"Fare thee well, my heart's darling, Aliva!--My Lady Margaret, I salute
thee. Forget not the signal. When the last assault comes--as come full
soon it must--and we attack this mighty keep, hang your scarves from the
windows of the chamber to which ye retreat, and I will come and convey
ye both away in safety."
Then Bertram heard the speaker cautiously feeling his way among the
loose stones which lay at the foot of the keep.
He drew a short, sharp breath, and clinched his teeth.
"By the mass," he exclaimed, "though naught can undo my folly in the
past, yet I will have vengeance now! Ho, warder, ho!" he cried,
hurrying from the chapel into the hall, and shouting to the sentry on
duty at the entrance; "ho! quick to the window, and take thy aim at yon
figure hastening down to the river wall. 'Tis the young knight De
Beauchamp. It grows light enow for thee to see thy mark."
At that moment William de Breaute entered the hall from the turret
staircase in the corner. He had been taking a few hours' sleep in one
of the upper chambers, and was now about to sally out on his early
morning rounds, fearing an attack when his guards were weary and drowsy.
"How sayest thou, Sir Chaplain?" he exclaimed; "Ralph de Beauchamp
here--beneath the castle wall! 'Tis not possible!"
"Nay, Sir William, not so impossible," replied the priest. "I trow he
hath been drawn across the Ouse by a lodestar within these walls. From
the chapel window I heard him e'en now hold converse with the Lady Aliva
at a window above."
With a furious volley of French oaths William de Breaute rushed wildly
out of the hall, calling upon all the sentries near to stop or kill Sir
Ralph.
It was a maddening race. From the upper window the girl watched it in
agony. The cross-bow bolts flew thick and fast around Ralph as he
hurried to the wall. Some shattered themselves against the stones as he
scaled it.
For a brief moment he stood out clearly upon the summit against the gray
dawn, an easy mark for the archers. Then, without waiting to descend by
the iron stanchions, he took a desperate plunge into the stream.
[Illustration: A desperate plunge.]
Aliva saw him rise to the surface, and watched him swimming with all his
might to the opposite bank.
But as he leaped from the top of the wall she saw another figure reach
it, and she recognized the pursuer to be William de Breaute.
He held in his hand a ready-strung cross-bow which he had snatched from
one of the warders.
Aliva saw him take aim and loose the shaft.
The figure of the swimmer half rose in the water, and then disappeared
from view beneath its surface.
With a faint cry Aliva fell back swooning into the arms of Lady
Margaret.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
_*THE CASTLE FALLS.*_
The unfortunate Lady Aliva was in despair.
The cup of happiness had been rudely dashed from her lips. After all
her perils and anxieties of the last few weeks, her lover had been
suddenly restored to her; once more she had heard his voice, had
listened to his vows and caressing words, but only to see him slain, as
she imagined, by his rival before her very eyes. From the summit of
unexpected joy she was plunged into a depth of misery tenfold harder to
bear than that which had gone before. All hope seemed over.
But within some twenty-four hours she was rudely awakened from her grief
by the horrible din of the assault, which at dawn of day commenced
against the old tower and the inner bailey.
"Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels, the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnished arms,
The braying trumpets, and the hoarser drum
Unite in concert with increased alarms."
"The wall is rent, the ruins yawn,
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn,
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault
The foremost of the fierce assault."
The storm of war reached nearer to the ladies in the keep than it had
ever yet done. Through the crack of the closely-shuttered windows they
could watch the fray below, and catch the sound of angry voices borne up
to them, and mingling with the crash of falling masonry.
The Lady Margaret, whose shattered nerves could ill bear such tumult,
betook herself to the little chapel in the angle of the wall, and passed
the time upon her knees in prayer. But Aliva and Beatrice, impelled by
the curiosity of youth, could not forbear to see what was to be seen.
The point of interest was the old tower. The girls knew it to be
undermined, and watched anxiously to see it totter to its fall.
"I see a mass of soldiers gathering under the outer wall and halting as
if for a signal," cried Aliva.
"The tower will soon fall, and these are ready to rush in," said
Beatrice.
"But how falls it?" asked Aliva. "Thou art in the miner's secrets;
tell, prithee."
"They tie ropes to the great wooden beams and props on which John hath
supported the foundations. At a safe distance stand men ready to pull
them away; and then--ah, our Lady have them in her keeping!"
