A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE
An excessive rainfall during the late summer of this year destroyed the
hopes of the harvest,--such hopes as there were, for tillage had been
abandoned, save where the protection of some powerful baron gave a fair
probability of gathering in the crops. In consequence a dreadful famine
succeeded during the winter, aggravated by the intense cold, for a frost
set in at the beginning of December and lasted without intermission till
February, so that the Thames was again frozen, and the ordinary passage
of man and horse was on the ice of the river.
The poor people, says the author of _The Acts of King Stephen_, died in
heaps, and so escaped the miseries of this sinful world,--a phrase of
more meaning then, in people's ears, than it is now, when life is
doubtless better worth living than it could have been then, in King
Stephen's days, when horrible and unexampled atrocities disgraced the
nation daily, and the misery of the poor was caused by the cruel tyranny
of the rich and powerful.
All this time our young friend Osric continued to be the favourite
squire of Brian Fitz-Count, and, we grieve to say, became habituated to
crime and violence. He no longer shuddered as of yore at the atrocities
committed in the dungeons of the castle, or in the constant raids: the
conscience soon became blunted, and he felt an ever-increasing delight
in strife and bloodshed, the joy of the combat, and in deeds of valour.
_Facilis descensus averno_, wrote the poet, or, as it has been
Englished--
"The gate of Hell stands open night and day,
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;
But to return and view the upper skies,
In this the toil, in this the labour lies."
For a long period he had not visited his grandfather--the reader will
easily guess why; but he took care that out of Brian's prodigal bounty
the daily wants of the old man should be supplied, and he thought all
was well there--he did not know that the recipient never made use of
Brian's bounty. He had become ashamed of his English ancestry: it needed
a thunder-clap to recall him to his better self.
There were few secrets Brian concealed from his favourite squire, now an
aspirant for knighthood, and tolerably sure to obtain his wish in a few
more months. The deepest dungeons in the castle were known to him, the
various sources of revenue, the claims for feudal dues, the tribute paid
for protection, the rentals of lands, the purchase of forest rights,
and, less creditable, the sums extracted by torture or paid for
ransom,--all these were known to Osric, whose keen wits were often
called on to assist the Baron's more sluggish intellect in such matters.
Alain was seldom at Wallingford; he had already been knighted by the
Empress Maude, and was high in her favour, and in attendance on her
person, so Osric lacked his most formidable rival in the Baron's graces.
He could come and go almost when he pleased; he knew the secret exit to
the castle, only known to a few chief confidants--two or three at the
most, who had been allowed to use it on special necessity.
It led to a landing-place on the bank of the river, and blindfolded
prisoners, to be kept in secret, were sometimes introduced to their
doleful lodgings through this entrance.
Active in war, a favourite in the bower, possessing a good hand at
games, a quick eye for business, Osric soon became a necessity to Brian
Fitz-Count: his star was in the ascendant, and men said Brian would
adopt him as his son.
Constitutionally fearless, a born lover of combat, a good archer who
could kill a bird on the wing, a fair swordsman, skilled in the
exercises of chivalry,--what more was needed to make a young man happy
in those days?
A quiet conscience? Well, Osric had quieted his: he was fast becoming a
convert to Brian's sceptical opinions, which alone could justify his
present course of action.
The castle was increasing: the dungeon aforementioned had been built,
called Brian's Close,[24] with surmounting towers. The unhappy William
Martel was its first inmate, and there he remained until his obstinacy
was conquered, and the Castle of Shirburne ceded to Brian, with the
large tract of country it governed and the right of way across the
Chilterns.
Brian Fitz-Count was now at the height of his glory--the Empress was
mistress of half the realm; he was her chief favourite and
minister--when events occurred which somewhat disturbed his serene
self-complacency, and seemed to infer the existence of a God of justice
and vengeance.
----
It was early one fine day when a messenger from the woods reached the
castle, and with some difficulty found access to Osric, bringing the
tidings that his grandfather was dying, and would fain see him once more
before he died.
"Dying! well, he is very old; we must all die," was Osric's first
thought, coupled with a sense of relief, which he tried to disguise from
himself, that a troublesome Mentor was about to be removed. Now he might
feel like a _Norman_, but he had still a lingering love for the old man,
the kind and loving guardian of his early years; so he sought Brian, and
craved leave of absence.
