We owe our readers some apology for having so long trifled with
their patience concerning the fate of Wilfred, and we trust they
are somewhat anxious to hear how he escaped the flames on that
fatal night when the monastery was burnt.
When good Father Alphege heard that the boy had returned under
captivity, for whose safety he was so anxious, he sent at once
another messenger to the good Bishop Geoffrey, imploring his aid
for the orphan.
But the monastery was already watched and neither letter nor
messenger was ever heard of again.
Imagine the good Father's astonishment when the following night he
received Wilfred safe and sound from the hands of Hugo, to do
penance.
"Wilfred, my dear boy, tell me all. What has become of the letter I
entrusted you with?"
"It was taken from me in my sleep. Write another; oh father, let me
start again at once!"
"The roads are all beset, my dear child, as I have heard today. I
have already sent a messenger, but tremble for his safety."
"What can I do to avenge my mother--my dear mother?"
"Wait, my child, only for a little while; God is too just to let
such crime remain unpunished."
"Why was not his arm outstretched to save? Oh, my father, I shall
become an infidel if this villain escapes unpunished!"
"Only wait; one day is with Him as a thousand years."
"But I shall not live a thousand years; I must see the day myself."
"Nay, dear child, thou art not thyself; this is wicked. Go into the
church and pray for the grace of patience."
"I cannot pray--I must act."
"Go and pray, my son. Come to me again in half an hour; I have
inquiries to make which touch thy safety. I would fain know why the
baron sent thee here, since he knoweth all; it would seem the last
thing he would be likely to do."
The good prior soon found by personal observation that the
monastery was watched, and had been so since Wilfred entered it,
and saw at once that did he start again the lad would never reach
his journey's end, and that suspicion would be thrown upon him and
his brethren.
He did not hesitate long; he had no doubt that Wilfred's life was
somehow threatened, and resolved to secure his safety. He sent for
a certain brother Kenelm, a monk in priestly orders, who had long
been entrusted with a delicate duty.
"How are our poor brethren in the woods, my brother?"
"They are faring well; there is no lack of venison, and their corn
crops are ripening for harvest. The land, thou knowest, hath been
cultivated for many years."
"It is providential that the Normans have never discovered that
little Zoar, which may remain unknown until their tyranny be
overpast; for surely God will not quite forget this poor people,
sinners although we have all been."
"The morass grows wider and deeper every year; the course of the
brooks which form it has been quite choked, and their waters but
tend to increase the desolation around."
"Couldst thou find thy way there this very night?"
"Surely, if there were need."
"There is great need. The young thane, Wilfred, is in danger--there
is some plot against his life. What it is I know not, but our poor
house has been watched ever since he has been here. Come to the
window and look; I have blown out the light; now look--dost thou
not see a man under the shade of the beech, near the entrance
gate?"
"Verily I do, father."
"And now come with me (leading him along a passage); look through
this window."
"Yes, there is another. Why do they watch?"
"That the young Wilfred may not escape; they think we shall send
him off again, as they know I did before."
"How do they know, father?"
"They have read my letter to the bishop."
"Then why have they sent him here? I am quite bewildered."
"That he may be sent again, entrapped, or slain, and failing that,
I know not what they will do. But we will outwit them; thou shalt
take him this very night to his poor thralls who dwell in the
swamp. They will rejoice to see him, and will live or die for him,
as seemeth best."
"But since we are watched, how shall we escape?"
"By the river. It is very dark: thou must unmoor the boat and float
down the stream for a full mile, without noise of oars, then enter
the forest and place the precious boy in safety."
"It shall be done, father."
"And quickly. Here he comes--supper, and then thou must say thy
compline on the river: thou wilt go while all the rest are in the
chapel, and mayst join us in spirit."
The good prior then went to the church, through the great cloister.
The poor lad he loved was praying and weeping.
"Wilfred," said the prior, "dost thou feel better now? Hast thou
poured out thy soul before thy Heavenly Father?"
"Better? yes, a little better now, father."
"Come with me to the refectory."
They left the church.
"Now eat a good meal."
"I cannot eat--it chokes me, father."
"Thou must, my dear son; it is a duty, for thou must travel far
tonight."
"Thank God."
"But it is not to Oxford, my son; thou wouldst not outlive the
night. It is that very journey they want thee to essay."
"Why?"
"That they may slay thee by the way."
"I may have my father's sword, which hangs over his tomb, may I
not?"
"Silly boy, what could one do against a score? Nay, thou must go
and hide for the present in the forest--thou rememberest 'Elfwyn's
Grange'?"
"Where my great grandfather hid from the Danes? Yes, many a time
have I gone there to shoot wild fowl, while my poor father was
alive."
"And thou knowest the buildings in the midst of the firm ground?"
"Well."
"Thou hast never told thy Norman companions about them?"
"Never! they one and all think the morass a mere desert, a
continuous swamp."
"So much the better, my dear son, for more than half the poor folk
who have deserted the village are there, and Father Kenelm will
take thee to them, for he knoweth the way, ministering to them
weekly as he does."
"But why may I not stay here?"
"I dare not keep thee, dear child; I fear some plot against thy
life; nay, the morass is the only safe place for thee till we can
communicate with the bishop, who has once befriended thee and may
do so again."
"Oh father, let it not be long!"
"That is in God's hands; abide patiently and wait thou on the Lord,
and He shall make thy path plain. Now eat; I will not say one word
more till thou art full."
