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

drawn from its sheath, Wilfred appeared on the scene, and, in a tone the Norman lads started to hear from him, exclaimed:

"Let him go; touch him if you dare; he is my foster brother; my thrall, if anybody's."

"Like cleaves to like," said Etienne, sarcastically; "but, my fair brother, thou wilt hardly interfere with the due course of the law."

"Law! the law of butchers and worse than butchers--devils. Let him go."

"Hadst thou not better try to rescue him? Thou hast not yet found an opportunity to show thy prowess."

Wilfred lost all control, sprang at Etienne, struck him in a downright English fashion between the eyes, and knocked him down. The knife fell from his hand, and Wilfred seized it before the other youths could recover from their astonishment, and flung it into a pond close at hand.

Etienne rose up.

Now my young readers will probably anticipate a bout at fisticuffs; but no such vulgar a combat commended itself to the proud young Norman, even thus suddenly humiliated; neither did he, under these very trying circumstances, lose his self command.

Yet his hatred was none the less, nor did he cherish a less deadly design.

"Let the young brute go," said he, as he arose, pointing to Eadwin. "There is something more important to be settled now than the question whether the young porker shall retain his cloven hoof or not. Wilfred, dost thou know thou hast struck a gentleman?"

"I have struck a young butcher."

"Thanks; churls fight with words; knights, and would-be knights, with swords. Draw, then, and defend thyself; Pierre and Louis will see fair play."

"Nay," said the other two lads with one voice, "it were a sin and shame to fight thus, and we should have our knighthood deferred for years did we permit it. Pages may not fight to the death without the permission of their liege lord. The baron must give permission."

"Wilfred, dost thou accept my challenge? I honour thy base blood in making it."

"My ancestors were as noble as thine; nay, they ruled here while thine were but pirates and cutthroats. I do accept it."

"Let us separate, then; we meet here at daybreak tomorrow."

"But the permission of our lord?"

"I will answer for that," replied his hopeful son.

The party separated: Wilfred took his foster brother, who had not made the least attempt to escape from the scene, trusting to the love of his young lord for protection, and no sooner were they alone than the poor lad overwhelmed his deliverer with thanks, in which tears were not unmixed, because he knew that a price had yet to be paid, and that his beloved master was in danger.

"Nay, nay, Eadwin, I shall do very well--if not, there is not much left to live for now--only you must take care of yourself, or they may avenge themselves on you; indeed, when the baron hears the tale, I doubt not that he will send for you, and then I may not be able to save you--you must fly."

"Not till I know--"

"Yes, this very night--thou knowest the Deadman's Swamp?"

"Well."

"The Normans could never find thee there, and thou and I have threaded its recesses a hundred times; go to the hollow tree where we have slept before now in our hunting days. I will seek thee tomorrow, if I live. If I do not appear before midday, you had better seek our people, whom these tyrants have driven to the greenwoods."

"I know where to find them, but you will come; why not fly to the woods with me now?"

"Honour prevents. And after all, you had better say goodbye at once to those at home, and be off: perhaps I had better say goodbye for thee--it will be safest."

A few more parting instructions, and they separated; the young thrall actually kneeling and kissing his young lord's hand with that devoted love nought save such obligations could give.

Wilfred was returning to the castle, when he met Pierre, who was evidently seeking him.

"Wilfred," he said, "I have come to offer you my services for tomorrow; you will want the offices of a friend."

"Art thou my friend?"

"Yes, since I see thou art not a coward. While I saw thee suffering insult after insult without ever resenting them, I thought thee craven, and could not speak thee fair; now thou art as one of us."

"Thou art not like other Normans, then."

"I am not Norman, but Breton, and perhaps we do not love the Normans over much in Brittany; at least, I can feel for one in thy position."

"Thanks," was all that Wilfred could stammer out.

These were almost the first kind words he had heard since his mother's death, save in those stolen moments when he had been alone amidst his English thralls and churls, and they had been but few.

"Thou art not so skilled in fencing as Etienne; I should advise an hour or two in the tilt yard, and I can tell thee of some of his feints, which are not a little dangerous."

"Thanks, I shall not have too much time."

"Dost thou think the baron will give leave?"

"Yes; he hates me in his heart. Were I the better swordsman, he might not consent."

"I agree with thee--wert thou dead, Etienne would be heir of Aescendune. At all events, thou wilt go to confession and get thy soul in order--betake thyself to thy holy gear--men fight none the worse for a clear conscience. And I would ask the intercession of St. Michael--men speak well of him in Brittany, and tell how he fought a combat a outrance with Satan, wherein the latter came off none the better man."

"I shall see Father Elphege tonight--we are not heathen, we English."

"Ah! here comes Louis. Well, what news dost thou bring?"

"Good ones. Our lord permits the fight. You should have seen how stark and stern he looked when he saw his son's eyes. Wilfred, thou hast a fist like a smith. Wilt thou do as well with the sword?"

"Tomorrow will show."

"Well, it is quite right of thee to fight for thine own serfs; I would have fought for mine at Marmontier--none should have come between me and them. And I am glad we did not hurt the poor knave. Etienne will be a hard lord for thy people, if anything happens to thee."

Oh, how the memory of his mother and her counsels came before the poor orphan.

Still, how could he help it? He had done rightly, he felt sure; and he knew that his father would say so were hecums alive.

