It will blow a fierce wind ere long!”
“Let it blow,” said the chief, drawing himself up to the full height of
his figure; “there are those that shall weather the gale. What, Eustace!
Thinkest thou that in caves, or in castles, or in fastnesses, there is
safety for those whom Henry calls traitors? Our refuge is in
battle-field, our trust in ready sword. I have advanced my foot in this
quarrel, and yon oak is not fixed more firmly.”
“I am ready to serve thee in good and in ill: I am ready to live and to
die with thee; but it were sheer madness, with thy single force, to----”
The chief interrupted him by unfolding his letters and pointing to
several names which were mentioned in them, speaking hastily as he went
on. “Archetil is up in arms--Ferrars is with us--Roger de Moubray hath
good bowmen--Hamo de Mascie will not flinch--Hugh Bigod will not be idle
in a rising--Clare and Gloucester may be won; and, let but Williams hear
the news of our arming, the North shall see a hundred thousand Scottish
spears ere a hundred men are afoot against us. It is no time for
dallying: and this place, though for forty-eight hours it hath concealed
our ill-assorted levy, is no safe abode for men engaged in this warfare.
We must endeavour to join my brother at the setting of to-morrow’s sun.”
Eustace bowed, and was preparing to withdraw, but was recalled. A few
sentences were exchanged, in which the name of Reginald was frequently
mentioned, and he was then summoned before his captor.
“Reginald d’Arennes,” said the Knight, in a low tone of voice, “thou
seest before thee Richard de Mallory. For himself he hath little claim
to expect that his name should have been breathed in thine ear, but thou
wilt know him better as the brother of the renowned Archetil de Mallory,
who with many brave companions, which at a more fitting time shall be
enumerated to thee, is now in arms against usurpation and tyranny. What
sayest thou? Wilt thou continue to disgrace, by thine inactivity, the
name of thine ancestor? or wilt thou join thy name to the list of these
valiant nobles, buckle thy fortune to thy sword, and win an earldom by
my side?”
Now Reginald was by no means deficient in natural penetration, although
he had not the firmness of character which was requisite to act upon its
suggestions; he saw, therefore, that the attempt of these “valiant
nobles,” like the many other conspiracies by which the reign of Henry
II. was perpetually threatened, would probably have for its conclusion
confiscation and death. He was not very ready to embark in an
undertaking of this nature, until he had conferred with the Baron upon
its expediency, and had calculated the chances for and against success.
Upon the present occasion, therefore, he succeeded with much difficulty
in pleading his approaching bridal as an excuse for declining the offer
of his new acquaintance.
Richard de Mallory, however, appeared by no means satisfied with the
apology; the less so, when upon inquiry he heard that the lady whose
unseen charms detained the young lord from the field was of Saxon
descent. That the scion of so illustrious a stock should intermarry with
that contemned race was an idea which startled the prejudices of the
proud Norman; insomuch that he evidently entertained serious doubts of
the truth of the narration. “Elfrida of Kennet Hold!” he muttered to
himself; “named not the Saxon whom our spies brought hither this morning
the name of Kennet Hold?”
“He did,” replied Eustace.
“Lead him hither,” said De Mallory; and instantly, from one of the
avenues which led into the forest, some armed men brought forth a
captive Saxon, in whom Reginald immediately recognized the messenger who
had escaped from his baffled followers in the morning. The Saxon also
bestowed a glance of recognition upon his fellow-captive. “Saxon,” said
De Mallory scornfully, “what saidst thou was thy name? for in truth the
appellations of thy race dwell not long in Norman remembrance.”
“I am called,” said the prisoner, looking on Reginald as he spoke,
“Lothaire, the first-born of Leofwyn of Kennet Hold. Thy name, Richard
de Mallory, is not unknown to me: thou art one of those who have raised
up the subjects against the king, and the sons against the father. But
the work needed not thine agency. It shall be long ere a Norman shall
know peace on the throne of Harold; long ere the gods of the Saxons
shall cease to revenge upon the head of his descendants the usurpation
of the first William.”
“I asked not for thy forebodings; nor knew I that I had a prophet in my
camp. One more question shall I ask thee. Shall Reginald d’Arennes wed
thy father’s daughter?”
