The reader will remember that we left Etienne of Aescendune cum
Malville and his band in a most critical moment--lost in a
wilderness full of enemies of unknown number and uncertain
position; but with a gleam of comfort in the shape of a light which
had arisen out of the gloom before them.
"It is one of the rascals carrying a torch. Let loose the dogs; if
they but seize him, we can extort the whole truth; then we shall
know what to do."
Ralph immediately slipped the older and fiercer hound, and tried to
set him on the destined prey; but to his astonishment the beast
bounded forward but a few yards, then returned with its tail
between its legs and whined piteously.
"Are we all bewitched?" exclaimed Etienne.
"Witches and warlocks are said to abound in these woods, and many
other works of Satan also."
"The light goes steadily onwards: it is a man carrying a torch; let
us follow him up."
They followed rapidly, the torch going smoothly on before them,
when all at once the whole party fell into a miry slough up to
their waists.
The deceitful light danced about in a joyous manner, as if it were
mocking them, and then went out and left them all in utter
darkness, struggling vainly in the mud and slime.
"Where are we?" said Pierre, piteously.
"In the Dismal Swamp," said Ralph.
"Amongst toads and snakes," cried another.
At this moment half-a-dozen lights appeared in various directions.
"Good heavens, the place is alive with marsh fires."
"They are what the English call Jack-o'-lanterns."
"They are ignes fatui," said Pierre.
"They are the souls of unbaptized babies," said Ralph. "Let us try
to return to the firm ground we have left."
More easily said than done. Our unfortunate Normans struggled
vainly in the darkness and in the mire, uttering piteous
exclamations--cold and frozen, and mocked ever and anon by some
blazing light. Many a vow did they make to our Lady of Sorrows, and
to St. Erroutt, St. Gervaise, St. Denys, and every other Norman
saint, till somebody suggested that the English saints might know
more about the morass, and they condescended to appeal to St. Chad
(mighty in those parts), beseeching his help in their distress.
Suddenly a piercing cry told that one was being swallowed up in
some quicksand; but they could give no aid, and only shudder in
helplessness.
At that moment Etienne caught hold of the loose leash by which one
of the dogs was secured.
"Let us follow the dogs," he said; "they always scent out firm
ground."
There was now, happily for them, more light; it had long since
ceased to snow, and the stars came out brightly.
"See," said Pierre, "the moon is rising; we shall have it quite
light soon."
"Would it had risen earlier," croaked Ralph.
The dogs, their noses to the ground, went on bravely, winding in
and out between quagmire and rotting herbage. Had the light been
brighter, our Normans would have perceived the impressions of
numerous footmarks of men on the path they were taking--the dogs
were at last on the scent they had sought all day, whether for weal
or for woe.
At length the path suddenly ascended a bank, and the light through
the tree tops showed that they were approaching a clearing.
They ascended cautiously, and from the summit of the short ascent
looked out upon an elevated tableland in the midst of the morass.
Before them, encircled by a little brook, which shortly afterwards
swelled the waters of the morass, stood a large rustic dwelling,
overgrown with ivy; and not far distant rose many houses or
huts--in fact, to their no small amazement, they beheld a village,
and one, too, that no individual amongst them had ever seen or
heard of before.
"'Tis the very nest of vipers we have sought all day," said
Etienne.
"And have found to our undoing," lamented Ralph.
"See, there is light behind that shutter, I will creep up and look
in," said Etienne; "rest you all here."
There was no glass in common use in those days, and, save when horn
was employed, people--the poor at least--had to choose, even in the
daytime, between darkness and warmth; for when they let in the
light, they let in the weather.
Looking through the chinks in the shutters, Etienne gazed inside.
It was the farmhouse occupied by a former lord, Elfwyn of
Aescendune, during the Danish invasions, as recorded in a former
Chronicle, and was larger and more commodious than usual in those
days. There were several smaller houses, or rather huts, around;
but if they had inmates, they were all silent--perhaps asleep, for
the hour was late.
