The castle and village of Aescendune lay in deep silence all
through this eventful day; it was in early spring, and the air was
balmy, the sun bright, the birds sang their sweetest songs, the
hedgerows and trees put forth their fresh green buds, and all
nature seemed instinct with life.
Only a few gray-headed servitors were left to guard the precincts
of the castle, for no attack was apprehended from the marauders of
the forest, as the Normans styled the English; and every one who
could bear arms had left to swell the final triumph of Hugo.
Noontide came, and found the little band, of some score aged men,
intent upon their midday meal. This accomplished, they reclined in
various easy positions, around the battlements, or on the
greensward without, while some had even penetrated into the forest
in their eagerness to hear the first news of the extermination of
the English, which none doubted was close at hand.
Towards the evening, one of them, who lay reclining on a mossy bank
beneath a spreading beech, on a slight eminence, observed a great
smoke rising above the tree tops in the distance.
"Doubtless," thought he, "they are smoking the vermin out, or
burning the houses and barns--of which we have heard--within the
circle of the Deadly Swamp."
But as the smoke increased more and more, a certain vague feeling
of anxiety gained possession of him, and he longed for more
accurate means of observation.
"Would I were not so old!
"Oh, young Tristam," he cried, as he observed a Norman boy, son of
one of the men-at-arms--a lad of about twelve years of age--"come
here!"
"What does all that smoke mean?" cried the lad; "are they burning
the encampment of the rebels, or has the forest caught fire? it is
dry enough."
"No doubt they are burning the huts of those rebels and outlaws in
the Swamp; but, Tristam, thou art young; canst thou not run over
through the woods? The hill, whereon the pine lately struck by
lightning stands, will command a distant view of the Swamp; then
return, and tell me all."
The boy started like a greyhound, and ran through the woods with
eagerness.
"A fine stripling, that; the saints grant his arms may turn out as
good as his legs," growled out old Raoul; and so he waited with
such patience as he could command.
An hour passed, and the old man was dozing, when the boy returned.
"Wake up, old man," he said, "I bring news."
"News--what news? Are they all burnt--slain--captives?"
"I know not; only the Dismal Swamp is a mass of flame, and all the
reeds and flags are burning merrily; 'tis such a bonfire!"
"I believe the lad would clap his hands at a bonfire, if his own
grandmother were burning therein as a witch. How dost thou know
whether this is for us or against us?"
"How can I tell?" said the lad, more seriously.
"Perchance our people had not all crossed, and the English fired it
to secure their own safety. But how could they have foreseen our
expedition?"
His anxiety was not of long duration, for an object was seen
emerging from the shadow of the woods, and making by the base of
the little hill towards Aescendune.
"What cheer?" cried the old man, "hither!"
And as he spoke the stranger turned his head, hearing the familiar
sounds, and ascended the hill slowly, and with pain.
He presented a dismal object; his hair and beard had been scorched
in some intense fire, and his clothes blackened and burnt.
The two Normans, old man and boy, stood up aghast.
"What! is it thou, Owen of Bayeux?"
"I was that man a few hours agone. I doubt what I am now."
"What hast thou suffered, then? Where are the baron and his men?"
"Burnt in the Dismal Swamp?"
"Burnt?"
"Yes, burnt; I speak good French do I not?"
"Owen, Owen," cried the old Raoul, "do not mistake thy friends for
foes! tell us what dreadful event has happened, to disturb thy
reason."
"Would it were but disturbed! Oh that I should have lived to see
this day!"
"Tell us," cried young Tristam, "tell us, Owen."
"A fate was on us, as on the Egyptians of old; only they perished
by water, we by fire."
"But how?"
"Ordgar the guide, whom we thought we had secured so opportunely,
led us into the marshes and left us therein; and while we were
there, the English fired the reeds and bulrushes on all sides."
"And the baron?"
"He and all have perished; I only have escaped to tell thee. Where
are the rest who were left behind?"
"Here they are," cried Tristam, as a group of old warriors
approached.
"Come, Roger, Jocelyn, Jolliffe--come hear the news," cried the
boy. "Oh, come and hear them; can they be true? All burnt? all
dead?"
