He had no difficulty in learning the truth. Pierre, now upon his mettle, somewhat sorrowfully said that as the young thrall would not answer his lord when bidden, Etienne had endeavoured to compel him.
"Thou hadst, then, no part in it?"
"I gave thecoup de grace."
"Then thou hast sealed thine own fate: it is folly to extend mercy to those who never show it."
"I have not asked it of thee--of the associate of murderers and outlaws."
The sun rose clear and bright after that eventful night--the storm was over--its rising beams fell upon a company of archers drawn up in the English encampment--upon a young warrior doomed to die, who stood bravely before them. The gray-haired priest who had prepared him for death--the only favour shown him--bade him a last farewell; the bows twanged, and the same arrows which had transfixed the flesh of Eadwin pierced the heart of Pierre de Morlaix.
We owe our readers some apology for having so long trifled with their patience concerning the fate of Wilfred, and we trust they are somewhat anxious to hear how he escaped the flames on that fatal night when the monastery was burnt.
When good Father Alphege heard that the boy had returned under captivity, for whose safety he was so anxious, he sent at once another messenger to the good Bishop Geoffrey, imploring his aid for the orphan.
But the monastery was already watched and neither letter nor messenger was ever heard of again.
Imagine the good Father's astonishment when the following night he received Wilfred safe and sound from the hands of Hugo, to do penance.
"Wilfred, my dear boy, tell me all. What has become of the letter I entrusted you with?"
"It was taken from me in my sleep. Write another; oh father, let me start again at once!"
"The roads are all beset, my dear child, as I have heard today. I have already sent a messenger, but tremble for his safety."
"What can I do to avenge my mother--my dear mother?"
"Wait, my child, only for a little while; God is too just to let such crime remain unpunished."
"Why was not his arm outstretched to save? Oh, my father, I shall become an infidel if this villain escapes unpunished!"
"Only wait; one day is with Him as a thousand years."
"But I shall not live a thousand years; I must see the day myself."
"Nay, dear child, thou art not thyself; this is wicked. Go into the church and pray for the grace of patience."
"I cannot pray--I must act."
"Go and pray, my son. Come to me again in half an hour; I have inquiries to make which touch thy safety. I would fain know why the baron sent thee here, since he knoweth all; it would seem the last thing he would be likely to do."
The good prior soon found by personal observation that the monastery was watched, and had been so since Wilfred entered it, and saw at once that did he start again the lad would never reach his journey's end, and that suspicion would be thrown upon him and his brethren.
He did not hesitate long; he had no doubt that Wilfred's life was somehow threatened, and resolved to secure his safety. He sent for a certain brother Kenelm, a monk in priestly orders, who had long been entrusted with a delicate duty.
"How are our poor brethren in the woods, my brother?"
"They are faring well; there is no lack of venison, and their corn crops are ripening for harvest. The land, thou knowest, hath been cultivated for many years."
"It is providential that the Normans have never discovered that little Zoar, which may remain unknown until their tyranny be overpast; for surely God will not quite forget this poor people, sinners although we have all been."
"The morass grows wider and deeper every year; the course of the brooks which form it has been quite choked, and their waters but tend to increase the desolation around."
"Couldst thou find thy way there this very night?"
"Surely, if there were need."
"There is great need. The young thane, Wilfred, is in danger--there is some plot against his life. What it is I know not, but our poor house has been watched ever since he has been here. Come to the window and look; I have blown out the light; now look--dost thou not see a man under the shade of the beech, near the entrance gate?"
"Verily I do, father."
"And now come with me (leading him along a passage); look through this window."
"Yes, there is another. Why do they watch?"
"That the young Wilfred may not escape; they think we shall send him off again, as they know I did before."
"How do they know, father?"
"They have read my letter to the bishop."
"Then why have they sent him here? I am quite bewildered."
"That he may be sent again, entrapped, or slain, and failing that, I know not what they will do. But we will outwit them; thou shalt take him this very night to his poor thralls who dwell in the swamp. They will rejoice to see him, and will live or die for him, as seemeth best."
"But since we are watched, how shall we escape?"
"By the river. It is very dark: thou must unmoor the boat and float down the stream for a full mile, without noise of oars, then enter the forest and place the precious boy in safety."
"It shall be done, father."
