CHAPTER VII"ARCADES AMBO."In the evening of the day on which the strange scene at St. Alban's Abbey just described had taken place, Sir Fulke de Breauté sat with his younger brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well satisfied with himself."By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have done a good morning's work;" and he reached across to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood on the table beside him, and poured himself out a deep draught. Then he passed the wine across to his brother, who sat moodily staring into the log-fire."Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering.""'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the other sulkily. "I like it not overmuch. Give me the pure clarets of France and Italy," he added, but replenishing his horn all the same.Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother. A great change had come over William since that eventful evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe in a perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses keeping time to the rattle of his horse's hoofs. First and foremost he had cursed Ralph de Beauchamp--for now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage he drove the rowels again and again deep into the flanks of his unfortunate steed. Next he cursed all the De Beauchamp family and all connected with it. Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De Pateshulle had urged him to prosecute the suit which had resulted in such dire humiliation. But here he had paused in his curses.He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's daughter with an oath. Her face haunted him as he rode along: her face--first, cold and set as marble, as when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then, flushed and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, as she turned to him from the window, and took those six paces to confront him. Her scornful beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid passion seized him.He had flung himself from his horse in the castle-yard, and strode into the hall, scattering curses right and left at the astonished servants, used only to such a display of anger from his elder brother.For weeks after this outburst he lived in a state of brooding sullenness, broken only by occasional violent fits of rage. His sister-in-law, if she met him in the hall, turned and fled. Even pretty Beatrice Mertoun, whom he was wont to regard with more favour than perhaps the bold miner would have approved of, flitted past him as quickly as possible, with a mere nod.Sir Fulke observed this change in his brother with grim satisfaction. In furtherance of his new evil schemes he determined to turn to good or bad account the dormant ferocity which had been aroused."Marry, brother," he remarked, "methinks there sits a cloud on your brow, as if your thoughts were far away--perchance over Bletsoe way?" he added, with a grim chuckle."What's that to you?" retorted William sullenly. "In good sooth you had better mind your own business, and attend to your masses, and your flagellations, and your retreats, along with the rest of the women folk, and leave my thoughts to myself!""I crave your pardon, brother," replied Sir Fulke, in mock humility. "Fill up again, man. I was a fool not to see that your meditations were too unpleasant to be connected with so fair a subject as the Lady Aliva.""The Lady Aliva!" exclaimed William fiercely, leaning forward on the table eagerly, and confronting his brother, his chin supported on his hands, and his eyes gleaming--"the Lady Aliva! By the mass, I swear to you, brother, I cease not to think of her night and day! I see her ever before me, those eyes, those flashing eyes, that queenly form; I dream I clasp her, and I awake mad with despair! May the curses of St. Denis of France light for ever on that traitorous villain who dared supplant me, on that lying fool of a De Pateshulle, who--" And he buried his face in the deep flagon once more, as if to drown his feelings.Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm."Hark ye, brother," he said; "calm yourself and lower your voice. I have somewhat to say unto you which I care not that all the varlets in the hall hear. Do you wish for vengeance on a De Pateshulle?""Do I?" gasped William. "Try me!""So be it. I will put vengeance within your reach. It shall lie with you to take it, if you carry out the plan I have in my head.""Another fat abbey to sack!" cried the younger brother. "In good sooth, brother, you smite with your hands while you give your back to be smitten," he laughed."Not so," rejoined Fulke. "I am in no mind to meddle with churches for the nonce. This is quite another kind of deer to chase. You mind that special commission of the king's justices, convoked at Dunstable not long since to inquire into certain of my doings in these parts, which it seemed pleased not those most concerned with them. It hath come to my knowledge that the court has pronounced judgment against me. They may, by my troth, if it pleasesthem, for it doesmeno harm. No less than thirty verdicts did they bring against me," he went on chuckling, "and for these thirty verdicts some one shall suffer, I warrant me, though it shall not be he whom their worships had in their mind's eye when they delivered them!"William gazed at his brother admiringly. His weaker, shallower brain, already somewhat fuddled with his copious libations of the past few weeks, followed him with difficulty."Beshrew me, brother, if I see what nail thou art hammering at. These justices will have none of me.""But I fain will that you have some of them," Fulke went on. "It would beseem ill to the repentant son of Holy Church to lift his arm so soon against her after she has absolved him, for one of these justices is a priest. But you, brother, owe her naught. From trusty sources I learn that these three legal spiders are to meet again at Dunstable for further spinning as soon as this retreat at Elstow is over. Now, what say you, brother, to meeting them upon their journey thither, and to bringing to Bedford Castle, instead of to Dunstable town, the worshipful Thomas de Muleton, Henry de Braybrooke, and Martin de Pateshulle?""Martin de Pateshulle!" interrupted William eagerly. "Pardie! a De Pateshulle is a quarry that would please me well.""He is learned in the law, this priest," Fulke continued, apparently not heeding how his fish had risen to his bait. "The king can fare ill without his counsel in these parts, and methinks, were he and his brother worships safe caged in our stronghold here, it would prove Fulke de Breauté to be a greater fool than men hold him for did he not get what ransom he named. But, certes, I would be merciful, as it beseemeth with a priest. I would ask neither silver nor gold, naught save the remission of the thirty judgments that are out against me. What say you, brother? Is the snaring this legal vermin to your mind?""'Twould be good sport, by my troth!" ejaculated William, "though methinks it is no easy emprise! To seize the king's justices! 'Tis a bold swoop, brother.""Tush!" replied Fulke scornfully; "there speaks no brother of mine! I trow a De Breauté, bastard from a little Norman village, had ne'er sat in the seigneur's parlour of this, one of the fairest of English castles, had he piped in that strain. Take another draught, brother," he added, pushing the flagon across."In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood in this cursed land of fogs," apologized William, draining his horn. "But I must have some of your best varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the country, and plenty of them.""Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks for such game as this, man! These reverend justices shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a noble train! Take heart o' grace. Think thee of thy vengeance. It is a De Pateshulle that is the booty!""Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing up his courage still further by another drink. Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the niece and not the uncle!"Fulke smiled grimly."And why not?" he asked quietly.William, half stupified as he was fast becoming, saw the development of a new plot."Pardie! That proud maiden here! Helpless--a prisoner! Niece snared with the uncle! Ha, ha!" he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly. "Ha, my lady! who would say me nay a second time? Not you, by St. Denis, I warrant me!" and he laughed wildly. "Travel they together, say you? Father Martin to Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay, beshrew me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a maudlin giggle. Sir Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon out of his reach, and called to two varlets from the hall to carry his brother off to bed.CHAPTER VIII.JUSTICE IN BONDS.A few mornings later the two worshipful justices of the king, Thomas de Muleton and Henry de Braybrooke, were riding together through the central part of the county, a few miles south of Bedford. They had been engaged at Northampton in making preliminary arrangements for the great council which the king proposed to hold there in the summer, and having concluded that part of the business, were now journeying towards Dunstable to clear off certain matters which had been left unfinished, as their time there previously had been entirely taken up with examining the many suits brought before them against Fulke de Breauté.They had entered the county from Northamptonshire by the ford through the Ouse at Turvey, and were riding leisurely along on their stout palfreys, with their serving-men jogging behind them, and discussed as they went grave legal questions and learned points of law.For about eight miles after passing the ford, they took their way along the boundary-line between the counties of Bedford and Buckingham, in a southerly direction. Then turning eastward, they reached the amphitheatre of hills which encloses the vale of Bedford on the south-west. Passing the village of Cranfield and its Norman church, still in part existing, they rode under the old fortifications and earth-works of Brogborough--old even at that time--until at noon they reached the castle of Rougemount, standing on a red sandy hill (whence its name, corrupted in modern pronunciation and spelling into Ridgmount) and commanding the country to the north.Here they were expected by the lord of the castle, the Baron Lisle, who had invited them to rest upon their journey and partake of his mid-day meal. Here also they had arranged to meet their colleague, Archdeacon Martin de Pateshulle, with whom they proposed to travel on to Dunstable.As soon as the retreat at Elstow was over, the archdeacon had promised to come direct to Rougemount, but Lord Lisle had awaited him in vain. So when the other justices made their appearance, their host commanded the repast to be served, without any further waiting for the absent guest, whose non-arrival was unexplained.Lord Lisle had exerted himself to provide a suitable entertainment for guests of such high degree as the lords justices of the king."'Twas now the merry hour of noon,And in the lofty arched hallWas spread the gorgeous festival.Steward and squire, with heedful haste,Marshalled the rank of every guest;Pages with ready blade were there,The mighty meal to carve and share.O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,And princely peacock's gilded train,And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,And cygnet......The priest had spoke his benison."At the high table sat the host, his distinguished visitors on either hand. Some of the notables of the neighbourhood were also present, among whom was the lord abbot of the abbey of Woburn hard by. The head of the Cistercian house, founded not a century before by Hugh de Bolebec, had already come to hold a high position in the county.Thronging the hall and the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers, who had accompanied their masters, many of them strangers not only to one another, but to the servants belonging to the castle. In those days any festivities at a great castle were attended by a motley crowd of hangers-on, such as beggars, travelling minstrels, and the like, who seemed to scent from afar the preparations for the banquet.