"Hope tells a flattering tale,Delusive, vain, and hollow.Ah! let not hope prevail,Lest disappointment follow."Miss Wrother.
"Hope tells a flattering tale,Delusive, vain, and hollow.Ah! let not hope prevail,Lest disappointment follow."
Miss Wrother.
The desperate repulse which the Normans received at the hands of the Saxon outlaws, made them exceedingly chary of attempting again the extermination of them. This afforded a welcome respite to the fugitives, particularly to the women and children. But the vigilance of their sentinels was never permitted to be relaxed. The retreat to which Ethel had been conveyed was thus free from alarms, and lacked nothing in picturesqueness and beauty. Oswald had taken care that it should be furnished with some comfort and taste, for he had been wont in summertime to spend often many days, and even weeks, in this secluded and lovely spot. To Ethel, this home in the mountains was dearly welcome. During the day she busied herself with the books of history, travel, and romance which Oswald loved; and at even her countenance brightened at his cheery words and pleasant greetings. But for some days a strange feeling of anxiety and foreboding had clouded her happiness; for more than a week Oswald had not so much as paid a hurried visit to his favourite rendezvous.
"Your master has not been here for more than a week, Bretwul," said she one day, when her anxiety for tidings could no longer be resisted. "Do you know what detains him? I fear me he has fallen into the hands of the Normans."
"He will not fall into the hands of the Normans so easily, lady. If he does it will only be his body, though I am afraid he ventures on some desperate enterprises."
"Whither has he gone, Bretwul? Know you?"
"I know not for certainty, lady, but I have belief he has gone with one Sigurd, lord of Lakesland, for he has disappeared and taken his wild-cat crew with him. Good riddance, I trow! and may my eyes never look upon such starved, ill-clad, unsavoury mortals again!"
"Who is this Sigurd you speak of, Bretwul?"
"He is lord of the Lakes, but has had served out to him the same treatment as every other Saxon chieftain has had; first wholesale butchery of his followers, then death, or flight and exile, for himself."
"What has he been doing here?"
"He has been hunted, harassed, and driven from one hiding-place to another, until he had but a handful of followers left. Then he sought respite in flight, and has been for a little while with us here, he and a dozen of his housecarles. Now he hears the Norman army has gone south, so he would fain return to the fray, and has craved the assistance of the Earl and a dozen stout retainers, in return for the services he rendered us."
"I had a dream last night, Bretwul. I saw Oswald fighting desperately with Norman foes, and then he was surrounded by them and sorely wounded. Then I saw him borne by rough hands to a cave in the mountain side, and I saw him swiftly bleeding to death, and no one there knew how to staunch his wounds or cool his feverish brow; and I heard him cry 'Ethel!' And as I stretched out my hands to help, I awoke."
"It was but a dream, lady. Do not let your mind run on such thoughts as these. You are looking pale and ill. My master will be angry when he returns, if he knows I told you of his purpose."
"Can we not go to-night? I do not care to spend my time in idleness and ease while he thus braves danger and death for his country. By hard riding we can reach Lakesland ere the sun is up, and I am sure I can be of service."
"Beshrew me if I dare budge a stone-throw from this place until he gives the word! I like not lying to rust, like the Earl's old swords hung there, in idleness; but I would rather not face him after disobeying orders."
"But he may be wounded, and no one near to nurse him but these rough men, whilst I am worse than useless here, with nothing to do but burden others!"
"Set your fears at rest, lady. These rough men know how to lay a splintered bone, or close a wound, like any practised leech. But if you let your mind run on these things you will be miserable. I have no fear for him. The Normans will find their match, I trow, and give him a wide berth. I have seen them cut down churls like myself with vigorous strokes, and strike halting blows at him, through sheer terror at his appearance."
"But they are many to one, and better armed, and he will be overborne by the numbers of them. I am sure I could be of service, and I should like to be near; I don't mind the rough life at all. Saddle us a pair of horses, and let us start to-night."
"I warrant the Earl would slit my ears if I dared do any such thing! But these are idle fears. I forget me, though; I have a message from the Abbot Adhelm. But, by our Lady! he is no longer abbot, but a humble friar, with no more power in his own abbey than any scullion priest. He was a worthy Father, and never turned a lean dog of a Saxon away without crumbs and comfort. But, among the other bad things these Normans have brought, are a lot of swag-bellied monks, who broach more ale-casks than they say prayers; and, by the Mass! they drink the ale, too, for there is never a drop, or a taste of venison, to bestow on a famishing palmer, or starving yeoman. I wish I could stick a nettle under their tails and make them trot, the whole brood of them. The Church will never make much out of my prayers, beshrew me! but I would with right good will rid her of these shaveling carrion who have come swarming at the heels of the fighting men."
"But you said you had a message from Adhelm, did you not, Bretwul?"
"Aye, aye, lady!" said Bretwul, highly gratified at the diversion he had effected. "When my tongue is set a-wagging, it is as long as my dog's when he is dead beat in chasing a hare; there's no hauling it in. Well, Adhelm has found some pity in a wolf's den. Whoever would have looked for a she-wolf having compassion on the sheep?"
"I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about Bretwul."
"Marry, no! there's no sense in an ass's braying; but bringing him to the end on't is another matter. Well, gramercy! this fire-eating Norman count has got a daughter who belies her own father."
