FATHER AND SON
Meanwhile Osric was brought back as a prisoner to the grim stronghold
where for years his position had been that of the chartered favourite of
the mighty Baron who was the lord thereof.
When the news had spread that he was at the gates, all the inmates of
the castle--from the grim troopers to the beardless pages--crowded to
see him enter, and perhaps to exult over the fallen favourite; for it is
not credible that the extraordinary partiality Brian had ever shown
Osric should have failed to excite jealousy, although his graceful and
unassuming bearing had done much to mollify the feeling in the hearts of
many.
And there was nought common or mean in his behaviour; nor, on the other
hand, aught defiant or presumptuous. All was simple and natural.
"Think you they will put him to the torture?" said a youngster.
"They dare not till the Baron returns," said his senior.
"And then?"
"I doubt it."
"The rope, then, or the axe?"
"Perchance the latter."
"But he is not of gentle blood."
"Who knows?"
"If it were you or I?"
"Hanging would be too good for us."
In the courtyard the party of captors awaited the orders of the Lady
Maude, now regent in her stern husband's absence. They soon came.
"Confine him strictly, but treat him well."
So he was placed in the prison reserved for the captives of gentle
birth, or entitled to special distinction, in the new buildings of
Brian's Close; and Tustain gnashed his teeth, for he longed to have the
torturing of him.
Unexpected guests arrived at the castle that night--that is, unexpected
by those who were not in the secret of the letters Osric had written and
the Baron had sent out when Osric last played his part of
secretary--Milo, Earl of Hereford, and Sir Alain of St. Maur, some time
page at Wallingford.
At the banquet the Lady Maude, sorely distressed, confided her griefs to
her guests.
"We all trusted him. That he should betray us is past bearing."
"Have you not put him on the rack to learn who bought him?"
"I could not. It is as if my own son had proved false. We all loved
him."
"Yet he was not of noble birth, I think."
"No. Do you not remember the hunt in which you took part when my lord
first found him? Well, the boy, for he was a mere lad of sixteen then,
exercised a wonderful glamour over us all; and, as Alain well knows, he
rose rapidly to be my lord's favourite squire, and would soon have won
his spurs, for he was brave--was Osric."
"Lady, may I see him? He knows me well; and I trust to learn the
secret," said Alain.
"Take this ring; it will ope the doors of his cell to thee."
"And take care _thou_ dost not make use of it to empty Brian's Close,"
said Milo ironically.
Alain laughed, and proceeded on his mission.
----
"Osric, my fellow-page and brother, what is the meaning of this? why art
thou here?"
He extended his hand. Osric grasped it.
"Dost thou not know I did a Christlike deed?"
"Christlike?"
"Yes. Did He not open the prison doors of Hell when He descended
thither, and let the captives out of Limbus? I daresay the Dragon did
not like it."
"Osric, the subject is too serious for jesting."
"I am not jesting."
"But what led thee to break thy faith?"
"My faith to a higher Master than even the Lord of Wallingford, to whom
I owed so much."
"The Church never taught me that much: if all we do is so wrong, why are
we not excommunicated? Why, we are allowed our chapel, our chaplain--who
troubles himself little about what goes on--our Masses! and we shall
easily buy ourselves out of Purgatory when all is over."
Too true, Alain; the Church did grievously neglect her duty at
Wallingford and elsewhere, and passively allow such dreadful dens of
tyranny to exist. But Osric had learnt better.
"I do not believe you will buy yourselves out. The old priest who served
our little church once quoted a Saint--I think they called him
'Augustine'--who said such things could only profit those whose lives
merited that they should profit them. But you did not come here to
discuss religion."
"No, indeed. Tell me what changed your mind?"
"Things that I heard at my grandfather's deathbed, which taught me I had
been aiding and abetting in the Devil's work."
"Devil's work, Osric! The tiger preys upon the deer, the wolf on the
sheep, the fox on the hen, the cat on the bird,--it is so all through
creation; and we do the same. Did the Devil ordain the laws of nature?"
"God forbid. But men are brethren."
"Brethren are we! Do you think I call the vile canaille my
brethren?--not I. The base fluid which circulates in their veins is not
like the generous blood which flows in the veins of the noble and
gallant. I have no more sympathy with such folk than the cat with the
mouse. Her nature, which God gave, teaches her to torture, much as we
torment our captives in Brian's Close or elsewhere; but knights, nobles,
gentlemen,--they are my brethren. We slay each other in generous
emulation,--in the glorious excitement of battle,--but we torture them
not. _Noblesse oblige._"
"I cannot believe in the distinction; and you will find out I am right
some day, and that the blood of your victims, the groans of your
captives, will be visited on your head."