[image]"Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers."On this occasion, however, these gentry were somewhat disappointed to find that the expected guests were to be grave judges and churchmen. The beggars, indeed, ranged themselves into position to ask for alms in the name of religion, but the minstrels and the jugglers felt themselvesde trop. Finding their entertainments unacceptable to the guests, they betook themselves to an audience of grooms and varlets in the castle-yard.The ancient seneschal of the castle, moving through the various groups, his keys of office jingling at his side, remarked a swarthy man of considerable height and size, who was evidently not connected with the Saxon peasants around him. He was wrapped in a long, large cloak."So ho, friend! and whence comest thou?" asked the seneschal.The nondescript stranger answered him in French; not in the Norman-French which his interlocutor could easily have followed, but in a dialect imperfectly known to the worthy head of the household of Lord Lisle."I come from distant lands, noble seneschal. I chant love-lays to fair ladies' ears.""We have e'en no ladies here anon," replied the functionary gruffly, "naught but abbots and justices. So get thee gone!"At the mention of the word "justices" a momentary gleam of satisfaction passed over the swarthy face of the stranger."Justices, good my lord seneschal?" he repeated."Yea, justices," retorted the seneschal, not noting the look. "Art deaf, man? My lord the king's justices who travel towards Dunstable. Did youjongleursexpect a bevy of giddy damsels and young gallants?"The burden of his duties had made Lord Lisle's officer somewhat testy."But perchance, with your good leave, I may sing to my lords the justices' serving-men a song of fair France; or a lovechansonnettewill I teach them, wherewith to tingle the ears of their Saxon gills?""As you will, man," answered the seneschal with a shrug, turning away, "an you find fools to listen to such trash!""Thanks for your leave, good sir," the stranger called after him, with a queer twinkle in his dark eye. Then he turned to one of De Braybrooke's men, staring open-mouthed and stolid at the strange dialect and stranger countenance. "Wilt list to a song, friend? It hath a refrain will ring in thy ears and cheer thee on thy long journey.""A long journey! Gramercy, a mole might see as how thou art a stranger in these parts. A long journey to Dunstable, forsooth!""And is it not far?""Nine miles as the crow flies, I trows, and but eke some ten the way we ride, through the woodland, by way of Eversholt," replied the varlet, with a snigger of contempt."Aver--aver--sole," repeated the dark stranger, mispronouncing the name. "This English tongue cracks the jaw!""Marry, he stammereth like a cuckoo at hay-harvest," jeered the other. "Say it plain, man--Eversholt.""Gather your fellows together while I go fetch my rebec I left at the gate-house, and, pardie, you shall see what you shall see, and hear what you shall hear," retorted the stranger imperturbably. But as he strode across the yard, the serving-man, had he not been so busily engaged mimicking the Frenchman's accent to his companions, might have noticed an armed heel glitter beneath the folds of his cloak.The day was wearing on ere the justices could tear themselves away from Lord Lisle's hospitable board and once more proceed on their journey.Southwards, beyond Rougemount, the country becomes more wooded. In the higher parts of Woburn Park old timber trees even now show where once the forest extended round the famous Cistercian abbey. In the midst of this district stands a village, whose name, Eversholt--theholt, or wood, of theeferor wild boar--still hands down the characteristics of the neighbourhood.Into this wood, in the waning afternoon, rode, unsuspectingly, the two justices, engaged in a warm discussion over some quibble of the law."Now, by my troth, brother Thomas," De Braybrooke was saying, "all our jurisconsults are agreed that if the judge be free to act--"He stopped short, and never finished his sentence, for he was "free to act" no longer.With a fierce cry of "A De Breauté! a De Breauté!" armed men rushed down from either side of the road upon the hapless representatives of the law, and surrounded them ere they could recover from their stupefaction."Let the varlets go free!" cried William de Breauté. "We have no need of grooms!" he added, as he saw his men seizing the bridles of the servants' horses as well as those of their masters.It was a lucky cry for Thomas de Muleton, for it led to his escape. By some mistake, the men who held his horse, not distinguishing in the confusion between master and man, released their hold, and his servants, closing round him, hurried him back along the woodland bridle-path towards Rougemount.Too late De Breauté saw the error. But De Muleton and his men had put spurs to their horses, and he and his men-at-arms were all dismounted, their horses tethered to the trees, or held by some of the band. Pursuit was out of the question, even had the marauders dared to follow up their prey to the very walls of Rougemount Castle.William de Breauté's rage knew no bounds when he became aware that but one of the desired prisoners had been secured. Swearing roundly at his men for their blunder, he struck the unfortunate serving-man who had been detained instead of his master a blow with the flat of his sword which nearly knocked him off his horse, and allowed him to ride away after his fellows."Pardie!" he swore. "We trouble not ourselves with dogs that can pay no ransom. Get you gone!"Disgusted with the less than half success of his scheme, he ordered his men to remount, and the party rode off rapidly towards Bedford, the hapless Henry de Braybrooke well guarded in their midst. De Breauté's rage was a little softened, however, when he learned that he had not missed two of his prey--that Martin de Pateshulle had not been of the party, though as to his whereabouts De Braybrooke could give no information.CHAPTER IX.AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.The troop of horsemen made their way out of the wood, and soon afterwards, riding down the romantic glen of Millbrook, reached the Bedford valley. They were now on the road to Elstow, and nearing Bedford itself; but as they approached the town, an incident occurred which changed the direction of De Breauté's route.The cavalcade were hurrying along, as their leader was anxious to get his prisoners safe into the castle ere the town-folk should be aware of their capture. For although the burgesses of Bedford had by this time been sufficiently cowed by the Robber Baron and his men, and were by no means unaccustomed to seeing prisoners swept off into the "devil's nest," as they called his castle, yet it was more satisfactory that the impounding should be done without any fuss or disturbance.So through the little village of Elstow clattered the horsemen, their arms and accoutrements ringing as they went. The village people recognized with a shudder the soldiers from Bedford Castle. They were mostly retainers of the abbey, and they crossed themselves devoutly and uttered a prayer as the enemies and spoilers of the church rode by. They scarcely noted the unfortunate judge who was being jolted along in their midst at a pace so different from that at which he usually travelled, and who"Little thought when he set outOf running such a rig."Increasing their pace, the hurrying troop scattered the wayfarers right and left. The inhabitants fled into their houses; the peasants dragged their beasts and carts into the ditches. All knew that there could be the servants of but one man who would ride through the country in this fashion.But as they passed the abbey gate, De Breauté and his men, in their headlong career, charged full tilt into a small party of riders just turning out of the archway.This knot of travellers seemed in no wise disposed to give De Breauté's horsemen more than their fair share of the road, and did not draw aside into the hedge, after the manner of the peasants. The two foremost of the little company were an elderly and dignified ecclesiastic, and a young and graceful lady whose wimple and riding-hood concealed her face. The old priest, encumbered with his ecclesiastical habit, was unable to resist the impetus with which the armed party bore down upon the defenceless travellers. Too late, he drew rein aside; but the ponderous war-horse of the foremost man-at-arms struck his palfrey full on the flank, and rolled both horse and rider to the ground.The mass of horsemen, rushing in wedge shape, separated the priest from his companion, and the latter was forced to the opposite side of the road. She was either quicker, more skilful, or better mounted than was the elderly ecclesiastic; for not only did she turn her horse aside just at the right moment and avoid an imminent collision, but putting him at the boundary hedge which bordered the road, cleared it in a style which showed her to possess the hand and seat of a first-rate horsewoman.The unexpected encounter caused a sudden and confused halt to De Breauté's party, and their leader was able to give a by no means pleased look at those who, by no fault of their own, but by reason of the furious onrush of his own men, had unintentionally impeded his progress. But when once he had glanced at the bold horsewoman escaping by her leap from the confused throng, he hardly deigned to notice the prostrate priest striving to extricate himself from his dangerous position. For as her horse cleared the obstacle, the riding-hood, which concealed the features of the rider, fell back upon her shoulders, and revealed to his astonished gaze the lovely face of Aliva de Pateshulle.In a moment his brother's orders were all forgotten. Even had he recognized Martin de Pateshulle in the dismounted horseman, it is not likely he would have paused to capture him. But shouting to two of his men to follow him, he turned quickly round, and putting spurs to his horse, rode after the retreating figure at the top of his speed.His leaderless party pulled themselves together, so to speak, and gazed after the pursued and the pursuer till they vanished round the corner of the abbey walls. They gave vent to a few coarse jests over their master's disappearance, and then the senior among them took upon himself the command of the party. He turned to the unlucky priest, whom his servants had now raised from under his fallen steed. Martin de Pateshulle--for it was he--had evidently been severely injured, and lay prostrate in his attendants' arms. In reply to the soldier's questions they told that their master was the Archdeacon of Northampton, and the lady his niece. Had they mentioned his name, it is possible the trooper might have recognized that of one of the justices they had sallied out to seize. But as it was, deeply imbued with a soldier's notion of implicit obedience to orders before all things, he thought only of conveying the prisoner he had already made with all speed to Bedford. Even Henry de Braybrooke, whom his guard had removed to a little distance from the scene of the accident, could only learn that it was an old priest who had been injured, ere he was again hurried off in the direction of the Robber Baron's castle.Meanwhile, the grooms who had picked up the archdeacon proceeded to carry him, moaning with pain, back to the abbey they had just left. In vain the unhappy priest conjured