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

me back--man can't fight fire."

"Let us go to the castle, take what we can carry, and fly," said Raoul; "they will be here soon, if they have destroyed our men; and there will be no safety nearer than Warwick for us."

"Can we abandon our post?" asked one.

"Not till we are sure all is lost," said another.

"Tristam, thou must remain here and watch, and warn us if any approach."

"But how long shall I stay?" sobbed the alarmed boy.

"Nay, he is too young," cried the fugitive from the marsh; "besides, it is needless. I know they are all coming upon us--they are thousands strong instead of hundreds, as that liar, the guide, stated. We must fly ourselves, for the time, and bid the monks, the women, and children to fly also."

"Shall we burn the castle, lest it fall into their hands as a stronghold?"

"Nay, that were to give up all; we shall return thither again, and that soon; leave it open for them. The Norman lion will prove more than a match for the English wolf in the long run."

"Onward, then--home--home."

And the dispirited men returned to the castle.

It was manifestly useless to attempt to defend the place; all that could be done was to save their lives, and such "portable property" as could be removed on the instant.

So the old men only returned to warn their astonished comrades, and then gathering such household goods as they most valued, they loaded the horses and oxen which remained, and journeyed to bear the news to Warwick.

But before they went, Tristam was sent to warn the prior and his confreres at the priory of St. Denys that danger was at hand.

"I care not," said that valiant prior of the Church Militant, "though as many Englishmen were in the woods as leaves on the trees; they shall be excommunicated if they interfere with us; our weapons are not carnal."

So the Norman Prior and his monks shut their gates and remained, while through the forest road the men-at-arms escorted all the women and children of the village, the interlopers who had taken the place of the banished English, towards the town of Warwick, and its famous castle, where Henry de Beauchamp had recently been appointed governor by the Conqueror, the first Norman Earl of Warwick, and the ancestor of a famous line of warriors. We have already met his countess at Aescendune, on the occasion of the dedication of the new priory.

The Normans had all left the castle and village before sunset, leaving the gates open and the drawbridge down, as they expressly said that the English might be under no temptation to devastate a place which must soon be in their hands again.

The castle lay empty and deserted for an hour or two; the cattle, too many to be removed, began to low and bleat because they missed their customary attention; only in the Priory of St. Denys did things go on as usual; there the bells rang out for vespers and compline, and the foreign brethren went on their way as if the events of the day had no importance for them.

It was already nightfall, when the forests gave up hundreds of armed men from their dark shade, who poured down like a torrent upon Aescendune, and directed their course towards the castle, where they were somewhat astonished to find the drawbridge down, the gates open.

At first they paused as if they feared treachery, but Wilfred stepped forward and stood in the gateway.

Turning round he addressed the multitude.

"Men of Aescendune, bear me witness that, in the name of my fathers and ancestors, I, their heir, take possession of mine inheritance."

A loud burst of cheers greeted these words, and the English, following their young lord into the castle, found it utterly deserted.

No words can describe the glee with which they paraded the battlements, and flung out the ancient banner of the house of Aescendune to the winds, from the summit of the keep, after which they penetrated chamber after chamber, with almost childish curiosity, so new was the idea of such a building to their imaginations.

But it was with sensations of chilling horror that they explored its dungeons beneath the very foundations of the towers. Some were cells for solitary confinement, of the shape of a tomb and not much larger, the stone doors of which shut with a gloomy solemn sound--the knell of hope to the captive.

And then they came to the torture chamber, of which they had already heard from Ordgar, son of Haga, and saw the seat of judgment, so often occupied by him who had now passed to his dread account; they beheld the rack, the brazier, the thumbscrew, and shuddered.

"I am sick," said the English heir; "take away these accursed things; burn what will burn, and throw the rest in the river; should our grandchildren find them, they may well ask what they were made for."

Meanwhile the monks at the new priory were calmly awaiting their fate with a courage worthy of a better cause. They heard the joyful shouts of the English as they took possession of the castle, without flinching; they rang their bells loudly and defiantly, for the compline service at the third hour of the night (9 P.M.) This last act of audacity was too much; the natives surrounded the new priory, beat at its doors, rang the bell at the gate, blew their horns, and made a noise which baffles description, while they proceeded to batter down the gates.

But not until the service was concluded, when the gate only hung by one hinge, did the prior appear.

"Who are ye," he cried, "who molest the house of God, and those who serve Him within?"

"A pious fox"--"a holy fox"--"smoke them out"--"set the place on fire"--"let them taste the fate which befell better men on this spot!"

"In whose name," said the undismayed prior, "do ye summon me?"

"In the name of the descendant of him who first founded this priory--of Wilfred, thane of Aescendune."

"Ye mock us; he is dead."

"Nay, he lives," said a voice, and our youthful hero appeared on the scene, and addressed the astonished monk.

"Prior, go forth from the house thou and thy brethren have usurped, and make way for the true owners. By my side stands the sole survivor of the brethren whom Hugo de Malville slaughtered, Father Kenelm, a Benedictine like thyself. Admit him; he will tell thee all."

"Since it may be no better, he shall come in. If I open the gates for him, ye will not take advantage?"

"Stand back," cried Wilfred, "let the holy monk enter alone."

