OSRIC AT HOME
It is not our intention to follow Osric's career closely during the
early period of his pagehood under the fostering care of Brian
Fitz-Count and the influence of Alain, but we shall briefly dwell in
this chapter upon the great change which was taking place in his life
and character.
When we first met him, he was simple to a fault, but he had the sterling
virtues of truthfulness and obedience, purity and unselfishness,
sedulously cultivated in a congenial soil by his grandfather, one of
Nature's noblemen, although not ranked amongst the Norman _noblesse_.
But it was the virtue which had never yet met real temptation.
Courageous and brave he was also, but still up to the date of the
adventure with the deer, he had never struck a blow in anger, or harmed
a fellow-creature, save the beasts of the chase whom he slew for food,
not for sport.
Then came the great change in his life: the gentle, affectionate lad was
thrown into the utterly worldly and impure atmosphere of a Norman
castle--into a new world; thoughts and emotions were aroused to which he
had been hitherto a perfect stranger, and, strange to say, he felt
unsuspected traits in his own character, and desires in his own unformed
mind answering to them.
For instance, he who had never raised a hand in angry strife, felt the
homicidal impulse rush upon him during the skirmish we described in a
previous chapter. He longed to take part in the frays, to be where blows
were going; thenceforward he gave himself up with ardour to the study
of war; he spent all his spare time in acquiring the arts of fence and
the management of weapons; and Brian smiled grimly as he declared that
Osric would soon be a match for Alain.
But it was long before the Baron allowed him to take part in actual
bloodshed, and then only under circumstances which did not involve
needless risk, or aught more than the ordinary chances of mortal combat,
mitigated by whatsoever aid his elders could afford; for Brian loved the
boy with a strange attachment; the one soft point in his armour of proof
was his love for Osric--not a selfish love, but a parental one, as if
God had committed the boy to his charge in the place of those he had
lost.
Yet he did not believe Osric was his long-lost son: no, that child was
dead and gone,--the statements of the old man were too explicit to allow
of further doubt.
Osric was present when that brutal noble, Robert Fitz-Hubert, stormed
Malmesbury; there he beheld for the first time the horrors of a _sack_;
there he saw the wretched inhabitants flying out of their burning homes
to fall upon the swords of the barbarous soldiery. At the time he felt
that terrible thirst so like that of a wild beast,--which in some modern
sieges, such as Badajos, has turned even Englishmen into wild and
merciless savages,--and then when it was over, he felt sick and loathed
himself.
He was fond of Alain, who returned the preference, yet Alain was a bad
companion, for he was an adept in the vices of his day--not unlike our
modern ones altogether, yet developed in a different soil, and of ranker
growth.
Therefore Osric soon had many secrets he could not confide to his
grandfather, whom he was permitted to see from time to time,--a great
concession on the part of the Lord of Wallingford, who craved all the
boy's love for himself.
"Thou art changed, my dear Osric," said his grandfather on one of these
occasions, a fine Sunday morn when Osric had leave of absence.
They were on their way through the tangled wood to the old Saxon Church
of Aston Upthorpe, in which King Alfred was said to have heard Mass.[17]
"The woods were God's first temples, ere man raised
The architrave."
The very fountains babbled in His honour Who made them to laugh and
sing, the birds sang their matin songs in His praise--this happy
woodland was exempted from all those horrors of war which already
devastated the rest of England, for it was safe under the protection of
Brian, to whom, wiser than Wulfnoth of Compton, it paid tribute; and at
this juncture Maude and her party were supreme, for it was during
Stephen's captivity at Bristol.
"Thou art changed, my dear Osric."
"How, my grandsire?"
"Thy face is the same, yet not the same, even as Adam's face was the
same, yet not the same, after he learned the secret of evil, which drove
him from Paradise."
"And I too have been driven from Paradise: my Eden was here."
"Wouldst thou return if thou couldst; if Brian consented to release
thee." And the old man looked the youth full in the face.
Osric was transparently truthful.
"No, grandfather," he said, and then blushed.
"Ah, thou art young and lovest adventure and the gilded panoply of war:
what wonder! such was thy father, Wulfnoth of Compton, of whom thou art
the sole surviving child."
"Tell me, grandfather, is he dead--is my poor father dead?"
"That is a secret which may not be committed even to thee; were he
alive, he would curse thee, did he know thou wert fighting under Brian's
banner."
"It was to save thy life."
