"Those who in quarrels interposeMust often wipe a bloody nose."The Mastiffs.
"Those who in quarrels interposeMust often wipe a bloody nose."
The Mastiffs.
A few miles down the valley from the Norman headquarters at the castle, and following the trend of the river—because there was on its banks to be found a path, or track, very irregular, it is true, but which was made to serve the purposes of pedestrians, and which was little frequented—a Norman runner, or messenger, the bearer of De Montfort's despatch to the Conqueror, was steadily pressing on towards his destination. He had had a sharp walk along a road none of the best, and the springiness was beginning to disappear from his tread. He carried a sword by his side. Over his shoulder there was fastened a wallet containing provisions, and a long bow with a small quiver of arrows. In his right hand he carried a quarterstaff, which he used as a walking-stick. This latter weapon was much affected by the Normans, they having learnt its use from the Saxons, and it was now inseparable from their rough games and amusements, it being singularly adapted to call forth the powers of strength and dexterity of the wielders of it, whilst its vigorous application seldom resulted in anything worse than bruises and ruffled tempers. Ahead of this Norman, and quite unobserved by him, there was patiently lying in wait a remarkable being, who was quietly peering over the top of a knoll which commanded a view of a turning in the road. His dress plainly proclaimed him to be a child of the forest and the chase, his weird and outlandish appearance being simply indescribable. He sprang to his feet with remarkable agility as the form of the Norman runner rounded the corner into view. He fell into the path, and affected to journey as the stranger did, though as yet the Norman had not got a glimpse of him. As he went slowly trudging along, he burst into a merry ditty, trolling it right lustily. The burden of his doggerel ran something like the following:—
"My song is of a palmer bold,Who footed it o'er the lea.A monkish buck to him stepp'd up,'What's the news, my man?' quoth he."'Bad news! Why, wine is getting scarce,And venison, too, I trow.And this I know the Normans vow;They are eat and drunk by you."'And paunches measuring a cloth-yard's girth,They tap them with lance or spear;For good old sack is kept in stockBy such, the Normans swear.'"'Then take my bottle, thou palmer bold,My venison pasty too.I'll fast and pray, and hair-shirt wear,As a pious monk should do.'"
"My song is of a palmer bold,Who footed it o'er the lea.A monkish buck to him stepp'd up,'What's the news, my man?' quoth he.
"'Bad news! Why, wine is getting scarce,And venison, too, I trow.And this I know the Normans vow;They are eat and drunk by you.
"'And paunches measuring a cloth-yard's girth,They tap them with lance or spear;For good old sack is kept in stockBy such, the Normans swear.'
"'Then take my bottle, thou palmer bold,My venison pasty too.I'll fast and pray, and hair-shirt wear,As a pious monk should do.'"
The strange singer affected to be totally oblivious of the approach of the Norman, for he accompanied his song by a vigorous twirling of his quarterstaff, ever and anon flinging it into the air and catching it again. So he kept trudging along all the while, as merrily as a cricket. He was apparently greatly startled when the Norman accosted him in the following unceremonious fashion:—
"Hilloa, old weazen-face! you appear to be in a wonderfully merry mood this morning. What is't makes you wag your tail at such a rate this morning, eh?"
"I give you good morning, fair sir. My obedience to your honour. Give me a moment; you quite startle me. What was your honour saying to me?"
"What is it makes you so merry, pray?"
"Why, it is better to be merry than sad; and, begging your pardon for being so bold, but I have that about me would make a man merry if he had a foot in the grave."
"Oh, aye, that is it makes you so merry, old bogskipper, is it? I thought you were going sweethearting."
"Marry, no! Did you ever see as old a dog as I am amuse himself by catching his tail. Mark me, I have in my wallet good barley-bread, and a stout collop of venison; and in my case I have a stiff supply of old Flemish wine," said he, tapping a huge leathern bottle he carried. "So I will be merry while it lasts, anyhow."
"I warrant, too, you have had that snout of yours to the neck of that bottle pretty frequently, old fellow, eh?"
"Thou art in error, friend; grossly in error. Such words are a grave reflection upon my character for sobriety. But it is only fair to say that I have smelt at it occasionally as I came along; but I never drink except I'm thirsty, begging your pardon, fair sir—only when I'm thirsty."
"Thirsty, eh? And how oft does that sensation come on? Not a week between, I'll go bond."
"No, I grant you this much. I always seem to have a parched sensation at the pit of my stomach when wine or ale is about; and I have noticed this frequently, good wine seems to go straight to the spot. It is a very soothing medicine if it be applied regularly, and pretty oft, so as to keep my stomach nice and moist."
"Well, I think you might ask a thirsty comrade to have a taste of your wine, anyhow, old sucker. 'Tis a very small favour, that."
"Not so fast, my buck; don't jump your fence afore you come to't! First fee your priest, then have your shriving. How should I know whether thou beest a comrade or no. Dost thou see, to give good wine to a bad fellow were to waste good liquor, and there is no sin in the calendar half so bad as to waste good liquor. Marry, 'twere mortal sin."
"Ho, ho, my master's all! Dost thou know, old fellow, when an ass kicks his heels he inquires for the cudgel. Come, now, what if I lay siege to thy weazen carcase, and carry off thy bottle, and flay thy carcase for thee into the bargain. How then?"
"Easy there, my hearty!" said the stranger, twirling lustily his staff. "I trow I would flatten thy crown with my staff ere thou take my bottle; though 'twere pity truly to flatten thee any more above thy shoulders, for, gramercy! I take it thou would be welcome where flats are wanted."
"I perceive thou art a stout rogue enough when driven to a push, and saucy into the bargain. But I can stop thy brag, my cock-a-loup, pretty handy, I doubt not."
"That may be, or that may not be, which signifies nothing. But just let me point out to thee, by way of caution, that my staff is harder than thy pate, anyhow. So, in a friendly sort of way, I would advise thee to take no unnecessary risks."
"Risks, eh? Ha, ha, ha! And from such a swag-belly as thou art! There are not many risks, I flatter me."
