THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
Two years had passed away, and it was the last week of Advent, in the
year of our Lord 1141.
The whole land lay under a covering of deep snow, the frost was keen and
intense, the streams were ice-bound when they could be seen, for
generally snow had drifted and filled their channels; only the ice on
the Thames, wind-swept, could be discerned.
Through the dense woods of Newenham, which overhung the river, about
three miles above the Abbey Town (Abingdon), at the close of the brief
winter's day, a youth might have been seen making his way (it was not
made for him) through the dense undergrowth towards the bed of the
stream.
He was one of Dame Nature's most favoured striplings,--tall and straight
as an arrow, with a bright smile and sunny face, wherein large blue eyes
glistened under dark eyebrows; his hair was dark, his features shapely,
his face, however, sunburnt and weather-beaten, although he only
numbered eighteen years.
Happily unseen, for in those days the probability was that every
stranger was a foe to be avoided, and for such foes our young friend was
not unprepared; it is true, he wore a simple woollen tunic, bound round
by a girdle, but underneath was a coat of the finest chain-armour, proof
against shafts, and in his hand he had a boar-spear, while a short sword
was suspended in its sheath, from his belt.
Fool indeed would one have been, whether gentle or simple, to traverse
that district, or indeed any other district of "Merrie" England, unarmed
in the year 1141, and our Osric was not such a simple one.
He has "aged" since we last saw him. He is quite the young warrior now.
The sweet simplicity, begotten of youth and seclusion, is no longer
there, yet there is nought to awaken distrust. He is not yet a knight,
but he is the favourite squire of Brian Fitz-Count--that terrible lord,
and has been the favourite ever since Alain passed over to the immediate
service of the Empress Queen.
We will not describe him further--his actions shall speak for him; and
if he be degenerate, tell of his degeneracy.
As he descended the hill towards the stream, a startling interruption
occurred; a loud snarl, and a wolf--yes, there were wolves in England
then--snapped at him: he had trodden on her lair.
Quick as thought the boar-spear was poised, and the animal slank away,
rejecting the appeal to battle. For why? She knew there were plenty of
corpses about unburied for her to eat, and if they were not quite so
sweet as Osric's fair young flesh, they would be obtained without
danger. Such was doubtless wolfish philosophy.
He passed on, not giving a second thought to an adventure which would
fill the mind of a modern youth for hours--but he was hardened to
adventures, and _blasé_ of them. So he took them as a matter of course
and as the ordinary incidents of life: it was a time of carnage, when
the "survival of the fittest" was being worked out amongst our
ancestors.
"Ah, here is the river at last," he said to himself, "and now I know my
way: the ice will bear me safely enough, and I shall have an easier
road; although I must be careful, for did I get in, I could hardly swim
in this mail-shirt."
So he stopped, and taking a pair of rude skates from his wallet, bound
them to his iron-clad shoes, and skated up stream--through a desolate
country.
Anon the grim old castle of the Harcourts frowned down upon him from the
height where their modern mansion now stands. The sentinels saw him and
sent an arrow after him, but it was vain defiance--the river was beyond
arrow shot, and they only sent one, because it was the usual playful
habit of the day to shoot at strangers, young or old. Every man's hand
was against every man.
They did not think the dimly discerned stranger, scudding up stream,
worth pursuit, especially as it was getting dark, and the snow drifts
were dangerous. So they let him go, not exactly with a benediction.
And soon he was opposite the village of Sandford, or rather where the
village should have been; but it was burnt to the very ground--not a
house or hovel was standing; not a dog barked, for there were no dogs
left to bark; nor was any living creature to be seen. Soon Iffley,
another scene of desolation, was in sight; but here there were people.
The old Norman Church, the same the voyager still sees, and stops to
examine, was standing, and was indeed the only edifice to be seen: all
else was blackened ruin, or would have been did not the snow mercifully
cover it.
Here our young friend left the river, and taking off his rude skates,
ascended the bank to the church by a well-trodden path, and pushed open
the west door.
He gazed upon a scene to which this age happily affords no parallel. The
church was full, but not of worshippers; two or three fires blazed upon
the stone pavement, and the smoke, eddying upwards, made its exit
through holes purposely broken in the roof for that end; around each
fire sat or squatted groups of men, women, and children--hollow-eyed,
famine-pinched, plague-stricken, or the like. There was hardly a face
amongst them which distress had not deprived of any beauty it might once
have possessed. Many a household was there--father, mother, sons and
daughters, from the stripling to the babe. The altar and sanctuary were
alone respected: a screen then divided them from the nave, and the gate
was jealously locked, opened only each day when the parish priest, who
lived in the old tower above, still faithful to his duty, went in at
dawn, and said Mass; while the poor wretched creatures forgot their
misery for a while, and worshipped.
