CHAPTER IV.
The clock was striking twelve, the moon was bright and high, but a thin mist had come back upon the earth, and lay lightly over all the slopes, and the lower parts of the ground in the neighbourhood of Oxford, when a train, which might have scared the peasant or schoolboy had he beheld it, so like was it to what imagination has pictured a train of ghosts, took its way down a small turret staircase at the castle of Oxford. That train consisted of three ladies and two men, and all, with the exception of one, who wore a monk's gray gown, were covered from head to foot in white. When they had descended to the bottom of the stairs, the empress turned to the monk, demanding, "Through the vaults, say you? How came you to discover the way?"
"I discovered it," replied the monk, "when I was mere boy, and studied sciences under a clerk of this place." The empress looked down as if apprehensive and doubtful, but still followed on; and, leading the way, the monk opened the door which led into some vaults below the castle, and thence down another narrow flight of steps, which made the way seem to Matilda as if they were descending into a well. "Lord Brian," she said, in a low voice to her other male attendant, "if you find that he deceives us, cleave him down with your battle-axe."
"Fear not, lady," replied the gentleman to whom she spoke; "I know him, although he does not know me, and you may trust to him in all faith."
Again they proceeded in silence; and at the bottom of the steps they found another door, which led them into a long vaulted passage. At first it was cased with masonry, and a pavement was beneath their feet; but at the end of twenty or thirty yards the masonry ceased, and the torch carried by Lord Brian Fitzwalter showed that they were passing under the arch of a sort of rude cave, occasionally supported by brickwork, but not sufficiently so to prevent large masses of the earth and stones from falling down and obstructing the way. At the end of near two hundred yards more the monk turned towards the baron, saying, "Here you must put out the light, but lead her majesty gently forward, for the road is rough and dangerous." Lord Brian obeyed at once, and extinguished the torch against the wall of the vault, if wall it could indeed be called. He then led on the empress by the hand, while the monk went before, directing them upon their way; and presently after the faint blue light of the moonbeams were seen glimmering at some distance before them.
"Now be silent as death," said the monk; "for, when we issue forth from this place, we are within a hundred yards of the tent of William of Ipres. When we are among the bushes at the mouth, stop, and let me go on first. You will see exactly the course that I take, and, if I am not seen in this gray gown, you, covered entirely in white, may well escape."
A few steps more brought the whole party to a spot where a number of dry hawthorn bushes had gathered themselves into a hollow in the ground, completely concealing the mouth of the cavern or vault by which they had issued forth from the Castle of Oxford. That hollow had been part of some ancient Saxon, or, perhaps, Roman camp; and it extended some way in the form of a narrow ravine. The depth, indeed, except where the hawthorn bushes were, was very little; but it still afforded some shelter from the eyes of any of the enemy's soldiers who might have been near; nor was some shelter unnecessary; for at that moment the empress and her attendants had already passed the outer guards of Stephen's army, and were, in fact, half way through his camp.
Gliding through the hawthorns, the monk advanced calmly on his way; and, too impatient to wait long, the empress, with the hand of Eva St. Clair clasped in hers, followed the distance of some twenty or thirty paces. After a few minutes of ascent the whole scene around burst upon them, and fearful it must have been to persons in their situation. The camp of Stephen was before and around them; not indeed close, for that was a spot of open ground which served as a sort of division between the quarters of the different leaders, and the space of about two hundred yards lay between tent and tent. That space, indeed, was usually well watched by sentinels; but the night was intensely cold, the wind was high, and the men gladly got behind the shelter of the tents, or warmed themselves by the blazing watch-fires. On the right, as the empress and her party then stood, was a large pavilion, with torches burning before it, while a light could be seen through the canvass walls, and the voice of merriment and revelry made itself heard upon the calm ear of night. Between that tent and those on the left the monk took his straightforward course, and the rest followed with silent but beating hearts. There was no one opposed them, however; they passed that tent, and another, and another; they crossed over some slight defences which had been cast up in the rear of the army, and they saw before them a long row of osiers, forming a sort of hedge, and looking black amid the white of the wintry scene around them. Towards these the monk bent his steps, but paused when he reached them; and the rest of the party found him waiting for them at the angle of a little lane.
