It was Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville.
As we have seen, the conflagration was yet at its heights when Wilfred of Aescendune and his hundred men left the scene, and took their road to the east, along the reddened waters of the river.
It was not without the deepest sorrow, that the English heir thus abandoned his inheritance, but necessity left no choice; it was plain that the force arrayed against him rendered resistance hopeless, and it was far better to go where his sword was likely to be of use in the struggle for freedom than to hide in the woods, as he said, "like a brock, until the dogs hunt it out."
And he had hope, too, that when it was discovered that he and his bravest men had fled eastward, pursuit would be attracted in that direction, and the poor fugitives in the woods left unmolested, at least for the present.
As they rode rapidly and silently along, they saw in the distance, with what bitter feelings may be imagined, the Norman castle of Warwick, where at that moment the Conqueror himself was reposing, and where the Norman heir was perhaps counting the hours, until daylight should arouse him to go and seize upon his inheritance. Onward they rode, conducted with the greatest skill and success by their guide from the Camp of Refuge, Leofric of Deeping, who entertained them by the way, when circumstances permitted, by many a story about Hereward and his merry men, each one of whom he said was a match for three Normans, while Hereward would not turn his back upon seven at once.
When the east grew red with the coming light they were traversing an immense tract of wild forest land, bright with the gorse, then in flower, and tenanted only by myriads of rabbits; here they came upon a grassy dell, with plenty of good grazing for their horses, and a clear stream running through the bottom.
"We shall scarce find a better place than this to rest," said their guide; "I know the spot well. When a boy my grandfather lived in that ruined farmhouse which you can see peeping through the trees; I remember I was just tall enough to look over yon wall."
"Is it in English hands now?" said Wilfred, anxiously.
"It is desolate--waste--ruined. The Normans butchered the inmates long since, God knows why, save that they gave shelter to some proscribed fugitives, who were being hunted like wild beasts. They were not my own kinsfolk; by God's blessing my grandparents died while Edward was yet alive. I often feel grateful that they did not live to see these evil days."
They hobbled the horses, and took their own repast by the side of the stream. Each man had brought rations for two days with him, and there was no lack.
Then, after carefully setting sentinels in each direction, they slept under the shade of the trees. The moss was a delicious couch, the day was warm, and the murmur of the little stream, united to the hum of the insects, lulled them to sleep.
It was not till after midday that Wilfred awoke. He found Leofric already on foot, stretching himself after his nap.
"I am going to look at the old place," said he; "it stimulates my feeling of hatred to the Normans. Will you come with me and see their work?"
They crossed two or three fields lying fallow--indeed, no hand of man had been busy there for more than a year; soon they came upon the blackened ruins of a house, of which, however, some portions had escaped the general conflagration; upon which Leofric observed:
"This was the work of Ivo Taille-Bois {xxi}, a Norman woodcutter, whom the duke has manufactured into a noble, and set to tyrannise over free-born Englishmen. Like a fiend he ever loves to do evil, and when there is neither man, woman, nor child to destroy, he will lame cattle, drive them into the water, break their backs, or otherwise destroy them."
"But does not William ever administer justice, according to the oath he swore at his coronation?"
"Not when the case is Englishman against Norman; then these foreigners stick together like the scales on the dragon's back, one overlapping the other. But we must waste no more time; it is just possible, although unlikely, owing to the unfrequented route we have taken, that your old enemy may be upon our track, with five hundred Norman horse to back him."
They rejoined their comrades, and all were soon again in the saddle--horses and men alike refreshed by the halt; with great knowledge of the country their guide led them by unfrequented routes towards the fenny country; in the distance they beheld the newly rising castles, and heard from time to time an occasional trumpet; more frequently they passed ruined villages, burnt houses and farms, and saw on every side the evidence of the ferocity of their conquerors.
Nightfall came and still they continued their route; Leofric enlivening the way with many a tale of the exploits of the great hero, whom he looked upon with confidence as the future deliverer of England.
At length they left the woods and entered, just as the east was brightening, into the level plains and marshes of East Anglia, and here for the first time had reason to think they were pursued.
Looking back towards the deep shades of the woods they had left, they caught sight of a dark moving mass, which seemed pursuing them; but even as they looked its movements became uncertain, and appeared to halt.
"The cowards fear to pursue us farther; they have a wholesome dread of Hereward and his merry men, and we may embark in peace: we are near an old manor house belonging to our great captain, and there we may leave the horses in safety, satisfied no Norman will get them--such is the terror of his name; then we will all take boat for Ely."