"I know it, my child, and would be the last to blame thee, yet I am
glad thy father knows it not. He has never inquired concerning thee."
"Then he is alive?"
"Did I say he was? I meant not to do so--seek not to know--knowledge is
sometimes dangerous."
"Well, if he is alive," said Osric, a little piqued, "he does not care
half so much for me as does my Lord of Wallingford. _He_ would have
asked about me."
"He treats thee well then."
"As if he loved me."
"It is strange--passing strange; as soon should I expect a wolf to
fondle a kid."
"I am not a kid, at least not now."
"What then, dear boy? a wolf?"
"More like one, I think, than a kid."
"And thou hast looked on bloodshed with unflinching eye and not
shuddered?"
"I shuddered just at first; but I have got used to it: you have often
said war is lawful."
"Yes, for one's country, as when Alfred fought against the Danes or
Harold at Senlac. So it was noble to die as died my father,--your own
ancestor, Thurkill of Kingestun; so, had I been old enough to have gone
with him, should I have died."
"And you took part in the skirmishes which followed Senlac?"
"I fought under the hero Hereward."
"And did _you_ shudder to look upon war?"
"Only as a youth naturally does the first time he sees the blood of man
poured forth like water--it is not for that I would reproach thee, only
_we_ fought for liberty; and it is better to die than to live a life of
slavery,--happier far were they who fell around our noble Harold on the
hill of Senlac, than they who survived to see the desolation and misery,
the chains and slavery which awaited the land; but, my child, what are
you fighting for? surely one tyrant is no better than another, Maude or
Stephen, what does it matter?"
"Save, grandfather, that Maude is the descendant of our old English
kings--her great-grandfather was the Ironside of whose valiant deeds I
have often heard you boast."
"True, my son, and therefore of the _two_, I wish her success; but she
also is the grandchild of the Conqueror, who was the scourge of God to
this poor country."
"In that case God sent him."
"Deliver my soul from the ungodly, which is a sword of Thine," quoted
the pious old man, well versed in certain translations from the Psalms.
"My grandfather, I fought against it as long as I could, as thou
knowest; I would have died, and did brave the torture, rather than
consent to become a page of the Lord of Wallingford; and when I did so
become to save _thy_ life, I felt bound in honour to be faithful, and so
to the best of my power I have been."
"And now thou lovest the yoke, and wouldst not return?"
Again the youth coloured.
"Grandfather, I cannot help it--excitement, adventure, the glory of
victory, the joy even of combat, has that attraction for me of which our
bards have sung, in the old songs of the English Chronicles which you
taught me around the hearth."
"The lion's cub is a lion still; let him but taste blood, and the true
nature comes out."
"Better be a lion than a deer--better eat than be eaten, grandfather."
"I know not," said the old man pensively, "but, my child, never draw thy
sword to oppress thy poor countrymen, unless thou wouldst have thy
father curse thee."
"He is not dead then?"
"I said not so."
"Why not tell me whether my father lives?"
"Because in thy present position, which thou canst not escape, the
knowledge would be dangerous to thee."
"How came my father to leave me in thy care? how did my mother die? why
am I the only one left of my kin?"
"All this I am bound not to tell thee, my child; try and forget it all
until thou art of full age."
"And then?"
"Perchance even _then_ it were better to let the dead bury their dead."
Osric sighed.
"Why am I the child of mystery? why have I not a surname like my
compeers? they mock me now and then, and I have had two or three sharp
fights in consequence; at last the Baron found it out, for he saw the
marks upon my face, and he spoke so sternly to them that they ceased to
gibe."
"My dear boy, commit it all to thy Heavenly Father; thou dost not forget
thy prayers?"
"Not when I am in the Castle chapel."
"And not at other times?"
"It is impossible. I sleep amidst other pages. I just cross myself when
I think of it, and say a Pater and an Ave."
"And how often dost thou go to Mass?"
"When we are not out on an expedition, each Sunday."
"Does the Baron go to church with you?"
"Yes, but he does not believe much in it."
"I feared not: and thy companions?"
"They often laugh and jest during Matins or Mass."
"And you?"
"I try not to join them, because it would grieve you."
"There should be a higher motive."
"I know it."
"And with regard to other trials and temptations, are your companions
good lads?"
Osric laughed aloud.
"No, grandfather, anything but that."
"And you?"
"I go to the good priest of St. Mary's to Confession, and that wipes it
off."
