BARON VIGNEAU BAULKED OF HIS REVENGE.
"Midnight brought on the dusky hour,
Friendliest to sleep and silence."
Milton.
The pall of darkness is spread over the face of Nature, and the bold outlines of the mountains are shrouded in its embrace. Under cover of the darkness, a cordon of vigilant and daring sentinels are closing in upon the castle and its carousing inmates. One stealthy figure glides peeringly from tree to tree amongst the clump of towering chestnuts, until he reaches one near the wall, when, throwing his legs around it, and catching hold of the tough and sinewy shoots in the bole, he mounts aloft, and perches daringly amid the branches of the tree, watching the remnant of the Normans who still are able to keep up the orgie. But most of them are now fast in the arms of a sodden sleep.
Another figure, on hands and knees, with snake-like motion has left the thicket of laurel, hazels, and flowering currants at the foot of the slope in front, and wriggles his way up the rising ground on which the castle is built, until he comes daringly close to the wall; whilst the short, sharp scream of the night-owl, issuing from first one point and then another, tells that concerted action is afoot. The secret of it is, that Wulfhere has rallied a band of the hardiest Saxons, if needs be, to dare a desperate deed of rescue on behalf of their captive chieftain. Many a fierce Saxon, with naked sword and eagerly listening ear, is lurking around, ready for any deed that may be required of him.
Wulfhere and a trusty comrade are standing together at the foot of a gigantic oak in an adjoining wood. The capacious trunk tells that for many centuries it has looked down upon its contemporaries. The decayed and verdureless branches, clustered around its centre, tell also that the process of decay has been progressing for a longer span of time than is permitted in the life of mortals. If we ascend it for a few yards we shall find that, just where its stout limbs divide themselves from the bole, a yawning cavern has taken the place of its once stout heart, into which a man would find no difficulty in descending.
"I think there are none of the enemy on the alert, and we may venture," said Wulfhere to his companion. So saying, he mounted the tree and disappeared in the recess, and, sliding down until he reached the ground, he quietly removed some leaves and other débris; then there was visible a trap-door, which he raised, revealing a flight of steps, which he descended, followed by his companion. Drawing forth a horn lantern, with tinder-box and flint, he struck a light, and the pair began slowly marching along in the direction of the castle. But they had not proceeded very far before they were saluted by a familiar voice.
"What ho, Wulfhere! what are you venturing?"
After the first violent consternation, Wulfhere found his tongue.
"We essayed a rescue, my lord, but you have saved us the trouble. How is this? We scarcely hoped to find you alive at this time, much less a free man."
"A miracle, Wulfhere! I account it a miracle, for I am as one given back from the dead. But more anon. Let us haste for the present, for I tremble lest it should turn out that it is but a dream, and that there will follow a horrid awakening."
The trio quickly retraced their steps, and stood together in the wood, Wulfhere uttering a series of peculiar calls well known to every Saxon comprising the band of rescuers. Quickly, one by one, they rallied to the spot; and when they saw their chieftain safe and well their demonstrations of joy were most exuberant—almost frantic—many of them dancing round him like satyrs in the dim light of the wood, each and all most anxiously demanding by what strange chance he had obtained his liberty. As they hastily retreated to the hills, Oswald briefly related to his followers the circumstances of his release by two Norman women, who at dead of night had boldly opened the prison door and unfettered him—Oswald carefully laying upon his followers the injunction that no harm should be done to the Norman women, and that special regard should be paid to the Norman lady, daughter of Count de Montfort. He also enjoined upon them the strictest secrecy as to the agents who had taken part in it.
Early on the morrow there was a grand muster of the Norman men-at-arms in the castle yard. Many of them who had taken part in the assault on the castle were not followers of the Count, but mercenaries, who were eager for further advance in quest of plunder. To this multitude who had fought for him, and stayed their hand from plunder and burning, at his request, a liberal donative of gold was distributed; and presently three-fourths of the soldiery shouldered arms and marched northwards to swell the ranks of the desolating host which carried fire and sword throughout the north of England, and to the borders of Scotland. Blood-curdling were the dreadful scenes of slaughter that were enacted; not less than two hundred thousand Saxons perishing in that ruthless massacre.
