CHAPTER XIII OSRIC AT HOME
It is not our intention to follow Osric's career closely during the early period of his pagehood under the fostering care of Brian Fitz-Count and the influence of Alain, but we shall briefly dwell in this chapter upon the great change which was taking place in his life and character.
When we first met him, he was simple to a fault, but he had the sterling virtues of truthfulness and obedience, purity and unselfishness, sedulously cultivated in a congenial soil by his grandfather, one of Nature's noblemen, although not ranked amongst the Norman noblesse.
But it was the virtue which had never yet met real temptation. Courageous and brave he was also, but still up to the date of the adventure with the deer, he had never struck a blow in anger, or harmed a fellow-creature, save the beasts of the chase whom he slew for food, not for sport.
Then came the great change in his life: the gentle, affectionate lad was thrown into the utterly worldly and impure atmosphere of a Norman castle—into a new world; thoughts and emotions were aroused to which he had been hitherto a perfect stranger, and, strange to say, he felt unsuspected traits in his own character, and desires in his own unformed mind answering to them.
For instance, he who had never raised a hand in angry strife, felt the homicidal impulse rush upon him during the skirmish we described in a previous chapter. He longed to take part in the frays, to be where blows were going; thenceforward he gave himself up with ardour to the study of war; he spent all his spare time in acquiring the arts of fence and the management of weapons; and Brian smiled grimly as he declared that Osric would soon be a match for Alain.
But it was long before the Baron allowed him to take part in actual bloodshed, and then only under circumstances which did not involve needless risk, or aught more than the ordinary chances of mortal combat, mitigated by whatsoever aid his elders could afford; for Brian loved the boy with a strange attachment; the one soft point in his armour of proof was his love for Osric—not a selfish love, but a parental one, as if God had committed the boy to his charge in the place of those he had lost.
Yet he did not believe Osric was his long-lost son: no, that child was dead and gone,—the statements of the old man were too explicit to allow of further doubt.
Osric was present when that brutal noble, Robert Fitz-Hubert, stormed Malmesbury; there he beheld for the first time the horrors of a sack; there he saw the wretched inhabitants flying out of their burning homes to fall upon the swords of the barbarous soldiery. At the time he felt that terrible thirst so like that of a wild beast,—which in some modern sieges, such as Badajos, has turned even Englishmen into wild and merciless savages,—and then when it was over, he felt sick and loathed himself.
He was fond of Alain, who returned the preference, yet Alain was a bad companion, for he was an adept in the vices of his day—not unlike our modern ones altogether, yet developed in a different soil, and of ranker growth.
Therefore Osric soon had many secrets he could not confide to his grandfather, whom he was permitted to see from time to time,—a great concession on the part of the Lord of Wallingford, who craved all the boy's love for himself.
"Thou art changed, my dear Osric," said his grandfather on one of these occasions, a fine Sunday morn when Osric had leave of absence.
They were on their way through the tangled wood to the old Saxon Church of Aston Upthorpe, in which King Alfred was said to have heard Mass.[17]
"The woods were God's first temples, ere man raised
The architrave."
The very fountains babbled in His honour Who made them to laugh and sing, the birds sang their matin songs in His praise—this happy woodland was exempted from all those horrors of war which already devastated the rest of England, for it was safe under the protection of Brian, to whom, wiser than Wulfnoth of Compton, it paid tribute; and at this juncture Maude and her party were supreme, for it was during Stephen's captivity at Bristol.
"Thou art changed, my dear Osric."
"How, my grandsire?"
"Thy face is the same, yet not the same, even as Adam's face was the same, yet not the same, after he learned the secret of evil, which drove him from Paradise."
"And I too have been driven from Paradise: my Eden was here."
"Wouldst thou return if thou couldst; if Brian consented to release thee." And the old man looked the youth full in the face.
Osric was transparently truthful.
"No, grandfather," he said, and then blushed.
"Ah, thou art young and lovest adventure and the gilded panoply of war: what wonder! such was thy father, Wulfnoth of Compton, of whom thou art the sole surviving child."
"Tell me, grandfather, is he dead—is my poor father dead?"
"That is a secret which may not be committed even to thee; were he alive, he would curse thee, did he know thou wert fighting under Brian's banner."
"It was to save thy life."
"I know it, my child, and would be the last to blame thee, yet I am glad thy father knows it not. He has never inquired concerning thee."
"Then he is alive?"
"Did I say he was? I meant not to do so—seek not to know—knowledge is sometimes dangerous."
"Well, if he is alive," said Osric, a little piqued, "he does not care half so much for me as does my Lord of Wallingford. He would have asked about me."
"He treats thee well then."
"As if he loved me."
"It is strange—passing strange; as soon should I expect a wolf to fondle a kid."
"I am not a kid, at least not now."
"What then, dear boy? a wolf?"
"More like one, I think, than a kid."
"And thou hast looked on bloodshed with unflinching eye and not shuddered?"
"I shuddered just at first; but I have got used to it: you have often said war is lawful."
"Yes, for one's country, as when Alfred fought against the Danes or Harold at Senlac. So it was noble to die as died my father,—your own ancestor, Thurkill of Kingestun; so, had I been old enough to have gone with him, should I have died."
"And you took part in the skirmishes which followed Senlac?"
"I fought under the hero Hereward."
"And did you shudder to look upon war?"
"Only as a youth naturally does the first time he sees the blood of man poured forth like water—it is not for that I would reproach thee, only we fought for liberty; and it is better to die than to live a life of slavery,—happier far were they who fell around our noble Harold on the hill of Senlac, than they who survived to see the desolation and misery, the chains and slavery which awaited the land; but, my child, what are you fighting for? surely one tyrant is no better than another, Maude or Stephen, what does it matter?"
"Save, grandfather, that Maude is the descendant of our old English kings—her great-grandfather was the Ironside of whose valiant deeds I have often heard you boast."
"True, my son, and therefore of the two, I wish her success; but she also is the grandchild of the Conqueror, who was the scourge of God to this poor country."
"In that case God sent him."
"Deliver my soul from the ungodly, which is a sword of Thine," quoted the pious old man, well versed in certain translations from the Psalms.
"My grandfather, I fought against it as long as I could, as thou knowest; I would have died, and did brave the torture, rather than consent to become a page of the Lord of Wallingford; and when I did so become to save thy life, I felt bound in honour to be faithful, and so to the best of my power I have been."
"And now thou lovest the yoke, and wouldst not return?"
Again the youth coloured.
"Grandfather, I cannot help it—excitement, adventure, the glory of victory, the joy even of combat, has that attraction for me of which our bards have sung, in the old songs of the English Chronicles which you taught me around the hearth."
"The lion's cub is a lion still; let him but taste blood, and the true nature comes out."
"Better be a lion than a deer—better eat than be eaten, grandfather."
"I know not," said the old man pensively, "but, my child, never draw thy sword to oppress thy poor countrymen, unless thou wouldst have thy father curse thee."
"He is not dead then?"
"I said not so."
"Why not tell me whether my father lives?"
"Because in thy present position, which thou canst not escape, the knowledge would be dangerous to thee."
"How came my father to leave me in thy care? how did my mother die? why am I the only one left of my kin?"
"All this I am bound not to tell thee, my child; try and forget it all until thou art of full age."
"And then?"
"Perchance even then it were better to let the dead bury their dead."
Osric sighed.
"Why am I the child of mystery? why have I not a surname like my compeers? they mock me now and then, and I have had two or three sharp fights in consequence; at last the Baron found it out, for he saw the marks upon my face, and he spoke so sternly to them that they ceased to gibe."
"My dear boy, commit it all to thy Heavenly Father; thou dost not forget thy prayers?"
"Not when I am in the Castle chapel."
"And not at other times?"
"It is impossible. I sleep amidst other pages. I just cross myself when I think of it, and say a Pater and an Ave."
"And how often dost thou go to Mass?"
"When we are not out on an expedition, each Sunday."
"Does the Baron go to church with you?"
"Yes, but he does not believe much in it."
"I feared not: and thy companions?"
"They often laugh and jest during Matins or Mass."
"And you?"
"I try not to join them, because it would grieve you."
"There should be a higher motive."
"I know it."
"And with regard to other trials and temptations, are your companions good lads?"
Osric laughed aloud.
"No, grandfather, anything but that."
"And you?"
"I go to the good priest of St. Mary's to Confession, and that wipes it off."
"Nay, my child, not without penitence, and penitence is shown by ceasing to sin."
Now they had arrived at the rustic church of East-town, or Aston, on the slope of the old Roman camp, which uprose above the forest. Many woodsmen and rustics of the humble village were there. It was a simple service: rude village psalmody; primitive vestments and ritual, quite unlike the gorgeous scenes then witnessed in cathedral or abbey church, in that age of display. Osmund of Sarum had not made his influence felt much here, although the church was in the diocese he once ruled. All was of the old Anglo-Saxon type, as when Alfred was alive, and England free. There was not a Norman there to criticise; they shunned the churches to which the rustics resorted, and where the homilies were in the English tongue, which they would not trouble to learn.
Poor Osric! his whole character and disposition may be plainly enough traced in the conversation given above. The reader must not condemn the grandfather, old Sexwulf, for his reticence concerning the mystery of Osric's birth. When Wulfnoth of Compton brought the babe to his door, it was with strict injunctions not to disclose the secret till he gave permission. The old grandfather did not understand the reasons why so much mystery was made of the matter, but he felt bound to obey the prohibition.
Hence all that Osric knew was that he was the last survivor of his family, and that all besides him had perished in the wars, save a father of whom little was known, except that he manifested no interest whatsoever in his son.
Perhaps the reader can already solve the riddle; we have given hints enough. Only he must remember that neither Brian nor Sexwulf had his advantages.
The service of the village church sounded sweetly in the ears of Osric that day. He was affected by the associations which cling about the churches where we once knelt by a father or mother's side; and Osric felt like a child again as he knelt by his grandfather—it might be for the last time, for the possibility of sudden death on the battle-field, of entering a deadly fray never to emerge alive, of succumbing beneath the sword or lance of some stronger or more fortunate adversary, was ever present to the mind; yet Osric did not fear death on the battle-field. There was, and is, an unaccountable glamour about it: men who would not enter a "pest-house" for the world, would volunteer for a "forlorn hope."
But it is quite certain that on that day all the religious impulses Osric had ever felt, were revived, and that he vowed again and again to be a true knight, sans peur et sans reproche, fearing nought but God, and afraid only of sin and shame, as the vow of chivalry imported, if knight he was ever allowed to become.
Ite missa est[18]—it was over, and they left the rustic church. Outside the neighbours clustered and chatted as they do nowadays. They congratulated Sexwulf on his handsome grandson, and flattered the boy as they commented on his changed appearance, but there always seemed something they left unsaid.
Neither was their talk cheerful; it turned chiefly upon wars and rumours of wars. They had been spared, but there were dismal tales of the country around—of murder and arson, of fire and sword, of worse scenes yet behind, and doom to come.
They hoped to gather in that harvest, whether another would be theirs to reap was very doubtful. And so at last they separated, and through some golden fields of corn, for it was nearly harvest time, Sexwulf and his grandson wended their way to their forest home. It was a day long remembered, for it was the very last of a long series of peaceful Sundays in the forest. Osric felt unusually happy that afternoon, as he returned home with his grandfather, full of the strength of new resolutions with which we are told the way to a place, unmentionable to ears polite, is paved; and his manner to his grandfather was so sweet and affectionate, that the dear old man was delighted with his boy.
The evening was spent at home, for there was no Vesper service at the little chapel—amidst the declining shadows of the trees, the solemn silence of the forest, the sweet murmuring of the brook. The old man slept in the shade, seated upon a mossy bank. Osric slept too, with his head pillowed upon his grandfather's lap; while in wakeful moments the aged hands played with his graceful locks. Old Judith span in the doorway and watched the lad.
"He is as bonny as he is brave, and as brave as he is bonny, the dear lad," she said.
Then came the shadows of night. The old man brought forth his dilapidated harp, and the three sang the evening hymn to its accompaniment—
"Te lucis ante terminum,"
and repeated the psalm Qui habitat; then with a short prayer, not unlike our "Lighten our darkness," indeed its prototype, they retired to sleep, while the wind sighed a requiem about them through the arches of the forest, and dewy odours stole through the crevices of the hut—
"The torrent's smoothness ere it dash below."