It was the province of Auvergne in France. Through the forest, deep and
gloomy, rode our Hubert and his squire, with the six men-at-arms, a few
days after their departure from England. They had gained the soil of
France, and had found the town in Auvergne which bore the name of the
De Fievrault family, and early in the following morning they started
for the old chateau, which they were forewarned they would find in
ruins, to seek the fated sword.
It was added that the place was haunted, and that they would do well to
return before nightfall.
The road which led thither was evidently but seldom trodden. It
abounded in sunken ruts, wherein lurked the adder. It led by sullen
pools, where the bittern boomed and the pike swam, his silver side
glittering like a streak of light beneath the dark surface, as he
sought his finny prey. Now it was marshy and muddy, now it was tangled
with thorns, now impeded by fallen trees. So thick was the verdure that
the sky could not often be seen.
“I should be sorry, Almeric,” said the young knight to his squire, “to
traverse this route by night. Yet unless we make better use of our legs
it will happen to us to have the choice either of encountering the
wolves of the forest or the phantoms of the castle.”
“Are not those the towers?” said the young squire, pointing to some
extinguisher-like turrets which just then came in sight.
“Verily they be, and if we make haste we may reach them by noontide.”
But between them and the object of their journey lay a deep fosse or
moat, and the rusty drawbridge was suspended by its chains to the walls
of the towers.
“Blow thine horn, Almeric.”
It was long blown in vain, but at length an old man in squalid attire,
with long dishevelled gray locks and matted beard, appeared at the
window of the watch tower above.
“Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?”
“The sword of its last lord, that I may bear it to the Holy Land in his
name, and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord.”
“Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the bridge,
and thou mayst enter.”
“What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?” said Almeric
in a whisper.
The rusty machinery creaked, the bridge sank into its appointed place,
and at the same moment the portcullis was heard to wind up with a
grating sound. The little troop entered the courtyard through the
gateway in the tower.
A ruined castle! the dismantled towers rose around them with the great
hall, the windows broken, the casement shattered. Ivy grew around the
fragments, and embracing them, veiled their squalidness with its green
robe, making that picturesque which anon was hideous. But company gives
confidence, and our little troop rode, laughing and talking, into the
haunted Castle of Fievrault.
“I have no food,” said the old man.
“We need none; we have brought both meat and wine. Wilt thou share it?
Thou look’st as if a good meal might do thee good.”
“I have eaten my frugal meal already, and desire none of your cates and
dainties. Lo, I am ready to conduct you to the hall where hangs the
sword of the man whom thy father slew one Friday long ago, and it will
be well for thee but to tarry while thou takest it and then depart.”
“We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall.”
“I cannot say you nay.”
He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the
portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and conspicuous
amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his loathly lady;
the painter had not flattered them.
There hung several swords, rusty with age and disuse, two-handed
weapons which it required a giant strength to wield; huge battle-axes,
maces, clubs tipped with iron spikes, ancient suits of armour, rusty
and unsightly, as old clothing of that sort is apt to become after the
lapse of years. There was no vacant hook now, for at the end of the row
hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de Fievrault, the last of his
grim race.
The Englishmen gazed upon the portraits, which they regarded with
insular irreverence (what were French knights and dames to them?), then
without awe spread the contents of their wallets on the board, and
feasted in serenity and ease.
When it was over the wine produced its usual exhilarating effect. Song
and romaunt were sung until the shadows began to turn towards the east
and the hues of approaching evening to suffuse the shades of the
adjacent wilderness. Then the old servitor came up to Hubert:
“It is time, my lord, to take the sword thou hast come to seek, and to
go, unless thou wishest to be benighted in the forest.”
“My lord,” said Almeric, “we have come abroad in quest of adventures,
and as yet found none to relate around the winter fireside when we get
home again; and it is the humble petition of your poor squire and
men-at-arms that we may remain in the castle this night and see what
stuff the phantoms are made of, if phantoms there be.”
Hubert smiled approval.
“My Almeric,” he said, “I have ever been of opinion that ghostly
apparitions are delusions, and always thought that I should like to put
the matter to a test. Wherefore I welcome your proposal with joy, for I
doubted whether any of you would willingly stay with me. We will remain
here tonight.”
“Nay,” said the old withered retainer of the house of Fievrault;
“bethink thee, my lord, of what befell thy own father.”
“And for that very reason his son would fain avenge him,” said Hubert
flippantly, “and flout the ghosts, if such things there be. And if
men—Frenchmen or the like—see fit to attire themselves in masquerade,
no coward fear will blunt the edge of our swords.”
