If the Conqueror had really intended to govern the English justly,
like his great predecessor Canute, circumstances over which he had
small control were against him; when he committed himself to an
unjust war of aggression against an unoffending people, for if
Harold had given him offence, England had given none, he entered
upon a course of evil in which he could not pause.
Canute was a heathen during his darkest and bloodiest days; when he
became a Christian, his worst deeds lay behind him, and the whole
course of his reign was a progress from evil to good, the scene
brightening each day. This, our Second Chronicle sufficiently
illustrates.
But William had no such excuse; he bore a high reputation for
piety--as piety was understood in his day, before the invasion of
England--he was, says a contemporary author, "a diligent student of
Scripture, a devout communicant, and a model to prelates and
judges."
But after ambition led him to stain his soul with the blood shed at
Senlac, his career was one upon which the clouds gathered more
thickly each day; his Norman followers clamoured for their promised
rewards, and he yielded to this temptation, and spoiled Englishmen,
thane after thane, to satisfy this greed, until the once wealthy
lords of the soil were driven to beg their bread, or to work as
slaves on the land they had once owned.
Early in 1067 William returned to celebrate his triumph in
Normandy, and while he was absent the government of the conquered
country was committed to his half brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux,
and William Fitz-Osborne. These rulers heard no cry for redress on
the part of the poor English, scorned their complaints, and
repulsed them with severity, as if they wished by provoking
rebellion to justify further confiscations and exactions; in short,
they made it impossible for the Conqueror to pursue his policy of
conciliation. Rebellions arose and were stifled in fire and blood,
and henceforth there was simply a reign of terror for the
conquered; on one side insolence and pride, on the other, misery
and despair.
Many of the English fled to the woods for refuge, and were hunted
down, when their tyrants could accomplish their wishes, like beasts
of prey, stigmatised with the title of "robbers" or "outlaws."
Such, as we have seen, was the case at Aescendune; and after the
supposed death of Wilfred, no bounds were set to the cruelties and
oppressions of Hugo and his satellites; their dungeons were full,
their torture chamber in constant use, so long as there were
Englishmen to suffer oppression and wrong.
Autumn, the autumn of 1068, came with all its wealth of golden
store; the crops were safely housed in the barns, the orchards were
laden with fruit, the woods had put on those brilliant hues with
which they prepare for the sleep of winter--never so fair as when
they assume the garb of decay.
Wilfred of Aescendune was gone. His tragical fate had aroused
little sympathy amongst his Norman companions, hardened as they
were by familiarity with scenes of violence; the burning of the
abbey and the fiery fate of its inmates had been but a nine days'
wonder. Etienne and his fellow pages spoke of their lost companion
with little regard to the maxim, "nihil nisi bonum de mortuis," and
seemed, indeed, to think that he was well out of the way.
There were few English left to mourn him: the baron would trust
none in the castle, and the churls and thralls of the village had
perished or taken refuge in the greenwoods, which lay, like a sea
of verdure, to the north of the domain of Aescendune, where it was
shrewdly suspected they might be found, enjoying the freedom of the
forests, and making free with the red deer.
It was a primeval forest, wherein were trees which had witnessed
old Druids, silver knife in hand, cutting the mistletoe, or which
had stood in the vigour of youth when Caesar's legionaries had
hunted those same Druids to their last retreats. Giant oaks cast
their huge limbs abroad, and entwined in matrimonial love with the
silver beech; timid deer with their fawns wantoned in the shade
beneath, or wild swine munched the acorns. Here were slow sedgy
streams, now illumined, as by a ray of light, when some monster of
the inland waters flashed along after his scaly prey, or stirred by
a sudden plunge as the otter sprang from the bank. Sometimes the
brock took an airing abroad, and the wolf came to look after his
interests and see what he could snatch.
While, in the upper regions, amidst that sea of leaves, whole
tribes of birds, long since vanished from England, carried on their
aerial business, and now and then the eagle made a swoop amongst
them, and then there was a grand scattering.