"Belies her own father? What may that mean?"
"Aye, marry, it's true enough—belies her own father. I take the liberty to dodge about a bit amongst the churls who have submitted to these Normans, to see what encouragement there may be to feed at the same trough as these broken-spirited cattle. Well, an iron collar about my neck is an ornament I don't covet, and kicks and cuffs always did bruise my flesh, and, what is even more painful, they bruise my mind; so a Norman serf I will not be. But they tell me this count has a daughter who has compassion, and visits them, carrying dainties to such as are sick. Adhelm also and she are great friends, and he says she occupies herself much in this sort of work."
This colloquy was cut short by a sharp knock at the door and the hurried entrance of one of the Earl's retainers.
"Bretwul!" said he; but, his eye alighting on Ethel, he suddenly paused. "I crave your pardon," said he, hastily doffing his cap. "Matters of importance, which stand not on ceremony, have brought me."
"What are they, my man?" said Ethel, eager and apprehensive.
"The Earl is slightly unwell," said the stranger, noticing Bretwul's cautioning gesture; "and I have ridden hard to request that a bed may be prepared."
"My dream! my dream!" almost shrieked Ethel, starting from her seat. "He is not dead yet! Say he is not dead?"
"Calm yourself, lady," said Bretwul, giving the stranger another significant look.
"No, no, lady; a mere scratch. A few weeks of your nursing will set him on his feet as sound as a rock. But you will make ready, Bretwul? They are not far behind."
"He beheldA vision, and adored the thing he saw."Wordsworth.
"He beheldA vision, and adored the thing he saw."
Wordsworth.
Ere long, the hum of voices and the scrambling sound of approaching footsteps were heard. Then hurried orders, given in an undertone, muffled footsteps, as of persons bearing a burden, accompanied by a low, deep groan, broke upon the anxious ear of Ethel, who was listening with nerves in a state of utmost tension and alarm. These sounds gradually abated as the party retired to a more distant room, and doors were softly closed behind. By-and-bye her anxious suspense was abated by the entrance of Bretwul and his wife, accompanied by Sigurd, the lord of Lakesland. A cold tremor ran through her blood as her eyes rested for the first time upon the burly figure of the stranger; and she tried to evade the rivetted gaze which he turned upon her, by turning to Bretwul.
"I think the Earl is much worse than the messenger would have us believe, Bretwul. Can I go to him? I may be of use. I have some skill in nursing, thanks to my instructions and the terrible times upon which our land has fallen."
"Do not be alarmed," said Sigurd, trying to infuse as much of gentleness as he could into the gruff tones which issued from the deep, broad chest. "Oswald is put to bed, and his wound is a mere nothing—a flesh-wound, which ought to have healed itself; but his body has been pampered and daintily housed, and the merest cuts tell on such. The wound has cankered and brought on a touch of fever. Pity that men, who ought to know better, swathe their limbs, and pamper their bodies, and live in cunningly decorated houses, and spend their time toying with such finikin things as these"—pointing to sundry books and musical instruments. "Women's things, and baby's toys!"
"I think I had better go with you, Eadburgh," said Ethel, anything but assured by the unsympathetic words of the strange visitant.
This was just what Eadburgh was anxious to say; and the two immediately disappeared.
"Be seated, my lord," said Bretwul to Sigurd, "and I will find some eatables. I doubt not you are well-nigh famished."
"Aye, aye. We have ridden eight hours continuously in the darkness, and you well say we are famishing."
No sooner had the door closed behind Bretwul than Sigurd's astonishment at the vision his eyes had just seen, found vent.
"What is this I have looked upon?" he murmured to himself. "Some inhabitant of Valhalla, where our gods and heroes have gone? Surely our priests have told me of nothing so fair as she, even there! I would covet a hero's grave this very hour, and the dark beyond, if they who dwell there get them wives so fair as she."
Here, let me, for the further information of the reader, say that this Sigurd, or "lord of Lakesland," as he was known, whom we have met with before in these pages, was a typical example of many a Norse chieftain who still held sway in the land, ruling their followers after the manner of the rude past; and the important part which he plays in these "Chronicles" calls for a more elaborate introduction than we have yet accorded him. He was a man who rivetted the gaze at once, but it was a fascination, and not a delight, to the beholder. Men could not forbear to look, but they far oftener turned away from him with a shudder and a sense of relief than otherwise. When Halfdane, the viking marauder, pounced down upon Northumbria, and the north of England generally, he divided a great part of the lands of the Saxons amongst his followers; and they, settling amongst the Angles, intermarried with them; and thus, in the course of time, the two became almost one people. But in some districts there were clearly defined lines of separateness. Sigurd, in unbroken line, was a descendant of one "Rollo, the Ganger" (or walker). Wonderful traditions lingered amongst the people of the height and build of this warrior: such fragmentary histories, or folk-lore, declared that he was compelled to walk because no horse could bear his weight. Hence his name, the "Ganger," or walker.
