De Burgh overheard him, and with some surprise.
"So shalt thou be, and that shortly, and with stout men-at-arms at thy
back, an I mistake not. But for the nonce we must learn more about
these walls. How sayest thou the castle lieth?"
"Along the banks of the Ouse, and on the north side of the stream."
"And its defences--what be they? All say that the keep was indeed built
by thy ancestor Pain de Beauchamp, and is strong and not easily to be
assaulted."
"The keep is indeed strong and well built," Ralph replied, "and round it
run a high wall and a deep moat. On the west side only might an attack
be made with any hope of victory, for there lie the bailey yards, the
gate-house, and the barbican. Moreover, between the outer and the inner
bailey there standeth a tower, which we call the old tower, the like of
which, I have heard tell, is not to be found in many castles, and which
commands the bridge."
As he spoke Ralph made a sort of rough drawing.
"Here," he said, "is the keep, upon a lofty mound. On this side only is
an entrance possible. We must e'en break through all the outer
defences, and pass on from west to east. But it will be no light
emprise."
A gleam of pleasure came over the face of the veteran.
"By the bones of St. Thomas," he exclaimed, "thou showest no mean
knowledge or skill, fair sir. Where hast thou learned the art of war?"
"I have oft heard my uncle tell the story of how King Stephen besieged
the castle when our ancestor Milo de Beauchamp held it for the Empress
Matilda, nigh upon a hundred years ago," modestly answered Ralph. "He
even contended that it was so strong that no attack could prevail, and
that had it been better victualled it would never have surrendered. And
then, noble knight, if I may make so bold as to remind thee, there is
that sad passage in the history of our house which hath been seared into
the memory of my boyhood--I mean when my uncle, Sir William, surrendered
to this same Fulke, who came in the name of our late king, who was
indeed the enemy of our house. Ofttimes hath my uncle gone over that
tale with me, and hath showed me how he might yet have held the castle
had he possessed better stores and more men."
The end of this interview was that Ralph, in consideration of the
valuable information he had proved himself willing and able to bestow,
was admitted to all the deliberations of the council, and was listened
to with attention. Neither his uncle William de Beauchamp, nor his
kinsman at Eaton Socon, had come to Northampton; the latter by reason of
his age, and the former on account of his sullen despair, and perhaps
also hindered by a latent distrust of the house of Plantagenet, which
had dealt so ill with him. Thus it happened that Ralph represented, as
it were, the De Beauchamp family.
He was given plenty to do in the way of hastening preparations,
moreover, and as his heart was in the work, for Aliva's sake, he was
busy both night and day.
His duties brought him into frequent communications with a personage who
was much to the front when any question of a siege was on hand--namely,
John de Standen, the chief of the miners. Ralph soon discovered that
John had considerable knowledge of Bedford Castle and its
fortifications. This puzzled him not a little at the time, and it was
not till later on that he solved the mystery.
When the chief of the miners and his assistants had determined what
supplies of material were necessary for the siege, royal writs were
issued for their production. Timber was required for the manufacture of
the bombarding engines or _petraria_, which were to fling great stones
at the castle, and ox or horse hides were needed for the protection of
these machines. Thousands of quarrels were ordered for the cross-bows
and dart-throwing engines. Iron was ordered in great quantities, to be
worked up on the spot, and pickaxes and other tools were not forgotten.
Moreover, writs were issued to the sheriffs of Hertford, Oxford,
Cambridge, Huntingdon, Northampton, Warwick, Leicester, Rutland, Essex,
Suffolk, Norfolk, Lincoln, and Middlesex, directing them to send two men
from each plough-land (the usual division of land in those days) to work
the aforementioned engines. Then the feeding of these men had to be
attended to. One Peter Buyam, a Burgundian merchant, was ordered to
purchase one hundred and eight casks of wine at St. Botolph's fair, at
forty-three shillings and four-pence a cask.