The morning, the second of their journey, was already breaking across a vast expanse of water and fenland, and the dawn was empurpling the skies and making the waters glow like burnished metal; so beautiful was the scene that it seemed a happy omen to our tired wanderers.
The face of the country was level as the sea itself; no hillock varied the monotony of the surface; but here and there some sail glistened in the glowing light; and afar off Leofric pointed out the towers of Ely Abbey, white and distinct in the rays of the rising sun, which, just then, rose grandly out of the waters.
They left their horses at the manor house, which was garrisoned by Hereward's retainers, and broke their fast, gladdened by an enthusiastic reception; hope was not yet dead here.
Afterwards, they all embarked in large flat-bottomed boats, which were sluggishly impelled, by oar and sail, towards the distant towers of Ely.
The sweet fresh breeze, the cheerful warmth of the sun, soothed our travellers, wearied with their long night ride; the monotonous splash of the oars assisted to lull them into sleep, oblivious of past fatigue. Wilfred awoke to find himself approaching the wharf of Ely.
And here our narrative must perforce leave him for the space of two years, sharing the fortunes of the famous Hereward, until the fall of the last refuge of English liberty: the events of those two years are matters of history {xxii}.
Two years had passed away since his last visit, and Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, was again a visitor in England, this time the guest of the new primate of the conquered country, Archbishop Lanfranc, a native of Pavia, and formerly abbot of the famed monastery of Bec in Normandy, to whom the king had been greatly indebted for his services as negotiator with the Court of Rome, while the conquest was in deliberation.
He was a man of deep learning and great personal piety, yet not without some of the faults of the race, under whose auspices he had come to England. Still, in spite of his deep prejudices, he was often, as we shall see in these pages, the protector of the oppressed English.
Lanfranc was seated with his episcopal brother in the embrasure of a deep window, looking out upon the cathedral close of Canterbury.
"It was sad, indeed, my brother," said the archbishop. "I scarcely have known a sadder day than that of my installation. The cathedral which thou seest slowly rising from its ruins yonder, had been destroyed by fire, with all its ornaments, charters, and title deeds. One would think that the heathen Danes had once more overspread the land, instead of our own Christian countrymen."
"And yet we two are answerable to some extent for this conquest. Without thee it had never been; thou didst gain the sanction of the Pope and then preach it as a crusade. I followed the army to Hastings, absolved the troops, and blessed its banners on the day of the great victory."
"Heaven grant we may not have done wrong; but the sheep are scattered abroad, as when a wolf entereth the fold."
"Thou mayest yet be the means of reconciling the conquerors and the conquered--the Church is their natural mediator."
"God helping me, I will do justice between them; but the task is a heavy one--it is hard, nay, terrible, to stand against the will of this Conqueror."
"For this cause, perhaps, thou, who fearest not the face of man, art chosen of Heaven."
A low knock at the door interrupted them.
"Enter," cried Lanfranc; and a monk of the Benedictine order, who discharged the duty of chamberlain, appeared.
"A brother of our order craves an audience."
It must be remembered that Lanfranc was the abbot of a Benedictine monastery ere he was called to Canterbury {xxiii}.
"Is he English or Norman? Hath he told thee his errand?"
"English. He hath travelled far, and says that his errand is one of life or death."
"Let him enter," said the primate.
A man in a faded Benedictine habit, evidently spent with travel, appeared at the door. His beard was of long growth, his hair was uncombed, and his whole appearance that of a man who had passed through perils of no small difficulty and danger.
Lanfranc gazed fixedly at him, and seemed to strive to read his character in his face.
"Pax tibi, frater; I perceive thou art of our order. At what monastery hast thou made thy profession?"
"At the priory of St. Wilfred, Aescendune," said Father Kenelm, for it was he, as he bent the knee to the primate.
"A pious and learned home, doubtless, but its fame has not reached my ears."
"But it has mine," said Geoffrey, who started and listened with great attention.
"It was founded and enriched by Offa, thane of that domain, in the year of grace 940, and burnt in the second year of our misery, now three years agone. In its place stood for a short time the priory of St. Denys."
"Thou mayest well say 'stood,'" interrupted Geoffrey, "for I hear that it has also been destroyed by fire."
"By fire also?" said the astonished Lanfranc.
"It is a sad and tragical story," replied Geoffrey, "and it would weary you and sadden me to relate it now. Bloodshed and all the horrors of midnight rapine and warfare are mingled in it, and there is a deep mystery yet unsolved. Tell me, my brother, wert thou an inmate of St. Wilfred's priory when it was so mysteriously destroyed?"
