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

combined with a promise from the baron that his father should not only be spared, but restored to the little farm he had, formerly occupied at Aescendune, under the last English thane.

In short, the bargain was concluded, and Ordgar, son of Haga, became the promised guide of the foes of his country.

CHAPTER XV. RESTORED TO LIFE.

Day after day Etienne de Malville tossed upon the couch in the hut of the woman whom he had so cruelly bereaved, struggling against the throes of fever. In his ravings he was prone to dwell upon all the scenes of horror he had recently passed through, and yet some Providence, intervening, kept from his lips the one revelation which might have endangered his safety--that he was himself the murderer of the son of his preserver.

Sometimes Father Kenelm visited the hut, and although in his heart he deeply regretted that Etienne had not shared the fate of his companions, yet he was too much a Christian to frustrate the good deed of poor old Hilda, by revealing the secret of his existence.

At length, some weeks after the commencement of his illness, after days of parching thirst and delirious dreams, Etienne woke one morning, conscious, and gazed dreamily about him.

The crisis had passed; he was no longer in danger from the fever, and his senses were clear of the terrible and shadowy impressions which had hung about him like a gigantic nightmare.

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"He is conscious, father," said the old woman. "What does he say?" for Etienne spoke in Norman French.

"Thou hast been in great danger, my son, and this good woman hath saved thee and sheltered thee from thy foes."

"Thanks, good mother."

There was a tone of deep feeling in his voice as he said these words--"but what has passed? I have a confused remembrance of hunting and being hunted, in a midnight forest, and of a deadly combat in a dark chamber, from which I seemed to wake to find myself here."

"Thy destiny has, indeed, been nearly accomplished, and that thou art the survivor of the party with which thou didst invade the Dismal Swamp is owing to this widow woman," said the good father in the patient's own tongue.

Etienne fell back on his pillow and seemed trying to unravel the tangled thoughts which perplexed him. Once more the dame came and brought him a cooling drink. He drank it, thanked her, and fell back with a sigh.

Yes, it all came to him now, as clear as the strong daylight--and with it came remorse. He had cruelly slain young Eadwin, and the mother of the murdered lad--for he knew her--had rescued him from what his conscience told him would have been a deserved fate, at least at the hands of the English.

There are crises in all men's lives--and this was one in the life of Etienne--when they choose good or evil.

And from that time, new impressions had power over him. He lay in deep remorse, knowing that he still owed his life to the forbearance, and more than forbearance, with which he had been treated.

"If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."

Etienne now felt these coals of fire.

He was not all pride and cruelty. His education had made him what he was, and probably, under the same circumstances, with such a father and the training of a Norman castle, many of my young readers who have detested his arrogance would have been like him, more or less.

"Their lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines."

But now the generosity which lay hidden deep in his heart was awakened; the holy teachings which, in his childhood he had heard at his mother's knee--a mother who, had she lived, might have influenced his whole conduct--came back to him. There were many pious mothers, after all, in Normandy. Pity they had not better sons.

"Forgive us our trespasses."

The daily ministrations of the poor childless widow, whom he had made childless, were a noble commentary on these words.

"Mother," he said, one day, "forgive me--I have much to be forgiven--I cannot tell thee all."

"Nay, thou needst not; thou art forgiven for the love of Him who has forgiven us all."

For a long time yet he lingered a prisoner on his couch; for fever had so weakened him that he could hardly support his own weight.

But at length convalescence set in, and his strength returned; but he could only take exercise--which was now necessary to his complete recovery--when Father Kenelm was at hand to act as a scout, and warn him to retire in the case of the approach of any Englishman; for although he had adopted the English dress, yet his complexion and manner would have betrayed him to any observer close at hand.

At length came the day of deliverance.

It was a day in early April. The east winds of March had dried the earth, the sun had now some power, and the trees were bursting into leaf in every direction. It was one of those first days of early summer, which are so delicious from their rarity, and seem to render this earth a paradise for the time being.

The convalescent was out of doors, inhaling the sweet breeze, in the immediate proximity of the hut, when the good father appeared.

"My son," he said, "dost thou feel strong enough to travel?"

"I do, indeed, father," said the youth, his heart bounding with delight; "but may I go, and without any ransom?"

"Surely; we have not preserved thy life from love of filthy lucre."

"I feel that father, in my very heart; but hast thou no pledge to demand? Dost thou trust all to my gratitude?"

"Thou wilt never fight against the poor fugitives here, my son?"

"Nor betray the path to their retreat" added Etienne.

"That is already known," said the father.

"Known! then war is at hand."

"It is, and I would remove thee, lest harm should befall thee. Thou wilt travel hence with me at once."

"Before we start I would fain be shriven by thee, for I have grievously sinned, and to whom can I more fitly make my shrift? so that he who has ministered to the body may in turn minister to the soul."

"There is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," said the good monk, greatly moved, "and right gladly will I discharge mine office towards thee."

The hour had come for Etienne to depart. He had bidden farewell to the faithful Hilda. His last words were--"Thou hast lost one son, mother, but found another; if Etienne de Malville lives, thou shalt be recompensed one day."

