"It is the crime and not the scaffold makes
The headsman's death a shame."
Wilfred sat alone in an upper chamber of the donjon tower the
Conqueror had erected at Oxford, hard by the mound thrown up by
Ethelfleda, lady of the Mercians and daughter of Alfred. For
thither the king had caused him to be removed, unwilling to stain
the holy precincts of Abingdon with a deed of blood, and confiding
fully in Robert d'Oyly, the governor of his new castle.
The passage up the river had occupied two full hours, under the
care of trusty and able rowers; for the stream was swift in those
days, before locks checked its course, as we have stated elsewhere.
Under the woods of Newenham, past the old Anglo-Saxon churches of
Sandford and Iffley, up the right-hand channel of the stream just
below the city, and so to the landing place beneath the old tower
{xxv}.
William had given orders to treat our Wilfred with all possible
consideration, and to allow him every indulgence, which did not
militate against his safe keeping, for he admired, even while he
felt it necessary to slay. So he was not thrust into a dungeon, but
confined in an upper chamber, where a grated window, at a great
height, afforded him a fair view of that world he was about to
leave for ever.
"Ah! if I were but in those woods," sighed the prisoner to himself,
"I would give these Normans some trouble to catch me again; but the
poor bird can only beat himself against the cruel bars of his
cage."
He counted the hours. It was the evening of his condemnation; two
whole days, followed by a feverish night, and then when that next
sun arose--
Strange thoughts began to arise--what sort of axe would they
use?--who would be there?--would they bind his eyes?--would he have
to kneel on the stones?--what kind of block would they use?
Little trifling details like these forced themselves upon him, even
as an artist represents each humble detail in a finished picture.
Did he repent that he had refused life and Aescendune? No, he hated
the Normans with too profound a hatred.
Was he prepared to die? We are sorry to record that he shook off
every thought of the future. God had delivered the English into the
hands of the Normans--his father and mother had been good religious
people, and what had they got by it? If there was a God, why were
such cruelties allowed to exist unavenged? He and His saints must
be asleep. Such were the wicked thoughts which arose, as we grieve
to record, in poor Wilfred's mind.
But now heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon
Lanfranc, conducted by the Norman governor, entered the cell.
Against him Wilfred could not, in reason, feel the enmity he bore
to all others of Norman race; it was owing to his exertions, and to
those of Geoffrey of Coutances, that he was about to die as a
patriot, and not as a sacrilegious incendiary.
It was the object of this worthy prelate to save the soul, where he
had failed to save the body, and to direct the thoughts of the
condemned one to Him, who Himself hung like a criminal between
earth and heaven, that He might save all who would put their trust
in Him.
The great obstacle in Wilfred's mind was his inability to forgive.
This his visitor soon perceived, and by the example of those dying
words, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," he
gently impressed upon the penitent the duty of forgiving those who
had wronged him--however deeply.
"But how can I forgive the murderers of my mother?"
"Thou believest that mother is in Paradise?"
"Indeed I do."
"Dost thou not wish to be with her at last?"
"As the hart desireth the water brooks."
"Then ask thyself what she would have thee do. Canst thou hope for
the pardon of thine own grievous sins, unless thou dost first
forgive all who have offended thee?"
"I will try. See me again tomorrow, father."
"I will do so: I remain at St. Frideswide's for--a day or two."
Wilfred understood the hesitation.
A different scene transpired simultaneously in the dungeons below,
which, with their accustomed ruthless policy, the Normans had
hollowed out of the soil.
The Jew, Abraham of Toledo, was resting uneasily, full of
fears--which experience too well justified--as to his personal
safety in this den of lions, when he also heard steps, this time
descending the stairs, and Geoffrey of Coutances was ushered in.
"Leave the cell," said the bishop to the gaoler, "but remain in the
passage. Close the door; I would speak with this penitent, as I
trust he will prove, in private."
"Never fear, your holiness," said the gaoler with somewhat undue
familiarity; "I care little for a Jew's patter, and this fellow
will need a long shrift before they make a roast of him--for that,
I suppose, will be the end of it."
The door slammed.
It was a miserable cell, composed of rough stones, lately put
together, oozing with the moisture from the damp soil around, for
the river was close by and the dungeon beneath its level.
"Art thou prepared to meet thy fitting end?"