them to leave him to his fate, and to hasten after his niece, as soon as he realized that she was being pursued by De Breauté.With one exception, none seemed inclined to obey their master, protesting that it was their first duty to see his injuries attended to within the abbey walls.That exception was our fat friend Dicky Dumpling, who had been of the party, in attendance on his young mistress. He, too, had been rolled over; but no sooner had he picked himself up out of the mire and learned that she had fled, than his distress was great."Alack! alack!" he cried. "Chased by that young French popinjay, say you? Oh, woe the day! He came a-wooing her that day the gallant Sir Ralph rode over, and he departed with his beauty marred, the serving-maid doth say--but women have such long tongues! Oh, my hapless young lady! I must after her to her succour!""Thou Dickon!" gasped one of his fellows,--"with thy feather weight, to say nothing of that good dinner of beef and ale in the porter's lodge.""And thy nag's good browse in the abbey stables," put in another. "Think you he is a match for the knight's war-horse?""Alack! alack!" moaned worthy Dicky; "my heart misgives me sore. But bring me my horse, lads, and find me my cap. With good St. Dunstan's aid I will do my best. Give me a leg up, lads, and Dobbin and I will after her as long as there is a breath left in our bodies!"CHAPTER X.THROUGH OUSE MARSHES.The Lady Aliva had gone to the retreat at Elstow with a heavy heart. In the first place, she had dismissed the man whom she loved with all her soul without giving him to understand that she would remain true to him; indeed, she even doubted within herself whether the words she had used to him might not, in fact, have implied the exact opposite. Then, further, her conduct to her father had given her pain. She confessed to herself that in that scene in the hall she had acted as an undutiful daughter, and even, at the conclusion of it, with want of maidenly reserve and self-respect.Thus it was that with all true sorrow of repentance she had knelt in the abbey church. When the Lady Margaret and the abbess came upon her in the dusk bending before the high altar, she was indeed, as the abbess had intimated, praying not for strength to face the troublesome world again, but for grace to take the vows of the Benedictine rule.It has already been shown how she had made known her wish to the lady abbess, and had obtained leave to wear for the time the habit of a novice. But her desire for the profession of a religious life had been combated, strange to say, by two persons who in any other case would have thought it their duty to strengthen it.These two were the lady abbess herself and the archdeacon her uncle; and when she had learned Aliva's story, the Lady Margaret added her objections to theirs. All these three elders deemed it unadvisable for so young a girl--she was only eighteen--to think of monastic vows, and held out hopes that the course of true love might yet run smoothly. The archdeacon himself had always been a supporter of Ralph de Beauchamp's suit, and the two ladies joined with him in comforting the distressed damsel with plans for the future happiness of Ralph and herself.With regard to the unlucky incident in the hall which had so abruptly terminated the other suitor's visit, Aliva made a clean breast of the whole matter. The ladies even went so far as to justify her conduct; and the archdeacon, speaking as a spiritual father, considered it sufficiently condoned by the exhortation he administered on the duty of maidenly reserve and the virtue of checking anger.So when the retreat was ended, Aliva's plans were discussed in real earnest, and a determination arrived at. The good archdeacon decided to give up his projected journey to Dunstable, leaving his learned friends to finish their business by themselves, and to accompany his niece to Bletsoe. There he hoped to convince his brother of the injustice of repressing Ralph de Beauchamp's suit.Theprosandconsof this discussion occupied all the early part of the day, and it was accordingly late in the afternoon when Aliva, after an affectionate parting with the two elder ladies, set off towards home, accompanied by her uncle and his two serving-men, and by Dicky Dumpling, who had brought over her riding-horse that morning.Of the untoward event that befell the little party as they passed out of the abbey gateway we are already aware, and we must now take up the story of Aliva's flight and De Breauté's pursuit.After a short spurt across country, she turned her horse back again into the road, that she might take in the situation and see what had become of her uncle. But she could see nothing in the distance save a confused group of horsemen. Between herself and that group, however, she was soon aware that a rider, William de Breauté, was following her at the top of his speed.Now, had he been alone, it is not improbable that the courageous maiden, who had already faced him once, would boldly have awaited his arrival; but close at his heels came two of his men, and Aliva felt that there was nothing for it but a flight towards home.The road to Bedford was quite cut off from her by the advancing horsemen, but she knew that at some distance further west there was a bridge across the Ouse at Bromham, and she determined to try to escape in that direction.It was a desperate chance. Her horse was a mere palfrey, while De Breauté and his men were mounted on some of the best horses to be found in the stables of Bedford Castle.She hurried through the little village of Kempston on the river-bank, for she knew it would prove no safe asylum. The approach of De Breauté's men always struck terror into the peasants of the villages around Bedford. They gazed open-mouthed after the flying maiden, and then slunk back into their huts as the mail-clad soldiers came clattering after her in pursuit.Only upon her own wit and readiness could Aliva depend in this terrible race. She was less acquainted with this side of the Ouse valley than with the other, in which she had been accustomed to ride and hawk since childhood. But she knew that between Kempston and Bromham lay a stretch of marshy ground intersected by broad ditches, and into these marshes she resolved to ride with the hope of baffling her pursuers. She thought it not unlikely that in the ground which would bear the weight of herself and her palfrey the armed men and huge horses might be bogged.Her conjecture proved not incorrect, and for a time the distance increased between herself and her pursuers. But the spring afternoon was now closing in, and in the failing twilight it was difficult to select the best track through the marshy ground. Once or twice Aliva had actually to return upon her path, and the men behind gained an advantage, as they watched her movements and avoided the impassable places. Moreover, her lightly-built horse, not much more than a pony, was beginning to tire. He had cleared one or two of the ditches with difficulty, and now, as he attempted to jump one of considerable breadth, a rotten take-off sent him floundering into the middle of it.Aliva scrambled quickly from the saddle, and threw herself on the bank. But unfortunately it was the nearer one. For a minute or two she stood vainly trying to reach the reins, and calling to her palfrey to approach her.But her pursuers were drawing on apace. The foremost was not De Breauté himself, but one of his men, who sprang from his horse and seized Aliva by the hood which hung loosely from her shoulders."Let go thy hold, varlet!" shouted De Breauté, in the rear. Even in his madness he could not bear to see her thus roughly handled by a rude soldier.But Aliva was free ere he spoke. She unclasped the buckle which fastened her hood and mantle round her neck, and as the man fell back with the garments in his hand, flung herself into the muddy dike.The water reached nearly to her waist, and with difficulty she struggled through. As she passed her horse, standing half bogged in the middle, she seized the reins and drew them over his head. By good chance a stunted willow overhung the further bank. She made a snatch at it, caught it, and with a supreme effort gained firm ground.With the purchase afforded by the tree, Aliva was now able to get a tight hold of her horse's head, and encouraging him with her voice, she induced him to follow her example, and to struggle up the bank.The two soldiers, meanwhile, watched her manoeuvres from the further side in some perplexity. Their lord's order to release her had been peremptory, and it was now apparent that she was escaping them again. Their lord himself, at some little distance, dismounted, his horse dangerously engulfed in a bog, was in as much uncertainty as they were.When he had first started off in his wild chase of Aliva, he had indeed no fixed intention with regard to her, except perhaps to carry her off to Bedford along with Henry de Braybrooke; and now that he had pursued her thus far from Elstow, and held her, as it were, in his grasp, he was still undecided.[image]A wild chase through Ouse marshes.Any brutal violence was far from his thoughts; for had he not forbidden his man to lay a hand upon her? A marriage was what he contemplated, though indeed it might be a forced marriage, like that of his brother Fulke with the Lady Margaret.But no sooner did he perceive that the draggled girl was remounting her tired palfrey than he called to his men, standing stupidly looking at her from the nearer side of the ditch."Here, varlets, quick! Plague take you and these English morasses! Why came ye not to my help sooner? Saw ye not how I am well-nigh smothered in this cursed bog?"It took some little time for the men-at-arms to free their master and his floundering steed. They dragged him out in as deplorable condition as that in which Aliva found herself, and by that time both he and they had had enough of the Ouse marshes.Not that De Breauté was by any means inclined to give up the chase. He could see the hapless horsewoman he was pursuing far ahead and entering the little village of Bromham, and he followed her along firmer ground at some distance from the river.The long, many-arched bridge which still stretches over the flat meadows at Bromham was furnished at the western end in those days with a small wayside chapel, the ruins of which can still be traced in the mill-house. Aliva rode slowly into the village, and wearily approached the foot of the bridge. As she cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, she saw that her pursuers had now reached hard ground, and were gaining on her rapidly.Her little palfrey was dead beat. The struggle in the dike had completely exhausted him, and he no longer answered to his mistress's voice or to the touch of her riding-wand. As he reached the first cottage at Bromham, he stumbled and rolled heavily from side to side.Aliva was off his back in a moment. A rustic stood by, gazing in astonishment at the young lady's condition--drenched and hoodless, her fair hair streaming over her shoulders.But Aliva's first thought was for her horse."Prithee, friend," she cried to the peasant, "take my palfrey and tend him. You shall be well rewarded. I am the daughter of the lord of Bletsoe, and if I come not to claim him myself, take him to Bletsoe Castle when he has recovered."She hurried on. How to escape now she knew not. But suddenly, as she approached the bridge, she perceived a haven of refuge. The chapel door stood open, and the poor hunted girl stepped into the welcome sanctuary.CHAPTER XI.BREATHING-TIME.As Aliva entered the little chapel on the bridge, she saw, in the uncertain twilight, two figures kneeling before the altar. One was that of a stalwart young man in the garb of a lay-brother of the Benedictine order, and the other that of an elderly woman in the dress of a peasant.Both rose from their knees, disturbed by the