THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN CONFRONTS DE MONTFORT.
"Then crouch no more on suppliant knee,
But scorn with scorn outbrave;
A Briton even in love should be
A subject, not a slave."
Wordsworth.
Count de Montfort and his daughter Alice were seated together one
evening in what was known as the crimson parlour, a comfortable and
somewhat elegant room for the period. It was wainscoted in dark oak,
with carpets and hangings of richly-figured crimson cloth from the looms
of Avignon. They were enjoying a temporary respite from the incessant
bustle and turmoil which had been their daily accompaniment since the
day they first occupied the Saxon chieftain's patrimony. Even here,
their quiet was unpleasantly disturbed by the roystering merriment of
their followers in the distant kitchen, who stoutly maintained their
freedom to carouse and drink pretty much as they listed. I take the
liberty here to introduce the reader to a more intimate acquaintance
with the Count and his beautiful and accomplished daughter. The Count
was considerably past middle life, probably not less than fifty-five.
His sunburnt countenance, and the stern lines about his mouth and
forehead, told eloquently the tale of a soldier's life. For the habits
of a rough and unscrupulous life had lent a grim and unfeeling hardness
to a visage which had strong evidence of force and character depicted in
it. There was also palpable evidence of a spirit ill at ease and clouded
with doubt, which made him irritable sometimes to a degree positively
cruel to friend or foe. His once jet-black locks were silvering rapidly;
but his tall form had lost none of its erectness, and his haughty and
imperious demeanour proclaimed him a man used to ruling arbitrarily, and
little accustomed to brooking opposition, or the frustrating of his
purposes. His daughter, Lady Alice de Montfort, was extremely like him
in general appearance. Tall and elegant in carriage, her profuse raven
tresses were gathered in silken bands, and from thence fell over her
shoulders well-nigh to her girdle. Her face was pale; her features
regular, as though chiselled. A pair of lustrous dark eyes glowed from
between darker lashes, proclaiming her southern extraction. She was
indeed a model of queenly beauty. Like many of her countrywomen of
exalted station, her youth had been spent in the seclusion of the
convent, where alone an education worthy of the name could be obtained.
This secluded life--despite her fiery extraction--had toned down her
disposition; whilst the culture and refinement had made her a typical
example of the romance and troubadour spirit of song, which we Saxons
knew to be developed in the maidens of sunny France. For her, the rough
life of the Norman occupation, with its scenes of blood and cruelty, was
a daily horror.
"Alice," began the Count, "I told you some time ago that I had affianced
you to Baron Vigneau. He has followed my fortunes, and lent the prowess
of himself and his mercenaries in furthering my interests, in return for
which he was to receive your hand in marriage; and I gave him my solemn
promise to that effect. His recent conduct has not pleased me, and his
addiction to the wine-cup has become inordinate. But I lay the fault of
this to the rough times we have had, and I doubt not when peaceful times
come again he will become a sober and a virtuous Norman Baron. Anyway, I
gave him my promise, and he has fulfilled the obligation. He now presses
for the fulfilment of this promise. Much time has already been allowed
you to prepare, so I would have you bethink yourself when it can be
redeemed. As you know, it rests solely with yourself as to when this
event shall be, and my pledges made good. I pray you despise him not,
for though he is a landless mercenary, he is brave, and has powerful
friends."
"Father, this marriage is most distasteful--I may say, most abhorrent to
me. The Baron is a man I cannot possibly love; and if my fortune is what
he would have, let him take it and welcome--I care not if I am
penniless, if I have my liberty. Nay, I would much rather take the veil
if I have no other choice than to marry him."
"Alice, this cannot be; I cannot break my promise. Once for all let me
tell you I dare not. This man has obtained a fatal advantage over me,
and it is a question of life and death for me. Listen!" said he, rising
and pacing the room with quick nervous tread. "Fool that I was, when
this last insurrection of the Saxons broke out I was deeply smarting
under the rebuffs I had received at the hands of my mortal enemies Odo
and Fitz-Osborne, and the base ingratitude of William. I counted the
forces of the rebels, and noted their wonderful successes; and foolishly
imagining the Danes and Scots would stand firm, I thought that William's
time had come at last. Madman that I was! to think ought could thwart
the iron will and marvellous resource. But I had many things to be
revenged upon, and I was blinded by it. I thought, now is the time. But
worst of all, in sheer madness and infatuation I entrusted
letters--deadly compromising letters--to this Vigneau for the leaders of
the insurrection. These letters Vigneau never delivered, and he now
holds them over my head, the villain! and threatens to divulge the whole
thing to William. If he does this, I know well, with the enemies I have
at court, that nothing will appease the self-willed tyrant but my head.
