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

by A. D. Crake

  CHAPTER XIII. "COALS OF FIRE {xii}."

  The unhappy youth, whose recklessness and folly had led to theentire destruction of the troop confided to his care, was now theirsole survivor.

  In that hour, when all was lost, at the close of the deadlystruggle in the house, he had crawled through the door, ere thelights were rekindled which had been extinguished in the frenzy ofthe conflict, and sought refuge in flight: not so much, it must beowned, because he feared death (although youth naturally clings tolife), as because he longed to live for vengeance, and to carry thesecret of the "Dismal Swamp" to Aescendune.

  He was bleeding, bruised, scarcely able to move without pain--allhis energy seemed exhausted in the supreme effort which had savedhim, at least for the time; but it was again very dark, thickclouds charged with snow once more obscured the moon, and the coverof the trees was before him, which he sought, determined rather toperish in the morass than to become the sport of his triumphantfoes.

  He had gained the desired shelter, and had paused to rest himselfand consider what to do next, when he felt something living comeinto contact with his legs. He started, as well he might under thecircumstances, when he saw to his great relief that it was one ofthe dogs which had accompanied his party throughout the day, andhope sprang up in his breast. The hound might perhaps lead him backthrough the morass.

  At that moment, the arrival of Wilfred with a large body of freshenemies took place, and Etienne was yet within hearing when hisrival stood in the doorway and cried aloud:

  "Etienne, son of Hugo, has been here and escaped; hunt him down,men and dogs; he can hardly have passed the morass; we must not lethim live to become a murderer like his father."

  The voice sounded like a summons from the dead. Etienne turnedpale; then the blood coursed rapidly through his veins, as he sawby the light of the moon, which emerged just then from a cloud, hishated rival, standing in front of the farmhouse--alive, and for thetime victorious.

  Now all was clear. Wilfred was the cause of the calamities whichhad fallen upon them, and the leader of the outlaws; and Etienne,who, to do him justice, never suspected the true author of thecrime, doubted not that his rival had fired the monastery toconceal his flight.

  He felt an intense desire that he might grapple with his young foein the death struggle. Willingly would he have accepted such adecision between their rival claims; but he was alone, wounded,exhausted, a faithful dog his sole friend. He felt that the day ofvengeance must be postponed.

  He spoke to the poor hound, and succeeded in making it comprehendthat he wanted "to go home." With that canine sagacity whichapproaches very near to reason, the dog at once sought for the pathby which they had entered the morass, found it, and ran forwardeagerly. Etienne entered it, trembling with hope, when the dogstopped, growled, and came back to its lord. The steps of many feetwere heard approaching.

  "The place swarms with foes," muttered the hunter, who had becomein his turn the hunted.

  A crash in the bush behind, and a huge English mastiff rushed uponEtienne. His Norman sleuth hound threw himself upon the assailantof his master, and a terrific struggle ensued. Etienne did not darewait to see its conclusion or help his canine protector, for thenoise of the conflict was drawing all the English there; but hestruggled back to the open, and ran along the inner edge of thewood, hoping to find another track through the morass.

  Suddenly he stumbled upon a swift little stream flowing down a bankinto the desert of slime. He felt at once that it must rise fromthe chain of hills behind, and that by following it he might getout of the swamp; it was all too like a mountain current to haveits origin in the level, and he determined to follow it.

  Besides, if he walked up the stream, he would baffle the Englishdogs, for water leaves no scent; in short, collecting all hisenergies, he strode rapidly up the brook.

  But his strength was not equal to a sustained effort; theexcitement of the night had been too much for him; and after he hadtraversed about a mile, he sat down to rest on the bank, and fellinto a dead faint.

  The first beams of the rising sun had illuminated the horizon, thevery time at which poor Pierre was led forth to die, when an agedEnglishwoman, coming down to draw water at the spring, espied thefainting youth.

  She advanced to his side, and seemed moved by compassion as shegazed upon the wounded, bloodstained form.

  "How young he is, poor lad. Ought I to help him? Yes, it must beright to do so. How the cry of hounds and men comes up the glen!"

  "Wake up, wake up!" she cried, and sprinkled water upon his face.

  He rose up as if from a deep sleep.

  "Mother, what is it?"

  "Come with me; I will give thee shelter."

  His senses returned sufficiently for him both to comprehend hermeaning and his own danger, and he followed mechanically. Justabove, the waters of the stream, dammed up for the moment, hadformed a little pond, surrounded by trees, save on one side, wherewas a little garden of herbs, and in its centre, close by thestream, stood a humble cot.

  It was built of timber; posts had been driven at intervals into theground, willow twigs had been woven in and out, the intersticesfilled with the clay which was abundant at the edge of thepond--and so a weather-proof structure had been built. There was nochimney, only a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape, above theplace for the fire.

  Within, the floor was strewn with rushes; there was a table, two orthree rough chairs made of willow, a few household implements.

  At one extremity a curtain, made of skins of wolf or deer, wasdrawn across the room, beyond which was a couch, a kind of boxfilled with rushes and leaves, over which lay a blanket andcoverlets, of a softer material than one would have expected tofind in a peasant's hut of the period.

  Many other little articles seemed to have been destined for aprouder dwelling; but all besides betokened decent poverty. All wasclean, and there could be little danger of hunger in thesettlement, while the woods were full of game, and their littlefields were fruitful with corn.

  Into this abode the old dame led her guest.

  "Thou art Norman," she said.

  "I am the son of the lord of Aescendune. If thou canst aid me toescape my foes, thou shalt name thy own reward."

  "Not all the gold thou hast would tempt me to aid thee; but thelove of One who died for us both forbids me to give thee up todeath. Thou art too young, poor youth, to be answerable for thyfather's sins."

