THE OPENING OF THE PRISON HOUSE
Great was the surprise and anger of Brian Fitz-Count that his favourite
page should dare to tarry, even to bury his grandfather, much less to
fulfil an idle vow, when he had bidden him return at once.
He cared so little for sacred things, whether the true gold of the mint,
or the false superstitions of the age, that he could not understand how
they should influence other men.
Yet he knew they did exercise a strong power over both the imagination
and the will, and sometimes had acknowledged that the world must have a
religion, and this was as good as any other.
"Let Osric believe as much or as little as he likes," he said, "only he
must remember that Brian Fitz-Count is the deity to be worshipped in
Wallingford Castle, and that he allows no other worship to interfere
with that due to him."
The next morning Osric reappeared, and at once sought the presence of
his lord.
"Thou art more than a day behind?"
"I tarried to bury my grandfather, and to execute a vow in his behalf."
"That is well; but remember, Osric, I permit none here to disobey my
orders, either for the sake of the living or the dead. He _is_ dead,
then?"
"He died the night I arrived."
"May he rest in peace," said Brian carelessly, feeling glad in his
heart that the old man was gone, and that there was no one left to
dispute his dominion over the heart of Osric.
"But for my grandfather's vow I had returned last night after the
funeral. I have discharged my debt to him, and beg pardon for my delay.
I now belong to you."
It was strange, however, the wooden tone in which he spoke, like a
schoolboy reciting a lesson.
"And thou shalt find in me a father, if thou always continuest to
deserve it--as by obedience thou hast hitherto done--save this lapse, in
place of him whom thou hast lost."
"Am I to go to Shirburne?"
"I have sent Malebouche. There are certain matters of business to talk
over. I want thee to turn scribe for the rest of the day, and write
letters for me. It is a thing I could never accomplish. All I can do is
to sign my name, or better still, affix my seal. My pen has been the
sword, my book the country around; wherein I write my black characters,
as men say."
Yes, he did indeed, and the fame remains till this day.
So all the rest of the day Osric wrote at his lord's dictation. There
was some especial correspondence with the leaders of the party, and that
night messengers were speeding north, south, east, and west with the
missives Osric had penned.
Late in the day, while Osric was walking on the ramparts, a page came
after him and bade him hasten to the bower of the Lady Maude. The manner
was urgent, and he went at once.
He found the lady in tears, surrounded by her handmaidens, who were
standing on each side of her "curule" chair, endeavouring in vain to
console her.
The Baron was striding up and down the spacious room, which, as we have
said, overlooked the river.
"Read this, Osric," he said, and put a letter into his hands. "I can but
half understand it."
Osric read. The letter came from the governor of the lazar-house, and
contained a succinct account of the terrible visitation we have recorded
in our last chapter.
"But our boys are at the hermitage, dame," said Brian; "they are safe;
you need not weep."
Osric read on--how that the lepers had broken loose and taken to the
woods. Then came the significant close: "So the neighbouring barons and
knights of all degrees are gathering together their dogs, to hunt them
in the woods; and I greatly fear lest harm happen to thy sons, who have
been, with thy permission, left to the care of the hermit Meinhold,
dwelling within the same forest."
It was a terrible thought to the poor mother: the affliction of her boys
was the great burden of her life. Yet the customs of the age had
required the sacrifice of her. She had been forbidden, perhaps it was
kind, to visit them, lest the sight of their state should but increase
her woe; but they were never long out of her thoughts.
"Husband! father! thou must go and protect them, or I will go myself."
"Enough, Maude, enough; I will start at once with a troop of a hundred
men, and whatever they do in the rest of the forest, methinks I shall
enforce respect for the hermit's cave--where we are told they are so
happy. Osric, send Osborne to me for orders at once."
"Am I to go, my lord?"
"No; you must remain here, I have special reasons. You will be in
attendance on the Lady Maude."
Osric's eyes glistened.
"You will see that certain orders I shall leave are carried out, in
reference to the business in which you are employed. If any question
your right to command, and refuse obedience, show them this ring. You
see how I trust you, my son."
"Would he were our son," sobbed the Lady Maude; "but I have none to
comfort me; my poor boys, torn from me--torn from me. Hasten, my lord;
it is far to Byfield--very far; you may not be in time."
"I will bring thee the hands and feet of any who have dared to harm
them."
----
That same hour the Baron departed with his troop, and Osric was busy for
a while in executing his commission. He occupied his own little chamber
in the keep; it was at a great height above the hill on which the lofty
tower was raised, and the view of the country was most extensive.
When nightfall came, Osric was here alone, and he did a very singular
thing.
He lit a lamp, and placed it in his window; then he took it away in a
very undecided fashion; then he replaced it again; then he took it away,
and finally replaced it.
"The die is cast," he said.
Two roads lay before him,--it was an awful crisis in his life,--two
roads, utterly different, which could only lead to most opposite issues,
and the strife was _which_ to choose. The way was yet open.
But to enter either he must break his faith. Here lay the sting to his
generous heart.