"And quickly. Here he comes--supper, and then thou must say thy compline on the river: thou wilt go while all the rest are in the chapel, and mayst join us in spirit."
The good prior then went to the church, through the great cloister. The poor lad he loved was praying and weeping.
"Wilfred," said the prior, "dost thou feel better now? Hast thou poured out thy soul before thy Heavenly Father?"
"Better? yes, a little better now, father."
"Come with me to the refectory."
They left the church.
"Now eat a good meal."
"I cannot eat--it chokes me, father."
"Thou must, my dear son; it is a duty, for thou must travel far tonight."
"Thank God."
"But it is not to Oxford, my son; thou wouldst not outlive the night. It is that very journey they want thee to essay."
"Why?"
"That they may slay thee by the way."
"I may have my father's sword, which hangs over his tomb, may I not?"
"Silly boy, what could one do against a score? Nay, thou must go and hide for the present in the forest--thou rememberest 'Elfwyn's Grange'?"
"Where my great grandfather hid from the Danes? Yes, many a time have I gone there to shoot wild fowl, while my poor father was alive."
"And thou knowest the buildings in the midst of the firm ground?"
"Well."
"Thou hast never told thy Norman companions about them?"
"Never! they one and all think the morass a mere desert, a continuous swamp."
"So much the better, my dear son, for more than half the poor folk who have deserted the village are there, and Father Kenelm will take thee to them, for he knoweth the way, ministering to them weekly as he does."
"But why may I not stay here?"
"I dare not keep thee, dear child; I fear some plot against thy life; nay, the morass is the only safe place for thee till we can communicate with the bishop, who has once befriended thee and may do so again."
"Oh father, let it not be long!"
"That is in God's hands; abide patiently and wait thou on the Lord, and He shall make thy path plain. Now eat; I will not say one word more till thou art full."
Poor Wilfred did his best, and ate the last meal he was ever to eat under that fated roof. The good fathers never suspected the real design of their remorseless enemy.
The supper over, beneath those beams which were soon to fall blazing upon their fated inmates, the lad bid a last farewell to the good prior, to whom he had transferred the affection he once felt for his dear parents. He fell on his shoulder, he wept, embraced, and parted. The good prior wept, too. They never met again.
"Take care of the precious lad, Father Kenelm; remember thou hast the hope of Aescendune with thee."
They entered the little "punt" very quietly. The night was warm, but fortunately obscure. They unmoored, and dropped down the stream in perfect silence, listening to the bell as it tolled for compline.
At length they reached the place the prior had indicated. They left the boat, and entered the forest in safety, utterly undiscovered--here, only Father Kenelm's accurate knowledge of the place could have availed them in the darkness.
In three hours they had traversed ten woodland miles, and drew near the quagmires. The path became fearfully intricate, and Wilfred was startled by the marsh fires, while Father Kenelm began to pray for the poor souls--he somehow supposed them to be, or to represent, poor silly wandering souls--the while the night owl sang a dismal chorus to his ditty. They followed a devious winding road--in and out--with much care, the father holding Wilfred's hand all the time, until they emerged and found themselves ascending between two steep banks. It was a narrow valley, through which a brook poured its waters into the desolation beneath.
At the summit they stopped and rested for a few minutes. It was not, as may be imagined, very high; but beneath lay the whole extent of the Dismal Swamp. It was after midnight.
"What can that brightness in the sky portend, my child? There must be some dreadful fire; and, alas! it looks as if in the neighbourhood of Aescendune!"
"I hope it is the castle."
The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the monastery, and the reader knows he was right.
Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded again. It was long before they left the summit and the view of the reddened sky.
"May it not be the northern lights?"
"Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like this. I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I get me home again tomorrow."
Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.
At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.
In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met again, hurrying down to the morass. Deep and rapid as it was, its course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm land.
There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero. The monk knocked loudly at the door--no watch was kept--the marsh was their protection.
The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up, half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon recognised the monk. Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.
"Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him--dost thou know him?"
"It is our young lord!"
Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar--the welcome was grand--and it was all the good father could do to prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news that their young lord--rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even threatened his life--was there, relying on their protection, and that they, esteemed by the world as outlaws, were his chosen guardians. They felt indeed, now, that they were not outlaws, but patriots fighting against successful tyrants--the foes of their country; even as the brave Hereward (so they had heard) was fighting in the Camp of Refuge, amongst the fens of East Anglia.
