A fortnight only had passed since the scenes described in our last
chapter, and we must again take our readers to Aescendune.
It was the hour of the evening meal in the castle hall where so
lately Hugo sat in his pride, and in his place sat his youthful
rival, Wilfred.
Scarcely of age, the vicissitudes of his life had made a man of him
before his time, and a stranger would have credited him with many
more years than he really possessed. His face was bronzed with the
sun, and his features had assumed all the appearance of early
manhood, while there was a gravity in his expression befitting a
born leader of men, such as his warlike grandfather, Alfgar, had
been in the old Danish wars sixty years earlier.
The accustomed features of an English feast, as distinct from a
Norman banquet, have been dwelt upon too often in these Chronicles
to need recapitulation here, and we shall only beg our readers to
suppose the eating over, the wine and mead handed round, and the
business of the evening begun.
The hall was crowded; all the ancient vassals of the house of
Aescendune, who yet survived, were present, and many new faces. By
the side of Wilfred sat a distinguished guest, an East Anglian, to
whom all present paid much attention.
The occasion was one of much gravity; only that evening messengers
had arrived, bringing the serious announcement that William the
mighty Conqueror, with a force said to be numerous as the leaves of
the trees, was at hand, and the gathering had been assembled to
discuss the measures expedient in the common danger.
There was deep silence; the summer twilight alone illumined the
grave faces of the English guests and vassals of Aescendune, as
Wilfred arose to address them.
"Englishmen and brethren," he began, "we have not invited you all
to share our evening meal on an occasion of idle ceremony--many of
you have heard the news I have to tell, and more will anticipate
them. The usurper, the bloodstained oppressor of our race is at
hand; he rests this night at Warwick, with a force far exceeding
any that we can gather to meet him; their lances might uphold the
skies, their arrows darken the heavens. All the robber barons of
note are there; the butcher priest Ode, who smote with the mace at
Hastings, because he might not shed blood, the fierce Lord of
Oxford, the half Danish Harcourt, Arundel, Talbot, Maltravers,
Peveril, Morton--all swell the train which has advanced to the
destruction of our faint hope of liberty in the Midlands, our trust
that at least old Mercia may defy the despoiler."
"Let us die, then, like brave men," was the cry of many, "since we
cannot live as freemen."
"And shed our blood in vain, leaving the victory to the oppressors!
Nay, we must live for another Senlac, which shall reverse the doom
of the former. Leofric of Deeping, our guest from East Anglia, will
tell you of one who yet defies Norman tyranny, with whom we may
unite, under whose banner victory may yet bless the old flag of
England."
Leofric rose, amidst cheers and demonstrations of applause,
somewhat tempered by the gravity of the occasion; nay, a few
faint-hearted churls said, "Let us hear what he has to propose
before we cheer him."
"Has the name of Hereward, Lord of Brunn, yet reached your ears?"
A general shout of approbation replied, "Yes!"
"He it was who, while yet but a stripling, stirred up the people of
Dover to drive the proud Eustace out of their town, in good King
Edward's time, when he slew with his own hands a French knight. He
fought by the side of our Harold when he tamed Griffith, the
wildcat of Wales. He was in Flanders, to our great loss, when the
Normans invaded England, and there he heard, with grief, of the
death of our Harold and the slaughter at Senlac. Now, hearing that
many brave men yet defy the tyrant in the Isle of Ely, protected by
its bogs and marshes, he has accepted the invitation of the Abbot
Thurstan, and has hastened to return home and place himself at
their head. Three years have passed since Hastings, and yet England
is unconquered; the Normans concentrate their force against Ely in
vain; Crowland, Spalding, and many other places are recovered, and
the Danes promise their assistance to deliver those who were their
brethren under Canute from Norman tyranny.
"Therefore, in the name of the Lord of Brunn and the Abbot Thurstan
of Ely, I invite you to repair thither, to take part in the great
struggle so nobly begun for the deliverance of England from the
hateful yoke."
There was a dead silence, broken at last by a voice:
"But might we not first strike a blow for our own poor homes?"
"That blow shall be struck in time, and in time not far off; but
now it would be a waste, and a sinful waste of English blood, just
when every man is wanted. What can ye do against ten thousand
Normans, out here in the open country? or what good can ye hope to
do in the woods? Nay, come to the Camp of Refuge, the last retreat
of England's noblest sons; there is the noble Archbishop Stigand,
the faithful English prelate, who dared to defy the Conqueror to
his face; there the Bishops of Lincoln, Winchester, Durham, and
Lindisfarne, whose fair palaces are usurped by Norman intruders;
there the patriotic Abbots of Glastonbury and St. Albans; there
nobles, thanes--all who yet dare to hope for England's salvation;
and thence shall the tide of victory return after the ebb, and
sweep the Bastard and his Norman dogs into the sea. England shall
be England again, yea, to the latest generations."
Cheer upon cheer arose from the company; it was evident that the
envoy had gained his point. Wilfred now stood up.