The one road led to honour, to riches, to power, to glory even; and had
all which could delight a young warrior's mind, but coupled with the
support of foul tyranny, the uprooting of the memory of his kindred and
their woes, and the breaking of his newly-pledged faith to the outlaws.
The other road led to a life of obscurity and poverty, perhaps to a
death of ignominy, and certainly began with an act of treachery towards
one who, however cruel to others, had loved and trusted him, of which
the ring he bore was a token and a pledge.
It was when he thought of this that he withdrew the light.
Then came the remembrance of the sufferers in the foul dens below.
"It is the cause of God, and truth, and freedom, and justice, and all
that is holy;" and he replaced the light.
Then he knelt; he could pray now--
"Oh God, direct me--help me--show some token of Thine approval this
night. Even now I believe in Thee as my grandfather did. Oh save me, and
help Thy poor oppressed ones this night; deliver them from darkness and
the shadow of death, and break their bonds asunder."
Then he went to attend at the supper of the Lady Maude, where he was
received with marked attention. He had of course been trained in all the
etiquette exacted from pages and squires, and was expected to make
himself agreeable in a hundred ways, to carve the joints with elegance,
and to wait upon the ladies.
This part of his duty he had often delighted to execute, but to-night he
was "distrait." The poor lady was in so much grief herself at the danger
of her sons, whom she had not seen for five years, that she did not
notice his abstraction, as she otherwise certainly would have done.
Then it fell ordinarily to the province of the squires and pages to
amuse the party,--to sing songs, recite romaunts, play the troubadour,
or to join in such games as chess and draughts, lately imported from the
East, with the fair ladies of the little court,--when they dined, or
rather supped, in private as now. But no songs were sung this night--no
tales of valour or chivalry recited; and the party broke up early.
Compline was said by the chaplain who was present, for in the bower of
so great a lady there must be respect for forms; and then the fair ones
went to bed.
Osric was now at liberty.
"Art thou for a composing draught to-night, my squire?" said the
chaplain. "I can compound a fair night-cap for an aching head, if thou
wilt come to my cell."
"Nay, my calls are urgent now; I have been detained too long by my
duties as a squire of dames. I have orders for our worthy gaoler Tustain
and his sons."
"Not to put any prisoners on the rack to-night? it is late for that; let
the poor things rest till to-morrow."
"It is not to that effect that my orders run."
"They say you did not like that kind of thing at first."
"Neither do I now, but I have perforce got used to it."
"_Bon soir_;" and the chaplain sauntered off to drink mulled sack. It
was a shocking thing that the Church, in his person, should set her seal
of approbation on such tyranny as that of a Norman hold in Stephen's
days.
Osric descended to the foot of the tower, crossed the greensward, and
entered the new dungeons of Brian's Close. On the ground-floor were the
apartments of Tustain the gaoler, extending over the whole basement of
the tower and full of the hateful implements of his office.
There were manacles, gyves, and fetters. There were racks and
thumbscrews, scourges, pincers, and other instruments of mediæval
cruelty. There were arms of various kinds--swords, axes, lances, bows
and arrows, armour for all parts of the body, siege implements, and the
like. There were lanterns and torches for the service of the dungeons.
There were rows of iron basons, plates, and cups for the food of the
prisoners. Lastly, there were many huge keys.
In the midst of all this medley stood a solid oak table, and thereat sat
Tustain the gaoler-in-chief--now advanced in years and somewhat impotent
on his feet, but with a heart as hard as the nether millstone--with his
three sons, all gaolers, like himself, eating their supper. A fairly
spread table was before them--very different from the fare they supplied
to their prisoners, you may be sure.
"We have locked up for the night, and are taking our ease, Master
Osric."
"I grieve to disturb thy ease, but my lord has sent me to thee,
Tustain."
"He must be some leagues away at this moment."
"But he has left orders by me; see his ring."
Tustain recognised the token in a moment, and bowed before it.
"Wilt not take some food? Here is a noble haunch of venison, there some
good trout, there some wood-pigeons in a pie--fish, flesh, and fowl."
"Nay, I have just supped with our lady."
"Thou art fortunate. I remember when thou wert brought in here with thy
grandfather as a prisoner, and saw the torture-chamber for the first
time."
"More startling changes have happened, and may yet; but my business--Art
tired, my men?"
"We have had little to do to-day--no raid, no convoy of goods to pursue,
no fighting, no hunting; it has been dull."
"But there is work afoot _now_, and stern work. You, Richard, must take
horse and bear this letter to Shirburne, where you must give it to
Malebouche, and wait his orders; you, Tristam, must carry this to
Faringdon Castle, and bring back a reply; you, Aubrey, to the Castle of
the Black Lady of Speen."
They looked astonished--as well they might--to be sent out for rides, of
some fifteen miles each, at that hour.
But the ring--like the genii who were the slaves of the Lamp, so were
they slaves of the Ring.
"And who will help me with the prisoners?" said Tustain.
"You are permitted to call in such of the men-at-arms as you please."
"Why did he not send men-at-arms? You are sure he said my sons were to
go? Why, if we were suddenly called to put any of my lambs to the
torture, these men-at-arms would hardly know how to do it."
