The last night of Geoffroi de la Bourne
While Cerdic and Hyla sat in the field weaving their design to
completion, Lord Geoffroi, Lord Fulke, Lady Alice, and Brian de Burgh,
the squire, set out after forest game. They were attended by a great
hunting train. Very few people of any importance were left in the
castle, save Lewin and Dom Anselm.
The sun, though still very hot, had begun to decline towards his western
bower, and the quiet of the afternoon already seemed to foreshadow the
ultimate peace of evening.
Very little was doing in the castle. Some of the grooms lay about
sleeping in the sun, waiting the long return of the hunters in idleness.
From the armoury now and again the musical tinkering of a chisel upon
steel sounded intermittent. Soon this also stopped, and a weapon-smith,
who had been engraving foliates upon a blade, came out of his forge
yawning. The Pantler, a little stomachy man, descended from the great
hall, and, passing through the court, went out of the great gate into
the village. Time seemed all standing still, in the silence and the
heat.
Dom Anselm came into the court-yard, and sat him down upon a bench by
the draw-well, just in the fringe of the long violet shadow thrown over
the yard by Outfangthef. There was a bucket of water, full of cool green
lights, standing by the well. After a little consideration, the priest
kicked off his sandals and thrust his feet into its translucence. Then,
comfortably propped up against the post, he fell to reading his
Latin-book. In half-an-hour the book had slipped from his hand, and he
was fast asleep.
While he slept, a door opened in the tower. From it came Pierce, and
after him two girls, tall, comely Saxon lasses, bronzed by sun and wind.
One of them, the eldest of the two, held her hands clenched, and her
face was set in sullen silence. Her eyes alone blazed, and were dilated
with anger. The younger girl seemed more at ease. Her eyes were timid,
but a half smile lingered on her pretty, rather foolish lips. She
fingered a massive bracelet of silver which encircled her arm. Pierce
was giving Frija and Elgifu their freedom.
They came down the steps, and he pointed across the court-yard towards
the gateway passage. "There! girls," said he, "there lies your way, to
take or leave, just as suits your mind. For me, were I you, I'd never go
back to the stoke. Hard fare, and dogs lying beyond all opinion! My
Lords bid me say that you can take your choice."
Frija swung round at him, shaking with passion.
"Vitaille and bower," she shrilled at him, "and the prys shame! A lord
for a leofman, indeed! Before I would fill my belly with lemman's food
to your lord's pleasure, I would throw myself from Outfangthef."
Pierce smiled calmly at her.
"You talk of shame!--it is my lord's, if shame there is! Off with you to
the fold, little serf lamb!"
She flushed a deep crimson, and seemed to cower at his words. "Come,
Elgifu," she said, "mother will be glad to see us come, even coming as
we do."
"Pretty Elgifu!" said the man. "No, you are not going! My Lord Fulke's a
fine young man. Did he not give you that bracelet? Stay here with us
all, good comrades, and you shall be our little friend. We will treat
you well. Is it not so?"
The girl hesitated. She was a pretty, brainless little thing, and had
not protested. They had been kind enough to her. The stoke seemed very
horrible and noisome after the glories of the castle. Her sister's
burning flow of Saxon seemed unnecessary. Frija looked at her in
surprise at her hesitation.
"Say nothing to the divell," she cried impatiently; "come you home to
mother."
Her imperious elder sister's tone irritated the little fool. "No, then,"
she said. "I will stay here. I will not go with you. You may talk of
'shame,' but if shame it is to live in this tower, then I have shame for
my choys. Life is short; it is better here."
With that frank confession, she turned to the man-at-arms for approval.
He stepped in front of her, and, scowling at Frija, bid her be off. With
a great cry of sorrow, the elder girl bowed her head and swiftly walked
away. They saw her disappear through the gateway, and heard the
challenge and laughter of the guards, pursuing her with jests as she
went by.
"Oh, you are wise, pretty one!" said Pierce, putting his arm round her
waist. "See, now, I will take you to the topmost part of the tower, to
that balcony. We shall see all the country-side from there!"
They turned and entered Outfangthef, and the clanging of the door as it
closed behind them roused Anselm from his slumber.
He sat up, stupidly gazing round him. His book was fallen, and a dog was
nosing in its pages. He kicked the cur away, and picked up the breviary.