Many a lonely pool there was, where the kingfisher had never seen
the face of man; many a bushel, not to say waggon load, of nuts
rotted for want of modern schoolboys to gather them; many an acre
of blackberries wasted their sweetness on the desert air.
Now and then came the horn of the hunter, waking up the echoes,
then the loud murmur of hounds, then the rush and clamour of the
chase swept by, and all was quiet again, even as it is said to be
in the solitudes of the Black Forest, when the Wild Huntsman has
passed.
But there was a lonelier and yet wilder region, where the sound of
the hunter's horn only penetrated in faint vibrations from the far
distance.
This region was a deep and entangled morass, which had only been
explored by the veteran hunter of former days, or by the hunted
outlaw of the present. Streams had overflown their banks, the water
had stagnated, rank foliage had arisen, and giant trees rotted in
swamp and slime.
The Normans had never penetrated into this wilderness of slimy
desolation, although, of course, they had again and again reached
its borders and found bogs of bottomless depth, quagmires which
would suck one out of sight in a few minutes, and at nightfall
legions of evil spirits, as they thought them--for after dark these
sloughs were alive with Jack-o'-lanterns, which men believed to be
the souls of unbaptized infants.
In former Chronicles we have described the old hall of Aescendune,
as it stood in Anglo-Saxon days; it was then rather a home, a kind
of "moated grange," than a fortress.
But when Hugo the Norman took possession, he could not endure to
live in a house incapable of standing a regular siege. And well he
might have such feelings, when he remembered that he lived in the
midst of a subject population, to whom his tyranny had rendered him
and his men-at-arms hateful.
So he sent at once for Ralph of Evreux, a skilful architect, whose
line lay in the raising of castles and such like, who knew how to
dig the dungeon and embattle the keep, and into his hands he
committed the rebuilding of the castle of Aescendune.
All was bustle and activity. The poor thralls of the estate were
"worked to death;" stone had to be brought from an immense
distance, for wood might burn if subjected to fiery arrows; the
moat was deepened and water let in from the river; towers were
placed at each angle, furnished with loopholes for archers; and
over the entrance was a ponderous arch, with grate for raining down
fiery missiles, and portcullis to bar all approach to the inner
quadrangle, which was comparatively unchanged.
In short, the whole place was so thoroughly strengthened, that the
cruel baron might laugh to scorn any attempts of the unhappy
English to storm it, should they ever reach such a pitch of daring.
Below the castle walls the new priory was rapidly rising from the
ruins of the olden structure. It was to be dedicated to St.
Denys--for the Normans did not believe in any English saints--and
then it was to be inhabited by a colony of monks from the diocese
of Coutances-outre-mer.
This was to take place in order to please Bishop Geoffrey, who had
made some inconvenient inquiries into the circumstances connected
with the burning of the old abbey and the death of Wilfred.
But no awkward circumstances came to light; if there had been any
foul play, the actors therein kept their own counsel.
An incident which happened about this time caused no little
comment.
It was an October evening; the inmates of the castle (now properly
so called) were assembled at supper in the great hall, after a long
day's hunting of the wild boar.
In the middle of the meal, Pierre de Morlaix, who had tarried in
the forest, entered, looking as pale as a ghost and very excited in
manner, as if some extraordinary event had upset the balance of his
mind. It was not without a very apparent effort that, remembering
the composure of demeanour exacted by the feudal system from all
pages, he repressed his excitement and took his usual place.
The baron, however, had marked his discomposure, and was curious to
know its cause.
"Is aught amiss, Pierre?" he asked.
Pierre stammered, hesitated, then replied that there was nothing
amiss, only that he believed he had seen a ghost, or something very
much like one.
Dead silence fell on all, for the belief in ghosts was universal in
that age, as also in witchcraft and sorcery.
"A ghost, silly boy; what ghost? Thy fancy hath converted some
white cow into a spectre, in the uncertain light of the evening."
