STYR THE ANGLO-SAXON AND HIS SON
It was August, 1215, and Oakmede, with its old house of timber and Roman
brick, and its great wooden gates, and irregular pile of outbuildings,
reposed in the warmth and sunshine of a bright autumn day. All was still
and peaceful around the homely hall of the once mighty Icinglas; and
though the country was ringing with alarms and rumours of war, the
inhabitants pursued their ordinary avocations, apparently taking as
little interest in the quarrel of King John and the Anglo-Norman barons
as if Oakmede had been situated in the recesses of the forests of
Servia.
The hinds were employed in the fields with the labours of harvest; the
swineherd was in the woodlands with his grunting herd; and nobody
appeared in the shape of living mortal save an old cowherd, in a garment
much resembling the smock-frock still worn by English peasants, and
Wolf, the son of Styr, and half-a-dozen urchins from the neighbouring
hamlet, who watched the varlet with interest and admiration as he fed a
couple of the dogs which were then commonly used to hunt wild boars, and
ministered to the wants of two young hawks, which he had procured by a
long journey and by climbing a precipice at the risk of his life.
The urchins evidently regarded Wolf as a very important personage, and
even the old cowherd treated him with deference. Having embarked at a
Spanish port, bound for London, with the servants and baggage of the
English knights and squires who fought at Muradel, and deemed it prudent
to free themselves from all incumbrances before undertaking their
adventurous expedition to Flanders, Wolf had reached Oakmede many months
before Oliver Icingla, and made the most of his and his master’s
adventures in Castile and at the court of Burgos, telling such stories
and singing such songs as he had picked up, and playing on a small
musical instrument which he had brought with him, and which the inmates
of Oakmede deemed very outlandish. However, he contrived to establish
such a reputation for himself that, boy as he was, rivals bent before
him. Even Dame Isabel’s steward could not hold his own against a varlet
who had figured in yellow and scarlet at a king’s court; and the
swineherd--great official as a swineherd was in a Saxon household--was
fain to content himself with being deemed of inferior interest.
No sooner, therefore, did Wolf ask the urchins to bear a hand than they
vied with each other in their efforts to have the pride of assisting
him. At length, however, they grew weary of watching the operations
going on in the stable-yard, and wandered forth to feast their eyes on
the apples clustering on the trees of an unguarded orchard--to roll
among the lambs that nibbled on the sunny sward--to gaze on the brindled
cows reclining under the shady trees or cooling their hoofs in the
pond--and to throw pebbles at the white pigeons cooing on the roofs of
the brewhouses or winging their way over the stable-yard to settle and
bask on the barn-tops; and Wolf--who, in default of older and more
experienced functionaries, united at Oakmede the offices of falconer,
huntsman, and groom in his own person--applied himself to the most
congenial of all his duties--namely, attending to a young horse,
iron-grey, which was own brother to Ayoub, and had lately been
distinguished by the name of Muradel, in honour of King Alphonso’s
famous victory over the Moors. Ayoub and Muradel were steeds of value,
and had a great pedigree, being, in fact, the descendants of a Spanish
horse and a mare with which Cœur-de-Lion had gifted his good knight
Edric Icingla. Some enthusiasts added that the said horse was the
identical Spanish charger which King Richard bestrode at Cyprus when he
went forth to chastise the Emperor Isaac Angelus; but this was more than
doubtful. Wolf, however, was happy in the company of these steeds: he
had been familiar with Ayoub and Muradel from the day they were foaled,
and was in the habit of speaking to them almost as if they had been
human beings; and fierce as they were by nature, and intractable in the
hands of strangers, they were in the hands of this boy quiet as lambs
and patient as asses. It is true Wolf treated them with real kindness,
and he was engaged combing and washing Muradel’s mane and tail, and
singing to the dumb animal snatches of a Spanish ballad about the Cid,
and Bavieca, the Cid’s renowned charger, when he was interrupted by the
sound of heavy footsteps. As he turned round, his father, Styr, the
Anglo-Saxon, stood before him.
“All hail, father,” said Wolf, kindly, as he resumed his operations on
the mane of Muradel. “How farest thou?”
“Passing well, Wolf, boy,” answered Styr, examining the iron-grey with
the eye of a judge of horseflesh; “but I have tidings that sit heavy on
my heart. Knowest thou what has come of the young Hlaford?”
“Nought further than that he left the Tower of London with King John,
and sent word to Dame Isabel that he had, with Holy Edward’s aid,
escaped the peril that threatened him,” said Wolf, desisting from his
work, and turning round to look in the old man’s face. “Wherefore askest
thou, father?”
