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

He was a man of deep learning and great personal piety, yet not without some of the faults of the race, under whose auspices he had come to England. Still, in spite of his deep prejudices, he was often, as we shall see in these pages, the protector of the oppressed English.

Lanfranc was seated with his episcopal brother in the embrasure of a deep window, looking out upon the cathedral close of Canterbury.

"It was sad, indeed, my brother," said the archbishop. "I scarcely have known a sadder day than that of my installation. The cathedral which thou seest slowly rising from its ruins yonder, had been destroyed by fire, with all its ornaments, charters, and title deeds. One would think that the heathen Danes had once more overspread the land, instead of our own Christian countrymen."

"And yet we two are answerable to some extent for this conquest. Without thee it had never been; thou didst gain the sanction of the Pope and then preach it as a crusade. I followed the army to Hastings, absolved the troops, and blessed its banners on the day of the great victory."

"Heaven grant we may not have done wrong; but the sheep are scattered abroad, as when a wolf entereth the fold."

"Thou mayest yet be the means of reconciling the conquerors and the conquered--the Church is their natural mediator."

"God helping me, I will do justice between them; but the task is a heavy one--it is hard, nay, terrible, to stand against the will of this Conqueror."

"For this cause, perhaps, thou, who fearest not the face of man, art chosen of Heaven."

A low knock at the door interrupted them.

"Enter," cried Lanfranc; and a monk of the Benedictine order, who discharged the duty of chamberlain, appeared.

"A brother of our order craves an audience."

It must be remembered that Lanfranc was the abbot of a Benedictine monastery ere he was called to Canterbury {xxiii}.

"Is he English or Norman? Hath he told thee his errand?"

"English. He hath travelled far, and says that his errand is one of life or death."

"Let him enter," said the primate.

A man in a faded Benedictine habit, evidently spent with travel, appeared at the door. His beard was of long growth, his hair was uncombed, and his whole appearance that of a man who had passed through perils of no small difficulty and danger.

Lanfranc gazed fixedly at him, and seemed to strive to read his character in his face.

"Pax tibi, frater; I perceive thou art of our order. At what monastery hast thou made thy profession?"

"At the priory of St. Wilfred, Aescendune," said Father Kenelm, for it was he, as he bent the knee to the primate.

"A pious and learned home, doubtless, but its fame has not reached my ears."

"But it has mine," said Geoffrey, who started and listened with great attention.

"It was founded and enriched by Offa, thane of that domain, in the year of grace 940, and burnt in the second year of our misery, now three years agone. In its place stood for a short time the priory of St. Denys."

"Thou mayest well say 'stood,'" interrupted Geoffrey, "for I hear that it has also been destroyed by fire."

"By fire also?" said the astonished Lanfranc.

"It is a sad and tragical story," replied Geoffrey, "and it would weary you and sadden me to relate it now. Bloodshed and all the horrors of midnight rapine and warfare are mingled in it, and there is a deep mystery yet unsolved. Tell me, my brother, wert thou an inmate of St. Wilfred's priory when it was so mysteriously destroyed?"

"I was."

"And how didst thou escape?"

"Our prior, the sainted Elphege, despatched me to some of our poor flock, who had taken refuge in the woods, that I might commit one deeply loved to their care."

"His name?"

"Wilfred of Aescendune. It is on his behalf that I have sought his grace the new archbishop, led by his reputation for charity and justice, but hardly expecting to meet any one here who knew the story of our misfortunes and wrongs."

"Thou wilt wonder less, perhaps, if thou lookest at me a little more closely. Dost thou not remember Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, who married Winifred of Aescendune to Hugo de Malville?"

"I do, indeed; and marvel, my lord," said he, "that I recognised thee not at once; I bear a letter for thee written by hands long since ashes--by our good Prior Elphege, the night before the monastery was burned."

"Tell me, my brother," said Geoffrey, as he took the letter, "dost thou know who burnt the monastery?"

"I do."

"Who, then? All the world names the youth thou didst save."

"Who would accuse the lamb of devouring the wolf? Hugo, sometime baron of Aescendune, did the accursed deed."

"Canst thou prove it?"

"When thou hast read the letter, I have yet another document for thee. I had brought both here to submit to my lord of Canterbury."

It was startling to watch Geoffrey as he read the parchment, the very hairs of his head seemed to erect themselves, and his colour changed from pale to red, from red to pale again.

"My brother," said Lanfranc, "what dost thou read which so disturbeth thee?"

"Read it thyself," said he, giving the letter which he had finished to the primate. "It purports to be the copy of a letter addressed to me three years ago, when I was at Oxenford, but which never reached me. Oh, what a story of damnable guilt! Tell me, man, where didst thou obtain this?"

"I saw the original written by him, whose name it bears at the foot, and at his request took this copy, which he has attested by his name, for I was the chief calligrapher of the house of St. Wilfred. It was his last act and deed on earth: within a few hours he perished in the flames which consumed our poor dwelling."

Here Father Kenelm, not without emotion, handed a second parchment to Geoffrey.

"And this?" said he of Coutances, interrogatively.

"Is the confession of a dying Norman, which he has attested by his mark, for he could not write his name. I heard his last confession, when, to remove the stain of guilt from the innocent, he made me write this statement, and signed it as best he could."

"How didst thou get hold of this, brother?" said the Bishop of Coutances, feeling himself, to use the expression of the writer, "sick with horror."

"Thou hast heard, my lord, of the destruction of Baron Hugo in the Dismal Swamp?"

