"My friends, I am in sore plight. But I know ye to be faithful to your
lord, and I trow ye will aid his daughter. I have ridden far and fast,
at peril of my life, to escape De Breaute and his men, who even now
follow hard upon my track. But I trust I am safe in this holy house,
and with--"
But here exhausted nature gave way, and the brave girl, now that she
found herself in comparative safety, fell senseless on the chapel floor.
Mistress Hodges, though but a peasant, was a woman of resource and
energy.
"Alack, alack! she will die of chill in this cold chapel," she
exclaimed. "Son, we must bear her hence!"
"But what if De Breaute's men be without, mother?" replied the cautious
lay-brother.
"In good sooth, you speak true," replied the woman, casting an anxious
gaze round the chapel, while she supported the head of the unconscious
Aliva in her arms. Then she noticed a gleam of light shining through a
half-open door on the south side of the altar.
"See, my son," she exclaimed, "whither that door leads. There may be
help near at hand."
The lay-brother opened the door and looked into the apartment within.
"'Tis a sacristy, or priest's room," he replied, with his knowledge of
ecclesiastical arrangements. "There is no one within," he added,
glancing hastily around, "and there is a fire on the hearth, and a
settle with cushions."
The mother and son lifted up Aliva's senseless form, and carrying her
into the sacristy, laid her on the couch.
"Go thou now," said the Mistress Hodges, "and guard the chapel door, and
I will see to the young lady. Praise be to our Lady, with warmth and
care I shall yet bring her round."
The young man shut the door of the sacristy behind him, and crossing the
chapel to the entrance, closed the heavy door and drew its strong oaken
bar across it. He then took up his position against it, keeping a
careful and patient watch.
The woman, left alone with Aliva, proceeded to treat her with maternal
care; for had not the young lady herself once tended her when the fever
ravaged the peasants' huts round Bletsoe Manor House?
She removed her wet garments and chafed her cold hands and feet. As she
undressed her, she found, fastened round her waist, a wallet containing
a small flask of cordial and some food, with which the good abbess of
Elstow had provided Aliva for her journey. Mistress Hodges poured some
of the wine down Aliva's throat, and she revived.
Delighted that her efforts had so far succeeded, the good woman
redoubled her care. She even stripped herself of some of her rough but
warm clothing, and wrapped it round Aliva, as she lay on the settle.
Then she busied herself in drying and cleaning the soiled and dripping
garments, for fortunately, in this room prepared for the priest who
served the chapel, there was a good store of firewood.
Aliva lay watching her feebly, with the half-dazed gaze of returning
consciousness.
"Thanks to our Lady and the blessed saints," she murmured at last in
such weak voice, "that I have happed on you, good mother; else methinks
the cold of this chapel might have finished the work the stream began."
"The saints forfend!" ejaculated the worthy woman. "But, lady," she
added, her curiosity getting the upper hand, "might I crave your pardon,
and ask how comes it that you are in a woful plight? They said in the
village you had gone to the retreat at Elstow, which the venerable
archdeacon--"
"Ah!" cried Aliva, "selfish wretch that I am, I had well-nigh forgotten
him in my own trouble! Know you, good mother, that it was even as he
and I were leaving the abbey of Elstow, on our return home, that this
fierce company of De Breaute and his men rode down upon us. They
scattered us as a hawk scattereth a flight of doves. I escaped by the
lucky chance that my good genet can be stopped by no fence or dike in
all this countryside. When I last saw my uncle, he was surrounded and
closed in upon by the horsemen. I wot not what became of him."
"Alack, alack!" said Mistress Hodges, shaking her head. "These be evil
days now in the which we live, when that terrible Frenchman from over
the seas, Sir Fulke de Breaute (may the foul fiend fly off with him!),
spares neither the ministers of Holy Church nor defenceless damsels--"
"Indeed, it would seem as if De Breaute had a grudge against me," Aliva
could not help interposing, with a half smile. "He owes me somewhat, by
my faith. He asked for my hand; he cannot say he did not get it. How
like to a drowned water-rat he looked, coated with our good honest
English mud! A pretty dance I led him, I trow," she added, with a ripple
of laughter. "He'll ne'er forgive me."
Mistress Hodges grinned good-humouredly, pleased to see the lady's
spirits rising again.
"In good sooth, lady, but young knights find it hard to forgive fair
ladies who will have none of them when they come a-wooing."
The conversation was becoming too personal. Aliva flushed slightly, and
tried to turn it.
"And now, prithee goody, it seems to me that I too may well ask, how
comes it that you and your son come so far from Bletsoe this evening?"
The smile faded from the woman's face.
"I am on a weary errand, fair lady," she replied. "I have come thus far
in company with my son, who is on his journey back to the abbey of St.
Alban, where he is a lay-brother. I have come but to say a prayer with
him, in this the wayfarer's chapel, to good St. Nicolas, who protects
all travellers. Alas! he will return to St. Alban's; he says it is his
duty. I have dissuaded him sore with tears and prayers, but it is of
none avail. In these bad times there is no peace even in the religious
houses, nothing but wars and rumours of wars."
"Certes, I did hear from Dicky Dumpling--(ah, poor Dickon! how fares it
with him, I wonder? He presented a broad surface to the horsemen's
charge)--that your son had barely 'scaped with his life from that
fearful St. Vincent's Eve at St. Alban's!"
"Gramercy, lady," replied the woman, wiping her eyes, "'twas a
hairbreadth 'scape, in good sooth! But, thanks to our Lady and the good
St. Benedict--who, my son says, preserved the humblest of his servants
to serve him further--he got off scot-free from the fire and the sword,
yea, and the water too!"
"The water! how mean you?" asked Aliva.
"Marry, lady, he was weary and worn, and he mistook the ford at Milton
as he was fleeing homewards. The Ouse was in full flood, and but for
that noble knight Sir Ralph de Beauchamp, whom the saints preserve--"
"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp!" murmured Aliva, now deeply interested. "Ah,"
she added, with a blush, "I mind me how soaked he was with water!"
"Ay, a fair gallant he is," the other proceeded. "He thought naught of
riding boldly into the Ouse at full stream, and saving my poor lad in
the very nick of time, when he was being swept down the river like a
truss of hay in a midsummer flood!"
Aliva lay listening, her large eyes fixed dreamily on the speaker.
"It sounds like a bold deed, and a truly marvellous turn of luck for
your son. Tell on, good mother, I prithee. I would fain hear more of
the fishing out of the worthy lay-brother--thine only son, too--tell
on," added the astute maiden, playing on maternal feeling.
Mistress Hodges' tongue was unloosed by the evident interest the young
lady of the manor evinced. His recent dangers and escapes had made the
lay-brother somewhat of a hero in the village of Bletsoe. His mother was
nothing loath to fight his battles over again, and prattled on with
maternal pride for some time ere she perceived that her fair charge had
sunk into a sound and healthful slumber, lulled by the account of her
lover's daring.
Meanwhile De Breaute and his men had hurried up. They passed Aliva's
riderless palfrey.
"Ah, pardie! the fair hare has run to ground, and cannot be far
distant.--Lady, thy pride is nigh unto a fall," murmured William to
himself, chuckling.
But the rustic in charge of the horse was either naturally or
intentionally stupid. De Breaute could make nothing of him.
Riding eagerly to the bridge-foot, he scanned its length. But he saw no
sign of Aliva's retreating figure in the fast-falling twilight, and
heard no sound save the swirl of the rushing river as it swept beneath
the arches.
Had she escaped him?
