CHAPTER XII.AT THE CASTLE OF EATON SOCON.While Aliva de Pateshulle lay in a dreamy state listening to the praises of her lover, the said lover was far away on the other side of Bedford, in anything but such a complacent frame of mind.Since the day Aliva had escaped from him up the turret stairs he had not seen her, and she had left him in much perplexity as to whether she intended to obey her father or to follow her own inclinations.But on one point his mind was made up. Ralph was determined to be off to the Scottish war. In any case a soldier's life or perhaps a soldier's death was still before him, and in his youthful imagination he saw himself performing deeds of daring against the northerners, and dying heroically in the moment of victory, leaving Aliva to mourn for his loss and regret her own cruelty.To carry out these plans, however, it was necessary, in the first instance, that he should interview his uncle, William de Beauchamp, for it was by the latter's influence, as he had told Aliva, that Ralph hoped to obtain a command in the royal army.Since they had been wrongfully deprived of their castle, Bedford was no longer a home to the De Beauchamps. The usual gathering-place of the family now was at Eaton Socon, some twelve miles further down the river. The castle there has as completely disappeared as that of Bedford, but a huge mound on the banks of the Ouse marks the site of the stronghold. Here was established a younger branch of the De Beauchamps, and here William de Beauchamp met Ralph and his kinsmen, to discuss the position of the family, and to consult as to the best means of overthrowing the robber chief at Bedford."Beshrew me, Nephew Ralph," said his uncle, "if I wot what to make of this talk of thine of fighting against the northern savages, when savages far worse hold the castle of thy fathers."Ralph had been holding forth to his seniors upon the duty of a young knight taking up his country's quarrels and joining his sovereign's army."Ay," rejoined the lord of Eaton Socon, an elderly man, "were I but of thy age and strength, with my gilded spurs newly girt upon my heels, I would never throw myself away on this mad Scottish scheme--craving his majesty's pardon, if indeed so be that our young king favours it--whilst there lacked not an excuse for the placing myself at the head of bold men who would rally to the cry of 'A De Beauchamp! a De Beauchamp!'""And, Cousin Ralph," whispered one of his uncle's married daughters, for some of the ladies of the family were present, "they tell me there is one in Bedford Castle with whom thou wouldest fain splinter lances, were he but worthy to meet thee in knightly combat!"Something of William de Breauté's visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception there by Aliva, had evidently leaked out.Ralph shook his head dismally. For the time being he was that most unhappy individual, a wet blanket to all around him, a despondent lover."Come now, coz," continued the Lady Mabel, "if our reverend elders will dismiss us from attendance at this table, we young folk will out on to the castle walls and take a turn. Kinsfolk do not often gather together in these days, at least in our family, and thou knowest I have not forgotten old times in Bedford Castle, even though I have formed new ties. Blood is thicker than water."It was early afternoon. The mid-day meal, which took place at the then fashionably late hour of noon, was just over. Ralph could not refuse the invitation of his fair cousin, who had been to him as a sister in his boyhood. So, with due obeisance to the others, the pair quitted the hall, leaving their elders deep in talk over old times, and the departed glories of the house of Beauchamp, and the days of Hugo, the Conqueror's favourite.In truth, Ralph was not sorry to have a confidant to whom he could confide his troubles. For the last few weeks both he and his uncle William had been but melancholy guests at Eaton Socon, despite the efforts of their cheery old kinsman to rouse them. William de Beauchamp was naturally a taciturn, reserved man, and the loss of his affianced bride, followed by the loss of his ancestral castle and domains, had further increased the gloom of his character. His uncle's depression, of course, added to Ralph's low spirits."And now, fair coz," said Lady Mabel, linking her arm in Ralph's, as they passed up a flight of stone steps leading to a walk on the top of the encircling wall behind the battlements, "thou art to talk to me of somewhat else than this Scottish war, or even the battering down of Bedford Castle about the ears of that dear friend of our family, Fulke de Breauté. Nay, seek not to deny it. I can see by thy face that thou hast somewhat to tell me, and perchance I have somewhat to tell thee.""I have naught to say, sweet cousin, but what I have already spoken of in the hall. But yet so be--""I knew it!" interrupted the lady; "so it ever is with men. First they will tell naught--those were thy very words--and then with the same breath they go on to say much. They are parlous, like my favourite sleuth-hound, my lord's morning gift, who at times from mere wantonness refuseth to feed from my hand, and then when I make a show to turn away, cannot fawn on me enough. Had I but said to thee, Let us speak of the land of the Picts and Scots, and of the honour that, forsooth, will never be found there by Norman knights, thou wouldest straightway have spoken on what lies nearest thy heart nimbly enough. Now, thou art hesitating; thou leavest me to lay the scent, and then thou wilt follow. Yet, I gage, thou wouldest fain speak of the fair damsel of Bletsoe?"Ralph flushed, and the lady smiled."Tell me," she added, "when thou last didst set eyes on thy lady-love?"The ice was broken. Ralph thawed rapidly, and related to the Lady Mabel his meeting with the Lady Aliva on the morrow of St. Vincent's Day, and of her sudden flight from him."And, in good sooth," ejaculated the lively lady, with a shrug of her fair shoulders, "in this slough of despondency hast thou remained ever since! Not so should I have done had I been in thy shoes, cousin. Thou a bold lover, Ralph, thy charger at hand! The fair damsel should have been on the croup of thy saddle ere she could reach the turret stair. Then hadst thou brought her hither to me, I would have guarded her safety and honour till priest and chapel were ready, which would not have been long waiting, I trow.""But, cousin," Ralph put in gloomily, "thou hast forgotten: she spake to me unawares, as she confessed, and unmindful of her father's command that she should wed with a De Breauté. Nay, it boots not here of carrying off a bride. Rather let me carry off my wretched self to the war. I spake to her of winning glory for her sake, but now, methinks, I would rather win death."And folding his arms the young man leaned over the parapet of the castle wall, and gazed dejectedly into the shining Ouse below him, as if he would fain cast himself headlong into the stream.But Lady Mabel answered with such a ripply laugh that Ralph turned round to her, now really offended at the light manner with which she met his tragic mood."And what thinkest thou, Ralph, that William de Breauté will go a-wooing to Bletsoe Manor again?"Ralph's face assumed such an angry look, as he ground out something between his teeth about "wooing" and "Bletsoe Manor," that the Lady Mabel drew back, half frightened at the storm she had aroused."William de Breauté, in good truth, came to Bletsoe!" he ejaculated; "but when, and how? Tell me all, tell me the worst, cousin, for the love of Heaven!""Thou knewest not that he went thither?" she asked, puzzled."I know naught of it," replied Ralph sulkily."And that he hath gained the hand of the Lady Aliva?" she continued.Ralph turned upon her, furious. But the Lady Mabel laughed louder than before."Certes he did. But upon his face!" she added.Her cousin looked bewildered."Where hast thou been, and what hast thou heard these weeks last past?" Lady Mabel went on."Thou knowest!" replied Ralph, still offended. "Here I have been at Eaton Castle with thy father. I have heard no news;" and he heaved a sigh, and turning away, looked out vacantly again over the Ouse valley."Ay, moping like a pair of owls at noontide, had I not come hither to bear ye company," Lady Mabel continued, "till, perchance, ye had been driven to make two holes for yourselves in the stream yonder. By my troth," she added, with very little of the reverence for elders which was such a characteristic of the age, "I intend to stir my father into life again ere I leave Eaton; and as for thee, Cousin Ralph," touching him lightly on the shoulder, "I command thee to be of good cheer, and no longer to look down on that vile cold water as though thou lovest it!"Ralph turned to her again, though still sulky under her apparently meaningless gaiety."Now hearken to me, Ralph, and I will tell thee much of the Lady Aliva that thou wottest not of."And Lady Mabel went on to relate the story of the second suitor's visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception, which had not penetrated to Ralph's ears, shut up hermit-fashion at Eaton.As she continued, the light gradually broke in on Ralph's mind, and the gloom vanished from his face; and when she described the blow inflicted by Aliva upon William de Breauté, his eyes positively sparkled with delight.Scarcely had the Lady Mabel finished her recital ere her hearer had rushed from her. Such broken exclamations as "My brave girl!" "Still my own!" escaping from him, he ran headlong down the steps, across the bailey yard, and abruptly disturbed his elders' conversation round the board in the hall.Hardly giving himself time to pay the usual salutation of respect which the period demanded from juniors to elders of their house, he broke in upon them with these words:--"By thy leave, my revered uncle, and with thine, my noble kinsman, I leave thy castle at once, tarrying but to give thee my best thanks for thy hospitality of the last few weeks."In a moment, ere De Beauchamp could recover from his surprise, Ralph was out of the hall again, and shouting eagerly in the yard for his groom, his squire, or any one, to assist him in getting ready his horse.Meanwhile the guests streamed out of the hall behind him, headed by their host and William de Beauchamp. Lady Mabel, who had followed her cousin in his headlong career as fast as she was able, rushed to her father."Stay him not!" she exclaimed; "rather bid the varlets hasten to help him. 