Two years had passed away since his last visit, and Geoffrey,
Bishop of Coutances, was again a visitor in England, this time the
guest of the new primate of the conquered country, Archbishop
Lanfranc, a native of Pavia, and formerly abbot of the famed
monastery of Bec in Normandy, to whom the king had been greatly
indebted for his services as negotiator with the Court of Rome,
while the conquest was in deliberation.
He was a man of deep learning and great personal piety, yet not
without some of the faults of the race, under whose auspices he had
come to England. Still, in spite of his deep prejudices, he was
often, as we shall see in these pages, the protector of the
oppressed English.
Lanfranc was seated with his episcopal brother in the embrasure of
a deep window, looking out upon the cathedral close of Canterbury.
"It was sad, indeed, my brother," said the archbishop. "I scarcely
have known a sadder day than that of my installation. The cathedral
which thou seest slowly rising from its ruins yonder, had been
destroyed by fire, with all its ornaments, charters, and title
deeds. One would think that the heathen Danes had once more
overspread the land, instead of our own Christian countrymen."
"And yet we two are answerable to some extent for this conquest.
Without thee it had never been; thou didst gain the sanction of the
Pope and then preach it as a crusade. I followed the army to
Hastings, absolved the troops, and blessed its banners on the day
of the great victory."
"Heaven grant we may not have done wrong; but the sheep are
scattered abroad, as when a wolf entereth the fold."
"Thou mayest yet be the means of reconciling the conquerors and the
conquered--the Church is their natural mediator."
"God helping me, I will do justice between them; but the task is a
heavy one--it is hard, nay, terrible, to stand against the will of
this Conqueror."
"For this cause, perhaps, thou, who fearest not the face of man,
art chosen of Heaven."
A low knock at the door interrupted them.
"Enter," cried Lanfranc; and a monk of the Benedictine order, who
discharged the duty of chamberlain, appeared.
"A brother of our order craves an audience."
It must be remembered that Lanfranc was the abbot of a Benedictine
monastery ere he was called to Canterbury {xxiii}.
"Is he English or Norman? Hath he told thee his errand?"
"English. He hath travelled far, and says that his errand is one of
life or death."
"Let him enter," said the primate.
A man in a faded Benedictine habit, evidently spent with travel,
appeared at the door. His beard was of long growth, his hair was
uncombed, and his whole appearance that of a man who had passed
through perils of no small difficulty and danger.
Lanfranc gazed fixedly at him, and seemed to strive to read his
character in his face.
"Pax tibi, frater; I perceive thou art of our order. At what
monastery hast thou made thy profession?"
"At the priory of St. Wilfred, Aescendune," said Father Kenelm, for
it was he, as he bent the knee to the primate.
"A pious and learned home, doubtless, but its fame has not reached
my ears."
"But it has mine," said Geoffrey, who started and listened with
great attention.
"It was founded and enriched by Offa, thane of that domain, in the
year of grace 940, and burnt in the second year of our misery, now
three years agone. In its place stood for a short time the priory
of St. Denys."
"Thou mayest well say 'stood,'" interrupted Geoffrey, "for I hear
that it has also been destroyed by fire."
"By fire also?" said the astonished Lanfranc.
"It is a sad and tragical story," replied Geoffrey, "and it would
weary you and sadden me to relate it now. Bloodshed and all the
horrors of midnight rapine and warfare are mingled in it, and there
is a deep mystery yet unsolved. Tell me, my brother, wert thou an
inmate of St. Wilfred's priory when it was so mysteriously
destroyed?"
"I was."
"And how didst thou escape?"
"Our prior, the sainted Elphege, despatched me to some of our poor
flock, who had taken refuge in the woods, that I might commit one
deeply loved to their care."
"His name?"
"Wilfred of Aescendune. It is on his behalf that I have sought his
grace the new archbishop, led by his reputation for charity and
justice, but hardly expecting to meet any one here who knew the
story of our misfortunes and wrongs."
"Thou wilt wonder less, perhaps, if thou lookest at me a little
more closely. Dost thou not remember Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances,
who married Winifred of Aescendune to Hugo de Malville?"
