by A. D. Crake
CHAPTER VII. FRUSTRATED.
Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wildexpanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase,and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.
It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Romanroads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as theavenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior's palfrey,which had never borne so impatient a rider before.
Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buriedin the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of thevalley, then on the upland: here, startling the timid deer; there,startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in thoseancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake--so Wilfred rodeonward.
It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its lightto our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastichouse in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor Englishmonks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God intheir vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitalityto the wayfarer.
To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior ofAescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it wasnot safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport. ForNorman riders, soldiers of fortune, infested all the highways, andthey would certainly require Wilfred, or any other Englishtraveller, to show cause for being on the road, and, in default ofsuch cause, would render very rough usage.
It was now drawing near the third hour of the day, and Wilfred hadalready spied his resting place from the summit of a hill. In spiteof his woes, too, he wanted his breakfast, and was alreadyspeculating on the state of the monastic larder, when the roadentered a small wood.
It was not a straight road at all, and the rider could not see ahundred yards before him, when suddenly a troop of horse came rounda curve at a smart trot, and were upon him before he could escapetheir notice.
"Whom have we here?" exclaimed the leader.
Wilfred knew him; it was that same Count Eustace de Blois, who hadrescued him from danger on the field of Senlac, and taken him tothe tent of the Conqueror.
His first impulse was to tell Count Eustace everything and to claimhis protection. Then he remembered that this Eustace was the friendof his stepfather, and the distrust--not to say hatred--he wasbeginning to feel to all Normans overcame, unhappily it may be, thefirst generous impulse of confidence.
"It is I, Wilfred of Aescendune," he coldly replied.
"So I see," said the Norman, "and marvel to meet thee alone andunattended on the highway, so far from home. Thou hast thy father'spermission?"
"I have no father," said Wilfred, in a tone which at once betrayedthat something was amiss.
"Stepfather, of course, I would say, and I judge from thy replythat all is not well. Wilt thou not tell me what is wrong?"
"My errand is urgent, and I only crave permission to continue myroad in peace."
"You are more likely to continue it in pieces, when so many outlawsand cutthroats are about, and my duty will not suffer thee to gofarther till I know that thou hast thy father's, that is, thebaron's permission."
Wilfred's only reply was to set spurs to his horse, and to try toescape by flight from his troublesome interrogator; but although hedid succeed in clearing the party, his poor palfrey was tired, andthe Norman horses were fresh, so the attempt was made in vain; hewas pursued and brought back to Eustace de Blois.
"Why didst thou attempt to escape?" said that noble, grimly. "Ifear that thou art playing the truant--against thine own interests,and must take thee with me whither I am bound, which happeneth tobe Aescendune."
"Nay, I pray thee suffer me to proceed; life and death hang upon myerrand."
"Confide in me then, and tell me all."
But Wilfred could not; in his then frame of mind, he could notconfide the story of his mother's woes to a Norman--to his feveredmind one of the intruders was as bad as another--as well bring acomplaint before one wolf that another wolf had eaten a lamb.
"I cannot," was his reply; "it would be useless if I did."
"Why? I have befriended thee once."
"Art thou not a Norman?"
"Ah! I see where the shoe pinches," replied Eustace; "thou hastfound some traitors who have been instilling rebellion into thyyouthful ears. Well, if they are found, they shall ere long lacktongues wherewith to prate, and for the present thou must returnhome with me. Wilt thou go as a freeman or as a prisoner?"
"You have the power and must use it."
"Wilt thou promise not to attempt an escape?"
"No."
"Then I must perforce pass a band from one leg to another, beneaththe belly of thy steed, or thou mayst leave thy tired palfrey andride behind me with a strap binding thee to my belt. Which dostthou choose?"
"Do as it pleaseth thee."
There was a sad, heart-broken tone in Wilfred's voice, in spite ofthe defiance of his words, which interested the Norman count, whowas not, as we have before seen, all steel; and during the journeywhich Wilfred made as a captive, Eustace made sundry attempts towin the poor youth's confidence, but all in vain.
Riding all day, Wilfred retraced in this ignominious manner theroad he had so eagerly traversed under the veil of night; and atlength, towards sunset, they came in sight of the priory, thebridge, and the castle of Aescendune.
