The Rival Heirs; being the Third and Last Chronicle of Aescendune by A. D. Crake (leveled readers TXT) 📗

baron, to the great relief of the cooks, descended to the hall.

Still he was far too proud and jealous of his dignity to show his anxiety in voice or mien. He descended calmly to the banquet, the chaplain blessed the food, and the tired and hungry nobles fell to at the high table, while their retainers feasted below.

It was a bright and dazzling scene: at the head of the hall sat the Baron and his chief guests upon a platform. Above it hung trophies of war or the chase--arms borne in many a conflict, swords, spears, arrows--to each of which some legend was attached; the antlers of the giant stag, the tusk of the wild boar, the head and bill of some long-necked heron.

Below, at right angles to the high table, were three other tables, not fixtures, but composed of boards spread over trestles, and covered with coarse white cloths. At these sat the retainers, the men whose rank did not entitle them to sit at the high table, to the number of some three hundred--there was not an Englishman amongst them.

All day long the cooks and their menials had groaned before the huge fires, where they roasted deer, sheep, oxen, swine, and the like, and now they bore the joints in procession around the tables, and the guests cut off--with the knives which hung at their girdles, and which, perchance, had been more than once stained by the blood of their foes--such portion of the meat as they fancied, transferred it to their trenchers, and ate it without the aid of forks; nevertheless there were napkins whereon to wipe their hands when they had done.

The leaders sat at the high table--the leaders of each of the numerous bands which had scoured the forest; one, and only one, was absent, and he was, as our readers know, Etienne, son of Hugo.

Naught was said until hunger and thirst were appeased--until basins were brought round with scented water, in which our lords washed their fingers, and after waving them gracefully in the air, dried them with the delicate napkins with which they were girded: and rich wines were poured into goblets of gold and silver; then Hugo asked, from his seat upon the dais:

"What success has gladdened our arms today? Doubtless some of our knights have news for us."

"I have seen no foe, save the wild boar and a stray wolf, although I have tramped the forest from the rising to the setting sun," said Sir Bernard.

"Nor I," "nor I," said one after the other around the table.

The old man, Eustace de Senville, was silent till all had spoken; then, like Nestor of old, wise, and qualified by age to act as counsellor, he let fall his weighty words, which fell from his lips like the flakes of thick falling snow without.

"My lot hath been different," he said; "it fell to me to explore the quarter of the forest next to that assigned to the son of our host. We had already completed our task, and were on the point of returning homewards, for the sun was already low, when we heard the blast of a horn appealing to us for aid."

"From what quarter?" said the baron.

"That assigned to your son. We at once hastened to render help, and, after some fruitless search, heard the horn once more, and, guided by its sound, reached a spot where the groans of one in pain fell upon our ear, amidst the increasing darkness of the forest. We found the victim, his horn by his side, dead--pierced through by an arrow. The life had been ebbing when, hearing our signals, he had striven with his last breath to summon us that he might not die alone, and, indeed, his face looked as one who had died in awful fear with some gruesome sight before his eyes."

"To what party did he belong?"

"He wore the badge of Aescendune, he was short of stature, one shoulder somewhat higher than the other, and he wore this belt, which we have brought home in hopes he may be known thereby."

The baron took the belt, with hands which shook in spite of all his efforts at composure, and knew it to belong to one Torquelle, who had been in attendance on his son.

"Etienne hath found foes," he said in a voice which he strove to render calm.

"A light snow had begun to fall," continued the speaker, "the sun was already very low, and it was dusk in the woods, when our dogs began to growl. Dimly in the shade we saw three or four beings creeping forward, as if studying the ground carefully. We watched them with fear, doubting if they were of this world."

"Why?"

"They had horns, and tails, and huge ears."

"They say the wood is haunted by wood demons."

"Then thou wert afraid to follow?"

"We dare fight men, we fear none who breathe; but we shrink from Satan and his hosts. Still we sent a flight of arrows, and they vanished."

"Was the distance near enough to do execution?"

"Scarcely, had they been men; it mattered not if they were what they appeared to be."

Strange to say, the idea that the foe had been masquerading for the purpose of frightening them, never struck our Normans.

"When they had gone, we approached the spot," continued the aged knight of Senville, "and found foot marks in the snow, which, from the previous fall, lay lightly on the ground, for the storm of tonight had hardly set in. There were marks of one of our parties, and we saw by torchlight strange footprints, as if they had been tracked by two or three daring foes--we thought we distinguished hoof marks."

A terrible silence fell upon the whole assembly, as the idea that they had been contending with demons, and not with mortals, fell upon them, and perhaps the bravest would have hesitated to enter the forest that night, however dire the need.

The baron knew this; yet when supper was over, when the hour of retiring to rest had arrived, and still there were no signs of his son, he selected a band of trusty warriors, who, in spite of the story of the demons, which Eustace's men had made known throughout the castle, would not be untrue to their lord.

And with these men, while all the rest slept, he penetrated the forest, and with torches and horns made night hideous, until cold and fatigue drove him home, his heart heavier than before, his desire unaccomplished.

He threw himself upon his couch, only to be haunted by dreadful dreams, in which he saw his son surrounded by the demons of Sir Eustace's tale, and in every other variety of danger or distress, like the constantly shifting scenes of a modern theatre.