"Nay, I saw him too plainly."
"Saw whom?"
"Wilfred."
There was a pause--a dead pause, indeed; the baron changed colour
and appeared to attempt to hide the perturbation of his spirit.
"Speak out, my son," said the chaplain, "such things are sometimes
permitted by Heaven."
"Father, I was leaving the woods by the path which opens upon the
summit of the hill, above the blasted oak, when I saw Wilfred, as
when alive, standing on the summit, gazing upon the castle. He was
between me and the evening light, so, although it was getting dark,
I could not mistake him. He was deadly pale, and there was a look
on his face I had never seen in life as he turned round and faced
me."
"Well! didst thou speak?"
"I dared not; my limbs shook and the hair of my head
arose--fearfulness and trembling seized hold of me."
Etienne sneered just a little, yet probably he would not have
behaved better, only he might not have owned his fear.
"Well, did he disappear?"
"I looked again, and I thought he retreated into the woods, for he
was gone."
"Did he seem to see you?"
"He did not speak."
"Well," said the chaplain, "we will say a mass for him tomorrow, to
quiet his disturbed spirit, and he will, perhaps, vex us no more,
poor lad."
Etienne and Louis were very anxious to hear all the details of
Pierre's ghostly encounter, and questioned him very closely. The
former vowed he would have challenged the spectre; he did not fear
Wilfred living, nor would he fear him dead.
The whole conversation at the castle hearth that night was about
ghosts, demons, witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, and
such-like; and about two hours before midnight our young Normans
went to bed pleasantly terrified.
It was All Saints' Day, the day appointed for the consecration of
the new Priory of St. Deny's. The monks from Coutances had arrived.
The bishop of that diocese, already known to our readers, had
reached Aescendune to perform the ceremony, by permission of the
Bishop of Worcester, the sainted Wulfstan, in whose jurisdiction
the priory lay; and there was a grand gathering of Norman barons
and their retainers.
Strange it was that the same Epistle and Gospel which still serve
in the English Prayer Book for that day should have been read in
the ears of the Norman warriors--that they should have heard the
Beatitudes in the Gospel:
"Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called the children of God:
Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy:"
--and then gone forth to work out their own righteousness in the
manner peculiar to their nation. Well, perhaps there are not
wanting similar examples of inconsistency in the nineteenth
century.
So, with all the pomp of ecclesiastical ceremony, with gorgeous
vestments, lighted tapers, and clouds of incense, the new building
was dedicated to God.
And then, while the preparations for the evening banquet in the
hall were being made by the menials of the kitchen, the guests had
a grand tournament on the open mead in front of the castle, where
they did not study how to perform works of mercy.
We have not space to tell who won the prizes in this famous passage
of arms--who was unhorsed--whom the fair ladies crowned--save that
the young Etienne (now in his eighteenth year) distinguished
himself in every trial of skill or courage, unhorsed three youths
successively who opposed him, bore off the suspended ring--while
riding at full speed--on the top of his lance, and received the
garland from the hands of the fair Countess of Warwick, who
presided as Queen of the Jousts, amidst the applause of all
present, who declared that so brave and knightly a youth ought to
have his spurs at once.
He looked, indeed, handsome and brave, that typical Norman youth,
as he advanced with becoming modesty to kneel and receive the token
of his valour and success; his gallant demeanour and bright
eyes--albeit he was somewhat olive in complexion--did great
execution amongst the ladies, and they congratulated Hugo of
Malville and Aescendune upon his hopeful son and heir. No one
thought of poor Wilfred, save perhaps to reflect that he was well
out of the way.
The bishop and his clergy departed to the priory, but the greater
number of the laity remained for the evening banquet at the hall,
served with all the magnificence for which the Normans were so
renowned, while the prior and his brethren entertained the
ecclesiastics at a more sober repast.