Leaving one of his men to guard the bridge, he proceeded to search the
cottages round. But from the trembling peasants he could only gather
that they had indeed seen a lady, in soiled and damp clothing, pass down
the village.
But as he was thus cross-questioning and searching, he was approached by
a personage clad in ecclesiastical garb. He was a coarse-looking
individual, the expression of whose features showed a mixture of greed
and cunning.
"William de Breaute," he asked, "thou seekest a bird? Shall I show thee
the nest where that bird is hidden?"
"If thou meanest that thou canst tell whither the lady has escaped who
but now made her way through the village," replied De Breaute, not much
relishing the tone of familiarity in which he was addressed, "thou shalt
be well rewarded if thou dost direct me thither. And understand," he
added, trying to speak with dignity, "no harm is intended to the lady.
It is simply needful for her own protection that I conduct her to my
brother's castle at Bedford."
"Ay, in good sooth, all are in safe keeping there!" muttered the priest
with a sneer, not brooking haughty patronage from a soldier of fortune.
"But, perchance, my secret will remain with me, and she will not take
the road to Bedford."
William de Breaute saw that he was not going the right way to work, and
altered his tone. He had a shrewd guess that a bribe would both be
expected and received.
"Certes, reverend father," he replied, "but I mean a reward to Holy
Church in the person of one of her ministers."
"Knightly sir," answered the priest, "we understand each other. I am
but a minister, as you rightly say, and humblest, you would more rightly
have said, of Holy Church. Whatever her ministers receive, it is really
the Church who receiveth and benefiteth."
And if winking were the fashion in the thirteenth century, doubtless he
winked at De Breaute as he spoke.
"Follow me," he added.
And he led him to the door of the chapel on the bridge.
*CHAPTER XII.*
_*AT THE CASTLE OF EATON SOCON.*_
While Aliva de Pateshulle lay in a dreamy state listening to the praises
of her lover, the said lover was far away on the other side of Bedford,
in anything but such a complacent frame of mind.
Since the day Aliva had escaped from him up the turret stairs he had not
seen her, and she had left him in much perplexity as to whether she
intended to obey her father or to follow her own inclinations.
But on one point his mind was made up. Ralph was determined to be off
to the Scottish war. In any case a soldier's life or perhaps a
soldier's death was still before him, and in his youthful imagination he
saw himself performing deeds of daring against the northerners, and
dying heroically in the moment of victory, leaving Aliva to mourn for
his loss and regret her own cruelty.
To carry out these plans, however, it was necessary, in the first
instance, that he should interview his uncle, William de Beauchamp, for
it was by the latter's influence, as he had told Aliva, that Ralph hoped
to obtain a command in the royal army.
Since they had been wrongfully deprived of their castle, Bedford was no
longer a home to the De Beauchamps. The usual gathering-place of the
family now was at Eaton Socon, some twelve miles further down the river.
The castle there has as completely disappeared as that of Bedford, but a
huge mound on the banks of the Ouse marks the site of the stronghold.
Here was established a younger branch of the De Beauchamps, and here
William de Beauchamp met Ralph and his kinsmen, to discuss the position
of the family, and to consult as to the best means of overthrowing the
robber chief at Bedford.
"Beshrew me, Nephew Ralph," said his uncle, "if I wot what to make of
this talk of thine of fighting against the northern savages, when
savages far worse hold the castle of thy fathers."
Ralph had been holding forth to his seniors upon the duty of a young
knight taking up his country's quarrels and joining his sovereign's
army.
"Ay," rejoined the lord of Eaton Socon, an elderly man, "were I but of
thy age and strength, with my gilded spurs newly girt upon my heels, I
would never throw myself away on this mad Scottish scheme--craving his
majesty's pardon, if indeed so be that our young king favours it--whilst
there lacked not an excuse for the placing myself at the head of bold
men who would rally to the cry of 'A De Beauchamp! a De Beauchamp!'"
"And, Cousin Ralph," whispered one of his uncle's married daughters, for
some of the ladies of the family were present, "they tell me there is
one in Bedford Castle with whom thou wouldest fain splinter lances, were
he but worthy to meet thee in knightly combat!"
Something of William de Breaute's visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception
there by Aliva, had evidently leaked out.
Ralph shook his head dismally. For the time being he was that most
unhappy individual, a wet blanket to all around him, a despondent lover.
"Come now, coz," continued the Lady Mabel, "if our reverend elders will
dismiss us from attendance at this table, we young folk will out on to
the castle walls and take a turn. Kinsfolk do not often gather together
in these days, at least in our family, and thou knowest I have not
forgotten old times in Bedford Castle, even though I have formed new
ties. Blood is thicker than water."
It was early afternoon. The mid-day meal, which took place at the then
fashionably late hour of noon, was just over. Ralph could not refuse
the invitation of his fair cousin, who had been to him as a sister in
his boyhood. So, with due obeisance to the others, the pair quitted the
hall, leaving their elders deep in talk over old times, and the departed
glories of the house of Beauchamp, and the days of Hugo, the Conqueror's
favourite.
In truth, Ralph was not sorry to have a confidant to whom he could
confide his troubles. For the last few weeks both he and his uncle
William had been but melancholy guests at Eaton Socon, despite the
efforts of their cheery old kinsman to rouse them. William de Beauchamp
was naturally a taciturn, reserved man, and the loss of his affianced
bride, followed by the loss of his ancestral castle and domains, had
further increased the gloom of his character. His uncle's depression,
of course, added to Ralph's low spirits.
"And now, fair coz," said Lady Mabel, linking her arm in Ralph's, as
they passed up a flight of stone steps leading to a walk on the top of
the encircling wall behind the battlements, "thou art to talk to me of
somewhat else than this Scottish war, or even the battering down of
Bedford Castle about the ears of that dear friend of our family, Fulke
de Breaute. Nay, seek not to deny it. I can see by thy face that thou
hast somewhat to tell me, and perchance I have somewhat to tell thee."
"I have naught to say, sweet cousin, but what I have already spoken of
in the hall. But yet so be--"
"I knew it!" interrupted the lady; "so it ever is with men. First they
will tell naught--those were thy very words--and then with the same
breath they go on to say much. They are parlous, like my favourite
sleuth-hound, my lord's morning gift, who at times from mere wantonness
refuseth to feed from my hand, and then when I make a show to turn away,
cannot fawn on me enough. Had I but said to thee, Let us speak of the
land of the Picts and Scots, and of the honour that, forsooth, will
never be found there by Norman knights, thou wouldest straightway have
spoken on what lies nearest thy heart nimbly enough. Now, thou art
hesitating; thou leavest me to lay the scent, and then thou wilt follow.
Yet, I gage, thou wouldest fain speak of the fair damsel of Bletsoe?"
Ralph flushed, and the lady smiled.
"Tell me," she added, "when thou last didst set eyes on thy lady-love?"
The ice was broken. Ralph thawed rapidly, and related to the Lady Mabel
his meeting with the Lady Aliva on the morrow of St. Vincent's Day, and
of her sudden flight from him.
"And, in good sooth," ejaculated the lively lady, with a shrug of her
fair shoulders, "in this slough of despondency hast thou remained ever
since! Not so should I have done had I been in thy shoes, cousin. Thou
a bold lover, Ralph, thy charger at hand! The fair damsel should have
been on the croup of thy saddle ere she could reach the turret stair.
Then hadst thou brought her hither to me, I would have guarded her
safety and honour till priest and chapel were ready, which would not
have been long waiting, I trow."