And as she spoke a sound was heard, a rumbling as of thunder, followed
by a cloud of blinding dust, which obscured everything--court-yard, men,
and masonry. There was a fearful crash, and the girls shrank with
terror and looked at each other.
"Oh, this is horrible!" whispered Aliva, hiding her face.
"My lady, my lady, I can see! The tower is down--it is a heap of
rubble; and they come, they come! O lady, you are saved!"
"Saved!" said Aliva with a sad smile, shaking her head; "what boots it
now? What wish have I for aught but death?"
"Death, lady? and in the moment of victory? Oh, speak not so! See the
king's men, how they hurry, they scramble, they pour through the breach!
'Tis a noble sight. Forward, forward! Down with the Breaute!" shouted
the excited waiting-woman, opening the shutter wide and craning out her
neck.
"Beatrice, have a care. They will let fly a bolt at thee, and what will
say the master miner? _Thou_ hast some one to live for!"
"If I die for it, I must look!" protested Beatrice. "Oh, the king's men,
how they fall! Alas, alas! William de Breaute hath well posted his men
in all the best places for defence! But on they come--they waver not!
By my halidom, there comes a gallant band, though small! How fast that
knight leads them across the inner bailey! They make for the steps of
the door of the keep. But how thick the arrows fly! William must have
lined every loophole in the donjon and in the hall with men!"
"But how the royal men-at-arms pour in! De Breaute is far
outnumbered--his men fly--they fall back--they seek to gain the steps,"
gasped Aliva, looking over Beatrice's shoulder.
"Gallantly done, gallantly done! That little close band follows them
hard up the steps. Well led, Sir Knight! (Hold my hand, prithee, lady,
lest I fall out and break my neck! I _must_ see.) But our men make a
stand upon the steps; that is to gain time to close the door. The
swords are at it now--I hear the ringing. Ah me! it is Sir William
himself defends the steps. He raises his sword; he will smite that bold
knight who leads them! He _has_ smitten--By our Lady, 'twas a near
thing! Who was that parried the stroke with his staff? I see! a man
in monkish dress. And now the knight falls--he rolls down the
steps--his armour is heavy--he strives in vain to rise, but alack,
alack!"
"What seest thou? speak, Beatrice!"
"The poor brother, lady, he who saved the knight--he has fallen. Oh, he
moves not! Alack, he is slain!"
"They are all falling back; what means it, Beatrice?"
"I cannot see, lady; the wooden porch over the steps hinders me. But
the knight has risen--he is unhurt--he calls his men back."
"They retreat--they retreat?"
"Meseemeth Sir William and his men have shut to the door, lady," replied
Beatrice, drawing in her head; and as the two girls stared blankly in
each other's faces, the Lady Margaret, pallid and haggard, entered the
apartment.
"Daughters," she exclaimed, "the king's men have won the inner bailey;
the old tower is down; we now only hold the keep!"
That evening sore disappointment reigned in the camp of the besiegers.
Had they but been able to reach the door ere it was closed, the keep
would have been theirs; but as it was, they were compelled to draw off
after considerable loss from the storm of arrows which rained upon them
from the loopholes.
All had to be begun over again. John de Standen and his men once more
set to work. The cat was wheeled up close to the walls of the keep, and
the digging recommenced. This time the task was more laborious and
difficult than ever. The foundations were strongly laid. The work of
Pain de Beauchamp was built to last, and the besieged did all they could
to hinder the operations. It was not till the fourteenth of August that
De Standen could report that his work was ready.
Late that afternoon the fourth and last attack commenced. The miners
sprung a huge fissure in the wall of the keep. Simultaneously another
agent was set to work--fire. A light was set to the wooden porch over
the steps.
The work was finished. The flames, caught the woodwork within, and
broke out in some of the apartments. Through fire and smoke the
besiegers stormed the breach, the besieged fighting desperately, and
only yielding step by step.
[Illustration: "Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the
breach."]
At last, however, William de Breaute was forced to acknowledge himself
beaten.
"My brother cannot say I did not do my utmost," he gasped to one of his
officers as they leaned exhausted against the pillar of the turret
stair.
"Yield thee, now yield thee, William de Breaute!" cried a voice through
the din.
