After the last sad rites were paid to the Lady Winifred, a deep
gloom fell upon Wilfred, and his sorrow was so great that it won
respect from his Norman companions, at least for a time.
He was indeed alone, for the baron had sent his sister Edith to a
convent for her better education, as he said, and as Wilfred had
none of his own kith and kin about him, he avoided all company,
save when the routine of each day forced him into the society of
his fellow pages.
Such was the case one fine morning in early spring, a few months
after the loss of his mother.
The four pages were in the tilt yard, where there stood a wooden
figure, called a "quintain," which turned round upon an axis, and
held a wooden sword in one hand and a buckler in the other.
It was the duty of each of the athletes to mount his horse, and
strike the buckler full in the centre with his lance, while riding
by at full speed, under certain penalties, which will soon be
perceived.
Etienne rode first, and acquitted himself with remarkable
dexterity; after him Wilfred was invited by the maitre d'armes to
make the trial, but he was comparatively unaccustomed to the game.
"Let Pierre or Louis try next," said he.
The two boys, thus called upon, went through the trial fairly,
striking the very centre of the shield, as befitted them. And then
our Wilfred could not refuse to make the attempt. He rode, but his
horse swerved just before meeting the mock warrior; he struck the
shield, therefore, on one side, whereupon the figure wheeled round,
and, striking him with the wooden sword, hurled him from his horse
on to the sward, amidst the laughter of his companions.
He rose, not very much hurt in body, but sadly out of temper, and,
unable to bear the jeers of his companions, and their sarcastic
compliments on his "graceful horsemanship," he left the yard.
He was trying very hard to learn such feats, and yet could not gain
the dexterity for these novel exercises; and, poor boy, he was
quite weary of being laughed at, so he went and wandered pensively
about in the forest.
He had, indeed, to chew the cud of bitter reflection, for his
position was not at all a happy one. Few lads could have more to
bear--cutting sarcasm, biting contempt, not openly or coarsely
expressed, but always implied plainly enough--constant abuse of his
nation, and even of his own immediate ancestors, on whose fair
domains these Norman intruders were fattening.
"Oh! it is too hard to bear," thought the poor lad.
And then he saw the unfortunate thralls of his father, ground down
by the tyranny of these Norman lords and their soldiery, forced to
draw stone and timber, like beasts of burden, for the purpose of
building towers and dungeons for their oppressors, urged on with
the lash if they faltered.
Since the death of their good lady, all this had been, of course,
much worse.
And then, those forest laws, so vilely cruel. Wilfred saw men blind
with one eye, or wanting a hand; and why? Because they had killed a
hare or wounded a deer; for it would have been a hanging matter to
kill the red hart.
Meanwhile he was growing in mind and body; he had now passed his
seventeenth birthday, and was beginning to think himself a man; but
where were the vassals whose leader and chieftain he was born to
be?--where?
The people of Aescendune were diminishing daily--the English people
thereof, we should say, for the places of those who fled their
homes, and went no one knew whither, were filled by Normans,
French, Bretons, or other like "cattle," as Wilfred called them in
his wrath.
Everywhere he heard the same "jabbering" tongue, that Norman
French--French with a Danish accent, and he liked it little enough.
Good old English was becoming rare; the strangers compared it to
the grunting of swine or the lowing of cattle, in their utter scorn
of the aborigines.
Were the descendants of Hengist, Horsa, Ella, Cerdic, Ercenwin,
Ida, Uffa, and Cridda to bear this? and more especially was he,
Wilfred, the grandson of the heroic Alfgar, whose praises as the
companion in arms of the Ironside had been sung by a hundred
minstrels, and told again and again at the winter's fire in the
castle hall--was he to bear this contumely? He could not much
longer.
And then that scowling, dark, frowning, old Baron--there was a
world of deadly mischief in his dark eye, which looked like light
twinkling at the bottom of a black well. Once when Etienne was
uttering some polished sarcasm at Wilfred's expense, the English
lad caught the father's look, and there was something in it which
puzzled him for a day or two.
Wilfred knew the baron did not like him, and felt that the hatred
was all the more deadly for never being expressed. He sometimes
thought that his stepfather wished him to quarrel with Etienne, in
the full belief that Norman skill must prevail, in case of a
combat.
Single combat. Well, the pages were always talking about it.
Etienne knew a brave knight who took his stand on a bridge, horse
and all complete, and when any one came by of equal rank, this
strange bridge warden had two questions to ask; first:
"Wilt thou acknowledge the Lady Adeliza of Coutances to be the most
peerless beauty in the world?"
Supposing the newcomer not to be in love, and to be willing to
admit the superiority of the fair charmer, then to him the bridge
warden further added:
"Wilt thou admit that I am a better knight than thou--better with
horse, sword, and lance?"
If the newcomer said "Yes," he might pass without further toll; if
not he must fight, yea, even to the death. And this our Norman
pages thought the grandest thing in chivalry.