From St. Briavels in Gloucestershire, the native place of John de
Standen, were brought thirty assistant miners. But carpenters,
saddlers, and leather-workers, to shape the shields for the engines,
were found nearer at hand by the sheriffs of the counties of Northampton
and Bedford, as were also the men who were to fashion the stones to be
discharged from the petraria. The whole of the midlands was astir over
the siege of Bedford Castle.
Neither was the Church inactive. To show their horror at the outrages
of the wicked Fulke, the assembled prelates and abbots forthwith granted
the king a subsidy of half a mark for each of their plough-lands, and
also sent, for each hide of land held by them, two men to work the
engines, taking care, however, to obtain an acknowledgment from the king
that this was a special grant. The priory of Newenham, which had been
founded by the De Beauchamps, furnished the stones for the bombardment,
and the abbey of St. Alban's naturally took a deep interest in the
proceedings, which are fully chronicled in the records of the house.
No sooner, however, was it known that a Bedfordshire maiden, the Lady
Aliva de Pateshulle, was a prisoner of the foreign interloper, than all
the men of the county rose to assist in the undertaking. Even our
stalwart friend the Benedictine lay-brother, as soon as--thanks to the
care of Lady Mabel--he had recovered at Eaton Socon from the dastardly
wound inflicted by Bertram de Concours, found his way to the
headquarters of preparations.
Martin de Pateshulle, also, as one of those justices whose writs had
been so rudely repudiated by Fulke, was summoned to the council. This
worthy ecclesiastic, who was none the worse for his overthrow by William
de Breaute's horsemen, was much concerned over the fate of his niece.
In him Ralph, tortured by anxiety which he was striving to drown in
work, found a friend and ready sympathizer.
"My son," said the archdeacon one day at the close of a long sitting of
the council of war, "thou toilest in this business both as a servant of
Holy Church and as a gallant knight for the rescue of fair lady."
Ralph sighed.
"Indeed, venerable father, it is only when my whole heart is busy with
my work that it finds peace. I am torn with doubts and fears concerning
her whom I love. Could I but have one word, one token from her! Could
I but hear something of her, were it even ill news! But this silence,
it ofttimes is more than I can bear."
John de Standen, still busy at the table over a rough sketch, looked up
at these words.
"Sir Knight," he said, "thou meanest what thou sayest? Hast a stout
heart? Canst bear ill news?"
Ralph sprang from his seat, and gripped the king's miner by the arm till
he winced.
"Speak, man, I conjure thee! Thou hast heard aught?"
"Speech is just what is forbidden to me," replied John. "My lips are
sealed. All the message I have for thee is: 'Haste, or it may be too
late!' Ask me no more."
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
_*HEARD UNDERGROUND.*_
On the twenty-second of June 1224, the king arrived at Bedford, and the
siege of the castle commenced almost immediately. Outside the town, on
the Northampton road, pavilions were pitched for himself, for Hubert de
Burgh the justiciary, and other great officers, while the troops and
their officers, Ralph de Beauchamp among them, were quartered in rude
shelters near the castle, or billeted upon the townsfolk, that they
might be ready to repel any sortie which the besieged might make with a
view of burning the engines of war. Close to these latter were encamped
the men who worked them, together with the miners, carpenters, and other
artificers ready for their respective turn of duty.
Before any hostile movement was commenced, however, the king, in due
form, summoned the castle to surrender. An ecclesiastic was detailed
for the purpose; for priests in those days often performed strange
functions.
It was but an empty form, for no one expected that the king's command
would be obeyed. Moreover, Sir Fulke de Breaute himself was not in the
castle. With the astute craftiness which pervaded all his actions, he
had gone away some little while before, leaving his brother in command.
He took himself off into Wales, where he joined the Earl of Chester,
who, though siding for some time with the king, had left him, in
conjunction with some other barons, under somewhat suspicious
circumstances.
As was to be expected, William de Breaute made answer to the
archdeacon--for such was the office of the king's messenger--that he had
received no orders from his brother to surrender the castle, and that he
certainly should not do so without authority from him. So the siege was
begun without delay.
