Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wild
expanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase,
and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.
It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Roman
roads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as the
avenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior's palfrey,
which had never borne so impatient a rider before.
Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buried
in the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of the
valley, then on the upland: here, startling the timid deer; there,
startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in those
ancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake--so Wilfred rode
onward.
It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light
to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic
house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English
monks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God in
their vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitality
to the wayfarer.
To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior of
Aescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it was
not safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport. For
Norman riders, soldiers of fortune, infested all the highways, and
they would certainly require Wilfred, or any other English
traveller, to show cause for being on the road, and, in default of
such cause, would render very rough usage.
It was now drawing near the third hour of the day, and Wilfred had
already spied his resting place from the summit of a hill. In spite
of his woes, too, he wanted his breakfast, and was already
speculating on the state of the monastic larder, when the road
entered a small wood.
It was not a straight road at all, and the rider could not see a
hundred yards before him, when suddenly a troop of horse came round
a curve at a smart trot, and were upon him before he could escape
their notice.
"Whom have we here?" exclaimed the leader.
Wilfred knew him; it was that same Count Eustace de Blois, who had
rescued him from danger on the field of Senlac, and taken him to
the tent of the Conqueror.
His first impulse was to tell Count Eustace everything and to claim
his protection. Then he remembered that this Eustace was the friend
of his stepfather, and the distrust--not to say hatred--he was
beginning to feel to all Normans overcame, unhappily it may be, the
first generous impulse of confidence.
"It is I, Wilfred of Aescendune," he coldly replied.
"So I see," said the Norman, "and marvel to meet thee alone and
unattended on the highway, so far from home. Thou hast thy father's
permission?"
"I have no father," said Wilfred, in a tone which at once betrayed
that something was amiss.
"Stepfather, of course, I would say, and I judge from thy reply
that all is not well. Wilt thou not tell me what is wrong?"
"My errand is urgent, and I only crave permission to continue my
road in peace."
"You are more likely to continue it in pieces, when so many outlaws
and cutthroats are about, and my duty will not suffer thee to go
farther till I know that thou hast thy father's, that is, the
baron's permission."
Wilfred's only reply was to set spurs to his horse, and to try to
escape by flight from his troublesome interrogator; but although he
did succeed in clearing the party, his poor palfrey was tired, and
the Norman horses were fresh, so the attempt was made in vain; he
was pursued and brought back to Eustace de Blois.
"Why didst thou attempt to escape?" said that noble, grimly. "I
fear that thou art playing the truant--against thine own interests,
and must take thee with me whither I am bound, which happeneth to
be Aescendune."
"Nay, I pray thee suffer me to proceed; life and death hang upon my
errand."
"Confide in me then, and tell me all."
But Wilfred could not; in his then frame of mind, he could not
confide the story of his mother's woes to a Norman--to his fevered
mind one of the intruders was as bad as another--as well bring a
complaint before one wolf that another wolf had eaten a lamb.
"I cannot," was his reply; "it would be useless if I did."
"Why? I have befriended thee once."
"Art thou not a Norman?"
"Ah! I see where the shoe pinches," replied Eustace; "thou hast
found some traitors who have been instilling rebellion into thy
youthful ears. Well, if they are found, they shall ere long lack
tongues wherewith to prate, and for the present thou must return
home with me. Wilt thou go as a freeman or as a prisoner?"
"You have the power and must use it."
"Wilt thou promise not to attempt an escape?"
"No."
"Then I must perforce pass a band from one leg to another, beneath
the belly of thy steed, or thou mayst leave thy tired palfrey and
ride behind me with a strap binding thee to my belt. Which dost
thou choose?"
"Do as it pleaseth thee."
There was a sad, heart-broken tone in Wilfred's voice, in spite of
the defiance of his words, which interested the Norman count, who
was not, as we have before seen, all steel; and during the journey
which Wilfred made as a captive, Eustace made sundry attempts to
win the poor youth's confidence, but all in vain.
Riding all day, Wilfred retraced in this ignominious manner the
road he had so eagerly traversed under the veil of night; and at
length, towards sunset, they came in sight of the priory, the
bridge, and the castle of Aescendune.
"I think I may cut these bonds now, and thou needest not be seen to
return in the guise of a captive. Once more, tell me all; I will be
thy mediator with thy father."