Osric passed, unquestioned, through the groups,--the church was a
sanctuary to all,--and at last he reached the chancel gate. A youth of
his own age leant against it.
"Osric."
"Alain."
They left the church together, and sought a solitary place on the brink
of the hill above.
Where the modern tourist often surveys the city from the ridge of Rose
Hill, our friends gazed. The city, great even then, lay within its
protecting rivers and its new walls, dominated by the huge keep of the
castle of Robert d'Oyley which the reader still may see from the line,
as he nears the city.
But what a different scene it looked down upon. The moon illumined its
gray walls, and the fires of the besiegers shone with a lurid glare
about the city and within its streets, while the white, ghostly country
environed it around.
"Thou hast kept thy tryst, Osric."
"And thou thine, Alain; but thine was the hardest. How didst thou get
out? by the way we agreed upon before I left Oxford?"
"It was a hard matter. The castle is beleaguered, the usurper is there,
and that treacherous priest, his brother, says a sort of black Mass
every day in the camp: the city is all their own, and only the castle
holds out."
"And how is our lady?"
"Poor Domina,[20] as she signs herself. Ah, well, she shall not starve
while there is a fragment of food in the neighbourhood, but, Oh, Osric!
hunger is hard to bear; fortunate wert thou to be chosen to accompany
our lord in that desperate sally a month agone which took you all safely
to Wallingford. But what news dost thou bring?"
"That the great Earl of Gloucester and Henry Plantagenet have landed in
England, and will await the Empress at Wallingford if she can escape
from Oxford."
"I can get out myself, as thou seest, and have been able to keep our
tryst, but the Empress--how can we risk her life so precious to us all?
Osric, she must descend by _ropes_, and to-day my hands were so frozen
by the cold that I almost let go, and should have fallen full fifty feet
had I done so; but for a woman--even if, like 'Domina,' she be more than
woman--it will be parlous difficult."
"It must be tried, for no more reinforcements have appeared: we are
wofully disappointed."
"And so are we: day by day we have hoped to see your pennons advancing
over the frozen snow to our rescue. Alas! it was nought we saw, save
bulrushes and sedges. Then day by day we hear the trumpets blow, and the
usurper summons us to surrender, without terms, to his discretion."
"We will see him perish first," said Osric. "Hear our plans. If thou
canst persuade the lady to descend from the tower, and cross the stream
at the midnight after to-morrow, we will have a troop on the outskirts
of Bagley wood, to escort the precious freight to Wallingford, in spite
of all her foes, or we will die in her defence."
"It is well spoken; and I think I may safely say that it shall be
attempted."
"And the Baron advises that ye all wear white woollen tunics like mine,
as less likely to be distinguished in the snow, and withal warm."
"We have many such tunics in the castle. At midnight to-morrow the risk
will be run, you may depend upon it. See, the Domina has entrusted me
with her signet, that you may see that I am a sort of plenipotentiary."
"And now farewell. Canst thou find thy way through the darkness to
Wallingford? Oxford is near at hand."
"Nay, I shall rest in the church to-night, and depart at dawn: I should
lose my way in the snow."
"After Mass, I suppose," said Alain sarcastically.
"Yes," said Osric, blushing. He was getting ashamed of the relics of his
religious observances; "but Mass and meat, you know, hinder no man. I
shall be at Wallingford ere noon, and the horse will start about the
dusk of the evening. God speed thee." And they parted.
The Castle of Oxford was one of the great strongholds of the Midlands.
Its walls and bastions enclosed a large area, whereon stood the Church
of St. George. On one side was the Mound, thrown up in far earlier days
than those of which we write, by Ethelflæda, sister of Alfred, and near
it the huge tower of Robert d'Oyley, which still survives, a stern and
silent witness of the unquiet past. In an upper chamber of that tower
was the present apartment of the warlike lady, alike the descendant of
Alfred and the Conqueror, and the unlike daughter of the sainted Queen
Margaret of Scotland. And there she sat, at the time when Osric met
Alain at Iffley Church, impatiently awaiting the return of her favourite
squire, for such was Alain, whose youthful comeliness and gallant
bearing had won her heart.
"He tarries long: he cometh not," she said. "Tell me, my Edith, how long
has he been gone?"