The method of taking a castle in those days was much the same as that
which continued in vogue till, long afterwards, stone walls gave place
to earthworks. The walls were first battered by stones thrown from the
petraria, and when a breach had been made a storming-party rushed in.
The only change consequent upon the introduction of gunpowder was that
cannon then took the place of the stone-throwing engines.
The machines were placed one or two on each side of the castle, and they
must have been of considerable size and strength, as one of them
projected stones right across the river. The men who worked them were
protected against the quarrels, arrows, and other missiles directed at
them from the walls, by screens made of ox and horse hides. Two lofty
erections, which towered far above the fortifications of the castle,
were manned by slingers and cross-bowmen, who thence shot down upon the
garrison on the walls and in the baileys below them.
Close up against the face of the wall itself was pushed a movable
screen, called the "cat," the object of which was to protect John de
Standen and his men as they carried on their work of undermining the
walls.
Ralph was ordered by his superior officer, a grim old baron who had been
one of those assembled at Runnymede when John signed the charter, but
who now supported his son, to pay special attention to the mining
operations. To Ralph and John de Standen attached himself one who could
hardly be called a soldier, though he exhibited all the courage and zeal
which are the necessary qualities of a man of war. This was the young
lay-brother from St. Alban's. He was received as a sort of volunteer,
and was granted permission to serve in the mining work, for his
religious vows, he said, forbade him to carry sword or spear. This
young man proved, however, a valuable assistant.
A kind of friendly rivalry went on between the two branches of warfare
into which the besiegers were divided. Those who had charge of the
engines favoured the notion of pounding the walls till they battered
them down. The sappers and miners, however, built their hopes of
reducing the fortress upon their methods of burrowing underneath it.
But before these latter were able to push on far with their works, the
besiegers above ground gained two important advantages. They carried by
assault the barbican or outer defence of the gate, and with but a loss
of four or five men. By this means they were able to rush the gate
itself, and in a second assault forced their way into the outer bailey
or yard, the first one on the west side.
Here were the store-houses, and here also were kept the horses and live
stock which the besieged took care to have always within the castle
walls. Forage, grain, and such like bulky articles as could not be
removed into the keep were likewise stored in the yard. All these fell
into the hands of the besiegers, who removed the arms, the horses, and
the pigs, and burned the buildings which contained the corn and hay.
The besieged retreated within the inner wall, which defended the lesser
bailey.
But between the upper and lower bailey there stood--a rather unusual
feature in a Norman castle--a strong building known by the name of the
"old tower." It had probably something to do with fortifications which
at an earlier date protected the bridge across the Ouse, before the
castle precincts were prolonged westwards. Here the besieged gathered
in strength and made an obstinate stand.
The assistance of John de Standen and his men was now necessary. The
other defences, the barbican and the wall of the outer bailey, had been
carried by assault, the soldiers climbing the walls and forcing their
way within. But the wall which separated the two baileys, protected as
it was by the old tower, proved a more formidable obstacle. The king's
troops intrenched themselves in the outer bailey, and the cat was
wheeled into position ready for the operations of the miners.
These latter worked with a will. Ere long they were able to report to
Ralph de Beauchamp, as their superior officer, that the foundations of
the old tower were undermined, and that the building would fall directly
the stays and struts with which they had propped it up should be
removed.
So Ralph went down into the mine with John de Standen, that he in his
turn might report to his superiors that the underground work was indeed
finished, and that the soldiers might be held in readiness to storm the
inner bailey.
With some professional pride the king's miner conducted the knight
through the dark passages he had burrowed, explaining as he went the
manner in which the supports should be removed directly he received the
signal to do so.
They were just beneath the old tower, and John de Standen was enlarging
on the excellent arrangements which he had made for the overthrow of the
building, when, to their intense astonishment, a woman's voice was heard
speaking in the vault overhead.
"By my faith," cried John de Standen, "but I wot not that we had dug so
close to the lower vault of the tower. Methinks I must be out of my
reckoning, Sir Knight, or mayhap your recollection of the place plays
you false."
"In good sooth we are close beneath the tower," replied Ralph. "How
thinkest thou, good John? Has the enemy countermined, or are they about
to break in upon our works?"
