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

said Father Elphege. "Summon thy courage."

"One evening I was mixing some drugs in my master's laboratory, in a recess hidden from the rest of the room by a curtain, which happened to be drawn, when my master entered the room in company with a stranger.

"'Here, then, is the drug you seek; but it will be very costly--men must pay dear for vengeance,' said Abraham of Toledo.

"'It may not be vengeance, but an obstacle which I wish to remove from my path.'

"'That liquid was distilled by myself from many strange plants in far-off Araby; I may never replace it, and it is worth many pieces of gold.'

"'Thou shalt have them if thou wilt swear, thou dog of a Jew, that it possesses all the qualities thou hast said. If it fails, look to thyself; I am not one to be played with.'

"'The victim who takes but one drop daily shall decline and die within the half of a year; in half that time if the dose be doubled; a quarter if quadrupled.'

"'And no one shall detect the cause?'

"'Call the most learned physicians ye Christians have (dolts are they all), and they shall call it a natural death--consumption--so gradually shall the patient wear away.'

"'I will trust thee; here is the gold.'

"I had seen the man's face through the curtain; but no sooner was he gone than my master descended the stairs, calling for me. I managed to reach him without raising his suspicion, and he pointed out the figure of his visitor receding in the distant gloom of the street.

"'Follow and learn who he is.'

"I followed and dogged him to his lodging--it was the present lord of Aescendune.

"I knew of his marriage--I felt sure whom he wanted to destroy; yet I did not dare show myself at Aescendune, even to save so innocent a life--the life of so sweet and good a lady as she had ever been. But at length disease--an incurable disease--seized me, and the dread of approaching death and judgment has brought me to tell what it freezes my heart to say--all too late to save, but not perhaps to avenge--I tell thee thy mother was poisoned, O Wilfred of Aescendune!"

"Tell me what would be the signs of the drug?"

"If dropped in water, it would, although colourless, impart a blue tinge to the liquid."

Wilfred hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud.

"Dost thou forgive me?" said the dying thrall.

"Thou mightest have saved her, yet I do forgive thee."

"I might; it was my sin, and she was my liege lady, the gentlest and kindest."

"Thou art forgiven; but oh! my father! who shall do justice on the murderer, the poisoner?"

"That is thy task; the son must avenge his mother's blood, and do justice on the murderer. Listen, Wilfred: Dost thou remember Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances?"

"Well," said the poor boy, "he married them; but he, too, is a Norman--they are all alike."

"Nay, there be wise and good men amongst them, and this bishop is one. Thou shalt seek him, for he is now in Oxford: thou shalt start this very night, and tomorrow thou mayest reach him. I will give thee the written confession of this most unhappy but penitent Beorn, and the bishop will hear thee, and justice shall yet be done. But thou must depart at once, or he will have left the city. I will give thee food, and my palfrey shall be at thy service in an hour's time. And now, my child, while the food is preparing, go and pray at thy mother's tomb, and ask for grace to seek justice, not revenge; for it is not fitting the murderer should lord it longer over thy people and thee!"

And in another minute the unhappy lad was prostrate before his mother's tomb: all other thoughts had gone from him--Etienne, Pierre, and the rest were forgotten--he was absorbed in the thought of his parent's wrongs, and in the awful responsibility that knowledge had thrust upon him {ix}.

CHAPTER VII. FRUSTRATED.

Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wild expanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase, and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.

It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Roman roads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as the avenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior's palfrey, which had never borne so impatient a rider before.

Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buried in the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of the valley, then on the upland: here, startling the timid deer; there, startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in those ancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake--so Wilfred rode onward.

It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English monks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God in their vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitality to the wayfarer.

To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior of Aescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it was not safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport. For Norman riders, soldiers of fortune, infested all the highways, and they would certainly require Wilfred, or any other English traveller, to show cause for being on the road, and, in default of such cause, would render very rough usage.

It was now drawing near the third hour of the day, and Wilfred had already spied his resting place from the summit of a hill. In spite of his woes, too, he wanted his breakfast, and was already speculating on the state of the monastic larder, when the road entered a small wood.

It was not a straight road at all, and the rider could not see a hundred yards before him, when suddenly a troop of horse came round a curve at a smart trot, and were upon him before he could escape their notice.

"Whom have we here?" exclaimed the leader.

Wilfred knew him; it was that same Count Eustace de Blois, who had rescued him from danger on the field of Senlac, and taken him to the tent of the Conqueror.

His first impulse was to tell Count Eustace everything and to claim his protection. Then he remembered that this Eustace was the friend of his stepfather, and the distrust--not to say hatred--he was beginning to feel to all Normans overcame, unhappily it may be, the first generous impulse of confidence.

"It is I, Wilfred of Aescendune," he coldly replied.