Alice and Jeannette were astir betimes in the morning also; in fact, Alice had not closed her eyes during that night of suspense. With considerable daring, in the morning she and Jeannette passed from room to room, from basement to roof, in search of evidence that the Saxon had made good his escape, starting and trembling violently as the wild shouts of the men fell upon their ears, lest it should be but the herald of Oswald's recapture.
"There remains but the tower, Jeannette," said Alice, after they had explored, as best they could, the various rooms of the castle. So towards the dismal winding stair of the tower they hastened, and there in the semi-darkness they came across the cloak which Alice had lent the fugitive. Then Alice remembered the parting words of the Saxon,—that 'she would find the cloak at the bottom of the stair.' Slowly they scrambled up these stairs, often-times having literally to grope their way. When they reached the top they peered anxiously around, but no trace of Oswald was to be seen. Looking over the battlements, they beheld Vigneau, Pierre, and a number of men making preparation for what they considered a morning's sport. Some had fenced round a small enclosure, and others had kindled a large fire, in which were heating pincers and long iron spikes wherewith they purposed torturing the Saxon chieftain. Vigneau, casting a glance up at the castle, perceived Alice and Jeannette peering over the battlements and watching the fiendish preparations.
"Pierre," said Vigneau, "do you see la grande dame watching us? We shall find her sport soon the mawkish damsel will sicken at, I warrant. I would like to tie her to the spot and make her look on whether she will or no."
"You will win no gracious smiles by this work, I doubt, my lord; it would have been better done farther away," said Pierre.
"I neither care for her smiles nor her tears. I have got the hook in her gills and I'll land her in my own fashion, and she may struggle and flounder as she will. I can bring her ladyship or her precious sire to their knees as I like. You shall see presently. But come along, bring half a dozen of your men with you; we'll have Samson up now."
So away they hastened to the cells to fetch their prisoner.
"Jeannette," said Alice, "I am ready to faint! Do you think the Saxon has escaped? I fear he could never scale that horrid wall; and if he be but hiding on the roof or in the cells he will be surely caught."
"If I could push these huge stones upon the Baron's head I would do it freely," said Jeannette.
Just at that moment a wild shout came pealing up the stair.
"Oh, Jeannette," said Alice, "let me sit down! They have found him, I fear! This is sickening!"
Just at that moment a soldier was seen to dash from the door of the castle and fly across the enclosure and through the gate. This was the sentinel who had taken Paul Lazaire's place; and who, as soon as he found the prisoner gone had himself fled for life and was seen no more.
Speedily a hue and cry was raised. The castle was searched within and without with the utmost minuteness. Vigneau's violence and rage were fearful, and his demeanour that of a wild beast baulked of his prey.
It is needless to say that I was well-nigh overjoyed when Badger brought me the wonderful news of Oswald's deliverance. I gave God praise, for truly it was little less than a miracle. Badger, by some means or other, seemed to be constantly in possession of all information as regarded the movements of the Normans as well as the Saxons. Truly, he seemed ever on the alert. By night he was constantly in conference with the outlaws. Marvellously, also, he gained the goodwill of the Normans, and he became a repository of all their secrets. Unfortunately for us, Vigneau and his men quartered themselves at the abbey; and, fearful for Ethel's safety, I made Badger the bearer of the following letter to Oswald, who had, I was pleased to hear, found a retreat which promised some prospect of immunity from molestation; and, as I said, I had become most nervously anxious for the welfare of Ethel now that Vigneau had taken up his abode so near to her retreat.