By the shadow of the tower, which stood at the corner of the keep, he
saw the afternoon was getting on. He looked round him impatiently, and,
even as he did so, saw the man he was expectant of approaching.
"I am late," said Lewin, as he came up; "but I have been hearing news,
and have much to tell you. We had better go at once."
"Whiles I fetch my staff," said the other, and soon they were walking
through the village, down the road which led to the fen. They came to
the fields, where a herd of swine was feeding among the sewage.
"They are unclean things," said Lewin, regarding them with dislike.
"Though I am no Jew in practice, yet I confess that I do not like them.
Pig! the very name is an outrage to one's ear."
"So not I," said Dom Anselm. "When the brute lives in the charge of a
Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but she becomes a Norman, and
is called 'pork,' when she is carried to castle-hall to feast among us.
I want no better dish."
"Each to his taste. But here we are. By the Mass, but the place stinks!"
They had come to the landing-stage in the river, and, indeed, the odour
was almost unbearable. For twenty yards round, the water was thick with
foulness. They got into a flat-bottomed boat and pushed off across the
stream. The water was too deep to pole in the centre, but one or two
vigorous strokes sent them gliding towards the further rushes. Lewin
punted skilfully, skirting the reeds, which rose far above his head,
until he came to a narrow opening.
"This will do as well as another," he said, and turned the boat down it.
The water-way was little more than two yards wide, and the reeds grew
thick and high, so that they could only see a little way in front. At
last, after many turns and twists, they came to a still, green pool, a
hundred yards across. In this stagnant evil-looking place they rested,
floating motionless in the centre.
"Geoffroi himself, were he in the reeds, could not hear us now," said
the priest.
"True, but drop a line to give a reason for being here."
The priest took from his girdle a line, wound upon a wooden spool.
Baiting the hook with a piece of meat, he dropped it overboard, and
settled himself comfortably in the bottom of the boat.
"Now, Lewin," said he, "you may go into the matter."
"I will tell you all I have heard," said the minter, "and we will settle
all we purpose to do. You have heard that Roger Bigot has taken Norwich,
and assumed the earldom of the county in rebellion to the king. Hamo de
Copton, the moneyer, is a correspondent of mine, from London, and we
have been interested together in more than one mercantile venture. From
him letters are to hand upon the disposal of four chests of silver
triens in London. You know our money is but token money, and not worth
the face value of the stamp. We are making trial to circulate our money
through Hamo, and in return he sends Lord Geoffroi bars of silver
uncoined. Now, the letter bears a post scriptum to this end. 'The king
is sick, and indeed was taken so before Whitsuntide.' The talk is all
that his cause is losing, and that wise men will be nimble to seize
opportunity. Hamo urges me to consider well if I should seek some other
master than Geoffroi, who is the king's friend."
He stopped suddenly, alarmed by a great disturbance in the water. A pike
had swallowed Anselm's bait and was beating about the pool five or six
yards away, leaping out of the water in its agony. They hauled the line
in slowly, until the great, evil-looking creature was snapping and
writhing at the boat-side. Then, with a joint heave, it lay at the
bottom of the boat, and was soon despatched by the minter's dagger.
"Go on," said Dom Anselm.
"Yestreen," resumed Lewin, "John Heyrown was privy with me for near two
hours. He comes peddling spice from Dentown, hard by Norwich town. I
have known him privily these six months. From him I hear that Roger
Bigot is in the article of setting forth to come upon us here to take
the castle. Geoffroi has great store of fine armour of war, eke fine
metals and jewels of silver and gold. Hilgay would extend Roger's arm
far south, and make a fort for him on the eastern road to London. He is
pressing to London with a great force and inventions of war. Now,
listen, John Heyrown is neither more nor less than in his pay, and he
comes here to see if he can find friends within our walls. Roger knows
of me and my value, and offereth me a high place, and also for my
friends, do I but help him. What do you say?"
Dom Anselm's thin face wrinkled up in thought, weighing the chances.
"I think," he said at last, very slowly, "I think, that we must throw
our lot in with Roger Bigot, and be his men."
"I also," said Lewin. "And I have already been preparing a token of our
choice."
He pulled a piece of vellum from his tunic.
