CHAPTER XVII LIFE AT WALLINGFORD CASTLE
In sketching the life of a mediæval castle, we have dwelt too much upon the brighter side of the picture. There was a darker one, contrasting with the outward pomp and circumstance as the dungeons with the gay halls above.
What then was the interior of those dark towers, which we contemplate only in their ruined state? Too often, the surrounding peasants looked at them with affright: the story of Blue-Beard is not a mere tale, it is rather a veritable tradition: what was the lord to his vassals, whom his own wife regarded with such great fear? We know one of the brood by the civil process issued against him—Gilles de Retz—the torturer of children. It has been said that the "Front de Boeuf" of Sir Walter Scott is but a poor creature, a feeble specimen of what mediæval barons could be. A more terrible portrait has been given in recent days by Erckmann-Chatrian, in their story, The Forest House.
And such, we regret to say, by degrees did Brian Fitz-Count become. Few men can stand the test of absolute power, and the power of a mediæval lord was almost absolute in his own domain.
And the outbreak of civil war, by loosening the bonds of society, gave him the power of doing this, so that it was soon said that Wallingford Castle was little better than a den of brigands.
The very construction of these old castles, so far as one can see them, tells us far more than books can: men-at-arms, pages, valets, all were shut in for the night, sleeping in common in those vaulted apartments. The day summoned them to the watch-towers and battlements, where they resembled the eagle or hawk, soaring aloft in hope of seeing their natural prey.
Nor was it often long before some convoy of merchandise passing along the high road, some well appointed travellers or the like, tempted them forth on their swift horses, lance in hand, to cry like the modern robber, "Your money or your life," or in sober truth, to drag their prisoners to their dungeons, and hold them to ransom, in default of which they amused themselves by torturing them.
Such inmates of the castles were only happy when they got out upon their adventures—and as in the old fable of "The Frogs and the Boys,"—what was sport to them was death to their neighbours.
It was eventide, the work of the day was over, and Brian was taking counsel with Malebouche, who had risen by degrees to high command amongst the troopers, although unknighted. Osric was present, and sat in an embrasure of the window.
"A good day's work, Malebouche," said Brian; "that convoy of merchandise going from Reading to Abingdon was a good prize—our halls will be the better for their gauds, new hangings of tapestry, silks, and the like; but as we are deficient in women to admire them, I would sooner have had their value in gold."
"There is this bag of rose nobles, which we took from the body of the chief merchant."
"Well, it will serve as an example to others, who travel by by-roads to avoid paying me tribute, and rob me of my dues. Merchants from Reading have tried to get to Abingdon by that road over Cholsey Hill before."
"They will hardly try again if they hear of this."
"At least these will not—you have been too prompt with them; did any escape?"
"I think not; my fellows lanced them as they fled, which was the fate of all, as we were well mounted, save a lad who stumbled and fell, and they hung him in sport for the sake of variety. They laughed till the tears stood in their eyes at his quaint grimaces."[21]
Brian did not seem to heed this pleasant story. Osric moved uneasily in his seat, but strove to repress feelings which, after all, were less troublesome than of yore; all at once he spied a sight which drove merchants and all from his mind.
"My lord, here is Alain."
"Where?"
"Just dismounting in the courtyard."
"Call to him to come up at once; he will have news from Wilton."
Osric leant out of the narrow window, which in summer was always open.
"Alain! Alain!" he cried, "come up hither, my lord is impatient for your tidings."
Alain waved back a friendly greeting and hurried up the stairs.
"Joy, my Lord, joy; thine enemy is in thy hands."
"Which one, my squire? I have too many enemies to remember all."
"William Martel, Lord of Shirburne."
"Ah, now we shall get Shirburne!" cried Osric.
"Silence, boys!" roared Brian; "now tell me all: where he was taken, and what has become of him."
"He was taken by Earl Robert at Wilton, and will be here in an hour; you may see him from the battlements now. The good Earl has sent him to you to keep in durance, and sent me to command the escort: I only left them on the downs—they are descending the hills even now; I galloped forward to 'bring the good news.'"
