THE OUTLAWS
Sad and weary were the hours to Osric which intervened between the death
and burial of his grandfather. He gazed upon the dear face, where yet
the parting look of love seemed to linger. The sense of desolation
overwhelmed him--his earthly prospects were shattered, his dreams of
ambition ended; but the dead spake not to console him, and the very
heavens seemed as brass; his only consolation that he felt his lapse had
been forgiven, that the departed one had died loving and blessing him.
The only true consolation in such hour of distress is that afforded by
religion, but poor Osric could feel little of this; he had strayed so
far from the gentle precepts which had guarded his boyhood: if he
believed in religion, it was as when Satan looked into the gates of
Paradise from afar. It was not his. He seemed to have renounced his
portion and lot in it, to have sold himself to Satan, in the person of
Brian Fitz-Count.
Yet, he could not even now _hate_ the Baron, as he ought to have done,
according to all regulations laid down for such cases, made and
provided, ever since men began to write novels. Let the reader enter
into his case impartially. He had never known either paternal or
maternal love--the mother, who had perished, was not even a memory;
while, on the other hand, the destroyer had adopted him as a son, and
been as a father to him, distinguishing him from others by an affection
all the more remarkable as coming from a rugged nature, unused to tender
emotions. Again, the horror with which we moderns contemplate such a
scene as his dead grandfather had described, was far less vivid in one
to whom such casualties had been of constant experience, and were
regarded as the usual incidents of warfare. Our readers can easily
imagine the way in which he would have regarded it before he had fallen
under the training of Wallingford Castle.
But it was his own mother, and Brian was her murderer. Ah, if he had but
once known the gentle endearment of a fond mother's love, how different
would have been his feelings! There would have been no need then to
enforce upon him the duty of forsaking the life but yesterday opening so
brightly to his eyes, and throwing himself a waif and a stray upon the
world of strife.
He walked to and fro in the woods, and thought sometimes of all he was
leaving. Sometimes of the terrible fate of her who had borne him. At
another moment he felt half inclined to conceal all, and go back to
Wallingford, as if nothing had happened; the next he felt he could never
again grasp the hand of the destroyer of his kindred.
The hour came for the funeral. The corpse was brought forth on the bier
from the hut which had so long sheltered it in life. They used no
coffins in those days--it was simply wrapped in the "winding-sheet." He
turned back the linen, and gazed upon the still calm face for the last
time ere the bearers departed with their burden. Then he burst into a
passion of tears, which greatly relieved him: it is they who cannot
weep, who suffer most. His grandfather had been father, mother, and all
to him, until a very recent period: and the sweet remembrances and
associations of boyhood returned for a while.
The solemn burial service of our forefathers was unlike our own--perhaps
not so soothing to the mourners, for whom our service seems made; but it
bore more immediate reference to the departed: the service was for
_them_. The prayers of the Church followed them, as in all ancient
liturgies, into that world beyond the grave, as still members of
Christ's mystical body, one with us in the "Communion of Saints."
The procession was in those days commonly formed at the house of the
deceased, but as Sexwulf's earthly home was far from the Church, the
body was met at the lych gate, as in modern times. First went the
cross-bearer, then the mourners, then the priest preceding the bier,
around which lighted torches were borne.
Psalms were now solemnly chanted, particularly the _De Profundis_ and
the _Miserere_, and at the close of each the refrain--
"Eternal rest give unto him, O Lord,
And let perpetual light shine upon him."
Then followed the solemn requiem Mass, wherein the great Sacrifice, once
offered on Calvary, was pleaded for the deceased. When the last prayer
had been said, the corpse was sprinkled with hallowed water, and
perfumed with sweet incense, after which it was removed to its last
resting place. The grave was also sprinkled with the hallowed water,
emblematical of the cleansing power of the "Blood of Sprinkling"; and
the body of the ancient thane was committed to the earth, sown in
corruption, to be raised in joy unspeakable, and full of glory.