The hall was filled by an assemblage of lords and ladies, arrayed
in such gorgeous apparel that it would need a far better milliner
than the writer to describe it; all the colours of the rainbow were
there, and the men had their share of the gaudy hues as well as the
women. Hugo was quite a sight, as he sat upon a dais, at the head
of the table, with his hopeful son--the hero of the day--on his
right.
And then the viands--there was venison dressed a dozen different
ways, beef and mutton, chine and haunch of the wild boar:
peacocks--feathers and all, the feathers not roasted but stuck in
their proper places after the poor bird left the oven--very
beautiful, but very tough was this piece de resistance. There were
all sorts of gravies, all kinds of soups.
Then the fish--the turbot, the salmon, and the perch, chub, trout,
and eel from the inland streams. Pike had not yet appeared in our
waters--they were a later importation--and other fish were more
plentiful in consequence.
Then the pastry--the castles in pie crust, with fruity warriors to
man their battlements--how should aught but cook describe them
properly?
For awhile there was no conversation, save an occasional
interjectional exclamation--"How good this fish!" "How tender this
fowl!" Wines of Gascony and Burgundy were circulating freely, and
were as usual brightening the eyes, quickening the tongue, and
stimulating the palate.
But when appetite was satisfied, then began the buzz of
conversation to arise, then the gleemen tuned their harps to sing
the praises of Norman warriors; nor did the toasts linger, nor was
the drinking of many healths absent.
Amongst the singers--men of many songs--those of wealth and rank
occasionally took turn; but there was no brighter voice or sweeter
song than that of Louis de Marmontier, the third of our trio of
pages. He had distinguished himself that day in the lists,
following closely in the steps of Etienne, and now he seemed likely
to win the prize for minstrelsy, as he sang the song of Rollo,
accompanying himself with thrilling chords on the harp, whose
strings had never uttered sweeter notes.
All at once, just when the attention of every one was fixed on the
singer, a startling interruption occurred, and the strings ceased
to vibrate.
A man, whose head was streaming with blood, whose features were
pale and ghastly, and who seemed scarcely able to support his
fainting limbs, was approaching the high dais, upon which reclined
his lord.
The song ceased--the cry was heard--"Help! my lord; they are
burning Yew Tree Farm, and I only am escaped to tell thee."
Suddenly he trembled, staggered, and fell. They raised him up, but
he was gone, his tale half untold. An arrow had pierced his breast,
and he had spent his dying strength in a desperate attempt to reach
his lord.
What had happened?
The horn was at this moment heard from the battlements, and its
burden was "FIRE."
Hugo turned pale, in spite of his prowess, then cried out--"To
horse! to horse!"
So crying, he rushed from the table, mounted his favourite steed,
and, followed by such as could keep pace with him--there were not
many--rode in the direction of the blaze, which was illuminating
the northern sky.
Onward! onward! ride the Normans! Onward through bush or brake, or
copse, or quagmire. Onward, till the clearing is reached, where the
English Lords of Aescendune built Yew Farm.
When they arrived at the spot, Hugo and his Normans paused in
astonishment.
For there, in the midst of the clearing, the farm buildings, one
and all, stood enveloped in flames. It was plain, at first sight,
that they must have been set on fire in many places at once, for in
no other way could the flames have taken such complete and uniform
hold.
But where were the inhabitants?
Not a living soul appeared, and the intense heat of the flames
forbade closer observation.
And as they stood and gazed helplessly upon the conflagration, the
remembrance of the burning of the Monastery came to many minds, and
they wondered at the similarity of the circumstances.
"Was this the hand of God?"
At length roof after roof fell in with hideous din. The Normans
waited about the spot and explored the neighbourhood, hoping to
find, lighted by the lurid flame of the fire, that Roger and his
labourers had found shelter somewhere. They searched in vain--they
found no one.
Slowly and sadly the party returned homewards to attend to their
duties but early next morning the baron and a chosen band rode to
the scene again.