"By our Lady, I am indeed happy. Alain, here is a purse of rose nobles for thee; poor as I am, thy news are all too good. Send the gaolers to me; have a good dark dungeon prepared; we must humble his spirits."
"We are getting too full below, my lord."
"Orders are given for another set to be dug out at once, the architect only left me to-day; it is to be called Cloere Brien—or Brian's Close, and the first guest shall be William Martel; there shall he rot till he deliver up Shirburne and all its lands to me in perpetuity. The Castle of Shirburne is one of the keys of the Chilterns."
"Now, my lord, they are in sight—look!"
And from the windows they saw a troop of horse approaching Wallingford, over Cholsey Common.
"Let us don our robes of state to meet them," said Brian; and he threw on a mantle over his undress; then he descended, followed by his two pages, and paced the battlements, till the trumpets were blown which announced the arrival of the cortege.
Brian showed no womanly curiosity to feast his eyes with the sight of a captive he was known to hate, but repaired to the steps of the great hall, and stood there, Alain on one side, Osric on the other; and soon the leading folk in the castle collected about them.
The troop of horse trotted over the three drawbridges, and drew rein in front of the Baron; then wheeling to right and left, disclosed their prisoner.
"I salute thee, William Martel, Lord of Shirburne; my poor castle is too much honoured by thy presence."
"Faith, thou mayst well say so," said the equally proud and fierce captive. "I take it thou hast had few prisoners before higher in rank than the wretched Jews you torture for their gold; but I trust you know how to treat a noble."
"That indeed we do, especially one like thyself; not that we are overawed by thy grandeur; the castle which has entertained thy rightful sovereign may be quite good enough for thee. Companions thou shalt have, if but the toad and adder; light enough to make darkness visible, until such time as thy ransom be paid, or thou submit to thy true Queen."
"To Henry's unworthy child—never. Name thy ransom."
"The Castle of Shirburne and all things pertaining thereto."
"Never shall it be thine."
"Then here shalt thou rot. Tustain, prepare a chamber—one of the dungeons in the north tower, until a more suitable one be builded. And meanwhile it may please thee to learn that we purpose a ride to look at your Shirburne folk, and see the lands which shall be ours; this very night we may light a bonfire or two to amuse them."
And they led the captive away.
Now lest this should be thought a gross exaggeration, it may as well be said that the ungovernable savagery of this contest, the violent animosities engendered, did lead the nobility so called, the very chief of the land, to forget their chivalry, and treat their foes, not after the fashion of the Black Prince and his captive, the King of France, but in the brutal fashion we have described.
And probably Brian would have fared just as badly at William Martel's hands, had their positions been reversed.
"Trumpeter, blow the signal to horse; let the Brabanters prepare to ride, and the Black Troopers of Ardennes—the last comers. We will ride to-night, Alain. Art thou too wearied to go with us?"
"Nay, my lord, ready and willing."
"And Osric—it will refresh thee; we start in half an hour—give the horses corn."
In half an hour they all rode over a new bridge of boats lower down the stream, and close under the ordnance of the castle,[22] for the forts at Crowmarsh commanded the lower Bridge of Stone. They were full three hundred in number—very miscellaneous in composition. There was a new troop of a hundred Brabanters; another of so-called Free Companions, numbering nearly the same. Scarce a hundred were Englishmen, in any sense of the word, neither Anglo-Norman nor Anglo-Saxon—foreigners with no more disposition to pity the unfortunate natives than the buccaneers of later date had to pity the Spaniards, or even the shark to pity the shrinking flesh he snaps at.
Just before reaching Bensington, which paid tribute to both sides, and was exempt from fire and sword from either Wallingford or Crowmarsh, a troop from the latter place came in sight.
Trumpets were blown on both sides, stragglers recalled into line, and the two bodies of horsemen charged each other with all the glee of two bodies of football players in modern times, and with little more thought or care.
But the Wallingford men were strongest, and after a brief struggle the Crowmarsh troopers were forced to fly. They were not pursued: Brian had other business in hand; it was a mere friendly charge.
Only struggling on the ground were some fifty men and horses, wounded or dying, and not a few dead.
Brian looked after Osric with anxiety.