"Osric, you are one of the conquered race,--is it not so? Sometimes I
doubted it."
"I am one of your victims; and I would sooner be of the sufferers than
of the tyrants."
"I can say no more; something has spoilt a noble nature. Do you not
dread Brian's return?"
"No."
"Why not? I should in your place. He loved you."
"I have a secret to tell him which, methinks, will explain all."
"Wilt not tell it me?"
"No; I may not yet."
And Alain took his departure sorrowfully, none the wiser.
----
The sound of trumpets--the beating of drums. The Baron returns. He
enters the proud castle, which he calls his own, with downcast head. The
scene in the woods near Byfield has sobered him.
One more grievous blow awaits him,--one to wound him in his tenderest
feelings, perhaps the only soft spot in that hard heart. What a mystery
was hidden in his whole relation to Osric! What could have made the
tiger love the fawn? Was it some deep mysterious working of nature?
Can the reader guess? Probably, or he has read our tale to little
purpose.
Osric knows it is coming. He braces himself for the interview. He prays
for support and wisdom.
The door opens--Brian enters.
He stands still, and gazes upon Osric for full five minutes ere he
speaks.
"Osric, what means this?"
"I have but done my duty. Pardon me, my lord, but the truth must be
spoken now."
"Thy duty! to break thy faith?"
"To man but not to God."
"Osric, what causes this change? I trusted thee, I loved thee, as never
I loved youth before. Thou hast robbed me of my confidence in man."
"My lord, I will tell thee. At my grandfather's dying bed I learnt a
secret I knew not before."
"And that secret?"
"I am the son of Wulfnoth of Compton."
"So thy grandfather told _me_--_I_ knew it."
"But I knew not that thou didst slay my kindred--that my mother perished
under thy hands in her burning house--and I alone escaped. Had I known
it, could I have loved and served thee?--NEVER."
"And yet repenting of that deed, I have striven to atone for it by my
conduct to thee."
"Couldst thou _hope_ to do so? nay, I acknowledge thy kindness."
"And thou wouldst open my castle to the foe and slay me in return?"
"No; we shed no blood--only delivered the helpless. Thou hadst made me
take part in the slaughter, the torture of mine own helpless countrymen,
whose blood God will surely require at our hands, if we repent not. I
have repented, but I could not harm thee. See, I had taken the Cross,
and was on my way to the Holy Wars, when thy minions seized me and
brought me back."
"Thou hast taken the Cross?"
"I have."
"I know not whether thou dost think that I can let thee go: it would
destroy all discipline in my castle. Right and left, all clamour for thy
life. The late-comers from Ardennes swear they will desert if such order
is kept as thy forgiveness would denote. Nay, Osric, thou must die; but
thy death shall be that of a noble, to which by birth thou art not
entitled."
The choking of the voice, the difficulty of utterance which accompanied
this last speech, showed the deep sorrow with which Brian spoke. Brutus
sacrificing his sons may have shown less emotion. Osric felt it deeply.
"My lord, do what you think your duty, and behead your former favourite.
I forgive you all you have done, and may think it right yet to do. I die
in peace with you and the world."
And Osric turned his face to the wall.
The Baron left the cell, where he found his fortitude deserting him.
As he appeared on the ramparts he heard all round the muttered words--
"Death to the traitor! death!"
At last he spoke out fiercely.
"Stop your throats, ye hounds, barking and whining for blood. Justice
shall be done. Here, Alain, seek the doomster Coupe-gorge and the
priest; send the priest to your late friend, and tell the doomster to
get his axe ready; tell Osric thyself he dies at sundown."
A loud shout of exultation.
Brian gnashed his teeth.
"Bring forth my steed."
The steed was brought.
He turned to a pitying knight who stood by, the deputy-governor in his
absence.
"If I return not, delay not the execution after sunset. Let it be on the
castle green."
A choking sensation--he put his hand to his mouth; when he withdrew it,
it was tinged with blood.
He dashed the spurs into his steed; the drawbridges fell before him; he
rode at full gallop along the route by the brook described in our second
chapter. Whither was he bound?
_For Cwichelm's Hlawe._
It is a wonder that he was not thrown over and over again; but chance
often protects the reckless while the careful die. He rides through the
forest over loose stones--over protruding roots of trees--still he kept
his seat; he flew like the whirlwind, but he escaped projecting
branches. In an hour he was ascending the slope from Chiltune to the
summit of the hill.
He reined his panting steed at the foot of the barrow.
