The Rival Heirs; being the Third and Last Chronicle of Aescendune by A. D. Crake (the mitten read aloud txt) 📕

it is said to be in the solitudes of the Black Forest, when the Wild Huntsman has passed.

But there was a lonelier and yet wilder region, where the sound of the hunter's horn only penetrated in faint vibrations from the far distance.

This region was a deep and entangled morass, which had only been explored by the veteran hunter of former days, or by the hunted outlaw of the present. Streams had overflown their banks, the water had stagnated, rank foliage had arisen, and giant trees rotted in swamp and slime.

The Normans had never penetrated into this wilderness of slimy desolation, although, of course, they had again and again reached its borders and found bogs of bottomless depth, quagmires which would suck one out of sight in a few minutes, and at nightfall legions of evil spirits, as they thought them--for after dark these sloughs were alive with Jack-o'-lanterns, which men believed to be the souls of unbaptized infants.

In former Chronicles we have described the old hall of Aescendune, as it stood in Anglo-Saxon days; it was then rather a home, a kind of "moated grange," than a fortress.

But when Hugo the Norman took possession, he could not endure to live in a house incapable of standing a regular siege. And well he might have such feelings, when he remembered that he lived in the midst of a subject population, to whom his tyranny had rendered him and his men-at-arms hateful.

So he sent at once for Ralph of Evreux, a skilful architect, whose line lay in the raising of castles and such like, who knew how to dig the dungeon and embattle the keep, and into his hands he committed the rebuilding of the castle of Aescendune.

All was bustle and activity. The poor thralls of the estate were "worked to death;" stone had to be brought from an immense distance, for wood might burn if subjected to fiery arrows; the moat was deepened and water let in from the river; towers were placed at each angle, furnished with loopholes for archers; and over the entrance was a ponderous arch, with grate for raining down fiery missiles, and portcullis to bar all approach to the inner quadrangle, which was comparatively unchanged.

In short, the whole place was so thoroughly strengthened, that the cruel baron might laugh to scorn any attempts of the unhappy English to storm it, should they ever reach such a pitch of daring.

Below the castle walls the new priory was rapidly rising from the ruins of the olden structure. It was to be dedicated to St. Denys--for the Normans did not believe in any English saints--and then it was to be inhabited by a colony of monks from the diocese of Coutances-outre-mer.

This was to take place in order to please Bishop Geoffrey, who had made some inconvenient inquiries into the circumstances connected with the burning of the old abbey and the death of Wilfred.

But no awkward circumstances came to light; if there had been any foul play, the actors therein kept their own counsel.

An incident which happened about this time caused no little comment.

It was an October evening; the inmates of the castle (now properly so called) were assembled at supper in the great hall, after a long day's hunting of the wild boar.

In the middle of the meal, Pierre de Morlaix, who had tarried in the forest, entered, looking as pale as a ghost and very excited in manner, as if some extraordinary event had upset the balance of his mind. It was not without a very apparent effort that, remembering the composure of demeanour exacted by the feudal system from all pages, he repressed his excitement and took his usual place.

The baron, however, had marked his discomposure, and was curious to know its cause.

"Is aught amiss, Pierre?" he asked.

Pierre stammered, hesitated, then replied that there was nothing amiss, only that he believed he had seen a ghost, or something very much like one.

Dead silence fell on all, for the belief in ghosts was universal in that age, as also in witchcraft and sorcery.

"A ghost, silly boy; what ghost? Thy fancy hath converted some white cow into a spectre, in the uncertain light of the evening."

"Nay, I saw him too plainly."

"Saw whom?"

"Wilfred."

There was a pause--a dead pause, indeed; the baron changed colour and appeared to attempt to hide the perturbation of his spirit.

"Speak out, my son," said the chaplain, "such things are sometimes permitted by Heaven."

"Father, I was leaving the woods by the path which opens upon the summit of the hill, above the blasted oak, when I saw Wilfred, as when alive, standing on the summit, gazing upon the castle. He was between me and the evening light, so, although it was getting dark, I could not mistake him. He was deadly pale, and there was a look on his face I had never seen in life as he turned round and faced me."

"Well! didst thou speak?"

"I dared not; my limbs shook and the hair of my head arose--fearfulness and trembling seized hold of me."

Etienne sneered just a little, yet probably he would not have behaved better, only he might not have owned his fear.

"Well, did he disappear?"

"I looked again, and I thought he retreated into the woods, for he was gone."

"Did he seem to see you?"

"He did not speak."

"Well," said the chaplain, "we will say a mass for him tomorrow, to quiet his disturbed spirit, and he will, perhaps, vex us no more, poor lad."

Etienne and Louis were very anxious to hear all the details of Pierre's ghostly encounter, and questioned him very closely. The former vowed he would have challenged the spectre; he did not fear Wilfred living, nor would he fear him dead.

The whole conversation at the castle hearth that night was about ghosts, demons, witches, warlocks, vampires, werewolves, and such-like; and about two hours before midnight our young Normans went to bed pleasantly terrified.

It was All Saints' Day, the day appointed for the consecration of the new Priory of St. Deny's. The monks from Coutances had arrived. The bishop of that diocese, already known to our readers, had reached Aescendune to perform the ceremony, by permission of the Bishop of Worcester, the sainted Wulfstan, in whose jurisdiction the priory lay; and there was a grand gathering of Norman barons and their retainers.