As this Sigurd was in body and physical proportions, so he was in mind. He was rough, rude in manners, tastes, and pursuits, but strong in the sturdy virtues of honesty and chastity, his Viking heritage. In the case of Oswald notably, and of Ethel, and many others of our Saxon chieftains and chieftainesses, some measure of education had been sought after and prized. Contact also with the Normans, who in goodly numbers dwelt in England during our late King Edward's lifetime, had done much to modify the vulgar tastes and habits of the English. But in the case of Sigurd, the undiluted primitiveness of the marauding Norseman, untainted and uninfluenced by the undoubted advance the world was making, was embodied. He never travelled beyond the rugged hills and weird gorges of his domain, unless it were to meet the hardy robbers from over the Scottish border. To fish in the glorious lakes; to hunt in the stretching forests and dense woods; to excel in the rude games of wrestling, archery, putting the stone, and many other games which constituted the sole recreations of vulgar churls, was his delight. He had little sympathy and little intercourse with those members of his class who were awaking to the presence of, and yielding to, the civilising influences which were beginning to be felt in England, by its increasing contact with the continent of Europe. Still, there was a rugged honesty about this man altogether admirable. He loved deeply and faithfully; but he hated just as fiercely and implacably. He was a man of great, even gross extremes, magnificent in energy and force of character. Happy was the man who shared his affection; but woe be to the man who incurred his hatred. This first interview with Ethel had a distinctly repellent influence upon her; her very blood seemed to freeze under his ardent gaze. It seemed to her that she was face to face with one of the unlovable gods or heroes, their sagas, or wise men, were never tired of glorifying. The sense of shrinking and dread which Ethel experienced at this first meeting might have been intensified by her anxiety with regard to Oswald; but Sigurd was quick to notice the involuntary start, the shrinking from him, and it cut him deeply, and to the quick.
When the door was closed he stood for some minutes like one petrified, blankly staring at the closed door through which the fair vision had disappeared. The form and features of the beautiful Saxon floated indistinctly before his vision. "She shrank from me!" he fiercely ejaculated, but the tones were half a groan as well. "Why this ill-disguised dread of me?" he murmured. He slowly surveyed himself from head to foot in the vain endeavour to discover what it was about him which so startled and repelled Ethel. Then he strode across the room and stood before a mirror which hung from the wall in an elaborately wrought frame—an article he had never used before, and seldom met with, and which he faced now with a scowl of contempt upon his face. His head and face were faithfully reflected, and some of his muscular frame. His visage was bronzed and brown, his beard unshaven and unkempt, whilst from underneath his helmet there escaped masses of hair of an unlovely red colour. "Ah!" he ejaculated, "I should better win me a bride as my fierce Viking ancestors won theirs, with their swords, getting them as the spoil of war, or winning them at Holmganga (duel), where valour and prowess in arms were recognised. Any Norman gallant with a well-trimmed beard would put me to the rout as wives are won in these degenerate days! Any Saxon with a smattering of clerk's gear and book-learning, would have me on the hip. One who could play at joust with foppish Norman gallants, or lilt his heel to the sound of music, would be preferred before me. Yet, what is there ails these sturdy limbs of mine? Sturdy limbs counted for much in the days of our ancestors; but now every dainty girl shrinks at them with contempt, as marks of boorishness. Why should this girl shrink from me so? Hist to me, Viking," said he, apostrophising himself, "and tell me this. Why should this fair Saxon thus unhinge me? Why should I care for blue eyes, flaxen tresses, and a sylph-like form? Viking warriors were not mothered by girls like this. Then clearly, if Viking warriors cannot be mothered by such, Viking warriors should not be wived by them. A wife of brawny build, with hardihood enough to be a sea-king's consort, and nurse me warrior sons, would surely mate me best. My home will have to be the rugged hills where the eagle hath his eyrie, or the dense forest where prowls the wolf, and where the lordly red deer roam at will. Yet I do believe this fair Saxon hath bewitched me; she is comely beyond aught my eyes have seen before. But what of that? 'Tis despisable—maudlin! Yet those blue eyes of hers, and that comeliness of form, is quite new to me. Those maidens of brawny build, and bold, unwomanly features—I never bethought me to love them yet. Ah! I have been ever ready to fight the bold, but I never could love it; 'tis the gentleness and maidenly grace of this Saxon maiden hath done it. Her speech is gentle, and her manner is coy and shy, and nothing forward. Out upon me for a dotard!" said he savagely. "I'll no more on't! I will not sleep under this roof; 'tis enervating! I'll get me out upon the heath, where I can hear the sough of the night winds, and listen to the night-birds' screech. 'Twill bring me back my Viking's mood, and scare away this flimsy dream of love. How could I mate with a timid dove, except I shed my talons! A Viking sleek and pursy, well fed, and ease-loving!—a monstrosity I should be! The door of Valhalla would be closed against me. The gods and heroes in the land beyond the deep sea, whose company I hope to join at death, would disown me. My boast and pride, my Viking's race, would fitly come to end with me."
Meanwhile Ethel, accompanied by Eadburgh and Bretwul, repaired to the room where Oswald had been laid at rest. Some knowledge of medicine and the art of healing, happily, was possessed by all Saxon gentlewomen. Also there were a few amongst the serfs, who were the lowest class of the peasantry, that had some knowledge of herbs, potions, poultices, bandages, and simple remedies and expedients, which were frequently very effective, though sometimes mistaken.
Oswald smiled a pleasant smile as they entered; but it required no great skill or discernment to see that he was weak and suffering. The hectic flush upon his countenance, and the short, hurried breathing told but too plainly that the wound and the weakness were not the worst foes that had fastened on him. He could not fail to note the dismay and alarm depicted on the pale and anxious face of Ethel.