'Tis no demon hath gotten possession of him--unless, in good sooth, love may be termed a demon. Speed him on his way, and I will tell whither he goes, and wherefore."Lady Mabel's laughing face dispersed any fears which might have been entertained for Ralph's sanity, and a moment or two later, the latter, who had hastily girded on his armour, emerged into the yard as his groom brought round his horse."Adieu, fair cousin!" he exclaimed. "Thou hast indeed removed a burden from my heart!" he added, placing his foot in the stirrup.At that moment a man hurried into the castle-yard through the outer bailey, and made his way through the group of serving-men and grooms gathered round the hall door.It was a young lay-brother in the garb of a Benedictine. His long frock was girt up round his loins, as though he had been running violently. He was muddy and wayworn, and one side of his face was smeared with blood, flowing apparently from a wound in the head, hastily bound up with a bandage.Tottering and reeling from exhaustion, the Benedictine pushed his way up to Ralph, his eyes staring wildly and starting from his head."Sir Ralph," he cried, "the Lady Aliva hath been carried captive to Bedford Castle!"And then he fell senseless into the arms of the nearest bystander.CHAPTER XIII.THE BIRD IN THE CAGE.When William de Breauté and the priest reached the door of the chapel on Bromham Bridge, the latter simply pointed to it, saying,--"There is the bird in the cage. But the key of the cage is in the keeping of the Church."After this parabolic remark, he led De Breauté away again to a small hostelry, where they entered a private room. De Breauté perceived that the priest had a proposal to make, but waited for him to begin."Thou spakest anon of guerdon to Holy Church for helping thee on with thy plans in hand," the priest commenced."Ay, in good sooth," said De Breauté, seeing that the ecclesiastic meant business; "or a reward to her servants," he added. "Speak! what wouldst thou--money, lands, wealth?"Fixing his cunning dark eyes on his companion's face, the latter answered in one word,--"Power!""Ah, pardie! and what have I to do with the advancement of churchmen?" said De Breauté, with a shrug. "Our name is in no good odour with Mother Church at this time, forsooth!"The priest smiled sardonically."Certes, I have no wish that your brother Fulke should recommend me for high office among the Benedictines of St. Alban's, for example."The news of Fulke's penance and pardon had already spread far and wide among the churchmen of that neighbourhood."At St. Alban's, pardie!" laughed De Breauté, as he recollected his brother's account of the scene in the chapter-house, and of the manner in which he had, for the second time as it were, defrauded the abbey coffers.But the priest suddenly changed the tone of banter in which he had hitherto addressed De Breauté, and the sarcastic expression of his face gave place to one of bitter anger."Hearken, Sir Knight," he exclaimed. "Once I stood high in my order. Brother Bertram was honoured, respected, rising, among the brethren of St. ----. But I care not to tell a layman the reason of my fall. Suffice it that I fell, and that I was expelled my order. I, of more noble blood than all the other brethren together--I, more than half a Norman--here have I been for the last three years, ministering to Saxon swine who grovel in their hovels round yon bridge chapel; a mere mass-priest, offering prayers to St. Nicolas that travellers may pass safe, that sordid merchants may keep their chattels safe from roadside robbers! A fair portion, forsooth, for one who might have commanded men, been honoured, famed, obeyed!"De Breauté shrugged his shoulders again."Marry, Sir Priest, but by my troth I see not how I am to help thee! What power can I give thee, save the command of a party of men-at-arms?""Sir De Breauté," replied the other, "your chapel is unserved. No priest passes 'neath the castle portcullis.""Ay, and you speak true.""Hark ye," continued the priest, "the castle of Bedford will be still more famous ere long. The star of the De Breautés riseth fast. The fault thy brother hath committed against Holy Church hath been pardoned, and what matter a few Saxon churls, if the Norman nobles but own him their peer?""Marry, Sir Priest, and I thank you heartily. I am, in good sooth, glad to hear that my family are so in fortune's way. But how mattereth that to thee?""When the De Breautés rise and are ennobled, all who serve them will rise too. The chaplain of Bedford Castle shall be no mean priest then. As one of the secular clergy I would then lord it over the regulars, and show the order that expelled me, Bertram de Concours, that they must needs bow before one who stands well with a rich and powerful Norman baron.""If, then, the chaplaincy of the castle is all thou dearest, I can safely promise it shall be thine," replied De Breauté, laughing in his sleeve at the price the other had named. "But, certes, we must have the chapel swept out and the altar repaired. By my troth, there will be much ado with my sister and her women when they hear there will be mass sung again at home," he added, with a cynical laugh. "But say on now, Sir Priest or Sir Chaplain, as I may well call thee, how about the present work on hand?""Leave that to me," returned the other. "The Church shall open her doors, and the bird will hop out. See thou to it that thou secure her when she is beyond my care.""And how so?" said William."Marry, that is your affair," replied the priest. "Mine ends at the chapel door.""Pardie! shall I swing her up to my saddle-bow and be off with her? By St. Hubert, I might have done so this evening had I not bidden my varlets loose her. A curse on my hesitation! But counsel me, prithee.""If it is my counsel you wish, I will not deny it. Methinks the damsel should be conveyed through the streets of Bedford town otherwise than swinging to a saddle like a market-wife's butter-basket. But, Sir Knight, thou knowest far better than I how to treat a fair lady.""I have it!" exclaimed De Breauté. "There is the horse-litter of my sister, in the which she sometimes is graciously permitted to go abroad, when her ailments allow her not to mount her palfrey. She is ever sickly, the woman. I will send to Bedford for it. Nay, I would go myself, could I trust my men to guard.""Go thyself, if thou art so minded," replied the priest. "I will so far stand, on my part, to my pledge, that I will answer for it that the bird be not uncaged till I hear from thee. Do not thou show thyself in the matter at all. Seest thou not that in that case thou canst anon tell the fair one a pretty tale, of how thou callest thy men off from chasing her, even as thou didst in the marshes, and that they captured her without thy knowledge or consent? See," he continued, "here is this small crucifix. Send it to me. When I receive it back from thy hands, I shall know that all is ready--that the litter waits anon." And as he spoke, the priest handed the soldier a small metal emblem of redemption, the pledge of his nefarious doings. "See, also, that the Lady Margaret's women prepare a suitable lodging for the lady. Thou wouldst, certes, see her well attended? I have thy knightly word that she is in honour treated, or I loose her not? Withdraw, then, thy men from guard here, and send others more seemly to escort a lady. I plight my word that, as I hope to be chaplain of thy brother's castle, I loose her not till I receive thy pledge.""But," objected De Breauté, "how am I to warrant me she will be conveyed--""Leave that to me," said the treacherous priest. "If she be not placed of her own free will in the litter, I shall not have done my share of the work--that thou mayest hold sure. Have only a care, however, that naught about the horses or the litter proclaimeth it to be from De Breauté's stables."So saying he passed out of the room. De Breauté followed him. Calling to the man who was not on guard to bring him his horse, and then to come after him with his fellow, De Breauté rode off to Bedford, some two miles distant from Bromham Bridge.CHAPTER XIV.THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED."The key is in the keeping of the Church."At the actual moment when Father Bertram, at the beginning of the interview recorded in the last chapter, uttered these words, the door of the chapel was literally in the Church's charge, in the person of the stout lay-brother, who, hearing footsteps and voices without, now stood with his broad shoulders leaning against the oak. He could hear but little of the conversation through the thick door, but he guessed it had to do with his lady, and concluded that De Breauté had tracked her to her hiding-place.For a time he remained uncertain how to act. Churchman as he was, it seemed almost impossible to him that any one, even a brutal soldier, should dare to violate the sanctuary of the chapel; but yet he feared that those without were plotting to carry off the Lady Aliva.At length, when all was quiet again outside, he crossed the little building, and knocked gently at the door of the sacristy. It was opened by his mother, who laid her finger upon her lips as a sign to him to keep silence."My lady sleeps," she whispered, and shut the door again. Evidently no advice was to be had from her.Uncertain whither to turn for aid, he recrossed the chapel, and, for the first time since Aliva had sought refuge in it, unbarred the door and looked out.It was now past midnight. The village was sunk in silence, and