A desperate plunge

"Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the breach"

*THE ROBBER BARON OF

BEDFORD CASTLE.*

*CHAPTER I.*

_*BY THE BANKS OF OUSE.*_

In the first quarter of the thirteenth century, the evil doings of King

John were yet fresh in the minds of men all over England, and the

indirect consequences of his evil deeds were still acutely felt, and

nowhere more than in Bedfordshire, where the scene of our story is laid.

The county itself has much altered in appearance since that period.

Great woods, intersected by broad, soft green lanes, overran its

northern portion. Traces of these woods and roads still survive in

Puddington Hayes and Wymington Hayes, and the great broad "forty-foot."

South of this wild wooded upland, one natural feature of Bedfordshire

remains unchanged. Then, as now, the Great Ouse took its winding,

sluggish course from southwest to north-east across the county, twisting

strangely, and in many places turning back upon itself as though loath

to leave Bedfordshire. Some fifteen miles from point to point would

have taken it straight through the heart of the little county, whereas

its total course therein is more like fifty. One poetic fancy likens

the wandering stream to a lover lingering with his mistress, but old

Drayton compares it to one of the softer sex:--

"Ouse, having Olney past, as she were waxed mad,

From her first staider course immediately doth gad,

And in meandering gyves doth whirl herself about,

That, this way, here and there, back, forward, in and out.

And like a wanton girl, oft doubting in her gait,

In labyrinthine turns and twinings intricate,

Through those rich fields doth flow."

It is in the Ouse valley that the events of our story will chiefly be

laid, for here was centred the life of the county, in those castles

which once crowned with their keeps the various mounds which still

exist,--

"Chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells

From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells."

It was along the banks of the Ouse, a little north of Bedford, that a

young knight was riding one bright January morning in 1224. By his side

hung his good sword, though he was clad only in the ordinary riding

dress of the period; for these were troublous times, and the country

round by no means secure. At Bedford Castle, Sir Fulke de Breaute, one

of the late King John's lieutenants, sat strongly intrenched, like the

robber-barons of a later day in their castles on the Rhine, spreading

devastation far and wide.

Young Ralph de Beauchamp, who was making his way that winter morning

along the marshy banks of the river, which were later to develop into

Drayton's "rich meadows," was the son of the younger brother of the

former occupant and ejected owner of Bedford Castle. For more than a

hundred years the banner of the De Beauchamps had waved from Bedford

keep. Their ancestor, Hugo de Beauchamp, had received the feof from the

Conqueror, together with many a broad manor in the county. His son,

Pain, had reared the strong keep on the lofty mound which to this day

overlooks the Ouse, and from which Cuthwulf the Saxon had driven the

Britons in 572, pursuing them far south into the Thames valley. Later

on, the Danes, sailing up the Ouse, had burned the Saxon _Burh_; but the

Norman keep, though it had surrendered, had never yet been taken by

assault. Eight years before the time of our story, William de

Beauchamp, the head of the family, and the uncle of young Ralph, had

sided with the barons who were standing up for the liberties of England

against King John, and had been ousted by John's ferocious lieutenant,

Fulke de Breaute. This latter, as has been told, now held the castle,

no longer as lieutenant for Henry, John's youthful successor, but as the

leader of a band of robbers, who knew no right but might.

Thus it had come to pass that the house of De Beauchamp, once so

powerful in Bedfordshire, was rather down in the world in the early part

of the thirteenth century, and young Sir Ralph felt the reverses of his

family. Left an orphan in childhood, he had been brought up by his

uncle William, and though a penniless knight, heir neither to the

estates of Bedford, nor to those of another branch of the family seated

at the castle of Eaton Socon, lower down the river, he had, as it were,

been rewarded by nature with more than a compensating share of the

graces of face and form. He was, moreover, a proficient in those

exercises of the tilt-yard which formed an important part of a knightly

education, and which were as dear to young men in the thirteenth century

as are their athletic pursuits to those of the present day. Nor had his

mental training been entirely neglected. True, the latter would not be

considered much now-a-days; but in his boyhood, in Bedford Castle, Ralph

had sat many hours in the chaplain's room, when he would much rather

have been bathing or fishing in the stream below the walls, learning

from the venerable priest how to read, write, and speak Latin, then a

most necessary part of a gentleman's education.

But neither poverty nor the misfortunes of his family appeared to weigh

heavily on Sir Ralph's mind, to judge by the cheerful expression of his

countenance, as he rode along humming the refrain of an old Provencal

love-song, which some of De Beauchamp's retainers had brought into

Bedfordshire from fair France. Neither did he seem in any dread of

Fulke de Breaute's myrmidons, for the valley was clear of such as far as

eye could reach, though it was then in great measure overflowed by the

waters of the Ouse. As was not unusual then in winter-time, the broad

river had risen above its low-lying banks, and a vast expanse of water

shimmered far and wide in the sunlight. Later on, in Fuller's time, a

not uncommon saying gave the Ouse the name of the "Bailiff of

Bedfordshire," from the quantity of hay and other produce _distrained_

from the low-lying lands by these frequent and extensive floods.

As Ralph approached Milton Mill, which was half submerged, and perforce

inactive, he reined up his steed, who was already up to her fetlocks in

the shallow flood which covered the meadows and the track, and eagerly

scanned the watery waste before him, for his keen eye had caught sight

of something dark being whirled down the rushing torrent. For an

instant he doubted as to whether it were not some snag or tree-branch

torn from the willows in the osier-bed further up. But the truth

flashed upon him when he perceived a slight struggle on the part of the

object, something which might be an arm raised from the water, and

clutching despairingly at nothing.

"B' our Lady!" exclaimed the young knight, "there goes some poor wretch

who seems like to die unshriven, unless I can give him a helping hand!

'Tis but a chance.--But come up, my lady," he added, admonishing his

good gray mare with a slight prick from the heavy goads or "pryck spurs"

which armed his heels; "we can but do our best!"

So saying, Ralph hastily turned his steed to the left, and rode quickly

through the slush, down the half-submerged bank, and into the stream.

There was not a moment to lose. Judging his distance carefully, he

forced the mare into the river a little below the struggling figure,

which seemed to be encumbered with heavy clothing. The current, turgid

and lead-coloured, swirled violently round the stout steed, who had

enough to do to keep on her feet against it, weighted as she was with

her stalwart rider. Further and further Ralph forced her with voice and

spur, though she backed and stumbled, bewildered by the novel situation,

and battling against the current. Already the swiftly-eddying water had

reached her shoulders, when, by her head thrown back, her distended

nostrils and starting eye, Ralph saw she could do no more.

So, bending low down over his saddle-bow, and reaching out his right arm

as far as he was able to stretch, he awaited the critical moment when

the drowning man should be swept down towards him. Then, quick as

thought, he gripped with an iron grasp at the black frock in which the

figure was clothed, and turned his horse sharply round. The good steed

fought her way bravely out of the stream, her rider dragging the

drowning man behind him.

The moment he found himself on dry land once more, Ralph leaped off to

breathe his horse, and to look at the half-unconscious man he had

rescued, and who was clad in the lay or serving brother's habit of the

Benedictines.

Kneeling by his side, the knight chafed his wet face and hands, and

presently his eyes opened, and he sat up.

"Thanks to Our Lady and St. Benedict!" he muttered, "and to you, Sir

Knight! But I thought it was all over with me."

"And, in good sooth, _I_ thought so too, my good fellow!" exclaimed Sir

Ralph, stamping to shake the water off his leathern hose and jerkin and

woollen surcoat. "But how came you to venture alone, and without a

guide, across the ford at flood time?" he added, much relieved to see

the lay-brother, who was young and robust, rise to his feet and begin to

wring his habit.

"I was bred and born in these parts, Sir Knight," replied the latter,

"and I could find my way across Milton Ford blindfold. Nay, I have even

crossed it in worse seasons than this. But that was before I took upon

me this habit, and I trow our holy founder did not contemplate that his

followers should have to swim for their lives in it. Moreover, I have

travelled far and swiftly, and I am weary."

"And have you much further to go yet?" inquired the knight.

"But as far as Bletsoe," replied the lay-brother.

"Then get you up behind me on my horse," answered Ralph, "and together

we will take our road, for my journey also ends at Bletsoe."

"Nay, Sir Knight," replied the lay-brother, glancing at Ralph's gilt

spur of knighthood; "that would be far from seemly. This is not the

first time by any means that the Ouse has tried to knock the breath out

of my body, for I was brought up on his banks. My father is one of the

retainers of my Lord de Pateshulle, and lives just between my lord's

house and the river. Moreover, it will be best for me to trudge along

on foot, and maybe my clothes will be dry before I have finished my

journey. Not that I can ever forget your kind help, sir, or my merciful

deliverance, thanks be to God," he added, devoutly crossing himself.

Accordingly Ralph, the mare having recovered herself from her gallant

struggle in the water, remounted, and the lay-brother stepped out

bravely by his side.

"And prithee, my good fellow," asked the knight, "how came you to be

struggling in the Ouse this morning in your Benedictine dress?"

"Alas, sir!" replied the lay-brother, "I am one of the humblest servants

of the holy Abbey of St. Albans, and I am but just now escaped from

greater danger than that which you beheld befall me in the Ouse, for at

dusk yesterday came that enemy of God, Sir Fulke de Breaute--"

"Ay!" interrupted Ralph, "that disgrace to knighthood--the treacherous

robber who hath seized my uncle's castle!"

The lay-brother looked up at the handsome face turned down upon him, and

then at the arms embroidered on his surcoat. Bowing his head in

obeisance to his companion when he recognized that he was in the

presence of one of the family of De Beauchamp, he proceeded to relate a

terrible tale of murder and outrage committed at St. Albans but the day

before by the Robber Baron of Bedford Castle.

"We had but just finished the office of nones in our beautiful abbey

church, Sir Knight," he continued, "when we heard a terrible noise of

fighting and confusion at the very gate of the abbey itself. The

porter's man came rushing in to tell us that De Breaute (whom the saints

send to perdition!), with a large band of his Bedford robbers, was in

possession of the town, ill-treating the townsfolk in every way, binding

many of them fast as prisoners, and demanding admission into our own

sacred precincts. I and some others ran to the gate-house, and looking

forth from the upper windows, beheld a terrible sight. In front of the

gate the soldiers and men-at-arms had formed a half-circle, and in the

midst were a great crowd of townsfolk--men, women, and children--all

with their arms bound behind their backs, buffeted, kicked, and mocked

by the villains who guarded them. And against the gate there was a huge

fire kindled, in order that the gate itself might, if possible, be

destroyed. And by the fire stood that arch-fiend Fulke himself, calling

to our reverend father abbot to come and speak with him. Then, as we

looked, we saw certain soldiers drag forward one of the townsmen, and by

the light of the blaze--for it was already dark--I saw that it was no

other than his worship the bailiff of the town who was thus treated. And

then (O merciful God, show thy vengeance upon Fulke and his crew!) they

cast him, bound as he was, into the midst of the fire! O sir, the

shrieks of this man, dying in torture, as the soldiers thrust him down

with their spears!"

[Illustration: "The soldiers cast the bailiff into the midst of the

fire."]

He paused for breath a moment, as if overwhelmed with the horrible

memory of what he had witnessed. The gray mare started, spurred

unconsciously in his wrath by her rider, who, with teeth clinched,

muttered imprecations upon Fulke de Breaute.

"Go on," he said; "let me hear the whole of this devil's work!"

The lay-brother went on.

"Next our father abbot looked down from the window and began to upbraid

the impious Fulke for his great wickedness. But when De Breaute heard

him, he looked up and cried, 'Hasten, my Lord Abbot, and send me, with

all speed, from your abbey coffers the sum of one hundred pounds, not

more, not less, or, by my soul, the whole town shall be sacked, and the

burgesses served as their bailiff!' Then some of my lord's court waxed

wroth, and one of them, a young noble, and a dear friend of my lord

abbot, cried, 'Who will with me, that we drive these impious robbers

away?' And certain of the household, together with some of the younger

serving-brothers, and myself among them, agreed to follow the young

knight if he would lead us--"

"'Twas bravely spoken--bravely done," interrupted Ralph impetuously.

"And we rushed out through the gate, and through the fire, and across

the burnt body of the bailiff. But, alack! we had but staves in our

hands, and clubs--for Holy Church forbids us to use more carnal

weapons--and so what could we do against armed men? Our leader was

struck down dead by Fulke himself--I saw the deed with my own eyes. We

could not get us back into the abbey, for the brethren had closed the

gate behind us. We fled, or tried to flee, in all directions. I myself

made my way by force of my right arm and my club through the soldiers

where the line was the weakest. Whether my comrades escaped I know not.