"So I see," said the Norman, "and marvel to meet thee alone and unattended on the highway, so far from home. Thou hast thy father's permission?"

"I have no father," said Wilfred, in a tone which at once betrayed that something was amiss.

"Stepfather, of course, I would say, and I judge from thy reply that all is not well. Wilt thou not tell me what is wrong?"

"My errand is urgent, and I only crave permission to continue my road in peace."

"You are more likely to continue it in pieces, when so many outlaws and cutthroats are about, and my duty will not suffer thee to go farther till I know that thou hast thy father's, that is, the baron's permission."

Wilfred's only reply was to set spurs to his horse, and to try to escape by flight from his troublesome interrogator; but although he did succeed in clearing the party, his poor palfrey was tired, and the Norman horses were fresh, so the attempt was made in vain; he was pursued and brought back to Eustace de Blois.

"Why didst thou attempt to escape?" said that noble, grimly. "I fear that thou art playing the truant--against thine own interests, and must take thee with me whither I am bound, which happeneth to be Aescendune."

"Nay, I pray thee suffer me to proceed; life and death hang upon my errand."

"Confide in me then, and tell me all."

But Wilfred could not; in his then frame of mind, he could not confide the story of his mother's woes to a Norman--to his fevered mind one of the intruders was as bad as another--as well bring a complaint before one wolf that another wolf had eaten a lamb.

"I cannot," was his reply; "it would be useless if I did."

"Why? I have befriended thee once."

"Art thou not a Norman?"

"Ah! I see where the shoe pinches," replied Eustace; "thou hast found some traitors who have been instilling rebellion into thy youthful ears. Well, if they are found, they shall ere long lack tongues wherewith to prate, and for the present thou must return home with me. Wilt thou go as a freeman or as a prisoner?"

"You have the power and must use it."

"Wilt thou promise not to attempt an escape?"

"No."

"Then I must perforce pass a band from one leg to another, beneath the belly of thy steed, or thou mayst leave thy tired palfrey and ride behind me with a strap binding thee to my belt. Which dost thou choose?"

"Do as it pleaseth thee."

There was a sad, heart-broken tone in Wilfred's voice, in spite of the defiance of his words, which interested the Norman count, who was not, as we have before seen, all steel; and during the journey which Wilfred made as a captive, Eustace made sundry attempts to win the poor youth's confidence, but all in vain.

Riding all day, Wilfred retraced in this ignominious manner the road he had so eagerly traversed under the veil of night; and at length, towards sunset, they came in sight of the priory, the bridge, and the castle of Aescendune.

"I think I may cut these bonds now, and thou needest not be seen to return in the guise of a captive. Once more, tell me all; I will be thy mediator with thy father."

"Father!" repeated Wilfred with an expression indicative of something deeper yet than scorn or hatred, but he said no more.

The blast of trumpets from the approaching troop aroused the inmates of the castle, and they flocked to their battlements to behold the pennon of Eustace de Blois, familiar to them on many a hard-fought field of old.

Immediately there was bustling and saddling, and a troop of horse issued over the drawbridge to greet the coming guest. Foremost amongst them was the grim stepfather, and by his side rode Etienne.

Imagine their surprise when they recognised Wilfred in the train of their visitor; we can hardly paint fitly the scornful looks of Etienne, or the grimness of the stepfather.

But there was etiquette to be consulted--a most important element in the days of chivalry--and no question was asked until all the customary salutations had been made.

"I see my son Wilfred has been the first to welcome thee; may I ask where he met thee on the road?" asked Hugo, of Eustace.

"Many a long mile from here; I will tell thee more anon."

"Did he return of his own free will?" thought the baron, but politeness forced him to wait his guest's own time for the dialogue which he felt awaited him.

Meanwhile Etienne had regaled Wilfred with a succession of scornful glances, which, strange to say, did not affect the latter much--deeper emotions had swallowed up the minor ones, and he could disdain the imputation of cowardice, although he could not but feel that his attempted flight would be ascribed by every one to fear of the combat, which had been offered to, and accepted by him, and from which he could not otherwise have saved himself.

They dismounted within the courtyard, and Hugo made a certain communication to the seneschal. The latter came up to Wilfred as he stood listlessly in the crowd, the object of many a scornful glance.

"The baron, your father, bids you to follow me."

The old retainer led the way up a staircase. On the third floor there was a chamber with a small loophole to serve as window, through which nothing larger than a cat could pass. There was furniture--a rough table and chair, a rude bed, and mattress of straw.

"You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you."

The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on the bed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps of the gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and all was still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or from the great hall, where the banquet was even now served.

Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching--it was certainly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through the crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.

"Wilfred, art thou here?"

"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"

"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgraced thyself, and me, too, as thy friend."

"I cannot