"I was."
"And how didst thou escape?"
"Our prior, the sainted Elphege, despatched me to some of our poor flock, who had taken refuge in the woods, that I might commit one deeply loved to their care."
"His name?"
"Wilfred of Aescendune. It is on his behalf that I have sought his grace the new archbishop, led by his reputation for charity and justice, but hardly expecting to meet any one here who knew the story of our misfortunes and wrongs."
"Thou wilt wonder less, perhaps, if thou lookest at me a little more closely. Dost thou not remember Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, who married Winifred of Aescendune to Hugo de Malville?"
"I do, indeed; and marvel, my lord," said he, "that I recognised thee not at once; I bear a letter for thee written by hands long since ashes--by our good Prior Elphege, the night before the monastery was burned."
"Tell me, my brother," said Geoffrey, as he took the letter, "dost thou know who burnt the monastery?"
"I do."
"Who, then? All the world names the youth thou didst save."
"Who would accuse the lamb of devouring the wolf? Hugo, sometime baron of Aescendune, did the accursed deed."
"Canst thou prove it?"
"When thou hast read the letter, I have yet another document for thee. I had brought both here to submit to my lord of Canterbury."
It was startling to watch Geoffrey as he read the parchment, the very hairs of his head seemed to erect themselves, and his colour changed from pale to red, from red to pale again.
"My brother," said Lanfranc, "what dost thou read which so disturbeth thee?"
"Read it thyself," said he, giving the letter which he had finished to the primate. "It purports to be the copy of a letter addressed to me three years ago, when I was at Oxenford, but which never reached me. Oh, what a story of damnable guilt! Tell me, man, where didst thou obtain this?"
"I saw the original written by him, whose name it bears at the foot, and at his request took this copy, which he has attested by his name, for I was the chief calligrapher of the house of St. Wilfred. It was his last act and deed on earth: within a few hours he perished in the flames which consumed our poor dwelling."
Here Father Kenelm, not without emotion, handed a second parchment to Geoffrey.
"And this?" said he of Coutances, interrogatively.
"Is the confession of a dying Norman, which he has attested by his mark, for he could not write his name. I heard his last confession, when, to remove the stain of guilt from the innocent, he made me write this statement, and signed it as best he could."
"How didst thou get hold of this, brother?" said the Bishop of Coutances, feeling himself, to use the expression of the writer, "sick with horror."
"Thou hast heard, my lord, of the destruction of Baron Hugo in the Dismal Swamp?"
"Surely; I was at Abingdon when his son Etienne brought the news."
"Only one who entered that swamp, so far as I know, escaped. Half burnt, he dragged himself out, on our side, from the awful conflagration, and hid himself till eventide in the woods, suffering greatly.
"That day I had guided young Etienne de Malville from his concealment in our midst, to liberty and safety, and as I returned I heard the groans of a man in severe pain, but which seemed a long distance away, borne on the night winds which swept the forest. Guided by the sound, I found Guy, son of Roger, and tended him as I had tended the son of the wicked baron. He lingered a few days, and then died of his injuries, leaving me this confession, as his last act and deed, with full liberty to divulge it when a fitting day should arrive."
"But why hast thou not done so before?"
"Because it was not needed; nor could I leave my refuge in the woods, where I had my own little flock to attend to, the few poor sheep saved from the Norman wolf. Pardon me, for ye are Normans."
"We are Benedictines," said Lanfranc, reprovingly; "English or Normans, the children of our father Benedict are brethren, even as there is neither Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, in Christ."
"But why hast thou now come?" said Geoffrey.
"Hast thou not heard that the Camp of Refuge has fallen?"
"And what then?"
"Wilfred of Aescendune was a refugee therein."
"And is he taken?"
"He was sent, together with Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, as prisoner to Abingdon, and will be brought to trial, when William arrives there next week, and, unless thou savest him, will undoubtedly die the death."
"He shall not die," said Geoffrey, "if we can save him. William must acquit him if he hear all."
"Acquit him, yes," said Lanfranc, "of sacrilege and parricide; but not, I fear, of the guilt of rebellion against his lawful king {xxiv}."
"At least, if he must die, let him die freed from the supposed guilt of such awful sacrilege, and let men know to what kind of father King William committed the innocent English lad."
"Most certainly: if we cannot save him from the consequences of his rash appeal to the sword, we will yet save him from the cord, or worse, the stake, which might be thought the not inappropriate penalty of the destruction of two successive houses of God by fire."