Lothaire seemed much embarrassed by the question: he hesitated for some
time; until at last, smiling, as if he had found the means of releasing
himself from some difficulty, he looked at Reginald with an
unintelligible expression of countenance, and replied, “He rideth with
that purpose.”
“It is enough,” exclaimed the chief. “The Norman knight that can stoop
to wed with the daughter of a Saxon franklin is no fellow in arms for
Richard de Mallory. Let them wend on their way together. Where is the
fool? It were a pity to deny him such fit company.”
And with this sarcasm the three captives were suffered to depart, being
first obliged to swear a binding oath not to divulge what they had seen
and heard in their confinement. Reginald suffered himself to be
reconducted to the place where he had been seized, without betraying any
unusual emotion either of joy or resentment; but Lothaire cast back upon
the Norman leader frequent glances expressive of the most determined
hate, and a disposition to make a speedy and an ample return for his
discourteous hospitality. Their horses were brought to them, and they
again set forward upon their errand with no injury but what was
occasioned by the long delay they had experienced. It was near sunset,
and there seemed little possibility of their reaching Kennet Hold before
nightfall. They pushed on, however, at a brisk pace. It may be doubted
whether Reginald was altogether pleased with the new companion he had
met with in the person of Lothaire, who accompanied him unasked, and
threw upon him at whiles a look which spoke anything rather than
brotherly love. Robin kept a respectful distance, for he seemed to have
for the Saxon youth no stronger predilection than his master.
Meantime the mind of the rebel chief was little disturbed by the
disastrous intelligence which he had received. The leader, upon whom his
party had placed the greatest reliance, was taken; and the easy defeat
of the Flemings had taught him a lesson which every one that embarks in
a great undertaking should learn betimes--that it is a perilous thing to
put trust in foreign auxiliaries. Yet so accustomed was he to this
irregular mode of warfare, and so inured to all the vicissitudes to
which the fickle temper of Dame Fortune might subject him, that his
mind was at this moment perfectly calm, and hardly rested a thought upon
the perilous situation in which he found himself placed. He seated
himself at the rude banquet, which his followers were now preparing,
with perfect indifference, although the possibility of his enjoying
another tranquil meal was at least a matter of doubt. After some time
spent in noisy revelling--for when their assistance was required in an
affair of so much danger, the chief thought it no scorn to join in the
merriment and court the goodwill of his vassals--Richard began to
reflect upon his interview with his two captives; and, with a
contemptuous smile, he asked who was the Saxon divinity to whom they
must attribute the loss of so able a coadjutor in the person of Reginald
d’Arennes.
A dozen sturdy voices were lifted up at once, in commendation of the
Lady Elfrida. Her tall and commanding stature--her long flaxen hair--her
dignified countenance--her cheeks, whose bright complexion invited the
flattery which they blushed to hear--and her light blue eye, whose
glance beamed so mildly on the meek, and met so proudly the gazes of the
proud--were alternately the themes of admiration. At last the chieftain,
impatient of these rapturous effusions, which he began to think were
endless, poured out his last cup “To the health of the Rose of Kennet
Hold,” and deserted the board. He busied himself for a time in giving
the necessary orders for their departure early in the ensuing morning;
and then, calling Eustace aside, exclaimed: “We will ourselves look upon
this Saxon beauty: by our Lady, if she deserve but one half of the
praises of these boors, she may haply be the companion of our onward
march.” And with these words, attended by his esquire, De Mallory strode
from the enclosure.
While this scene was going on, Reginald and his companion had made
considerable progress on their journey, and were within a few miles of
its termination; yet not a word had been exchanged between them. They
looked from time to time towards each other, apparently with a mutual
feeling of dislike, if not of apprehension. At last Lothaire led the way
to conversation, in a tone which betrayed a strong disposition to offer
an insult, although the disposition appeared to be checked or subdued
for a time by the counter-agency of some equally powerful motive.
“Sir Reginald,” said he, “knowest thou the qualities which are required
in him who would sue for the hand of my sister Elfrida?”
“I have doubts touching this matter,” replied Reginald.