"What crime have I committed to deserve death?"
"Thou hast knowingly and wilfully abetted, not one but many
poisoners, and the stake is the fitting doom for thee and them."
"Oh! not the stake, God of Abraham. If ye must slay, at least spare
the agonising flames; but what mercy can we hope for, we faithful
children of Abraham, from Nazarenes?"
"What price art thou willing to pay for thy forfeit life, if thy
sentence is commuted to exile from this land?"
"Price? Canst thou mean it? I will fill thy chambers with gold."
"I seek it not--albeit," added the worthy bishop, "some were fitly
bestowed on the poor--but that thou, whose former crime hast
brought a worthy youth to the block, shouldst undo the mischief as
far as thou art able."
"But what can I do? who would heed me?"
"Dost thou not know of a drug, which shall throw the drinker
thereof into a trance, so like death that all shall believe him
dead?"
"I do indeed."
"And art thou sure of thy power to revive the sleeper from this
seeming death, after the lapse of days--after men have committed
him as a corpse to the tomb?"
"I can do so with facility if I have the necessary drugs; but I am
stripped of all. Were I in London--"
"Hast thou no brethren in Oxenford?"
"Yea, verily, I remember Zacharias the Jew, who lives hard by the
river, in the parish of St. Ebba."
"Canst thou trust him with thy life?"
"He is a brother."
"Ye are better brothers than many Christians. I will send him to
thee, and he shall supply thee with the necessary medicaments. If
the experiment succeed, and absolute secrecy be observed, I will
cause thy sentence to be commuted to banishment, with the
forfeiture of some portion of thine ill-gotten goods; otherwise
there remaineth but the stake."
And Geoffrey of Coutances departed.
An hour later, Zacharias of St. Ebba's parish entered; the two
conferred a long time--Zacharias departed--returned again--and in
the evening of the following day sought the bishop and placed a
packet in his hand.
It was the last night on which poor Wilfred was allowed by Norman
mercy to live. The archbishop was with him.
He was penitent and resigned; his last confession was made, and it
was arranged that on the morrow he should receive the Holy
Communion at St. George's Chapel, within the precincts, from the
hands of Lanfranc, ere led forth to die, as now ordered, upon that
mound the visitor to Oxford still beholds, hard by that same donjon
tower.
"I thank thee, father," he said to Lanfranc--"I thank thee for the
hope thou hast given me of meeting those I have lost, in a better
and brighter world."
"Thou diest penitent for thy sins, and forgiving thy foes?"
"I do, indeed; it has been a struggle, but thou hast conquered."
"Not I, but Divine grace;" and the mighty prelate turned aside to
hide a tear.
Another visitor was announced, and Geoffrey of Coutances drew near.
"Thou art resigned, my Wilfred?"
"I am, by God's grace."
"Yet thou lookest feeble and ill. Drink this tonic; it will give
thee strength to play the man tomorrow."
He emptied the contents of a phial into a small cup of water.
Wilfred drank it up.
"And now, my son, hast thou any message to leave behind thee?"
"When thou seest Etienne, tell him I forgive, as I trust he
forgives also--we have much to pardon each other--and beg him to be
a merciful lord to such poor English as yet dwell in Aescendune."
"I will, indeed, and so second your last appeal that I doubt not to
prevail."
"And my sister--Hugo sent her, as he said, to be educated in the
convent of The Holy Trinity at Caen; convey her my last love, and a
lock of hair as a memento of her only brother. Poor Editha! she
will be alone now. Thou wilt care for her future fortunes; she has
a claim on the lands of Aescendune. Oh, Aescendune!--bright sky,
verdant fields, deep forest glades, pleasant river--thou passest to
Norman hands now."
It was the last moment of weakness.
"May I lie there beside my father?"
"Yes, thou shalt," said Lanfranc.
"After many years," muttered Geoffrey to himself, for he had a
secret, which he concealed from his more scrupulous brother.
Lanfranc rose to depart.
"Commend thyself to God in prayer; then sleep and dream of
Paradise. I will be with thee ere the October dawn."
And Lanfranc departed.
"How dost thou feel, my son?" said Geoffrey.
"Well, but strangely sleepy, as if control were leaving me and my
frame not my own. Was it a strengthening dose thou gavest me?"