"Scarce three hours, madam, and he has many dangers to encounter.
Perchance he may never return."
"Now the Saints confound thy boding tongue."
"Madam!"
"Why, forsooth, should he be unfortunate? so active, so brave, so sharp
of wit."
"I only meant that he is mortal."
"So are we all--but dost thou, therefore, expect to die to-day?"
"Father Herluin says we all should live as if we did, madam."
"You will wear my life out. Well, yes, a convent will be the best place
for thee."
"Nay, madam."
"Hold thy peace, if thou canst say nought but 'nay,'" said the irascible
Domina.
Her temper, her irritability and impatience, had alienated many from her
cause. Perchance it would have alienated Alain like the rest, only he
was a favourite, and she was seldom sharp with him.
How like her father she was in her bearing! even in her undress, for she
wore only a thick woollen robe, stained, by the art of the dyers, in
colours as various as those of the robe Jacob made for Joseph. Sometimes
it flew open, and displayed an inner vesture of rich texture, bound
round with a golden zone or girdle; and around her head, confining her
luxuriant hair, was a circlet of like precious metal, which did duty for
a diadem.
Little of her sainted mother was there in the Empress Queen; far more
of her stern grandfather, the Conqueror.
The chamber, of irregular dimensions, was lighted by narrow loopholes.
There was a hearth and a chimney, and a brazier of wood and charcoal
burned brightly. Even then the air was cold, for it was many degrees
below the freezing point, not that they as yet knew how to measure the
temperature.
She sat and glowered at the grate, as the light departed, and the winter
night set in, dark and gloomy. More than once she approached the
windows, or loopholes, and looked upon the ruined city in the chill and
intermittent moonlight.
It was nearly _all_ in ruins. Here and there a church tower rose intact;
here and there a lordly dwelling; but fire and sword had swept it.
Neither party regarded the sufferings of the poor. Sometimes the
besiegers made a fire in sport, and warmed themselves by the blaze of a
burgher's dwelling, nor recked how far it spread. Sometimes, as we have
said, the besieged made a sally, and set fire to the buildings which
sheltered their foes. Whichever prevailed, the citizens suffered; but
little recked their oppressors.
From her elevated chamber Maude could see the watch-fires of the foe in
a wide circle around, but she was accustomed to the sight, tired of it,
in fact, and her one desire was to escape to Wallingford, a far more
commodious and stronger castle.
In Frideswide, of which she could discern the towers, which as yet had
escaped the conflagration, were the headquarters of her rival, who was
living there at ease on the fat of the land, such fat as was left, at
the expense of the monastic community. And while she gazed, she clenched
her dainty fist, and shook it at the unheeding Stephen, while she
muttered unwomanly imprecations.
And while she was thus engaged, they brought up her supper. It consisted
of a stew of bones, which had already been well stripped of their flesh
at "the noon-meat."
"We are reduced to bones, and shall soon be nought but bones ourselves;
but our gallant defenders, I fear, fare worse. Here, Edith, Hilda, bring
your spoons and take your share."
And with small wooden spoons they dipped into the royal dish.
A step on the stairs and the chamberlain knocked, and at her bidding
entered. "Lady, the gallant page has returned: how he entered I know
not."
"He is unharmed?"
"Scatheless, by the favour of God and St. Martin."
"Let him enter at once."
And Alain appeared.
"My gallant squire, how hast thou fared? I feared for thee."
"They keep bad watch. A rope lowered me to the stream: I crossed, and
seeking covered ways, gat me to Iffley, and in like fashion returned. I
bear good news, lady! Thy gallant brother of Gloucester, and the Prince,
thy son, have landed in England, and will meet thee at Wallingford."
"Thank God!" said Maude. "My Henry, my royal boy, I shall see thee
again. With such hope to cheer a mother's heart, I can dare anything.
Well hast thou earned our thanks, my Alain, my gallant squire."
"The Lord of Wallingford will send a troop of horse to scout on the road
between Abingdon and Oxford to-morrow night, the Eve of St. Thomas."
"We will meet them if it be possible--if it be in human power."
"The river is free--all other roads are blocked."
"But hast thou considered the difficulties of descent?"
"They are great, lady: it was easy for me to descend by the rope, but
for thee, alas, that my queen should need such expedients!"
"It is better than starvation. We are reduced to the bones, as thou
seest; but thou art hungry and faint. Let me order a basin of this
_savoury_ stew for thee; it is all we have to offer."