"Very well, then; since thou wilt not be advised, take thy staff for a friendly bout," said the Saxon, unstrapping his wallet and leathern bottle, and laying them on the ground. "If I crack thy pate, thou shalt have half my wine; and marry, if thou crack mine thou shalt have the whole, for I love a bout with the staff almost as well as I like Flemish wine."
Now the Norman prided himself upon his prowess with the staff. He was also a span taller than the Saxon. The uncouth garments of the latter, also, made him appear as though much beyond the time of youth, and so disguised his stout limbs that the Norman could scarcely conceal his contempt for such an opponent. So he readily accepted the challenge, and at once the pair were toe to toe, and dealing blow or parry with right good will. The Saxon did not appear to very great advantage at the commencement of the fray. Frequently he received slight blows here and there, at which the Norman was visibly elated, and he led the attack with much vigour, and equal recklessness. The Saxon seemed to shrink from the onset, but there was a sly humour lurking about his wicked grey eye which was very ominous. Eventually taking a mild blow, without parrying, from his foe, the Saxon put a giant's strength into his arm, and like a thunderbolt his staff came down with a crash upon the Norman's skull, cutting open his head, and knocking him senseless on the ground.
"Poor fellow!" said Badger, for it was he. "You don't know how sorry I feel to have to give you a crack like this; but less would hardly do the business."
He quickly undid the Norman's doublet, and took from an inside pocket the sealed message from De Montfort. Then he deposited a similar one in its place. Next, he went down to the river and steeped a cloth in the water, then gently bathed the Norman's head, and staunched the bleeding, also carefully drawing the hair over it to hide the wound as much as possible. He next poured down his throat some of the Flemish wine he carried. The Norman slowly opened his eyes, and stared about him with a dazed, unmeaning look.
"All right, my gallant fellow," said Badger. "Here you are. Have another taste of my bottle."
The Norman took a good long pull, which seemed to revive him considerably. By degrees the whole scene came back to his stunned senses, and mechanically he put up his hand to his head, and felt the wound.
"You hound!" said he. "You've cracked my skull!"
"Not a bit of it, my hearty! Your skull is not so easy to crack. The skin is peeled a little, that is all, and a day or two will put it right again."
"I trow not, nor a week or two either. You villain! You meant to brain me, I do believe!"
"Not a bit of it, comrade. Why, if I meant you harm, what so easy whilst you have been lying here? The fact is, you beat me black and blue. My limbs will be sore for many a day after this. It was the first time I had touched you; and you were so eager to knock me out of it that you left your head unguarded. Why, man, you had the best of it up to the last stroke."
By touching up the Norman's vanity by such artful speeches, and by pouring good wine down his throat, the pair were speedily on good terms, and they parted the best of friends, Badger chuckling to his heart's content as he struck off on a short cut for the hills.
In the meantime, Oswald waited anxiously at an appointed place for the coming of Badger, profoundly hoping that his mission would be successful. He knew that, excepting some untoward accident had happened, Badger would hang on to the heels of his man until, by either fair or foul means, he secured the despatches. But he himself had prepared for drastic means, if stratagem had failed. For failure to intercept the message would probably mean disaster to the little Saxon colony on the hill. His mind, however, was greatly relieved as he beheld Badger in the distance with beaming countenance, hurrying towards him.
"Well, I'm glad to see you, Badger. How has the business gone? No miscarriage, I hope?"
Badger made no reply, but, quickly hauling out the parchment from his bosom, he handed it to Oswald.
"I trust this will make better answer than I can muster, my lord."
Oswald took the parchment, and quickly tore it open, and ran his eyes over its contents.
"All right, Badger. How came you by it? Does the messenger know that you have relieved him of his message?"
"He has not the slightest idea. He trudged off, after carefully ascertaining, as he thought, that his packet was safe."
"You are the slyest rogue in the world, Badger, I do declare. Come, let us hear the news, how you came by this paper?"
So, as the pair journeyed on together, Badger, in high glee, told how he had circumvented the Norman, and sent him on his journey with a cracked skull into the bargain, all of which Oswald highly relished.
"Who overcomesBy force hath overcome but half his foe."Milton..
"Who overcomesBy force hath overcome but half his foe."
Milton..
The burning and rankling feeling of hatred and contempt engendered in the breast of Sigurd against Oswald (as the result of his spying a second time upon the Saxon chieftain and Alice de Montfort) was of such a consuming nature that he must needs force himself into the presence of Ethel at the very first opportunity. In tones fierce and rancorous, he told her the story of Oswald's secret and unprincipled love—as he considered it—for the fair Norman.
"Ethel, girl," said he, "I have dogged this renegade myself, and know of a truth that he holds illicit intercourse with this dark-eyed Norman hussy, and that he keeps tryst with her o' nights when honest men are abed, deceiving Saxon and Norman alike."
"What have I to do with this, my lord? I pray you pursue this matter no farther," said Ethel.
"All honest men, whether Saxon or Norse, have to do with traitors to their country. This deceiver professes undying enmity against our common foe, but does not hesitate to betray his country and the Saxon cause to win a smile from this temptress."
"My lord," said Ethel, in firm tones, "I cannot listen to your harsh judgments of him. He is our chosen leader, and I do not hesitate to say in your hearing, he is our only possible leader. He is sagacious as brave, and ifhecannot rally our scattered and dispirited people, then our cause is hopeless. I do not believe he is a renegade, as you say. He is no traitor to his country, but her most valorous and faithful defender."
"I tell thee, girl, he is in league with this siren! I know of what I speak! How can he prostrate himself beforeherwithout despising and betraying his own people?"
"My lord, what is this tome? If he loves this fair Norman, it is not to be wondered at; she gave him his life. She is surpassingly beautiful; and she is virtuous and good as well. Listen, my lord, to what the palmers tell us of her benefactions, and her kindness to those in distress."
"She supplanted thee, girl, dost thou think of that? She hath stolen what of right should be thine—what would have been thine, but for her! How canst thou find excuses for this she-wolf and her base paramour?"
"My lord, such words are an affront to me. A Saxon maiden does not need to go a-begging for a lover."
"Ethel, thou dost tantalise me! Thou art blind. Thy love for him doth make thee mad! But I will be avenged on them both, whether thou approve of it or not."