"It is awkward," replied the Baron; "I was about to send thee to
Shirburne. We have conquered Martel's resolution at last. I threatened
that the rack should not longer be withheld, and that we would make him
a full foot longer than God created him. Darkness and scant food have
tamed him. Had we kept him in his first prison, with light and air, with
corn and wine, he would never have given way. After all, endurance is a
thing very dependent on the stomach."
"I will return to-morrow, my lord;" and Osric looked pleadingly at him.
"Not later. I cannot go to Shirburne myself, as I am expecting an
important messenger from _Queen_ Maude (of course _he_ called her
Queen), and can trust none other but thee."
"It is not likely that any other claim will come between me and thee, my
lord; this is passing away, and I shall be wholly thine."
The Baron smiled; his proud heart was touched.
"Go, then, Osric," he said, "and return to-morrow."
And so they parted.
----
Osric rode rapidly through the woods, up the course of the brook; we
described the road in our second chapter. He passed the Moor-towns, left
the Roman camp of Blewburton on the left, and was soon in the thick maze
of swamp and wood which then occupied the country about Blewbery.
As he drew near the old home, many recollections crowded upon him, and
he felt, as he always did there, something more like an Englishman. It
was for this very reason he so seldom came "home" to visit his
grandfather.
He found his way across the streams: the undergrowth had all been
renewed since the fire which the hunters kindled four years agone; the
birds were singing sweetly, for it was the happy springtide for them,
and they were little affected by the causes which brought misery to less
favoured mankind; the foliage was thick, the sweet hawthorn exhaled its
perfume, the bushes were bright with "May." Ah me, how lovely the woods
are in spring! how happy even this world might be, had man never sinned.
But within the hut were the unequivocal signs of the rupture between man
and his Maker--the tokens which have ever existed since by sin came
death.
Upon the bed in the inner room lay old Sexwulf, in the last stage of
senile decay. He was dying of no distinct disease, only of general
breaking-up of the system. Man cannot live for ever; he wears out in
time, even if he escape disease.
The features were worn and haggard, the eye was yet bright, the mind
powerful to the last.
He saw the delight of his eyes, the darling of his old age, enter, and
looked sadly upon him, almost reproachfully. The youth took his passive
hand in his warm grasp, and imprinted a kiss upon the wrinkled forehead.
"He has had all he needed--nothing has been wanting for his comfort?"
said Osric inquiringly.
"We have been able to keep him alive, but he would not touch your gold,
or aught you sent of late."
"Why not?" asked Osric, deeply hurt.
"He said it was the price of blood, wrung, it might be, from the hands
of murdered peasants of your own kindred."
Ah! that shaft went home. Osric knew it was _just_. What else was the
greater portion of the Baron's hoard derived from, save rapine and
violence?
"It was cruel to let him starve."
"He has not starved; we have had other friends, but the famine has been
sore in the land."
"Other friends! who?"
"Yes; especially the good monks of Dorchester."
"What do they know of my grandfather?"
Judith pursed up her lips, as much as to say, "That is my secret, and if
you had brought the thumb-screws, of which you know the use too well,
you should not get it out of me."
"Osric," said a deep, yet feeble voice.
The youth returned to the bedside.
"Osric, I am dying. They say the tongues of dying men speak sooth, and
it may be because, as the gates of eternity open before them, the
vanities of earth disappear. Now I have a last message to leave for you,
a tale to unfold before I die, which cannot fail of its effect upon your
heart. It is the secret entrusted to me when you were brought an infant
to this hut, which I was forbidden to unfold until you had gained years
of discretion. It may be, my dear child, you have not yet gained them--I
trow not, from what I hear."
"What harm have mine enemies told of me?"
"_That_ thou shalt hear by and by; meanwhile let me unfold my tale, for
the sands of life are running out. It was some seventeen years ago this
last autumn, that thy father----"
"Who was he--thou hast ever concealed his name?"
"Wulfnoth of Compton."
Osric started.
"Doth he live?"
"He doth."
"Where?"
"He is a monk of Dorchester Abbey. I may tell the secret now; Brian
himself could not hurt him there."