  A proud speech was on his lips, but prudence prevailed, and theworthy cub of the old wolf determined to wear sheep's clothing tillhis claws were grown again.

  "The saints reward thee," he said, "since no other reward thou wilthave."

  He could say no more, but staggered into her hut, his strengthquite gone.

  Nearer and nearer drew the cry of hounds and men.

  "Save me if thou canst," he said.

  She took him behind the curtain, made him lie down on the couch,which was her own, and covered him completely over with a coverlet.Then she charged him to lie quiet, whatever happened, and shut thedoor of her hut.

  By and by it burst open, and Wilfred stood in the doorway.

  "Mother, hast thou seen any one pass this way? The Normans havebeen in the hamlet: we have slain all but one, and he, the worst ofall, has escaped us."

  "Canst thou not spare even one poor life?"

  "Nay, it is Etienne, son of the old fiend Hugo; besides, once safeoff, he would betray our secret before we are ready for action."

  "I cannot help thee in thy chase; thou knowest how I hate andshrink from bloodshed, as did thy sainted mother."

  "Yes, but they did not shrink from poisoning her--they whom shewould not have harmed to save her own life."

  "God will avenge--leave all to Him."

  "Nay, mother, we waste time; if thou hast not seen him, we go."

  "Hast thou seen my Eadwin? He is generally here with the lark?"

  Wilfred's face changed; he stammered out some evasive reply, anddashed out to join the men and hou
nds, who were quite at fault;they had lost the scent far below, where Etienne entered the brook,and were diligently investigating, one by one, all the tracks thatled from the morass.

  Etienne had heard all, and his heart smote him. From the languageused, the words he had heard, he felt that this old woman must bethe foster mother of his rival, and, if so, the mother of that veryEadwin he had so cruelly put to death the previous night; he quiteunderstood Wilfred's evasive reply.

  His heart smote him, and he repented of this cruelty, at least: hedreaded the moment when his preserver must learn the truth. Wouldshe then give him up?

  What, too, did Wilfred mean by his allusion to poison? Had he anygrounds for such suspicion? Poison was not an unknown agent amongstthe Normans. The great Duke himself had been suspected (doubtlesswrongfully) of removing Conan of Brittany by its means.

  But fatigue overcame him, and he slept. And during that sleepsymptoms of fever began to show themselves. He began to talk in hisdreams--"There goes a fire--avoid it, it is an evil spirit--shootarrows at it. Make it tell the secret--now we shall know about theswamp. Here is a fiend throttling me--oh, its awful eyes, theyblaze like two marsh fires. No, tie him to the wall; he shall tellthe truth or die. What are you giving me to drink?--it is blood,blood. You have poisoned me--I burn, burn--my veins are full ofboiling lead--my heart a boiling cauldron. See, there are the marshfiends--they are carrying away Louis and Pierre--their tails are aswhips--ah, an arrow through each of their arms will stop them.Where is my armour?--a hunting dress won't stop their darts, orsave one from their claws. Oh, father, help me--save me from thegoblins."

  In this incoherent way he talked for hours, and the old dameshuddered as he confused the real tragedy of the previous nightwith imaginary terrors. Oh, how awful were his ravings to her, whenat last she learned the truth. Yet in those very ravings he showedthat remorse was at his heart.

  She wept as she sat by his bed--wept over the son he had slain. Thedetails of that tragedy were, however, studiously concealed fromher by Wilfred's sedulous care; yet she knew Etienne had been theleader of the hostile troop, in conflict with whom she supposed herEadwin to have fallen in fair open fight; for she was led tounderstand he had been slain in the terrific struggle in the house.

  "The only son of his mother, and she was a widow."

  Father Kenelm came and read to her the story of the widow's son atNain, from King Alfred's Anglo-Saxon version of the Gospels. Noteven to him did she confide the secret, or tell who was separatedfrom the good priest only by a curtain--an instinct told her it wasright to tend and save--she would trust nothing else.

  But in spite of this resolution the good father discovered it all;for while he read the sweet story of old, he heard a cry in NormanFrench.

  "Keep off the fiend--the hobgoblin--he has got burningarrows--snakes! snakes! there are snakes in the bed!"

  "What means this, good mother?"

  "Oh, thou wilt not betray him."

  "Hast thou a fugitive there? Methinks I know the voice. Can it bethe son of the wicked baron?"

  "He is not answerable for his father's sin; oh, do not betrayhim--he is mad with fever."

  "Dost thou mean to release him, should he get well? Methinks itwere better that he should die."

  "With all his sins upon his head? May the saints forbid."

  "At least were he but absolved after due contrition, and thouknowest that thou hast little cause to love him."

  "His death cannot give me back my boy," and she wept once more.

  "Nay, it cannot; but if thou dost save him, it shall be under asolemn pledge never to betray the place of our retreat. I willmyself swear him upon the Holy Gospels. But woe to him should ouryoung lord Wilfred discover him; I verily believe he would die thedeath of St. Edmund {xiii}."

  "Canst thou not teach poor Wilfred mercy--thou art his pastor andteacher?"

  "He grows fiercer daily, and chafes at all restraint. Remember whathe has suffered."

  "The greater the merit, could he but forgive. You will keep mysecret, father?"

  "I will: let me see him."

  Father Kenelm went behind the curtain and watched the sufferer.Etienne glared at him with lacklustre eyes, but knew him not, andcontinued his inarticulate ravings. His forgiving nurse moistenedhis lips from time to time with water, and by him was a decoctionof cooling herbs, with which she assuaged his parching thirst.

  "Thou art a true follower of Him who prayed for His murderers,"said Father Kenelm. "The Man of Sorrows comfort thee."