"What is good enough for my Empress and Queen, is good enough for her
faithful servants; but I may not eat in thy presence."
"Nay, scruple not; famine effaces distinctions."
Thus encouraged, Alain did not allow his scruples to interfere further
with his appetite, and partook heartily of the stew of bones, in which,
forsooth, the water and meal were in undue proportion to the meat.
The meal despatched, the Empress sent Alain to summon the Earl of
Oxford, Robert d'Oyley, to her presence. He was informed of the arrival
of the Earl and the Prince, and the plan of escape was discussed.
All the ordinary avenues of the castle were watched so closely that
extraordinary expedients were necessary, and the only feasible mode of
escape appeared to be the difficult road which Alain had used
successfully, both in leaving and returning to the beleaguered fortress.
A branch of the Isis washed the walls of the tower. It was frozen hard.
To descend by ropes upon it in the darkness, and cross to the opposite
side of the stream, appeared the only mode of egress.
But for a lady--the Lady of England--was it possible? was it not utterly
unworthy of her dignity?
She put this objection aside like a cobweb.
"Canst thou hold out the castle much longer?"
"At the most, another week; our provisions are nearly exhausted. This
was our last meal of flesh, of which I see the bones before me," replied
the Lord of Oxford.
"Then if I remain, thou must still surrender?"
"Surrender is _inevitable_, lady."
"Then sooner would I infringe my dignity by dangling from a rope, than
become the prisoner of the foul usurper Stephen, and the laughing-stock
of his traitorous barons."
"Sir Ingelric of Huntercombe, and two other knights, besides thy gallant
page, volunteer to accompany thee, lady."
"And for thyself?"
"I must remain to the last, and share the fortunes of my vassals.
Without me, they would find scant mercy from the usurpers."
"Then, to-morrow night, ere the moon rise, the attempt shall be made."
And the conference broke up.
----
It was a night of wildering snow, dark and gloomy. The soft, dry,
powdery material found its way in at each crevice, and the wind made the
tapestry, which hung on the walls of the presence chamber of the "Lady
Maude," oscillate to and fro with each blast.
Robert d'Oyley was alone in deep consultation with his royal mistress.
"Then if I can escape, thou wilt surrender?"
"Nought else is to be done; we are starving."
"They will burn the castle."
"There is little to burn, and I hardly think they will attempt that: it
will be useful to them, when in their hands."
"It is near the midnight hour: the attempt must be made. Now summon
young Alain and my faithful knights."
They entered at the summons, each clothed in fine mail, with a white
tunic above it. The Empress bid adieu to her handmaidens, who had clad
her in a thick white cloak to match: they wept and wailed, but she
gently chid them--
"We have suffered worse things: the coffin and hearse in which we left
Devizes was more ghastly; and God will give an end to these troubles
also: fear not, we are prepared to go through with it."
A small door was opened in the thickness of the wall; it led to the
roof, over a lower portion of the buildings beneath the shadow of the
tower; and the knights, with Alain and their lady, stood on the
snow-covered summit.
Not long did they hesitate. The river beneath was frozen hard; it lay
silent and still in its ice-bound sepulchre. The darkness was penetrated
by the light of the watch-fires in all directions: they surrounded the
town on all sides, save the one they had not thought it necessary to
guard against. There was a fire and doubtless a watch over the bridge,
which stood near the actual site of the present Folly Bridge. There was
a watch across Hythe Bridge; there was another on the ruins of the
castle mill, which Earl Algar had held, under the Domesday survey;
another at the principal entrance of the castle, which led from the
city. But the extreme cold of the night had driven the majority of the
besiegers to seek shelter in the half-ruined churches, which, long
attuned to the sweet melody of bells and psalmody, had now become the
bivouacs of profane soldiers.
The Countess Edith, the wife of Robert d'Oyley, now appeared, shivering
in the keen air, and took an affectionate leave of the Empress, while
her teeth chattered the while. A true woman, she shared her husband's
fortunes for weal or woe, and had endured the horrors of the siege.
Ropes were brought--Alain glided down one to the ice, and held it firm.
Another rope was passed beneath the armpits of the Lady Maude. She
grasped another in her gloved hand, to steady her descent.
"Farewell, true and trusty friend," she said to Robert of Oxford; "had
all been as faithful as thou, I had never been brought to this pass; if
they hurt thy head, they shall pay with a life for every hair it
contains."
Then she stepped over the battlements.