"Hag, come forth!"
No reply.
He tied up his steed to a tree and entered her dread abode--the ancient
sepulchre.
She sat over the open stone coffin with its giant skeleton.
"Here thou art then, witch!"
"What does Brian Fitz-Count want of me?"
"I seek thee as Saul sought the Witch of Endor--in dire trouble. The
boy, old Sexwulf's grandson"--he could not frame his lips to say
Wulfnoth's son--"has proved false to me."
"Why hast thou not smitten him, and ridden thyself of '_so frail an
encumbrance_'?"
"I could not."
"Did I not tell thee so long syne? ah, ha!"
"Tell me, thou witch, why does the death of a peasant rend my very
heart? Tell me, didst thou not give me a philter, a potion or something,
when I was here? My heart burns--what is it?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, there is one who can solve the riddle--seek him."
"Who is he?"
"Ride at once to Dorchester Abbey--waste no time--ask to see Father
Alphege, he shall tell thee all. When is the boy to die?"
"At sundown."
"Then there is no time to be lost. It is now the ninth hour; thou hast
but three hours. Ride, ride, man! if he die before thy return, thy
heart-strings will crack. Ride, man, ride! if ever thou didst
ride--Dorchester first, Father Alphege, then Wallingford Castle."
Brian rushed from the cavern--he gave full rein to his horse--he drove
his spurs deep into the sides of the poor beast.
Upon the north-east horizon stood the two twin clumps of Synodune, about
ten miles off; he fixed his eyes upon them; beyond them lay Dorchester;
he descended the hill at a dangerous pace, and made for those landmarks.
He rode through Harwell--passed the future site of Didcot Station, where
locomotives now hiss and roar--he left the north Moor-town on the
right--he crossed the valley between the twin hills--he swam the river,
for the water was high at the ford--he passed the gates of the old
cathedral city. Every one trembled as they saw him, and hid from his
presence. He dismounted at the abbey gates.
The porter hesitated to open.
"I have come to see Father Alphege--open!"
"This is not Wallingford Castle," said the daring porter, strong in
monastic immunities.
Brian remembered where he was, and sobered down.
"Then I would fain see the Abbot at once: life or death hang upon it."
"Thou mayst enter the hospitium and wait his pleasure."
He waited nearly half an hour. They kept him on purpose, to show him
that he was not the great man at Dorchester he was at Wallingford. But
they were unwittingly cruel; they knew not his need.
Meanwhile the Abbot sought Father Alphege, and told him who sought him.
"Canst thou bear to see him?"
"I can; it is the will of Heaven."
"Then he shall see thee in the church; the sacred house of God will
restrain you both. Enter the confessional; he shall seek thee there."
Then the Abbot sought Brian.
"Come with me and I will show thee him thou seekest."
Brian was faint with exhaustion, but the dire need, the terrible
expectation of some awful secret, held him up. He had had no food that
day, but he recked not.
The Abbot Alured led him into the church.
The confessional was a stone cell[30] in the thickness of the wall,
entered by the priest from a side chapel. The penitent approached from
the opposite side of the wall from the nave of the church.
"I am not come to make a confession--yes I am, though, yet not an
ordinary one."
"Go to that aperture, and through it thou mayst tell your grief, or
whatever thou hast to say, to Father Alphege."
Brian went to the spot, but he knelt not.
"Father Alphege, is it thou?" he said.
"It is I. What does Brian Fitz-Count seek of me? Art thou a penitent?"
"I know not. A witch sent me to thee."
"A witch?"
"Yes--Hertha of Cwichelm's Hlawe."
"Why?"
"Listen. I adopted a boy, the son of a man I had slain, partly, I think,
to atone for a crime once committed, wherein I fired his house, and
burnt his kith and kin, save this one boy. I loved him; he won his way
to my heart; he seemed like my own son; and then he _betrayed_ me. And
now he is doomed to death."
"To die WHEN?" almost shrieked the priest.
"At sundown."
"God of Mercy! he must not die. Wouldst thou slay thy son?"
"He is not my son by blood--I only meant by adoption."
"Listen, Brian Fitz-Count, to words of solemn truth, although thou wilt
find them hard to believe. He is thine _own_ son--the son of thy
bowels."
Brian felt as if his head would burst beneath the aching brain. A cold
sweat bedewed him.
"Prove it," he said.
"I will. Brian Fitz-Count, I am Wulfnoth of Compton."
"Thou? I slew thee on the downs in mortal combat."