Around the grave were but few mourners. Famine, pestilence, and war had
removed from time to time those who had known the old thane in his
poverty (for thane he was by birth), but there stood two or three of a
different stamp from the care-worn peasants--men clad in jerkins of
leather, tall, rugged, resolute-looking fellows. One of these watched
Osric closely, and when the last rites were over and the grave-digger
commenced his final labour of filling up the grave, he followed the
funeral party on their homeward road, as they returned to the desolate
home. At last he approached Osric.
"I believe you are Osric, grandson of the true Englishman we have now
laid in the earth?"
"I am that unhappy man."
"Thou art the son of a line of patriots. Thy father died fighting
against the oppressor, and thou art the sole representative of his
family. Canst thou remain longer in the halls of the tyrant?"
"Who art thou?"
"A true Englishman."
"Thorold is thy name, is it not?"
"How didst thou know me?"
"Because my grandfather before he died revealed all to me."
"Then thou wilt cast in thy lot with us?"
"I think not. My father yet lives; you are mistaken in thinking him
dead. He is a monk in Dorchester Abbey."
"He is dead at least to the world; Brian's lance and spear slew him, so
far as that is concerned."
"But I go to ask his advice. I would fain leave this unhappy land and
join the Crusaders."
"And renounce the hope of vengeance upon the slayer of thy kindred?"
"I have eaten of his bread and salt."
"And thou knowest all the secrets of his prison-house. Tell us, hast
thou heard of one Herwald, a follower of thy father?"
"I may not tell thee;" and Osric shuddered.
"The Normans have spoilt thee then, in _deed_ and in _truth_. Wilt thou
not even tell us whether Herwald yet lives?"
"I may not for the present; if my father bid me tell thee, thou shalt
know. Leave me for the present; I have just buried my grandfather; let
me rest for the day at least."
The outlaw, for such he was, ceased to importune him at this plaintive
cry; then like a man who takes a sudden resolution, stepped aside, and
Osric passed on. When he reached home he half expected to find a
messenger from Wallingford chiding his delay; then he sat a brief while
as one who hardly knows what to do, while old Judith brought him a
savoury stew, and bade him eat. Several times she looked at him, like
one who is burning to tell a secret, then pursed up her lips, as if she
were striving to repress a strong inclination to speak.
At length Osric rose up.
"Judith," he said, "I may stay here no longer."
"Thou art going to Dorchester?"
"I am."
"What shall I say when the Lord of Wallingford sends for thee?"
"That I am gone to Dorchester."
"Will that satisfy them?"
"I know not. It must."
"I could tell thee all that thou wilt learn at Dorchester."
"Do so. It may save me the journey."
"I may not. I swore on the Gospels I would not tell the secret to
thy"--she paused--"to Wulfnoth."
"What! another secret?"
"Yes; and one thou dost not, canst not, suspect; but, I think, didst
thou know it, thou wouldst at once return to Wallingford Castle."
"Tell me--tell me all."
"Wouldst have me forsworn? No; seek thy _father_." She emphasised the
word, and then added, "Ask him to let me tell thee the whole truth, if
he will not do so himself; then return and learn more than thy dead
grandfather has told thee, or could have told thee, for he knew not the
truth."
"Judith, I will seek my father, and return at once after I have seen
him."
"But the roads are dangerous; beware!"
Osric rose; put on his tunic over a coat of light chain mail; girded his
sword to his side; put on a leathern cap, padded inside with steel, for
in those days prudent men never travelled unarmed; then he bade Judith
farewell, and started for Dorchester, making for the Synodune Hills,
beyond which well-known landmarks Dorchester lay, and beneath the hills
was a ford across the Thames.
He had not gone far--not half a mile--when he heard a rustling of the
branches beyond the brook, and a stern voice cried--
"Stand."
"Who art thou?" he cried.
"Good men and true, and thou art our prisoner."
"If so, come and take me."
"Wilt thou yield thyself unharmed, on the pledge that no harm is
intended thee?"
"I will not. I know thee, Thorold: I seek Dorchester and my father."
"Thou wilt hardly reach it or him to-day. Stand, I say, or we must take
thee by force."
