spill Norman blood whenever I can, I'll none of it."
"I have my own plans for the protection of my people and for the amelioration of their lot, and I think it is the best. As for thy methods, and the hopes thou hast of driving out the Normans, I regard them as worse than madness, and they will end in the annihilation of the Saxon race. So be pleased to interfere no more with my plans," said Oswald.