"Surely; I was at Abingdon when his son Etienne brought the news."

"Only one who entered that swamp, so far as I know, escaped. Half burnt, he dragged himself out, on our side, from the awful conflagration, and hid himself till eventide in the woods, suffering greatly.

"That day I had guided young Etienne de Malville from his concealment in our midst, to liberty and safety, and as I returned I heard the groans of a man in severe pain, but which seemed a long distance away, borne on the night winds which swept the forest. Guided by the sound, I found Guy, son of Roger, and tended him as I had tended the son of the wicked baron. He lingered a few days, and then died of his injuries, leaving me this confession, as his last act and deed, with full liberty to divulge it when a fitting day should arrive."

"But why hast thou not done so before?"

"Because it was not needed; nor could I leave my refuge in the woods, where I had my own little flock to attend to, the few poor sheep saved from the Norman wolf. Pardon me, for ye are Normans."

"We are Benedictines," said Lanfranc, reprovingly; "English or Normans, the children of our father Benedict are brethren, even as there is neither Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, in Christ."

"But why hast thou now come?" said Geoffrey.

"Hast thou not heard that the Camp of Refuge has fallen?"

"And what then?"

"Wilfred of Aescendune was a refugee therein."

"And is he taken?"

"He was sent, together with Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, as prisoner to Abingdon, and will be brought to trial, when William arrives there next week, and, unless thou savest him, will undoubtedly die the death."

"He shall not die," said Geoffrey, "if we can save him. William must acquit him if he hear all."

"Acquit him, yes," said Lanfranc, "of sacrilege and parricide; but not, I fear, of the guilt of rebellion against his lawful king {xxiv}."

"At least, if he must die, let him die freed from the supposed guilt of such awful sacrilege, and let men know to what kind of father King William committed the innocent English lad."

"Most certainly: if we cannot save him from the consequences of his rash appeal to the sword, we will yet save him from the cord, or worse, the stake, which might be thought the not inappropriate penalty of the destruction of two successive houses of God by fire."

"The stake! it is too horrible to think of!" said the monk; "thank God I have not sought thee in vain. Forgive me, my lord, but the lad is very dear to me."

"Nor is my own interest much less keen in him," said Geoffrey. "I first met him at Senlac, where he sought his father's corpse amidst the slain, and since that time have watched his tragic career not without grief."

"But one question remains," spake Lanfranc. "The documents will be disputed: how shall we prove them genuine?"

"There is much internal evidence; but may not some of the witnesses of the crimes be living? For instance, the Jew, Abraham of Toledo, he who sold the poisons to Hugo?" said Geoffrey.

"He shall be sought for," replied Lanfranc. "Meanwhile, Father Kenelm, thou art my guest, and I must at once commend you to the chamberlain, who will supply all your wants. You need food and rest."

Bowing humbly--his heart full of gratitude--the good old Benedictine followed the chamberlain, who appeared at the summons of the primate, to more comfortable lodgings and better fare than he had known for years.

On the morrow of Michaelmas, in the year of grace 1071, an imposing group of warriors and ecclesiastics was gathered in the chapter house of the ancient Abbey of Abingdon.

The chamber in question was of rectangular form, but terminated at the eastern end in an apse, where, beneath a column with radiating arches, was the throne of the Lord Abbot.

A stone seat encompassed the other three sides of the building, cushions interposing, however, between the person and the bare stone beneath, as was meet.

The walls were arcaded, so as to form stalls, and in the arcades were pictures of the Saints of the order, in glowing colours--St. Benedict occupying the place of honour. Nor was St. Dunstan, the most noted of English Benedictines, unrepresented.

A light burned perpetually in the midst of this chamber, framed so as to image a tongue of fire, emblem of Him, whose inspiration was sought at the gatherings of the chapter for deliberation.

Here novices were admitted and monastic punishment administered, while penitential chambers adjoined, to which offenders were taken after sentence had been delivered.

It was just after the chapter mass, and the fourth hour of the day.

William sat in the abbot's chair; on his right band Lanfranc himself--for the Benedictine order was deeply interested in the investigation about to be made. The abbot and all the elder brethren were present, and sat on the right or northern side of the building. Next the abbot sat Geoffrey of Coutances; amidst the brethren was Father Kenelm.

But on the other side sat William's principal nobles and courtiers, to whom reference has been made in former chapters--De la Pole, Arundel, Clyfford, Fitz-Maurice, Hastings, Maltravers, Peverill, Talbot, Harcourt, and many others--some of then grey-headed--in arms.

Odo of Bayeux and Fitz-Osborne were there likewise, as also Robert of Mortain and Pevensey.

A large coffer, called "the trunk," not unlike the box in which prisoners appear in modern courts of justice, stood in the midst; and therein, pale with illness and worn by mental distress, yet still undaunted in the spirit, stood Wilfred of Aescendune.

Poor Wilfred! he needed all his courage, for he stood almost alone, a mere youth, amidst many enemies. At the most there were but three hearts present which beat with any sympathy for him.

Lanfranc had, however, possessed the king with certain general facts, which disposed William to give the accused a patient hearing, and when his "starkness" was not roused, William could be just.

And so Wilfred, his face pale, his lips compressed, his hands clasped upon the desk before him, gazed into the face of this awful Conqueror, whose frown so few dared to meet--the very incarnation of brute force and mental daring combined.

On his head was the crown of England, which he wore only on state occasions, four times yearly as a rule, at certain great festivals. One of these had just been held at Abingdon, and on this occasion, as we see, he again