"One which will, perchance, save thee. Lie on this bed; now sleep
if thou wilt--thou wilt arise the better for it."
And in a few minutes, all anxiety forgotten, Wilfred slept--slept
heavily. Geoffrey watched him awhile, then departed.
The morrow, and a great multitude of spectators had arranged
themselves around the slopes of the mound, just before sunrise.
On the tower itself stood Etienne de Malville, eager to see the end
of his hated rival, and to make sure, by ocular evidence, of his
death.
The morning was clear, after high dawn. The spectator on the tower
looked towards the eastern hills, over the valley of the Cherwell,
to see the sun arise above the heights of Headington.
It came at last--the signal of death: a huge arc of fire, changing
rapidly into a semi-circle, and then into a globe. All the earth
rejoiced around, but a shudder passed through the crowd.
The headsman leaned upon his axe, but no procession yet approached.
The sun was now a quarter of an hour high, when a murmur passed
through the crowd that something had happened. At length the murmur
deepened into a report that Wilfred had been found dead in his bed.
"Died," said some, "by the judgment of God."
"The better for him," said others.
And there were even those who murmured bitterly that they were
disappointed of the spectacle, which they had left their beds to
witness. Such unfeeling selfishness is not without example in
modern times.
Etienne left the roof, burning with indignation, suspecting some
trick to cheat him of his vengeance.
"Come into this cell," said the soft voice of Lanfranc.
Etienne obeyed.
There lay his young rival, cold and pale. Etienne doubted no
longer; death was too palpably stamped upon the face.
"Canst thou forgive now?" said Lanfranc. "His last message was one
of forgiveness for thee."
"I know not. An hour ago I thought no power on earth could make me;
but we have each suffered wrongs."
"Ye have."
"I do forgive, then; requiescat in pace."
"So shall it be well with thee before God," said the good prelate.
So Wilfred was buried in the vaults of St. Frideswide's church. The
Archbishop Lanfranc celebrated the funeral mass. It was noticed
with surprise that Bishop Geoffrey absented himself from the
function and the subsequent burial rites.
The week ended, as all weeks come to an end. Lanfranc had gone to
Canterbury. The Conqueror, assured by trusty reporters of the death
of Wilfred, rejoiced that so satisfactory an accident had befallen,
sparing all publicity and shame to one he could but admire, as he
ever admired pluck and devotion.
Geoffrey alone remained a guest at a monastic foundation hard by
St. Frideswide's.
The midnight bell has struck twelve--or, rather, has been struck
twelve times by the sexton, in the absence of machinery.
All is silence and gloom in the church of St. Frideswide, and upon
the burial ground around.
Three muffled figures stand in a recess of the cloisters.
"This is the door," said the sexton; "but, holy St. Frideswide, to
go down there tonight!"
"Thou forgettest I am a bishop; I can lay spirits if they arise."
The sexton stood at the open door--a group of the bishop's
retainers farther off--that iron door which never opened to inmate
before.
Geoffrey and the Jew advanced to the grave, amidst stone coffins
and recesses in the walls, where the dead lay, much as in the
catacombs.
They stopped before a certain recess.
There, swathed in woollen winding sheets, lay the mute form of
Wilfred of Aescendune.
"Let him see thee when he arises. The sight of this deathly place
may slay him. He will awake as from sleep. Take this sponge--bathe
well the brow; how the aromatic odour fills the vaults!"
A minute--no result. Another.
"Dog, hast thou deceived me and slain him? If so, thou shalt not
escape."
"Patience," said the Jew.
A heavy sigh escaped the sleeper.
"Thank God, he lives," said the bishop.
"Where am I? Have I slept long?"
"With friends--all is well.
"Cover his face; now bear him out to the air."
. . . . .
A barque was leaving the ancient port of Pevensey, bound for the
east. Two friends--one in the attire of a bishop, and a youth who
looked like a recent convalescent--stood on the deck.
"Farewell to England--dear England," said the younger.
"Thou mayest revisit it after thou hast fulfilled thy desire to
pray at thy Saviour's tomb, and to tread the holy soil His sacred
Feet have trodden; but it must be years hence."
"My best prayers must be for thee."
"Tut, tut, my child; thy adventures form an episode I love to think
of. See, Beachy Head recedes; anon thou shalt see the towers of
Coutances Cathedral across the deep."