"Ethel, girl," said he, putting as much pleasantness into his tone of voice as he could command, "never let that sweet face wear so sad a look. The case is not so bad as that—nothing worse than a mere flesh-wound; but the damp and exposure on those mountain sides, and that long and horrid home-coming on horseback, has taken the life out of me."
But in spite of his efforts to be cheerful, he could not suppress a groan and a painful contortion of his face.
"Bretwul," said he, uncovering his shoulder, "for mercy's sake undo those bandages! My arm swells, and they screw me tight as a vice, and give me a sickening pain."
Ethel, however, advanced, and with firm and nimble fingers undid the clumsy bandages, cleaning and washing the festering wound wonderfully gently, but resolutely, and without faltering. Without faltering or hesitancy also, she bathed and salved, lotioned and bandaged it again. Oswald, with the passiveness of a tired child, submitted to it all.
"Ah!" said he, "now I've got a chance."
But this done, Ethel's culinary arts were called into requisition, and delicacies from the mere, the flock, or the chase succeeded each other with tempting regularity.
"If the wound could have had but a week's start of the fever, I should have been hopeful," said she to Eadburgh.
But this was not to be, for next day Oswald became restless, with occasional wanderings of the mind, and this was speedily followed by a total relapse. Never for a moment, by night or by day, except for the most necessary things, did Ethel quit his side; and never was there a moment, by night or day, but either Bretwul or Wulfhere watched by his bed. And when the fever was at its height, it was as much as the two strong men could do to hold him in his bed.
During this season of mental aberration, he would be at one time engaged in mortal strife with his hated rival Vigneau. Anon, he was over seas with Alice de Montfort, a refugee in a foreign land. Then the graphic scene enacted in the dungeon beneath the castle, where Alice, torch in hand, and alone, saved him out of the hands of her own countrymen, and gave him liberty and life, was acted over again, with intense realism of voice and gesture.
Frequently he recoiled, with horror depicted in his countenance, as Ethel gently smoothed his pillow, or moistened his parched lips. Then he would call vehemently for the fair Norman with the dark eyes and raven tresses.
Ethel heard all this with agony at heart, and often the tear, unbidden, dropped upon the coverlet as she bent over him. Often she would murmur to herself,—
"He thinks not of me. I am but a Saxon girl, to pet and speak gently to. Would he were harsh and forbidding, like this stranger! But he is what he is, and God made me a woman, and I will bear this burden, as too oft a woman must; for he will never know, and that will make it bearable."
So for many weary days and nights the resolute struggle of life and death for victory went on, and the weary, anxious watchers looked on, helpless, except to pray and hope that favouring Providence would give the victory as they wished.
At last the crisis passed. Thanks to the wonderful physique and recuperative faculties of the patient, combined with the ceaseless care and patient nursing of the Saxon maiden, the strong man vanquished, and cast off the malignant foe. Then commenced the slow rallying from the utter prostration, and the gradual regaining of strength.
"Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave."—Song of Solomon, viii. 6.
"Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave."—Song of Solomon, viii. 6.
During the time that Oswald was recovering from the prostration consequent upon the fever, he and Wulfhere drew carefully a plan for the fortress already determined upon. Every detail was gone carefully over and elaborated. In the meantime, also, messengers were despatched far and near, and artificers and handicraftsmen rallied to the work. Speedily the foundations were dug, and the outer walls encircling the summit began to rise steadily and rapidly before the persistent and energetic labours of the Saxon refugees. Each one wrought with a will, knowing that life and freedom depended upon their ability to raise a fortress strong enough to defy their enemies.
Ere the Normans were aware of what was going on, a rampart had been erected, which was soon to develop into a stronghold, impregnable, and secure against assault. This first line of defence having been raised, vigorous attention was given to the interior. Wells were dug, stables were built, habitations also sprang up as by magic. Women and children hurried into it, bringing everything they had saved from the desolation of the past. Cattle were driven into it at night, and emerged in the morning to feed around its shoulders, pushing their way in sheer audacity down into the green valleys, for there were always bands of sturdy outlaws in the woods between them and danger—outlaws, who snared game, which literally swarmed in the woods, or cut their timber for their bows and arrows. For these men the Normans were no match in the solitudes which were familiar to them, and they soon learnt to have a semi-friendliness with them, and to court relationships with the hill-men, all of which decidedly made for peace. But to a tacit acknowledgment of these outlaws the Norman leaders were bitterly opposed. De Montfort feared that this thing would grow until it became a menace to his own position, though he remembered most vividly the words used by Oswald on that memorable night when he confronted him in his own house as though he had dropped from the clouds, when, in burning words, the Saxon told him that they wished to be at peace, but would assert their right to pasturage, and to freedom. De Montfort also feared the effect this thing would have upon William, if once he learnt that his subject was conniving at an incipient rebellion, which might ultimately threaten the peace of the kingdom. So, what between the pleadings of his daughter Alice for peace towards the harassed Saxons, and the sharp lesson they had taught him once before, that they were an enemy not to be trifled with on ground of their own choosing, the days and weeks sped on in delays and hesitation as to how this defiance on the part of a handful of desperate men, who defended themselves with such vigour when attacked, should be met; seeing also that they were, upon the whole, non-aggressive and peace-loving when left alone to the pursuit of peaceful avocations.