"I yield me to the king's mercy," began the Frenchman, "but not to
thee," he added, as the tall form and gloomy visage of William de
Beauchamp loomed down upon through the smoke. "To a De Beauchamp?
never!"
His men had ceased to offer any resistance, and stood with spears and
swords point downwards and cross-bows unstrung. William looked around.
"My Lord Lisle of Rougemount, I surrender to you, rescue or no rescue."
The baron thus addressed seized De Breaute's outstretched sword, and
signalled to his men. They closed round the prisoner and his immediate
attendants, and prepared to march them off to the dungeon.
But as they crossed the great hall they met a young knight, followed by
two or three men-at-arms, hurrying towards the turret stair.
"Ho, nephew!" exclaimed Sir William de Beauchamp, pointing to Lord
Lisle's prisoner with the nearest approach to a smile of which his
lugubrious features were capable; "see here! He hath tried long enough
how it feels to sit in our great hall; we go now to give him a taste of
our dungeon."
William de Breaute turned his head, and for the first time, and for a
few moments only, found himself face to face with his rival, Ralph de
Beauchamp. He cast upon him a look in which malignant hatred was
mingled with the haggard despair of frustrated hopes.
"Dog!" he ejaculated, "methought thou liedst safe at the bottom of thy
muddy Ouse!"
"Not so safe as thou wilt shortly lie in our donjon vaults," retorted
Ralph, scarcely deigning to glance at him. "I can dive, man."
The guards led on.
To engage in such open rebellion against Henry was a somewhat different
matter to joining in the confederation of barons against the tyranny and
injustice of King John, as William de Beauchamp had done: and as William
de Breaute and his men were led away down the steep stairs to the gloomy
cells beneath the keep, they felt that their doom was sealed.
*CHAPTER XXII.*
_*RALPH TO THE RESCUE.*_
As William de Breaute was being marched to his fate, Ralph hurried up
the winding turret stair, half choked by the blinding smoke which poured
from the burning wood-work, and much impeded in his impetuous course by
the chain of soldiers engaged in passing up water to extinguish the
conflagration.
Even in the heat and din of the final assault his keen lover's eye had
found time to look for and to note the signal promised by Aliva. High
up from one of the windows hung her scarf. But when Ralph and his men
had toiled thither they found the room empty.
Ralph experienced a painful tightening of the heart. Whither had the
bird flown?
But it was the smoke which had driven the ladies from their apartment,
and Ralph, exploring higher still, up a rude stone stair, found them
collected on the flat wooden roof covering the inner space between the
lofty parapets and the four corner turrets.
Aliva, standing out tall and slim against the August twilight, was
assisting Beatrice Mertoun to support the Lady Margaret, who was quite
overcome with all that was taking place.
Ralph fell on his knee before Aliva, and kissed her hand with a rapture
too deep for words. But Aliva bent over him, and throwing up his visor,
kissed his face.
A voice sounded behind them. "Tut, children! this is neither time nor
place to tarry to make love.--Ladies, haste you, and get you gone to a
place of safety. We have conquered our enemies, but not yet subdued the
fire.--Lady Margaret, permit that I assist thee down these
stairs.--Nephew Ralph, bring the Lady Aliva."
And the whole party, guided by De Beauchamp, hurried down into the hall,
and thence into the _debris_ and confusion which reigned in the bailey
yards. The fast-falling darkness added to the weirdness of the
scene--the ruins, the dead and dying, the shouts and cries of the
victors, the crackling of the flames, and the crash of the charred beams
as they fell.
Somehow or other in the tumult Ralph and Aliva got separated from the
rest, and found themselves, when once clear of the fortifications,
obliged for a few moments to stand aside on the river-bank to let a
company of men-at-arms pass by with wounded and prisoners.
Suddenly, from behind some dark corner, a figure rushed at them in the
gloom, and fell on his knees before Aliva. She started violently, and
Ralph drew his sword.
"Misericorde, misericorde! for the love of Heaven and our Lady!" whined
a familiar voice, that of Bertram de Concours. "Fair lady, as you hope
for mercy, show some to me, and mind you how I succoured you in the
chapel, when De Breaute and his men might have--ah!"
He never finished. A trampling of armed feet was heard behind, and he
turned his head to see a guard advancing upon him.
"Better a watery grave than a living tomb!" he shrieked, and, before
Ralph could stop him, plunged into the stream.
