BURNING OF OAKMEDE
While Oliver Icingla was exerting himself so strenuously against the
French who garrisoned the castles of Sussex, and while ballads in his
praise were sung in the streets of London, and in the very hearing of
the invaders, Dame Isabel was passing her time sadly in the old halls of
Oakmede.
The life of a Norman dame of the thirteenth century was, no doubt,
somewhat monotonous; but it was not solitary, and generally could not be
very dull. In fact, the castle of almost every Norman baron was a school
of chivalry, where young men of noble birth, first as pages, and
afterwards as squires, served an apprenticeship to arms, and were taught
“to serve God and the ladies,” as Oliver had been in the household of
the Earl of Salisbury and Hela Devereux, his pious countess. Moreover,
the spouse of every powerful noble had a number of damsels in
attendance, whom she instructed in the art of needlework and embroidery,
as also how to make salve, and bind up wounds, in the event of a siege,
and in some very homely domestic duties connected with the larder and
the dairy, the dame working in their company, setting them their tasks,
and at times reading to them from some holy book or romance of chivalry.
Dame Isabel Icingla’s position, of course, was very different in many
respects from that of the wife or widow of a Norman baron, and her
household much more limited. Moreover, she could not seclude herself as
they could do--in fact, as her husband had been known among the Saxons
as Hlaford, which signified the bread-giver, so she as his wife was
known as Hleafdian, which signified the server of bread; and she was
fain to avoid the charge of being denounced as “niddering” by conforming
to the system of lavish hospitality and free intercourse with humble
neighbours which the Icinglas, as Saxon thanes, had ever
practised--their door having always stood open, from morning to evening,
to all comers, and their cheer, such as it was, having been dispensed
with open hand.
All this, of course, was very homely and primitive, and perhaps Dame
Isabel did not relish it. But while enacting her part as a Hleafdian,
she never for a moment forgot that she was a Moreville, and never really
descended from what she deemed the dignity of a noble lady. Born a
Norman, and heiress to vast possessions, her pride was naturally high;
and though she was perhaps unconscious of the fact, her original pride
as Moreville and Norman had been much increased by her marriage with an
Icingla, and all that she heard of their vague and indefinite
pretensions; for, having little of their old grandeur left, save their
pride, the Icinglas made the most of it in season, or out of season, and
regarded their own strength in battle and wisdom in council as nothing
compared with the lustre which they borrowed from ancestors who had held
princely rank, and headed great armies in England, before the Danish
kings turned England upside down.
For various reasons, therefore, Dame Isabel Icingla entertained a very
high opinion of her own importance; and even in going through the duties
of hospitality which devolved upon her as Hleafdian, she was grave and
stately almost to affectation. In the evening, however, she was in the
habit of unbending so far as either to converse with her three maidens
on domestic affairs, or--being a woman of notable piety--to read to them
some passage from the lives of the saints, albeit she may have been
aware that these damsels would have much preferred a little lighter
literature. But however that might have been, Dame Isabel, dressed in
her russet gown, and wearing the wimple which concealed her grey hairs
and gave a conventual appearance to her face, was seated in her chair of
state, and thus occupied, with her three maidens around her, when a
strange murmur ran through the house, and a spaniel which lay at her
feet started up and uttered a low growl, and then barked, and, as the
dog barked, Wolf, the son of Styr, rushed in with terror on his
countenance.
“Oh, noble lady,” cried he, so agitated that he could scarcely
articulate, “fly! They are coming; they are here!”
“Who are coming?” asked the dame, bending her brows somewhat sternly on
the intruder. “Who are here?”
“The outlandish men,” answered Wolf, excitedly, “who spare neither sex
nor age; for, as my father Styr says, the French soldiers are the refuse
and scum of the kingdom.”
A few words will suffice to explain how the son of Styr, knowing that
Dame Isabel was such a stickler for ceremony, deemed himself justified
in rushing unbidden to his lady’s presence.
It was a gusty Monday evening, about the beginning of March, and Wolf,
having paid his last visit for the day to Ayoub and Muradel, was
loitering about the stable-yard, and, boy-like, watching eagerly the
movements of two young game cocks which he expected would win applause
in the Barnet cock-pit and do honour to the training of Oakmede on the
morrow, which happened to be Shrove-Tuesday, when his ear was arrested
by the “steady whisper on the breeze and horsemen’s heavy tread” which
intimates the approach of cavalry.