“Wilful must have his way,” said the old servitor with a sigh. “What is
to be will be, only remember, all of you, the old man has warned you,
and only permits you to remain because he has no power to send you
forth.”
“Nay, be not so inhospitable.”
“A churl will be a churl,” said Almeric.
The old man shook his head sadly, and went about his business, whatever
that may have been.
The party now broke up to examine the castle, and to make sure that all
was as it seemed, and that no earthly inmates were there to play pranks
in the night. They ascended the ruined towers, and gazed upon a
wilderness of leaves, as far as the eye could reach, save where a wild
fantastic range of mountains upreared its riven peaks in the dim
distance, the Puy de Dome, the highest point. Then they descended the
steps and explored the vaults and dungeons: dismal habitations dug by
the hands of cruel men in the solid rock upon which the castle was
built. In one they shuddered to behold a human skeleton, from which the
rats had long since eaten the flesh, chained by steel manacles around
its wrists and ankles to the wall, and hence still retaining its
upright position: and in each of these dark chambers they found
sufficient evidence of the fell character of the house of Fievrault.
In one large cell, which had evidently been the torture chamber, they
found the rusty implements of cruelty—curious arrangements of ropes and
pulleys; a rack which had fallen to pieces with age; a brazier with
rusty pincers, which had once been heated red hot therein, to tear the
quivering flesh from some victim, who had long since carried his plaint
to the bar of God, where the oppressors had also long since followed
him.
Hubert and his followers shuddered; but they were a little more
hardened to the sight of such things, which were not unknown in those
times even in “merry England,” than we should be.
“Where does that trap door lead to?” said Almeric, pointing to an
arrangement of two folding doors in front of a rude image.
“It looks firm.”
“Nay, trust it not. Here is a rude stump, once used as a seat. Roll it
upon the trap doors.”
The round, short log was rolled on the trap, which gave way at once.
Down went the log, and, after what seemed minutes to those above, came
a hollow boom. It had reached the bottom. The oubliette—Almeric
shuddered, and the colour faded from his face.
“What if I had tried the strength with my own weight!” thought he.
They returned to the upper air. The sun had set, and the shades of
night were gathering around the hoary pile, and, with deepening shades,
every soul present felt a sense of gloom and depression creep over him;
a sort of apprehension which had no visible cause, and could not easily
be explained, but which led one to start at shadows, and look round at
each unexpected footfall.
For over all there came a sense of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said as plain as whisper in the ear—
“This place is haunted.”
“Bring wood. Kindle a fire on the hearth here. Set torches in those
cressets. Bring out the remains of our dinner. There is yet plenty of
the _vin de pays_; let us eat drink, and be merry.”
Wood was plentiful, pine torches easily procured in such a locality,
and soon the hall was bright with the firelight and vocal with the
sound of voices in melody. So the hours sped on until it was quite
dark. It was a very still night, but the clouds were thick, and there
were no stars abroad.
At length they had burned all the wood which had been brought in.
“Go, Tristam, and bring more wood from the great pile in the
courtyard,” said Hubert.
Tristam, a grizzled man-at-arms, went out.
All at once a cry of horror was heard. All started to their feet, but
before they could run to Tristam’s aid the door was dashed open, and he
ran in, his hair erect with horror, and his eyes starting from their
sockets.
“It is after me!” he shrieked, as he slammed the door behind him.
“What was it?” said Hubert, while the sight of the man’s infectious
terror sent a thrill through all of them.
But he couldn’t tell; he only stood and gibbered and shuddered, as if
he had lost his senses, then crept to the innermost corner of the large
fireplace, where they made room for him, and moaned like some wounded
animal.
“The wood must be brought,” said Hubert. “We are not going to let the
fire go out, nor to be frightened at shadows.
“Almeric, you will come with me and fetch it.”
“Yes, master,” said Almeric, not without a shudder, which did not
promise well.
“Say a Pater and an Ave, Almeric. Sign thyself with the Cross. Now!”
And they went forth.
The night was, as we have said, intensely dark, and they each carried a
fat, resinous pine torch, which diffused a lurid light around. The
stones of the courtyard were slimy from long neglect; and the light,
drizzly rain which was falling churned the dust and slime into thin
mud. As they drew near the wood pile, Hubert going boldly first, they
both fancied a presence—a presence which caused a sickening
dread—between them and the pile.
“Look, master,” said Almeric, in tones half choked with horror.
Hubert followed the direction of Almeric’s glance, and saw that a
footmark impressed itself in the slime before their own advancing
tread, just as if some invisible being were walking before them. So
sickening a dread, yet quite an inexplicable one, a dread of the vague
unknown, came upon them that, brave men as they were, they could not
proceed to the wood pile, and, like Tristam, returned empty handed.