"I think I may cut these bonds now, and thou needest not be seen toreturn in the guise of a captive. Once more, tell me all; I will bethy mediator with thy father."
"Father!" repeated Wilfred with an expression indicative ofsomething deeper yet than scorn or hatred, but he said no more.
The blast of trumpets from the approaching troop aroused theinmates of the castle, and they flocked to their battlements tobehold the pennon of Eustace de Blois, familiar to them on many ahard-fought field of old.
Immediately there was bustling and saddling, and a troop of horseissued over the drawbridge to greet the coming guest. Foremostamongst them was the grim stepfather, and by his side rode Etienne.
Imagine their surprise when they recognised Wilfred in the train oftheir visitor; we can hardly paint fitly the scornful looks ofEtienne, or the grimness of the stepfather.
But there was etiquette to be consulted--a most important elementin the days of chivalry--and no question was asked until all thecustomary salutations had been made.
"I see my son Wilfred has been the first to welcome thee; may I askwhere he met thee on the road?" asked Hugo, of Eustace.
"Many a long mile from here; I will tell thee more anon."
"Did he return of his own free will?" thought the baron, butpoliteness forced him to wait his guest's own time for the dialoguewhich he felt awaited him.
Meanwhile Etienne had regaled Wilfred with a succession of scornfulglances, which, strange to say, did not affect the lattermuch--deeper emotions had swallowed up the minor ones, and he coulddisdain the imputation of cowardice, although he could not but feelthat his attempted flight would be ascribed by every one to fear ofthe combat, which had been offered to, and accepted by him, andfrom which he could not otherwise have saved himself.
They dismounted within the courtyard, and Hugo made a certaincommunication to the seneschal. The latter came up to Wilfred as hestood listlessly in the crowd, the object of many a scornfulglance.
"The baron, your father, bids you to follow me."
The old retainer led the way up a staircase. On the third floorthere was a chamber with a small loophole to serve as window,through which nothing larger than a cat could pass. There wasfurniture--a rough table and chair, a rude bed, and mattress ofstraw.
"You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you."
The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on thebed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps ofthe gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and allwas still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or fromthe great hall, where the ban
quet was even now served.
Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching--it wascertainly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through thecrevices of the rough planks which formed the door.
"Wilfred, art thou here?"
"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"
"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgracedthyself, and me, too, as thy friend."
"I cannot tell thee."
"Was it not fear, then?"
"It was not."
"Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify theeto the others."
"I cannot."
"Thou wilt not."
"If thou wilt have it so."
"Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward."
And the speaker departed: Wilfred counted his steps as he went downthe stairs. One pang of boyish pride--wounded pride--but it wassoon lost in the deeper woe.
A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper. Heate it, and then, wearied out--he had had no rest during theprevious night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddlefor twenty hours--wearied out, he slept.
And while he slept the door softly opened, and the baron entered.At the first glance he saw the lad was fast asleep, as his heavyand regular breathing indicated. He did not awake him, but gazedupon the features of the boy he had so deeply injured, with anexpression wherein there was no lingering remorse, but simply adeep and deadly hatred. At length he was about to awake thesleeper, when he saw the end of a packet of parchment protrude fromthe breast of the tunic. The baron drew it softly out.
It was the letter of Father Elphege to the Bishop of Coutances.
The baron was scholar enough to read it--few Normans were so, andfewer English nobles; but he was an exception. He read and knewall; he read, and blanched a deadly white as he did so; his kneesshook together, and a cold sweat covered his face.
It was known, then; to how many? Probably only to the prior andWilfred, for it was but a dying confession of yesterday, as hegathered from the letter.
A sudden resolution came upon him; he did not awake the sleeper,but retired to digest it at his ease in the security of his ownchamber.
It was but little sleep the baron took that night. Hour after hourthe sentinel heard him pacing to and fro. Had any one seen him, hewould have judged that Hugo was passing through a terrible mentalconflict.
"No, I cannot do it," he said, as if to some unseen prompter.
"It is the only way; crush all thine enemies at once, let not evena dog survive to bark at thee."
"But what would the world say?"
"The world need not know, if thou contrivest well."
"But such secrets will out--a bird of the air would carry thematter, if none else did."
"Such are the bogies with which nurses frighten children. Art thounot a man and a Norman?"
"But the poor monks--if they were but soldiers."