"There are but two courses open to us, men of Aescendune--to return
to our haunts in the woods, to be hunted out in the next dry season
like vermin; the other, to repair to the Camp of Refuge. I, for
one, have decided; I will no longer hide in the Dismal Swamp like a
brock--I will accept the invitation of Abbot Thurstan, and live or
die by the side of the brave Hereward."
"And I," "and I," "and I."
"We cannot all go," said Wilfred; "some must remain to escort our
women and children to the woods, and to defend them there, if need
be, till the tide of victory, of which our guest has told us,
reaches these parts. This task befits the oldest men amongst us;
but let each man make his choice this evening, for by midnight all
should be settled, and we who go should be on our way to the east."
"And are we to leave Aescendune to the foe?"
"Nay, this accursed monument of Norman tyranny, this castle shall
fall, the flames shall consume it this night, and we will give
every house, barn, and stable to the flames also. The Normans shall
find poor lodgings for man and beast when they come tomorrow.
Etienne, son of the murderer Hugo, shall enter upon a desolate
heritage, and feed his horses with cinders.
"Haga, oldest retainer of our house, wilt thou take the command of
those who remain? let them be thy children."
"I accept the charge," said the old man, and bowed his head.
"Now, who will remain with him in the woods, and who will go with
me? Let those who would ride to the Camp of Refuge hold up their
hands on high."
"Ulf, Sexwulf, Tosti, Wulfgar, Ordgar,"--and so Wilfred went on
counting all the younger and more impetuous spirits on his side,
his heart swelling with pardonable pride, as he thought he should
not go alone, or as a mere fugitive, to the help of the patriotic
Hereward.
But the aged men hung their heads; most of them had kindred--some a
wife, some children, and even amongst the younger there were those
whose love to an aged parent kept them back; the ties of family
were ever strong in the English heart.
So there were, after all, only about a hundred gallant youths, who
elected to make the dangerous ride across the heart of England,
Norman infested, with their young chieftain.
"A hundred such men will be a welcome addition to our numbers; few
thanes have joined us more worthily attended," said Leofric.
The meeting now broke up.
Great was the confusion in the village that night, and sad the
partings between friends and kinsfolk. All the beasts of burden
were put in requisition; only a hundred of the choicest steeds
reserved for the brave band who were to accompany their beloved
lord to the Camp.
By midnight these steeds were laden, and all was ready for the
exodus.
Then a dozen stern men bore brands of fire through the village, and
soon every house burst into flames.
It was sad to see their homes burning; it seemed almost a crime to
apply the torch; but each man thought it better far, than to leave
them for Normans to dwell in.
And soon a brighter blaze startled the neighbourhood--the castle
cast its broad banner of flame to the heavens, and thick clouds of
smoke blotted out the stars. Then the priory, the short-lived
priory, followed the lead of the castle, and the valley was light
as in broad day, while the river seemed to run with blood as it
reflected the blaze.
And by the light two parties left the village in opposite
directions--the last farewells were spoken. Into the woods--gloomy
and desolate, dimly lighted up by the glare, which filled the
heavens, along the river, glowing as it reflected the blaze--into
the woods the two different parties took their way.
The one was led by Wilfred, and Leofric as guide, the other by
Haga. And so the forest swallowed them up, and Aescendune knew them
no more.
The fire burnt on, but none were there to heed it; tower and
rampart came crashing down into the red ruins, but a few affrighted
birds were the only living witnesses of the doom of the proud
building, which Hugo had erected as the badge of the slavery of his
English vassals.
Crash! crash! and the answer came from the priory; down fell the
castle towers, down fell the priory bell turrets. Norman count and
Norman monk were alike homeless.
The morning sun rose brightly upon the devastation, the birds
resumed their matin songs, for it was a lovely morning in June; but
as yet no human footfall broke the oppressive silence.
It was the early hour of summer sunrise, and the distant sound of a
convent bell varied the monotony of the scene, as it called the
faithful to prayer. A sudden sound, as of many riders riding
briskly, and a band of lances--the avant garde of a mighty
army--drew rein at the verge of the yawning and smoking furnace
which had been the castle. There they paused abruptly, and one who
seemed almost overwhelmed by surprise and disappointment, gazed as
if stupefied upon the wreck of his fortunes.
It was Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville.
As we have seen, the conflagration was yet at its heights when
Wilfred of Aescendune and his hundred men left the scene, and took
their road to the east, along the reddened waters of the river.
It was not without the deepest sorrow, that the English heir thus
abandoned his inheritance, but necessity left no choice; it was
plain that the force arrayed against him rendered resistance
hopeless, and it was far better to go where his sword was likely to
be of use in the struggle for freedom than to hide in the woods, as
he said, "like a brock, until the dogs hunt it out."
And he had hope, too, that when it was discovered that he and his
bravest men had fled eastward, pursuit would be attracted in that
direction, and the poor fugitives in the woods left unmolested, at
least for the present.
As they rode rapidly and silently along, they saw in the distance,
with what bitter feelings may be imagined, the Norman castle of
Warwick, where at that moment the Conqueror himself was reposing,
and where the Norman heir was perhaps counting the hours, until
daylight should arouse him to go and seize upon his inheritance.