"I do, indeed; and marvel, my lord," said he, "that I recognised
thee not at once; I bear a letter for thee written by hands long
since ashes--by our good Prior Elphege, the night before the
monastery was burned."
"Tell me, my brother," said Geoffrey, as he took the letter, "dost
thou know who burnt the monastery?"
"I do."
"Who, then? All the world names the youth thou didst save."
"Who would accuse the lamb of devouring the wolf? Hugo, sometime
baron of Aescendune, did the accursed deed."
"Canst thou prove it?"
"When thou hast read the letter, I have yet another document for
thee. I had brought both here to submit to my lord of Canterbury."
It was startling to watch Geoffrey as he read the parchment, the
very hairs of his head seemed to erect themselves, and his colour
changed from pale to red, from red to pale again.
"My brother," said Lanfranc, "what dost thou read which so
disturbeth thee?"
"Read it thyself," said he, giving the letter which he had finished
to the primate. "It purports to be the copy of a letter addressed
to me three years ago, when I was at Oxenford, but which never
reached me. Oh, what a story of damnable guilt! Tell me, man, where
didst thou obtain this?"
"I saw the original written by him, whose name it bears at the
foot, and at his request took this copy, which he has attested by
his name, for I was the chief calligrapher of the house of St.
Wilfred. It was his last act and deed on earth: within a few hours
he perished in the flames which consumed our poor dwelling."
Here Father Kenelm, not without emotion, handed a second parchment
to Geoffrey.
"And this?" said he of Coutances, interrogatively.
"Is the confession of a dying Norman, which he has attested by his
mark, for he could not write his name. I heard his last confession,
when, to remove the stain of guilt from the innocent, he made me
write this statement, and signed it as best he could."
"How didst thou get hold of this, brother?" said the Bishop of
Coutances, feeling himself, to use the expression of the writer,
"sick with horror."
"Thou hast heard, my lord, of the destruction of Baron Hugo in the
Dismal Swamp?"
"Surely; I was at Abingdon when his son Etienne brought the news."
"Only one who entered that swamp, so far as I know, escaped. Half
burnt, he dragged himself out, on our side, from the awful
conflagration, and hid himself till eventide in the woods,
suffering greatly.
"That day I had guided young Etienne de Malville from his
concealment in our midst, to liberty and safety, and as I returned
I heard the groans of a man in severe pain, but which seemed a long
distance away, borne on the night winds which swept the forest.
Guided by the sound, I found Guy, son of Roger, and tended him as I
had tended the son of the wicked baron. He lingered a few days, and
then died of his injuries, leaving me this confession, as his last
act and deed, with full liberty to divulge it when a fitting day
should arrive."
"But why hast thou not done so before?"
"Because it was not needed; nor could I leave my refuge in the
woods, where I had my own little flock to attend to, the few poor
sheep saved from the Norman wolf. Pardon me, for ye are Normans."
"We are Benedictines," said Lanfranc, reprovingly; "English or
Normans, the children of our father Benedict are brethren, even as
there is neither Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, in Christ."
"But why hast thou now come?" said Geoffrey.
"Hast thou not heard that the Camp of Refuge has fallen?"
"And what then?"
"Wilfred of Aescendune was a refugee therein."
"And is he taken?"
"He was sent, together with Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, as prisoner
to Abingdon, and will be brought to trial, when William arrives
there next week, and, unless thou savest him, will undoubtedly die
the death."
"He shall not die," said Geoffrey, "if we can save him. William
must acquit him if he hear all."
"Acquit him, yes," said Lanfranc, "of sacrilege and parricide; but
not, I fear, of the guilt of rebellion against his lawful king
{xxiv}."
"At least, if he must die, let him die freed from the supposed
guilt of such awful sacrilege, and let men know to what kind of
father King William committed the innocent English lad."
"Most certainly: if we cannot save him from the consequences of his
rash appeal to the sword, we will yet save him from the cord, or
worse, the stake, which might be thought the not inappropriate
penalty of the destruction of two successive houses of God by
fire."