“Methinks,” rejoined his companion, “it were worth the while to instruct
thyself further, ere thou settest foot on my father’s threshold; for, of
a truth, Elfrida hath a right Saxon spirit and a right Saxon speech: she
hath proud eyes, that smile on whom they list and frown on whom they
will; and proud thoughts, that respect not so much the glittering of the
corselet as the valour of the knight that wears it.”
This was somewhat like a thunderclap to poor Reginald. He had
anticipated no difficulties of this nature: the timidity of his nature
would have shrunk back with horror from the mention of a protracted
courtship. In short, he had expected a path strewn with roses, and he
found it beset with briars; he came to wed an obedient and passive
bride, and he began to suspect she was little better than an intractable
virago. After having spent some moments in reflections of this nature,
he gave utterance to his secret musings in a brief soliloquy:
“I am doubting whether or no I shall proceed.”
He was answered by a loud laugh from his intended brother-in-law, who
proceeded forthwith to dispel the apprehensions which he had himself
excited.
“Cheer thee, noble Knight; be not afraid for a woman. Thou hast,
princely Reginald, many valorous and knightly qualities, the least of
which might win a richer bride than the daughter of Leofwyn and the
sister of Lothaire. Surely thou dost obtain honour at those splendid
jousts, from which thou knowest our Saxon habits do utterly revolt; and,
doubtless, thou hast skill in foreign music, which thou knowest our
Saxon ears do utterly detest; and thou art also skilled in that foreign
language which thou knowest a Saxon doth so loath, that he would have
his tongue torn from his throat rather than give utterance to its
accents.”
“Brother,” said Reginald, who began to perceive the necessity of
conciliating Lothaire, “I have meddled but little with courts, and, in
my ignorance of these accomplishments, I am a perfect Saxon. But I
prithee tell me, in love and fellowship, by what means or endeavours it
is possible for me to win the goodwill of thy sister.”
“I will show thee,” said Lothaire. “First, thou must learn to speak, not
tardily through thy teeth, as is thy present method, but boldly, openly,
and fearlessly, as one man should do to another.”
“Whether this be possible, I doubt,” observed Reginald.
“Secondly,” said his instructor, “at my father’s board thou must not be
too ready to relinquish the goblet.”
“I will do thee reason--I will do thee reason, Sir Lothaire,” returned
Reginald. “Marry, I shall need but little instruction upon that head.”
And he strained his eye as he spoke in the direction of Kennet Hold, as
if he would measure the space which lay between his lip and the flagon.
“Thirdly,” resumed Lothaire, “thou must hate a Norman as thou wouldest
hate the foul fiend.”
“I do,” cried Reginald; “I do hate a Norman: the Norman we parted from
e’en now, Richard de Mallory. A blight upon him! He hath bound me,
scoffed at me, worried my body and my mind, until I can scarcely keep my
saddle on my journey or recollect whither the journey tendeth. A murrain
on the proud knight! Doth he fancy that I care aught whether the father
or the son hath the better? whether the Henry I serve be called the
second or the third?”
“If I may risk prophecy,” muttered the Saxon, “thou wilt never see the
third Henry wearing his father’s crown. We have worn the yoke of your
tyrants long enough; and it is time that the throne of Alfred should be
again filled by one of his descendants. Despised and oppressed as we
are, there are still true Saxons enow to drive ye headlong from the land
ye have spoiled.”
The two young men continued to ride as far apart as courtesy and their
roads would permit, and the line of conversation into which they had
fallen did not seem likely to promote kinder feelings between them.
Reginald’s national prejudices began to rise high within him, and to
overpower the want of energy which was his failing. “Sir Lothaire,” he
replied doggedly, “methinks thou hast forgotten Hastings.”
“Sir Knight,” said his companion, in a melancholy voice, “it is not
possible for thee or for me to forget Hastings. Thine ancestor did
obtain there power, and title, and riches; mine did win nothing but
honour and his grave. The chance may be ours in another field. If valour
and desert in arms had had their meed the bastard of Normandy had never
set foot upon the corpse of Harold.”
“Thou errest, thou errest, good brother,” said Reginald unthinkingly;
“the single arm of King William was sufficient to beat down Harold and
his brothers to boot. Thine ancestor himself, Sir Lothaire, was light in
the balance when weighed with the least of our Norman chivalry!”
