The Rival Heirs; being the Third and Last Chronicle of Aescendune

by A. D. Crake

  CHAPTER VIII. VAE VICTIS.

  If the Conqueror had really intended to govern the English justly,like his great predecessor Canute, circumstances over which he hadsmall control were against him; when he committed himself to anunjust war of aggression against an unoffending people, for ifHarold had given him offence, England had given none, he enteredupon a course of evil in which he could not pause.

  Canute was a heathen during his darkest and bloodiest days; when hebecame a Christian, his worst deeds lay behind him, and the wholecourse of his reign was a progress from evil to good, the scenebrightening each day. This, our Second Chronicle sufficientlyillustrates.

  But William had no such excuse; he bore a high reputation forpiety--as piety was understood in his day, before the invasion ofEngland--he was, says a contemporary author, "a diligent student ofScripture, a devout communicant, and a model to prelates andjudges."

  But after ambition led him to stain his soul with the blood shed atSenlac, his career was one upon which the clouds gathered morethickly each day; his Norman followers clamoured for their promisedrewards, and he yielded to this temptation, and spoiled Englishmen,thane after thane, to satisfy this greed, until the once wealthylords of the soil were driven to beg their bread, or to work asslaves on the land they had once owned.

  Early in 1067 William returned to celebrate his triumph inNormandy, and while he was absent the government of the conqueredcountry was committed to his half brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux,and William Fitz-Osborne. These rulers heard no cry for redress onthe part of the poor English, scorned their complaints, andrepulsed them with severity, as if they wished by provokingrebellion to justify further confiscations and exactions; in short,they made it impossible for the Conqueror to pursue his policy ofconciliation. Rebellions arose and were stifled in fire and blood,and henceforth there was simply a reign of terror for theconquered; on one side insolence and pride, on the other, miseryand despair.

  Many of the English fled to the woods for refuge, and were hunteddown, when their tyrants could accomplish their wishes, like beastsof prey, stigmatised with the title of "robbers" or "outlaws."Such, as we have seen, was the case at Aescendune; and after thesupposed death of Wilfred, no bounds were set to the cruelties andoppressions of Hugo and his satellites; their dungeons were full,their torture chamber in constant use, so long as there wereEnglishmen to suffer oppression and wrong.

  Autumn, the autumn of 1068, came with all its wealth of goldenstore; the crops were safely housed in the barns, the orchards wereladen with fruit, the woods had put on those brilliant hues withwhich they prepare for the sleep of winter--never so fair as whenthey assume the garb of decay.

  Wilfred of Aescendune was gone. His tragical fate had arousedlittle sympathy amongst his Norman companions, hardened as theywere by familiarity with scenes of violence; the burning of theabbey and the fiery fate of its inmates had been but a nine days'wonder. Etienne and his fellow pages spoke of their lost companionwith little regard to the maxim, "nihil nisi bonum de mortuis," andseemed, indeed, to think that he was well out of the way.

  There were few English left to mourn him: the baron would trustnone in the castle, and the churls and thralls of the village hadperished or taken refuge in the greenwoods, which lay, like a seaof verdure, to the north of the domain of Aescendune, where it wasshrewdly suspected they might be found, enjoying the freedom of theforests, and making free with the red deer.

  It was a primeval forest, wherein were trees which had witnessedold Druids, silver knife in hand, cutting the mistletoe, or whichhad stood in the vigour of youth when Caesar's legionaries hadhunted those same Druids to their last retreats. Giant oaks casttheir huge limbs abroad, and entwined in matrimonial love with thesilver beech; timid deer with their fawns wantoned in the shadebeneath, or wild swine munched the acorns. Here were slow sedgystreams, now illumined, as by a ray of light, when some monster ofthe inland waters flashed along after his scaly prey, or stirred bya sudden plunge as the otter sprang from the bank. Sometimes thebrock took an airing abroad, and the wolf came to look after hisinterests and see what he could snatch.

