CHAPTER VIII THE BARON AND HIS PRISONERS
When Brian Fitz-Count returned to his castle it was buried in the silence and obscurity of night; only the sentinels were awake, and as they heard his password, they hastened to unbar the massive gates, and to undraw the heavy bolts, and turn the ponderous keys which gave admittance to his sombre castle.
The fatigue of a long day had made even the strong man weary, and he said nought to any man, but sought his inner chamber, threw himself on his pallet, and there the man of strife slept, for he had the soldier's faculty of snatching a brief nap in the midst of perplexity and toil.
In vain did the sentinels look for some key to the meaning of the bale-fires, which had blazed all round; their lord was silent. "The smiling morn tipped the hills with gold," and the reveillée blew loud and long; the busy tide of life began to flow within the walls; men buckled on their armour, to try if every rivet were tight; tried the edge of their swords, tested the points of their lances; ascended the towers and looked all round for signs of a foe; discussed, wondered, argued, quarrelled of course, but all without much result, until, at the hour of déjeûner (or breakfast), their dread lord appeared, and took his usual place at the head of the table in the great hall.
The meal—a substantial one of flesh, fish, and fowl, washed down by ale, mead and wine—was eaten amid the subdued murmur of many voices, and not till it was ended, and the Chaplain had returned thanks—for such forms did Brian, for policy's sake, if for no better motive, always observe—than he rose up to his full height and spoke—
"Knights and pages, men-at-arms all! I have good news for you! The Empress—our rightful Queen—has landed in Sussex, and this very day I go to meet her, and to aid in expelling the fell usurper Stephen. Who will follow in my train?"
Every hand was upraised, amidst a clamour of voices and cheers, for they sniffed the battle afar, like the war-horse in Job, and delighted like the vulture in the scent of blood.
"It is well. I would sooner have ten free-hearted volunteers than a hundred lagging retainers, grudgingly fulfilling their feudal obligations. Let every man see to his horse, armour, sword, shield, and lance, and at noontide we will depart."
"At what time," asked the Chaplain, "shall we have the special Mass said, to evoke God's blessing on our efforts to dethrone the tyrant, who has dared to imprison our noble Bishop, Alexander?"
"By all means a Mass, it will sharpen our swords: say at nine—a hunting Mass, you know." (That is, a Mass reduced to the shortest proportions the canons allowed.)
When the household had dispersed, all save the chief officers who waited to receive their lord's orders about the various matters committed severally to their charge, Brian called one of them aside.
"Malebouche, bid Coupe-gorge, the doomster, be ready with his minions in the torture-chamber, and take thither the old man whom we caught in the woods yestere'en. I will be present myself, and give orders what is to be done, in half an hour."
Malebouche departed on the errand, and Brian hastened to accomplish various necessary tasks, ere the time to which he looked forward with some interest arrived. It came at last, and he descended a circular stone staircase in the interior of the north-west tower, which seemed to lead into the bowels of the earth.
Rather into a vaulted chamber, curiously furnished with divers chains and pulleys, and hooks, and pincers, and other quaint instruments of mediæval cruelty. In one corner hung a thick curtain, which concealed all behind from view.
In the centre there was a heavy wooden table, and at the head a massive rude chair, wherein the Baron seated himself.
Before the table stood the prisoner—the aged Sexwulf—still preserving his composure, and gazing with serene eye upon the fierce Baron—the ruthless judge, in whose hands was his fate.
Two lamps suspended from the roof shed a lurid light upon the scene.
"Sexwulf, son of Thurkill, hearken, and thou, Malebouche, retire up the stairs, and wait my orders on the landing above."
"My lord, the tormentor is behind the curtain," whispered Malebouche, as he departed.
Brian nodded assent, but did not think fit to order the departure of the doomster, whose horrible office made him familiar with too many secrets, wrung from the miserable victims of his art, and who was, like a confessor, pledged to inviolable secrecy. A grim confessor he!
"Now, old man," said the Baron, "I am averse to wring the truth from the stammering lips of age. Answer me, without concealment, the truth—the whole truth!"
"I have nought to conceal."
"Whose son is the boy I found in thy care?"
"My daughter's son."
"Who was his father?"
"Wulfnoth of Compton."
"Now thou liest; his features proclaim him Norman."
"He has no Norman blood."
"And thou dost persist in this story?"
"I have none other to tell."
"Then I must make the tormentor find thee speech. What ho! Coupe-gorge!"
The curtain was drawn back with a clang, and revealed the rack and a brasier, containing pincers heated to a gray heat, and a man in leathern jerkin with a pendent mask of black leather, with two holes cut therein for the eyes, and two assistants similarly attired—one a black man, or very swarthy Moor.
The old man did not turn his head.
"Look," said Brian.
"Why should I look? I have told thee the very truth; I have nought to alter in my story. If thou dost in thy cruelty misuse the power which God has given thee, and rend me limb from limb, I shall soon be beyond thy cruelty. But I can tell thee nought."
"We will see," said Brian. "Place him on the rack!"
"It needs not force," said the aged Englishman. "I will walk to thy bed of pain," and he turned to do so.
Again this calm courage turned Brian.