“Norman liar!” exclaimed Lothaire, and immediately giving his horse the
spur, and causing him to make a demivolte, which brought him close to
his companion’s side, he raised his ponderous arm, and dealt with his
mailed hand so terrible a blow between the corselet and headpiece of his
future brother-in-law, that Launcelot reeled upon his haunches, and his
rider fell to the ground without sense or motion. Lothaire gazed for a
moment upon the fallen Knight; and then, after beckoning to Robin to
come up, put his horse into a hand gallop, and continued his route.
Robin, when the formidable Saxon was out of sight, ventured to approach
the scene of the fracas. Piteous was the sight which presented itself.
Launcelot was standing beneath a neighbouring tree, still trembling with
the shock he had received. Reginald lay motionless in the dust: his
bright armour was soiled with earth and blood, which gushed out
plentifully from his mouth and nostrils. Robin took off his helmet, and
endeavoured, by throwing water over his features, to restore animation.
After having spent a long time in the vain endeavour, he looked upon his
fallen patron with an expression of utter despair, and muttered to
himself, “My master is certainly dead; and there will be no wedding, nor
revel, nor wassailing.” He continued for some minutes in deep
contemplation, and then exclaimed, “An my project hold good, I will be
revenged on the Saxon churl.” And with these words he began to disarm
his master.
While these incidents were taking place among those personages to whom
our attention has been hitherto confined, the state of the inhabitants
of Kennet Hold was such as calls for our notice. The MS., indeed, from
which I draw this narrative, goes through all the minute particulars of
Reginald’s journey, until it sets him down at the gate of his
father-in-law; but, to avoid greater prolixity than is necessary, I will
reserve this explanation for my _dénouement_, and for the present
leaving my hero on his bed of earth, I will introduce my reader, without
further delay, to the hall at Kennet Hold.
Everything seemed to be in a state of unusual confusion at the residence
of the Saxon. This was, no doubt, partly to be attributed to the
extraordinary preparations made by the cooks, and to the wish of the
domestics to appear in the sprucest attire before the eyes of the Norman
guest. But there was something more than this in the bustle which
pervaded Kennet Hold. There seemed to be in every countenance, from the
swineherd to the thane, the consciousness of some concealment, some
unspeakable secret lingering on the lips, and awaiting a fit opportunity
for disclosure. Many of the menials were staring at each other in
silence, although they had abundant occupation before them; and many
were looking inordinately busy, although it was their chance to have
nothing to do. The expression of their faces was various. In some you
could perceive little more than a repressed desire to laugh; but on the
features of the higher sort of vassals you might read pride, contempt,
resentment, together with a visible exultation, which plainly told that
all these vindictive feelings were on the eve of gratification.
Leofwyn himself was seated on the chair of his hall, beneath a scarlet
canopy, in all the rude state which his Saxon prejudices permitted. He
was of short stature, with a round good-humoured face, which spoke, as
plainly as face could speak, that its owner was willing to be upon
friendly terms with the rest of the world, if the rest of the world
would give him leave. In fact, Leofwyn was of a disposition to prefer
the beginning of a banquet to the conclusion of a broil; and if he had
been at liberty to consult his own inclination, there would have been
much wine, and but very little blood, poured out annually by the
retainers of Kennet Hold. Many causes, however, conspired to make these
pacific qualities of no effect. In the first place, the chief had an
hereditary feud to support against the invaders of the land; and,
although he himself saw nothing in these foreigners which should deserve
his malediction, he deemed it his duty to hate them most religiously,
because his father had done so before him; secondly, his son Lothaire
was of a terribly violent temper, and was always seeking an opportunity
for embroiling his father with some Norman landholder; and thirdly, this
opportunity was frequently afforded by the predatory attacks of the
surrounding nobles.
In the retaliation which Leofwyn exercised for these outrages he
frequently put in practice some cunning and jocose device, which
accorded ill with the professions of hate and enmity which he was
perpetually making. For instance, it appears that when the vassals of
Sir Robert de Vallice had made considerable depredations upon the
Saxon’s swine, he carried off the only son of the offender, and, after
confining him in company with the porkers for a night and a day, sent
him back to Sir Robert, with a message that “he had sent him his
swineherd also.” Such freaks as these had among his dependents secured
to him the reputation of having a right sharp wit: among his powerful
neighbours he was considered little better than a madman, in consequence
of which, amidst the oppressions to which his race was daily subject, he
had been allowed to pass his days in despised security.