  While, in the upper regions, amidst that sea of leaves, wholetribes of birds, long since vanished from England, carried on theiraerial business, and now and then the eagle made a swoop amongstthem, and then there was a grand scattering.

  Many a lonely pool there was, where the kingfisher had never seenthe face of man; many a bushel, not to say waggon load, of nutsrotted for want of modern schoolboys to gather them; many an acreof blackberries wasted their sweetness on the desert air.

  Now and then came the horn of the hunter, waking up the echoes,then the loud murmur of hounds, then the rush and clamour of thechase swept by, and all was quiet again, even as it is said to bein the solitudes of the Black Forest, when the Wild Huntsman haspassed.

  But there was a lonelier and yet wilder region, where the sound ofthe hunter's horn only penetrated in faint vibrations from the fardistance.

  This region was a deep and entangled morass, which had only beenexplored by the veteran hunter of former days, or by the huntedoutlaw of the present. Streams had overflown their banks, the waterhad stagnated, rank foliage had arisen, and giant trees rotted inswamp and slime.

  The Normans had never penetrated into this wilderness of slimydesolation, although, of course, they had again and again reachedits borders and found bogs of bottomless depth, quagmires whichwould suck one out of sight in a few minutes, and at nightfalllegions of evil spirits, as they thought them--for after dark thesesloughs were alive with Jack-o'-lanterns, which men believed to bethe souls of unbaptized infants.

  In former Chronicles we have described the old hall of Aescendune,as it stood in Anglo-Saxon days; it was then rather a home, a kindof "moated grange," than a fortress.

  But when Hugo the Norman took possession, he could not endure tolive in a house incapable of standing a regular siege. And well hemight have such feelings, when he remembered that he lived in themidst of a subject population, to whom his tyranny had rendered himand his men-at-arms hateful.

  So he sent at once for Ralph of Evreux, a skilful architect, whoseline lay in the raising of castles and such like, who knew how todig the dungeon and embattle the keep, and into his hands hecommitted the rebuilding of the castle of Aescendune.

  All was bustle and activity. The poor thralls of the estate were"worked to death;" stone had to be brought from an immensedistance, for wood might burn if subjected to fiery arrows; themoat was deepened and water let in from the river; towers wereplaced at each angle, furnished with loopholes for archers; andover the entrance was a ponderous arch, with grate for raining downfiery missiles, and portcullis to bar all approach to the innerquadrangle, which was comparatively unchanged.

  In short, the whole place was so thoroughly strengthened, that thecruel baron might laugh to scorn any attempts of the unhappyEnglish to storm it, should they ever reach such a pitch of daring.

  Below the castle walls the new priory was rapidly rising from theruins of the olden structure. It was to be dedicated to St.Denys--for the Normans did not believe in any English saints--andthen it was to be inhabited by a colony of monks from the dioceseof Coutances-outre-mer.

  This was to take place in order to please Bishop Geoffrey, who hadmade some inconvenient inquiries into the circumstances connectedwith the burning of the old abbey and the death of Wilfred.

  But no awkward circumstances came to light; if there had been anyfoul play, the actors therein kept their own counsel.

  An incident which happened about this time caused no littlecomment.

  It was an October evening; the inmates of the castle (now properlyso called) were assembled at supper in the great hall, after a longday's hunting of the wild boar.

  In the middle of the meal, Pierre de Morlaix, who had tarried inthe forest, entered, looking as pale as a ghost and very excited inmanner, as if some extraordinary event had upset the balance of hismind. It was not without a very apparent effort that, rememberingthe
composure of demeanour exacted by the feudal system from allpages, he repressed his excitement and took his usual place.

  The baron, however, had marked his discomposure, and was curious toknow its cause.

  "Is aught amiss, Pierre?" he asked.

  Pierre stammered, hesitated, then replied that there was nothingamiss, only that he believed he had seen a ghost, or something verymuch like one.

  Dead silence fell on all, for the belief in ghosts was universal inthat age, as also in witchcraft and sorcery.