hurried entrance of Aliva, and were surprised to see before them a lady of the upper classes so damp and bedraggled and hoodless. The heart of the woman was touched."Lack-a-day, lady!" she exclaimed; "hast thou been in Ouse water?" she added, with a slight shudder."I have come here for rest," replied Aliva, not wishing to reveal her story to peasant strangers. "I have indeed, as you say, suffered somewhat by mishap in a stream, and I have lost my horse."As she spoke, the sound of her voice, and a closer scrutiny of her features, increased the astonishment of the two listeners."Gramercy on us!" cried the woman; "if this is not our lady from Bletsoe!"Aliva looked more narrowly at her, and then at the lay-brother."Our Lady be praised!" she murmured faintly; "I find friends. Are you not the wife of Goodman Hodges; and is this not your son, the lay-brother from St. Alban's?"Mother and son both made a deep obeisance, and Aliva continued:--"My friends, I am in sore plight. But I know ye to be faithful to your lord, and I trow ye will aid his daughter. I have ridden far and fast, at peril of my life, to escape De Breauté and his men, who even now follow hard upon my track. But I trust I am safe in this holy house, and with--"But here exhausted nature gave way, and the brave girl, now that she found herself in comparative safety, fell senseless on the chapel floor.Mistress Hodges, though but a peasant, was a woman of resource and energy."Alack, alack! she will die of chill in this cold chapel," she exclaimed. "Son, we must bear her hence!""But what if De Breauté's men be without, mother?" replied the cautious lay-brother."In good sooth, you speak true," replied the woman, casting an anxious gaze round the chapel, while she supported the head of the unconscious Aliva in her arms. Then she noticed a gleam of light shining through a half-open door on the south side of the altar."See, my son," she exclaimed, "whither that door leads. There may be help near at hand."The lay-brother opened the door and looked into the apartment within."'Tis a sacristy, or priest's room," he replied, with his knowledge of ecclesiastical arrangements. "There is no one within," he added, glancing hastily around, "and there is a fire on the hearth, and a settle with cushions."The mother and son lifted up Aliva's senseless form, and carrying her into the sacristy, laid her on the couch."Go thou now," said the Mistress Hodges, "and guard the chapel door, and I will see to the young lady. Praise be to our Lady, with warmth and care I shall yet bring her round."The young man shut the door of the sacristy behind him, and crossing the chapel to the entrance, closed the heavy door and drew its strong oaken bar across it. He then took up his position against it, keeping a careful and patient watch.The woman, left alone with Aliva, proceeded to treat her with maternal care; for had not the young lady herself once tended her when the fever ravaged the peasants' huts round Bletsoe Manor House?She removed her wet garments and chafed her cold hands and feet. As she undressed her, she found, fastened round her waist, a wallet containing a small flask of cordial and some food, with which the good abbess of Elstow had provided Aliva for her journey. Mistress Hodges poured some of the wine down Aliva's throat, and she revived.Delighted that her efforts had so far succeeded, the good woman redoubled her care. She even stripped herself of some of her rough but warm clothing, and wrapped it round Aliva, as she lay on the settle. Then she busied herself in drying and cleaning the soiled and dripping garments, for fortunately, in this room prepared for the priest who served the chapel, there was a good store of firewood.Aliva lay watching her feebly, with the half-dazed gaze of returning consciousness."Thanks to our Lady and the blessed saints," she murmured at last in such weak voice, "that I have happed on you, good mother; else methinks the cold of this chapel might have finished the work the stream began.""The saints forfend!" ejaculated the worthy woman. "But, lady," she added, her curiosity getting the upper hand, "might I crave your pardon, and ask how comes it that you are in a woful plight? They said in the village you had gone to the retreat at Elstow, which the venerable archdeacon--""Ah!" cried Aliva, "selfish wretch that I am, I had well-nigh forgotten him in my own trouble! Know you, good mother, that it was even as he and I were leaving the abbey of Elstow, on our return home, that this fierce company of De Breauté and his men rode down upon us. They scattered us as a hawk scattereth a flight of doves. I escaped by the lucky chance that my good genet can be stopped by no fence or dike in all this countryside. When I last saw my uncle, he was surrounded and closed in upon by the horsemen. I wot not what became of him.""Alack, alack!" said Mistress Hodges, shaking her head. "These be evil days now in the which we live, when that terrible Frenchman from over the seas, Sir Fulke de Breauté (may the foul fiend fly off with him!), spares neither the ministers of Holy Church nor defenceless damsels--""Indeed, it would seem as if De Breauté had a grudge against me," Aliva could not help interposing, with a half smile. "He owes me somewhat, by my faith. He asked for my hand; he cannot say he did not get it. How like to a drowned water-rat he looked, coated with our good honest English mud! A pretty dance I led him, I trow," she added, with a ripple of laughter. "He'll ne'er forgive me."Mistress Hodges grinned good-humouredly, pleased to see the lady's spirits rising again."In good sooth, lady, but young knights find it hard to forgive fair ladies who will have none of them when they come a-wooing."The conversation was becoming too personal. Aliva flushed slightly, and tried to turn it."And now, prithee goody, it seems to me that I too may well ask, how comes it that you and your son come so far from Bletsoe this evening?"The smile faded from the woman's face."I am on a weary errand, fair lady," she replied. "I have come thus far in company with my son, who is on his journey back to the abbey of St. Alban, where he is a lay-brother. I have come but to say a prayer with him, in this the wayfarer's chapel, to good St. Nicolas, who protects all travellers. Alas! he will return to St. Alban's; he says it is his duty. I have dissuaded him sore with tears and prayers, but it is of none avail. In these bad times there is no peace even in the religious houses, nothing but wars and rumours of wars.""Certes, I did hear from Dicky Dumpling--(ah, poor Dickon! how fares it with him, I wonder? He presented a broad surface to the horsemen's charge)--that your son had barely 'scaped with his life from that fearful St. Vincent's Eve at St. Alban's!""Gramercy, lady," replied the woman, wiping her eyes, "'twas a hairbreadth 'scape, in good sooth! But, thanks to our Lady and the good St. Benedict--who, my son says, preserved the humblest of his servants to serve him further--he got off scot-free from the fire and the sword, yea, and the water too!""The water! how mean you?" asked Aliva."Marry, lady, he was weary and worn, and he mistook the ford at Milton as he was fleeing homewards. The Ouse was in full flood, and but for that noble knight Sir Ralph de Beauchamp, whom the saints preserve--""Sir Ralph de Beauchamp!" murmured Aliva, now deeply interested. "Ah," she added, with a blush, "I mind me how soaked he was with water!""Ay, a fair gallant he is," the other proceeded. "He thought naught of riding boldly into the Ouse at full stream, and saving my poor lad in the very nick of time, when he was being swept down the river like a truss of hay in a midsummer flood!"Aliva lay listening, her large eyes fixed dreamily on the speaker."It sounds like a bold deed, and a truly marvellous turn of luck for your son. Tell on, good mother, I prithee. I would fain hear more of the fishing out of the worthy lay-brother--thine only son, too--tell on," added the astute maiden, playing on maternal feeling.Mistress Hodges' tongue was unloosed by the evident interest the young lady of the manor evinced. His recent dangers and escapes had made the lay-brother somewhat of a hero in the village of Bletsoe. His mother was nothing loath to fight his battles over again, and prattled on with maternal pride for some time ere she perceived that her fair charge had sunk into a sound and healthful slumber, lulled by the account of her lover's daring.Meanwhile De Breauté and his men had hurried up. They passed Aliva's riderless palfrey."Ah, pardie! the fair hare has run to ground, and cannot be far distant.--Lady, thy pride is nigh unto a fall," murmured William to himself, chuckling.But the rustic in charge of the horse was either naturally or intentionally stupid. De Breauté could make nothing of him.Riding eagerly to the bridge-foot, he scanned its length. But he saw no sign of Aliva's retreating figure in the fast-falling twilight, and heard no sound save the swirl of the rushing river as it swept beneath the arches.Had she escaped him?Leaving one of his men to guard the bridge, he proceeded to search the cottages round. But from the trembling peasants he could only gather that they had indeed seen a lady, in soiled and damp clothing, pass down the village.But as he was thus cross-questioning and searching, he was approached by a personage clad in ecclesiastical garb. He was a coarse-looking individual, the expression of whose features showed a mixture of greed and cunning."William de Breauté," he asked, "thou seekest a bird? Shall I show thee the nest where that bird is hidden?""If thou meanest that thou canst tell whither the lady has escaped who but now made her way through the village," replied De Breauté, not much relishing the tone of familiarity in which he was addressed, "thou shalt be well rewarded if thou dost direct me thither. And understand," he added, trying to speak with dignity, "no harm is intended to the lady. It is simply needful for her own protection that I conduct her to my brother's castle at Bedford.""Ay, in good sooth, all are in safe keeping there!" muttered the priest with a sneer, not brooking haughty patronage from a soldier of fortune. "But, perchance, my secret will remain with me, and she will not take the road to Bedford."William de Breauté saw that he was not going the right way to work, and altered his tone. He had a shrewd guess that a bribe would both be expected and received."Certes, reverend father," he replied, "but I mean a reward to Holy Church in the person of one of her ministers.""Knightly sir," answered the priest, "we understand each other. I am but a minister, as you rightly say, and humblest, you would more rightly have said, of Holy Church. Whatever her ministers receive, it is really the Church who receiveth and benefiteth."And if winking were the fashion in the thirteenth century, doubtless he winked at De Breauté as he spoke."Follow me," he added.And he led him to the door of the chapel on the bridge.
CHAPTER VII
"ARCADES AMBO."
In the evening of the day on which the strange scene at St. Alban's Abbey just described had taken place, Sir Fulke de Breauté sat with his younger brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.
The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well satisfied with himself.
"By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have done a good morning's work;" and he reached across to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood on the table beside him, and poured himself out a deep draught. Then he passed the wine across to his brother, who sat moodily staring into the log-fire.
"Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering."
"'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the other sulkily. "I like it not overmuch. Give me the pure clarets of France and Italy," he added, but replenishing his horn all the same.
Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother. A great change had come over William since that eventful evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe in a perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses keeping time to the rattle of his horse's hoofs. First and foremost he had cursed Ralph de Beauchamp--for now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage he drove the rowels again and again deep into the flanks of his unfortunate steed. Next he cursed all the De Beauchamp family and all connected with it. Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De Pateshulle had urged him to prosecute the suit which had resulted in such dire humiliation. But here he had paused in his curses.
He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's daughter with an oath. Her face haunted him as he rode along: her face--first, cold and set as marble, as when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then, flushed and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, as she turned to him from the window, and took those six paces to confront him. Her scornful beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid passion seized him.
He had flung himself from his horse in the castle-yard, and strode into the hall, scattering curses right and left at the astonished servants, used only to such a display of anger from his elder brother.
For weeks after this outburst he lived in a state of brooding sullenness, broken only by occasional violent fits of rage. His sister-in-law, if she met him in the hall, turned and fled. Even pretty Beatrice Mertoun, whom he was wont to regard with more favour than perhaps the bold miner would have approved of, flitted past him as quickly as possible, with a mere nod.
Sir Fulke observed this change in his brother with grim satisfaction. In furtherance of his new evil schemes he determined to turn to good or bad account the dormant ferocity which had been aroused.
"Marry, brother," he remarked, "methinks there sits a cloud on your brow, as if your thoughts were far away--perchance over Bletsoe way?" he added, with a grim chuckle.
"What's that to you?" retorted William sullenly. "In good sooth you had better mind your own business, and attend to your masses, and your flagellations, and your retreats, along with the rest of the women folk, and leave my thoughts to myself!"
"I crave your pardon, brother," replied Sir Fulke, in mock humility. "Fill up again, man. I was a fool not to see that your meditations were too unpleasant to be connected with so fair a subject as the Lady Aliva."
"The Lady Aliva!" exclaimed William fiercely, leaning forward on the table eagerly, and confronting his brother, his chin supported on his hands, and his eyes gleaming--"the Lady Aliva! By the mass, I swear to you, brother, I cease not to think of her night and day! I see her ever before me, those eyes, those flashing eyes, that queenly form; I dream I clasp her, and I awake mad with despair! May the curses of St. Denis of France light for ever on that traitorous villain who dared supplant me, on that lying fool of a De Pateshulle, who--" And he buried his face in the deep flagon once more, as if to drown his feelings.
Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm.
"Hark ye, brother," he said; "calm yourself and lower your voice. I have somewhat to say unto you which I care not that all the varlets in the hall hear. Do you wish for vengeance on a De Pateshulle?"
"Do I?" gasped William. "Try me!"
"So be it. I will put vengeance within your reach. It shall lie with you to take it, if you carry out the plan I have in my head."
"Another fat abbey to sack!" cried the younger brother. "In good sooth, brother, you smite with your hands while you give your back to be smitten," he laughed.
"Not so," rejoined Fulke. "I am in no mind to meddle with churches for the nonce. This is quite another kind of deer to chase. You mind that special commission of the king's justices, convoked at Dunstable not long since to inquire into certain of my doings in these parts, which it seemed pleased not those most concerned with them. It hath come to my knowledge that the court has pronounced judgment against me. They may, by my troth, if it pleasesthem, for it doesmeno harm. No less than thirty verdicts did they bring against me," he went on chuckling, "and for these thirty verdicts some one shall suffer, I warrant me, though it shall not be he whom their worships had in their mind's eye when they delivered them!"
William gazed at his brother admiringly. His weaker, shallower brain, already somewhat fuddled with his copious libations of the past few weeks, followed him with difficulty.
"Beshrew me, brother, if I see what nail thou art hammering at. These justices will have none of me."
"But I fain will that you have some of them," Fulke went on. "It would beseem ill to the repentant son of Holy Church to lift his arm so soon against her after she has absolved him, for one of these justices is a priest. But you, brother, owe her naught. From trusty sources I learn that these three legal spiders are to meet again at Dunstable for further spinning as soon as this retreat at Elstow is over. Now, what say you, brother, to meeting them upon their journey thither, and to bringing to Bedford Castle, instead of to Dunstable town, the worshipful Thomas de Muleton, Henry de Braybrooke, and Martin de Pateshulle?"
"Martin de Pateshulle!" interrupted William eagerly. "Pardie! a De Pateshulle is a quarry that would please me well."
"He is learned in the law, this priest," Fulke continued, apparently not heeding how his fish had risen to his bait. "The king can fare ill without his counsel in these parts, and methinks, were he and his brother worships safe caged in our stronghold here, it would prove Fulke de Breauté to be a greater fool than men hold him for did he not get what ransom he named. But, certes, I would be merciful, as it beseemeth with a priest. I would ask neither silver nor gold, naught save the remission of the thirty judgments that are out against me. What say you, brother? Is the snaring this legal vermin to your mind?"
"'Twould be good sport, by my troth!" ejaculated William, "though methinks it is no easy emprise! To seize the king's justices! 'Tis a bold swoop, brother."
"Tush!" replied Fulke scornfully; "there speaks no brother of mine! I trow a De Breauté, bastard from a little Norman village, had ne'er sat in the seigneur's parlour of this, one of the fairest of English castles, had he piped in that strain. Take another draught, brother," he added, pushing the flagon across.
"In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood in this cursed land of fogs," apologized William, draining his horn. "But I must have some of your best varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the country, and plenty of them."
"Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks for such game as this, man! These reverend justices shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a noble train! Take heart o' grace. Think thee of thy vengeance. It is a De Pateshulle that is the booty!"
"Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing up his courage still further by another drink. Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the niece and not the uncle!"
Fulke smiled grimly.
"And why not?" he asked quietly.
William, half stupified as he was fast becoming, saw the development of a new plot.
"Pardie! That proud maiden here! Helpless--a prisoner! Niece snared with the uncle! Ha, ha!" he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly. "Ha, my lady! who would say me nay a second time? Not you, by St. Denis, I warrant me!" and he laughed wildly. "Travel they together, say you? Father Martin to Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay, beshrew me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"
Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a maudlin giggle. Sir Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon out of his reach, and called to two varlets from the hall to carry his brother off to bed.
CHAPTER VIII.
JUSTICE IN BONDS.
A few mornings later the two worshipful justices of the king, Thomas de Muleton and Henry de Braybrooke, were riding together through the central part of the county, a few miles south of Bedford. They had been engaged at Northampton in making preliminary arrangements for the great council which the king proposed to hold there in the summer, and having concluded that part of the business, were now journeying towards Dunstable to clear off certain matters which had been left unfinished, as their time there previously had been entirely taken up with examining the many suits brought before them against Fulke de Breauté.
They had entered the county from Northamptonshire by the ford through the Ouse at Turvey, and were riding leisurely along on their stout palfreys, with their serving-men jogging behind them, and discussed as they went grave legal questions and learned points of law.
For about eight miles after passing the ford, they took their way along the boundary-line between the counties of Bedford and Buckingham, in a southerly direction. Then turning eastward, they reached the amphitheatre of hills which encloses the vale of Bedford on the south-west. Passing the village of Cranfield and its Norman church, still in part existing, they rode under the old fortifications and earth-works of Brogborough--old even at that time--until at noon they reached the castle of Rougemount, standing on a red sandy hill (whence its name, corrupted in modern pronunciation and spelling into Ridgmount) and commanding the country to the north.
Here they were expected by the lord of the castle, the Baron Lisle, who had invited them to rest upon their journey and partake of his mid-day meal. Here also they had arranged to meet their colleague, Archdeacon Martin de Pateshulle, with whom they proposed to travel on to Dunstable.
As soon as the retreat at Elstow was over, the archdeacon had promised to come direct to Rougemount, but Lord Lisle had awaited him in vain. So when the other justices made their appearance, their host commanded the repast to be served, without any further waiting for the absent guest, whose non-arrival was unexplained.
Lord Lisle had exerted himself to provide a suitable entertainment for guests of such high degree as the lords justices of the king.
"'Twas now the merry hour of noon,And in the lofty arched hallWas spread the gorgeous festival.Steward and squire, with heedful haste,Marshalled the rank of every guest;Pages with ready blade were there,The mighty meal to carve and share.O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,And princely peacock's gilded train,And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,And cygnet......The priest had spoke his benison."
"'Twas now the merry hour of noon,And in the lofty arched hallWas spread the gorgeous festival.Steward and squire, with heedful haste,Marshalled the rank of every guest;Pages with ready blade were there,The mighty meal to carve and share.O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,And princely peacock's gilded train,And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,And cygnet......The priest had spoke his benison."
"'Twas now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshalled the rank of every guest;
Pages with ready blade were there,
The mighty meal to carve and share.
O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,
And princely peacock's gilded train,
And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,
And cygnet......
The priest had spoke his benison."
At the high table sat the host, his distinguished visitors on either hand. Some of the notables of the neighbourhood were also present, among whom was the lord abbot of the abbey of Woburn hard by. The head of the Cistercian house, founded not a century before by Hugh de Bolebec, had already come to hold a high position in the county.
Thronging the hall and the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers, who had accompanied their masters, many of them strangers not only to one another, but to the servants belonging to the castle. In those days any festivities at a great castle were attended by a motley crowd of hangers-on, such as beggars, travelling minstrels, and the like, who seemed to scent from afar the preparations for the banquet.
[image]"Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers."
[image]
[image]
"Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers."
On this occasion, however, these gentry were somewhat disappointed to find that the expected guests were to be grave judges and churchmen. The beggars, indeed, ranged themselves into position to ask for alms in the name of religion, but the minstrels and the jugglers felt themselvesde trop. Finding their entertainments unacceptable to the guests, they betook themselves to an audience of grooms and varlets in the castle-yard.