Onward they rode, conducted with the greatest skill and success by
their guide from the Camp of Refuge, Leofric of Deeping, who
entertained them by the way, when circumstances permitted, by many
a story about Hereward and his merry men, each one of whom he said
was a match for three Normans, while Hereward would not turn his
back upon seven at once.
When the east grew red with the coming light they were traversing
an immense tract of wild forest land, bright with the gorse, then
in flower, and tenanted only by myriads of rabbits; here they came
upon a grassy dell, with plenty of good grazing for their horses,
and a clear stream running through the bottom.
"We shall scarce find a better place than this to rest," said their
guide; "I know the spot well. When a boy my grandfather lived in
that ruined farmhouse which you can see peeping through the trees;
I remember I was just tall enough to look over yon wall."
"Is it in English hands now?" said Wilfred, anxiously.
"It is desolate--waste--ruined. The Normans butchered the inmates
long since, God knows why, save that they gave shelter to some
proscribed fugitives, who were being hunted like wild beasts. They
were not my own kinsfolk; by God's blessing my grandparents died
while Edward was yet alive. I often feel grateful that they did not
live to see these evil days."
They hobbled the horses, and took their own repast by the side of
the stream. Each man had brought rations for two days with him, and
there was no lack.
Then, after carefully setting sentinels in each direction, they
slept under the shade of the trees. The moss was a delicious couch,
the day was warm, and the murmur of the little stream, united to
the hum of the insects, lulled them to sleep.
It was not till after midday that Wilfred awoke. He found Leofric
already on foot, stretching himself after his nap.
"I am going to look at the old place," said he; "it stimulates my
feeling of hatred to the Normans. Will you come with me and see
their work?"
They crossed two or three fields lying fallow--indeed, no hand of
man had been busy there for more than a year; soon they came upon
the blackened ruins of a house, of which, however, some portions
had escaped the general conflagration; upon which Leofric observed:
"This was the work of Ivo Taille-Bois {xxi}, a Norman
woodcutter, whom the duke has manufactured into a noble, and set to
tyrannise over free-born Englishmen. Like a fiend he ever loves to
do evil, and when there is neither man, woman, nor child to
destroy, he will lame cattle, drive them into the water, break
their backs, or otherwise destroy them."
"But does not William ever administer justice, according to the
oath he swore at his coronation?"
"Not when the case is Englishman against Norman; then these
foreigners stick together like the scales on the dragon's back, one
overlapping the other. But we must waste no more time; it is just
possible, although unlikely, owing to the unfrequented route we
have taken, that your old enemy may be upon our track, with five
hundred Norman horse to back him."
They rejoined their comrades, and all were soon again in the
saddle--horses and men alike refreshed by the halt; with great
knowledge of the country their guide led them by unfrequented
routes towards the fenny country; in the distance they beheld the
newly rising castles, and heard from time to time an occasional
trumpet; more frequently they passed ruined villages, burnt houses
and farms, and saw on every side the evidence of the ferocity of
their conquerors.
Nightfall came and still they continued their route; Leofric
enlivening the way with many a tale of the exploits of the great
hero, whom he looked upon with confidence as the future deliverer
of England.
At length they left the woods and entered, just as the east was
brightening, into the level plains and marshes of East Anglia, and
here for the first time had reason to think they were pursued.
Looking back towards the deep shades of the woods they had left,
they caught sight of a dark moving mass, which seemed pursuing
them; but even as they looked its movements became uncertain, and
appeared to halt.
"The cowards fear to pursue us farther; they have a wholesome dread
of Hereward and his merry men, and we may embark in peace: we are
near an old manor house belonging to our great captain, and there
we may leave the horses in safety, satisfied no Norman will get
them--such is the terror of his name; then we will all take boat
for Ely."
The morning, the second of their journey, was already breaking
across a vast expanse of water and fenland, and the dawn was
empurpling the skies and making the waters glow like burnished
metal; so beautiful was the scene that it seemed a happy omen to
our tired wanderers.
The face of the country was level as the sea itself; no hillock
varied the monotony of the surface; but here and there some sail
glistened in the glowing light; and afar off Leofric pointed out
the towers of Ely Abbey, white and distinct in the rays of the
rising sun, which, just then, rose grandly out of the waters.
They left their horses at the manor house, which was garrisoned by
Hereward's retainers, and broke their fast, gladdened by an
enthusiastic reception; hope was not yet dead here.
Afterwards, they all embarked in large flat-bottomed boats, which
were sluggishly impelled, by oar and sail, towards the distant
towers of Ely.
The sweet fresh breeze, the cheerful warmth of the sun, soothed our
travellers, wearied with their long night ride; the monotonous
splash of the oars assisted to lull them into sleep, oblivious of
past fatigue. Wilfred awoke to find himself approaching the wharf
of Ely.
And here our narrative must perforce leave him for the space of two
years, sharing the fortunes of the famous Hereward, until the fall
of the last refuge of English liberty: the events of those two
years are matters of history {xxii}.