And, shortly after, Father Kenelm stood in the chapter house, and explained all to the astonished Norman brethren. He told the story of the destruction of their predecessors, and pointed out the danger of resisting the now triumphant English, who felt themselves the avengers of their slaughtered ministers and friends, the former monks of St. Wilfred.

"It is well," said the other; "we will go forth; thou speakest with justice, as brother to brother, and whatever befall thy companions, this shall be counted in thy favour if I have a tongue to speak."

So the Norman prior and his monks took their way unharmed to the nearest house of their order.

It was night and dark clouds of smoke rolled heavenward, blotting out the fair stars from sight. Silence dread and awful reigned over the Dismal Swamp, the scene of strife and suffering; the very beasts fled the spot, nor could the birds of night linger in the heated air.

But at Aescendune all was tumult and joy. The English had advanced against an undefended stronghold, and Wilfred was at last, as his fathers had been, Lord of Aescendune.

There was a banquet that night in the castle hall. In the old days of Roman triumphs, a man was placed behind the seat of the conquering general as he sat in the intoxication of success, and amidst the adulation of the multitude ever and anon whispered--"Memento to moriturum."

So also there was an unseen attendant behind the chair of Wilfred. In vain he strove to drive it away; the future would thrust itself upon him.

He had slaked his vengeance to the uttermost and had no remorse: he had avenged father, mother--the spiritual guides of his youth; still he had once heard, even from them--"Vengeance is mine: I will repay saith the Lord."

"Sing, bards," he cried out; "has no minstrel a new strain?"

They exerted themselves to the utmost; and Wilfred, determined to rise to the occasion, threw off his sadness, ceased to speculate as to the chances of the insurrection {xvi}; that night, at least, he would give to joy--he would encourage his people who loved him so faithfully by rejoicing with them.

So the song and the banquet lasted until the midnight hour, and the castle of Hugo echoed the old forgotten songs of the glories of Anglo-Saxon England.

CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE ABBEY OF ABINGDON.

Upon the banks of the Isis, about eight miles above its junction with the Tame, stood the ancient town of Abingdon, which had grown up around the famous monastic foundation of Ina, King of Wessex {xvii}.

The river divides, at this point, into three branches, encircling two islands {xviii}; partly on the southern bank, and partly on the nearest of these islands, stood the mighty Abbey, one of the largest and most renowned of the Benedictine houses of England.

And on the other island the Conqueror himself had built a country seat whither he often retired, as convenient headquarters, whence to enjoy the pleasures of the chase in the vale of White Horse, famous in the annals of the Anglo-Saxon race for Alfred's great victory over the Danes.

Few, alas, of the old English inhabitants lingered in the town, save as bondsmen; few of the old English brethren, save as drudges.

For had they not alike incurred the wrath of the victor? Had not the chief vassals of the abbey led their men forth to fight under the hapless Harold?--nevermore, alas! to return--and had not the monks blessed their banner and sanctified their patriotic zeal?

And since, on the one hand, William claimed to be the lawful sovereign, and, on the other, the Pope had blessed the invaders, it was clear that the Godrics and Thurkills who had committed their cause to God before the wonder-working black cross of St. Mary's Altar, were but rebels, and that the monks who had blessed them were schismatics.

Hence the Normans in their hour of victory had cleared out laymen and monks alike, root and branch, and the French tongue had superseded the good old Anglo-Saxon dialect in the district.

It was a fine May evening, and the country was lovely in the foliage of early summer.

A boat was descending the Isis, rowed by six stout rowers; it was evidently from Oxenford, for the men bore the badges of Robert D'Oyly, the Norman lord of that city, who had just built the tower which yet stands, gray and old, beside the mound raised on Isis banks by Ethelfleda, lady of Mercia, daughter of the great Alfred, and sister of Edward the Elder.

In the stern of the boat sat Etienne de Malville.

He had journeyed first to Warwick, where he met the fugitives from Aescendune, and heard their story; burning with revenge, he had sought the aid of Henry de Beauchamp, the Norman governor of the city; but that worthy, seeing the whole countryside in rebellion, bade Etienne repair to the king for further aid, while he himself shut his gates, provisioned his castle, and promised to hold out against the whole force of the Midlands, until the royal banner came to scatter the rebels, like chaff before the winds.

Then Etienne repaired to Oxenford, where he was the guest of the new governor, Robert D'Oyly, for the night, who sent him on by boat to meet the king at Abingdon, whither William was daily expected to arrive to keep Ascensiontide, for he was still observant of such duties.

The servitors, seeing a boat arrive thus manned, were sensible at once it must contain a traveller or pilgrim of some importance--probably the latter; for, as we have already hinted, they had a wonder-working relic, in the shape of a cross, said to have been given to the abbey by the Empress Helena, and to contain a fragment of the true cross itself.

True, it had failed to prosper the poor English, who knelt before it, ere they went to die at Senlac; but of course that was because the Pope was against them, and had suspended the flow of spiritual benediction.

At least, so said the Normans, and they extolled the Black Cross as much as their predecessors.

"Pax vobiscum, domine," said the chamberlain, who happened to be at the quay; "thou art come, doubtless, to bewail thy sins before the cross of St. Mary's Abbey?"

"When my leisure permits, reverendissime pater; at present I seek an immediate audience of the abbot, for whom I bear sad news."

"He is riding to meet the king. Listen, dost thou