"My lord," said Ethel, drawing herself to her full height, whilst her eyes flashed fire, "who told you I loved him? Are you going to make a palmer's song about me, and sing it through the whole camp? I will not have you assuming what I have not told you. Let me tell you, once for all, a Saxon girl will love where she pleases, and only where she pleases. Your references are an insult to me!"
This was said with all the energy she could command. Then, rising, she passed hastily from the room. But scarcely had she closed the door behind her when her strength failed, and she sank exhausted into a seat.
"Mercy on us!" shrieked Eadburgh, rushing off for a mug of cold water, and dashing it over her face with her fingers. "Whatever is the matter? That loutish fellow has been making love again, I'll warrant! He'll drive the poor body clean mad if he does not let her alone. Such a great mountain of flesh would frighten anybody, let alone a wee bit of a lady-like creature as my mistress."
Sigurd, we need not say, was still further maddened by this additional repulse, and in a rage which would brook no further control, he hurried off in quest of Oswald, whom he found superintending the efforts of the workmen. Oswald saw that he was greatly agitated and evidently in a terrible passion.
"A word in thine ear," he hissed fiercely to Oswald, as he passed.
Oswald followed him until they were beyond the hearing of others.
"What is thy business this morning, pray?" said Oswald, who saw quite plainly that a rupture was imminent.
"My errand is to unmask a traitor, and either make an honest man of him, or else make an end of him."
"If thou hast business of such import as this—and thy looks betoken it—it were best to speak plainly, and come to the point at once."
"My business is with thee, for thou art a renegade, and a trickster; dancing attendance on a Norman woman, and bartering thy country's cause and thy people's liberties, to win a smile from a trumpery Norman jade. Now thou hast it in plain terms."
"Thou liest, Jarl. And once more thy madness passes the bounds of toleration. Let me tell thee I will have no more ebullitions of thy ungovernable temper, or any more of thy intriguing and sowing of discord amongst my people. So be pleased at once to betake thyself to thy own domain, or anywhere thou likest, so that thou cross my path no more. There thou art at liberty to act thine own part without let or hindrance."
"Ah, finely spoken, no doubt! and smoothly as any Norman courtier could mouth it! Thou hast the trick of it, truly. But thou mayest save thy fine speeches, and lisp them to thy lady-love, for they win not upon me. I will tell thee further,—to put a few leagues of honest Saxon soil between thee and me will not heal our differences. Nor will I try such a remedy unless more wholesome methods fail me."
"There are no differences between us, saving such as are hatched in thy muddy brain, Jarl; and what may be the methods of healing them which thou hintest at, I know not. But I see that madman's look in thy eye, with which I am too familiar, and I opine that mischief, aye, deadly mischief, is designed by thee, if thy ability to work mischief fail thee not."
"The curse of Skuld be upon thee, traitor! Thou hast guessed rightly, so draw at once and stand upon thy guard, or I will run thee through with as little compunction as I would a dog," said the Viking, wildly brandishing his sword, and advancing on Oswald.
Whilst this war of words was proceeding, the whole camp was thoroughly aroused, and curious eyes from every nook and corner anxiously peered out to see what this fateful altercation would lead to. But when weapons were unsheathed, the churls eagerly thronged about their respective chieftains in feverish excitement. Oswald would fain have settled this quarrel without appeal to arms; or if that could not be, then he would have preferred it apart from the clamour and partizanship of the camp. Sigurd's unbridled rage, however, put this out of the question. Being, therefore, forced into this appeal to the sword, he unsheathed his weapon; and the two broadswords, in the grip of two as powerful antagonists as the sea-encircled lands of Britain contained, came together like the shock of lances in knightly charge.
Oswald, unlike his opponent, was perfectly cool, though not by any means blind or indifferent to the momentous issues involved in this life-and-death struggle. He knew that any yielding, or declining of the combat, either in the interest of peace, or for any other reason, meant the loss of supremacy in the camp. He knew also that Sigurd meant it to be to the death. Now, Oswald fell little short of Sigurd in sheer brute strength and force; and in coolness of temper, agility, and skill, he was much more than a match for his opponent. He saw clearly also that this was to be no child's play, but dead earnest. The look in the black and louring visage of Sigurd, and the unmitigated ferocity of his onslaught, told more plainly than words that he, at least, would give no quarter. Oswald fought a purely defensive battle, having no desire to injure his foeman, but steadily parrying, with masterly skill, the thundering blows of Sigurd, steadily giving ground before his eager and impetuous onslaught. None knew better than he, however, that vital exhaustion must follow quickly on the heels of such dire rage; and it soon became very evident to him that the pace was telling upon his adversary. The rush and eagerness of his attack, and the consuming passion within him, told their tale very speedily, for the perspiration poured from him in streams, and his countenance became deadly pale. This was soon followed by a palpable weakening of the strength of his wrist; and Oswald, watching carefully every stroke of his adversary, awaited his chance. Soon it came; and with one powerful blow he sent the weapon from Sigurd's grasp. Then, in a climax of senseless rage at losing his weapon, Sigurd rushed on Oswald, in the vain endeavour to close with him. But Oswald, turning the flat of his sword, dealt him a powerful blow on the head with its broadside, which knocked him senseless and bleeding to the ground. He quickly rose to his feet again, however.
"There," said Oswald, coolly sheathing his weapon, "take thy sword. I have given thee thy life. Be advised, and cross my path no more whilst thou art in thy present mood, for, Saxon or no Saxon, there will be but one more passage-at-arms between me and thee; and thou mayest fare worse at our next meeting."
"I offer thee no thanks for thy clemency, nor do I abate one jot of my hatred of thee and of thy womanish philandering with Norman wenches, when thy countrymen's blood cries aloud for vengeance. I warn thee to take heed lest, next time we meet, fortune may not be on thy side." So, with a scowl, he hurried off.
Oswald remained for a long time with folded arms and bowed head, pacing to and fro on the sward, in anxious and troubled thought, which found vent in audible words.
