by A. D. Crake
CHAPTER XIX. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE CONQUEROR.
The mighty Conqueror of England was the central figure of the agein which he lived--the greatest soldier of an age of soldiers, andnot less statesman than warrior.
Born to a life of warfare, the Conquest had been but theculminating point of a career spent in the tented field--but onthat one event he staked his all.
For had he been vanquished at Senlac there was no hope of flight;the English commanded the sea, while his suzerain of France, everon the watch to regain those Norman dominions which Rollo had won,would have taken instant advantage of the loss of its militaryleaders to re-annex Normandy to the French crown, and must havesucceeded.
Had William fallen in England the Norman name and glory would haveperished at Hastings.
Doubtless, he felt how great was the stake he had placed at thehazard of the die, and having won it, he used it as his own.
Yet he was not all of stone. The Anglo-Saxon chronicler says ofhim--"He was mild to those good men who loved God, although sternbeyond measure to those who resisted his will."
Hence the power which men like Lanfranc or Anselm had over him; andit must be added that his life was exemplary as a privateindividual, his honour unsullied, his purity unstained.
Stern was the race of which he was the head and the ruling spirit.Well does the old chronicler, Henry of Huntingdon, say:
"God had chosen the Normans to humble the English nation, becauseHe perceived that they were more fierce than any other people."
And we modern English must remember that we are the descendants ofold English and Normans combined. They came to "high mettle" theblood of our race, and when the conquerors and the conquered weremoulded into one people, the result was the Englishmen who wonCrecy and Agincourt against overwhelming odds, whose very name wasa terror to continental soldiery, as Froissart abundantlytestifies.
Grieve as we may over the tyranny and wrong of the Conquest,England would never have been so great without it as she afterwardsbecame.
Etienne knelt in the abbey chapel until the last worshippers hadgone out, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gentlevoice said:
"The King awaits thee, my son, in the abbot's audience chamber."
In spite of his boldness, Etienne felt a strange tremor as hepassed through the cloisters and approached the dreaded monarch.
But he himself belonged to the same stern race, and when thefolding doors opened, and he saw the King seated in the abbot'schair, he had perfectly recovered his composure. With winning gracehe bent the knee before his liege, and gazed into that face whosefrown was death.
But it was not frowning now; the expression was almost paternal,for the Conqueror loved a gallant youth.
"Rise up, my son," he said; "the holy father here tells me you bearstirring news."
"My liege, he hath spoken rightly. I have to tell of rebellion andsacrilege; our English vassals have risen against us, and my bravefather has fallen by their hands; our castle is in their holding,and they have driven the brethren of St. Benedict homeless fromtheir monastery."
"And who has dared this deed?"
"Wilfred, son of the rebel who fell at Senlac."
"Wilfred of Aescendune! I remember the stripling when he sought hisfather's corpse on the battlefield, but had heard that he had losthis life in the fire which consumed the monastery."
"Nay, sire, he had fled to the rebels, and we doubt not now that heand the outlaws, with whom he found a home, fired the monastery,themselves, to cover his flight."
"Tell me, then, what could have driven him to so violent a course,and tell me truly; for some cause there must have been."
It must be remembered that, at this period, William had not givenup all hope of reconciling the English to his rule.
"I know no cause, sire, save--"
"Save what?" said he sternly, for Etienne hesitated.
"My liege, the lad, whom your royal will made the heir to the landsmy father had won by his services on the field of battle, neverlost his sympathy with the rebel rout around, or all had perhapsbeen well; he struck me in defence of a churl whom I found stealinggame, and I challenged him to fight."
"And did he shirk the contest? I should not have thought it ofhim."
"He ran away, sire, and was brought back; was sent to the monasteryby my father for a time of penance as a punishment; the same nightthe building was burnt by the outlaws, as we have every reason tothink by his connivance, since he joined them and became theirhead, while we all thought him dead."
"And how didst thou learn he yet lived?"
"By his actions; the outlaws under his command burnt our farms,slew our men in the woods, and not our common men only, whose lossmight better be borne, but they murdered a noble youth, my fellowpage, entrusted to my father's care, Louis de Marmontier; andfinally, by the help of a false guide, they entrapped my father andhis retainers into a marsh, which they set on fire, and allperished."
Etienne spoke these words with deep emotion, but still firmly anddistinctly.
"Fear not, my son, thy father's death shall be avenged, or my swordhas lost its power. Weep not for the dead--women weep, men avengewrongs on the wrongdoer; but tell me, art thou certain of thesefacts? didst thou or any one else see this Wilfred at the head ofthe outlaws?"
"My liege, I saw him myself; I penetrated their fastnesses in theforest, and but narrowly escaped with life."
"And saw Wilfred of Aescendune?"
"Distinctly, my liege, almost face to face, in command of therebels."
"And then, what happened after the death of thy father?"
"They issued from the woods, seized the castle--the few defendersleft had fled to Warwick--and then summoned the whole neighbourhoodto arms. The bale fires were blazing on every hill. The Count ofWarwick bid me tell you, my liege, that he will hold his castletill aid arrives, but that he is powerless to check the wave ofinsurrection which is spreading over the country far and wide."
"It is well; our banner shall be unfurled and these English shallfeel the lion's wrath, which they have provoked. Tomorrow isAscension Day--the truce of God--on Friday we march. Meanwhile Icommend thee to the abbot's hospitality; he will bring thee to thebanquet tomorrow after the High Mass. Remember, a true warriorshould be as devout in church as fearless in the field."
Etienne left the presence, assured that the death of his fatherwould be speedily avenged, and slept more soundly that night thanhe had since the fatal fire in the marshes. He loved his father,and it must be remembered that he knew not that father's crimes.Not for one moment did he suspect that he had been concerned in theburning of the monastery, nor did he dream that there had beenaught in the death of the Lady of Aescendune save the hand ofnature.