“Where is the wood?” was the general cry.
“Let no one go out for wood tonight,” said Hubert. “We must break up
the forms, the floors, nay, our dining board, to sustain the fire—for
fire we must have. Now, remember we are warriors of the Cross, pledged
to a holy cause, and that no demon can hurt us if we are true to
ourselves. Join me in the holy psalms of the night watch, then spread
our cloaks and sleep here.”
They said the well-known compline psalms, familiar then in England from
their nightly use. Then, replenishing the fire at the expense of some
rude oaken benches, and barring the door, they all strove to sleep. A
watch seemed needless. The fear was that they would all be found
watching when they should be sleeping.
But yet whether from extreme fatigue or any other cause, they did all
fall asleep.
In the dead hour of the night Hubert alone awoke, with the
consciousness that someone was gazing upon him. He looked up. There was
the figure which had so often tormented his poor father, the slain
Frenchman, the last Sieur de Fievrault, pale and gory, his hand on the
wound in his side.
“Speak, dread phantom! What dost thou want with me? I go to do thy
bidding, to fulfil thy vow.”
“Thank God! Thou hast spoken, and I may speak, too. Thou goest to do my
bidding in love for thy father, to fulfil my vow. Alas, many trials
await thee. Canst thou face them?”
“I can do all man can do.”
“So I imagine from thy bold bearing in this haunted castle of my
ancestors. It is well. Only go forward, whatever happens. Thou shalt
not perish. Thou shalt deliver thy father and me, condemned as yet to
walk this lower earth, till the vow my own misconduct made me unworthy
to fulfil is fulfilled by thee. Fare thee well, and fear not.”
And the figure disappeared.
Hubert felt a sense of blessed relief, under which he fell asleep
again, and did not awake until aroused by a cry of terror. He started
up. Almeric and all the men were on their feet, like frenzied beings,
gazing into the darkness which enveloped the end of the hall. Then they
rushed with a wild cry at the door, which they unbarred with eager
hands, and issued into the darkness. He heard a heavy fall, as if one,
perhaps two, had missed the steps and gone headlong into the courtyard.
Terror is contagious, but Hubert saw nothing as yet to fear.
“Come back, ye cowards! Shame on ye!” he cried, but cried in vain—he
was alone in the haunted hall.
The fact was that Hubert felt as if he personally had made his peace
with the mysterious haunters of the castle, and had nothing to fear. So
he did not stir, but was even able to sleep again until aroused by the
aged janitor, just as the blessed light of dawn was pouring through the
oriel window.
“I warned you, my lord,” he said.
“You did. The fault, and the punishment, too, is ours. But where are my
men?”
“Here is one,” said the janitor, leading Hubert to the cell over the
gateway which he occupied himself, where on a couch lay poor Almeric
with a broken arm; broken in falling down the steps.
“And where are the rest?” said Hubert after expressing his sympathy to
the wounded squire.
“In the forest; they were raving like madmen in the courtyard, and I
opened the gates and let them out to cool their brains. They will
doubtless be here anon.”
“What didst thou see, Almeric, that frightened thee out of thy reason?”
“Ask me not! I may tell thee anon, but let us leave this evil place,”
said Almeric.
“We must wait for our men—I will go out and blow my horn without the
barbican.”
He blew a mighty blast, and after awhile first one and then another
responded to the appeal, looking thoroughly ashamed of themselves; till
four were in presence. But the fifth never arrived; doubtless he had
met some mishap in the forest.
“The wolves have got him,” said the old man. “There is an old she wolf
with a litter of cubs not far off, and I heard a mighty howling
there-a-way after the gates were opened. If he staggered in her way in
the darkness she would be sure to tear him to pieces.”
They sought for him in vain, but could not risk having to pass another
night in the place. Almeric was able to sit his horse with difficulty,
Hubert taking the reins and riding at his side and supporting him from
time to time with his arm. The sprightly lad was quite changed.
“I know not what it was,” he said, “but it was something in that
darkness, an awful face, a giant form, a deathly thing of horror, and
we lost our presence of mind and sought absence of body. That is all I
can say. It was something borne upon our wills and we could not resist.
I shall never want to try such experiments again.”
Even our Hubert, brave as he had been, was changed. He understood his
father’s affliction better, nor was he ever quite so light hearted and
frivolous again. The joy of youth was dimmed. Yet he often thought that
the apparition of the slain Frenchman might have been but a dream sent
from heaven, to encourage him in his undertaking on his father’s
behalf.