AFTER THE ESCAPE
Meanwhile Brian Fitz-Count himself, with Osric by his side and a dozen
horsemen, rode to and fro on the road to Oxford, which passed through
the forest of Bagley; for to halt in the cold was impossible, and to
kindle a fire might attract the attention of foes, as well as of
friends. How they bore that weary night may not be told, but they were
more accustomed to such exposure than we are in these days.
Again and again did Brian question Osric concerning the interview with
Alain, but of course to no further purpose; and they might have remained
till daylight had not they taken a shepherd, who was out to look after
his sheep, and brought him before the Count, pale and trembling, for it
was often death to the rustics to be seized by the armed bands.
"Hast thou seen any travellers this night?"
"I have, my lord, but they were not of this earth."
"What then, fool?"
"They were the ghosts of the slain, five of them, all in white, coming
up from the river, where the fight was a month agone."
"And what didst thou do?"
"Hid myself."
"Where were they going?"
"Towards Abingdon."
"Men or women?"
"One was muffled up like a lady; the others were like men, but all in
white."
"My lord," interrupted Osric, "I bore thy recommendation that they
should wear white garments, the better to escape observation in the
snow, and Alain promised me that such precaution should be taken: no
doubt the shepherd has seen them."
"Which way were the ghosts going, shepherd?"
"They were standing together, when all at once the boom of the abbey
bell came through the air from Abingdon, and then they made towards the
town, to seek their graves, for there many of the slain were buried."
"_Requiescant in pace_," said Osric.
"Peace, Osric; do not you know that if you pray for a living man or
woman as if they were dead, you hasten their demise?" said Brian
sarcastically. "Let the old fool go, and we will wend our weary way to
the abbey. They give sanctuary to either party."
The snow ceased to fall about this time, and a long line of vivid red
appeared low down in the east: the snow caught the tinge of the coming
day, and was reddened like blood.
"One would think there had been a mighty battle there, my squire."
"It reminds me of the field of Armageddon, of which I heard the Chaplain
talk. I wonder whether it will come soon."
"Dost thou believe in all those priestly pratings?"
"My grandfather taught me to do so."
"And the rough life of a castle has not yet made thee forget his
homilies?"
"No," sighed Osric.
The sigh touched the hardened man.
"If he has faith, why should I destroy it?" Then he added as if almost
against his will--
"Keep thy faith; I would I shared it."
The fortifications of the town, the castle on the Oxford road, the
gateway hard by, came in sight at the next turn of the road, but Brian
avoided them, and sought a gate lower down which admitted to the abbey
precincts, where he was not so likely to be asked inconvenient
questions.
He bade one of his men ring the bell.
The porter looked forth.
"What manner of men are ye?"
"Travellers lost in the snow come to seek the hospitality prescribed by
the rule of St. Benedict."
"Enter," and the portal yawned: no names were asked, no political
distinctions recognised.
They stood in the outer quadrangle of the hoar abbey, the stronghold of
Christianity in Wessex for five centuries past; and well had it
performed its task, and well had it deserved of England. Founded so long
ago that its origin was even then lost in conflicting traditions,
surviving wave after wave of war, burnt by the Danes, remodelled by the
Normans--yet this hoary island of prayer stood in the stream of time
unchanged in all its main features, and, as men thought, destined to
stand till the archangel's trump sounded the knell of time.
"They built in marble, built as they
Who thought these stones should see the day
When Christ should come; and that these walls
Should stand o'er them when judgment calls."
Alas, poor monks, and alas for the country which lost the most glorious
of her architectural riches, the most august of her fanes, through the
greed of one generation!
"Have any other travellers sought shelter here during the night?"
"Five--a lady and four knights."
"Where be they?"
"The lady is lodged in a house without the eastern gate; the others are
in the guest-house, where thou mayst join them."
Have my readers ever seen the outer quadrangle of Magdalene College? It
is not unlike the square of buildings in which the Baron and his
followers now stood. On three sides the monastic buildings, with
cloisters looking upon a green sward, wherein a frozen fountain was
surmounted by a cross; on the other, the noble church, of which almost
all trace is lost.
In the hospitium or guest-house Brian found Sir Ingelric of Huntercombe,
with Alain and the other attendants upon the lady's flight. They met
with joy, and seated before a bright fire which burned upon the hearth,
learned the story of each other's adventures on that gruesome night,
which, however, had ended well. Osric had gone in charge of the horses
to some stables outside the gates, which opened upon the market-place,
but he now returned, and Alain greeted him warmly.
Soon the _déjeûner_ or breakfast was served, of which the chief feature
was good warm soup, very acceptable after the night they had passed
through. Scarcely was it over when the bells rang for the High Mass of
St. Thomas's Day.
"Yes, we must all go," said Brian, "out of compliment to our hosts, if
for no better reason."