"Too well I understand that foul menace, and well I understand the untamed and implacable nature of this foe in my own household. When our forefathers broke upon this land, wild and daring, counting human life as nothing, and ruthlessly trampling underfoot their fallen enemies, none more fierce and cruel in all the savage crews were there than he. But this is the question to be settled: were those old days of heathenish rites and savage valour the prime days of our race? Our forefathers braved all hazards, and they were a conquering people. What are we? Are we not abjectly ground down—a subject race, and serfs of a braver people? Is this lingering type of our ancient race in the right? What are books; and music; and chivalry? What is this lately born love of mercy, and justice, and righteousness? Tell me, is it merely a debilitating southern wind come this way, transforming heroes into effeminate dreamers, and weaklings? Can I be again a Saxon of the old type?—for I must make my choice here, and now. A Viking, with savage instincts, and implacable, undying hatred of my enemies; indulging in ruthless butchery and indiscriminate massacre of helpless women and children. Can I see eye to eye with this man? This question I must settle once for all!"
He took a turn, in deep mental conflict.
"No!" said he, with concentrated energy; "it cannot be, come what may. I abominate his savagery! I despise his ignorance, and his boorish habits! He and I can never be one in aim and action. Then, I owe my life to this fair Norman; such a debt upon my honour calls aloud for a full requital. Besides all this," said he, whilst his broad chest heaved with the powerful emotions which stirred within him, "waking I hear continually the music of her voice, and I see the love-light in her dark eye. Sleeping I commune with her, and I dream of days of peace and happiness to come. The die is cast, and my path is marked out for me! Perilous it is in very truth, with Norman foes destitute of mercy, and, added to them, a foe in this mad Norseman, cruel and revengeful as death. I will follow the light! Let God judge between me and this people he hath given me to defend."
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;And innocence hath privilege in herTo dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,And feats of cunning...."Wordsworth.
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;And innocence hath privilege in herTo dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,And feats of cunning...."
Wordsworth.
Lest it should be imagined that our coquettish little Frenchwoman, Jeannette, had been perfectly quiescent all this time, we proceed to give particulars of some little exploits in which she acted an important part. Hers was not the disposition to act therôleof a lay figure, it will be easily imagined. No. To be engaged in some little romance on her own account was as essential to her existence as the breath of her nostrils; and the more romantic and unconventional the part she played, the keener the zest with which she entered into it. She had managed to subsist on a little flirtation with Paul Lazaire when nothing better presented itself; but now, the tall and handsome Saxon, Wulfhere, had fired her inflammable little heart with such a passion as she had never experienced before. Her scanty knowledge of Saxon heraldry and Saxon customs, coupled with Wulfhere's constant comradeship with the great Saxon earl, had caused her to think highly of this doughty Saxon lover of hers. It must be confessed, too, that Wulfhere's fine presence, his undoubted valour, and the unflagging goodnature and ready wit with which he alternately bantered, flattered, or caressed her, quite carried her by storm; and over head and ears in love, at a stroke almost, went this born coquette.
Right skilfully had she woven many a Cupid's net for others, and, with tantalising inconsistency, frowned to-day and smiled to-morrow upon her hapless victims. The truth was, none hitherto had fired her imperious imagination sufficiently. But at last Cupid had transfixed her unmistakably; and Jeannette was not the one to stand on ceremony, or be a slave to petty prudencies. Not she, indeed!
To have a brush with the chapter of accidents, to set wise heads and slanderous tongues a-wagging; added piquancy to the romance, and was quite to her liking. Hate has its plots and counterplots, its subterfuges and scheming, its dogged persistence in malevolence; but love also has its expedients, its inventions, its circumlocutions, which, for ingenuity, and for that final grace of all plotters—audacity, will circumvent its hateful opposite any day. Love also has this final advantage; it dares to be found out, and is never a whit abashed when its devices are discovered.
Upon Wulfhere, too, the advent of this pretty and coquettish little dame had burst like a revelation. The saucy pertness, the mischief and merriment which glanced in her sparkling eye, the feminine gracefulness of form and figure, the pretty devices with which she was wont to adorn herself, and set off her charms, and the sheerabandonwith which she rushed into this love affair with him, completely carried him away, and he was speedily as helpless as a slave in her hands. The contrast between this dainty Frenchwoman, and the Saxon women of the lower orders was simply inexpressible, and Wulfhere, in his Saxon simplicity, was charmed beyond measure.
Upon poor Paul Lazaire the altered demeanour of Jeannette towards himself operated somewhat hardly. Being quite in the dark as to the existence of a new disturbing factor, he was wont to obtrude his presence as heretofore upon Jeannette. But alas! Jeannette had now lost the little interest which aforetime she had manifested in Paul. She had, in past time, deigned occasionally to bestow a smile, amid her many frowns, on his pretensions; and this occasional smile and ray of sunshine had refreshed him, and given him hope. Now, alas! the smiles had all vanished, whilst the frowns deepened in intensity, and were frequently accompanied by a perky toss of the head, and little scornful speeches. 'Tis just like poor human nature, though, the world over; when once enmeshed in Cupid's net, the shaking-off process makes one cling the tighter, and it made poor Paul more and more desperate in his endeavours to win a smile from his lady-love. It had become, however, not only unpleasant to Jeannette, but vastly inconvenient, too, to have her footsteps dogged as she sauntered through the woods, or by the river's side, as any one who has had experience of these things will easily understand. No matter, if Paul caught a glimpse of Jeannette's golden hair as she slid away at still eventide for a quiet walk in the woods, why, poor short-sighted mortal, he was sure to consider his presence and protection indispensable; and though he had had latterly some very unpleasant experiences of the fact that Jeannette neither considered his presence indispensable nor agreeable, yet he persevered most desperately.
Seeing this infatuation on Paul's part, it had occurred to another participator in these sylvantête-à-têtesthat more drastic expedients would have to be resorted to in order to disillusionise him. So a slight rebuff was administered to poor Paul, which had the happy effect of somewhat disenchanting him.
