IN THE GREENWOOD
"What shall he have who killed the deer?"
The return of Brian Fitz-Count and his companion from their stroll in
the woods probably saved our aged friend Sexwulf and his grandson from
much rough treatment, for although in the presence of express orders
from their dread lord, the men-at-arms would not attempt aught against
the _life_ of their prisoners, yet they might have offered any violence
and rudeness short of that last extremity, in their desire to possess
proof of the slaughter of the deer.
Poor beast, the cause of so much strife: it had behoved him to die
amongst the fangs of the hounds, and he had been foully murdered by
arrow and knife! It was not to be endured.
But no sooner did the Baron return, than the scene was changed.
"What means this clamour? Shut your mouths, ye hounds! and bring the
deer-slayers before me; one would think Hell had broken loose amongst
you."
He sat deliberately down on the trunk of a fallen tree, and called Milo
to be his assessor (_amicus curiæ_), as one might have said.
A circle was immediately formed, and the old man and boy, their arms
tied behind them, were placed before their judge.
He looked them sternly in the face, as if he would read their hearts.
"Whose serfs are ye?"
"We were never in bondage to any man."
"It is a lie--all Englishmen are in serfdom."
"Time will deliver them."
"Do you dare to bandy words with me; if so, a short shrift and a long
halter will suffice: you are within my jurisdiction, and your lives are
as much in my power as those of my hounds."
This was not said of hot temper, but bred of that cool contempt which
the foreign lords felt for the conquered race with which, nevertheless,
they were destined to amalgamate.
"Your names?"
"Sexwulf, son of Thurkill, formerly thane of Kingestun."
"Whose father fell in the fight at Senlac (Hastings), by the side of the
perjured Harold; and is this thy son? brought up doubtless to be a rebel
like thyself."
"He is my grandson."
"And how hast thou lived here, so long unknown, in my woods?"
"The pathless morass concealed us."
"And how hast thou lived? I need not ask, on my red deer doubtless."
"No proof has been found against us," said the old man, speaking with
that meek firmness which seemed to impress his questioner.
"And now, what hast thou done with the haunch of this deer?"
"I have not slain one."
"But the boy may have done so--come, old man, thou lookest like one who
would not lie even to save his neck; now if thou wilt assure me, on the
faith of a Christian, and swear by the black cross of Abingdon that thou
knowest nought of the deer, I will believe thee."
A pause--but Brian foresaw the result of his appeal.
"I cannot," said the captive at length; "I did not slay it, yet if,
according to your cruel laws, a man must die for a deer: I refuse not to
die--I am weary of the world."
"Nay, the father shall not bear the iniquity of the son; that were
contrary to Scripture and to all sound law."
"Grandfather, thou shalt not die," interrupted the boy; "Baron, it was
I; but must I die for it? we were so hungry."
"Oh my lord, crush not the young life in the springtime of youth. God
has taken all my children in turn from me, He has deprived me of home
and kin: but He is just. He has left this boy to comfort my old age:
take not away the light of the old man's eyes. See I, who never asked
favour of Norman or foreign lord before, bow my knees to thee; let the
boy live, or if not, let both die together."
"One life is enough for _one_ deer."
"Nay, then let me die."
"Who slew the deer?"
"I, my lord, and I must die, not my grandfather."
"It was for me, and I must die, as the primal cause of the deed," said
the old man.
"By the teeth of St. Peter, I never saw two thralls contending for the
honour of a rope before," said Milo.
"Nor I, but they have taken the right way to escape. Had they shown
cowardice, I should have felt small pity, but courage and self-devotion
ever find a soft place in my heart; besides, there is something about
this boy which interests me more than I can account for. Old man, tell
the truth, as thou hopest for the life of the boy. Is he really thy
grandson?"
"He is the son of my daughter, now with the Saints."
"And who was his sire?"
"An oppressed Englishman."
"Doubtless: you all think yourselves oppressed, as my oxen may, because
they are forced to draw the plough, but the boy has the face of men of
better blood, and I should have said there was a cross in the breed: but
hearken! Malebouche, cut their bonds, take a party of six, escort them
to the castle, place them in the third story of the North Tower, give
them food and drink, but let none have access to them till I return."
Further colloquy was useless; the Baron spoke like a man whose mind was
made up, and his vassals had no choice but to obey.
Therefore the party broke up, the rest of the train to seek another
stag, if they could find one, but Brian called the Sheriff of Gloucester
aside.
They stood in a glade of the forest near a tree blown down by the wind,
where they could see the downs beyond.
"Dost see that barrow, Sir Milo?"
"I do."
"It is called Cwichelm's Hlawe; there an old king of these English was
buried; they say he walks by night."
"A likely place."
"Well, I have a curiosity to test the fact, moreover the hill commands a
view unrivalled in extent in our country; I shall ride thither."
"In search of ghosts and night scenery, the view will be limited in
darkness."
"But beacon fires will show best in the dark."
"I comprehend; shall I share thy ride?"
"Nay, my friend, my mind is ill at rest, I want solitude. Return with
the hunting train and await my arrival at the castle; and the Baron
beckoned to his handsome young page Alain, to lead the horse to him.
"Well, Alain, what didst thou think of the young Englishman? He
confronted death gallantly enough."
"He is only half an Englishman; I am sure he has Norman blood, _noblesse
oblige_," replied the boy, who was a spoiled pet of his stern lord,
stern to others.
"Well, the old man feared the cord as little."
"He has not much life left to beg for: one foot in the grave already."