  "A ghost, silly boy; what ghost? Thy fancy hath converted somewhite cow into a spectre, in the uncertain light of the evening."

  "Nay, I saw him too plainly."

  "Saw whom?"

  "Wilfred."

  There was a pause--a dead pause, indeed; the baron changed colourand appeared to attempt to hide the perturbation of his spirit.

  "Speak out, my son," said the chaplain, "such things are sometimespermitted by Heaven."

  "Father, I was leaving the woods by the path which opens upon thesummit of the hill, above the blasted oak, when I saw Wilfred, aswhen alive, standing on the summit, gazing upon the castle. He wasbetween me and the evening light, so, although it was getting dark,I could not mistake him. He was deadly pale, and there was a lookon his face I had never seen in life as he turned round and facedme."

  "Well! didst thou speak?"

  "I dared not; my limbs shook and the hair of my headarose--fearfulness and trembling seized hold of me."

  Etienne sneered just a little, yet probably he would not havebehaved better, only he might not have owned his fear.

  "Well, did he disappear?"

  "I looked again, and I thought he retreated into the woods, for hewas gone."

  "Did he seem to see you?"

  "He did not speak."

  "Well," said the chaplain, "we will say a mass for him tomorrow, toquiet his disturbed spirit, and he will, perhaps, vex us no more,poor lad."

  Etienne and Louis were very anxious to hear all the details ofPierre's ghostly encounter, and questioned him very closely. Theformer vowed he would have challenged the spectre; he did not fearWilfred living, nor would he fear him dead.

  The whole conversation at the castle hearth that night was aboutghosts, demons, witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, andsuch-like; and about two hours before midnight our young Normanswent to bed pleasantly terrified.

  It was All Saints' Day, the day appointed for the consecration ofthe new Priory of St. Deny's. The monks from Coutances had arrived.The bishop of that diocese, already known to our readers, hadreached Aescendune to perform the ceremony, by permission of theBishop of Worcester, the sainted Wulfstan, in whose jurisdictionthe priory lay; and there was a grand gathering of Norman baronsand their retainers.

  Strange it was that the same Epistle and Gospel which still servein the English Prayer Book for that day should have been read inthe ears of the Norman warriors--that they should have heard theBeatitudes in the Gospel:

  "Blessed are the peacemakers,for they shall be called the children of God:Blessed are the merciful,for they shall obtain mercy:"

  --and then gone forth to work out their own righteousness in themanner peculiar to their nation. Well, perhaps there are notwanting similar examples of inconsistency in the nineteenthcentury.

  So, with all the pomp of ecclesiastical ceremony, with gorgeousvestments, lighted tapers, and clouds of incense, the new buildingwas dedicated to God.

  And then, while the preparations for the evening banquet in thehall were being made by the menials of the kitchen, the guests hada grand tournament on the open mead in front of the castle, wherethey did not study how to perform works of mercy.

  We have not space to tell who won the prizes in this famous passageof arms--who was unhorsed--whom the fair ladies crowned--save thatthe young Etienne (now in his eighteenth year) distinguishedhimself in every trial of skill or courage, unhorsed three youthssuccessively who opposed him, bore off the suspended ring--whileriding at full speed--on the top of his lance, and received thegarland from the hands of the fair Countess of Warwick, whopresided as Queen of the Jousts, amidst the applause of allpresent, who declared that so brave and knightly a youth ought tohave his spurs at once.

  He looked, indeed, handsome and brave, that typical Norman youth,as he advanced with becoming modesty to kneel and receive the tokenof his valour and success; his gallant demeanour and brighteyes--albeit he was somewhat olive in complexion--did greatexecution amongst the ladies, and they congratulated Hugo ofMalville and Aescendune upon his hopeful son and heir. No onethought of poor Wilfred, save perhaps to reflect that he was wellout of the way.

  The bishop and his clergy departed to the priory, but the greaternumber of the laity remained for the evening banquet at the hall,served with all the magnificence for which the Normans were sorenowned, while the prior and his brethren entertained theecclesiastics at a more sober repast.