It was at the still eventide. Jeannette had laid aside the duties of the day, and had ascended to the tower. Why? Well, perhaps to see the sunset. It was somewhat strange, but somehow, like her mistress, she had acquired the habit of reconnoitring at odd hours from the tower of the castle. Probably she and Alice had confidences in these matters. But, be that as it may, a very hasty survey of the beauties of nature on this occasion made her hurry off for a closer scrutiny. Paul's vigilant eye espied the fair form making for the path by the river's side, and, on the assumption that "faint heart never won fair lady," he would venture again. So he started off in pursuit. It must be confessed he did not approach this imperious fair one without many tremblings and forebodings. The keen edge of her saucy tongue had greatly dismayed him in many a wordy tussle lately, and it had begun dimly to dawn upon him that this waspish habit had something of dislike for him. Poor fellow! These very quakings of heart presaged coming trouble and defeat. 'Twas in his case pretty much as the old saw has it:—
"Tender-handed touch a nettle,And it stings you for your pains.Grasp it like a man of mettle,And it soft as silk remains."
"Tender-handed touch a nettle,And it stings you for your pains.Grasp it like a man of mettle,And it soft as silk remains."
Never, my dear Paul, should you have approached a saucy, perky dame like this, in the character and with the attitude of a milksop. "Buxom dames will have a buxom wooing." "He who goes trembling will come back shambling."
"My dear Jeannette," began Paul, most humbly, as he caught up to her, "I wonder how you dare venture in these woods alone."
"Humph! I dare do anything I like to. And pray what have you got to do with it, Master Lazaire? I didn't invite you, I know!"
"Well, I thought you ought to have some protection, and I would accompany you if you didn't mind."
"But I do mind; so get off with you to that Saxon hussy I caught you kissing. You may tell her to wash her face, and comb her hair; and if she could tighten the bands about her skirts to make herself a waist, it would greatly improve her appearance. But she is good enough for you, anyway. So be off with you!"
"I never speak to those Saxon wenches. I love you alone, Jeannette; you know that well enough. But you seem now as though you hated to see me."
"I know I caught you kissing a Saxon wench, and a precious dirty one too. I know that well enough, Paul Lazaire. And I'll not have you following me at all. So be off, you softhead, and don't be told again!"
This style of rebuff was more than poor Paul had calculated upon, dubious though he had been, and his temper was considerably ruffled in consequence. His eye assumed an unnatural fierceness as he took in the lonely surroundings of the forest, and desperate resolves were quickly forming in his breast. Jeannette all the while kept her eye steadily fixed on a certain trysting-place, a little ahead, and her nimble feet were on the lilt ready for flight if necessary.
Paul laid his hand on her shoulder somewhat roughly, and said,—
"Stop a bit,ma grande dame. You give yourself too many airs for me altogether."
Jeannette shook him off and at the same time dealt him a stinging slap in the face; then she took to her heels like a deer, with Paul in hot pursuit, in an ungovernable rage.
"Voulez vousslap me in the face,vous renarde?Vous sereztaught different when I catch you!"
Just as he was about to lay hands on the fugitive, out sprang Wulfhere from the thicket, and seizing Paul by the throat, he well nigh shook the life out of him.
"You villain!" said Wulfhere. "You assault defenceless women, do you, you undersized little imp? I'll screw your neck round before I've done with you! It is well I was near, you wretch, you!"—the sentences and the shakings alternating with equal vigour, until poor Paul scarcely knew whether he was on his head or his heels. During this operation, Wulfhere was steadily backing him to the river's brink, which, having reached, he gathered him up and pitched him in, head foremost. Paul came floundering out again, like a half-drowned rat.
"There!" said Wulfhere, catching him again by the scruff of the neck; "you may thank your stars I haven't drowned you altogether. Now be off with you;" administering at the same time a hearty kick to the baser parts of Paul's anatomy, which considerably accelerated his retreat.
Paul was not slow to take advantage of this privilege, and he quickly put a safe distance between himself and the Saxon. Suddenly, however, it occurred to him that he was possessed of a sword. Whipping it out savagely he turned to make a tremendous lunge at the foe, when, oh horrors! he was just in time to see in the distance the long arm of the Saxon fondly entwining the slender waist of Jeannette, and the perky little face, all smiles and blushes, upturned to receive a spanking kiss from the "beast ofa Saxon!"
"Le diable!!" he screamed with rage, whilst the veins of his face and neck were distended almost to bursting. Off he started in pursuit, sword in hand, and bent on executing summary vengeance on the perfidious pair. Just at that moment, however, the Saxon gave a backward glance over his shoulder, and this had the effect of bringing Paul to a stand instantly. No; he decided, upon second thoughts, that he would not slay them himself, but bring a troop down upon them promptly. So he turned again and rushed off towards the castle for reinforcements. But having time on the way to become fully sensible of the pickle he was in, and of the very inglorious part he had played in this encounter, he decided otherwise. Discretion would be the better part of valour; for if his comrades but set eyes on him in his present state, or heard the story of this exploit, his peace was gone for ever. So he decided, upon mature reflection, to say nothing about it for the present, but nurse his wrath for some more favourable opportunity of wreaking vengeance upon them both.
"When true hearts lie wither'dAnd fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?"Moore.
"When true hearts lie wither'dAnd fond ones are flown,Oh! who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?"
Moore.
Ethel, deeply muffled and disguised, passed through the little postern-gate of the fortress. A word in the ear of the sentinel who paced to and fro before it on guard, secured instant obedience. Ethel's position in the fortress was thoroughly understood by all. Her self-denial, her patience, and her burning patriotism, were well known in this camp of Saxon outlaws. The readiness with which she undertook positions involving fatigue and privation, for the cause, was a constant inspiration to the common people. They watched her come and go with veneration—almost with awe and superstition. They whispered one to another of her strange journeyings by night and day; and many regarded this young chieftainess as a special favourite of the gods. As she glided through the gate in the early morning hours, the sentinel thrust his head forth and watched her swiftly descend the slope, like a ghost in the darkness. When her form was no longer visible, he closed the door, and secured it with bolt and bar.