Rumour had recently brought to Oakmede some terrible reports of the
havoc wrought by the invaders, and the inmates had often instinctively
felt alarmed and drawn closer together as tales of ravaging and pillage
were told by pilgrims and pedlars around the winter fire of wood. But
somehow or other, from the home of the Icinglas having stood through so
many civil turmoils without being scathed or attacked, they never
realised the idea of armed foemen appearing at the gate.
Wolf, however, as he listened, began to suspect that this confidence was
to meet with a rude shock, and, as he rushed out of the stable-yard, and
looked up the long glade that served for avenue, his worst suspicions
were confirmed by the sight of a band of horsemen whose aspect would
have left no doubt that they were foreigners and coming on no friendly
errand, even if his keen eyes had not recognised in their guide his
ancient enemy Clem the Bold Rider, mounted on one of Sir Anthony
Waledger’s horses, and pointing out the way with vindictive intent. Not
a moment did he then lose in performing what he deemed his two great
duties under the circumstances. The first was to give the alarm to Dame
Isabel; the second to fly back to free Ayoub and Muradel from their
stalls, to lead them to the rear of the buildings, and to drive them
through the orchard into the woodland, confident that they, at
least--thanks to their aversion to strangers and their swiftness--would
escape the hands of the marauders.
When this was done--and it was but the work of a minute--Wolf deemed it
high time to think of his own safety, and pondered the propriety of
escaping to his father’s cottage, to which foreign invaders were not
likely to find their way. But his anxiety was so intense that he could
not, for the life of him, muster resolution enough to leave the
neighbourhood of the danger, and making such a circuit among the trees
as kept him out of the way of the enemy, he drew as near to the front of
the old house as he could without the risk of detection, and entering
the hollow of an old pollard, peered cautiously out on the armed band.
Meanwhile, guided by Clem, the Count de Perche--for he it was--halted
before the great wooden gate, sounded trumpet, and demanded admittance.
No answer being returned to his summons, the count grew wroth, and
ordered his men to shoot. His order was promptly obeyed; but the flight
of arrows produced no effect, and the count became red with rage.
“Mort Dieu!” exclaimed he, turning round, “are we to be kept here all
night by these stinking swineherds? Break open the gates.”
Several men sprang over the moat, and soon their hammers and axes were
applied with such vigour and energy, that the time-worn gate gave way
before the heavy blows aimed at it. At the same time the drawbridge was
lowered.
“Now,” said the count with a significant gesture and in a decisive tone,
“enter, and do your duty.”
As he spoke, such of his men as had dismounted passed the drawbridge,
rushed through the courtyard, and with little difficulty forced their
way into the house; but, to their surprise, nobody appeared either to
yield or resist. The place was deserted, and they roamed from chamber to
chamber without meeting with a human being. It seemed by their
ejaculations, and by their searching and re-searching, that the French
soldiers were disappointed at the absence of flesh and blood. However,
they laid hold of everything as spoil that was not too heavy to bear
away, and returned to the count to report the result of their adventure;
and he, after muttering a few oaths, gave his final order.
“Set fire to this den without loss of time,” said he sharply, “and dally
not, for we have far to ride. Mort Dieu! if this Icingla should think
fit to visit his house this night, I will provide him with light
sufficient to guide him on his way through the woods.”
The count’s order was speedily obeyed. His men, indeed, seemed to relish
the duty. Having ransacked the barns and the cow-houses, and killed the
old cowherd, who, unluckily for him, arrived at that moment from the
neighbouring hamlet, the soldiers brought wood and straw, and proceeded,
with business-like precision, to the work of destruction, and the house,
being chiefly constructed of timber--and that timber old and dry--was
soon in a blaze.
“Now mount, every man, and let us begone,” said the count triumphantly.
“By the bones of John the Baptist! we have made an example of this
Icingla, and done enough to deter others from setting themselves against
our good Lord Louis. Ride on;” and as the count spoke he turned his
horse’s head, and, followed by his band of ruffians, rode leisurely by
the twilight, up the glade by which he had come on his errand of
devastation.
