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

by A. D. Crake

  CHAPTER XXIV. THE CASTLE OF OXFORD.

  "It is the crime and not the scaffold makesThe headsman's death a shame."

  Wilfred sat alone in an upper chamber of the donjon tower theConqueror had erected at Oxford, hard by the mound thrown up byEthelfleda, lady of the Mercians and daughter of Alfred. Forthither the king had caused him to be removed, unwilling to stainthe holy precincts of Abingdon with a deed of blood, and confidingfully in Robert d'Oyly, the governor of his new castle.

  The passage up the river had occupied two full hours, under thecare of trusty and able rowers; for the stream was swift in thosedays, before locks checked its course, as we have stated elsewhere.

  Under the woods of Newenham, past the old Anglo-Saxon churches ofSandford and Iffley, up the right-hand channel of the stream justbelow the city, and so to the landing place beneath the old tower{xxv}.

  William had given orders to treat our Wilfred with all possibleconsideration, and to allow him every indulgence, which did notmilitate against his safe keeping, for he admired, even while hefelt it necessary to slay. So he was not thrust into a dungeon, butconfined in an upper chamber, where a grated window, at a greatheight, afforded him a fair view of that world he was about toleave for ever.

  "Ah! if I were but in those woods," sighed the prisoner to himself,"I would give these Normans some trouble to catch me again; but thepoor bird can only beat himself against the cruel bars of hiscage."

  He counted the hours. It was the evening of his condemnation; twowhole days, followed by a feverish night, and then when that nextsun arose--

  Strange thoughts began to arise--what sort of axe would theyuse?--who would be there?--would they bind his eyes?--would he haveto kneel on the stones?--what kind of block would they use?

  Little trifling details like these forced themselves upon him, evenas an artist represents each humble detail in a finished picture.

  Did he repent that he had refused life and Aescendune? No, he hatedthe Normans with too profound a hatred.

  Was he prepared to die? We are sorry to record that he shook offevery thought of the future. God had delivered the English into thehands of the Normans--his father and mother had been good religiouspeople, and what had they got by it? If there was a God, why weresuch cruelties allowed to exist unavenged? He and His saints mustbe asleep. Such were the wicked thoughts which arose, as we grieveto record, in poor Wilfred's mind.

  But now heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soonLanfranc, conducted by the Norman governor, entered the cell.

  Against him Wilfred could not, in reason, feel the enmity he boreto all others of Norman race; it was owing to his exertions, and tothose of Geoffrey of Coutances, that he was about to die as apatriot, and not as a sacrilegious incendiary.

  It was the object of this worthy prelate to save the soul, where hehad failed to save the body, and to direct the thoughts of thecondemned one to Him, who Himself hung like a criminal betweenearth and heaven, that He might save all who would put their trustin Him.

  The great obstacle in Wilfred's mind was his inability to forgive.This his visitor soon perceived, and by the example of those dyingwords, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," hegently impressed upon the penitent the duty of forgiving those whohad wronged him--however deeply.

  "But how can I forgive the murderers of my mother?"

  "Thou believest that mother is in Paradise?"

  "Indeed I do."

  "Dost thou not wish to be with her at last?"

  "As the hart desireth the water brooks."

  "Then ask thyself what she would have thee do. Canst thou hope forthe pardon of thine own grievous sins, unless thou dost firstforgive all who have offended thee?"

  "I will try. See me again tomorrow, father."

  "I will do so: I remain at St. Frideswide's for--a day or two."

  Wilfred understood the hesitation.

  A different scene transpired simultaneously in the dungeons below,which, with their accustomed ruthless policy, the Normans hadhollowed out of the soil.

  The Jew, Abraham of Toledo, was resting uneasily, full offears--which experience too well justified--as to his personalsafety in this den of lions, when he also heard steps, this timedescending the stairs, and Geoffrey of Coutances was ushered in.

  "Leave the cell," said the bishop to the gaoler, "but remain in thepassage. Close the door; I would speak with this penitent, as Itrust he will prove, in private."

  "Never fear, your holiness," said the gaoler with somewhat unduefamiliarity; "I care little for a Jew's patter, and this fellowwill need a long shrift before they make a roast of him--for that,I suppose, will be the end of it."

  The door slammed.

  It was a miserable cell, composed of rough stones, lately puttogether, oozing with the moisture from the damp soil around, forthe river was close by and the dungeon beneath its level.