"To the most noble and valiant Ealdorman Oswald, greeting.—Having been assured by yourself that you purpose devoting your great wisdom and undoubted valour to the most worthy cause of protecting and succouring your unfortunate and distressed countrymen, in these most perilous times, I would fain bring to your notice that most evil times have befallen the house of your late neighbour, the Thane Beowulf, in that his lands, like your own, have become forfeit. But, what is even more distressing, he, along with his son, has been slain whilst endeavouring to prevent the spoliation of their possessions by the Normans. His lovely and accomplished daughter Ethel had fled to these cloisters for safety; but inasmuch as this most holy sanctuary is involved in the general ruin, being seized by violent hands, and remains at this present in possession and under the control of beings who are little better than fiends—men who have no regard for sacred things, and who in their cruelty and lust spare neither age nor sex—violent hands have been laid upon Ethel, but happily she hath been delivered out of their hands as a 'bird from the fowler,' by the combined address and valour of the bearer of this message. Unfortunately there is no place of safety for her, for the remnant of her father's housecarles and fiefs are a scattered band, and outlaws. She hath for the present, however, found a temporary place of shelter in the dwelling of one of her father's rangers, who hath a rude abode in 'Hooded Crow's Gyll.' But this is at best a precarious refuge, for, as soon as the Normans muster courage to explore the forest, she will inevitably fall into their hands again. If thou canst befriend this orphaned one, the God of the friendless and distressed bless thee! If thou canst offer her a more secure shelter, the bearer of this missive—whom doubtless thou wilt know—may be safely trusted to guide thee to the herdsman's hut. Most sorrowfully I salute thee.
"Adhelm, Abbot,
"Monastery of ——. [symbol: cross]
This epistle duly reached Oswald, who, as I surmised, lost no time in setting about a rescue. Calling Wulfhere, three horses were quickly saddled—one for Oswald, one for Wulfhere, and one for Badger, who was to act as guide.
"Lead the way," said the Earl; "and keep by the hills as far as possible, for the Normans as yet have had no time to spare from their eating, drinking, and plundering, to explore the hill country, and, I doubt not, we shall go unmolested."
With these directions, the three horsemen started off, keeping to the hills, where their vision could sweep the valleys and lowlands with so much accuracy that it would have been impossible for an enemy to come at any time within a couple of miles of steep climbing without being perceived. A little more than an hour's ride brought them to the point from whence they must strike the forest and lowlands. They paused for a minute or two, calmly surveying the hillsides, and minutely scrutinising every object which had any indefiniteness or uncertainty about it. But the curlews swept the long circle of the hills, uttering their plaintive cries, and the hawks glided over the tops of the trees, or darted in and out amongst them to start their prey into the open, or, on poised wing, they rested motionless in the air, scanning with keen vision the ground beneath them, and ready to pounce like a flash upon any luckless mouse or tiny rabbit that had ventured on an excursion from its hole.
"The presence of man—or, at least, of men—is not here," said Oswald, "or these shy denizens of the solitudes of Nature would betray it by their unrest. Lead on, Badger; we shall not be molested, I trust."
So Badger struck out for the lowlands at a rapid pace, presently plunging into the head of the wood which ran up the valley some half-mile beyond the unbroken forest. In the bottom of this valley or gorge, a water-course was speeding away from the hills, occasionally leaping over falls of several yards. But, amongst the unsolvable mysteries of Nature, trout in goodly numbers had penetrated beyond them, and in every pool or temporary resting-place of the waters, these enterprising denizens of the flood abounded. The three followed a rough path by this water-course for a considerable distance, until it merged in the well-nigh interminable forest.
Suddenly Badger diverged from the path, and, dismounting, led his horse through the thicket, putting aside the branches as he passed. Presently a rude dwelling became visible, with a little clearing around it. This was the spot where the herdsman, or, more properly speaking, the ranger, dwelt. It was a rough and primitive sort of building, made of wood. Stout oak limbs, deeply inserted into the ground, and from which the bark had been removed, formed the main supports, whilst the arched roof and interspaces of the sides were interlaced in most fantastic shapes by smaller branches of the oak, all carefully peeled. Upon this framework of oaken branches the roof and sides were dexterously thatched by heather from the neighbouring moor, and over all a rude daubing of mud and lime mixed; the whole making a rude, but, nevertheless, a warm and dry abode. Around the entrance there was a few yards paved with smooth limestone pebbles gathered from the neighbouring brook. Amid these were interspersed most fantastically the knuckle-bones of deer, sheep, wolves, and other animals. Grotesque and whimsical all this seemed, but it jumped with the fancy of the architect, who was literally a child of the forest. Badger, as he drew nigh, heard hasty scuffling of feet and barricading of the door. But when he gave a knock all was as still as death in a moment.