The ancient seneschal of the castle, moving through the various groups, his keys of office jingling at his side, remarked a swarthy man of considerable height and size, who was evidently not connected with the Saxon peasants around him. He was wrapped in a long, large cloak.
"So ho, friend! and whence comest thou?" asked the seneschal.
The nondescript stranger answered him in French; not in the Norman-French which his interlocutor could easily have followed, but in a dialect imperfectly known to the worthy head of the household of Lord Lisle.
"I come from distant lands, noble seneschal. I chant love-lays to fair ladies' ears."
"We have e'en no ladies here anon," replied the functionary gruffly, "naught but abbots and justices. So get thee gone!"
At the mention of the word "justices" a momentary gleam of satisfaction passed over the swarthy face of the stranger.
"Justices, good my lord seneschal?" he repeated.
"Yea, justices," retorted the seneschal, not noting the look. "Art deaf, man? My lord the king's justices who travel towards Dunstable. Did youjongleursexpect a bevy of giddy damsels and young gallants?"
The burden of his duties had made Lord Lisle's officer somewhat testy.
"But perchance, with your good leave, I may sing to my lords the justices' serving-men a song of fair France; or a lovechansonnettewill I teach them, wherewith to tingle the ears of their Saxon gills?"
"As you will, man," answered the seneschal with a shrug, turning away, "an you find fools to listen to such trash!"
"Thanks for your leave, good sir," the stranger called after him, with a queer twinkle in his dark eye. Then he turned to one of De Braybrooke's men, staring open-mouthed and stolid at the strange dialect and stranger countenance. "Wilt list to a song, friend? It hath a refrain will ring in thy ears and cheer thee on thy long journey."
"A long journey! Gramercy, a mole might see as how thou art a stranger in these parts. A long journey to Dunstable, forsooth!"
"And is it not far?"
"Nine miles as the crow flies, I trows, and but eke some ten the way we ride, through the woodland, by way of Eversholt," replied the varlet, with a snigger of contempt.
"Aver--aver--sole," repeated the dark stranger, mispronouncing the name. "This English tongue cracks the jaw!"
"Marry, he stammereth like a cuckoo at hay-harvest," jeered the other. "Say it plain, man--Eversholt."
"Gather your fellows together while I go fetch my rebec I left at the gate-house, and, pardie, you shall see what you shall see, and hear what you shall hear," retorted the stranger imperturbably. But as he strode across the yard, the serving-man, had he not been so busily engaged mimicking the Frenchman's accent to his companions, might have noticed an armed heel glitter beneath the folds of his cloak.
The day was wearing on ere the justices could tear themselves away from Lord Lisle's hospitable board and once more proceed on their journey.
Southwards, beyond Rougemount, the country becomes more wooded. In the higher parts of Woburn Park old timber trees even now show where once the forest extended round the famous Cistercian abbey. In the midst of this district stands a village, whose name, Eversholt--theholt, or wood, of theeferor wild boar--still hands down the characteristics of the neighbourhood.
Into this wood, in the waning afternoon, rode, unsuspectingly, the two justices, engaged in a warm discussion over some quibble of the law.
"Now, by my troth, brother Thomas," De Braybrooke was saying, "all our jurisconsults are agreed that if the judge be free to act--"
He stopped short, and never finished his sentence, for he was "free to act" no longer.
With a fierce cry of "A De Breauté! a De Breauté!" armed men rushed down from either side of the road upon the hapless representatives of the law, and surrounded them ere they could recover from their stupefaction.
"Let the varlets go free!" cried William de Breauté. "We have no need of grooms!" he added, as he saw his men seizing the bridles of the servants' horses as well as those of their masters.
It was a lucky cry for Thomas de Muleton, for it led to his escape. By some mistake, the men who held his horse, not distinguishing in the confusion between master and man, released their hold, and his servants, closing round him, hurried him back along the woodland bridle-path towards Rougemount.
Too late De Breauté saw the error. But De Muleton and his men had put spurs to their horses, and he and his men-at-arms were all dismounted, their horses tethered to the trees, or held by some of the band. Pursuit was out of the question, even had the marauders dared to follow up their prey to the very walls of Rougemount Castle.
William de Breauté's rage knew no bounds when he became aware that but one of the desired prisoners had been secured. Swearing roundly at his men for their blunder, he struck the unfortunate serving-man who had been detained instead of his master a blow with the flat of his sword which nearly knocked him off his horse, and allowed him to ride away after his fellows.
"Pardie!" he swore. "We trouble not ourselves with dogs that can pay no ransom. Get you gone!"
Disgusted with the less than half success of his scheme, he ordered his men to remount, and the party rode off rapidly towards Bedford, the hapless Henry de Braybrooke well guarded in their midst. De Breauté's rage was a little softened, however, when he learned that he had not missed two of his prey--that Martin de Pateshulle had not been of the party, though as to his whereabouts De Braybrooke could give no information.
CHAPTER IX.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
The troop of horsemen made their way out of the wood, and soon afterwards, riding down the romantic glen of Millbrook, reached the Bedford valley. They were now on the road to Elstow, and nearing Bedford itself; but as they approached the town, an incident occurred which changed the direction of De Breauté's route.
The cavalcade were hurrying along, as their leader was anxious to get his prisoners safe into the castle ere the town-folk should be aware of their capture. For although the burgesses of Bedford had by this time been sufficiently cowed by the Robber Baron and his men, and were by no means unaccustomed to seeing prisoners swept off into the "devil's nest," as they called his castle, yet it was more satisfactory that the impounding should be done without any fuss or disturbance.
So through the little village of Elstow clattered the horsemen, their arms and accoutrements ringing as they went. The village people recognized with a shudder the soldiers from Bedford Castle. They were mostly retainers of the abbey, and they crossed themselves devoutly and uttered a prayer as the enemies and spoilers of the church rode by. They scarcely noted the unfortunate judge who was being jolted along in their midst at a pace so different from that at which he usually travelled, and who
"Little thought when he set outOf running such a rig."
"Little thought when he set outOf running such a rig."
"Little thought when he set out
Of running such a rig."
Of running such a rig."
Increasing their pace, the hurrying troop scattered the wayfarers right and left. The inhabitants fled into their houses; the peasants dragged their beasts and carts into the ditches. All knew that there could be the servants of but one man who would ride through the country in this fashion.
But as they passed the abbey gate, De Breauté and his men, in their headlong career, charged full tilt into a small party of riders just turning out of the archway.
This knot of travellers seemed in no wise disposed to give De Breauté's horsemen more than their fair share of the road, and did not draw aside into the hedge, after the manner of the peasants. The two foremost of the little company were an elderly and dignified ecclesiastic, and a young and graceful lady whose wimple and riding-hood concealed her face. The old priest, encumbered with his ecclesiastical habit, was unable to resist the impetus with which the armed party bore down upon the defenceless travellers. Too late, he drew rein aside; but the ponderous war-horse of the foremost man-at-arms struck his palfrey full on the flank, and rolled both horse and rider to the ground.
The mass of horsemen, rushing in wedge shape, separated the priest from his companion, and the latter was forced to the opposite side of the road. She was either quicker, more skilful, or better mounted than was the elderly ecclesiastic; for not only did she turn her horse aside just at the right moment and avoid an imminent collision, but putting him at the boundary hedge which bordered the road, cleared it in a style which showed her to possess the hand and seat of a first-rate horsewoman.
The unexpected encounter caused a sudden and confused halt to De Breauté's party, and their leader was able to give a by no means pleased look at those who, by no fault of their own, but by reason of the furious onrush of his own men, had unintentionally impeded his progress. But when once he had glanced at the bold horsewoman escaping by her leap from the confused throng, he hardly deigned to notice the prostrate priest striving to extricate himself from his dangerous position. For as her horse cleared the obstacle, the riding-hood, which concealed the features of the rider, fell back upon her shoulders, and revealed to his astonished gaze the lovely face of Aliva de Pateshulle.
In a moment his brother's orders were all forgotten. Even had he recognized Martin de Pateshulle in the dismounted horseman, it is not likely he would have paused to capture him. But shouting to two of his men to follow him, he turned quickly round, and putting spurs to his horse, rode after the retreating figure at the top of his speed.
His leaderless party pulled themselves together, so to speak, and gazed after the pursued and the pursuer till they vanished round the corner of the abbey walls. They gave vent to a few coarse jests over their master's disappearance, and then the senior among them took upon himself the command of the party. He turned to the unlucky priest, whom his servants had now raised from under his fallen steed. Martin de Pateshulle--for it was he--had evidently been severely injured, and lay prostrate in his attendants' arms. In reply to the soldier's questions they told that their master was the Archdeacon of Northampton, and the lady his niece. Had they mentioned his name, it is possible the trooper might have recognized that of one of the justices they had sallied out to seize. But as it was, deeply imbued with a soldier's notion of implicit obedience to orders before all things, he thought only of conveying the prisoner he had already made with all speed to Bedford. Even Henry de Braybrooke, whom his guard had removed to a little distance from the scene of the accident, could only learn that it was an old priest who had been injured, ere he was again hurried off in the direction of the Robber Baron's castle.
Meanwhile, the grooms who had picked up the archdeacon proceeded to carry him, moaning with pain, back to the abbey they had just left. In vain the unhappy priest conjured them to leave him to his fate, and to hasten after his niece, as soon as he realized that she was being pursued by De Breauté.
With one exception, none seemed inclined to obey their master, protesting that it was their first duty to see his injuries attended to within the abbey walls.
That exception was our fat friend Dicky Dumpling, who had been of the party, in attendance on his young mistress. He, too, had been rolled over; but no sooner had he picked himself up out of the mire and learned that she had fled, than his distress was great.