The two pedestrians left the hut and, keeping close along the border of the marsh, under the shadow of the trees, came at last to the little isthmus which joined the firm ground within the marsh, to a chain of woody hills.

The ground was so covered with vegetation and undergrowth that it was difficult to advance, save by one narrow path; but Etienne saw at once that in this direction the settlement could be assaulted at any time of the year with every chance of success.

The monk must have been aware also that he was betraying the secret of this approach to a Norman; but strangely enough, he did not seem to trouble about it at this juncture.

"Father," said Etienne, "I would fain ask thee one question before we part."

"Speak on, my son."

"I would fain know, father, what murderous hand gave thy abbey to the flames--a deed abhorred by all good men, whether Normans or English."

"Thou dost not know then?"

"Surely not, father."

"I may not tell thee whom all suspect; it is better for thy peace of mind that it should remain a mystery till God solve the riddle."

"Thou mayst not tell how Wilfred escaped either," added Etienne, who in his heart thought that the outlaws had fired the place and released him from his imposed penance.

"On all these points my lips are sealed. Perhaps in God's own time thou wilt learn the truth."

"Then I may not act as a mediator between my father and his fugitive vassals?"

"Not under present circumstances. There is a dark mystery, which God in His mercy hides from thee."

They had now gained a slight elevation, and could see the tops of the trees below them for miles, including a portion of the swamp.

"Father, how full the woods are of smoke: look, it is rolling in great billows over the tree tops. Surely the woods are on fire."

"I have heard that in foreign countries the woods are so dry in summer that they burn easily, and that people caught in the forests have great difficulty in saving their lives; but it is not so here, the reeds and flags of the marshes alone are on fire."

"Methinks I hear the shouts of men who strive for mastery," and as he spoke, the fire of the warrior kindled in his eyes.

"Thou mayst not join them if such be the case; thou wilt keep thy promise, my son."

"Yes," said the tamed tiger cub, with a sigh; "yet I would fain know what my father is doing. Let us go on."

Two more hours of forest travelling carried them far from the sound of the conflict and they gained the outskirts of the forest. Entering some nicely cultivated meadows, they came in sight of a small Norman priory, which Etienne had visited in earlier days, when out on woodland expeditions; for it was miles from Aescendune, and the way lay through the forest.

"Farewell my son, I must leave thee here. They are thy countrymen in yonder cell, and will gladly entertain thee."

"Thy blessing, my father."

"It is thine, my son. Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God, and He will bless thee."

Etienne sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, for he was very tired, and watched the departing figure of Father Kenelm. His eyes were dim, for he felt very much touched, for the time at least.

But he was now restored to life and liberty, and no bird in the sky, no deer on the mountain, felt more blithe and happy than he soon began to feel.

There is an old adage about the Evil One. It is said he became sick and wanted to be a monk, but when he became well--well--Was this the case with Etienne?

Time will show: for the present we leave him blowing the horn suspended at the gate of St. Ouen's priory.

CHAPTER XVI. RETRIBUTION. "Raro antecedentem scelestum Deseruit pede Poena claudo."

It was midday, and the sun was pouring the full power of his noontide beams on the wilderness of reeds and flags which overspread the southern side of the Dismal Swamp, reposing on the treacherous surface of bog, quagmire, and quicksand.

Signs of life there were none, save when the bittern rose from its nest, amidst the long reeds or sedgy grass, or the moor fowl flew over the surface of the inky water, which here and there collected into pools. The feeble hum of insects filled the air, but all else was peace and solitude.

Save that there was a sign of life on the farther side of the Swamp--a solitary figure half concealed by bushes, stood watching on a promontory of firm land, looking anxiously--from his slight elevation over the surface of the fen.

He was an aged man, who had seen some ninety summers; his long beard descended below the girdle which confined his brown tunic at the waist. It was Haga, the father of Ordgar.

"My eyes are not what they were, and I see no sign as yet. Ah, here comes little Siward!"

A boy of some twelve years approached him very silently, as if some serious business was about to be transacted, of such nature as to subdue boyish loquacity.

"Come hither, Siward, my grandchild, and lend me thine eyes and ears, for mine are now dulled by age. Dost thou hear aught?"

"I hear the bittern boom, and the woodpecker tap, but that is all."

"Sit down by my side, and watch with me; the time is at hand."

"Will my father be with them?"

"He will, my child."

"And he will come home safely to us, when all is over?"

"That is as God wills, dear child; his life belongs to his country. Thou mayst pray for him," he added, as he saw tears rise to the eyes of the boy.

"I do," said the child.

They sat awhile in perfect silence, when at last the boy appeared to listen intently.

"Grandfather," he said, "I hear the sound of many feet."

"Art quite sure?"

"Yes, and now I see men advancing from the shade of yonder thicket of beech."

"And I see them too; go and warn Tosti, Sexwulf, Ulf and Frithgift, and be sure that thou keepest out of the fen thyself."

"Only thou wilt bring father back home with thee?"

"By God's help, my child."

At this moment a numerous and warlike band of Normans emerged from the