God be with their souls! Then I girded up my frock and ran until I had

distanced those who pursued me, clad as they were in their heavy armour.

Praise be to the saints, I am healthy and strong, and, thanks to you,

Sir Knight, have escaped the broad Ouse's waters as well this day!"

Ralph, who during the lay-brother's narrative had kept up an

undercurrent of muttered curses on Fulke de Breaute and his followers,

glanced with admiration at the sturdy young hero by his side.

"Methinks," he said, smiting him a good-natured slap upon the back,

"that Mother Church has despoiled us of a good soldier here! But, say,

how comes it that you make your way by Milton Ford at this flood season,

and not high and dry over Bedford Bridge?"

"I have journeyed all night, Sir Knight," he replied, "save that I

rested a space in the houses of acquaintances at Luton and Ampthill, to

whom I told my tale, and who refreshed me with meat and drink. But when

I drew nigh to Bedford, I left the main road, and took the right bank up

the river till I reached Milton Mill. I dared not venture to pass

through the town. How could I tell but that some of De Breaute's men

might not have already returned to the castle, and be ready to fall on

any one clad in Benedictine habit, and crossing the bridge from the

direction of St. Alban's? The rest, Sir Knight, you know. I suppose I

was weak and weary with my fighting and my journeying, and when I missed

the ford, had not strength to battle with the stream, many times as I

have swum the broad Ouse. Perils by fire! perils by water! But thanks

to Heaven and you, Sir Knight, in a short space I shall be once again in

my old village home. I have not exactly found the religious calm and

peace which was promised me when I professed as a lay-brother six months

ago," he added, with a smile.

The recital of this raid on the town of St. Alban's, an account of which

has been handed down to us in manuscript by an unknown scribe, together

with various suggestions on the part of Sir Ralph for the destruction of

Fulke and his "nest of the devil," occupied our travellers till they

reached the village of Bletsoe. There the knight saw the lay-brother

safe to his father's house, and after many renewed expressions of

gratitude from him, rode on alone, further up the village to the mansion

of the De Pateshulles.

*CHAPTER II.*

_*BLETSOE MANOR-HOUSE.*_

The manor-house of Bletsoe stood on the north side of the parish church

of St. Margaret, about a mile from the point where the river makes a

sharp bend from east to south. Of the manor-house, and of the castle

which succeeded it, no traces remain, but portions of a seventeenth

century mansion, now a farm-house, mark its site. The Pateshulles had

come into Bedfordshire from Staffordshire, where is situated the village

of Pateshulle, from which they took their name. From them Bletsoe

passed to the De Beauchamps, another branch of the family to which Ralph

belonged. Their heiress married into the family of St. John, who

possess Bletsoe to this day.

But in the early part of the thirteenth century, when the Pateshulles

first possessed it, Bletsoe was but a small place, not even fortified,

till in 1327, more than a century later, John de Pateshulle obtained

from the king a license to crenellate his mansion--that is, to erect

defensive parapets on the walls.

The house to which Sir Ralph de Beauchamp made his way was therefore

built in the usual fashion of a gentleman's residence at that

period--timber-framed, and of no architectural pretensions. At one end

of a central hall were the private apartments of the family, at the

other the domestic offices and the rooms of the servants and retainers.

In front of the hall was a gate-house, where a porter watched

continually in his lodge; and from this gate-house flanking wooden

palisades ran on either side to the private apartments and servants'

offices, enclosing a small courtyard.

As Ralph rode through the gate, a round, white-haired face peeped from

the lodge door.

"Soho! Dicky Dumpling," cried the young knight, springing from his gray

mare with a ringing of his spurs upon the pavement.

The individual thus accosted emerged from the doorway of his dwelling.

Many years of service and of good living in the porter's lodge of the De

Pateshulles, combined with very little active exercise, had caused

Dicky's figure to assume the rotund proportions not inaptly expressed by

the nickname by which he was universally known. When he perceived Sir

Ralph, his broad countenance lighted up with a grin of satisfaction,

which caused his twinkling eyes almost to disappear among wrinkles of

fat, and he waddled forward with as much alacrity as he was capable of

and seized the horse's bridle. As he did so, his eyes rested on Ralph's

still moist and mire-stained surcoat and dripping hose.

"By St. Dunstan!" exclaimed the old servitor, speaking with the freedom

of having known Ralph ever since the latter was a page in his uncle Sir

William's service, and came often in his train to Bletsoe Manor--"by St.

Dunstan, Sir Knight, and beshrew me if I don't think you choose a cold

season to go swimming in the Ouse at flood time!"

"You speak with your usual wisdom, O Dumpling mine," responded Ralph,

laughing; "but I've been a-fishing."

Dumpling opened his wide mouth to it fullest extent.

"A-fishing, good my lord?"

"Ay, a-fishing; and I've caught a larger and a fatter pike than ever yet

gladdened your eyes and made that huge mouth of thine water, and with a

finer set of teeth than you have, after all the hard work you have given

yours. There has been bad and bloody work at St. Alban's, and fresh

foul deeds have been done by yon devil in human form of Bedford. You can

hear more anon, if your curiosity can drive your fat carcass as far down

the village as Goodman Hodge's cottage. I cannot tarry to tell thee

more. Say, Dickon, is your lord within?"

It was now Dumpling's turn to have a joke. His face assumed a mock

expression of the utmost gravity, belied by the twinkle of his merry

little eyes. He stood on tiptoe, and spoke in a low voice close to

Ralph's ear.

"My lord went forth an hour ago to fly a new falcon he has just bought.

He will return at noon to dine. I can smell even now the good and

savoury odours that arise from the spit. But I'll warrant me that the

meat is not yet done to a turn, and that you have yet time. Hist!"

Whereupon he laid his hand on the young knight's arm, and with finger on

his lips drew him from under the gate-house arch, and pointed to the

farther corner of the court-yard.

Under the windows of the Lord of Bletsoe's apartments a sort of garden

had been railed off from the rest of the court-yard, so as to be

somewhat private. Out in this garden, in the bright January sunshine,

stood a tall and graceful girl engaged in nailing up some sort of

creeper round the windows. Her long arms--bare to their full length,

for the long loose sleeves of the period had slipped up to her

shoulders--were stretched above her head in order that she might reach

her work. Her small, delicate head, which was uncovered, was thrown

back as she looked up at the wall, and from it thick masses of brown

hair waved down her shoulders. She had evidently been tempted out by

the sunshine to do a little winter gardening, and wore neither fillet

nor mantle, while the rather tight robe of the period, clinging to her

figure, set off admirably her tall stately form, just budding into the

full maturity of young womanhood.

There came a clanking of armed heels and the rattle of a scabbard over

the stones of the court-yard, and the young lady turned sharply round.

A smile of recognition and a deep flush passed together across her fair

face. The next moment she glanced back at the half-open door of a

turret staircase close at hand, evidently communicating with the private

apartments above, and made a movement as if to flee.

But Ralph was too quick for her. In an instant he had vaulted the low

fence, and gained her side, so that common courtesy, if no stronger

motive, obliged her to remain. Then he caught her by both hands and

made as if he would kiss her; but she shook her head.

"Aliva, my heart's darling!" he exclaimed; "I prithee tell me what is

wrong this morning? You seem not glad to see me. Have I frightened you

in coming on you so suddenly?" he added, half jesting.

The maiden's lips curled bewitchingly.

"A daughter of the De Pateshulles has yet to learn what fear is," she

replied; "and I warrant you could not teach it me, Ralph, either in

person or in practice," she added. And then the smile died away, and

the grave expression stole over her face immediately.

"But, my ladye fair, I would fain have you overjoyed to see me this

morning, for I bring news which will perhaps lead your father to look

more favourably on my suit," continued Ralph. "But perchance that is

news you would therefore be ill-pleased to hear," he added.

Aliva tossed her head with a laugh in her eyes.

"Try me, Sir Knight," she said--"say on your news," and her face lit up

again with pleasure.

"One point in my fate still remains unchanged," Ralph went on. "A

soldier of fortune I am, and such I must continue; there is no fresh

news on that score. If you will wed me, dear heart, you will still have

to wed one who must depend on his own right arm. But now I see a chance

before me of exerting that right arm."

For the moment, however, the member to which he alluded had found its

way round Aliva's waist, and did not appear to exert itself any further

for the time being.

"Now that I have received my knightly rank," Ralph continued, "I have a

hope, also, of active service. The king, as I have lately heard,

meditates an expedition across the Border to punish the Scots, and a

great council of the nation is to be summoned to meet at Northampton in

the summer. When once the business is arranged, and the royal forces

set forth for the north, methinks I am sure of a good post. My uncle's

weight and interest have not been utterly lost, though he has been

driven from the home of our ancestors. When he begs for a command for a

De Beauchamp, the king surely cannot say him nay. And then, when the

war is over, when we have taught the Scots a lesson, in a few months I

shall come again, my Aliva, and come no longer penniless and unknown,

but with rank, position, the promise of further employment, and perhaps,

if fortune favours me--for I will do all man can dare to do--with some

deed of glory, some honour not unworthy to lay at your feet as a

wedding-gift. Oh say, Aliva, your father will hearken then?"

Aliva had not spoken, had not interrupted him. She stood, her eyes cast

on the ground, a fierce struggle going on within her. As a daughter,

she felt that she ought not to have allowed this stolen interview

against her father's wishes. She ought to have fled by the

turret-stair, with merely a courteous salutation for her visitor. Yet

there he stood, this penniless young knight, by her side, his arm round

her waist, and his large gray eyes gazing with devotion and love into

her face. Moreover, he was telling her of a soldier's duties; he spoke

of war and danger. What could she do? She was but a woman, warm-hearted

and also of impulsive nature. The court-yard was clear, for Dicky

Dumpling had hobbled off to the stables with the gray mare. For all

answer she laid her head upon his shoulder and her right hand sought his

left--the one, be it remembered, that was disengaged.

It was but for a moment, however, and then it was not only maidenly

instinct which made her draw herself free from his embrace.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed; "where in the name of all that's marvellous have

you been this morning, Ralph? You are dripping wet, or at least

anything but dry!"

"Have no fear, lady; I have had no worse encounter than one with our old

river this morning, and I crave your forgiveness for thus presenting

myself, for time brooked no delay. But I bear evil tidings for the ears

of a devout daughter of Holy Church," he continued; and he told her the

story of De Breaute's impious raid upon St. Alban's Abbey.

The maiden listened horror-stricken, and when he had ended, pressed her

fingers to her eyes, as if to shut out the horrible scene he had

conjured up.

"O Mother of God!" she exclaimed, in a low shuddering voice, as if to

herself. "And it is with one of this family of spoilers of churches and

murderers of the servants of holy men that my father would have me wed!"

Ralph drew back, astonished at her words.

"Aliva! what say you? You are dreaming! Wed with a De Breaute? Never

while I draw breath; by the holy Cross I swear it. Your father! he

speaks in sorry jest or in madness. And besides, the scoundrel Fulke

has a wife already--that ill-fated Lady Margaret de Ripariis, affianced

at one time to my uncle, Sir William, and forced against her will into a

marriage with Fulke by our late king. Aliva, speak, I conjure you.

What mean you by such words?"

"Alas!" replied the maiden, hesitatingly and mournfully, and answering

only the latter part of her lover's question, "my father knows full well

the sad history of the Lady Margaret, and ofttimes hath he said, more in

jest than in earnest I trust, that after all the lady has become the

_chatelaine_ of Bedford Castle, and that since your noble uncle has been

turned out, she did well to marry with the man who has got inside--"

"Peace, my sweetest Aliva," interrupted Ralph impetuously. "Speak not

of that unfortunate Lady Margaret. But tell me, I beseech thee, what

your father means by joining your name with one of the house of De

Breaute."

The Lady Aliva drew herself together, as with an effort.

"Nay, I would not have spoken--the name escaped me when you spake of the

outrage on the church--forget--"

She stopped short, her voice breaking. The excitement of this

unexpected meeting with the man she loved, the news that he was about to

leave her for war and danger, the sweet moment in which she had allowed

him to clasp her in his arms, the fearful tale of slaughter he had

unfolded, which brought back suddenly to her mind, with the mention of

the name of De Breaute, the fate that was proposed for her, and which

she had well-nigh forgotten in her happiness of finding herself by

Ralph's side once more,--all these emotions proved too much for her.

