CHAPTER XIX IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS
The morning watch looked forth from the summit of the lofty keep, which rose above Wallingford Castle, to spy the dawning day. From that elevation of two hundred feet he saw the light of the summer dawn break forth over the Chiltern Hills in long streaks of azure, and amber light flecked with purple and scarlet. The stream below caught the rays, and assumed the congenial hue of blood; the sleepy town began to awake beyond the castle precincts; light wreaths of smoke to ascend from roof after roof—we can hardly say of those days chimney after chimney; the men of the castle began to move, for there was no idleness under Brian's rule; boats arrived by the stream bearing stores from the dependent villages above and below, or even down from Oxford and up from Reading, for the river was a great highway in those days.
Ah, how like the distant view was to that we now behold from the lessened height of the ruined keep! The everlasting hills were the same; the river flowed in the same channel: and yet how unlike, for the cultivated fields of the present day were mainly wood and marsh; dense forests of bush clothed the Chilterns; Cholsey Common, naked and bare, stretched on to the base of the downs; but on the west were the vast forests which had filled the vale of White Horse in earlier times, and now were but slightly broken into clearings, and diversified with hamlets.
But still more unlike, the men who began to wake into life!
The gaolers were busy with the light breakfasts of their prisoners, or attending to their cells, which they were forced sometimes to clean out, to prevent a pestilence; the soldiers were busy attending to their horses, and scouring their arms; the cooks were busy providing for so many mouths; the butler was busy with his wines; the armourers and blacksmiths with mail and weapons; the treasurer was busy with his accounts, counting the value of last night's raid and assigning his share of prize-money to each raider, for all had their share, each according to rank, and so "moss-trooping" was highly popular.
Even the Chaplain, as he returned from his hastily said Mass, which few attended—only, indeed, the Lady of the Castle, Maude d'Oyley, and her handmaidens—received his "bonus" as a bribe to Heaven, and pocketed it without reflecting that it was the price of blood. He was the laziest individual in the castle. Few there confessed their sins, and fewer still troubled him in any other spiritual capacity. Still Brian kept him for the sake of "being in form," as moderns say, and had purposely sought out an accommodating conscience.
In the terrace, which looked over the glacis towards the Thames, of which the remains with one window in situ may still be seen, was the bower of Maude d'Oyley, wife of Brian Fitz-Count and sister of the Lord of Oxford Castle, as we have before observed. It was called otherwise "the solar chamber;" perhaps because it was best fitted with windows for the admission of the sunlight, the openings in the walls being generally rather loopholes than windows.
The passion for great reception-rooms was as strong in mediæval days as in our own, and the family apartments suffered for it,—being generally small and low,—while the banqueting-hall was lofty and spacious, and the Gothic windows, which looked into the inner quadrangle, were of ample proportions. But the "ladye's bower" on the second floor consisted of, first an ante-chamber, where a handmaiden always waited within hearing of the little silver hand-bell; then a bower or boudoir; then the bedroom proper. All these rooms were hung with rich tapestry, worked by the lady and her handmaidens. For in those days, when books were scarce, and few could read, the work of the needle and the loom was the sole alleviation of many a solitary hour.
The windows looked over the river, and were of horn, not very transparent, only translucent; the outer world could but be dimly discerned in daylight.
There was a hearth at one end of the bower, and "dog-irons" upon it for the reception of the logs, of which fires were chiefly composed, for there was as yet no coal in use.
There were two "curule" chairs, that is, chairs in the form of St. Andrew's Cross, with cushions between the upper limbs, and no backs; there were one or two very small round tables for the reception of trifles, and "leaf-tables" between the windows. No one ever sat on these "curule" chairs save those of exalted rank: three-legged stools were good enough for ladies in waiting, and the like.
The hangings, which concealed the bare walls, were very beautiful. On one set was represented Lazarus and Dives; Father Abraham appeared very much in the style of a mediæval noble, and on his knee, many sizes smaller, sat Lazarus. In uncomfortable proximity to their seats was a great yawning chasm, and smoke looking very substantial, as represented in wool-work, arose thence, while some batlike creatures, supposed to be fiends, sported here and there. On the other side lay Dives in the midst of rosy flames of crimson wool, and his tongue, which was stretched out for the drop of water, was of such a size, that one wondered how it ever could have found space in the mouth. But for all this, the lesson taught by the picture was not a bad one for the chambers of barons, if they would but heed it; it is to be feared it was little heeded just then in Wallingford Castle.
