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

the English to Norman rule.

At first Edith feared her new lord, whom she had been compelled to marry, remembering the sadness of her mother's married life; but his persistent kindness won her heart; and after the birth of young Edward, whom we have introduced to our readers, all restraint was removed, and they were as happy a pair as need be.

Their children were taught to converse in both tongues--Old English and Norman French--and to treat all alike, the kinsfolk of father or of mother.

Putting together the details given by Edward of Aescendune to the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, and these few outlines of intervening events, our readers will have little difficulty in understanding the history of the thirty years.

Within her bower (as we have said) was the lady of Aescendune. Seated in an embrasure of the lofty tower in which her rooms were situate, her attention became fixed upon a horseman, who was riding swiftly towards the castle from the direction of Warwick.

"I wonder," thought she, "whether this be a messenger from--" and then she checked the thought, as though it must end in disappointment.

For months she had not heard from the absent ones. She knew Jerusalem was taken; but if any letters had been sent, they had miscarried--no unlikely circumstance in those days.

The messenger reached the castle.

Soon steps were heard ascending the stairs with such precipitate haste, that the lady felt sure that some important tidings had arrived.

Young Hugh--an active, fresh-coloured boy, with his Father's features, tempered by the softer expression of his mother, perhaps--bounded into the room.

"Oh, mother! lady mother!--letters from father, about him and Edward. The man below is old Tristam--you remember Tristam who went to the wars. They have landed, landed, and are upon the road home. Oh! happy day. Tristam was sent forward. Read,--only read."

She was as pale as death, and fainting from the sudden shock. Excess of joy has its dangers.

Her two girls, Margaret and Hilda, had followed their brother, and their gentle care soon restored her: but the shock had been great.

"Read, mother,--read," said Hugh.

The accomplishments of reading and writing--for they were accomplishments then--were possessed both by husband and wife.

We will give but one paragraph in the letter:

We have landed safely at Southampton, my own Edith. God has preserved us from many dangers, doubtless owing to thy many prayers at St. Wilfred's altar. Thou hast, I hope, received safely the letters I sent from Joppa last autumn, and knowest whom I am bringing home with me. How wonderful it all is, and with what strange feelings the exile must approach the home of his boyhood! But he is very composed and quiet in his manner, and we grow in mutual esteem daily. He declares that he will accept no part of his ancient inheritance, but that he finds his highest joy in thinking that, in his sister's children, the descendants of the ancient line yet possess the land of their forefathers.

"What can he mean? Whom is he bringing with him? Send for Tristam. Ah! I see there is the old prior at the gate--he is talking with him;" and Hugh hurried down to fetch them up.

They entered the room: our old friend, Father Kenelm, as hale an old man as one could well find at seventy-five years of age--Wilfred's protector and friend, in the most critical moments of his life--and Tristam--do our readers remember him?

"God bless you, my children, in joy as in sorrow," was his salutation.

"How far are they off?"

"When will they be here?" and Tristam, who stood humbly at the door, found himself the object of universal attraction, and did not know which to answer first.

"Welcome, Tristam, welcome," said his lady; "thou art the morning star, the harbinger of my sun. How far hence are they?"

"They will be here by sunset, my lady."

"I will go and meet them," cried Hugh, and ran down stairs to get his horse ready.

"But whom is he bringing with him?"

"My child," said Father Kenelm, "has he not told thee?"

"Nay, he speaks so mysteriously--read."

Father Kenelm read. Then, looking up, he spoke with deep emotion. Tristam had told him all.

"One long since dead to the world, and as many thought buried. I alone knew of his existence, as a secret which I was absolutely forbidden to disclose; and as many years had elapsed since I last heard of him, I thought him dead--he who was once the hope of Aescendune."

"End our suspense!"

"Thou hadst a brother once--a bright, laughing, fair-haired boy, whom thou didst love whilst father and mother lived. I speak of events long forgotten, save by me."

"Nay, I have never forgotten him. Hast thou not often commemorated him amongst the faithful departed, at my request?"

"Only as one, whom the world might yet contain in the body, or whose soul heaven might have received--I knew not which. Well, my lady, this thy brother yet lives."

"Wilfred?"

"And is returning home with thy husband."

"Wilfred alive!--nay, thou jestest. He died at Oxenford and was buried there, nearly thirty years agone."

"Geoffrey, then Bishop of Coutances, deceived the lad's enemies by a fictitious death and burial, but forbade the rescued youth to return home, or make his existence known, save to me."

At this moment, the gleams, the parting beams, of the setting sun shone upon pennon and upon lance, issuing from the wood afar off. The multitude, who had assembled below, saw the sight, and rushed tumultuously forward to meet their kinsfolk.

Hugh forgot the story about his uncle, ran down stairs, and joined the throng, who pressed over the bridge.

Amidst the pomp of banners, the crash of trumpets, and the loud acclamations and cheers of the crowd, the Crusaders reached home, and entered the castle yard.

Edith fell into the arms of her lord as he dismounted, then sought her son. She knew not to which to turn.

A grave personage, who studied hard to maintain his composure, but whose eyes were filled with tears, had also dismounted, and was standing by.

"Edith," cried Etienne, "behold our brother."

And she fell upon his neck with a torrent of tears, as all the life of her childhood rushed upon her--"hours that were to memory dear."

Only a few more lines are needed to dismiss the heroes and personages of our tale to rest.

Wilfred spent a few happy days with his brother-in-law cheered by the society of his sister and her children.

