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

by A. D. Crake

  CHAPTER XI. ALIVE--OR DEAD?

  The reader will remember that we left Etienne of Aescendune cumMalville and his band in a most critical moment--lost in awilderness full of enemies of unknown number and uncertainposition; but with a gleam of comfort in the shape of a light whichhad arisen out of the gloom before them.

  "It is one of the rascals carrying a torch. Let loose the dogs; ifthey but seize him, we can extort the whole truth; then we shallknow what to do."

  Ralph immediately slipped the older and fiercer hound, and tried toset him on the destined prey; but to his astonishment the beastbounded forward but a few yards, then returned with its tailbetween its legs and whined piteously.

  "Are we all bewitched?" exclaimed Etienne.

  "Witches and warlocks are said to abound in these woods, and manyother works of Satan also."

  "The light goes steadily onwards: it is a man carrying a torch; letus follow him up."

  They followed rapidly, the torch going smoothly on before them,when all at once the whole party fell into a miry slough up totheir waists.

  The deceitful light danced about in a joyous manner, as if it weremocking them, and then went out and left them all in utterdarkness, struggling vainly in the mud and slime.

  "Where are we?" said Pierre, piteously.

  "In the Dismal Swamp," said Ralph.

  "Amongst toads and snakes," cried another.

  At this moment half-a-dozen lights appeared in various directions.

  "Good heavens, the place is alive with marsh fires."

  "They are what the English call Jack-o'-lanterns."

  "They are ignes fatui," said Pierre.

  "They are the souls of unbaptized babies," said Ralph. "Let us tryto return to the firm ground we have left."

  More easily said than done. Our unfortunate Normans struggledvainly in the darkness and in the mire, uttering piteousexclamations--cold and frozen, and mocked ever and anon by someblazing light. Many a vow did they make to our Lady of Sorrows, andto St. Erroutt, St. Gervaise, St. Denys, and every other Normansaint, till somebody suggested that the English saints might knowmore about the morass, and they condescended to appeal to St. Chad(mighty in those parts), beseeching his help in their distress.

  Suddenly a piercing cry told that one was being swallowed up insome quicksand; but they could give no aid, and only shudder inhelplessness.

  At that moment Etienne caught hold of the loose leash by which oneof the dogs was secured.

  "Let us follow the dogs," he said; "they always scent out firmground."

  There was now, happily for them, more light; it had long sinceceased to snow, and the stars came out brightly.

  "See," said Pierre, "the moon is rising; we shall have it quitelight soon."

  "Would it had risen earlier," croaked Ralph.

  The dogs, their noses to the ground, went on bravely, winding inand out between quagmire and rotting herbage. Had the light beenbrighter, our Normans would have perceived the impressions ofnumerous footmarks of men on the path they were taking--the dogswere at last on the scent they had sought all day, whether for wealor for woe.

  At length the path suddenly ascended a bank, and the light throughthe tree tops showed that they were approaching a clearing.

  They ascended cautiously, and from the summit of the short ascentlooked out upon an elevated tableland in the midst of the morass.Before them, encircled by a little brook, which shortly afterwardsswelled the waters of the morass, stood a large rustic dwelling,overgrown with ivy; and not far distant rose many houses orhuts--in fact, to their no small amazement, they beheld a village,and one, too, that no individual amongst them had ever seen orheard of before.

  "'Tis the very nest of vipers we have sought all day," saidEtienne.

  "And have found to our undoing," lamented Ralph.

  "See, there is light behind that shutter, I will creep up and lookin," said Etienne; "rest you all here."

  There was no glass in common use in those days, and, save when hornwas employed, people--the poor at least--had to choose, even in thedaytime, between darkness and warmth; for when they let in thelight, they let in the weather.

  Looking through the chinks in the shutters, Etienne gazed inside.

  It was the farmhouse occupied by a former lord, Elfwyn ofAescendune, during the Danish invasions, as recorded in a formerChronicle, and was larger and more commodious than usual in thosedays. There were several smaller houses, or rather huts, around;but if they had inmates, they were all silent--perhaps asleep, forthe hour was late.