And for Wilfred, the representative of a house which had ruled them for centuries, the son of their lamented lord, who had died so bravely at Senlac, they would one and all, if necessary, lay down their lives.
On the morrow, at eventide, Father Kenelm returned from Aescendune, horror struck, and brought the news of the burning of the abbey and the lamentable fate of his brethren.
There was not an Englishman whose heart was not moved with indignation and pity, nor one who failed to lay the burden of the deed where our readers have long since, we doubt not, laid it--on the head of Hugo.
Hence those terrible reprisals our pages have recorded--hence no mercy was shown to the merciless; and the war between the baron and his revolted dependants became one of extermination.
Every day brought accessions to their number; they were in communication with similar centres of disaffection in all parts of the midlands; and they confidently hoped for the day when the Normans should be expelled, and England be England again.
So Wilfred regarded his banishment in the forest as a temporary one at the best, and no longer looked for the aid of Normans, lay or ecclesiastical, to avenge his mother's wrongs and his own; he would vindicate them by the strong hand.
He was now eighteen years of age, practised in all manly sports and warlike exercises, braced by daily use to support fatigue in mind and body, and every day rendered him more qualified to be the leader of his own people in the desperate warfare which lay between them and their rights.
He shared their hardships, fared as they did, exposed himself as far as they would permit him to every peril, and was modest enough (unlike his Norman rival) to be guided by the advice of his elders, the wisest of his late father's retainers.
One fault--and one the youthful reader will, we fear, look very lightly upon--was gaining upon him--a deep and deadly hatred to everything Norman. It was even rumoured that, like Hannibal of old, he had vowed an undying hostility to the foes of his country and his house; if so, our pages will show how he kept his word.
In this feeling Father Kenelm, who now ministered wholly to the spiritual necessities of the dwellers in the Dismal Swamp, strove feebly to restrain him; but Wilfred was rapidly outgrowing all restraint, and perhaps the good father, who after all was human, and the sole survivor of a happy and united brotherhood, did not feel very deeply shocked by the hatred manifested to the destroyers of his brethren.
Yet he pleaded for Pierre de Morlaix on the eventful night recorded in our last chapter; but the cruel death of Eadwin at the hands of the invaders rendered his prayers useless. The whole feeling of the little community was with Wilfred in the matter; besides, they wanted no prisoners, and dared not set one free to disclose the secret of their refuge.
But we must resume the thread of our story, for our readers are doubtless profoundly interested in the fate of Etienne, the rival heir, and we must apologise for having kept them so long in suspense.
The unhappy youth, whose recklessness and folly had led to the entire destruction of the troop confided to his care, was now their sole survivor.
In that hour, when all was lost, at the close of the deadly struggle in the house, he had crawled through the door, ere the lights were rekindled which had been extinguished in the frenzy of the conflict, and sought refuge in flight: not so much, it must be owned, because he feared death (although youth naturally clings to life), as because he longed to live for vengeance, and to carry the secret of the "Dismal Swamp" to Aescendune.
He was bleeding, bruised, scarcely able to move without pain--all his energy seemed exhausted in the supreme effort which had saved him, at least for the time; but it was again very dark, thick clouds charged with snow once more obscured the moon, and the cover of the trees was before him, which he sought, determined rather to perish in the morass than to become the sport of his triumphant foes.
He had gained the desired shelter, and had paused to rest himself and consider what to do next, when he felt something living come into contact with his legs. He started, as well he might under the circumstances, when he saw to his great relief that it was one of the dogs which had accompanied his party throughout the day, and hope sprang up in his breast. The hound might perhaps lead him back through the morass.
At that moment, the arrival of Wilfred with a large body of fresh enemies took place, and Etienne was yet within hearing when his rival stood in the doorway and cried aloud:
"Etienne, son of Hugo, has been here and escaped; hunt him down, men and dogs; he can hardly have passed the morass; we must not let him live to become a murderer like his father."
The voice sounded like a summons from the dead. Etienne turned pale; then the blood coursed rapidly through his veins, as he saw by the light of the moon, which emerged just then from a cloud, his hated rival, standing in front of the farmhouse--alive, and for the time victorious.
Now all was clear. Wilfred was the cause of the calamities which had fallen upon them, and the leader of the outlaws; and Etienne, who, to do him justice, never suspected the true author of the crime, doubted not that his rival had fired the monastery to conceal his flight.
