The morning sun was shining brightly one October day, in the year of grace 1067, on the old moated manor of Aescendune, on its clear river and its deep woods, now bright with all the gorgeous tints of autumn.
All the good people of that well-known neighbourhood--well-known we mean to the readers of the former Chronicles--were gathered together in crowds on the green between the castle and the venerable priory of St. Wilfred, founded, as related in the first of these veritable family legends, by Offa of Aescendune.
Many a group of friends and kinsfolk had formed itself, some in eager but not loud discussion, in which the guttural tones of that English, so unlike our own, yet its direct progenitor in language, contrasted sharply with an occasional shout in Norman French from some marshal of the ceremonies, bent on clearing the course for the passage of the coming procession.
A deep gloom sat on many a brow--on nearly every aged one; for many of the youngsters were merry enough.
From the main archway of the old hall issued the bridal procession--whence the funeral of Edmund had but emerged one year before: she, surrounded by such friends and neighbours as yet lived and were permitted to hold their lands up to this time in peace, while he came from a neighbouring castle, newly erected, where he had spent the night with great pomp and state, preceded by heralds with their trumpets, and surrounded by all the knightly robbers who had been already successful in grasping manors and estates round Aescendune.
The Bishop of Coutances, vested in white stole, received them at the door of the priory church, attended by the English prior.
"Hugo," said he, "wilt thou receive Winifred, here present, as thy wedded wife, according to the rites of our Holy Mother the Church?"
"I will," he replied, in firm tones.
"Winifred, wilt thou receive Hugo, here present, as thy wedded husband, according to the rites of our Holy Mother the Church?"
She faltered, trembled, then said: "I will," but all present must have marked her hesitation.