"No man shall make me go with him against my will," cried Osric, and
drew his sword.
Thorold laughed and clapped his hands. Quick as thought five or six men
dashed from the covers which had hidden them in all directions. Osric
drew his sword, but before he could wield it against a foe who met him
face to face, another mastered his arms from behind, and he was a
prisoner.
"Do him no harm; he is his father's son. We only constrain him for his
good. Bring him along."
They led, or rather bore, him through the woods for a long distance,
until they came to a tangled swamp, situated amidst bog and quagmire,
wherein any other men save those acquainted with the path might easily
have sunk up to the neck, or even lost their lives; but in the centre
was a spot of firm ground, and there, beneath the shade of a large tree,
was a fire, before which roasted a haunch of venison, and to the right
and left were sleeping hutches, of the most primitive construction.
"Canst thou eat?"
"I will not eat with thee."
"Thy father's son should not disdain thy father's friend. Listen; if we
have made thee a prisoner, it is to save thee from thyself. The son of a
true Englishman should not shed the blood of his countrymen, nor herd
with his oppressors. Has not thy grandfather taught thee as much?"
"He has indeed; and no longer will I do so, I promise thee."
"Then wilt thou go a little farther, and help us to deliver thy
country?"
"Can it be delivered? What can _you_ do?"
"Alas! little; but we do our best and wait better times. Look, my lad,
when things are at their worst the tide turns: the darkest hour is just
before the dawn. Think of this happy land--happy once--now the sport of
robbers and thieves! Think of the hideous dungeons where true Englishmen
rot! Think of the multitudes of innocent folk burnt, racked, tortured,
starved, driven to herd with the beasts! Think of the horrors of famine!
Think of the unburied dead--slain foully, and breeding a pestilence,
which oft destroys their murderers! Think, in short, of Wallingford
Castle and its lord----"
A deep murmur of assent from the recumbent outlaws stretched on the turf
around.
Osric's features twitched; he felt the force of the appeal.
"What do you want of me?"
"Our leader is a miserable captive in the devil's hold you have quitted,
and of which you know the secrets."
"What can I do? They were told me in confidence. Can I break my honour?"
"Confidence! honour! If you had promised the Devil's dam to sell your
soul, would you feel bound to do so?"
"In short," said another, "we _will_ have the secret."
"Nay, Grimbald, patience; he will come right in time. Force is no good
with such as he. He must do what is right, because it _is_ right; and
when he sees it, he will join us heart and soul, or he is not the son of
Wulfnoth."
"He has shown little paternal care for me; yet when you seized me I was
about to seek his direction. Why not let me go, and let him decide for
me?"
"A truce to folly. We know what Wulfnoth of old would have said, when
he was our leader. He gave himself heart and soul to the cause--to
avenge thy slaughtered kinsfolk. And now that one whom he trusted and
loved well is a prisoner in that hell which you have left, can we think
that he would hesitate about your duty? Why then waste time in
consulting him? I appeal to your conscience. Where is Herwald?"
Osric was silent.
"By the memory of thy grandfather."
Still silence.
"Of thy murdered mother, expiring in the flames which consumed thy
brothers and sisters."
Osric gave a loud cry.
"No more," he said, "no more; I will tell thee: Herwald lives."
"Where?"
"In the lowest dungeon of Wallingford Castle."
"Hast thou seen him?"
"Yes."
"Does he suffer torture?"
"Terribly."
"Of what nature?"
"I hardly dare to tell thee."
"The sachentage?"
"As bad as that; the crucet-chest--the----"
"Stay--wilt thou help us to deliver him?"
"Save my honour."
"Honour! honour! honour!" and they laughed the word to scorn, till the
woods caught the echoes, and seemed to repeat it, "Honour! honour!"
"Get that delusion out of thy mind. To fight for one's country, nay, to
die for it, that is true honour; to deliver the outcast and poor, to
save them from the hands of the ungodly,--it is for this we have brought
thee here. Let me tell thee what I have seen, nay, thou hast seen as
much, and of the woes of thy bleeding country, bleeding at every pore.