"Father!" repeated Wilfred with an expression indicative of
something deeper yet than scorn or hatred, but he said no more.
The blast of trumpets from the approaching troop aroused the
inmates of the castle, and they flocked to their battlements to
behold the pennon of Eustace de Blois, familiar to them on many a
hard-fought field of old.
Immediately there was bustling and saddling, and a troop of horse
issued over the drawbridge to greet the coming guest. Foremost
amongst them was the grim stepfather, and by his side rode Etienne.
Imagine their surprise when they recognised Wilfred in the train of
their visitor; we can hardly paint fitly the scornful looks of
Etienne, or the grimness of the stepfather.
But there was etiquette to be consulted--a most important element
in the days of chivalry--and no question was asked until all the
customary salutations had been made.
"I see my son Wilfred has been the first to welcome thee; may I ask
where he met thee on the road?" asked Hugo, of Eustace.
"Many a long mile from here; I will tell thee more anon."
"Did he return of his own free will?" thought the baron, but
politeness forced him to wait his guest's own time for the dialogue
which he felt awaited him.
Meanwhile Etienne had regaled Wilfred with a succession of scornful
glances, which, strange to say, did not affect the latter
much--deeper emotions had swallowed up the minor ones, and he could
disdain the imputation of cowardice, although he could not but feel
that his attempted flight would be ascribed by every one to fear of
the combat, which had been offered to, and accepted by him, and
from which he could not otherwise have saved himself.
They dismounted within the courtyard, and Hugo made a certain
communication to the seneschal. The latter came up to Wilfred as he
stood listlessly in the crowd, the object of many a scornful
glance.
"The baron, your father, bids you to follow me."
The old retainer led the way up a staircase. On the third floor
there was a chamber with a small loophole to serve as window,
through which nothing larger than a cat could pass. There was
furniture--a rough table and chair, a rude bed, and mattress of
straw.
"You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you."
The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on the
bed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps of
the gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and all
was still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or from
the great hall, where the banquet was even now served.
Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching--it was
certainly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through the
crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.
"Wilfred, art thou here?"
"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"
"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgraced
thyself, and me, too, as thy friend."
"I cannot tell thee."
"Was it not fear, then?"
"It was not."
"Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify thee
to the others."
"I cannot."
"Thou wilt not."
"If thou wilt have it so."
"Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward."
And the speaker departed: Wilfred counted his steps as he went down
the stairs. One pang of boyish pride--wounded pride--but it was
soon lost in the deeper woe.
A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper. He
ate it, and then, wearied out--he had had no rest during the
previous night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddle
for twenty hours--wearied out, he slept.
And while he slept the door softly opened, and the baron entered.
At the first glance he saw the lad was fast asleep, as his heavy
and regular breathing indicated. He did not awake him, but gazed
upon the features of the boy he had so deeply injured, with an
expression wherein there was no lingering remorse, but simply a
deep and deadly hatred. At length he was about to awake the
sleeper, when he saw the end of a packet of parchment protrude from
the breast of the tunic. The baron drew it softly out.
It was the letter of Father Elphege to the Bishop of Coutances.
The baron was scholar enough to read it--few Normans were so, and
fewer English nobles; but he was an exception. He read and knew
all; he read, and blanched a deadly white as he did so; his knees
shook together, and a cold sweat covered his face.
It was known, then; to how many? Probably only to the prior and
Wilfred, for it was but a dying confession of yesterday, as he
gathered from the letter.
A sudden resolution came upon him; he did not awake the sleeper,
but retired to digest it at his ease in the security of his own
chamber.
It was but little sleep the baron took that night. Hour after hour
the sentinel heard him pacing to and fro. Had any one seen him, he
would have judged that Hugo was passing through a terrible mental
conflict.
"No, I cannot do it," he said, as if to some unseen prompter.
"It is the only way; crush all thine enemies at once, let not even
a dog survive to bark at thee."
"But what would the world say?"
"The world need not know, if thou contrivest well."
"But such secrets will out--a bird of the air would carry the
matter, if none else did."
"Such are the bogies with which nurses frighten children. Art thou
not a man and a Norman?"
"But the poor monks--if they were but soldiers."