Between him and Etienne all clouds had departed; they had learned, amidst the perils of the return journey, to appreciate each other, and wondered they had ever been such foes.

Once only he visited the Dismal Swamp, the scene of such exciting events in his earlier life. He found it an utter wilderness, not a house had been left standing; Etienne had wished to abolish the very remembrance of the scenes in which, as his conscience told him, he had acted so ill a part, and when he had succeeded in persuading the English to trust him, and return to Aescendune, he had fired the little hamlet and reduced it to ashes.

The brook murmured in solitude and silence, the birds sang undisturbed by the strife of men.

The scene of Edwin's death from the arrows of Etienne's followers could hardly be identified; but under the very tree where Pierre had fallen in stern retaliation, Wilfred knelt, and besought pardon for himself and rest for the soul which he had sent so hurriedly before the judgment seat.

"Oh how much we had to forgive each other, Etienne and I," he said half aloud.

These words caused him to raise his head, and look instinctively over the place where the light wind was bowing down the heads of the tall reeds and sedges, which grew where the fire, that destroyed Count Hugo and his band, had swept over their predecessors.

These remembrances saddened him, he returned to the castle--the prey of conflicting emotions.

But much did Wilfred marvel at the peace and concord that reigned in this happy village, in such contrast to the discord which elsewhere marked the relations between Englishman and Norman, the conquered and the conquerors; and one day he ventured to remark upon the happy change to his old rival and brother-in-law.

"Come with me," said Etienne, "and I will explain it all."

He led Wilfred to the Priory Church, and they entered the hallowed pale, with its round Norman arches and lofty roof, where the very tread seemed an intrusion upon the silence, which spake of the eternal repose that shall be, after the storms of this troublesome world have their end.

There is something in the Early Norman architecture which appears to the writer awe-inspiring; the massive round column, the bold and simple arch, have a more solemn effect upon his senses than the loveliest productions of the more florid and decorated period.

Such a stern and simple structure was this Priory Church of St. Wilfred of Aescendune.

It was the hour of nones, and the strains of the hymn of St. Ambrose, "Rerum Deus tenax vigor," were pealing from the Benedictines in the choir: which has been thus paraphrased:

"O strength and stay, upholding all creation: Who ever dost Thyself unmoved abide, Yet, day by day, the light, in due gradation, From hour to hour, through all its changes guide. "Grant to life's day a calm unclouded ending, An eve untouched by shadow of decay, The brightness of a holy death bed, blending With dawning glories of the eternal day {xxxi}."

His thoughts full of the ideas suggested by the solemn strain, Wilfred followed Etienne into the south transept.

There, upon a plain altar tomb of stone lay the effigy of an aged matron, her hands clasped in prayer, and beneath were the words:

HILDA IN PACE BEATI PACIFICI {xxxii}.

The "rival heirs" stood by the tomb, their hands clasped, while the tears streamed down their cheeks. It was she indeed, who by her simple obedience to the Divine law of love, which is the central idea of the Gospel, had reconciled jarring hearts, and brought about, in Aescendune, the reign of peace and love.

"I strove," said Etienne, at last breaking the long silence, "to be a son to her, in place of the ill-fated boy whom I so cruelly slew; nor were my efforts in vain, or my repentance unaccepted. We built her a house, on the site of her ancient cottage, and when strife arose, we often submitted the matter to her judgment, and she, who had been the foster mother of one lord, and the preserver from death of the other, reconciled the followers of both.

"When at last the hour came for her to commit her sweet soul to God, I stood by her dying bed.

"'Mother,' said I, 'what can I do when thou art gone to show my love for thy memory?'

"'Only go on as thou hast begun,' she replied, 'be a father to all thy people, Englishman and Norman alike, and their prayers will succour thee at the judgment seat of God--I go into peace.'

"And she left peace behind her--"

Here Etienne could say no more, and the two "rival heirs" stood a long time gazing upon the "cold marble and the sculptured stone," while tears which were no disgrace to their manhood fell like gentle rain from heaven.

Soon after this Wilfred had a long conference with Prior Kenelm. The result was, that he announced his intention of retiring from the world and ending his days in the cloister. His years had been years of strife and tumult--he would give the residue to God.

So he entered the famous order of St. Benedict, and after the death of Father Kenelm became the prior of the monastery dedicated to his patron saint--founded by his own forefathers.

His greatest joy was when surrounded by his nephews and nieces--yea, great-nephews and great-nieces, after the happy marriage of Edward of Aescendune to Lady Agatha of Wilmcote.

Etienne and Edith lived blessed in each other's love to the end. The Norman estates fell to Hugh, the English ones to Edward, who not unworthily represented both English and Norman lines--"a knight without fear and without reproach."

The last years of our hero, Wilfred, were years of tranquil happiness and serene joy, such as Milton wrote of in later ages, in those lines of wondrous beauty:

"Let my due feet never fail To walk the cloisters hallowed pale, With storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religions light, And let the pealing organ blow To the foil-voiced choir below, Bring all heaven before mine eyes, Dissolve me into ecstasies."

In the ruins of the abbey of St. Wilfred the spectator may notice a cross-legged knight, whose feet rest upon a vanquished lion. His whole attitude is expressive of intense action; the muscles seem strained in the effort to draw his sword and demolish a Turk, while the face expresses all that is noble in manly courage.

Hard by lies a prior in his vestments, his hands meekly clasped. The colour has not yet quite faded, which embellished the statue; but the remarkable thing is the face. Even yet, in spite of the broken and mouldering stone, there is a calmness of repose