These letters contain such ample proof of my treasonous intentions that
my life literally hangs in the balance if I cannot gratify Vigneau. Fool
and dolt that I was to place myself in the power of so unscrupulous a
villain!
"I have told you this much that you may think less hardly of me. But the
thing is absolute and irrevocable. I can no longer put him off by my
excuses on your behalf, for he becomes clamorous and threatening. There
is nothing further to gain, I perceive, by remonstrances and promises,
so the sooner this marriage takes place the better; for I am hopelessly
involved in the toils of this snake."
A dead silence of some minutes followed this, and a sickening sensation
almost to fainting crept over Alice. How long the death-like stillness
would have lasted I know not, but just at that juncture, in silence
profound, the massive oaken door swung back unbidden, and a snatch of a
Bacchanalian chorus pealed along the corridors and burst unbidden on the
ears of father and daughter. But the rising temper of the Count at this
ill-timed jollity and carousing gave way on the instant to profound
astonishment and alarm, as Oswald the Saxon, armed with shield and
buckler, with his drawn sword in his hand, strode into the room; whilst
the dim form of an armed accomplice was visible for a moment in the
darkness ere the door swung back to its place, shutting out the sounds
of revelry and riot, and the three were alone together. The Count sprang
to his feet, whipped out his sword, and savagely stood at bay, awaiting
the onslaught of the sturdy Saxon. Alice also sprang to her feet with a
startled cry, and a strange panic seized her. Had this Saxon, who owed
his life to her, sought this interview with murderous intent? His
appearance betokened it most surely, and she began to upbraid herself
most keenly.
"Quiet you, lady," said Oswald, with a low obeisance, and in tones which
belied the warlike attitude and arms which he bore. "I have none but
peaceable intentions, gentle lady, though in these times we must be
prepared for any eventualities. I hope you will let this excuse my
weapons and my untimely visit."
"What doest thou here, Saxon? and how darest thou intrude thyself so
recklessly?" said the Count.
[Illustration: THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN CONFRONTS DE MONTFORT.]
"As to intrusion, noble sir, you will pardon me, but my father built
this castle, and I was born here, and inherited it from him; so I would
fain point out, if you will allow me, that I am not the intruder. You
have usurped my lands, appropriated my home, and slain my vassals;
whilst I am homeless, landless, and an outlaw."
"Lucky, too, art thou, Saxon, to escape with thy life, and wondrous
venturesome withal, in thrusting thy neck a second time into the
halter."
"I have not come to bandy threats, but it is not my neck that is in the
halter just now, and if thou wert not shielded by a protector more
potent than thy armed minions thy life would soon be forfeit--mark that,
Norman! and be a little more merciful."
"Thou liest, Saxon dog! I fear thee not, nor any Saxon boor in the
land!" said the Count, brandishing his sword, whilst Alice rushed
frantically between them.
"Excuse my hastiness, fair lady," said Oswald, "and permit me to say
that I have not come to shed blood, but the reverse; I am come to
solicit a truce, an honourable truce, and to treat for a cessation of
hostilities and hatred; and I would fain you should be umpire between us
this night, gentle lady."
"What truce dost thou expect, Saxon?" said the Count. "There can but be
one truce between the conqueror and a foe routed and beaten; and that
is, that he should lay down his arms unconditionally and accept the
clemency of the conqueror."
"That is a condition which we shall not accept. We shall maintain our
liberty at all hazards, and the Norman had better beware of harassing
desperate men."
"If thy arrogance were equalled by thy power, Saxon, thou wouldst do
great things. But be thou well assured that I will root every mother's
son of you out of your holes in the mountains within a month, if there
is not unconditional surrender. But if thou and thy vassals return, and
accept these terms, ye shall be entitled to my protection as my vassals
and villeins. For thyself, if thou subscribe the oath of fealty, I will
assign to thee certain lands, which thou shalt atone for by such
services rendered to me as I please, as thy feudal lord."
