CHAPTER XI OSRIC'S FIRST RIDE
Amidst a scene of great excitement, the party of Brian Fitz-Count left Wallingford Castle, a hundred men, all armed to the teeth, being chosen to accompany him, while at least five hundred were left behind, capable of bearing arms, charged with the defence of the Castle, with orders, that at least two hundred of their number should repair to a rendezvous, when the progress of events should require their presence, and enable the Baron to fix the place of meeting by means of a messenger.
The day was—as it will be remembered—the second of October, in the year 1139; the season was late, that is, summer was loth to depart, and the weather was warm and balmy. The wild cheers of their companions, who envied them their lot, contrasted with the sombre faces of the townsfolk, foreboding evil in this new departure.
By the Baron's side rode Milo of Gloucester, and they engaged in deep conversation.
Our young friend Osric was committed to the care of the senior page Alain, who anticipated much sportive pleasure in catechising and instructing his young companion—such a novice in the art of war.
And it may be added in equitation, for we need not say old Sexwulf kept no horses, and Osric had much ado to ride, not gracefully, but so as to avoid the jeers and laughter of his companions.
The young reader, who remembers his own first essay in horsemanship, will appreciate poor Osric's difficulty, and will easily picture the suppressed, hardly suppressed, laughter of Alain, at each uneasy jolt. However, Osric was a youth of good sense, and instead of turning red, or seeming annoyed, laughed heartily too at himself. His spirits were light, and he soon shook off the depression of the morning under the influence of the fresh air and smiling landscape, for the tears of youth are happily—like an April shower—soon followed by sunshine.
They rode across Cholsey common, then a wide meadowed space, stretching from Wallingford to the foot of the downs; they left the newly-restored or rather rebuilt Church of St. Mary's of Cholsey on their right, around which, at that time, clustered nearly all the houses of the village, mainly built upon the rising ground to the north of the church, avoiding the swampy common.[15]
Farther on to the left, across the clear and sparkling brook, they saw the burnt and blackened ruins of the former monastery, founded by Ethelred "the unready," in atonement for the murder of his half-brother, Edward the Martyr, and burnt in the same terrible inroad; one more mile brought them to the source of the Cholsey brook, which bubbled up from the earth amidst a thicket of trees at the foot of a spur of the downs.
Here they all stopped to drink, for the spring was famous, and had reputed medicinal properties, and, in sooth, the water was pleasant to the taste of man and beast.
A little beyond was a moated grange belonging to the Abbot of Reading, a pleasant summer residence in peaceful times; but the days were coming when men should avoid lonely country habitations; there were a few invalid monks there, they came forth and gazed upon the party, then shook their tonsured heads as the burgesses of Wallingford had done.
Another mile, and they began to ascend the downs, where, according to tradition, the battle of Æscendune had been fought, in the year of grace, 871. Arriving at the summit, they looked back at the view: Wallingford, the town and churches, dominated by the high tower of the keep, was still in full view, and, beyond, the wavy line of the Chilterns stretched into the misty distance, as described in the preface to our tale.
But most interesting to Osric was the maze of woodland which filled the country about Aston (East-tun) and Blewbery (Blidberia), for there lay the hut of his grandfather; and the tears rose to the affectionate lad's eyes at the thought of the old man's future loneliness, with none but poor old Judith to console him for the loss of his boy.
Before them rose Lowbury Hill—dominated then by a watch-tower—which they ascended and stood on the highest summit of the eastern division of the Berkshire downs; before them on the south rose the mountainous range of Highclere, and a thin line of smoke still ascended from the bale-fire on the highest point.
Here a horseman was seen approaching, and when he came near enough, a knight, armed cap-a-pie, was disclosed.
"Friend or foe?" said Alain to his companion.
"If a foe, I pity him."
"See, the Baron rides forth alone to meet him!"
They met about a furlong from the party; entered into long and amicable conference, and soon returned to the group on the hill; the order brought news which changed their course, they turned to the west, and instead of riding for Sussex, followed the track of the Icknield Street for Devizes and the west.
This brought them across the scene of the midnight encounter, and Alain's quick eyes soon detected the traces of the combat.
"Look, there has been a fight here—see how the ground is trampled, and here is a broken sword—ah! the ground is soaked with blood—there has been a gallant tussle here—would I had seen it."
Osric was not yet so enthusiastic in the love of strife.
Alain's exclamations brought several of the riders around him; and they scrutinised the ground closely, and they speculated on the subject.
The Baron smiled grimly, and thought—
"What has become of the corpse?" for he doubted not he had fed fat his ancient grudge, and slain his foe.
"Look in yon thicket for the body," he cried.
They looked, but as our readers anticipate, found nought.
The Baron wondered, and said a few confidential words to his friend Milo, which none around heard.
Shortly afterwards their route led them by Cwichelm's Hlawe, described before; the Baron halted his party; and then summoning Osric to attend him, rode into the thicket.
The reputed witch stood at the door of her cell.
"So thou art on thy way to battle; the dogs of war are unslipped."
"Even so, but dost thou know this boy?"
"Old Sexwulf's grandson, down in the woods; so thou hast got him, ha! ha! he is in good hands, ha! ha!"
"What means thy laughter, like the noise of an old croaking crow?"
"Because thou hast caught him, and the decrees of fate are about to be accomplished."
"Retire, Osric, and join the rest."
"Now, mother, tell me what thou dost mean?"
"That thy conjunction with this youth bodes thee and thine little good—the stars have told me that much."
"Why, what harm can he do me, a mere boy?"
"The free people of old taught their children to sing, 'Tremble, tyrants; we shall grow up.'"
"If he proved false, a blow would rid me of so frail an encumbrance."
