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

into the church and pray for the grace of patience."

"I cannot pray--I must act."

"Go and pray, my son. Come to me again in half an hour; I have inquiries to make which touch thy safety. I would fain know why the baron sent thee here, since he knoweth all; it would seem the last thing he would be likely to do."

The good prior soon found by personal observation that the monastery was watched, and had been so since Wilfred entered it, and saw at once that did he start again the lad would never reach his journey's end, and that suspicion would be thrown upon him and his brethren.

He did not hesitate long; he had no doubt that Wilfred's life was somehow threatened, and resolved to secure his safety. He sent for a certain brother Kenelm, a monk in priestly orders, who had long been entrusted with a delicate duty.

"How are our poor brethren in the woods, my brother?"

"They are faring well; there is no lack of venison, and their corn crops are ripening for harvest. The land, thou knowest, hath been cultivated for many years."

"It is providential that the Normans have never discovered that little Zoar, which may remain unknown until their tyranny be overpast; for surely God will not quite forget this poor people, sinners although we have all been."

"The morass grows wider and deeper every year; the course of the brooks which form it has been quite choked, and their waters but tend to increase the desolation around."

"Couldst thou find thy way there this very night?"

"Surely, if there were need."

"There is great need. The young thane, Wilfred, is in danger--there is some plot against his life. What it is I know not, but our poor house has been watched ever since he has been here. Come to the window and look; I have blown out the light; now look--dost thou not see a man under the shade of the beech, near the entrance gate?"

"Verily I do, father."

"And now come with me (leading him along a passage); look through this window."

"Yes, there is another. Why do they watch?"

"That the young Wilfred may not escape; they think we shall send him off again, as they know I did before."

"How do they know, father?"

"They have read my letter to the bishop."

"Then why have they sent him here? I am quite bewildered."

"That he may be sent again, entrapped, or slain, and failing that, I know not what they will do. But we will outwit them; thou shalt take him this very night to his poor thralls who dwell in the swamp. They will rejoice to see him, and will live or die for him, as seemeth best."

"But since we are watched, how shall we escape?"

"By the river. It is very dark: thou must unmoor the boat and float down the stream for a full mile, without noise of oars, then enter the forest and place the precious boy in safety."

"It shall be done, father."

"And quickly. Here he comes--supper, and then thou must say thy compline on the river: thou wilt go while all the rest are in the chapel, and mayst join us in spirit."

The good prior then went to the church, through the great cloister. The poor lad he loved was praying and weeping.

"Wilfred," said the prior, "dost thou feel better now? Hast thou poured out thy soul before thy Heavenly Father?"

"Better? yes, a little better now, father."

"Come with me to the refectory."

They left the church.

"Now eat a good meal."

"I cannot eat--it chokes me, father."

"Thou must, my dear son; it is a duty, for thou must travel far tonight."

"Thank God."

"But it is not to Oxford, my son; thou wouldst not outlive the night. It is that very journey they want thee to essay."

"Why?"

"That they may slay thee by the way."

"I may have my father's sword, which hangs over his tomb, may I not?"

"Silly boy, what could one do against a score? Nay, thou must go and hide for the present in the forest--thou rememberest 'Elfwyn's Grange'?"

"Where my great grandfather hid from the Danes? Yes, many a time have I gone there to shoot wild fowl, while my poor father was alive."

"And thou knowest the buildings in the midst of the firm ground?"

"Well."

"Thou hast never told thy Norman companions about them?"

"Never! they one and all think the morass a mere desert, a continuous swamp."

"So much the better, my dear son, for more than half the poor folk who have deserted the village are there, and Father Kenelm will take thee to them, for he knoweth the way, ministering to them weekly as he does."

"But why may I not stay here?"

"I dare not keep thee, dear child; I fear some plot against thy life; nay, the morass is the only safe place for thee till we can communicate with the bishop, who has once befriended thee and may do so again."

"Oh father, let it not be long!"

"That is in God's hands; abide patiently and wait thou on the Lord, and He shall make thy path plain. Now eat; I will not say one word more till thou art full."

Poor Wilfred did his best, and ate the last meal he was ever to eat under that fated roof. The good fathers never suspected the real design of their remorseless enemy.

The supper over, beneath those beams which were soon to fall blazing upon their fated inmates, the lad bid a last farewell to the good prior, to whom he had transferred the affection he once felt for his dear parents. He fell on his shoulder, he wept, embraced, and parted. The good prior wept, too. They never met again.

"Take care of the precious lad, Father Kenelm; remember thou hast the hope of Aescendune with thee."

They entered the little "punt" very quietly. The night was warm, but fortunately obscure. They unmoored, and dropped down the stream in perfect silence, listening to the bell as it tolled for compline.

At length they reached the place the prior had indicated. They left the boat, and entered the forest in safety, utterly undiscovered--here, only Father Kenelm's accurate knowledge of the place could have availed them in the darkness.

In three hours they had traversed ten woodland miles, and drew near the quagmires. The path became fearfully intricate, and Wilfred was startled by the marsh fires, while Father Kenelm began to pray for the poor souls--he somehow supposed them to be, or to represent, poor silly wandering souls--the while the night owl sang a dismal chorus to his ditty. They followed a devious winding road--in and out--with much care, the father holding Wilfred's hand all the time, until they emerged and found themselves ascending between two steep banks. It was a narrow valley, through which a brook poured its waters into the desolation beneath.