Beside a fire, kindled beneath a large open chimney, such as were
then in use in the bettermost houses--for the poor were content
with a hole in the roof--sat a youth of some sixteen years of age,
busily attending to a large pot over the fire, from which, from
time to time, savoury fumes ascended, the odour of which gladdened
even the olfactory organs of our young Norman aristocrat.
Etienne knew him: it was Eadwin, the son of Wilfred's old nurse,
for whom he had an ancient grudge, which he at once resolved to
gratify.
He summoned Ralph and the rest who had escaped the morass--they
were only ten in number, the others had succumbed to the horrors of
that fearful night.
Yet even so, the impulses of pride and cruelty were not subdued in
the heart of Etienne, son of Hugo.
"The English robbers have left their haunt for a time; doubtless
they were the fellows who passed us in the forest, and there is but
one boy left in charge, of whom I know something; we will seize him
and learn the truth."
"Suppose they come back while we tarry here?"
"We will set a watch to warn us in good time."
Etienne stepped lightly to the door; it was actually unbarred, so
secure did the English feel in this hitherto inaccessible retreat,
and his hand was on the shoulder of his intended victim before he
had taken the alarm. He turned round and started violently as he
recognised his ancient enemies, then made a vain attempt to gain
the door, which was immediately and easily frustrated.
"Nay, thou young oaf, thou canst not escape. Dost thou not know thy
own lords? Thou art a runaway thrall, and thy life is forfeited;
but if thou wilt but use thy tongue, thou mayest perchance save it
and escape lightly. Tell me--Who are the people who live here? Who
is their leader? How many there be? Where they are now?"
The young dweller in the woods had by this time recovered his self
possession. He was a mere lad, yet endued with manly courage which
fitted him to endure nobly for the sake of those whom he loved.
"Thou art not my true lord, and never wast; neither will I answer
thy questions, though thou slay me."
"Then thou mayst prepare for death."
"They live who may avenge me."
"We will chance that. Stand yonder, against the wall, stretch out
thine arms, or they shall be stretched for thee.
"Tie him, my men, to that post--" pointing, as he spoke, to one of
the uprights which supported the roof, and which was partially
detached from the wooden wall--"and extend his arms to the posts on
either side."
Conscious that resistance was hopeless, Eadwin submitted quietly to
be bound, listening nevertheless so eagerly for sounds from without
that Ralph marked his strained attention; Etienne was intent upon
his designed cruelty.
"Once more, wilt thou answer me?" he said.
"No," said his victim, quietly and firmly.
"Then thou must suffer. Thou shalt die as thy St. Edmund did--fit
death it was, too, for a beggarly English saint. I ask thee for the
last time."
No reply. Etienne bade the men stand aside, and then, taking his
stand at the other end of the room, which may have been twenty feet
long, took accurate aim and shot an arrow through the muscle of the
right arm.
"Wilt thou speak?"
Beads of sweat stood upon the brow; but the lips found strength yet
to answer--once more the bolt flew, and the left arm was pierced in
turn.
"Wilt thou answer my questions now?
"The rebels and fools, thy countrymen, have been amusing themselves
by shooting at us all day; methinks the tables are turned now."
He shot again and wounded his victim in the shoulder. The whole
frame trembled; the lips moved, as if in prayer.
"Let me shoot this time," said Pierre, "if he will not answer."
"Take the bow then; hit the other shoulder."
Pierre took very accurate aim, and shot right through the heart.
One convulsive throb, and the body hang by the cords dead, and past
the reach of suffering.
"Thou fool!" said Etienne, forgetting his customary courtesy to his
equals, "thou hast spoilt all--we may never learn the truth now."
"He was too brave a lad to be tortured," said Pierre, upon whom the
patient courage of the sufferer had made a very deep impression,
"so I gave him the coup de grace."
"My lord, had we not better depart? These English may return at any
moment; tomorrow we may come with all the force at our command."
"We will sup first at all events. That soup smells good; it will
put a little warmth into our bodies, and it is worth a little risk
to have the chance of drying our clothes at this fire."