Before John de Standen could vouchsafe an opinion, the voice again was
heard from above.
"Ho, royal miners, are ye below?"
"We be miners sure enow," called John de Standen in reply. "But who be
ye above there?--They cannot be for Sir Fulke," he added in a lower tone
to Ralph, "or they would not let us hear them. Methinks, too, the voice
is that of a woman or a boy."
"I am for the king and his miners," spoke the voice again. "But tell
me, prithee, is your master, John de Standen, with thee?"
"I, John de Standen, myself am here, and speak; and with me is no one
save Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," replied the miner. "But speak; who art
thou? Woman or boy; no man, I trow?"
"Now fie upon thee, John de Standen," said the unseen speaker, "that
thou knowest not the voice of Beatrice Mertoun."
"Beshrew me, Beatrice, if I can know thy voice, an it _be_ thou, if it
come to me through these plaguy paving-stones," cried De Standen.
"Moreover, why askest _thou_, hearing me speak, if I am John de
Standen?"
"Marry," exclaimed Beatrice, "in the night all cats are gray. All men's
voices sound the same. But mind thee, John, how oft thou hast sworn
that thou wouldest know my voice anywhere."
John de Standen felt he was getting the worst of the argument. He
changed the subject.
"And prithee, fair Beatrice, what art doing above us?"
"Hush! not so loud," she answered. "I have but a few moments. The
guard watch closely the vault ever since that machine of thine was
dragged up against the tower. I marvel much that they have not heard
the noise of thy workers, and broken in upon thee. But for many days
have I too watched, hoping to get a word with thee, for I have a message
to send to a knight. But stay--didst not say one Sir Ralph de Beauchamp
was with thee?"
"In good sooth I am here," replied Sir Ralph, both amused and puzzled by
this unexpected and remarkable meeting between the king's miner and a
lady who seemed an old acquaintance, if nothing nearer. "I am here, lady
fair, whosoever thou art, for methinks a fair face must e'en suit so
sweet a voice."
"She is the waiting-woman of the Lady Margaret de Ripariis, and a mighty
comely damsel withal," explained the bold miner.
"Now a truce to fair speeches! I have somewhat to say to Sir Ralph that
ill brooks delay. The Lady Aliva, who is prisoner here--
"The Lady Aliva! I know it well!" shouted Ralph, forgetful of the
caution to speak softly. "But tell me quick, I pray thee, is she safe?
is she well?"
"Safe as yet," replied Beatrice. "But there is mischief brewing against
her. Say, did I not see thee carried away wounded from before the
castle gate not many weeks since? They brought thy helmet into the
castle. I showed it to the Lady Aliva, and she knew it for thine by the
crest. And then darkness seized her mind, for not long after came Fulke
de Breaute to her, and told her that thou wast slain!"
"The lying scoundrel!" cried Ralph hotly. "Could I but meet him, he
would see I am yet alive!"
"Ere he quitted the castle he came oft to her with suit of marriage for
his brother," Beatrice went on, lying down upon the stone floor above
and speaking with her mouth to an open joint she had discovered between
two of the paving slabs. "Canst hear me, Sir Knight? The guards
approach; I must tell thee in few words, for I hear the warders relieved
not many posts away. William de Breaute came himself to the lady to
plead his suit. But she hates him. She told him so to his face."
"She told him so on his face!" muttered Ralph.
"But the chapel hath been prepared," continued the waiting-woman, "and
that traitor priest, Bertram de Concours, was ready. They dragged the
lady thither by force. Sir Fulke and William de Breaute were waiting.
What might have happened I know not, but my Lady Margaret stepped
forward, and shamed the shameless man into respect for a lady."
"And all this while she was faithful to me, though believing me dead!"
exclaimed Ralph, half to himself.
