The night was growing dark when Wilfred approached the priory, with
the intention of seeking Father Elphege, and putting, as Pierre had
said, "his spiritual gear in order."
As we have remarked in other pages, men then attached no notion of
sin to the mere act of fighting--there could not be a duty clearer
to Christians of that strange epoch than to fight with each other
whensoever the exigencies of society demanded--the very institution
of knighthood was bound up with the idea.
So he had no anticipation that the good father would say, "Don't
fight."
But when he approached the great door of the priory, with the
venerable figure of the patron saint bending over the archway, a
messenger--a lay brother--issued forth.
It was almost dark, but the man recognised Wilfred.
"Is it thou, Wilfred of Aescendune, in the flesh?"
"I am he."
"Then I am glad to see thee, for thus my limbs are saved the toil
of seeking thee, and my rheumatics make me dread the night air."
"Seeking me?"
"Yes, verily; the good prior desireth thee earnestly, and adjured
me to fetch thee without delay; and lo! Saint Cuthbert hath sent
thee."
What could the prior want of him? thought the lad; had he heard of
the quarrel, through young Eadwin, and did he disapprove of it?
At all events, he would be saved the trouble of many words; and he
entered.
He passed along the cloister, with its ceiling of carved wood and
its rude wooden crucifix at the end thereof; he looked out at the
little green square of grass, enclosed by the quadrangle, wherein
reposed in peace the monks of former generations. Once the thought
flashed over him, that a similar little grassy hillock might, ere a
few hours were over, be raised above his own earthly remains; but
that did not shake his purpose.
He ascended a spiral staircase and entered the prior's own cell.
"What, Wilfred! and so soon? Sooth to say, my messenger hath sped."
"He met me just outside the gate, father."
"By the blessing of heaven, my son."
"But why hast thou sent for me, and why this haste?"
"A dying man wishes to see thee--nay, do not start! he has a sad
confession to make--one it will harrow thy blood to hear, and he
cannot die in peace without thy forgiveness."
"My forgiveness! How has he injured me? He is a Norman, I suppose?"
"Nay, he belongeth not to the proud race of our oppressors; he is
an old serf of thy house. Dost thou remember Beorn the woodman?"
"Who slew the deer and sold them in secret, and when the deed was
discovered, fled?"
"The same; it is he."
"But what harm hath he done so great that he should come here to
ask forgiveness? 'Twas a small matter; at least, it seems so now."
"My son, that is not the matter he hath to confess."
"What is it, then?"
"Prepare thyself, my dear child; now be composed; you must resign
yourself to God's will."
"Tell me, father, and end this suspense. What is amiss?"
"Nay, he must do that; I wanted to prepare thee; but tis about thy
mother."
Wilfred turned pale at once and trembled, for the one passion which
divided his soul with hatred to the Normans was love for the memory
of his parents. What had the man got to say about his mother?
"But this is not constancy and firmness--thou quakest like an aspen
leaf."
"Tell me, was aught amiss in my mother's death?"
"Didst thou ever suspect it?"
"Yes, but I put the thought away, as though it came from Satan."
"Well, poor child, thou wilt know now, and God help thee to bear it
rightly."
Trembling and astonished, Wilfred followed the prior into an
adjoining cell, where, propped up by cushions, lay the attenuated
form of a dying man--the death sweat already on his brow, standing
thereon in beads--the limbs rigid as a recent convulsion had left
them.
Any one conversant in the signs which immediately precede death
could have told that he had but a short time to live. The good
monk, who was supporting him and breathing words of Christian hope
into his ears, left him as the prior and Wilfred entered.
The prior took the monk's place, and supported the head of the
penitent.
"Look," he said, as he raised him upon his arm, "Wilfred of
Aescendune, the son of thy late lord."
The poor wretch groaned--such a deep hollow groan.
"Canst thou forgive me?" he said.
"Forgive thee what?"
"Tell him all, my son, and ease thy burdened mind."
The thrall then spake, in words interrupted by gasps and sighs,
which we must needs omit as we piece his narrative together for the
benefit of our readers.
"It is five years since I fled thy father's face, fearing his
wrath, for I had slain his red deer and sold them for filthy lucre.
Woe is me! I had better have trusted to his mercy and borne my
fitting punishment; but, as Satan tempted me, I fled to the great
city, where men are crowded together thick as bees in swarming
time, to hide myself amongst many. There I was like to starve, and
none gave me to eat, when a Jew who saw my distress, took pity on
me and gave me shelter.