"Nay, I yet breathed. The good monks of Dorchester passed by and brought
me _here_. I took the vows, and here I am. Now listen: thou didst slay
my loved and dearest ones, but I can forgive thee now. Canst thou in
turn forgive me?"
"Forgive thee what?"
"In my revenge, I robbed thee of thy son and brought him up as my own."
"But Sexwulf swore that the lad was his grandson."
"He believed it. I wilfully deceived him; but the old nurse Judith has
the proofs--a ring with thy crest, a lock of maiden's hair."
"Good God! they were his mother's, and hung about his little neck when
we lost him. Man, how couldst thou?"
"Thou didst slay all mine, and I made thee feel _like_ pangs. And when
the boy came to me after his deadly breach with thee, although I had
forgiven thee, I could not tell him the truth, lest I should send him to
be a murderer like unto thee; but I did my best for him. I sent him to
the Holy Wars, and----"
He discovered that he spake but to the empty air.
Brian was gone.
----
A crowd was on the green sward of the castle, which filled the interior
between the buildings. In the centre rose a scaffold, whereon was the
instrument of death, the block, the axe. A priest stood by the side of
the victim, and soothed him with holy rite and prayer. The executioner
leant on his axe.
From the courtyard--the green of the castle--the sun was no longer
visible; but the watchman on the top of the keep saw him from that giddy
height descending like a ball of fire towards Cwichelm's Hlawe. It was
his to give the signal when the sun sank behind the hill.
Every window was full--every coigne of vantage to see the sight. Alas!
human nature is ever the same. Witness the precincts of the Old Bailey
on hanging mornings in our grandfathers' days!
The man on the keep saw the sun actually touch the trees on the summit
of the distant hill, and bathe them in fiery light. Another minute and
all would be over.
In the intense silence, the galloping of a horse was heard--a horse
strong and powerful. Down went the drawbridges.
The man on the keep saw, and omitted to give the signal, as the sun
disappeared.
"Hold! hold!" cried a commanding voice.
It was Brian on his foaming steed. He looked as none had ever seen him
look before; but joy was on his face.
He was in time, and no more.
"Take him to my chamber, priest; executioner, put up thine axe, there
will be no work for it to-day. Men of Wallingford, Osric is my son--my
own son--the son of my bowels. I cannot spare you my son. Thank God, I
am in time."
----
Into that chamber we cannot follow them. The scene is beyond our power
of description. It was Nature which had all the time been speaking in
that stern father's heart, and now she had her way.
----
On the following morning a troop left Wallingford Castle for Reading
Abbey. The Baron rode at its head, and by his side rode Osric. Through
Moulsford, and Streatley, and Pangbourne--such are their modern
names--they rode; the Thames on their left hand, the downs on their
right. The gorgeous abbey, in the freshness of its early youth, rose
before them. Would we had space to describe its glories! They entered,
and Brian presented Osric to the Abbot.
"Here, my lord Abbot, is the soldier of the Cross whom thou didst
enroll. He is lame as yet, from an accident, but will soon be ready for
service. Meanwhile he would fain be thy guest."
The Abbot was astonished.
"What has chanced, my son? We wondered that thou didst not rejoin us,
and feared thou hadst faltered."
"He has found a father, who restrained his freedom."
"A father?"
"But who now gives his boy to thee. Osric is my son."
The Abbot was astonished; as well he might be.
"Go, my Osric, to the hospitium; let me speak to my lord Abbot alone."
And Brian told his story, not without strong emotion.
"What wilt thou do now, my Lord of Wallingford?"
"He shall fulfil his vow, for himself and for me. But, my lord, my sins
have come home to me. What shall I do? Would I could go with him! but my
duties, my plighted faith to my Queen, restrain me. Even to-morrow the
leaders of our cause meet at Wallingford Castle."
"Into politics we enter not here. But thy sin, if thou hast sinned, God
hath left the means of forgiveness. Repent--confess--thou shall be
loosed from all."
"I have not been shriven for a long time, but I will be now."
"Father Osmund is a meet confessor."
"Nay, the man whom I wronged shall shrive me both as priest and man--so
shall I feel forgiven."
----
They parted--the father and son--and Brian rode to Dorchester, and
sought Father Alphege again. Into the solemn secrets of that interview
we may not enter. No empty form was there; priest and penitent mingled
their tears, and ere the formal absolution was pronounced by the priest
they forgave each other as men, and then turned to Him of Whom it is
written--
"Yea, like as a father pitieth his own children,
Even so is the Lord merciful unto them that fear Him."
And taught by adversity, Brian feared Him now.
FOOTNOTE:
[30] The like may be still seen in the great church at Warwick.