"The stake! it is too horrible to think of!" said the monk; "thank God I have not sought thee in vain. Forgive me, my lord, but the lad is very dear to me."
"Nor is my own interest much less keen in him," said Geoffrey. "I first met him at Senlac, where he sought his father's corpse amidst the slain, and since that time have watched his tragic career not without grief."
"But one question remains," spake Lanfranc. "The documents will be disputed: how shall we prove them genuine?"
"There is much internal evidence; but may not some of the witnesses of the crimes be living? For instance, the Jew, Abraham of Toledo, he who sold the poisons to Hugo?" said Geoffrey.
"He shall be sought for," replied Lanfranc. "Meanwhile, Father Kenelm, thou art my guest, and I must at once commend you to the chamberlain, who will supply all your wants. You need food and rest."
Bowing humbly--his heart full of gratitude--the good old Benedictine followed the chamberlain, who appeared at the summons of the primate, to more comfortable lodgings and better fare than he had known for years.
On the morrow of Michaelmas, in the year of grace 1071, an imposing group of warriors and ecclesiastics was gathered in the chapter house of the ancient Abbey of Abingdon.
The chamber in question was of rectangular form, but terminated at the eastern end in an apse, where, beneath a column with radiating arches, was the throne of the Lord Abbot.
A stone seat encompassed the other three sides of the building, cushions interposing, however, between the person and the bare stone beneath, as was meet.
The walls were arcaded, so as to form stalls, and in the arcades were pictures of the Saints of the order, in glowing colours--St. Benedict occupying the place of honour. Nor was St. Dunstan, the most noted of English Benedictines, unrepresented.
A light burned perpetually in the midst of this chamber, framed so as to image a tongue of fire, emblem of Him, whose inspiration was sought at the gatherings of the chapter for deliberation.
Here novices were admitted and monastic punishment administered, while penitential chambers adjoined, to which offenders were taken after sentence had been delivered.
It was just after the chapter mass, and the fourth hour of the day.
William sat in the abbot's chair; on his right band Lanfranc himself--for the Benedictine order was deeply interested in the investigation about to be made. The abbot and all the elder brethren were present, and sat on the right or northern side of the building. Next the abbot sat Geoffrey of Coutances; amidst the brethren was Father Kenelm.
But on the other side sat William's principal nobles and courtiers, to whom reference has been made in former chapters--De la Pole, Arundel, Clyfford, Fitz-Maurice, Hastings, Maltravers, Peverill, Talbot, Harcourt, and many others--some of then grey-headed--in arms.
Odo of Bayeux and Fitz-Osborne were there likewise, as also Robert of Mortain and Pevensey.
A large coffer, called "the trunk," not unlike the box in which prisoners appear in modern courts of justice, stood in the midst; and therein, pale with illness and worn by mental distress, yet still undaunted in the spirit, stood Wilfred of Aescendune.
Poor Wilfred! he needed all his courage, for he stood almost alone, a mere youth, amidst many enemies. At the most there were but three hearts present which beat with any sympathy for him.
Lanfranc had, however, possessed the king with certain general facts, which disposed William to give the accused a patient hearing, and when his "starkness" was not roused, William could be just.
And so Wilfred, his face pale, his lips compressed, his hands clasped upon the desk before him, gazed into the face of this awful Conqueror, whose frown so few dared to meet--the very incarnation of brute force and mental daring combined.
On his head was the crown of England, which he wore only on state occasions, four times yearly as a rule, at certain great festivals. One of these had just been held at Abingdon, and on this occasion, as we see, he again assumed it. The sceptre was borne beneath by a page who stood by his side.
William's voice first broke the silence--a stern, deep voice.
"Wilfred of Aescendune, we have chosen to hear thy defence in person--if thou hast any defence becoming thee to make and us to hear."
"Of what am I accused?" said the prisoner.
It was noticed that he omitted the royal title.
"Of rebellion, parricide, and sacrilege."
"I admit that I have fought against the invaders of my country, and am nowise ashamed of it," said the brave youth, in a tone which, without being defiant, was yet manly; "but I deny, as base and wicked lies, the other charges made against me."
"Thou ownest thy rebellion?"
"I own that I have fought against thy people and thee; but I have never sworn allegiance. Thou art not my rightful sovereign, and hence I do not acknowledge the guilt of rebellion."
There was a general murmur of indignation, which William repressed.