no one was to be seen about. His first idea was to make his way towards Bedford, and he passed half across the bridge over the dark river. Then he fancied he heard the sound of a horse's hoof echoing from a distance through the stillness of the night. Though he knew it not, it was the sound of De Breauté spurring towards Bedford.But another sight close at hand called off his attention. Through the gloom he became distinctly aware of a tall, armed figure leaning against the parapet of the bridge."Gramercy!" he said to himself, stopping short; "here is one of the soldiers on guard! There can be no escape this way. St. Benedict aid us!"Of course, unaware that in a few minutes the man would be withdrawn, the lay-brother retraced his steps. Next he met the other man-at-arms leading the horses toward his comrade, and his heart sank within him at what he imagined were further measures to guard the Bedford road. He passed the soldier unchallenged in the dark, and then a little further met a man coming towards the chapel.It was the priest, straight from his conclave with De Breauté.Bertram de Concours approached the lay-brother."A brother servant in the ministry of Holy Church, an I mistake not," said he."Nay, reverend father," returned the Benedictine, "but a lay-brother I, of the holy house of Alban.""And I," returned the other, "am but the unworthy priest who serves the altar of St. Nicolas in yonder chapel. But the chapel," he continued, eying the lay-brother closely, "is occupied by other than its priest to-night. A lady hath sought sanctuary there. She must be guarded, watched, tended."The Benedictine was puzzled. The voice sounded to him like the voice of him whom he had heard talking with De Breauté without the chapel door. Should he ask his advice and help? He was the priest of the chapel; surely he was to be trusted."Tended she hath been by my mother," he answered, "and I myself have watched and guarded the chapel door. But she must remove hence. It is not fit that our fair lady of Bletsoe should remain in this plight, tended by peasants only. She must to her father's house."Bertram saw his opportunity."Sooth, thou speakest truly, brother," he said. "I would fain despatch her thither. Not that I quite make out her case," he continued craftily. "My people do tell me that yester evening a lady came into the village in sore plight, and leading a steed well-nigh ridden to death, and thou sayest she is the Lady de Pateshulle. She should to Bletsoe. But can she walk?""Walk, father! nay, in good sooth. For all my mother's care she is so weary with her ride that she even now sleeps. Besides, do ladies such as she tramp the country roads like a churl's wench? And her palfrey cannot carry her!""She should be carried thither in a litter," replied Bertram de Concours; "but whither shall we fetch one? A messenger must forthwith to Bletsoe, and acquaint the noble house of De Pateshulle with its lady's need, and that at once."The bait was thrown out by which he hoped to remove the lay-brother out of the way. The fish rose."I am thy messenger, father," responded the Benedictine with eagerness. "I will myself to Bletsoe, and devise means to transport my lady thither in safety and comfort.""By my faith, brother," exclaimed Bertram, in simulated gratitude, "thou hast well spoken. A burden is lifted from my heart. Haste thee, and see that help is here by dawn. But tarry a moment," he continued, still weaving his treacherous web; "we must to the chapel and let the lady know that aid is at hand, and that she will shortly be quit of this dangerous and unpleasant position."The two men entered the chapel. The old woman was still watching by the sleeping girl, but hearing steps, she came out of the sacristy."Tell thy mother to warn her charge that she may expect to journey shortly," said the priest."But my lady still sleeps softly," objected the good woman."Then let her know when she awakens that thy son hath gone to Bletsoe for aid, and that help she shall have shortly, and means of travelling hence," said Father Bertram.Mistress Hodges returned to the sacristy."My lady is awakened," she said. "She heard your voices. Ye should have spoken more softly. She needs yet rest.""Go thou then to the door," said Bertram to the lay-brother. "She knows thy voice, but I am a stranger. Tell her what thou purposest to do."The Benedictine did as he was bid. Standing at the half-open door, he announced in a few words that he was off to Bletsoe for help.Aliva, barely aroused, sank back again into slumber, murmuring words of thanks to her messenger."And now haste thee on thy road," said the priest to the lay-brother; "I myself will watch the chapel door."The latter set off. He did not again attempt to cross the bridge, still guarded as he imagined by De Breauté and his men, or he would now have found it clear of sentinels. He made his way along the right bank of the river to the ford at Milton in the dark quietness of the small hours that precede the dawn. But ere he reached the spot which had so well-nigh proved fatal to him some few weeks before, the birds had begun to twitter in the brushwood and the sedge, and on the eastern horizon"Lightly and brightly breaks awayThe morning from her mantle gray."In the uncertain light he became aware that a horseman was in front of him, trying apparently to force a wearied steed through the ford. As he approached, a clearer view revealed the rider to be none other than Dicky Dumpling, the fat porter."Soho, soho, Dickon! And whither so early, or so late, as you will?"Thus apostrophized, Dicky turned his horse and recognized the lay-brother."St. Dunstan be praised! Here is a friend from Bletsoe. O brother, there is ill news--a sore mishap! Our Lady Aliva is chased, and carried captive too, for aught I know, by that devil in man's shape, Fulke de Breauté, or his brother. The livelong night have I sought her on the road 'twixt here and Elstow, over marsh and bank, up hill and down dale. Not a bite or a sup--""Peace, Dicky, and cheer thy heart. Thy lady is safe.""Safe, thou sayest? Oh, the saints be praised!--safe?""As safe as Holy Church can make her," replied the other. "She hath found refuge in the chapel on Bromham Bridge."Dumpling gave a vast sigh of satisfaction, and his face once more assumed its usual jolly expression."That was it then! Beshrew me for a fool! I found her palfrey in Bromham village, and though I asked up and down among the folks, no one could tell me aught of the lady. Even the women, whose tongues go fast enow, like the clapper of a bell at vespers time, when they are not wanted, had nothing to say. Gramercy! safe in the chapel! But you, brother, what doest here?""On an errand thou canst well relieve me of. Four legs are better than two. Thy Dobbin has still enow strength left in him to carry him back to his manger. So haste thee, good Dickon, with all speed thou mayest, and bid them at Bletsoe Castle send quickly a litter for my lady to bear her home. She is weary and weak. I, meantime, will return to her. Somehow it mislikes me leaving her alone with priests and women, when those devil's servants, the Breauté varlets, are about. And 'twill cheer her heart to hear good news of thee, for she misdoubted some mishap to thee also.""I fall not lightly, brother," replied Dicky. "The armed men came with the rush of a battering-ram. But thanks to St. Dunstan and the muddy roads, I got off scathless.--And now, Dobbin--to our oats, Dobbin, to our oats; and to our lady's aid."The lay-brother, much relieved in his mind, hurriedly retraced his steps. It was broad daylight as he once more approached the chapel, and while yet at a distance he plainly perceived a little crowd gathered at the door.A horse-litter, consisting of a kind of curtained couch resting on two poles, borne by two stout horses, was in waiting. On the foremost horse rode a groom. Another mounted man stood by, leading a spare saddle-horse.As the lay-brother drew nearer, he saw three figures issue from the chapel, and recognized the Lady Aliva, his mother, and Father Bertram.Struck with astonishment that the desired conveyance should have appeared so speedily, the Benedictine halted in the middle of the road. Then the truth flashed upon him.It was impossible that the litter could have come from Bletsoe. There must be treachery afoot.A glance at the De Breauté livery worn by the mounted groom confirmed his suspicion.Without a moment's hesitation he rushed forward, exclaiming in warning tones,--"Mother! my lady! Stay, stay! for God's sake stay!" and as he spoke he stretched out a detaining hand towards the litter.But ere he could grasp it, the priest, who had been assisting Aliva into the conveyance, turned sharply round, and with the key of the chapel door, which he still held in his hand, dealt the Benedictine a heavy blow on the head.Then he shouted to the postillion to hurry off, and himself jumping on to the spare saddle-horse, followed the litter towards Bedford, leaving the lay-brother senseless and bleeding on the road, his mother bending over him.CHAPTER XV.RALPH RAPS AT THE CASTLE GATE.At the moment when the Benedictine lay-brother, haggard and wounded, rushed into the yard of Eaton Castle, Ralph de Beauchamp was on the point of starting for Bletsoe, reassured as to Aliva by his cousin's account of the reception the former had given to William de Breauté. The single sentence uttered by the Benedictine ere he fell senseless to the ground came as a terrible reaction. His impulse had been to ride off rapidly to Bletsoe and urge his suit with Aliva and her father; and now, at one fell swoop, came the news that she was prisoner in the hands of his rival, her discarded and insulted lover. Overcome with the shock of the news, following so soon upon his late rapture, he rode out of the castle yard, after commending the messenger to the care of the by-standers. He was almost reeling in his saddle with mental agony.When the lay-brother, left senseless at the door of the bridge chapel, had been restored