"Alack! alack!" he cried. "Chased by that young French popinjay, say you? Oh, woe the day! He came a-wooing her that day the gallant Sir Ralph rode over, and he departed with his beauty marred, the serving-maid doth say--but women have such long tongues! Oh, my hapless young lady! I must after her to her succour!"
"Thou Dickon!" gasped one of his fellows,--"with thy feather weight, to say nothing of that good dinner of beef and ale in the porter's lodge."
"And thy nag's good browse in the abbey stables," put in another. "Think you he is a match for the knight's war-horse?"
"Alack! alack!" moaned worthy Dicky; "my heart misgives me sore. But bring me my horse, lads, and find me my cap. With good St. Dunstan's aid I will do my best. Give me a leg up, lads, and Dobbin and I will after her as long as there is a breath left in our bodies!"
CHAPTER X.
THROUGH OUSE MARSHES.
The Lady Aliva had gone to the retreat at Elstow with a heavy heart. In the first place, she had dismissed the man whom she loved with all her soul without giving him to understand that she would remain true to him; indeed, she even doubted within herself whether the words she had used to him might not, in fact, have implied the exact opposite. Then, further, her conduct to her father had given her pain. She confessed to herself that in that scene in the hall she had acted as an undutiful daughter, and even, at the conclusion of it, with want of maidenly reserve and self-respect.
Thus it was that with all true sorrow of repentance she had knelt in the abbey church. When the Lady Margaret and the abbess came upon her in the dusk bending before the high altar, she was indeed, as the abbess had intimated, praying not for strength to face the troublesome world again, but for grace to take the vows of the Benedictine rule.
It has already been shown how she had made known her wish to the lady abbess, and had obtained leave to wear for the time the habit of a novice. But her desire for the profession of a religious life had been combated, strange to say, by two persons who in any other case would have thought it their duty to strengthen it.
These two were the lady abbess herself and the archdeacon her uncle; and when she had learned Aliva's story, the Lady Margaret added her objections to theirs. All these three elders deemed it unadvisable for so young a girl--she was only eighteen--to think of monastic vows, and held out hopes that the course of true love might yet run smoothly. The archdeacon himself had always been a supporter of Ralph de Beauchamp's suit, and the two ladies joined with him in comforting the distressed damsel with plans for the future happiness of Ralph and herself.
With regard to the unlucky incident in the hall which had so abruptly terminated the other suitor's visit, Aliva made a clean breast of the whole matter. The ladies even went so far as to justify her conduct; and the archdeacon, speaking as a spiritual father, considered it sufficiently condoned by the exhortation he administered on the duty of maidenly reserve and the virtue of checking anger.
So when the retreat was ended, Aliva's plans were discussed in real earnest, and a determination arrived at. The good archdeacon decided to give up his projected journey to Dunstable, leaving his learned friends to finish their business by themselves, and to accompany his niece to Bletsoe. There he hoped to convince his brother of the injustice of repressing Ralph de Beauchamp's suit.
Theprosandconsof this discussion occupied all the early part of the day, and it was accordingly late in the afternoon when Aliva, after an affectionate parting with the two elder ladies, set off towards home, accompanied by her uncle and his two serving-men, and by Dicky Dumpling, who had brought over her riding-horse that morning.
Of the untoward event that befell the little party as they passed out of the abbey gateway we are already aware, and we must now take up the story of Aliva's flight and De Breauté's pursuit.
After a short spurt across country, she turned her horse back again into the road, that she might take in the situation and see what had become of her uncle. But she could see nothing in the distance save a confused group of horsemen. Between herself and that group, however, she was soon aware that a rider, William de Breauté, was following her at the top of his speed.
Now, had he been alone, it is not improbable that the courageous maiden, who had already faced him once, would boldly have awaited his arrival; but close at his heels came two of his men, and Aliva felt that there was nothing for it but a flight towards home.
The road to Bedford was quite cut off from her by the advancing horsemen, but she knew that at some distance further west there was a bridge across the Ouse at Bromham, and she determined to try to escape in that direction.
It was a desperate chance. Her horse was a mere palfrey, while De Breauté and his men were mounted on some of the best horses to be found in the stables of Bedford Castle.
She hurried through the little village of Kempston on the river-bank, for she knew it would prove no safe asylum. The approach of De Breauté's men always struck terror into the peasants of the villages around Bedford. They gazed open-mouthed after the flying maiden, and then slunk back into their huts as the mail-clad soldiers came clattering after her in pursuit.
Only upon her own wit and readiness could Aliva depend in this terrible race. She was less acquainted with this side of the Ouse valley than with the other, in which she had been accustomed to ride and hawk since childhood. But she knew that between Kempston and Bromham lay a stretch of marshy ground intersected by broad ditches, and into these marshes she resolved to ride with the hope of baffling her pursuers. She thought it not unlikely that in the ground which would bear the weight of herself and her palfrey the armed men and huge horses might be bogged.
Her conjecture proved not incorrect, and for a time the distance increased between herself and her pursuers. But the spring afternoon was now closing in, and in the failing twilight it was difficult to select the best track through the marshy ground. Once or twice Aliva had actually to return upon her path, and the men behind gained an advantage, as they watched her movements and avoided the impassable places. Moreover, her lightly-built horse, not much more than a pony, was beginning to tire. He had cleared one or two of the ditches with difficulty, and now, as he attempted to jump one of considerable breadth, a rotten take-off sent him floundering into the middle of it.
Aliva scrambled quickly from the saddle, and threw herself on the bank. But unfortunately it was the nearer one. For a minute or two she stood vainly trying to reach the reins, and calling to her palfrey to approach her.
But her pursuers were drawing on apace. The foremost was not De Breauté himself, but one of his men, who sprang from his horse and seized Aliva by the hood which hung loosely from her shoulders.
"Let go thy hold, varlet!" shouted De Breauté, in the rear. Even in his madness he could not bear to see her thus roughly handled by a rude soldier.
But Aliva was free ere he spoke. She unclasped the buckle which fastened her hood and mantle round her neck, and as the man fell back with the garments in his hand, flung herself into the muddy dike.
The water reached nearly to her waist, and with difficulty she struggled through. As she passed her horse, standing half bogged in the middle, she seized the reins and drew them over his head. By good chance a stunted willow overhung the further bank. She made a snatch at it, caught it, and with a supreme effort gained firm ground.
With the purchase afforded by the tree, Aliva was now able to get a tight hold of her horse's head, and encouraging him with her voice, she induced him to follow her example, and to struggle up the bank.
The two soldiers, meanwhile, watched her manoeuvres from the further side in some perplexity. Their lord's order to release her had been peremptory, and it was now apparent that she was escaping them again. Their lord himself, at some little distance, dismounted, his horse dangerously engulfed in a bog, was in as much uncertainty as they were.
When he had first started off in his wild chase of Aliva, he had indeed no fixed intention with regard to her, except perhaps to carry her off to Bedford along with Henry de Braybrooke; and now that he had pursued her thus far from Elstow, and held her, as it were, in his grasp, he was still undecided.
[image]A wild chase through Ouse marshes.
[image]
[image]
A wild chase through Ouse marshes.
Any brutal violence was far from his thoughts; for had he not forbidden his man to lay a hand upon her? A marriage was what he contemplated, though indeed it might be a forced marriage, like that of his brother Fulke with the Lady Margaret.
But no sooner did he perceive that the draggled girl was remounting her tired palfrey than he called to his men, standing stupidly looking at her from the nearer side of the ditch.
"Here, varlets, quick! Plague take you and these English morasses! Why came ye not to my help sooner? Saw ye not how I am well-nigh smothered in this cursed bog?"
It took some little time for the men-at-arms to free their master and his floundering steed. They dragged him out in as deplorable condition as that in which Aliva found herself, and by that time both he and they had had enough of the Ouse marshes.
Not that De Breauté was by any means inclined to give up the chase. He could see the hapless horsewoman he was pursuing far ahead and entering the little village of Bromham, and he followed her along firmer ground at some distance from the river.
The long, many-arched bridge which still stretches over the flat meadows at Bromham was furnished at the western end in those days with a small wayside chapel, the ruins of which can still be traced in the mill-house. Aliva rode slowly into the village, and wearily approached the foot of the bridge. As she cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, she saw that her pursuers had now reached hard ground, and were gaining on her rapidly.
Her little palfrey was dead beat. The struggle in the dike had completely exhausted him, and he no longer answered to his mistress's voice or to the touch of her riding-wand. As he reached the first cottage at Bromham, he stumbled and rolled heavily from side to side.
Aliva was off his back in a moment. A rustic stood by, gazing in astonishment at the young lady's condition--drenched and hoodless, her fair hair streaming over her shoulders.
But Aliva's first thought was for her horse.
"Prithee, friend," she cried to the peasant, "take my palfrey and tend him. You shall be well rewarded. I am the daughter of the lord of Bletsoe, and if I come not to claim him myself, take him to Bletsoe Castle when he has recovered."
She hurried on. How to escape now she knew not. But suddenly, as she approached the bridge, she perceived a haven of refuge. The chapel door stood open, and the poor hunted girl stepped into the welcome sanctuary.
CHAPTER XI.
BREATHING-TIME.
As Aliva entered the little chapel on the bridge, she saw, in the uncertain twilight, two figures kneeling before the altar. One was that of a stalwart young man in the garb of a lay-brother of the Benedictine order, and the other that of an elderly woman in the dress of a peasant.
Both rose from their knees, disturbed by the hurried entrance of Aliva, and were surprised to see before them a lady of the upper classes so damp and bedraggled and hoodless. The heart of the woman was touched.