Bursting into a flood of tears, she made for the turret door, and, in

spite of the young knight's effort to detain her, disappeared up the

stairs.

Ralph, stunned and mystified, was staring at the door which had closed

behind her, when he heard a wheezing at his elbow.

"Sir Knight, the pasty is done brown and the cook is ready to serve up,

and from the gate-house window I see my lord herding his falcons, and

preparing to return," said Dicky Dumpling's voice.

It aroused Ralph as from a dream. Pressing a piece of money into the

porter's fat palm, he hastened to fetch his mare from the stable, and

mounting her, rode away with a heavy heart through the gate of Bletsoe

Castle.

Dicky Dumpling looked after him and shook his head.

"He comes with a jest, and he goes without a word! Things look ill, I

trow. 'Laugh and grow fat' is my motto, laugh and grow fat! Plague on

that lazy scullion! why lingers he so long with my dinner?"

*CHAPTER III.*

_*HOW ALIVA RECEIVED A SECOND SUITOR.*_

So fair and noble a maiden as the Lady Aliva de Pateshulle deserved a

better father than she possessed. The Lord of Bletsoe was rather too

inclined to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, to play a double

part, waiting to see where his own interests would best be served. But

we must bear in mind the condition of affairs in the time in which he

lived. The old and formerly powerful county family of the De Beauchamps

were fallen from their high estate; for Sir William, their head, had

been ousted from his castle, and in those days a baron without castle

and stronghold occupied but an inferior position. On the other hand, the

house of De Breaute had come decidedly to the front; for, as the

chroniclers of the time tell us, Fulke held not only the castle of

Bedford, but also the castles and the shrievalties of Oxford,

Northampton, Buckingham, and Cambridge. All these he had received as

the reward for his services against the barons on behalf of King John,

so there could be no doubt but that the De Breaute family was wealthy,

and also, apparently, firmly rooted at Bedford.

It must not be supposed, however, that De Pateshulle could excuse

Fulke's outrages, or that he would have gone so far as to give his

daughter to one who bore so evil a name, even had he not been already

married. The intended son-in-law was another member of the De Breaute

family.

As the Lady Margaret de Ripariis, the unhappy wife of Fulke, had born

her husband no children, the heir to his wealth was his younger brother

William. Now this William de Breaute was not yet as widely known, nor as

hated, as his brother, nor was it even asserted that he had taken part

in any of the foul deeds committed by the latter. Soldier of fortune

like his brother, he had but lately arrived from France, and taken up

his residence in Bedfordshire, where perhaps he was not altogether

unpopular, for he had even gone so far as to hint that, should Sir Fulke

come to a violent end in one of his forays, and he, William, become the

lord of Bedford Castle, the neighbourhood should have no reason to mourn

the change. With regard to the De Beauchamps, however, he intimated

pretty strongly that he considered his family to have sufficient title

to the castle from the grant of King John, and no one, naturally, was

prepared to say that the young King Henry was in a position to upset his

father's arrangements.

Accordingly, when William de Breaute approached De Pateshulle with a

proposal that he should give him his daughter Aliva in marriage, it was

not altogether unnatural that that gentleman, being of poor estate

though of good family, and not even possessing a fortified dwelling--in

itself a mark of position in those days--should be willing to listen to

a suit which would place his descendants at Bedford Castle, and in the

position held in former days by the De Beauchamps.

It was on the afternoon of the same day on which Ralph de Beauchamp had

met Aliva de Pateshulle in the garden that William de Breaute presented

himself in person at the mansion of Bletsoe. Had he been aware of the

stolen interview which had taken place a few hours before by the turret

door, he would hardly have selected this day for pressing his suit with

Aliva herself. But ignorance is bliss. De Breaute had not been

sufficiently long in the neighbourhood to learn that there had been love

passages between Ralph and Aliva, so he rode over to Bletsoe in a

self-satisfied frame of mind, armed as he was with De Pateshulle's

permission, which, in those days when ladies were often given in

marriage against their will, was, he flattered himself, of considerable

force. But he little knew with what a resolute maiden he had to deal.

Moreover, he was still ignorant of the outrages at St. Alban's the

previous evening, which were likely to bring fresh discredit on his

name. He only knew that Fulke had gone off on some raid, and had not

yet returned when he left Bedford.

William de Breaute was several years younger than his brother--not much

senior, in fact, to Ralph de Beauchamp himself. French by title and

education, he had imported something of Continental grace and manners

into the Anglo-Norman society of the time in Bedfordshire. He was more

careful of his dress and person than the other young men of the

neighbourhood. Instead of the short curling beard and half-long hair

which was the fashion in England, he wore only a small,

carefully-trimmed moustache, and his dark hair was cut short all over

his head. He had first met the Lady Aliva at a hunting-party held in the

woods on the other side of the river, by Sir William Wake of Stevington

Castle, when the maiden, no mean horsewoman nor inferior shot with the

cross-bow, had greatly distinguished herself by her prowess in venery.

Since then, upon every occasion, William de Breaute had attempted to

ingratiate himself with the daughter of De Pateshulle, by his

foreign-cultured manners, and by showing, not altogether unsuccessfully

perhaps, that he was more of a lady's man than the young knights and

squires of the county who flocked around her. But up till now he had

not ventured to make serious love to her. Indeed, with his frothy,

shallow nature, an impetuous, earnest wooing such as Ralph's would not

have been easy.

There was a twofold motive in the suit De Breaute now sought to press.

With his admiration for the stately beauty mingled a desire to establish

himself firmly in his position by an alliance with an old family, such

as that of a De Pateshulle. He was by no means totally insincere in

disclaiming any part in Sir Fulke's malpractices, and was keenly alive

to the precarious footing upon which he stood in Bedfordshire, both on

account of the sympathy universally felt for the ejected De Beauchamps,

and also by reason of his brother's lawless freebooting career.

In anything but an enviable state of mind Aliva sat at the little window

of her chamber, her hands clasped convulsively round her knees, and

watched the watery rays of the sunshine of a winter's afternoon piercing

the fog, which slowly mounted from the river over the low-lying country

around. The scene seemed to her typical of her unhappy position.

"The sunshine of my life is past and gone," she exclaimed to herself,

with the acute bitterness of sorrowing youth. "My sun has vanished, and

the mists creep on apace! They threaten to enshroud me. I know not

which way to turn!" she added, with the reaction of despair common to

all proud, high-spirited natures. "O my father, my father! the burden

you have laid upon me is too heavy to bear! Since you first told of

your wishes--nay, your commands--I have been torn hither and thither.

Had I a mother, had that dear parent not been taken so early from me,

she would have known, have felt, that this is no idle fancy, no passing

friendship for Ralph! O be merciful! do not force me to take another!"

Those were the days when a dutiful and reverential spirit of obedience

to parents, of which we find now, unhappily, not so much trace, was

looked upon as a sacred duty. Daughters were given in marriage by their

parents with but little regard for their own wishes, and rich

heiresses--though indeed poor Aliva was not one of these latter--were

even disposed of by royal authority for political purposes. In the

hapless Margaret de Ripariis, the wife of Fulke, Aliva had herself seen

an instance of such a forced marriage. No wonder that she was in

despair, and had torn herself away from Ralph in confusion and distress,

when her miserable position was suddenly recalled to her.

Even as she thus moaned to herself, the sun sank behind a bank of mist,

and a raw, gray gloom fell over the landscape, while home-coming rooks

settled in the tall elms round the house, cawing mournfully.

"My father said he might come this very day," Aliva thought to herself.

"But surely the vesper-bell will soon be ringing from the church, and

then, thanks to our blessed St. Margaret, I shall be safe for yet

another day!"

But even as she spoke she heard the sound of a horseman riding in under

the gateway, and of Dicky Dumpling's voice bawling to a serving-man; for

after his visit to the lay-brother's cottage, and the news he had there

heard, the fat porter felt in no mood to hold the bridle of a De

Breaute.

But Aliva did not peep from her window as she had done when Ralph rode

off, for she guessed who had come, and her heart sank within her.

Quickly there came a knock at the door, and the old serving-woman

entered.

"My lady, my lord thy father desires you attend him in the great hall."

"Tell him I come," answered Aliva, and she rose.

A daughter's obedience she owed, and she would indeed obey an order to

confront this unwelcome suitor. But even as she smoothed her flowing

hair, and, with the natural vanity of a girl about to meet an admirer,

arranged it beneath the fillet, and settled the sweeping lines of her

tight-fitting robe, the exigency of the crisis raised the maiden's

spirit. For she was of Anglo-Norman blood. Her sires had fought at

Hastings, and from each line of ancestors she inherited totally distinct

qualities of bravery, dogged resolution, intrepid pride, and tenacity of

purpose, which, blended together, have produced the finest race the

world has ever seen.

As she entered the hall door opening into the dais or upper end, her

father and William de Breaute, standing together in the oriel, thought

they had never seen her look so "divinely tall, and most divinely fair."

With one glance at the latter she swept straight up to her parent, and

spoke slowly and clearly, though it needed all her strong self-will to

suppress her agitation.

"Father," she said, "I saw Sir Ralph de Beauchamp here this morning."

A complete silence followed as she ceased and stepped quietly to the

deep oriel window, passing her father on the other side to that on which

De Breaute stood. There was silence as she gazed fixedly out into the

distant winter landscape, over which the dusk was already gathering, her

teeth set, her lips firmly closed, and her clasped hands so tightly

clinched that the nails cut into her flesh. She moved not a muscle, but

stood rigid as a statue.

De Pateshulle shifted uneasily on his feet, and sought his guest's face

with restless eyes and troubled expression, giving an apologetic cough.

The large log burning in the open fireplace half-way down the hall fell

with a sudden crash from the fire-dogs, as one charred end gave way.

De Breaute started. He had been cowed for a moment by the flashing

glance Aliva had given him as she entered the hall. He had been stabbed

by a maddening pang of jealousy at the few words she had spoken. But in

the silence which followed he regained courage, and plunged vehemently

into the set speech he had prepared,--

"Most beauteous Lady Aliva, fairest daisy of an English meadow, witching

Diana of the woods, behold in me a poor suppliant from _outre mer_,

falling at your fair feet, wounded to death by the glance of your bright

een, the victim of Venus _venerie_! I pray thee, proud damoiselle, to

deign to look upon me with favour, and to fan with words of comfort the

fire ardent your beauty hath enkindled!"

He paused for lack of breath, and then launched out again into

Continental flowers of compliment and gallantry.

As he spoke he advanced gradually towards Aliva, bowing, his hand upon

his heart.

The two were only about six paces apart. Slowly and deliberately Aliva

took those six paces, with an expression of indignation and scorn. Her

right fist was tightly clinched. She raised her arm, and (we must

remember this was the thirteenth and not the nineteenth century) she

struck the dark little Frenchman full in the face.

*CHAPTER IV.*

_*IN BEDFORD CASTLE.*_

A few weeks after William de Breaute, his face smarting and disfigured

by a blow from a woman's hand, had ridden off from Bletsoe, his elder

brother Fulke--"that disgrace to knighthood," as Ralph de Beauchamp had

termed him--sat one morning in his wife's apartment in his castle of

Bedford.

The lady's bower, as the private room of the _chatelaine_ was called,

was at Bedford pleasantly situated in the upper part of the great keep

reared by Pain de Beauchamp. The interior arrangement of a Norman

castle was usually as follows:--

The ground-floor, to which there was no entrance from without, was

called the _dungeon_, and was used as a storehouse for the provisions

which were necessary to enable the castle to stand a siege. Here, also,

was the well, another necessity, and prisoners were also sometimes

confined in the ground-floor, hence the application of the name to

prisons in general. The greater part of the first floor was occupied by

the large apartment called the hall. This was approached by steps

outside the building, and was entered through a portal which was often

highly ornamented. The great hall was common ground to all who had any

right to enter the keep, but above it were the private rooms for the

lord and his family, which were usually approached by a staircase built

at one corner of the keep. The windows were very small: in the lower

portion of the building were long narrow tunnels pierced through the

thickness of the wall; but in the upper stories, where the walls were

safe from attack by battering-rams or such engines, they were often

splayed within at a wide angle. In the recess thus formed seats could

be placed commanding a view through the narrow window, covered only by a

wooden shutter, which could be hooked back when the weather permitted.