"Why should he _wish_ to hurt him?"
"Listen, and your ears shall learn the truth. Thy father was my guest in
this hut. Seventeen years ago this last autumn he had been hunting all
day, and was on the down above, near the mound where Holy Birinus once
preached, as the sun set, when he perceived, a few miles away, the
flames of a burning house, and knew that it was his own, for he lived in
a recess of the downs far from other houses. He hurried towards the
scene, sick with fear, but it was miles away, and when he reached the
spot he saw a dark band passing along the downs, a short distance off,
in the opposite direction. His heart told him they were the
incendiaries, but he stopped not for vengeance. Love to his wife and
children hurried him on. When he arrived the roof had long since fallen
in; a few pitying neighbours stood around, and shook their heads as they
saw him, and heard his pitiful cries for his wife and children. Fain
would he have thrown himself into the flames, but they restrained him,
and told him he had one child yet to live for, accidentally absent at
the house of a neighbour.--It was thou, my son."
"But who had burnt the house? Who had slain my poor mother, and my
brothers and sisters, if I had any?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford."
"Brian Fitz-Count!" said Osric in horror.
"None other."
Osric stood aghast--confounded.
"Because your father would not pay tribute, maintaining that the land
was his own freehold since it had been confirmed to his father, thy
paternal grandfather, by the Norman courts, which acknowledged no
tenure, no right of possession, dating before the Conquest; but Wigod of
Wallingford was thy grandfather's friend, and he had secured to him the
possession of the ancestral domains. This Brian denied, and claimed the
rent of his vassal, as he deemed thy father. Thy father refused to obey,
and appealed to the courts, and Brian's answer was this deed of murder."
Osric listened as one in a dream.
"Oh, my poor father! What did he do?"
"He brought thee here. 'Henceforth,' he said, 'I am about to live the
life of a hunted wolf, my sole solace to slay Normans: sooner or later I
shall perish by their hands, for Satan is on their side, and helps them,
and God and His Saints are asleep; but take care of my child; let him
not learn the sad story of his birth till he be of age; nor let him even
know his father's name. Only let him be brought up as an Englishman; and
if he live to years of discretion, thou mayst tell him all, if I return
not to claim him before then.'"
"And he has never returned--never?"
"Never: he became a captain of an outlawed band, haunting the forests
and slaying Normans, until, four years ago, he met Brian Fitz-Count
alone on these downs, and the two fought to the death."
"And Brian conquered?"
"He did, and left thy father for dead; but the good monks of Dorchester
chanced to be passing across the downs from their house at Hermitage,
and they found the body, and discovered that there was yet life therein.
They took him to Dorchester, and as he was unable to use sword or lance
again, he consented to take the vows, and become a novice. He found his
vocation, and is now, I am told, happy and useful, fervent in his
ministrations amongst the poor and helpless; but he has never yet been
here.
"And now, Osric, my son," for the youth sat as one stunned, "what is it
that I hear of thee?--that thou art, like a cannibal,[25] preying upon
thine own people; that thy hand is foremost in every deed of violence
and bloodshed; that thou art a willing slave of the murderer of thy
kindred. Boy, I wonder thy mother has not returned from the grave to
curse thee!"
"Why--why did you let me become his man?"
The old man felt the justice of the words.
"Why did you not let me die first?"
"Thou forgettest I was not by thee when thou didst consent, or I might
have prevented thee by telling thee the truth even at that terrible
moment; but when thou wast already pledged to him, I waited for the time
when I might tell thee, never thinking thou wouldst become a _willing_
slave or join in such deeds of atrocity and crime as thou hast done."
"Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?"
"Thou canst not return, now thou knowest all."
"Never; but he will seek me here."
"Then thou must fly the country."
"Whither shall I go? are any of my father's band left?"
"Herwald, his successor, fell into the power of Brian, and we know not
what was done with him; nor whether he is living or dead."
But Osric knew: he remembered the chest half filled with sharp stones
and its living victim.
"One Thorold succeeded, and they still maintain a precarious existence
in the forests."
"I will seek them; I will yet be true to my country, and avenge my
kindred upon Brian. But oh, grandfather, he has been so good to me! I am
his favourite, his confidant; he was about to knight me. Oh, how
miserable it all is! Would I had never lived--would I were dead."