"But, cousin," Ralph put in gloomily, "thou hast forgotten: she spake to
me unawares, as she confessed, and unmindful of her father's command
that she should wed with a De Breaute. Nay, it boots not here of
carrying off a bride. Rather let me carry off my wretched self to the
war. I spake to her of winning glory for her sake, but now, methinks, I
would rather win death."
And folding his arms the young man leaned over the parapet of the castle
wall, and gazed dejectedly into the shining Ouse below him, as if he
would fain cast himself headlong into the stream.
But Lady Mabel answered with such a ripply laugh that Ralph turned round
to her, now really offended at the light manner with which she met his
tragic mood.
"And what thinkest thou, Ralph, that William de Breaute will go a-wooing
to Bletsoe Manor again?"
Ralph's face assumed such an angry look, as he ground out something
between his teeth about "wooing" and "Bletsoe Manor," that the Lady
Mabel drew back, half frightened at the storm she had aroused.
"William de Breaute, in good truth, came to Bletsoe!" he ejaculated;
"but when, and how? Tell me all, tell me the worst, cousin, for the
love of Heaven!"
"Thou knewest not that he went thither?" she asked, puzzled.
"I know naught of it," replied Ralph sulkily.
"And that he hath gained the hand of the Lady Aliva?" she continued.
Ralph turned upon her, furious. But the Lady Mabel laughed louder than
before.
"Certes he did. But upon his face!" she added.
Her cousin looked bewildered.
"Where hast thou been, and what hast thou heard these weeks last past?"
Lady Mabel went on.
"Thou knowest!" replied Ralph, still offended. "Here I have been at
Eaton Castle with thy father. I have heard no news;" and he heaved a
sigh, and turning away, looked out vacantly again over the Ouse valley.
"Ay, moping like a pair of owls at noontide, had I not come hither to
bear ye company," Lady Mabel continued, "till, perchance, ye had been
driven to make two holes for yourselves in the stream yonder. By my
troth," she added, with very little of the reverence for elders which
was such a characteristic of the age, "I intend to stir my father into
life again ere I leave Eaton; and as for thee, Cousin Ralph," touching
him lightly on the shoulder, "I command thee to be of good cheer, and no
longer to look down on that vile cold water as though thou lovest it!"
Ralph turned to her again, though still sulky under her apparently
meaningless gaiety.
"Now hearken to me, Ralph, and I will tell thee much of the Lady Aliva
that thou wottest not of."
And Lady Mabel went on to relate the story of the second suitor's visit
to Bletsoe, and of his reception, which had not penetrated to Ralph's
ears, shut up hermit-fashion at Eaton.
As she continued, the light gradually broke in on Ralph's mind, and the
gloom vanished from his face; and when she described the blow inflicted
by Aliva upon William de Breaute, his eyes positively sparkled with
delight.
Scarcely had the Lady Mabel finished her recital ere her hearer had
rushed from her. Such broken exclamations as "My brave girl!" "Still my
own!" escaping from him, he ran headlong down the steps, across the
bailey yard, and abruptly disturbed his elders' conversation round the
board in the hall.
Hardly giving himself time to pay the usual salutation of respect which
the period demanded from juniors to elders of their house, he broke in
upon them with these words:--
"By thy leave, my revered uncle, and with thine, my noble kinsman, I
leave thy castle at once, tarrying but to give thee my best thanks for
thy hospitality of the last few weeks."
In a moment, ere De Beauchamp could recover from his surprise, Ralph was
out of the hall again, and shouting eagerly in the yard for his groom,
his squire, or any one, to assist him in getting ready his horse.
Meanwhile the guests streamed out of the hall behind him, headed by
their host and William de Beauchamp. Lady Mabel, who had followed her
cousin in his headlong career as fast as she was able, rushed to her
father.
"Stay him not!" she exclaimed; "rather bid the varlets hasten to help
him. 'Tis no demon hath gotten possession of him--unless, in good
sooth, love may be termed a demon. Speed him on his way, and I will
tell whither he goes, and wherefore."
Lady Mabel's laughing face dispersed any fears which might have been
entertained for Ralph's sanity, and a moment or two later, the latter,
who had hastily girded on his armour, emerged into the yard as his groom
brought round his horse.
"Adieu, fair cousin!" he exclaimed. "Thou hast indeed removed a burden
from my heart!" he added, placing his foot in the stirrup.
At that moment a man hurried into the castle-yard through the outer
bailey, and made his way through the group of serving-men and grooms
gathered round the hall door.
It was a young lay-brother in the garb of a Benedictine. His long frock
was girt up round his loins, as though he had been running violently.
He was muddy and wayworn, and one side of his face was smeared with
blood, flowing apparently from a wound in the head, hastily bound up
with a bandage.
Tottering and reeling from exhaustion, the Benedictine pushed his way up
to Ralph, his eyes staring wildly and starting from his head.
"Sir Ralph," he cried, "the Lady Aliva hath been carried captive to
Bedford Castle!"
And then he fell senseless into the arms of the nearest bystander.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
_*THE BIRD IN THE CAGE.*_
When William de Breaute and the priest reached the door of the chapel on
Bromham Bridge, the latter simply pointed to it, saying,--
"There is the bird in the cage. But the key of the cage is in the
keeping of the Church."
After this parabolic remark, he led De Breaute away again to a small
hostelry, where they entered a private room. De Breaute perceived that
the priest had a proposal to make, but waited for him to begin.
"Thou spakest anon of guerdon to Holy Church for helping thee on with
thy plans in hand," the priest commenced.
"Ay, in good sooth," said De Breaute, seeing that the ecclesiastic meant
business; "or a reward to her servants," he added. "Speak! what wouldst
thou--money, lands, wealth?"
Fixing his cunning dark eyes on his companion's face, the latter
answered in one word,--
"Power!"
"Ah, pardie! and what have I to do with the advancement of churchmen?"
said De Breaute, with a shrug. "Our name is in no good odour with
Mother Church at this time, forsooth!"
The priest smiled sardonically.
"Certes, I have no wish that your brother Fulke should recommend me for
high office among the Benedictines of St. Alban's, for example."
The news of Fulke's penance and pardon had already spread far and wide
among the churchmen of that neighbourhood.
"At St. Alban's, pardie!" laughed De Breaute, as he recollected his
brother's account of the scene in the chapter-house, and of the manner
in which he had, for the second time as it were, defrauded the abbey
coffers.
But the priest suddenly changed the tone of banter in which he had
hitherto addressed De Breaute, and the sarcastic expression of his face
gave place to one of bitter anger.
"Hearken, Sir Knight," he exclaimed. "Once I stood high in my order.
Brother Bertram was honoured, respected, rising, among the brethren of
St. ----. But I care not to tell a layman the reason of my fall.
Suffice it that I fell, and that I was expelled my order. I, of more
noble blood than all the other brethren together--I, more than half a
Norman--here have I been for the last three years, ministering to Saxon
swine who grovel in their hovels round yon bridge chapel; a mere
mass-priest, offering prayers to St. Nicolas that travellers may pass
safe, that sordid merchants may keep their chattels safe from roadside
robbers! A fair portion, forsooth, for one who might have commanded
men, been honoured, famed, obeyed!"
De Breaute shrugged his shoulders again.
"Marry, Sir Priest, but by my troth I see not how I am to help thee!
What power can I give thee, save the command of a party of men-at-arms?"
"Sir De Breaute," replied the other, "your chapel is unserved. No
priest passes 'neath the castle portcullis."
"Ay, and you speak true."
