OLIVER’S CAPTIVITY
When Oliver Icingla was drawn away by Ralph Hornmouth from the presence
of Hugh de Moreville, he felt conscious that, for the time being, he was
endowed with more than the obstinacy of the mule--with an obstinacy
which he felt to be invincible. A strange reaction had taken place after
his display of rage and excitement; and he was as calm as contempt could
make a human being. As for the blind chamber to which the Norman baron
had ordered him to be consigned, he manned himself to face its horrors,
be they what they might, without flinching; and he vowed internally, no
matter what torments they made him endure, that he would tell them
nothing, but that he defied their worst malignity--not even that he was
quite unaware of the object of Collingham’s journey northward, which he
might have stated with perfect truth, for he only knew that the knight
was going, in the first place, to Lincoln.
Much surprised, however, was Oliver when, after being conducted through
a long gallery, he found himself led into an apartment which, so far
from being a chamber of horrors, neither appeared worse nor more
uncomfortable than many it had been his lot to occupy; and still more
surprised was he, while gazing round sullenly, that Ralph Hornmouth,
after carefully closing the door and ordering his comrade to keep watch
outside, undid the bands which fettered his hands, and left him free, as
if, instead of being a captive, he was in the chamber as a guest.
“By the rood, young gentleman,” said Hornmouth, in a more kindly tone
than he had yet used, “but that I know how loud young game-cocks can
crow when they are roused to excitement, I should marvel at your
courage. I was in dread that my lord would strike you dead where you
stood; and, had you been any other living mortal than you are such must
have been your fate. You little know him, or you would be less
venturesome. When he swears by his faith, he is safe enough; when he
swears by St. Moden, his wrath is only rising; but when he swears by
the bones of St. Moden, his temper has reached such a pitch of heat,
that it were safer to pull the Devil by the beard than to cross him
further--even a hair’s breadth.”
“Sir squire, is this what the Lord Hugh de Moreville calls the blind
chamber?” asked Oliver, without noticing the henchman’s observations.
“Nay, by rood and mass, and well for you that it is not,” answered
Hornmouth, smiling grimly. “It is no place for birds of your feather, I
ween, and so would you were you there till cock-crow. My lord spake in
his wrath, but he will think better of it ere another sun shines; and
were I simple enough to take a kinsman of his, with the blood of
Moreville in his veins, thither to-night, my reward would be the dule
tree on the morrow. I have more regard for my neck, Master Icingla, than
you seem to have for your limbs. Cog’s wounds! but I cannot think enough
of the courage with which you flouted and defied my lord, at whose frown
I have seen so many tremble;” and the rude soldier eyed Oliver with the
genuine admiration which a display of real courage seldom fails to
inspire.
Having given warning that any attempt to escape would be certain
destruction, and that any attempt to corrupt the gaolers would only lead
to a close confinement, Hornmouth took the captive by the hand.
“Beware,” whispered he, “of doing aught to place thee in the power of
the governor of the castle. Sir Anthony Waledger detests thy race and
thy name, and is marvellous valiant when dealing with enemies who cannot
injure him. Good night, and droop not; all will yet be well.”
Oliver was then left to solitude and his own reflections, which were
none of the pleasantest. Of all men in England, Hugh de Moreville was
the last into whose hands he could have wished to fall; and, though
reassured in some measure by the words of the squire, he could not feel
certain, after what had passed, that he might not, in some unlucky hour,
be exposed to personal violence. However, after worrying himself with
gloomy thoughts for hours, he gradually felt sleep stealing over him,
and soon exchanged his torturing reflections for dreams of the palace of
Savernake and the city of Gloucester. Nor did he awake till he was
shaken by the arm; and, as he looked up, one sight of the bronzed face
of Hornmouth brought all the events of yesterday to his memory.
“Young gentleman,” said De Moreville’s squire, respectfully, “it is as I
foretold. My lord wishes you no harm; but I tell you frankly, that you
have no more chance of leaving this castle till the war is over than of
going to Fairyland, if such a place there be. Wherefore be ruled by my
advice, and content yourself. Make the best of a bad bargain, and make
good cheer. I will forthwith send the wherewithal, and give orders for
all your wants being supplied, save thy liberty, which is not mine to
give. I myself am on the point of undertaking an expedition to the
castle of Mount Moreville, and may not return for many months. But fear
not. Be quiet. Make no vain attempt to escape; and I swear to you, by
mass and rood, that you are as safe in this chamber as if you sat in
your mother’s hall.”