"His name was Abraham of Toledo, a city far off over the salt sea,
whence he had come to our English shores in the hope of gain; and
he was mighty in magic arts and in compounding of deadly drugs to
slay, or medicines to make alive. I became his servant, for I had
nought else to do, and I blew his forge when he mixed strange
metals, swept his chamber, mixed his medicines as ordered, and did
all an ignorant man might do at his master's bidding."
"The wretch! he should be burnt," said the prior, who, like most
Englishmen of his day, confounded all such researches with the
black art; "didst thou ever see the devil there?"
"I did, indeed!"--the prior started--"but it was a Norman fiend,
and his name Hugo of Aescendune."
"How!" Wilfred exclaimed, as he started violently.
"Silence, dear son, thou shalt soon hear," said Father Elphege.
"Summon thy courage."
"One evening I was mixing some drugs in my master's laboratory, in
a recess hidden from the rest of the room by a curtain, which
happened to be drawn, when my master entered the room in company
with a stranger.
"'Here, then, is the drug you seek; but it will be very costly--men
must pay dear for vengeance,' said Abraham of Toledo.
"'It may not be vengeance, but an obstacle which I wish to remove
from my path.'
"'That liquid was distilled by myself from many strange plants in
far-off Araby; I may never replace it, and it is worth many pieces
of gold.'
"'Thou shalt have them if thou wilt swear, thou dog of a Jew, that
it possesses all the qualities thou hast said. If it fails, look to
thyself; I am not one to be played with.'
"'The victim who takes but one drop daily shall decline and die
within the half of a year; in half that time if the dose be
doubled; a quarter if quadrupled.'
"'And no one shall detect the cause?'
"'Call the most learned physicians ye Christians have (dolts are
they all), and they shall call it a natural death--consumption--so
gradually shall the patient wear away.'
"'I will trust thee; here is the gold.'
"I had seen the man's face through the curtain; but no sooner was
he gone than my master descended the stairs, calling for me. I
managed to reach him without raising his suspicion, and he pointed
out the figure of his visitor receding in the distant gloom of the
street.
"'Follow and learn who he is.'
"I followed and dogged him to his lodging--it was the present lord
of Aescendune.
"I knew of his marriage--I felt sure whom he wanted to destroy; yet
I did not dare show myself at Aescendune, even to save so innocent
a life--the life of so sweet and good a lady as she had ever been.
But at length disease--an incurable disease--seized me, and the
dread of approaching death and judgment has brought me to tell what
it freezes my heart to say--all too late to save, but not perhaps
to avenge--I tell thee thy mother was poisoned, O Wilfred of
Aescendune!"
"Tell me what would be the signs of the drug?"
"If dropped in water, it would, although colourless, impart a blue
tinge to the liquid."
Wilfred hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud.
"Dost thou forgive me?" said the dying thrall.
"Thou mightest have saved her, yet I do forgive thee."
"I might; it was my sin, and she was my liege lady, the gentlest
and kindest."
"Thou art forgiven; but oh! my father! who shall do justice on the
murderer, the poisoner?"
"That is thy task; the son must avenge his mother's blood, and do
justice on the murderer. Listen, Wilfred: Dost thou remember Bishop
Geoffrey of Coutances?"
"Well," said the poor boy, "he married them; but he, too, is a
Norman--they are all alike."
"Nay, there be wise and good men amongst them, and this bishop is
one. Thou shalt seek him, for he is now in Oxford: thou shalt start
this very night, and tomorrow thou mayest reach him. I will give
thee the written confession of this most unhappy but penitent
Beorn, and the bishop will hear thee, and justice shall yet be
done. But thou must depart at once, or he will have left the city.
I will give thee food, and my palfrey shall be at thy service in an
hour's time. And now, my child, while the food is preparing, go and
pray at thy mother's tomb, and ask for grace to seek justice, not
revenge; for it is not fitting the murderer should lord it longer
over thy people and thee!"
And in another minute the unhappy lad was prostrate before his
mother's tomb: all other thoughts had gone from him--Etienne,
Pierre, and the rest were forgotten--he was absorbed in the thought
of his parent's wrongs, and in the awful responsibility that
knowledge had thrust upon him {ix}.