The Saxons encamped were, nevertheless, a strange and motley company, and nothing less than the sagacity, watchfulness, and marvellous forbearance of Oswald, coupled with the matchless valour and firmness which he displayed, would have served to restrain the undisciplined and heterogeneous company over whom he ruled. There was a moiety of desperate and blood-thirsty men who were almost incapable of restraint, and who were so blinded by their hatred of the Normans that motives of prudence or of policy were most hateful to them, and Oswald's efforts to enforce self-restraint upon his own followers, and to cultivate friendly relations with the enemy, were gall and wormwood.
Sigurd was the acknowledged leader of these, and they, by their dense ignorance and superstitions, fittingly represented the dark heathenism, and plunder, and bloodshed, characteristics of their Norse ancestors. They were utterly unable to realise the fact, which Oswald saw most distinctly, that all hope of wresting the kingdom from the Normans by force of arms was an idle dream, unless the Normans should be involved in a struggle with other foes. They clung to their heathenish religion, encouraged by their grim old priest Olaf, who, periodically quitting his cave in an adjacent valley, haunted the settlement like a hyena on the scent of blood, and found little difficulty in stirring up the ferocious passions of his followers, often to the verge of open revolt and mutiny. Oswald surveyed the situation with the eye of a statesman; but the reconciling of these turbulent factions to his ideal was a task which required the utmost efforts of wisdom and valour too, and which perpetually threatened the peace of the camp.
These desperate complications were further intensified into a private and personal cause of enmity and hatred on Sigurd's part—as we shall presently see—by reason of his strange and fierce love for the fair Saxon, Ethel. Despite his passionate endeavours to cast out the deep impression made upon him at his first interview with Ethel, we need scarcely say such efforts were utterly vain and futile. She was a beloved and familiar figure to every one in the little colony, and he was necessarily brought frequently into intercourse with her; and day by day he became more deeply involved. The love of the fierce Viking had this quality in common with more ordinary mortals; it was like a quagmire, in which, being once fairly entangled, the more he struggled to get free of it the deeper he sank, until all hope of extrication therefrom became perfectly impossible.
"Ethel, girl," said he, addressing her one day with the bluntness which was a characteristic of his whole nature and disposition; and his love-making was of a piece with his whole disposition, "I have no skill in the art of making love, or, what is pretty much the same thing, a make-believe of love, and I much fear me my rough manners and rough-hewn limbs commend me not to fair maidens like thyself. But since I saw thee first, feelings have been kindled in my breast which I thought were dead, and utterly out of place in these times. But scorn me not, Ethel. Thou art as surely of Viking extraction on thy father's side as I am; and though I have no gentle manners, there is no honied falseness in my nature, and perhaps through thy gentle influence I may come to love the ways of peace."
This confession of love on the part of Sigurd was the very thing Ethel had been dreading to hear; and her confusion and sickness of heart were pitiably manifest.
"Alas! my lord," said she, "these are times when the funeral rites for our dead are more opportune than the marriage rites. I could not think of wedlock in times like these, when children born may well-nigh curse the day when they first saw the light."
"But I will carry thee to the court of Malcolm of Scotland, where thou shalt dwell in safety. My sword will receive a hearty welcome by him. Then, if peace should come, we may return to our own land."
"My lord, you know not what you ask. These are not times for love. With my country laid desolate, and my people scattered, I can indulge no affection but for these."
"My love for my country is as great as thine, and wedlock between us two need not diminish our love for our country."
"Say no more, my lord. You know not what you ask. 'Tis painful to me, for I am not free to love."
Sigurd started as if stung by a serpent.
"Ah! what a dolt I must be, not to see it! How could a maiden come in contact withhim, and not love him. Well, Ethel, Sigurd would throw no shadow across thy path. Happy be thy love, and its consummation timely!"
"My lord, I have no lover!" said Ethel, hastily leaving the room.
Sigurd slowly paced the room, in profound meditation. The memorable occasion when he found Oswald and Wulfhere in the company of the two Norman women passed in review before his mental vision, and its significance laid hold upon his mind as it had never done before.
"Can it be," said he, "thatheshould be insensible to such a treasure, and should add to his culpable blindness the base treachery of seeking an alliance with the Norman supplanter?"
The thought of this stirred his passions into fury, and he nervously grasped the hilt of his sword, as though he meditated vengeance on some foe. "I will watch this thing, and if it be as I fear I will no longer ally myself with him; but woe be to him if my arm be stronger than his, for so base a betrayal can only be washed out in blood!"
So saying, he sallied forth, pacing round the fortifications in quest of Oswald, where he learnt that he and Wulfhere had betaken themselves towards the valley. Away he sped him, intent on probing this matter to the bottom; and instinctively his footsteps turned toward the spot where once before his ire had been roused at the conduct of the two he sought.
"Oh pilot! 'tis a fearful night;There's danger on the deep."The Pilot.
"Oh pilot! 'tis a fearful night;There's danger on the deep."
The Pilot.
Count De Montfort strolled leisurely to and fro on the rising ground in front of the castle, rapt in admiration of the fine scenery and noble woods which environed it on all its sides. Then he turned to take a leisurely survey of the massive proportions of the castle, and, with a veteran soldier's instincts, fell to a planning of additional fortifications, so as to increase its impregnability. Whilst thus engaged, a figure seen in the distance, caused the complacent smile to vanish from his countenance, and his visage grew dark with a frown. The intruder was none other than Baron Vigneau, who, after salutations, said,—
"When may I expect the fulfilment of the promise made to me at York, Count? Lady Alice has now had some months of preparation, and now the time has come when our nuptials should be celebrated."