"Hark ye," continued the priest, "the castle of Bedford will be still
more famous ere long. The star of the De Breautes riseth fast. The
fault thy brother hath committed against Holy Church hath been pardoned,
and what matter a few Saxon churls, if the Norman nobles but own him
their peer?"
"Marry, Sir Priest, and I thank you heartily. I am, in good sooth, glad
to hear that my family are so in fortune's way. But how mattereth that
to thee?"
"When the De Breautes rise and are ennobled, all who serve them will
rise too. The chaplain of Bedford Castle shall be no mean priest then.
As one of the secular clergy I would then lord it over the regulars, and
show the order that expelled me, Bertram de Concours, that they must
needs bow before one who stands well with a rich and powerful Norman
baron."
"If, then, the chaplaincy of the castle is all thou dearest, I can
safely promise it shall be thine," replied De Breaute, laughing in his
sleeve at the price the other had named. "But, certes, we must have the
chapel swept out and the altar repaired. By my troth, there will be
much ado with my sister and her women when they hear there will be mass
sung again at home," he added, with a cynical laugh. "But say on now,
Sir Priest or Sir Chaplain, as I may well call thee, how about the
present work on hand?"
"Leave that to me," returned the other. "The Church shall open her
doors, and the bird will hop out. See thou to it that thou secure her
when she is beyond my care."
"And how so?" said William.
"Marry, that is your affair," replied the priest. "Mine ends at the
chapel door."
"Pardie! shall I swing her up to my saddle-bow and be off with her? By
St. Hubert, I might have done so this evening had I not bidden my
varlets loose her. A curse on my hesitation! But counsel me, prithee."
"If it is my counsel you wish, I will not deny it. Methinks the damsel
should be conveyed through the streets of Bedford town otherwise than
swinging to a saddle like a market-wife's butter-basket. But, Sir
Knight, thou knowest far better than I how to treat a fair lady."
"I have it!" exclaimed De Breaute. "There is the horse-litter of my
sister, in the which she sometimes is graciously permitted to go abroad,
when her ailments allow her not to mount her palfrey. She is ever
sickly, the woman. I will send to Bedford for it. Nay, I would go
myself, could I trust my men to guard."
"Go thyself, if thou art so minded," replied the priest. "I will so far
stand, on my part, to my pledge, that I will answer for it that the bird
be not uncaged till I hear from thee. Do not thou show thyself in the
matter at all. Seest thou not that in that case thou canst anon tell
the fair one a pretty tale, of how thou callest thy men off from chasing
her, even as thou didst in the marshes, and that they captured her
without thy knowledge or consent? See," he continued, "here is this
small crucifix. Send it to me. When I receive it back from thy hands,
I shall know that all is ready--that the litter waits anon." And as he
spoke, the priest handed the soldier a small metal emblem of redemption,
the pledge of his nefarious doings. "See, also, that the Lady
Margaret's women prepare a suitable lodging for the lady. Thou wouldst,
certes, see her well attended? I have thy knightly word that she is in
honour treated, or I loose her not? Withdraw, then, thy men from guard
here, and send others more seemly to escort a lady. I plight my word
that, as I hope to be chaplain of thy brother's castle, I loose her not
till I receive thy pledge."
"But," objected De Breaute, "how am I to warrant me she will be
conveyed--"
"Leave that to me," said the treacherous priest. "If she be not placed
of her own free will in the litter, I shall not have done my share of
the work--that thou mayest hold sure. Have only a care, however, that
naught about the horses or the litter proclaimeth it to be from De
Breaute's stables."
So saying he passed out of the room. De Breaute followed him. Calling
to the man who was not on guard to bring him his horse, and then to come
after him with his fellow, De Breaute rode off to Bedford, some two
miles distant from Bromham Bridge.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
_*THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.*_
"The key is in the keeping of the Church."
At the actual moment when Father Bertram, at the beginning of the
interview recorded in the last chapter, uttered these words, the door of
the chapel was literally in the Church's charge, in the person of the
stout lay-brother, who, hearing footsteps and voices without, now stood
with his broad shoulders leaning against the oak. He could hear but
little of the conversation through the thick door, but he guessed it had
to do with his lady, and concluded that De Breaute had tracked her to
her hiding-place.
For a time he remained uncertain how to act. Churchman as he was, it
seemed almost impossible to him that any one, even a brutal soldier,
should dare to violate the sanctuary of the chapel; but yet he feared
that those without were plotting to carry off the Lady Aliva.
At length, when all was quiet again outside, he crossed the little
building, and knocked gently at the door of the sacristy. It was opened
by his mother, who laid her finger upon her lips as a sign to him to
keep silence.
"My lady sleeps," she whispered, and shut the door again. Evidently no
advice was to be had from her.
Uncertain whither to turn for aid, he recrossed the chapel, and, for the
first time since Aliva had sought refuge in it, unbarred the door and
looked out.
It was now past midnight. The village was sunk in silence, and no one
was to be seen about. His first idea was to make his way towards
Bedford, and he passed half across the bridge over the dark river. Then
he fancied he heard the sound of a horse's hoof echoing from a distance
through the stillness of the night. Though he knew it not, it was the
sound of De Breaute spurring towards Bedford.
But another sight close at hand called off his attention. Through the
gloom he became distinctly aware of a tall, armed figure leaning against
the parapet of the bridge.
"Gramercy!" he said to himself, stopping short; "here is one of the
soldiers on guard! There can be no escape this way. St. Benedict aid
us!"
Of course, unaware that in a few minutes the man would be withdrawn, the
lay-brother retraced his steps. Next he met the other man-at-arms
leading the horses toward his comrade, and his heart sank within him at
what he imagined were further measures to guard the Bedford road. He
passed the soldier unchallenged in the dark, and then a little further
met a man coming towards the chapel.
It was the priest, straight from his conclave with De Breaute.
Bertram de Concours approached the lay-brother.
"A brother servant in the ministry of Holy Church, an I mistake not,"
said he.
"Nay, reverend father," returned the Benedictine, "but a lay-brother I,
of the holy house of Alban."
"And I," returned the other, "am but the unworthy priest who serves the
altar of St. Nicolas in yonder chapel. But the chapel," he continued,
eying the lay-brother closely, "is occupied by other than its priest
to-night. A lady hath sought sanctuary there. She must be guarded,
watched, tended."
The Benedictine was puzzled. The voice sounded to him like the voice of
him whom he had heard talking with De Breaute without the chapel door.
Should he ask his advice and help? He was the priest of the chapel;
surely he was to be trusted.
"Tended she hath been by my mother," he answered, "and I myself have
watched and guarded the chapel door. But she must remove hence. It is
not fit that our fair lady of Bletsoe should remain in this plight,
tended by peasants only. She must to her father's house."
Bertram saw his opportunity.
"Sooth, thou speakest truly, brother," he said. "I would fain despatch
her thither. Not that I quite make out her case," he continued
craftily. "My people do tell me that yester evening a lady came into
the village in sore plight, and leading a steed well-nigh ridden to
death, and thou sayest she is the Lady de Pateshulle. She should to
Bletsoe. But can she walk?"
"Walk, father! nay, in good sooth. For all my mother's care she is so
weary with her ride that she even now sleeps. Besides, do ladies such
as she tramp the country roads like a churl's wench? And her palfrey
cannot carry her!"
"She should be carried thither in a litter," replied Bertram de
Concours; "but whither shall we fetch one? A messenger must forthwith
to Bletsoe, and acquaint the noble house of De Pateshulle with its
lady's need, and that at once."
