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Title: The Last of the Vikings

Author: John Bowling

Release date: May 7, 2011 [eBook #36054]

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Lindy Walsh, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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THE LAST OF THE VIKINGS.

by

JOHN BOWLING

Author of "Brailsford: A Tale of West Riding Life," etc.







London:
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co.
Leeds: Henry Walker, Briggate.

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury



[Illustration: SAXON AND VIKING. "THE CURSE OF SKULD BE UPON THEE,
TRAITOR!"]




CONTENTS.


         I. ETHEL

        II. STORM CLOUDS

       III. TRAITORS IN COUNCIL

        IV. DEFEAT

         V. DESPERATE RESOLVES

        VI. BARON VIGNEAU

       VII. ALICE DE MONTFORT

      VIII. VILLAINS PLOTTING

        IX. VILLAINS OUTWITTED

         X. A FRUITLESS EMBASSY

        XI. OSWALD'S DEFENCE OF HIS CASTLE

       XII. ALICE DE MONTFORT SETS FREE THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN

      XIII. BARON VIGNEAU BALKED OF HIS REVENGE

       XIV. THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN CONFRONTS DE MONTFORT

        XV. OUTLAWS AND WOLFSHEADS

       XVI. SIGURD THE VIKING

      XVII. EVIL COUNSELLORS

     XVIII. LOVE IS STRONGER THAN HATE

       XIX. ALICE DE MONTFORT AND THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN

        XX. WAR'S VICISSITUDES

       XXI. VIKING CHIEF AND SAXON MAIDEN

      XXII. A VIKING'S LOVE

     XXIII. A VILLAIN DEMANDS HIS WAGES

      XXIV. THE TRYST

       XXV. BADGER CRACKS THE NORMAN'S PATE

      XXVI. SAXON AND VIKING AT THE SWORD'S POINT

     XXVII. JEANNETTE AND WULFHERE; OR LOVE'S COMEDIES

    XXVIII. A GRIM TEMPLE, A GRIM PRIEST, AND A SAD HEART

      XXIX. EDGAR ATHELING

       XXX. PRINCE AND PARASITE

      XXXI. PRINCE AND VIKING

     XXXII. BADGER ON THE ALERT

    XXXIII. DOG ROBS DOG

     XXXIV. WILD DARING OF SIGURD THE VIKING

      XXXV. THE SAXON DEVIL AND THE WICKED ABBOT

     XXXVI. LOVERS PLOTTING

    XXXVII. THE JOUST: SAXON AND NORMAN

   XXXVIII. THE SAXONS' REVENGE

     XXXIX. BEWARE THE VIKING

        XL. THE HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN

       XLI. NOBILITY IN CONTRAST

      XLII. VIKINGS ALL! AN OLD TIME SAGA

     XLIII. THE CONQUEROR CONQUERED

      XLIV. THE LAST OF THE VIKINGS

       XLV. SUNSHINE HAS ITS SHADOWS




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


SAXON AND VIKING. "THE CURSE OF SKULD BE UPON THEE, TRAITOR!"

ALICE DE MONTFORT SETS FREE THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN.

THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN CONFRONTS DE MONTFORT.




NOTE.


From "Smith's History of Old Yorkshire" we learn that one Arthur Clapham
in the year 1066 was possessed of several hides of land near Lambeth in
Surrey, and also of the domain of Clapham in Yorkshire. But by opposing
the Conqueror he lost his lands in the South of England. He then fled
into the wilds of Craven in Yorkshire, and built a stronghold, on the
brow of Ingleboro', (the remains of which are still visible) and he
founded the village of Clapham in the valley beneath. In 1068, however,
the said Arthur by marrying a daughter of Robert, Earl of
Northumberland, was restored to the confidence and favour of William,
and had lands granted to him in Lonsdale.




THE LAST OF THE VIKINGS

(_From the Monastic Chronicles of ----._)




CHAPTER I.

ETHEL.

            "Be just and fear not.
    Let all thou aim'st at be thy country's,
    Thy God's, and truth's."

    Shakespeare.


I, Adhelm, Abbot of this monastery of ----, being eye-witness, and
likewise participator in the unhappy times my beloved country was
subjected to, in consequence of the Norman Conquest and the troublous
times which followed, it occurred to me to make a record of these things
after the example of the beloved Bede, whose "Chronicles" are so justly
esteemed by those who are concerned in the history of our ancient race.

I would have it known, then, by all those who are interested in the
matter, that this ancient monastery was founded by that wise and good
king, Alfred, who assigned unto it, for revenue, one hundred and twenty
hides of land; all of which was well wooded and watered, being fertile
and free. That is, with sack and sock, toll and team, and infang-thief.
It pleased him also, in furtherance of his purpose, to lay charges upon
certain thegns and nobles, who had lands adjacent to this monastery
assigned to them by him, that they should annually pay to the monastery
for the maintenance of the brotherhood, and for the purpose of defraying
the cost of its extensive charities and hospitalities, one hundred and
fifty loads of wood, and twenty-five loads of faggots; together with
thirty-five tuns of pure ale; seventy beasts, ready for slaughter;
twelve hundred loaves; fifty-six measures of Welsh ale; sixteen butts of
wine; six horses; and one hundred and thirty pounds, ten shillings, of
money. Now, as to all other matters, such as the particulars of lands
and farms, church and cloister, granges, Abbot's and Prior's lodgings,
which may be of interest to some, but which are not material to this
narrative; I refer all such to our carticularies, in which all these
particulars were carefully noted by our sacristan. Enough, however, has
now been said to show that in the merely worldly point of view, this
monastery was, when in peaceful enjoyment of its emoluments, a
foundation of no mean order. In consequence also of its bounties it
attracted palmers, minstrels, newsbearers, from all parts of the
kingdom. Thus I had exceptional opportunities of learning how the
kingdom fared.

       *       *       *       *       *

Adown the valley one bright September morning, in the year 1066, was
speeding Ethel, the only daughter of the Danish thane Beowulf, who is
lord of the domain of Rivenwood, and whose hall looks down from the
wooded heights in the distance like a grim sentinel. This fair girl
Ethel was probably not more than fifteen years of age--just at the
juncture where coy and blushing maidenhood, with its unconscious
assumptions of grace and dignity, joins issue with the freer and bolder
manners of girlhood, and when the wholesome, innocent, and graceful
blending is wholly interesting, and often most piquant. Most piquant
indeed, at all events, was this graceful specimen of budding womanhood.
Her brow was open and expressive, her countenance somewhat broad, in
sympathy with her manner of life; the free, unfettered, and merry
out-of-door life of sylvan England. Her blue eyes glanced, and sparkled,
and glowed, betokening a mind responsive and alert as the falcon which
perched upon her embroidered leathern gauntlet. Her nose was perfectly
straight, but had just so much of an upward trend as to indicate the
point positive, and the attitude--"beware all." Upon her head she wore a
sort of cap of blue silk, broad at the crown and drooping over the broad
scarlet band with which it was bound. In the front of this head-dress
stood erect a couple of eagles' feathers; whilst from underneath it the
flaxen curls, like the fetterless things they were, burst luxuriantly,
and circled across her forehead and over her ears; and though the wanton
tresses were captured again at the back of her head, yet they burst away
again and ran riot over her shoulders and down to her girdle. Of
jewellery, she wore a handsome gold torc which encircled her neck, on
which, and on the pendants attached thereto, were skilfully engraved
strange mystical runic devices. She wore a mantle trimmed with fur,
which on this occasion flowed loosely down her back, leaving free her
arms, but which, at needs be, became a cloak covering the upper parts of
her body entirely. Her under dress was of woollen material and
tight-fitting, whilst her sandals had a stout sole of leather with
toe-piece and overstraps of prepared deer skin. Accompanying this fair
girl was a favourite maid, and one of her father's housecarles who
filled the office of ranger and provider for the household, in the
matters of fish and game. At his heels there followed a couple of dogs,
whilst on his left arm there perched a falcon with all his furniture on.
On Ethel's arm also there perched another falcon, ready for flight.

"Let the dogs go now, Bretwul, for we should have good sport hereabouts,
and have a capital view of it too, on this hillside," said the maiden.

At a word of encouragement from Bretwul the dogs, with wagging tails,
immediately clapped nose to ground, and commenced threading in and out
amongst the gorse and brushwood to start the game. Presently a loud
fluttering of wings and a scream, sent the hawks into a violent
agitation, and a handsome-plumaged pheasant took to wing. Ethel
immediately whipped off the hood of her hawk, and quick almost as a
flash of lightning it covered the helpless quarry. Then down it swooped,
and a struggling mass of feathers and mingled plumage came fluttering to
the ground.

"Oh, that is wretchedly poor, Bretwul!" exclaimed Ethel impatiently. "I
like a good long chase which puts master Grey-eye thoroughly upon his
mettle. Such sluggard creatures as that one are poor sport. Come, let us
climb higher, for amid yon gorse and bracken on the hill we shall meet
with partridge, moorfowl, or perhaps, better still, a woodcock. Then we
shall test the mettle of little Grey-eye." So together they clambered
through the brackened steep, until they reached the fringe of the
heather which crowned the brow of the hill. Soon they espied a covey of
grouse racing along before them stealthily amid the cover; but promptly
these sprang aloft with whirring sound of wing, and loud, peculiar
cries. Ethel again unhoods her favourite falcon, Grey-eye, and flings
him towards the game. But the falcon has another matter in hand than
that of bringing down a sluggard pheasant; for moorfowl, when fairly on
the wing, scud along like the wind. Immediately also when they perceived
the enemy in pursuit they changed their tactics, and, quitting the
mountain side, made a dart for the valley, where shelter was to be had.
Plump and heavy, the descent suits them more than the falcon; and with
impetuous whirl they rush along with incredible speed. It seems as
though the hawk will never head them! The valley is reached, and the
moorfowl, flying low, are hidden from view by the tops of the trees; but
the hawk can be seen scudding along above them.

"Oh, my poor Grey-eye, you are beaten this time, I do believe!" cried
Ethel. But just at that moment there was an arrow-like swoop. "Bravo!"
she shouted. "He has struck his quarry, for he never swoops to miss!
Come along, Bretwul, or he will gorge himself, and then he will fly no
more to-day, the greedy little glutton!" Then away she raced down the
rough declivity, leaving her maid panting and trembling far behind.

"There she goes! there she goes! Plague on the girl!" ejaculated
Bretwul. "Did ever mortal see such a girl? She's like a two-year-old
filly that has never had bit in mouth or harness to back; and if she
throw out a splint or strain a fetlock, why then the old thane will
cozen my back with a cudgel, and call me a lazy lout of a churl. Come
along, Eadburgh, my buxom lass, I have finished my wattled cote in the
dell yonder, and if we come well out of this, we'll get the girl to
wheedle the master for us, and then it will be done in a twinkling; for
he's ready enough when Dame Ethel lays on the butter." So together they
stumbled after their mistress with might and main.

But the girl mood was uppermost in the damsel now, and away she flew
down the hill with her long hair streaming behind her, giving never a
thought to man or maid. She came to a halt, however, when she reached
the spot where apparently Grey-eye had made his swoop. But not a trace
of either falcon or victim was to be seen. In vain she blew a tiny
silver whistle with which she was wont to call her hawks. There was no
response. "The greedy fellow is gorging himself I doubt not, Bretwul,"
cried Ethel impatiently. "If you feed him before flying he is too lazy
to exert himself, and if he hunt on an empty stomach he must needs turn
glutton after this fashion."

At that moment the clear blast of a hunter's horn in the distance broke
upon the ears of the three seekers, and Ethel, hastily turning in the
direction, exclaimed, "Oh, dear me! Eadburgh, straighten my hair for me,
quick. Do I look a gowk? Do be quick! Straighten my cloak out. Those
gallant gentlemen are returning who would not let me take part in the
boar hunt because I was a _girl_, honest Beowulf was pleased to say. But
Master Oswald was no better, though he has spent so much time about the
court, and, I am told, carried off the Queen's favour at the tilt ground
at Westminster, and that too against the picked squires of Normandy. I
suppose I was only a _girl_ in his eyes too, though he was not pleased
to say it, like Beowulf. Never mind, I will let them see I can amuse
myself, and find good sport too, without them."

Presently a couple of horsemen issued from the forest, clad in hunters'
attire, with a green baldric over their shoulders and down to their
waists, from which was suspended a hunter's horn. These two were quickly
followed by a retinue of rangers, serving men, and hounds, with the
weapons of the chase--boar spears, javelins, and short swords; whilst
over the backs of a couple of horses were thrown the carcasses of a pair
of wild boar, the fruit of their morning's chase.

No sooner did these young chieftains set eyes on Ethel than the
countenance of the younger of them was wreathed in smiles, and snatching
his bugle from his belt he blew a mocking blast in the ear of the
damsel; then, in the blandest of tones, and with an assumption of mock
gallantry, he saluted the maiden: "Bon matin, madame. Are you taking a
little _gentle_ exercise in company of your maid?" and he doffed his
hunter's bonnet and made a most pretentious bow.

"I beg your pardon, gallant sir," retorted Ethel, with a gracious
inclination, parodying with inimitable grace and humour his mock
gallantry, "but if it please you, sir, I am not taking a little _gentle_
exercise in company of my maid, I am hawking, as you may easily see if
you care to."

"Oh, I see quite easily, madame. So you determined to have a little
sport all to yourself because we disdained the company of a lady at our
boar hunt?" said the young man, with a twinkle in his eye.

"You have hit it quite wonderfully, sir; which is very remarkable. We
take note of your behaviour, for, although we do not go to court, we
hear about your pranking it about with grand Norman dames and knights
errant, and we expected something quite different from you than from
Beowulf here. But I have lost my hawk hereabouts, so make amends for
your past conduct. Get down, brother Beowulf; and you too, sir; you have
travelled in France, so show your chivalry and your gallantry by getting
down and helping me seek my hawk."

"I bow most humbly to your imperious commands, noble lady," said Oswald
again, doffing his bonnet in mock humility.

Meanwhile, honest Beowulf sat almost dumbfounded whilst this passage of
wit was proceeding, though he only dimly comprehended what this
new-fangled jargon meant; but his choler was rising rapidly during the
process. "Now, drop it fooling, you two!" he at length broke out. "You,
Ethel, would imitate Master Oswald and be off to court too, for all your
japes and jokes about his pranking and parading it with the grand folks,
if we did not tie a clog about your neck for you. I know very well what
passes in that jay's noddle of yours, though you think I'm a numskull,
Mistress Ethel."

This outburst of sturdy Beowulf's was greeted by the pair with a shout
of hilarious laughter.

"Now don't make asses of yourselves," grunted brother Beowulf.
"Whereabouts did you lose your hawk, Ethel?"

"Why, hereabouts, Beowulf. Did you not hear me? He was pursuing moorfowl
from the hill, and he appeared to strike his quarry just in this place."

"If that be so, I warrant the headlong flight of the stricken bird would
carry them much farther down the slope," said Oswald.

"A bright idea, I do declare, Master Oswald," exclaimed Ethel. "We never
thought of that, Bretwul. You will gain some repute for wit, neighbour
Oswald, if you brighten up like this."

"I am much obliged for your condescension, lady; I feel highly honoured
and greatly flattered by your compliment;" and again he made pretence of
a low obeisance.

"Oh, don't take it too seriously, sir; but we will take your hint,
nevertheless." So the party extended their search, and presently they
discovered the falcon and his prey beneath a tree--the hawk having
improved the time by stripping the bird of its plumage, and gorging
himself with the flesh and blood of his victim.

"There, you greedy creature," exclaimed Ethel, as she set eyes on the
falcon. "You will fly no more to-day, I suppose, you glutton! I think
you had better hood him at once, Bretwul, and take him home; and I will
join this party of gallants--by their permission, of course--and if they
should now deem it quite safe for a lady to do so."

So the two young chieftains and Ethel headed the company, and steadily
they pressed homeward to the rough and primitive, but nevertheless
hospitable hall of Beowulf the Dane.




CHAPTER II.

STORM CLOUDS.

    "Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
    Hath but a losing office; and his tongue
    Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
    Remembered knolling a departed friend."

    Shakespeare.


"Whilst the cooks are busy with our spoil, Beowulf, I propose we
practise at the joust," said Oswald. "Rumour hath it this Count William,
of Normandy, is collecting an army in order to eject our rightful Saxon
king, Harold, from the throne, and ere long we may have these Norman
knights tilting through the ranks of our simple yeomen, who are unused
to this method of warfare; and King Harold and his brothers would be
pleased to have sturdy comrades who would be a match for the Norman at
his own weapons," remarked Oswald.

"Leave the joust to Norman fops, say I, neighbour Oswald, and their
tilting methods to our hardy pikemen, who will know how to deal with
them, never fear. The honest Saxon broadsword is a match for any weapon,
I warrant you. As for this new-fangled Norman joust, as they call it,
why I despise it. Playing at war, with women looking on, and waving
their 'kerchiefs, and simpering, and whimpering about--bah! I wonder
you'll meddle with such stuff, neighbour!" growled Beowulf
contemptuously.

"Thank you, Beowulf, for your compliments, but if I am permitted to
witness your feat of arms, I'll endeavour not to 'simper and whimper
about' if it annoys you. But you men folk can find nothing better to do
than play at war, I know, and therefore I rule it shall be with both the
broadsword and lance," said Ethel.

"Agreed!" cried Oswald; "and our fair cousin Ethel shall be queen of
beauty _à la joute_."

"Mind you don't make a fool or a dolt of yourself, neighbour Oswald,
with your Norman fooleries. But I'll humour you in your folly for the
sake of a bout with the broadsword, in honest Saxon fashion," growled
Beowulf.

When they reached the hall the two young men retired to the armoury, and
presently reappeared clad in complete armour, several lances being borne
by the housecarles. The pair then sprang into their saddles, and Oswald,
partly to joke his opponent, careened round in a circle, mimicking the
gallantry of the Normans, displaying the paces of his charger and his
skill in horsemanship. As he passed Ethel, in mock seriousness he dipped
the point of his lance in salutation of her as queen of beauty. Ethel
endeavoured to disguise it, but the crimson blushes suffused her
countenance for an instant; but there was a quick revolt of maidenly
dignity; her eye flashed, and her foot beat the ground impatiently, as
she exclaimed under her breath,--"I presume he thinks I am but a child
to tease and joke."

Presently the pair took up a position some twenty paces apart, and
prepared to charge. Ethel, fearful of her brother's temper, which was
most uncertain, cried to them, "Will you remember this is but play, and
see you two don't come to blows in good earnest? for I know by
experience that brother Beowulf flies into a rage with me if I poke fun
at him, and what he will do if you poke him in the ribs with that ugly
weapon, Master Oswald, I know not."

"Go to, wench, your tongue is too ready! You would be better seen
superintending the wenches who are roasting hogsflesh, than wagging your
tongue in the presence of men." Then, turning to his friend and comrade
Oswald, he said, "Now, sir, are you ready? Let us be done with this
Norman folly as soon as maybe."

So they laid their lances in rest, and prepared to tilt. Oswald was much
more tall and lithe than his opponent, and much more skilful in the
handling of his charger. Indeed, it seemed almost as though one mind
animated the pair. Beowulf was rather older, bulkier in build, and
better set up, being twenty-three. But he cherished a deep-rooted
aversion and contempt of the Norman leaven which had been stealing over
the land during the late reign of Edward the Confessor, and his pet
aversion was the mode of warfare current amongst Norman gentlemen; and
so he never practised it, except on occasions like the present.

"Now, sirs," iterated Ethel, still fearful, "and especially you,
Beowulf, don't get mad and knock each other's heads off, I tell you
again!"

"Hold your tongue, chattering magpie, and go inside as I bid you! That
is where petticoated jades like you should be when weapons are about,"
said Beowulf. "Now, come on, sir. If we listen to her she'll prate like
a half-fed fowl by the hour together."

So the tilt commenced, and continued for some time, more in play than in
dead earnest, Oswald showing his superior skill by striking Beowulf how
and where he pleased, at the same time handling his horse so perfectly
that Beowulf found no opportunity of striking him squarely. The rough
knocks which he receives, and his want of skill, are most exasperating
to Beowulf, especially so when at last by a skilful manoeuvre Oswald
flings his charger's flank round, bringing his head broadside on of his
opponent, and then ignominiously tilts him out of his saddle to the
ground. Beowulf sprang to his feet, mad with rage, and shouted,--

"Come down from that perch! I'll soon give you quits with a better
weapon!" and away he marched for a couple of broadswords.

Forgetting her dignity in her anxiety over Beowulf's temper, Ethel
tripped up to Oswald and with girlish freedom grasped his arm. "Now,
Master Oswald, you have driven Beowulf mad, as I thought you would. If I
may use his not very complimentary term, I would say, Will you, to
please a _jade_ like me, take care to come off second best in this
sword-play, if it be only to mollify him? for if you don't I am afraid
he will be quite furious."

Oswald laughed and stroked the fair hair of the maiden as he remarked,
"It is well advised, my bright-eyed little dame; I do believe that fair
face is index to a kindly and wholesome mother-wit."

Presently Beowulf returned with a couple of broadswords, but his temper
had abated nothing in the interval. The quick-witted and irrepressible
Ethel noticed this at once, and she banteringly called out to him, "Now,
brother Beowulf, remember this is only sword-play. Don't go and cut
Master Oswald's head off!"

"What! you are still there, are you, jade? I saw you titter when Master
Oswald pushed me out of the saddle. When I've dealt with him, I'll give
you a taste of an ash sapling, since you won't mend your manners when
told."

Ethel burst into a most provoking, merry laugh. "Thank you, brother
Beowulf, for your good intentions; but haven't I told you many times
before, that ash sapling hasn't grown yet?"

"Go to, you chit, you provoke me past endurance!" and he made for her in
an ungovernable rage; but Ethel turned and fled like a gazelle, and
Beowulf knew by past experience that to catch the fleet-footed maiden
was a hopeless task, so he returned to his sword-play.

The diversion of Beowulf's wrath, however, did good, and especially as
Oswald took Ethel's hint, and was clearly second best. So Beowulf's good
humour was completely restored when Ethel pronounced Oswald victor at
the joust, and Beowulf at sword-play. Then Ethel grasped Beowulf's arm,
and they adjourned to the hall.

"How shocking of you, brother Beowulf, to talk of using an ash sapling
to a young lady! You quite humiliated me in Master Oswald's eyes."

"Now go to, Ethel! If you don't give up teasing me I shall do something
to you I shall have to repent of some time."

"Oh, no, you won't, brother Beowulf, I know better than that," said
Ethel, with true sisterly affection.

The castle, or what is more correct, the hall of the Thane Beowulf made
no pretension to architectural style or beauty. It was like its master,
rough, but stout and of massive build. One saw the stoutness of its
walls by a glance at its deep mullion windows, and its massive doors,
formed of double layers of oak, securely fastened and strengthened by
iron bands and bolts. In the large hall there was set a long table down
the centre, loaded with viands and large jugs of ale. Down each side of
the hall also there were side tables, where the housecarles and villeins
fed. But the centre table was reserved for guests, and the more favoured
retainers of the thane. A glance round the hall told at once that
Beowulf still held by the heathenish customs which his viking ancestors
brought over with them. For, conspicuous everywhere, upon wood and stone
and vessels, were carved the characters and devices of their
superstition, known as runes. Here and there also there looked down upon
the banqueters the carved images of Thor and Woden.

On the thane's right hand sat his daughter Ethel, who, since the death
of her mother many years ago, had become a greatly privileged object of
his affection. On his left sat Oswald, son of a Saxon chieftain who had
extensive lands in a neighbouring valley. At the foot of the table sat
his son, who took his own name of Beowulf.

"I hear you have been out hawking to-day, Ethel girl," said the grizzled
old thane, turning to his daughter.

"Yes, father, brother Beowulf said it wasn't fitting for a girl like me
to go to the boar hunt, and Master Oswald then, to his shame, never
spoke a word in my favour, so I must needs perforce stay at home.
Therefore I went out hawking; for brother Beowulf kindly allows that."

"Ha, ha!" giggled the old thane gleefully; "thou art a wild slip of a
girl; too much wit for honest Beowulf. But curb thy tongue," he
continued, stroking her fair hair. "He means thee well. He is honest, is
Beowulf, and brave too. He will do! He will do! Like his old father
maybe, not overloaded with wit, but honest, and never turned back on
friend or foe."