As yet they had kept from such direct insult as would necessitate
an appeal to sword or lance in Wilfred's case, which, indeed, pages
could not resort to without the permission of their feudal
superiors; but how long would this last?
The promise the poor lad had given to his beloved and lost mother
had made him patient for a time; but his patience had been tried to
the uttermost.
He looked on the woods which had once echoed to his father's horn:
for miles and miles they extended in trackless mazes of underwood,
swamp, and brake; and report already credited them with being the
haunt of outlaws innumerable.
"Where were all the fugitives from Aescendune?" thought our
Wilfred; "did the woods conceal them?"
Well, if so, the day might come when he would be glad to join them.
While he was thus musing, the sun rose high in the heavens, and he
heard the horns summon the hunters--he heard the loud baying of the
hounds, but he heeded not--he loathed society that day, and
satisfying his hunger with a crust of bread, obtained at the hut of
a thrall, he wandered deeper into the forest.
The day was hot, and he grew tired. He lay down at the foot of a
tree, and at length slept.
How long that slumber lasted he knew not, but he dreamt a strange
and gruesome dream. He thought his ancestors--the whole line of
them--passed before him in succession, all going into the depths of
the wood, and that as each spectral form passed it looked at him
with sorrow and pointed into the forest.
At length, in his dream, his father came and stood by him, and
pointed to the woods likewise.
Meanwhile a lurid light was rising in the woods behind him, and a
sense of imminent danger grew on the sleeper when strange outcries
arose from the wood.
He was on the border land, twixt sleeping and waking, and the
outcries were not all imaginary. There was the voice of one who
besought for mercy, and the laughter and scornful tones of those
who refused it; and these, at least, were real, for they awoke the
sleeper.
The cry which aroused young Wilfred from his sleep was uttered in a
tone of distress, which at once appealed to his manhood for aid.
And it was a familiar voice--that of his own foster brother, the
son of his old nurse, with whom, in the innocent days of childhood,
he had sported and romped again and again; for distinctions of rank
were far less regarded amongst the old English than amongst the
Normans--they were "English all."
The poor peasant lad had been so unfortunate as to bring down a
hare with a heavy stick. The animal had risen just before him; the
weapon was ready; the temptation too great. Forgetful of all but
the impulse of the moment, he had flung the stick, and the hare
fell. He was just rushing to seize his prize, when the three Norman
pages came suddenly on the scene.
"Here is a young English lout, killing a hare," shouted Etienne;
"lay hold of him."
And before the astonished Eadwin could fly, the son of his lord
fulfilled his own command, and seized the culprit by the collar.
"How didst thou dare, thou false thief, to kill one of our hares?
Dost thou not know the penalty?"
The unhappy lad stammered out faint excuses, in broken English; "he
had not meant to do it--the thing rose up so suddenly"--and the
like. But in the first place his captors did not understand his
language sufficiently to make out the excuses, neither were they in
the mood to receive any.
"What is the law?" said Etienne; "does it not say that he who slays
a hare shall lose the hand that did the deed; and here is a poacher
taken red handed. Louis, where is thy hunting knife?"
"We need not trouble to take him to the castle; off with his hand,
and let him go."
Their hunting knives, with which they were accustomed to "break up"
the deer, were in their girdles, and, shame to say, the other two
youths at once assented to Etienne's proposal to execute the law
themselves.
So they dragged their intended victim to a stump, and Etienne
prepared to execute the cruel operation which he had witnessed too
often not to know how to do it.
Poor Eadwin appealed in vain for mercy. They were laughing at his
fright, and indeed there was so little sympathy between Norman lord
and English thrall, that pity found no place to enter into the
relations between them: it was the old Roman and his slave over
again.
But an unexpected deliverer was at hand.
Just as the young "noble" was about to execute the threat; when the
poor wrist was already extended by force on a rude stump; when the
knife was already drawn from its sheath, Wilfred appeared on the
scene, and, in a tone the Norman lads started to hear from him,
exclaimed:
"Let him go; touch him if you dare; he is my foster brother; my
thrall, if anybody's."
"Like cleaves to like," said Etienne, sarcastically; "but, my fair
brother, thou wilt hardly interfere with the due course of the
law."
"Law! the law of butchers and worse than butchers--devils. Let him
go."
"Hadst thou not better try to rescue him? Thou hast not yet found
an opportunity to show thy prowess."
Wilfred lost all control, sprang at Etienne, struck him in a
downright English fashion between the eyes, and knocked him down.
The knife fell from his hand, and Wilfred seized it before the
other youths could recover from their astonishment, and flung it
into a pond close at hand.
Etienne rose up.
Now my young readers will probably anticipate a bout at fisticuffs;
but no such vulgar a combat commended itself to the proud young
Norman, even thus suddenly humiliated; neither did he, under these
very trying circumstances, lose his self command.