  Beside a fire, kindled beneath a large open chimney, such as werethen in use in the bettermost houses--for the poor were contentwith a hole in the roof--sat a youth of some sixteen years of age,busily attending to a large pot over the fire, from which, fromtime to time, savoury fumes ascended, the odour of which gladdenedeven the olfactory organs of our young Norman aristocrat.

  Etienne knew him: it was Eadwin, the son of Wilfred's old nurse,for whom he had an ancient grudge, which he at once resolved togratify.

  He summoned Ralph and the rest who had escaped the morass--theywere only ten in number, the others had succumbed to the horrors ofthat fearful night.

  Yet even so, the impulses of pride and cruelty were not subdued inthe heart of Etienne, son of Hugo.

  "The English robbers have left their haunt for a time; doubtlessthey were the fellows who passed us in the forest, and there is butone boy left in charge, of whom I know something; we will seize himand learn the truth."

  "Suppose they come back while we tarry here?"

  "We will set a watch to warn us in good time."

  Etienne stepped lightly to the door; it was actually unbarred, sosecure did the English feel in this hitherto inaccessible retreat,and his hand was on the shoulder of his intended victim before hehad taken the alarm. He turned round and started violently as herecognised his ancient enemies, then made a vain attempt to gainthe door, which was immediately and easily frustrated.

  "Nay, thou young oaf, thou canst not escape. Dost thou not know thyown lords? Thou art a runaway thrall, and thy life is forfeited;but if thou wilt but use thy tongue, thou mayest perchance save itand escape lightly. Tell me--Who are the people who live here? Whois their leader? How many there be? Where they are now?"

  The young dweller in the woods had by this time recovered his selfpossession. He was a mere lad, yet endued with manly courage whichfitted him to endure nobly for the sake of those whom he loved.

  "Thou art not my true lord, and never wast; neither will I answerthy questions, though thou slay me."

  "Then thou mayst prepare for death."

  "They live who may avenge me."

  "We will chance that. Stand yonder, against the wall, stretch outthine arms, or they shall be stretched for thee.

  "Tie him, my men, to that post--" pointing, as he spoke, to one ofthe uprights which supported the roof, and which was partiallydetached from the wooden wall--"and extend his arms to the posts oneither side."

  Conscious that resistance was hopeless, Eadwin submitted quietly tobe bound, listening nevertheless so eagerly for sounds from withoutthat Ralph marked his strained attention; Etienne was intent uponhis designed cruelty.

  "Once more, wilt thou answer me?" he said.

  "No," said his victim, quietly and firmly.

  "Then thou must suffer. Thou shalt die as thy St. Edmund did--fitdeath it was, too, for a beggarly English saint. I ask thee for thelast time."

  No reply. Etienne bade the men stand aside, and then, taking hisstand at the other end of the room, which may have been twenty feetlong, took accurate aim and shot an arrow through the muscle of theright arm.

  "Wilt thou speak?"

  Beads of sweat stood upon the brow; but the lips found strength yetto answer--once more the bolt flew, and the left arm was pierced inturn.

  "Wilt thou answer my questions now?

  "The rebels and fools, thy countrymen, have been amusing themselvesby shooting at us all day; methinks the tables ar
e turned now."

  He shot again and wounded his victim in the shoulder. The wholeframe trembled; the lips moved, as if in prayer.

  "Let me shoot this time," said Pierre, "if he will not answer."

  "Take the bow then; hit the other shoulder."

  Pierre took very accurate aim, and shot right through the heart.One convulsive throb, and the body hang by the cords dead, and pastthe reach of suffering.

  "Thou fool!" said Etienne, forgetting his customary courtesy to hisequals, "thou hast spoilt all--we may never learn the truth now."

  "He was too brave a lad to be tortured," said Pierre, upon whom thepatient courage of the sufferer had made a very deep impression,"so I gave him the coup de grace."

  "My lord, had we not better depart? These English may return at anymoment; tomorrow we may come with all the force at our command."

  "We will sup first at all events. That soup smells good; it willput a little warmth into our bodies, and it is worth a little riskto have the chance of drying our clothes at this fire."