"Well, what says the lady, Baron? If you have her consent there need be no further delay. I have no opposition to offer, though, as Alice's father, and wishing her happiness, I am bound to say I wish you would eschew the wine-cup. I note with pain and concern this most unwholesome habit grows apace."
"Tut, tut, Count! Many thanks for your homily! But to the point in hand. I have no recollection that the lady's consent had aught to do with the bargain. Soldiers usually dispense with ceremonies of that description, and, by your consent, we will still consider it apart from her ladyship's wishes or whims. 'Twas, I think, a part of the wages of services rendered."
"But, as a soldier and a knight, making professions of gallantry and the rest of it, you would not think of forcing a lady's hand? Surely you have opportunities of winning her as a soldier should. I have expressly stated that such are my wishes. What more can you expect of me?"
"Finely spoken no doubt! But I would remind you of a matter which you know well enough without a reminder, that I have not the manners of a simpering gallant, nor am I used to chanting love-songs beneath my lady's window. I am a soldier, a blunt and unpolished one maybe. Alice has been thoroughly well spoiled, that is plain enough, by prating nuns and her convent life. Her head has been filled with their silly notions of romance, and religious scruples. My rough life does not fit me for playing the part of a dangling fop, or uttering canting lies about religion. Bah!"
"I cannot force my daughter into this marriage, Baron. Win her if you can," said the Count peremptorily.
"A bargain is a bargain, force or no force, and I'll have it kept. Any canting parade of virtue will not go down with me; I'm too familiar with your antecedents. If this promise is not ratified promptly, I'll straight away to the king and expose your foul conspiracy, and I shall have the pleasure of seeing your head dangling from the gate within a week. Then the haughty wench, your daughter, will rue the day she vented her scorn on me."
"Cowardly villain!" said the Count. "Come with me to yonder copse, and I'll measure steel with you."
"Not quite so fast, master. I keep my mettle for other purposes. We'll try steel as a last resort. But in the meantime, I'd rather have your daughter than your blood; and nothing prevents but the lack of your commands. Let these be forthcoming, and all is well; but I'll not be trifled with, mark me!"
So saying, he strode away, leaving De Montfort beside himself with rage and fear.
The same evening, as he and Alice sat together, he said,—
"Alice, I told you some time ago that I had betrothed you to Baron Vigneau, and I told you some other matters connected therewith, which I trust you have not forgotten. He has been claiming the fulfilment of my promise, and becomes very wroth and threatening. I trust you are prepared now to accept him at once."
"I cannot say that I am, father; the acquaintance I had with him in Normandy before the wars caused me to form but a poor opinion of him. I find that the life he has been leading since the wars began has brutalised him. His sottish habits, also, have become most outrageous. If you wish me to marry, let me make my choice. Or, better still, let me stay with you in singleness. You need some one to keep house for you, I'm sure."
"Alice, I told you I had betrothed you to Vigneau, which is a matter binding upon my honour; and 'tis a debt you must discharge. The Baron is not worse than many others whose life has been cast in these troublous times. He is also famous at the joust; his deeds of arms, also, and his personal prowess, are known throughout the land. Pray what would you have in a husband?"
"Father, I have no feelings but of abhorrence for him. If I may, I would very much prefer retiring to a convent, as I have said before, to spending my life with one so besotted and utterly lost to human feeling. If this will relieve you of your bond, pray give me permission, and I will prefer no other request."
"Alice, it does not suit me that you should retire to a convent, or do anything butobey me. Let me tell you, once for all, these mock heroics, these school-girl sentiments and bookish whims, cannot be tolerated. Your mother was betrothed to me by her parents, who never thought of asking her consent. I tell you once for all, this marriage shall be consummated this day three months. So let this suffice."
Alice retired to her room well-nigh heart-broken at her father's harshness and the hateful prospect of a union with Vigneau. She laid her face in her hands and sobbed most distressingly, defying Jeannette's utmost efforts to console her.
"What shall I do, Jeannette? I shall never wed Vigneau! I shall be sweetly sleeping in that still pool beneath the hazel trees, where we met the Saxon the other day, on the morning that Vigneau claims me for his bride."
"Hush, my lady! don't say that. Let us go again in the morning. Perhaps we may meet those Saxons again, and they will advise us what to do."
Jeannette dared not give utterance to the thing that was uppermost in her own mind. But as a simple matter of fact, the well-developed manhood of Wulfhere the Saxon had never been wholly absent from the waking thoughts of this coquettish damsel since that romantic interview she had had with him, when her ears tingled with a newborn delight, as she listened to his flattery in the wood by the riverside. She was, as a matter of fact, ready for any desperate enterprise or expedient that would result in another interview.
"We will, Jeannette. Perhaps we shall see the Saxon knight again. I had been taught to believe these Saxon chieftains were loutish boors. But I can assure you I found him anything but that."
"Yes, lady; and the other chieftain, who was with me, was a very handsome man, and spoke so pleasantly to me. I have heard, too, lady, they have built a fortress on the mountains. He asked me to be his wife, but I thought we should have to run wild in the woods, and sleep in caves; but if they have a fortress to live in, I would run away and be his wife, if you would run away with the other chieftain."