"Plague take the traitor priest! We have lost him," growled the veteran
man-at-arms in command.
"Old Ouse will have naught of such foul spawn, I trow," corrected Ralph.
"There are but two feet of water 'neath this bank at harvest-time. Fish
him out; he sticketh in the mud, and is set fast.--But come, sweet
Aliva," he added, turning to the maiden at his side; "let us hasten.
The Lady Margaret hath without doubt ere now gained the house of good
Master Gilbert the Clothier, who bade me offer thee his hospitality."
Aliva moved on, clinging to her lover's arm. Behind them, into the
darkness, the guard marched off the bedraggled priest. As regards the
latter's ultimate fate the chronicler is silent, beyond relating the
fact that he was committed for trial in the court of the archbishop, and
doubtless the ambitious Bertram de Concours fretted away the remainder
of his days a prisoner in the cell of some austere order. But the
little episode had awakened another memory in Aliva's breast.
"My Ralph," she exclaimed, "and what of the other, the Benedictine
lay-brother, the Bletsoe youth, who did in all truth and fidelity
succour me and strive to bring me aid?"
Sir Ralph looked down on the fair face resting on his arm, and then up
to the purple sky of the summer night--
"The azure gloom,
When the deep skies assume
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven."
"God rest his soul!" he answered, in a low voice. "I owe it to his
strong arm and ready wit, as he parried with his mace the blow De
Breaute aimed at me, that I am here to-night with thee."
Ralph only waited to see the ladies safely bestowed in the worthy
burgess's abode ere he hurried back again to the castle. There was no
rest for him that night. Not the least onerous part of a commander's
duty in those rough times was to restore order and discipline among his
men after the capture of a fortress which had held out against them. It
was a melancholy sight to the young knight this sacking and firing of
his ancestral castle, the home of his boyhood. It stood there with
ruined walls and a huge rift in the side of the great keep like a
lightning-stricken oak.
And morning light brought more work. Hubert de Burgh, the king's
justiciary, opened a court of justice in his sovereign's name, and
before it were brought William de Breaute and eighty of his men.
Late in the afternoon Beatrice Mertoun, devoured with curiosity as to
what was happening, and chafing at her restraint in Master Gilbert's
house, persuaded one of Lady Margaret's women to come with her towards
the castle, intending, under cover of the twilight, to secure such of
their possessions as the fire and the plunderers should have spared.
But they returned quicker than they went, and empty-handed, driven back
by horror; for in the bailey yard they came suddenly upon a rude gallows
on which, grim and stark in the dim twilight, hung William de Breaute
and seventy-three of his men.
*CHAPTER XXIII.*
_*A TETE-A-TETE RIDE TO ELSTOW ABBEY.*_
Contrary to his dream and to the gloomy forebodings which he had been
hugging to himself after the manner of certain dismal natures which
delight to make themselves miserable, William de Beauchamp, as we have
seen, escaped unscathed from the assaults on the castle. But lest his
melancholy should lack food, as it were, fate had another blow in store
for him. No sooner had the castle of Bedford been captured than the
royal mandate went forth that it should be destroyed.
Henry III., young though he was, was too well aware of the difficulties
which his father had experienced with his barons not to be convinced
that his best policy lay in curbing their power. Now the chief strength
of a medieval noble lay in his castle. In the taking of Bedford an
excellent opportunity seemed ready to Henry's hand for getting rid of
one of the most important and substantial fortresses in his kingdom.
He was, moreover, completely in his rights in so doing. King John had
granted the castle to Fulke de Breaute as a reward for his services,
more especially in turning out the De Beauchamps. But now that De
Breaute had rebelled against John's successor, deprivation brought the
castle once more into royal hands. What came absolutely to the king,
the king could destroy.
This determination was a severe blow to William de Beauchamp. He was
grievously hurt when he learned that the destruction of his ancestral
home was definitely settled, but he was unable to take any steps to
preserve it. It was, however, intimated to him that the site of the
castle would be granted to him, together with certain of the lands and
manors thereunto appertaining, after the fortress itself had been pulled
down. No occupier or owner of a house could then proceed to fortify or
crenellate--that is, erect defensive parapets--without the royal
license; and William de Beauchamp was informed that though he might
build within the castle precincts as suitable a dwelling as he pleased,
on no account would such permission be granted.