"Excuse me, noble sir; but these are impossible terms. In the first
place, I am not going to submit to be a grovelling feudatory, wearing
clumsy brogues and a vassal's collar, coming cringingly to thee for
permission to make a journey or shoot a stag--to ask humbly if I may
keep a dog; catch a fish; or marry a wife! I am not going to hold the
stirrup for beggarly Norman adventurers, and say, Your most humble
servant, By your leave, puissant sir, Crave your pardon, my lord, and
all the rest of servile rigmarole, being afraid to breathe the breath of
heaven, or tread mother earth; or say that I am a man; content to be
numbered with thy cattle, or thy goods and chattels, and be spoken of as
the loutish Saxon clown. Never! Let that be understood once for all. No
drop of vassal's blood courses through my veins. No part of a vassal's
spirit animates me. I have not looked upon the face of any man, Saxon or
Norman, that I fear, and I will be vassal to no man. Leave me alone,
with the handful of Saxons who follow me. Thou hast my lands and my
home--take them as the spoils of war, but be content. There is land
enough, and thou mayest leave us in peace. We will not come nigh thee,
but be content to till a little land for sustenance; and we may be of
service as thy allies. Probably many of the serfs will be willing to
return to their lands and to vassalage; and all who are willing may do
so freely."
"Thou hast come to dictate terms, not to supplicate them, Saxon. Dost
thou think it probable I shall tolerate a petty Saxon chieftain holding
sway close to my doors? or harbour on my lands a brood of villeins who
will render the service of fear to me and that of fealty to the Saxon
near, so that in any pinch they will treacherously fail me? Thou hast a
low estimate of my wisdom, truly. But listen once for all, Saxon; if
there be not immediate surrender I will hunt you from your holes in the
hills, as I have already said, within a month, and few will escape
me--mark that!"
"Father," said Alice, "you do this noble Saxon grievous wrong in
rejecting so rudely his amicable overtures. You may surely mingle mercy
with your designs. I myself will be bond, these Saxons will reciprocate
any acts of generosity done to them. Besides, consider this: you saw the
forms of armed men at the door just now. They have stayed their hand
when it was at the throat of their victims, and they may do so again."
"Tush! tush! you speak like a school-girl. These boorish Saxons will
count mercy as weakness; so no more of it."
"Many thanks, lady," interposed Oswald. "Gentle means are strongest when
we deal with human beings, whether they be gentle or simple. But adieu!
If my mission fails, the responsibility rests not with me, for I have
now offered peace--a peace which is abject in its terms." So saying, he
turned and struck the oaken door with the pommel of his sword, which on
the instant sprung open and as quickly-closed behind him, whilst the
massive bolt was shot from the outside.
The Count sprang to the door, and tried to force it open, but to no
purpose. "Jules! Jules!" roared he. "What ho there! Treachery!" But the
only response he received to his frantic cries was the fragment of a
rollicking song and chorus, trolled more lustily than musically by rough
voices in the distant kitchen, the substance of which ran something like
the following:--
"Old Bacchus was a merry dog,
And kept good company;
He loved good wine and a jovial song,
So his days sped merrily.
_Chorus._--Ho, comrades all, we'll drink and sing,
So pass the bowl along.
If a better cask the morrow bring,
We'll greet it with a song."
"What ho there, you drunken brutes! What ho, Jules!" shouted the Count,
frantic with rage. But again the response was in a similar strain:--
"We're freemen all, but have our liege,
For William is our lord;
We've wine and ale and venison
To crown our festive board.
_Chorus._--Ho, comrades, all," etc.
"What ho there!" roared the Count, more lustily than ever, and furiously
beating the door with an oaken footstool. But all in vain, the song ran
its course oblivious of all beside, and with, if possible, an increase
in its roystering loudness:--
"No foemen can our arms withstand,
The Saxons are our scorn.
We'll drink and laugh, and sing at eve,
And chase them in the morn.
_Chorus._--Ho, comrades all," etc.