Alice smiled, in spite of herself, at Jeannette's willingness, evidently, to take Wulfhere pretty much on trust. But, nevertheless, the morrow found them wending their way to the river, where, getting out the boat, they pulled away up stream.
"I wonder if the Saxon, will see us, Jeannette?"
"If he should come, he will be sure to have his comrade with him. Don't you think he will?"
"I think you are in love with that tall bondman of the Saxon chieftain's, Jeannette."
"He is not a bondman of any one's my lady, for he told me so himself. He is a Saxon freeman."
"A 'freeman,' Jeannette. What does that mean, prithee?"
"A freeman is next to a knight, I believe; at least, they have lands of their own."
"Oh, is that so? Well, we shall soon reach the spot where we landed before. Shall we get out of the boat, think you?"
"I think we had better not, my lady, until we see them. What should we do if that fierce Saxon should catch us?"
"The Saxon earl told me his people would not harm us—any of them; but we must not be overbold. We are now completely out of sight of the castle; let us pull gently, and keep a sharp look-out."
So steadily they glided underneath the long arms of the trees, sending the water-hens scurrying away into the thick recesses of foliage, or diving beneath the surface, and coming up again on the other side with a plash; whilst the snipe and lovely kingfishers, on fleet wing, skimmed over the surface into the solitudes ahead.
"Surely," said Alice, "this is a slice out of Paradise."
"Yes," said Jeannette; "it is lovely. And that's the fallen tree where the Saxon and I sat together."
"Not the Saxon, Jeannette; his follower, you mean."
"Oh, but I don't think he is merely a follower, my lady. I believe they are equal; leastways, he is only a little lower in rank."
It is, perhaps, needless to say that since Oswald's recovery, scarcely had a sunny day passed when the placid bosom of the river had not been anxiously scanned by the other two persons most interested in a second meeting with these fair Norman women. It is scarcely necessary to say also that two stalwart individuals had seen the slim boat gliding slowly up the stream, and, for the last quarter of an hour, had been rapidly clearing the distance which separated them from it. We may also say, without exaggeration, that these frail women met these stalwart Saxons with much less of perturbation than when they last met; though if we were to say that there were no fluttering of hearts, and no crimson blushes mounting to the face and neck, and no trembling of limbs, as they reached out their hands to be helped on to the embankment; or if we were to say that Jeannette did not utter a little scream, and clutch Wulfhere most tenaciously, as the boat gave a treacherous lurch as she stepped from it; we should not be faithful chroniclers. Again Wulfhere and Jeannette sat on the fallen tree and watched by the boat; whilst Oswald and Alice sauntered by the river's side, and Alice told her tale of coming disaster. We know she did not resist as Oswald's arm lovingly encircled her, and he bade her be of good cheer. In low, earnest tones they talked of all that lay in their hearts; and Oswald was able to convince her that the dark cloud ahead would be found to have a silver lining. It was truly passing strange that this high-born lady should yield herself so unreservedly to this Saxon. There was no reason, or prudence, or wisdom in it possibly. But the divine instinct of love, which is born in—not acquired—but born in and indigenous to every pure and unsullied woman's heart, ventured, with sheer and utter abandonment, to give her heart to him. The same instinct which revolted in utter abhorrence at the thought of contact with the brutal Norman, drove her irresistibly to the sheltering arms of the pure-minded and valorous Saxon. They laid their plans for further interviews, all the while unconscious that eyes, glistening with fury, were peering through the brushwood, and mad hate was rankling in the breast of an unseen foe, who scarce could forbear to rush in and execute vengeance on the spot.
"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea.The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me."Gray.
"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea.The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me."
Gray.
From the flagstaff on the tower of the castle was to be seen for a little while at midday a pennant, with long streamers fluttering in the breeze. There was no one on the tower at the time but Alice. What is the significance of this? Nothing, apparently, but a freak of fancy. But any one sufficiently observant would notice that Alice takes her stand on the north side of the tower, and, leaning her elbows on the battlements, looks long and eagerly towards yonder grim mountain looming blackly in the hazy distance, whose scarred limestone precipices seem fearful to look upon. But presently there became visible to any one possessed of strong, keen vision, a dark speck of something which had sprung into sight against the clear background of heaven's blue. It seemed perfectly motionless in the air, and might be some bird of prey hovering on poised wing, and watching for its prey. But it was no bird of prey. Alice gave an exclamation of surprise.
"He sees it," she said; "he will be here to-night. Speed away laggard hours that separate me from him! There is music in his voice, and refuge in his strong arms and loving heart!"
She piously uttered a prayer to the saints to guide him. But perhaps, wise one, that prayer was breathed into the idle April breeze—a contribution of nothingness—an impalpable seedling, flung out of a needy human soul, but deposited nowhere, and having fruition never—I trow not, for prayers, like curses, have an assured harvest, and are as surely reaped by the sowers, no inspired vision being requisite to see it done from day to day.