The banquet proceeded in very hearty fashion, which atoned for its
roughness. But there seldom sat at the thane's table any guest afflicted
with a squeamish appetite. So beef, venison, pork, and sundries, along
with wheaten cake and ale, disappeared at an alarming rate.

Whilst the banquet was proceeding, one of the housecarles drew near and
whispered to the thane that Saxon runners had arrived with messages from
the king which permitted no delay.

"Have them ushered in. Kings will be obeyed," said the thane; "and
truly, if they rule well, honest men will never be slack to obey."

So these messengers were ushered in, and the thane addressed them: "What
be your message, gallant fellows, that will not tarry till we have fed,
and ye yourselves have tasted our hospitality? Speak out, men! we have
no secrets here!"

"If it please you, worthy thane, the king hath sent round the war arrow,
and summons all loyal gentlemen, together with their men-at-arms, to
repair to him at York instantly; for the Danes be landed in the Humber
under King Hardrada. Also, Count William, of Normandy, hath prepared him
a fleet of vessels, a thousand in number, and threatens an invasion of
the southern coasts."

"Ye bear a sorry message, my worthy fellows, truly, but ye have only
done your errand. But if two overladen mountain torrents join their
forces in one pent-up little burn, there follows desolation in their
wake. A sorry day for merry England, this, gentlemen--north and south
together distraught."

Then, addressing his guests and retainers, he said, "My guests are their
own masters in this matter. But the men of my household--my son, my
retainers and vassals--most of us come of viking stock; and it may be
sorry work to march against these Danes. But we live on the land, and we
must defend the land."

Immediately a wild shout of approval greeted that saying.

"Further, these greedy plunderers will treat us as Saxons, nor spare
aught we have of goods or cattle; or even our lives. So in this quarrel
we are Saxons, and we will prove it at the sword's point."

This also was greeted with shouts of approval. So the feast came
abruptly to an end. The guests withdrew, to meet again within a week to
do battle with the Danes at Stanford Bridge, since known as
Battle-bridge, and from thence to Hastings' bloody field.




CHAPTER III.

TRAITORS IN COUNCIL.

    "Treason doth never prosper. What's the reason?
    Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason."

    _Epigram._


We pass over the details of the sturdy struggle and victory over the
Danes at Battle-bridge, and the disastrous defeat of Hastings, except
just to note that the young chieftain Oswald left his father dead on the
battle-field. The next three years were ones of immunity from the
rapacity of the Normans, so far as we were concerned, for they never
ventured so far north. But in the year 1069, whilst William was absent
in Normandy, there was a powerful conspiracy entered into for the
purpose of wresting the kingdom from him. The Danes landed in the
Humber. The Saxons rallied throughout the North. York was taken, and its
garrison of three thousand Normans put to the sword.

Immediately after the wonderful successes which attended the
insurrectionary movement, the leaders of the rebellion hastily called
together at York what was known as a "Thing," or council. All the
leaders of note were summoned. A somewhat motley company they were,
their aims being far from identical, and the elements of disruption and
disunion were on the surface. All of them were excessively elated and
flushed with the complete and wonderful victories achieved--I am sorry
to say, also, very much demoralised by them. The Danish leaders in
particular were so, for they had taken much spoil, plundering friend or
foe pretty much as they listed--plunder being, in fact, their sole
reason for taking part in the movement. Very conspicuous, both by their
dress and demeanour, were these Danish leaders. They were deeply bronzed
and hardy-looking, rough and fierce as warrior seamen who had been wont
all their lives to do battle with foes on land, and often with the
fiercer and still more deadly foe of old ocean. They carried daggers at
their belts, and heavy swords dangled by their sides. The young
chieftain Oswald, whom we have already introduced to the readers, was
there. The few years of stress and struggle since last we met him had
had a marked effect upon him. He had stood by Harold's side at Stanford
Bridge, and marched with him to Hastings, and stood in the forefront of
that historic "wedge" of sturdy Saxons, who defied the utmost efforts of
William's horse and foot to dislodge them. The playfulness of youth had
given place to the stern thoughtfulness of manhood; whilst the tall
figure had broadened in sturdy proportions. He was of commanding
presence, young, handsome, and daring, yet wise as any elder, known
intimately by me, and a very great favourite with me also, and
destined to figure prominently in these records. By his side,
as a near neighbour, as well as a compatriot, sat the young Thane
Beowulf--aforementioned--of another lineage, but still identified with
the Saxon cause, being native born, though by his father's side a
descendant of the Danes who settled in the north of England three
generations earlier. Other leaders also there were, of whom it is not
necessary to speak, as they occupy no further place in these pages.

At the appointed hour Waltheof, the leader of the Saxon forces, entered.
He was a man gifted by nature with the physical proportions which
attract attention. But there was a hesitancy, irresolution, and lack of
force depicted in his countenance, and a wariness and suspicion about
his small, shrinking grey eyes, that were the reverse of reassuring.
Accompanying Waltheof was a Norman knight at whose appearance many
sprang to their feet in amazement. Seeing which, Waltheof introduced the
Norman to the company.

"Worthy thanes and nobles," said he, "this gallant Norman is Baron
Vigneau, one of William's bravest knights, who has been assigned some
lands bordering on the Fen country, and had tacked on to the beggarly
gift, the duty of defending that coast against our allies the Danes, as
well as to assist in keeping in check our brave countryman Hereward. A
weighty charge, I warrant, for such a beggar's dole of barren acres.
This gallant knight comes as emissary of a still more famous Norman, the
Count de Montfort, whose lance wrought such havoc in our ranks at
Hastings. Count de Montfort has good and weighty reasons against the
king, or his councillors, for the base ingratitude with which his
services have been rewarded; and he offers to join hands with us, and
will lead into the field seventeen knights, fully equipped and
accoutred, together with three hundred of foot; all of them men-at-arms,
trained and stout. This worthy knight, Baron Vigneau, of whose prowess
also I have ample proof, is bearer of letters--which I have carefully
examined--from the Count de Montfort, duly signed and sealed, and
bearing ample evidence of good faith. Under the circumstances, I have
taken the liberty to introduce this worthy knight to our council."

This speech was received by many in blank astonishment, and there was
loud and angry murmuring amongst the company, but no one seemed willing
to voice the discontent. Oswald, however, sprang to his feet and said,
"Noble sir, no doubt the credentials presented by this Norman knight are
such as meet with your approval, but I would respectfully urge that no
one should sit at our Council who has not attested his fidelity to our
cause by services rendered in the field of battle; for when this is the
case we have pledges which cannot be shaken off at pleasure."

"A plague on your impudence, boy! You are too ready of the tongue! Let
the elders speak if they have any objections to make!--but I am not in
the habit of having my conduct called in question by a mere youth; and
what is sufficient for me must be sufficient for such as you, and
without cavil. What say our Danish allies? No objection, I see. Then let
us proceed to business." So saying, he took his place at the head of the
board, and the bulky Norman slid into a back seat.

The question to deliberate upon was how to prosecute the war so
auspiciously begun. The Council, however, proceeded to discuss the
question in a very unpromising fashion, the discussion being
characterised by a good deal of blatant braggadocio, and accompanied by
a very free use of the wine-cup.

The chief of the Danes reared aloft his stalwart form and said,--

"My lord, we Danes are wanting to know when we are to make a move south?
We have wasted four good days in drivel and talk, when we should have
been making good our vantage. We might by this time have sacked
Shepfield, Leacaster, and Birmingam, where they tell me the
gold-smiths', armourers', and weavers' crafts are flourishing, and
where, to boot, the Normans have built themselves many pretty house
places full of dainty stuff. All of which we might have pouched whilst
this dog's whelp is abroad!"

"Worthy thane," replied Waltheof, "we are waiting for Malcolm of
Scotland and the young Prince Atheling, for we expect the Saxons of the
south will rally to the standard of the Prince. We also have to remember
that the Normans are more thickly posted farther south, and we must
therefore have all our forces up."

"Tut, tut! Cowardice is at the bottom of it all, as I thought. But what
care we for the Norman dogs? and what care we for a baby prince who
cannot be brought to the fray? We want the spoils, and there is none to
be had cowering here like a fox in his hole. If we are not to move south
at once, why then we take the tide the morn's even, and leave you to
face the bear when he comes to his lair as best you can."

At this juncture the attention of every member of the council was
suddenly arrested by the advent of a messenger who suddenly burst into
the room, with the perspiration pouring off him by reason of the hot
haste with which he had ridden.

"How now, fellow! what news hast thou which calls for such haste?" said
Waltheof.

"My lords," exclaimed the messenger, "I have ridden all speed to make
known unto you that the Norman is back again in England, and that he is
rapidly marching northwards at the head of an army; he being not more
than two days' march to the south."

If a thunderbolt had dashed into the room instead of this messenger, the
effect could not have been greater. Waltheof turned pale as death, and
peered nervously about the room, as though he expected to be instantly
confronted by the dreaded presence of the king. Several also rose from
their seats and promptly slid out of the room in dismay at the tidings.
The Danish rovers were not slow to note this arrant cowardice, and one
of them immediately jumped to his feet in fierce exasperation at this
conduct, and sneeringly shouted, "Ha, ha! the Saxon caitiffs are
slinking off at the mention of this dog of a Norman! Never mind, let the
cowards go. I pledge me a health to the Danish warriors, who will dare
to fight the cowardly Saxons' battle for them; but we'll see to't that
the Danish war-ships shall bear away the spoil," and as he spoke he
gulped down a huge draught of wine.

"Excuse me, worthy thane," said Oswald, the young Saxon chieftain,
starting to his feet at these taunts; "let me tell you the Saxons have
their virtues, and valour too, not one whit behind that of your
countrymen."

"Whew! Virtues say you?" bawled the quarrelsome and half-drunken Dane.
"Aye, marry! Saxons can preach you a homily with any shaveling priest in
the land, or simper as chastely as any wench. Virtues! Ha, ha! Ho, ho!
_Maugre!_ Virtues by the bushel, I warrant you, sirs. Marry, anything,
in fact, but fight. Ha, ha! Virtues! Thou hast well said it, and aptly
too, young suckling! If I were a Saxon I'd don my mother's petticoats."

"Hear me, thane," retorted Oswald, repressing with great difficulty the
rising choler. "You are our ally, and that shall be some excuse for your
unseemly mouthing; but hark you to this for a moment. Your memory does
not seem quite long enough to remember Battle-bridge and the precious
figure cut by your countrymen on that occasion against the Saxon; and
yet it is not more than four years agone. Hark you to this also, friend;
I warrant you will find, ere this war be done, that Saxons can fight as
bravely as any Dane that ever wielded sword."

But the Dane persisted in his irritating and quarrelsome jesting.
"Saxons fight?" he bawled, "Why, come, that is a joke, anyhow! I say,
young Milkfed, tell me, if you can, what of this? How comes it to pass
that either Norman or Dane, or even the tricky Scot, come when they list
to crow on the Saxons' dunghill? How comes it also, my valiant Saxon
cub, that you should ask us to come and help you fight this dog of a
Norman? Read me that riddle, can you, boy? You besought us to come and
help you, and here we are. I wish you joy of it. You'll be well rid when
we go; for if we get not Norman booty, I warrant we will have Saxon, if
we skin every Saxon churl in the island for it. What think you to that,
young Sixfoot, eh?"

The altercation seemed likely to develop into a serious quarrel, but at
this juncture a Danish messenger crept slily into the room, and, nudging
his leader's elbow, whispered something in his ear, at which he jumped
to his feet and turned to his comrade, and between them a brief and
excited conversation was carried on in an undertone; the result being
that immediately the pair hurriedly withdrew from the room. Oswald, who
had been watching these Danes with a suspicious eye, immediately turned
to the leader, Waltheof; but he beheld with astonishment that the
leader's chair was empty; Waltheof, amid the clamour of voices, having
noiselessly slipped out of the room.

"Ah, ah! what now?" he ejaculated, leaping to his feet and dragging his
comrade Beowulf to the door. "There is something ominous in all this,
Beowulf. It bodes no good to the Saxon cause, mark me."

"What is it, think you, Oswald, that breeds this fear and distrust in
the breasts of our leaders?"

"I know not, Beowulf, but, by the rood! I cannot believe that the mere
mention of the Norman's name breeds this cowardice and panic in the
breasts of our leaders. 'Tis not fear that has overtaken these Danes,
mark me, but something more potent. They are at best but hirelings, and
are as treacherous as the foul fiend. They will not scruple to betray us
for a paltry bribe if it be offered; and this Norman is astute enough to
know that they have their price."

"That is not the extent of the mischief, Oswald. I marked this Waltheof
closely, and I like not his looks at all. The coward's blood forsook his
cheek instantly at the mention of the Norman's name. I warrant him a
coward and traitor at heart, or I know not a coward when I see him."

"What is to be done, Beowulf!"

"We must stand to it like men. We know our duty, and to turn tail like a
whipped hound ere we have seen this Norman's face would be worse than
cowardice."

"Then we must place ourselves at the head of our men forthwith; for if
any idle rumours reach their ears, I would not answer for it. Indeed, if
William be within striking distance we must bestir ourselves, for if he
find us unprepared, he knows well how to push his vantage against an
unready foe."

Thus this ill-starred Council came to an end, and it left the Saxons as
a rope of sand, without cohesion, without any definite plan of attack or
of defence--a ready prey for a wily and daring commander. In bitter
dejection, and with forebodings of impending disaster, one by one the
members passed out, each one to pursue his own course.

When the Saxon members of the Council had one and all left the room,
then uprose the bulky and sinister-looking figure of the Norman
emissary, from a seat in a shaded corner, where, unobserved, he had been
quietly taking note of the wretched divisions of the Saxon Council. As
he came forward he burst into a hoarse and derisive laugh, and
exclaimed, "Here's a go anyhow--ha, ha! A precious revolt it is! A man
would be an ass to pin his fortunes to a quarrelsome rabble like this.
Why, I warrant me they would cut one another's throats at a word! And
then how the bubble burst up at the mere mention of the Conqueror's
name! But where are my precious letters?" said he, fumbling in his
doublet for something, and eventually pulling out a packet carefully
folded with a silken band, and sealed in several places by a huge seal
with the crest and quarterings of the famous Count De Montfort. "Ha, ha,
my precious!" said he, turning the missive over and eyeing it with
savage delight. "I'm glad I kept possession of you. You are a treasure!
I'll not part with you yet awhile," and he carefully thrust the letter
back again within his doublet. "Ha, ha!" said he, scowling demoniacally,
"De Montfort will finger that missive no more until he makes good his
bargain with me. I'll have his proud daughter as the price of this, or
we'll see what will come to pass. I have my own belt to buckle as well
as De Montfort; and I'll do it now after my own humour. I'll no longer
dangle like a moonstruck suitor at my lady's skirts, and wag my tail
like any spaniel if I should chance to get a word or a smile. I have
been meek and humble long enough; but now Vigneau shall be first, for I
have got him! Trapped, by ----! He thought he would play the traitor,
did he? fool and dolt that he is! One would have thought him wiser than
to do his treason second-hand. He makes pretence of wisdom, but he acts
the fool at times as roundly as any clown. But I'll no more of this
anyhow. I do believe the Saxon clowns have scurried off to their holes
like a parcel of rats already. I must be off too, for if the _tanner's_
son should catch me at my present business, it will go bad with my hide
I'm feared; and I should like to keep my skin whole a little longer,
come what may. Ho, ho!" said he, bursting again into hoarse laughter. "I
wonder what Odo or Fitz-Osborne would give to know of this little freak
of De Montfort's! The wily Odo has ousted him from William's councils
already, and if he had possession of this"--thumping his chest where the
missive lay--"he'd have De Montfort's head in a trice. Enough! that will
do for me." So saying, he vanished from the hall.

Meanwhile, the second messenger, at whose communication the Danish
sea-rovers had vanished from the Council, proved to be an emissary of
the wily Conqueror--his purpose being to negotiate with the Danes, and
with Waltheof, conditions on which they would retire from the fray.
Scarcely were they outside than he said to these Danes,--

"My master offers to you five hundred ounces of beaten gold, and a free
passage for your vessels, together with such plunder as you can wrest
from the Saxons."

"Five hundred ounces of gold is a sorry price for a wealthy king like
your master to offer for such a service," said one of the Danes. "But
come now, if your master will make it one thousand ounces, to be
delivered over by sunset to-morrow; together with our plunder, and such
as we can further gather; why then, within twenty-four hours our vessels
shall be ploughing the northern seas for home."

"Done!" said the messenger. "My hand on it. The gold shall be delivered
over to you by sunset to-morrow, as you say."

No sooner was this bargain made than the spy turned his attention to
Waltheof, a man treacherous by instinct, and cowardly by nature. It is
scarcely necessary to say, he grasped only too eagerly at the promised
free pardon, coupled as it was with large grants of land and estates.
With the Saxon forces thus weakened and demoralised, William knew the
remnant of this powerful conspiracy would be crushed with the utmost
ease by him.




CHAPTER IV.

DEFEAT.

      "What though the field be lost?
    All is not lost."

    _Paradise Lost._


Oswald the Saxon, and Beowulf the Saxon Dane, passed out into the night,
and continued their course beyond the gates of the city, which were so
broken down that they served no longer the purpose for which they were
erected. The walls also for considerable distances were thrown down, and
in a state of disrepair. The insurrectionary forces had determined to
push forward in the king's absence, but in the meantime they were
halting, waiting for Malcolm of Scotland, and for further counsel. They
were encamped some miles away on the banks of the river running between
York and the head of the estuary of the Humber, where the Danish
war-vessels were anchored. The Danes held the head of the estuary,
throwing out their forces Yorkward, but encamped sufficiently near to
cover their vessels, in the event of an attack upon them. Waltheof, the
leader and commander-in-chief of the Saxon forces, occupied a central
position, having under his command the bulk of the rebels; whilst
Oswald, Beowulf, and others, occupied the right wing, which to a certain
extent covered the city. On the news of William's landing, the bridges
were thrown down, but in many places the river was fordable, during dry
weather, both for man and horse. But to effect this in the face of
sturdy enemies was a most formidable task, and the Saxons were
sufficiently numerous to guard the river effectually wherever it was
fordable.

Early in the morning, after the breaking up of the council of war, the
scouts brought in the intelligence that William had arrived within six
miles, and ere nightfall the pennants of the Normans were flying within
sight of the Saxon forces.

Very little of that night was spent by Oswald in rest. Twice he
patrolled the whole length of the river under his command, visiting and
cheering every outpost. But judge how great was his consternation, and
that of his forces also, when, with the dawning of the morning, the
fraction of the Saxons commanded by him were made painfully aware of the
fact that the Normans had passed the river, unopposed, in the night; and
worse than that, there began to be ominous rumours that this had arisen
through the treachery of Waltheof--that he, having been bribed by the
Conqueror, had left the remnant to their fate. In these straits time was
precious, for the Normans were advancing up the river, doubling up the
Saxon outposts, and throwing them back on the main body. Hastily a
council of war was called, and not a few, in face of the danger and the
hopelessness of their cause in the midst of such treachery, were for
dispersing without a blow; but Oswald, addressing them, said,--

"I fear it is too true that there is treachery in our ranks; but as yet
we know not its extent. If Waltheof has succumbed to William's bribes,
there are still the Danes, who will be able to harass the rear of our
enemy. Hourly, also, we are expecting Malcolm of Scotland and the
Atheling, so that we need not despair. Let us make a bold stand; the
battle is by no means lost if the Danes stand firm. Now, with our
handful of men it is utterly impossible to meet the Normans in the open
country; for they will double our left flank easily and surround us. But
on the fringe of yonder dense wood, with our line extended under cover
of the thicket, and where the enemy's horse will be absolutely
useless--where also our men will be quite in their element and be able
to ply their long bows with deadly effect, and their spears or swords at
close quarters--we shall surely avoid, in any case, the wholesale
slaughter of our men; and we shall administer a severe check to
William's march."

The force of this sage advice was seen at once by the leaders, and the
forces accordingly retired to the wood in their rear, and took up their
fighting attitude just within its shelter. The Saxons, who were brave
individually, were still undisciplined and incapable of acting together
with precision in the open; but they were wonderfully heartened by this
movement, which gave them shelter from the onslaughts of the enemy's
horse--a mode of warfare which has at all times had a demoralising
effect upon untrained soldiers. So, having their right flank resting on
the river, and in consequence shielded from any flank movement there,
they threw out their left considerably, so as to prevent, if possible,
any over-lapping by the Normans. They were the better able to do this,
seeing that the enemy's horse were totally unable to charge through
their attenuated lines; the jungle being an effectual barrier to this.
Oswald arranged his men in two fighting lines. The foremost ranks, with
spear and sword, were to resist the advance of the Normans. The second
were bowmen, who were to cover the front ranks by letting fly their
arrows in the faces of the foe; a most ingenious and effective
expedient. To Beowulf he entrusted the command of the left wing, with
instructions to in no case permit the Normans to outflank them, but, if
necessary, to double in the left flank also, until it rested on the
river.

Scarcely had Oswald time to make this careful disposition of his men ere
the vanguard of the Normans were upon them. But a shower of arrows from
the Saxons at close quarters thoroughly disconcerted them. So fiercely
were they met, and by a force whose numbers they had no means of
gauging, that they deemed it prudent to retire beyond bowshot until the
remainder of the forces advanced to their support. Then came a more
determined assault on the Saxons' position. But, from behind trees and
shrubs, the concealed defenders drave their short spears through each
assailant, or clave them with their short Saxon swords or battle-axes.
Oswald and others, who were clad in armour, boldly fronted them in every
gap, making great havoc in the ranks of the men-at-arms, or singling out
the Norman leaders and engaging them.

In the midst of the fray, one noteworthy incident occurred. Oswald, to
his amazement, saw the burly Norman, Vigneau, who had come with
professions of help, now fighting fiercely against them. Immediately his
blood was fired, and pressing steadily towards him, eventually they met
face to face.

"Ah, treacherous villain!" said Oswald. "This is your friendship for our
cause, is it? I have a particular message for tricksters and sneaking
traitors like you."

"Come on, varlet of a Saxon, and don't stand prating like some gowky
wench, and I'll quickly give thee thy quietus," said Vigneau savagely.

Instantly there ensued a most desperate encounter between these two
powerful combatants. Each of them, however, wore a suit of armour, and
carried a shield, and each one was most skilful in the use of his
weapons, so that, desperate and determined as they both were, no
conclusive blow resulted. But whilst the duel progressed, the general
body of the Normans made steady progress, in spite of the valour of the
Saxons, and speedily Oswald was quite surrounded, though totally
oblivious of the fact. One stalwart Saxon, however, who had fought by
Oswald's side--by name Wulfhere--saw the imminent danger in which his
leader was placed, and he rushed to his rescue, quickly cleaving his way
through; and seizing Oswald, he exclaimed,--

"Master, you will be cut off if you don't keep in fighting line with
us!"

This fierce reminder awoke Oswald to the peril of his position, and he
said to his antagonist, "Another time, villain, will come, when I hope
we may effectually finish this quarrel."

"Sooner and better, churl; but for the present your better plan is to
run away," retorted Vigneau.

In the meantime, although the Saxons had extended their lines to the
utmost limits which the sparsity of their men would permit, the Normans
surged round and completely overlapped them. So Beowulf was compelled to
initiate the movement ordered by Oswald, and the left wing was gradually
doubled back until it also converged on the river; and thus the line of
battle was in the form of a semicircle. The Saxons fought with
desperation, disputing every inch of the ground, and strewing the
ground, yard by yard, with the Norman slain. The masterly skill with
which their ground had been chosen and their defence planned, gave them
great advantage, and enabled them to maintain the unequal contest for
nearly an hour. But ultimately the quivers of the archers were emptied
of every shaft, and the battle could no longer be maintained with
advantage, but would probably end in complete massacre. So Oswald
selected a spot where the river was fordable; then, he and a hundred
stalwart Saxons stood shoulder to shoulder, keeping the enemy at bay
whilst the rank and file crossed the stream. Then, gradually narrowing
their own circle until every one had taken the river, the last
half-dozen, with their faces to the foe, fought their way across.