to consciousness by his mother's care, his first thought was for the young lady so treacherously kidnapped.Despite his mother's entreaties, he made his way into Bedford, his bleeding head roughly bandaged; and soon learned that the horse-litter of Margaret de Ripariis had passed through the town into the castle in the early morning. But who might be within it no one could tell.Then the Benedictine hastened to tell the townsfolk of this new outrage on the part of the De Breautés, and endeavoured, but in vain, to stir them to action. They had lived too long under the tyranny of the Robber Baron to have courage enough to attempt to throw off his yoke.Baffled and disheartened, the brave young fellow now determined to seek Ralph de Beauchamp. The latter's devotion to the Lady Aliva was too well known among the dependents of the De Pateshulles for the Benedictine to think for a moment that he should implore his aid in vain.Once outside the castle wall, Sir Ralph turned his horse's head towards Bedford. What he intended to do there, alone and unaided, he perhaps had scarcely considered. An irresistible impulse drew him to the spot where she whom he loved was imprisoned.Bedford is some twelve miles from Eaton Socon, and when Ralph arrived there he found the burghers much exercised in their minds over the event of that morning. They had hardly recovered from the shock of seeing Henry de Braybrooke, but the evening before, hurried through the streets as a prisoner, ere this fresh outrage had followed. Not that it was by any means strange to see luckless women carried off to the castle--as, for instance, after the St. Alban's raid; but never yet had the Robber Baron dared to treat a member of one of the noble families of the county in this fashion.But though the Bedford burgesses were duly impressed with the enormity of Fulke de Breauté's doings, they were loath to take any steps to put a stop to them. And indeed Ralph himself was obliged to confess that any attempt to climb those lofty stone walls, or to throw themselves on to the spears of the armed men who kept watch and ward night and day at the castle gate, would have been utter madness. The only hope was that, now that one of the king's justices was actually a prisoner, the royal forces might be sent to extirpate this nest of robbers."Ah, Sir Knight," quoth one of the fathers of the town to Ralph, as he gravely shook his head, "our goodly town has indeed grievously suffered since thy noble family and thy renowned uncle were driven away. In the old days the castle was a protection and a great benefit to us. But now--alas, fair sir! thou knowest as well as we do what we suffer. We can scarce call our souls our own.""Ay," put in one of the clergy of the town, who formed one of the group which had gathered round young De Beauchamp, "see our fair church of St. Paul. It hath stood here since the days of the Saxon Bedicanford. And now, alas! how forlorn and shorn it standeth, even as a widow in her weeds mourning for her lord! Thus hath she stood since the day the impious Fulke did wickedly break down the carved work of our Zion with axes and hammers, and carry off her stones to strengthen yon great castle which towers above us. In the chancel resteth thy ancestor Simon, he who finished the good work begun by his mother, the Lady Roisia--to wit, the priory at Newenham for the canons of St. Paul's. In good sooth, Sir Knight, thy house and Holy Church have both good reason to curse these French intruders."Ralph turned dejectedly away from priests and burghers. The loss of his family possessions hardly weighed with him, compared with the loss of her who was more precious to him than spoils wrested from the Church. He rode slowly and deliberately to the castle gate.The sentinels on duty stood at attention, ready to resist an attack should a single horseman be so foolhardy as to ride against their uplifted spears.Ralph looked upwards at the stern walls frowning down upon him, and shook his sword at them in futile rage.As he did so two figures appeared above the battlement of the barbican. They were the Robber Baron and his brother, who had been informed that Sir Ralph de Beauchamp had ridden up to the castle.Fulke made the knight a mocking gesture of salutation."Sir Ralph," he said, "it grieves me sore that I cannot bid thee enter within these walls, and proffer thee the hospitality which is suitable to thy rank. But we entertain guests already."So saying, he turned round and shoved forward the disconsolate-looking judge, Henry de Braybrooke."Our worthy guest here," he continued, "has not yet thought proper to cancel those writs which he and his brethren were pleased to issue from their court at Dunstable. In consequence, he hath been forced to partake of the somewhat meagre hospitality of bread and water in the dungeon-vault beneath the keep. It may perchance be even necessary to resort to yet more painful measures.""Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," called out the plucky little judge, trying to lean over the battlements, "I prithee, convey to the king, my royal master, that his servant will never consent to any reversal of judgments given in concert with the learned Thomas de Muleton and the learned Martin de Pateshulle, at the bidding of the unlearned--"Peace!" cried De Breauté, pushing the little man back violently; "I brought thee not hither to speak, but to be seen.--Soho, warder! take the justice back again to the dungeon, and see that his supper be somewhat more scanty than was his dinner. Those who bend not must starve."And the warder led away the little justice, remonstrating and quoting legal Latin anent wrongful imprisonment and detention.Fulke de Breauté again looked over the parapet."Yet another prisoner have I here, Sir Ralph," he said; "but she is entertained in the lady's bower, as befits a damsel who is shortly to be the bride of the brother to the lord of the castle. Even now our new chaplain, Bertram de Concours, he who anon served the chapel on Bromham Bridge, prepares our long-disused chapel for the marriage rites."Ralph could bear it no longer. He gnashed his teeth, and whirling his sword round his head in impotent fury, flung it at the speaker. The good blade shivered in two against the stone wall, and Fulke resumed his banter."Little boots it sending thy sword where thou thyself darest not follow," said he; "but methinks thou hast tarried long enow beneath our walls. Get thee gone ere thy churlishness be returned with usury."Ralph sprang from his horse. Unarmed though he was, he made for the gate, as if he would tear it down with his bare hands.Fulke coolly signed to the sentinel who stood at his post over the gate-house, with cross-bow ready strung and quarrel fitted in the slot. The man took aim and released his string. The missile struck Ralph in a spot where his hastily-donned armour was imperfectly fastened, and he fell wounded to the ground.At the same moment two female figures reached the western end of the walk which ran along the top of the long wall bordering the river side of the castle, at right angles to the gate-house.One of them, a damsel of inquisitive disposition, hearing the twang of the cross-bow, sprang on to the parapet to see what was happening. From the angle she could look down upon the level space outside the gate."What see you, Beatrice, that you watch so closely?" inquired a girl's voice from the wall beneath the former's vantage-ground."My lady," exclaimed Beatrice Mertoun, "the archer hath struck some knight below, for I see the townsfolk carrying off a wounded man clad in armour. His helmet hath rolled from his head. What curly hair! How pale he looks, alas, poor youth! Ah, I see my lord pointing to the helmet. There goes a man from the wicket-gate. He has picked it up; he is bringing it in. Marry, how the burghers shrank back when he appeared! Methought they were like to drop the wounded man. But no; they have borne him off.""I wot not what this may mean," said Lady Aliva; for she was the speaker from below. "There is no attack on the castle? There come no more armed men?""Nay, none but the wounded one," replied Beatrice. "But stay, my lady; I will to the gate-house. Perchance I may learn somewhat."Impelled by curiosity, the girl made her way down from the wall, and quickly crossed the yard.Fulke, when the helmet had been brought him, glanced at it and then threw it contemptuously on one side. Then, when the burghers carrying Ralph had disappeared into a neighbouring house, he turned away and went to another part of the castle.No sooner had he vanished than Beatrice Mertoun, standing below, called up in her most bewitching tones to the archer who had shot the quarrel."Ho, Hubert--Hubert of Provence! Wilt do me a favour?"The man-at-arms was one of her most ardent admirers. He looked down on the pretty upturned face."A thousand, Mistress Beatrice! You have but to ask, pardie.""Then throw me down yon helmet your lord cast away anon."The man hesitated. He glanced round; but Sir Fulke was out of sight. Beatrice pouted deliciously."I said not a thousand, but one favour, Hubert. By my troth, Arnoul or Denis would have given it me in a trice. Methinks you set less store on my words than--""Be not so cruel, fair one," exclaimed the admiring archer. "I obey your slightest wish. Here!"The helmet fell at her feet. Beatrice picked it up, and then, without so much as a look at the archer, ran back with it to Aliva."See, my lady," she cried, "thou canst read these riddles of the heralds."Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps.
CHAPTER XII.
AT THE CASTLE OF EATON SOCON.
While Aliva de Pateshulle lay in a dreamy state listening to the praises of her lover, the said lover was far away on the other side of Bedford, in anything but such a complacent frame of mind.
Since the day Aliva had escaped from him up the turret stairs he had not seen her, and she had left him in much perplexity as to whether she intended to obey her father or to follow her own inclinations.