"You could direct them," said Osric. Then to the sons, "Now, my men,
haste speed."
In half an hour they were gone.
"A cup of sack for consolation--the best wine from our lord's own
cellar. I have brought thee a flask."
"Wilt thou stay and help me discuss it?"
"For a few minutes only; I have much yet to do."
Osric produced the flask from the gypsire which hung from the belt of
his tunic.
Then the old man took down two goblets, and Osric poured the wine.
The old man drank freely; Osric but sparingly. Soon the former began to
talk incoherently, and at last he cried--
"What wine was that? Why, it was Old Nick's own brewing. I can't keep my
eyes open."
Half suspecting something amiss, the old man rose, as if going to the
door; but Osric threw his arms around him, and as he did so the old man
gave way to the influence of the powerful narcotic which the youth had
mingled with his drink, and fell like a log on the couch to which Osric
had dragged him.
"I hope I have not killed him; but if I have it is only half his
deserts. Now for my perilous task. How this ring has helped me!"
He went first and strongly barred the outer door, then traversed the
upper corridor till he came to a room in the new buildings, which was a
private den of the Baron. It was panelled with oak, and pressing a knob
on the panel, a secret door opened, disclosing a flight of steps. These
went down into the bowels of the earth; then a narrow passage opened at
right angles to the corridor above, which Osric traversed. It was damp
and slimy, and the air had a deathly odour; but it soon came to an end,
and Osric ascended a similar flight of steps to the one by which he had
descended; again he drew out the key and opened an iron door at the
summit. He stood upon a terrace at the edge of the river, and just upon
a level with the water.
The night was dark and stormy--not a star could be seen. The stream
rippled by as Osric stood and listened. The clock struck twelve, or
rather the man on duty with an iron hammer struck the bell in the tower
of St. Peter's Church twelve times with his hammer to tell the midnight
hour. A few minutes of feverish suspense--the night air fanned his
heated brow--when he heard muffled oars close by, heard rather the
splash of the water as it fell from the upraised blades. A large boat
was at hand.
"Who comes?" said Osric in a low voice.
"Englishmen, good and true."
The outlaws stood on the terrace.
"Follow me," said Osric.
In a few minutes they were all assembled in the heart of the stronghold
in the gaoler's room, where the gaoler himself lay snoring like a hog.
"Shall we slay him?" said they, naturally looking on the brute with
abhorrence.
"No," said Osric; "remember our compact--no bloodshed save in
self-defence. He will sleep till this time to-morrow night, when I fear
Brian will do for him what he has done for thousands."
"What is that?"
"Hang him."
"He deserves it. Let the gaoler and the hangman hang."
"Amen."
"Now for the keys," said Thorold.
Osric knew them all, and taking them, led the liberators down below,
into the gloomy corridor from which the dungeons opened on either side.
The men shuddered as they stood between these dens of cruelty, from
which moans, faint and low, from time to time issued like the sighing of
the plaintive wind.
One by one they opened these dens, and took the prisoners out. Many were
too weak, from torture and privation, to stand, and had to be supported.
They hardly understood at first what it all meant; but when they knew
their deliverers, were delirious with joy.
At last they came to the cell where the "crucet-box" was placed, and
there they found Herwald. Osric opened the chest, of which the lid was
only a framework of iron bars. He was alive, and that was all; his hair
was white as snow, his mind almost gone.
"Are the angels come to take me out of Purgatory?" he said.
"Herwald, do you not know me?" said Thorold.
It was vain; they could evoke no memory.
Then they went to the torture-chamber, where a plaintive, whimpering
cry struck their ears. In the corner stood a boy on tiptoes; a thin cord
attached to a thumbscrew, imprisoning both his poor thumbs, was passed
over a pulley in the ceiling, and then tied to a peg in the wall, so
that the poor lad could only find firm footing at the expense of the
most exquisite pain; and so he had been left for the night, the accursed
iron eating into the flesh of his thumbs all the time.
"My boy! my boy!" said Thorold, and recognised his own son Ulric, whom
he had only lost that week, and traced to the castle--hence his anxiety
for Osric's immediate aid--and the poor father wept.
Happily Osric had the key of the thumbscrew, and the lad was soon set
free.
"Break up all the instruments of torture," said Thorold.
Axes were at their girdles: they smashed all the hateful paraphernalia.
No sound could possibly be heard above; the depth of the dungeons and
the thickness of the walls gave security.
"Lock up all the cells, all the outer doors, and bring the keys; we will
throw them into the river."
It took a long time to get the poor disabled victims through the
passages--many had to be carried all the way; but they were safely
brought to the large boat, and placed on beds of straw or the like; not
one sentinel taking the alarm, owing to the darkness and the storm.
"Now for Dorchester Abbey," said Osric. "We must take sanctuary, before
daybreak, for all these poor captives, they are incapable of any other
mode of escape."
"And we will attend as an escort," said the outlaws. "Then for the
forest."
So Osric atoned for his residence in Wallingford Castle.