FOUND DYING
When Dame Isabel Icingla comprehended the cause of Wolf the varlet’s
intrusion, and meditated for a moment on the intelligence he brought,
she became pale as death, uttered an exclamation of terror, and
shuddered with horror at the idea of herself and her household being at
the mercy of men who knew nothing of mercy but the name. Nevertheless,
she was true to herself and her dignity. Falling on her knees, she
prayed earnestly for heavenly support, and called not only on St. Moden,
the patron of the Morevilles, but on St. Edward and other Saxon saints
whom the Icinglas were in the habit of invoking at moments of anger and
in times of trouble, to shield her from the danger that beset her; and
having done this, the Norman lady doubtless felt that she had done her
duty, at least, in placing herself under powerful and holy protection.
It appeared, however, that the three maidens who had been listening, or
pretending to listen, while she read to them a narrative of saintly
life, did not thoroughly sympathise with Dame Isabel’s pious sentiments.
At all events, they failed to follow her example in so far as concerned
the invoking of saintly aid. In fact, no sooner did they become aware of
their peril than they fluttered, and started up, and screamed, and fled
like larks at the approach of the sparrowhawk, and, hurrying pell-mell
from the room, followed the other inmates of Oakmede, who were rushing
in haste and consternation to a hiding-hole which was formed by a kind
of double wall in one wing of the old building, and in which, according
to tradition, the Icinglas had found refuge when assailed by the Danes
in the days of Harold Harefoot and other of the Danish kings who ruled
in England before the coronation of the Confessor.
When, therefore, Dame Isabel rose from her knees and looked round, she
found herself unattended, save by the spaniel which had growled and
barked at Wolf’s entrance, and which now looked up in her face, and, in
default of the faculty of speech, seized the skirt of her russet robe,
as if to implore her to fly. The instinct of self-preservation seconded
the suggestion of the dog, and after rushing into the passage, and in
vain summoning the fugitive nymphs to return, she, hesitating no longer,
tottered tremblingly down the stair that led to the hall in which Oliver
and De Moreville had supped on Christmas Eve, and, escaping by the rear
of the house, she made for the little chapel dedicated to St. Dunstan,
with some vague notion that she should be safe under the roof and before
the altar of an edifice which in her eyes was so sacred.
But here Dame Isabel was exposed to a severe disappointment. In her
hurry and tremor she had forgotten that the door of the chapel was
locked; and as she paused in extreme perplexity, and stood for a moment
pondering what to do next, or where she was to betake herself, she
almost fainted from the intensity of her alarm as the tramp of steeds,
and the ringing of bridles, and the clash of steel, and the voices of
men, sounded in her ear, and intimated that the outlandish soldiers,
whom she knew to be so brutal and bloodthirsty, were passing within a
stone’s throw of her, and that she was only concealed from their eyes by
the trees and the roofs of the outbuildings.
Under such circumstances, Dame Isabel hesitated no longer, but, attended
by the faithful spaniel, she passed with trembling steps through the
orchard, and, just as darkness was about to descend on the earth, she,
recking little of mud and mire, fled into the woodlands. For a time she
wandered about, not knowing whither she went, and aware that the
woodland was not without its dangers, but fearing little from the bear,
or the wolf, or the yellow hyæna, in comparison with her dread of the
monsters in human form, at whose approach she had left the home where
for years she had dwelt, sadly indeed, but in peace and safety. Fatigued
at length, after wandering for hours without reaching a house, she came
to a halt, and seating herself under a tree, in the moonlight, the
faithful dog at her side, she thought of her dead husband and her absent
son, and shed bitter tears, and then stretched herself on the cold grass
and fell asleep.
Next day, Styr the Anglo-Saxon made a diligent search for Dame Isabel in
the neighbourhood of Oakmede. But, though aided by Wolf and others, he
utterly failed to discover any traces of the Norman lady, and was
driven to the conclusion that she had perished in the fire. The old man,
however, was not satisfied with the part which had been played by the
domestics; and when after his fruitless search he returned towards
evening to his cottage, he bitterly reflected on the conduct both of the
men and maidens who had, on such an occasion, left the Hleafdian to her
fate, not even sparing his own son. Indeed, Styr reproached Wolf so
sharply, that the boy, to avoid a quarrel, left the cottage to look
after Ayoub and Muradel, which, in the morning, were found quietly
standing near the spot where their stable had been, and apparently
wondering at the change that had been wrought by the fire in the aspect
of everything around.
Wolf had not departed five minutes when Styr and his wife were startled
by a strange scratching and whining at the other door, which caused
their watch-dog to bark loudly, and when it was opened, Dame Isabel’s
spaniel entered, looking the picture of woe, and ever and anon turning
and pointing towards the door, and gazing earnestly in their faces, as
if imploring them to follow. Styr and his wife guessed all, and without
loss of time followed the dog into the woodland till they reached the
leafless oak associated with traditions of Druidical rites, and there,
within the broken circle of rough stones, lay a woman in a wimple and a
russet gown, her hands clasped as if she prayed. It was Dame Isabel, and
she was not dead but dying.
The Anglo-Saxon and his wife carried her reverentially to their cottage,
and used all the means in their power to restore her; but their efforts
proved vain. She recovered, indeed, sufficiently to tell the sad story
of her flight and of her wanderings; but, this done, she sank into a
sleep from which she never awoke. Next morning she was a corpse, cold
and rigid, and the monks from a neighbouring religious house, to which
she had been a benefactress in the days when she was a great baroness
and wife of one of Cœur-de-Lion’s most puissant knights, came and
removed the body to their church, where masses were said for the soul
that had departed under circumstances so melancholy, and then the
remains of Dame Isabel were conveyed with all honour to Oakmede and laid
among the bones of the Icinglas in the little chapel dedicated to St.
Dunstan.