So he had no choice in the matter, but found himself under the painful
necessity of silently beholding the mighty keep where he had been born,
and in which all his early days had been spent, destroyed before his
very eyes.
The work of destruction, however, was no easy one. Securely and solidly
had Pain de Beauchamp erected his fortress, less than a century and a
half before. It was necessary to employ John de Standen and his men
again. For many a long day after the king and his justiciary, and the
barons, ecclesiastics, soldiers and labourers who had been gathered
together for the siege had dispersed, the crash of falling masonry was
to be heard. Mines had to be dug and the walls overthrown, just as
though the siege were still proceeding, with the important difference
that the miners could work unmolested by attacks, and with no need of
the protecting "cat."
John de Standen seemed in no wise to regret that the work of demolition
detained him so long at Bedford. In the midst of his duties he
contrived to find many opportunities for visits to Master Gilbert's
house, where Beatrice Mertoun was also detained in attendance upon her
mistress, who was prostrated by illness consequent on the anxieties she
had undergone during the siege. Aliva de Pateshulle also stayed with
the Lady Margaret, loath to leave her and return to Bletsoe till she
should be quite recovered; for she felt she owed the lady a debt of
gratitude for her care of her during her imprisonment, and also for
interposing on her behalf with Fulke and his brother, which she could
never sufficiently repay.
The consequence was that the king's miner did not appear surprised to
run against Sir Ralph de Beauchamp issuing one evening from the ladies'
temporary abode.
"By my troth, Sir Knight," exclaimed John de Standen, with a merry
laugh, "methinks we come both on the same errand here. You seek the
lady; I seek the maid. But it is easier work than when we had to break
through stone walls and swim broad rivers to get speech of them."
"Certes, bold miner. Meseemeth I have now discovered whence thou
gottest that close knowledge of Bedford Castle which stood thee in such
good stead at the Council of Northampton. I warrant me thou wast oft
enow within its walls ere thou breakedst through in the breach not many
days since, and I doubt not thou hast paid many a visit to fair Mistress
Beatrice when no paving-stones came between ye. But thy siege is over
now, bold miner. Thou hast won thy bride. I have yet to win the
fortress of De Pateshulle the sire," he added, with a sigh.
"If the lord of Bletsoe be what I take him for," the miner responded
consolingly, "he will not say nay for his daughter to such a knight as
Sir Ralph hath proved himself in this tough work."
"I hope from my heart thou speakest true," replied Ralph; "but naught
hindereth _thy_ bridal?"
"Nay, certes. Beatrice is an orphan with no friend but her lady, who
took charge of her when she was but a child. And as it would seem the
Lady Margaret purposeth to betake her to a nunnery, she is quite ready
to hand over the maiden to one who asks no less than to burden himself
with her!" laughed the miner.
And so it turned out. One bright September morning, not long after the
fall of the castle, and when John de Standen had completed his work of
destruction, he and Beatrice were married in the chapel of St.
Thomas-at-bridge, the little edifice where she had occasionally been
allowed to attend mass with her mistress when Sir Fulke was in a more
benign mood than usual. The ceremony was graced by the presence of Lady
Margaret and Sir Ralph, but Lady Aliva had already returned to her
father's house.
When the marriage was over the Lady Margaret prepared to start for
Elstow. In her present forlorn condition, the forsaken wife of an
outlawed and fugitive baron dispossessed of all his lands, homeless and
sickly, the unfortunate lady had implored shelter within the abbey
walls, and not in vain. But short as was the distance from Bedford, in
the present shattered condition of her nerves it was impossible for her
to take the journey alone. Sir Ralph had offered to be her escort, but
at the last moment he was detained by some duty in connection with the
destruction of the castle which was really John de Standen's business,
but which the worthy miner's marriage had hindered him from seeing to.
Ralph found an unexpected substitute. When the Lady Margaret emerged
from Master Gilbert's hospitable door to mount her palfrey, she beheld
to her surprise Sir William de Beauchamp waiting to assist her.
"I crave thy pardon, lady, if I intrude upon thee. But to my nephew and
me it beseemed ill-fitting that Margaret de Ripariis should arrive
unattended at the gates of Elstow. I beseech thee, grant me the
melancholy joy of escorting thee thither."
It was many years since William de Beauchamp and his once affianced
bride had found themselves alone together. During the days of Fulke's
power there had been no meetings between De Breaute's and De Beauchamps.
