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

slept more soundly that night than he had since the fatal fire in the marshes. He loved his father, and it must be remembered that he knew not that father's crimes. Not for one moment did he suspect that he had been concerned in the burning of the monastery, nor did he dream that there had been aught in the death of the Lady of Aescendune save the hand of nature.

The one absorbing passion of his life at this moment was hatred of his successful rival--not so much as his rival, but as the murderer of his father.

All the Norman inhabitants of the neighbourhood crowded the abbey church on the morrow, and were present at the Mass of the day; the poor English were there in small numbers; they could not worship devoutly in company with their oppressors, but frequented little village sanctuaries, too poverty stricken to invite Norman cupidity, where, on that very account, the poor clerics of English race might still minister to their scattered flocks, and preach to them in the language Alfred had dignified by his writings, but which the Normans compared to the "grunting of swine."

And the service in the church over, how grand was the company which met in the banqueting hall of the palace on the island!

The Conqueror sat at the head of the board; on his right hand the Count d'Harcourt, head of an old Norman family, which still retained many traces of its Danish descent, and was as little French-like as Normans of that date could be; De le Pole, progenitor of a fated house, well-known in English history; De la Vere, the ancestor of future Earls of Oxford; Arundel, who bequeathed his name to a town on the Sussex coast, where his descendants yet flourish; Clyfford, unknowing of the fate which awaited his descendants in days of roseate hue; FitzMaurice, a name to become renowned in Irish story; Gascoyne, ancestor of a judge whose daring justice should immortalise his name; Hastings, whose descendant fell the victim of the Boar of Gloucester in later days; Maltravers, whose name was destined to be defiled at Berkeley Castle in Plantagenet times; Peverel, a name now familiar through the magic pen of Scott; Talbot, whose progeny, in times when the Normans' children had become the English of the English, burnt the ill-fated "Maid" at Rouen {xx}.

There was a bishop present who blessed the meats, but Etienne could have spared the presence of Geoffrey of Coutances, whom he knew as the friend of Wilfred, and the author of many inconvenient (and, as Etienne thought, impertinent) inquiries about that young unfortunate, after the burning of the old priory.

Who shall describe the splendour of that feast? We will not attempt it, nor will we try to analyse the feelings of the country youth so suddenly introduced into so brilliant an assembly.

But amidst the intoxication of the scene his mind continually wandered to the sombre forests, the blackened marsh, the Dismal Swamp, and his desolated home; and he would almost have given his very soul to stand face to face, foot to foot, with his youthful rival, sword in hand, with none to interfere between them, and so to end the long suspense.

While some such dream was floating before his imagination, and its details were painted vivid as life upon the retina of the mind, a quiet voice, but one not without some authority, whispered in his ears:

"My son, I would fain ask thee of a youth in whom I am somewhat interested, and who is, I am told, yet alive, risen, as it were, from the dead--Wilfred of Aescendune."

Etienne's face would have made a fine study for a painter, as he encountered the gaze of Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances.

The bishop drew the youth gently into a deep embrasure, where a curtain before the opening veiled a window seat, for the feast was now over, and the guests were mingling in general conversation.

"Father," said Etienne "am I, whom he has made an orphan, a fit witness?"

"My son," said Geoffrey, "I respect an orphan's feelings, yet in justice to the lad whom, as thou sayest, I once befriended, I must ask a few questions. He appeared to me naturally affectionate and ingenuous--one who would love those who treated him well, but who would grievously resent scorn and contempt; tell me honestly, didst thou receive him as a brother, as thou wert bound to do, considering the alliance between thy father and his mother, or didst thou regard him simply as thy rival?"

Etienne hesitated.

"My son, thou cravest knighthood; the true knight is bound to speak the truth."

"I own, father, that I felt him my rival."

"And never thought of him as a brother?"

"Never."

"Then, naturally, this led to injurious words and contemptuous deeds?"

"I cannot deny it; nor do I now regret it, knowing what he is."

"Perchance, my son, thou hast had much to do with making him what he is. One more thing: of course Wilfred would naturally sympathise with the old retainers of his father. Tell me, didst thou ever ill-use them in his sight?"

"I may have done so sometimes. But, my lord, you, who at the head of an army, recently sanctioned the mutilation of the rebels in Dorsetshire--"

"My child, peace and war are different things, and in the latter, men are compelled to do that, from which in days of peace they would shrink, only that timely severity may prevent further bloodshed, and so save many Christian lives. But I am speaking of what thou didst to thine own father's vassals in time of peace--didst thou ill-treat them before thy English brother?"

"I may have been sharp sometimes, and used the ashen twig freely."

"Only the ashen twig? My son, tell me all the story about the 'young poaching churl' who was the cause of such deadly enmity between you."

Etienne told it with reluctance.

"Pray was the lad in any manner dear to Wilfred?"

"He was his foster brother," said Etienne, covering his face as conscience smote him, for he remembered the death of Eadwin, and the way in which the mother of the murdered boy had returned good for evil.

"Then, my son, thou canst not acquit thyself of blame."

"But even if I were in fault so far, father, the terrible events which have occurred since do not lie at my door--the burning of the monastery, the death of my poor father."