"Whatever can she be after so early in the morning, and before the day dawns? There's something very uncanny about her, tramping over hill and dale by night and day like any wolfshead, or wicca-hag.[3]I saw the fiery lights in the heavens two hours ago. I wonder what it all means. I almost wish I was safely out in the Bruneswald, where I could hop about like a bird from tree to tree, and where never a Norman could corner one. This being cooped up like a rabbit in a hole I don't relish. I like room to ply my heels. Howsomever, I'll stick, and stand my chance, for the women can't be whisked through the air; and the children, too, they must have a nest." So the sentinel continued his watch, and ruminated on these things.
Meanwhile, Ethel sped with quick step over the rugged limestone hills, flying before the fastly pursuing dawn like a fugitive who dreaded his revealing power. Ever and anon she turned to measure with her eye the distance she had traversed. The shadowy outlines of the fortress she left behind began to take shape in the distance, and she quickened her pace. "I shall soon be beyond the reach of vision," she muttered to herself. "I would not have Oswald know my errand to-day for worlds. My mind is dark, I know not what I do; but my hope dies, and my heart breaks. Perhaps the Norseman's gods may help me, for the Christian's God fails me. 'Tis a dread alternative; but I would know, if I could, what Fate has decreed for me."
For three weary hours she sped over dreary moors and scraggy, precipitous valleys, which were often little better than ravines. Presently she turned into a declivity running between two banked-up, precipitous sides. A little ahead, the two sides curved inwards and came together, and to all appearance this strange gorge came to an end. Ethel marched forward with unfaltering step, evidently straight at the blunt face of the joined limestone rock. But when she reached the extremity, there became visible, what at a very short distance could not be seen, an obscure opening behind a jagged projection of rock. It might be, to all appearance, merely an entrance to a fox's or wolf's den. Into this opening, however, Ethel crept, without halt or questionings of any kind. Presently the narrow entrance became larger, and she stood upright, but continued to descend a rough and precipitous path, until she reached a level piece of ground. Looking up—the place was simply a stupendous slit in the limestone rock, broadening downwards into a considerable area. The trees and shrubs growing at the top interlocked from side to side, and the light came streaming through a network of branches. Desolate and awe-inspiring was the place. At the farther end were two mounds of earth, or tumuli, where the grim priests of Thor and Woden were sleeping the long sleep of death—lives which had been literally burnt out by the fierce fires of fanaticism, and savage asceticism. Ethel paused to look around, but everything was still as death; she shuddered and drew her cloak tighter about her.
"The last time I came to this spot my father brought me. I feel his untamed Norseman blood stir within me. The fierce gods of war and revenge and death his Viking ancestors and he worshipped, I dare to consult to-day. 'Tis a cruel necessity, and jars my woman's instincts—I feel it petrifies my heart with unlovely savagery; but the followers of this Christ have slain my people with a wicked and unsparing slaughter. They differ in no way in their wanton cruelty to Norseman and Dane. Their women, too, with their fair faces, dainty fingers, and courtly manners, have stolen the heart of Oswald, and I am slighted and disdained; nothing in my beauty—and suitors of noble lineage have sought me ere now for my beauty; nothing in my rank—and it is but yesterday that I might have stood amongst the proudest of the land. No; I am a withered leaf, battered, bruised, and trampled upon. My love is unrequited! My misfortunes are compassionated, but that soothes not my wounded spirit, and is but a hateful substitute for the love I crave. Alas! nothing avails me, for I am only a heathen woman and an outcast. So, hard driven by my misfortunes and my wounded love, I will consult the gods of my father. The Norseman's gods may help me perhaps. Yet," said she, pausing for a moment, whilst her breast heaved with strange and powerful emotions which struggled for the mastery within her, "my mother was Christian and Saxon. She was a follower of this Christ. She was gentle, and taught me to pray to Him. I remember it well, though I was but a child. 'Our Father which art in heaven.' Ah, that is wonderfully soothing to me, and not like the prayers I was taught to offer to Thor and Odin. But my mother could not have known this Jesus; for if He was merciful and gentle, why do His blood-thirsty followers delight in treachery and bloodshed. 'Twas a part of my cruel fate that she should die in my infancy, for had she lived I might have learned of her more perfectly. O ye gods!" said she, wringing her hands in agony above her head, and looking up to the vaulted roof with tear-blinded eyes and with agonised entreaty,—"have pity on me in my friendlessness!"
Then she sped on with a quick, determined tread. Down each side of this weird retreat there were standing out, like grim, ghostly sentinels in the uncertain light, a long line of runic stones, on which were carved many strange devices; rude figures of uncouth and unearthly animals and reptiles. She had been taught that these strange hieroglyphics and signs had marvellous potency for good or ill. They could cause passionate love, or undying hatred, in the breasts of those over whom their spell was thrown. Indeed, the power of life and death was wielded by them. Strange supernatural agencies and powers were their messengers, and did their bidding. Starting from the rock, or planted here and there, were many of the ominous rowan trees, or witch-wood. The hemlock and the nightshade clustered together, and the nodding cypress dropped sombrely over the runic stones beneath them. Ethel glanced nervously round, but not a living thing was visible; not a sound broke the death-like silence of the place. Quickly gliding beneath the drooping branches of one of the cypress trees, she fell on her knees before the frowning pillar of stone. She had knelt there before by the side of her father, who had remained heathen to the last. But to kneel alone, in this very vestibule of the Place of Darkness, and to pour out her passionate entreaties to powers which she knew were the Powers of Darkness, strange to mercy, and which had but the attributes of fiends; the ordeal was terrible indeed. With feelings tumultuous and frenzied, she apostrophised the weird and forbidding emblem before her.
"O ye gods of my fathers, whether ye be Powers of Light or of Darkness I know not. Pity my ignorance, and my apostasy, for I have turned to this Jesus whom the Christians worship, and He has failed me, and turned my joy into mourning. My father and my brother have been slain by the followers of this Jesus. My home is made desolate, and I flee for life and honour from these Christian fiends. There is one also who might have been my lover, who is bravest amongst the brave, and most chivalrous amongst the chivalrous; who is gentle as a sunbeam, and tender as my own lost mother, yet strong as any tower in the storm. He is lost to me through the subtle arts of their women. My life has become to me but a living torment. Can ye turn again the heart of Oswald to me? 'Tis said ye can turn even hatred into love. I know it is unmaidenly to plead for a love I cannot inspire, but I can bear this burden no longer alone, and I would ye could give me favour in his eyes, or give me a long home in one of these sepulchral mounds."