"Here is a map of the castle, clear drawn. There you see marked the weak
spot by the orchard wall; Geoffroi has been long a-mending of it since
we noticed the sinking, but nothing has been done. To enter the castle
need not be difficult. The donjon will be harder; but I have marked a
plan for that also. At the foot of Outfangthef lie _les oubliettes_, and
many deep cellars, raised on arches. It is there keep we our coined
silver and the silver in bars. With his engines, knowing the spot, Roger
could mine deep, and Outfangthef would fall, leaving a great breach."
Anselm took the plan with admiration.
"It's finely writ," he said; "should'st have been in a scriptorium."
"My two hands are good thralls to me," said Lewin, pleased at the
compliment to his work. "Then you and I stand committed to this thing?"
"Since it seems the wisest course, for Lord Roger is a great lord and
strong, I give you my hand."
"Let it be so, friend Anselm. I will give John the plan this night."
"Then it is a thing done. But what is your immediate end?--for I
conceive you have some near purpose in view."
"Some time I will tell you, but not yet."
"It's a woman, you dog!" said the priest with a grin.
"We must homewards," answered the other. "Hark! I hear the horns, they
have returned from the chase."
As he spoke, clear and sweet the tantivy came floating down the hill and
over the water.
"We shall be late for supper," said Lewin, "make haste; take the other
pole."
"God forbid we should be late for supper," said Anselm, and they began
to push back.
"Will Geoffroi know that Roger is about to attack Hilgay?" Anselm asked
Lewin.
"Certainly he will, in a day or two. You may be sure that he has friends
in Norwich, and an expedition does not start without a clatter and talk
all along the country-side. I would wager you a wager, Sir Anselm, that
Geoffroi will hear of it by to-morrow morn."
"And then?"
"Why then to making ready, to get provision and vitaille for the siege."
"Well, I wait it in patience: I never moil and fret. He who waiteth, all
things reach at the last."
"Beware of too much patience, Sir Anselm. Mind you the fable of Chiche
Vache, the monstrous cow, who fed entirely on patient men and women,
and, the tale went, was sorely lean on that fare?
"'Gardez vous de la shicheface,
El vous mordra s'el vous encontre.'"
The Jew gave out the song with a fine trill in his voice, which was as
tuneful as a bell.
The priest, as he watched him and marked his handsome, intelligent face,
was filled with wonder of him. There was nothing he could not do well,
so ran his thoughts, and an air of accomplishment and ease was attendant
upon all his movements. As he threw back his head, drinking in the
evening air, and humming his catch--"el vous mordra s'el vous
encontre"--Anselm was suddenly filled with fear of him. He seemed not
quite to fit into life. He was a Jew, too, and his forefathers had
scourged God Incarnate. Strange things were said about the Jews--art
magic helped them in their work. The priest clutched the cross by his
side, and there was a wonderful comfort in the mere physical contact
with it.
"No," said he, "I have never heard of Chiche Vache that I can call to
mind. I do not care much for fables and fairy tales. There is merry
reading in the lives of Saints, and good for the soul withal."
"The loss is yours, priest. I love the stories and tales of the common
folk, eke the songs they sing to the children. I can learn much from
them. Chiche Vache is as common to the English as to French folk. 'Lest
Chichewache yow swelwe in hir entraille,'" he drawled in a capital
imitation of the uncouth Saxon speech.
By that time they had got to the castle and turned in at its gates.
The courtyard was full with a press of people, and busy as a hive.
Outside the stable doors the horses were being rubbed down by the serfs.
As they splashed the cool water over the quivering fetlocks and hot
legs, all scratched by thorns and forest growth, they crooned a little
song in unison. The "ballad of my lord going hawking" was a melancholy
cadence, which seemed, in its slow minors, instinct with the sadness of
a conquered race. The first verse ran--
"Lord his wyfe upstood and kyssed,
Faucon peregryn on wryst;
Faucon she of fremde londe,
With hir beek Sir Heyrown fonde."
Lewin and Anselm passed by them and stood watching a moment.
"Hear you that song of the grooms?" Lewin said.
"I have heard it a hundred times, but never listened till now," said
Anselm. "But what say they of Faucon peregryn? what means fremde londe?"
"It stands for foreign land in their speech," said the Jew. "Hast much
to learn of thy flock, Anselm?"
