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.