"Nay, my child, not without penitence, and penitence is shown by
ceasing to sin."
----
Now they had arrived at the rustic church of East-town, or Aston, on the
slope of the old Roman camp, which uprose above the forest. Many
woodsmen and rustics of the humble village were there. It was a simple
service: rude village psalmody; primitive vestments and ritual, quite
unlike the gorgeous scenes then witnessed in cathedral or abbey church,
in that age of display. Osmund of Sarum had not made his influence felt
much here, although the church was in the diocese he once ruled. All was
of the old Anglo-Saxon type, as when Alfred was alive, and England free.
There was not a Norman there to criticise; they shunned the churches to
which the rustics resorted, and where the homilies were in the English
tongue, which they would not trouble to learn.
Poor Osric! his whole character and disposition may be plainly enough
traced in the conversation given above. The reader must not condemn the
grandfather, old Sexwulf, for his reticence concerning the mystery of
Osric's birth. When Wulfnoth of Compton brought the babe to his door, it
was with strict injunctions not to disclose the secret till he gave
permission. The old grandfather did not understand the reasons why so
much mystery was made of the matter, but he felt bound to obey the
prohibition.
Hence all that Osric knew was that he was the last survivor of his
family, and that all besides him had perished in the wars, save a father
of whom little was known, except that he manifested no interest
whatsoever in his son.
Perhaps the reader can already solve the riddle; we have given hints
enough. Only he must remember that neither Brian nor Sexwulf had his
advantages.
The service of the village church sounded sweetly in the ears of Osric
that day. He was affected by the associations which cling about the
churches where we once knelt by a father or mother's side; and Osric
felt like a child again as he knelt by his grandfather--it might be for
the last time, for the possibility of sudden death on the battle-field,
of entering a deadly fray never to emerge alive, of succumbing beneath
the sword or lance of some stronger or more fortunate adversary, was
ever present to the mind; yet Osric did not fear death on the
battle-field. There was, and is, an unaccountable glamour about it: men
who would not enter a "pest-house" for the world, would volunteer for a
"forlorn hope."
But it is quite certain that on that day all the religious impulses
Osric had ever felt, were revived, and that he vowed again and again to
be a true knight, _sans peur et sans reproche_, fearing nought but God,
and afraid only of sin and shame, as the vow of chivalry imported, if
knight he was ever allowed to become.
_Ite missa est_[18]--it was over, and they left the rustic church.
Outside the neighbours clustered and chatted as they do nowadays. They
congratulated Sexwulf on his handsome grandson, and flattered the boy as
they commented on his changed appearance, but there always seemed
something they left unsaid.
Neither was their talk cheerful; it turned chiefly upon wars and rumours
of wars. They had been spared, but there were dismal tales of the
country around--of murder and arson, of fire and sword, of worse scenes
yet behind, and doom to come.
They hoped to gather in _that_ harvest, whether another would be theirs
to reap was very doubtful. And so at last they separated, and through
some golden fields of corn, for it was nearly harvest time, Sexwulf and
his grandson wended their way to their forest home. It was a day long
remembered, for it was the very last of a long series of peaceful
Sundays in the forest. Osric felt unusually happy that afternoon, as he
returned home with his grandfather, full of the strength of new
resolutions with which we are told the way to a place, unmentionable to
ears polite, is paved; and his manner to his grandfather was so sweet
and affectionate, that the dear old man was delighted with his boy.
The evening was spent at home, for there was no Vesper service at the
little chapel--amidst the declining shadows of the trees, the solemn
silence of the forest, the sweet murmuring of the brook. The old man
slept in the shade, seated upon a mossy bank. Osric slept too, with his
head pillowed upon his grandfather's lap; while in wakeful moments the
aged hands played with his graceful locks. Old Judith span in the
doorway and watched the lad.
"He is as bonny as he is brave, and as brave as he is bonny, the dear
lad," she said.
Then came the shadows of night. The old man brought forth his
dilapidated harp, and the three sang the evening hymn to its
accompaniment--
"Te lucis ante terminum,"
and repeated the psalm _Qui habitat_; then with a short prayer, not
unlike our "Lighten our darkness," indeed its prototype, they retired to
sleep, while the wind sighed a requiem about them through the arches of
the forest, and dewy odours stole through the crevices of the hut--
"The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below."
FOOTNOTES:
[17] It still stands, one of the oldest of our old village churches.
[18] _Ite missa est_, _i.e._ the concluding words of the Mass.