Yet his hatred was none the less, nor did he cherish a less deadly
design.
"Let the young brute go," said he, as he arose, pointing to Eadwin.
"There is something more important to be settled now than the
question whether the young porker shall retain his cloven hoof or
not. Wilfred, dost thou know thou hast struck a gentleman?"
"I have struck a young butcher."
"Thanks; churls fight with words; knights, and would-be knights,
with swords. Draw, then, and defend thyself; Pierre and Louis will
see fair play."
"Nay," said the other two lads with one voice, "it were a sin and
shame to fight thus, and we should have our knighthood deferred for
years did we permit it. Pages may not fight to the death without
the permission of their liege lord. The baron must give
permission."
"Wilfred, dost thou accept my challenge? I honour thy base blood in
making it."
"My ancestors were as noble as thine; nay, they ruled here while
thine were but pirates and cutthroats. I do accept it."
"Let us separate, then; we meet here at daybreak tomorrow."
"But the permission of our lord?"
"I will answer for that," replied his hopeful son.
The party separated: Wilfred took his foster brother, who had not
made the least attempt to escape from the scene, trusting to the
love of his young lord for protection, and no sooner were they
alone than the poor lad overwhelmed his deliverer with thanks, in
which tears were not unmixed, because he knew that a price had yet
to be paid, and that his beloved master was in danger.
"Nay, nay, Eadwin, I shall do very well--if not, there is not much
left to live for now--only you must take care of yourself, or they
may avenge themselves on you; indeed, when the baron hears the
tale, I doubt not that he will send for you, and then I may not be
able to save you--you must fly."
"Not till I know--"
"Yes, this very night--thou knowest the Deadman's Swamp?"
"Well."
"The Normans could never find thee there, and thou and I have
threaded its recesses a hundred times; go to the hollow tree where
we have slept before now in our hunting days. I will seek thee
tomorrow, if I live. If I do not appear before midday, you had
better seek our people, whom these tyrants have driven to the
greenwoods."
"I know where to find them, but you will come; why not fly to the
woods with me now?"
"Honour prevents. And after all, you had better say goodbye at once
to those at home, and be off: perhaps I had better say goodbye for
thee--it will be safest."
A few more parting instructions, and they separated; the young
thrall actually kneeling and kissing his young lord's hand with
that devoted love nought save such obligations could give.
Wilfred was returning to the castle, when he met Pierre, who was
evidently seeking him.
"Wilfred," he said, "I have come to offer you my services for
tomorrow; you will want the offices of a friend."
"Art thou my friend?"
"Yes, since I see thou art not a coward. While I saw thee suffering
insult after insult without ever resenting them, I thought thee
craven, and could not speak thee fair; now thou art as one of us."
"Thou art not like other Normans, then."
"I am not Norman, but Breton, and perhaps we do not love the
Normans over much in Brittany; at least, I can feel for one in thy
position."
"Thanks," was all that Wilfred could stammer out.
These were almost the first kind words he had heard since his
mother's death, save in those stolen moments when he had been alone
amidst his English thralls and churls, and they had been but few.
"Thou art not so skilled in fencing as Etienne; I should advise an
hour or two in the tilt yard, and I can tell thee of some of his
feints, which are not a little dangerous."
"Thanks, I shall not have too much time."
"Dost thou think the baron will give leave?"
"Yes; he hates me in his heart. Were I the better swordsman, he
might not consent."
"I agree with thee--wert thou dead, Etienne would be heir of
Aescendune. At all events, thou wilt go to confession and get thy
soul in order--betake thyself to thy holy gear--men fight none the
worse for a clear conscience. And I would ask the intercession of
St. Michael--men speak well of him in Brittany, and tell how he
fought a combat a outrance with Satan, wherein the latter came off
none the better man."
"I shall see Father Elphege tonight--we are not heathen, we
English."
"Ah! here comes Louis. Well, what news dost thou bring?"
"Good ones. Our lord permits the fight. You should have seen how
stark and stern he looked when he saw his son's eyes. Wilfred, thou
hast a fist like a smith. Wilt thou do as well with the sword?"
"Tomorrow will show."
"Well, it is quite right of thee to fight for thine own serfs; I
would have fought for mine at Marmontier--none should have come
between me and them. And I am glad we did not hurt the poor knave.
Etienne will be a hard lord for thy people, if anything happens to
thee."
Oh, how the memory of his mother and her counsels came before the
poor orphan.
Still, how could he help it? He had done rightly, he felt sure; and
he knew that his father would say so were hecums alive.
"And so would my grandfather," thought he, "once the friend of the
Ironside, of whose wondrous exploits he often told me in olden days
around our winter fire. Would his spirit were with me now, and a
little of his skill in arms."
And thus musing, he arrived at the castle and betook himself, with
Pierre, to the tilt yard. Louis went off to seek Etienne, whose
second he was to be.