Strange it was that the same Epistle and Gospel which still serve in the English Prayer Book for that day should have been read in the ears of the Norman warriors--that they should have heard the Beatitudes in the Gospel:

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God: Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy:"

--and then gone forth to work out their own righteousness in the manner peculiar to their nation. Well, perhaps there are not wanting similar examples of inconsistency in the nineteenth century.

So, with all the pomp of ecclesiastical ceremony, with gorgeous vestments, lighted tapers, and clouds of incense, the new building was dedicated to God.

And then, while the preparations for the evening banquet in the hall were being made by the menials of the kitchen, the guests had a grand tournament on the open mead in front of the castle, where they did not study how to perform works of mercy.

We have not space to tell who won the prizes in this famous passage of arms--who was unhorsed--whom the fair ladies crowned--save that the young Etienne (now in his eighteenth year) distinguished himself in every trial of skill or courage, unhorsed three youths successively who opposed him, bore off the suspended ring--while riding at full speed--on the top of his lance, and received the garland from the hands of the fair Countess of Warwick, who presided as Queen of the Jousts, amidst the applause of all present, who declared that so brave and knightly a youth ought to have his spurs at once.

He looked, indeed, handsome and brave, that typical Norman youth, as he advanced with becoming modesty to kneel and receive the token of his valour and success; his gallant demeanour and bright eyes--albeit he was somewhat olive in complexion--did great execution amongst the ladies, and they congratulated Hugo of Malville and Aescendune upon his hopeful son and heir. No one thought of poor Wilfred, save perhaps to reflect that he was well out of the way.

The bishop and his clergy departed to the priory, but the greater number of the laity remained for the evening banquet at the hall, served with all the magnificence for which the Normans were so renowned, while the prior and his brethren entertained the ecclesiastics at a more sober repast.

The hall was filled by an assemblage of lords and ladies, arrayed in such gorgeous apparel that it would need a far better milliner than the writer to describe it; all the colours of the rainbow were there, and the men had their share of the gaudy hues as well as the women. Hugo was quite a sight, as he sat upon a dais, at the head of the table, with his hopeful son--the hero of the day--on his right.

And then the viands--there was venison dressed a dozen different ways, beef and mutton, chine and haunch of the wild boar: peacocks--feathers and all, the feathers not roasted but stuck in their proper places after the poor bird left the oven--very beautiful, but very tough was this piece de resistance. There were all sorts of gravies, all kinds of soups.

Then the fish--the turbot, the salmon, and the perch, chub, trout, and eel from the inland streams. Pike had not yet appeared in our waters--they were a later importation--and other fish were more plentiful in consequence.

Then the pastry--the castles in pie crust, with fruity warriors to man their battlements--how should aught but cook describe them properly?

For awhile there was no conversation, save an occasional interjectional exclamation--"How good this fish!" "How tender this fowl!" Wines of Gascony and Burgundy were circulating freely, and were as usual brightening the eyes, quickening the tongue, and stimulating the palate.

But when appetite was satisfied, then began the buzz of conversation to arise, then the gleemen tuned their harps to sing the praises of Norman warriors; nor did the toasts linger, nor was the drinking of many healths absent.

Amongst the singers--men of many songs--those of wealth and rank occasionally took turn; but there was no brighter voice or sweeter song than that of Louis de Marmontier, the third of our trio of pages. He had distinguished himself that day in the lists, following closely in the steps of Etienne, and now he seemed likely to win the prize for minstrelsy, as he sang the song of Rollo, accompanying himself with thrilling chords on the harp, whose strings had never uttered sweeter notes.

All at once, just when the attention of every one was fixed on the singer, a startling interruption occurred, and the strings ceased to vibrate.

A man, whose head was streaming with blood, whose features were pale and ghastly, and who seemed scarcely able to support his fainting limbs, was approaching the high dais, upon which reclined his lord.

The song ceased--the cry was heard--"Help! my lord; they are burning Yew Tree Farm, and I only am escaped to tell thee."

Suddenly he trembled, staggered, and fell. They raised him up, but he was gone, his tale half untold. An arrow had pierced his breast, and he had spent his dying strength in a desperate attempt to reach his lord.

What had happened?

The horn was at this moment heard from the battlements, and its burden was "FIRE."

Hugo turned pale, in spite of his prowess, then cried out--"To horse! to horse!"

So crying, he rushed from the table, mounted his favourite steed, and, followed by such as could keep pace with him--there were not many--rode in the direction of the blaze, which was illuminating the northern sky.

Onward! onward! ride the Normans! Onward through bush or brake, or copse, or quagmire. Onward, till the clearing is reached, where the English Lords of Aescendune built Yew Farm.

When they arrived at the spot, Hugo and his Normans paused in astonishment.

For there, in the midst of the clearing, the farm buildings, one and all, stood enveloped in flames. It was plain, at first sight, that they must have been set on fire in many places at once, for in no other way could the flames have taken such complete and uniform hold.

But where were the inhabitants?

Not a living soul appeared, and the intense heat of the flames forbade closer observation.

And as they stood and gazed helplessly upon the conflagration, the remembrance of the burning of the Monastery came to many minds, and they wondered at the similarity of the circumstances.

"Was this the hand of God?"

At length roof after roof fell in with hideous din. The Normans waited about the spot and explored the neighbourhood, hoping to find, lighted by the lurid flame of the fire, that Roger and his labourers had found shelter somewhere. They searched in vain--they found no one.

Slowly and sadly the party returned homewards to attend to their duties but early next morning the baron and