In such a nook, in her own private room, sat Margaret de Ripariis, the

lady of Bedford Castle. The view from out of the open window was a

pleasant one. Immediately at her feet was the strong wall surrounding

the keep itself; its exact position can even now be determined, as we

stand on the flat bowling-green which occupies the summit of the mound

where the keep once stood. Beyond, the broad stream of the Ouse

protected the castle along the whole of the southern front. Across the

river, to the right, the Micklegate, or southern portion of the town,

clustered round the two churches of St. Mary and St. Peter, Dunstable;

and the view from the upper stories of the keep embraced the abbey of

Elstow, with its great Norman church, some two miles further to the

south, and was only bounded by the blue line of the Ampthill hills.

But charming as was the prospect, the Lady Margaret was not regarding it

with any expression of satisfaction. In fact, her thoughts were quite

otherwise occupied. A controversy was going on at that moment between

herself and her lord and master, and she merely gazed out of the window

in order to turn away her eyes from him, for they were full of tears. An

unfortunate contrast to the scene within were the calm river and the

bright spring sunshine without.

The Lady Margaret had barely reached middle age, but sorrow and care had

worn weary lines on a face which, some twenty years before, must have

been one of exceeding beauty. When a young girl, she had betrothed

herself to William de Beauchamp, Ralph's uncle; but by an overstraining

of that feudal law which allowed the king, or any other chief, the power

to give his ward in marriage, she had been forced by King John into a

distasteful match with Fulke de Breaute. It would have been possible,

but difficult, for a strong-willed woman to resist the will and the

command of a feudal superior. But in the case of an heiress, such as

was Margaret de Ripariis, great pressure was exercised, and many women

in those days had to yield against their will and inclination. Fulke de

Breaute himself was at that time a young man in the height of favour

with King John, who was then engaged in his desperate struggle with his

barons, and who eventually rewarded his supporter with the governorship

of Bedford, and the hand of the rich heiress.

But on the morning in question in this chapter the redoubtable Fulke was

in a somewhat less defiant, and even in a penitent mood. Not, however,

that he had as yet made any act of reparation for the terrible deed of

pillage and murder committed on St. Vincent's Eve at St. Alban's, and

which the ferocious knight had finally crowned by carrying off a crowd

of men, women, and children to his stronghold at Bedford.

In those days freebooting barons pounced upon prisoners for the sake of

ransom, much as the Greek brigands do now, and we may be sure that the

burgesses of St. Alban's had to pay up pretty heavily ere their

fellow-townsfolk were restored to them. The chronicler, however, does

not relate the fate of these unfortunate creatures thus hurried off to

Bedford, but what he does tell us is, that the conscience of Fulke, dead

enough probably when that miscreant was awake, had been pricking him as

he slept; and "conscience doth make cowards of us all."

De Breaute was suffering mentally from an uneasy night and a very ugly

dream. He had seen, the chronicler relates--though how he came by such

an intimate knowledge of the knight's dream does not transpire--he had

seen a huge stone fall from the summit of the great central tower of St.

Alban's Abbey--that tower built of the bricks of the Roman Verulam which

we still see rising high above the city--and had felt it fall upon him

and crush him to powder.

One cannot but think that Sir Fulke was paying the penalty for a too

hearty indulgence in some indigestible dish at the supper-table the

evening before. Be that how it may, however, he awoke with a great cry,

and told the dream to Lady Margaret. The latter, as much alarmed as her

husband, drew from him an account of his late raid, of which the

presence of the captives had given her an inkling, and then urged him to

go off forthwith to St. Alban's, and make reparation at the shrine of

the saint.

With the morning light, however, Sir Fulke, himself again, demurred. He

began to regret that he had told his wife all. The brief season of

superstitious fear had passed away, and his usual condition of ferocity

and self-will supervening, he was endeavouring, and not unsuccessfully,

to master the better feeling that had arisen within him.

The Lady Margaret had, under the seemingly fortuitous circumstances of

her husband's brief penitence, ventured to bring forward a matter she

had at heart. It was now the season of Lent. In the famous Benedictine

Nunnery of Elstow, close to Bedford, Martin de Pateshulle, Archdeacon of

Northampton, and the uncle of Aliva, was holding a series of special

devotional services for women, or what we should now call a retreat,

which was attended by many of the ladies of the county. Margaret, sick

at heart with her life at Bedford Castle, and weary of the blasphemies

and the sacrilege of her husband, was most anxious to escape, if only

for a time, into the seclusion of religious life.

The old chaplain of the castle, the pious and venerable priest, who had

taught Ralph de Beauchamp his _hic_, _haec_, _hoc_, had long since been

gathered to his rest. Indeed, had he still been alive, he could

scarcely have continued in his office under the new _regime_. So

chaplain at this time there was none in Bedford Castle. He must,

indeed, have been a strange priest who would have been acceptable to

Fulke and his crew.

St. Paul's, the principal church in the town, had been despoiled by the

sacrilegious baron, who had carried off the stones of which it was built

to repair his stronghold, and it is not clear if the Augustinian canons

who continued to serve it, though they had removed many years before to

the priory erected for them at Newenham by Roisia de Beauchamp, would

have found just then an altar to serve. Only on certain occasions would

her brutal husband permit Margaret to attend to her religious duties at

the chapel of St. Thomas-at-bridge, which stood at the foot of the

bridge outside the castle gate. This morning, however, taking advantage

of the fit of penitence which had seized him in the night, she was

craving permission to go to the retreat at Elstow.

"I like not your running after these priests and their masses,"

remonstrated Sir Fulke. "We have gone many years with chapel unserved

here. You know I have made of it a lumber-room; and we are none the

worse for it, and," he added, with a grim chuckle, "perchance none the

better."

"But, and did you allow me, I would go pray for you, while you yourself

get you to the shrine of St. Alban, and make reparation to the holy

servants of St. Benedict there, as you promised me last night, on your

honour, you would do," pleaded the wife.

Sir Fulke winced at this allusion to his weakness and terror in the

hours of darkness.

"Besides, you have often exhorted me to stand well for your sake with

the knights and noble families round, and you know full well how many

ladies are like to be at Elstow."

Sir Fulke paused awhile. It was perfectly true, as his wife had said,

that he wanted to improve his social position in the neighbourhood, and

though the superstitious fears arising from his fearful dream had now

vanished, he was well aware that his last raid, with its accompanying

murders, was more than any decent-minded men could put up with, even in

those rough and cruel days. Therefore, as religious observances counted

for much in the way of expiation of crime, he came to the conclusion

that no harm would be done by a little vicarious repentance.

"Go, then," he said roughly. "But take care that if aught is said to

you concerning this St. Alban's turmoil, you make out the best case you

can for me. Say that the bailiff was burned by my men ere I got to the

abbey gate, and that I knew naught of it till afterwards. You can add

that some of my men-at-arms have been hanged for it, or aught else that

occurs to you. Your woman-wit will tell you what to say."

"And then," exclaimed Lady Margaret, overlooking, in her thankfulness,

the condition of lying imposed on the desired permission--"and then you

will go yourself to St. Alban's, and--"

"Peace, woman!" interrupted the knight; "leave me to order my own

doings. I will command your palfrey to be ready. Take one of your

women with you, and I will order varlets to go attend you. I would not

that the wife of De Breaute should go to Elstow with any fewer train

than the other dames."

So saying, Sir Fulke strode from the room, leaving his wife setting

about her preparations for departure with all alacrity.

De Breaute, rough and cruel as he was, had a great idea of keeping such

state at Bedford as befitted a castle of such importance, and had no

notion of letting it go down from the position which it had occupied in

the time of the De Beauchamps. Indeed, from a military point of view,

he had considerably strengthened it by adding to its defences with the

material he had robbed from St. Paul's. Within, it was well garrisoned

and provisioned, and held by a force of nearly one hundred men-at-arms,

or trained soldiers, besides grooms, servants, and followers. Though

deprived of the services of a chaplain, the Lady Margaret was allowed to

have two or three waiting-women or attendants, who held more the

position of companions than mere servants.

Accompanied by one of these, she found herself, an hour or two after her

interview with her husband, riding on her palfrey towards Elstow Abbey.

Her companion was a young and pretty girl who, by her combined prudence

and archness, managed to hold her own among the rough crew who

garrisoned Bedford Castle, while her bright wit and merry laugh at times

shed a brief ray of brightness on the gloomy life of her unfortunate

mistress, whose loneliness was cheered by her faithful attachment.

Beatrice Mertoun might, had she been inclined, have chosen a husband for

herself from her many admirers among De Breaute's chief retainers. But

her affections were already fixed upon an officer in the royal army, one

John de Standen, the king's miner, from the Forest of Dean. De Standen

occupied an important post as director of the mining operations so

necessary in a siege, though he did not hold the rank of a knight, and

therefore could hardly be said to represent a modern officer of

engineers.

As the two ladies, followed by their grooms, proceeded on the way, the

Lady Margaret confided to Beatrice the story of her lord's dream,

congratulating herself on its result being so far favourable as to allow

her to pay this visit to the abbey.

"Now, by my halidom," quoth the maiden, as she listened to the account

of the vision, her thoughts running rather on her lover than on this

pious pilgrimage, "methinks to hurl down a stone like that were rather

more like the work of Master John de Standen than of the holy Alban!"

"Tush, child! jest not of the blessed saints!" reproved the elder woman.

"I meant no harm, lady," retorted the incorrigible Beatrice. "I was

ever taught that the holy Alban was a good soldier and true, like De

Standen, but I never heard that he was at his best in the mining works

of a siege!"

But her lady hardly caught her last remark. Her eye perceived the tall

central tower of Elstow rising among the trees, and the sight suggested

alarming thoughts to her harassed mind.

"Ah me!" she said, half to herself. "What if my lord in his madness

should attack the holy abbey of Elstow and the reverend women there!"

"And lack-a-day, my lady," Beatrice went on, "men do say that the king

will certes one day pull down Bedford Castle over Sir Fulke's head; and

who could raze those stout walls without the aid of bold John and his

men?"

But the elder lady continued to pursue her own train of thought

concerning the abbey and the approaching retreat, so that the

conversation ran on between the two in the following somewhat disjointed

fashion, the venerable Archdeacon Martin de Pateshulle and the bold John

de Standen being alternately the theme.

"He will draw us all up higher when we come within those walls."

"Nay, lady; methinks he will draw them down about our ears and ourselves

with them."

"How meanest thou? I speak of the holy church and the reverend father."

"In good sooth, it looks strong and stout, the abbey church; and yet,

were it a castle, methinks John could find his way beneath its walls."

"And how, Beatrice? To me it seems to figure the firmness of Holy

Church, founded on the rock of the blessed apostle, the see of our lord

his Holiness the Pope."

"Yet neither rock nor sea can withstand the skilful miner's advances;

for John has ofttimes explained to me how he has dug his mines beneath

the water of the deepest moat."

And so, running on at cross purposes, they rode through the abbey

gateway, and entered the outer or guests' yard.

*CHAPTER V.*

_*IN ELSTOW ABBEY.*_

Elstow is probably connected in the minds of most people with the name

of John Bunyan only. But long before the time of the Puritan tinker

Elstow had a history and a renown of its own. Here Judith, niece of the

Conqueror and wife of Waltheof, Earl of Northampton and Huntingdon, the

Saxon hero and martyr, had founded an abbey of Benedictine nuns,

endowing it with many broad acres. The stately abbey church still

remains in part, and is used as the parish church, though much shorn of

its beauty; for the central tower, chancel, and Ladychapel have all

disappeared, and the nave only is left. The Lady de Breaute and her

attendant dismounted from their palfreys in the outer yard, beyond which

men were not allowed to penetrate, and whence the grooms returned to

Bedford with the horses. The servants of the convent approached, headed

by the ancient steward. He recognized the wife of the Robber Baron, but

received her with a low obeisance; for he knew her to be a dutiful

servant of the Church, and one who protested, as far as in her lay,

against her husband's outrages on church and monastery. Informing her

that the office had already commenced in the church, and that the

archdeacon would address the congregation when vespers were over, he led

them into the crowded nave.

It was now late in the afternoon, and already dusk within the depths of

the severe Norman church. The narrow windows admitted but little light,

and there were no lamps burning in the bare, unfurnished nave, which on

an occasion like the present was thrown open to the public, who could

listen to the offices chanted by the nuns within the massive screen,

beyond which the _externs_ were not allowed to penetrate. On the west

side of the screen a small temporary platform or pulpit had been

erected.

From within the choir, behind the screen, came the solemn sound of the

sisters' voices, chanting vespers to Gregorian tones, unaccompanied by

any instrumental music, and rolling thrillingly through the echoing

church. As she knelt in the dim light Margaret felt almost happy. A

calm, a peace, such as she had not known for months, stole over her

somewhat weak and susceptible nature as she listened to the singing in

the gloomy twilight of the grand church, and it fanned the ray of hope

which her husband's professed penitence had kindled in her weary heart.

