by A. D. Crake
CHAPTER XXII. THE CHAPTER HOUSE OF ABINGDON.
On the morrow of Michaelmas, in the year of grace 1071, an imposinggroup of warriors and ecclesiastics was gathered in the chapterhouse of the ancient Abbey of Abingdon.
The chamber in question was of rectangular form, but terminated atthe eastern end in an apse, where, beneath a column with radiatingarches, was the throne of the Lord Abbot.
A stone seat encompassed the other three sides of the building,cushions interposing, however, between the person and the barestone beneath, as was meet.
The walls were arcaded, so as to form stalls, and in the arcadeswere pictures of the Saints of the order, in glowing colours--St.Benedict occupying the place of honour. Nor was St. Dunstan, themost noted of English Benedictines, unrepresented.
A light burned perpetually in the midst of this chamber, framed soas to image a tongue of fire, emblem of Him, whose inspiration wassought at the gatherings of the chapter for deliberation.
Here novices were admitted and monastic punishment administered,while penitential chambers adjoined, to which offenders were takenafter sentence had been delivered.
It was just after the chapter mass, and the fourth hour of the day.
William sat in the abbot's chair; on his right band Lanfranchimself--for the Benedictine order was deeply interested in theinvestigation about to be made. The abbot and all the elderbrethren were present, and sat on the right or northern side of thebuilding. Next the abbot sat Geoffrey of Coutances; amidst thebrethren was Father Kenelm.
But on the other side sat William's principal nobles and courtiers,to whom reference has been made in former chapters--De la Pole,Arundel, Clyfford, Fitz-Maurice, Hastings, Maltravers, Peverill,Talbot, Harcourt, and many others--some of then grey-headed--inarms.
Odo of Bayeux and Fitz-Osborne were there likewise, as also Robertof Mortain and Pevensey.
A large coffer, called "the trunk," not unlike the box in whichprisoners appear in modern courts of justice, stood in the midst;and therein, pale with illness and worn by mental distress, yetstill undaunted in the spirit, stood Wilfred of Aescendune.
Poor Wilfred! he needed all his courage, for he stood almost alone,a mere youth, amidst many enemies. At the most there were but threehearts present which beat with any sympathy for him.
Lanfranc had, however, possessed the king with certain generalfacts, which disposed William to give the accused a patienthearing, and when his "starkness" was not roused, William could bejust.
And so Wilfred, his face pale, his lips compressed, his handsclasped upon the desk before him, gazed into the face of this awfulConqueror, whose frown so few dared to meet--the very incarnationof brute force and mental daring combined.
On his head was the crown of England, which he wore only on stateoccasions, four times yearly as a rule, at certain great festivals.One of these had just been held at Abingdon, and on this occasion,as we see, he again assumed it. The sceptre was borne beneath by apage who stood by his side.
William's voice first broke the silence--a stern, deep voice.
"Wilfred of Aescendune, we have chosen to hear thy defence inperson--if thou hast any defence becoming thee to make and us tohear."
"Of what am I accused?" said the prisoner.
It was noticed that he omitted the royal title.
"Of rebellion, parricide, and sacrilege."
"I admit that I have fought against the invaders of my country, andam nowise ashamed of it," said the brave youth, in a tone which,without being defiant, was yet manly; "but I deny, as base andwicked lies, the other charges made against me."
"Thou ownest thy rebellion?"
"I own that I have fought against thy people and thee; but I havenever sworn allegiance. Thou art not my rightful sovereign, andhence I do not acknowledge the guilt of rebellion."
There was a general murmur of indignation, which William repressed.
"Peace, my lords; peace, churchmen. We are not moved by a boy'srhetoric. The facts lie on the surface, and we need not enquirewhether one is truly a rebel who was taken red-handed in theso-called 'Camp of Refuge;' nor do we deign to discuss thoserights, which Christendom acknowledges, with our subjects. Thequestion is this: Does the youth simply merit the lighter doom of arebel, or the far heavier one of a parricide and a sacrilegiousincendiary?"
"Parricide!" exclaimed the indignant prisoner. "My father, morefortunate than I, died fighting against thee at Senlac."
"Hugo of Aescendune and Malville was nevertheless thy father byadoption; and by the law of civilised nations, carried with thatadoption the rights and prerogatives of a sire. But we waste time.Herald, summon the accuser."
"Etienne de Malville et Aescendune, enter!" cried the herald of thecourt.
And Etienne appeared, dressed in sable mourning, and bowed beforethe throne. He was pale, too, if that sallow colour, whicholive-like complexions like his assume when wrought upon, can becalled pale. He cast upon Wilfred one glance of intense hatred, andthen, looking down respectfully, awaited the words of theConqueror.
"Etienne de Malville, dost thou appear as the accuser of thisprisoner?"
"I do."
"Take thine oath, then, upon the Holy Gospels, only to speak thetruth; my Lord Archbishop will administer it."
Lanfranc administered the oath, much as it is done in courts ofjustice nowadays, but with peculiar solemnity of manner.
Etienne repeated the words very solemnly and distinctly. No onedoubted, or could doubt, his sincerity.
"Of what crimes dost thou accuse the prisoner?"
"Parricide, in that he hath compassed the death of his adoptivefather; sacrilege, in that he burnt the priory of St. Wilfred withall the monks therein, and later the Priory of St. Denys, fromwhich the inmates had happily escaped, and in support of thisaccusation I am ready to wager my body in the lists, if the King soallow."
"We do not risk thy safety against one who is already proved guiltyof rebellion, and who is not of knightly rank like thyself."