"But Sir Fulke, ere he left for the marches of Wales, swore a great oath
he would find her wedded ere he return, or else--And William de Breaute,
he apeth the fine French gentleman. He maketh sweet speeches, and vows
that when the king's troops be driven back, and the care of the castle
be passed from him, he will return to bask once more in the sunlight of
his lady's eyes! Faugh! the smooth-tongued villain! He has sung the
same song to me, but not to my honour. But hist! they come!"
A sound, as of the trampling of armed men, penetrated to those below.
Then the eager listeners there caught some words in a rough man's voice.
"Pardie! pretty maiden, what doest here? Must pay forfeit with a kiss
ere thou depart!"
Then there was the sound of a struggle and a scream, and John de Standen
shook his fist in mute rage at the floor above him.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
_*FEARS AND HOPES.*_
William de Beauchamp, the taciturn and melancholy, had not attended the
council at Northampton. But he could not well absent himself when an
attack was made upon the castle which once had been his; and for his own
benefit, for the king had promised to reinstate him as soon as the
Robber Baron should have been driven out. He had been given a command
in the royal force, and found himself in the anomalous position of
besieging his own castle.
But the march of events did not, as might well have been imagined, raise
his drooping spirits. He was, indeed, more dismal than ever, having got
a fixed idea in his head that he should never come to his own again.
Though he had escaped unhurt from the two first assaults, by which the
barbican and the outer bailey had been won, he was well aware that yet
more serious struggles were before the besiegers ere they might hope to
win the inner bailey and the keep. These assaults, he had made up his
mind, he should not survive, and in his gloomiest, most funereal manner,
called Ralph to him at the close of a summer's evening, when they were
resting from duty in the house of Gilbert the Clothier, where they were
quartered, and prepared to deliver to him what he supposed to be his
last wishes and dispositions.
"Nephew Ralph," he began, in his most lugubrious tones, "thou hast been
as a son to me, since my only son was cut off in early childhood."
"True, uncle much revered by me," replied Ralph, puzzled at this solemn
address. "I know not quite if I have been a good son to thee, but thou
hast, in good sooth, given me all the father's care I have ever known."
"And now, Nephew Ralph," William de Beauchamp continued, "I am about to
confide to thee a very precious and holy message. Thou hast heard tell
of the Lady Margaret de Ripariis?"
"Ay, certes," replied Ralph.
"And now that my time is at hand, and that the sands of my life are--"
"Thy time is at hand! By my faith, uncle, what mean these words?"
"Thou wottest that ere long we attack the old tower and the inner
bailey," the uncle proceeded, in a tragic manner.
"I have but just come from the old tower, where John de Standen hath
showed me how nigh is its overthrow."
"Hark ye, nephew. I shall fall then; I know it of a certainty. I have
seen in a dream that I shall not survive the assault. I shall ne'er
again set eyes on the Lady Margaret, now for many years the unhappy wife
of Fulke de Breaute. Once, when we were young and she was fair, we
plighted our troth, and I have never forgotten it, though a cruel fate
tore us asunder. My wife, who was ne'er to me as the first love of my
youth the Lady Margaret, hath been dead these many years; and had the
time come for the end of the miserable Fulke, I would fain have offered
myself again to my once affianced bride. But I die before him. I feel
it. For us there is no hope."
Ralph began to perceive the gloomy forebodings that had seized his
uncle, and tried, but in vain, to reassure him, pointing out how much
danger he had already escaped, and bidding him hope for the best.
"For eight long years thou hast pined an exile from the halls of thine
ancestors, uncle. But to-day our star is again in the ascendant, and
fortune smiles once more upon the De Beauchamps."
William shook his head sadly.
"It may not be, nephew. But bear thou to the Lady Margaret my last
words of unalterable affection for the love of my youth."
"Nay, uncle, thou shalt bear them thyself, when Fulke shall have gone to
the perdition reserved for him! But cease these dark meditations, and
list awhile to a sprightly wooing I overheard 'twixt one of those within
the castle, and no less a person than the king's miner, in the old
tower, this very noontide."
And to turn his uncle's thoughts, Ralph proceeded to relate the strange
meeting between John de Standen and Beatrice.
