CHAPTER VI.
THE SAXON'S CONSTANCY.
"And I'll be true to thee, Mary, As thou'lt be true to me; And I never will leave thee, never, Mary, As slave man or as free; For we're bound forever and ever, Mary, Till death shall set us free-- Free from the chain of the flesh, Mary, Free from the devil's chain-- Free from the collar and gyves, Mary, And slavery's cursed pain; And then, when we're free in heaven, Mary, We'll pray to be bound again."
OLD ENGLISH SONG.
It was with grave and somewhat downcast brows, and nothing ofhaughtiness or pride of port or demeanor, that the lord and his friendentered under the lowly roof, invested for the moment with a majestywhich was not its own, by the strange sacredness of grief and death.
There never probably, in the whole history of the world, has been arace of men, which entertained in their own persons a more boundlesscontempt of death, or assigned less value to the mere quality of life,than the warlike Normans. Not a man of them, while in the heyday oflife and manhood, would have hesitated for a moment in choosing adeath under shield, a death of violence and anguish, winning renownand conferring deathless honor, to the gentlest decay, the mostpeaceful dissolution. Not a man would have shed a tear, or shown asign of sorrow, had he seen his favorite son, his most familiarfriend, his noblest brother in arms, felled from his saddle in themelee, and trampled out of the very form of humanity beneath the hoofsof the charging cavalry. Not a man but would have ridden over abattlefield, gorged with carcasses and drunk with gore, withoutexpressing a thought of terror, a sentiment beyond the victory, theglory, and the gain. But such is the sovereignty of death, in thesilence and solitude of its natural gloom, stripped of the pomp andparaphernalia of funereal honors, and unadorned by the empty braveriesof human praise and glory--such is the empire of humble, simple,overruling sorrow, that, as they entered the low-roofed, undecoratedchamber, where lay the corpse of the neglected, despised serf--thebeing, while in life, scarce equal to the animals of the chase--withhis nearest of kin, serfs likewise, abject, ignorant, down-trodden,and debased--in so far as man can debase God's creations--mourning inChristian sorrow over him, the nobles felt, for a moment, that theirnobility was nothing in the presence of the awful dead; and that they,too, for all their pride of antique blood, for all their strength oflimb and heaven-daring valor, for all their lands and lordships, mustbe brought down one day to the dust, like the poor slave, and goforth, as they entered this world, bearing nothing out, before onecommon Lord and Master, who must in the end sit in universal judgment.
Such meditations are not, perhaps, very common to the great, thepowerful, and the fortunate of men, in any time or place, so long asthe light of this world shine about, and their ways are ways ofpleasantness; but if rare always, and under all ordinarycircumstances, with the chivalrous, high-hearted, and hot-headedknights of the twelfth century, they were assuredly of the rarest.
Yet now so powerfully did they come over the strong minds of the twograve nobles, that they paused a moment on the threshold beforeentering; and Yvo de Taillebois, who was the elder man, and of deeperthoughts and higher imagination than his friend, raised his plumedbonnet from his brow, and bowed his head in silence.
It was a strange and moving scene on which they looked. The room,which was the ordinary dwelling-place of the family, was rather alarge, dark parallelogram, lighted only through the door and a coupleof narrow latticed windows, which, if closed, would have admitted fewhalf-intercepted rays, but which now stood wide open, to admit thefresh and balmy air, so that from one, at the western end of thecottage, a clear ruddy beam of the declining sun shot in a long pencilof light, bringing out certain objects in strong relief against thesurrounding gloom.
The door, at which the two knights stood, chanced to be so placedunder the shadow of one of the great trees which overhung the house,that there was little light for them to intercept. Hence, those whowere within, occupied by their own sad and bitter thoughts, did not atfirst so much as observe their presence. Facing the entrance, a largefire-place, with great projecting jambs, inclosing on each side a longoaken settle, occupied one half the length of the room; and on one ofthese, propped up with some spare bedding and clothing, lay thewounded man, Kenric, to whom the Baron de Taillebois owed his belovedchild's life, half recumbent, pale from the loss of blood, yet chafingwith annoyance, that he should be thus bedridden, when his strengthmight have been of avail to others, feebler and less able to exertthemselves almost than he, bruised though he was, and gored from therude encounter.