They entered the church, of which the nave and transepts were open to
the general public, while the choir, as large as that of a cathedral
church, was reserved for the monks alone. The service was grand and
solemn: it began with a procession, during which holy water was
sprinkled over the congregation, while the monks sang--
"Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor,
Lava me, et super nivem dealbabor."
Then followed the chanted Mass at the High Altar. There were gleaming
lights, gorgeous vestments, clouds of incense. All the symbolism of an
age when the worship of the English people was richer in ceremonial than
that of Continental nations was there. It impressed the minds of rude
warriors who could neither read nor write with the sense of a mysterious
world, other than their own--of dread realities and awful powers beyond
the reach of mortal warfare. If it appealed rather to the imagination
than the reason, yet it may be thought, it thereby reached its mark the
more surely. The Church was still the salt of the earth, which preserved
the whole mass from utter corruption, and in a world of violence and
wrong, pointed to a land of peace and joy beyond this transitory scene.
So felt Osric, and his eyes filled with tears as emotions he could
hardly analyse stirred his inmost soul.
And Brian--well, he was as a man who views his natural face in a glass,
and going away, forgets what manner of man he was.
----
After Mass the Empress Maude greeted her dear friend and faithful
follower Brian Fitz-Count with no stinted welcome. She almost fell upon
his shoulder, proud woman though she was, and wept, when assured she
should soon see her son, Prince Henry, at Wallingford, for she was but a
woman after all.
She insisted upon an interview with the Abbot, from which Brian would
fain have dissuaded her, but she took the bit in her teeth.
After a while that dignitary came, and bowed gracefully, but not low.
"Dost thou know, lord Abbot, whom thou hast entertained?"
"Perchance an Angel unawares: all mortals are equal within the Church's
gate."
"Thy true Queen, who will not forget thy hospitality."
"Nor would King Stephen, did he know that we had shown it, lady. I
reverence thy lofty birth, and wish thee well for the sake of thy
father, who was a great benefactor to this poor house: further I cannot
say; we know nought of earthly politics here--our citizenship is above."
She did not appreciate his doctrines, but turned to Brian.
"Have we any gold to leave as a benefaction in return for this
hospitality; it will purchase a Mass, which, doubtless, we need in these
slippery times, when it is difficult always to walk straight."
Brian drew forth his purse.
"Lady, it needs not," said the Abbot; "thou art welcome, so are all the
unfortunate, rich or poor, who suffer in these cruel wars, to which may
God soon give an end."
"Lay the blame, lord Abbot, on the usurper then, and pray for his
overthrow; but for him I should have ruled as my father did, with
justice and equity. If thou wishest for peace, pray for our speedy
restoration to our rightful throne. Farewell."
----
So the Empress and her train departed, and crossing the river at Culham,
made for the distant hills of Synodune, across a country where the snow
had obliterated nearly all the roads, and even covered the hedges and
fences. So that they were forced to travel very slowly, and at times
came to a "standstill."
However, they surmounted all difficulties; and travelling along the
crest of the hills, where the wind had prevented the accumulation of
much snow, they reached Wallingford in safety, amidst the loudest of
loud rejoicings, where they were welcomed by Maude d'Oyley, Lady of
Wallingford--the sister of the Lord of Oxford and wife of Brian.
How shall we relate the festivities of that night? it seems like telling
an old tale: how the tables groaned with the weight of the feast, as in
the old ballad of Imogene; how the minstrels and singers followed after,
and none recked of the multitude of captives who already crowded the
dismal dungeons beneath. Some prisoners taken in fair fight, some with
less justice prisoners held to ransom, their sole crime being wealth;
others from default of tribute paid to Brian, be it from ill-will or
only from want of means.
But of these poor creatures the gay feasters above thought not. The
contrast between the awful vaults and cells below, and the gay and
lighted chambers above, was cruel, but they above recked as little as
the giddy children who play in a churchyard think of the dead beneath
their feet.
"My lady," said Brian, "we shall keep our Christmas yet more merrily,
for on the Eve we hope to welcome thy right trusty brother of Gloucester
and thy gallant son."
The mother's eyes sparkled.
"My good and trusty subject," she said, "how thou dost place me under
obligations beyond my power to repay?"
"Nay, my queen, all I have is thine, for thy own and thy royal father's
sake, who was to me a father indeed."
The festivities were not prolonged to a very late hour; nature must have
its way, and the previous night had been a most trying one, as our
readers are well aware. That night was a night of deep repose.
On the following day came the news that Oxford Castle had surrendered,
and that Robert d'Oyley, lord thereof, was prisoner to Stephen; it was
at first supposed that the king would follow his rival to Wallingford,
but he preferred keeping his Christmas in the castle he had taken.
Wallingford was a hard nut to crack.
----
It was Christmas Eve, and the Empress stood by the side of the lord of
the castle, on the watch-towers; the two squires, Alain and Osric,
waited reverently behind.
The scenery around has already been described in our opening chapter.