"The stake! it is too horrible to think of!" said the monk; "thank
God I have not sought thee in vain. Forgive me, my lord, but the
lad is very dear to me."
"Nor is my own interest much less keen in him," said Geoffrey. "I
first met him at Senlac, where he sought his father's corpse amidst
the slain, and since that time have watched his tragic career not
without grief."
"But one question remains," spake Lanfranc. "The documents will be
disputed: how shall we prove them genuine?"
"There is much internal evidence; but may not some of the witnesses
of the crimes be living? For instance, the Jew, Abraham of Toledo,
he who sold the poisons to Hugo?" said Geoffrey.
"He shall be sought for," replied Lanfranc. "Meanwhile, Father
Kenelm, thou art my guest, and I must at once commend you to the
chamberlain, who will supply all your wants. You need food and
rest."
Bowing humbly--his heart full of gratitude--the good old
Benedictine followed the chamberlain, who appeared at the summons
of the primate, to more comfortable lodgings and better fare than
he had known for years.
CHAPTER XXII. THE CHAPTER HOUSE OF ABINGDON.
On the morrow of Michaelmas, in the year of grace 1071, an imposing
group of warriors and ecclesiastics was gathered in the chapter
house of the ancient Abbey of Abingdon.
The chamber in question was of rectangular form, but terminated at
the eastern end in an apse, where, beneath a column with radiating
arches, was the throne of the Lord Abbot.
A stone seat encompassed the other three sides of the building,
cushions interposing, however, between the person and the bare
stone beneath, as was meet.
The walls were arcaded, so as to form stalls, and in the arcades
were pictures of the Saints of the order, in glowing colours--St.
Benedict occupying the place of honour. Nor was St. Dunstan, the
most noted of English Benedictines, unrepresented.
A light burned perpetually in the midst of this chamber, framed so
as to image a tongue of fire, emblem of Him, whose inspiration was
sought at the gatherings of the chapter for deliberation.
Here novices were admitted and monastic punishment administered,
while penitential chambers adjoined, to which offenders were taken
after sentence had been delivered.
It was just after the chapter mass, and the fourth hour of the day.
William sat in the abbot's chair; on his right band Lanfranc
himself--for the Benedictine order was deeply interested in the
investigation about to be made. The abbot and all the elder
brethren were present, and sat on the right or northern side of the
building. Next the abbot sat Geoffrey of Coutances; amidst the
brethren was Father Kenelm.
But on the other side sat William's principal nobles and courtiers,
to whom reference has been made in former chapters--De la Pole,
Arundel, Clyfford, Fitz-Maurice, Hastings, Maltravers, Peverill,
Talbot, Harcourt, and many others--some of then grey-headed--in
arms.
Odo of Bayeux and Fitz-Osborne were there likewise, as also Robert
of Mortain and Pevensey.
A large coffer, called "the trunk," not unlike the box in which
prisoners appear in modern courts of justice, stood in the midst;
and therein, pale with illness and worn by mental distress, yet
still undaunted in the spirit, stood Wilfred of Aescendune.
Poor Wilfred! he needed all his courage, for he stood almost alone,
a mere youth, amidst many enemies. At the most there were but three
hearts present which beat with any sympathy for him.
Lanfranc had, however, possessed the king with certain general
facts, which disposed William to give the accused a patient
hearing, and when his "starkness" was not roused, William could be
just.
And so Wilfred, his face pale, his lips compressed, his hands
clasped upon the desk before him, gazed into the face of this awful
Conqueror, whose frown so few dared to meet--the very incarnation
of brute force and mental daring combined.
On his head was the crown of England, which he wore only on state
occasions, four times yearly as a rule, at certain great festivals.
One of these had just been held at Abingdon, and on this occasion,
as we see, he again assumed it. The sceptre was borne beneath by a
page who stood by his side.
William's voice first broke the silence--a stern, deep voice.
"Wilfred of Aescendune, we have chosen to hear thy defence in
person--if thou hast any defence becoming thee to make and us to
hear."
"Of what am I accused?" said the prisoner.