There was no carpet on the floor, only rushes, from the marshes. The Countess sat on her "curule" chair in front of the blazing fire. Three maidens upon three-legged stools around her were engaged on embroidery. They were all of high rank, entrusted to her guardianship, for she liked to surround herself with blooming youth. She was old,—her face was wrinkled, her eyes were dull,—but she had a sweet smile, and was quite an engaging old lady, although, of course, with the reserve which became, or was supposed to become, her high rank.
A timid knock at the door, and another maiden entered.
"Jeannette, thou art late this evening."
"I was detained in Dame Ursula's room; she needed my help, lady."
"Wherefore?"
"To attend to the wounded of last night's raid."
"Ah, yes, we have heard but few particulars, and would fain learn more. Send and see whether either of the young squires Osric or Alain can come and give us the details."
And shortly Osric entered, dressed in his handsomest tunic—the garb of peace, and properly washed and combed for the presence of ladies.
He bowed reverently to the great dame, of whom he stood in more awe than of her stern husband: he was of that awkward age when lads are always shy before ladies.
But her kind manner cheered him.
"So thou didst ride last night, Osric?"
"I did, my lady."
"Come, tell us all about it."
"We started, as thou knowest, soon after the arrival of the prisoner William Martel, to harry his lands."
"We all saw you start; and I hear the Crowmarsh people saw you too."
"And assailed us at Bensington."
"And now tell me, my Osric, didst thou not slay one of Lord Ranulph's people?"
"I did, by my good fortune, and his ill-luck."
"And so thou shouldst receive the meed of valour from the fair. Come, what sayest thou, ladies?"
"He should indeed; he is marvellous young to be so brave."
"We are short of means to reward our brave knights and squires, but take this ring;" and she gave one containing a valuable gem; "and we only grieve it is not of more worth."
So Osric, encouraged, continued his tale; and those fair ladies—and fair they were—laughed merrily at his narration of the burning of Watlington, and would have him spare no details.
"Thou hast done well, my Osric. Come, thou wilt be a knight; thou dost not now pine for the forest?"
"Not now; I have grown to love adventures."
"And it is so exciting to ride by night, as thou didst last winter with the Empress Queen."
"But I love the summer nights, with their sweet freshness, best."
"Thou dost not remember thy boyhood with regret now, and wish it back again?"
"Not now." And Osric made his bow and departed.
"There is a mystery about that youth; he is not English, as my lord thinks; there is not an atom of it about him," said the Countess, and fell into a fit of musing.
From the halls of pleasure let us turn to the dungeons beneath; but first a digression.
Even mediæval barons were forced to keep their accounts, or to employ, more commonly, a "scrivener" or accountant for that purpose; and all this morning Brian was closeted with his man of business, looking over musty rolls and parchments, from which extract after extract was read, bearing little other impression on the mind of the poor perplexed Baron than that he was grievously behind in his finances. So he despatched the scrivener to negotiate a farther advance—loan he called it—from the mayor, while he summoned Osric, who was quick at figures, to his presence.
"There is scarcely enough money to pay the Brabanters, and they will mutiny if kept short: that raid last night was a god-send," said Brian to himself.
Osric arrived. The Baron felt lighter of heart when the youth he loved was with him. It was another case of Saul and David. And furthermore, the likeness was not a superficial one. Often did Osric touch the harp, and sing the lays of love and war to his patron, for so much had he learned of his grandsire.
They talked of the previous evening's adventures, and Brian was delighted to draw Osric out, and to hear him express sentiments so entirely at variance with his antecedents, as he did under the Baron's deft questions.
So they continued talking until the scrivener returned, and then the Baron asked impatiently—
"Well, man! and what does the mayor say?"
"That their resources are exhausted, and that you are very much in their debt already."
The reader need not marvel at this bold answer. Brian dared not use violence to his own burghers; it would have been killing the goose who laid the golden eggs. In our men of commerce began the first germs of English liberty. Men would sometimes yield to all other kinds of violence, but the freemen of the towns, even amidst the wild barons of Germany, held their own; and so did the burgesses of Wallingford: they had their charter signed and sealed by Brian, and ratified by Henry the First.
"The greedy caitiffs," he said; "well, we must go and see the dungeons. Osric, come with me."
Osric had seldom been permitted to do this before. He had only once or twice been "down below." Perhaps Brian had feared to shock him, and now thought him seasoned, as indeed he seemed to be the night before, and in his talk that day.