Thick clouds of smoke ascended to the skies; a pungent smell
overpowered all the sweet odours of the forest; blackened beams and
stones, cracked and shivered by the heat, lay all around.
What had caused the fire? Could it have been accidental?
They soon decided that it could not.
Two things seemed conclusive on this point--the first, the
simultaneous outbreak in all parts of the buildings; the second,
the fact that no one had escaped, save the man who bore the news,
and died, his story but half told.
But what had been the fate of the rest? Had they been shut in the
buildings, and so left to die as the flames reached them?
The terrible conviction that such had been the case became general;
but at the same time the similarity of the circumstances with those
under which the Monastery had been burnt would necessitate a like
conclusion in that case also; and if so, who had then been the
incendiary?
There were those amongst the retainers of Baron Hugo who could have
answered this question, but they were all puzzled concerning the
latter conflagration, for they knew of no gathering of their
conquered foes, and they imagined they were acquainted with every
nook of the forest, save the impenetrable morass in its centre.
On the morrow there was to have been a great hunt; but instead of
the chase of beasts, the more exciting one of men was now
substituted--the "murderers" should be hunted out, cost what it
might--"The vermin should be extirpated."
The majority of the guests had departed the previous night, but
many yet remained, the guests of Hugo, and with some of the wisest
and most valiant of these he was taking counsel the following
morning how best to track the outlaws, who had dared to commit this
insolent deed, when Etienne appeared to announce that several of
their people had not returned home from the fire, and amongst them
his own fellow page, the minstrel of the previous night, Louis de
Marmontier.
"We will find them; perchance they yet linger there. Bid a troop of
horse be ready."
They mounted, rode, arrived on the scene, and found no one there.
Then they separated in all directions, two or three in each group,
to find their missing comrades.
Etienne and Pierre, with a dozen men at arms--for the baron would
not let them go forth less strongly attended--were eager in the
search, for they loved their companion, and were very anxious about
his safety.
Midway between the castle and the burnt farm, slightly out of the
track, was a huge oak, and around it a slight space clear of
undergrowth. A brook ran close by--a stream of sweet sparkling
water--and Etienne rode thither to give the horses drink, when, as
he approached, he saw the form of a youth leaning down, as if
drinking, and thought he knew the dress.
He approached eagerly. Yes, it was Louis; but he did not stir.
Etienne dismounted and discovered the fact he had already
anticipated: his young companion was dead: an arrow, evidently shot
close at hand, had pierced his chest. The poor lad had but slight
defensive armour--a light cuirass thrown on at the first alarm.
He had fallen and been left for dead, but had evidently afterwards
dragged himself to the brook, in the agony of thirst, and had died
while attempting to drink.
They placed the body reverently on the moss at the foot of the
tree, and for a time were silent. The remembrance of his activity
and gaiety on the previous day, and of his sweet minstrelsy on the
very eve of his voice being hushed for ever, came sadly to their
minds. At length Etienne broke the silence.
"Draw forth the arrow," he said.
They drew it forth and gave it him, bloodstained as it was: he
looked closely upon it.
"This is an arrow from the same quiver as that which killed
Gislebert; it is of English make, such as those clumsy louts use."
It was indeed a heavy, broad shaft, quite unlike the slender,
tapering arrows of Norman workmanship, adapted for a long flight,
in days when a furlong was considered a boy's distance.
"Our own serfs turn upon us. Well, they will rue it ere long; a
short shrift and a long rope will be their portion."
"Ah! I remember noticing such in the quiver of the young thrall
Eadwin," said Pierre--"he whose hand you sought to cut off for
poaching."
They said no more on that occasion, but pursued in silence the
train of thought suggested.
It was a strange gathering that night at the castle; for corpse
after corpse was borne in from the woods to receive Christian
burial at the priory, all killed by arrows, and those arrows--which
the slayers had not troubled to remove, as if they disdained
reprisals--all of the clumsy sort used by the "aborigines"