It was only once during the confusion of the capture of the castle that
the two _quondam_ lovers had set eyes on each other. As they somewhat
silently started on their _tete-a-tete_ ride, the groom in charge of the
sumpter mule lagging a little distance behind, they had ample time to
observe in each other the changes wrought by time.
"How strange it seemeth to miss the sight of the great keep, rising
proud and stately to the north across the river!" began the lady,
turning her head as they were crossing the bridge.
"Alack, lady, what a change! Was ever luckless man doomed to see such a
destruction of his own, and not be able to lift a hand or to utter a
word?"
"But I am told that thou purposest to build thyself a fair dwelling
between the inner and outer baileys, with a goodly hall and large
apartments."
"Alack! what boots a fair dwelling and a goodly hall to one whose whole
life has been marred--a solitary man whose years creep on--who finds
himself alone?"
"Alone!" murmured Lady Margaret. "Free, unshackled by a bondage worse
than death, not trembling lest a hateful tyrant return at any moment and
claim his rights. 'Twere good to be so alone!"
"Alack, lady," said Sir William, "can naught be done to aid thee? Will
not Holy Church loose this unholy bondage, forced upon thee unwillingly
by the king's command?"
"Alas, no, Sir Knight! On that score have I sought advice of the
venerable archdeacon and other ecclesiastics, but they offer me no hope.
Therefore I go hide me in a nunnery, lest Sir Fulke return. We must
e'en each bear our fate. We each have our woes. Thou hast lost thy
castle."
"Is thy memory so short, lady, that thou sayest it is only my castle I
have lost, most miserable of men that I am? Hast forgotten the days--"
"When I came to Bedford Castle with my father and his train to the great
tourney," interrupted Lady Margaret, wishing to turn the conversation,
and reining in her palfrey that she might turn round to survey the
ruins, "'twas a noble sight. How the banners waved from the pavilions
on the tilt-ground, and the trumpets blared, and the horses pranced!
How like silver ran old Ouse that merry summer's morning, when I sat
'neath the canopy--"
"The Queen of Beauty, fair lady, and rightly so! And how your bright
eyes dazzled a certain youth on whom you had deigned to bestow your
favour to wear on his crest, and who ill deserved such an honour!"
"But who acquitted himself right gallantly. I can see him still! But
all is changed: the castle is no more; we are not what we were; only the
old river runs the same. But come, Sir Knight; the reverend mother
waits me."
"Lady, it grieveth me sore that the way 'twixt Bedford and Elstow is so
short. See how near loometh the abbey tower."
"To me it riseth like the beacon of a port to the weary, wind-driven
mariner. Would I could find rest within its walls for aye!"
"Say not so, lady; it sounds to my heart like a funeral knell."
"No fear, Sir Knight; as long as Sir Fulke draws breath no cloister may
receive me. The reverend mother tells me that so long as my vows to him
are unloosed by death, I can ne'er plight any others; so long as I am
his wife, I cannot become the spouse of Christ."
"Alack, lady, how woful a fate is mine! I, too, once plighted vows.
Dost recall them, lady? Nay, I received others in return. I can hear
them yet. Vows they were, not less sacred than those made to priest
before altar. Yet here I stand alone, like some wind-swept oak on the
hill-side, bowed before the blast."
"Yet the helpless ivy would fain twine round the proud lord of the
woods," replied the lady, somewhat coyly. "Be thou sure, Sir Knight, my
heart grieveth sore for thee. I promise thee that thou shalt have my
prayers."
And shortly afterwards the pair parted at the abbey gate.
*CHAPTER XXIV.*
*"*_*DE MORTUIS.*_*"*
"O God, that it were possible, after long years of pain,
To find the arms of my true love around me once again!"
"The walls where hung the warriors' shining casques
Are green with moss and mould;
The blind worm coils where queens have slept, nor asks
For shelter from the cold."
Three years had passed since John de Standen pulled down the stronghold
of the De Beauchamps. William de Beauchamp, making the best of the
necessity which was forced upon him, set to work to erect himself a
house between the inner and outer bailey. It still went by the name of
the castle. Unfortunately no plan or description of this building has
been handed down to us. It only existed for about twice as long as its
predecessor, the Norman keep of Pain de Beauchamp. Camden, writing in
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, describes it as a stately ruin overhanging
the Ouse; and an old map of about the same time shows that these ruins
occupied a pleasant position a little back from the river, and looking
south. As it was strictly an unfortified mansion, we may opine that it
was much such a building as that which we have described at Bletsoe,
consisting of a large, long hall, with private apartments at one end one
story high, but larger and built of stone.