"Lack-a-day, lady!" she exclaimed; "hast thou been in Ouse water?" she added, with a slight shudder.
"I have come here for rest," replied Aliva, not wishing to reveal her story to peasant strangers. "I have indeed, as you say, suffered somewhat by mishap in a stream, and I have lost my horse."
As she spoke, the sound of her voice, and a closer scrutiny of her features, increased the astonishment of the two listeners.
"Gramercy on us!" cried the woman; "if this is not our lady from Bletsoe!"
Aliva looked more narrowly at her, and then at the lay-brother.
"Our Lady be praised!" she murmured faintly; "I find friends. Are you not the wife of Goodman Hodges; and is this not your son, the lay-brother from St. Alban's?"
Mother and son both made a deep obeisance, and Aliva continued:--
"My friends, I am in sore plight. But I know ye to be faithful to your lord, and I trow ye will aid his daughter. I have ridden far and fast, at peril of my life, to escape De Breauté and his men, who even now follow hard upon my track. But I trust I am safe in this holy house, and with--"
But here exhausted nature gave way, and the brave girl, now that she found herself in comparative safety, fell senseless on the chapel floor.
Mistress Hodges, though but a peasant, was a woman of resource and energy.
"Alack, alack! she will die of chill in this cold chapel," she exclaimed. "Son, we must bear her hence!"
"But what if De Breauté's men be without, mother?" replied the cautious lay-brother.
"In good sooth, you speak true," replied the woman, casting an anxious gaze round the chapel, while she supported the head of the unconscious Aliva in her arms. Then she noticed a gleam of light shining through a half-open door on the south side of the altar.
"See, my son," she exclaimed, "whither that door leads. There may be help near at hand."
The lay-brother opened the door and looked into the apartment within.
"'Tis a sacristy, or priest's room," he replied, with his knowledge of ecclesiastical arrangements. "There is no one within," he added, glancing hastily around, "and there is a fire on the hearth, and a settle with cushions."
The mother and son lifted up Aliva's senseless form, and carrying her into the sacristy, laid her on the couch.
"Go thou now," said the Mistress Hodges, "and guard the chapel door, and I will see to the young lady. Praise be to our Lady, with warmth and care I shall yet bring her round."
The young man shut the door of the sacristy behind him, and crossing the chapel to the entrance, closed the heavy door and drew its strong oaken bar across it. He then took up his position against it, keeping a careful and patient watch.
The woman, left alone with Aliva, proceeded to treat her with maternal care; for had not the young lady herself once tended her when the fever ravaged the peasants' huts round Bletsoe Manor House?
She removed her wet garments and chafed her cold hands and feet. As she undressed her, she found, fastened round her waist, a wallet containing a small flask of cordial and some food, with which the good abbess of Elstow had provided Aliva for her journey. Mistress Hodges poured some of the wine down Aliva's throat, and she revived.
Delighted that her efforts had so far succeeded, the good woman redoubled her care. She even stripped herself of some of her rough but warm clothing, and wrapped it round Aliva, as she lay on the settle. Then she busied herself in drying and cleaning the soiled and dripping garments, for fortunately, in this room prepared for the priest who served the chapel, there was a good store of firewood.
Aliva lay watching her feebly, with the half-dazed gaze of returning consciousness.
"Thanks to our Lady and the blessed saints," she murmured at last in such weak voice, "that I have happed on you, good mother; else methinks the cold of this chapel might have finished the work the stream began."
"The saints forfend!" ejaculated the worthy woman. "But, lady," she added, her curiosity getting the upper hand, "might I crave your pardon, and ask how comes it that you are in a woful plight? They said in the village you had gone to the retreat at Elstow, which the venerable archdeacon--"
"Ah!" cried Aliva, "selfish wretch that I am, I had well-nigh forgotten him in my own trouble! Know you, good mother, that it was even as he and I were leaving the abbey of Elstow, on our return home, that this fierce company of De Breauté and his men rode down upon us. They scattered us as a hawk scattereth a flight of doves. I escaped by the lucky chance that my good genet can be stopped by no fence or dike in all this countryside. When I last saw my uncle, he was surrounded and closed in upon by the horsemen. I wot not what became of him."
"Alack, alack!" said Mistress Hodges, shaking her head. "These be evil days now in the which we live, when that terrible Frenchman from over the seas, Sir Fulke de Breauté (may the foul fiend fly off with him!), spares neither the ministers of Holy Church nor defenceless damsels--"
"Indeed, it would seem as if De Breauté had a grudge against me," Aliva could not help interposing, with a half smile. "He owes me somewhat, by my faith. He asked for my hand; he cannot say he did not get it. How like to a drowned water-rat he looked, coated with our good honest English mud! A pretty dance I led him, I trow," she added, with a ripple of laughter. "He'll ne'er forgive me."
Mistress Hodges grinned good-humouredly, pleased to see the lady's spirits rising again.
"In good sooth, lady, but young knights find it hard to forgive fair ladies who will have none of them when they come a-wooing."
The conversation was becoming too personal. Aliva flushed slightly, and tried to turn it.
"And now, prithee goody, it seems to me that I too may well ask, how comes it that you and your son come so far from Bletsoe this evening?"
The smile faded from the woman's face.
"I am on a weary errand, fair lady," she replied. "I have come thus far in company with my son, who is on his journey back to the abbey of St. Alban, where he is a lay-brother. I have come but to say a prayer with him, in this the wayfarer's chapel, to good St. Nicolas, who protects all travellers. Alas! he will return to St. Alban's; he says it is his duty. I have dissuaded him sore with tears and prayers, but it is of none avail. In these bad times there is no peace even in the religious houses, nothing but wars and rumours of wars."
"Certes, I did hear from Dicky Dumpling--(ah, poor Dickon! how fares it with him, I wonder? He presented a broad surface to the horsemen's charge)--that your son had barely 'scaped with his life from that fearful St. Vincent's Eve at St. Alban's!"
"Gramercy, lady," replied the woman, wiping her eyes, "'twas a hairbreadth 'scape, in good sooth! But, thanks to our Lady and the good St. Benedict--who, my son says, preserved the humblest of his servants to serve him further--he got off scot-free from the fire and the sword, yea, and the water too!"
"The water! how mean you?" asked Aliva.
"Marry, lady, he was weary and worn, and he mistook the ford at Milton as he was fleeing homewards. The Ouse was in full flood, and but for that noble knight Sir Ralph de Beauchamp, whom the saints preserve--"
"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp!" murmured Aliva, now deeply interested. "Ah," she added, with a blush, "I mind me how soaked he was with water!"
"Ay, a fair gallant he is," the other proceeded. "He thought naught of riding boldly into the Ouse at full stream, and saving my poor lad in the very nick of time, when he was being swept down the river like a truss of hay in a midsummer flood!"
Aliva lay listening, her large eyes fixed dreamily on the speaker.
"It sounds like a bold deed, and a truly marvellous turn of luck for your son. Tell on, good mother, I prithee. I would fain hear more of the fishing out of the worthy lay-brother--thine only son, too--tell on," added the astute maiden, playing on maternal feeling.
Mistress Hodges' tongue was unloosed by the evident interest the young lady of the manor evinced. His recent dangers and escapes had made the lay-brother somewhat of a hero in the village of Bletsoe. His mother was nothing loath to fight his battles over again, and prattled on with maternal pride for some time ere she perceived that her fair charge had sunk into a sound and healthful slumber, lulled by the account of her lover's daring.
Meanwhile De Breauté and his men had hurried up. They passed Aliva's riderless palfrey.
"Ah, pardie! the fair hare has run to ground, and cannot be far distant.--Lady, thy pride is nigh unto a fall," murmured William to himself, chuckling.
But the rustic in charge of the horse was either naturally or intentionally stupid. De Breauté could make nothing of him.
Riding eagerly to the bridge-foot, he scanned its length. But he saw no sign of Aliva's retreating figure in the fast-falling twilight, and heard no sound save the swirl of the rushing river as it swept beneath the arches.
Had she escaped him?
Leaving one of his men to guard the bridge, he proceeded to search the cottages round. But from the trembling peasants he could only gather that they had indeed seen a lady, in soiled and damp clothing, pass down the village.
But as he was thus cross-questioning and searching, he was approached by a personage clad in ecclesiastical garb. He was a coarse-looking individual, the expression of whose features showed a mixture of greed and cunning.
"William de Breauté," he asked, "thou seekest a bird? Shall I show thee the nest where that bird is hidden?"
"If thou meanest that thou canst tell whither the lady has escaped who but now made her way through the village," replied De Breauté, not much relishing the tone of familiarity in which he was addressed, "thou shalt be well rewarded if thou dost direct me thither. And understand," he added, trying to speak with dignity, "no harm is intended to the lady. It is simply needful for her own protection that I conduct her to my brother's castle at Bedford."
"Ay, in good sooth, all are in safe keeping there!" muttered the priest with a sneer, not brooking haughty patronage from a soldier of fortune. "But, perchance, my secret will remain with me, and she will not take the road to Bedford."
William de Breauté saw that he was not going the right way to work, and altered his tone. He had a shrewd guess that a bribe would both be expected and received.
"Certes, reverend father," he replied, "but I mean a reward to Holy Church in the person of one of her ministers."
"Knightly sir," answered the priest, "we understand each other. I am but a minister, as you rightly say, and humblest, you would more rightly have said, of Holy Church. Whatever her ministers receive, it is really the Church who receiveth and benefiteth."
And if winking were the fashion in the thirteenth century, doubtless he winked at De Breauté as he spoke.
"Follow me," he added.
And he led him to the door of the chapel on the bridge.