CHAPTER I THE LORD OF THE CASTLE
It was the evening of the 30th of September in the year of grace 1139; the day had been bright and clear, but the moon, arising, was rapidly overpowering the waning light of the sun.
Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford Castle by marriage with the Lady Maude (Matildis Domina de Walingfort), the widow of the doughty Baron Milo Crispin, who died in 1107, without issue—was pacing the ramparts of his castle, which overlooked the Thames. Stern and stark was this mediæval baron, and large were his possessions. He was the son of Count Alain of Brittany[1]—a nephew of Hamelin de Baladin, of Abergavenny Castle, from whom he inherited large possessions in Wales: a nephew also of Brian, lord of a manor in Cornwall, which he also inherited.
"Great his houses, lands, and castles,
Written in the Domesday Book."
Furthermore, he was an especial favourite with Henry the First, who commanded the Lady of Wallingford to marry his minion—according to the law which placed such widows at the disposal of the crown—he was present at the consecration of the great abbey of Reading, where amongst the co-signatories we read "Signum Brientii filii comitis, de Walingfort:" the seal of Brian Fitz-Count of Wallingford.
He walked the ramparts on this last evening of September, and gazed upon his fair castle, or might have done so had his mind been at rest, but "black care sat on his back."
Still we will gaze, unimpeded by that sable rider, although we fear he is not dead yet.
The town of Wallingford had been utterly destroyed by the Danes in 1006, as recorded in our former story of Alfgar the Dane. It was soon afterwards rebuilt, and in the time of Edward the Confessor, was in the hands of the thane, and shire-reeve (sheriff) Wigod de Wallingford, a cupbearer of the pious monarch, and one who shared all that saintly king's Norman proclivities. Hence it is not wonderful that when William the Conqueror could not cross the Thames at Southwark, owing to the opposition of the brave men of London town, he led his army along the southern bank of the great river to Wallingford, where he was assured of sympathy, and possessed an English partisan. Here Wigod received him in his hall—a passable structure for those times—which subsequently formed a part of the castle which the Norman king ordered to be built, and which became one of the strongest fortresses in the kingdom, and the key of the midlands.
The Conqueror was a guest of Wigod for several days, and before he left he witnessed the marriage of the eldest daughter of his host, the English maiden Aldith, to a Norman favourite, Robert d'Oyley, whom he made Lord of Oxford.
Now the grand-daughter of that Wigod, whom we will not call traitor to his country—although some might deem him so—in default of male issue, became the wife of Brian Fitz-Count. The only son of Wigod, who might have passed on the inheritance to a line of English lords—Tokig of Wallingford—died in defence of William the Conqueror[2] at the battle of Archenbrai, waged between the father and his son Robert Courthose.
To build the new castle,[3] Robert d'Oyley, who succeeded to the lordship on the death of Wigod, destroyed eight houses, which furnished space for the enlargement, and material for the builders. We are not told whether he made compensation—it is doubtful.
The castle was built within the ancient walls in the north-east quarter of the town, occupying a space of some twenty or thirty acres, and its defence on the eastern side was the Thames.
Within the precincts rose one of those vast mounds thrown up by Ethelfleda, lady of the Mercians, and daughter of the great Alfred, a century and a half earlier. It formed the kernel of the new stronghold, and surmounted by a lofty tower, commanded a wondrous view of the country around, from a height of some two hundred feet.
On the north-east lay the long line of the Chilterns; on the south-west, the Berkshire downs stretching towards Cwichelm's Hlawe, and the White Horse Hill; between the two lay the gorge of the Thames, and in the angle the fertile alluvial plain, chiefly filled at that time by a vast park or chase, or by forest or marsh land.
The Chilterns were covered with vast beech forests, the Berkshire downs were more bare.
There were three bastions to the north and two on the south; within the inner dyke or moat on the east was the "glacis," which sloped abruptly towards the river: the main entrance, on the west, was approached by a series of drawbridges, while beneath the tower a heavy portcullis defended the gateway.
Upon the keep stood two sentinels, who from the summit of their lofty tower scrutinised the roads and open country all day long, until they were relieved by those who watched by night. Beneath them lay the town with its moat, and earthen rampart in compass a good mile and more, joining the river at each extremity. Within the compass were eleven parishes, "well and sufficiently built," with one parish church in each of them, well constructed, and with chaplains and clerks daily officiating, so that people had no lack of spiritual provision.
Beyond, the roads stretched in all directions: the Lower Icknield Street ran by woody Ewelme along the base of the downs, towards distant Stokenchurch and Wycombe; while on the opposite side, it ran across the wild moor land through Aston and Blewbery to the Berkshire downs, where it joined the upper way again, and continued its course for Devizes. Our readers will know this road well by and by.