The bait was thrown out by which he hoped to remove the lay-brother out
of the way. The fish rose.
"I am thy messenger, father," responded the Benedictine with eagerness.
"I will myself to Bletsoe, and devise means to transport my lady thither
in safety and comfort."
"By my faith, brother," exclaimed Bertram, in simulated gratitude, "thou
hast well spoken. A burden is lifted from my heart. Haste thee, and
see that help is here by dawn. But tarry a moment," he continued, still
weaving his treacherous web; "we must to the chapel and let the lady
know that aid is at hand, and that she will shortly be quit of this
dangerous and unpleasant position."
The two men entered the chapel. The old woman was still watching by the
sleeping girl, but hearing steps, she came out of the sacristy.
"Tell thy mother to warn her charge that she may expect to journey
shortly," said the priest.
"But my lady still sleeps softly," objected the good woman.
"Then let her know when she awakens that thy son hath gone to Bletsoe
for aid, and that help she shall have shortly, and means of travelling
hence," said Father Bertram.
Mistress Hodges returned to the sacristy.
"My lady is awakened," she said. "She heard your voices. Ye should
have spoken more softly. She needs yet rest."
"Go thou then to the door," said Bertram to the lay-brother. "She knows
thy voice, but I am a stranger. Tell her what thou purposest to do."
The Benedictine did as he was bid. Standing at the half-open door, he
announced in a few words that he was off to Bletsoe for help.
Aliva, barely aroused, sank back again into slumber, murmuring words of
thanks to her messenger.
"And now haste thee on thy road," said the priest to the lay-brother; "I
myself will watch the chapel door."
The latter set off. He did not again attempt to cross the bridge, still
guarded as he imagined by De Breaute and his men, or he would now have
found it clear of sentinels. He made his way along the right bank of
the river to the ford at Milton in the dark quietness of the small hours
that precede the dawn. But ere he reached the spot which had so
well-nigh proved fatal to him some few weeks before, the birds had begun
to twitter in the brushwood and the sedge, and on the eastern horizon
"Lightly and brightly breaks away
The morning from her mantle gray."
In the uncertain light he became aware that a horseman was in front of
him, trying apparently to force a wearied steed through the ford. As he
approached, a clearer view revealed the rider to be none other than
Dicky Dumpling, the fat porter.
"Soho, soho, Dickon! And whither so early, or so late, as you will?"
Thus apostrophized, Dicky turned his horse and recognized the
lay-brother.
"St. Dunstan be praised! Here is a friend from Bletsoe. O brother,
there is ill news--a sore mishap! Our Lady Aliva is chased, and carried
captive too, for aught I know, by that devil in man's shape, Fulke de
Breaute, or his brother. The livelong night have I sought her on the
road 'twixt here and Elstow, over marsh and bank, up hill and down dale.
Not a bite or a sup--"
"Peace, Dicky, and cheer thy heart. Thy lady is safe."
"Safe, thou sayest? Oh, the saints be praised!--safe?"
"As safe as Holy Church can make her," replied the other. "She hath
found refuge in the chapel on Bromham Bridge."
Dumpling gave a vast sigh of satisfaction, and his face once more
assumed its usual jolly expression.
"That was it then! Beshrew me for a fool! I found her palfrey in
Bromham village, and though I asked up and down among the folks, no one
could tell me aught of the lady. Even the women, whose tongues go fast
enow, like the clapper of a bell at vespers time, when they are not
wanted, had nothing to say. Gramercy! safe in the chapel! But you,
brother, what doest here?"
"On an errand thou canst well relieve me of. Four legs are better than
two. Thy Dobbin has still enow strength left in him to carry him back
to his manger. So haste thee, good Dickon, with all speed thou mayest,
and bid them at Bletsoe Castle send quickly a litter for my lady to bear
her home. She is weary and weak. I, meantime, will return to her.
Somehow it mislikes me leaving her alone with priests and women, when
those devil's servants, the Breaute varlets, are about. And 'twill
cheer her heart to hear good news of thee, for she misdoubted some
mishap to thee also."
"I fall not lightly, brother," replied Dicky. "The armed men came with
the rush of a battering-ram. But thanks to St. Dunstan and the muddy
roads, I got off scathless.--And now, Dobbin--to our oats, Dobbin, to
our oats; and to our lady's aid."
The lay-brother, much relieved in his mind, hurriedly retraced his
steps. It was broad daylight as he once more approached the chapel, and
while yet at a distance he plainly perceived a little crowd gathered at
the door.
A horse-litter, consisting of a kind of curtained couch resting on two
poles, borne by two stout horses, was in waiting. On the foremost horse
rode a groom. Another mounted man stood by, leading a spare
saddle-horse.
As the lay-brother drew nearer, he saw three figures issue from the
chapel, and recognized the Lady Aliva, his mother, and Father Bertram.
Struck with astonishment that the desired conveyance should have
appeared so speedily, the Benedictine halted in the middle of the road.
Then the truth flashed upon him.
It was impossible that the litter could have come from Bletsoe. There
must be treachery afoot.
A glance at the De Breaute livery worn by the mounted groom confirmed
his suspicion.
Without a moment's hesitation he rushed forward, exclaiming in warning
tones,--
"Mother! my lady! Stay, stay! for God's sake stay!" and as he spoke he
stretched out a detaining hand towards the litter.
But ere he could grasp it, the priest, who had been assisting Aliva into
the conveyance, turned sharply round, and with the key of the chapel
door, which he still held in his hand, dealt the Benedictine a heavy
blow on the head.
Then he shouted to the postillion to hurry off, and himself jumping on
to the spare saddle-horse, followed the litter towards Bedford, leaving
the lay-brother senseless and bleeding on the road, his mother bending
over him.
*CHAPTER XV.*
_*RALPH RAPS AT THE CASTLE GATE.*_
At the moment when the Benedictine lay-brother, haggard and wounded,
rushed into the yard of Eaton Castle, Ralph de Beauchamp was on the
point of starting for Bletsoe, reassured as to Aliva by his cousin's
account of the reception the former had given to William de Breaute.
The single sentence uttered by the Benedictine ere he fell senseless to
the ground came as a terrible reaction. His impulse had been to ride
off rapidly to Bletsoe and urge his suit with Aliva and her father; and
now, at one fell swoop, came the news that she was prisoner in the hands
of his rival, her discarded and insulted lover. Overcome with the shock
of the news, following so soon upon his late rapture, he rode out of the
castle yard, after commending the messenger to the care of the
by-standers. He was almost reeling in his saddle with mental agony.
When the lay-brother, left senseless at the door of the bridge chapel,
had been restored to consciousness by his mother's care, his first
thought was for the young lady so treacherously kidnapped.
Despite his mother's entreaties, he made his way into Bedford, his
bleeding head roughly bandaged; and soon learned that the horse-litter
of Margaret de Ripariis had passed through the town into the castle in
the early morning. But who might be within it no one could tell.
Then the Benedictine hastened to tell the townsfolk of this new outrage
on the part of the De Breautes, and endeavoured, but in vain, to stir
them to action. They had lived too long under the tyranny of the Robber
Baron to have courage enough to attempt to throw off his yoke.
Baffled and disheartened, the brave young fellow now determined to seek
Ralph de Beauchamp. The latter's devotion to the Lady Aliva was too
well known among the dependents of the De Pateshulles for the
Benedictine to think for a moment that he should implore his aid in
vain.
Once outside the castle wall, Sir Ralph turned his horse's head towards
Bedford. What he intended to do there, alone and unaided, he perhaps
had scarcely considered. An irresistible impulse drew him to the spot
where she whom he loved was imprisoned.