When they had reached the opposite side, the order was given for
dispersal, and the gallant band melted away, and severally, or in bands,
sought their distant homes. Thus ended in total failure, through
cowardice and treachery, what at one time seemed, in its very marked
success, a conspiracy that would ultimately wrest the kingdom from the
usurper.




CHAPTER V.

DESPERATE RESOLVES.

    "Cowards die many times before their death
    The valiant never taste of death but once."

    Shakespeare.


"The Saxon cause is lost, Wulfhere, by base-hearted cowardice and
treachery," said Oswald, turning to the stalwart "freeman" already
introduced to the reader. "Look to the rear, though I think the Normans
have had such a taste of our quality that there will be no pursuit for
the present; but henceforth we may look to it, for there will be--unless
I greatly misjudge the Norman king--a bitter revenge exacted from us,
and untempered in the least degree by mercy. We have our broadswords
left to us, and we have proved this day that they have a keen edge and
bite as sharp as ever. We have a few bowmen, also, who can shoot
straight; but for our shelter I fear me we shall have but the dense
forest, and the rugged hills of our native Craven for our defence. But
they are a defence familiar to us, and no battering-ram or assault of
besiegers will avail our foe. Let them drive the wolf to bay if they
dare, and they shall find he has sharp teeth. Well, to me, Wulfhere, a
life of valorous freedom is better than servile slavery and degraded
serfdom."

"I join you there, my lord. A ceorl born, a ceorl for ever. That is my
charter. I will maintain it to the death," said Wulfhere.

The conclusions of Oswald, with regard to the revenge which the Normans
would exact, proved only too true. Like a conflagration, the sanguinary,
mercenary host spread themselves over the northern part of the kingdom,
and desolation and death spread their ghastly wings over the land.
William's aim evidently was to decimate the population, and thus make
any further revolt utterly impossible.

I forbear, however, to enter into the details of the wholesale slaughter
which followed after the Saxons were put to the rout at York, in mercy
to the reader.

So, at the word of command, the followers of Oswald moved away from the
fatal field, with celerity, but in perfect order. The close of the
second day brought them home again. Bitterly sad our hearts were at the
tidings they brought us, and at sight of the thinned ranks of stout and
hardy yeomen who went out from us on this last desperate venture. The
Earl addressed the following words to them, as we stood together in the
monastery grounds: "My trusty followers, my faithful friends,--We have
probably not more than forty-eight hours before we shall be face to face
again with the hated Norman foe--on our own lands, and at the thresholds
of our own homes. Do not let us, because of this short respite, close
our eyes to what will inevitably follow. Neither age nor sex will be
spared, though we should crawl at their feet, and grovel in the dust.
The only thing these Normans will respect is the broadsword, as it
flashes at their breast, or the arrow, glancing unerringly through the
branches of the trees in the forest fastnesses. I advise you to take to
the hills; the caves will form in some respects a shelter for your wives
and little ones. Carry your cattle along with you to the hills and
mountain gorges. Your corn, your cooking utensils--in short, everything
of value and of service--take along with you. There are men here from
every corner of our domain. Tell your neighbours, and make haste; even
the minutes are precious. I shall contrive, if I live, to protect you
for the present, and until my castle is taken you will be absolutely
safe."

As the men moved slowly away to their homes in the distant hamlets,
bearers of the sorrowful news, the Earl turned to Wulfhere.

"Well, Wulfhere, my resolve is taken. I shall not cower before, or
servilely beg for freedom at the hands of the proudest Norman of them
all. Further, I shall not fly over sea, and sell my sword to a foreign
potentate. Yonder, in the distance, I can descry the turrets of my
castle. I was born there, and I shall defend it to the last; and when
driven from it, it will still be a joy to sit on the hillsides and gaze
upon the old home. There are likewise these followers of mine, who have
followed me everywhere and blindly done my bidding. It were dastardly
conduct to give them over now to sanguinary massacre. When, as a boy,
with falcon on my arm and hound at my heel, I hied me o'er these lands,
my faithful yeomen welcomed me everywhere, and their good wives brought
out their daintiest morsel and their sweetest mead. We shall stand or
fall together. Who knows? The Saxon star may some day be in the
ascendant again, and we may push the Normans from our shores. What
sayest thou, Wulfhere?"

"Your purpose, my lord, if I understand you aright, is to defend the
castle so long as you can, and then try to hold the Normans at bay by
means of the shelter which the woods and the hills afford."

"That is my present purpose. I can scarcely hope to hold the castle,
except for a little while, but I may thus materially check the
desolating march of the Normans. But ultimately I look to the woods and
the hills for permanent safety. We are more fortunate than our
countrymen in other parts of the kingdom. If we look to the north we see
the stately Hanging-brow mountain, lifting itself to the sky and girdled
with the clouds, and those dense woods, which, like a vast army
clambering up its sides, will fight for us in our onslaught, and shield
us in our flight. The waters also shed on its brow by the clouds which
nestle well-nigh perpetually on its shoulders, and go leaping down its
sides with the fierceness of a cataract, have ploughed into the
mountain's seamy sides gorges impassable to untrained feet. Look, to the
east a few miles we have the scarcely less remarkable Weirdburn hills.
To the south, Baldby heights. Think also of the dense woods which
everywhere abound in this Craven of ours. Then, like myself, you will
see that in no other part of the land has Nature so combined to shelter
the friendless and protect the oppressed. Further, we are quite two
hundred and fifty miles from London. Though the Normans will come very
surely to despoil the land, William will speedily draw off his forces,
and we shall have but to cope with the Norman who usurps my lands and
castle, holding it probably with a slender garrison. For the present we
are unequal to the task of contending in open warfare with our foe. We
will contend with him with the most effective weapons we possess; and
these are cunning and evasion. There shall be no solid front presented
to him at which he can aim an effective blow. But when the Normans have
overrun the land, and the bulk of them gone hence, then we will present
a bolder front, and assert our right to share the land, and cultivate
the soil."

"What do you purpose in this dire emergency, reverend Father?" said he,
turning to me. "Have you any purpose of defending the Abbey?"

"No, my lord," said I; "we are the disciples of the Prince of Peace, and
we must follow His example. And indeed, carnal weapons would not protect
us if we were minded to use them, and this sacred edifice would suffer
irreparably by our resistance. Perhaps these untamed and bloody men may
have some regard for the sanctity of these walls. We will throw open our
gates to receive them. Those of our servants and followers who prefer to
trust to the woods and the hills, as you advise, are free to do so.
Those who prefer to stay--together with any unhappy fugitives who have
fled hither for shelter--will join the monks in prayers and
supplications, in the sanctuary. Perhaps God will give us favour in the
eyes of our enemies."

"Give us your blessing, Father," said Oswald, falling on his knees and
meekly uncovering his head, all his followers humbly following his
example.

"Adieu, my son," said I, laying my hand upon his head. "May the God of
our fathers nerve thy arm for the protection of thy humbler fellows, and
give thee wisdom and discretion in this terrible day of thy country's
visitation!"

With tearful eyes I watched the receding form of this noble Saxon. No
carnal offspring could be dearer to an earthly parent than he to me. I
had watched over him from infancy, educated him, travelled with him in
many foreign lands; and I hoped he would be a great leader in
statesmanship, in learning, and in all the arts of peace. Now, alas! I
fear circumstance will make him a man of war, and a stern leader of
bloody and desperate men.




CHAPTER VI.

BARON VIGNEAU.

    "All is lost save honour."


Early on the morrow, strange rumours and stories, which made the blood
curdle, were brought to the monastery by refugees from far and near.
Both gentle and simple fled hither, being buoyed up by the widespread,
but in this case delusive notion, that sanctuary walls would be sacredly
respected. Amongst the number was the lovely daughter of the worthy
Thane Beowulf, who, along with his son, had been slain in resisting the
advance of the Normans. My heart sank within me as I looked upon her
great beauty, realising with painful vividness how helpless and impotent
I was to protect her--well knowing that lust and rapine, let loose,
would not be awed or restrained even by the sanctity of the Church.

I had commanded the monks, with all refugees, to repair to the chapel
for prayer, whilst I at the first summons repaired to the gate with some
of the housecarles and lay brothers, and commanded the gates to be
thrown open, when in poured a motley crowd of soldiers and men-at-arms,
evidently bent on plunder, and totally uncontrolled by any sort of
discipline. The crowd surged by me and carried me along, deriding my
entreaties to be heard. One leader, in complete armour, and whom I
afterwards ascertained to be Baron Vigneau, I appealed to in vain. He
rudely pushed me aside with an oath, bidding me say my prayers to the
devil, for he would soon have me and my monkish crew.

One party made a dash for the northern extremity of the enclosure, where
were the outbuildings, in which our cattle, sheep and goats, and
numerous attendants were housed. These servants, however, made their
exit, with all speed, from the northern gate, as they saw the Normans
enter at the south. One, Badger as he was called by his companions, who
was keeper of the hounds and hawks--a mighty hunter, who kept our larder
well stocked with venison, and fish, and game of every kind--held his
ground. A sly rogue was Badger--so called from his propensity for
hunting these animals and clothing himself in their skins. For hunting,
hawking, and fishing, he was a prodigy. He was well-nigh fleet as a
hare, and could swim like an otter; and had wherewithal so sly a humour,
and such shrewdness, that he was a great favourite with me, and I had
taken pains to add such instruction as I thought would be serviceable to
him. The reader will pardon me this digression. But this Badger was such
an active agent in the subsequent troublous times, and served the Saxon
cause so well, both by his matchless cunning and his rare valour, that I
have taken the trouble to introduce the reader to him at such great
length. A most grotesque figure he presented on this fateful morning,
clothed as he was from head to foot in skins.

"Hilloa!" roared one trooper to another, as they set eyes upon him.
"What the deuce kind of an animal is this?"

"The foul fiend, or one of his imps, by Moses!" rejoined the other.

"Who are you, Satan?" said the first one, riding up to him and giving
him a hearty thwack across the shoulders with the flat of his sword; at
which Badger set up a most hypocritical howl. "Stash that, will you, you
lump of hog's-flesh, or I'll make pork of you in a twinkling! Where are
your cronies? Have you buried them, you old grave-digger?"

"Oh, hang him, Jaques!" chimed in the other impatiently. "Don't bother
with the slobbering clown! But I've a notion it is a dry shop in this
quarter; you had better get back again to the jolly friars, if you would
have venison pasties and old ale. But I'm going to have a look round,
and see if they have left a hack or two better than mine. They haven't
left a worse, I'm blowed! I don't believe he is a horse. He's only a
shadow and a half; the wind was just going to carry him off when I took
him: so I committed no robbery when I stole him. I vow it's only my
weight which keeps him in this world at all. Gee up, old marrow-bones!
Your old backbone will do to shave the monks with. I wonder I'm not
split up the middle by this. I verily believe my trunk is shorter by a
good six inches than my legs, and I've only been perched on your old
razor-rig these three days. Heigh-up! Jaques," continued he, suddenly
wheeling round, "if you find a tap of good old ale before I get back,
hold on to it till I come! I'm as thirsty as a sponge that hasn't had a
soaking for twenty years. I could suck up half a hogshead easily. My
soul is oozing away through the pores in my body, and all for lack of
moisture."

Meanwhile, the monks, together with numerous refugees, chiefly women,
were gathered in the church, vainly trusting to the sanctity of the
place for protection. I had no faith in this, however, and had taken the
precaution to have our most valuable and costly treasures of silver and
gold and books conveyed to the sacristy, a barrel-vaulted apartment near
the south transept, led down to by a flight of stone steps, which were
cunningly covered over by the flagging of the floor. This had been
designed expressly for the hiding of our valuables when a raid was
anticipated by the Scots or Danes.

Many of the Normans, I noticed, made at once for the church. No doubt
they fancied the richest booty would there be found. They rudely burst
open the doors, and I pressed in with them. At once the fierce and
undisciplined soldiery commenced to break and plunder everything. I
advanced towards the leader, Vigneau, and prostrated myself before him
to beg for mercy for the refugees. Alas! He furiously spurned me with
his heavy boot, and cried to his men, "Ho, men! here are a lot of scurvy
monks! Kill the rats in their hole!" Prompt to obey, the soldiers let
fly a volley of arrows amongst the helpless throng huddled about the
altar steps, and wounded many of them. Unhappily, Vigneau at that moment
espied the lovely Ethel crouching amongst them. "Stay, men!" he shouted.
"By Jupiter, here's the loveliest Saxon wench my eyes have seen. You may
take the gold and silver baubles and melt them into zechins. Here's my
share of the plunder!" Immediately he seized Ethel and dragged her from
the steps of the high altar. "Nay, nay, wench," said he, "never be so
shy! Thou wert intended for better company than simpering monks and
friars. Damnation!" he roared, suddenly releasing her, staggering back a
pace or two and staring aghast at her; for she had sprung at him and
driven with all her force at his chest a small dagger she held in her
hand. The dagger rattled upon his mailed chest, but left him scathless.
Still she stood confronting him, like a panther at bay.

"By Jove!" he roared, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment.
"Here's mettle anyhow! I little thought there was so much spirit behind
that pretty face. All the better however, for milk and water is no good
even in a wench. Here goes for another embrace, my bantam!" So saying,
he seized her with his mailed hands, and wrested the dagger from her,
pitching it across the church. Then he literally tucked her under his
arm, all the while roaring with laughter at her frantic but ineffectual
efforts to release herself, and away he marched down the aisle of the
church. I seized his arm, and was imploring him to have pity, when he
called to a rough-looking soldier. "Here, fellow, run this shaveling
priest through with thy sword, quick!" I gave myself up for a dead man,
for I felt that I could not let him carry off Ethel, when suddenly there
was a hush of voices, and looking round I beheld a Norman lady, of
majestic port and bearing, pressing forward towards us, whilst close
behind her there followed a score of armed men. I perceived at once that
she was a lady of rank by her rich apparel and jewelled head-dress. She
was also of surpassing loveliness and commanding figure. As she beheld
the brutal Norman, I saw the fire flash in her rich dark eyes, as with
quick step she marched boldly up to him and accosted him in words almost
of fire. "I think this is another evidence, Baron, of your base and
unchivalrous regard for the distressed of my sex, by the brutal way in
which you are treating this helpless Saxon lady! You afford me ample
opportunities of testing your gallantry, and better opportunities, too,
than listening to your false and honeyed words, which you are pleased to
pour into my ears."

"These are but Saxon varlets, Alice; and Saxon varlets, whether male or
female, are not fitting objects of chivalry to a Norman knight."

"Chivalry is for the oppressed and weak of any nation. So be pleased to
release this lady, and cease harrying these holy and unresisting men."

"Take care what you are at, madame!" savagely hissed the Baron, between
his teeth, "or your meddlesome interference with business which does not
concern you will be at your peril. Mark that, _ma grande dame_!"

"Let go the arm of this lady, I say, and leave this sanctuary at once,
or I shall report your conduct to the Count forthwith."

"Tell the Count, madame, if he dare, to look in the wolf's mouth and
count his teeth, and he'll not do it twice, you may mark that!"

He let go of Ethel, however, and, muttering savagely many fierce oaths,
he strode out of the church, followed very reluctantly by his men.

"Jules Reynard," said the lady, addressing the leader of her men, "do
your best to protect this holy place, and the lives of these monks."
Jules Reynard acquiesced by a low obeisance. "Lady," she said,
addressing Ethel, "I grieve very much at the rude treatment and
mishandling you have been subjected to at the hands of these savage men.
If you like to accept my protection, I think I can protect you from
further annoyance and insult."

"I thank you, madame," said Ethel, "but this cannot be. Your people have
burnt my home, basely slaughtered my father and my brother, and I
prefer, whether living or dying, to company with my own people."

The Norman lady heaved a deep sigh. "Alas! I daresay it is but too true,
and I can well understand your feelings; but I will strive to be a
sister to you, if you will come with me."

"Say no more, lady; this cannot be."

"Well, then, we must part. But, mark me--though it is hard to say it of
one's people--look for no compassion at the hands of my people, and
beware especially of him from whom you have just escaped, for 'his
tender mercies are cruel.'"

"I look for no compassion at the hands of the Normans, nor will I seek
it or suffer it. The hands that are red with my kinsmen's blood, cannot
be grasped in amity by me. There is a deep and bloody barrier betwixt me
and thee, which a lifetime cannot erase," said Ethel bitterly.

"Alas! alas! Nevertheless, adieu, lady; we may meet again. If I can
befriend you in any way, how gladly will I do it, to the very utmost of
my power!" With that she hastily left the chapel--as I learnt
afterwards, to try and stay as much as possible the fierce bloodshed and
rapine of the soldiery. But it is needless to say her efforts were to
little purpose, for though she managed to have them cleared out of the
sanctuary, ere long they were back again, and, like greedy hawks, they
pounced upon everything, no matter how sacred the purpose to which
articles of value were devoted. They carried off the silver table of the
high altar, the silver cups, dalmatics, censers of silver; in fact,
everything ornamented with silver or gold. Speedily the whole of our
possessions were at their mercy, excepting the things I had secreted as
aforesaid. To complete this sad day's work, when nothing more of value
could be had, they turned their attention to our cellarer's store of
wines and ale, and the rest of the day, and the night also, was spent in
drunkenness and carousing. The whole of the night was spent by the monks
in prayer and fasting, whilst for the most part our refugees were glad
to escape to the woods, being thankful if only they could do so with
their lives. A sad day's work this for the sanctuary which had taken
generations to bring it to its high state of usefulness and piety!




CHAPTER VII.

ALICE DE MONTFORT.

    "And thus I clothe my naked villainy
    With old odd ends, stol'n out of holy writ,
    And seem a saint, when most I play the devil."

    Shakespeare.


My readers, I am sure, will pardon me for passing over the bitter
sufferings and humiliation I and the members of our Order had to endure,
and the still more harrowing cruelties and bloodshed heaped upon the
common people, who, despite the Earl's advice, still clung to their
homes and their patches of land.

We therefore proceed to follow the fortunes of certain characters who
are the central figures in our history. In reality the history of our
time was made by the important actors, the common people playing a very
ignoble part, and being little better than chattels and instruments of
the leaders' wills.

The Normans overran the adjacent country like a flood let loose, leaving
desolation behind them. Indeed, if the Saxons had not fled before, and
secreted themselves, their wives, their children, and their cattle,
there would have been nothing but annihilation and utter extermination.
The main body of the Normans swarmed forwards like locusts as soon as
they had devastated one part. But the castle of the youthful Ealdorman
Oswald could not be taken without siege operations. Its splendid
situation and rich lands attracted the cupidity of the De Montfort
already mentioned, and he sat down before it with the determination to
take possession of it and the splendid domain belonging thereto.

Carefully De Montfort reconnoitred the castle from all points, and
though it had no pretension to invulnerability, yet it was plain to him
that some days must elapse before he would be sufficiently prepared to
venture an assault upon it.

In the meantime, however, he despatched heralds to summon Oswald to
surrender. The Saxon paced the walls, clad in complete armour, and in
person directed the labours of the housecarles who laboured at
strengthening and repairing the fortifications; whilst a score or so of
his choicest bowmen, with well-stocked quivers, were set apart for the
defence of those who toiled.

The heralds, three in number, rode up to the walls, and, after blowing a
blast from their bugles, they accosted Oswald thus:--

"What ho, there, Saxon!"

To which Oswald responded,--

"What ho, there! What message have ye from your master?--I perceive ye
are messengers."

"Our master, the valiant Count de Montfort, of great renown and valour,
giveth thee summons to deliver up to him, within the space of
twenty-four hours, without let or hindrance, this castle, with the
appurtenances thereof."

"What conditions doth your master tender if we yield to his wishes, and
without resistance obey his summons?"

"De Montfort hath given us this message: 'Yield thee forthwith without
conditions, and trust to our clemency.' Defiance of our summons is
torture and death."

"Tell your master that we have too many illustrations of his clemency,
and that of Norman tyrants generally, to put any trust or reliance in
his word. If he would fain have possession of this castle, tell him he
must first take it, for we put no faith in his professions of clemency;
and that we defy him and his myrmidons to wrest this castle from us."

These were brave words, and intended to inspire his own followers; but
no one knew better than he where victory must inevitably rest. Many
times had he told over the number of the Norman tents pitched little
more than a bowshot away. With sinking heart he had noted the masses of
archers and men-at-arms who swarmed around the camp by day. In the
stillness of night he had crept within earshot of wary sentinels in
company of Wulfhere the freeman, in the hope that some chance, or some
overweening confidence on the part of the enemy, might afford the
opportunity for some desperate deed of valour. But de Montfort was far
too wise and experienced a soldier to permit negligence or
over-confidence to prevail. The pickets at all points were thickly
posted and kept on the alert by patrols.

The tents of the Count de Montfort and his daughter, Lady Alice de
Montfort, were pitched on a knoll in the centre of the encampment, which
was sufficiently elevated to overlook every other tent and beyond them
on every side. The tents of the maids and personal attendants were
situated to the rear, and were intercommunicable by a covered way. The
entrance to Lady Alice's tent was hung with richly embroidered curtains,
whilst costly figured velvet carpets from the looms of Rouen were spread
over the soft carpet of nature. As already stated, Lady Alice had been
affianced to Baron Vigneau by her father, for the most ignoble reason of
policy and personal ambition, Alice's wishes or preferences not being
consulted in the least. But a union more abhorrent to her feelings could
not possibly be imagined.

Indeed, to one much less refined and gentle than Alice, this union would
have been most distasteful. Vigneau was at once drunken, licentious, and
boorish, his habits being such as befitted the company of the besotted
and brutal troopers whom he led, rather than that of one of the gentlest
ladies of Normandy. True, he had won for himself a large measure of fame
on the battle-field, and in the lists at tournaments. He had undoubtedly
a large measure of reckless valour, and enormous physical strength; but
he was utterly destitute of that chivalry and knightly courtesy which
was reckoned only second to personal prowess. His chief recommendation
in De Montfort's eyes was that he commanded a "free company" of
mercenaries as reckless and blood-thirsty as himself. De Montfort
cherished a lofty ambition: he aspired to, and in fact held, an exalted
position in the estimation of William; and this he well knew was due in
great part to the number of lances in his retinue, and the men-at-arms
who followed his standard.

Need we say that Alice scorned this hateful yoke; for the warm current
of romance which ran in her southern blood demanded a nobler and
courtlier knight than Vigneau as the object of her love. Through a vista
in the noble line of beeches and oaks which studded the park she had a
full view of the castle and its defenders, and she shuddered as she
contemplated the impending carnage and bloodshed which hovered over the
camp and the castle alike. Thus, often as she sat in her tent did she
watch the mailed Saxon chief, as he paced his walls and directed the
housecarles as they laboured at the fortifications--far too often,
indeed, for her peace of mind; for the contrast between Oswald's mien
and Vigneau's was most glaring. Then the fact that Oswald was fighting
against fearful odds, and for dear life, awoke the keenest interest in
him, whilst the stories current in the camp of his prowess threw around
him a glamour most piquant.

Often Alice would turn to her favourite maid and confidante, Jeannette,
for confirmation of her thoughts.

"Methinks he is a comely knight, this Saxon, and valiant withal.
Jeannette, how sayest thou? is it not so?"

"He is a comely knight, my lady, and brave too, the fighting men say."

"Didst thou notice, when he removed his visor to answer the Count's
summons, his handsome visage? 'Twas, I thought, so like the statue of
Mars in the old home in Normandy. The same curly locks; the same
inflexible cast of features, as though ready to front a host. Didst thou
notice this, Jeannette?"

"I marked it much, my lady."

"Yet, didst thou notice, there was a nobility about the open brow which
bespeaks a magnanimity which wondrously beseemeth brave men?"

"I noticed all this, my lady."

"Ah me, Jeannette, I read those old romances in my father's hall, and
listened to the stories of Christian knights and warriors told me by the
good sisters of St. Justin's, until I came to think that all knights and
soldierly men must be brave to avenge the oppressed, and magnanimous to
the fallen and the weak, scorning to wreak vengeance upon helpless men
and women. I thought all brave men must be at least chivalrous to my
sex. I thought all brave men must be virtuous, too; for how could they
be brave to conquer their enemies, and yet be the slaves of their own
over-grown lusts like this Baron Vigneau?"