Poor Wilfred did his best, and ate the last meal he was ever to eat
under that fated roof. The good fathers never suspected the real
design of their remorseless enemy.
The supper over, beneath those beams which were soon to fall
blazing upon their fated inmates, the lad bid a last farewell to
the good prior, to whom he had transferred the affection he once
felt for his dear parents. He fell on his shoulder, he wept,
embraced, and parted. The good prior wept, too. They never met
again.
"Take care of the precious lad, Father Kenelm; remember thou hast
the hope of Aescendune with thee."
They entered the little "punt" very quietly. The night was warm,
but fortunately obscure. They unmoored, and dropped down the stream
in perfect silence, listening to the bell as it tolled for
compline.
At length they reached the place the prior had indicated. They left
the boat, and entered the forest in safety, utterly undiscovered--here,
only Father Kenelm's accurate knowledge of the place could have availed
them in the darkness.
In three hours they had traversed ten woodland miles, and drew near
the quagmires. The path became fearfully intricate, and Wilfred was
startled by the marsh fires, while Father Kenelm began to pray for
the poor souls--he somehow supposed them to be, or to represent,
poor silly wandering souls--the while the night owl sang a dismal
chorus to his ditty. They followed a devious winding road--in and
out--with much care, the father holding Wilfred's hand all the
time, until they emerged and found themselves ascending between two
steep banks. It was a narrow valley, through which a brook poured
its waters into the desolation beneath.
At the summit they stopped and rested for a few minutes. It was
not, as may be imagined, very high; but beneath lay the whole
extent of the Dismal Swamp. It was after midnight.
"What can that brightness in the sky portend, my child? There must
be some dreadful fire; and, alas! it looks as if in the
neighbourhood of Aescendune!"
"I hope it is the castle."
The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the
monastery, and the reader knows he was right.
Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded
again. It was long before they left the summit and the view of the
reddened sky.
"May it not be the northern lights?"
"Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like
this. I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I
get me home again tomorrow."
Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.
At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the
brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground
traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.
In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook
divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met
again, hurrying down to the morass. Deep and rapid as it was, its
course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground
not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped
to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm
land.
There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home
once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero. The monk knocked
loudly at the door--no watch was kept--the marsh was their
protection.
The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up,
half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon
recognised the monk. Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or
three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.
"Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him--dost thou know him?"
"It is our young lord!"
Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar--the
welcome was grand--and it was all the good father could do to
prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news
that their young lord--rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even
threatened his life--was there, relying on their protection, and
that they, esteemed by the world as outlaws, were his chosen
guardians. They felt indeed, now, that they were not outlaws, but
patriots fighting against successful tyrants--the foes of their
country; even as the brave Hereward (so they had heard) was
fighting in the Camp of Refuge, amongst the fens of East Anglia.
And for Wilfred, the representative of a house which had ruled them
for centuries, the son of their lamented lord, who had died so
bravely at Senlac, they would one and all, if necessary, lay down
their lives.
On the morrow, at eventide, Father Kenelm returned from Aescendune,
horror struck, and brought the news of the burning of the abbey and
the lamentable fate of his brethren.
There was not an Englishman whose heart was not moved with
indignation and pity, nor one who failed to lay the burden of the
deed where our readers have long since, we doubt not, laid it--on
the head of Hugo.
Hence those terrible reprisals our pages have recorded--hence no
mercy was shown to the merciless; and the war between the baron and
his revolted dependants became one of extermination.
Every day brought accessions to their number; they were in
communication with similar centres of disaffection in all parts of
the midlands; and they confidently hoped for the day when the
Normans should be expelled, and England be England again.
So Wilfred regarded his banishment in the forest as a temporary one
at the best, and no longer looked for the aid of Normans, lay or
ecclesiastical, to avenge his mother's wrongs and his own; he would
vindicate them by the strong hand.
He was now eighteen years of age, practised in all manly sports and
warlike exercises, braced by daily use to support fatigue in mind
and body, and every day rendered him more qualified to be the
leader of his own people in the desperate warfare which lay between
them and their rights.
He shared their hardships, fared as they did, exposed himself as
far as they would permit him to every peril, and was modest enough
(unlike his Norman rival) to be guided by the advice of his elders,
the wisest of his late father's retainers.
One fault--and one the youthful reader will, we fear, look very
lightly upon--was gaining upon him--a deep and deadly hatred to
everything Norman. It was even rumoured that, like Hannibal of old,
he had vowed an undying hostility to the foes of his country and
his house; if so, our pages will show how he kept his word.
In this feeling Father Kenelm, who now ministered wholly to the
spiritual necessities of the dwellers in the Dismal Swamp, strove
feebly to restrain him; but Wilfred was rapidly outgrowing all
restraint, and perhaps the good father, who after all was human,
and the sole survivor of a happy and united brotherhood, did not
feel very deeply shocked by the hatred manifested to the destroyers
of his brethren.
Yet he pleaded for Pierre de Morlaix on the eventful night recorded
in our last chapter; but the cruel death of Eadwin at the hands of
the invaders rendered his prayers useless. The whole feeling of the
little community was with Wilfred in the matter; besides, they
wanted no prisoners, and dared not set one free to disclose the
secret of their refuge.
But we must resume the thread of our story, for our readers are
doubtless profoundly interested in the fate of Etienne, the rival
heir, and we must apologise for having kept them so long in
suspense.