"Only so far as this, that all might have been prevented hadst thou received Wilfred as a brother, for thou didst drive him to the woods--according to thine own account. But depend upon it, there is more behind. A brave youth like Wilfred would not have fled simply for fear of the combat, nor would one who loved his own people, as your story proves, have connived at the burning of an English monastery--monks and all. Nay, my son, the mystery is not solved yet; in God's own time it will be, and depend upon it, there will be much to forgive on both sides. Think of this when thou repeatest thy paternoster tonight; for the present we will close this conference."

CHAPTER XX. THE MESSENGER FROM THE CAMP OF REFUGE.

A fortnight only had passed since the scenes described in our last chapter, and we must again take our readers to Aescendune.

It was the hour of the evening meal in the castle hall where so lately Hugo sat in his pride, and in his place sat his youthful rival, Wilfred.

Scarcely of age, the vicissitudes of his life had made a man of him before his time, and a stranger would have credited him with many more years than he really possessed. His face was bronzed with the sun, and his features had assumed all the appearance of early manhood, while there was a gravity in his expression befitting a born leader of men, such as his warlike grandfather, Alfgar, had been in the old Danish wars sixty years earlier.

The accustomed features of an English feast, as distinct from a Norman banquet, have been dwelt upon too often in these Chronicles to need recapitulation here, and we shall only beg our readers to suppose the eating over, the wine and mead handed round, and the business of the evening begun.

The hall was crowded; all the ancient vassals of the house of Aescendune, who yet survived, were present, and many new faces. By the side of Wilfred sat a distinguished guest, an East Anglian, to whom all present paid much attention.

The occasion was one of much gravity; only that evening messengers had arrived, bringing the serious announcement that William the mighty Conqueror, with a force said to be numerous as the leaves of the trees, was at hand, and the gathering had been assembled to discuss the measures expedient in the common danger.

There was deep silence; the summer twilight alone illumined the grave faces of the English guests and vassals of Aescendune, as Wilfred arose to address them.

"Englishmen and brethren," he began, "we have not invited you all to share our evening meal on an occasion of idle ceremony--many of you have heard the news I have to tell, and more will anticipate them. The usurper, the bloodstained oppressor of our race is at hand; he rests this night at Warwick, with a force far exceeding any that we can gather to meet him; their lances might uphold the skies, their arrows darken the heavens. All the robber barons of note are there; the butcher priest Ode, who smote with the mace at Hastings, because he might not shed blood, the fierce Lord of Oxford, the half Danish Harcourt, Arundel, Talbot, Maltravers, Peveril, Morton--all swell the train which has advanced to the destruction of our faint hope of liberty in the Midlands, our trust that at least old Mercia may defy the despoiler."

"Let us die, then, like brave men," was the cry of many, "since we cannot live as freemen."

"And shed our blood in vain, leaving the victory to the oppressors! Nay, we must live for another Senlac, which shall reverse the doom of the former. Leofric of Deeping, our guest from East Anglia, will tell you of one who yet defies Norman tyranny, with whom we may unite, under whose banner victory may yet bless the old flag of England."

Leofric rose, amidst cheers and demonstrations of applause, somewhat tempered by the gravity of the occasion; nay, a few faint-hearted churls said, "Let us hear what he has to propose before we cheer him."

"Has the name of Hereward, Lord of Brunn, yet reached your ears?"

A general shout of approbation replied, "Yes!"

"He it was who, while yet but a stripling, stirred up the people of Dover to drive the proud Eustace out of their town, in good King Edward's time, when he slew with his own hands a French knight. He fought by the side of our Harold when he tamed Griffith, the wildcat of Wales. He was in Flanders, to our great loss, when the Normans invaded England, and there he heard, with grief, of the death of our Harold and the slaughter at Senlac. Now, hearing that many brave men yet defy the tyrant in the Isle of Ely, protected by its bogs and marshes, he has accepted the invitation of the Abbot Thurstan, and has hastened to return home and place himself at their head. Three years have passed since Hastings, and yet England is unconquered; the Normans concentrate their force against Ely in vain; Crowland, Spalding, and many other places are recovered, and the Danes promise their assistance to deliver those who were their brethren under Canute from Norman tyranny.

"Therefore, in the name of the Lord of Brunn and the Abbot Thurstan of Ely, I invite you to repair thither, to take part in the great struggle so nobly begun for the deliverance of England from the hateful yoke."

There was a dead silence, broken at last by a voice:

"But might we not first strike a blow for our own poor homes?"

"That blow shall be struck in time, and in time not far off; but now it would be a waste, and a sinful waste of English blood, just when every man is wanted. What can ye do against ten thousand Normans, out here in the open country? or what good can ye hope to do in the woods? Nay, come to the Camp of Refuge, the last retreat of England's noblest sons; there is the noble Archbishop Stigand, the faithful English prelate, who dared to defy the Conqueror to his face; there the Bishops of Lincoln, Winchester, Durham, and Lindisfarne, whose fair palaces are usurped by Norman intruders; there the patriotic Abbots of Glastonbury and St. Albans; there nobles, thanes--all who yet dare to hope for England's salvation; and thence shall the tide of victory return after the ebb, and sweep the Bastard and his Norman dogs into the sea. England shall be England again, yea, to the latest generations."

Cheer upon cheer arose from the company; it was evident that the envoy had gained his point. Wilfred now