"These are evil times, lady. I much fear me that nothing good thrives
now; and the Baron may not be much worse than others, though I go in
daily fear of him. His gloating eyes are ever upon me, and once he
caught me in his arms. But let him beware! I carry that in my bosom will
teach him a lesson he will not need to learn over again!" and she
displayed the flashing blade of a small stiletto.

"Listen, Jeannette! I saw the Baron lay hold upon a young and beautiful
lady, who had found shelter with the monks down at the abbey. I heard
his lascivious, gloating words, and I looked into his greedy eyes, and
his steely gaze made me shudder as though it were the gaze of a serpent.
I hate him, but I fear him beyond expression!"

"Hush, lady! Perhaps you will think better of him when these horrid
times have passed."

"Never, Jeannette! My heart's revolt is complete. Let death come, and
welcome, but never wedlock with him. He is but a huge mountain of
evil-smelling carrion. I shall hie me to Normandy, and there in my books
I'll find a worthy knight, all brave and pure, and I'll wed him in
imagination. But I will never share my young life with a knight besotted
and cruel as Vigneau."

"Hush, lady. He comes to your tent. Shall I retire?"

"No, no! Stay by me, Jeannette. I shall feign sickness; let me lean my
head upon you."

Baron Vigneau unceremoniously brushed aside the curtains and stalked
into the tent. His gait was unsteady, and his eyes bloodshot;
unmistakable evidences of a recent debauch.

"What, Alice, how is this?" said he, taking her hand in his. But it
involuntarily shrank from his grasp. "What! aren't we friends yet? I did
but drag the fair Saxon from among those monkish scoundrels to save her
life."

"You seemed loth to part with her, Baron."

"Well, well, we'll take a goose till we can get our swan. But no great
harm would have been done. They're jolly fellows, those monks, and know
what's what, I warrant. The wench wouldn't have suffered, exchanging
sniffling priests for a valiant knight."

Alice shuddered, and made haste to change the subject.

"What says the Saxon knight to your latest summons?"

"'Saxon whelp,' is much more like it, I trow. Well, he struts himself
upon his trumpery battlements like a valiant scarecrow. I would he were
a true knight and worthy of my prowess, I would challenge him to single
combat, and you should see how he would fare when matched with Norman
valour. But let him boast himself a day or two until we get our gear
ready; then, if he does not get a short shrift in the _mêlée_, we'll
have a little sport with him and make him dance to the music these
Saxons like least best."

"Have you offered him honourable terms?"

"Honourable terms to a dog of a Saxon! He'll get the same terms as other
Saxons, a sudden exit at the sword's point, or a slower process but a
rougher passage. I am hoping we shall see sport yet."

Alice shuddered, for she knew too well that instruments of torture were
meant; and she well knew that the Baron would not only use them, but
would derive positive pleasure in watching the agonies of his victim.

"I don't care about such practices; they are hideous and barbarous. What
good it can do to massacre and torture helpless men and women I can't
tell; indeed, I cannot help despising those who indulge in such
detestable things."

"You have been trained in too gentle a school to relish these rough
times, Alice. We must exterminate these Saxon pests, especially the
leaders, and those who have spirit in them. The churls may serve some
useful purpose, when we have knocked their freemen manners out of them.
But they will need to be well knocked about, and ground into shape."

"When will it all end? And if this castle is taken is it to be our
resting-place? I am aweary of being dragged at the heels of a soldiery
thirsting like wild beasts for blood and plunder."

"Ha, ha! Softly, softly, my sweet one! This is to be the end of it for
us. Then comes love and downy pillows--eh, my queen, is it not so?" said
he, endeavouring to chuck her under the chin.

Alice hastily fled, followed by her maid; for, sickening as was
Vigneau's general conversation, his amorous advances begat in her an
overpowering disgust.

A horrible scowl spread itself over Vigneau's base countenance, and he
stood as though petrified with rage. Then his tongue gave vent to this
pent-up storm, and, with a volley of oaths and threatenings, he strode
out of the tent, demoniacal hatred of his betrothed raging in his heart.




CHAPTER VIII.

VILLAINS PLOTTING.

    "And my imaginations are as foul
    As Vulcan's stithy."

    Shakespeare.


The same day, a little before nightfall, Baron Vigneau strode across the
greensward to the spot where his own followers were bivouacking beneath
some huge beech trees. "Pierre," said he, calling to a stalwart and
villainous-looking soldier, who was engaged in a noisy chaffering with
some comrades, "I have a dainty bit of work for you, Pierre. Just such a
commission as you love next best to swilling old Saxon ale."

"What is it your lordship has in the wind now? It has some connection
with wine or wenches, I stake my rosary on it."

"Thou had better throw thy rosary into the first ditch thou comes
across; for if thou tell thy beads in proportion to thy sins, thou can
find no time for anything else; and if thou do penance for half thy
sins, and be d----d for the other half, why, marry, thou might as well
be d----d for the whole. But I warrant _that_ the end of thee in any
case, villain; so there's an end on't. But I want none of thy scurvy
impudence, mark me! I want thy ears, and the best discretion thou hast.
I have a delicate mission for thee to perform--a mission well suited to
thy tender and susceptible disposition."

"Many thanks for your lordship's highly valued appreciation. But truly,
when I quit my sins I'll have to quit your service; for how a saint will
manage the devil's business I cannot tell. Indifferently well, I fancy."

"Silence, sirrah, or I'll crop thy ears! Listen to me! Down at the
monastery there is a Saxon wench--a gem of the first water. None of your
bare-legged slotch-puddles, with a figure as shapely as an ill-made
wine-butt. She is a genuine offshoot of the Saxon nobility, I am told. I
want thee to do a little delicate negotiation for me, such as thou art
justly famous for. If thou do it well, thou shalt rise even higher in my
esteem."

"Ah, I see; a delicate mission truly!"

"Stop the wagging of thy tongue, knave, and take heed to what I say.
This is not the daughter of a villainous churl, bred and reared on a
midden, take note. So I will have this business done accordingly."

"Ah, I comprehend it all. This is potter's ware, that must not be soiled
in transit. All damage and defacement must be reserved for your
respectable self."

"Just so! Don't poke thy villainous phiz--which reminds me of a keg of
wine gone sour--beneath her hood for kisses on thy own account. I'll
have none of it! Just do thine errand as a Christian should, and----"

"Christian, forsooth, I think you said just now, Baron?"

"Eh? Stop thy chatter, dog, when I am speaking! Thy tongue will cut thy
throat some day, villain, if thou sharpen it a little more, now mark
that! Thou art getting much too ready with thy scurvy impudence. Just
attend to me and shut thy mouth. I have these further instructions for
thee. This business, understand, must be done in the dark, and thy
tongue must not wag of it--or any of thy comrades' either, mark me. Her
ladyship, over yonder," said he, jerking his thumb over his left
shoulder in the direction of Alice's tent, "tosses her head a little too
much for my stomach already, and she has worked herself up into a devil
of a fume, just because I took a fancy to this same wench a little time
ago. So let there be no hullaballoo over it, mind that. I know what I'm
about," said he, with a brutal chuckle. "When your game's afield you
must tread softly, that's my point, but when it's bagged--ha, ha! you
may skin it anyhow you please. So, so! wait awhile; my turn will come
by-and-by, and when I get the bit within her teeth--well, never mind
that just now. There's no need to tell all one's mind to a scurvy
trooper," he muttered, under his breath. "There, now thou knows thy
business; but don't bring her to the camp, and don't get drunk and
bungle the whole thing."

Pierre was both a ready and a capable tool of the Baron's, and
indispensable to him in the life of brutality and villainy which he led.
So promptly he set about selecting some half a dozen of his comrades to
assist him in carrying out his master's behests. As the shadows of
evening began to gather about the camp, they mounted their horses and
stole away from the encampment at a brisk trot, reaching the monastery
just as the evening twilight had deepened into the sombre gloom of
night. "Let us dismount here," said Pierre, "and leave our horses
outside the grounds; for the less row there is in this business the
better it will suit the Baron. I suppose as usual it will be a
screeching affair, and if we do not be careful we shall have the whole
brood of pious gentry at our heels in a trice." So, hastily dismounting
and leaving their horses in charge of one of their number, they strode
up to the entrance gates, which they found in charge of two of the
Norman soldiery, by whom they were promptly admitted.

"I say, Jaques," said Pierre, addressing one of the guard, "can you tell
us whereabouts this Saxon wench called Ethel may be found?"

"You will find her in the monks' quarters sure enough," said Jaques;
"but I would advise you to get one of the kitchen scullions to lead the
way for you; that will be your best plan."

So, stealthily wheeling round the main building, they entered the
refectory kitchen, where they found several of the meaner lay brothers
occupied in the menial tasks of that department, whilst a number of
half-starved and ragged mendicants sat round the spacious hall, drinking
the small ale and munching the bacon and bread with which they had been
provided. With abject consternation and fear they beheld the advent of
these troopers; but Pierre immediately laid hold of one of them.

"Varlet," said he, "where is the Saxon wench Ethel to be found?"

The Saxon, clown as he was, took in the situation at once, and tried, by
affecting even greater silliness than his clownish looks betokened, to
evade the question. Pierre whipped out his sword and, grasping him by
the throat, said,--

"None of thy lying, churl! Lead the way. I'll follow; and if thou
mislead me I'll run my sword through thy body in a twinkling. Stop here,
two of you men, and see these skulking villains do not make a hubbub.
Let the others follow me. Now march, hound!" said he, giving the Saxon a
vicious prod with the point of his sword. The Saxon led the way with
much greater alacrity of body than of mind, but it did the business
effectively, for they quickly reached Ethel's room.

"Now for it!" said Pierre. "Diplomacy will ruffle this pretty bird's
feathers the least, so I'll oil my tongue for the occasion. But have you
the cloak ready, men?"

"Aye, aye! all's ready!"

Pierre knocked at the door, and without further ceremony entered. But no
sooner did Ethel set eyes on his unsavoury visage than she knew that
mischief was meant, and she started to her feet and slid her hand into
her bosom.

Pierre doffed his helmet, and assuming a bland and hypocritical tone,
said that "he had been commissioned by the Norman lady who had showed
her a kindness the other day, to bid the Saxon lady come to her in the
Norman camp, where she would be protected and cared for with every
regard to her noble extraction and gentle blood."

But Ethel was not deceived. There is a subtle force in the tones of
sincerity which the most accomplished liar can never successfully
simulate. We are far oftener convinced by this indefinable something in
a man's eye, and in his tones, than by the words he utters. When we have
flung away this quality of candour and truthfulness, liar and knave will
ring out in our utterances, though we use the utmost art of a magician
to hide it. Ethel saw through this ruse, though she dare not show it. So
she manoeuvred to gain time.

"If you will kindly wait until morning, I shall have a little time to
prepare. Some of the servants will find you comfortable quarters for the
night. If you call me early I shall be ready."

"I dare not disobey my lady's orders, who has sent horses and an escort.
I will wait a few minutes for you. But my lady requested me to ask you
to come right away, for her ladyship's ample wardrobe would be at your
service."

"I will acquaint the Abbot first, as I am afraid he will be much
distressed if I depart without his knowledge. I shall be but a few
minutes."

"I am sorry I cannot allow this. My orders are very explicit, and I must
obey. If I have to use force to execute them, I shall be sorry; but I
must ask you to accompany us forthwith," said Pierre, dropping into his
usual menacing and rasping tone of voice, and advancing towards Ethel.

"Yes, villain, I am not deceived by you, nor by any of your villainous
crew!" said Ethel, drawing from her bosom a brightly shining blade and
springing at him like a wild cat. Instantly half a dozen strong hands
were laid upon her, the dagger was wrested from her, and a soldier's
cloak muffled thickly over her face to stifle her screams. Then Pierre
gathered her up in his strong arms and bore her, struggling, along the
passage, and over the greensward, and through the entrance gates.

Immediately the Normans' backs were turned the news spread, I being
apprised at once of the outrage which had been done. As I stumbled along
in the darkness I met with Badger, who, with a stout cudgel in his hand,
and bow-and-arrows slung over his shoulders, was rushing eagerly to the
fray.

"Ah, is that your Grace?" said he. "Where are those Norman carrion? Have
they cleared the ground?"

"I am afraid they have got clear away. Is not that the clatter of their
horses' hoofs I hear beyond the walls?"

"It is, without a doubt. I'll track them as easily as a hound tracks a
deer."

"Go after them, Badger, and see what becomes of the maiden. I will away
to the Norman camp. If I can get speech of the fair Norman perhaps these
men may be made to disgorge their prey. But, Badger, be not too ready
with those carnal weapons, for it will greatly exasperate them; and
remember they that take the sword shall perish with the sword."

"The application must be for the Normans, Father, for I take but my bow
and my quiver, and just a splinter of timber. But if I tickle not their
flanks with a shaft or two before the night is out, why then the witches
of Addergyll may take me for a dolt and a coward."

So saying, he glided off like an arrow; but I saw in the darkness that
he went not by the way of the entrance, but to an oaken tree which grew
near the wall, and, hastily climbing it, he slid along a branch which
overran the wall, and from thence I heard him drop to the ground
without.




CHAPTER IX.

VILLAINS OUTWITTED.

     "Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swear? and discourse
     fustian with one's own shadow?"--Shakespeare.


In the meantime, the darkness had gathered quickly and deepened into
night. This was greatly intensified along the forest path by the lofty
and overhanging branches of the trees. The road also had its twists and
turns innumerable, here to avoid a massive tree, and there to avoid a
huge boulder; and it was little better than a cattle path at any time,
and totally impassable, even to the rude Saxon carts, except at broad
daylight. In these circumstances Pierre and party moved with extreme
difficulty, having frequently to stop to make sure of the road, their
oaths and execrations in the meantime resounding through the wood. But
Badger, who was as familiar with the forest as the deer which roamed in
it, sped swiftly and noiselessly after them, catching up with them
quickly. "Ah, ah!" said he, as he caught sight of the black and moving
mass in front of him; "one good Saxon is equal to the half-dozen of you
here, my hearties! Some of you will have a cold bed in the damp grass
to-night for your pains, or else my shafts will go mightily astray!"
Then, sticking his thorn cudgel in his belt, he took his bow from his
back and adjusted an arrow, and then he crept stealthily near to them.
Raising his bow, he drew the arrow to its head; then he withdrew it. "My
fingers," said he, "are in a hurry to make a cur of a Norman the less in
the world. But where is the use in bagging one of their carrion
carcasses and losing the game? To kill a Norman is a luxury; but I must
rescue Ethel. Let me see whether my purpose cannot be served best by
joining my wits to my weapons. There are three couples--two abreast; and
Ethel is in charge of the centre one to the right. I can send a shaft in
the nape of the last one's neck. That is _one_ certain. Then there will
be a stampede probably: I may get another one. Shall I get the villain
who has charge of Ethel? Can't make sure; and if I do, Ethel will come
to the ground with him, and perhaps be badly bruised. Well, some risk
will have to be taken, for I am but one." So saying, he stole nearer to
them. Suddenly, ahead of the party, there was a wide opening in the tops
of the trees directly in the line of vision, the outlines of the figures
in front showing boldly against the starlit sky. "Now is my time," said
Badger, planting his foot firmly, and drawing back the string until it
touched his shoulder--when suddenly a hurried footfall in the path
behind him arrested his attention, and he darted into the thicket,
keeping his arrow in position. When the runner drew near, Badger sprang
forward and faced the new-comer, with his shaft still in position.
"Who's this?" said he. "Speak, or I'll let fly my shaft!"

"Steady, Badger," said the stranger. "Don't shoot a friend."

"Well timed, Bretwul, I have just been wishing for a Saxon or two! What
has brought you?"

"The very purpose that brought you here. I heard of that Norman's
attempt to carry off my young mistress, and I knew the wolf, having
scented prey like that, would never drop the trail until he ran it down.
I watched the abbey night by night, in the hope of frustrating his
purpose; but the villain has got clear off with her."

"Not quite so fast, comrade. If you had been a minute or two later, my
shafts would have overtaken one or more of them. But it is better as it
is, for two of us will make a better fight of it than one. But enough of
this; they are not two hundred yards ahead of us. There are six
horsemen, and the second horseman at the right side has charge of Ethel.
Now, how are we to effect a rescue?"

So the pair debated the matter as they followed on the heels of the
party.

"Well, Bretwul," said Badger, "as I was telling you, I was just going to
try a rough-and-ready method when your footsteps arrested me. I knew it
to be a risky venture, but I little expected any help in the business.
Now I am inclined to think a more favourable opportunity will turn up
by-and-by."

"Well, I am inclined to think so myself, Badger. There is the risk that
the game would carry the shaft, unless it were hit very squarely; and
the odds are the other way in the darkness. Any failure would make it
bad for the young mistress, it is certain."

"That we must prevent, if possible. But now, what are the chances? These
Normans have no strong place near in which they can shut her. I can
promise you they'll not dare to carry her to the camp; there is a lady
there who rescued her before, and was desperate savage with the brute
who offered her violence then. But they will find a place elsewhere;
probably leave her for the night in charge of half their number."

"There's reason in it, Badger. Anyway, it is better to wait awhile, and
see if some better chance is forthcoming."

So the pair continued to dog the steps of their adversaries, until,
emerging from the wood, they struck across an open glade, or clearing,
in the forest, formerly cultivated by a Saxon yeoman. Soon they reached
the fringe of the forest again, where, embowered within its shelter, was
the house of this Saxon; but it was deserted and plundered of
everything. Here they dismounted, Pierre lifting Ethel down and carrying
her into the house. The cloak was removed, and, lighting a torch, its
flickering blaze made visible a two-roomed dwelling, rude and damp in
its tenantless condition. The inner room was doorless, and the outer
door was thrown back and dilapidated. The floors were of earth trodden
hard. There was a rude attempt at a fireplace in the first room; it was
built entirely of rough, unhewn stone, whilst its huge, gaping chimney
was such, that a man would have had no difficulty in ascending it. Into
the inner room Pierre led, or dragged, Ethel; then he fetched a rough
stone from the fireplace for her to sit upon.

"Now, fair one," said he, "this is rather a cold place to call home, but
we'll soon make it a bit more comfortable. I can see no further
advantage in lying in this matter--and I keep a conscience, and don't
make a practice of lying for nothing--so I may as well tell you at once
that my master admires that pretty face of yours. It is a weakness he
has. The more fool he; for it spoils his chances of higher game. Well,
that's a riddle you need not puzzle out. But my master is a knight
renowned for valour, and for some other things not recommended by the
worthy Order of Cistercians, or indeed any strict Orders of the pious
gentry. That, of course, is neither here nor there. But my master, when
he hears of your distress, is bound, I believe, by his oath, to succour
you; and he is well able to do so. It is the highest wisdom on your part
to be friends with him. But heigho! no more of that! A fig for doing
another man's wooing; 'tis worse than carving for another's eating!"

Happily, much of this jargon was perfectly unintelligible to Ethel.

"Here, men," said he, turning to his comrades in the other room. "One of
you must mount guard inside the house, and another outside. We will to
camp, and return soon with both eatables and drinkables; so make the
best of a bad bargain for a little while. Come, men, let us cut the tail
off this business as quickly as we can." So saying, they mounted their
horses, and, leading the disengaged ones, their forms were speedily lost
in the darkness.

"My fingers itch most dreadfully to try the effect of a shaft upon the
carcass of the big lubberly villain who leads the party," said Badger,
raising his bow with the arrow directed towards the hazy forms
disappearing in the night.

"Stay, Badger!" said Bretwul, laying his hand on him. "The game's in the
net; don't rend it."

"Aye, aye. The fool acts on the thought as it is made, but the wise man
when it is weighed. But as surely as the gallows nods when the rogue
goes by, so his time will come!"

"Well, Badger, what is to be the next move? We must get to business
whilst our chance lasts."

"Right, Bretwul. Well, we shall have to work round from the rear of the
house, and we shall thus get close on them if we move stealthily. I
doubt not but we can brain the one outside before he knows where he is;
then, two to one is more than the other will be prepared for."

So saying, the pair stole to the rear of the house, and crept round by
the gable, until Badger peered round the corner at the fellow on duty
outside. Fortunately, he had his back to them, and was talking through
the open door to his comrade within.

"Are you ready, Bretwul?" said Badger, in a whisper to his companion,
who followed closely at his heels.

Bretwul made no reply, but brandished his Saxon broadsword aloft in
token of his readiness. Then, with the agility of a panther, Badger
sprang round the corner of the hovel, and, delivering a powerful blow
with his cudgel upon the back of the Norman's head, he felled him in
insensibility to the ground, whilst another spring quick as lightning
landed him within grappling distance of the other Norman. He also, it is
needless to say, was quite unprepared for any attack, and had barely
time to spring to his feet and raise his arm to ward off Badger's first
stroke, which sent him staggering against the wall; and Bretwul being in
close attendance at that instant, with a sweep of his sword effectually
cut short all further resistance. Then, returning to the door where the
other soldier was lying prostrate, he quickly finished the work of
revenge.

Meanwhile, Ethel from within witnessed the scuffling going on, but
without comprehending in the least the import of it; she improved the
opportunity for flight which the struggle afforded her, by bounding
through the open door, and fled like a Will-o'-the-wisp across the open
glade in a frantic effort to gain the shelter of the forest, whilst her
rescuers followed full chase in her wake. Very quickly, however,
Badger's nimble feet caught up to her; when, to her infinite relief, she
discovered that they were faithful friends, who had risked much to free
her from the custody of the brutal Norman troopers.

Whilst this was transpiring, Pierre and the remainder of his troop
stumbled along through the darkness of the forest, all unconscious that
their footsteps had been dogged, and their evil purposes frustrated,
just when they thought they had been crowned with perfect success.

"This has been neatly done, men," said Pierre. "Now, I wonder what the
Baron will do for us in the shape of reward!"

"Well, I guess none of our pouches will burst with gold pieces, Pierre.
I expected better pay or more plunder when I took service, I promise
you; but his scurvy humours are even worse than his pay. Why don't you
take the lead? The whole company is ready for a new master."

"Hold hard a bit. There are others who are getting as tired of his
humours as yourself; and if you hear the clash of steel between us you
need not be very much surprised, for my temper is none of the smoothest,
and he may play the bully some day until nothing will settle it but cold
steel."

When they reached the camp, Pierre alone carried the news to his master.
No sooner, however, had he put his head within the tent than he gave a
grunt of infinite disgust as he set eyes upon the Baron; for he was far
gone in his cups.

"Hilloa, Pierre! What now, you scowling villain! What has brought you?"
he bawled, with drunken incoherency; but, drunk as he was, he had
noticed Pierre's disgust.

"We have executed your order, Baron," Pierre replied.

"Executed my order? Who? What have they done?"

"The commission you gave me about the Saxon lady down at the monastery."

"The wench that all the pother's about?"

"Yes, the same."

"Ah, I remember. Have you got her, Pierre?"

"Yes, as snug as anybody could wish. Not a whisper has got abroad."

"Bravo, Pierre! You are a gentleman. Pierre, do you hear? You are a
gentleman, or a thief, I don't care which," giving a drunken chuckle.
"Drink, Pierre," said he, handing him a flagon of wine with a trembling
hand.

Pierre took the goblet and drained it to the last drop.

Vigneau took it again, and looked into it for a moment with maudlin
pensiveness, as though he could scarcely realise that it was really the
bottom he gazed at. But the quarrelsome humour in him was never so
rampant as when he was in his cups.

"There's a pint of good Rhenish gone, Pierre. Gone, too, into a stomach
that must be about rotted out with Saxon ale by this time."

"Well, we'll bring them round with soothing draughts of Rhenish,
master."

"Eh, dog? Not with mine, Pierre. With swill if you like, Pierre! Swill
will do for a hog like you, Pierre! Eh! Do you hear me? Swill will do
for you!" said the Baron, becoming quarrelsome with drunken excitement.

Fortunately, Pierre was sober, or matters would speedily have become
serious. Checking the rising choler, he said,--

"What is to be done with this Saxon--Ethel, as she is called?"

"What do you know about Ethel, eh? Have you got her, scurvy villain? I
say, have you got her? Answer me that."

"I told you we had, not a minute since."