But on one point his mind was made up. Ralph was determined to be off to the Scottish war. In any case a soldier's life or perhaps a soldier's death was still before him, and in his youthful imagination he saw himself performing deeds of daring against the northerners, and dying heroically in the moment of victory, leaving Aliva to mourn for his loss and regret her own cruelty.
To carry out these plans, however, it was necessary, in the first instance, that he should interview his uncle, William de Beauchamp, for it was by the latter's influence, as he had told Aliva, that Ralph hoped to obtain a command in the royal army.
Since they had been wrongfully deprived of their castle, Bedford was no longer a home to the De Beauchamps. The usual gathering-place of the family now was at Eaton Socon, some twelve miles further down the river. The castle there has as completely disappeared as that of Bedford, but a huge mound on the banks of the Ouse marks the site of the stronghold. Here was established a younger branch of the De Beauchamps, and here William de Beauchamp met Ralph and his kinsmen, to discuss the position of the family, and to consult as to the best means of overthrowing the robber chief at Bedford.
"Beshrew me, Nephew Ralph," said his uncle, "if I wot what to make of this talk of thine of fighting against the northern savages, when savages far worse hold the castle of thy fathers."
Ralph had been holding forth to his seniors upon the duty of a young knight taking up his country's quarrels and joining his sovereign's army.
"Ay," rejoined the lord of Eaton Socon, an elderly man, "were I but of thy age and strength, with my gilded spurs newly girt upon my heels, I would never throw myself away on this mad Scottish scheme--craving his majesty's pardon, if indeed so be that our young king favours it--whilst there lacked not an excuse for the placing myself at the head of bold men who would rally to the cry of 'A De Beauchamp! a De Beauchamp!'"
"And, Cousin Ralph," whispered one of his uncle's married daughters, for some of the ladies of the family were present, "they tell me there is one in Bedford Castle with whom thou wouldest fain splinter lances, were he but worthy to meet thee in knightly combat!"
Something of William de Breauté's visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception there by Aliva, had evidently leaked out.
Ralph shook his head dismally. For the time being he was that most unhappy individual, a wet blanket to all around him, a despondent lover.
"Come now, coz," continued the Lady Mabel, "if our reverend elders will dismiss us from attendance at this table, we young folk will out on to the castle walls and take a turn. Kinsfolk do not often gather together in these days, at least in our family, and thou knowest I have not forgotten old times in Bedford Castle, even though I have formed new ties. Blood is thicker than water."
It was early afternoon. The mid-day meal, which took place at the then fashionably late hour of noon, was just over. Ralph could not refuse the invitation of his fair cousin, who had been to him as a sister in his boyhood. So, with due obeisance to the others, the pair quitted the hall, leaving their elders deep in talk over old times, and the departed glories of the house of Beauchamp, and the days of Hugo, the Conqueror's favourite.
In truth, Ralph was not sorry to have a confidant to whom he could confide his troubles. For the last few weeks both he and his uncle William had been but melancholy guests at Eaton Socon, despite the efforts of their cheery old kinsman to rouse them. William de Beauchamp was naturally a taciturn, reserved man, and the loss of his affianced bride, followed by the loss of his ancestral castle and domains, had further increased the gloom of his character. His uncle's depression, of course, added to Ralph's low spirits.
"And now, fair coz," said Lady Mabel, linking her arm in Ralph's, as they passed up a flight of stone steps leading to a walk on the top of the encircling wall behind the battlements, "thou art to talk to me of somewhat else than this Scottish war, or even the battering down of Bedford Castle about the ears of that dear friend of our family, Fulke de Breauté. Nay, seek not to deny it. I can see by thy face that thou hast somewhat to tell me, and perchance I have somewhat to tell thee."
"I have naught to say, sweet cousin, but what I have already spoken of in the hall. But yet so be--"
"I knew it!" interrupted the lady; "so it ever is with men. First they will tell naught--those were thy very words--and then with the same breath they go on to say much. They are parlous, like my favourite sleuth-hound, my lord's morning gift, who at times from mere wantonness refuseth to feed from my hand, and then when I make a show to turn away, cannot fawn on me enough. Had I but said to thee, Let us speak of the land of the Picts and Scots, and of the honour that, forsooth, will never be found there by Norman knights, thou wouldest straightway have spoken on what lies nearest thy heart nimbly enough. Now, thou art hesitating; thou leavest me to lay the scent, and then thou wilt follow. Yet, I gage, thou wouldest fain speak of the fair damsel of Bletsoe?"
Ralph flushed, and the lady smiled.
"Tell me," she added, "when thou last didst set eyes on thy lady-love?"
The ice was broken. Ralph thawed rapidly, and related to the Lady Mabel his meeting with the Lady Aliva on the morrow of St. Vincent's Day, and of her sudden flight from him.
"And, in good sooth," ejaculated the lively lady, with a shrug of her fair shoulders, "in this slough of despondency hast thou remained ever since! Not so should I have done had I been in thy shoes, cousin. Thou a bold lover, Ralph, thy charger at hand! The fair damsel should have been on the croup of thy saddle ere she could reach the turret stair. Then hadst thou brought her hither to me, I would have guarded her safety and honour till priest and chapel were ready, which would not have been long waiting, I trow."
"But, cousin," Ralph put in gloomily, "thou hast forgotten: she spake to me unawares, as she confessed, and unmindful of her father's command that she should wed with a De Breauté. Nay, it boots not here of carrying off a bride. Rather let me carry off my wretched self to the war. I spake to her of winning glory for her sake, but now, methinks, I would rather win death."
And folding his arms the young man leaned over the parapet of the castle wall, and gazed dejectedly into the shining Ouse below him, as if he would fain cast himself headlong into the stream.
But Lady Mabel answered with such a ripply laugh that Ralph turned round to her, now really offended at the light manner with which she met his tragic mood.
"And what thinkest thou, Ralph, that William de Breauté will go a-wooing to Bletsoe Manor again?"
Ralph's face assumed such an angry look, as he ground out something between his teeth about "wooing" and "Bletsoe Manor," that the Lady Mabel drew back, half frightened at the storm she had aroused.
"William de Breauté, in good truth, came to Bletsoe!" he ejaculated; "but when, and how? Tell me all, tell me the worst, cousin, for the love of Heaven!"
"Thou knewest not that he went thither?" she asked, puzzled.
"I know naught of it," replied Ralph sulkily.
"And that he hath gained the hand of the Lady Aliva?" she continued.
Ralph turned upon her, furious. But the Lady Mabel laughed louder than before.
"Certes he did. But upon his face!" she added.
Her cousin looked bewildered.
"Where hast thou been, and what hast thou heard these weeks last past?" Lady Mabel went on.
"Thou knowest!" replied Ralph, still offended. "Here I have been at Eaton Castle with thy father. I have heard no news;" and he heaved a sigh, and turning away, looked out vacantly again over the Ouse valley.
"Ay, moping like a pair of owls at noontide, had I not come hither to bear ye company," Lady Mabel continued, "till, perchance, ye had been driven to make two holes for yourselves in the stream yonder. By my troth," she added, with very little of the reverence for elders which was such a characteristic of the age, "I intend to stir my father into life again ere I leave Eaton; and as for thee, Cousin Ralph," touching him lightly on the shoulder, "I command thee to be of good cheer, and no longer to look down on that vile cold water as though thou lovest it!"
Ralph turned to her again, though still sulky under her apparently meaningless gaiety.
"Now hearken to me, Ralph, and I will tell thee much of the Lady Aliva that thou wottest not of."
And Lady Mabel went on to relate the story of the second suitor's visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception, which had not penetrated to Ralph's ears, shut up hermit-fashion at Eaton.
As she continued, the light gradually broke in on Ralph's mind, and the gloom vanished from his face; and when she described the blow inflicted by Aliva upon William de Breauté, his eyes positively sparkled with delight.
Scarcely had the Lady Mabel finished her recital ere her hearer had rushed from her. Such broken exclamations as "My brave girl!" "Still my own!" escaping from him, he ran headlong down the steps, across the bailey yard, and abruptly disturbed his elders' conversation round the board in the hall.
Hardly giving himself time to pay the usual salutation of respect which the period demanded from juniors to elders of their house, he broke in upon them with these words:--
"By thy leave, my revered uncle, and with thine, my noble kinsman, I leave thy castle at once, tarrying but to give thee my best thanks for thy hospitality of the last few weeks."
In a moment, ere De Beauchamp could recover from his surprise, Ralph was out of the hall again, and shouting eagerly in the yard for his groom, his squire, or any one, to assist him in getting ready his horse.
