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

by Henry William Herbert

Perpetually remiss, working reluctantly and badly, ever a recusant, a recreant, a sullen and morose grumbler, while he in no respect lightened, but, it is probable, rather enhanced his difficulties, he detracted from what slight hope there might exist of his future emancipation, by carefully, as it would seem, conciliating the ill-opinion and ill-will of all men, whether his equals or his superiors—while he entirely neglected to earn or amass such small sums as might be within his reach, and as might perhaps, in the end, suffice to purchase his liberation.

So long as Kenric and his mother remained in the hamlet of Waltheofstow, and he was permitted to associate with them in their quarter, in consequence of the character for patience, honesty, fidelity, and good conduct, which his brother had acquired with his masters, Eadwulf's temper had been in some sort restrained by the influence, unconfessed indeed, and only half-endured with sullen reluctance, which that brother obtained over him, through his clearer and stronger intellect. But when they had departed, and when he found himself ejected, as a single man in the first place, and yet more as one marked for a bad servant and a dangerous character, from the best cottage in the quarter, to which he had begun to fancy himself of right entitled, he became worse and worse, until, even in the sort of barrack or general lodging of the male slaves of the lowest order, he was regarded by his fellows as the bad spirit of the set, and was never sought by any, unless as the ringleader in some act of villainy, wickedness, or rebellion.

It is probable, moreover, that the beauty and innocence of Edith, who, however averse she might be to the temper and disposition of the man, had been wont, since her betrothal to his brother, to treat him with a certain friendship and familiarity, might have had some influence in modifying his manner, at least, and curbing the natural display of his passionate yet sullen disposition.

Certain it is, that in some sort he loved her—as much, perhaps, as his sensual and unintelligent soul would allow him to love; and though he never had shown any predilection, never had made any effort to conciliate her favor, nor dared to attempt any rivalry of his brother, whom he wholly feared, and half-hated for his assumed superiority, he sorely felt her absence, regretted her liberation from slavery, and even felt aggrieved at it, since he could not share her new condition.

His brother's freedom he resented as a positive injury done to himself; and his bearing away with him the beautiful Edith, soon to become his bride, he looked on in the light of a fraudulent or forcible abstraction of his own property. From that moment, he became utterly brutalized and bad; he was constantly ordered for punishment, and at length he got to such a pitch of idleness, insolence, and rebellion, that Sir Philip de Morville, though, in his reluctance to resort to corporeal punishment, he would not allow him to be scourged or set in the stocks, ordered his seneschal to take steps for selling him to some merchant, who would undertake to transport him to one of the English colonies in Ireland.

Circumstances, however, occurred, which changed the fate both of the master and the slave, and led in the end to the events, which form the most striking portion of the present narrative.

For some time past, as was known throughout all the region, Sir Philip de Morville had been, if not actually at feud, at least on terms of open enmity with the nobleman whose lands marched with his own on the forest side, Sir Foulke d'Oilly—a man well-advanced in years, most of which he had spent in constant marauding warfare, a hated oppressor and tyrant to his tenantry and vassals, and regarded, among his Norman neighbors and comrades, as an unprincipled, discourteous, and cruel man.

With this man, recently, fresh difficulties had arisen concerning some disputed rights of chase, and on a certain day, within a month after the departure of Sir Yvo de Taillebois, the two nobles, meeting on the debatable ground, while in pursuit of the chase, under very aggravating circumstances, the hounds of both parties having fallen on the scent of the same stag, high words passed—a few arrows were shot by the retainers on both sides, Sir Philip's being much the more numerous; a forester of Sir Foulke d'Oilly's train was slain; and, had it not been for the extreme forbearance of De Morville, a conflict would have ensued, which could have terminated only in the total discomfiture of his rival and all his men.

This forbearance, however, effected no good end; for, before the barons parted, some words passed between them in private, which were not heard by any of their immediate followers, and the effect of which was known only by the consequences which soon ensued.

On the following morning, at the break of day, before the earliest of the serfs were summoned to their labors, the castle draw-bridge was lowered, and Sir Philip rode forth on his destrier, completely armed, but followed only by a single esquire in his ordinary attire.