"Which thou mightest hesitate to strike."
"Tell me why; I thought he might be my stolen child, but the lips of old Sexwulf speak truth, and he swears the lad is his grandson."
"It is a wise grandfather who knows his own grandson."
"Thou knowest many things; the boy is so like my poor——" he hesitated, and suppressed a name; "that, hard as my heart is, he has softened it: his voice, his manner, his gestures, tell me——"
"I cannot as yet."
"Dost thou know?"
"Only that old Sexwulf would not wilfully deceive."
"And is that all thou hast to say?"
"No, wait, keep the boy near thee, thou shalt know in time; thy men are calling for thee—hark thee, Sir Brian, the men of Donnington are out."
"That for them," and the Baron snapped his fingers.
When he rejoined his troop, he found them in a state of great excitement, which was explained when they pointed to moving objects some two or three miles away on the downs; the quick eye of the Baron immediately saw that it was a troop which equalled his own in numbers.
"The witch spoke the truth," he said; and eager as a war-horse sniffing the fray afar, he gave the word to ride towards the distant party, which rapidly rose and became distinct to the sight.
"I see their pennons, they are the men of Donnington, and their lord is for King Stephen; now, my men, to redden our bright swords. Osric, thou art new to all this—Alain, thou art young—stay behind on that mound, and join us when we have done our work."
Poor Alain looked grievously hurt.
"My lord!"
"Well?"
"Do let me share the fight!"
"Thou wilt be killed."
"I will take my chance."
"And Osric?"
"I am not afraid, my lord," said Osric.
"But thou canst hardly ride, nor knowest not yet the use of lance and sword; here, old Raoul, stay with this lad."
"My lord!"
"And thou, too; well, boy, wilt thou pledge me thy word not (he lowered his voice) to attempt to escape?"
He marked a slight hesitation.
"Remember thy grandfather."
"My lord, I will do as thou biddest—stay where thou shalt bid me, or ride with thee."
"Stay on the crest of yonder hill."
All this time they had been riding forward, and now the enemy was within hearing.
Both parties paused.
Brian rode forward.
A knight on the other side did the same.
"For God and the Empress," said the former.
"For God and the King," cried the latter.
Instantly the two charged, and their followers waited to see the result: the lance of the King's man broke; that of Sir Brian held firm, and coming full on the breast, unhorsed the other, who fell heavily prone, on his head, like one who, as old Homer hath it, "seeketh oysters in the fishy sea."
The others waited no longer, but eager on either side to share their leader's fortunes, charged too. Oh, the awful shock as spear met spear; oh, the crash, the noise, the wild shouts, the splintering of lances, then the ringing of swords upon armour; the horses caught the enthusiasm of the moment and bit each other, and struck out with their fore-legs: it was grand, at least so they said in that iron age.
But it was soon decided—fortune kept steadfast to her first inclinations—the troops fared as their leaders had fared—and those who were left alive of the Donnington men were soon riding southward for bare life.
Brian ordered the trumpeter to recall his men from the pursuit.
"Let them go—I have their leader—he at least shall pay ransom; they have been good company, and we feel sorry to see them go."
The poor leader, Sir Hubert of Donnington, the eldest son of the lord of that ilk, was lifted, half-stunned, upon a horse behind another rider, while Brian remembered Osric.
What had been the feelings of the latter?
Did the reader ever meet that story in St. Augustine's Confessions, of a young Christian taken against his will to see the bloody sports of the amphitheatre. His companions dragged him thither, he said they might have his body, but he shut his eyes and stopped his ears until a louder shout than usual pierced through the auricular protection—one moment of curiosity, he opened his eyes, he saw the victor thrust the trident into the palpitating body of the vanquished, the demon of blood-thirstiness seized him, he shouted too, and afterwards sought those cruel scenes from choice, until the grace of God stopped him.
So now with our Osric.
He felt no desire at first to join the mêlée, indeed, he knew how helpless he was; but as he gazed a strange, wild longing came over him, he felt inclined, nay, could hardly restrain himself from rushing in; but his promise to stay on the hill prevailed over him: perhaps it was hereditary inclination.
But after all was over, he saw Alain wiping his bloody sword as he laughed with savage glee.
"Look, Osric, I killed one—see the blood."
Instead of being shocked, as a good boy should have been, Osric envied him, and determined to spend all the time he possibly could in mastering the art of jousting and fencing.
They now rode on, leaving twenty of their own dead on the plain, and forty of the enemy; but, as Napoleon afterwards said—"You cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs."
And now, alas, the eggs were human lives—men made in the image of God—too little accounted of in those days.
They now passed Letcombe Castle,—a huge circular camp with trench and vallum, capable of containing an army; it was of the old British times, and the mediæval warriors grimly surveyed this relic of primæval war. Below there lay the town of Wantage,—then strongly walled around,—the birthplace of Alfred. Three more miles brought them to the Blowing Stone, above Kingston Lisle, another relic of hoar antiquity; and Alain, who had been there before, amused Osric by producing that deep hollow roar, which in earlier days had served to alarm the neighbourhood, as he blew into the cavity.
Now the ridgeway bore straight to the highest summit of the whole range,—the White Horse Hill,—and here they all dismounted, and tethering their horses, prepared to refresh man and beast. Poor Osric was terribly sore and stiff, and could not even walk gracefully; he was still able to join Alain in his laughter, but with less grace than at first.
But we must cut this chapter short; suffice it to say, that after a brief halt they resumed their route; camped that night under the shelter of a clump of trees on the downs, and the next day, at Devizes, effected a junction with the troops of Earl Robert of Gloucester, who, having left his sister safe in Arundel Castle, was on his way to secure Bristol, attended by only twelve horsemen.