He felt an intense desire that he might grapple with his young foe in the death struggle. Willingly would he have accepted such a decision between their rival claims; but he was alone, wounded, exhausted, a faithful dog his sole friend. He felt that the day of vengeance must be postponed.
He spoke to the poor hound, and succeeded in making it comprehend that he wanted "to go home." With that canine sagacity which approaches very near to reason, the dog at once sought for the path by which they had entered the morass, found it, and ran forward eagerly. Etienne entered it, trembling with hope, when the dog stopped, growled, and came back to its lord. The steps of many feet were heard approaching.
"The place swarms with foes," muttered the hunter, who had become in his turn the hunted.
A crash in the bush behind, and a huge English mastiff rushed upon Etienne. His Norman sleuth hound threw himself upon the assailant of his master, and a terrific struggle ensued. Etienne did not dare wait to see its conclusion or help his canine protector, for the noise of the conflict was drawing all the English there; but he struggled back to the open, and ran along the inner edge of the wood, hoping to find another track through the morass.
Suddenly he stumbled upon a swift little stream flowing down a bank into the desert of slime. He felt at once that it must rise from the chain of hills behind, and that by following it he might get out of the swamp; it was all too like a mountain current to have its origin in the level, and he determined to follow it.
Besides, if he walked up the stream, he would baffle the English dogs, for water leaves no scent; in short, collecting all his energies, he strode rapidly up the brook.
But his strength was not equal to a sustained effort; the excitement of the night had been too much for him; and after he had traversed about a mile, he sat down to rest on the bank, and fell into a dead faint.
The first beams of the rising sun had illuminated the horizon, the very time at which poor Pierre was led forth to die, when an aged Englishwoman, coming down to draw water at the spring, espied the fainting youth.
She advanced to his side, and seemed moved by compassion as she gazed upon the wounded, bloodstained form.
"How young he is, poor lad. Ought I to help him? Yes, it must be right to do so. How the cry of hounds and men comes up the glen!"
"Wake up, wake up!" she cried, and sprinkled water upon his face.
He rose up as if from a deep sleep.
"Mother, what is it?"
"Come with me; I will give thee shelter."
His senses returned sufficiently for him both to comprehend her meaning and his own danger, and he followed mechanically. Just above, the waters of the stream, dammed up for the moment, had formed a little pond, surrounded by trees, save on one side, where was a little garden of herbs, and in its centre, close by the stream, stood a humble cot.
It was built of timber; posts had been driven at intervals into the ground, willow twigs had been woven in and out, the interstices filled with the clay which was abundant at the edge of the pond--and so a weather-proof structure had been built. There was no chimney, only a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape, above the place for the fire.
Within, the floor was strewn with rushes; there was a table, two or three rough chairs made of willow, a few household implements.
At one extremity a curtain, made of skins of wolf or deer, was drawn across the room, beyond which was a couch, a kind of box filled with rushes and leaves, over which lay a blanket and coverlets, of a softer material than one would have expected to find in a peasant's hut of the period.
Many other little articles seemed to have been destined for a prouder dwelling; but all besides betokened decent poverty. All was clean, and there could be little danger of hunger in the settlement, while the woods were full of game, and their little fields were fruitful with corn.
Into this abode the old dame led her guest.
"Thou art Norman," she said.
"I am the son of the lord of Aescendune. If thou canst aid me to escape my foes, thou shalt name thy own reward."
"Not all the gold thou hast would tempt me to aid thee; but the love of One who died for us both forbids me to give thee up to death. Thou art too young, poor youth, to be answerable for thy father's sins."
A proud speech was on his lips, but prudence prevailed, and the worthy cub of the old wolf determined to wear sheep's clothing till his claws were grown again.
"The saints reward thee," he said, "since no other reward thou wilt have."
He could say no more, but staggered into her hut, his strength quite gone.
Nearer and nearer drew the cry of hounds and men.
"Save me if thou canst," he said.
She took him behind the curtain, made him lie down on the couch, which was her own, and covered him completely over with a coverlet. Then she charged him to lie quiet, whatever happened, and shut the door of her hut.
By and by it burst open, and Wilfred stood in the doorway.
"Mother, hast thou seen any one pass this way? The Normans have been in the hamlet: we have slain all but one, and he, the worst of all, has escaped us."