If the memory of thy mother stir thee not up, then thou art NIDDERING."
At the sound of this word--this term of utter reproach to an English
ear, worse than "coward" a thousand times, suggesting a depth of
baseness beyond conception--Osric started.
"And deservest to die," said the outlaw who had just spoken.
Osric's pride took alarm at once; his downcast look changed.
"Slay me, then," he said; "the sooner the better."
"Nay, brother, that is not the way--thou wilt spoil it all; we would win
him by _conviction_, not by threats."
"Let me have an hour to think."
"Take some food."
"No."
They left him alone, but he knew he was watched, and could not escape,
nor did he wish to; he was yielding to his destiny.
One hour of such mental anguish--the boast of chivalry, the pomp of
power, the false glamour, all giving way to the _conviction_ that the
Englishmen were _right_, and their cause that of truth and justice, nay,
of God!
At the end of the hour he rose to his feet and looked around. The men
were seated at their repast. He approached them.
"Give me of your food."
They did so. Thorold's eyes sparkled with delight; he saw what it meant.
They waited for him to speak; but he satisfied hunger first, then he
drank, and afterwards said calmly--
"Is there any oath of admission to your band?"
"Only to swear to be true to England and Englishmen till death, and to
wage war against their oppressors, of whatsoever degree, with all your
powers. So help you God."
Osric repeated the oath solemnly and distinctly.
The outlaws shouted with joy.
"And now," he said, "let us talk of Herwald, and I will do all I can to
help you to deliver him; but it will be a difficult task. I must take
time to consider it."
----
Meanwhile old Judith sat at home in the lonely hut, as she had done on
the occasion recorded in the fourth chapter of our tale. Again she sat
by the fire which smoked on the hearth, again she sang quaint snatches
of old songs.
"It is a wise son which knows his own sire," she said, and going to a
corner of the hut, opened once more her poor old rickety chest, from
which she took the packet of musty parchment, containing a ring with a
seal, a few articles of infant attire, a little red shoe, a small frock,
and a lock of maiden's hair.
"Poor Ethra," she said, "how strange thy fate!" and she kissed the lock
of hair again and again. "And now thy boy may inherit his father's
honours and titles unchecked, for his supposed grandfather is here no
longer to claim him, and his half-brothers are lepers. Wulfnoth never
loved him--never. Why, then, should he not give him up to his true
father? Vengeance! to be sure, he should not desire this now. A monk,
fie! fie! Wulfnoth might seek it; Father Alphege cannot, may not. He
will tell Osric the whole truth, or refer him to me; and he may go back
with a clear conscience to Wallingford; and I shall have the proofs
ready, which the Lord of Wallingford would give all he has to possess.
Here they are, stripped from the dead attendants or found on the
helpless babe."
Just then she heard steps approaching; she jealously hid her treasures.
A page dismounted from his horse at the door of the hut.
"Is the squire Osric within?"
"Enter."
A youth of fourteen summers, just what Osric had been when he _began_,
entered the door, and looked curiously around. "What! was _this_ Osric's
home--Osric, the Baron's favourite?"
"He has gone to Dorchester Abbey."
"Dorchester Abbey! he was to have returned last night to Wallingford."
"He stayed for the funeral."
The boy looked amazed. What was an old man's funeral compared with
Brian's orders?
"And his grandfather, dying, bade him go to Dorchester, whence he will
speedily return, and bring, yes, bring with him that shall make full
atonement for his offence, if offence it be."
"It had need be something very valuable then. It might cost some of us
our heads, did we do the like."
"They will not hurt a hair of his, I am sure. You shall have him with
you soon. Ah, yes! very soon."
The boy shook his head, looked once more curiously at the old woman and
the hut, and departed, muttering--
"I should be sorry to stand in Osric's shoes; but then he is a
favourite;" and young Louis of Trouville, page to Brian for the good of
his education, rode down the brook.
"After all, he is no gentleman. Why did my lord choose a page from
amongst the peasants?"
----
Many had asked that question before.