"Peace, my lords; peace, churchmen. We are not moved by a boy's rhetoric. The facts lie on the surface, and we need not enquire whether one is truly a rebel who was taken red-handed in the so-called 'Camp of Refuge;' nor do we deign to discuss those rights, which Christendom acknowledges, with our subjects. The question is this: Does the youth simply merit the lighter doom of a rebel, or the far heavier one of a parricide and a sacrilegious incendiary?"
"Parricide!" exclaimed the indignant prisoner. "My father, more fortunate than I, died fighting against thee at Senlac."
"Hugo of Aescendune and Malville was nevertheless thy father by adoption; and by the law of civilised nations, carried with that adoption the rights and prerogatives of a sire. But we waste time. Herald, summon the accuser."
"Etienne de Malville et Aescendune, enter!" cried the herald of the court.
And Etienne appeared, dressed in sable mourning, and bowed before the throne. He was pale, too, if that sallow colour, which olive-like complexions like his assume when wrought upon, can be called pale. He cast upon Wilfred one glance of intense hatred, and then, looking down respectfully, awaited the words of the Conqueror.
"Etienne de Malville, dost thou appear as the accuser of this prisoner?"
"I do."
"Take thine oath, then, upon the Holy Gospels, only to speak the truth; my Lord Archbishop will administer it."
Lanfranc administered the oath, much as it is done in courts of justice nowadays, but with peculiar solemnity of manner.
Etienne repeated the words very solemnly and distinctly. No one doubted, or could doubt, his sincerity.
"Of what crimes dost thou accuse the prisoner?"
"Parricide, in that he hath compassed the death of his adoptive father; sacrilege, in that he burnt the priory of St. Wilfred with all the monks therein, and later the Priory of St. Denys, from which the inmates had happily escaped, and in support of this accusation I am ready to wager my body in the lists, if the King so allow."
"We do not risk thy safety against one who is already proved guilty of rebellion, and who is not of knightly rank like thyself."
(Etienne had duly received knighthood after the taking of the Camp of Refuge.)
"This is a question of evidence. State thy case."
Etienne spake clearly and well; and as he told the story of the destruction of the priory of St. Wilfred, of the subsequent appearance of our hero in the woods at the head of the outlaws, and the later conflagrations, there were few who did not think that he had proved his case, so far as it admitted of proof.
"We will now hear thy story of the destruction of the priory, and the manner in which thou didst escape from it," said the Conqueror to Wilfred.
Wilfred spoke good Norman French, thanks to his early education, in company with Etienne and the other pages, after the Conquest. So he began his story lucidly, but not without some emotion, which he strove in vain to suppress.
"Normans," he said, "I would not defend myself against this foul charge to save my forfeit life, nor could I hope to save it. Ye have met like wolves to judge a stag, and since ye have taken from me all that makes life dear, I refuse not to die; only I would die with honour, and hence I strive, speaking but the words of truth, to remove the stain which my enemy there" (he turned and pointed at Etienne) "has cast upon my honour, for I am of a house that has never known shame, and would not disgrace it in my person.
"I submitted to the father ye Normans gave me, and bore all the wrongs he and his heaped upon me, until the day when I discovered in that father" (he pronounced the word with the deepest scorn) "the murderer of my own mother."
A general burst of incredulity, followed by an indignant and scornful denial from Etienne.
"Silence," said a stern voice, "this is not a hostelry; the prisoner has the right of speech and the ear of the judge; only, Englishman, be careful what thou sayest."
"I repeat the simple fact, my lord" (this was the only title Wilfred would give the King); "the baron, whom ye are pleased sportively to call my father, poisoned my own mother."
"Poisoned! poisoned! My liege, can this be endured?"
"Hear him to the end, and then, if he have spoken without proof, it will be time to pronounce his aggravated sentence. SILENCE!"
Wilfred continued, and told the whole story as our readers know it, until his arrival at the Dismal Swamp. He described all that had passed so clearly that his foes became interested in spite of themselves, and listened. He did not charge Hugo with the burning of the priory, for he had no evidence to sustain the charge, being only aware that such was at hand to be produced by others; as he had learnt from Father Kenelm, who had been granted admittance to his cell.
At length he finished in these words:
"And now I have told you all the truth, and if ye will not believe me, but prefer to think I betrayed those to death I loved so dearly, I cannot help myself; but if there be a God, and a judgment day--as ye all profess to believe--I appeal to that God and that day, knowing that my innocence will then be made clear. That I fought with them who slew the baron I freely admit, and hold myself justified, as ye must, if ye believe my story; but I myself protected the monks of your kindred, albeit they had taken the places of better men than themselves, and not one was harmed; and when we fled, we burnt castle, priory, and village, without distinction, that they might not shelter an enemy. This, too, I hold to be lawful in war.