Nor was Beatrice Mertoun, whose opportunities of worship since she had

been at Bedford had been confined to attendance at the tiny chapel at

St. Thomas-at-bridge, unimpressed.

The office over, the Archdeacon of Northampton, Martin de Pateshulle,

took his stand on the little platform by the screen and began his

sermon. It was addressed, not to the nuns in the choir behind, but to

the lay-folk gathered in the nave before him. His subject--a favourite

one with ecclesiastics of all ages--was the persecution of the Church;

his text, so to speak, was the evil-doings of Fulke de Breaute. Of

course he was unaware of the presence of the latter's unhappy wife, or

he would not have touched so directly on the personal character of the

Robber Baron, nor enlarged so particularly on the destruction of St.

Paul's Church and the raid upon the Abbey of St. Alban. Finally, he

rose to a passion of indignation and stern vengeance in denouncing the

perpetrator of these outrages, and concluded in a different

key--supplicating divine aid for Zion in her bondage, and describing the

Church under forms of scriptural imagery much employed by the preachers

of the time.

When the discourse was ended the congregation of _externs_ passed out of

the nave and into the outer court to the abbey gateway. But the Lady

Margaret made her way to the lodgings of the abbess at the south-west

corner of the church.

The foundation of Judith had risen in importance, and was now one of the

principal religious houses in the neighbourhood. The abbess was of

noble birth, and the convent was largely composed of ladies belonging to

the county families, if we may believe the chronicle of names which has

come down to us. In later days, just prior to the dissolution, these

religious ladies waxed somewhat secular in their mode of life, and drew

down upon them the stern reproof of their bishop; but in the thirteenth

century Elstow Abbey retained most of its proper character and strict

discipline. In so important a house, owning such wide estates, the

abbess had many secular rights, duties, and privileges to occupy her

without, so a prioress was responsible for the internal arrangement and

order. To the abbess it fell, as the dignified head of the house, to

receive visitors and to exercise hospitality. To the abbess Lady

Margaret accordingly presented herself, that she might gain entrance to

the convent, and share, during the archdeacon's special services, in the

life of the nuns, as far as might be permitted to an outsider. A

lay-sister, the portress of the abbess's lodgings, conducted Lady

Margaret to the parlour or room open to guests. The dignified lady who

had for some years so discreetly ruled at Elstow Abbey had just returned

from the evening office, and received her visitor while still clad in

her choir habit.

"Black was her garb, her rigid rule

Reformed on Benedictine school;

Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;

Vigils and penitence austere

Had early quenched the light of youth."

Above the long black robe and the scapulary, which formed the ordinary

monastic dress of Benedictine nuns, she wore a cowl or hood similar to

that used by the monks of the order and worn by the nuns in church. In

her right hand she carried her pastoral staff, and the third finger of

her left hand was adorned by a massive gold ring--the symbol of her

profession as the spouse of Christ.

The abbess advanced to meet Lady Margaret with much cordiality, for the

latter's sad history was well known to her; and all persons of whatever

ecclesiastical degree who were acquainted with it felt sympathy and pity

for her who was the wife, against her will, of the Church's deadly

enemy.

"Lady of Bedford Castle," she said, "you are welcome to our abbey of

Helenstowe, and to the protection of Our Lady and the Most Holy

Trinity,"--for it was by this latter dedication that the house was then

known.

As she spoke the nun made a gesture of benediction, and the Lady

Margaret a low reverence of respect.

"Reverend mother," she replied, "to enter your sanctified dwelling and

to pray in your holy church is indeed a privilege which lessens for me

the remembrance of the many burdens which I have already borne and the

dread expectation of the many sorrows which are still before me."

"Ah, my daughter," exclaimed the abbess, "you have already been in the

church and joined in the holy office? Alas that it has been so, and

that on your ears have fallen the words of our venerable Father Martin!

He knew not of your presence, or he would have chosen another theme."

The words of the preacher had reached the nuns in the choir on the

farther side of the screen, and they had heard that denunciation of

Fulke de Breaute by Martin de Pateshulle which had thrilled all who had

listened to it.

"It is indeed true, venerable abbess," replied the lady; "but no one

knows better than your unworthy servant that the deeds of my lord have

indeed deserved the just vengeance of Heaven. But I have come to

entreat the prayers of yourself and of your holy sisters that the first

signs of a repentance tardily begun may bear fruit."

The unhappy lady proceeded to recount to the abbess Fulke's dream of the

preceding night, and the nun gave her comfort and encouragement.

"Reverend mother," said Margaret, "your peaceful words fall like balm on

a weary heart. Suffer me, I pray, to remain awhile under this holy

roof, that I may share in the ministration of Father Martin, and also

for a time become, as it were, a dweller in this holy house."

"My daughter," replied the abbess, "right gladly do I accede to your

request. Holy Church has ever been a consoler to those who labour and

are heavy laden, and I doubt not but much peace shall come to you from

the venerable father's exhortations. And indeed, that you may enjoy more

frequent opportunities of converse with him in the intervals between the

offices, I will arrange for you to be my guest in my lodgings, instead

of sharing that portion of the abbey buildings which has been set aside

for the _extern_ women; for you know full well that Father Martin lodges

in the priest's chamber in these lodgings, as no priest may enter

further into the abbey except when engaged in the sacred office."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears at the abbess's kind words.

"Mother," she said, "I am all too unworthy of your goodness and

hospitality. Who am I, alas! that you should treat me thus?"

"My daughter, you are sorrowful; that is enough. To all who are in

misery does Holy Church hold out her arms. Enter in and find peace,"

she added, with a sign of benediction.

The Lady Margaret shared the abbess's supper later in the evening. The

archdeacon himself and the abbess's chaplain--that is to say, one of the

sisters specially selected as her companion or secretary, and who bore

that title of office--were the only other guests.

After the meal the Lady Margaret had an opportunity of unburdening her

mind to Martin de Pateshulle, and of relating her story. The good

priest was able to add further cheering suggestions to those already

made by the abbess. Comforted and thankful, at the conclusion of the

conversation the lady rose, and said,--

"Venerable father and reverend mother, thanks to your kind words I feel

less heart-sick than I have been for many a long day. I pray you now to

permit me to retire into the church, and there pray and meditate in

thankfulness ere begins the hour of compline."

The abbess acceded, volunteering herself to accompany her. The two

women passed out into the dark and silent cloisters, which ran along the

south side of the nave of the church. Up and down the pavement, in

silent meditation, paced here and there in the gloom a

Pensive nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestic train,

And sable stole of cypress lawn."

The abbess led her companion along the northern side, or _walk_ as it

was called, and entered the church by the door into the south transept;

for no opening was allowed to exist in the close screen shutting off the

nave, which was occasionally open to the public. Into the chancel and

the transepts were permitted to enter none but the officiating clergy

and the sisters themselves, or women introduced by authority.

Leaving the transept, they paused for a moment beneath the central

tower, and the abbess drew her monastic cowl over her head. Save for

the faint glow of a few lamps before the images of the saints, the

church was almost dark. At the extreme end of the chancel, before the

high altar, above which the blessed sacrament was deposited for

veneration in a closed tabernacle or shrine, burned one solitary lamp.

The abbess had happened to stop close to the massive Norman pier which

supported the south-eastern angle of the great tower above them. In

front of this pier stood a more than life-size figure of St. Paul. But

the uplifted right hand was empty, and the sword it should have grasped

was carefully laid at its feet.

"See, mother," cried Lady Margaret, "the sword has fallen from the hand

of the blessed apostle!"

"Nay," replied the abbess, "I removed it with my own hand. On that evil

day when we heard that Sir Fulke de Breaute had destroyed the fair

church of St. Paul at Bedford, I vowed to the saints that his statue in

our church should not bear the sword again till vengeance had been taken

upon the destroyer."

The unhappy wife covered her face with her hands with a low moan.

"May it be the vengeance of a true repentance!" she ejaculated.

The abbess laid her hand soothingly on her head.

"Pardon me, my daughter," she said, "I should not have told you of the

vow."

They passed on through the choir of the nuns, whose stalls occupied the

central crossing under the tower and a portion of the chancel, and

approached the high altar. At the foot of the steps a black-robed

figure knelt motionless in prayer.

"See," whispered Lady Margaret, "one of the sisters is here already!"

"Nay," replied the abbess; "she is not one of our sisters. She is a

young damsel of the neighbourhood who has come to our retreat and has

craved permission to wear for the time the habit of our novices. Poor

child, she is in sore distress! It is sad to see one so young and fair

thus cast down. Her talk is all of embracing the religious life. But a

vocation is not given to all damsels of lovely face and form. God has

for each woman her work and her duty. Some must perchance be wives and

mothers."

The abbess paused. A faint smile flickered over her still handsome face

as her thoughts wandered for a brief moment, even in the precincts of

her abbey church, back to bygone days when she, too, had been a young

and high-born beauty.

"The damsel," she continued, returning to the present, "is evidently in

sore perplexity. She has had much talk with her uncle, the revered

archdeacon. Perchance you know her. Her name is--"

At this moment the kneeling girl, aroused by the sound of whispering

behind her, looked round, and perceiving the abbess, rose and approached

to make an obeisance. The sad face, marble-like in its pallor, which

appeared above the black robes of a novice, was that of Aliva de

Pateshulle.

*CHAPTER VI.*

_*A PENITENT.*_

Fulke de Breaute had been in earnest when he had allowed his wife to go

to the retreat at Elstow, on condition that she should try to set

matters straight between himself and the Church; and she had no sooner

gone than he set to work to think matters over, and to consider how best

he could reinstate himself in the ecclesiastical good graces which he

felt he had entirely forfeited, but, however, without expending any of

his worldly wealth in restitution or reparation.

In those days there were two acknowledged ways of making peace with

offended ecclesiastical authority. One of these was the endowing,

building, or otherwise pecuniarily assisting religious foundations,

especially monasteries.

But Fulke had no notion of spending his ill-gotten gain in such a

manner.

There was another plan which he could adopt, and for which he had the

highest precedent. Just half a century before the date of our story, no

less a personage than the King of England himself, Henry II., had

submitted to the penance of corporal punishment in the chapter-house of

Canterbury, in expiation of words spoken in hasty anger which had

indirectly brought about the death of an archbishop.

The idea seized Fulke of a similar form of reconciliation with Holy

Church.

Accordingly, the day after his wife's departure he set off for the abbey

of St. Alban. His dress was of studied simplicity. He wore no armour,

but was clad in the ordinary long robe or gown which was worn in civil

life by all above the rank of labourers and manual workers, and a plain

cloak, fastened by a buckle or brooch on his right shoulder, fell over

his left side.

The gowns or cloaks of the upper classes at that time were richly

ornamented with deep borders of embroidery, but Fulke had carefully

selected garments free from any such adornments. He had also removed

his gilt spurs of knighthood, and any who met him riding along the road

might well have taken him for a physician, notary, or some professional

man of the laity. The grooms who followed him also wore the plainest

attire; and the whole party were mounted upon mere hacks or palfreys,

very unlike the ponderous war-horses usually bestridden by men in

armour.

By the afternoon Fulke had reached St. Alban's, and saw before him rise

the abbey towers.

"Once resplendent dome,

Religious shrine......

Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb.

Years roll to years, to ages, ages yield,

Abbots to abbots in a line succeed;

Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed."

At the abbey gate he made known his name and rank to the astonished

porter, who failed to recognize in the unobtrusive figure requesting an

audience with the abbot the dreaded leader of the murderous attack upon

the sanctuary but a few weeks before.

The abbot came hurrying out. He, too, was amazed that the sacrilegious

robber who had lately extorted from him the sum of one hundred pounds,

under threat of destroying the town, should again pay him a visit, and

in such a guise.

Fulke was well acquainted with the etiquette necessary on such

occasions. He dismounted, went down on one knee before the dignified

ecclesiastic, and raised the hem of the latter's habit to his lips.

"Thou seest in me, reverend father," he exclaimed, "a humble penitent

come to offer submission to his holy Mother, and to crave thy gracious

absolution for misdeeds committed!"

The abbot was well aware how to deal with such cases. Penance he knew

he could enjoin; restitution he hoped he might suggest.

"My son," he said, "Holy Church ever receives back into her fold those

who have erred and strayed. But follow me," he added; "I, the humble

servant of the Church, will call my brethren together to treat with me

of so weighty a matter as concerneth this visit of thine."