The horror-struck Normans soon learnt the fatal truth from Owen of
Bayeux, and all their stoical fortitude was shaken.
"I was one of the last on the track, and saved only by a mere
chance, or the grace of St. Owen, my patron. I had dropped my
quiver of arrows, and had gone back a few steps to fetch it; they
brought me to the edge of the reedy marsh, and I was just
returning, having found the quiver, when I heard a cry, followed by
echoes as from a chain of sentinels all round the marsh--'Fire the
reeds!' I ran back to the main land, climbed a tree which stood
handy, and saw the marsh burst into fire in a hundred spots. It was
lighted all round, while our men were in the midst. A chain of
enemies surrounded it. I did my best to warn our lord or to die
with him. I penetrated the marsh a little distance, when the flames
beat me back--man can't fight fire."
"Let us go to the castle, take what we can carry, and fly," said
Raoul; "they will be here soon, if they have destroyed our men; and
there will be no safety nearer than Warwick for us."
"Can we abandon our post?" asked one.
"Not till we are sure all is lost," said another.
"Tristam, thou must remain here and watch, and warn us if any
approach."
"But how long shall I stay?" sobbed the alarmed boy.
"Nay, he is too young," cried the fugitive from the marsh;
"besides, it is needless. I know they are all coming upon us--they
are thousands strong instead of hundreds, as that liar, the guide,
stated. We must fly ourselves, for the time, and bid the monks, the
women, and children to fly also."
"Shall we burn the castle, lest it fall into their hands as a
stronghold?"
"Nay, that were to give up all; we shall return thither again, and
that soon; leave it open for them. The Norman lion will prove more
than a match for the English wolf in the long run."
"Onward, then--home--home."
And the dispirited men returned to the castle.
It was manifestly useless to attempt to defend the place; all that
could be done was to save their lives, and such "portable property"
as could be removed on the instant.
So the old men only returned to warn their astonished comrades, and
then gathering such household goods as they most valued, they
loaded the horses and oxen which remained, and journeyed to bear
the news to Warwick.
But before they went, Tristam was sent to warn the prior and his
confreres at the priory of St. Denys that danger was at hand.
"I care not," said that valiant prior of the Church Militant,
"though as many Englishmen were in the woods as leaves on the
trees; they shall be excommunicated if they interfere with us; our
weapons are not carnal."
So the Norman Prior and his monks shut their gates and remained,
while through the forest road the men-at-arms escorted all the
women and children of the village, the interlopers who had taken
the place of the banished English, towards the town of Warwick, and
its famous castle, where Henry de Beauchamp had recently been
appointed governor by the Conqueror, the first Norman Earl of
Warwick, and the ancestor of a famous line of warriors. We have
already met his countess at Aescendune, on the occasion of the
dedication of the new priory.
The Normans had all left the castle and village before sunset,
leaving the gates open and the drawbridge down, as they expressly
said that the English might be under no temptation to devastate a
place which must soon be in their hands again.
The castle lay empty and deserted for an hour or two; the cattle,
too many to be removed, began to low and bleat because they missed
their customary attention; only in the Priory of St. Denys did
things go on as usual; there the bells rang out for vespers and
compline, and the foreign brethren went on their way as if the
events of the day had no importance for them.
It was already nightfall, when the forests gave up hundreds of
armed men from their dark shade, who poured down like a torrent
upon Aescendune, and directed their course towards the castle,
where they were somewhat astonished to find the drawbridge down,
the gates open.
At first they paused as if they feared treachery, but Wilfred
stepped forward and stood in the gateway.
Turning round he addressed the multitude.
"Men of Aescendune, bear me witness that, in the name of my fathers
and ancestors, I, their heir, take possession of mine inheritance."
A loud burst of cheers greeted these words, and the English,
following their young lord into the castle, found it utterly
deserted.
No words can describe the glee with which they paraded the
battlements, and flung out the ancient banner of the house of
Aescendune to the winds, from the summit of the keep, after which
they penetrated chamber after chamber, with almost childish
curiosity, so new was the idea of such a building to their
imaginations.