"Canst thou not spare even one poor life?"
"Nay, it is Etienne, son of the old fiend Hugo; besides, once safe off, he would betray our secret before we are ready for action."
"I cannot help thee in thy chase; thou knowest how I hate and shrink from bloodshed, as did thy sainted mother."
"Yes, but they did not shrink from poisoning her--they whom she would not have harmed to save her own life."
"God will avenge--leave all to Him."
"Nay, mother, we waste time; if thou hast not seen him, we go."
"Hast thou seen my Eadwin? He is generally here with the lark?"
Wilfred's face changed; he stammered out some evasive reply, and dashed out to join the men and hounds, who were quite at fault; they had lost the scent far below, where Etienne entered the brook, and were diligently investigating, one by one, all the tracks that led from the morass.
Etienne had heard all, and his heart smote him. From the language used, the words he had heard, he felt that this old woman must be the foster mother of his rival, and, if so, the mother of that very Eadwin he had so cruelly put to death the previous night; he quite understood Wilfred's evasive reply.
His heart smote him, and he repented of this cruelty, at least: he dreaded the moment when his preserver must learn the truth. Would she then give him up?
What, too, did Wilfred mean by his allusion to poison? Had he any grounds for such suspicion? Poison was not an unknown agent amongst the Normans. The great Duke himself had been suspected (doubtless wrongfully) of removing Conan of Brittany by its means.
But fatigue overcame him, and he slept. And during that sleep symptoms of fever began to show themselves. He began to talk in his dreams--"There goes a fire--avoid it, it is an evil spirit--shoot arrows at it. Make it tell the secret--now we shall know about the swamp. Here is a fiend throttling me--oh, its awful eyes, they blaze like two marsh fires. No, tie him to the wall; he shall tell the truth or die. What are you giving me to drink?--it is blood, blood. You have poisoned me--I burn, burn--my veins are full of boiling lead--my heart a boiling cauldron. See, there are the marsh fiends--they are carrying away Louis and Pierre--their tails are as whips--ah, an arrow through each of their arms will stop them. Where is my armour?--a hunting dress won't stop their darts, or save one from their claws. Oh, father, help me--save me from the goblins."
In this incoherent way he talked for hours, and the old dame shuddered as he confused the real tragedy of the previous night with imaginary terrors. Oh, how awful were his ravings to her, when at last she learned the truth. Yet in those very ravings he showed that remorse was at his heart.
She wept as she sat by his bed--wept over the son he had slain. The details of that tragedy were, however, studiously concealed from her by Wilfred's sedulous care; yet she knew Etienne had been the leader of the hostile troop, in conflict with whom she supposed her Eadwin to have fallen in fair open fight; for she was led to understand he had been slain in the terrific struggle in the house.
"The only son of his mother, and she was a widow."
Father Kenelm came and read to her the story of the widow's son at Nain, from King Alfred's Anglo-Saxon version of the Gospels. Not even to him did she confide the secret, or tell who was separated from the good priest only by a curtain--an instinct told her it was right to tend and save--she would trust nothing else.
But in spite of this resolution the good father discovered it all; for while he read the sweet story of old, he heard a cry in Norman French.
"Keep off the fiend--the hobgoblin--he has got burning arrows--snakes! snakes! there are snakes in the bed!"
"What means this, good mother?"
"Oh, thou wilt not betray him."
"Hast thou a fugitive there? Methinks I know the voice. Can it be the son of the wicked baron?"
"He is not answerable for his father's sin; oh, do not betray him--he is mad with fever."
"Dost thou mean to release him, should he get well? Methinks it were better that he should die."
"With all his sins upon his head? May the saints forbid."
"At least were he but absolved after due contrition, and thou knowest that thou hast little cause to love him."
"His death cannot give me back my boy," and she wept once more.
"Nay, it cannot; but if thou dost save him, it shall be under a solemn pledge never to betray the place of our retreat. I will myself swear him upon the Holy Gospels. But woe to him should our young lord Wilfred discover him; I verily believe he would die the death of St. Edmund {xiii}."
"Canst thou not teach poor Wilfred mercy--thou art his pastor and teacher?"
"He grows fiercer daily, and chafes at all restraint. Remember what he has suffered."
"The greater the merit, could he but forgive. You will keep my secret, father?"