Consigning Fulke to the care of the guest-master, the abbot went off to

give directions for the immediate summoning of a chapter, and the Robber

Baron was left swearing, in his usual brutal way, at his men for some

carelessness as to his orders.

Wondering much for what cause a council was assembled at so unusual an

hour, the monks came streaming into the chapter-house. The long,

narrow, barrel-roofed apartment opening from the east walk of the

cloister on the south side of the transept was soon filled, and the

chapter duly opened according to the usual custom. Then the abbot

announced the purpose of the assemblage.

"My brethren," said he, "we are here gathered together upon no slight

matter. The prayers of this poor house have been heard, and God and our

holy Alban have stretched forth their power and moved a heart of stone

deeply sunken in iniquity. But even now came Fulke de Breaute to our

gates, and came, not as before, an impious marauder, but as a penitent

and a suppliant craving absolution."

A great sigh of amazement floated from the lips of the assembled

brethren up to the vaulted roof.

"Brothers," added the abbot, "I beg you to grant me the benefit of your

wisest counsel in this matter."

There was a silence. Advice is a thing usually to be had for the

asking. But the abbot of the great house of St. Alban was a personage

of much power and importance, and accustomed to rule with a high hand,

and no one seemed at this moment in any way inclined to grudge him his

supreme authority.

"By the holy rood," exclaimed the father almoner, breaking the silence

at last, "this is no easy task. The French tyrant is even within our

gates, say you, reverend father? Would he had stayed in his own

ill-gotten castle! The lion is dangerous even in a cage, and Sir Fulke

respects not even holy places, we know. We have e'en heard of a wolf in

sheep's clothing."

"But he cometh as a penitent, we are to understand," put in the

prior.--"Brothers, we see the finger of God in this matter. He hath

delivered this Philistine of Gath into our hands. Praise be to him!"

And they all crossed themselves devoutly.

"And a penitent beseeching absolution," said another brother, the old

father cellarer. "He must show his repentance in works. A tree is

known by its fruits. Let him give back the hundred pounds he hath taken

from Holy Church."

"And furthermore," added the father sacristan, "let us do even as the

Israelites were commanded when they left the land of Egypt. Let us

spoil him of silver and gold. He owes us not only our own, but some

reparation."

The discussion grew. The assembly seemed of many minds. At length, in

the hope of arriving at some conclusion, the prior made a suggestion, an

unfortunate one for the abbey, as matters turned out.

"By the mass, reverend father and brothers of the order of Holy

Benedict, we waste our time. Were it not well to have this penitent

before us, and to question him as to his purpose of showing his

repentance?" he said.

In an evil moment the motion was carried, so to speak, and Fulke was

invited to enter the chapter-house.

Unarmed and alone though he was, the monks began to tremble visibly as

their grim visitor strode into the assemblage, and a silence fell on all

the tongues so ready to wag but a few moments before.

The Robber Baron made obeisance to the abbot, who began by delivering a

suitable homily, adorned with texts and quotations, on the special

subject of the readiness of the Church to receive sinners back to her

arms. It concluded with a broad hint that the abbey should be

compensated for the harm done to her; but it was a guarded discourse,

for the abbot could not tell how the dreaded tyrant might receive his

suggestion.

[Illustration: The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church.]

Fulke ignored it.

In a reply full of proper respect and deep humiliation, he brought

forward the leading case of Henry II at Canterbury, and expressed his

willingness to submit to like discipline as full and complete

satisfaction for his crime.

He chose his words carefully. The discipline was to be complete

satisfaction. There was no mistaking the drift of his meaning.

Feeling that they had indeed been foiled, the chapter requested the

penitent to withdraw, and deliberated again.

"By the light of Our Lady's brow," muttered the prior, under his breath,

"had I been the reverend father, I would so have spoken that the knight

could not fail to see that reparation was essential to repentance, as

well as penance."

"Tush!" answered the old father cellarer; "we want not a martyr here in

the abbey, even as the poor bailie (God rest his soul!) hath been

martyred for the town."

"Methinks it was evil counsel that was given when we decided to let the

penitent appear before us and choose his own punishment," said the

abbot, with a scowl at the prior. "But, my brethren, we must even be

content. As the humble ruler of this house, I think I may say that what

was not thought too heavy a censure for the King of England, in the holy

church of Christ at Canterbury, for the fearful crime of the murder of a

minister of Christ, will be sufficient punishment for the sacrilege of

this nameless Norman knight against our house. Is this the counsel of

the brethren?"

Perforce every one agreed.

Accordingly, next morning a solemn conclave again assembled in the

chapter-house. First came the brothers in their cowls, two and two;

then the prior, sub-prior, and other officers; and, lastly, the father

abbot himself in his robes of office. One of the officers, the master

of the novices, carried in his hand a scourge of cords.

The chapter assembled, Fulke was introduced between two of the brothers.

He had passed a not uncomfortable night, for though, as a penitent still

under the displeasure of the Church, he could not be admitted to the

abbot's table in the latter's lodgings, he seemed in no wise to feel the

indignity, and had done ample justice to the guest-master's

entertainment.

The abbot pronounced the sentence of the chapter, and Fulke, stripping

himself to the waist, knelt down, and leaning forward, presented his

bare back to the lash.

Round him in a circle stood the abbot and the monks, and from one to the

other the brethren handed a discipline or scourge of small cords, and

each monk in turn stepped forward and struck De Breaute a blow upon his

naked shoulders.

We need not inquire with what force the lashes were given. The

humiliation and the obedience were sufficient without taking into

consideration the actual pain inflicted. The Church triumphed in the

indignity of her enemy's position, and her ministers in avenging her

insulted honour.

The penance over, Sir Fulke rose and kissed each monk present. His

punishment was complete, and he left the chapter-house absolved. It did

not, apparently, occur to him that any act of restitution should

accompany the outward form of penance, for, as the chronicler

pathetically remarks, "Christ's faithful poor stood at the door of the

chapter-house expecting that something would be restored to them; but in

vain."

It may seem inconsistent in such a brutal and godless man as Fulke to

have submitted himself to this ignominious punishment. He acted,

however, from mixed motives. First, it was a little bit of religious

feeling, very small indeed, and call it superstition if you will, such

as caused him uneasiness the morning after his dream, which led him to

pay this visit to St. Alban's. Excommunication he feared, if indeed his

brutal nature could feel fear. But he dreaded it quite as much for its

temporal consequences as for those of the future; for it was apt to

affect unpleasantly a man's social and worldly position. Secondly, Sir

Fulke reflected that King Henry had certainly greatly strengthened

himself by that visit to the chapter-house at Canterbury. With such an

example, no one could aver that Sir Fulke's penance was unknightly or

derogatory to his position. Further, he was obliged to confess to

himself that he had much greater need of a coat of moral whitewash than

had Henry; and, lastly, there was what he considered the great advantage

of making his peace with the Church by an act of submission which did

not necessarily involve any restitution--a matter so alien to his greedy

disposition.

*CHAPTER VII*

*"*_*ARCADES AMBO.*_*"*

In the evening of the day on which the strange scene at St. Alban's

Abbey just described had taken place, Sir Fulke de Breaute sat with his

younger brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.

The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well satisfied with himself.

"By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have done a good morning's

work;" and he reached across to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood

on the table beside him, and poured himself out a deep draught. Then he

passed the wine across to his brother, who sat moodily staring into the

log-fire.

"Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering."

"'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the other sulkily. "I

like it not overmuch. Give me the pure clarets of France and Italy," he

added, but replenishing his horn all the same.

Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother. A great change had come over

William since that eventful evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe

in a perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses keeping time to

the rattle of his horse's hoofs. First and foremost he had cursed Ralph

de Beauchamp--for now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage he

drove the rowels again and again deep into the flanks of his unfortunate

steed. Next he cursed all the De Beauchamp family and all connected

with it. Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De Pateshulle had

urged him to prosecute the suit which had resulted in such dire

humiliation. But here he had paused in his curses.

He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's daughter with an oath.

Her face haunted him as he rode along: her face--first, cold and set as

marble, as when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then, flushed

and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, as she turned

to him from the window, and took those six paces to confront him. Her

scornful beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid passion seized

him.

He had flung himself from his horse in the castle-yard, and strode into

the hall, scattering curses right and left at the astonished servants,

used only to such a display of anger from his elder brother.

For weeks after this outburst he lived in a state of brooding

sullenness, broken only by occasional violent fits of rage. His

sister-in-law, if she met him in the hall, turned and fled. Even pretty

Beatrice Mertoun, whom he was wont to regard with more favour than

perhaps the bold miner would have approved of, flitted past him as

quickly as possible, with a mere nod.

Sir Fulke observed this change in his brother with grim satisfaction.

In furtherance of his new evil schemes he determined to turn to good or

bad account the dormant ferocity which had been aroused.

"Marry, brother," he remarked, "methinks there sits a cloud on your

brow, as if your thoughts were far away--perchance over Bletsoe way?" he

added, with a grim chuckle.

"What's that to you?" retorted William sullenly. "In good sooth you had

better mind your own business, and attend to your masses, and your

flagellations, and your retreats, along with the rest of the women folk,

and leave my thoughts to myself!"

"I crave your pardon, brother," replied Sir Fulke, in mock humility.

"Fill up again, man. I was a fool not to see that your meditations were

too unpleasant to be connected with so fair a subject as the Lady

Aliva."

"The Lady Aliva!" exclaimed William fiercely, leaning forward on the

table eagerly, and confronting his brother, his chin supported on his

hands, and his eyes gleaming--"the Lady Aliva! By the mass, I swear to

you, brother, I cease not to think of her night and day! I see her ever

before me, those eyes, those flashing eyes, that queenly form; I dream I

clasp her, and I awake mad with despair! May the curses of St. Denis of

France light for ever on that traitorous villain who dared supplant me,

on that lying fool of a De Pateshulle, who--" And he buried his face in

the deep flagon once more, as if to drown his feelings.

Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm.

"Hark ye, brother," he said; "calm yourself and lower your voice. I

have somewhat to say unto you which I care not that all the varlets in

the hall hear. Do you wish for vengeance on a De Pateshulle?"

"Do I?" gasped William. "Try me!"

"So be it. I will put vengeance within your reach. It shall lie with

you to take it, if you carry out the plan I have in my head."

"Another fat abbey to sack!" cried the younger brother. "In good sooth,

brother, you smite with your hands while you give your back to be

smitten," he laughed.

"Not so," rejoined Fulke. "I am in no mind to meddle with churches for

the nonce. This is quite another kind of deer to chase. You mind that

special commission of the king's justices, convoked at Dunstable not

long since to inquire into certain of my doings in these parts, which it

seemed pleased not those most concerned with them. It hath come to my

knowledge that the court has pronounced judgment against me. They may,

by my troth, if it pleases _them_, for it does _me_ no harm. No less

than thirty verdicts did they bring against me," he went on chuckling,

"and for these thirty verdicts some one shall suffer, I warrant me,

though it shall not be he whom their worships had in their mind's eye

when they delivered them!"

William gazed at his brother admiringly. His weaker, shallower brain,

already somewhat fuddled with his copious libations of the past few

weeks, followed him with difficulty.

"Beshrew me, brother, if I see what nail thou art hammering at. These

justices will have none of me."

"But I fain will that you have some of them," Fulke went on. "It would

beseem ill to the repentant son of Holy Church to lift his arm so soon

against her after she has absolved him, for one of these justices is a

priest. But you, brother, owe her naught. From trusty sources I learn

that these three legal spiders are to meet again at Dunstable for

further spinning as soon as this retreat at Elstow is over. Now, what

say you, brother, to meeting them upon their journey thither, and to

bringing to Bedford Castle, instead of to Dunstable town, the worshipful

Thomas de Muleton, Henry de Braybrooke, and Martin de Pateshulle?"

"Martin de Pateshulle!" interrupted William eagerly. "Pardie! a De

Pateshulle is a quarry that would please me well."

"He is learned in the law, this priest," Fulke continued, apparently not

heeding how his fish had risen to his bait. "The king can fare ill

without his counsel in these parts, and methinks, were he and his

brother worships safe caged in our stronghold here, it would prove Fulke

de Breaute to be a greater fool than men hold him for did he not get

what ransom he named. But, certes, I would be merciful, as it beseemeth

with a priest. I would ask neither silver nor gold, naught save the

remission of the thirty judgments that are out against me. What say

you, brother? Is the snaring this legal vermin to your mind?"