"Man," he said, "thou wouldst not lie before to save thy life; nor now, I am convinced, to save thy quivering flesh, if it does quiver. Tell me what thou hast to tell, without being forced to do so."
"I will. Thou didst once burn a house at Compton—the house of Wulfnoth."
"I remember it too well. The churl would not pay me tribute."
"Tribute to whom tribute is due," muttered the aged one; then, aloud, "One child escaped the flames, in which my daughter and her other poor children perished. A few days afterwards the father, who had escaped, brought me this child and bade me rear it, in ignorance of the fate of kith and kin, while he entered upon the life of a hunted but destroying wolf, slaying Normans."
"And he said the boy was his own?"
"And why should he not be? He has my poor daughter's features in some measure, I have thought."
"She must have been lovely, then," thought Brian, but only said—
"Tormentor, throw aside thy implements; they are for cowards. Old man, ere thou ascend the stairs, know that thy life depends upon thy grandson. Canst thou spare him to me?"
"Have I any choice?"
"Nay. But wilt thou bid him enter my service, and perchance win his spurs?"
"Not for worlds."
"Why refuse so great an opening to fame?"
"I would sooner far follow him to his grave! Thou wouldst destroy the soul."
"Fool! has he a soul? Have I or you got one? What is it? I do not know." Then he repressed these dangerous words—dangerous to himself, even in his stronghold.
"Malebouche!"
Malebouche appeared.
"Take the grandsire away. Bring hither the boy."
He waited in a state of intense but subdued feeling.
The boy appeared at last—pale, not quite so free from apprehension as his grandsire: how could any one expect a real boy, unless he were a phenomenon, to enter a torture chamber as a prisoner without emotion? What are all the switchings, birchings, and canings modern boys have borne, compared with rack, pincer, and thumbscrew—to the hideous sachentage, the scorching iron? The very enumeration makes the hair rise in these days; only they are but a memory from the grim bad past now.
"Osric, whose son art thou?"
"The son of Wulfnoth."
"And who was thy mother?"
The boy flushed.
"I know not—save that she is dead."
"Does thy father live?"
"I know not."
"Art thou English or Norman?"
"English."
"Thou art not telling the truth."
"Not the truth!" cried the boy, evidently surprised.
"No, and I must force it from thee."
"Force it from me!" stammered the poor lad.
"Look!"
Again the curtain opened, and the grisly sight met the eyes of Osric. He winced, then seemed to make a great effort at self-control, and at last spoke with tolerable calmness—
"My lord, I have nought to tell if thou pull me in pieces. What should I hide, and why? I have done thee no harm; why shouldst thou wish to torture me—a poor helpless boy, who never harmed thee?"
The Baron gazed at him with a strange expression.
"Thou knowest thou art in my hands, to do as I please with thee."
"But God will protect or avenge me."
"And this is all thou hast to say? Dost thou not fear the rack, the flame?"
"Who can help fearing it?"
"Wouldst thou lie to escape it?"
"No, God helping me. That is, I would do my best."
The Baron drew a long breath. There was something in the youth which fascinated him. He loved to hear him speak; he revelled in the tones of his voice; he even liked to see the contest between his natural courage and truthfulness and the sense of fear. But he could protract it no longer, because it pained while it pleased.
"Boy, wilt thou enter my service?"
"I belong to my grandsire."
"Wouldst thou not wish to be a knight?"
"Nay, unless I could be a true knight."
"What is that?"
"One who keeps his vow to succour the oppressed, and never draw sword save in the cause of God and right."
Again the Baron winced.
"Wilt thou be my page?"
"No."
Brian looked at him fixedly.
"Thou must!"
"Why?"
"Thy life is forfeit to the laws; it is the only avenue of escape."
"Then must I die."
"Wouldst thou sooner die than follow me?"
"I think so; I do not quite know."
"And thy grandsire, too? Ye are both deer-stealers, and I have hanged many such."
"Oh, not my grandsire—not my poor grandfather!" and the boy knelt down, and raised his hands joined in supplication. "Hang me, if thou wilt, but spare him."
"My boy, neither shalt hang, if thou wilt but hear me—be my page, and he shall be free to return to his hut, with permission to kill one deer per month, and smaller game as he pleases."
"And if I will not promise?"
"Thou must rot in a dungeon till my return, when I will promise thou wilt be glad to get out at any price, and he must hang to-day—and thou wilt know thou art his executioner."
The boy yielded.
"I must give way. Oh! must I be thy page?"
"Yes, foolish boy—a good thing for thee, too."
"If I must, I will—but only to save his life. God forgive me!"
"God forgive thee? For what?"
"For becoming a Norman!"
"Malebouche!" called Brian.
The seneschal descended.
"Take this youth to the wardrobe, and fit him with a page's suit; he rides with me to-day. Feed the old man, and set him free."
He sent for Alain, the chief and leader amongst his pages—a sort of cock of the walk.
"Alain, that English boy we found in the woods rides with us to-day. Mark me, neither tease, nor bully him thyself, nor allow thy fellows to do so. Thou knowest that I will be obeyed."
"My lord," said the lad, "I will do my best. What is the name of our new companion?"
"'Fitz-urse'—that is enough."
"I should say Fitz-daim," muttered the youngster, as soon as he was outside.