  "Art thou prepared to meet thy fitting end?"

  "What crime have I committed to deserve death?"

  "Thou hast knowingly and wilfully abetted, not one but manypoisoners, and the stake is the fitting doom for thee and them."

  "Oh! not the stake, God of Abraham. If ye must slay, at least sparethe agonising flames; but what mercy can we hope for, we faithfulchildren of Abraham, from Nazarenes?"

  "What price art thou willing to pay for thy forfeit life, if thysentence is commuted to exile from this land?"

  "Price? Canst thou mean it? I will fill thy chambers with gold."

  "I seek it not--albeit," added the worthy bishop, "some were fitlybestowed on the poor--but that thou, whose former crime hastbrought a worthy youth to the block, shouldst undo the mischief asfar as thou art able."

  "But what can I do? who would heed me?"

  "Dost thou not know of a drug, which shall throw the drinkerthereof into a trance, so like death that all shall believe himdead?"

  "I do indeed."

  "And art thou sure of thy power to revive the sleeper from thisseeming death, after the lapse of days--after men have committedhim as a corpse to the tomb?"

  "I can do so with facility if I have the necessary drugs; but I amstripped of all. Were I in London--"

  "Hast thou no brethren in Oxenford?"

  "Yea, verily, I remember Zacharias the Jew, who lives hard by theriver, in the parish of St. Ebba."

  "Canst thou trust him with thy life?"

  "He is a brother."

  "Ye are better brothers than many Christians. I will send him tothee, and he shall supply thee with the necessary medicaments. Ifthe experiment succeed, and absolute secrecy be observed, I willcause thy sentence to be commuted to banishment, with theforfeiture of some portion of thine ill-gotten goods; otherwisethere remaineth but the stake."

  And Geoffrey of Coutances departed.

  An hour later, Zacharias of St. Ebba's parish entered; the twoconferred a long time--Zacharias departed--returned again--and inthe evening of the following day sought the bishop and placed apacket in his hand.

  It was the last night on which poor Wilfred was allowed by Normanmercy to live. The archbishop was with him.

  He was penitent and resigned; his last confession was made, and itwas arranged that on the morrow he should receive the HolyCommunion at St. George's Chapel, within the precincts, from thehands of Lanfranc, ere led forth to die, as now ordered, upon thatmound the visitor to Oxford still beholds, hard by that same donjontower.

  "I thank thee, father," he said to Lanfranc--"I thank thee for thehope thou hast given me of meeting those I have lost, in a betterand brighter world."

  "Thou diest penitent for thy sins, and forgiving thy foes?"

  "I do, indeed; it has been a struggle, but thou hast conquered."

  "Not I, but Divine grace;" and the mighty prelate turned aside tohide a tear.

  Another visitor was announced, and Geoffrey of Coutances drew near.

  "Thou art resigned, my Wilfred?"

  "I am, by God's grace."

  "Yet thou lookest feeble and ill
. Drink this tonic; it will givethee strength to play the man tomorrow."

  He emptied the contents of a phial into a small cup of water.Wilfred drank it up.

  "And now, my son, hast thou any message to leave behind thee?"

  "When thou seest Etienne, tell him I forgive, as I trust heforgives also--we have much to pardon each other--and beg him to bea merciful lord to such poor English as yet dwell in Aescendune."

  "I will, indeed, and so second your last appeal that I doubt not toprevail."

  "And my sister--Hugo sent her, as he said, to be educated in theconvent of The Holy Trinity at Caen; convey her my last love, and alock of hair as a memento of her only brother. Poor Editha! shewill be alone now. Thou wilt care for her future fortunes; she hasa claim on the lands of Aescendune. Oh, Aescendune!--bright sky,verdant fields, deep forest glades, pleasant river--thou passest toNorman hands now."

  It was the last moment of weakness.

  "May I lie there beside my father?"

  "Yes, thou shalt," said Lanfranc.

  "After many years," muttered Geoffrey to himself, for he had asecret, which he concealed from his more scrupulous brother.

  Lanfranc rose to depart.

  "Commend thyself to God in prayer; then sleep and dream ofParadise. I will be with thee ere the October dawn."

  And Lanfranc departed.

  "How dost thou feel, my son?" said Geoffrey.

  "Well, but strangely sleepy, as if control were leaving me and myframe not my own. Was it a strengthening dose thou gavest me?"