"Not I. My belly moves at the crooning. It is like the wind in the
forest of a winter's night. Come you to supper."
"That I will, when I have washed my hands; they are all foul with pike's
blood."
Dom Anselm gave a superior smile, and turned towards the hall.
The great keep lifted its huge angular block of masonry high into the
ruddy evening air, Outfangthef frowned over the bailey below. The door
which opened on the hall steps stood wide, and the servants were
hurrying in and out with dishes of food, while the men-at-arms stood
lingering round it till supper should be ready.
Cookery was an art upon the upward path, and Geoffroi's _chef_ was no
mean professor of it. The hungry crowd saw bowls of stew made from goose
and garlic borne up the stairs. Pork and venison in great quarters
followed, and after them came two kitchen serfs carrying wooden trays of
pastry, and round cakes piously marked with a cross.
Soon came the summons to supper. A page boy came down the steps and
cried that my lord was seated, and every one pressed up the stairs with
much jangling of metal and grinding of feet upon the stones. To our
modern ideas the great hall would present an extraordinary sight. This
rich nobleman fed with less outward-seeming comfort than a pauper in a
clean-scrubbed, whitewashed workhouse of to-day. And yet, though many a
lazy casual would grumble at a dinner served as was Geoffroi de la
Bourne's, there was something enormously impressive in the scene. We are
fortunate in many old chronicles and tales which enable us to
reconstruct it in all its picturesqueness.
Imagine, then, that you are standing on the threshold of the hall just
as supper has been begun.
The hall was a great room of bare stone, with a roof of oaken beams, in
which more than one bird had its nest. There was an enormous stone
chimney, now all empty of fire, and the place was lit with narrow
chinks, unglazed, pierced in the ten-foot wall. The day of splendid
oriels was yet to come in fortress architecture, which was, like the
time, grim and stern. It was dusk now in the outside world, and the hall
was lit with horn lanterns, and also with tall spiked sticks, into which
were fixed rough candles of tallow. The table went right up the hall,
and was a heavy board supported on trestles. Benches were the only
seats.
On a daïs at the far end of the building was the high table, where
Geoffroi and his son and daughter sat. The two squires, Brian de Burgh
and Richard Ferville, also sat at the high table, and Dom Anselm had a
place on the baron's right hand.
Lewin was seated at the head of the lower table, and the baron could
lean over and speak to him if he had a mind to do so.
Geoffroi and his son sat in chairs which were covered with rugs, and at
their side stood great goblets of silver. The dim light threw fantastic
shadows upon the colours of the dresses and the weapons hung on pegs
driven into the wall, blending them into a harmonious whole.
It was a picture of warm reds and browns, of mellow, comfortable
colours, with here and there a sudden twinkle of rich, vivid madder or
old gold.
When every one was seated, Geoffroi nodded to Dom Anselm, who thereupon
pattered out a grace, an act of devotion which was rather marred by the
behaviour of Lord Fulke, who was audibly relating some merry tale to his
friend, Brian de Burgh.
Then every one fell to with a great appetite. The serfs, kneeling,
brought barons of beef and quarters of hot pork on iron dishes. Each man
cut what he fancied with his dagger or hunting-knife, and laid it on his
trencher. Such as chose stew or ragout, ate it from a wooden bowl,
scooping up the mess in their bare hands. Lady Alice held a bone in her
white fingers, and gnawed it like any kitchen wench; and so did they
all, and were, indeed, none the worse for that.
Geoffroi de la Bourne, the central figure of that company, was a tall,
thin man of some five-and-fifty years. His face was lined and seamed
with deep furrows. Heavy brows hung over cold green eyes, and a beaked
eagle nose dominated a small grey moustache, which did not hide a pair
of firm, thin lips. His grey hair fell almost to his shoulders.
Geoffroi, like his son and the squires, was dressed in a tunic, long,
tight hose, a short cloak trimmed with expensive fur, and shoes with
peaked corkscrew toes.
The Baron sat eating quickly, and joining little in the talk around him.
He seemed very conscious of his position as lord of vast lands, and had
the exaggerated manner of the overworked business man.