But at the very hour these two talked thus together in Master Gilbert's
guest-chamber, the subject of their conversation, the Lady Margaret, sat
with her waiting-woman in the deep window of the lady's bower.
The latter was brimming over with eagerness to impart to Aliva the good
news she had just ascertained as to Ralph's safety, but deemed it
prudent to confide it first to her mistress.
"By'r Lady, mistress mine, I vow I heard him, though I cannot say I saw
him, and he is whole and in good heart."
"The saints be praised!" ejaculated Lady Margaret. "It hath grieved me
sore that this sweet maiden should be thus held prisoner by my
evil-disposed brother, and yet sadder am I to think that she should have
been told her knight was slain."
"And such a knight, lady! Fair spoken, and of good courage. I heard it
in the ring of his voice, as he hasted to ask after her welfare, how
much he loveth her."
"Thou knewest that he was the Lady Aliva's knight, then, Beatrice?"
"Ever since the affair of the helmet, lady. My Lady Aliva could not
contain herself then, when she knew him wounded, and told me all. She
is as true to him as the pole-star to the north, or as I to--"
"I know it, Beatrice, and it would be a deadly sin, and one I will stand
out against as long as I draw breath, were she to be forced to wed
William. The lying wretch! he will stick at naught to gain his end. To
tell Aliva Sir Ralph was dead! Alas, alas! But peace, Beatrice; here
she comes. I will tell her the news."
Inwardly chafing at being deprived of the pleasure of imparting such
delightful information, Beatrice retreated behind the chair of her
mistress as Aliva entered.
The weary weeks the latter had spent as a prisoner since that fatal
morning when she was hurried into the castle, and the intense mental
anguish she had endured since the helmet of the wounded knight had been
handed to her on the ramparts that same evening, had left their traces
on Aliva's pale cheek. The listless attitude in which she sank upon a
stone seat, and gazed with mournful eyes out into the fast-falling
summer twilight, contrasted strangely with the natural vigour and
vivacity of the brave horsewoman who had led William de Breaute such a
chase over the Ouse marshes. Something akin to despair had crushed her
soul since Sir Fulke had brought her the news of Sir Ralph's death.
"Daughter," began Lady Margaret, tenderly drawing the fair head which
leaned so wearily upon the thin hand down upon her knee, "I have
somewhat to say to thee. This suit of my husband's brother--methinks
Sir Fulke knew, as well as thou and I, how vain it was to urge it while
thy true knight yet lived--"
"It were ever vain, lady, were Ralph alive or dead. Death would be
sweeter to me than marriage with William de Breaute," replied Aliva
mournfully.
"He hath used treachery once to gain his end; what if he hath also used
deceit of words?" Lady Margaret went on. "Other De Beauchamps than thy
knight bear the crest thou sawest on the casque."
"Ah, lady," moaned Aliva, "beguile me not with vain hopes. Did not
Beatrice here see him fall?"
"In good sooth! But, lady, I saw him not die."
"Mind you how the townsfolk bore him off with much care? Perchance
Hubert of Provence aimed not o'er true with his quarrel--"
"He is but a sorry wight in many things, lady," put in Beatrice
scornfully.
"And the leeches are possessed of marvellous skill, as thou well
knowest, and Sir Ralph is young and strong--"
"_Was_ young and strong, you mean, lady. O prithee, peace! Open not
thus afresh a wound which bleeds, ay, and will bleed for ever!"
"My lady means what she says, and naught else," interrupted Beatrice,
unable to restrain herself any longer. "He is young and strong, or
beshrew me for a deaf old crone, for I trow his voice was strong enough
this noontide!"
"His voice!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself eagerly, and a faint
colour overspreading her pallid cheek. "O Beatrice, mock me not!"
"Thou mockest thyself, daughter," said Lady Margaret, smiling. "Take
heart o' grace. Beatrice speaks true; she hath heard him not many hours
since."
And Beatrice, coming forward and falling at her lady's knees, poured
forth her wonderful tale in a torrent of words.
When she paused for lack of breath, Aliva rose, like one waking from a
dream, and clutched Beatrice's arm.