"I know that Englishmen find scant justice at Norman hands, and that ye will slay me as a rebel. Do so, and I will thank you; only defile not the memory--slay not the reputation as well as the body. If the house of Aescendune, which was planted in this land when ye Normans were but pagan Danes, is to perish, let it at least go unsullied to its grave. I have spoken."
There was strong sensation. His speech had produced some reaction in his favour.
"It is, as we said before, a question of evidence," said the King. "Is any forthcoming on one side or the other? for as yet neither party has really shown who burnt the priory and the monks therein. We have only assumptions, and they are not facts."
Lanfranc looked at the King, as if asking permission to speak. The King bent his head, and the Archbishop began, addressing Etienne:
"Amongst the followers of thy father, was there a warrior named Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville?"
"There was."
"Didst thou know him well?"
"Intimately."
"What became of him?"
"He was lost when my father perished--faithful, doubtless, to the last."
"Didst thou ever see his mark as a witness to any charter, or the like?"
"I did; instead of making a cross, he preferred to draw a bow."
"Wouldst thou recognise it, then?"
"I should, indeed."
"Then," said the Archbishop, holding a parchment folded up so as to conceal all but the name and the mark of a bow beside it, "dost thou know this mark?"
"I do; it is the mark of Guy, the son of Roger."
"Do ye all," said Lanfranc, turning round, "hear his affirmation?"
"We do--"
"Then hear what the paper contains."
I, Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville, being a dying man, and about to meet my God, do make this, my last confession, for the safety of my poor soul.
In the summer of the year 1068, in the mouth of June, I, with twenty other men, who have, so far as I know, perished by firs in the Dismal Swamp, was summoned to wait upon the Baron of Aescendune in a private chamber. He told us that the honour of his house depended upon us, and asked us whether we were willing to stand by him in his necessity. He had selected us well. We were born on his Norman estates, and trained up from childhood to do his will, and that of the devil. We all promised to do whatever he should ask, and to keep the matter a secret.
Then he told us that we were to burn the Priory of St. Wilfred at midnight, and to allow none to escape.
This we did, we took possession silently of every exit, piled up wood and straw, set it on fire on every side at once, and transfixed all those who tried to break out with arrows or lances, and hurled them back into the flames.
Long has my soul been sick with horror that I slew these holy men, and now that all who were my companions in this deed have perished by God's just judgment--burnt alive even as they burned--I, willing to save my soul from the everlasting flame, do make this my penitent confession, praying God to have mercy upon my soul.
Given in the Dismal Swamp, in the month of June, 1068.
A dead silence followed the reading of the dying confession of Guy, son of Roger.
The mighty Conqueror looked around, as if he would read men's hearts.
Etienne de Malville was flushed, and seemed ready to sink into the earth for shame, as though he himself were responsible for the guilt of his father.
Wilfred of Aescendune, on the other hand, looked like one whose innocence was vindicated; there was an expression of joy on his face--joy, however, so tempered by other feelings, that it could not be called exultation.
"It is a forgery--a vile and shameful forgery," cried Etienne.
"Thou didst thyself recognise the mark," said the king sternly. "We pardon thine excitement, but do not forget the presence of thine elders."
"Can I sit thus tamely, and hear my dead father accused of the vilest crimes?"
"Justice shall be done his memory--justice, neither more nor less," said the Conqueror sternly.
"I claim, then, my privilege to meet the accuser in knightly combat."
"The accuser is dead. Wilt thou go to purgatory to meet him? for we trust his penitence has saved him from going farther and faring worse. Keep silence, and do not further interrupt the course of justice. We can pity thee, believing thee to be incapable of such deeds thyself."
Then, turning to the court:
"Is there any other evidence, verbal or written, bearing upon this question?"
"There is, my liege," said Bishop Geoffrey.
"What is it?"
"A letter addressed to me by the murdered prior of St. Wilfred's Priory, who perished in the flames on the fatal night of which we have heard so much."
"Its date?"
"The night in Ascensiontide, three years agone, in which the prisoner left his stepfather's protection and made a vain attempt to reach me at Oxenford, striving to bear the missive of which this is a copy."
"And the original?"
"Fell into the possession of the late baron, his stepfather, after Eustace, Count of Blois, had borne the lad back again by force."
"Hast thou satisfied thyself of the authenticity of the copy?"
"I have; it was attested by Prior Elphege himself, in the presence of the Benedictine from whom I received it."