And here let me advise my gentler readers, who hate to read of violence and cruelty, to skip the rest of this chapter, which may be read by stronger-minded readers as essential to a complete picture of life at Wallingford Castle. What men once had to bear, we may bear to read.
They went first to the dungeon in the north tower, where William, Lord of Shirburne, was confined. Tustain the gaoler and two satellites attended, and opened the door of the cell. It was a cold, bare room: a box stuffed with leaves and straw, with a coverlet and pillow for a bed; a rough bench; a rude table—that was all.
The prisoner could not enjoy the scenery; his only light was from a grated window above, of too small dimensions to allow a man to pass through, even were the bars removed.
"How dost thou like my hospitality, William of Shirburne?"
"I suppose it is as good as I should have shown thee."
"Doubtless: we know each other. Now, what wilt thou pay for thy ransom?"
"A thousand marks."
Brian laughed grimly.
"Thou ratest thyself at the price of an old Jew."
"What dost thou ask?"
"Ten thousand marks, or the Castle of Shirburne and its domains."
"Never! thou villain—robber!"
"Thou wilt change thy mind: thou mayst despatch a messenger for the money, who shall have free conduct to come and go; and mark me, if thou dost not pay within a week, thou shalt be manacled and removed to the dungeons below, to herd with my defaulting debtors, and a week after to a lower depth still."
Then he turned as if to depart, but paused and said, "It is a pity this window is so high in the wall, otherwise thou mightst have seen a fine blaze last night about Shirburne and its domains."
He laughed exultantly.
"Do thy worst, thou son of perdition; my turn may yet come," replied Martel.
And the Baron departed, accompanied still by Osric.
"Osric," said he, "thou hast often asked to visit the lower dungeons: thou mayst have thy wish, and see how we house our guests there; and also in a different capacity renew thine acquaintance with the torture-chambers: thou shalt be the notary."
"My lord, thou dost recall cruel memories."
"Nay, it was for love of thee. I have no son, and my bowels yearned for one; it was gentle violence for thine own good. I know not how it was, but I could not even then have done more than frighten thee. Thou wilt see I can hurt others without wincing. Say, wouldst thou fear to see what torture is like? it may fall to thy duty to inflict it some day, and in these times one must get hardened either to inflict or endure."
"I may as well learn all I have to learn; but I love it not. I do not object to fighting; but in cold blood——"
"Well, here is the door which descends to the lower realms."
They descended through a yawning portal to the dungeons. The steps were of gray stone: they went down some twenty or thirty, and then entered a corridor—dark and gloomy—from which opened many doors on either side.
Dark, but not silent. Many a sigh, many a groan, came from behind those doors, but neither Brian nor his squire heeded them.
"Which shall I open first?" said Tustain.
"The cell of Nathan, the Abingdon Jew."
The door was a huge block of stone, turning upon a pivot. It disclosed a small recess, about six feet by four, paved with stone, upon which lay some foul and damp litter. A man was crouched upon this, with a long, matted beard, looking the picture of helpless misery.
"Well, Nathan, hast been my guest long enough? Will not change of air do thee good?"
"I have no more money to give thee."
"Then I must bid the tormentor visit thee again. Thy race is accursed, and I cannot offer a better burnt-offering to Heaven than a Jew."
"Mercy, Baron! I have borne so much already."
"Mercy is to be bought: the price is a thousand marks of gold."
"I have not a hundred."
"Osric," said Brian; and gave his squire instructions to fetch the tormentor.
"We will spare thee the grate yet awhile; but I have another plan in view. Coupe-gorge, canst thou draw teeth?"
"Yes," said the tormentor, grinning, who had come at Osric's bidding.
"Then bring me a tooth from the mouth of this Nathan every day until his ransom arrive. Nathan, thou mayst write home—a letter for each tooth." And with a merry laugh they passed on to the other dungeons.
There was one who shared his cell with toads and adders, introduced for his discomfort; another round whose neck and throat a hideous thing called a sachentage was fastened. It was thus made: it was fastened to a beam, and had a sharp iron to go round a man's neck and throat, so that he might nowise sit or lie or sleep, but he bore all the iron.
In short, the castle was full of prisoners, and they were subjected to daily tortures to make them disclose their supposed hidden treasures, or pay the desired ransom. Here were many hapless Jews, always the first objects of cruelty in the Middle Ages; here many usurers, paying interest more heavy than they had ever charged others; here also many of the noblest and purest mixed up with some of the vilest upon earth.