Upon the present occasion it seemed that he had some unusually clever
design in view. He was perpetually giving some instructions to the
domestics, in a tone of voice mysteriously low, and again relapsing into
deep and silent meditation. In short, in the anxiety which he evinced
for the approaching nuptials, he showed all the assiduity and precaution
of a modern match maker. Reginald did not come at the appointed time;
the old man began to grow impatient; he asked for his son. “Lothaire,”
replied one of the attendants, “bore forth thy message in the morning,
being desirous of looking on the Norman guest. He hath not yet
returned.” “It is the better,” said Leofwyn to himself. “His hastiness
might defeat what my prudence hath devised. Nevertheless, I cannot but
marvel at his stay. Is the bride apparelled?” “She is: the maidens have
been busied about her head-gear since noonday. Marry they have no light
task; for the hair they decorate hath been but little used to the
operation.” “Peace!” said Leofwyn.
Hours passed away in rapid succession, evening came gradually on; and
still there were no traces or tidings of Reginald d’Arennes. The Saxon’s
choler began to rise in earnest. “Surely,” he muttered inwardly,
“surely, that hot-brained fellow Lothaire hath not overturned the
structure my counsel hath been so long a-building; mischief light upon
him if he hath dared to make or to meddle! The forward boy is ever at
bullying and drawing of swords. Boys’ play, boys’ play; but it were a
brave thing to put this slight upon the Norman. Marry, hang him if he
hath despoiled my daughter of her husband.”
Suddenly his soliloquy was interrupted by the blast of horn announcing
the arrival of strangers. Leofwyn leaped from his seat in an ecstasy;
but immediately resumed it, with a studied look of gravity, that
restrained the inclination of merriment which was predominant among his
dependents. Every one, therefore, was silent, as the folding-doors were
slowly unclosed, and the major-domo introduced to the presence of his
lord--Sir Reginald d’Arennes.
He was greeted by his future father-in-law with cold and distant
courtesy, which he returned in a manner of still greater reserve. “Sir
Knight,” said Leofwyn, “it is my will that thy nuptials be solemnized
ere thou sittest down to the banquet. My son Lothaire is choleric (his
guest gave an involuntary motion of assent); and if he should return
before the wedding, I know not whether thy head might not lie in the
castle-moat sooner than on the bridal pillow.” The bridegroom shuddered.
“Is the Lady Elfrida attired?” continued Leofwyn, in a tone of mock
gravity, which was exceedingly ludicrous. The attendants caught the
infection, and many unrepressed jests circulated among them, as they
departed to bear their lord’s summons to his daughter.
Presently Elfrida made her appearance. The bridegroom started as she
entered the hall: perhaps the exterior qualifications of the Saxon
beauty might not altogether correspond with the exaggerated reports
which his ears had greedily drunk. Her figure might be called elegant,
but was certainly too short to deserve the appellation of dignified; her
face might be deemed pretty, but the pertness which was its prevalent
characteristic disqualified it for the epithet of beautiful. Instead of
the soft yellow hair which her adorer had expected, he beheld a
profusion of dark brown ringlets; and in lieu of the languishing blue
eye, which he deemed would have dissolved him into rapture, he met the
glance of a sparkling black one, in which there lurked a very strong
inclination to laugh in his face. To his disappointment, however, if he
felt any, Reginald gave no vent; he seemed to have a great reluctance to
unclose, in the presence of Saxons, either his visor or his lips. Both
parties betrayed a wish to have the ceremony performed as speedily as
possible; and the nuptials of Sir Reginald d’Arennes with Elfrida, the
daughter of Leofwyn of Kennet Hold, were accordingly celebrated in the
chapel which was attached to the residence of the Saxon. The Lady
Elfrida was splendidly attired; but, in other respects, the nuptial
rites were graced with little pomp save the attendance of a large body
of Leofwyn’s retainers, who, bearing in their hands each a flaming
torch, cast an air of rude magnificence over the scene.