"Hillo, within there!" shouted Badger. "There is nothing but good Saxons here."
The ranger's wife recognised at once the voice of Badger, and undid the door; and the three entered, leaving their horses standing together. Ethel, meanwhile, was listening within in great trepidation, but when she discovered that their unexpected visitants were Saxon, she emerged from an inner room. As her eyes rested upon Oswald, who had removed his helmet, the burning blushes mounted in a deep crimson glow to her face and neck, and she cast an anxiously nervous look at her disarranged toilette.
"Ah!" said Oswald, taking her hand and raising it to his lips, "is this the sweet little Ethel who used to watch us rough boys play at the joust, and fence with our broadswords?—whom we used to accompany through the Bruneswald on her hawking expeditions? Why, how you have grown, too! To be sure, these terrible times have left no opportunities for neighbourly amenities. Why, 'tis three years since I last set eyes upon you. Ah, I know 'tis very sad," said he, as he saw the tears start into her eyes; "but dry those eyes, timid one, we will endeavour to find a covert where you may hide; and we will put about it a girdle of steel, and woe shall be to the Norman who obtrudes his hated presence near."
But these gentle words only seemed to open the floodgates still wider, and the frail frame of the fair girl quivered with emotion. Recently she had passed through sufferings, privations, terrors innumerable; but as she looked upon the mailed warrior before her, it seemed as though a very tower of refuge had been found. The most casual observer would have been powerfully impressed by the striking contrast in these two human beings—Ethel, with her fair complexion, deep blue eyes, and rich tresses of fair hair falling with unkempt gracefulness over her shoulders, being a picture of maidenly grace, and an ideal high-born Saxon maiden; whilst the Earl's tall, muscular frame, well-shapen head, and curly locks, seemed like a modern Hercules made for the times, and equipped by Nature to play a conspicuous part in a troublous epoch,—times, in which personal prowess, dauntless courage, and a commanding presence were essential qualities in one who aspired to be a leader of men.
We can scarcely wonder that there should be a touch of more than wonted gentleness in the tone of his voice, as he spoke to this fair and sorrowing maiden.
"We heard of your misfortunes, fair one," said Oswald, "and we have come to offer you such succour as a dispossessed Saxon can still offer. I fear me it will be but a rude shelter for so gentle a guest. It may be precarious, and subject to alarms, too; but I warrant it shall have a measure of safety, if you will accept of it."
"Thank you, my lord. Alas! that is all that I have to offer for your great kindness. I will gladly accept your offer, and I will try not to be altogether a burden to you."
"Now, my worthy dame," said Oswald, addressing the ranger's wife, "you have done a good deed in sheltering this lady."
"We have but done our duty. She is our lawful mistress. We have fed on her father's bounty, and enjoyed his protection, and the sorrow is to see her brought to this pass."
"Where is thy husband?"
"He is adown the Gyll on the watch."
"Canst thou call him?"
"Presently, my lord, if you wish to see him."
"Yes, let us see his face. We may be able to befriend him, and he us."
The woman reached from the side of the dwelling a small whistle, made from a branch of the plaintain tree, and, going to the door, she blew a low and peculiar note, then listened for a second; but there was no response. Then a little louder she blew the same note. Immediately there came trembling through the wood a response.
"He will be here soon," said the woman, coming back to the dwelling.
Presently, the ranger pressed through the bushes into the enclosure; in one hand a dish of fine trout dangled on a string, and in the other hand a pheasant. But there was no mark of surprise on Bretwul's countenance as he beheld his visitors.
"How now, friend. Thou art not alarmed, I see," said Oswald.
"No; I have one eye for the hills, and another for the dales, and I know a Saxon any gait, and my old comrade Badger in any guise."
"So thou hast busied thyself in securing these dainties for thy mistress, I presume?"