“By the Holy Cross!” exclaimed Oliver, “you give me cold comfort. Deem
you that it can be otherwise than irksome to an Icingla to lie here like
a useless log, while others are pressing on in the race of life, and
marking their valour on the crests of foemen? True, I am an Englishman,
and I have none of the vague aspirings about conquering kingdoms and
principalities with which so many Norman warriors delude their
imaginations. Still I want to do my duty and to keep my sword from
rusting, and to enjoy freedom and free air. But I see you mean me well,
good squire, and I thank you with all my heart; albeit I can hardly in
my heart forgive you for having come with such odds at your back, that I
had not even a chance of avoiding what I loathe most--I mean captivity.”
Ralph Hornmouth laughed and withdrew; and Oliver, rising from his couch,
resolved to his utmost to reconcile himself to his fate, and, moreover,
began to indulge in vague hopes.
“Collingham may learn my fate, or the faithful Styr,” soliloquised he as
he devoured his morning meal with the appetite of a Saxon thane in the
days of King Ethelred; “and if they do, by the Holy Cross, Chas-Chateil,
thick as may be its walls, and well guarded as may be its doors and
gates, will not long hold me as a captive. Holy Edward be my aid
meanwhile!”
But it cannot be very easy for a young warrior, in a fighting age, who
has fleshed his maiden sword, and taken part in two fields of fame,
especially at the age of eighteen, to force himself to be philosophical
in captivity; and Oliver Icingla, being intended by nature for a man of
action, soon grew weary of compelling himself to be patient. Indeed, as
days and weeks passed, the dulness and monotony of his existence, and
the thought of his home and his mother’s grief, depressed him to such a
point that he experienced something like intolerable woe. Hugh de
Moreville he never saw. Ralph Hornmouth did not reappear to bid him take
comfort. The gaoler performed his functions in silence, and, when
questioned, replied in monosyllables. During his brief captivity on the
continent, Oliver had been in attendance on a great earl, and daily in
contact with knights and squires, and he had borne it easily. But he
feared that this solitary incarceration would, if prolonged, break his
spirit.
One advantage, indeed, he had in his imprisonment; for the window of his
chamber commanded a prospect of the vale of the Kennet, and barred as
the window was, he could catch glances of the world from a distance, and
sometimes even see not only peaceful travellers, but bands of armed men,
passing and repassing. Still this only reminded him of his own sad
plight, for everybody and everything seemed free but himself. The river
flowed on; the trout leaped in the clear water; the heron perched on the
stones by the grassy margin; the eagle soared over the castle; the
squirrel climbed the trees; and the deer ran free in the chase. Even the
serf who toiled in the fields around Chas-Chateil appeared to enjoy a
happy lot, in comparison with the only son of the woman to whom
Chas-Chateil rightfully belonged. But there was consolation at hand.
It happened that the chamber appropriated to Oliver was on a level with
a battlement or outer gallery constructed to resemble a terrace, and
known as “the ladies’ walk.” Nobody, however, seemed to frequent it; and
Oliver, whose knowledge of feudal strongholds enabled him to comprehend
its purpose, had concluded that Hugh de Moreville’s daughter was being
educated in a convent, or under the roof of some noble matron; for,
proud as they were, the feudal dames did not disdain to undertake the
tuition of their sex; and he had concluded, moreover, that there were no
ladies under the roof of Chas-Chateil, not, perhaps, without
speculating whether or not there might be in the event of its becoming
his own, when he was unexpectedly convinced that, on this point at
least, he was mistaken.
It was the evening of a long, bright, merry summer day, about the close
of July, and Oliver was standing at his window looking out on the
landscape, now watching the men-at-arms engaged in athletic exercises,
and now brooding dismally over his evil fortune, and cursing his cruel
captivity, when his ear suddenly caught the sound of soft voices, and
his eye was attracted by an apparition which instantly changed the whole
current of his thoughts.
And what was this apparition?
A very lovely Norman demoiselle, dressed in a simple robe of white, and
attended by two maidens almost as captivating as herself.