She started to her feet with a shriek, as a deep voice saluted her from behind,—
"Waes hael, Viking's daughter!"
She hastily turned, and behold there stood before her Olaf, the aged priest of this Vikings' temple, to whom for a couple of generations the heathenism and savagery of the countryside had repaired for ghostly consolation, and into whose ears had been poured the secrets of fierce loves and fiercer hatreds of these descendants of the Norsemen. He had been the grim dispenser of dark and mystic rites and potent spells to weirdly savage and credulous votaries. A strange being surely to claim a place in times so advanced as these! He was a living embodiment and personification of a bygone era, and so totally destitute of all humanising instincts that he might have slid down the ages, glacier-like, from prehistoric times—when men dwelt in caves, and gnawed the flesh from the bones of their prey like wild beasts—without ever having come in contact with the outermost fringe of civilisation; a Viking of the Vikings in savagery and blood. His head was uncovered, and his long and matted grey hair fell over his shoulders. His form was shrunken and racked with rheumatic pains, from his long exposure and unlovely life. Long, deep furrows ploughed his face, and the long, powerful, and uncleanly teeth stood away from the shrunken cheeks, whilst his sunken eyes gleamed like the eyes of some savage beast of prey. He was a visible and concentrated embodiment of thewar spiritin its unrelieved and unredeemed essentials. No touch of pen or pencil, however graphic, could depict, in all his hideous grimness, this stranded relic of a bygone age of savage lawlessness and force, who seemed to be but half a dozen removes from the tooth-and-claw methods of wild beasts.
"Ha! ye are come at last, are ye?" he hoarsely croaked. "Ye are come now, when ye find that this strange God, this Christ of whom the Christians speak, has proved to be no God, and cannot save ye! But the gods of your fathers have given ye over to desolation because ye have forsaken them. Ha, ha, ha! I could laugh at ye now! Ye despised the old priest, did ye not? ha, ha, ha!"
As the harsh, grating voice of the priest fell upon her ears, Ethel almost cowered in terror before him. At sight of her terror, the old priest somewhat relented his fierceness.
"Hist to me," said he. "Ye are a Viking's daughter, after all, and come of a stock whose deeds our Sagas tell of, though the Christian taint has mixed too freely with your father's blood. It does my old tired bones good, nevertheless, to see ye come back again to me once more. I have been very lonely and forsaken, for my fellow priests are all lying beneath these mounds. I buried the last myself not a month agone. See! the mound is newly heaped. I shall soon be gone also, and there will be never a priest at hand to give me back into the arms of mother earth, to reveal to ye the dark mysteries of Valhalla, or to call from the land of the dead the Sein-lœca,[4]to speak with you. Viking's daughter, are ye now aweary of following this strange God of the Christians?"
"Alas! I know not what to do, priest! I am as desolate and forsaken as ye are. I would have the heart of Oswald, the Saxon chieftain, turned towards me. If ye have any charm that will give me favour in his eyes, I covet it, priest."
"Ah, but this Oswald is Christian; ye do not well in seeking thus to further dilute the Viking blood that flows in your veins. Is there no hardy Norseman ye can mate with? and I can help ye."
"None, father! I gave my heart to this valiant Saxon long ago; but alas! a Norman woman has won his love, and when he comes into my presence now, I see that there is always a far-away look in his eye, and I know he is looking in imagination upon the dark-haired Norman he loves more than me. He shuns his couch to keep nightly tryst with her. I have dogged his steps, and watched them in the starlight nights, pacing the battlements of the castle in loving converse, and in loving embrace. He is kind and gentle to me, but there is none of the subtle tones of love so dear to us women when once our heart is won. Men say I am fair; but have ye any charm to make me fair tohim? It matters not what men may say, or what the multitude may say. There is butoneman in all the world, and if I am not fair tohim, why then the sun goes down on all my hopes, and leaves naught behind but the long black shadows of despair! Ah! I fear me, priest, it is in my spirit! There is no charm for him in the passion and frenzy, the fire and restlessness, of my Viking spirit. This voluptuous southern maiden, with her courtly manners and her gentle speech, has touched a chord in his heart which never responds to the Saxon maiden!"
"Girl, ye are no Saxon maiden! ye are a Viking's daughter! I claim ye for the old race that has swept every sea, and made the Viking name a terror to all lands. I will not have ye despise the fierce spirit of your race that lives in ye! Listen. I know a Viking of the old stock, a true descendant of our heroes whose mighty deeds our Sagas tell. He hath a passion for ye deep and fierce, and pure as a Viking's love should be. 'Tis Sigurd of Lakesland, who was here but yestere'en. Let me plight your troth with him, and there shall spring a progeny like unto our forefathers, who will sweep the infamous Norman brood into the sea, and make the cowardly Saxon cower at the feet of the Norseman, as in the days gone by."
"Ye speak, priest, as though a maiden's heart were like a willow bush, to veer about as any idle wind may blow, or so gross a thing that it may be huckstered for a consideration, or be cast as a mere makeweight into the scale of policy. Never dream, priest, that this is a possible remedy; for I have nothing to offer Sigurd or any other. If ye cannot tell me that I shall be Oswald's bride, then I will be wedded to my people, and I will serve my country till death comes to free me."
"A curse on the evil times I have lived to see, girl!" said the priest savagely. "This simpering sentiment is not like the love of a Viking maiden at all! The sturdiest and fiercest warrior was wont to be the choice of our maidens in the old days. What charm would ye have? There is but one charm will serve the Viking cause in love or war. It never failed them, in the past, and will not fail them now if 'tis wielded fearlessly."
"What is this spell—this charm ye speak of? Tell it me at once!" said Ethel eagerly.
The priest slowly withdrew from his bosom a bright-bladed dagger, at sight of which Ethel shuddered and drew back.