Meanwhile the guests streamed out of the hall behind him, headed by their host and William de Beauchamp. Lady Mabel, who had followed her cousin in his headlong career as fast as she was able, rushed to her father.
"Stay him not!" she exclaimed; "rather bid the varlets hasten to help him. 'Tis no demon hath gotten possession of him--unless, in good sooth, love may be termed a demon. Speed him on his way, and I will tell whither he goes, and wherefore."
Lady Mabel's laughing face dispersed any fears which might have been entertained for Ralph's sanity, and a moment or two later, the latter, who had hastily girded on his armour, emerged into the yard as his groom brought round his horse.
"Adieu, fair cousin!" he exclaimed. "Thou hast indeed removed a burden from my heart!" he added, placing his foot in the stirrup.
At that moment a man hurried into the castle-yard through the outer bailey, and made his way through the group of serving-men and grooms gathered round the hall door.
It was a young lay-brother in the garb of a Benedictine. His long frock was girt up round his loins, as though he had been running violently. He was muddy and wayworn, and one side of his face was smeared with blood, flowing apparently from a wound in the head, hastily bound up with a bandage.
Tottering and reeling from exhaustion, the Benedictine pushed his way up to Ralph, his eyes staring wildly and starting from his head.
"Sir Ralph," he cried, "the Lady Aliva hath been carried captive to Bedford Castle!"
And then he fell senseless into the arms of the nearest bystander.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BIRD IN THE CAGE.
When William de Breauté and the priest reached the door of the chapel on Bromham Bridge, the latter simply pointed to it, saying,--
"There is the bird in the cage. But the key of the cage is in the keeping of the Church."
After this parabolic remark, he led De Breauté away again to a small hostelry, where they entered a private room. De Breauté perceived that the priest had a proposal to make, but waited for him to begin.
"Thou spakest anon of guerdon to Holy Church for helping thee on with thy plans in hand," the priest commenced.
"Ay, in good sooth," said De Breauté, seeing that the ecclesiastic meant business; "or a reward to her servants," he added. "Speak! what wouldst thou--money, lands, wealth?"
Fixing his cunning dark eyes on his companion's face, the latter answered in one word,--
"Power!"
"Ah, pardie! and what have I to do with the advancement of churchmen?" said De Breauté, with a shrug. "Our name is in no good odour with Mother Church at this time, forsooth!"
The priest smiled sardonically.
"Certes, I have no wish that your brother Fulke should recommend me for high office among the Benedictines of St. Alban's, for example."
The news of Fulke's penance and pardon had already spread far and wide among the churchmen of that neighbourhood.
"At St. Alban's, pardie!" laughed De Breauté, as he recollected his brother's account of the scene in the chapter-house, and of the manner in which he had, for the second time as it were, defrauded the abbey coffers.
But the priest suddenly changed the tone of banter in which he had hitherto addressed De Breauté, and the sarcastic expression of his face gave place to one of bitter anger.
"Hearken, Sir Knight," he exclaimed. "Once I stood high in my order. Brother Bertram was honoured, respected, rising, among the brethren of St. ----. But I care not to tell a layman the reason of my fall. Suffice it that I fell, and that I was expelled my order. I, of more noble blood than all the other brethren together--I, more than half a Norman--here have I been for the last three years, ministering to Saxon swine who grovel in their hovels round yon bridge chapel; a mere mass-priest, offering prayers to St. Nicolas that travellers may pass safe, that sordid merchants may keep their chattels safe from roadside robbers! A fair portion, forsooth, for one who might have commanded men, been honoured, famed, obeyed!"
De Breauté shrugged his shoulders again.
"Marry, Sir Priest, but by my troth I see not how I am to help thee! What power can I give thee, save the command of a party of men-at-arms?"
"Sir De Breauté," replied the other, "your chapel is unserved. No priest passes 'neath the castle portcullis."
"Ay, and you speak true."
"Hark ye," continued the priest, "the castle of Bedford will be still more famous ere long. The star of the De Breautés riseth fast. The fault thy brother hath committed against Holy Church hath been pardoned, and what matter a few Saxon churls, if the Norman nobles but own him their peer?"
"Marry, Sir Priest, and I thank you heartily. I am, in good sooth, glad to hear that my family are so in fortune's way. But how mattereth that to thee?"
"When the De Breautés rise and are ennobled, all who serve them will rise too. The chaplain of Bedford Castle shall be no mean priest then. As one of the secular clergy I would then lord it over the regulars, and show the order that expelled me, Bertram de Concours, that they must needs bow before one who stands well with a rich and powerful Norman baron."
"If, then, the chaplaincy of the castle is all thou dearest, I can safely promise it shall be thine," replied De Breauté, laughing in his sleeve at the price the other had named. "But, certes, we must have the chapel swept out and the altar repaired. By my troth, there will be much ado with my sister and her women when they hear there will be mass sung again at home," he added, with a cynical laugh. "But say on now, Sir Priest or Sir Chaplain, as I may well call thee, how about the present work on hand?"
"Leave that to me," returned the other. "The Church shall open her doors, and the bird will hop out. See thou to it that thou secure her when she is beyond my care."
"And how so?" said William.
"Marry, that is your affair," replied the priest. "Mine ends at the chapel door."
"Pardie! shall I swing her up to my saddle-bow and be off with her? By St. Hubert, I might have done so this evening had I not bidden my varlets loose her. A curse on my hesitation! But counsel me, prithee."
"If it is my counsel you wish, I will not deny it. Methinks the damsel should be conveyed through the streets of Bedford town otherwise than swinging to a saddle like a market-wife's butter-basket. But, Sir Knight, thou knowest far better than I how to treat a fair lady."
"I have it!" exclaimed De Breauté. "There is the horse-litter of my sister, in the which she sometimes is graciously permitted to go abroad, when her ailments allow her not to mount her palfrey. She is ever sickly, the woman. I will send to Bedford for it. Nay, I would go myself, could I trust my men to guard."
"Go thyself, if thou art so minded," replied the priest. "I will so far stand, on my part, to my pledge, that I will answer for it that the bird be not uncaged till I hear from thee. Do not thou show thyself in the matter at all. Seest thou not that in that case thou canst anon tell the fair one a pretty tale, of how thou callest thy men off from chasing her, even as thou didst in the marshes, and that they captured her without thy knowledge or consent? See," he continued, "here is this small crucifix. Send it to me. When I receive it back from thy hands, I shall know that all is ready--that the litter waits anon." And as he spoke, the priest handed the soldier a small metal emblem of redemption, the pledge of his nefarious doings. "See, also, that the Lady Margaret's women prepare a suitable lodging for the lady. Thou wouldst, certes, see her well attended? I have thy knightly word that she is in honour treated, or I loose her not? Withdraw, then, thy men from guard here, and send others more seemly to escort a lady. I plight my word that, as I hope to be chaplain of thy brother's castle, I loose her not till I receive thy pledge."
"But," objected De Breauté, "how am I to warrant me she will be conveyed--"
"Leave that to me," said the treacherous priest. "If she be not placed of her own free will in the litter, I shall not have done my share of the work--that thou mayest hold sure. Have only a care, however, that naught about the horses or the litter proclaimeth it to be from De Breauté's stables."
So saying he passed out of the room. De Breauté followed him. Calling to the man who was not on guard to bring him his horse, and then to come after him with his fellow, De Breauté rode off to Bedford, some two miles distant from Bromham Bridge.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.
"The key is in the keeping of the Church."
At the actual moment when Father Bertram, at the beginning of the interview recorded in the last chapter, uttered these words, the door of the chapel was literally in the Church's charge, in the person of the stout lay-brother, who, hearing footsteps and voices without, now stood with his broad shoulders leaning against the oak. He could hear but little of the conversation through the thick door, but he guessed it had to do with his lady, and concluded that De Breauté had tracked her to her hiding-place.
For a time he remained uncertain how to act. Churchman as he was, it seemed almost impossible to him that any one, even a brutal soldier, should dare to violate the sanctuary of the chapel; but yet he feared that those without were plotting to carry off the Lady Aliva.
At length, when all was quiet again outside, he crossed the little building, and knocked gently at the door of the sacristy. It was opened by his mother, who laid her finger upon her lips as a sign to him to keep silence.
"My lady sleeps," she whispered, and shut the door again. Evidently no advice was to be had from her.
Uncertain whither to turn for aid, he recrossed the chapel, and, for the first time since Aliva had sought refuge in it, unbarred the door and looked out.