"Eh? Then speak civilly, varlet! Do you know who I am? D---- me, I allow
thy tongue too much licence. I'll not have such impudence from a scurvy
trooper as I've taken lately. I'll teach you I'm a gentleman. Now mark
me, Pierre. Keep a civil distance. I'll not have it," and he began
fumbling for the hilt of his sword.

"Pshaw!" said Pierre, assuming both a look and a tone of disgust.

"Eh, churl, what now?" roared Vigneau, in a towering rage, with great
effort staggering to his feet, and after prolonged exertion getting out
his sword, and lunging furiously at Pierre. But the act was too much for
him. Lurching head foremost, the sword's point came ignominiously to the
ground with his weight upon it, to prevent his falling flat. The result
was, his great weight forced it a foot into the ground, from which his
utmost efforts failed to extricate it, Pierre, meanwhile, vanishing from
the tent with a horse-laugh. Vigneau dropped into his seat and stared
vacantly at the point where Pierre had vanished, then at the sword
standing upright in the ground. But his efforts to recall what it was
all about were a total failure. Slowly his bleared eyes closed, and soon
after he slid from his seat to the ground, to sleep off the effects of
the night's debauch.

"The Baron is drunk and quarrelsome as usual to-night," said Pierre to
his comrades, as he issued from the tent. "Nothing can be done with him
till morning, and if he be not in a pleasanter humour in the morning,
and come down handsome for us, you will have to be led by another, I
trow. Well, we'll finish the business we have begun. Let us take
victuals and a few other things down yonder. It will be a little more
like a habitation, and not so like a sty."




CHAPTER X.

A FRUITLESS EMBASSY.

     "A bold, bad man."--Spenser.


To return to myself. I paced to and fro in the abbey grounds in anguish
and suspense, waiting for Badger's return, yet almost dreading it, lest
he should bring ill news. But midnight passed, and the small hours of
the morning came on, with no tidings of Ethel. I feared for her personal
safety, and I feared also the effects upon her mind. For I must state
here, for the benefit of the reader, that Ethel's surroundings had been
such as to strongly imbue her mind with the heathenish beliefs of her
ancestors. Her father came of an old viking stock, and rigidly adhered
to the superstitions of his forefathers. He had likewise given to Ethel
a large measure of his stern and aggressive temperament, and had striven
to instil into her mind his own religious beliefs. I had seen also at
times the strange flashing of the fierce fire within her, when deeply
stirred. Yet I saw there were elements of gentleness and delicacy in her
composition, inherited in all probability from her mother, who was
Saxon, and a devout Christian. With my whole energy I had striven, at
the request of her dying mother, to train her in the Christian faith:
but my opportunities had been of a most desultory nature. Then when I
began to hope that my work would be accomplished, this terrible invasion
occurred. Thus efforts to show her how the fierce passions and reckless
bloodshedding of the Norsemen--her father's ancestors--were cruel and
heathenish, and their religion a gross superstition, were frustrated by
this war of usurpation inflicted upon us by a Christian nation, with the
approbation and blessing of the Pope, whilst at the head of their army
they carried sacred banners and holy relics of saints. Thus the
Christian religion was made to sanction bloodshed and massacre,
unsparing and fiendish in its extent and in its mercilessness. In the
train of these professedly Christian soldiery also, there followed
nameless horrors and offences, which outdid the excesses of Norseman and
Dane tenfold. But, worse than all, her father and her two brothers had
been massacred--their home levelled--and she, having to fly to the
shelter of the sanctuary, only found that the sanctuary was no sanctuary
to her, and no protection against violence and brutality. It is utterly
impossible to imagine any one more completely shorn of every prop and
stay than she was; and I feared much also for her faith. I knew that
there was that in her which would not permit her to tamely submit to
indignities. But where would her revolt end?

Well, feeling that it would be better to be doing something to effect
her rescue than to be absorbed in these painful cogitations, I decided I
would start at once for the Norman camp. It was a long and a weary tramp
in the darkness through the forest, but still, I hoped, by patient
plodding forward, I should reach the camp by daylight. Happily I found I
had not overrated my powers. As I drew near, I was challenged by the
outpost. There was a considerable parleying, and a determination evinced
to prevent my farther advance. But my sacred calling, coupled with the
fact that I was unarmed, and that it was now broad daylight, ultimately
prevailed, and I was conducted to a tent not far from the one occupied
by Lady Alice de Montfort, with whom, after some time, I received an
audience, and whom we will in future call Alice. To her I related all
that I knew of the outrage, with such description of the persons taking
part in it as I had been able to gather. From my description of the
leader, she had no difficulty in identifying Pierre as the man.

"Well, Father, I may as well tell you at the outset, that this is what I
expected. I warned this Saxon lady of the risks she ran by staying at
the monastery, but I could not persuade her to accept my protection."

"She has been a great sufferer, gracious madame," I replied, "during
these wars; and she was, no doubt, greatly afraid. Probably, also, she
was greatly averse to joining your camp; though it was unquestionably a
generous offer on your part."

"Well, reverend Father, I am not saying this to excuse my inaction now,
but I assure you from what I know, and what I suspect of the
participants in this outrage, that it would have been far easier to keep
the prey from the jaws of the lion than it will be to force his den and
wrest it from him. I will do my utmost, I assure you. Jeannette," said
she, turning to her maid, "let our guest have some refreshment, for he
will be weary and faint, I am sure." So saying, she departed I know not
where.

She returned in the course of half an hour; but she gave me little hope
of success, though she said the Count, her father, had gone out in quest
of the persons whom he suspected. She was most gracious to me, and asked
most anxiously as to whether we were treated properly by the soldiers
quartered upon us. I suspected very strongly that the comparative
immunity from personal molestation we had hitherto enjoyed arose in
great part from her goodwill and protection. She asked many questions
with regard to our books; to our endowments; especially to the great
relief we had been able to extend to the poor, and to strangers. I was
highly impressed, not only with the charms of her person, but with her
highly cultivated mind, and gracious demeanour.

I hastened my departure with as little delay as decency would permit;
for to tell the truth, I was driven back upon my first hopes, that
Badger's cunning and prowess would be equal to the emergency. I was thus
extremely anxious to get me back to the monastery, that I might learn
how he had fared. So I hurried over the open plain, and gat me into the
forest as quickly as I could. For in very deed I felt myself anything
but safe, as I noticed jealous eyes watching me narrowly. But I had
scarcely entered the forest when I found myself in the presence of the
ungodly Norman who had desecrated the sanctuary, and endeavoured to
carry off Ethel--whom, also, I strongly suspected of being at the bottom
of this latest outrage. I involuntarily crossed myself, and uttered a
prayer for help, for I felt instinctively that I had myself in very
truth fallen into the jaws of the lion.

"Well, shaveling," said he, "thou hast said thy prayers, I perceive.
Thou hast done well to be prepared, lest the devil should get thee. What
has been thy errand to the camp so early? Be explicit and prompt, or
thou wilt rue it."

"I have had particular business there, my lord."

"I knew that already, dolt! Let us have details. With whom hast thou had
business?"

"With Lady de Montfort."

"So I thought. What was the matter that disturbed your saintly bosom,
old smooth-pate? Out with it!"

"There has been an outrage committed upon us, and one of our refugees
carried off by force from the monastery."

"Ah! that was terrible! So you first despatched a posse of your
bog-trotting Saxon churls to murder two of my men; then you dragged your
battered old shins through the woods, to raise a hullaballoo at the
camp. It was well done. Now, what shall I give you for your trouble? I
think a broken neck is about your deserts."

So, without more ado, he laid violent hands upon me, and tore my cloak
from my back. Then he tried to strangle me; but I had been stout of
limb, and agile as any of my fellows, when I was young, so I resisted
with all my might. I was delighted to find, in spite of the disadvantage
of a score of years, he was more blown than I was. Eventually, I was
able to slip from his grasp, and immediately took to my heels. He was
younger, but stout and bulky; and I found in this point, also, I was
greatly his superior, and quickly increased the distance between us. So
he gave up the chase, and permitted me for the time being to go in
peace. For this wonderful deliverance I gave God thanks.




CHAPTER XI.

OSWALD'S DEFENCE OF HIS CASTLE.

     "Cry 'Havock!' and let slip the dogs of war."--Shakespeare.


In the meantime, the Normans had made diligent preparation for an
assault on the castle. Now the castle could not be described as a very
formidable stronghold, or one designed to withstand a regular siege. It
had been built mainly to resist the incursions of the Scots, who
periodically raided in force into these parts, their purpose being
plunder and cattle-lifting. They overran the country quickly, getting
them back as speedily as possible, before the Saxons had time to
concentrate, so that no very great powers of resistance were needed to
repel them, or weary them. Occasionally also the Danes carried fire and
sword to our parts; but since the conquest of Northumbria and the north
of England generally, by Halfdane, and the settlement of so many of his
followers in the land, we had not been afflicted much with their
incursions in this part of the kingdom, during my lifetime. Thus, the
strength of the castle being sufficient for our hereditary foes, it
still was not such as would be likely to long resist the experienced and
numerous foes now pitched before it. The castle itself stood on an
eminence; was built of good solid masonry, with a battlemented tower
rising from its centre, but without any special design. It was
strengthened by a wall which ran completely round, forming a spacious
enclosure, in which cattle could be speedily and safely housed in cases
of emergency. This wall was lofty and fairly proportioned, but its great
length made it difficult to man by the handful of Saxon defenders. It is
well also to note that, as in the case of nearly all the strongholds of
the land, it was provided with a secret passage, known only to the
trusted followers of Oswald--a passage which could be entered by the
initiated at a certain place in the circular stair which led to the
turret. This underground passage had an emerging place, carefully
concealed in a dense wood some distance away.

In a very few days the Normans had prepared themselves with scaling
ladders, and had cut long poles from the forest for the purpose of
pushing the defenders from the wall. Mantelets were prepared of boards
fastened together, behind which the attacking parties could advance on
the defenders, without exposing themselves to the arrows and javelins
which would be hurled at them. The leaders also had pavises, or large
shields, which covered the person from head to foot. The time had now
come when the assault might be made, it was believed, with impunity, so
the Norman forces were put into battle array, a small number only being
appointed to the task of protecting the women and the camp.

It was a fine sight to see these disciplined men as they moved to the
attack in orderly array. Everything bore evidence to the fact that the
plan of attack, and the marshalling and disposition of the forces, was
the work of a competent general, one who was well versed in the art of
war.

The Norman bowmen were thrown out in companies on either flank, for the
protection of the forces who were to conduct the assault, and also for
the purpose of distracting and harassing the defenders as they strove to
repel the attack of the besiegers.

It needed little military knowledge to see that the issue could not be
doubtful. The meagre band of Saxons, stretched in thin line over the
extent of wall, could never hold it against the multitude who swarmed to
the attack. Oswald alone, of all the Saxons, was fully equipped for the
resistance of the clouds of barbed arrows about to be poured amongst
them. His second in command, Wulfhere, was partly clad in a light coat
of mail; but, for the most part, leathern jerkins were the only
protection they had. Had it been an attack in the open, in which the
forces were equal, these rough Saxons would have given a good account of
themselves. Any one of them could have been depended upon to bring down
a stag at a hundred paces. Whilst, if it had been a hand-to-hand
struggle with their broadswords, or their pikes, they would have fought
with the ferocity of tigers. But here they were outnumbered by ten to
one, and so circumstanced that they could not hurl themselves upon their
adversaries, and by sheer bravery strike terror into their ranks. They
must wait to be attacked, and for every arrow they shot, and for every
javelin they flung, there would be half a dozen returned.

Vigneau, Reynard, Jules Reynard and other leaders, were grouped together
with De Montfort, who gave orders for successive movements of the
besiegers, as though, with the prevision which comes of a carefully
matured plan, he could see every act of the stirring drama about to be
enacted.

Now the order for assault is given. The attacking party, with their
mantelets mounted on rude wheels, steadily advance across the plain, the
archers disposing themselves to the right and left in advance of the
main body, giving the attacking forces the form of a crescent. The
archers, dodging adroitly beneath the trees, were able to get near the
wall, thus threatening to put the defenders between a cross fire. The
Saxons, with bow in hand and pike at their feet, but without a shout or
the wasting of a single arrow, stood grimly awaiting the onset. The
Norman archers commenced the attack by letting fly a volley of arrows,
but at too great a distance to be effective. Some of them fell short,
and the others were easily dodged by the Saxons, who, as yet, had no
pressing call upon their attention. But now the attacking party draw
near, and, as they do so, they become more exposed. At a signal from
Oswald a stinging volley of arrows from the Saxons come hissing amongst
them with galling effect. At this the pace of the besiegers is
quickened, and their archers are quickly within distance to do deadly
execution with their arrows.

The Saxons, too, find it necessary to let go their bows, and grasp their
javelins and spears to deal with foes in close contact, who by this time
have begun to scale the wall. The foremost Normans were met with a
merciless slaughter, and it is probable that never a Norman that day
would have kept a foothold on the wall had it not been for the support
of their archers. These, being now at close quarters, pour their arrows
in pitiless showers into the ranks of the defenders, and many a stout
Saxon falls with dozens of these barbed messengers of death in his body.
Where the attack is hottest, the Saxons reel and stagger, a foothold on
the wall is gained, and the Normans are swarming upon it. Oswald
immediately dashes to the spot and his battle-axe descends in thunder
strokes. Right and left the Normans are beaten down before him; and,
with a shout, the Saxons signal the wall clear again.

But the respite is brief, for quickly Oswald's attention is directed
elsewhere by the loud shouts of the Normans. He turns a hurried glance
thitherward, only to see that the Normans there have gained a foothold
on the wall, and are rapidly overbearing his handful of men, though
Wulfhere manfully stems the tide, and deals out to the Normans many a
deadly blow. In a moment, Oswald also is on the spot to the rescue, and
once more the tide of victory smiles upon the Saxon cause. Again it is
only for a brief span, for like an oncoming and resistless tide the
Normans surge upon the wall, and beat back the slender ranks of the
Saxons. One advantage, however, the Saxons now reap; the combatants are
so mingled in one deadly hand-to-hand struggle, that the Norman archers
dare not let fly their shafts, and can only stand, and, with bated
breath, watch the sanguinary struggle.

In the distance yonder, and at the entrance to the tent, there stand
Alice and her maid Jeannette, who shudderingly watch the carnage
proceed. Oswald and Wulfhere are now fighting back to back, with shield
on arm, and having exchanged their axes for their broadswords. Together
they cleave down the ranks of the enemy, until like sheep they quail
before these stalwart Saxons.

"What matchless valour this pair of Saxon chieftains display, Jeannette!
If ever heroism and valour deserved to win a battle, surely this is the
time!"

"How frightened our men-at-arms seem to be!" said Jeannette. "Do you see
how frantically the Baron raves there at the foot of the wall, and
shouts at the men? He boasts him of his valour. Why does he not mount
the wall and face this Saxon?"

"What human lives are being sacrificed! 'Tis most dreadful! May God send
us peace quickly!" murmured Alice, shading her eyes at the spectacle
before her. "These are our people, Jeannette, but I must confess my
sympathies are with the Saxons. This leader, too, defends his home with
the courage of a hero. God grant he may not fall into the hands of our
men alive, or he will be tortured with fiendish brutality for this day's
work!"

The struggle still proceeds with gathering intensity and fierceness.
Baron Vigneau, indeed, as Jeannette had described him, does rave and
gesticulate frantically. "Down with him! Now, men, rush on him two or
three together! Close with him! Push him from the wall! Hurl something
at him!" But nevertheless he makes no effort to mount the wall himself.

De Montfort also stands there nervously directing the attack. "Here,
man," said he, to a stalwart soldier by his side, "heave up this long
pole and aim a blow at the Saxon." The man heaves up the pole, and, with
a run and a powerful blow, he struck Oswald on the head. The blow
completely staggers the Saxon; for a moment or two he hovers on the edge
of the wall endeavouring to recover his balance; but, alas! it is all in
vain, and he drops, with his heavy harness on, down into the castle yard
a dozen feet or more.

At this untoward event the Saxons, in a perfect panic, rush for the
drawbridge thrown across to the wall from one of the barbicans, and
intended as a means of retreat by Oswald in the last resort. But the
Normans have intercepted them and cut them off from this, and the
custodians, seeing that this would be seized by the Normans, immediately
withdraw it. Then the Saxons wildly leap from the wall, and for dear
life's sake, rush like hunted hares, for the neighbouring thicket.

For a little while attention is distracted from the fallen chieftain by
the efforts of the Normans to cut off these flying Saxons. But down
there in the castle yard lies Oswald, stunned, bleeding, and insensible;
helpless to fight or to fly. Wulfhere witnesses the helpless condition
of his leader, and down he leaps and lifts him up and detaches his
visor. As he does so, a deep sob escapes from the parted lips of Oswald;
but there is no further sign of life or returning consciousness.

Whilst this has been transpiring, the attention of the Normans has been
distracted from the leaders by the necessity to clear the walls of the
few Saxons who, disdaining to seek safety in flight, die fighting most
determinedly at their posts. Now, however, the Normans turn their
attention to the two Saxon leaders entrapped within the castle yard.
Immediately they send up a yell of fiendish delight, as they behold the
almost frantic efforts of Wulfhere to arouse his unconscious master, and
restore him to his senses.

But 'twas in vain. Oswald's head had been rudely jammed by the steel
helmet in the shock of falling; and it was soon apparent to Wulfhere
that the brief respite was now exhausted, without bringing any signs of
returning consciousness. He threw his left arm around the waist of his
helpless chieftain, and drew him, harness and all, upon his hip, and,
grasping his broadsword in his right hand, he made with all the speed he
could command for the door of the castle, hoping by this manoeuvre to
gain time.

But the stalwart and muscular form of Oswald, encumbered as it was by
heavy armour, made progress painfully slow. In the meantime, the Normans
reversed their scaling ladders and slid down into the quadrangle, and
came trooping after the fugitives. Wulfhere saw his task was hopeless,
and with a cry of pain like a wounded deer he dropped his helpless
burthen on the greensward, and, furious as some wild beast, sprang at
the yelling foe, cutting down the foremost at a blow. Following up the
others, who quailed before him, he quickly laid half a dozen corpses in
a ghastly circle round his master. But there was no end to the stream of
furious assailants who were fast surrounding him. "'Tis in vain!" he
pitifully exclaimed. "Oh, had I here but a score of stout men to make a
rampart of steel, we would defy the yelling crew! God forgive me for
this coward's act, my master! I would gladly die with you, but I know I
shall better do your will by reserving my worthless life for service to
your followers."

So saying, he bounded over the prostrate form of Oswald, and across the
sward, mounting the half-dozen steps at the terrace entrance at a
spring, and dashing through the open door.

The Normans followed him in concert; but when it became a question of
single file to pass the portal, without knowing whether Wulfhere was
lurking within, why then they in "honour preferred one another," with
the result that they one and all ceased following Wulfhere, and
courageously returned to help their fellows to heap indignities upon the
prostrate Earl.

Meanwhile, the gates had been burst open and the Norman soldiers, camp
followers and all, had pressed into the enclosure, Alice and Jeannette,
with the women, bringing up the rear.

"Whatever are they clambering and yelling so about, Jeannette? Is it the
dead chieftain?"

"I think so, my lady. They are like wolves worrying their prey."

"It is a pity so brave a man should perish. If he be not dead I will
beseech my father for his life; though I am afraid it will be to little
purpose."

"See, my lady, he is not dead; he is standing up."

Oswald had recovered consciousness, and, stripped of his helmet, looked
around, though deathly pale and half-dazed.

"Do not kill him, men!" roared Vigneau. "We'll have some sport
to-morrow, and then you may cut his throat if he survives."

"Do you hear what that beast in human form is saying, Jeannette?"

"It is horrible, my lady. Let us go away; I am quite sickened."

"Stay a minute, Jeannette. Let us have a good look at him. How pale he
is! But look at his noble countenance--handsome and expressive as a
hero's should be! Such countenances have men only who live temperately
and think purely. Contrast, Jeannette, the blotched and bleared
countenance of Vigneau. There is a tell-tale and an index at once to the
beastly life and foul imagination. How my heart revolts at the sight of
him! I would prefer the touch of a vampire."

Meanwhile, Wulfhere threaded his way by a path familiar to him, until he
reached the foot of the circular stair which led to the turret,
ascending which, and watching through a loophole, he heard the command
to spare Oswald's life until the morrow.

"Thank Heaven! Whilst there is life there is hope. If a desperate effort
to rescue him will succeed, I count upon a few daring spirits to venture
it."

But the tramp of heavy feet resounding through the corridors warned him
to delay no longer. Turning his face towards a farther ascent, he ran
his hand along the wall in the darkness until the feel of a certain
stone arrested his attention, applying his strength to which, it slowly
revolved, disclosing an aperture into which a man might drop.

Into this aperture Wulfhere disappeared; and the stone revolved to its
place again.




CHAPTER XII.

ALICE DE MONTFORT SETS FREE THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN.

    "O woman! lovely woman! nature made thee
    To temper man; we had been brutes without you."

    Otway.


It was only by the exercise of the utmost energy that the soldiery and
camp followers of the Normans were prevented from looting the castle.
They were somewhat appeased by an unlimited supply of ale from the
cellars, and promises of money. Bonfires were lit in the enclosure, and
carcasses of sheep and oxen roasted thereat, the whole resolving itself
into a grand carousal of drinking, singing, and rough jollity. A certain
number of the better class were admitted to the castle, where the same
kind of thing was repeated in much the same fashion.

In the large hall the leaders feasted and drank with little more of
refinement and seemliness than the vulgar people, except that they drank
wine and mead.

"Well, Captain Reynard!" said the Count. "Is all well?"

"All well, sire; the gates secured, the place explored, and, I think I
may add, the Saxons so thoroughly routed and cowed that they will have
little stomach for more fighting yet awhile."

"That may be; but I fancy we should be found very unprepared if they
dared venture an attempt to rescue their leader."

"You may depend upon me, Count, to keep a sharp look-out; I shall not
close my eyes in sleep until the sun rises to-morrow. But I have no fear
the Saxons will attempt a rescue. As I said, they are so thoroughly
beaten, and the remnant so glad to be able to escape with their lives,
that they will venture no more."

An exceedingly busy and anxious time was spent by Alice and her maids in
their efforts to protect the domestics left in charge from the drunken
frolics of both officers and men-at-arms. This would have been a task
utterly beyond their powers but for the watchful eye and stern
discipline of the Count, who, despising the drunken excesses of his
lieutenants, with ceaseless care and watchfulness kept watch and ward
within and without the castle.

Alice and Jeannette, too, with the curiosity of their sex, and with
ever-increasing interest, explored the rooms of the castle, marvelling
greatly at the many tokens of taste and refinement manifested therein,
and which they little expected to find in the castle of a Saxon
chieftain.

Said Alice, "My interest grows strangely from day to day, Jeannette, in
this Saxon chieftain. I see no evidence of the boorishness I have always
associated with the lives of the Barons of England. Now also that he is
in such sore distress, and hath so sad a fate before him, my heart
grieves sorely for him."

"Yes, my lady, I cannot help thinking that these Saxons would despise
the beastly orgies proceeding under this roof, and outside."

"Yes, Jeannette; but what will it be on the morrow, when this Saxon is
given over to their cruelty? It makes my blood curdle! Would I knew how
to set him free! My heart tells me it would be an act of mercy done to
my own people as well as to him; for to spare my people the humiliation
and degradation of the morrow's inhumanity were indeed a good deed,
whether they would appreciate it or not."

"My lady, if you wish it, I warrant we can do it. I know how to set
about it. Paul Lazaire mounts guard, and I can coax the simpleton into
obeying me. I declare if I had to bid him stand on his head he would do
it."

"But, Jeannette, that would probably get Paul into trouble. Perhaps it
would cost him his life. That would not do."

"Well, if you will not let me manage Paul, I cannot tell how to help
you."

"But cannot we manage it without implicating Paul. I could make a
sleeping draught which would put him to rest speedily."

"Oh, that would be fine, my lady! Just the very thing! Put it in some
mulled ale, and I will dose him."

"But how then, Jeannette? Have we courage to open the prison doors? I am
afraid our nerves would fail us down in those damp and ghostly cells."

"Not at all, my lady. I will go; my heart will not fail me, for it would
just suit me to do it."