And in all these dreams the "Dismal Swamp" played a prominent part.

Day broke at last, cold but bright; the first beams of the sun gladdened the castle, reflected keenly from the white ground, the trees hung with frozen snow, which had broken many branches to the ground--the winter seemed to have come in good earnest.

Early in the day, a hundred men, well armed and mounted, led by the baron, again entered the forest. They reached, in due course, the part of the wood assigned to Etienne on the previous day.

The snow had effaced all tracks, but Sir Eustace speedily found the spot where he had left the dead man, and there was the corpse, stiff and frozen, but it was evident that the knight's description given the previous evening was all too correct. The man had died in great horror and anguish; the arrow yet remained in his body. It was, as in the earlier cases, one of English make--a clumsy shaft, unlike the polished Norman workmanship.

"We must search the whole district," said the baron; "but we had better keep together."

Every one shared this opinion.

It was the unknown danger that troubled them, the thought that supernatural powers were arrayed against them, that the English had called the fiends to their aid, which terrified these hardened warriors.

If the English had, indeed, sought by ghostly disguise to affright their foes, they had well succeeded.

It was late in the morning before the glade was reached where our party had rested, and the body of the man first slain was discovered, and the whole band gathered around it.

Like the others, he had fallen by an English arrow.

The fear that all their friends had thus fallen became general, and expressed itself in their countenances. The baron was livid.

There was no possibility of tracing the party, the snow had covered the footsteps; but evidence was soon found in the fragments of food--the remains of the carcase of the wild boar--to show that this had been the midday rest, and that here the very beginning of hostilities had taken place.

They returned thence to the spot where Torquelle was slain. Fear and trembling seized many of the baron's warriors as they gazed upon those distorted features--fear, mingled with dread--so mysterious were the circumstances. They buried the body as decently as time permitted, and continued their course until they came upon another corpse slain in like manner.

Horror increased: at every stage the baron feared to find the dead body of his son. They still pursued the same line: it led to the edge of the Dismal Swamp, and there it ended.

They stood gazing upon that desolate wilderness.

"No human being could penetrate there," said Sir Bernard.

"Try."

Hugo advanced, dismounting for the purpose, but sank almost directly in a quagmire covered with snow, and was drawn out with difficulty.

"No, the place is enchanted."

"Guarded by fiends."

"Listen."

Cries as of men and dogs came across the waste.

"They are the demons of the pit, who would lead us into the quagmires."

"They sound like human voices."

"Come what will, if hard frost will but freeze the ground, we will search the place," said the baron. "Come, my men, we can do no more; let us return--it is near nightfall."

This welcome order was obeyed by all the Normans with the greatest alacrity, for they dreaded the approach of night, and the terrors of the forest, which had already proved so fatal to their companions.

No further mishap befell them; weary and footsore they reached the castle, but the heaviest heart amongst them was that of Hugo.

CHAPTER XI. ALIVE--OR DEAD?

The reader will remember that we left Etienne of Aescendune cum Malville and his band in a most critical moment--lost in a wilderness full of enemies of unknown number and uncertain position; but with a gleam of comfort in the shape of a light which had arisen out of the gloom before them.

"It is one of the rascals carrying a torch. Let loose the dogs; if they but seize him, we can extort the whole truth; then we shall know what to do."

Ralph immediately slipped the older and fiercer hound, and tried to set him on the destined prey; but to his astonishment the beast bounded forward but a few yards, then returned with its tail between its legs and whined piteously.

"Are we all bewitched?" exclaimed Etienne.

"Witches and warlocks are said to abound in these woods, and many other works of Satan also."

"The light goes steadily onwards: it is a man carrying a torch; let us follow him up."

They followed rapidly, the torch going smoothly on before them, when all at once the whole party fell into a miry slough up to their waists.

The deceitful light danced about in a joyous manner, as if it were mocking them, and then went out and left them all in utter darkness, struggling vainly in the mud and slime.

"Where are we?" said Pierre, piteously.

"In the Dismal Swamp," said Ralph.

"Amongst toads and snakes," cried another.

At this moment half-a-dozen lights appeared in various directions.

"Good heavens, the place is alive with marsh fires."

"They are what the English call Jack-o'-lanterns."

"They are ignes fatui," said Pierre.

"They are the souls of unbaptized babies," said Ralph. "Let us try to return to the firm ground we have left."

More easily said than done. Our unfortunate Normans struggled vainly in the darkness and in the mire, uttering piteous exclamations--cold and frozen, and mocked ever and anon by some blazing light. Many a vow did they make to our Lady of Sorrows, and to St. Erroutt, St. Gervaise, St. Denys, and every other Norman saint, till somebody suggested that the English saints might know more about the morass, and they condescended to appeal to St. Chad (mighty in those parts), beseeching his help in their distress.

Suddenly a piercing cry told that one was being swallowed up in some quicksand; but they could give no aid, and only shudder in helplessness.

At that moment Etienne caught hold of the loose leash by which one of the dogs was secured.

"Let us follow the dogs," he said; "they always scent out firm ground."

There was now, happily for them, more light; it had long since ceased to snow, and the stars came out brightly.

"See," said Pierre, "the moon is