Bedford is some twelve miles from Eaton Socon, and when Ralph arrived
there he found the burghers much exercised in their minds over the event
of that morning. They had hardly recovered from the shock of seeing
Henry de Braybrooke, but the evening before, hurried through the streets
as a prisoner, ere this fresh outrage had followed. Not that it was by
any means strange to see luckless women carried off to the castle--as,
for instance, after the St. Alban's raid; but never yet had the Robber
Baron dared to treat a member of one of the noble families of the county
in this fashion.
But though the Bedford burgesses were duly impressed with the enormity
of Fulke de Breaute's doings, they were loath to take any steps to put a
stop to them. And indeed Ralph himself was obliged to confess that any
attempt to climb those lofty stone walls, or to throw themselves on to
the spears of the armed men who kept watch and ward night and day at the
castle gate, would have been utter madness. The only hope was that, now
that one of the king's justices was actually a prisoner, the royal
forces might be sent to extirpate this nest of robbers.
"Ah, Sir Knight," quoth one of the fathers of the town to Ralph, as he
gravely shook his head, "our goodly town has indeed grievously suffered
since thy noble family and thy renowned uncle were driven away. In the
old days the castle was a protection and a great benefit to us. But
now--alas, fair sir! thou knowest as well as we do what we suffer. We
can scarce call our souls our own."
"Ay," put in one of the clergy of the town, who formed one of the group
which had gathered round young De Beauchamp, "see our fair church of St.
Paul. It hath stood here since the days of the Saxon Bedicanford. And
now, alas! how forlorn and shorn it standeth, even as a widow in her
weeds mourning for her lord! Thus hath she stood since the day the
impious Fulke did wickedly break down the carved work of our Zion with
axes and hammers, and carry off her stones to strengthen yon great
castle which towers above us. In the chancel resteth thy ancestor
Simon, he who finished the good work begun by his mother, the Lady
Roisia--to wit, the priory at Newenham for the canons of St. Paul's. In
good sooth, Sir Knight, thy house and Holy Church have both good reason
to curse these French intruders."
Ralph turned dejectedly away from priests and burghers. The loss of his
family possessions hardly weighed with him, compared with the loss of
her who was more precious to him than spoils wrested from the Church.
He rode slowly and deliberately to the castle gate.
The sentinels on duty stood at attention, ready to resist an attack
should a single horseman be so foolhardy as to ride against their
uplifted spears.
Ralph looked upwards at the stern walls frowning down upon him, and
shook his sword at them in futile rage.
As he did so two figures appeared above the battlement of the barbican.
They were the Robber Baron and his brother, who had been informed that
Sir Ralph de Beauchamp had ridden up to the castle.
Fulke made the knight a mocking gesture of salutation.
"Sir Ralph," he said, "it grieves me sore that I cannot bid thee enter
within these walls, and proffer thee the hospitality which is suitable
to thy rank. But we entertain guests already."
So saying, he turned round and shoved forward the disconsolate-looking
judge, Henry de Braybrooke.
"Our worthy guest here," he continued, "has not yet thought proper to
cancel those writs which he and his brethren were pleased to issue from
their court at Dunstable. In consequence, he hath been forced to
partake of the somewhat meagre hospitality of bread and water in the
dungeon-vault beneath the keep. It may perchance be even necessary to
resort to yet more painful measures."
"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," called out the plucky little judge, trying to
lean over the battlements, "I prithee, convey to the king, my royal
master, that his servant will never consent to any reversal of judgments
given in concert with the learned Thomas de Muleton and the learned
Martin de Pateshulle, at the bidding of the unlearned--
"Peace!" cried De Breaute, pushing the little man back violently; "I
brought thee not hither to speak, but to be seen.--Soho, warder! take
the justice back again to the dungeon, and see that his supper be
somewhat more scanty than was his dinner. Those who bend not must
starve."
And the warder led away the little justice, remonstrating and quoting
legal Latin anent wrongful imprisonment and detention.
Fulke de Breaute again looked over the parapet.
"Yet another prisoner have I here, Sir Ralph," he said; "but she is
entertained in the lady's bower, as befits a damsel who is shortly to be
the bride of the brother to the lord of the castle. Even now our new
chaplain, Bertram de Concours, he who anon served the chapel on Bromham
Bridge, prepares our long-disused chapel for the marriage rites."
Ralph could bear it no longer. He gnashed his teeth, and whirling his
sword round his head in impotent fury, flung it at the speaker. The
good blade shivered in two against the stone wall, and Fulke resumed his
banter.
"Little boots it sending thy sword where thou thyself darest not
follow," said he; "but methinks thou hast tarried long enow beneath our
walls. Get thee gone ere thy churlishness be returned with usury."
Ralph sprang from his horse. Unarmed though he was, he made for the
gate, as if he would tear it down with his bare hands.
Fulke coolly signed to the sentinel who stood at his post over the
gate-house, with cross-bow ready strung and quarrel fitted in the slot.
The man took aim and released his string. The missile struck Ralph in a
spot where his hastily-donned armour was imperfectly fastened, and he
fell wounded to the ground.
At the same moment two female figures reached the western end of the
walk which ran along the top of the long wall bordering the river side
of the castle, at right angles to the gate-house.
One of them, a damsel of inquisitive disposition, hearing the twang of
the cross-bow, sprang on to the parapet to see what was happening. From
the angle she could look down upon the level space outside the gate.
"What see you, Beatrice, that you watch so closely?" inquired a girl's
voice from the wall beneath the former's vantage-ground.
"My lady," exclaimed Beatrice Mertoun, "the archer hath struck some
knight below, for I see the townsfolk carrying off a wounded man clad in
armour. His helmet hath rolled from his head. What curly hair! How
pale he looks, alas, poor youth! Ah, I see my lord pointing to the
helmet. There goes a man from the wicket-gate. He has picked it up; he
is bringing it in. Marry, how the burghers shrank back when he
appeared! Methought they were like to drop the wounded man. But no;
they have borne him off."
"I wot not what this may mean," said Lady Aliva; for she was the speaker
from below. "There is no attack on the castle? There come no more
armed men?"
"Nay, none but the wounded one," replied Beatrice. "But stay, my lady; I
will to the gate-house. Perchance I may learn somewhat."
Impelled by curiosity, the girl made her way down from the wall, and
quickly crossed the yard.
Fulke, when the helmet had been brought him, glanced at it and then
threw it contemptuously on one side. Then, when the burghers carrying
Ralph had disappeared into a neighbouring house, he turned away and went
to another part of the castle.
No sooner had he vanished than Beatrice Mertoun, standing below, called
up in her most bewitching tones to the archer who had shot the quarrel.
"Ho, Hubert--Hubert of Provence! Wilt do me a favour?"
The man-at-arms was one of her most ardent admirers. He looked down on
the pretty upturned face.
"A thousand, Mistress Beatrice! You have but to ask, pardie."
"Then throw me down yon helmet your lord cast away anon."
The man hesitated. He glanced round; but Sir Fulke was out of sight.
Beatrice pouted deliciously.
"I said not a thousand, but one favour, Hubert. By my troth, Arnoul or
Denis would have given it me in a trice. Methinks you set less store on
my words than--"
"Be not so cruel, fair one," exclaimed the admiring archer. "I obey
your slightest wish. Here!"
The helmet fell at her feet. Beatrice picked it up, and then, without
so much as a look at the archer, ran back with it to Aliva.
"See, my lady," she cried, "thou canst read these riddles of the
heralds."
Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps.
*CHAPTER XVI.*
_*WITHIN THE CASTLE WALLS.*_
The Lady Aliva had been carried off to Bedford in a half-unconscious
state; for though she had awoke from her sleep refreshed and
restored--thanks to the kind care of Mistress Hodges--the treacherous
priest had so arranged that nothing should hinder him from carrying out
his part of the shameful contract.
After the departure of the lay-brother he returned to the chapel.
"Daughter," he said to Aliva, through the half-open door of the
sacristy, "thou hast done well in seeking the protection of Mother
Church, and I, the humble minister of this altar, will see that thou art
well guarded if thou remainest here."
"Thanks, reverend father," replied the maiden; "but a short time since,
towards dawn of day, methinks (but I have slept since), this faithful
woman's son offered to set off to my father's house at Bletsoe and warn
the household there of my whereabouts."
"Thy messenger will be yet some time ere he returneth," answered the
priest, "and if thou art minded to depart at once, we needs must find
some other means of conveyance for thee, lady. I have looked round
about since it grew light, and thy pursuers have departed," he added,
revolving in his mind how best to induce Aliva to enter the horse-litter
from Bedford, which he guessed would by now not be far off.
"Thanks for the hospitality of this holy sanctuary," Aliva replied, "but
I would fain depart as speedily as may be," she added, not caring to
occupy the sacristy of a chapel as her apartment any longer than was
necessary, and with an indefinable dislike, if not distrust, of the
speaker.
"So be it, lady," Bertram hastened to answer. "I will myself to Bedford.
Doubtless from some of the burghers can I procure a conveyance suited to
thy rank. Moreover, thou art doubtless weak in body, and I have taken
upon myself to order food to be brought thee."
So saying he moved to the door and beckoned to some one without. A
woman from the village entered, bringing such food and wine as the
hostelry could supply.
"Thou mayest eat yonder in the sacristy, my daughter, for it is not
consecrated to holy purposes."
He followed the woman into the priest's room and then dismissed her.
This left him alone for a few moments, for Aliva had entered the chapel
to kneel down before the rude altar, and offer up a heartfelt
thanksgiving for her preservation.
Father Bertram took a small vial from within his robe and poured some
drops from it into the wine-flask.
He had not studied the art of drug-concocting in the infirmary of his
late monastery in vain.
Then he passed out of the chapel, saying that he was going to Bedford.
Aliva rose from her knees and went into the sacristy and found the food
awaiting her. But she could not swallow, famished though she was, the
rough village fare copiously seasoned with garlic.
"Alack!" exclaimed Goody Hodges. "But thou wilt die of weakness. See
the wine-flask, lady! Drink, if thou canst not stomach the food."
Aliva did as she advised; and when the priest shortly returned, having
brought the litter which he had found waiting on the bridge, and having
received back again the pledge of the crucifix, he found the maiden in a
half-unconscious state.
"Alack, alack! father, she hath swooned again!" cried the deluded
peasant woman.
"She is overwrought with her hardships," replied the priest. "We must
get her home with all speed. I have found a litter on the road, and it
is in readiness. Help me to bear her to it."
The fresh morning air outside the chapel door partially revived Aliva.
Opening her eyes she moaned,--
"Where am I? where are you taking me?"
"Home, daughter, to Bletsoe. Let me lay you in the litter!" exclaimed
Bertram hurriedly, and rudely pushing back Dame Hodges, who had stopped
short when she too recognized the De Breaute livery, and saw that she
had been deceived.
Aliva sank back languidly on the cushions, and her eyes closed again.
She was deaf to a well-known voice imploring her to stay, and unaware of
the lay-brother's gallant attempt to detain her.
When she recovered her senses again, the litter was jolting fearfully,
for the horses were going at the top of their speed. Bertram rightly
conjectured that Aliva had taken but little of the drugged wine, and was
alarmed lest its numbing influence should wear off ere his captive was
safely secured. So he urged the postillion along, galloping by his
side.
With returning consciousness Aliva drew aside the curtains of the litter
and looked out. They were certainly not on the road to Bletsoe; she saw
that at once. They were swinging through streets, and curious burgesses
came to their house doors, marvelling what brought the litter of the
Lady Margaret out so early.
While she was doubting whether she should cry for help or fling herself
from the litter, it turned under an echoing gateway, and stopped in a
courtyard before the entrance of a castle keep.
A girl of about her own age came down the steps.
"Lady, please to alight and follow me to the apartment prepared for
you."
Aliva descended from the litter and looked around her, bewildered. A
group of men-at-arms were drawn up at a respectful distance, and the
grooms who had brought her stood silent by their horses. The priest had
vanished as soon as he had seen her safe into the castle.
Aliva turned to the girl beside her.
"Where am I?" she murmured, still half dazed. "Is this not Bedford
Castle? There has been treachery--treachery by that ill-looking priest!
This is more of De Breaute's doings, damsel."
"Nay, lady, I can tell thee naught, save that my lord Sir Fulke bade me
prepare a lodging in the keep for a lady who was to arrive in my lady's
litter. Thy chamber is ready on the floor above the great hall, next to
my lady's bower. Prithee, let me lead thee thither."
Aliva felt somewhat reassured by this reception. At least she found
herself in the care of women.
Silently she allowed her conductress to show her the way across the hall
and up a turret stair to her apartment, where she sank wearily on a
couch.
The pretty waiting-woman bustled about, offering the unhappy girl
various attentions. She brought her articles of dress from her
mistress's coffer, and assisted Aliva to remove her travel-stained
garments and clothe herself in becoming attire.
The latter eyed her curiously.
"And who art thou, maiden?" she inquired.
"My name is Beatrice Mertoun. I am the waiting-woman of the Lady
Margaret, the wife of Sir Fulke. And thou, lady, if I might make so
bold?"
"I am Aliva de Pateshulle from Bletsoe," returned Aliva.
"From Bletsoe!" echoed Beatrice. "Methought I remembered your face and
figure as one of the nuns at Elstow when I attended my mistress to the
retreat there. We returned but yesterday. But thou art no nun--no
sister of an abbey?"
"Nay," replied Aliva, "but I wore the habit of a novice as a penitent
during the retreat. Doubtless," she added, sighing, "this trouble which
hath come upon me is the reward of my sins."
"Fair lady," said Beatrice gently, "you look sad;" and she came and
knelt down at her feet.
"Sad!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself on her elbow and gazing down at
the waiting-maid with horror-stricken face; "I am
miserable--betrayed--undone! Ah, I see it all now--this foul plot!
William de Breaute hath encompassed my ruin!"
"William de Breaute!" cried Beatrice. "It is he who is at the bottom of
this, forsooth! By my halidom, _I_ see daylight now! I overheard him
speaking of you with his brother--and then the chapel, repaired and
cleaned. That was what Sir Fulke meant as he watched the men at work
and said in jesting mood that from his own experience an unwilling bride
was all the sweeter for the trouble of snaring and catching her, and
William de Breaute answered that for his part he cared not for a ripe
plum that fell into one's mouth without the picking."
"The chapel--an unwilling bride!" gasped poor Aliva. "The Lady Margaret
was such! I see it all, alas! Does my father know of this? Does he
give his consent?"
"Alas, fair lady, I know naught! It pains me to see thee in such grief,
and in good sooth I mind me well of the stories I have heard of the
unwilling wooing, the hasty bridal of my mistress. But, lady, cheer
thee. Thou art weary and mazed. Rest here awhile, and talk no more,
and I will watch by thee."