It was noticed that he omitted the royal title.
"Of rebellion, parricide, and sacrilege."
"I admit that I have fought against the invaders of my country, and
am nowise ashamed of it," said the brave youth, in a tone which,
without being defiant, was yet manly; "but I deny, as base and
wicked lies, the other charges made against me."
"Thou ownest thy rebellion?"
"I own that I have fought against thy people and thee; but I have
never sworn allegiance. Thou art not my rightful sovereign, and
hence I do not acknowledge the guilt of rebellion."
There was a general murmur of indignation, which William repressed.
"Peace, my lords; peace, churchmen. We are not moved by a boy's
rhetoric. The facts lie on the surface, and we need not enquire
whether one is truly a rebel who was taken red-handed in the
so-called 'Camp of Refuge;' nor do we deign to discuss those
rights, which Christendom acknowledges, with our subjects. The
question is this: Does the youth simply merit the lighter doom of a
rebel, or the far heavier one of a parricide and a sacrilegious
incendiary?"
"Parricide!" exclaimed the indignant prisoner. "My father, more
fortunate than I, died fighting against thee at Senlac."
"Hugo of Aescendune and Malville was nevertheless thy father by
adoption; and by the law of civilised nations, carried with that
adoption the rights and prerogatives of a sire. But we waste time.
Herald, summon the accuser."
"Etienne de Malville et Aescendune, enter!" cried the herald of the
court.
And Etienne appeared, dressed in sable mourning, and bowed before
the throne. He was pale, too, if that sallow colour, which
olive-like complexions like his assume when wrought upon, can be
called pale. He cast upon Wilfred one glance of intense hatred, and
then, looking down respectfully, awaited the words of the
Conqueror.
"Etienne de Malville, dost thou appear as the accuser of this
prisoner?"
"I do."
"Take thine oath, then, upon the Holy Gospels, only to speak the
truth; my Lord Archbishop will administer it."
Lanfranc administered the oath, much as it is done in courts of
justice nowadays, but with peculiar solemnity of manner.
Etienne repeated the words very solemnly and distinctly. No one
doubted, or could doubt, his sincerity.
"Of what crimes dost thou accuse the prisoner?"
"Parricide, in that he hath compassed the death of his adoptive
father; sacrilege, in that he burnt the priory of St. Wilfred with
all the monks therein, and later the Priory of St. Denys, from
which the inmates had happily escaped, and in support of this
accusation I am ready to wager my body in the lists, if the King so
allow."
"We do not risk thy safety against one who is already proved guilty
of rebellion, and who is not of knightly rank like thyself."
(Etienne had duly received knighthood after the taking of the Camp
of Refuge.)
"This is a question of evidence. State thy case."
Etienne spake clearly and well; and as he told the story of the
destruction of the priory of St. Wilfred, of the subsequent
appearance of our hero in the woods at the head of the outlaws, and
the later conflagrations, there were few who did not think that he
had proved his case, so far as it admitted of proof.
"We will now hear thy story of the destruction of the priory, and
the manner in which thou didst escape from it," said the Conqueror
to Wilfred.
Wilfred spoke good Norman French, thanks to his early education, in
company with Etienne and the other pages, after the Conquest. So he
began his story lucidly, but not without some emotion, which he
strove in vain to suppress.
"Normans," he said, "I would not defend myself against this foul
charge to save my forfeit life, nor could I hope to save it. Ye
have met like wolves to judge a stag, and since ye have taken from
me all that makes life dear, I refuse not to die; only I would die
with honour, and hence I strive, speaking but the words of truth,
to remove the stain which my enemy there" (he turned and pointed at
Etienne) "has cast upon my honour, for I am of a house that has
never known shame, and would not disgrace it in my person.
"I submitted to the father ye Normans gave me, and bore all the
wrongs he and his heaped upon me, until the day when I discovered
in that father" (he pronounced the word with the deepest scorn)
"the murderer of my own mother."
A general burst of incredulity, followed by an indignant and
scornful denial from Etienne.
"Silence," said a stern voice, "this is not a hostelry; the
prisoner has the right of speech and the ear of the judge; only,
Englishman, be careful what thou sayest."