For one moment she gave a womanly shudder at the sight of the blackness
below; then yielding herself to the care of her trusty knights and
shutting her eyes, she was lowered safely to the surface of the frozen
stream, while young Alain steadied the rope below. At last her feet
touched the ice.
"Am I on the ground?"
"On the ice, Domina."
One after another the three knights followed her, and they descended the
stream until it joined the main river at a farm called "The Wick," which
formerly belonged to one Ermenold, a citizen of Oxford, immortalised in
the abbey records of Abingdon for his munificence to that community.
Now they had crossed the main channel in safety, not far below the
present railway bridge, and landing, struck out boldly for the outskirts
of Bagley, where the promised escort was to have met them. But in the
darkness and the snow, they lost their direction, and came at last over
the frozen fields to Kennington, where they indistinctly saw two or
three lights through the fast-falling snow, but dared not approach them,
fearing foes.
Vainly they strove to recover the track. The country was all alike--all
buried beneath one ghastly winding-sheet. The snow still fell; the air
was calm and keen; the breath froze on the mufflers of the lady. Onward
they trudged, for to hesitate was death; once or twice that ghastly
inclination to lie down and sleep was felt.
"If I could only lie down for one half hour!" said Maude.
"You would never wake again, lady," said Bertram of Wallingford; "we
_must_ move on."
"Nay, I must sleep."
"For thy son's sake," whispered Alain; and she persevered.
"Ah! here is the river; take care."
They had nearly fallen into a diversion of the stream at Sandford; but
they followed the course of the river, until they reached Radley, and
then they heard the distant bell of the famous abbey ringing for Matins,
which were said in the small hours of the night.
Here they found some kind of track made by the passage of cattle, which
had been driven towards the town, and followed it until they saw the
lights of the abbey dimly through the gloom.
Spent, exhausted with their toil, they entered the precincts of the
monastery, on the bed of the stream which, diverging from the main
course a mile above the town, turned the abbey mills and formed one of
its boundaries. Thus they avoided detention at the gateway of the town,
for they ascended from the stream within the monastery "pleasaunce."
The grand church loomed out of the darkness; its windows were dimly
lighted. The Matins of St. Thomas were being sung, and the solemn
strains reached the ears of the weary travellers outside. The outer door
of the nave was unfastened, for the benefit of the laity, who cared more
for devotion than their beds, like the mother of the famous St. Edmund,
Archbishop of Canterbury, a century later, who used to attend these
Matins nightly.
Our present party entered from a different motive. It was a welcome
shelter, and they sank upon an oaken bench within the door, while the
solemn sound of the Gregorian psalmody rolled on in the choir. Alain
meanwhile hastened to the hospitium to seek aid for the royal guest;
which he was told he would find in a hostel outside the gates, for
although they allowed female attendance at worship, they could not
entertain women; it was contrary to their rule--royal although the guest
might be.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] The historical course of events during these two years may be
briefly summed up. The English at first embraced the cause of Maude with
alacrity, because of her descent from their ancient monarchs, and so did
most of the barons. A dire civil war followed, in which multitudes of
freebooters from abroad, under the name of "free lances," took part in
either side. Hereford, Gloucester, Bristol, Oxford, Wallingford--all
became centres of Maude's power; and at last, at the great battle of
Lincoln--the only great battle during the miserable chaos of
strife--Stephen became her prisoner.
Then she had nearly gained the crown: Henry, Bishop of Winchester, Papal
legate and brother of Stephen, joined her cause, and received her as
Queen at Winchester. The wife of King Stephen begged her husband's
liberty on her knees, promising that he should depart from the kingdom
and become a monk. But Maude was hard-hearted, and spurned her from her
presence, rejecting, to her own great detriment, the prayer of the
suppliant; and not only did she do this, but she also refused the
petition of Henry of Winchester, that the foreign possessions of Stephen
might pass to his son Eustace. In consequence, the Bishop abandoned her
cause, and Maude found that she had dashed the cup of fortune from her
hand by her harsh conduct, which at last became past bearing. She
refused the Londoners the confirmation of their ancient charters,
because they had submitted to the rule of Stephen; whereupon they rose,
_en masse_, against her, and drove her from the city. She hastened to
Winchester, but the Bishop followed, and drove her thence; and in the
flight Robert, Earl of Gloucester was captured. He was exchanged for
Stephen, both leaders were at liberty and the detestable strife began,
_de novo_.
Then Maude took up her abode at Oxford, where Stephen came and besieged
her, as related in the text.
[20] Maude did not venture to call herself Queen, but signed her deeds
Domina or Lady of England.