The priest scowled, and said angrily, "If ye shrink at this ye are not fit to be a Viking's daughter. This will serve you if ye are resolute, for 'tis easy to get an audience of this Norman that hath bewitched Oswald, and then it were easy to plunge this dagger into her heart; and what then were thy hated rival? Take the blade in thy hand, nor shrink from it; the touch of steel will fire thy heart, and purge away the accursed leaven of effeminacy which is creeping over our Viking race. There is a magic in the touch of cold steel; my fingers tingle as I feel it. It has served the Viking's cause as nothing else could do for a thousand years."
As he spoke he pressed the fearsome weapon into her unwilling hand.
"But how then, priest, when I have taken the life of this innocent lady? Will that bring back the heart of Oswald? Nay, he will loathe me then, and I shall be as a 'daughter of perdition' unto him."
"Idle scruples, daughter!" said the priest, testy and irritable. "Who shall tell him it was your hand did this deed? Be resolute, and fear not; the Vikings' gods will help ye if ye be bold."
"But after I have done this deed, priest, and if Oswald should never know it was I that did this foul, this desperate deed, I can never rid me of the loathsome memory, nor the clinging horror, of blood-guiltiness. What after that? when self-respect, womanhood—nay, when the last shred of myhumanityis gone—what would remain that were worth the having? What should I be, and how could I look to mate with his upright and chivalrous nature? What daily horror would be mine! for each look of his unsuspecting eye would damn me! Nay, priest, take back this dagger, for such means as these can never help me. My innocence is my heaven, and I will keep it while I may; for when this is lost, then all is lost. I thought ye might have gentler means."
At this the old priest fairly roared with impotent rage.
"Avast!" he cried. "'Tis this Christ hath done it all! Why do ye come to the Vikings' gods until ye have renounced Him? How can I summon spirits from Valhalla to your help, or send the wicca-hag skirling on the wind to ply her sorceries on Oswald, that his heart may be turned to ye, if ye are Christian?"
Then, dropping into a gentler and more persuasive tone, as he saw Ethel fairly cowering in terror before him, he said,—
"Go, Viking's daughter. Ye know my heart is sore for ye and for my race; but it must be either Odin or Jesus. Go renounce this Christ, and then I can help ye. Nay, nay! keep the dagger, for it hath wondrous virtue in it. It was with this dagger that Thore Hund slew the Christian renegade Olaf Haraldssen on the bloody field of Sticklarstad, and Odin proved himself a mightier than this Christ. It shall be so again, for the Viking race shall be a terror to all lands. Why should ye be fearful and afraid? Why should ye hesitate and shrink at this act of revenge? Surely ye have suffered enough at the hands of this accursed race. How can ye be so scrupulous, when ye think of the vengeance ye owe these Norman tyrants and usurpers for a father and brother slaughtered, for your sadness, and your homelessness? Think of the love this Norman woman hath stolen from ye. Nurse these thoughts, and be courageous, Viking's daughter."
Ethel slowly climbed from the weird retreat, where for generations these savage priests of Thor and Odin had exercised a dread and mystic sway over the descendants of the Norsemen conquerors, who in past times had swooped down on Northumbria, peopling it with rough and hardy warriors; and still the barbarous rites and crude beliefs held extensive sway, in spite of the leavening influences of the Saxons' Christ. Ethel had entered this nature's temple with dim hopes that by some exercise of supernatural powers the heart of Oswald might be influenced so as to turn to her; and if not this, that she might know the worst. Alas! the sad heart and the wounded love had met with no amelioration of its sadness and despair; but the dormant passion and frenzy which ran in her Viking blood had been stirred in its lethargy into a madness of revenge, the extent and power of which she had never felt before.
"What is to be the end of this?" she said to herself, as she sped over the wild hills. "Either I must conquer or be crushed. There is no middle course; either it is hell or heaven. I cannot cast off or change my love; that is given unreservedly and beyond recall. This Viking, Sigurd, is a warrior true as steel, and his love is as sincere and true. But what of that? To wed him were a suggestion most gross, and impossible as gross. How could I crouch beside the ingle of an untamed Viking husband, and in all unloveliness mother a rude progeny, and blur out, in the grossness and savagery of it, the vision of better things, and of the nobler love I have seen? Question. Shall I tamely submit to the usurpation of a love that might have been mine, but of which I have been despoiled by a Norman woman? Or shall I fling to the winds my Christian trammels and scruples, and, Viking-like, take the Viking's remedy?" and she drew forth from her bosom the unlovely and murderous weapon the priest had given her. "The priest said this was my only remedy. 'Tis a grim alternative. But why should I suffer this for a love too readily given? I never told my heart to dote on Oswald. 'Twas a wild freak of affection I could not bridle; and I cannot undo it now, so that change is impossible. It was without effort of mine, also, that he has filled my eye so fully that I cannot see another. Shall I tamely suffer this eclipse at the hands of this southern woman? This priest tells me what a Viking woman would do, and surely, if foul wrongs call for fierce revenge, then I should not timidly shrink from this avenging act. Madness and despair nerve my arm and steel my heart, and I will act as a Viking woman would act!"
But just at that moment, as the fierce spirit of revenge assumed the mastery, there flitted before her mental vision a scene of long ago, when, as a child, she knelt at her mother's knee, and heard the wondrous story of the Redeemer's mercifulness and love for his enemies. The revulsion of feeling was instant and overpowering. Stretching her clenched hands heavenwards, she shrieked, in an agony of prayer, "Jesu,God of mercy, help!"
Overwrought nature could bear no more, and she sank in insensibility to the ground, her fair countenance convulsed with agony. Speedily, however, the shadows of despair gave place to a placid smile of sweet content. Again she was a child, and her mother's form was bending over her, but wondrously ennobled and beautified; and she spoke words of comfort and of hope. "Daughter, be of good courage, and remember the words of the Master that I taught you: 'Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'; 'Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.'" Then, with a smile angelic in its sweetness, the heavenly vision faded away.
Slowly Ethel staggered to her feet, for her physical strength was exhausted; but the look of blank despair had passed away, and her countenance was transfigured until it shone like the countenance of a saint of God. And drawing the dagger from her bosom she hurled it over a precipice, shuddering as she did so. Then she slowly turned her footsteps towards the fortress on the hill.