The veil of winter was over it, but the sun shone brightly, and its
beams glittered on the ice of the river and the snow-clad country
beyond: one only change there was--the forts on the Crowmarsh side of
the stream, erected in a close of the parish of Crowmarsh--then and now
called Barbican; they were so strong as to be deemed impregnable, and
were now held against Brian by the redoubtable Ranulph, Earl of Chester.
The garrisons of the two fortresses, so near each other, preyed in turn
on the country around, and fought wherever they met--to keep their hands
in; but they were now keeping "The Truce of God," in honour of
Christmas.
"It is a lovely day. May it be the harbinger of better fortune," said
Maude. "When do you think they will arrive?"
"They slept at Reading Abbey last night, so there is little doubt they
will be here very soon."
"If they started early they might be in sight now: ah, God and St. Mary
be praised! there they be. Is not that their troop along the road?"
A band, with streamlets gay and pennons fair, was indeed approaching the
gates of the town from the south, by the road which led from Reading,
along the southern bank of the Thames.
"To horse! to horse!" said the Empress; "let us fly to meet them."
"Nay, my liege, they will be here anon--almost before our horses could
be caparisoned to appear in fit state before the citizens of my town."
The fact was, Brian had a soldier's dislike of a scene, and would fain
get the meeting over within the walls.
And the royal mother contented herself with standing on the steps of the
great hall to receive her gallant son, Henry Plantagenet, the future
King of England, destined to restore peace to the troubled land, but
whose sun was to set in such dark clouds, owing to his quarrel with the
Church, and the cruel misbehaviour of his faithless wife and rebellious
sons.
But we must not anticipate. The gallant boy was at hand, and his mother
clasped him to the maternal breast: "so greatly comforted," said the
chronicler, "that she forgot all the troubles and mortifications she had
endured, for the joy she had of his presence." Then she turned to her
right trusty brother, and wept on his neck.
The following day was the birthday of the "Prince of Peace," and these
children of war kept it in right honour. They attended Mass at the
Church of St. Mary's in the town in great state, and afterwards
banqueted in the Castle hall with multitudes of guests. Meanwhile
Ranulph, Earl of Chester, had returned home to keep the feast; but his
representatives kept it right well, and the two parties actually sent
presents to each other, and wished mutual good cheer.
----
The feast was over, and the maskers dropped their masks, and turned to
the business of life in right earnest--that was war, only war. The
Empress Maude, with her son, under the care of her brother, shortly left
Wallingford for Bristol, where the young prince remained for four years,
under the care of his uncle, who had brought him up.
But all around the flames of war broke out anew, and universal bloodshed
returned. It was a mere gory chaos: no great battles, no decisive blows;
only castle against castle, all through the land, as at Wallingford and
Crowmarsh. Each baron delved the soil for his dungeons, and raised his
stern towers to heaven. All was pillage and plunder; men fought wherever
they met; every man's hand was against every man; peaceful villages were
burnt daily; lone huts, isolated farms, were no safer; merchants
scarcely dared to travel, shops to expose their wares; men refused to
till the fields for others to reap; and they said that God and His
Saints were fast asleep. The land was filled with death; corpses rotted
by the sides of the roads; women and children took sanctuary in the
churches and churchyards, to which they removed their valuables. But the
bands of brigands and murderers, who, like vultures, scented the quarry
afar, and crowded from all parts of the Continent into England--unhappy
England--as to a prey delivered over into their hands, did not always
respect sanctuary. Famine followed; men had nought to eat; it was even
said that they ate the bodies of the dead like cannibals. Let us hope
this ghastly detail is untrue, but we do not feel _sure_ it is; the
pangs of hunger are so dreadful to bear.
Then came pestilence in the train of famine, and claimed its share of
victims. And so the weary years went on--twelve long years of misery and
woe.
Summer had come--hot and dry. There had been no rain for a month. It
was the beginning of July, in the year 1142. Fighting was going on in
England in general; at Wilton, near Salisbury, in particular. The king
was there: he had turned the nunnery of that place into a castle,
driving out the holy sisters, and all the flock of the wounded and poor
to whom, with earnest piety, they were ministering. The king put up
bulwark and battlement, and thought he had done well, when on the 1st of
July came Robert of Gloucester from Bristol, and sat down before the
place to destroy it.
The king and his brother--the Papal legate, the fighting Bishop of
Winchester, the turncoat--were both there, and after a desperate
defence, were forced to escape by a secret passage, and fly by night.
Their faithful seneschal, William Martel, Lord of Shirburne, and a great
enemy and local rival of Brian, remained behind to protract the defence,
and engage the attention of the besiegers until his king had had time to
get far enough away with his affectionate brother Henry; and his
self-devotion was not in vain, but he paid for it by the loss of his own
liberty. He was taken prisoner after a valiant struggle, and sent to
Wallingford, to be under the custody of Brian Fitz-Count, his enemy and
rival.