The youth's bright face was flushed with delight and animation. He was returning a reddened sword to the scabbard; he had brought down his man, cleaving him to the chine, himself unhurt.
Brian smiled grimly.
"Now for Alain," he said; "ah, there he is pursuing these Crowmarsh fellows. We have no time to waste—sound the recall, now onward, for the Chilterns."
Alain rejoined them.
"Thou art wasting time."
"My foe fled; Osric has beaten me to-day."
"Plenty of opportunity for redressing the wrong—now onward."
They passed through Bensington. The gates—for every large village had its walls and gates as a matter of necessity—opened and shut for them in grim silence; they did no harm there. They passed by the wood afterwards called "Rumbold's Copse," and then got into the territory of Shirburne, for so far as Britwell did William Martel exact tribute, and offer such protection as he was able.
From this period all was havoc and destruction—all one grim scene of fire and carnage. They fired every rick, every barn, every house; they slew everything they met.
And Osric was as bad as the rest—we do not wonder at Alain.
Then they reached Watlington, "the wattled town," situated in a hollow of the hills. Its gates were secured, and it was surrounded by a ditch, a mound, and the old British defence of wattles, or stakes pointed outwards.
Here they paused.
"It is too strong to be taken by assault," said the Baron. "Osric, go to the gate with just half a dozen, who have English tongues in their heads, and ask for shelter and hospitality."
Osric, to his credit, hesitated.
Brian reddened—he could not bear the lad he loved to take a more moral tone than himself.
"Must I send Alain?"
Osric went, and feigning to be belated, asked admittance, but he did not act it well.
"Who are you? whence do ye come? what mean the fires we see?"
"Alain, go and help him; he cannot tell a fair lie," said Brian.
Alain arriving, made answer, "The men of Wallingford are out—we are flying from Britwell for our lives—haste or they will overtake us—we are only a score."
The poor fools opened, and were knocked on the head at once for their pains.
The whole band now galloped up and rushed in.
"Fire every house. After you have plundered them all, if you find mayor and burgesses, take them for ransom; slay the rest."
The scene which followed was shocking; but in this wretched reign it might be witnessed again and again all over England. But many things shocked Osric afterwards when he had time to think.
Enough of this. We have only told what we have told because it is essential to the plot of our story, that the scenes should be understood which caused so powerful a reaction in Osric—afterwards.
Laden with spoil, with shout and song, the marauders returned from their raid. Along the road which leads from Watlington to the south, with the range of the Chilterns looking down from the east, and the high land which runs from Rumbold's Copse to Brightwell Salome on the west, they drove their cattle and carried their plunder; whilst they recounted their murderous exploits, and made night hideous with the defiant bray of trumpets and their discordant songs.
And so in the fire and excitement of the moment the sufferings of the poor natives were easily forgotten, or served to the more violent and cruel as zest to their enjoyment.
Was it so with our Osric? Could the grandson of Sexwulf, the heir of a line of true Englishmen, so forget the lessons of his boyhood? Alas, my reader, such possibilities lurk in our fallen nature!
"Ah, when shall come the time
When war shall be no more?
When lust, oppression, crime,
Shall flee Thy Face before?"
We must wait until the advent of the Prince of Peace.
They got back to Wallingford at last. The gates were opened, there was a scene of howling excitement, and then they feasted and drank until the small hours of the night; after which they went to bed, three or four in one small chamber, and upon couches of the hardest—in recesses of the wall, or sometimes placed, like the berths of a ship, one over the other—the robbers slept.
For in what respect were they better than modern highwaymen or pirates?
Osric and Alain lay in the same chamber.
"How hast thou enjoyed the day, Osric?"
"Capitally, but I am worn out."
"You will not sleep so soundly even now as the fellow you brought down so deftly in that first skirmish. You have got your hand in at last."
Osric smiled with gratified vanity—he was young and craved such glory.
"Good-night, Alain." He could hardly articulate the words from fatigue, and Alain had had even a harder day.
They slept almost as soundly as the dead they had left behind them; no spectres haunted them and disturbed their repose; conscience was hardened, scarred as with a hot iron, but her time was yet to come for Osric.