"Yes, I have sent one of my trusty shafts after this dainty bird, and I have poked under a few stones in the brook for these trout. Here," said he, throwing his quiver on the floor, "are a score of cloth-yard shafts, and every one a trusty friend, and never fails. I have taken great pains in the rearing of them. I have tried them all at a mark, and I have all their peculiarities logged up in my brain-pan. I have taken the swerve out of them, as nearly as I can, by paring their heads, and twisting their tails; but they have all a mind of their own at the finish. But I know their minds as well as they know themselves, and I can allow, to a shadow, what they require and I can shoot a Norman's eye out at fourscore paces with any of them. Look, also; all these heads have been made by Sweyn, the Sheffield armourer; all of them forked ye see, and make a dainty little slit between a Norman's ribs as they enter; but gramercy! getting them out, there's the rub! I have been watching for many a day down the Gyll, for the Normans have been getting bold, ransacking the forest in quest of Saxon refugees. A slice of luck, and a crumb of comfort, has fallen to me this morning."
"Oh! Hast thou had some of them within reach of thy cloth-yard shafts, then, this morning?"
"Marry, that I have! and I have tickled one or two of them with a long stick; but they didn't laugh, mark you."
"Oh, then, we'll have thy story, Bretwul, for we are all anxious to hear how they like messages from our woodsmen."
"Well, it came about thus. There is a little path from the valley leads up to our cot. 'Twas worn, before these dogs came, be assured, for we shall make no further tracks, yet awhile. As I was out this morning, on the rough side of my cottage—that is, the side turned to the foe—and on the look-out for them, three or four of these Normans had come across the track, and, of course, they naturally thought there would be something at the end on't. Well, there was something in the middle that satisfied them. No sooner did I see them coming, than I says to myself, 'Come on, my bucks! I've got something warm for you, and you can have it for nothing but love.' I planted myself in the bush not forty paces away, and I selected my choicest shaft. This is him," said he, pulling one out of the quiver, still red with blood. "I'd trust my life on this shaft, master, for he never fails. Well; on they came, and I gave him all the strength of my arm, and plump in the throat my arrow struck the foremost Norman, and he dropped in the path. Gramercy! His fellows didn't even stop to say to him, 'Are you much hurt?' or even to inquire if there was any more of the same sort about; but they turned tail, master, if you believe me, and they ran—why, Badger here couldn't have overhauled them, and he's the nimblest fellow in these parts. Well, I says to myself, 'I should not like you to go empty away, any of you, if I can help it.' So I lodged another of my shafts pretty securely, I warrant, in the buttocks of the last one, and the fellow never halted for a moment to inquire what it was, but he carried off my shaft. I suppose they will be busy now inviting it to come out; but, depend upon it, it will hold its own as closely as any Norman could stick to a Saxon's goods. I've lost a good shaft over him, but it will tickle him for many a day yet; and he'll want nobody to scratch the place, either. There, marry! it's bad manners to stand prating before my betters, but a bit of news of this sort I like, either to hear or tell it."
"It is news good either to hear or tell," said Oswald, "and we shall be glad to hear more of thy stories when thou hast any as good as this. But prithee, my good fellow, what is this bundle of shafts in the corner?"
"These, master, are my youngsters, and they haven't quite finished their schooling. They are trusty shafts enough when you come to close quarters, but, like an unbroken colt, a trifle skittish when accurate work has to be done. I'll make them steady goers by-and-bye. Wife haven't you a drink of mead or a bite of anything for our guests? This is Oswald, our only chieftain in these parts. Don't you remember his coming to the hall and playing joust and broadsword with Master Beowulf? A stout rogue he was, too, in those days. This is Wulfhere, Folkfree and Sacless (lawful freeman); Badger, too, a merry fellow—like myself, though, thrall and bondman, but as trusty a knave, I trow, as breathes."
"I like thy mettle, Bretwul, if such be thy name; but what dost thou purpose to do? Wilt thou stay here and take thy luck single-handed, or dost thou intend to make terms with the Normans, and accept such mercies as they may bestow?"
"'Down with the Normans,' is the Saxon's good word now, and it has been mine from the first. The Bruneswald, and the company of the merry outlaws who range it, would suit me best; but hopping about in the woods, like a squirrel from tree to tree, does not suit the womenfolk and my toddlers. But shift I must now; after to-day's business there will be no staying here. I left yon fellow across the path as a sort of warning to trespassers, but it won't act long, for the Normans will come again in larger numbers, and the game will soon be up."
"Maybe thou hast heard that we have made a stand on the hills yonder?"