"The less crime if they perish--they are fitter to die; and theyare but English swine, like their neighbours, of whom thou hastslain so many."
So, through the long hours did the Prince of Darkness commune withhis destined prey. There are periods of temptation which none knowin their intensity, save such as have by long habit encouraged theEvil One to tempt them--who have swallowed bait after bait, untilthey can digest a very large hook at last.
At length, just as the dawn was reddening the skies, the baronthrew himself upon his pallet and slept, not the sleep of theinnocent, for his features moved convulsively again and again, andsometimes it seemed as if he were contending with some fearfuladversary in his dreams.
But no angel of good stood near his couch; long since had continualindulgence in evil driven his guardian away, and Satan had all hisown way.
The sounds of life and activity were many about the castle, andstill Hugo arose not, until the third or fourth hour. Then heswallowed hastily a cup of generous Gascon wine, and a crust oftoasted bread, steeped in the liquor; after which he mounted hisfavourite steed, a high horse of great spirit, not to sayviciousness, which none save himself cared to ride, and gallopedfuriously for hours through the forest, startling the timid deerand her fawn from many a brake.
It was evening when he returned: Wilfred had not yet been released.
Count Eustace had departed, not until he had sought an interviewwith Wilfred, in his prison chamber, which turned out to be afruitless one; for, terrified although he was at the loss of hisletter, the youth kept his secret.
It was a pity that he did so. Many a sad page yet to be writtenmight have been saved. But was it unnatural that the poor orphanshould feel an invincible reluctance to claim Norman aid? yet theBishop of Coutances was Norman.
At length, supper being ready, Hugo came in and took his usualplace at the head of the high table. All trace of his mentalstruggles was gone.
"Bring my son Wilfred down to the hall."
The attendants hasted, and soon reappeared with the English heir ofAescendune.
He was calm and composed--that unhappy youth; he looked the baronstraight in the face, he did not honour Etienne or any one elsewith a single glance; but waited to be questioned.
"Wilfred of Aescendune," said his stepfather, "why didst thouabsent thyself yesterday, and traverse dangerous roads withoutpermission?"
No answer.
"Didst thou fly because thou fearedst the combat, which thine ownunmannerly insolence had brought upon thee?"
"No."
It was the only word Wilfred spoke, and that with emphasis. Etiennesneered.
"Perhaps thou mightest not have fled hadst thou known that thecombat would have been a mere form. I had instructed the marshal ofthe lists to prevent deadly results."
Again Etienne cast a look at his companions, which seemed to givethe lie to these words.
"Wilt thou promise to make no further attempt to leave the demesnewithout permission if thou art released from superveillance?"
"No," once more.
"Then I will no longer retain the charge of thee. Thou shalt go anddo penance at the priory of thy sainted namesake, till thou dostcome to a better mind. I will send thee after supper, and givefitting charge to Father Elphege."
Wilfred was forced to sit down during the meal, but he ate nothing.
When it was ended, the baron called old Osbert the seneschal andgave his instructions. They led the youth away; he did not returnthe baron's half-ironical salutation, but departed with his guardsin silence.
High was the wassail in the castle that night, and many casks ofwine were broached; at length all sought their couches and sleptheavily.
But in the middle of the night many sleepers were aroused by thecry of FIRE! yet so heavy with wine were they, that few arose; hutmost heard it as a man hears some sound in his sleep, which he halfsuspects to belong to dreamland, and turns again to his pillow.
Imagine the surprise with which such men (including Etienne,Pierre, and the other late companions of the unhappy Wilfred)learned that the monastery had caught fire accidentally in thenight, and that so sudden had been the conflagration that none hadescaped.
None! No; so far as men could discover. The priory built by Offa ofAescendune was a heap of smoking embers, and monks were there none,neither had any heard aught of the English heir of Aescendune.
The poor English who yet remained in the village were weeping overtheir lost friends, and the very Norman men-at-arms were hushed inthe presence of their sorrow.
The shades of evening fell upon the desolate ruins, but nought hadoccurred to alleviate the calamity: all seemed to have perishedunaided in the suddenness of their destruction--a thingimprobable--unheard of--yet so it was.
All seemed over--the English brethren and their guest blotted outfrom the earth. And none looked more contented than Baron Hugo.