"And so would my grandfather," thought he, "once the friend of the Ironside, of whose wondrous exploits he often told me in olden days around our winter fire. Would his spirit were with me now, and a little of his skill in arms."

And thus musing, he arrived at the castle and betook himself, with Pierre, to the tilt yard. Louis went off to seek Etienne, whose second he was to be.

CHAPTER VI. A REVELATION.

The night was growing dark when Wilfred approached the priory, with the intention of seeking Father Elphege, and putting, as Pierre had said, "his spiritual gear in order."

As we have remarked in other pages, men then attached no notion of sin to the mere act of fighting--there could not be a duty clearer to Christians of that strange epoch than to fight with each other whensoever the exigencies of society demanded--the very institution of knighthood was bound up with the idea.

So he had no anticipation that the good father would say, "Don't fight."

But when he approached the great door of the priory, with the venerable figure of the patron saint bending over the archway, a messenger--a lay brother--issued forth.

It was almost dark, but the man recognised Wilfred.

"Is it thou, Wilfred of Aescendune, in the flesh?"

"I am he."

"Then I am glad to see thee, for thus my limbs are saved the toil of seeking thee, and my rheumatics make me dread the night air."

"Seeking me?"

"Yes, verily; the good prior desireth thee earnestly, and adjured me to fetch thee without delay; and lo! Saint Cuthbert hath sent thee."

What could the prior want of him? thought the lad; had he heard of the quarrel, through young Eadwin, and did he disapprove of it?

At all events, he would be saved the trouble of many words; and he entered.

He passed along the cloister, with its ceiling of carved wood and its rude wooden crucifix at the end thereof; he looked out at the little green square of grass, enclosed by the quadrangle, wherein reposed in peace the monks of former generations. Once the thought flashed over him, that a similar little grassy hillock might, ere a few hours were over, be raised above his own earthly remains; but that did not shake his purpose.

He ascended a spiral staircase and entered the prior's own cell.

"What, Wilfred! and so soon? Sooth to say, my messenger hath sped."

"He met me just outside the gate, father."

"By the blessing of heaven, my son."

"But why hast thou sent for me, and why this haste?"

"A dying man wishes to see thee--nay, do not start! he has a sad confession to make--one it will harrow thy blood to hear, and he cannot die in peace without thy forgiveness."

"My forgiveness! How has he injured me? He is a Norman, I suppose?"

"Nay, he belongeth not to the proud race of our oppressors; he is an old serf of thy house. Dost thou remember Beorn the woodman?"

"Who slew the deer and sold them in secret, and when the deed was discovered, fled?"

"The same; it is he."

"But what harm hath he done so great that he should come here to ask forgiveness? 'Twas a small matter; at least, it seems so now."

"My son, that is not the matter he hath to confess."

"What is it, then?"

"Prepare thyself, my dear child; now be composed; you must resign yourself to God's will."

"Tell me, father, and end this suspense. What is amiss?"

"Nay, he must do that; I wanted to prepare thee; but tis about thy mother."

Wilfred turned pale at once and trembled, for the one passion which divided his soul with hatred to the Normans was love for the memory of his parents. What had the man got to say about his mother?

"But this is not constancy and firmness--thou quakest like an aspen leaf."

"Tell me, was aught amiss in my mother's death?"

"Didst thou ever suspect it?"

"Yes, but I put the thought away, as though it came from Satan."

"Well, poor child, thou wilt know now, and God help thee to bear it rightly."

Trembling and astonished, Wilfred followed the prior into an adjoining cell, where, propped up by cushions, lay the attenuated form of a dying man--the death sweat already on his brow, standing thereon in beads--the limbs rigid as a recent convulsion had left them.

Any one conversant in the signs which immediately precede death could have told that he had but a short time to live. The good monk, who was supporting him and breathing words of Christian hope into his ears, left him as the prior and Wilfred entered.

The prior took the monk's place, and supported the head of the penitent.

"Look," he said, as he raised him upon his arm, "Wilfred of Aescendune, the son of thy late lord."

The poor wretch groaned--such a deep hollow groan.

"Canst thou forgive me?" he said.

"Forgive thee what?"

"Tell him all, my son, and ease thy burdened mind."

The thrall then spake, in words interrupted by gasps and sighs, which we must needs omit as we piece his narrative together for the benefit of our readers.

"It is five years since I fled thy father's face, fearing his wrath, for I had slain his red deer and sold them for filthy lucre. Woe is me! I had better have trusted to his mercy and borne my fitting punishment; but, as Satan tempted me, I fled to the great city, where men are crowded together thick as bees in swarming time, to hide myself amongst many. There I was like to starve, and none gave me to eat, when a Jew who saw my distress, took pity on me and gave me shelter.

"His name was Abraham of Toledo, a city far off over the salt sea, whence he had come to our English shores in the hope of gain; and he was mighty in magic arts and in compounding of deadly drugs to slay, or medicines to make alive. I became his servant, for I had nought else to do, and I blew his forge when he mixed strange metals, swept his chamber, mixed his medicines as ordered, and did all an ignorant man might do at his master's bidding."

"The wretch! he should be burnt," said the prior, who, like most Englishmen of his day, confounded all such researches with the black art; "didst thou ever see the devil there?"

"I did, indeed!"--the prior started--"but it was a Norman fiend, and his name Hugo of Aescendune."

"How!" Wilfred exclaimed, as he started violently.

"Silence, dear son, thou shalt soon hear,"