  The hall was filled by an assemblage of lords and ladies, arrayedin such gorgeous apparel that it would need a far better millinerthan the writer to describe it; all the colours of the rainbow werethere, and the men had their share of the gaudy hues as well as thewomen. Hugo was quite a sight, as he sat upon a dais, at the headof the table, with his hopeful son--the hero of the day--on hisright.

  And then the viands--there was venison dressed a dozen differentways, beef and mutton, chine and haunch of the wild boar:peacocks--feathers and all, the feathers not roasted but stuck intheir proper places after the poor bird left the oven--verybeautiful, but very tough was this piece de resistance. There wereall sorts of gravies, all kinds of soups.

  Then the fish--the turbot, the salmon, and the perch, chub, trout,and eel from the inland streams. Pike had not yet appeared in ourwaters--they were a later importation--and other fish were moreplentiful in consequence.

  Then the pastry--the castles in pie crust, with fruity warriors toman their battlements--how should aught but cook describe themproperly?

  For awhile there was no conversation, save an occasionalinterjectional exclamation--"How good this fish!" "How tender thisfowl!" Wines of Gascony and Burgundy were circulating freely, andwere as usual brightening the eyes, quickening the tongue, andstimulating the palate.

  But when appetite was satisfied, then began the buzz ofconversation to arise, then the gleemen tuned their harps to singthe praises of Norman warriors; nor did the toasts linger, nor wasthe drinking of many healths absent.

  Amongst the singers--men of many songs--those of wealth and rankoccasionally took turn; but there was no brighter voice or sweetersong than that of Louis de Marmontier, the third of our trio ofpages. He had distinguished himself that day in the lists,following closely in the steps of Etienne, and now he seemed likelyto win the prize for minstrelsy, as he sang the song of Rollo,accompanying himself with thrilling chords on the harp, whosestrings had never uttered sweeter notes.

  All at once, just when the attention of every one was fixed on thesinger, a startling interruption occurred, and the strings ceasedto vibrate.

  A man, whose head was streaming with blood, whose features werepale and ghastly, and who seemed scarcely able to support hisfainting limbs, was approaching the high dais, upon which reclinedhis lord.

  The song ceased--the cry was heard--"Help! my lord; they areburning Yew Tree Farm, and I only am escaped to tell thee."

  Suddenly he trembled, staggered, and fell. They raised him up, buthe was gone, his tale half untold. An arrow had pierced his breast,and he had spent his dying strength in a desperate attempt to reachhis lord.

  What had happened?

  The horn was at this moment heard from the battlements, and itsburden was "FIRE."

  Hugo turned pale, in spite of his prowess, then cried out--"Tohorse! to horse!"

  So crying, he rushed from the table, mounted his favourite steed,and, followed by such as could keep pace with him--there were notmany--rode in the direction of the blaze, which was illuminatingthe northern sky.

  Onward!
onward! ride the Normans! Onward through bush or brake, orcopse, or quagmire. Onward, till the clearing is reached, where theEnglish Lords of Aescendune built Yew Farm.

  When they arrived at the spot, Hugo and his Normans paused inastonishment.

  For there, in the midst of the clearing, the farm buildings, oneand all, stood enveloped in flames. It was plain, at first sight,that they must have been set on fire in many places at once, for inno other way could the flames have taken such complete and uniformhold.

  But where were the inhabitants?

  Not a living soul appeared, and the intense heat of the flamesforbade closer observation.

  And as they stood and gazed helplessly upon the conflagration, theremembrance of the burning of the Monastery came to many minds, andthey wondered at the similarity of the circumstances.

  "Was this the hand of God?"

  At length roof after roof fell in with hideous din. The Normanswaited about the spot and explored the neighbourhood, hoping tofind, lighted by the lurid flame of the fire, that Roger and hislabourers had found shelter somewhere. They searched in vain--theyfound no one.

  Slowly and sadly the party returned homewards to attend to theirduties but early next morning the baron and a chosen band rode tothe scene again.