A little fire was burning low on the hearth, with a pot simmering overit--for, in their bitterest times of anguish and desolation, the verypoor must bestir themselves, at least, to house service--and from thelogs, which had fallen forward on the hearth, volumes of smoke wererolling up and hanging thick about the dingy rafters, and the few hamsand flitches which, with strings of oat-cakes garnished the roof, itsonly ornament.
But, wholly unconscious of the ill-odored reek, though it streamed upclose under his very eyes, and seeing nothing of the chevaliers, whowere watching not six paces from him, Kenric lay helpless, straininghis nerveless eyes toward the spot where the ruddy western sunlightfell, like a glory, on the pale, quiet features of the dead child, andon the cold, gray, impassive head of the aged mourner, aged far beyondthe ordinary course of mortal life, who bent over the rude bier; and,strange contrast, on the sunny flaxen curls, and embrowned ruddyfeatures of two or three younger children, clustered around thegrandam's knee, silent through awe rather than sorrow, for they weretoo young as yet to know what death meant, or to comprehend what wasthat awful gloom which had fallen upon hearth and home.
Every thing in that humble and poor apartment was scrupulously cleanand tidy; a white cloth was on the table, with two or three plattersand porringers of coarse earthenware, as if the evening meal had beenprepared when death had entered in, and interposed his awfulveto--some implements of rustic husbandry, an ax or two, severalspecimens of the old English bill and Sheffield whittle; and one shortjavelin, with a heavy head, hung on the walls, with all the iron workbrightly polished and in good order; fresh rushes were strewn on thefloor, a broken pitcher, full of newly-gathered field-flowers, adornedthe window-sill; and what was strange indeed at that age, and in sucha place, two or three old, much tattered, dingy manuscripts graced abare shelf above the chimney corner.
The aged woman had ceased from the wild outbreak of grief with whichshe had bewailed the first sign of death on the sick boy's faded brow,and was now rocking herself to and fro above the body, with a dull,monotonous murmur, half articulate, combining fragments of some oldSaxon hymn with fondling epithets and words of unmeaning sorrow, whilethe tears slowly trickled down her wan cheeks, and fell into her lapunheeded. Kenric was silent, for he had no consolation to offer, evenif consolation could have been availing, in that
The first dark hour of nothingness, The last of danger and distress.
Such was the spectacle which met the eyes of those high-born men, whohad come down from their high place into the lowly village, with theintention of bestowing happiness and awakening gratitude, and who nowfound themselves placed front to front with one far mightier thanthemselves, whose presence left no room for joy, even with those theleast used to such emotion.
It is, however, I fear, but too much the case even with the morerefined and better nurtured classes of the present century, while theyare compassionating the sorrows and even endeavoring to alleviate themiseries of their poorer and less-cultivated brethren, to undervaluethe depth of their sensations, to fancy that the same events harrownot up their less vivid sensibilities, and inflict not on theircoarser and less intellectual natures the same agonies, which theyeffect upon their own. But, although it may be true that, in the verypoor, the necessity of immediate labor, of all-engrossing occupation,rendering thought and reflection on the past impossible, soonerremoves from them the pressure of past grief, than from those who canafford to brood over i
t in indolent despair, and indulge in morbid andselfish woe, there can be no doubt that, in the early moments of a newbereavement, the agony is as acute to the dullest and heaviest as tothe loftiest and most imaginative intellect. Since it is the heartitself, that is touched in the first instance; and, though in afterhours imagination may assume its share, so that the most imaginativeminds dwell longest on the bygone suffering, the heart is the same inthe peasant as in the peer, and that of the wisest of the sons of menbleeds neither more nor less profusely than that of the rudest clown.
And so, perchance, in some sort it was now. For, after pausing andlooking reverently on the sad picture, until it was evident that theywere entirely overlooked, if not unseen, Sir Philip de Morville took astep or two forward into the cottage, his sounding tread at oncecalling all eyes toward his person, in a sort of half-stupid mixtureof alarm and astonishment.
For in those days, the steps of a Norman baron rarely descended to theserf's quarters, unless they were echoed by the clanking strides ofarmed subordinates, and too often followed by the clash of shackles orthe sound of the hated scourge. Sir Philip was indeed, as it has beenobserved, an even-tempered and just master, as things went in thosetimes; that is to say, he was neither personally cruel nor exacting oflabor; nor was he niggardly in providing for his people; nor did he,when it came before his eyes, tolerate oppression, or permit uselessseverity on the part of subordinates, who were often worse tyrants andtormentors than the lords. Still, his kindliest mood amounted tolittle more than bare indifference; and he certainly knew and studiedless concerning any thing beyond the mere physical wants and conditionof his thralls and bondsmen, than he did of the nurture of his hawksor hounds.