"I will: let me see him."
Father Kenelm went behind the curtain and watched the sufferer. Etienne glared at him with lacklustre eyes, but knew him not, and continued his inarticulate ravings. His forgiving nurse moistened his lips from time to time with water, and by him was a decoction of cooling herbs, with which she assuaged his parching thirst.
"Thou art a true follower of Him who prayed for His murderers," said Father Kenelm. "The Man of Sorrows comfort thee."
Rarely had a spring occurred so dry as that of 1069. With the beginning of March dry winds set in from the east, no rain fell, and the watercourses shrank to summer proportions.
All that winter Hugo de Malville had mourned in hopeless grief the loss of his boy--his only child; but at length grief deepened into one bitter thirst--a thirst for revenge.
That the Dismal Swamp protected the objects of his hatred from his sword he felt well assured; and had the frost been keen enough to render the marshes penetrable, he would have risked all in a desperate attempt to root out the vermin, as he called the poor natives, from the woods.
But frost alternated with thaw, and snow with rain, and no attempt was likely to be attended with success; so he waited and added compound interest to his thirst for vengeance.
At length set in the dry and fierce winds of which we have spoken, and he felt secure of his prey at last; so preparations were at once made for a grand battle in the marshes.
The keen winds continued, and the scouts reported that the swamp was drier than they had ever seen it before. At length April arrived, and with its earliest days--days of bright sunshine--it was decided to delay no longer, but to explore the marshes with the whole force of the barony, strengthened by recruits from the castles of the neighbouring Norman nobles who willingly lent their aid, and hastened to share the sport dearest of all to the Norman mind.
But one thing was necessary to secure success--a guide, and how to procure one was the riddle which puzzled Hugo, both by day and night.
No Norman could help them; but might not some Englishmen serve, not as willing tools, but under the compulsion of force and the dread of torture?
There were no English in the domains of the baron; all had fled into the forest who were yet alive. There were, it is true, native woodmen in other parts of the wilderness; but they were not vassals of Hugo, and one and all had repeatedly disclaimed knowledge of that part of the forest which was to be explored.
In his perplexity Hugo offered great rewards to anyone who would discover any of the former people of Aescendune and bring them before him.
Leaving Hugo and his friends to concert their murderous plans, we must invite the reader to accompany us once more to freedom's home, the Dismal Swamp.
A council was being held at this selfsame time, which materially assisted the schemes of the baron, although not greatly to his ultimate gratification.
It was held around the fire in the same farmhouse in which poor Eadwin had met his death, and which had now become the headquarters of the outlaws whom Norman tyranny had made.
Wilfred, young although he was, presided--for was he not the representative of the ancient lords of Aescendune, and those gathered around him the descendants of the men whom his fathers had often led to victory?
On his right sat Haga, the oldest retainer of his house, a man who at the beginning of the century had actually fought with Alfgar against the Danes; on his left, Boom, the ancient forester of the Aescendune woods--as moderns would say, "the head keeper."
And there were Sexwulf and Ulf, Tosti and Elfwold, Ernulph and Ordgar, Oslac and Osgood, Wulfsy and Ringulph, Frithgist and Wulfgar--men whose names sounded rough and uncouth in Norman ears, but were familiar enough to the natives.
The whole party having assembled, Wilfred, as a consequence of his rank, spoke first and opened the debate.
"We have all come together tonight, Englishmen and friends, to consider what we shall do in a very grave crisis--the gravest which has yet occurred since we fled to this refuge from the Norman tyrant Hugo--whom may the saints confound. The thrall, Oslac, imperilling his life for our sake, has been to Aescendune, and brings us back certain information that there is a great gathering of men and horse to explore the swamp, for they guess shrewdly that we are hidden here, and they know now who burnt their farms and slew their men in the woods--thus making them afraid, the cowards, to venture therein save in large parties.
"But since the old bear has lost his cub, his thirst for vengeance incites him to stake all upon one grand attempt to penetrate our fastnesses, and the dryness of the season seems to him to make it possible."
"Our pools and sloughs are never quite dry--they are bottomless," said Beorn, "and you might stow away the castle of Aescendune in some of them, and 'twould sink out of sight."
"But it is our object to foil his good intentions towards us: sooner or later we must fight him, and why not now? Haga, my father, thou art the oldest and wisest here present; speak, and we will be guided by thy counsel."