At the summit they stopped and rested for a few minutes. It was not, as may be imagined, very high; but beneath lay the whole extent of the Dismal Swamp. It was after midnight.

"What can that brightness in the sky portend, my child? There must be some dreadful fire; and, alas! it looks as if in the neighbourhood of Aescendune!"

"I hope it is the castle."

The poor monk was very much alarmed; he feared it might be the monastery, and the reader knows he was right.

Now the heavens were lit up with intense brightness, now it faded again. It was long before they left the summit and the view of the reddened sky.

"May it not be the northern lights?"

"Nay, my son, it is south of us, and they never look quite like this. I fear me mischief is abroad, and shall not be happy till I get me home again tomorrow."

Poor Father Kenelm, the woods were now his sole home.

At length, as the brightness disappeared, they continued along the brook, until they reached a wide extent of flat meadow ground traversed by the stream, separated by low hills from the morass.

In the centre of the valley, if such it may be called, the brook divided, enclosing about an acre of ground, ere its streams met again, hurrying down to the morass. Deep and rapid as it was, its course had been but short; a copious spring burst from the ground not half a mile above, whence streams issuing different ways helped to form the slimy waste which girt in this little island of firm land.

There, in the ground enclosed by the divided stream, was the home once inhabited by the ancestors of our young hero. The monk knocked loudly at the door--no watch was kept--the marsh was their protection.

The dogs began to bark, and one or two which were loose came up, half disposed to make war upon the travellers, but they soon recognised the monk. Lights were seen, the doors opened, two or three sunburnt faces appeared in the doorway.

"Sexwulf, I bring you a guest; look at him--dost thou know him?"

"It is our young lord!"

Late though it was, the whole household was soon in uproar--the welcome was grand--and it was all the good father could do to prevent their arousing the whole village, to hear the joyful news that their young lord--rescued from Norman tyranny, which had even threatened his life--was there, relying on their protection, and that they, esteemed by the world as outlaws, were his chosen guardians. They felt indeed, now, that they were not outlaws, but patriots fighting against successful tyrants--the foes of their country; even as the brave Hereward (so they had heard) was fighting in the Camp of Refuge, amongst the fens of East Anglia.

And for Wilfred, the representative of a house which had ruled them for centuries, the son of their lamented lord, who had died so bravely at Senlac, they would one and all, if necessary, lay down their lives.

On the morrow, at eventide, Father Kenelm returned from Aescendune, horror struck, and brought the news of the burning of the abbey and the lamentable fate of his brethren.

There was not an Englishman whose heart was not moved with indignation and pity, nor one who failed to lay the burden of the deed where our readers have long since, we doubt not, laid it--on the head of Hugo.

Hence those terrible reprisals our pages have recorded--hence no mercy was shown to the merciless; and the war between the baron and his revolted dependants became one of extermination.

Every day brought accessions to their number; they were in communication with similar centres of disaffection in all parts of the midlands; and they confidently hoped for the day when the Normans should be expelled, and England be England again.

So Wilfred regarded his banishment in the forest as a temporary one at the best, and no longer looked for the aid of Normans, lay or ecclesiastical, to avenge his mother's wrongs and his own; he would vindicate them by the strong hand.

He was now eighteen years of age, practised in all manly sports and warlike exercises, braced by daily use to support fatigue in mind and body, and every day rendered him more qualified to be the leader of his own people in the desperate warfare which lay between them and their rights.

He shared their hardships, fared as they did, exposed himself as far as they would permit him to every peril, and was modest enough (unlike his Norman rival) to be guided by the advice of his elders, the wisest of his late father's retainers.

One fault--and one the youthful reader will, we fear, look very lightly upon--was gaining upon him--a deep and deadly hatred to everything Norman. It was even rumoured that, like Hannibal of old, he had vowed an undying hostility to the foes of his country and his house; if so, our pages will show how he kept his word.

In this feeling Father Kenelm, who now ministered wholly to the spiritual necessities of the dwellers in the Dismal Swamp, strove feebly to restrain him; but Wilfred was rapidly outgrowing all restraint, and perhaps the good father, who after all was human, and the sole survivor of a happy and united brotherhood, did not feel very deeply shocked by the hatred manifested to the destroyers of his brethren.

Yet he pleaded for Pierre de Morlaix on the eventful night recorded in our last chapter; but the cruel death of Eadwin at the hands of the invaders rendered his prayers useless. The whole feeling of the little community was with Wilfred in the matter; besides, they wanted no prisoners, and dared not set one free to disclose the secret of their refuge.

But we must resume the thread of our story, for our readers are doubtless profoundly interested in the fate of Etienne, the rival heir, and we must apologise for having kept them so long in suspense.

CHAPTER XIII. "COALS OF FIRE {xii}."

The unhappy youth, whose recklessness and folly had led to the entire destruction of the troop confided to his care, was now their sole survivor.

In that hour, when all was lost, at the close of the deadly struggle