It was now past midnight. The village was sunk in silence, and no one was to be seen about. His first idea was to make his way towards Bedford, and he passed half across the bridge over the dark river. Then he fancied he heard the sound of a horse's hoof echoing from a distance through the stillness of the night. Though he knew it not, it was the sound of De Breauté spurring towards Bedford.
But another sight close at hand called off his attention. Through the gloom he became distinctly aware of a tall, armed figure leaning against the parapet of the bridge.
"Gramercy!" he said to himself, stopping short; "here is one of the soldiers on guard! There can be no escape this way. St. Benedict aid us!"
Of course, unaware that in a few minutes the man would be withdrawn, the lay-brother retraced his steps. Next he met the other man-at-arms leading the horses toward his comrade, and his heart sank within him at what he imagined were further measures to guard the Bedford road. He passed the soldier unchallenged in the dark, and then a little further met a man coming towards the chapel.
It was the priest, straight from his conclave with De Breauté.
Bertram de Concours approached the lay-brother.
"A brother servant in the ministry of Holy Church, an I mistake not," said he.
"Nay, reverend father," returned the Benedictine, "but a lay-brother I, of the holy house of Alban."
"And I," returned the other, "am but the unworthy priest who serves the altar of St. Nicolas in yonder chapel. But the chapel," he continued, eying the lay-brother closely, "is occupied by other than its priest to-night. A lady hath sought sanctuary there. She must be guarded, watched, tended."
The Benedictine was puzzled. The voice sounded to him like the voice of him whom he had heard talking with De Breauté without the chapel door. Should he ask his advice and help? He was the priest of the chapel; surely he was to be trusted.
"Tended she hath been by my mother," he answered, "and I myself have watched and guarded the chapel door. But she must remove hence. It is not fit that our fair lady of Bletsoe should remain in this plight, tended by peasants only. She must to her father's house."
Bertram saw his opportunity.
"Sooth, thou speakest truly, brother," he said. "I would fain despatch her thither. Not that I quite make out her case," he continued craftily. "My people do tell me that yester evening a lady came into the village in sore plight, and leading a steed well-nigh ridden to death, and thou sayest she is the Lady de Pateshulle. She should to Bletsoe. But can she walk?"
"Walk, father! nay, in good sooth. For all my mother's care she is so weary with her ride that she even now sleeps. Besides, do ladies such as she tramp the country roads like a churl's wench? And her palfrey cannot carry her!"
"She should be carried thither in a litter," replied Bertram de Concours; "but whither shall we fetch one? A messenger must forthwith to Bletsoe, and acquaint the noble house of De Pateshulle with its lady's need, and that at once."
The bait was thrown out by which he hoped to remove the lay-brother out of the way. The fish rose.
"I am thy messenger, father," responded the Benedictine with eagerness. "I will myself to Bletsoe, and devise means to transport my lady thither in safety and comfort."
"By my faith, brother," exclaimed Bertram, in simulated gratitude, "thou hast well spoken. A burden is lifted from my heart. Haste thee, and see that help is here by dawn. But tarry a moment," he continued, still weaving his treacherous web; "we must to the chapel and let the lady know that aid is at hand, and that she will shortly be quit of this dangerous and unpleasant position."
The two men entered the chapel. The old woman was still watching by the sleeping girl, but hearing steps, she came out of the sacristy.
"Tell thy mother to warn her charge that she may expect to journey shortly," said the priest.
"But my lady still sleeps softly," objected the good woman.
"Then let her know when she awakens that thy son hath gone to Bletsoe for aid, and that help she shall have shortly, and means of travelling hence," said Father Bertram.
Mistress Hodges returned to the sacristy.
"My lady is awakened," she said. "She heard your voices. Ye should have spoken more softly. She needs yet rest."
"Go thou then to the door," said Bertram to the lay-brother. "She knows thy voice, but I am a stranger. Tell her what thou purposest to do."
The Benedictine did as he was bid. Standing at the half-open door, he announced in a few words that he was off to Bletsoe for help.
Aliva, barely aroused, sank back again into slumber, murmuring words of thanks to her messenger.
"And now haste thee on thy road," said the priest to the lay-brother; "I myself will watch the chapel door."
The latter set off. He did not again attempt to cross the bridge, still guarded as he imagined by De Breauté and his men, or he would now have found it clear of sentinels. He made his way along the right bank of the river to the ford at Milton in the dark quietness of the small hours that precede the dawn. But ere he reached the spot which had so well-nigh proved fatal to him some few weeks before, the birds had begun to twitter in the brushwood and the sedge, and on the eastern horizon
"Lightly and brightly breaks awayThe morning from her mantle gray."
"Lightly and brightly breaks awayThe morning from her mantle gray."
"Lightly and brightly breaks away
The morning from her mantle gray."
In the uncertain light he became aware that a horseman was in front of him, trying apparently to force a wearied steed through the ford. As he approached, a clearer view revealed the rider to be none other than Dicky Dumpling, the fat porter.
"Soho, soho, Dickon! And whither so early, or so late, as you will?"
Thus apostrophized, Dicky turned his horse and recognized the lay-brother.
"St. Dunstan be praised! Here is a friend from Bletsoe. O brother, there is ill news--a sore mishap! Our Lady Aliva is chased, and carried captive too, for aught I know, by that devil in man's shape, Fulke de Breauté, or his brother. The livelong night have I sought her on the road 'twixt here and Elstow, over marsh and bank, up hill and down dale. Not a bite or a sup--"
"Peace, Dicky, and cheer thy heart. Thy lady is safe."
"Safe, thou sayest? Oh, the saints be praised!--safe?"
"As safe as Holy Church can make her," replied the other. "She hath found refuge in the chapel on Bromham Bridge."
Dumpling gave a vast sigh of satisfaction, and his face once more assumed its usual jolly expression.
"That was it then! Beshrew me for a fool! I found her palfrey in Bromham village, and though I asked up and down among the folks, no one could tell me aught of the lady. Even the women, whose tongues go fast enow, like the clapper of a bell at vespers time, when they are not wanted, had nothing to say. Gramercy! safe in the chapel! But you, brother, what doest here?"
"On an errand thou canst well relieve me of. Four legs are better than two. Thy Dobbin has still enow strength left in him to carry him back to his manger. So haste thee, good Dickon, with all speed thou mayest, and bid them at Bletsoe Castle send quickly a litter for my lady to bear her home. She is weary and weak. I, meantime, will return to her. Somehow it mislikes me leaving her alone with priests and women, when those devil's servants, the Breauté varlets, are about. And 'twill cheer her heart to hear good news of thee, for she misdoubted some mishap to thee also."
"I fall not lightly, brother," replied Dicky. "The armed men came with the rush of a battering-ram. But thanks to St. Dunstan and the muddy roads, I got off scathless.--And now, Dobbin--to our oats, Dobbin, to our oats; and to our lady's aid."
The lay-brother, much relieved in his mind, hurriedly retraced his steps. It was broad daylight as he once more approached the chapel, and while yet at a distance he plainly perceived a little crowd gathered at the door.
A horse-litter, consisting of a kind of curtained couch resting on two poles, borne by two stout horses, was in waiting. On the foremost horse rode a groom. Another mounted man stood by, leading a spare saddle-horse.
As the lay-brother drew nearer, he saw three figures issue from the chapel, and recognized the Lady Aliva, his mother, and Father Bertram.
Struck with astonishment that the desired conveyance should have appeared so speedily, the Benedictine halted in the middle of the road. Then the truth flashed upon him.
It was impossible that the litter could have come from Bletsoe. There must be treachery afoot.
A glance at the De Breauté livery worn by the mounted groom confirmed his suspicion.
Without a moment's hesitation he rushed forward, exclaiming in warning tones,--
"Mother! my lady! Stay, stay! for God's sake stay!" and as he spoke he stretched out a detaining hand towards the litter.
But ere he could grasp it, the priest, who had been assisting Aliva into the conveyance, turned sharply round, and with the key of the chapel door, which he still held in his hand, dealt the Benedictine a heavy blow on the head.
Then he shouted to the postillion to hurry off, and himself jumping on to the spare saddle-horse, followed the litter towards Bedford, leaving the lay-brother senseless and bleeding on the road, his mother bending over him.
CHAPTER XV.
RALPH RAPS AT THE CASTLE GATE.
At the moment when the Benedictine lay-brother, haggard and wounded, rushed into the yard of Eaton Castle, Ralph de Beauchamp was on the point of starting for Bletsoe, reassured as to Aliva by his cousin's account of the reception the former had given to William de Breauté. The single sentence uttered by the Benedictine ere he fell senseless to the ground came as a terrible reaction. His impulse had been to ride off rapidly to Bletsoe and urge his suit with Aliva and her father; and now, at one fell swoop, came the news that she was prisoner in the hands of his rival, her discarded and insulted lover. Overcome with the shock of the news, following so soon upon his late rapture, he rode out of the castle yard, after commending the messenger to the care of the by-standers. He was almost reeling in his saddle with mental agony.