"The less crime if they perish--they are fitter to die; and they
are but English swine, like their neighbours, of whom thou hast
slain so many."
So, through the long hours did the Prince of Darkness commune with
his destined prey. There are periods of temptation which none know
in their intensity, save such as have by long habit encouraged the
Evil One to tempt them--who have swallowed bait after bait, until
they can digest a very large hook at last.
At length, just as the dawn was reddening the skies, the baron
threw himself upon his pallet and slept, not the sleep of the
innocent, for his features moved convulsively again and again, and
sometimes it seemed as if he were contending with some fearful
adversary in his dreams.
But no angel of good stood near his couch; long since had continual
indulgence in evil driven his guardian away, and Satan had all his
own way.
The sounds of life and activity were many about the castle, and
still Hugo arose not, until the third or fourth hour. Then he
swallowed hastily a cup of generous Gascon wine, and a crust of
toasted bread, steeped in the liquor; after which he mounted his
favourite steed, a high horse of great spirit, not to say
viciousness, which none save himself cared to ride, and galloped
furiously for hours through the forest, startling the timid deer
and her fawn from many a brake.
It was evening when he returned: Wilfred had not yet been released.
Count Eustace had departed, not until he had sought an interview
with Wilfred, in his prison chamber, which turned out to be a
fruitless one; for, terrified although he was at the loss of his
letter, the youth kept his secret.
It was a pity that he did so. Many a sad page yet to be written
might have been saved. But was it unnatural that the poor orphan
should feel an invincible reluctance to claim Norman aid? yet the
Bishop of Coutances was Norman.
At length, supper being ready, Hugo came in and took his usual
place at the head of the high table. All trace of his mental
struggles was gone.
"Bring my son Wilfred down to the hall."
The attendants hasted, and soon reappeared with the English heir of
Aescendune.
He was calm and composed--that unhappy youth; he looked the baron
straight in the face, he did not honour Etienne or any one else
with a single glance; but waited to be questioned.
"Wilfred of Aescendune," said his stepfather, "why didst thou
absent thyself yesterday, and traverse dangerous roads without
permission?"
No answer.
"Didst thou fly because thou fearedst the combat, which thine own
unmannerly insolence had brought upon thee?"
"No."
It was the only word Wilfred spoke, and that with emphasis. Etienne
sneered.
"Perhaps thou mightest not have fled hadst thou known that the
combat would have been a mere form. I had instructed the marshal of
the lists to prevent deadly results."
Again Etienne cast a look at his companions, which seemed to give
the lie to these words.
"Wilt thou promise to make no further attempt to leave the demesne
without permission if thou art released from superveillance?"
"No," once more.
"Then I will no longer retain the charge of thee. Thou shalt go and
do penance at the priory of thy sainted namesake, till thou dost
come to a better mind. I will send thee after supper, and give
fitting charge to Father Elphege."
Wilfred was forced to sit down during the meal, but he ate nothing.
When it was ended, the baron called old Osbert the seneschal and
gave his instructions. They led the youth away; he did not return
the baron's half-ironical salutation, but departed with his guards
in silence.
High was the wassail in the castle that night, and many casks of
wine were broached; at length all sought their couches and slept
heavily.
But in the middle of the night many sleepers were aroused by the
cry of FIRE! yet so heavy with wine were they, that few arose; hut
most heard it as a man hears some sound in his sleep, which he half
suspects to belong to dreamland, and turns again to his pillow.
Imagine the surprise with which such men (including Etienne,
Pierre, and the other late companions of the unhappy Wilfred)
learned that the monastery had caught fire accidentally in the
night, and that so sudden had been the conflagration that none had
escaped.
None! No; so far as men could discover. The priory built by Offa of
Aescendune was a heap of smoking embers, and monks were there none,
neither had any heard aught of the English heir of Aescendune.
The poor English who yet remained in the village were weeping over
their lost friends, and the very Norman men-at-arms were hushed in
the presence of their sorrow.
The shades of evening fell upon the desolate ruins, but nought had
occurred to alleviate the calamity: all seemed to have perished
unaided in the suddenness of their destruction--a thing
improbable--unheard of--yet so it was.
All seemed over--the English brethren and their guest blotted out
from the earth. And none looked more contented than Baron Hugo.