All the inmates, therefore, looked up in wonder, not altogetherunmixed with fear, as, certainly for the first time in his life, thecastellan entered the humble tenement of the serf of the soil.
But all idea of fear passed away on the instant; for the knight's facewas open and calm, though grave, and his voice was gentle, and evensubdued, as he spoke.
"Soh!" he said, "what is this, Kenric, which causes us, in coming downto see if we might not heal up thy heart and cheer thy spirits by goodtidings, to find worse sorrow, for which we looked not, nor canreverse it by any mortal doing. Who is the boy?"
"Pardon that I rise not, beausire, to reply to you," answered theserf, "but this right leg of mine will not bear me; and when the handof sickness hold us down, good will must make shift in lieu of goodservice. It is my nephew Adhemar, Sir Philip, the only son of myyoungest brother Edgar, who was drowned a year since in the greatflood of the Idle."
"In striving to rescue my old blind destrier Sir Roland, ah! Iremember him; a stout and willing lad! But I knew not, or forgot, thathe was thy brother. And so this is his son," he added, striding up tothe side of the rude bier, and laying his broad hand upon his brow."He is young," he said, musingly, "very young to die. But we must alldie one day, Kenric; and who knows but it is best to die young?"
"At least, the ancient Greeks and Romans said so," interposed Yvo deTaillebois, speaking for the first time. "They have a proverb, that,whomsoever the gods love, dies young."
"I think it _is_ best, beausire," answered the serf; "it is nevercold in the grave, in the dreariest storms; nor sultry in thescorching August. And they are never hungry there, nor sorefooted, norweary unto death. I think it is best to die young, before one hastasted overmuch sorrow here on earth to burden his heart and make himstubborn and malicious. It was this I was saying to old Bertha, asyour noblenesses entered; but she has never held her head up since mybrother, Edgar, died; he was her favorite, since she always held thathe had most favor of our grandfather."
"She is very old?" said Sir Philip, half questioning, half musing."She is very old?"
"Above ninety years, Sir Philip, I have heard Father Eadbald say, whodied twenty years since, at the abbey, come next Michaelmas. It shouldhave been he who married her. Her mother was the last free woman ofour race. We had three hydes of land, I've heard her tell, in thosedays, down by the banks of Idle, held of old Waltheof, who gave hisname to this your noble castle. But they are all gone before us, andwe must follow them when our day comes. And then, as I tell Bertha, weshall be free, all, if not equal; for the most virtuous must be_first_ there, as Father Engelram tells us. May Mary and the saintsbe about us!"
"Come, Kenric," said De Morville, cheeringly, "thou talkest now morelike to a gray brother, than to the stout woodman who struckest yonbrave blow but a while since, and saved Sir Yvo's fair lady,Guendolen. Faith! it was bravely done, and well; and well shall comeof it to you, believe me. It is to speak of that to thee that we camehither, but this boy's death hath put it from our minds. But, hark ye,boy! I will send down some wenches hither from the castle, with aleand mead for his lykewake, and linen for a shroud; and Father Engelramshall see to the church-service; and there shall be a double dole tothe poor at the abbey; and I myself will pay ten marks, in masses forhis soul. If he died a serf, he shall be buried as though he were afreeman, and a franklin's son; and all for thy sake, and for the goodblow thou struckest but three hours agone."
Kenric's brow flushed high, whether it was with gratification, orgratitude, or from wounded pride; but he stuttered confusedly, as heattempted to thank his lord, and only found his tongue as he relatedto his grandmother, in his native language, the promises and goodlyproffers of the castellan; and she, for a moment, spoke eagerly inreply, but then seemed to forget, and was silent. A word or two passedin French between the nobles, Yvo de Taillebois urging that the timewas inopportune for speaking of the matter on which they had comedown; for that it was not well to mingle great joys with greatsorrows; but Sir Philip insisted, declaring that there was no so goodway to cure a past grief as by the news of a coming joy.