  "One which will, perchance, save thee. Lie on this bed; now sleepif thou wilt--thou wilt arise the better for it."

  And in a few minutes, all anxiety forgotten, Wilfred slept--sleptheavily. Geoffrey watched him awhile, then departed.

  The morrow, and a great multitude of spectators had arrangedthemselves around the slopes of the mound, just before sunrise.

  On the tower itself stood Etienne de Malville, eager to see the endof his hated rival, and to make sure, by ocular evidence, of hisdeath.

  The morning was clear, after high dawn. The spectator on the towerlooked towards the eastern hills, over the valley of the Cherwell,to see the sun arise above the heights of Headington.

  It came at last--the signal of death: a huge arc of fire, changingrapidly into a semi-circle, and then into a globe. All the earthrejoiced around, but a shudder passed through the crowd.

  The headsman leaned upon his axe, but no procession yet approached.

  The sun was now a quarter of an hour high, when a murmur passedthrough the crowd that something had happened. At length the murmurdeepened into a report that Wilfred had been found dead in his bed.

  "Died," said some, "by the judgment of God."

  "The better for him," said others.

  And there were even those who murmured bitterly that they weredisappointed of the spectacle, which they had left their beds towitness. Such unfeeling selfishness is not without example inmodern times.

  Etienne left the roof, burning with indignation, suspecting sometrick to cheat him of his vengeance.

  "Come into this cell," said the soft voice of Lanfranc.

  Etienne obeyed.

  There lay his young rival, cold and pale. Etienne doubted nolonger; death was too palpably stamped upon the face.

  "Canst thou forgive now?" said Lanfranc. "His last message was oneof forgiveness for thee."

  "I know not. An hour ago I thought no power on earth could make me;but we have each suffered wrongs."

  "Ye have."

  "I do forgive, then; requiescat in pace."

  "So shall it be well with thee before God," said the good prelate.

  So Wilfred was buried in the vaults of St. Frideswide's church. TheArchbishop Lanfranc celebrated the funeral mass. It was noticedwith surprise that Bishop Geoffrey absented himself from thefunction and the subsequent burial rites.

  The week ended, as all weeks come to an end. Lanfranc had gone toCanterbury. The Conqueror, assured by trusty reporters of the deathof Wilfred, rejoiced that so satisfactory an accident had befallen,sparing all publicity and shame to one he could but admire, as heever admired pluck and devotion.

  Geoffrey alone remained a guest at a monastic foundation hard bySt. Frideswide's.

  The midnight bell has struck twelve--or, rather, has been strucktwelve times by the sexton, in the absence of machinery.

  All is silence and gloom in the church of St. Frideswide, and uponthe burial ground around.

  Three muffled figures stand in a recess of the cloisters.

  "This is the door," said the sexton; "but, holy St. Frideswide, togo down there tonight!"

  "Thou forgettest I am a bishop; I can lay spirits if they arise."

  The sexton stood at the open door--a group of the bishop'sretainers farther off--that iron door which never opened to inmatebefore.

  Geoffrey and the Jew advanced to the grave, amidst stone coffinsand recesses in the walls, where the dead lay, much as in thecatacombs.

  They stopped before a certain recess.

  There, swathed in woollen winding sheets, lay the mute form ofWilfred of Aescendune.

  "Let him see thee when he arises. The sight of this deathly placemay slay him. He will awake as from sleep. Take this sponge--bathewell the brow; how the aromatic odour fills the vaults!"

  A minute--no result. Another.

  "Dog, hast thou deceived me and slain him? If so, thou shalt notescape."

  "Patience," said the Jew.

  A heavy sigh escaped the sleeper.

  "Thank God, he lives," said the bishop.

  "Where am I? Have I slept long?"

  "With friends--all is well.

  "Cover his face; now bear him out to the air."

  . . . . .

  A barque was leaving the ancient port of Pevensey, bound for theeast. Two friends--one in the attire of a bishop, and a youth wholooked like a recent convalescent--stood on the deck.

  "Farewell to England--dear England," said the younger.

  "Thou mayest revisit it after thou hast fulfilled thy desire topray at thy Saviour's tomb, and to tread the holy soil His sacredFeet have trodden; but it must be years hence."

  "My best prayers must be for thee."

  "Tut, tut, my child; thy adventures form an episode I love to thinkof. See, Beachy Head recedes; anon thou shalt see the towers ofCoutances Cathedral across the deep."