"How wouldst thou like that boy for a fellow-page?"
"Not at all, my lord."
"And why not?"
"Because I would like my companions to be of known lineage and of
gentle blood on both sides."
"The great Conqueror himself was not."
"And hence many despised him."
"They did not dare tell him so."
"Then they were cowards, my lord; I hope my tongue shall never conceal
what my heart feels."
"My boy, if thou crowest so loudly, I fear thou wilt have a short life."
"I can make my hands keep my head, at least against my equals."
"Art thou sorry I pardoned the lad then?"
"No, I like not to see the brave suffer; had he been a coward I should
have liked the sport fairly well."
"Sport?"
"It is so comical to see deer-stealers dance on nothing, and it serves
them right."
Now, do not let my readers think young Alain unnatural, he was of his
period; pity had small place, and the low value set on life made boys
and even men often see the ridiculous side of a tragedy, and laugh when
they should have wept: yet courage often touched their sympathies, when
entreaty would have failed.
But the Lord of Wallingford was in a gentle frame of mind, uncommon in
him: he had not merely been touched by the strife, which of the two
should die, between the ill-assorted pair, but there had been something
in every tone and gesture of the boy which had awakened strange sympathy
in his heart, and the sensation was so unprecedented, that Brian longed
for solitude to analyse it.
In truth, the prisoners had not been in great danger, for although their
judge was pleased to try their courage, he had not the faintest
intention of proceeding to any extremities with either grandsire or
grandson--not at least after he had heard the voice of the boy.
The party broke up, the Baron rode on alone towards the heights, the
sheriff, attended by young Alain, returned down the course of the
stream towards the castle. The rest separated into divers bands, some to
hunt for deer or smaller game, so as not to return home with empty
hands, to the great wrath of the cooks and others also. Malebouche with
six archers escorted the prisoners. They rode upon one steed, the boy in
front of his sire.
"Old man, what is the stripling's name?"
"Osric."
"And you will not tell who his sire was?"
"If I would not tell your dread lord, I am not likely to tell thee."
"Because I have a _guess_: a mere suspicion."
"'Thoughts are free;' it will soon be shown whether it be more."
"Which wouldst thou soonest be in thy heart, boy, English or Norman?"
"English," said the boy firmly.
"Thou preferrest then the deer to the lion?"
"I prefer to be the oppressed rather than the oppressor."
"Well, well, each man to his taste, but I would sooner be the wolf who
eats, than the sheep which is eaten; of the two sensations I prefer the
former. Now dost thou see that proud tower soaring into the skies down
the brook? it is the keep of Wallingford Castle. Stronger hold is not in
the Midlands."
"I have been there before," said old Sexwulf.
"Not in my time."
Our readers may almost have forgotten the existence of the poor thrall
Judith during the exciting scene we have narrated.
She loved her masters, young and old, deeply loved them did this
hereditary slave, and her anxiety had been extreme during the period of
their danger: she skipped in and out of the hut, for no one thought her
worth molesting, she peered through the bushes, she acted like a hen
partridge whose young are in danger, and when they bound Osric,
actually flew at the men-at-arms, but they thrust her so roughly aside
that she fell; little recked they. An English thrall, were she wife,
mother, or daughter, was naught in their estimation.
Yet she did not feel the same anxiety in one respect, which Sexwulf
felt. "I can save him yet," she muttered; "they shall never put a rope
around his bonnie neck, not even if I have to betray the secret I have
kept since his infancy."
So she listened close at hand. Once or twice she seemed on the point of
thrusting herself forward, when the fate of her dear boy seemed to hang
in the balance, but restrained herself.
"I promised," she said, "I promised, and _he_ will grieve to learn that
I was faithless to my word. The old woman has a soul, aged crone though
she be: and I swore by the black cross of Abingdon. Yet black cross or
white one, I would risk the claws of Satan, sooner than allow the rope
to touch his neck: bad enough that it should encircle his fair wrists."
When at last the suspense was over, and the grandsire and grandson were
ordered to be taken as prisoners to the castle, she seemed content.
"I must see him," she said, "and tell him what has chanced: he will know
what to do."
Just then she heard a voice which startled her.
"Shall we burn the hut, my lord?"
A moment of suspense: then came the stern reply.
"He that doth so shall hang from the nearest oak."
She chuckled.
"The spell already works," she said; "I may return to the shelter which
has been mine so long. He will not harm them."
The time of the separation of the foe had now come; the Baron rode off
to his midnight watch on Cwichelm; Malebouche conducted the two captives
along the road to the distant keep; the others, men and dogs, circulated
right and left in the woods.
The woods and reeds were still smoking, the atmosphere was dense and
murky, as Judith returned to the hut.
She sat by the fire which still smoked on the hearth, and rocked herself
to and fro, and as she sat she sang in an old cracked voice--
"They sought my bower one murky night,
They burnt my bower, they slew my knight;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie:
But vengeance yet shall have its way,
When shall the son the sire betray?"
The last line was very enigmatical, like a Delphic response; perhaps our
tale may solve it.
Then at last she arose, and going to a corner of the hut, opened a chest
filled with poor coarse articles of female attire, such as a slave might
wear, but at the bottom wrapped in musty parchment was something of
greater value.
It was a ring with a seal, and a few articles of baby attire, a little
red shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden's hair.
She kissed the latter again and again, ere she looked once more at the
ring: it bore a crest upon a stone of opal, and she laughed weirdly.
The crest was the crest of Brian Fitz-Count.