(Etienne had duly received knighthood after the taking of the Campof Refuge.)
"This is a question of evidence. State thy case."
Etienne spake clearly and well; and as he told the story of thedestruction of the priory of St. Wilfred, of the subsequentappearance of our hero in the woods at the head of the outlaws, andthe later conflagrations, there were few who did not think that hehad proved his case, so far as it admitted of proof.
"We will now hear thy story of the destruction of the priory, andthe manner in which thou didst escape from it," said the Conquerorto Wilfred.
Wilfred spoke good Norman French, thanks to his early education, incompany with Etienne and the other pages, after the Conquest. So hebegan his story lucidly, but not without some emotion, which hestrove in vain to suppress.
"Normans," he said, "I would not defend myself against this foulcharge to save my forfeit life, nor could I hope to save it. Yehave met like wolves to judge a stag, and since ye have taken fromme all that makes life dear, I refuse not to die; only I would diewith honour, and hence I strive, speaking but the words of truth,to remove the stain which my enemy there" (he turned and pointed atEtienne) "has cast upon my honour, for I am of a house that hasnever known shame, and would not disgrace it in my person.
"I submitted to the father ye Normans gave me, and bore all thewrongs he and his heaped upon me, until the day when I discoveredin that father" (he pronounced the word with the deepest scorn)"the murderer of my own mother."
A general burst of incredulity, followed by an indignant andscornful denial from Etienne.
"Silence," said a stern voice, "this is not a hostelry; theprisoner has the right of speech and the ear of the judge; only,Englishman, be careful what thou sayest."
"I repeat the simple fact, my lord" (this was the only titleWilfred would give the King); "the baron, whom ye are pleasedsportively to call my father, poisoned my own mother."
"Poisoned! poisoned! My liege, can this be endured?"
"Hear him t
o the end, and then, if he have spoken without proof, itwill be time to pronounce his aggravated sentence. SILENCE!"
Wilfred continued, and told the whole story as our readers know it,until his arrival at the Dismal Swamp. He described all that hadpassed so clearly that his foes became interested in spite ofthemselves, and listened. He did not charge Hugo with the burningof the priory, for he had no evidence to sustain the charge, beingonly aware that such was at hand to be produced by others; as hehad learnt from Father Kenelm, who had been granted admittance tohis cell.
At length he finished in these words:
"And now I have told you all the truth, and if ye will not believeme, but prefer to think I betrayed those to death I loved sodearly, I cannot help myself; but if there be a God, and a judgmentday--as ye all profess to believe--I appeal to that God and thatday, knowing that my innocence will then be made clear. That Ifought with them who slew the baron I freely admit, and hold myselfjustified, as ye must, if ye believe my story; but I myselfprotected the monks of your kindred, albeit they had taken theplaces of better men than themselves, and not one was harmed; andwhen we fled, we burnt castle, priory, and village, withoutdistinction, that they might not shelter an enemy. This, too, Ihold to be lawful in war.
"I know that Englishmen find scant justice at Norman hands, andthat ye will slay me as a rebel. Do so, and I will thank you; onlydefile not the memory--slay not the reputation as well as the body.If the house of Aescendune, which was planted in this land when yeNormans were but pagan Danes, is to perish, let it at least gounsullied to its grave. I have spoken."
There was strong sensation. His speech had produced some reactionin his favour.
"It is, as we said before, a question of evidence," said the King."Is any forthcoming on one side or the other? for as yet neitherparty has really shown who burnt the priory and the monks therein.We have only assumptions, and they are not facts."
Lanfranc looked at the King, as if asking permission to speak. TheKing bent his head, and the Archbishop began, addressing Etienne:
"Amongst the followers of thy father, was there a warrior namedGuy, son of Roger, born at Malville?"
"There was."
"Didst thou know him well?"
"Intimately."
"What became of him?"
"He was lost when my father perished--faithful, doubtless, to thelast."
"Didst thou ever see his mark as a witness to any charter, or thelike?"
"I did; instead of making a cross, he preferred to draw a bow."
"Wouldst thou recognise it, then?"
"I should, indeed."
"Then," said the Archbishop, holding a parchment folded up so as toconceal all but the name and the mark of a bow beside it, "dostthou know this mark?"
"I do; it is the mark of Guy, the son of Roger."
"Do ye all," said Lanfranc, turning round, "hear his affirmation?"
"We do--"
"Then hear what the paper contains."
I, Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville, being a dying man, andabout to meet my God, do make this, my last confession, for thesafety of my poor soul.
In the summer of the year 1068, in the mouth of June, I, withtwenty other men, who have, so far as I know, perished by firs inthe Dismal Swamp, was summoned to wait upon the Baron of Aescendunein a private chamber. He told us that the honour of his housedepended upon us, and asked us whether we were willing to stand byhim in his necessity. He had selected us well. We were born on hisNorman estates, and trained up from childhood to do his will, andthat of the devil. We all promised to do whatever he should ask,and to keep the matter a secret.
Then he told us that we were to burn the Priory of St. Wilfred atmidnight, and to allow none to escape.
This we did, we took possession silently of every exit, piled upwood and straw, set it on fire on every side at once, andtransfixed all those who tried to break out with arrows or lances,and hurled them back into the flames.
Long has my soul been sick with horror that I slew these holy men,and now that all who were my companions in this deed have perishedby God's just judgment--burnt alive even as they burned--I, willingto save my soul from the everlasting flame, do make this mypenitent confession, praying God to have mercy upon my soul.
Given in the Dismal Swamp, in the month of June, 1068.