So they left the body of poor Eadwin where it had fallen, and being
now spent with hunger, they poured the soup into basins and ate it
greedily.
Suddenly the door was burst open, the room was filled with their
foes--uplifted weapons, deadly blows, cries, curses in English and
French--in short, such a melee ensued that it passes all our power
to describe it. The fire was kicked over the place--blood hissed as
it ran over the floor and met the hot embers--the torches were
speedily extinguished or converted into weapons--men rolled over
and over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger or
knife--they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads against
the floor--they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, not
with the fist, but the knife--on rolled the strife--the very
building shook--till there was a sudden lull, and in a few more
minutes it was peace.
A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, many
streaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight of
which were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to be
Normans.
Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded--it was Pierre.
The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in several
places, yet not mortally--and fully conscious--when he heard an
eager voice inquire in a tone of authority:
"What is the meaning of all this? How did they cross the morass?
Are many of our people hurt?"
He looked up; the voice startled him. Well it might--it was to him
a voice from the grave.
There, in the doorway, living and well, strong and well-liking, in
the glare of torchlight, stood his former companion, Wilfred of
Aescendune.
Their eyes met, and they gazed fixedly, yes, and proudly, upon each
other; but the glance of Wilfred softened first. He saw before him
the only one of his former companions who had ever given him a
friendly word, whom misapprehension alone had estranged from him,
which he (Wilfred) had refused to remove.
"We meet again, Pierre de Morlaix."
"Thou art not dead, then. How didst thou escape? Who burnt the
monastery?"
"Art thou so demented as to ask me? Dost thou think English torches
fired an English house of God? Times are changed now, and thou
seest me surrounded by the vassals of my father's house, who own no
lord but their natural chieftain. But where is Etienne? We have
watched your party all day, and know that the young tyrant was
their leader. Is he amongst the dead?"
"Look for thyself."
No. Etienne was not amongst the dead. How, then, had he escaped?
"Search the premises--search the woods--stop the paths across the
morass--men and dogs, all of you. Better all the rest had escaped:
he shall never, never live to be lord of Aescendune."
And Wilfred vanished to give orders out of doors.
An hour had passed away; the dead had been removed, the English to
be decently buried--for there was an old church built by Elfwyn of
Aescendune, during the Danish wars {xi}, and around it lay the
graves of those who had died in troublous times; there English
priests were still found to serve at the altar; Norman tyranny did
not spare the English Church any more than the English nobility.
But the Norman dead were simply carried to a quagmire of bottomless
depth which absorbed the bodies, and furnished a convenient though
dreadful grave.
And in this division of the slain, young Eadwin, pierced with four
wounds, was found; and the arrows, yet remaining, showed at once
that he had not fallen in fair strife.
The search for Etienne, still unsuccessful, was being eagerly
pursued, when Wilfred returned, bent on questioning Pierre, and
beheld the dead body of Eadwin.
He was deeply moved, for he had loved the poor lad, his foster
brother, well, and could not easily restrain his emotion, but so
soon as he was master of himself, the desire for vengeance
superseded softer emotions, and he ordered the wounded Pierre to be
brought before him.
He had no difficulty in learning the truth. Pierre, now upon his
mettle, somewhat sorrowfully said that as the young thrall would
not answer his lord when bidden, Etienne had endeavoured to compel
him.
"Thou hadst, then, no part in it?"
"I gave the coup de grace."
"Then thou hast sealed thine own fate: it is folly to extend mercy
to those who never show it."
"I have not asked it of thee--of the associate of murderers and
outlaws."
The sun rose clear and bright after that eventful night--the storm
was over--its rising beams fell upon a company of archers drawn up
in the English encampment--upon a young warrior doomed to die, who
stood bravely before them. The gray-haired priest who had prepared
him for death--the only favour shown him--bade him a last farewell;
the bows twanged, and the same arrows which had transfixed the
flesh of Eadwin pierced the heart of Pierre de Morlaix.