The bright spring afternoon was already waning when, some hours after
the events related above, the two maidens walked out upon the south wall
of the castle. Beatrice had persuaded Aliva to come thither, hoping
that the fresh air might revive her drooping spirits; and Sir Fulke had
given permission that his prisoner might repair thither when she
pleased, though the precincts of the castle were forbidden.
As they paced up and down the terrace the fertile brain of Mistress
Beatrice, already a warm partisan of the fair young prisoner, began to
weave plans of escape.
"Canst swim, fair lady?" she inquired. "'Twould be naught to leap into
Ouse water from yon turret! Or, better still, that thy knight (she took
it for granted that Aliva had a knight) should bring hither a skiff some
dark night, beneath the walls!"
At that moment they heard the twang of an archer's bow sounding from the
gate-house hard by.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
_*THE KING IN COUNCIL.*_
For some time Ralph lay in a precarious state in the house of one of the
burgesses of Bedford. The bolt from the cross-bow had given him a nasty
wound, which it required all the skill of the leech to heal. Moreover,
he lay fretting and fuming at the thought that his Aliva was a prisoner
in the hands of his enemy, and his mental anxiety seriously interfered
with his bodily recovery.
As he got better, however, he received visits from many of the principal
townspeople, who were much attached to the house of De Beauchamp, and
full of pity for the young knight.
"Sir Ralph," quoth one of these grave personages, as he sat solemnly
stroking his beard by the pallet where the young man still lay, "if one
richer in the experience of years than thou art may be permitted to
advise thee, I would show thee how useless a waste of life and blood
would be any attempt of thine, unaided, to rescue thy fair lady from her
direful plight."
"Marry, but have I not learned that lesson already!" ejaculated Ralph
irritably; "but whither then to get aid? for get aid I must. This
emprise is of more worth to me than a dozen lives! Speak you on behalf
of your kind, Gilbert the Clothier, the other traders and craftsmen of
the town? Are ye ready to strike a blow against this tyrant?"
"I crave thy pardon, Sir Knight, but we are men of peace, unused to
warlike weapons, and we have much to lose. With one swoop Fulke de
Breaute could burn about our ears all the amassed gain of a lifetime!"
Ralph shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"'Tis vain to speak to barn-door fowls of the liberty of the hawk's
flight!" replied Ralph, somewhat ungraciously. "But, Sir Merchant, if
the only weapons ye can use be your tools and your measuring-yards, yet
methinks ye have store of wisdom in your heads, in full measure above us
who spend all our wits upon our sinews!" he added laughingly. "Prithee,
counsel me."
"There are none in all the county round, in these days when so many of
our gentlefolks are impoverished with the wars and disturbances of these
last years, who can hope to lift a spear successfully against this rich
Frenchman," the merchant began. "We must e'en seek aid further afield.
Anon I had word brought me that the churchmen brook ill that the learned
brother of Martin de Pateshulle and Thomas de Muleton lies in the
keeping of the enemy of the Church, and are minded to stir in this
matter with the king."
"The king!" exclaimed Ralph, half raising himself. "That is in good
sooth good news!"
"The king holds a council shortly at Northampton, as ye know," Gilbert
went on, "and it is there they purport to lay our case before him and
his barons and bishops assembled."
"I will to Northampton, then," cried Ralph eagerly. "Certes, I was even
purposing to go thither ere this unlucky scratch detained me. I sought
the king's favour to give me some command in this army which is about to
inarch for the north."
"Better turn your lance-point nearer home, Sir Knight," the merchant
replied. "There will be work enow and glory enow to be gotten for all
who list in pulling down this robber Frenchman's stronghold!"
"I will to Northampton as soon as this leech who holds me in his
clutches gives me leave to buckle on my armour again," Ralph added.
And so it came about that, not many days later, our hero rode over to
Northampton, where he found the king in council with the bishops,
abbots, barons, and justices.
[Illustration: The council at Northampton.]
The youthful Henry III. was at this time only seventeen years old,
though he had been declared to be of age two years before. His trusted
guardian and adviser, Hubert de Burgh, was, however, still with him, and
was present at the council. The old chronicler tells how, while the
monarch and his advisers were thus assembled, deliberating on the
affairs of state, news was brought of the raid upon the judges, and of
the capture of Henry de Braybrooke by William de Breaute.
Here was an unbearable insult to the royal supremacy. The attention of
the council was instantly turned from the banks of the Tweed to those of
the Ouse.
In the storm of indignation which was aroused by the Robber Baron's
latest misdeed the voice of the Church made itself heard. The judges of
the land were at that period mostly ecclesiastics. Could they put up
with this indignity to their learned brother? Was not Fulke also a
destroyer of abbeys and churches? Had he not pulled down St. Paul's
Church at Bedford? and had not that impious raid upon St. Alban's Abbey
been but poorly atoned for by the discipline in the chapter-house? Had
any restitution been made?
Further, doubtless, the great barons called to their master's
council--they whose sires had forced his father to sign Magna Charta on
the field of Runnymede, and who had spilt their blood for the liberties
of England--had somewhat to say against this French upstart, De Breaute,
this bastard soldier of fortune, who had ensconced himself in a fortress
where one of the old Norman families had been established ever since the
days of the Conqueror.
Prelate and lord both agreed that the most pressing question of the day
was the overthrow of this robber chief.
When Ralph rode into the ancient town of Northampton, now crowded with
the magnates of the land, he had no difficulty in finding men of
position and weight who were willing to introduce him, as a scion of the
De Beauchamp family, to the council.
Henry and his advisers, in earnest discussion over this business of
Bedford, were not sorry to find one who was well acquainted with the
castle and its fortifications. Accordingly, when Ralph was presented to
the council, he was received by the young king with much cordiality.
Henry III., though one of the few weak-minded monarchs of the strong
Plantagenet line, was still so young that his character could hardly be
said to be yet formed, and any mistakes he might make were naturally set
down to his youth and inexperience. This affair of Bedford Castle,
however, was an undertaking in which he exhibited all the promptitude
and energy of his predecessors upon the throne. He resolved to attend
the siege in person, and ordered his council to suspend all other
business and direct their attention solely to the means of carrying it
out.
The council of war, or committee, to whom were confided the necessary
preparations, took Ralph into their confidence. They were presided over
by no less a personage than Hubert de Burgh himself, who summoned the
young knight to appear before them in the chamber in Northampton Castle,
where they held their conclave.
Ralph's feelings, as he found himself in the presence of one so
renowned, formerly the governor of Dover Castle, and the custodian in
Brittany of King John's luckless nephew Arthur, and the late guardian of
the king, were those of some shyness. He was a plain, country-born
youth, unused to courts and dignitaries, and even of late years a
landless, penniless knight, one of an outcast family. But the great
justiciary's manner reassured him.
"Sir Ralph," he said, "we understand that thou wast brought up in
Bedford Castle, and art well acquainted with all its parts."
"Certes, noble Hugh," replied Ralph, "always excepting those portions
where Fulke de Breaute may have made alterations and additions during
the last few years."
"Well answered, and with a caution exceeding thy years, Sir Knight. Say
on--what alterations?"
"By my faith, I can scarcely tell! But he hath pulled down and
well-nigh destroyed the church of St. Paul, and the stones thereof have
been used in the castle walls."
"For new work, mean you, or for the strengthening of old work?" inquired
the justiciary.
"That cannot I rightly say," answered Ralph, "for since my uncle was
driven forth, or rather surrendered to Fulke acting in his sovereign's
name, I have not set foot within the castle walls."