"Beatrice, an thou lovest me, take me to this chink in the vault of the
old tower. Haste thee, haste thee! Let me hear him speak again."
"Alas, lady! but this very evening William de Breaute hath ordered that
all women keep within the keep, as the enemy presseth us round so
close."
A merry laugh as of old, the first which had rung from her since she had
been a prisoner, and the first to which the lady's bower had re-echoed
for many a day, burst from Aliva's lips. With the violent revulsion of
feeling born of her youth and high mettle, she waved her hand scornfully
and laughed again.
"William de Breaute! Oh, he may command and order, in good sooth, if it
please him. What for him now, or for his commands! Methinks his time
comes apace, and Ralph de Beauchamp will be master here. My Ralph--to
think they had dared to tell me that he was slain!"
And then she fell to bidding Beatrice tell her story all over again.
"Pretty Beatrice, an could I, I would give thee a lapful of gold nobles
for this news thou hast brought. It is to me worth a king's ransom. I
feel like one risen from the dead. But I trow, Mistress Beatrice," she
added archly, "that thou hast had thy reward, in that the bold miner was
also below. But tell me once more the very words Sir Ralph spake."
"Nay, nay, maidens," put in Lady Margaret; "it is already night, and joy
oft wearies as much as grief. Let us now to rest while we may. The
strife will begin again at dawn."
"Lady," cried Aliva, embracing the elder woman with tenderness, "go thou
and rest if thou canst. I could not close my eyes for very joy.--Go,
Beatrice, and leave me here a while alone, that I may think it all o'er
again. Go to thy dreams of mines and miners!"
Left to herself, Aliva sat down in the deep window-seat where Lady
Margaret had sat when Sir Fulke related to her a less pleasant vision of
the night than that which probably haunted the couch of Beatrice--a
dream which now seemed in fair way of coming true. The short July
darkness had fallen. Across the river the petraria were at rest, and in
the silence of the night Aliva only
"Heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below
Clanked as he paced it to and fro."
Aliva gazed out into the beautiful balmy night, and a peace to which she
had long been a stranger stole in upon her heart. The world was at
rest, and it seemed sad to think that in a few short hours, when the
darkness should be over, man would be once more at his cruel work of
war. But the stars, shining deep in the purple overhead and reflected
in the placid stream below, seemed to her stars of hope.
"It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word,
And gentle winds and waters near
Make music to the lonely ear."
As she gazed she thought she heard her name called softly from out of
the gloom below.
"Aliva!" said a voice, "Aliva!"
*CHAPTER XX.*
_*LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS.*_
When the interview with his uncle had ended and Ralph's endeavours to
cheer the latter's gloom had in a measure succeeded, the young knight
went off to make his report upon John de Standen's operations to his
superiors. Evening was falling fast ere he found himself free, and then
it suddenly came into his mind to pay a kind of unofficial visit to the
sentries on the south side of the river, and see if they were on the
alert. Perhaps, also, he was impelled by an uncontrollable desire to
gaze from as close a point as was possible on that stern keep, where he
had that noontide learned from Beatrice Mertoun that his lady-love
lingered in much doubt and distress.
He crossed the bridge and walked along the river-bank, giving the
required password to each post, and adding a few syllables of caution.
In so doing, he told himself he was but fulfilling the object of his
nocturnal ramble. Ere long he found himself facing the huge keep,
rising on the opposite shore of the river black against the northern
sky.
Ralph knew every window of the southern face of the keep, and well-nigh
every stone. He perceived a light in one of the large openings of the
upper story. He knew that window well. It was that of the lady's bower,
which had been his cousin's apartment in the old days, and was probably
now occupied by the Lady Margaret.
Dark though the night was, the young man's eyesight was keen, and as he
gazed at that window, a crowd of tender thoughts flooding his heart, he
saw in the opening two figures in dark profile against the light behind
them.
Seized by an uncontrollable impulse, Ralph hastily doffed his armour,
and, clad only in the soft leathern dress which knights wore beneath
their harness, dropped into the stream so quietly as to be unperceived
by the nearest sentry on the river-bank.