  Thick clouds of smoke ascended to the skies; a pungent smelloverpowered all the sweet odours of the forest; blackened beams andstones, cracked and shivered by the heat, lay all around.

  What had caused the fire? Could it have been accidental?

  They soon decided that it could not.

  Two things seemed conclusive on this point--the first, thesimultaneous outbreak in all parts of the buildings; the second,the fact that no one had escaped, save the man who bore the news,and died, his story but half told.

  But what had been the fate of the rest? Had they been shut in thebuildings, and so left to die as the flames reached them?

  The terrible conviction that such had been the case became general;but at the same time the similarity of the circumstances with thoseunder which the Monastery had been burnt would necessitate a likeconclusion in that case also; and if so, who had then been theincendiary?

  There were those amongst the retainers of Baron Hugo who could haveanswered this question, but they were all puzzled concerning thelatter conflagration, for they knew of no gathering of theirconquered foes, and they imagined they were acquainted with everynook of the forest, save the impenetrable morass in its centre.

  On the morrow there was to have been a great hunt; but instead ofthe chase of beasts, the more exciting one of men was nowsubstituted--the "murderers" should be hunted out, cost what itmight--"The vermin should be extirpated."

  The majority of the guests had departed the previous night, butmany yet remained, the guests of Hugo, and with some of the wisestand most valiant of these he was taking counsel the followingmorning how best to track the outlaws, who had dared to commit thisinsolent deed, when Etienne appeared to announce that several oftheir people had not returned home from the fire, and amongst themhis own fellow page, the minstrel of the previous night, Louis deMarmontier.

  "We will find them; perchance they yet linger there. Bid a troop ofhorse be ready."

  They mounted, rode, arrived on the scene, and found no one there.Then they separated in all directions, two or three in each group,to find their missing comrades.

  Etienne and Pierre, with a dozen men at arms--for the baron wouldnot let them go forth less strongly attended--were eager in thesearch, for they loved their companion, and were very anxious abouthis safety.

  Midway between the castle and the burnt farm, slightly out of thetrack, was a huge oak, and around it a slight space clear ofundergrowth. A brook ran close by--a stream of sweet sparklingwater--and Etienne rode thither to give the horses drink, when, ashe approached, he saw the form of a youth leaning down, as ifdrinking, and thought he knew the dress.

  He approached eagerly. Yes, it was Louis; but he did not stir.Etienne dismounted and discovered the fact he had alreadyanticipated: his young companion was dead: an arrow, evidently shotclose at hand, had pierced his chest. The poor lad had but slightdefensive armour--a light cuirass thrown on at the first alarm.

  He had fallen and been left for dead, but had evidently afterwardsdragged himself to the brook, in the agony of thirst, and had diedwhile attempting to drink.

  They placed the body reverently on the moss at the foot of thetree, and for a time were silent. The remembrance of his activityand gaiety on the previous day, and of his sweet minstrelsy on thevery eve of his voice being hushed for ever, came sadly to theirminds. At length Etienne broke the silence.

  "Draw forth the arrow," he said.

  They drew it forth and gave it him, bloodstained as it was: helooked closely upon it.

  "This is an arrow from the same quiver as that which killedGislebert; it is of English make, such as those clumsy louts use."

  It was indeed a heavy, broad shaft, quite unlike the slender,tapering arrows of Norman workmanship, adapted for a long flight,in days when a furlong was considered a boy's distance.

  "Our own serfs turn upon us. Well, they will rue it ere long; ashort shrift and a long rope will be their portion."

  "Ah! I remember noticing such in the quiver of the young thrallEadwin," said Pierre--"he whose hand you sought to cut off forpoaching."

  They said no more on that occasion, but pursued in silence thetrain of thought suggested.

  It was a strange gathering that night at the castle; for corpseafter corpse was borne in from the woods to receive Christianburial at the priory, all killed by arrows, and those arrows--whichthe slayers had not troubled to remove, as if they disdainedreprisals--all of the clumsy sort used by the "aborigines"