"I repeat the simple fact, my lord" (this was the only title
Wilfred would give the King); "the baron, whom ye are pleased
sportively to call my father, poisoned my own mother."
"Poisoned! poisoned! My liege, can this be endured?"
"Hear him to the end, and then, if he have spoken without proof, it
will be time to pronounce his aggravated sentence. SILENCE!"
Wilfred continued, and told the whole story as our readers know it,
until his arrival at the Dismal Swamp. He described all that had
passed so clearly that his foes became interested in spite of
themselves, and listened. He did not charge Hugo with the burning
of the priory, for he had no evidence to sustain the charge, being
only aware that such was at hand to be produced by others; as he
had learnt from Father Kenelm, who had been granted admittance to
his cell.
At length he finished in these words:
"And now I have told you all the truth, and if ye will not believe
me, but prefer to think I betrayed those to death I loved so
dearly, I cannot help myself; but if there be a God, and a judgment
day--as ye all profess to believe--I appeal to that God and that
day, knowing that my innocence will then be made clear. That I
fought with them who slew the baron I freely admit, and hold myself
justified, as ye must, if ye believe my story; but I myself
protected the monks of your kindred, albeit they had taken the
places of better men than themselves, and not one was harmed; and
when we fled, we burnt castle, priory, and village, without
distinction, that they might not shelter an enemy. This, too, I
hold to be lawful in war.
"I know that Englishmen find scant justice at Norman hands, and
that ye will slay me as a rebel. Do so, and I will thank you; only
defile not the memory--slay not the reputation as well as the body.
If the house of Aescendune, which was planted in this land when ye
Normans were but pagan Danes, is to perish, let it at least go
unsullied to its grave. I have spoken."
There was strong sensation. His speech had produced some reaction
in his favour.
"It is, as we said before, a question of evidence," said the King.
"Is any forthcoming on one side or the other? for as yet neither
party has really shown who burnt the priory and the monks therein.
We have only assumptions, and they are not facts."
Lanfranc looked at the King, as if asking permission to speak. The
King bent his head, and the Archbishop began, addressing Etienne:
"Amongst the followers of thy father, was there a warrior named
Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville?"
"There was."
"Didst thou know him well?"
"Intimately."
"What became of him?"
"He was lost when my father perished--faithful, doubtless, to the
last."
"Didst thou ever see his mark as a witness to any charter, or the
like?"
"I did; instead of making a cross, he preferred to draw a bow."
"Wouldst thou recognise it, then?"
"I should, indeed."
"Then," said the Archbishop, holding a parchment folded up so as to
conceal all but the name and the mark of a bow beside it, "dost
thou know this mark?"
"I do; it is the mark of Guy, the son of Roger."
"Do ye all," said Lanfranc, turning round, "hear his affirmation?"
"We do--"
"Then hear what the paper contains."
I, Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville, being a dying man, and
about to meet my God, do make this, my last confession, for the
safety of my poor soul.
In the summer of the year 1068, in the mouth of June, I, with
twenty other men, who have, so far as I know, perished by firs in
the Dismal Swamp, was summoned to wait upon the Baron of Aescendune
in a private chamber. He told us that the honour of his house
depended upon us, and asked us whether we were willing to stand by
him in his necessity. He had selected us well. We were born on his
Norman estates, and trained up from childhood to do his will, and
that of the devil. We all promised to do whatever he should ask,
and to keep the matter a secret.
Then he told us that we were to burn the Priory of St. Wilfred at
midnight, and to allow none to escape.
This we did, we took possession silently of every exit, piled up
wood and straw, set it on fire on every side at once, and
transfixed all those who tried to break out with arrows or lances,
and hurled them back into the flames.
Long has my soul been sick with horror that I slew these holy men,
and now that all who were my companions in this deed have perished
by God's just judgment--burnt alive even as they burned--I, willing
to save my soul from the everlasting flame, do make this my
penitent confession, praying God to have mercy upon my soul.
Given in the Dismal Swamp, in the month of June, 1068.