Another road led towards the hills, called "Ye Kynge's Standynge," where it ascended the downs, and joining the upper Icknield Street, stretched across the slopes of Lowbury Hill, the highest point on the eastern downs, where the remains of a strong Roman tower formed a conspicuous object at that date. Another road led directly to the west, and to distant Ffaringdune, along the southern side of the twin hills of Synodune.
Now we will cease from description and take up our story.
"Our lord looks ill at ease," said Malebouche, one of the sentinels on the keep, to Bardulf, his companion.
"As well he may on this day!"
"Why on this day?"
"Dost thou not know that he is childless?"
"I suppose that is the case every day in the year."
"Ah, thou art fresh from fair Brittany, so I will tell thee the tale, only breathe it not where our lord can hear of my words, or I shall make acquaintance with his dog-whip, if not with gyves and fetters. Well, it chanced that thirteen years agone he burnt an old manor-house over on the downs near Compton, inhabited by a family of English churls who would not pay him tribute; the greater part of the household, unable to escape, perished in the flames, and amongst them, the mother and eldest child. In a dire rage and fury the father, who escaped, being absent from home, plotted revenge. Our lord had a son then, a likely lad of some three summers, and soon afterwards, on this very day, the child was out with scanty attendance taking the air, for who, thought they, would dare to injure the heir of the mighty baron, when some marauders made a swoop from the woods on the little party, slew them all and carried off the child—at least the body was never found, while those of the attendants lay all around, male and female."
"And did not they make due search?"
"Thou mayst take thy corporal oath of that. They searched every thicket and fastness, but neither the child nor any concerned in the outrage were ever found. They hung two or three poor churls and vagrants on suspicion, but what good could that do; there was no proof, and the wretches denied all knowledge."
"Did not they try the 'question,' the 'peine forte et dure?'"
"Indeed they did, but although one poor vagrant died under it, he revealed nothing, because he had nothing to reveal, I suppose."
"What ho! warder! dost thou see nought on the roads?" cried a stern, loud voice which made both start.
"Nought, my lord."
"Keep a good look-out; I expect guests."
And Brian Fitz-Count resumed his walk below—to and fro, communing with his own moody thoughts.
An hour had passed away, when the sentinel cried aloud—
"A party of men approaches along the lower Ickleton Way from the west."
"How many in number?"
"About twenty."
"Where are they?"
"They cross the moor and have just left the South Moor Town."
"Canst thou make out their cognisance?"
"The light doth not serve."
"Order a troop of horse: I ride to meet them; let the banquet be prepared."
In another quarter of an hour a little party dashed over the lowered drawbridges and out on the western road; meanwhile the great hall was lighted, and the cooks hurried on the feast.
In less than another hour the blast of trumpets announced the return of the Lord of the Castle with his guest. And Brian Fitz-Count rode proudly into his stronghold: on his right hand rode a tall knight, whose squires and attendants followed behind with the Wallingford men.
"Welcome, Sir Milo of Gloucester, to my castle," exclaimed the Lord of Wallingford, as he clasped the hand of his visitor beneath the entrance tower.
"By'r ladye, a fine stronghold this of yours; that tower on the keep might rival in height the far-famed tower of Babel."
"We do not hope to scale Heaven, although, forsooth, if the Masses said daily in Wallingford are steps in the ladder, it will soon be long enough."
And they both laughed grimly in a way which did not infer implicit belief in the power of the Church.
"The bath, then the board—prepare the bath for our guest."
So they led him to the bathroom, for the Normans washed themselves, for which the natives charged them with effeminacy; and there they brought towels, and perfumed waters, and other luxuries. After which two pages conducted the guest to the great hall, which was nearly a hundred feet in length. The high table stood at the one end upon a platform, and there the Lord of Wallingford seated himself, while upon his left hand sat the Lady Maude, a lady of middle age, and upon his right a seat of state was prepared, to which the pages led his visitor.
Fully two hundred men banqueted in the hall that night, boards on trestles were distributed all along the length at right angles to the high table, with space between for the servers to pass, and troops of boys and lower menials squatted on the rushes, while the men-at-arms sat at the board.
A gallery for the musicians projected above the feasters on one side of the hall, and there a dozen performers with harps and lutes played warlike songs, the while the company below ate and drank. The music was rough but seemed to stir the blood as its melody rose and fell.
And when at last the banquet was ended, a herald commanded silence, and Brian Fitz-Count addressed the listening throng:
"My merry men all, our guest here bringeth us news which may change our festal attire for helm and hauberk, and convert our ploughshares and pruning-hooks into swords and lances; but nought more of this to-night, the morrow we hunt the stag, and when we meet here on to-morrow night I may have welcome news for all merry men who love war and glory better than slothful ease."
A loud burst of applause followed the speech, the purport of which they fully understood, for the long peace had wearied them, and they were all eager for the strife as the beasts of prey for rapine, so in song and wassail they spent the evening, while the Baron and his guest withdrew to take secret council in an inner chamber.