"Well, it sounds strange we should thus plot to deceive our people; but
my heart prompts me to do this deed, come what may."

"Yes, let us do it; but, as I said, let it be mulled ale, for I declare
ale is never too muddy for them, and they will drink it, no matter what
stuff you put in it."

"But how shall we convey it to him when it is made? That is our next
difficulty, Jeannette."

"Oh, I'll convey it, never fear for me, lady. The little soft is fool
enough to think I admire him. It will be such fun! I shall almost burst
with laughter when he gulps it down. I'll take him a tit-bit also, for
his supper. The simpleton will be overjoyed, and I expect he'll begin
maundering something about love," and Jeannette clapped her hands and
skipped about gleefully. This was a matter that just jumped with her
madcap humour, and her high spirits could any time carry her through a
frolic of this sort; but when fairly cornered, her nerves were subject
to complete collapse, and she became as helpless as any bird before the
swoop of a hawk, unable to do anything but cower and helplessly flutter.

"Really, Jeannette, I think you treat this poor fellow rather too
badly," said Alice.

"It's only a joke, my lady. I like to tease him, he amuses me so!"

"Well, get him some supper, then, and I will make him some mulled ale.
For this once, at least, we must ignore our consciences; but indeed, I
almost think the end will justify the means, for this worthy Saxon
deserves some better fate than the one awaiting him, and I care not if I
permit the claims of humanity and of chivalry to triumph, even though it
be at the expense of my own people, of whose cruelty and greed I am
heartily ashamed."

The evening hours were advancing rapidly towards the twelfth. Much of
the clamour of the early hours of the night was effectually hushed in
the drunken slumbers of both officers and men, and at the dread hour the
attempt at rescue was to be made; so Jeannette, fortifying herself for
her humorous but somewhat daring feat, tripped boldly along the
corridors, torch in hand, bearing the repast prepared for her would-be
lover.

"There, you false man, that is a great deal too good for you!" she said,
accosting Paul Lazaire, who was mounting guard over the cell in which
Oswald was confined, and who, in great trepidation and fear, shrank
before the ghostly advent of an unknown and muffled visitant at the
dread hour of night.

"Oh! goodness me, my pretty Jeannette, is it you? I was quite startled.
I thought it was a ghost, and I declare it's an angel."

"You thought it was that ugly Saxon wench I caught you kissing, you
false man! That is what you thought."

"Tush, tush, Jeannette! Whenever will you forget that? You know I love
only you. Give me a kiss, and let us be friends. I vow I will never look
at another Saxon wench as long as I live."

"Now, get off with you, if you please. You make a mistake if you think I
am going to be kissed by you, when you are so fond of kissing any dirty
hussy you meet."

"Now, don't, my fiery little wife! This is too bad--too bad for
anything, Jeannette! You never have done with it."

"Don't you imagine you will have me for a wife unless you mend your
manners very greatly. You shall have that dirty hussy of a Saxon for a
wife, and I will have Jaques Leroux. He is a smarter man than you are,
any day; and if I but put up my finger to him, he will run after me."

"You don't mean it, Jeannette! Now, don't be cruel! You might just as
well say that you love me, for I know you do at heart, and you are only
teasing me, as usual. I know you wouldn't have brought me this nice
supper if you hadn't thought something of me. Now, isn't it so,
Jeannette? Just give me a kiss, and say you forgive me for that Saxon
wench, and then I shall be happy;" and Paul endeavoured gallantly to
plant a kiss on Jeannette's rosy cheek.

"Here, get off, will you, or else I'll scratch you!" said Jeannette,
violently pushing Paul away. "I'm not going to go shares with a dirty
Saxon. Mark that, Paul Lazaire! You will have to mend your manners
before you kiss me, I can tell you that much!"

"There you go again, Jeannette. You never will forget about that Saxon
wench, I do believe; and you know it was only a joke."

"Now, just get your supper, and give up fooling, will you? or your ale
will be cold, and I shall go away and leave you," was the very
irresponsive reply of the dame.

Paul was really madly in love with Jeannette, but still he had to spare
a considerable amount of affection for the steaming tankard of mulled
ale and the victuals, which she had brought him. So he raised the
tankard to his lips, and gave a hearty drink.

"Bravo, Jeannette!" said he, smacking his lips. "What a lovely brew it
is to be sure! How it warms the pit of my stomach! You'll make me a
happy man some day, I do declare, Jeannette."

"Now you are fooling again!" said Jeannette, giggling most immoderately
at the gusto with which, unsuspectingly, he swallowed the potion. "Now,
get your supper. I cannot spend the whole night with you here. So be
quick, or I shall be missed."

Thus exhorted, Paul fell on the victuals with right good will, and
drained to the dregs the tankard of spiced ale, all the while
interspersing his feeding by casting pitiful glances at Jeannette, which
made that mercurial young damsel giggle more immoderately still.

"Don't go, Jeannette," said he beseechingly, as Jeannette was about to
turn away. "It is a long time to the next watch, and you can't imagine
how creepy I feel in this passage, with that fearful Saxon inside
clanking his irons, and tearing about, and not a soul within call if he
should break loose."

"Is that the cell in which he is confined?"

"Yes, but he is very quiet just now. Perhaps he hears us talking; but I
can hear him tugging at the chains sometimes as though he would tear the
place down. He makes me feel as if next moment he'd burst open the door,
and murder me. He is a most desperate fellow. You should have seen how
he fought on that wall; and there was another one who escaped, a fearful
man, too, at his weapons."

"Oh, I saw them, and I noticed how frightened you all were into the
bargain. But are those the keys you have at your girdle?"

"Yes; this is the one for the door, and this other one for the
manacles," said Paul, holding up a pair of rusty keys to Jeannette's
view. "I wish the watch was over," he added, shuddering, "or I had _un
bon camarade_."

"Eh, bien! bon nuit, mon bonhomme," said Jeannette, gathering up the
empty tankard, and flitting along the lonesome corridors back again to
her mistress, who was waiting with feverish impatience for her return.

"What news have you, Jeannette? Did all go well?"

"Beautiful, my lady. He drank the ale, and praised it finely. I knew he
would do that, for those horrid men always praise ale. But the wonder to
me is that the beastly stuff did not turn his stomach."

"Did you see the cell, then, in which the Saxon is confined?"

"Yes; and Paul showed me which is the key for the door, and which is for
the manacles; for he is chained fast to the wall, it appears."

"Oh, dear, I wish it was over, for I tremble from head to foot. It is a
desperate enterprise, and would be both rash and indelicate if the
mercifulness of it did not demand the sacrifice. Dost thou fear to
venture it, Jeannette?"

"Not a bit, my lady; I like to outwit those men folk, for they count us
nothing, and it will be such a joke to see their blank looks in the
morning! And won't the Baron rage and swear at the men-at-arms?"

"Oh, do hush, you foolish child, it is far too serious to jest about. I
wish your courage and lightheartedness may not fail you before our task
is accomplished! If a merciful Heaven do not help us, I fear me we shall
never accomplish our purpose."

"Let us make vow to Notre Dame, before we venture, that we will repeat
fifty Aves and Credos if she help us, and give twenty silver pennies to
the holy Father at the next gathering of the Romescot."[1]

[Footnote 1: Peter's pence.]

"Well, we will see about that; but we had better get ready, for the
draught will soon take effect upon this sweetheart of yours."

"Stuff, my lady! He is a little finikin fellow, and simple to boot. I do
but tease him. He amuses me so much I really cannot help joking him."

Ere long these two frail women stole along the lonesome passages, having
fortified themselves as best they could for their task. Alice was
dreadfully nervous, but determined of purpose. Jeannette, however, was
jaunty enough at starting, and had it been the congenial task of
tricking poor Paul Lazaire, her volatile temperament would have carried
her through; but she soon began to manifest, by many hysterical starts,
that this dramatic adventure, which might become a tragedy, was telling
powerfully upon her nerves.

They soon reached the place, however, where, as they anticipated, Paul
was found in a state of blissful insensibility to either friend or foe.
He had speedily felt the soothing effect of the drug, and had sat down
with his back to the wall. But he had quickly slidden from that position
and was now lying flat along, in a sound sleep, and breathing heavily.

"Oh, dear!" almost shrieked Jeannette, as she witnessed Paul's
insensible condition. "He's not dead, is he, my lady?"

"No, he is not, you simpleton! Now let us be quick, Jeannette! Reach the
keys from his girdle. May Heaven help us!" said Alice, devoutly crossing
herself. But she dared not give utterance to her fears in presence of
her maid, whose condition was plainly visible to her.

Jeannette snatched the keys from Paul's girdle, and Alice thrust the
clumsy piece of metal into the door; but she had to apply her utmost
strength ere the rusty bolt shot back with a loud snap. Then, applying
her strength to the heavy oaken door, it recoiled slowly on its rusty
hinges, with a horrid, creaking noise which grated fearfully on the
excited nerves of the pair. Immediately, as the torch's flickering light
fell dimly across the cell, their eyes fell upon the captive chief, who
was chained to the wall by heavy chains, but nevertheless stood erect,
with distended nostrils, clenched hands, and threatening attitude. He
was evidently expecting a midnight assassin, and though manacled and
bound hand and foot, he would fight it out to the end. Alice started
back, trembling violently, as she beheld the fierce attitude of Oswald;
and the last spark of Jeannette's courage disappeared, for, with a
shriek, she clutched the arm of her mistress and tried to drag her away.

"Hush, Jeannette! Be still," cried Alice beseechingly; "we shall be
discovered if you do not be quiet."

The scene was a graphic one truly. The two timid women stood on the
threshold of the cell, cowed by the savage attitude of the captive, and
afraid to advance a step, though bent on doing a deed of mercy. Oswald
also was strangely bewildered at the sight of such gentle visitors; for,
as the torch was held aloft, the uncertain light revealed to him the
forms of two timid and graceful women, and one of them, at least,
bearing evidence of gentle blood and gentle manners. His muscles relaxed
and his manacled hands fell to his side, and the heavy irons clanked
horribly in the vaulted cell. This still further terrified the visitors,
and Jeannette, whose nerves were at their utmost tension, with a shriek
involuntarily bounded over the sleeping form of Paul Lazaire, and fled
like the wind along the corridors, leaving her mistress alone with the
captive chieftain. The awful silence was broken by Oswald, who said, "Be
not afraid, gentle lady. I was expecting some red-handed murderer and
the cold steel; but methinks so fair a messenger should bear a message
of mercy."

"We have at least a merciful intent, Saxon. We saw your brave defence of
the castle, and we would fain set you free if we can, for we know the
brutal designs of some of our people, and we would save our own people
from dishonour, and you from a cruel death."

"Ah! then pity still exists in the breast of woman! I thought the world
was emptied of such things."

"This can never be, sir knight, whilst honour and chivalry inspire the
deeds of knights and warriors; for such can never fail to inspire the
sympathies of us weak women."

"Will you dare, then, fair lady, to carry out your beneficent purpose,
and give me my liberty again, enemy though I be to thy people?"

"I have counted all costs, sir knight; and I dare, if so be that my
woman's strength can effect it."

"Here is my right hand, then. Ten thousand blessings on your woman's
heart if you can set it free once more!"

As he spoke he stretched out his right arm, loaded with the heavy and
rusty fetters.

Alice boldly advanced and thrust the key into the lock, but her utmost
strength was insufficient to force back the catch, whilst Oswald's
fetters prevented him from reaching one hand with the other. Alice
unloosed from her shoulders a collarette of rich lace, and wrapped it
round the rusty key, the angles of which hurt her hand. Then, applying
again her utmost strength, happily she succeeded in forcing back the
stubborn bolt, and thus liberating Oswald's right hand.

[Illustration: ALICE DE MONTFORT SETS FREE THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN.]

"Thank Heaven for a limb at liberty! My good right hand, too," said he,
stretching it to its utmost length for very joy. "Give me the key, now,
fair lady, for I can myself undo the rest." Soon, one by one, the
fetters were stripped off from his cramped and lacerated limbs, and he
bounded from them free. Falling on his knees before Alice, he seized her
hand and pressed it to his lips, exclaiming, "Tell me the name of my
benefactress, lady, for it shall be enshrined in my memory for ever."

"I am Alice de Montfort, and that was my maid," said Alice timidly, and
blushing crimson.

"Alice de Montfort!" said Oswald, starting to his feet as one bewildered
at the avowal. Then, seizing the other trembling hand, he passionately
exclaimed, "Nay, never blush, lady! So noble a name, so fair a form, and
so generous a deed are worthily associated."

"Alas! I fear me, sir knight, some men, if they knew that I thus acted
falsely to my father and to my people, would despise me; but I have
learnt to despise the opinions of men, when the cause of humanity and of
chivalry claims my feeble help. We noticed your brave defence of your
home, and the evil fortune which befel you; and we two weak women were
overtaken with pity, which is our woman's weakness. Thus we have
ventured this deed. I would you should accept it as some atonement for
the violence and greed of my people. But tarry not, sir knight, I
beseech you, lest this act be marred ere it be accomplished."

"How can I express my gratitude to you, gentle lady, for adventuring so
much in order that you might give me my life! But I would that the curse
of Heaven may be upon me as an ingrate, if I forget, even for an hour,
the debt I owe to you, and, if opportunity serve, I return not with
interest to thee and thine this act of mercy done to me in my extremity.
But the time is urgent, as you say. So adieu, lady."

"Stay, sir knight; there is one other point--how will you make good your
escape? Had you not better go with us to our women's quarters? Then we
may devise with greater leisure some further means to ensure your
escape."

"If you will but lend me your cloak, lady, to disguise my form, I know
this castle's resources, and I shall not fail to make my escape. As a
token of this, I will leave the cloak at the foot of the stair leading
to the tower. Adieu, lady! We shall meet again under happier auspices."

So saying, he bounded from the dungeon and disappeared in the darkness.




CHAPTER XIII.

BARON VIGNEAU BAULKED OF HIS REVENGE.

    "Midnight brought on the dusky hour,
    Friendliest to sleep and silence."

    Milton.


The pall of darkness is spread over the face of Nature, and the bold
outlines of the mountains are shrouded in its embrace. Under cover of
the darkness, a cordon of vigilant and daring sentinels are closing in
upon the castle and its carousing inmates. One stealthy figure glides
peeringly from tree to tree amongst the clump of towering chestnuts,
until he reaches one near the wall, when, throwing his legs around it,
and catching hold of the tough and sinewy shoots in the bole, he mounts
aloft, and perches daringly amid the branches of the tree, watching the
remnant of the Normans who still are able to keep up the orgie. But most
of them are now fast in the arms of a sodden sleep.

Another figure, on hands and knees, with snake-like motion has left the
thicket of laurel, hazels, and flowering currants at the foot of the
slope in front, and wriggles his way up the rising ground on which the
castle is built, until he comes daringly close to the wall; whilst the
short, sharp scream of the night-owl, issuing from first one point and
then another, tells that concerted action is afoot. The secret of it is,
that Wulfhere has rallied a band of the hardiest Saxons, if needs be, to
dare a desperate deed of rescue on behalf of their captive chieftain.
Many a fierce Saxon, with naked sword and eagerly listening ear, is
lurking around, ready for any deed that may be required of him.

Wulfhere and a trusty comrade are standing together at the foot of a
gigantic oak in an adjoining wood. The capacious trunk tells that for
many centuries it has looked down upon its contemporaries. The decayed
and verdureless branches, clustered around its centre, tell also that
the process of decay has been progressing for a longer span of time than
is permitted in the life of mortals. If we ascend it for a few yards we
shall find that, just where its stout limbs divide themselves from the
bole, a yawning cavern has taken the place of its once stout heart, into
which a man would find no difficulty in descending.

"I think there are none of the enemy on the alert, and we may venture,"
said Wulfhere to his companion. So saying, he mounted the tree and
disappeared in the recess, and, sliding down until he reached the
ground, he quietly removed some leaves and other _débris_; then there
was visible a trap-door, which he raised, revealing a flight of steps,
which he descended, followed by his companion. Drawing forth a horn
lantern, with tinder-box and flint, he struck a light, and the pair
began slowly marching along in the direction of the castle. But they had
not proceeded very far before they were saluted by a familiar voice.

"What ho, Wulfhere! what are you venturing?"

After the first violent consternation, Wulfhere found his tongue.

"We essayed a rescue, my lord, but you have saved us the trouble. How is
this? We scarcely hoped to find you alive at this time, much less a free
man."

"A miracle, Wulfhere! I account it a miracle, for I am as one given back
from the dead. But more anon. Let us haste for the present, for I
tremble lest it should turn out that it is but a dream, and that there
will follow a horrid awakening."

The trio quickly retraced their steps, and stood together in the wood,
Wulfhere uttering a series of peculiar calls well known to every Saxon
comprising the band of rescuers. Quickly, one by one, they rallied to
the spot; and when they saw their chieftain safe and well their
demonstrations of joy were most exuberant--almost frantic--many of them
dancing round him like satyrs in the dim light of the wood, each and all
most anxiously demanding by what strange chance he had obtained his
liberty. As they hastily retreated to the hills, Oswald briefly related
to his followers the circumstances of his release by two Norman women,
who at dead of night had boldly opened the prison door and unfettered
him--Oswald carefully laying upon his followers the injunction that no
harm should be done to the Norman women, and that special regard should
be paid to the Norman lady, daughter of Count de Montfort. He also
enjoined upon them the strictest secrecy as to the agents who had taken
part in it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early on the morrow there was a grand muster of the Norman men-at-arms
in the castle yard. Many of them who had taken part in the assault on
the castle were not followers of the Count, but mercenaries, who were
eager for further advance in quest of plunder. To this multitude who had
fought for him, and stayed their hand from plunder and burning, at his
request, a liberal donative of gold was distributed; and presently
three-fourths of the soldiery shouldered arms and marched northwards to
swell the ranks of the desolating host which carried fire and sword
throughout the north of England, and to the borders of Scotland.
Blood-curdling were the dreadful scenes of slaughter that were enacted;
not less than two hundred thousand Saxons perishing in that ruthless
massacre.

Alice and Jeannette were astir betimes in the morning also; in fact,
Alice had not closed her eyes during that night of suspense. With
considerable daring, in the morning she and Jeannette passed from room
to room, from basement to roof, in search of evidence that the Saxon had
made good his escape, starting and trembling violently as the wild
shouts of the men fell upon their ears, lest it should be but the herald
of Oswald's recapture.

"There remains but the tower, Jeannette," said Alice, after they had
explored, as best they could, the various rooms of the castle. So
towards the dismal winding stair of the tower they hastened, and there
in the semi-darkness they came across the cloak which Alice had lent the
fugitive. Then Alice remembered the parting words of the Saxon,--that
'she would find the cloak at the bottom of the stair.' Slowly they
scrambled up these stairs, often-times having literally to grope their
way. When they reached the top they peered anxiously around, but no
trace of Oswald was to be seen. Looking over the battlements, they
beheld Vigneau, Pierre, and a number of men making preparation for what
they considered a morning's sport. Some had fenced round a small
enclosure, and others had kindled a large fire, in which were heating
pincers and long iron spikes wherewith they purposed torturing the Saxon
chieftain. Vigneau, casting a glance up at the castle, perceived Alice
and Jeannette peering over the battlements and watching the fiendish
preparations.

"Pierre," said Vigneau, "do you see _la grande dame_ watching us? We
shall find her sport soon the mawkish damsel will sicken at, I warrant.
I would like to tie her to the spot and make her look on whether she
will or no."

"You will win no gracious smiles by this work, I doubt, my lord; it
would have been better done farther away," said Pierre.

"I neither care for her smiles nor her tears. I have got the hook in her
gills and I'll land her in my own fashion, and she may struggle and
flounder as she will. I can bring her ladyship or her precious sire to
their knees as I like. You shall see presently. But come along, bring
half a dozen of your men with you; we'll have Samson up now."

So away they hastened to the cells to fetch their prisoner.

"Jeannette," said Alice, "I am ready to faint! Do you think the Saxon
has escaped? I fear he could never scale that horrid wall; and if he be
but hiding on the roof or in the cells he will be surely caught."

"If I could push these huge stones upon the Baron's head I would do it
freely," said Jeannette.

Just at that moment a wild shout came pealing up the stair.

"Oh, Jeannette," said Alice, "let me sit down! They have found him, I
fear! This is sickening!"

Just at that moment a soldier was seen to dash from the door of the
castle and fly across the enclosure and through the gate. This was the
sentinel who had taken Paul Lazaire's place; and who, as soon as he
found the prisoner gone had himself fled for life and was seen no more.

Speedily a hue and cry was raised. The castle was searched within and
without with the utmost minuteness. Vigneau's violence and rage were
fearful, and his demeanour that of a wild beast baulked of his prey.

     It is needless to say that I was well-nigh overjoyed when
     Badger brought me the wonderful news of Oswald's deliverance. I
     gave God praise, for truly it was little less than a miracle.
     Badger, by some means or other, seemed to be constantly in
     possession of all information as regarded the movements of the
     Normans as well as the Saxons. Truly, he seemed ever on the
     alert. By night he was constantly in conference with the
     outlaws. Marvellously, also, he gained the goodwill of the
     Normans, and he became a repository of all their secrets.
     Unfortunately for us, Vigneau and his men quartered themselves
     at the abbey; and, fearful for Ethel's safety, I made Badger
     the bearer of the following letter to Oswald, who had, I was
     pleased to hear, found a retreat which promised some prospect
     of immunity from molestation; and, as I said, I had become most
     nervously anxious for the welfare of Ethel now that Vigneau had
     taken up his abode so near to her retreat.

     "To the most noble and valiant Ealdorman Oswald,
     greeting.--Having been assured by yourself that you purpose
     devoting your great wisdom and undoubted valour to the most
     worthy cause of protecting and succouring your unfortunate and
     distressed countrymen, in these most perilous times, I would
     fain bring to your notice that most evil times have befallen
     the house of your late neighbour, the Thane Beowulf, in that
     his lands, like your own, have become forfeit. But, what is
     even more distressing, he, along with his son, has been slain
     whilst endeavouring to prevent the spoliation of their
     possessions by the Normans. His lovely and accomplished
     daughter Ethel had fled to these cloisters for safety; but
     inasmuch as this most holy sanctuary is involved in the general
     ruin, being seized by violent hands, and remains at this
     present in possession and under the control of beings who are
     little better than fiends--men who have no regard for sacred
     things, and who in their cruelty and lust spare neither age nor
     sex--violent hands have been laid upon Ethel, but happily she
     hath been delivered out of their hands as a 'bird from the
     fowler,' by the combined address and valour of the bearer of
     this message. Unfortunately there is no place of safety for
     her, for the remnant of her father's housecarles and fiefs are
     a scattered band, and outlaws. She hath for the present,
     however, found a temporary place of shelter in the dwelling of
     one of her father's rangers, who hath a rude abode in 'Hooded
     Crow's Gyll.' But this is at best a precarious refuge, for, as
     soon as the Normans muster courage to explore the forest, she
     will inevitably fall into their hands again. If thou canst
     befriend this orphaned one, the God of the friendless and
     distressed bless thee! If thou canst offer her a more secure
     shelter, the bearer of this missive--whom doubtless thou wilt
     know--may be safely trusted to guide thee to the herdsman's
     hut. Most sorrowfully I salute thee.

     "Adhelm, Abbot,
     "Monastery of ----. [symbol: cross]

This epistle duly reached Oswald, who, as I surmised, lost no time in
setting about a rescue. Calling Wulfhere, three horses were quickly
saddled--one for Oswald, one for Wulfhere, and one for Badger, who was
to act as guide.

"Lead the way," said the Earl; "and keep by the hills as far as
possible, for the Normans as yet have had no time to spare from their
eating, drinking, and plundering, to explore the hill country, and, I
doubt not, we shall go unmolested."

With these directions, the three horsemen started off, keeping to the
hills, where their vision could sweep the valleys and lowlands with so
much accuracy that it would have been impossible for an enemy to come at
any time within a couple of miles of steep climbing without being
perceived. A little more than an hour's ride brought them to the point
from whence they must strike the forest and lowlands. They paused for a
minute or two, calmly surveying the hillsides, and minutely scrutinising
every object which had any indefiniteness or uncertainty about it. But
the curlews swept the long circle of the hills, uttering their plaintive
cries, and the hawks glided over the tops of the trees, or darted in and
out amongst them to start their prey into the open, or, on poised wing,
they rested motionless in the air, scanning with keen vision the ground
beneath them, and ready to pounce like a flash upon any luckless mouse
or tiny rabbit that had ventured on an excursion from its hole.

"The presence of man--or, at least, of men--is not here," said Oswald,
"or these shy denizens of the solitudes of Nature would betray it by
their unrest. Lead on, Badger; we shall not be molested, I trust."

So Badger struck out for the lowlands at a rapid pace, presently
plunging into the head of the wood which ran up the valley some
half-mile beyond the unbroken forest. In the bottom of this valley or
gorge, a water-course was speeding away from the hills, occasionally
leaping over falls of several yards. But, amongst the unsolvable
mysteries of Nature, trout in goodly numbers had penetrated beyond them,
and in every pool or temporary resting-place of the waters, these
enterprising denizens of the flood abounded. The three followed a rough
path by this water-course for a considerable distance, until it merged
in the well-nigh interminable forest.

Suddenly Badger diverged from the path, and, dismounting, led his horse
through the thicket, putting aside the branches as he passed. Presently
a rude dwelling became visible, with a little clearing around it. This
was the spot where the herdsman, or, more properly speaking, the ranger,
dwelt. It was a rough and primitive sort of building, made of wood.
Stout oak limbs, deeply inserted into the ground, and from which the
bark had been removed, formed the main supports, whilst the arched roof
and interspaces of the sides were interlaced in most fantastic shapes by
smaller branches of the oak, all carefully peeled. Upon this framework
of oaken branches the roof and sides were dexterously thatched by
heather from the neighbouring moor, and over all a rude daubing of mud
and lime mixed; the whole making a rude, but, nevertheless, a warm and
dry abode. Around the entrance there was a few yards paved with smooth
limestone pebbles gathered from the neighbouring brook. Amid these were
interspersed most fantastically the knuckle-bones of deer, sheep,
wolves, and other animals. Grotesque and whimsical all this seemed, but
it jumped with the fancy of the architect, who was literally a child of
the forest. Badger, as he drew nigh, heard hasty scuffling of feet and
barricading of the door. But when he gave a knock all was as still as
death in a moment.

"Hillo, within there!" shouted Badger. "There is nothing but good Saxons
here."

The ranger's wife recognised at once the voice of Badger, and undid the
door; and the three entered, leaving their horses standing together.
Ethel, meanwhile, was listening within in great trepidation, but when
she discovered that their unexpected visitants were Saxon, she emerged
from an inner room. As her eyes rested upon Oswald, who had removed his
helmet, the burning blushes mounted in a deep crimson glow to her face
and neck, and she cast an anxiously nervous look at her disarranged
toilette.

"Ah!" said Oswald, taking her hand and raising it to his lips, "is this
the sweet little Ethel who used to watch us rough boys play at the
joust, and fence with our broadswords?--whom we used to accompany
through the Bruneswald on her hawking expeditions? Why, how you have
grown, too! To be sure, these terrible times have left no opportunities
for neighbourly amenities. Why, 'tis three years since I last set eyes
upon you. Ah, I know 'tis very sad," said he, as he saw the tears start
into her eyes; "but dry those eyes, timid one, we will endeavour to find
a covert where you may hide; and we will put about it a girdle of steel,
and woe shall be to the Norman who obtrudes his hated presence near."

But these gentle words only seemed to open the floodgates still wider,
and the frail frame of the fair girl quivered with emotion. Recently she
had passed through sufferings, privations, terrors innumerable; but as
she looked upon the mailed warrior before her, it seemed as though a
very tower of refuge had been found. The most casual observer would have
been powerfully impressed by the striking contrast in these two human
beings--Ethel, with her fair complexion, deep blue eyes, and rich
tresses of fair hair falling with unkempt gracefulness over her
shoulders, being a picture of maidenly grace, and an ideal high-born
Saxon maiden; whilst the Earl's tall, muscular frame, well-shapen head,
and curly locks, seemed like a modern Hercules made for the times, and
equipped by Nature to play a conspicuous part in a troublous
epoch,--times, in which personal prowess, dauntless courage, and a
commanding presence were essential qualities in one who aspired to be a
leader of men.

We can scarcely wonder that there should be a touch of more than wonted
gentleness in the tone of his voice, as he spoke to this fair and
sorrowing maiden.

"We heard of your misfortunes, fair one," said Oswald, "and we have come
to offer you such succour as a dispossessed Saxon can still offer. I
fear me it will be but a rude shelter for so gentle a guest. It may be
precarious, and subject to alarms, too; but I warrant it shall have a
measure of safety, if you will accept of it."

"Thank you, my lord. Alas! that is all that I have to offer for your
great kindness. I will gladly accept your offer, and I will try not to
be altogether a burden to you."

"Now, my worthy dame," said Oswald, addressing the ranger's wife, "you
have done a good deed in sheltering this lady."

"We have but done our duty. She is our lawful mistress. We have fed on
her father's bounty, and enjoyed his protection, and the sorrow is to
see her brought to this pass."

"Where is thy husband?"

"He is adown the Gyll on the watch."

"Canst thou call him?"

"Presently, my lord, if you wish to see him."

"Yes, let us see his face. We may be able to befriend him, and he us."

The woman reached from the side of the dwelling a small whistle, made
from a branch of the plaintain tree, and, going to the door, she blew a
low and peculiar note, then listened for a second; but there was no
response. Then a little louder she blew the same note. Immediately there
came trembling through the wood a response.

"He will be here soon," said the woman, coming back to the dwelling.

Presently, the ranger pressed through the bushes into the enclosure; in
one hand a dish of fine trout dangled on a string, and in the other hand
a pheasant. But there was no mark of surprise on Bretwul's countenance
as he beheld his visitors.

"How now, friend. Thou art not alarmed, I see," said Oswald.

"No; I have one eye for the hills, and another for the dales, and I know
a Saxon any gait, and my old comrade Badger in any guise."

"So thou hast busied thyself in securing these dainties for thy
mistress, I presume?"

"Yes, I have sent one of my trusty shafts after this dainty bird, and I
have poked under a few stones in the brook for these trout. Here," said
he, throwing his quiver on the floor, "are a score of cloth-yard shafts,
and every one a trusty friend, and never fails. I have taken great pains
in the rearing of them. I have tried them all at a mark, and I have all
their peculiarities logged up in my brain-pan. I have taken the swerve
out of them, as nearly as I can, by paring their heads, and twisting
their tails; but they have all a mind of their own at the finish. But I
know their minds as well as they know themselves, and I can allow, to a
shadow, what they require and I can shoot a Norman's eye out at
fourscore paces with any of them. Look, also; all these heads have been
made by Sweyn, the Sheffield armourer; all of them forked ye see, and
make a dainty little slit between a Norman's ribs as they enter; but
gramercy! getting them out, there's the rub! I have been watching for
many a day down the Gyll, for the Normans have been getting bold,
ransacking the forest in quest of Saxon refugees. A slice of luck, and a
crumb of comfort, has fallen to me this morning."

"Oh! Hast thou had some of them within reach of thy cloth-yard shafts,
then, this morning?"

"Marry, that I have! and I have tickled one or two of them with a long
stick; but they didn't laugh, mark you."

"Oh, then, we'll have thy story, Bretwul, for we are all anxious to hear
how they like messages from our woodsmen."

"Well, it came about thus. There is a little path from the valley leads
up to our cot. 'Twas worn, before these dogs came, be assured, for we
shall make no further tracks, yet awhile. As I was out this morning, on
the rough side of my cottage--that is, the side turned to the foe--and
on the look-out for them, three or four of these Normans had come across
the track, and, of course, they naturally thought there would be
something at the end on't. Well, there was something in the middle that
satisfied them. No sooner did I see them coming, than I says to myself,
'Come on, my bucks! I've got something warm for you, and you can have it
for nothing but love.' I planted myself in the bush not forty paces
away, and I selected my choicest shaft. This is him," said he, pulling
one out of the quiver, still red with blood. "I'd trust my life on this
shaft, master, for he never fails. Well; on they came, and I gave him
all the strength of my arm, and plump in the throat my arrow struck the
foremost Norman, and he dropped in the path. Gramercy! His fellows
didn't even stop to say to him, 'Are you much hurt?' or even to inquire
if there was any more of the same sort about; but they turned tail,
master, if you believe me, and they ran--why, Badger here couldn't have
overhauled them, and he's the nimblest fellow in these parts. Well, I
says to myself, 'I should not like you to go empty away, any of you, if
I can help it.' So I lodged another of my shafts pretty securely, I
warrant, in the buttocks of the last one, and the fellow never halted
for a moment to inquire what it was, but he carried off my shaft. I
suppose they will be busy now inviting it to come out; but, depend upon
it, it will hold its own as closely as any Norman could stick to a
Saxon's goods. I've lost a good shaft over him, but it will tickle him
for many a day yet; and he'll want nobody to scratch the place, either.
There, marry! it's bad manners to stand prating before my betters, but a
bit of news of this sort I like, either to hear or tell it."

"It is news good either to hear or tell," said Oswald, "and we shall be
glad to hear more of thy stories when thou hast any as good as this. But
prithee, my good fellow, what is this bundle of shafts in the corner?"

"These, master, are my youngsters, and they haven't quite finished their
schooling. They are trusty shafts enough when you come to close
quarters, but, like an unbroken colt, a trifle skittish when accurate
work has to be done. I'll make them steady goers by-and-bye. Wife
haven't you a drink of mead or a bite of anything for our guests? This
is Oswald, our only chieftain in these parts. Don't you remember his
coming to the hall and playing joust and broadsword with Master Beowulf?
A stout rogue he was, too, in those days. This is Wulfhere, Folkfree and
Sacless (lawful freeman); Badger, too, a merry fellow--like myself,
though, thrall and bondman, but as trusty a knave, I trow, as breathes."

"I like thy mettle, Bretwul, if such be thy name; but what dost thou
purpose to do? Wilt thou stay here and take thy luck single-handed, or
dost thou intend to make terms with the Normans, and accept such mercies
as they may bestow?"

"'Down with the Normans,' is the Saxon's good word now, and it has been
mine from the first. The Bruneswald, and the company of the merry
outlaws who range it, would suit me best; but hopping about in the
woods, like a squirrel from tree to tree, does not suit the womenfolk
and my toddlers. But shift I must now; after to-day's business there
will be no staying here. I left yon fellow across the path as a sort of
warning to trespassers, but it won't act long, for the Normans will come
again in larger numbers, and the game will soon be up."

"Maybe thou hast heard that we have made a stand on the hills yonder?"

"Ay, ay! that I have, master."

"If thou likest to bring thy wife to Tarnghyll, where we are sheltering
for the present, she and the little ones will be much safer, and thy
wife Eadburgh will be useful to Lady Ethel. By-the-bye, thou hast a
brace of falcons and some fishing gear, I see; and I warrant there is a
ferret or two in that hutch outside. Every man to his craft, and marry,
thine is a serviceable one just now. If thou wilt do thine office for
thy mistress and the rest of us, why then bring thy tackle, and thou
shalt ply thy craft for us, and be assured we shall not grumble if thou
waste an occasional shaft upon the buttocks of any bold or prying
Norman. Hast thou any of thy comrades, servants of the worthy Thane
Beowulf, hiding hereabouts who are willing to take a new master? If
there are, bring them along with thee, for any one sturdy enough to
despise the Norman yoke, and anxious to loose a shaft in defence of the
Saxon's cause, will be heartily welcomed, for we purpose a venture in
which a man who can shoot straight will do us good service."

"That will be blithe news, I trow, for there are a number of the
housecarles of the worthy Thane, my late master, who are casting about
for something more settled-like than the wolf's-head life of the forest.
In truth, there will be a merry gathering of stout outlaws at the
hermit's cave on Crowfell at nightfall. I would be keen to carry your
message to this trysting. At our last gathering the talk ran much on
your defence of the castle, and some of these are forest men and outlaws
who range the woods as far south as Sherwood. Anyway, I warrant me the
natives of these parts will hear the news with rare glee, for a dalesman
likes to keep in the shadow of his hills and fells. Stout men at a push
you'll find them, and ready to stand to their weapons with the best, and
as slippery as eels when they must shift for themselves. Say the word,
and I'll see it runs through these parts like a heather-fire in a stiff
breeze."

"Good! Bretwul, stir up these fellows, the more the merrier, for we are
not going to play hide-and-seek with these Normans, and the stouter the
mustering the better we can deal with them."

Bretwul's wife set before the visitors a stout repast--spoils of the
chase and the flood--for Bretwul was an adept at his vocation. The
visitors also were well supplied with hunger-sauce, and they did rare
justice to it.

"Well, Badger," said Oswald, "you seem to have taken such a liking to
your new friends that you could not bear parting with them on any terms,
so we must leave you behind, and wish them joy of their friend."

"Gramercy, master, it is true! I am such a simple fellow that I can wag
a paw with these Normans in all meekness and humility; but I have a
snare or two set on my own account, and the game always finds its way
fellward. Leave me alone, I'll wriggle through it somehow; and, by our
Lady, I've had no broken bones thus far."

So Oswald, Wulfhere, and Ethel sped them on their way--Ethel being
accommodated with the spare horse.

"Come, Ethel, my girl, you must dry those eyes, for I shall take note
each day, be assured, to see how the sunshine comes back again to your
countenance," said Oswald, pleasantly.

"I am afraid I shall prove to be a great burden, and very little of a
help to you in your struggles."

"Oh, yes; you will be just such a burden as the wild flowers, as little
tending and as fragrant and beautiful as they."

Ethel blushed scarlet, and made haste to change the subject. "Do you
think, my lord, this Norman Count is bent on exterminating all Saxons
who do not yield them vassals to him?"

"Nay, Ethel girl, why this formality? I used to be Master Oswald; I pray
you let the honest Saxon name suffice. I cannot tell what De Montfort
intends, but I fear he will let nothing slip that he can by any means
grasp; but I have determined I will know the best or the worst of his
intentions. I shall open negotiations with him, and ascertain, if
possible, if he purposes we shall dwell in peace and as freemen."

"But you will not venture so far as to put yourself in his power? I pray
you, trust them not, for they are insatiable in their cruelty," said
Ethel anxiously.

"No fear, Ethel, of my putting myself in his power. Having once tasted
the horrors of captivity I shall not risk its repetition rashly; but I
have a plan, and I shall speak with him face to face. I may tell you,
despite the many reasons we have for undying hatred and no compromise, I
have a deep-rooted conviction that for the present, at all events, a
truce on reasonable and honourable terms will be immeasurably best for
the Saxon cause."

"The land is undoubtedly prostrate, and time is urgently needed ere it
can rally once more," said Ethel.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN CONFRONTS DE MONTFORT.

    "Then crouch no more on suppliant knee,
      But scorn with scorn outbrave;
    A Briton even in love should be
      A subject, not a slave."

    Wordsworth.


Count de Montfort and his daughter Alice were seated together one
evening in what was known as the crimson parlour, a comfortable and
somewhat elegant room for the period. It was wainscoted in dark oak,
with carpets and hangings of richly-figured crimson cloth from the looms
of Avignon. They were enjoying a temporary respite from the incessant
bustle and turmoil which had been their daily accompaniment since the
day they first occupied the Saxon chieftain's patrimony. Even here,
their quiet was unpleasantly disturbed by the roystering merriment of
their followers in the distant kitchen, who stoutly maintained their
freedom to carouse and drink pretty much as they listed. I take the
liberty here to introduce the reader to a more intimate acquaintance
with the Count and his beautiful and accomplished daughter. The Count
was considerably past middle life, probably not less than fifty-five.
His sunburnt countenance, and the stern lines about his mouth and
forehead, told eloquently the tale of a soldier's life. For the habits
of a rough and unscrupulous life had lent a grim and unfeeling hardness
to a visage which had strong evidence of force and character depicted in
it. There was also palpable evidence of a spirit ill at ease and clouded
with doubt, which made him irritable sometimes to a degree positively
cruel to friend or foe. His once jet-black locks were silvering rapidly;
but his tall form had lost none of its erectness, and his haughty and
imperious demeanour proclaimed him a man used to ruling arbitrarily, and
little accustomed to brooking opposition, or the frustrating of his
purposes. His daughter, Lady Alice de Montfort, was extremely like him
in general appearance. Tall and elegant in carriage, her profuse raven
tresses were gathered in silken bands, and from thence fell over her
shoulders well-nigh to her girdle. Her face was pale; her features
regular, as though chiselled. A pair of lustrous dark eyes glowed from
between darker lashes, proclaiming her southern extraction. She was
indeed a model of queenly beauty. Like many of her countrywomen of
exalted station, her youth had been spent in the seclusion of the
convent, where alone an education worthy of the name could be obtained.
This secluded life--despite her fiery extraction--had toned down her
disposition; whilst the culture and refinement had made her a typical
example of the romance and troubadour spirit of song, which we Saxons
knew to be developed in the maidens of sunny France. For her, the rough
life of the Norman occupation, with its scenes of blood and cruelty, was
a daily horror.

"Alice," began the Count, "I told you some time ago that I had affianced
you to Baron Vigneau. He has followed my fortunes, and lent the prowess
of himself and his mercenaries in furthering my interests, in return for
which he was to receive your hand in marriage; and I gave him my solemn
promise to that effect. His recent conduct has not pleased me, and his
addiction to the wine-cup has become inordinate. But I lay the fault of
this to the rough times we have had, and I doubt not when peaceful times
come again he will become a sober and a virtuous Norman Baron. Anyway, I
gave him my promise, and he has fulfilled the obligation. He now presses
for the fulfilment of this promise. Much time has already been allowed
you to prepare, so I would have you bethink yourself when it can be
redeemed. As you know, it rests solely with yourself as to when this
event shall be, and my pledges made good. I pray you despise him not,
for though he is a landless mercenary, he is brave, and has powerful
friends."

"Father, this marriage is most distasteful--I may say, most abhorrent to
me. The Baron is a man I cannot possibly love; and if my fortune is what
he would have, let him take it and welcome--I care not if I am
penniless, if I have my liberty. Nay, I would much rather take the veil
if I have no other choice than to marry him."

"Alice, this cannot be; I cannot break my promise. Once for all let me
tell you I dare not. This man has obtained a fatal advantage over me,
and it is a question of life and death for me. Listen!" said he, rising
and pacing the room with quick nervous tread. "Fool that I was, when
this last insurrection of the Saxons broke out I was deeply smarting
under the rebuffs I had received at the hands of my mortal enemies Odo
and Fitz-Osborne, and the base ingratitude of William. I counted the
forces of the rebels, and noted their wonderful successes; and foolishly
imagining the Danes and Scots would stand firm, I thought that William's
time had come at last. Madman that I was! to think ought could thwart
the iron will and marvellous resource. But I had many things to be
revenged upon, and I was blinded by it. I thought, now is the time. But
worst of all, in sheer madness and infatuation I entrusted
letters--deadly compromising letters--to this Vigneau for the leaders of
the insurrection. These letters Vigneau never delivered, and he now
holds them over my head, the villain! and threatens to divulge the whole
thing to William. If he does this, I know well, with the enemies I have
at court, that nothing will appease the self-willed tyrant but my head.
These letters contain such ample proof of my treasonous intentions that
my life literally hangs in the balance if I cannot gratify Vigneau. Fool
and dolt that I was to place myself in the power of so unscrupulous a
villain!

"I have told you this much that you may think less hardly of me. But the
thing is absolute and irrevocable. I can no longer put him off by my
excuses on your behalf, for he becomes clamorous and threatening. There
is nothing further to gain, I perceive, by remonstrances and promises,
so the sooner this marriage takes place the better; for I am hopelessly
involved in the toils of this snake."

A dead silence of some minutes followed this, and a sickening sensation
almost to fainting crept over Alice. How long the death-like stillness
would have lasted I know not, but just at that juncture, in silence
profound, the massive oaken door swung back unbidden, and a snatch of a
Bacchanalian chorus pealed along the corridors and burst unbidden on the
ears of father and daughter. But the rising temper of the Count at this
ill-timed jollity and carousing gave way on the instant to profound
astonishment and alarm, as Oswald the Saxon, armed with shield and
buckler, with his drawn sword in his hand, strode into the room; whilst
the dim form of an armed accomplice was visible for a moment in the
darkness ere the door swung back to its place, shutting out the sounds
of revelry and riot, and the three were alone together. The Count sprang
to his feet, whipped out his sword, and savagely stood at bay, awaiting
the onslaught of the sturdy Saxon. Alice also sprang to her feet with a
startled cry, and a strange panic seized her. Had this Saxon, who owed
his life to her, sought this interview with murderous intent? His
appearance betokened it most surely, and she began to upbraid herself
most keenly.

"Quiet you, lady," said Oswald, with a low obeisance, and in tones which
belied the warlike attitude and arms which he bore. "I have none but
peaceable intentions, gentle lady, though in these times we must be
prepared for any eventualities. I hope you will let this excuse my
weapons and my untimely visit."

"What doest thou here, Saxon? and how darest thou intrude thyself so
recklessly?" said the Count.

[Illustration: THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN CONFRONTS DE MONTFORT.]

"As to intrusion, noble sir, you will pardon me, but my father built
this castle, and I was born here, and inherited it from him; so I would
fain point out, if you will allow me, that I am not the intruder. You
have usurped my lands, appropriated my home, and slain my vassals;
whilst I am homeless, landless, and an outlaw."

"Lucky, too, art thou, Saxon, to escape with thy life, and wondrous
venturesome withal, in thrusting thy neck a second time into the
halter."

"I have not come to bandy threats, but it is not my neck that is in the
halter just now, and if thou wert not shielded by a protector more
potent than thy armed minions thy life would soon be forfeit--mark that,
Norman! and be a little more merciful."

"Thou liest, Saxon dog! I fear thee not, nor any Saxon boor in the
land!" said the Count, brandishing his sword, whilst Alice rushed
frantically between them.

"Excuse my hastiness, fair lady," said Oswald, "and permit me to say
that I have not come to shed blood, but the reverse; I am come to
solicit a truce, an honourable truce, and to treat for a cessation of
hostilities and hatred; and I would fain you should be umpire between us
this night, gentle lady."

"What truce dost thou expect, Saxon?" said the Count. "There can but be
one truce between the conqueror and a foe routed and beaten; and that
is, that he should lay down his arms unconditionally and accept the
clemency of the conqueror."

"That is a condition which we shall not accept. We shall maintain our
liberty at all hazards, and the Norman had better beware of harassing
desperate men."

"If thy arrogance were equalled by thy power, Saxon, thou wouldst do
great things. But be thou well assured that I will root every mother's
son of you out of your holes in the mountains within a month, if there
is not unconditional surrender. But if thou and thy vassals return, and
accept these terms, ye shall be entitled to my protection as my vassals
and villeins. For thyself, if thou subscribe the oath of fealty, I will
assign to thee certain lands, which thou shalt atone for by such
services rendered to me as I please, as thy feudal lord."

"Excuse me, noble sir; but these are impossible terms. In the first
place, I am not going to submit to be a grovelling feudatory, wearing
clumsy brogues and a vassal's collar, coming cringingly to thee for
permission to make a journey or shoot a stag--to ask humbly if I may
keep a dog; catch a fish; or marry a wife! I am not going to hold the
stirrup for beggarly Norman adventurers, and say, Your most humble
servant, By your leave, puissant sir, Crave your pardon, my lord, and
all the rest of servile rigmarole, being afraid to breathe the breath of
heaven, or tread mother earth; or say that I am a man; content to be
numbered with thy cattle, or thy goods and chattels, and be spoken of as
the loutish Saxon clown. Never! Let that be understood once for all. No
drop of vassal's blood courses through my veins. No part of a vassal's
spirit animates me. I have not looked upon the face of any man, Saxon or
Norman, that I fear, and I will be vassal to no man. Leave me alone,
with the handful of Saxons who follow me. Thou hast my lands and my
home--take them as the spoils of war, but be content. There is land
enough, and thou mayest leave us in peace. We will not come nigh thee,
but be content to till a little land for sustenance; and we may be of
service as thy allies. Probably many of the serfs will be willing to
return to their lands and to vassalage; and all who are willing may do
so freely."