"Let the Norman come," said the sage solemnly; "he shall perish in his pride."
"In what manner shall he die?"
"By the death meet for the sacrilegious destroyer of the priory--by fire--it is God's will, revealed to me in visions of the night."
"Fire? how?" cried several; then one common idea seemed to strike them all.
"The reeds. Once entangled in the marshes, we might fire them all round."
"But how shall we get him to enter the marshes where the dry rushes are thickest?"
"There is a bed of rushes and weeds half a mile across, around the heron's pool, and it is now so dry just there, that it would bear the accursed foe, horses, and armour, could they be enticed to follow the path which traverses it."
"Who shall entice them and prevail?" said Beorn.
"Will any of our men risk their own lives and volunteer as guides to the Normans? They are seeking guides everywhere."
There was a dead silence. At length a man arose--Ordgar, son of Haga.
"I will take my life in my hand to deliver my people from the tyranny of this Norman wolf."
"God bless thee, my son," said his aged sire; "thou art the light of mine eyes, but I can risk thee in thy country's cause and the cause of the House of Aescendune."
"It is a holy cause," said Father Kenelm, who was present: "God's arm is bared for vengeance--the blood of my martyred brethren cries aloud from beneath the altar."
"And thou wilt say a mass for us?"
"It is my duty, since I may not fight with carnal weapons."
"But, Ordgar, how dost thou propose to act?"
"They are scouring the woods daily, in search of some of us poor English, whom they may force by torture to be their guides. I will throw myself in their way."
"They will not harm thee, my son; they are too eager for a guide who knows the paths through the swamp."
"But thou must not appear too willing," said Beorn.
"Trust me for that; I will not promise to serve them till I have at least seen their torture chamber."
"Ordgar, thou dost indeed show a spirit worthy of an Englishman; and while such live, I shall never despair of my country," said the youthful chieftain. "Should God restore me to the halls of my fathers, none shall be more honoured of his lord than thou; and shouldest thou fall, fear not but that English bards will be found to sing thy praises."
A few days later Hugo was scouring the forest like a wolf in search of his prey. His men-at-arms were scattered through the woods, seeking for tracks of men. Huge dogs attended them, who were encouraged to explore every thicket.
They were near the Dismal Swamp.
All at once a dog gave the peculiar whine which indicated that he had found scent, and immediately afterwards started forward, his nose to the ground, followed by two or three others.
The men-at-arms followed, and Hugo amongst his retainers.
Suddenly they broke into open view of the chase--a man was seen running before them for his life.
The dogs gave tongue and followed him so swiftly that it was with difficulty he could escape their fangs by climbing a tree.
It was a poor refuge--dogs and Normans were speedily at the foot.
"Come down, fellow," said Hugo, sternly, "unless thou desirest to be brought down by an arrow."
"Mercy, mercy," cried the fugitive.
"What dost thou fear? If thou art a true man no harm shall befall thee. We are not robbers."
The Englishman, for such he was, descended, and was at once secured and bound to prevent his escape.
"Now, fellow," said Hugo, "who art thou? Whose vassal art thou?"
"My name is Ordgar, son of Haga."
"Haga, formerly a thrall of my estate?"
"The same."
"Where is thy accursed sire?"
"I cannot betray my father."
"This is the very man we want!" said Hugo; "bring him along. The torture will soon help him to find a tongue. Surely the saints have heard our prayers and given him to us."
A quaint idea of sanctity, that of Hugo.
They dragged the intended victim forward through the woods. Once or twice he appeared to make desperate efforts to escape, but we need not say made them in vain.
We must shift the scene to the torture chamber.
Imagine a long dark room, below the level of the ground, underneath the keep; stone flags below, a vaulted ceiling above; dimly lighted by torches fixed in sconces in the wall; a curtain covering a recess; in front, a chair for Hugo and a table for a scribe, with ink horn and parchment.
Around the table were gathered Hugo himself, his guests Raoul de Broc, Tustain de Wylmcote, Ralph de Bearleigh, his seneschal, chamberlain, and other confidential officers of his household, and four strong brawny men-at-arms--sufficient to manage the prisoner with ease.
Ordgar, son of Haga, stood alone at the foot of the table, before all this hostile array.
"Villain," said Hugo (the name only imported serf), "thy name?"