“Wherefore do I ask?” said Styr, repeating his son’s words. “Marry,
because he is missing, and his friends know not what has befallen him.”
Wolf gave a long, low whistle, and then shrugged his shoulders, and drew
a long face.
“Wolf, boy,” said Styr, after a pause, during which the expression of
his countenance became very serious, “I wish he may not have come to
grief. St. Dunstan forbid that it should so prove; but my fear is that
he has fallen into the hands of the Lord Hugh de Moreville, who is a
cruel man, and heir, as thou mayst have heard, of the Moreville who
imbrued his hands in the blood of St. Thomas of Canterbury; albeit the
world, in consideration of the son’s ill-gotten wealth and power, forget
his father’s crime. If so, peradventure the young Hlaford may lose his
life as well as his liberty; for as my departed master--may his soul
have gotten grace!--told King Richard the Lion-hearted, Hugh de
Moreville is a man who would not spare his own child, if his own child
stood in the way of his ambition. But say nought of all this to the
Hleafdian, for it might bring her down with sorrow to the grave.”
“But how came this to thine ear, father?” asked Wolf, after a brief
silence.
“In truth,” answered Styr, somewhat confused, “it was made known to me
by him whom men call Will with the Club.”
“But methought Forest Will had saved the king’s life while hunting by
taking a bull by the horns, and been received into favour, and turned
out to be a great lord.”
“True; but matters did not go with him as he would fain have had them
go, and he has again taken to the greenwood.”
Wolf whistled, and, meditating the whilst, combed Muradel’s tail, then
laid aside the comb, took off his light cap, smoothed his long yellow
hair, and looked long up to the rafters of the stable, and then spoke.
“And hast thou any notion where the young Hlaford may be, father?” asked
he, suddenly.
“Certes, boy, I wot not where he is,” replied Styr; “but I deem it most
like that, if he has fallen into Hugh de Moreville’s hands, he has been
carried either to Chas-Chateil, or to Mount Moreville on the Scottish
marches.” “If,” added the Saxon, “there was any means of gaining access
to De Moreville’s castle, and learning whether such a prisoner is there,
all might be amended.”
Wolf cast his eyes on the ground, reflected long and earnestly, and then
looked up with the exultation of one who has solved a difficult problem.
“Father,” said he, “I have it; leave the business to me. It is, I own,
parlous ugly; yet, with the blessing of St. Edward, who is known to
favour the Icinglas and such as serve them, I will hazard limb and life
in the adventure.”
Styr the Saxon winced, and his paternal affection got the better of his
hereditary devotion, as before his mind’s eye rose a vision of his
son--so young, so comely, and so slight of frame--at the mercy of Hugh
de Moreville, and in the clutches of De Moreville’s myrmidons.
“Wolf, boy,” said he, tenderly, “this may not be. Hugh de Moreville is a
man whom it is not chancy to meddle with.”
“Hout, father!” exclaimed Wolf, who was waxing very valiant under the
influence of his imagination. “What more dangerous is the Lord Hugh than
any other lord? Perchance, after all, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“But thou art young, Wolf, being as yet a boy, with years to grow; thy
form is too slight and thy strength all-insufficient to fight with so
stormy a sea as that on which thou wouldst venture.”
“Fear not for me, father,” interrupted Wolf, half offended; “nor deem
that because I am not so big of body as Forest Will, my peril will,
therefore, be the greater. Bulk is not craft, or the fox would be less
cunning than the ass; nor is size courage, or the sheep would not run
before the dog; nor is stature swiftness, otherwise a cow could
out-race a hare. Anyhow, I will go, and time will try whether I have
mettle enough in me or not, as frost tries the strange plants in the
physic garden of the monks of St. Alban’s. But speak on, father, that I
may be instructed by thy words, for does not the proverb tell us that as
the old cock crows the young one learns?”
Styr the Saxon, however, was not listening to his son’s remarks, for a
great struggle was taking place in his breast, and when Wolf turned
round for a reply his father’s chin was resting on his bosom, and his
eye directed to the ground.
“Wolf,” said he, at length raising his head, with a sigh, “this is not
an adventure to be undertaken lightly, nor without asking leave of the
mother who bore thee. But pass through the woodland to thy home at
eventide, and I will then tell thee more fully what I think concerning
it.”
“As thou wiliest, father,” said Wolf, with filial reverence; “but fail
not to consider what our grief would be, if, through our neglect, or
aught of cowardice on our parts, evil befel the young Hlaford--the son,
father, of him who is away.”
The eyes of Styr the Saxon filled with tears, and he did not attempt to
speak; but, abruptly leaving the stable, he strode away from Oakmede,
and made his way through the forest.