Well might the townspeople complain that they were startled in their sleep by the cries and shrieks which came from the grim towers.
And the Baron, followed by Osric, went from dungeon to dungeon; in some cases obtaining promises of ransom to be paid, in others hearing of treasures, real or imaginary, buried in certain places, which he bid Osric note, that search might be made.
"Woe to them who fool me," he said.
Then they came to a dungeon in which was a chest, sharp and narrow, in which one poor tormented wight lay in company with sharp flints; as the light of the torch they bore flashed upon him, his eyes, red and lurid, gleamed through the open iron framework of the lid which fastened him down.
"This man was the second in command of a band of English outlaws, who made much spoil at Norman expense. Now I slew his chief in fair combat on the downs, and this man succeeded him, and waged war for a long time, until I took him; and here he is. How now, Herwald, dost want to get out of thy chest?"
A deep groan was the only reply.
"Then disclose to me the hidden treasures of thy band."
"We have none."
"Persevere then in that lie, and die in thy misery."
Osric felt very sick. He had not the nerves of his chief, and now he felt as if he were helping the torture of his own countrymen; and, moreover, there was a yet deeper feeling. Recollections were brought to his mind in that loathsome dungeon which, although indistinct and confused, yet had some connection with his own early life. What had his father been? The grandfather had carefully hidden all those facts, known to the reader, from Osric, but old Judith had dropped obscure hints.
He longed to get out of this accursed depth into the light of day, yet felt ashamed of his own weakness. He heard the misery of these dens turned into a joke by Alain and others every day. He had brought prisoners into the castle himself—for the hideous receptacles—and been complimented on his prowess and success; yet humanity was not quite extinguished in his breast, and he felt sick of the scenes.
But he had not done. They came to the torture-chamber, where recalcitrant prisoners, who would not own their wealth, were hanged up by the feet and smoked with foul smoke: some were hanged up by the thumbs, others by the head, and burning rings were put on their feet. The torturers put knotted strings about men's heads, and writhed them till they went into the brain. In short, the horrid paraphernalia of cruelty was entered into that day with the utmost zest, and all for gold, accursed gold—at least, that was the first object; but we fear at last the mere love of cruelty was half the incitement to such doings.
And all this time Brian sat as judge, and directed the torturers with eye or hand; and Osric had to take notes of the things the poor wretches said in their delirium.
At last it was over, and they ascended to the upper day.
"How dost thou like it, Osric?" said Alain, whom they met on the ramparts.
Osric shook his head.
"It is nothing when you are used to it; I used to feel squeamish at first."
"I never shall like it," whispered Osric.
The whisper was so earnest that Alain looked at him in surprise; Osric only answered by something like a sigh. The Baron heard him not.
"Thou hast done well for a beginner," said Brian; "how dost thou like the torture chamber?"
"I was there in another capacity once."
"And thou hast not forgot it. But we must remember these canaille are only made for such uses—only to disgorge their wealth for their betters, or to furnish sport."
"How should we like it ourselves?"
"You might as well object to eating venison, and say how should we like it if we were the deer?"
"But does not God look upon all alike?"
They were on the castle green. Upon the sward some ants had raised a little hill.
"Look at these ants," said Brian; "I believe they have a sort of kingdom amongst themselves—some are priests, some masters, some slaves, one is king, and the like: to themselves they seem very important. Now I will place my foot upon the hill, and ruin their republic. Just so are the gods to us, if there be gods. They care as little about men as I about the ants; our joys, our griefs, our good deeds, our bad deeds, are alike to them. I was in deep affliction once about my poor leprous boys. I prayed with all my might; I gave alms; I had Masses said—all in vain. Now I go my own way, and you see I do not altogether fail of success, although I buy it with the tears and blood of other men."
This seemed startling, nay, terrible to Osric.
"Yet, Osric, I can love, and I can reward fidelity; be true to me, and I will be truer to you than God was to me—that is, if there be a God, which I doubt."
Osric shuddered; and well he might at this impious defiance.
Then this strange man was seized with a remorse, which showed that after all there was yet some good left in him.
"Nay, pardon me, my Osric; I wish not to shake thy faith; if it make thee happy, keep it. Mine are perchance the ravings of disappointment and despair. There are times when I think the most wretched of my captives happier than I. Nay, keep thy faith if thou canst."