Emboldened by success, he extended his ravages, till his deeds could no longer be ignored.[662] Stephen, at length fairly roused, marched in strength against him, determined to suppress the revolt. But the earl, skilfully avoiding an encounter in the open field, took refuge in the depths of the fenland and baffled the efforts of the king. Finding it useless to prolong the chase, Stephen fell back on his usual policy of establishing fortified posts to hem the rebels in. In these he placed garrisons, and so departed.[663]
Geoffrey was now at his worst. Checked in extending his sphere of plunder, he ravaged, with redoubled energy, the isle itself. His tools, disguised as beggars, wandered from door to door, to discover those who were still able to relieve them from their scanty stores. The hapless victims of this stratagem were seized at dead of night, dragged before the earl as a great prize, and exposed in turn to every torture that a devilish ingenuity could devise till the ransom demanded by their captors had been extorted to the uttermost farthing.[664] I cannot but think that the terrible picture of the cruelties which have made this period memorable for ever in our history was painted by the Peterborough chronicler from life, and that these very doings in his own neighbourhood inspired his imperishable words.
Nor was it only the earl that the brethren of Ely had to fear. Stephen, infuriated at the loss of the isle, laid the blame at their bishop's door, and seized all those of their possessions which were not within the earl's grasp. The monks, thus placed "between the devil and the deep sea," were indeed at their wits' end.[665] A very interesting reference to this condition of things is found in a communication from the pope to Archbishop Theobald, stating that Bishop Nigel of Ely has written to complain that he found on his return from Rome that Earl Geoffrey, in his absence, had seized and fortified the isle, and ravaged the possessions of his church within it, while Stephen had done the same for those which lay without it. As it would seem that this document has not been printed, I here append the passage:—
"Venerabilis frater noster N. elyensis episcopus per literas suas nobis significavit quod dum apostolicorum limina et nostram presentiam visitasset, Gaufridus comes de mandeuilla elyensem insulam ubi sedes episcopalis est violenter occupavit et quasdam sibi munitiones in ea parauit. Occupatis autem ab ipso comite interioribus, Stephanus rex omnes ejusdem ecclesie possessiones exteriores occupavit et pro voluntate sua illicite distribuit."[666]
This letter would seem to have been written subsequent to Nigel's return. The bishop, however, had heard while at Rome of these violent proceedings,[667] and had prevailed on Lucius to write to Theobald and his fellow-bishops, complaining—
"Quod a quibusdam parrochianis vestris bona et possessiones elyensis ecclesie, precipue dum ipse ab episcopatu expulsus esset, direpta sunt et occupata et contra justitiam teneantur. Quidam etiam sub nomine tenseriarum villas et homines suos spoliant et injustis operationibus et exaccionibus opprimunt."[668]
But the bishop was not the only sufferer who turned to Rome for help. When Stephen installed the ambitious Daniel as Abbot of Ramsey in person, Walter, the late abbot, had sought "the threshold of the Apostles." Daniel, whether implicated or not in Geoffrey's sacrilegious deeds, found himself virtually deposed when the abbey became a fortress of the earl. Alarmed also for the possible consequence of Walter's appeal to Rome, he resolved to follow his example and betake himself to the pope, trusting to the treasure that he was able to bring.[669] The guileless simplicity of Walter, however, carried the day; he found favour in the eyes of the curia and returned to claim his abbey.[670] But though he had been absent only three months, the scene was changed indeed. That which he had left "the House of God," he found, as we have seen, "a den of thieves." But the "dove" who had pleaded before the papal court could show himself, at need, a lion. Filled, we are told, with the Holy Spirit, he entered, undaunted, the earl's camp, seized a flaming torch, and set fire not only to the tents of his troopers, but also to the outer gate of the abbey, which they had made the barbican of their stronghold. But neither this novel adaptation of the orthodox "tongues of fire," nor yet the more appropriate anathemas which he scattered as freely as the flames, could convert the mailed sinners from the error of their unhallowed ways. Indeed, it was almost a miracle that he escaped actual violence, for the enraged soldiery threatened him with death and brandished their weapons in his face.[671]
In the excited state of the minds of those by whom such sights were witnessed, portents would be looked for, and found, as signs of the wrath of Heaven. Before long it was noised abroad that the very walls of the abbey were sweating blood, as a mark of Divine reprobation on the deeds of its impious garrison.[672] Far and wide the story spread; and men told with bated breath how they had themselves seen and touched the abbey's bleeding walls. Among those attracted by the wondrous sight was Henry, Archdeacon of Huntingdon, who has recorded for all time that he beheld it with his own eyes.[673] And as they spoke to one another of the miracle, in which they saw the finger of God, the starving peasants whispered their hopes that the hour of their deliverance was at hand.
The time, indeed, had come. As the now homeless abbot wandered over the abbey's lands, sick at heart, in weariness and want, the sights that met his despairing eyes were enough to make him long for death.[674] Barely a plough remained on all his broad demesnes; all provisions had been carried off; no man tilled the land. Every lord had now his castle, and every castle was a robber's nest.[675] In vain he boldly appealed to Earl Geoffrey himself, warning him to his face that he and his would remain cut off from the communion of Christians till the abbey was restored to its owners. The earl listened with impatience, and gave him a vague promise; but he kept his hold of the abbey.[676] The heart of the spoiler was hardened like that of Pharaoh of old, and not even miracles could move him to part with his precious stronghold.[677]
But if Ramsey had thus suffered, what had been the fate of Ely? A bad harvest, combined with months of systematic plunder, had brought about a famine in the land. For the space of twenty or even thirty miles, neither ox nor plough was to be seen; barely could the smallest bushel of grain he bought for two hundred pence. The people, by hundreds and thousands, were perishing for want of bread, and their corpses lay unburied in the fields, a prey to beasts and to fowls of the air. Not for ages past, as it seemed to the monks, had there been such tribulation upon earth.[678] Nor were the peasants the only sufferers. Might was then right, for all classes, throughout the land;[679] the smaller gentry were themselves seized, and held, by their captors, to ransom. As they heard of distant villages in flames, as they gazed on strings of captives dragged from their ravaged homes, the words of the psalmist were adapted in the mouths of the terrified monks: "They bind the godly with chains, and the nobles with links of iron."[680] In the mad orgie of wickedness neither women nor the aged were spared. Ransom was wrung from the quivering victims by a thousand refinements of torture. In the groans of the sufferers, in the shrieks of the tortured, men beheld the fulfilment of the words of St. John the Apostle, "In those days shall men ... desire to die, and death shall flee from them."[681]