Starting from a well-known old pollard willow, Ralph breasted the stream
manfully, making, as nearly as the sweep of the current and the darkness
of the night would allow him, for certain iron stanchions which he
remembered he had fixed, when a boy, into the castle wall.
To his great joy he found they had not been removed. He caught hold of
the lowest, which was near the water's edge, and quickly scaled the
wall. When he reached the top he looked eagerly down and around.
No one was near. William de Breaute, whose garrison was but scanty, had
judged that no attack would be made upon the river side of the castle,
except by boat, and accordingly had contented himself with posting
sentries at each end of the long river-wall, concentrating his principal
strength on the landward side of the castle.
Ralph slid down the other side of the wall, and cautiously crossed the
open space which separated him from the huge mound on which stood the
keep. He was still unperceived; so, climbing the steep side of the
mound, he crouched down against the lofty wall, immediately beneath the
lighted window.
Were those two figures still there?
Twice he softly called Aliva by name, and then, to his intense rapture,
sweet as an angel's voice from heaven to him, came the words from
above,--
"Ralph! Ralph! can it be thou?"
"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage."
Love laughs at locksmiths. In this case it made light, too, of some
forty perpendicular feet of massive stone wall. After five weary months
of uncertainty, all doubts, mistrusts, and tortures of anxiety were
swept away in a breath, as these two heard, each one once more, the
loved voice neither had expected ever to hear again; and old Father
Ouse, rippling sluggishly on between the willows through the dark summer
night, had never listened to warmer raptures, to more passionate
protestations of love.
But some one else was listening too.
In the thickness of the wall, at the south-east corner of the keep, on
the same floor as the great hall, was the small chapel of the castle.
It was a tiny apartment, affording room for but few worshipping besides
those attending on the ministrations of the priest. Behind a round
arched arcading in a stone gallery were accommodated the ladies and the
household of the lord's family; but the bulk of the congregation would
have to stand in a sort of antechapel opening out of the great hall, and
join in the mass from that position.
Up and down the narrow space in front of the altar--freshly repaired and
cleaned for the bridal of Aliva and De Breaute--paced restlessly at
midnight Bertram de Concours. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. The
freshly-appointed chaplain of Bedford Castle had conceived that his new
position would be one which would lead him to power and authority, and
probably give him an opportunity to triumph over those whom he
considered his enemies, the ecclesiastical superiors who had dishonoured
and disowned him. But now, instead of rising to power with the De
Breaute family, he found his new patrons in sore distress. He was well
aware that the two assaults which had already been made on the castle
had been completely successful, and that all the outer defences had been
taken. He gleaned, from the talk of De Breaute and his under-officers,
that if the walls were really undermined, and a fresh attack should be
made with the same vigour, nothing could avert the fall of the castle.
For the fate of De Breaute and his men Bertram de Concours cared
nothing, but in the event of his own capture he clearly foresaw for
himself condemnation in the ecclesiastical court. The sentence would be
perpetual imprisonment in the cell of some stringent order, where
offending priests were subjected to even more severe discipline than
that voluntarily assumed by the most austere monks themselves.
"Fool that I was," he muttered to himself, "to have thrown in my lot
with these French upstarts! Why did I not see this maiden safe to her
father's house, and so have won me the eternal gratitude of this
love-sick knight, and what is more, the favour of his family?"
As he moved restlessly to and fro, he paused, and opening the rude
shutter which closed the narrow window on the south, looked out into the
silent summer night. The calm freshness seemed to mock the consuming
uneasiness in his mind.
But as he gazed he heard voices. He leaned out and listened intently.
Yes, he was not mistaken: a voice there was above him--a
woman's--answering to a man's below in the darkness.
"Escape, my Ralph, ere dawn break! There are watchers at each end of
the long wall, and they will certes espy thee if thou lingerest till it
grows light. How it came that thou crossedst the glacis, and scaledst
the keep mound unseen, I cannot tell. May the saints bear thee safe
across the river!"