"He has been thy worst foe. He has taught thee to slay thine own people,
nay, to torture them; he has taught thee--tell me, is it not true?--even
to deny thy God."
"It is true, he has; but not intentionally."
"Thou owest him nought."
"Yet I did love him, and would have died sooner than be faithless to
him."
"So do sorcerers, as I have been told, love Satan, yet it is happy when
they violate that awful faith. Choose, my son, between thy God, thy
country, thy slaughtered kindred, and Brian."
"I do choose--I renounce him: he shall never see me again."
"Fly the country then; seek another clime; go on pilgrimage; take the
cross; and employ thy valour and skill against the Saracens--the
Moslems, the enemies of God."
"I will, God being my helper."
"Thou dost believe then in the God of thy fathers?"
"I think I always did, save when Brian was near. I tried not to believe,
happily in vain."
"_He_ will forgive thee--_He_ is all-merciful. The prodigal son has
returned. Now I am weary: let me rest--let me rest."
Osric wandered forth into the woods. Who shall describe his emotions? It
was as when S. Remigius said to the heathen Clovis, "Burn that thou hast
adored, and adore that thou hast burnt." But the terrible story of the
destruction of his kindred, familiar as he was with like scenes,
overcame him; yet he could not help blaming his father for his long
neglect. Why had he disowned his only surviving son? why had he not
trained him up in the ways of the woods, and in hatred of the Normans?
why had he left him to the mercies of Brian Fitz-Count?
Then again came the remembrance of that strange partiality, even
amounting to fondness, which Brian had ever shown him, and he could but
contrast the coldness and indifference of his own father with the
fostering care of the awful Lord of Wallingford.
But blood is thicker than water: he could no longer serve the murderer
of his kindred--Heaven itself would denounce such an alliance; yet he
did not even now wish to wreak vengeance. He could not turn so suddenly:
the old man's solution was the right one--he would fly the country and
go to the Crusades.
But how to get out of England? it was no easy matter. The chances were
twenty to one that he would either meet his death from some roving band
or be forcibly compelled to join them.
The solution suddenly presented itself.
He would seek his father, take sanctuary at Dorchester, and claim his
aid. Even Brian could not drag him thence; and the monks of all men
would and could assist him to join the Crusades.
Strong in this resolution, he returned to the cottage.
"Your grandfather is asleep; you must not disturb him, Osric, my dear
boy."
"Very well, my old nurse, I will sleep too; my heart is very heavy."
He lay down on a pile of leaves and rushes in the outer room, and slept
a troublous sleep. He had a strange dream, which afterwards became
significant. He thought that old Judith came to him and said--
"Boy, go back to Wallingford; '_Brian_,' not 'Wulfnoth,' is the name of
thy father."
The sands of old Sexwulf's life were running fast. The last rites of the
Church were administered to him by the parish priest of Aston Upthorpe
on the day following Osric's arrival. He made no further attempt to
enter into the subject of the last interview with his grandson. From
time to time he pressed the youth's hands, as if to show that he trusted
him now, and that all the past was forgiven; from time to time he looked
upon him with eyes in which revived affection beamed. He never seemed
able to rest unless Osric was in the room.
Wearied out, Osric threw himself down upon his couch that night for
brief repose, but in the still hours of early dawn Judith awoke him.
"Get up--he is passing away."
Osric threw on a garment and entered the chamber. His grandfather was
almost gone; he collected his dying strength for a last blessing,
murmured with dying lips, upon his beloved boy. Then while they knelt
and said the commendatory prayer, he passed away to rejoin those whom he
had loved and lost--the wife of his youth, the children of his early
manhood--passing from scenes of violence and wrong to the land of peace
and love, where all the mysteries of earth are solved.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] "The last trace of a dungeon answering the above description, with
huge iron rings fixed in the walls, disappeared about sixty or seventy
years ago."--_History of Wallingford_ (Hedges).
[25] It was a remark of this kind which turned Robert Bruce when
fighting against his own people. "See," said an Englishman, as he saw
Bruce eating with unwashed and reddened hands, "that Scotchman eating
his own blood!"