But it was with sensations of chilling horror that they explored
its dungeons beneath the very foundations of the towers. Some were
cells for solitary confinement, of the shape of a tomb and not much
larger, the stone doors of which shut with a gloomy solemn
sound--the knell of hope to the captive.
And then they came to the torture chamber, of which they had
already heard from Ordgar, son of Haga, and saw the seat of
judgment, so often occupied by him who had now passed to his dread
account; they beheld the rack, the brazier, the thumbscrew, and
shuddered.
"I am sick," said the English heir; "take away these accursed
things; burn what will burn, and throw the rest in the river;
should our grandchildren find them, they may well ask what they
were made for."
Meanwhile the monks at the new priory were calmly awaiting their
fate with a courage worthy of a better cause. They heard the joyful
shouts of the English as they took possession of the castle,
without flinching; they rang their bells loudly and defiantly, for
the compline service at the third hour of the night (9 P.M.) This
last act of audacity was too much; the natives surrounded the new
priory, beat at its doors, rang the bell at the gate, blew their
horns, and made a noise which baffles description, while they
proceeded to batter down the gates.
But not until the service was concluded, when the gate only hung by
one hinge, did the prior appear.
"Who are ye," he cried, "who molest the house of God, and those who
serve Him within?"
"A pious fox"--"a holy fox"--"smoke them out"--"set the place on
fire"--"let them taste the fate which befell better men on this
spot!"
"In whose name," said the undismayed prior, "do ye summon me?"
"In the name of the descendant of him who first founded this
priory--of Wilfred, thane of Aescendune."
"Ye mock us; he is dead."
"Nay, he lives," said a voice, and our youthful hero appeared on
the scene, and addressed the astonished monk.
"Prior, go forth from the house thou and thy brethren have usurped,
and make way for the true owners. By my side stands the sole
survivor of the brethren whom Hugo de Malville slaughtered, Father
Kenelm, a Benedictine like thyself. Admit him; he will tell thee
all."
"Since it may be no better, he shall come in. If I open the gates
for him, ye will not take advantage?"
"Stand back," cried Wilfred, "let the holy monk enter alone."
And, shortly after, Father Kenelm stood in the chapter house, and
explained all to the astonished Norman brethren. He told the story
of the destruction of their predecessors, and pointed out the
danger of resisting the now triumphant English, who felt themselves
the avengers of their slaughtered ministers and friends, the former
monks of St. Wilfred.
"It is well," said the other; "we will go forth; thou speakest with
justice, as brother to brother, and whatever befall thy companions,
this shall be counted in thy favour if I have a tongue to speak."
So the Norman prior and his monks took their way unharmed to the
nearest house of their order.
It was night and dark clouds of smoke rolled heavenward, blotting
out the fair stars from sight. Silence dread and awful reigned over
the Dismal Swamp, the scene of strife and suffering; the very
beasts fled the spot, nor could the birds of night linger in the
heated air.
But at Aescendune all was tumult and joy. The English had advanced
against an undefended stronghold, and Wilfred was at last, as his
fathers had been, Lord of Aescendune.
There was a banquet that night in the castle hall. In the old days
of Roman triumphs, a man was placed behind the seat of the
conquering general as he sat in the intoxication of success, and
amidst the adulation of the multitude ever and anon whispered--
"Memento to moriturum."
So also there was an unseen attendant behind the chair of Wilfred.
In vain he strove to drive it away; the future would thrust itself
upon him.
He had slaked his vengeance to the uttermost and had no remorse: he
had avenged father, mother--the spiritual guides of his youth;
still he had once heard, even from them--"Vengeance is mine: I will
repay saith the Lord."
"Sing, bards," he cried out; "has no minstrel a new strain?"
They exerted themselves to the utmost; and Wilfred, determined to
rise to the occasion, threw off his sadness, ceased to speculate as
to the chances of the insurrection {xvi}; that night, at least,
he would give to joy--he would encourage his people who loved him
so faithfully by rejoicing with them.
So the song and the banquet lasted until the midnight hour, and the
castle of Hugo echoed the old forgotten songs of the glories of
Anglo-Saxon England.