"Ay, ay! that I have, master."
"If thou likest to bring thy wife to Tarnghyll, where we are sheltering for the present, she and the little ones will be much safer, and thy wife Eadburgh will be useful to Lady Ethel. By-the-bye, thou hast a brace of falcons and some fishing gear, I see; and I warrant there is a ferret or two in that hutch outside. Every man to his craft, and marry, thine is a serviceable one just now. If thou wilt do thine office for thy mistress and the rest of us, why then bring thy tackle, and thou shalt ply thy craft for us, and be assured we shall not grumble if thou waste an occasional shaft upon the buttocks of any bold or prying Norman. Hast thou any of thy comrades, servants of the worthy Thane Beowulf, hiding hereabouts who are willing to take a new master? If there are, bring them along with thee, for any one sturdy enough to despise the Norman yoke, and anxious to loose a shaft in defence of the Saxon's cause, will be heartily welcomed, for we purpose a venture in which a man who can shoot straight will do us good service."
"That will be blithe news, I trow, for there are a number of the housecarles of the worthy Thane, my late master, who are casting about for something more settled-like than the wolf's-head life of the forest. In truth, there will be a merry gathering of stout outlaws at the hermit's cave on Crowfell at nightfall. I would be keen to carry your message to this trysting. At our last gathering the talk ran much on your defence of the castle, and some of these are forest men and outlaws who range the woods as far south as Sherwood. Anyway, I warrant me the natives of these parts will hear the news with rare glee, for a dalesman likes to keep in the shadow of his hills and fells. Stout men at a push you'll find them, and ready to stand to their weapons with the best, and as slippery as eels when they must shift for themselves. Say the word, and I'll see it runs through these parts like a heather-fire in a stiff breeze."
"Good! Bretwul, stir up these fellows, the more the merrier, for we are not going to play hide-and-seek with these Normans, and the stouter the mustering the better we can deal with them."
Bretwul's wife set before the visitors a stout repast—spoils of the chase and the flood—for Bretwul was an adept at his vocation. The visitors also were well supplied with hunger-sauce, and they did rare justice to it.
"Well, Badger," said Oswald, "you seem to have taken such a liking to your new friends that you could not bear parting with them on any terms, so we must leave you behind, and wish them joy of their friend."
"Gramercy, master, it is true! I am such a simple fellow that I can wag a paw with these Normans in all meekness and humility; but I have a snare or two set on my own account, and the game always finds its way fellward. Leave me alone, I'll wriggle through it somehow; and, by our Lady, I've had no broken bones thus far."
So Oswald, Wulfhere, and Ethel sped them on their way—Ethel being accommodated with the spare horse.
"Come, Ethel, my girl, you must dry those eyes, for I shall take note each day, be assured, to see how the sunshine comes back again to your countenance," said Oswald, pleasantly.
"I am afraid I shall prove to be a great burden, and very little of a help to you in your struggles."
"Oh, yes; you will be just such a burden as the wild flowers, as little tending and as fragrant and beautiful as they."
Ethel blushed scarlet, and made haste to change the subject. "Do you think, my lord, this Norman Count is bent on exterminating all Saxons who do not yield them vassals to him?"
"Nay, Ethel girl, why this formality? I used to be Master Oswald; I pray you let the honest Saxon name suffice. I cannot tell what De Montfort intends, but I fear he will let nothing slip that he can by any means grasp; but I have determined I will know the best or the worst of his intentions. I shall open negotiations with him, and ascertain, if possible, if he purposes we shall dwell in peace and as freemen."
"But you will not venture so far as to put yourself in his power? I pray you, trust them not, for they are insatiable in their cruelty," said Ethel anxiously.
"No fear, Ethel, of my putting myself in his power. Having once tasted the horrors of captivity I shall not risk its repetition rashly; but I have a plan, and I shall speak with him face to face. I may tell you, despite the many reasons we have for undying hatred and no compromise, I have a deep-rooted conviction that for the present, at all events, a truce on reasonable and honourable terms will be immeasurably best for the Saxon cause."
"The land is undoubtedly prostrate, and time is urgently needed ere it can rally once more," said Ethel.