He had many things to trouble him. The mint was not going well. His
unblushing adulteration of coined monies was severely commented on, and
his silver pennies were looked upon with suspicion in more than one
mercantile centre. The king was ill, and the license made possible by
the disordered state of the country was exciting the great churchmen to
every intrigue against the barons. Moreover, plunder was become
increasingly difficult. Merchants no longer passed with their trains
anywhere near the notorious castle of Hilgay, and, except for his
immediate retainers, all the country round was up in arms against
Geoffroi.
He had imagined that stern, repressive measures would terrify his less
powerful neighbours into silence. Two flaming churches in the fens and
the summary hanging of the priests had, however, only incensed East
Anglia to a passion of hatred.
Even as he sat at supper a certain popular Saxon gentleman, Byrlitelm by
name, lay at the bottom of an unmentionable hole beneath Outfangthef,
groaning his life away in darkness and silence, while his daughter was
the sport and plaything of the two young squires. Disquieting rumours
were abroad about the intentions of the powerful Roger Bigot of Norwich,
who was known to be hand-in-glove with the Earl of Gloucester, the
half-brother of Matilda.
Added to these weighty troubles, Geoffroi, who like all nobles of that
day was an expert carver in wood and metal, had cut his thumb almost to
the bone by the slip of a graving tool, and it throbbed unbearably. A
still further annoyance threatened him. Gertrude of Albermarl, a little
girl of fifteen, now acting as an attendant to Lady Alice, was a ward of
his whom he had taken quietly, usurping one of the especial privileges
of his friend the king.
The Crown managed the estates of minors, and held the right of giving in
marriage the heirs and heiresses of its tenants. "The poor child may be
tossed and tumbled chopped and changed, bought and sold, like a jade in
Smithfield, and, what is more, married to whom it pleaseth his
guardian--whereof many evils ensue," says Jocelyn de Brakelond, and the
wardship of little Gertrude was a very comfortable thing. Stephen had
heard of this act of Geoffroi's, and had sent him a peremptory summons
to send the child immediately to town. Geoffroi had that day determined
that little Gertrude should be married incontinently, to the young
ruffian his son, but the step was a grave one to take, and would
probably alienate the king irrevocably.
So he ate his supper gloomily. Every one in the place knew immediately
that he was displeased, and it cast a gloom over them also.
As the meal went on, conversation became fitful and constrained, and the
crowd of lecheurs, or beggars, who waited round the door, disputing
scraps of food with the lean fen dogs, could be distinctly heard
growling and gobbling among themselves in obscene chatter.
When at last Lady Alice withdrew and the cups were filled afresh with
cool wine from the cellar, Geoffroi signed to Fulke to come up to him.
The young man was a debauched creature of twenty-six, clean-shaven. His
hair was not long like his father's, but clipped close. The back of his
head was also shaven, and gave him a fantastic, elfin appearance. It was
a custom to shave the back of the head, which was very generally
adopted, especially in hot weather, among the young dandies of the
time.[2]
"Letters from the king," said Geoffroi shortly, in a deep, hoarse voice.
"About Gertrude?"
"Yes, that is it. Now there is but one answer to make to that. You must
marry her in a day or so, and then nothing more can be said."
"That is the only thing," said Fulke, grinning and wrinkling up his
forehead till his stubble of hair seemed squirting out of it. "But I
will not give up my pleasures for that."
"Who asked you?" said the father. "She is but a child and a-knoweth
nothing--you can make them her maids-in-waiting, that will please her."
He laughed a short, snarling laugh. "Sir Anselm shall tie the knot with
Holy Church her benediction."
[2] _It is quite possible that this fashion of the shavelings
accounted for the mistake of Harold's spies at the Conquest, who
said that there were more priests in the Norman camp than
fighting men in the English army!_
He summoned that scandalous old person from his wine.
"Priest," said he, "my Lord Fulke is about to wed little Lady Gertrude;
so make you ready in a day or two. I will give you the gold cross I took
from Medhampstede, for a memorial, and we will eke have a feast for
every one of my people."
"It is the wisest possible thing, Lord Geoffroi," said Anselm. "I will
say a Mass or two and get to praying for the young folk, and Heaven will
be kind to them."