When the lay-brother, left senseless at the door of the bridge chapel, had been restored to consciousness by his mother's care, his first thought was for the young lady so treacherously kidnapped.
Despite his mother's entreaties, he made his way into Bedford, his bleeding head roughly bandaged; and soon learned that the horse-litter of Margaret de Ripariis had passed through the town into the castle in the early morning. But who might be within it no one could tell.
Then the Benedictine hastened to tell the townsfolk of this new outrage on the part of the De Breautés, and endeavoured, but in vain, to stir them to action. They had lived too long under the tyranny of the Robber Baron to have courage enough to attempt to throw off his yoke.
Baffled and disheartened, the brave young fellow now determined to seek Ralph de Beauchamp. The latter's devotion to the Lady Aliva was too well known among the dependents of the De Pateshulles for the Benedictine to think for a moment that he should implore his aid in vain.
Once outside the castle wall, Sir Ralph turned his horse's head towards Bedford. What he intended to do there, alone and unaided, he perhaps had scarcely considered. An irresistible impulse drew him to the spot where she whom he loved was imprisoned.
Bedford is some twelve miles from Eaton Socon, and when Ralph arrived there he found the burghers much exercised in their minds over the event of that morning. They had hardly recovered from the shock of seeing Henry de Braybrooke, but the evening before, hurried through the streets as a prisoner, ere this fresh outrage had followed. Not that it was by any means strange to see luckless women carried off to the castle--as, for instance, after the St. Alban's raid; but never yet had the Robber Baron dared to treat a member of one of the noble families of the county in this fashion.
But though the Bedford burgesses were duly impressed with the enormity of Fulke de Breauté's doings, they were loath to take any steps to put a stop to them. And indeed Ralph himself was obliged to confess that any attempt to climb those lofty stone walls, or to throw themselves on to the spears of the armed men who kept watch and ward night and day at the castle gate, would have been utter madness. The only hope was that, now that one of the king's justices was actually a prisoner, the royal forces might be sent to extirpate this nest of robbers.
"Ah, Sir Knight," quoth one of the fathers of the town to Ralph, as he gravely shook his head, "our goodly town has indeed grievously suffered since thy noble family and thy renowned uncle were driven away. In the old days the castle was a protection and a great benefit to us. But now--alas, fair sir! thou knowest as well as we do what we suffer. We can scarce call our souls our own."
"Ay," put in one of the clergy of the town, who formed one of the group which had gathered round young De Beauchamp, "see our fair church of St. Paul. It hath stood here since the days of the Saxon Bedicanford. And now, alas! how forlorn and shorn it standeth, even as a widow in her weeds mourning for her lord! Thus hath she stood since the day the impious Fulke did wickedly break down the carved work of our Zion with axes and hammers, and carry off her stones to strengthen yon great castle which towers above us. In the chancel resteth thy ancestor Simon, he who finished the good work begun by his mother, the Lady Roisia--to wit, the priory at Newenham for the canons of St. Paul's. In good sooth, Sir Knight, thy house and Holy Church have both good reason to curse these French intruders."
Ralph turned dejectedly away from priests and burghers. The loss of his family possessions hardly weighed with him, compared with the loss of her who was more precious to him than spoils wrested from the Church. He rode slowly and deliberately to the castle gate.
The sentinels on duty stood at attention, ready to resist an attack should a single horseman be so foolhardy as to ride against their uplifted spears.
Ralph looked upwards at the stern walls frowning down upon him, and shook his sword at them in futile rage.
As he did so two figures appeared above the battlement of the barbican. They were the Robber Baron and his brother, who had been informed that Sir Ralph de Beauchamp had ridden up to the castle.
Fulke made the knight a mocking gesture of salutation.
"Sir Ralph," he said, "it grieves me sore that I cannot bid thee enter within these walls, and proffer thee the hospitality which is suitable to thy rank. But we entertain guests already."
So saying, he turned round and shoved forward the disconsolate-looking judge, Henry de Braybrooke.
"Our worthy guest here," he continued, "has not yet thought proper to cancel those writs which he and his brethren were pleased to issue from their court at Dunstable. In consequence, he hath been forced to partake of the somewhat meagre hospitality of bread and water in the dungeon-vault beneath the keep. It may perchance be even necessary to resort to yet more painful measures."
"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," called out the plucky little judge, trying to lean over the battlements, "I prithee, convey to the king, my royal master, that his servant will never consent to any reversal of judgments given in concert with the learned Thomas de Muleton and the learned Martin de Pateshulle, at the bidding of the unlearned--
"Peace!" cried De Breauté, pushing the little man back violently; "I brought thee not hither to speak, but to be seen.--Soho, warder! take the justice back again to the dungeon, and see that his supper be somewhat more scanty than was his dinner. Those who bend not must starve."
And the warder led away the little justice, remonstrating and quoting legal Latin anent wrongful imprisonment and detention.
Fulke de Breauté again looked over the parapet.
"Yet another prisoner have I here, Sir Ralph," he said; "but she is entertained in the lady's bower, as befits a damsel who is shortly to be the bride of the brother to the lord of the castle. Even now our new chaplain, Bertram de Concours, he who anon served the chapel on Bromham Bridge, prepares our long-disused chapel for the marriage rites."
Ralph could bear it no longer. He gnashed his teeth, and whirling his sword round his head in impotent fury, flung it at the speaker. The good blade shivered in two against the stone wall, and Fulke resumed his banter.
"Little boots it sending thy sword where thou thyself darest not follow," said he; "but methinks thou hast tarried long enow beneath our walls. Get thee gone ere thy churlishness be returned with usury."
Ralph sprang from his horse. Unarmed though he was, he made for the gate, as if he would tear it down with his bare hands.
Fulke coolly signed to the sentinel who stood at his post over the gate-house, with cross-bow ready strung and quarrel fitted in the slot. The man took aim and released his string. The missile struck Ralph in a spot where his hastily-donned armour was imperfectly fastened, and he fell wounded to the ground.
At the same moment two female figures reached the western end of the walk which ran along the top of the long wall bordering the river side of the castle, at right angles to the gate-house.
One of them, a damsel of inquisitive disposition, hearing the twang of the cross-bow, sprang on to the parapet to see what was happening. From the angle she could look down upon the level space outside the gate.
"What see you, Beatrice, that you watch so closely?" inquired a girl's voice from the wall beneath the former's vantage-ground.
"My lady," exclaimed Beatrice Mertoun, "the archer hath struck some knight below, for I see the townsfolk carrying off a wounded man clad in armour. His helmet hath rolled from his head. What curly hair! How pale he looks, alas, poor youth! Ah, I see my lord pointing to the helmet. There goes a man from the wicket-gate. He has picked it up; he is bringing it in. Marry, how the burghers shrank back when he appeared! Methought they were like to drop the wounded man. But no; they have borne him off."
"I wot not what this may mean," said Lady Aliva; for she was the speaker from below. "There is no attack on the castle? There come no more armed men?"
"Nay, none but the wounded one," replied Beatrice. "But stay, my lady; I will to the gate-house. Perchance I may learn somewhat."
Impelled by curiosity, the girl made her way down from the wall, and quickly crossed the yard.
Fulke, when the helmet had been brought him, glanced at it and then threw it contemptuously on one side. Then, when the burghers carrying Ralph had disappeared into a neighbouring house, he turned away and went to another part of the castle.
No sooner had he vanished than Beatrice Mertoun, standing below, called up in her most bewitching tones to the archer who had shot the quarrel.
"Ho, Hubert--Hubert of Provence! Wilt do me a favour?"
The man-at-arms was one of her most ardent admirers. He looked down on the pretty upturned face.
"A thousand, Mistress Beatrice! You have but to ask, pardie."
"Then throw me down yon helmet your lord cast away anon."
The man hesitated. He glanced round; but Sir Fulke was out of sight. Beatrice pouted deliciously.
"I said not a thousand, but one favour, Hubert. By my troth, Arnoul or Denis would have given it me in a trice. Methinks you set less store on my words than--"
"Be not so cruel, fair one," exclaimed the admiring archer. "I obey your slightest wish. Here!"
The helmet fell at her feet. Beatrice picked it up, and then, without so much as a look at the archer, ran back with it to Aliva.
"See, my lady," she cried, "thou canst read these riddles of the heralds."
Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps.