CHAPTER XIV THE HERMITAGE
Nothing is more incomprehensible to the Christians of the nineteenth century than the lives of the hermits, and the general verdict passed upon them is, that they were useless, idle men, who fled from the world to avoid its work, or else were possessed with an unreasoning superstition which turned them into mere fanatics.
But this verdict is one-sided and unjust, and founded upon ignorance of the world of crime and violence from which these men fled,—a world which seemed so utterly abandoned to cruelty and lust that men despaired of its reformation; a world wherein men had no choice between a life of strife and bloodshed, and the absolute renunciation of society; a world wherein there was no way of escape but to flee to the deserts and mountains, or enter the monastic life, for those, who, as ancient Romans, might have committed suicide, but as Christians, felt they must live, till God in His mercy called them hence.
And so while the majority of those who sought God embraced what is commonly called, par excellence, the religious life, others sought Him in solitude and silence; wherein, however, they were followed by that universal reverence which men, taught by the legends of the Church, bestowed on the pious anchorite.
Poverty, celibacy, self-annihilation, were their watchwords; and in contemplation of death, judgment, Hell, and Heaven, these lonely hours were passed.
Such a man was Meinhold, with whom the youthful sons of Brian Fitz-Count had found refuge. From childhood upwards he had loathed the sin he saw everywhere around him, and thence he sought the monastic life; but as ill-hap would have it, found a monastery in which the monks were forgetful of their vows, and slaves of sin, somewhat after the fashion of those described in Longfellow's "Golden Legend," for such there were, although, we believe, they were but exceptions to the general rule—
"Corruptio optimi est pessima."
The corruption of that which is very good is commonly the worst of all corruption: if monks did not rise above the world, they fell beneath it. Meinhold sternly rebuked them; and, in consequence, when one day it was his turn to celebrate the Eucharist, they poisoned the wine he should have used. By chance he was prevented from saying the Mass that day, and a poor young friar who took his place fell down dead on the steps of the altar. Meinhold shook off the dust of his feet and left them, and they in revenge said a Mass for the Dead on his behalf, with the idea that it would hasten his demise; for if not religious they were superstitious.
Then he determined that he would have nought more to do with his fellow-men, and sought God's first temples, the forests. In the summer time he wandered in its glades, reciting his Breviary, until he found out a place where he might lay his head.
A range of limestone hills had been cleft in the course of ages by a stream, which had at length scooped out a valley, like unto the "chines" in the Isle of Wight, and now rushed brawling into the river below, adown the vale it had made. In the rock, on one side of the vale, existed a large cave, formed by the agency of water, in the first place, but now high and dry. It had not only one, but several apartments; cavern opened out of cavern, and so dark and devious were their windings, that men feared to penetrate them.
Hither, for the love of God, came Meinhold. He had found the place he desired—a shelter from the storms of Heaven. In the outer cave he placed a rude table and seat, which he made for himself; and in an inner cavern he made a bed of flags and leaves.
In the corner of the cell he placed his crucifix. Wandering in the woods he found the skeleton of some poor hapless wayfarer, long since denuded of its flesh. He placed the skull beneath the crucifix as a memento mori, not without breathing a prayer for the poor soul to whom it had once belonged.
Here he read his Breviary, which, let the reader remember, was mainly taken from the Word of God, psalms and lessons forming three-fourths of the contents of the book, arranged, as in our Prayer Book, for the Christian year. It was his sole possession,—a bequest of a deceased friend, worth its weight in gold in the book market, but far more valuable in Meinhold's eyes.
Here, then, he passed a blameless if monotonous existence, to which but one objection could be made—it was a selfish life. Even if the selfishness were of a high order, man was not sent into the world simply to save, each one, his own soul. The life of the Chaplain at Byfield lazar-house showed how men could abjure self far more truly than in a hermitage.
Sometimes thoughts of this kind passed through the mind of our hermit and drove him distracted, until his cry became,
"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"
And while he thus sought to know God's Will, the two poor fugitives, Evroult and Richard, came into his way.
Poor wounded lambs! no fear had he of their terrible malady. The Lord had sent them to him, and the hermit felt his prayers were answered. Wearied out and tired by their long day's journey, the poor boys passively accepted his hospitality; and they ate of his simple fare, and slept on his bed of leaves as if it had been a couch of down; nor did they awake till the sun was high in the heavens.
The hermit had been up since sunrise. He had long since said his Matins and Lauds from his well-thumbed book; and then kindling a fire in a sort of natural hearth beneath a hole in the rock, which opened to the upper air, he roasted some oatmeal cakes, and went out to gather blackberries and nuts, as a sort of dessert after meat, for the boys. It was all he had to offer.
At last they awoke.
"Where are we, Evroult?"
It was some moments before they realised where they were—not an uncommon thing when one awakes in the morning in a strange place.
Soon, however, they bethought themselves of the circumstances under which they stood, and rising from their couch, arranged their apparel, passed their fingers through their hair in lieu of comb, rubbed their sleepy eyes, and came into the outer cave, where the hermit crouched before the fire acting the part of cook.
He heard them, and stood up.
"Pax vobiscum, my children, ye look better this morning; here is your breakfast, come and eat it, and then we will talk."
"Have you no meat?" Evroult was going to say, but the natural instinct of a gentleman checked him. They had fed well at the lazar-house, but better oaten cakes and liberty.
"Oh what nice nuts," said Richard; "and blackberries, too."
The hermit's eyes sparkled as he noted the sweet smile which accompanied the words. The face of the younger boy was untouched by the leprosy. They satisfied their hunger, and then began to talk.
"Father, how long may we stay here?"
"As long as you like—God has sent you hither."
"But we want to get to Wallingford Castle."
"No! no! brother: let us stay here," said the younger and milder boy; "think how every one hates us; that terrible day yesterday—oh, it was a terrible day! they treated us as if we had been mad dogs or worse."
"Yes, we will stay, father, at least for a while, if you will let us; we are not a poor man's sons—not English, but Normans; our father is——"
"Never mind, my child—gentle or simple is all one to God, and all one here. Did your father then send you to the lazar-house?"
"Yes, three years agone."
"And has he ever sought you since?"
"No, he has never been to see us—he has forgotten us; we were there for life; we knew and felt it, and only a week ago strove to drown ourselves in the deep pond."
"That was very wrong—no one may put down the burden of the flesh, till God give him leave."
"Do you think you can cure us?"
"Life and death, sickness and health, are all in God's hands. I will try."
Their poor wan faces lit up with joy.
"And this hole in my cheek?"
"But my poor fingers, two are gone; you cannot give them me back," and Richard burst into tears.
"Come, my child, you must not cry—God loves you and will never leave nor forsake you. Every cloud has its bright side; what if you have little part in the wicked world?"
"But I love the world," said Evroult.
"Love the world! Do you really love fighting and bloodshed, fire and sword? for they are the chief things to be found therein just now."
"Yes I do; my father is a warrior, and so would I be," said the unblushing Evroult.
"And thou, Richard?"
"I hardly know," said he of the meeker spirit and milder mood.
"Come, ye children, and hearken unto me, and I will teach you the fear of the Lord."
"Slaves fear."
"Ah, but it is not the fear of a slave, but a son of which I speak—that fear which is the beginning of wisdom; and which, indeed, every true knight should possess if he fulfil the vows of chivalry. But I will not say more now. Wander in the woods if you like, just around the cave, or down in the valley; gather nuts or blackberries, but go not far, for fear ye meet men who may ill-treat you."
Then the hermit went forth, and threw the crumbs out of his cave; the birds came in flocks. Evroult caught up a stone.
"Nay, my child, they are my birds; we hurt nothing here. See! come, pet! birdie!" and a large blackbird nestled on his shoulder, and picked at a crust which the hermit took in his hand.
"They all love me, as they love all who are kind to them. Birds and beasts are alike welcome here; some wolves came in the winter, but they did me no harm."
"I should have shot them, if I had had a bow."
"Nay, my child, you must not slay my friends."
"But may we not kill rabbits or birds to eat?"
"No flesh is eaten here; we sacrifice no life of living thing to sustain our own wretched selves."
"No meat! not of any kind! not even on feast-days!"
"My boy, you will be better without it—it nourishes all sorts of bad passions, pride, cruelty, impurity, all are born of the flesh; and see, it is not needed. I am well and strong and never ill."
"But I should soon be," said Evroult.
"Nay, I like cakes, nuts, and blackberries better," said Richard.
"Quite right, my son; now go and play in the valley beneath, until noonday, when you may take your noon meat."
They lay in the shade of a tree. It was one of the last days of summer, and all seemed pleasant—the murmur of the brook and the like.
"I can never bear this long," said Evroult.
"I think it very pleasant," said Richard; "do not ask me to go away."
Evroult made no reply.
"It is no use, brother," said Richard, "no use; we can never be knights and warriors unless we recover of our leprosy; and so the good God has given us a home and a kind friend, and it is far better than the lazar-house."
"But our father?"
"He has forsaken us, cast us off. We should never get out with his permission. No! be content, let us stay here—yesterday frightened me—we should never reach Wallingford alive."
And so Evroult gave way, and tried his best to be content—tried to learn of Meinhold, tried to do without meat, to love birds and beasts, instead of shooting them, tried to learn his catechism; yes, there was always a form of catechetical instruction for the young, taught generally viva voce, and the good hermit gave much time to the boys and found delight therein.
Richard consented to learn to read and write; Evroult disdained it, and would not learn.
So the year passed on; autumn deepened into winter. There was plenty of fuel about, and the boys suffered little from cold; they hung up skins and coverings over the entrances to the caves, and kept the draught out.
There was a mystery about those inner caves; the hermit would never let them enter beyond the two or three outer ones—those dark and dismal openings were, he assured them, untenanted; but their windings were such that the boys might easily lose their way therein, and never get out again—he thought there were precipitous gulfs into which they might fall.
But sometimes at night, when all things were still, the strangest sounds came from the caves, like the sobbings of living things, the plaintive sigh, the hollow groan: and the boys heard and shuddered.
"It is only the wind in the hollows of the earth," said Meinhold.
"How does it get in?" asked the boys.
"There are doubtless many crevices which we know not."
"I thought there were ghosts there."
"Nay, my child. It is only the wind: sleep in peace."
But as the winter storms grew frequent, these deep sighs and hollow groans seemed to increase, and the boys lay and shuddered, while sometimes even the hermit was fain to cross himself, and say a prayer for any poor souls who might be in unrest.
The winter was long and cold, but spring came at last. The change of air had worked wonders in the general health of the boys, but the leprosy had not gone: no, it could not really be said that there was any change for the better.
Only the poor boys were far happier than at Byfield; they entered into the ideas and ways of the hermit more and more. Evroult at last consented to learn to read, and found time pass more rapidly in consequence.
But he could not do one thing—he could not subdue those occasional bursts of passion which seemed to be rooted in the very depths of his nature. When things crossed him he often showed his fierce disposition, and terrified his brother; who, although brave enough,—how could one of such a breed be a coward,—stood in awe of the hermit, and saw things with the new light the Gospel afforded more and more each day.
One day the old hermit read to them the passage wherein it is written, "If a man smite you on one cheek, turn to him the other." Evroult could not restrain his dissent.
"If I did that I should be a coward, and my father, for one, would despise me. If that is the Gospel, I shall never be a real Christian, nor are there many about."
"I would, my son, that you had grace, to think differently. These be counsels of perfection, given by our Lord Himself to His disciples."
"I could not turn the other cheek to my enemy to save my life."
"Then let him smite you on the same one."
"I could not do that either," said Evroult more sharply.
"If you cannot, at least do not return evil for evil."
"I should if I had the power."
"My child, it is the devil in you which makes you say that."
Evroult turned red with passion, and Richard began to cry.
"Nay, my child, do not cry; that is useless. Pray for him," said the hermit.
Another time Evroult craved flesh.
"No, my son," said Meinhold, "when a man fills himself with flesh, straightway the great vices bubble out. I remember a monk who one Lent went secretly and bought some venison from a wicked gamekeeper, and put it in his wallet; when lo! as he was returning home, the dogs, smelling the flesh, fell upon him, and tore him up as well as the meat."
"Why is it wrong to eat meat? The Chaplain at Byfield told me that the Bible said it was lawful at proper times, and this is not Lent."
"It is always Lent here,—in a hermit's cell,—and it is a duty to be contented with one's food. I knew a monk who grumbled at his fare and said he would as soon eat toads; and lo! the just God did not disappoint him of his desire. For a month and more his cell was filled with toads. They got into his soup, they jumped upon his plate, they filled his bed, until I think he would have died, had not all the brethren united in prayer that he might be free from the scourge."
Evroult laughed merrily at this, and forgot his craving. In short, the old man was so loving and kind, and so transparently sincere, that he could not be angry long.
Another fault Evroult had was vanity. Once he was admiring himself in the mirror of a stream, for he really was, but for the leprosy, a handsome lad. "Ah, my child," said Meinhold, "thou art like a house which has a gay front, but the thieves have got in by the back door."
"Nay," said poor Evroult, putting his hand to his hollowed cheek, "they have broken through the front window."
"Ah, what of that; the house shall be set in order by and by, if thou art a good lad."
He meant in Heaven. But Evroult only sighed. Heaven seemed to him far off: his longings were of the earth.
And Richard: well, that supernatural influence we call "grace" had found him in very deed. He grew less and less discontented with his lot; murmured no more about the lost fingers; scarcely noticed the fact that the others were going; but drank in all the hermit's talk about the life beyond, with the growing conviction that there alone should he regain even the perfection of the body. One effect of his touching resignation was this, that the hermit conceived so much love towards him, that he had to pray daily against idolatry, as he fancied the affection for an earthly object must needs be, and so restrained it that there was little fear of his spoiling the boy.
The hermit, who, as we have seen, was a priest, had hitherto been restrained by the canons from saying Mass alone, and had sought some rustic church for Communion. Of course he could not take the young lepers there, so he celebrated the Holy Mysteries in a third cave, fitted up as best it might be for a chapel, and the boys assisted. One would think Nature had designed this third cave for a chapel. There was a natural recess for the altar; there were fantastic pillars like those in a cathedral, only more irregular, supporting the roof, which was lofty; and stalactites, graceful as the pendants in an ice-cavern, hung from above.
They never saw other human beings, save now and then some grief-stricken soul came for spiritual advice and assistance, always given without their dwelling, with the stream between the hermit and the seeker. For leprosy was known to be in the cave, and it was commonly reported that Meinhold had paid the natural penalty of his self-devotion.
It was too true.
One day Evroult saw him looking at a red burning spot on his palm.
He recognised it and burst into tears.
"Father, you have given yourself for us: I wish the dogs had torn me before I came here."
"Christ gave Himself for me," said Meinhold quietly.
"Did you not know it, Evroult? I knew it long ago," said Richard quietly. It seemed natural to him that one who loved the Good Shepherd should give his life for the sheep. But the sweet smile with which he looked into the hermit's face was quite as touching as Evroult's tears.
The hermit was quite indifferent to the fact.
"As well this as any other way," he said; yet the affection of the boys was pleasant to him.
They lacked not for food. The people of the neighbouring farms, some distance across the forest, sent presents of milk and eggs and fruit from time to time, and of other necessaries. They had once been boldly offered: now they were set down on the other side of the stream and left.
Occasionally hunters—the neighbouring barons—broke the silence with hound and horn. They generally avoided the hermit's glen—conspicuously devoted to the peace of God; but once a poor flying stag, pursued by the hounds, came tearing down the vale. Evroult glistened with animation: he would have rushed on in the train of the huntsmen, but the hermit restrained him.
"They would bid their dogs tear you," he said, "when they saw you were a leper." Then he continued, "Ah, my child, it is a sad sight: sin brought all this into the world,—God's creatures delighting to rend each other; so will the fiends hunt the souls of the wicked after death, until they drive them into the lake of fire."
"Ah, here comes the poor deer," said Richard, who had caught the hermit's love of all that moved. "See, he has turned: open the door, father."
The deer actually scaled the plateau, wild with terror,—its eyes glaring, the sweat bedewing its limbs; and it rushed through the opened door of the cave.
"Close the door—the dogs will be here."
The dogs came in truth, and raved about the closed door until the huntsmen came up, when the hermit emerged upon a ledge above.
"Where is our deer? hast thou seen it, father?"
"It has taken sanctuary."
They looked at each other.
"Nay, father, sanctuary is not for such creatures: drive it forth."
"God forbid! the shadow of the Cross protects it. Call off your dogs and go your way."
"Let us force the door," said a rough sportsman.
"Accursed be he who does so; his light shall be extinguished in darkness," said the hermit.
"Come, there are more deer than one;" and the knight called off his dogs with great difficulty.
"Thou hast done well: so shall it be for thy good in time of need, Sir Knight."
"I would sooner fight the deadliest fight I have ever fought than violate that sanctuary," said the latter; "a curse would be sure to follow."
When the hunters had at last taken themselves away, dogs and all, and the discontented whines and howls of the hounds and the crack of the huntsman's whip had ceased to disturb the silence of the dell, the hermit and the boys went in to look at the deer: he had thrown himself down, or fallen, panting, in the boys' bed of leaves, and turned piteous yet confiding eyes on them, large and lustrous, which seemed to implore pity, and to say, "I know you will not let them hurt me."
The better instinct of Evroult was touched.
"Well, my son," said the hermit, "dost thou still crave for flesh? Shall we kill him and roast some venison collops?"
"No," said Evroult, with energy.
"Ah, I thought so, thou art learning compassion: 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'"
"Brother," said Richard, "let us try and get that blessing."
Evroult pressed his hand.
And when it was dark and all was quiet, they let the deer go. The poor beast, as if it had reason, almost refused to depart, and licked their hands as if it knew its protectors, as doubtless it did.
But we must close this chapter, having begun the sketch of a life which continued uneventfully for two full years.
Here ends the first part of our tale. We must leave the boys with the good hermit; Osric learning the usages of war, and other things, under the fostering care of Brian Fitz-Count; Wulfnoth as a novice at Dorchester; and so allow a period to pass ere our scattered threads reunite.
CHAPTER XV[19] THE ESCAPE FROM OXFORD CASTLE
Two years had passed away, and it was the last week of Advent, in the year of our Lord 1141.
The whole land lay under a covering of deep snow, the frost was keen and intense, the streams were ice-bound when they could be seen, for generally snow had drifted and filled their channels; only the ice on the Thames, wind-swept, could be discerned.
Through the dense woods of Newenham, which overhung the river, about three miles above the Abbey Town (Abingdon), at the close of the brief winter's day, a youth might have been seen making his way (it was not made for him) through the dense undergrowth towards the bed of the stream.
He was one of Dame Nature's most favoured striplings,—tall and straight as an arrow, with a bright smile and sunny face, wherein large blue eyes glistened under dark eyebrows; his hair was dark, his features shapely, his face, however, sunburnt and weather-beaten, although he only numbered eighteen years.
Happily unseen, for in those days the probability was that every stranger was a foe to be avoided, and for such foes our young friend was not unprepared; it is true, he wore a simple woollen tunic, bound round by a girdle, but underneath was a coat of the finest chain-armour, proof against shafts, and in his hand he had a boar-spear, while a short sword was suspended in its sheath, from his belt.
Fool indeed would one have been, whether gentle or simple, to traverse that district, or indeed any other district of "Merrie" England, unarmed in the year 1141, and our Osric was not such a simple one.
He has "aged" since we last saw him. He is quite the young warrior now. The sweet simplicity, begotten of youth and seclusion, is no longer there, yet there is nought to awaken distrust. He is not yet a knight, but he is the favourite squire of Brian Fitz-Count—that terrible lord, and has been the favourite ever since Alain passed over to the immediate service of the Empress Queen.
We will not describe him further—his actions shall speak for him; and if he be degenerate, tell of his degeneracy.
As he descended the hill towards the stream, a startling interruption occurred; a loud snarl, and a wolf—yes, there were wolves in England then—snapped at him: he had trodden on her lair.
Quick as thought the boar-spear was poised, and the animal slank away, rejecting the appeal to battle. For why? She knew there were plenty of corpses about unburied for her to eat, and if they were not quite so sweet as Osric's fair young flesh, they would be obtained without danger. Such was doubtless wolfish philosophy.
He passed on, not giving a second thought to an adventure which would fill the mind of a modern youth for hours—but he was hardened to adventures, and blasé of them. So he took them as a matter of course and as the ordinary incidents of life: it was a time of carnage, when the "survival of the fittest" was being worked out amongst our ancestors.
"Ah, here is the river at last," he said to himself, "and now I know my way: the ice will bear me safely enough, and I shall have an easier road; although I must be careful, for did I get in, I could hardly swim in this mail-shirt."
So he stopped, and taking a pair of rude skates from his wallet, bound them to his iron-clad shoes, and skated up stream—through a desolate country.
Anon the grim old castle of the Harcourts frowned down upon him from the height where their modern mansion now stands. The sentinels saw him and sent an arrow after him, but it was vain defiance—the river was beyond arrow shot, and they only sent one, because it was the usual playful habit of the day to shoot at strangers, young or old. Every man's hand was against every man.
They did not think the dimly discerned stranger, scudding up stream, worth pursuit, especially as it was getting dark, and the snow drifts were dangerous. So they let him go, not exactly with a benediction.
And soon he was opposite the village of Sandford, or rather where the village should have been; but it was burnt to the very ground—not a house or hovel was standing; not a dog barked, for there were no dogs left to bark; nor was any living creature to be seen. Soon Iffley, another scene of desolation, was in sight; but here there were people. The old Norman Church, the same the voyager still sees, and stops to examine, was standing, and was indeed the only edifice to be seen: all else was blackened ruin, or would have been did not the snow mercifully cover it.
Here our young friend left the river, and taking off his rude skates, ascended the bank to the church by a well-trodden path, and pushed open the west door.
He gazed upon a scene to which this age happily affords no parallel. The church was full, but not of worshippers; two or three fires blazed upon the stone pavement, and the smoke, eddying upwards, made its exit through holes purposely broken in the roof for that end; around each fire sat or squatted groups of men, women, and children—hollow-eyed, famine-pinched, plague-stricken, or the like. There was hardly a face amongst them which distress had not deprived of any beauty it might once have possessed. Many a household was there—father, mother, sons and daughters, from the stripling to the babe. The altar and sanctuary were alone respected: a screen then divided them from the nave, and the gate was jealously locked, opened only each day when the parish priest, who lived in the old tower above, still faithful to his duty, went in at dawn, and said Mass; while the poor wretched creatures forgot their misery for a while, and worshipped.
Osric passed, unquestioned, through the groups,—the church was a sanctuary to all,—and at last he reached the chancel gate. A youth of his own age leant against it.
"Osric."
"Alain."
They left the church together, and sought a solitary place on the brink of the hill above.
Where the modern tourist often surveys the city from the ridge of Rose Hill, our friends gazed. The city, great even then, lay within its protecting rivers and its new walls, dominated by the huge keep of the castle of Robert d'Oyley which the reader still may see from the line, as he nears the city.
But what a different scene it looked down upon. The moon illumined its gray walls, and the fires of the besiegers shone with a lurid glare about the city and within its streets, while the white, ghostly country environed it around.
"Thou hast kept thy tryst, Osric."
"And thou thine, Alain; but thine was the hardest. How didst thou get out? by the way we agreed upon before I left Oxford?"
"It was a hard matter. The castle is beleaguered, the usurper is there, and that treacherous priest, his brother, says a sort of black Mass every day in the camp: the city is all their own, and only the castle holds out."
"And how is our lady?"
"Poor Domina,[20] as she signs herself. Ah, well, she shall not starve while there is a fragment of food in the neighbourhood, but, Oh, Osric! hunger is hard to bear; fortunate wert thou to be chosen to accompany our lord in that desperate sally a month agone which took you all safely to Wallingford. But what news dost thou bring?"
"That the great Earl of Gloucester and Henry Plantagenet have landed in England, and will await the Empress at Wallingford if she can escape from Oxford."
"I can get out myself, as thou seest, and have been able to keep our tryst, but the Empress—how can we risk her life so precious to us all? Osric, she must descend by ropes, and to-day my hands were so frozen by the cold that I almost let go, and should have fallen full fifty feet had I done so; but for a woman—even if, like 'Domina,' she be more than woman—it will be parlous difficult."
"It must be tried, for no more reinforcements have appeared: we are wofully disappointed."
"And so are we: day by day we have hoped to see your pennons advancing over the frozen snow to our rescue. Alas! it was nought we saw, save bulrushes and sedges. Then day by day we hear the trumpets blow, and the usurper summons us to surrender, without terms, to his discretion."
"We will see him perish first," said Osric. "Hear our plans. If thou canst persuade the lady to descend from the tower, and cross the stream at the midnight after to-morrow, we will have a troop on the outskirts of Bagley wood, to escort the precious freight to Wallingford, in spite of all her foes, or we will die in her defence."
"It is well spoken; and I think I may safely say that it shall be attempted."
"And the Baron advises that ye all wear white woollen tunics like mine, as less likely to be distinguished in the snow, and withal warm."
"We have many such tunics in the castle. At midnight to-morrow the risk will be run, you may depend upon it. See, the Domina has entrusted me with her signet, that you may see that I am a sort of plenipotentiary."
"And now farewell. Canst thou find thy way through the darkness to Wallingford? Oxford is near at hand."
"Nay, I shall rest in the church to-night, and depart at dawn: I should lose my way in the snow."
"After Mass, I suppose," said Alain sarcastically.
"Yes," said Osric, blushing. He was getting ashamed of the relics of his religious observances; "but Mass and meat, you know, hinder no man. I shall be at Wallingford ere noon, and the horse will start about the dusk of the evening. God speed thee." And they parted.
The Castle of Oxford was one of the great strongholds of the Midlands. Its walls and bastions enclosed a large area, whereon stood the Church of St. George. On one side was the Mound, thrown up in far earlier days than those of which we write, by Ethelflæda, sister of Alfred, and near it the huge tower of Robert d'Oyley, which still survives, a stern and silent witness of the unquiet past. In an upper chamber of that tower was the present apartment of the warlike lady, alike the descendant of Alfred and the Conqueror, and the unlike daughter of the sainted Queen Margaret of Scotland. And there she sat, at the time when Osric met Alain at Iffley Church, impatiently awaiting the return of her favourite squire, for such was Alain, whose youthful comeliness and gallant bearing had won her heart.
"He tarries long: he cometh not," she said. "Tell me, my Edith, how long has he been gone?"
"Scarce three hours, madam, and he has many dangers to encounter. Perchance he may never return."
"Now the Saints confound thy boding tongue."
"Madam!"
"Why, forsooth, should he be unfortunate? so active, so brave, so sharp of wit."
"I only meant that he is mortal."
"So are we all—but dost thou, therefore, expect to die to-day?"
"Father Herluin says we all should live as if we did, madam."
"You will wear my life out. Well, yes, a convent will be the best place for thee."
"Nay, madam."
"Hold thy peace, if thou canst say nought but 'nay,'" said the irascible Domina.
Her temper, her irritability and impatience, had alienated many from her cause. Perchance it would have alienated Alain like the rest, only he was a favourite, and she was seldom sharp with him.
How like her father she was in her bearing! even in her undress, for she wore only a thick woollen robe, stained, by the art of the dyers, in colours as various as those of the robe Jacob made for Joseph. Sometimes it flew open, and displayed an inner vesture of rich texture, bound round with a golden zone or girdle; and around her head, confining her luxuriant hair, was a circlet of like precious metal, which did duty for a diadem.
Little of her sainted mother was there in the Empress Queen; far more of her stern grandfather, the Conqueror.
The chamber, of irregular dimensions, was lighted by narrow loopholes. There was a hearth and a chimney, and a brazier of wood and charcoal burned brightly. Even then the air was cold, for it was many degrees below the freezing point, not that they as yet knew how to measure the temperature.
She sat and glowered at the grate, as the light departed, and the winter night set in, dark and gloomy. More than once she approached the windows, or loopholes, and looked upon the ruined city in the chill and intermittent moonlight.
It was nearly all in ruins. Here and there a church tower rose intact; here and there a lordly dwelling; but fire and sword had swept it. Neither party regarded the sufferings of the poor. Sometimes the besiegers made a fire in sport, and warmed themselves by the blaze of a burgher's dwelling, nor recked how far it spread. Sometimes, as we have said, the besieged made a sally, and set fire to the buildings which sheltered their foes. Whichever prevailed, the citizens suffered; but little recked their oppressors.
From her elevated chamber Maude could see the watch-fires of the foe in a wide circle around, but she was accustomed to the sight, tired of it, in fact, and her one desire was to escape to Wallingford, a far more commodious and stronger castle.
In Frideswide, of which she could discern the towers, which as yet had escaped the conflagration, were the headquarters of her rival, who was living there at ease on the fat of the land, such fat as was left, at the expense of the monastic community. And while she gazed, she clenched her dainty fist, and shook it at the unheeding Stephen, while she muttered unwomanly imprecations.
And while she was thus engaged, they brought up her supper. It consisted of a stew of bones, which had already been well stripped of their flesh at "the noon-meat."
"We are reduced to bones, and shall soon be nought but bones ourselves; but our gallant defenders, I fear, fare worse. Here, Edith, Hilda, bring your spoons and take your share."
And with small wooden spoons they dipped into the royal dish.
A step on the stairs and the chamberlain knocked, and at her bidding entered. "Lady, the gallant page has returned: how he entered I know not."
"He is unharmed?"
"Scatheless, by the favour of God and St. Martin."
"Let him enter at once."
And Alain appeared.
"My gallant squire, how hast thou fared? I feared for thee."
"They keep bad watch. A rope lowered me to the stream: I crossed, and seeking covered ways, gat me to Iffley, and in like fashion returned. I bear good news, lady! Thy gallant brother of Gloucester, and the Prince, thy son, have landed in England, and will meet thee at Wallingford."
"Thank God!" said Maude. "My Henry, my royal boy, I shall see thee again. With such hope to cheer a mother's heart, I can dare anything. Well hast thou earned our thanks, my Alain, my gallant squire."
"The Lord of Wallingford will send a troop of horse to scout on the road between Abingdon and Oxford to-morrow night, the Eve of St. Thomas."
"We will meet them if it be possible—if it be in human power."
"The river is free—all other roads are blocked."
"But hast thou considered the difficulties of descent?"
"They are great, lady: it was easy for me to descend by the rope, but for thee, alas, that my queen should need such expedients!"
"It is better than starvation. We are reduced to the bones, as thou seest; but thou art hungry and faint. Let me order a basin of this savoury stew for thee; it is all we have to offer."
"What is good enough for my Empress and Queen, is good enough for her faithful servants; but I may not eat in thy presence."
"Nay, scruple not; famine effaces distinctions."
Thus encouraged, Alain did not allow his scruples to interfere further with his appetite, and partook heartily of the stew of bones, in which, forsooth, the water and meal were in undue proportion to the meat.
The meal despatched, the Empress sent Alain to summon the Earl of Oxford, Robert d'Oyley, to her presence. He was informed of the arrival of the Earl and the Prince, and the plan of escape was discussed.
All the ordinary avenues of the castle were watched so closely that extraordinary expedients were necessary, and the only feasible mode of escape appeared to be the difficult road which Alain had used successfully, both in leaving and returning to the beleaguered fortress.
A branch of the Isis washed the walls of the tower. It was frozen hard. To descend by ropes upon it in the darkness, and cross to the opposite side of the stream, appeared the only mode of egress.
But for a lady—the Lady of England—was it possible? was it not utterly unworthy of her dignity?
She put this objection aside like a cobweb.
"Canst thou hold out the castle much longer?"
"At the most, another week; our provisions are nearly exhausted. This was our last meal of flesh, of which I see the bones before me," replied the Lord of Oxford.
"Then if I remain, thou must still surrender?"
"Surrender is inevitable, lady."
"Then sooner would I infringe my dignity by dangling from a rope, than become the prisoner of the foul usurper Stephen, and the laughing-stock of his traitorous barons."
"Sir Ingelric of Huntercombe, and two other knights, besides thy gallant page, volunteer to accompany thee, lady."
"And for thyself?"
"I must remain to the last, and share the fortunes of my vassals. Without me, they would find scant mercy from the usurpers."
"Then, to-morrow night, ere the moon rise, the attempt shall be made."
And the conference broke up.
It was a night of wildering snow, dark and gloomy. The soft, dry, powdery material found its way in at each crevice, and the wind made the tapestry, which hung on the walls of the presence chamber of the "Lady Maude," oscillate to and fro with each blast.
Robert d'Oyley was alone in deep consultation with his royal mistress.
"Then if I can escape, thou wilt surrender?"
"Nought else is to be done; we are starving."
"They will burn the castle."
"There is little to burn, and I hardly think they will attempt that: it will be useful to them, when in their hands."
"It is near the midnight hour: the attempt must be made. Now summon young Alain and my faithful knights."
They entered at the summons, each clothed in fine mail, with a white tunic above it. The Empress bid adieu to her handmaidens, who had clad her in a thick white cloak to match: they wept and wailed, but she gently chid them—
"We have suffered worse things: the coffin and hearse in which we left Devizes was more ghastly; and God will give an end to these troubles also: fear not, we are prepared to go through with it."
A small door was opened in the thickness of the wall; it led to the roof, over a lower portion of the buildings beneath the shadow of the tower; and the knights, with Alain and their lady, stood on the snow-covered summit.
Not long did they hesitate. The river beneath was frozen hard; it lay silent and still in its ice-bound sepulchre. The darkness was penetrated by the light of the watch-fires in all directions: they surrounded the town on all sides, save the one they had not thought it necessary to guard against. There was a fire and doubtless a watch over the bridge, which stood near the actual site of the present Folly Bridge. There was a watch across Hythe Bridge; there was another on the ruins of the castle mill, which Earl Algar had held, under the Domesday survey; another at the principal entrance of the castle, which led from the city. But the extreme cold of the night had driven the majority of the besiegers to seek shelter in the half-ruined churches, which, long attuned to the sweet melody of bells and psalmody, had now become the bivouacs of profane soldiers.
The Countess Edith, the wife of Robert d'Oyley, now appeared, shivering in the keen air, and took an affectionate leave of the Empress, while her teeth chattered the while. A true woman, she shared her husband's fortunes for weal or woe, and had endured the horrors of the siege. Ropes were brought—Alain glided down one to the ice, and held it firm. Another rope was passed beneath the armpits of the Lady Maude. She grasped another in her gloved hand, to steady her descent.
"Farewell, true and trusty friend," she said to Robert of Oxford; "had all been as faithful as thou, I had never been brought to this pass; if they hurt thy head, they shall pay with a life for every hair it contains."
Then she stepped over the battlements.
For one moment she gave a womanly shudder at the sight of the blackness below; then yielding herself to the care of her trusty knights and shutting her eyes, she was lowered safely to the surface of the frozen stream, while young Alain steadied the rope below. At last her feet touched the ice.
"Am I on the ground?"
"On the ice, Domina."
One after another the three knights followed her, and they descended the stream until it joined the main river at a farm called "The Wick," which formerly belonged to one Ermenold, a citizen of Oxford, immortalised in the abbey records of Abingdon for his munificence to that community.
Now they had crossed the main channel in safety, not far below the present railway bridge, and landing, struck out boldly for the outskirts of Bagley, where the promised escort was to have met them. But in the darkness and the snow, they lost their direction, and came at last over the frozen fields to Kennington, where they indistinctly saw two or three lights through the fast-falling snow, but dared not approach them, fearing foes.
Vainly they strove to recover the track. The country was all alike—all buried beneath one ghastly winding-sheet. The snow still fell; the air was calm and keen; the breath froze on the mufflers of the lady. Onward they trudged, for to hesitate was death; once or twice that ghastly inclination to lie down and sleep was felt.
"If I could only lie down for one half hour!" said Maude.
"You would never wake again, lady," said Bertram of Wallingford; "we must move on."
"Nay, I must sleep."
"For thy son's sake," whispered Alain; and she persevered.
"Ah! here is the river; take care."
They had nearly fallen into a diversion of the stream at Sandford; but they followed the course of the river, until they reached Radley, and then they heard the distant bell of the famous abbey ringing for Matins, which were said in the small hours of the night.
Here they found some kind of track made by the passage of cattle, which had been driven towards the town, and followed it until they saw the lights of the abbey dimly through the gloom.
Spent, exhausted with their toil, they entered the precincts of the monastery, on the bed of the stream which, diverging from the main course a mile above the town, turned the abbey mills and formed one of its boundaries. Thus they avoided detention at the gateway of the town, for they ascended from the stream within the monastery "pleasaunce."
The grand church loomed out of the darkness; its windows were dimly lighted. The Matins of St. Thomas were being sung, and the solemn strains reached the ears of the weary travellers outside. The outer door of the nave was unfastened, for the benefit of the laity, who cared more for devotion than their beds, like the mother of the famous St. Edmund, Archbishop of Canterbury, a century later, who used to attend these Matins nightly.
Our present party entered from a different motive. It was a welcome shelter, and they sank upon an oaken bench within the door, while the solemn sound of the Gregorian psalmody rolled on in the choir. Alain meanwhile hastened to the hospitium to seek aid for the royal guest; which he was told he would find in a hostel outside the gates, for although they allowed female attendance at worship, they could not entertain women; it was contrary to their rule—royal although the guest might be.