"So, hark you, Kenric," he said; "the cure we came to bring you foryour bruised bones, and the guerdon for your gallant deed, in twowords, is this--I may not, as you may have heard tell, liberate myserfs, under condition, but I may _sell_; and I have sold thee tomine ancient friend and brother in arms, Yvo de Taillebois."
"Not to hold in thrall," exclaimed Yvo de Taillebois, eagerly, as hesaw the face of the wounded man flush fiery red, and then grow pale asashes. "Not to hold in thrall, but to liberate; but to make thee asfree as the birds of the wildest wing--a freeman; and, if thou wiltfollow me, a freeholder on my lands beyond the lakes, in the fairshire of Westmoreland."
"I am a serf of the soil, Beausire de Morville, and I may not be soldfrom the soil, unless legally convicted of felony. I know no felonythat I have done, Sir Philip."
"Felony, man!" exclaimed Sir Philip; "art thou mad? We would rewardthee for thy good faith and valor. We would set thee free. Of course,thou canst not be sold, but with thine own consent. But thou hast onlyto consent, and be free as thy master."
"Sir Philip," replied the man, turning even paler than before, andtrembling, as if he had a fit of palsy, "would I could rise to blessyou, on my bended knee! May the great God of all things bless you! butI can not consent--think me not ungrateful--but I can not be free!"
"Not free!" exclaimed both nobles in a breath; and Sir Yvo gazed onhim wistfully, as if he but partially understood; but Philip deMorville turned on his heel, superciliously. "Come, Sir Yvo," he said;"it skills not wasting time, or breath, on these abjects. Why, by thelight of heaven! had I been fettered in a dungeon, with a ton of ironat my heels, I had leaped head-high to know myself once more afreeman; and here this slave, By 'r lady! I can not brook to speak hisname! can not consent, forsooth! can not consent to be free! Heaven'smercy! Let him rot a slave, then! unless, perchance, thou wouldstcrave him for thy sake, and the Virgin Mother's sake, to take goodcounsel and be free. Out on it! out on it! I am sick to the soul atsuch baseness!"
And he left the cottage abruptly, in scorn and anger. But Sir Yvo deTaillebois stood still, gazing compassionately and inquiringly on theman, over whose face there had fallen a dark, gray, death-like shadow,as he lay with his teeth and hands cl
inched like vices.
"Can this be? I thought not that on earth there lived a man who mightbe free, and would not. Dost not love liberty, Kenric?"
"Ask the wild eagle in his place of pride! Ask the wild goat onPennigant or Ingleborough's head; and when they come down to the cageand chain, believe, then, that I love it not. Freedom! freedom! To befree but five minutes, I would die fifty deaths of direst torture. Andyet it can not be--it can not be! Peace, tempter, peace; you can notstir my soul. Slave I was born, slave I must die, and only in thegrave shall be a slave no longer. Leave me, beausire; but think me notungrateful. I never looked to owe so much to living man, and least ofall to living man of your proud race, as I owe you to-day. But leaveme, noble sir; you can not aid us. So go your way, and leave us to oursorrow, and may the God of serfs and seigneurs be about you with hisblessing."
"Passing strange! This is passing strange!" said De Taillebois, as heturned to go likewise; "I never saw a beast that would not leave hiscage when the door was open."
"But I have!" answered Kenric; "when the beast's brood were within,and might not follow him. But I am _not_ a beast, Sir Knight; butthough a serf, a man--a Saxon, not a Norman, it is true; but a man,yet, _a man_! There may be collar on my neck, and gyves on wristand ankle, but my soul wears no shackles. It is as free as thine, andshall stand face to face with thine, one day, before the judgmentseat. I am a man, I say, Sir Yvo de Taillebois; there sits old Bertha,surnamed the Good, a serf herself, mother of serfs, and grandmother;there lies my serf-brother's boy, himself a serf no longer; theresprawl unconscious on the hearth his baby brethren, serfs from thecradle to the grave; and here comes," he added, in a deeper, sterner,lower tone, as the beautiful Saxon slave-girl entered, whom they hadseen near the drawbridge, washing in the stream--"here comes--lookupon her, noble knight and Norman!--here comes my plighted bride, myEdith the fair-haired! I am a man, Norman! Should I be man, or beast,if, leaving these in bondage, I were to fare forth hence, alone, intodishonored freedom?"
Wager of Battle: A Tale of Saxon Slavery in Sherwood Forest Page 8