"'Twould be good sport, by my troth!" ejaculated William, "though

methinks it is no easy emprise! To seize the king's justices! 'Tis a

bold swoop, brother."

"Tush!" replied Fulke scornfully; "there speaks no brother of mine! I

trow a De Breaute, bastard from a little Norman village, had ne'er sat

in the seigneur's parlour of this, one of the fairest of English

castles, had he piped in that strain. Take another draught, brother,"

he added, pushing the flagon across.

"In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood in this cursed land of

fogs," apologized William, draining his horn. "But I must have some of

your best varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the country, and

plenty of them."

"Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks for such game as this,

man! These reverend justices shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a

noble train! Take heart o' grace. Think thee of thy vengeance. It is a

De Pateshulle that is the booty!"

"Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing up his courage still

further by another drink. Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the

niece and not the uncle!"

Fulke smiled grimly.

"And why not?" he asked quietly.

William, half stupified as he was fast becoming, saw the development of

a new plot.

"Pardie! That proud maiden here! Helpless--a prisoner! Niece snared

with the uncle! Ha, ha!" he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly. "Ha, my

lady! who would say me nay a second time? Not you, by St. Denis, I

warrant me!" and he laughed wildly. "Travel they together, say you?

Father Martin to Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay, beshrew

me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"

Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a maudlin giggle. Sir

Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon out of his reach, and called to two

varlets from the hall to carry his brother off to bed.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

_*JUSTICE IN BONDS.*_

A few mornings later the two worshipful justices of the king, Thomas de

Muleton and Henry de Braybrooke, were riding together through the

central part of the county, a few miles south of Bedford. They had been

engaged at Northampton in making preliminary arrangements for the great

council which the king proposed to hold there in the summer, and having

concluded that part of the business, were now journeying towards

Dunstable to clear off certain matters which had been left unfinished,

as their time there previously had been entirely taken up with examining

the many suits brought before them against Fulke de Breaute.

They had entered the county from Northamptonshire by the ford through

the Ouse at Turvey, and were riding leisurely along on their stout

palfreys, with their serving-men jogging behind them, and discussed as

they went grave legal questions and learned points of law.

For about eight miles after passing the ford, they took their way along

the boundary-line between the counties of Bedford and Buckingham, in a

southerly direction. Then turning eastward, they reached the

amphitheatre of hills which encloses the vale of Bedford on the

south-west. Passing the village of Cranfield and its Norman church,

still in part existing, they rode under the old fortifications and

earth-works of Brogborough--old even at that time--until at noon they

reached the castle of Rougemount, standing on a red sandy hill (whence

its name, corrupted in modern pronunciation and spelling into Ridgmount)

and commanding the country to the north.

Here they were expected by the lord of the castle, the Baron Lisle, who

had invited them to rest upon their journey and partake of his mid-day

meal. Here also they had arranged to meet their colleague, Archdeacon

Martin de Pateshulle, with whom they proposed to travel on to Dunstable.

As soon as the retreat at Elstow was over, the archdeacon had promised

to come direct to Rougemount, but Lord Lisle had awaited him in vain.

So when the other justices made their appearance, their host commanded

the repast to be served, without any further waiting for the absent

guest, whose non-arrival was unexplained.

Lord Lisle had exerted himself to provide a suitable entertainment for

guests of such high degree as the lords justices of the king.

"'Twas now the merry hour of noon,

And in the lofty arched hall

Was spread the gorgeous festival.

Steward and squire, with heedful haste,

Marshalled the rank of every guest;

Pages with ready blade were there,

The mighty meal to carve and share.

O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,

And princely peacock's gilded train,

And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,

And cygnet......

The priest had spoke his benison."

At the high table sat the host, his distinguished visitors on either

hand. Some of the notables of the neighbourhood were also present,

among whom was the lord abbot of the abbey of Woburn hard by. The head

of the Cistercian house, founded not a century before by Hugh de

Bolebec, had already come to hold a high position in the county.

Thronging the hall and the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and

retainers, who had accompanied their masters, many of them strangers not

only to one another, but to the servants belonging to the castle. In

those days any festivities at a great castle were attended by a motley

crowd of hangers-on, such as beggars, travelling minstrels, and the

like, who seemed to scent from afar the preparations for the banquet.

[Illustration: "Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and

retainers."]

On this occasion, however, these gentry were somewhat disappointed to

find that the expected guests were to be grave judges and churchmen.

The beggars, indeed, ranged themselves into position to ask for alms in

the name of religion, but the minstrels and the jugglers felt themselves

_de trop_. Finding their entertainments unacceptable to the guests,

they betook themselves to an audience of grooms and varlets in the

castle-yard.

The ancient seneschal of the castle, moving through the various groups,

his keys of office jingling at his side, remarked a swarthy man of

considerable height and size, who was evidently not connected with the

Saxon peasants around him. He was wrapped in a long, large cloak.

"So ho, friend! and whence comest thou?" asked the seneschal.

The nondescript stranger answered him in French; not in the

Norman-French which his interlocutor could easily have followed, but in

a dialect imperfectly known to the worthy head of the household of Lord

Lisle.

"I come from distant lands, noble seneschal. I chant love-lays to fair

ladies' ears."

"We have e'en no ladies here anon," replied the functionary gruffly,

"naught but abbots and justices. So get thee gone!"

At the mention of the word "justices" a momentary gleam of satisfaction

passed over the swarthy face of the stranger.

"Justices, good my lord seneschal?" he repeated.

"Yea, justices," retorted the seneschal, not noting the look. "Art

deaf, man? My lord the king's justices who travel towards Dunstable.

Did you _jongleurs_ expect a bevy of giddy damsels and young gallants?"

The burden of his duties had made Lord Lisle's officer somewhat testy.

"But perchance, with your good leave, I may sing to my lords the

justices' serving-men a song of fair France; or a love _chansonnette_

will I teach them, wherewith to tingle the ears of their Saxon gills?"

"As you will, man," answered the seneschal with a shrug, turning away,

"an you find fools to listen to such trash!"

"Thanks for your leave, good sir," the stranger called after him, with a

queer twinkle in his dark eye. Then he turned to one of De Braybrooke's

men, staring open-mouthed and stolid at the strange dialect and stranger

countenance. "Wilt list to a song, friend? It hath a refrain will ring

in thy ears and cheer thee on thy long journey."

"A long journey! Gramercy, a mole might see as how thou art a stranger

in these parts. A long journey to Dunstable, forsooth!"

"And is it not far?"

"Nine miles as the crow flies, I trows, and but eke some ten the way we

ride, through the woodland, by way of Eversholt," replied the varlet,

with a snigger of contempt.

"Aver--aver--sole," repeated the dark stranger, mispronouncing the name.

"This English tongue cracks the jaw!"

"Marry, he stammereth like a cuckoo at hay-harvest," jeered the other.

"Say it plain, man--Eversholt."

"Gather your fellows together while I go fetch my rebec I left at the

gate-house, and, pardie, you shall see what you shall see, and hear what

you shall hear," retorted the stranger imperturbably. But as he strode

across the yard, the serving-man, had he not been so busily engaged

mimicking the Frenchman's accent to his companions, might have noticed

an armed heel glitter beneath the folds of his cloak.

The day was wearing on ere the justices could tear themselves away from

Lord Lisle's hospitable board and once more proceed on their journey.

Southwards, beyond Rougemount, the country becomes more wooded. In the

higher parts of Woburn Park old timber trees even now show where once

the forest extended round the famous Cistercian abbey. In the midst of

this district stands a village, whose name, Eversholt--the _holt_, or

wood, of the _efer_ or wild boar--still hands down the characteristics

of the neighbourhood.

Into this wood, in the waning afternoon, rode, unsuspectingly, the two

justices, engaged in a warm discussion over some quibble of the law.

"Now, by my troth, brother Thomas," De Braybrooke was saying, "all our

jurisconsults are agreed that if the judge be free to act--"

He stopped short, and never finished his sentence, for he was "free to

act" no longer.

With a fierce cry of "A De Breaute! a De Breaute!" armed men rushed down

from either side of the road upon the hapless representatives of the

law, and surrounded them ere they could recover from their stupefaction.

"Let the varlets go free!" cried William de Breaute. "We have no need

of grooms!" he added, as he saw his men seizing the bridles of the

servants' horses as well as those of their masters.

It was a lucky cry for Thomas de Muleton, for it led to his escape. By

some mistake, the men who held his horse, not distinguishing in the

confusion between master and man, released their hold, and his servants,

closing round him, hurried him back along the woodland bridle-path

towards Rougemount.

Too late De Breaute saw the error. But De Muleton and his men had put

spurs to their horses, and he and his men-at-arms were all dismounted,

their horses tethered to the trees, or held by some of the band.

Pursuit was out of the question, even had the marauders dared to follow

up their prey to the very walls of Rougemount Castle.

William de Breaute's rage knew no bounds when he became aware that but

one of the desired prisoners had been secured. Swearing roundly at his

men for their blunder, he struck the unfortunate serving-man who had

been detained instead of his master a blow with the flat of his sword

which nearly knocked him off his horse, and allowed him to ride away

after his fellows.

"Pardie!" he swore. "We trouble not ourselves with dogs that can pay no

ransom. Get you gone!"

Disgusted with the less than half success of his scheme, he ordered his

men to remount, and the party rode off rapidly towards Bedford, the

hapless Henry de Braybrooke well guarded in their midst. De Breaute's

rage was a little softened, however, when he learned that he had not

missed two of his prey--that Martin de Pateshulle had not been of the

party, though as to his whereabouts De Braybrooke could give no

information.

*CHAPTER IX.*

_*AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.*_

The troop of horsemen made their way out of the wood, and soon

afterwards, riding down the romantic glen of Millbrook, reached the

Bedford valley. They were now on the road to Elstow, and nearing

Bedford itself; but as they approached the town, an incident occurred

which changed the direction of De Breaute's route.

The cavalcade were hurrying along, as their leader was anxious to get

his prisoners safe into the castle ere the town-folk should be aware of

their capture. For although the burgesses of Bedford had by this time

been sufficiently cowed by the Robber Baron and his men, and were by no

means unaccustomed to seeing prisoners swept off into the "devil's

nest," as they called his castle, yet it was more satisfactory that the

impounding should be done without any fuss or disturbance.

So through the little village of Elstow clattered the horsemen, their

arms and accoutrements ringing as they went. The village people

recognized with a shudder the soldiers from Bedford Castle. They were

mostly retainers of the abbey, and they crossed themselves devoutly and

uttered a prayer as the enemies and spoilers of the church rode by.

They scarcely noted the unfortunate judge who was being jolted along in

their midst at a pace so different from that at which he usually

travelled, and who

"Little thought when he set out

Of running such a rig."

Increasing their pace, the hurrying troop scattered the wayfarers right

and left. The inhabitants fled into their houses; the peasants dragged

their beasts and carts into the ditches. All knew that there could be

the servants of but one man who would ride through the country in this

fashion.

But as they passed the abbey gate, De Breaute and his men, in their

headlong career, charged full tilt into a small party of riders just

turning out of the archway.

This knot of travellers seemed in no wise disposed to give De Breaute's

horsemen more than their fair share of the road, and did not draw aside

into the hedge, after the manner of the peasants. The two foremost of

the little company were an elderly and dignified ecclesiastic, and a

young and graceful lady whose wimple and riding-hood concealed her face.

The old priest, encumbered with his ecclesiastical habit, was unable to

resist the impetus with which the armed party bore down upon the

defenceless travellers. Too late, he drew rein aside; but the ponderous

war-horse of the foremost man-at-arms struck his palfrey full on the

flank, and rolled both horse and rider to the ground.

The mass of horsemen, rushing in wedge shape, separated the priest from

his companion, and the latter was forced to the opposite side of the

road. She was either quicker, more skilful, or better mounted than was

the elderly ecclesiastic; for not only did she turn her horse aside just

at the right moment and avoid an imminent collision, but putting him at

the boundary hedge which bordered the road, cleared it in a style which

showed her to possess the hand and seat of a first-rate horsewoman.

The unexpected encounter caused a sudden and confused halt to De

Breaute's party, and their leader was able to give a by no means pleased

look at those who, by no fault of their own, but by reason of the

furious onrush of his own men, had unintentionally impeded his progress.

But when once he had glanced at the bold horsewoman escaping by her leap

from the confused throng, he hardly deigned to notice the prostrate

priest striving to extricate himself from his dangerous position. For

as her horse cleared the obstacle, the riding-hood, which concealed the

features of the rider, fell back upon her shoulders, and revealed to his

astonished gaze the lovely face of Aliva de Pateshulle.