  So they left the body of poor Eadwin where it had fallen, and beingnow spent with hunger, they poured the soup into basins and ate itgreedily.

  Suddenly the door was burst open, the room was filled with theirfoes--uplifted weapons, deadly blows, cries, curses in English andFrench--in short, such a melee ensued that it passes all our powerto describe it. The fire was kicked over the place--blood hissed asit ran over the floor and met the hot embers--the torches werespeedily extinguished or converted into weapons--men rolled overand over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger orknife--they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads againstthe floor--they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, notwith the fist, but the knife--on rolled the strife--the verybuilding shook--till there was a sudden lull, and in a few moreminutes it was peace.

  A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, manystreaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight ofwhich were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to beNormans.

  Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded--it was Pierre.

  The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in severalplaces, yet not mortally--and fully conscious--when he heard aneager voice inquire in a tone of authority:

  "What is the meaning of all this? How did they cross the morass?Are many of our people hurt?"

  He looked up; the voice startled him. Well it might--it was to hima voice from the grave.

  There, in the doorway, living and well, strong and well-liking, inthe glare of torchlight, stood his former companion, Wilfred ofAescendune.

  Their eyes met, and they gazed fixedly, yes, and proudly, upon eachother; but the glance of Wilfred softened first. He saw before himthe only one of his former companions who had ever given him afriendly word, whom misapprehension alone had estranged from him,which he (Wilfred) had refused to remove.

  "We meet again, Pierre de Morlaix."

  "Thou art not dead, then. How didst thou escape? Who burnt themonastery?"

  "Art thou so demented as to ask me? Dost thou think English torchesfired an English house of God? Times are changed now, and thouseest me surrounded by the vassals of my father's house, who own nolord but their natural chieftain. But where is Etienne? We havewatched your party all day, and know that the young tyrant wastheir leader. Is he amongst the dead?"

  "Look for thyself."

  No. Etienne was not amongst the dead. How, then, had he escaped?

  "Search the premises--search the woods--stop the paths across themorass--men and dogs, all of you. Better all the rest had escaped:he shall never, never live to be lord of Aescendune."

  And Wilfred vanished to give orders out of doors.

  An hour had passed away; the dead had been removed, the English tobe decently buried--for there was an old church built by Elfwyn ofAescendune, during the Danish wars {xi}, and around it lay thegraves of those who had died in troublous times; there Englishpriests were still found to serve at the altar; Norman tyranny didnot spare the English Church any more than the English nobility.

  But the Norman dead were simply carried to a quagmire of bottomlessdepth which absorbed the bodies, and furnished a convenient thoughdreadful grave.

  And in this division of the slain, young Eadwin, pierced with fourwounds, was found; and the arrows, yet remaining, showed at oncethat he had not fallen in fair strife.

  The search for Etienne, still unsuccessful, was being eagerlypursued, when Wilfred returned, bent on questioning Pierre, andbeheld the dead body of Eadwin.

  He was deeply moved, for he had loved the poor lad, his fosterbrother, well, and could not easily restrain his emotion, but sosoon as he was master of himself, the desire for vengeancesuperseded softer emotions, and he ordered the wounded Pierre to bebrought before him.

  He had no difficulty in learning the truth. Pierre, now upon hismettle, somewhat sorrowfully said that as the young thrall wouldnot answer his lord when bidden, Etienne had endeavoured to compelhim.

  "Thou hadst, then, no part in it?"

  "I gave the coup de grace."

  "Then thou hast sealed thine own fate: it is folly to extend mercyto those who never show it."

  "I have not asked it of thee--of the associate of murderers andoutlaws."

  The sun rose clear and bright after that eventful night--the stormwas over--its rising beams fell upon a company of archers drawn upin the English encampment--upon a young warrior doomed to die, whostood bravely before them. The gray-haired priest who had preparedhim for death--the only favour shown him--bade him a last farewell;the bows twanged, and the same arrows which had transfixed theflesh of Eadwin pierced the heart of Pierre de Morlaix.