"Then read the letter."
And amidst breathless attention, Geoffrey read:
Elphege, prior of the house of St. Wilfred at Aescendune, to the noble prelate Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, now resident at Oxenford, sendeth greeting.
It will not have escaped thy remembrance, most holy father in God, that on the fatal field of Senlac--fatal, that is, to my countrymen, for I am not ashamed to call myself an Englishman--thou didst favourably notice a youth, who sought and found his father's dead body, by name Wilfred, son of Edmund of Aescendune.
Nor wilt thou forget that thou didst intercede for the boy that he might retain his ancestral possessions, which boon thou didst only obtain at the cost of his widowed mother's marriage with Hugo, Lord of Malville,outre mer.
It was then settled that the two boys, Etienne de Melville and Wilfred of Aescendune, thereby thrown together, should each inherit the lands and honours of their respective sires; but that, should the latter die, the united estates should fall to Etienne de Malville, did he still survive.
In this arrangement, we naturally saw danger to our own precious charge--for our spiritual child he was--Wilfred of Aescendune.
His mother died the year after the Conquest, and passed, as we thought, happily from a world of sin and sorrow.
The boy, at first disconsolate with grief, recovered his health and spirits after awhile, and if allowed to live, might assuredly grow to man's estate, and perpetuate his ancient line.
If allowed, I say, for we have just received evidence that the mother was poisoned, and we tremble with horror lest the boy should share her fate.
This evidence is in the form of a dying confession, which, at the request of the poor penitent, we have written with pen and ink.
When thou hast read it, for the love of God and of His saints, especially of our father Benedict, stretch forth thine hand and protect the unhappy bearer, the youthful lord of Aescendune.
We commend him with all confidence to thy care.
Given at St. Wilfred's priory, in the octave of Ascension, 1068.
"Hear ye the confession enclosed," said Geoffrey.
It is five years since I fled the face of my lord, Edmund of Aescendune, for I had slain his red deer, and sold them for filthy lucre, and I feared to meet his face; so I fled to the great city, even London, where I was like to starve, till a Jew, who saw my distress, took pity on me, and gave me shelter.
His name was Abraham of Toledo, and he was mighty in magic arts, and in compounding of deadly drugs to slay, or medicines to keep alive. He made me his servant, and I, albeit a Christian man, soon learned to do the bidding of the devil at his command.
One day there came a Norman noble, and bought of my master a liquid, which would cause those who drank but one drop, daily, to die of deadly decline within the year. I heard the bargain made as I was compounding some drugs within a recess of my master's chamber. No sooner was the man gone than Abraham descended the stairs, calling for me. I managed to reach him without raising his suspicions, when he bade me follow the retreating stranger, not yet out of sight in the gloom, and learn his name. I did so; it was Hugo de Malville, the new lord of Aescendune.
I knew of his marriage, and felt sure whom he wanted to destroy; but I dared not show myself at home. At length an incurable disease seized me, and I determined to unburden my conscience, and dragged myself here, only to learn that the sweet lady of Aescendune had died within the year, with all the symptoms of rapid decline, and upon my sod I charge Hugo de Malville with the murder.
Given in the infirmary of the house of St. Wilfred, in the month of May, 1068.
This dying confession was made in our hearing this day.
Elphege, Prior.
Ceadda, Sub-Prior,
Tuesday in Oct., Asc., in the year of grace, 1068.
After a moment's silence, Odo of Bayeux, the Conqueror's half brother, and a hateful oppressor of the poor English, rose up:
"This letter does not afford any absolute proof of the guilt of our departed brother in arms, Hugo of Aescendune. He may have bought the liquid; there is no proof he administered it--people die of decline daily."
"May I produce and question a witness before the court," said Geoffrey, "in the absence of the prisoner?"
"Certainly," replied William.
A signal was given to an expectant usher of the court. Wilfred was led out, and in a few moments two wardens entered in charge of another prisoner.
He was tall and haggard; a long beard descended to his waist. His peculiar nose--the most marked characteristic of his race, long and beak-shaped, yet not exactly aquiline--marked the Jew. He looked anxiously around.
"Thou art Abraham of Toledo?"
The Hebrew bowed submissively.
"A compounder of poisons?"
"Say rather of medicines, lord; for the making of one is the rule--of the other, the exception."
"Thou dost not deny the accusation, which places thy life at the mercy of the court?"
"I will own all, and throw myself on its mercy, trusting that the relief I have oft afforded in bodily anguish, maybe allowed to atone, in its measure, for any aid my fears may have driven me to lend to crime."
