Wager of Battle: A Tale of Saxon Slavery in Sherwood Forest

by Henry William Herbert

In fact, in the twelfth century, the Saxon serf-born man had little more chance of acquiring his freedom, than an English peasant of the present day has of becoming a temporal or spiritual peer of the realm; and, lacking all object for emulation or exertion, these men too often justified the total indifference with which they were looked upon by the owners of the soil. This fact, or rather this condition of things in their physical and moral aspect, has been dwelt upon, somewhat at length, in order to show how it is possible that a gentleman of the highest birth, of intellects, acquirements, ideas of justice and right, vastly more correct than those entertained by the majority of his caste—a gentleman, sensitive, courteous, kindly, the very mirror of faith and honor—should have distorted devotion so noble, faith so disinterested, a sense of honor so high, a piety so pure, as that displayed by Kenric the Dark, in his refusal of the bright jewel liberty, in his eloquent assertion of his rights, his sympathies, his spiritual essence as a man, into an act of outrecuidance, almost into a personal affront to his own dignity. Yet, so it was, and alas! naturally so—for so little was he, or any of his fellows, used to consider his serf in the light of an arguing, thinking, responsible being, that probably Balaam was but little more astonished when his ass turned round on him and spoke, than was Yvo de Taillebois, when the serf of the soil stood up in his simple dignity as a man, and refused to be free, unless those he loved, whom it was his duty to support, cherish, shield, and comfort, might be free together with him. Certain it is, that he left the cottage which he had entered full of gratitude, and eager to be the bearer of good tidings, disappointed, exasperated against Kenric, vexed that his endeavors to prove his gratitude had been frustrated, and equally uncertain how he should disclose the unwelcome tidings to his daughter, and how reconcile to his host the conduct of the Saxon, which he had remained in the hope of fathoming, and explaining to his satisfaction.

In truth, he felt himself indignant and wounded at the unreasonable perduracy of the man, in refusing an inestimable boon, for what he chose to consider a cause so trivial; and this, too, though had he himself been in the donjon of the infidel, expecting momentary death by the faggot or the rack, and been offered liberty, life, empire, immortality, on condition of leaving the least-valued Christian woman to the harem of the Mussulman, he would have spurned the offer with his most arrogant defiance.

This seemed to him much as it would seem to the butcher, if the bull, with the knife at his throat, were to speak up and refuse to live, unless his favorite heifer might be allowed to share his fortunes. It appeared to him wondrous, indeed, but wondrously annoying, and almost absurd. In no respect did it strike him as one of the noblest and most generous deeds of self-abandonment of which the human soul is capable; though, had the self-same offer been spurned, as the slave spurned it, and in the very words which he had found in the rude eloquence of indignation, by belted knight or crowned king, he had unhesitatingly styled it an action of the highest glory, and worthy of immortal record in herald's tale or minstrel's story. Such is the weight of circumstance upon the noblest minds of men.

With his brow bent, and his arms folded on his breast, moodily, almost sorrowfully, did the good knight of Taillebois wend his way back toward the towers of Waltheofstow, making no effort to overtake his brother-in-arms and entertainer, whom he could clearly see stalking along before him, in no more placable mood than himself, but burying himself on his return in his own chamber, whence he made his appearance no more that evening; though he might hear Sir Philip storming through the castle, till the vaulted halls and passages resounded from barbican to battlement.

Meantime, in the lowly cottage of the serf—for the lord, though angry and indignant, had not failed of his plighted word—the lykewake of the dead boy went on—for that was a Saxon no less than a Celtic custom, though celebrated by the former with a sort of stolid decorum, as different as night is from day from the loud and barbarous orgies of their wilder neighbors.

The consecrated tapers blazed around the swathed and shrouded corpse, and sent long streams of light through the open door and lattices of the humble dwelling, as though it had been illuminated for a high rejoicing. The death hymn was chanted, and the masses sung by the gray brothers from the near Saxon cloister. The dole to the poor had been given, largely, out of the lord's abundance; and the voices of the rioting slaves, emancipated from all servitude and sorrow, for the nonce, by the humming ale and strong metheglin, were loud in praises of their bounteous master, until, drenched and stupefied with liquor, and drunk with maudlin sorrow, they staggered off to their respective dens, to snore away the fumes of their unusual debauch, until aroused at dawn by the harsh cry of the task-master.

By degrees the quiet of the calm summer night sank down over the dwelling and garden of Kenric, as guest after guest departed, until no one remained save one old Saxon brother, who sat by the simple coffin, telling his beads in silence, or muttering masses for the soul of the dead, apparently unconscious of any thing passing around him.

The aged woman had been removed, half by persuasion, half by gentle force, from the dwelling-room, and had soon sunk into the heavy and lethargic slumber which oftentimes succeeds to overwhelming sorrow. The peaceful moonlight streamed in through the open door of the cheerless home, like the grace of heaven into a disturbed and sinful heart, as one by one the tapers flickered in their sockets and expired. The shrill cry of the cricket, and the peculiar jarring note of the night-hawk, replaced the droning of the monkish chants, and the suppressed tumult of vulgar revelry; but, though there was solitude and silence without, there was neither peace nor heart-repose within.

Sorely shaken, and cruelly gored by the stag in trunk and limbs, and yet more sorely shaken in his mind by the agitation and excitement of the angry scene with his master, and by the internal conflict of natural selfishness with strong conscientious will, Kenric lay, with his eyes wide open, gazing on his dead nephew, although his mind was far away, with his head throbbing, and his every nerve jerking and tense with the hot fever.

But by his side, soothing his restless hand with her caressing touch, bathing his burning temples with cold lotions, holding the soft medicaments to his parched lips, beguiling his wild, wandering thoughts with gentle lover's chidings, and whispering of better days to come, sat the fair slave girl, Edith, his promised wife, for whose dear sake he had cast liberty to the four winds, and braved the deadly terrors of the unforgiving Norman frown.