The one absorbing passion of his life at this moment was hatred ofhis successful rival--not so much as his rival, but as the murdererof his father.
All the Norman inhabitants of the neighbourhood crowded the abbeychurch on the morrow, and were present at the Mass of the day; thepoor English were there in small numbers; they could not worshipdevoutly in company with their oppressors, but frequented littlevillage sanctuaries, too poverty stricken to invite Normancupidity, where, on that very account, the poor clerics of Englishrace might still minister to their scattered flocks, and preach tothem in the language Alfred had dignified by his writings, butwhich the Normans compared to the "grunting of swine."
And the service in the church over, how grand was the company whichmet in the banqueting hall of the palace on the island!
The Conqueror sat at the head of the board; on his right hand theCount d'Harcourt, head of an old Norman family, which stillretained many traces of its Danish descent, and was as littleFrench-like as Normans of that date could be; De le Pole,progenitor of a fated house, well-known in English history; De laVere, the ancestor of future Earls of Oxford; Arundel, whobequeathed his name to a town on the Sussex coast, where hisdescendants yet flourish; Clyfford, unknowing of the fate whichawaited his descendants i
n days of roseate hue; FitzMaurice, a nameto become renowned in Irish story; Gascoyne, ancestor of a judgewhose daring justice should immortalise his name; Hastings, whosedescendant fell the victim of the Boar of Gloucester in later days;Maltravers, whose name was destined to be defiled at BerkeleyCastle in Plantagenet times; Peverel, a name now familiar throughthe magic pen of Scott; Talbot, whose progeny, in times when theNormans' children had become the English of the English, burnt theill-fated "Maid" at Rouen {xx}.
There was a bishop present who blessed the meats, but Etienne couldhave spared the presence of Geoffrey of Coutances, whom he knew asthe friend of Wilfred, and the author of many inconvenient (and, asEtienne thought, impertinent) inquiries about that youngunfortunate, after the burning of the old priory.
Who shall describe the splendour of that feast? We will not attemptit, nor will we try to analyse the feelings of the country youth sosuddenly introduced into so brilliant an assembly.
But amidst the intoxication of the scene his mind continuallywandered to the sombre forests, the blackened marsh, the DismalSwamp, and his desolated home; and he would almost have given hisvery soul to stand face to face, foot to foot, with his youthfulrival, sword in hand, with none to interfere between them, and soto end the long suspense.
While some such dream was floating before his imagination, and itsdetails were painted vivid as life upon the retina of the mind, aquiet voice, but one not without some authority, whispered in hisears:
"My son, I would fain ask thee of a youth in whom I am somewhatinterested, and who is, I am told, yet alive, risen, as it were,from the dead--Wilfred of Aescendune."
Etienne's face would have made a fine study for a painter, as heencountered the gaze of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances.
The bishop drew the youth gently into a deep embrasure, where acurtain before the opening veiled a window seat, for the feast wasnow over, and the guests were mingling in general conversation.
"Father," said Etienne "am I, whom he has made an orphan, a fitwitness?"
"My son," said Geoffrey, "I respect an orphan's feelings, yet injustice to the lad whom, as thou sayest, I once befriended, I mustask a few questions. He appeared to me naturally affectionate andingenuous--one who would love those who treated him well, but whowould grievously resent scorn and contempt; tell me honestly, didstthou receive him as a brother, as thou wert bound to do,considering the alliance between thy father and his mother, ordidst thou regard him simply as thy rival?"
Etienne hesitated.
"My son, thou cravest knighthood; the true knight is bound to speakthe truth."
"I own, father, that I felt him my rival."
"And never thought of him as a brother?"
"Never."
"Then, naturally, this led to injurious words and contemptuousdeeds?"
"I cannot deny it; nor do I now regret it, knowing what he is."
"Perchance, my son, thou hast had much to do with making him whathe is. One more thing: of course Wilfred would naturally sympathisewith the old retainers of his father. Tell me, didst thou everill-use them in his sight?"
"I may have done so sometimes. But, my lord, you, who at the headof an army, recently sanctioned the mutilation of the rebels inDorsetshire--"
"My child, peace and war are different things, and in the latter,men are compelled to do that, from which in days of peace theywould shrink, only that timely severity may prevent furtherbloodshed, and so save many Christian lives. But I am speaking ofwhat thou didst to thine own father's vassals in time ofpeace--didst thou ill-treat them before thy English brother?"
"I may have been sharp sometimes, and used the ashen twig freely."
"Only the ashen twig? My son, tell me all the story about the'young poaching churl' who was the cause of such deadly enmitybetween you."
Etienne told it with reluctance.
"Pray was the lad in any manner dear to Wilfred?"
"He was his foster brother," said Etienne, covering his face asconscience smote him, for he remembered the death of Eadwin, andthe way in which the mother of the murdered boy had returned goodfor evil.
"Then, my son, thou canst not acquit thyself of blame."
"But even if I were in fault so far, father, the terrible eventswhich have occurred since do not lie at my door--the burning of themonastery, the death of my poor father."
"Only so far as this, that all might have been prevented hadst thoureceived Wilfred as a brother, for thou didst drive him to thewoods--according to thine own account. But depend upon it, there ismore behind. A brave youth like Wilfred would not have fled simplyfor fear of the combat, nor would one who loved his own people, asyour story proves, have connived at the burning of an Englishmonastery--monks and all. Nay, my son, the mystery is not solvedyet; in God's own time it will be, and depend upon it, there willbe much to forgive on both sides. Think of this when thou repeatestthy paternoster tonight; for the present we will close thisconference."