The laggard hours quickly passed, and the lingering twilight deepened into sombre night. The thrushes which carolled to each other from tree to tree as the deepening gloom gathered about them, as though loth to say good-bye to the joyous day, had long since sought their resting-place for the night. Standing beside the old oak in the wood might be seen the form of Oswald, listening intently for sound of human voice or human footfall. Nothing disturbs the silent night air that gives uneasy thoughts to the listener, though there are many sounds distinctly audible to one so familiar with nature, and the woods are most alive now that man has gone to his rest. There is the hurried pattering here and there and everywhere, of game and vermin, or the unhurried crawl of the urchin as he issues from his bed in quest of food. Overhead the bats are flitting in and out amongst the branches of the trees, followed by the heavy beat of the owlet's wing, whose eyes, catlike, are gleaming like live coals in the darkness. In the distance the sharp yelp of the fox proclaims Reynard also to be abroad and busy.
None of these sounds give uneasiness to Oswald. On the contrary, they are to him most reassuring. He turns his gaze towards the tower, the outlines of which are clearly marked against the starlit sky. Soon he sees a dark figure move towards the battlements, and peer over on the side on which he stands. Perhaps some sentinel keeps watch from the lonely heights whilst his comrades below are resting in peace. No; that is no sentinel, for the figure waves something to and fro for a moment or two, then slowly sinks behind the battlements. On witnessing the signal, Oswald quickly mounts the tree, and disappears in its cavernous recesses. The journey along the underground passage is quickly traversed, and he emerges on the battlements, and the muffled figure is folded in his arms, and a loving kiss is implanted on her cheek.
"What ails you, Alice, dear? No ill news, I trust?"
"Alas! I have only ill news for you, dearest, and I know you are hard beset without my adding other troubles to your perplexities."
"Hush, darling! Never thinkyourneeds add to my perplexities. I never feel so like surmounting everything as when I think I live for you; to champion your cause against all comers, and flaunt defiance in the face of your enemies."
"I fear the championing of my cause will bring you into deadly peril, perhaps to death."
"If it does, dearest, you gave me my life when an ignominious death awaited me. If I die in defence of you, well, I am willing, aye, more than willing. But let us not cherish thoughts like these, for I think a merciful Providence will always reserve a blessing for one like you; so let us have faith, and never doubt the future. I am full of faith and hope. Come, tell me what new trouble distracts and disturbs your mind."
Then they sat together on an abutment, and Alice, nestling close to her virtuous knight, told of the new complications which had arisen.
"My father has been very wroth to-day, chiding me roughly because I make not preparations for my nuptials, and threatening my marriage to Vigneau by force."
"He is still determined, then, to press on this hateful and heathenish alliance?"
"Yes; but judge him not too harshly, dearest. I am well assured he loves me dearly, in spite of this seeming harshness. I have seen again and again a frown on his brow, and heard bitter words break from his lips at the intrusion of Vigneau. I am satisfied that if it were not for the hateful power he wields over my father, I should not be forced into this alliance. But Vigneau claims my hand as the price of peace."
"You still hate this man, and abhor a union with him, Alice, dear? Is it not so?"
"I loathe him with my whole heart, and would rather die a hundred deaths than marry him. But what it may be my duty to do, for my father's sake, I know not."
"And will it come to this, that, as the price of peace, you are to be offered to this devil incarnate—to one whose hands are red with the blood of murdered men and women, and whose life is one coarse round of brutal indulgence?"
"The prospect is most sickening. But what can I do in an extremity like this?"
"Rest assured, my love, you will not do that," said Oswald, drawing his sword. "Here is a trusty friend which will cut this Gordian knot, if it be not unloosed by more peaceable means. This Vigneau owes his villainous life a hundred times told, for the foul crimes he has committed, and is committing from day to day, upon my helpless countrymen. The sword has been hanging over him a long time, and it will fall before he claims you as his bride. Though he live to stand at the altar with you, he shall not compass his vile ends, for I will confront him there; and rest assured I will make sure ofhimif it be the last stroke my trusty sword shall ever make. Drive the matter to the utmost verge of delay, and if relief come not in the meantime, it will come ere the extremity. But come now, let us think of other things, for this matter, I see, sits like a grievous nightmare upon your spirits. I am pleased to be able to report upon the forward state of the fortress on the hill."
"But, alas! I have ill news for you with regard to that matter. It was partly on that account I summoned you from the hills to-night."
"What is it, dearest? Come, unburthen your mind of all troublesome matters. I can assure you, nevertheless, that we are now very indifferent as to what steps may be taken."
"But I am afraid this will be serious. The king is now at York with a large contingent of his men-at-arms, and a number of mercenaries, intent on quelling any attempts at insurrection on the part of the Saxons. One of his Bodes[2]arrived here this morning, asking for all information with regard to the attitude of your people. My father is having a parchment writing made out, with full particulars of your doings, and asking for help to reduce your fortress, and slay your rebellious followers. I fear me if William exerts himself he will not desist, until he has captured your stronghold; and he will give no quarter to those who try to thwart him."
"This is, indeed, serious news, and we must move heaven and earth to prevent this despatch reaching its destination. Do you know when the messenger will depart?"
"The day after to-morrow, I heard my father say. See, I have here a copy of the despatch. I drew it up at father's dictation."
"Many thanks, my dear. We must devise some expedient to meet this emergency. I think I know a sly rogue who will, either by hook or crook, circumvent the king's messenger. But no time must be lost. Give me a parting kiss. Ah! get you to bed, you trembling puss, and may sweet sleep enfold you in his gentle arms! Adieu, adieu, for a little while."