"It is thine only chance, Jew, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"I am at your lordship's disposal."
"Didst thou ever deal with Hugo, sometime lord of Malville. and afterwards of Aescendune?"
"Once only."
"On what occasion?"
"He sought a medicine."
"A medicine?" said Geoffrey, sternly; "thou triflest."
"Nay!--a poison, I would have said."
"Of what specific nature?"
"To produce the symptoms of decline--the patient would sink and die."
"What was the appearance of the poison?"
"Dropped in water it diffused at first a sapphire hue, but after exposure to the air the hue of the ruby succeeded."
"Didst thou know the purpose for which he bought the drug?"
"My lord, I did not, nor do I know now; my humble occupations do not lead me amongst the mighty of the land, save when they seek my humble shop."
"Still thine offence, Jew," said the stern voice of the Conqueror, "is a damnable one, and lendest itself readily to the purposes of crime.
"Let the unbeliever be removed in custody.
"My lord of Canterbury, he is a heretic--perchance a sorcerer; let the Church see to him."
And so the poor Jew was removed to his dungeon.
"And now with your favour," said Geoffrey, "I would ask a few questions of the prisoner, in your presence."
"The permission is given," said William.
Wilfred was again conducted before the court.
"Thou hast dared to brand thy late stepfather as the poisoner of thy mother; wilt thou state any cause or justification thou mayest have, over and above that indicated by the letter and confession we have read?"
"I did not dream of such guilt before I heard that confession, months after the death of my mother."
"Hadst thou ever seen medicine administered to her?"
"Frequently, by the baron her second husband himself. He called it the elixir of life, and stated he had obtained it at a high price, from a noted Jewish physician."
"What was its colour?"
"A drop only was let fall into water, which it tinged with a greenish hue, as of a sapphire."
"Didst thou mark any peculiarity?"
"On one occasion, when, owing to very sudden sickness, the medicine was not taken, my sister and I marked with surprise, that the medicine thus diluted had changed to a crimson colour."
General sensation. Etienne hid his face in his mantle; the churchman and nobles conferred together. William spoke:
"Thou hast thy lesson perfect, boy. Didst thou ever see this Jew Abraham?"
"Never; or he had not lived to tell thee."
"Then there is no possible collusion between the witnesses--I appeal to thee, my lord of Coutances?"
"None; I will answer for it as a bishop. It was a providential thought, which led me to interrogate the Jew respecting the appearance of the medicine, and one utterly unpremeditated."
"Remove the prisoner," said the king.
While Wilfred was absent, William conferred with his lords spiritual and temporal. This was no court wherein the popular element found place; the whole issue of the trial lay with the mighty chieftain--the rest were but his consultees.
We will not record the deliberations, only their result.
After half an hour had passed--a time of dread suspense to the prisoner--Wilfred was again summoned to the bar.
William addressed him:
"We have duly considered thy case, Wilfred of Aescendune, and fully acquit thee of the guilt of sacrilege, while we also admit that there were causes, which might go far to justify thy rebellion against thy stepfather, and to mitigate the guilt of armed resistance to thy king.
"We are not met to judge thy stepfather; he has been called to a higher and an unerring tribunal, and there we leave him, satisfied that the Judge of all the earth will do right.
"For thee--the guilt of rebellion and of bearing arms against thy king for three whole years has to be expiated; but if thou art willing to take the oath of allegiance on the spot, and bind thyself to discharge the duties of a subject to his king, we will consider thy case favourably, and perchance restore thee, under certain conditions, to thy ancestral possessions. Speak, what sayest thou--dost thou hesitate?"
Every eye was fixed on the prisoner.
He stood there, firm as a rock, and looked bravely into that face whose frown so few could bear.
"My lord of Normandy," he said, "by birth I owe thee no allegiance, and I cannot acknowledge that thy masterful and bloody conquest of an unoffending people has given thee any right to demand it. I cannot betray the cause for which my father bled and died, or ally myself to my mother's murderers. You have acquitted me of deeper guilt. I can now die for my country without shame."
The Conqueror heard him patiently to the end.
"Thou knowest, then, thine inevitable fate?"
"I accept it. Ye have robbed me of all which made life worth living."
"Thou must die, then: but we spare thee torture or mutilation. Prepare to meet the headsman within the castle yard, at the third sun-rising after this day--
"and, my lord of Coutances, since you have taken so much interest in this young English rebel, we charge thee with the welfare of his soul."
And the court broke up.