Nor had the French in any degree failed in the work which they came to
do. When Wolf, seeing that the coast was clear, emerged from his
hiding-place, and came into the open space to gaze on the burning house,
night had already fallen, and the sight was terrible to behold, and all
the more so to him that he feared the inmates had fallen victims. The
fire, indeed, was raging, and devouring its prey like a fiend, and
coiling, as the serpent does, round its victim. In some places it had
reached the roof, and was leaping towards the sky, on which the
reflection of the flames was red as blood, and there was every prospect
of the flames meeting in such a way as to reduce the old house to a heap
of ashes and ruins. Driven by the wind, the fire reached the
outbuildings, and stables, barns, brewhouse, and cow-houses, and
pigeon-houses were involved in one general conflagration. Only the
little chapel dedicated to St. Dunstan, from the fact of its standing
apart from the other buildings, and in the quarter opposite to that
towards which the wind was blowing, had a chance of escape.
At this stage, and while all but one wing of the house was enveloped in
flame and smoke, Styr the Anglo-Saxon, having accidentally learned that
some catastrophe had occurred, joined his son in the darkness, and he
did not come a moment too soon. Scarcely had Wolf, in hurried accents,
explained what had happened, when shouts and screams of agony reached
their ears, and, listening to ascertain the direction from which the
cries came, they, by the lurid light which the fire threw around,
descried, at the casement of an upper chamber in the wing still
unscathed, faces of men and women in mortal terror of the most terrible
of deaths. Styr guessed all: the inhabitants of Oakmede had fled to the
hiding-hole to escape the hands of the foreign soldiery, and, ignorant
that the house was on fire, had remained in concealment till the flames
had seized the stairs, and their means of escape had been cut off. Their
position was now truly awful; and the old man shuddered at the sight.
Nevertheless, Styr’s presence of mind did not desert him. He remembered
that in the orchard was a ladder, and he hoped that it might be long
enough to enable them to descend. Thither, as if he had suddenly shaken
off twenty years of his age, he rushed, Wolf, in keeping pace with him,
much marvelling at his father’s swiftness of foot. But when the ladder
was brought, and when, to the joy of those who were imperilled, it was
placed against the wall, their joy was suddenly turned into sorrow, and
a simultaneous cry of despair rose from their lips as they perceived
that it was too short to serve the purpose of saving them.
But Styr did not despair: it was not his way in life. Calmly he ascended
the ladder step by step, till he was almost on the highest, while Wolf
held it below to keep it steady. And much had the domestics to rejoice
that the veteran’s stature was tall, and his shoulder strong. One by one
he caught them in his iron arms--first the women, then the men--and
descended with them on his shoulders, and all this he did calmly and in
solemn silence, like a man who felt his responsibility, and was
determined to acquit himself of it with credit. But when the last of the
domestics was saved--and by that time the moon had risen--he turned
round and gazed on them with the air of a person who wishes to ask a
question, but dreads to receive the answer.
“Where,” said he at length, struggling to find words--“where, in the
name of St. Dunstan and St. Edward, is the Hleafdian?”
Men and maids alike stared at each other, but for a time returned no
answer.
“Marry, we know not,” at last said the steward.
Styr the Anglo-Saxon raised his shaggy eyebrows, and darted on the
circle a look of reproach, such as, even seen by moonlight, none of
those present ever forgot during their lives, and then hid his face in
his hands, as if praying.
“Now,” said he, after a moment, “let everybody who would be saved bear
back and away, for danger cannot be far distant.”
“Move away,” repeated Wolf, setting the example; and everybody with
precipitation got out of reach of the tottering walls.
The prescience of the old man was speedily vindicated. All was soon
over, and flames rushed from every casement, including even that by
which the domestics had made their narrow escape. Then the roof gave
way, a cloud of vapour darkened the sky, a pillar of fire rose high, and
the old walls tottered and fell with a crash.
Next morning, when tidings of the catastrophe spread through homesteads
and hamlets, and when the peasantry flocked to see what was to be seen,
the old hall of the Icinglas was a heap of blackened ruins. But what had
befallen Dame Isabel was the question which everybody asked, and the
question which nobody could answer.