"That do," said Fulke and Geoffroi, making the sign of the cross, for,
strange as it may seem, both the scoundrels were real believers in the
mysterious powers of the chaplain. Though they saw him drunken,
lecherous, and foul of tongue, yet they believed entirely in his power
to arrange things for them with God. Indeed, paradoxical as it may
sound, if Anselm had not been at Hilgay, both of them would have been
better men. They would not have dared some of their excesses, had it not
been possible to obtain immediate absolution. A rape and a murder were
cheap at a pound of wax altar lights and a special Mass.
"Here's good fortune," said Anselm, lifting the cup and bowing to Fulke.
"Thank you for't," said the young man. "Father, the minter shall make us
a ring, and his mouth shall give the tidings to the other officers.
Lewin, come you here, you have a health to drink." Lewin was summoned to
the upper table, and sat drinking with them, pledging many toasts. Once
he cast a curious glance at Anselm, and that worthy smiled back at him.
The evening was growing very hot and oppressive as it wore on. It was
quite dark outside and there was thunder in the air. Every now and again
the sky muttered in wrath, and at such sounds a sudden stillness fell
upon the four knaves at the high table, and, putting down their wine
vessels, they crossed themselves. Lewin made the "great cross" each
time, "from brow to navel, and from arm to arm."
Little Gertrude was long since a-bed, her prayers said, and her little
dark head tucked under the coverlet. She felt quite safe from the
thunder, for she had invoked Saint Peter, Saint Paul, Saint Luke and
Saint Matthew, to stand round her bed all night, and she knew that they
would be there while she slept. Who, indeed, shall say that my Lords the
Saints were not guarding the sleeping child on that eventful night?
Geoffroi began to be less taciturn as the wine warmed him. Some bone
dice were produced, and they fell to playing for silver pennies. One of
the squires joined them, but the other left the hall early, as he had
some tender business afoot with Gundruda, the pretty serving-maid.
In the middle of the game, a stir came about at the hall door. One or
two of the soldiers went to see what was toward. A traveller, wet with
rain, was asking speech with Geoffroi, and he was brought up to the high
table by Huber and John.
"My lord," said he, "you will remember me. I am Oswald, your liege man.
I come from Norwich bearing news of war. I have been there a-buying
rams, and I bring you grave news. Roger Bigot is arming all his men in
hot speed, and comes to Hilgay to overthrow us. In a week or two he will
be here. He is very strong in arms."
These tidings affected the five men very differently.
Lewin glanced quickly at Anselm, and then turned to Oswald, waiting
more. The young squire tossed his head, and rang his hand upon the table
joyously. Fulke's lips tightened, and an ugly light came into his eyes.
The Baron alone showed no outward sign of agitation. He drummed his
fingers on the side of the wine-goblet for a minute, in silence.
Then he suddenly looked up, "Well," he said, "that is news, Oswald, but
I had thought to hear it a month since! Let the man come up against me
if he will, he shall rot for't, damn his soul! I am lord of this
country-side, with a rare lot of devils, lusty for blood, to guard this
keep. A week, you say? Very well, in a week he shall find us ready. But
get you to the table, Oswald, along of my merry men, and see that you
drink in God's name. Get you drunken, Oswald, my man; I thank you for
this. Get you drunk. Really, you should, in God's name. Huber! John!
Tell Master Pantler from me to put rope to windlass and draw up a cask
of wine for the men-at-arms. HEI! HEI!! HEI!!!" he shouted in a vast and
wonderful voice, rising in his seat and holding his beaker above his
head, "Men of mine! men of mine! my Lord Roger Bigot, the bastard from
Norwich town, lusteth for our blood and castle. The foining scamp
a-comes riding with a great force to take us. Drink ye all to me, men of
mine, and we will go against this traitor to the king--HEI! HEI! HEI!"
There was a fierce roar of exultation which pierced the very roof. The
war spirit ran like fire round the great hall, and as Geoffroi's tall
figure stood high above them, his voice rolled louder than the mightest
shouter there.
They broached the cask of wine, and brought torches into the hall until
the whole place flamed with light. The enthusiasm was indescribable.
They had all been long spoiling for a fight, and here was news indeed!
Oswald was plied with drink and pestered with questions.
When, in some half-hour's time, the excitement had in some degree
subsided, it began to be told among the men that a jongleur was in the
castle, and had been there since the afternoon. Lewin told Geoffroi of
this, and the man was sent for, so that he might amuse them with songs
of battle.