In one of these apartments, one afternoon in the summer of 1227, sat
Aliva de Pateshulle, now Aliva de Beauchamp, with her baby-boy upon her
knee. She was looking out of the round, arched window, which was
somewhat larger than the shuttered apertures in the old keep. The house
was intended for a comfortable dwelling, and not for a place of defence.
The walls were not half the thickness of those which had enclosed her
prison of three years before, though built of identically the same
stones. The rooms, too, were lighter, larger, and more habitable. The
science of domestic architecture was beginning.
Aliva herself was also a more fully developed specimen of beautiful
young womanhood. The angularity of her tall figure had disappeared, and
there was more ripeness and fulness about her cheeks and mouth. But her
large gray eyes remained unchanged. Her beautiful fair hair, perhaps a
shade darker than it had been when it hung down over her shoulders that
morning in the garden at Bletsoe, was partly covered with the ugly
wimple, the matronly head-dress of the period, which had replaced the
maidenly fillet.
Aliva was gazing from the window, which commanded a view of the river,
and was apparently watching for the approach of some one from the
entrance to the west. Presently she waved her hand in that direction,
and holding up the boy to the window, bade him look down at his father.
Ralph entered the house, crossed the large hall, and made his way to his
wife's apartment. He also had somewhat altered in three years. His
massive frame had filled out, and with his large limbs more covered with
flesh and muscle, he looked even more like a young giant than he had
done that eve of the Assumption when he had fought his way into the
keep.
He strode into the room, his face lighting up with a smile as his little
son clambered down from his mother's knee and toddled to meet him. He
lifted the boy up and kissed him. Then he kissed his wife; and she,
returning his embrace, began forthwith with feminine curiosity,--
"Well, sweetheart mine, what news?"
Ralph was in his riding-dress. He had come in from a journey, and this
was why Aliva was watching for him so anxiously from the window. The
country had, indeed, much quieted down since the siege of Bedford Castle
and the ejection of the De Breaute marauders. During the period which
elapsed between the revolt against King John and the wars of the barons,
which troubled the latter end of his successor's reign, there intervened
a period of peace. Nevertheless, Aliva was always glad to see her
husband safe home again.
"And so, Ralph mine, if thou hast news, prithee tell it me. Here naught
has passed out of the common. The boy and I have played together, and
awaited the home-coming of father."
"My business for which I set forth is ended," began Ralph; "but, marry,
'twas dull work! 'Tis ill to deal with scriveners and such like folk!
But as I rode through St. Alban's I bethought me of turning in to the
abbey gate, and making my obeisance to the reverend father abbot. Thou
knowest that a De Beauchamp is ever welcome in a house of Holy Church."
"Ah, St. Alban's!" cried Aliva; "and, prithee, didst give my message
relating to the incised stone to the memory of my protector, who was
slain at the siege, the bold young lay-brother of Bletsoe?"
"Ay, verily I did," replied Ralph. "And the father abbot was well
pleased to learn that one of their house, who fell in fighting for Holy
Church (for thus, thou knowest, these priests always speak of the
siege), should sleep in our fair church of St. Paul at Bedford. He hath
given me an inscription to have writ on the slab. He saith it should be
cut in letters as is cut the inscription to Muriel Colt on the north of
the high altar. But hearken, wife," he added, sitting down beside her;
"I have other news for thee."
"And good news, prithee?"
"Heaven forfend that I should speak hastily or harshly of a dead enemy!"
continued Ralph gravely. "Sir Fulke is no more. The reverend father
hath instructed me that I may say, an if I will, 'Rest his soul in
peace.' For it seemeth he died free from the censure of Holy Church."
Aliva received the news in silence. Her thoughts flew back to those few
terrible weeks when she was an unwilling guest in Fulke's castle. Then
she replied,--
"I, too, would say, 'God rest his soul.' As thou knowest, I scarce saw
him here, for he fled to Wales when he heard that the council had
determined to attack the castle. But his brother--"
She paused, for even now she could not make the least allusion to
William de Breaute without a shudder.