In a moment his brother's orders were all forgotten. Even had he

recognized Martin de Pateshulle in the dismounted horseman, it is not

likely he would have paused to capture him. But shouting to two of his

men to follow him, he turned quickly round, and putting spurs to his

horse, rode after the retreating figure at the top of his speed.

His leaderless party pulled themselves together, so to speak, and gazed

after the pursued and the pursuer till they vanished round the corner of

the abbey walls. They gave vent to a few coarse jests over their

master's disappearance, and then the senior among them took upon himself

the command of the party. He turned to the unlucky priest, whom his

servants had now raised from under his fallen steed. Martin de

Pateshulle--for it was he--had evidently been severely injured, and lay

prostrate in his attendants' arms. In reply to the soldier's questions

they told that their master was the Archdeacon of Northampton, and the

lady his niece. Had they mentioned his name, it is possible the trooper

might have recognized that of one of the justices they had sallied out

to seize. But as it was, deeply imbued with a soldier's notion of

implicit obedience to orders before all things, he thought only of

conveying the prisoner he had already made with all speed to Bedford.

Even Henry de Braybrooke, whom his guard had removed to a little

distance from the scene of the accident, could only learn that it was an

old priest who had been injured, ere he was again hurried off in the

direction of the Robber Baron's castle.

Meanwhile, the grooms who had picked up the archdeacon proceeded to

carry him, moaning with pain, back to the abbey they had just left. In

vain the unhappy priest conjured them to leave him to his fate, and to

hasten after his niece, as soon as he realized that she was being

pursued by De Breaute.

With one exception, none seemed inclined to obey their master,

protesting that it was their first duty to see his injuries attended to

within the abbey walls.

That exception was our fat friend Dicky Dumpling, who had been of the

party, in attendance on his young mistress. He, too, had been rolled

over; but no sooner had he picked himself up out of the mire and learned

that she had fled, than his distress was great.

"Alack! alack!" he cried. "Chased by that young French popinjay, say

you? Oh, woe the day! He came a-wooing her that day the gallant Sir

Ralph rode over, and he departed with his beauty marred, the

serving-maid doth say--but women have such long tongues! Oh, my hapless

young lady! I must after her to her succour!"

"Thou Dickon!" gasped one of his fellows,--"with thy feather weight, to

say nothing of that good dinner of beef and ale in the porter's lodge."

"And thy nag's good browse in the abbey stables," put in another.

"Think you he is a match for the knight's war-horse?"

"Alack! alack!" moaned worthy Dicky; "my heart misgives me sore. But

bring me my horse, lads, and find me my cap. With good St. Dunstan's

aid I will do my best. Give me a leg up, lads, and Dobbin and I will

after her as long as there is a breath left in our bodies!"

*CHAPTER X.*

_*THROUGH OUSE MARSHES.*_

The Lady Aliva had gone to the retreat at Elstow with a heavy heart. In

the first place, she had dismissed the man whom she loved with all her

soul without giving him to understand that she would remain true to him;

indeed, she even doubted within herself whether the words she had used

to him might not, in fact, have implied the exact opposite. Then,

further, her conduct to her father had given her pain. She confessed to

herself that in that scene in the hall she had acted as an undutiful

daughter, and even, at the conclusion of it, with want of maidenly

reserve and self-respect.

Thus it was that with all true sorrow of repentance she had knelt in the

abbey church. When the Lady Margaret and the abbess came upon her in

the dusk bending before the high altar, she was indeed, as the abbess

had intimated, praying not for strength to face the troublesome world

again, but for grace to take the vows of the Benedictine rule.

It has already been shown how she had made known her wish to the lady

abbess, and had obtained leave to wear for the time the habit of a

novice. But her desire for the profession of a religious life had been

combated, strange to say, by two persons who in any other case would

have thought it their duty to strengthen it.

These two were the lady abbess herself and the archdeacon her uncle; and

when she had learned Aliva's story, the Lady Margaret added her

objections to theirs. All these three elders deemed it unadvisable for

so young a girl--she was only eighteen--to think of monastic vows, and

held out hopes that the course of true love might yet run smoothly. The

archdeacon himself had always been a supporter of Ralph de Beauchamp's

suit, and the two ladies joined with him in comforting the distressed

damsel with plans for the future happiness of Ralph and herself.

With regard to the unlucky incident in the hall which had so abruptly

terminated the other suitor's visit, Aliva made a clean breast of the

whole matter. The ladies even went so far as to justify her conduct; and

the archdeacon, speaking as a spiritual father, considered it

sufficiently condoned by the exhortation he administered on the duty of

maidenly reserve and the virtue of checking anger.

So when the retreat was ended, Aliva's plans were discussed in real

earnest, and a determination arrived at. The good archdeacon decided to

give up his projected journey to Dunstable, leaving his learned friends

to finish their business by themselves, and to accompany his niece to

Bletsoe. There he hoped to convince his brother of the injustice of

repressing Ralph de Beauchamp's suit.

The _pros_ and _cons_ of this discussion occupied all the early part of

the day, and it was accordingly late in the afternoon when Aliva, after

an affectionate parting with the two elder ladies, set off towards home,

accompanied by her uncle and his two serving-men, and by Dicky Dumpling,

who had brought over her riding-horse that morning.

Of the untoward event that befell the little party as they passed out of

the abbey gateway we are already aware, and we must now take up the

story of Aliva's flight and De Breaute's pursuit.

After a short spurt across country, she turned her horse back again into

the road, that she might take in the situation and see what had become

of her uncle. But she could see nothing in the distance save a confused

group of horsemen. Between herself and that group, however, she was

soon aware that a rider, William de Breaute, was following her at the

top of his speed.

Now, had he been alone, it is not improbable that the courageous maiden,

who had already faced him once, would boldly have awaited his arrival;

but close at his heels came two of his men, and Aliva felt that there

was nothing for it but a flight towards home.

The road to Bedford was quite cut off from her by the advancing

horsemen, but she knew that at some distance further west there was a

bridge across the Ouse at Bromham, and she determined to try to escape

in that direction.

It was a desperate chance. Her horse was a mere palfrey, while De

Breaute and his men were mounted on some of the best horses to be found

in the stables of Bedford Castle.

She hurried through the little village of Kempston on the river-bank,

for she knew it would prove no safe asylum. The approach of De

Breaute's men always struck terror into the peasants of the villages

around Bedford. They gazed open-mouthed after the flying maiden, and

then slunk back into their huts as the mail-clad soldiers came

clattering after her in pursuit.

Only upon her own wit and readiness could Aliva depend in this terrible

race. She was less acquainted with this side of the Ouse valley than

with the other, in which she had been accustomed to ride and hawk since

childhood. But she knew that between Kempston and Bromham lay a stretch

of marshy ground intersected by broad ditches, and into these marshes

she resolved to ride with the hope of baffling her pursuers. She

thought it not unlikely that in the ground which would bear the weight

of herself and her palfrey the armed men and huge horses might be

bogged.

Her conjecture proved not incorrect, and for a time the distance

increased between herself and her pursuers. But the spring afternoon was

now closing in, and in the failing twilight it was difficult to select

the best track through the marshy ground. Once or twice Aliva had

actually to return upon her path, and the men behind gained an

advantage, as they watched her movements and avoided the impassable

places. Moreover, her lightly-built horse, not much more than a pony,

was beginning to tire. He had cleared one or two of the ditches with

difficulty, and now, as he attempted to jump one of considerable

breadth, a rotten take-off sent him floundering into the middle of it.

Aliva scrambled quickly from the saddle, and threw herself on the bank.

But unfortunately it was the nearer one. For a minute or two she stood

vainly trying to reach the reins, and calling to her palfrey to approach

her.

But her pursuers were drawing on apace. The foremost was not De Breaute

himself, but one of his men, who sprang from his horse and seized Aliva

by the hood which hung loosely from her shoulders.

"Let go thy hold, varlet!" shouted De Breaute, in the rear. Even in his

madness he could not bear to see her thus roughly handled by a rude

soldier.

But Aliva was free ere he spoke. She unclasped the buckle which

fastened her hood and mantle round her neck, and as the man fell back

with the garments in his hand, flung herself into the muddy dike.

The water reached nearly to her waist, and with difficulty she struggled

through. As she passed her horse, standing half bogged in the middle,

she seized the reins and drew them over his head. By good chance a

stunted willow overhung the further bank. She made a snatch at it,

caught it, and with a supreme effort gained firm ground.

With the purchase afforded by the tree, Aliva was now able to get a

tight hold of her horse's head, and encouraging him with her voice, she

induced him to follow her example, and to struggle up the bank.

The two soldiers, meanwhile, watched her manoeuvres from the further

side in some perplexity. Their lord's order to release her had been

peremptory, and it was now apparent that she was escaping them again.

Their lord himself, at some little distance, dismounted, his horse

dangerously engulfed in a bog, was in as much uncertainty as they were.

When he had first started off in his wild chase of Aliva, he had indeed

no fixed intention with regard to her, except perhaps to carry her off

to Bedford along with Henry de Braybrooke; and now that he had pursued

her thus far from Elstow, and held her, as it were, in his grasp, he was

still undecided.

[Illustration: A wild chase through Ouse marshes.]

Any brutal violence was far from his thoughts; for had he not forbidden

his man to lay a hand upon her? A marriage was what he contemplated,

though indeed it might be a forced marriage, like that of his brother

Fulke with the Lady Margaret.

But no sooner did he perceive that the draggled girl was remounting her

tired palfrey than he called to his men, standing stupidly looking at

her from the nearer side of the ditch.

"Here, varlets, quick! Plague take you and these English morasses! Why

came ye not to my help sooner? Saw ye not how I am well-nigh smothered

in this cursed bog?"

It took some little time for the men-at-arms to free their master and

his floundering steed. They dragged him out in as deplorable condition

as that in which Aliva found herself, and by that time both he and they

had had enough of the Ouse marshes.

Not that De Breaute was by any means inclined to give up the chase. He

could see the hapless horsewoman he was pursuing far ahead and entering

the little village of Bromham, and he followed her along firmer ground

at some distance from the river.

The long, many-arched bridge which still stretches over the flat meadows

at Bromham was furnished at the western end in those days with a small

wayside chapel, the ruins of which can still be traced in the

mill-house. Aliva rode slowly into the village, and wearily approached

the foot of the bridge. As she cast an anxious glance over her

shoulder, she saw that her pursuers had now reached hard ground, and

were gaining on her rapidly.

Her little palfrey was dead beat. The struggle in the dike had

completely exhausted him, and he no longer answered to his mistress's

voice or to the touch of her riding-wand. As he reached the first

cottage at Bromham, he stumbled and rolled heavily from side to side.

Aliva was off his back in a moment. A rustic stood by, gazing in

astonishment at the young lady's condition--drenched and hoodless, her

fair hair streaming over her shoulders.

But Aliva's first thought was for her horse.

"Prithee, friend," she cried to the peasant, "take my palfrey and tend

him. You shall be well rewarded. I am the daughter of the lord of

Bletsoe, and if I come not to claim him myself, take him to Bletsoe

Castle when he has recovered."

She hurried on. How to escape now she knew not. But suddenly, as she

approached the bridge, she perceived a haven of refuge. The chapel door

stood open, and the poor hunted girl stepped into the welcome sanctuary.

*CHAPTER XI.*

_*BREATHING-TIME.*_

As Aliva entered the little chapel on the bridge, she saw, in the

uncertain twilight, two figures kneeling before the altar. One was that

of a stalwart young man in the garb of a lay-brother of the Benedictine

order, and the other that of an elderly woman in the dress of a peasant.

Both rose from their knees, disturbed by the hurried entrance of Aliva,

and were surprised to see before them a lady of the upper classes so

damp and bedraggled and hoodless. The heart of the woman was touched.

"Lack-a-day, lady!" she exclaimed; "hast thou been in Ouse water?" she

added, with a slight shudder.

"I have come here for rest," replied Aliva, not wishing to reveal her

story to peasant strangers. "I have indeed, as you say, suffered

somewhat by mishap in a stream, and I have lost my horse."

As she spoke, the sound of her voice, and a closer scrutiny of her

features, increased the astonishment of the two listeners.

"Gramercy on us!" cried the woman; "if this is not our lady from

Bletsoe!"

Aliva looked more narrowly at her, and then at the lay-brother.

"Our Lady be praised!" she murmured faintly; "I find friends. Are you

not the wife of Goodman Hodges; and is this not your son, the

lay-brother from St. Alban's?"