"I have told thee, Ordgar, son of Haga."
"Thou art a vassal of Aescendune?"
"I was."
"And art: my rights over thee cease not."
"I do not acknowledge thee as my lord."
"Thou mayst think better of it anon. Now thou wilt please answer my questions.
"Scribe, take down his replies."
"He will not fill much parchment."
"We shall see.
"Where hast thou been hiding from thy lawful master?"
"I have not been hiding from my lawful lord."
"Fool, dost thou bandy words with me? Answer."
"In the woods, then."
"What woods?"
"The forests around thee."
"Dost thou know the Dismal Swamp?"
"Well."
"Hast thou been hiding there?"
"Yes."
"How many of thy comrades are in hiding at that place?"
"I may not tell thee."
"Behold. Tormentor, remove the curtain."
The curtain was drawn back, and revealed a strange assortment of those implements by which man, worse than the beast of the field, has sinned against his fellow. There were the rack, the brazier with its red-hot pincers, the thumbscrew, and, in short, instruments--happily unknown now--in the greatest variety; all intended to wring the truth from crime, or worse, the self-condemning falsehood from the lips of helpless innocence {xiv}.
"Wilt thou answer?"
"I will not betray the innocent."
"Seize him, tormentors."
'Twas said and done, and after a short and furious struggle, the victim was laid on the rack.
"Turn."
The tormentors, clad in leathern jerkins, hideous with masks to hide their brutal faces, turned the handles which worked pulleys and drew the victim's limbs out of joint.
"Hold--enough--I will confess."
"Release him."
"What dost thou ask me?"
"How many are there in the Dismal Swamp?"
"Maybe a hundred."
"Thou art trifling with me; I see we must put thee on the rack again."
"Nay, thou wouldst force me to deceive thee; there cannot be many more."
"Who is their leader?"
"Haga, son of Ernulph."
"Thy father?"
The victim seemed resolved to say no more.
"Place him on the rack again."
But the fortitude of the captive did not seem equal to the last supreme trial.
"Hold!" he cried, "I will confess all."
He owned that his father Haga was the leader of the outlaws, and being interrogated eagerly by the baron about Etienne, stated that the latter was detained as a prisoner in the Swamp, in case they should need a hostage.
"God be thanked!" said Hugo.
He could yet take that holy name on his murderous lips, and sooth to say he did feel gratitude.
The next step was to persuade Ordgar to guide the Normans through the Dismal Swamp to the English settlement. A fresh application of the torture seemed needed to secure this desirable end, but the victim yielded when the pain was about to be renewed--yielded to the weakness of his own flesh, combined with a promise from the baron that his father should not only be spared, but restored to the little farm he had, formerly occupied at Aescendune, under the last English thane.
In short, the bargain was concluded, and Ordgar, son of Haga, became the promised guide of the foes of his country.
Day after day Etienne de Malville tossed upon the couch in the hut of the woman whom he had so cruelly bereaved, struggling against the throes of fever. In his ravings he was prone to dwell upon all the scenes of horror he had recently passed through, and yet some Providence, intervening, kept from his lips the one revelation which might have endangered his safety--that he was himself the murderer of the son of his preserver.
Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his heart he deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of his companions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the good deed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.
At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, after days of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke one morning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.
The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever, and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressions which had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.
"Where am I? Who are you?"
"He is conscious, father," said the old woman. "What does he say?" for Etienne spoke in Norman French.
"Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hath saved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes."
"Thanks, good mother."
There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said these words--"but what has passed? I have a confused remembrance of hunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadly combat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to find myself here."
"Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thou art the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade the Dismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman," said the good father in the patient's own tongue.
Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel the tangled thoughts which perplexed him. Once more the dame came and brought him a cooling drink. He drank it, thanked her, and fell back with a sigh.
Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight--and with it came remorse. He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and the mother of the murdered lad--for he knew her--had rescued him from what his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, at least at the hands of the English.
There are crises in all men's lives--and this was one in the life of Etienne--when they choose good or evil.
And from that time, new impressions had power over him. He lay in deep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to the forbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had been treated.
"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."
Etienne now felt these coals of fire.
He was not all pride and cruelty. His education had made him what he was, and probably, under the same circumstances, with such a father and the training of a Norman castle, many of my young readers who have detested his arrogance would have been like him, more or less.