"Tell me all thou hast heard," she added.
"I will give the tale in few words," Ralph answered. "Thou mindest how,
after he had submitted himself to our lord the king in Bedford here, he
was given, as an enemy of Holy Church, into the safe-keeping of my Lord
Eustace, the Bishop of London."
"Ay," put in Aliva. "Some time since, when I went to Elstow to visit
Lady Margaret, the reverend mother told me how she had restored the
sword into the hands of the figure of St. Paul in the abbey church, as
soon as it was told her that the holy apostle had the destroyer of St.
Paul's Church safe in the keeping of the Bishop of St. Paul's in
London."
"But see here," Ralph went on. "The good father has had writ out for me
a copy of the entry of Sir Fulke's history, as recorded by the scribe of
the monastery to be laid in the scriptorium. I will e'en read it to
thee, if I have not forgot the Latin the old chaplain taught me when I
was a boy."
And Ralph read out the following history, which is still preserved to us
in the chronicles of St. Alban's:--
"Fulke, after that he was pardoned at London, and because he was marked
with the cross, was allowed to depart for Rome. After crossing the sea
he applied for a passport at Fiscamp, and was detained by the bailiffs
of France. At last, the following Easter, after that he had been
released from prison, he went to Rome, and sent very piteous letters to
the king, asking that his wife and his lands might be restored to him."
"Alack! The poor Lady Margaret!" put in Aliva, with a sigh.
"Whereupon the king, with his barons," read on Ralph, "sent word to our
lord the Pope of the treachery of Fulke; and the latter, having had his
refusal, set off for Troyes; and after staying there a year, was sent
out of France, because he would not pay homage to the king. He went to
Rome, and again, with much entreaty, begged that his wife and his
patrimony might be restored to him; and on his return from that city,
burdened with debt, he died at St. Cyriac."
"His wife would ne'er have returned to him!" ejaculated Aliva
indignantly.
"Neither had he any patrimony here, either in the castle or in the
manors," added Ralph. "Were they not wrested from my uncle and from
others, and given to him as a reward for his evil services to our late
king John? And hark ye, my Aliva, the father abbot showed me also,
written by his learned scribe, the whole account of the siege of the
castle; and he saith that, in after ages, the history of Bedford will be
known ever as it is known now. Perchance our names are mentioned, but I
read not that portion of the chronicle."
His wife scarcely heeded. She was thinking of the present, and not of
the future. Woman-like, her mind was running on match-making.
"Does the Lady Margaret know of Sir Fulke's death?" she asked.
"I trow not," answered Ralph. "The news hath but even now reached
England, and hath but just been set down by the abbey scribe at the end
of his history of the siege. But doubtless news will be sent to Earl
William de Warenne, who, as thou knowest, has charge of the lands and
possessions which were hers ere she married, and which have been
restored to her."
"Then she is free!" mused Aliva.
"Ay, free, poor lady. The priests decided, when she sought to be
released, that there had been no impediment of canon law to her
marriage, and that it could not, even if it had been in a manner forced,
and the bride unwilling, be dissolved by the authority of the Church.
Death hath loosed her bonds."
There was a stirring of the heavy curtain which hung in the doorway of
the apartment. But so engrossed were the two speakers that no one
noticed it but the child, who, after looking towards it, began to toddle
uncertainly in that direction.
"She is free," repeated Aliva thoughtfully. "Her husband is dead, and
she hath not yet bound herself by the vows of a religious life, even did
she wish it, which, often as I have talked with her these three years
past since she hath sought shelter at Elstow, I doubt much."
"True, wife; if any one should know the Lady Margaret's mind, it should
be thou, who art to her as a daughter. But beshrew me if I wot what
thou art driving at, sweetheart."
Aliva sprang up, and throwing her arms round her husband's neck,
exclaimed, with an arch smile,--
"How oft dunder-headed men are where love is concerned! Ralph, we shall
see the Lady Margaret the _chatelaine_ of Bedford again!"
And then a most extraordinary thing occurred. Behind, in the doorway,
they heard a joyful laugh.
There stood their uncle, Sir William, who never within the memory of
either of them had been known even to smile.
He advanced hurriedly into the room, and catching up his great-nephew in
his arms, kissed his little flaxen head, and laughed again.