"We are safe, lady, we are safe," said Lord Brian Fitzwalter; "This lane leads down to the Thames; it is firmly frozen over, and you can pass across direct to Wallingford."
"We are safe; thank God, we are safe," cried Eva; but at that moment there was a blast of a trumpet behind them, and galloping horse were seen coming down with furious speed.
"Look to the lady, Brian," cried the monk, in a voice of command; "lead them quick across the stream; once on the other side, you are safe, for the horses dare not follow you. Give me your battle-axe; on my life I will detain these horsemen here till you are safe; they cannot pass me here; fly, lady, fly, for they are coming fast;" and, snatching the battle-axe from Lord Brian's hand, he cast himself into the middle of the road.
Matilda would have spoken, but all voices cried, "Fly, lady, fly;" and she was hurried onward, while the horsemen came down like lightning There was one considerably ahead of the rest, the captain of the guard for the night; and, seeing himself opposed in the middle of the lane, he couched his lance at the monk, and spurred eagerly upon him. One stroke of the battle-axe, however, parried the lance and shivered it to atoms; and, rushing on the monk caught the rein of the horse, and prepared to dash the rider from his seat. But the captain of the guard, an experienced soldier, wheeled his horse with his heel to keep himself from the foe while he drew his heavy sword, and with a thrust which it was difficult for an axe to parry, he lunged straight at the breast of his opponent. At the same time that he did so, he shouted his old accustomed battle-cry, "A Lacy! A Lacy! Reginald to the rescue! A Lacy! A Lacy!"
The axe dropped from the monk's hand; the thrust of old Reginald de Lacy was true and strong; his adversary fell, dying the snow with his gore; and the baron, spurring his horse on over the body, led his followers fiercely forward in pursuit of Matilda. When he reached the bank of the Thames, however, he could see nothing but some moving objects on the other side; and, eager in the cause he had undertaken, he urged his horse vehemently upon the ice. The animal felt it shake beneath him, trembled, resisted, fell. The whole mass gave way, and man and horse, with their heavy armour, were plunged to the bottom of the stream. It was in vain that the followers of old Reginald de Lacy endeavoured to extricate him from the water before life was extinct. Near two hours elapsed before they could recover his body, and then they bore it by another path to his tent. They spent the rest of the night in lamenting their lord; and it was not till the morning that one of them thought to tell a priest, whom Stephen had sent to offer prayers for the soul of De Lacy, that a few minutes before his death, old Reginald with the red hand had killed some one like a monk, who had attempted to stop his progress.
The priest took others with him, and instantly set out for the place they described; but there they found a sight that made even the hearts of men accustomed to seek voluntarily every scene of human suffering, ache for the fate that was now past recall. There, indeed, lay the fair and powerful form of one in the earliest years of manhood, with the gray gown of a monk, indeed, cast over his shoulders, but beneath it the rich garments of a Norman noble, dyed with the flood of gore which had streamed from the death-wound in his breast. There, indeed, lay Richard de Lacy, slain by the hand of his own father; but he was not alone in death; for, cast upon his bosom, with her rich brown hair all dishevelled and unbound--with her garments, too, drenched in the blood that flowed from the heart of him she loved, lay the still, cold, but yet beautiful form of Eva de St. Clair. None could tell how she died; whether the intense cold of the night had aided, or whether grief had been alone enough to extinguish the warm spark of life within her bosom. All that was ever learned was the fact that, when the empress reached the bank of the river, Eva was not with her; and the fierceness of the pursuit compelled the rest of the party to go on without seeking the unhappy daughter of St. Clair.