"Thou hast come to dictate terms, not to supplicate them, Saxon. Dost
thou think it probable I shall tolerate a petty Saxon chieftain holding
sway close to my doors? or harbour on my lands a brood of villeins who
will render the service of fear to me and that of fealty to the Saxon
near, so that in any pinch they will treacherously fail me? Thou hast a
low estimate of my wisdom, truly. But listen once for all, Saxon; if
there be not immediate surrender I will hunt you from your holes in the
hills, as I have already said, within a month, and few will escape
me--mark that!"

"Father," said Alice, "you do this noble Saxon grievous wrong in
rejecting so rudely his amicable overtures. You may surely mingle mercy
with your designs. I myself will be bond, these Saxons will reciprocate
any acts of generosity done to them. Besides, consider this: you saw the
forms of armed men at the door just now. They have stayed their hand
when it was at the throat of their victims, and they may do so again."

"Tush! tush! you speak like a school-girl. These boorish Saxons will
count mercy as weakness; so no more of it."

"Many thanks, lady," interposed Oswald. "Gentle means are strongest when
we deal with human beings, whether they be gentle or simple. But adieu!
If my mission fails, the responsibility rests not with me, for I have
now offered peace--a peace which is abject in its terms." So saying, he
turned and struck the oaken door with the pommel of his sword, which on
the instant sprung open and as quickly-closed behind him, whilst the
massive bolt was shot from the outside.

The Count sprang to the door, and tried to force it open, but to no
purpose. "Jules! Jules!" roared he. "What ho there! Treachery!" But the
only response he received to his frantic cries was the fragment of a
rollicking song and chorus, trolled more lustily than musically by rough
voices in the distant kitchen, the substance of which ran something like
the following:--

    "Old Bacchus was a merry dog,
      And kept good company;
    He loved good wine and a jovial song,
      So his days sped merrily.

    _Chorus._--Ho, comrades all, we'll drink and sing,
                 So pass the bowl along.
               If a better cask the morrow bring,
                 We'll greet it with a song."

"What ho there, you drunken brutes! What ho, Jules!" shouted the Count,
frantic with rage. But again the response was in a similar strain:--

    "We're freemen all, but have our liege,
      For William is our lord;
    We've wine and ale and venison
      To crown our festive board.

    _Chorus._--Ho, comrades, all," etc.

"What ho there!" roared the Count, more lustily than ever, and furiously
beating the door with an oaken footstool. But all in vain, the song ran
its course oblivious of all beside, and with, if possible, an increase
in its roystering loudness:--

    "No foemen can our arms withstand,
      The Saxons are our scorn.
    We'll drink and laugh, and sing at eve,
      And chase them in the morn.

    _Chorus._--Ho, comrades all," etc.




CHAPTER XV.

OUTLAWS AND WOLFSHEADS.

    "To be forewarned is to be forearmed."

    _Proverbial Saying._


Count de Montfort, the born autocrat, it may be inferred, was not the
man to permit any remnant of the conquered Saxons to assume an
independent authority, or to defy him in his exercise of unlimited
power. Nor did he relish the fearless tone in which Oswald had addressed
him. Such an affront must not be tolerated for a moment; so he
determined to organise an expedition which should explore the hills and
root out any incipient rebellion which might be afoot. It is needless to
say that the mysterious escape and reappearance of Oswald also caused
increased vigilance in guarding the castle to be resorted to.

Now Badger had manifested a wonderful tact in ingratiating himself with
the rough Norman troopers. It was much more common to see him sallying
forth cheek by jowl with some of these, fishing, hawking, or
boar-hunting, than to see him companying with his Saxon comrades. But
there was method in it all, for he was always possessed of their plans
and purposes; and when he communicated to me this determination of
theirs we made haste to apprise our countrymen of it. That night Badger
quietly issued from the postern gate of the Abbey, leading his mountain
pony Shaggy, and followed by his faithful wolf-hound Grizzly. Every
light was extinguished. Not a sound fell on the stillness of the night
air, saving the horrid braying of a stag in the distant wood, and the
screeching of owlets as they fluttered amid the branches of the trees in
quest of prey. No sooner had they passed through the gate at the
northern extremity of the Abbey's ground than Badger mounted Shaggy's
back, and they steadily threaded their way through the forest, making as
quickly as possible for the hill country. Steady riding for half an hour
brought them to the first spur of the mountain, when Badger threw
himself from the pony's back, and led the way at a brisk walk. Soon they
reached the top of this lower promontory, when, again mounting Shaggy,
they dashed along, sending the rabbits by hundreds scurrying away to
their holes. But Badger steadily forged ahead towards the huge
eminences, which seemed to rise out of utter darkness, and throw their
black and ominous outlines against the starlit sky. Half an hour's more
riding and patient climbing, and he neared the top. Choosing as the
easiest path a deflection between two peaks, he was proceeding at a
rapid pace, when, of a sudden, two men on horseback came bearing down
upon him like a whirlwind, and drew up in front of him with swords
drawn. "Saxon or Norman?" sang out one of them in a tone of inquiry.

"Saxon!" shouted Badger. "Down with the Normans!"

As the well-known voice was heard, the swords were sheathed, and the two
horsemen greeted him with a loud laugh.

"Why, you are living yet, then, Badger!" said one. "We have been
calculating your chances; and we had come to the conclusion you would be
killed and eaten by this time. You would be worth money, Badger, for
your _skins_ alone, this cold weather."

"Better shed every extra skin, Badger, or you'll lose your own, I'm
thinking," said the other.

"Yes, his skins are valuable, but his carcase is good for nothing.
Badgers are just carrion, and nothing more."

"We are right glad to see you, however," said the pair. And indeed they
seemed inclined to hug him in the exuberance of their delight.

"Well, and Shaggy's living too! What next, and next. These Normans are
becoming most merciful," again broke out the first one.

"Yes, yes," retorted the second one, "that's right enough. But they
aren't human beings either of them, or they'd have been murdered before
this."

"What news, Badger? I declare he's gone in a trance. Have they burnt the
castle down? Are they murdering everybody?"

"They'll have a mighty job to murder some of you," retorted Badger,
finding his tongue at last, "unless they could fly. You take mighty good
care of your skins. And i' faith, you've only one to take care of. But I
wager that will be whole at the finish, unless you should happen to
tumble and break your neck with running away."

"Hold there!" said the pair, bursting into a loud laugh at Badger's
retort. "When the time comes we shall be amongst the first at the
Normans' throats."

"All in good time, my hearties. They are coming in the morning to
disturb your roosts, so there will be a chance for you; but come along,
I can't stand here, I must see Oswald forthwith about this matter."

"This is our station for the night, Badger. This valley would almost
certainly be selected for a night attack, or day attack either, for the
matter of that. So we must watch until daybreak."

"Oh, come along, I know everything is perfectly quiet. Not a Norman
astir, I will be bond for it. You will be useful, so come along."

"If you will take the responsibility, Badger."

"That I will readily, so come along."

Then the pair turned their horses' heads round, and joined Badger in his
errand. As they sped across the moor they heard to the right of them a
fierce baying; and presently some half-dozen wolves came bearing down
upon them. The horses began to tremble in every limb, and show evidences
of bolting. So the three dismounted, and stood at the horses' heads with
Grizzly fiercely growling in front. This seemed to reassure the horses;
but as the wolves drew near they were evidently mistaken in their prey,
for they turned tail and fled. But Grizzly with a terrific growl dashed
after them, throwing himself on the haunches of the hindmost, and
rolling him over. Then, seizing him by the throat, he would speedily
have made an end of him, if the horsemen had not come up and dispatched
him with their swords. The monster turned out to be a large gaunt dog
wolf, who would have been an ugly customer for an unarmed man to meet
when the pinch of hunger was upon him.

"I hope they've got the sheep, and cattle, and swine all trim and tight,
or I'm feared they'll be missing some of them in the morning, with these
beasts prowling about," remarked one horseman.

"They're getting too plentiful to be at all pleasant. There's been
little time for wolf-hunting since these Normans came; they are getting
bold too, and are beginning to pack," remarked the second horseman.

"I wish they were the worst foes we had to deal with," said Badger; "I
should be a happier man by a good deal. But these dastardly Normans, I
fear me we shall never more shake them off. The villainous brood are
swarming all over the land, and there will soon be never a patch of soil
that a Saxon can call his own. We shall all either have to be slaves or
feed on the wind ere long."

"Not me, Badger," said one. "I have neither child nor chick, and a
freeman I'll be at all costs. The limestone caves and the greenwood
shall make me shelter. As for feeding on air, I'll not want something
more substantial if any Norman this side Baldley Heights or Whernside
Fell has a sheep in the fold or an ox in the stall."

"Well, don't be downhearted, comrades," said Badger. "When the wind
shifts, the cloud lifts. It's a broad ford that can't be bridged. The
strongest bow soonest relaxes, and the spent arrow falls lightly. Our
time will come, for these Normans are not Viking rovers, but like fat
living, and that breeds laziness; and we shall be able to shake
ourselves down comfortably if we can't push them out of the bed."

Whilst this conversation was proceeding the three were rapidly pressing
on, Badger having by this time put eight or ten miles between himself
and the Norman foe. But in the vast distance before them there seemed to
loom an unending stretch of moorland, vast and drear and dark. In the
pale moonlight the mists could be seen climbing the heights, or creeping
lazily along the hollows, where damp and bogs abounded. Like huge
repositories of old-world histories these grim old hills
seemed--dwarfing human nature into nothingness in their
presence--"everlasting hills," broad-based and firm; defying the storms
of winter, and bathing their heads in the golden sunshine of summer;
unmoved amid the changes, transformations, and fierce race struggles
which were being fought out with relentless cruelty around their base;
and offering a cold, unsympathetic shelter to fugitives flying to them
for safety.

"Keep to the left, Badger. We must keep on the outskirts of that vapour,
or we shall be speedily up to the knees in a bog. We have not far to go.
Do you see the tops of those fir-trees just peeping over those boulders?
That is our headquarters, and Oswald will be there."

Presently the persons of two scouts could be seen moving amid the
stones, and evidently reconnoitring the new-comers. A low, shrill
whistle is given by one of them, and is answered by Badger's friends; at
which signal they drew near to interview the strangers. Then it was seen
that the tops of the fir trees were but the outermost ring of a dense
wood, which lined the sides of a mammoth ravine, with a still lake of
water, or tarn, lying placidly in its hollow.

"Is Oswald here to-night?" was the first inquiry.

"Yes. What news?"

"All right so far; but there will be a lively time to-morrow. Badger,
here, has brought the news. Let him have speech with the Earl
forthwith."

So the three dismounted, and began slowly to thread their way by a path,
winding and difficult, with branches hanging low, and brushwood closing
up, so as to make progress impossible except in single file. By-and-bye
the bottom is reached, and before them there stands--what was totally
concealed from any one skirting the wood on the outside--a spacious
one-storied building near the head of the tarn. As they drew near, a
fierce growling of a watch-dog was heard, and a challenge was addressed
to them by some one hid from view by the dense brushwood. The answer
being satisfactory the horses were tied to the trees, and the stranger
led them by a winding path to the rear of the dwelling. A gentle tap
being given to the door, a woman's voice challenges the visitors; but
soon the bolts are withdrawn, and the party enters what was evidently
the kitchen quarters.

"Has the Earl retired?" said Bretwul to his wife.

"Yes, long ago. There has not been a sound in the house these two
hours."

After consulting together it was deemed a matter of sufficient
importance to summon Oswald, and to him Badger briefly related the news
which had brought him.

Then ensued a council of war, some advocating evasive tactics. But this
brought them face to face with the fact that the Normans were all aware
that they were hiding not far away, and they would be sure to persevere
until they had unearthed them. So it was decided that a lesson in
retaliation was necessary. Word was sent round at once for all cattle
and non-fighters to keep especially close, also for the able-bodied men
to meet the Earl at daylight at the cave on Deepdale Head.

Badger's errand being now accomplished, he led his pony to the clear.
There mounting, and accompanied by Grizzly, the return journey commenced
at a steady trot, which was never broken until the monastery was
reached; and soon each one was at rest. He had thus given a timely
warning to the outlawed Saxons, from which it will be seen they were not
slow to profit.




CHAPTER XVI.

SIGURD THE VIKING.

                            "Beware
    Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
    Bear 't that the opposed may beware of thee."

    Shakespeare.


Hanging-Brow Scaur, to which allusion has been made, is a huge peak
towering high above the Pennine Range, out of which it springs. A rude
cultivation obtains to its very summit--such a cultivation as the bleak
winds and perpetual cold permit. Ere the advent of the Normans small
mountain sheep with the single lamb at their heels had swarmed over its
hoary sides, browsing amid its moistureless grass, nipping the fresh
shoots during the summer time, and retreating to the lowlands at the
advent of winter. The husbandman who reared his humble dwelling beneath
its shoulders had frequent need to beware the cold north wind, the
drifted snow, and not unfrequently the rushing avalanche. A sluggish,
unromantic life was lived, and a precarious livelihood obtained by these
hill-folk. The woods ran up the gorges to the foot of the loftiest peak.
Coming downwards they spread over the tops of the lower hills until,
from gorge to gorge, the forest trees join hands, and an unbroken forest
sweeps downwards, gathering density and luxuriousness until it sweeps
over the valleys and up the sides of the hills beyond. Inexpressibly
lovely especially are these wooded gorges in the summertime, when the
fragrant breath of foliage and flower, of moss and lichen, is in the
nostril, when the music of rushing cataract and waterfall is in the ear.
Buoyant and bracing as an elixir of life is the cool air on these
mountain-sides, when the hot breath of July is enervating the dwellers
in the valley below. How delightful was my task at this season to carry
the consolations of my office to the lonely scattered folk on the hills!
How often have I felt my heart expand with lowly adoration when, from
the lofty summit of Hanging-brow, I have turned my gaze westward, and
far away in the distance my sweep of vision has taken in the coast-line
of the Irish sea; whilst north, and east, and south there lay before me
a mighty vista of hill and dale and rugged peak! Then, how lovely the
magnificent stretch of forest too!--a rich unbroken canopy of green,
many-tinted and beautiful, the oak, the ash, the elm, and many others
blending their various tints in the lowlands; whilst the fir, the pine,
and the mountain-ash belted the forest in the higher reaches. The
fleet-footed red-deer might be seen threading their way through the
tangled undergrowth, or browsing amid the boulders in the clear, keeping
ever a wary eye on the stealthy hunter. Sly Reynard here abounded, and
might be seen gliding warily along; and occasionally his fiercer cousin
the wolf prowled in fierce loneliness; whilst ceaselessly the woods rang
with the songs of her feathered denizens. Birds of rare plumage, too,
and shy, such as the jay, the magpie, the thrush, the curlew, the
wood-pigeon, with many specimens of the hawk family, were here; whilst
the golden eagle wheeled in airy flight round the crown, or moodily
perched on some boulder, while his mate patiently hatched her young in
the fissures of the rocks, which, steep and high, lined the pathway of
the descending waters. But on this eventful day, as the sun reared its
blood-red visage above the horizon, and kissed the mountain peak into a
ruddy twilight, two Saxon warriors, with broadswords by their sides and
battle-axes at their girdles, rounded the peak on the side which
overlooked the castle and broad fertile acres which had been
comparatively cleared around it. Just the dimmest outlines of this scene
were visible; but as the sun mounted higher in the heavens, and his rays
swept down from the hills into the lowest valleys, the whole landscape
was spread in beauty before them. The castle's noble proportions, here
and there also the river's sinuous course, as it threaded in and out
amongst the trees, could be seen; whilst farther down the valley the
gorgeous masonry of the Abbey peeped through the tops of the trees. With
rapt vision, but with very sad hearts, the pair stood together, and
watched the marvellous transformation taking place before them.

"Was ever man called to yield so fair a possession before, Wulfhere?"
said the chieftain to his comrade.

"Well, truly it is a fair spot--finer, I think, than ever I thought it
before. But it may be yours again, and I may get my little patrimony
also. So let us not despair."

"Well, we know not what may happen, but it seems very unlikely at
present. But come, we will go over the summit and consider our plan for
the stronghold. It will be some time yet ere our enemies are astir, I
dare say. The scouts will bring us timely word."

So the pair climbed to the summit, and again considered their plans for
the fortress which had already been decided upon. Now the summit was a
remarkably level plateau of five or six acres in extent. Round the outer
edge of this plateau the ground sank away steep and suddenly for fifty
yards, and it was only by the utmost exertions that a man could scramble
up this last steep brow. The pair walked around the outer fringe
together.

"Well," said Oswald, "the hand of man could never have raised so
impregnable a rampart, and if gallantly manned it can never be carried
by assault. There is but one danger: we may be starved out, for the
provisioning of it is most difficult with our scanty resources."

"It is as you say, my lord, matchless as a site for defence; for the
provisioning we must make strenuous efforts whilst the respite lasts;
and if we can by any means give them this day such a taste of our
quality as we ought to, they will never, unless greatly reinforced,
attempt to force our stronghold."

"How bountiful, Wulfhere, nature has been in providing material for
building. Stones ready to our hand and inexhaustible in quantity, and
timber near to hand also."

At this juncture a horseman was seen coming over the mile of gently
rising ground which stretched away from the forest.

"He bears a message," said Oswald; "come, we will descend and meet him."

By the time they had scrambled to the bottom of the declivity the
horseman drew near, bringing the news that evidently something more than
usual was afoot, by the number of men who were actively mustering at so
early an hour of the morning; this thing being quite an unusual one with
the Normans, who loved to carouse well into the night, and then sleep
off the effects in the morning.

"Well we may be sure, if these besotted louts are moving thus early,
that there is something which has stirred the hornet's nest, so we will
to our rendezvous." Then turning to the scout, he said, "You know the
cave at Deepdale Head?"

"Aye, aye, I know it well!"

"You will find us there from now: keep us well informed, you and your
comrades, so that we may make our dispositions."

Then the two rapidly descended until they came to the head of a deep
gorge, where was one of the many limestone caves to be found in the
district. It had an obscure and unpretentious entrance; but once well
within it, it assumed lofty proportions, and ran away into many cavities
roomy and weird. In past times no one would have dared to enter its
gloomy precincts, as it was considered to be the abode of pixies,
witch-hags, and the powers of evil and darkness generally. But now these
superstitious and ignorant people had dared to force the abode of evil
spirits, rather than face the still more cruel and hated Norman.

Gathered around the entrance to this cave, and sitting on the hillside
were a number of men all armed, and evidently anticipating a conflict
with the enemy. They were a very miscellaneous company, some of them
being fierce, ragged, wild and most unsavoury looking. At the head of
some ten or fifteen was one Sigurd, who had been a chieftain in
Lakesland, some fifty miles distant; but so desperate had been his
conflict with the Normans, and so incessant his attacks and so daring in
character, that the Normans had found it necessary to put in motion
numerous forces to capture or slay this man and his desperate band. This
they had not been able to do; but so incessant had their harrying been,
that he had been driven from his native hills, with the result that this
opportune moment he was found swelling the ranks of Oswald's men.

"Your coming is timely, Jarl," said Oswald. "Men who can wield a sword,
or fling a javelin, as I perceive you and these hardy warriors can, are
doubly welcome at this pinch."

"You are right, master, I am Viking every inch of me; these men are
skalds every one also, so we need not tell you we like the ring of
steel. Give us a corner where there is room to fight and none to fly,
for we like it best."

Just then another horseman hot with haste arrived with the tidings that
the Normans had divided themselves into two bands, and were ascending by
the water-courses. This was as Oswald had anticipated, for these
water-courses alone afforded what by compliment could be considered
continuous paths, the forest being very dense and tangled, and a
hopeless labyrinth. Now the Normans had made the somewhat common but,
nevertheless, often fatal mistake, of underrating the enemy--or rather
the hunted fugitives they sought. It had never occurred to them for a
moment that the Saxons would present a bold front, and even dare an
issue with them in force. They regarded the matter with a very light
heart; although they had had a taste of Oswald's prowess, they believed
that he had but few to stand by him. They little thought as they
scrambled jauntily along up the gorge with no precautions against an
ambush, or sudden assault, that they were forcing the hiding places of
desperate men, who, when hard driven were capable of desperate deeds.

By-and-by the scouts came in bringing definite information as to
numbers, and the routes the Normans were pursuing. They had, as already
said, divided themselves into two parties; each one purposing to
thoroughly scour one of the two paths along the water-courses, and
intending to join together again when the hills should be reached.

Now Sigurd, of whom more anon, had command of one company of the Saxon
forces at the head of one of the ravines, and he was duly apprised of
the number of Normans he would have to contend with. Oswald with
Wulfhere as second in command, had charge of the other contingent, and
they slowly drew away down the ravine to a spot which had been selected
by Oswald for the attack. The most numerous company of the Normans
struck the water-course which Oswald defended. The stream had there
reached the valley where the mighty slit in the mountains down which it
boisterously tumbled had broadened into a lovely dell, green as an
emerald, and studded with flowers. Here the waters moved placidly along;
but the innumerable foam-caps which slowly sailed away on its bosom,
bore ample evidence of its tumultuous descent from the mountains. Here
the Normans drew together and took council with regard to their further
movements. Eventually they took the left bank, and with long and
attenuated ranks they commenced the ascent. All this was duly noted, and
nimble feet carried each several movement speedily to the waiting
Saxons.

The place selected by Oswald was where the limestone rock seemed to be
shorn down with a perpendicular face to the bed of the stream. On the
opposite side Wulfhere with a company of archers were ambushed. The
steep and lofty face of the rocks precluded any possibility of their
being dislodged, whilst the position of the Norman foe across the ravine
would expose them mercilessly to their shafts. Oswald, with some dozen
of the stoutest of his followers, barred the path at a point where it
took an upward trend, and a huge boulder blocked the vision of the
approaching foe. He had also thrown forward a party of men up the steep
and wooded ravine side, in advance of himself, who were completely
obscured by the trees. These were, at the signal, to roll down the
boulders and huge stones which abounded in the rough and scraggy
hillside. The position and the method of attack were matchlessly
planned. If these desperate Saxons only stood each one unflinchingly to
his post, victory was certain, for the enemy was entrapped, and flight
alone could save them.

"Wulfhere," said Oswald, "you understand my plan, I think. The path on
our side is so narrow and rough, the enemy will be obliged to move
pretty nearly in single file. Your men must hide in the brushwood until
I give the signal; then pour into them volleys of arrows. If they should
be seized with panic, which assuredly they will, and beat a headlong
retreat, then rush down, and meet them at the neck of the gorge and cut
off their retreat. Remember, battle-axes are best for the thicket, and
broadswords for the open. Strike swiftly, strike hard, and victory is
certain."

So Wulfhere crossed the stream with his men, and clambered up the steep
bank on the opposite side. Then abreast, but on each side the stream,
the two companies marched downwards. Presently they reached the spot
selected for the attack. The disposition of the men was quickly
effected. Then Wulfhere, keeping in the shelter of the trees, advanced
to the brink of the precipice, where his position commanded a view of
the enemy, who were swarming forward. From thence he could easily hold
converse across the chasm with Oswald, who, with battle-axe firmly
grasped in his right hand, and bronze shield on his left, like a fierce
lion was grimly waiting for his prey; behind him, a dozen stout yeomen,
who from their youth had been taught to wield either weapons of war or
implements of husbandry, men who had proved their valour against both
Norman and Dane on many occasions. As the enemy drew near, their numbers
and every movement was minutely described to Oswald, until they drew so
near that further parleying must cease. Then Wulfhere retired a few
steps into the thicket where his men were lurking, with arrows affixed,
ready for the fray. Meanwhile, the loud oaths, coarse laughter, and
unchecked speech of the Normans told plainly the feelings of contempt
they entertained for the foe, and the little apprehension they had of
the onslaught awaiting them. Soon their scrambling footsteps drew quite
close, amid a death-like stillness in the ranks of the lurking foe. The
Saxon war-cry, "Ahoi!" in thunderous tones burst from the lips of Oswald
and his men. "Ahoi!" shouted Wulfhere's men. "Ahoi!" shouted the men
ambushed aloft. At that instant also, a dozen arrows with deadly aim
came hissing across the defile; down also came the boulders from aloft,
leaping with gathering velocity into the ranks of the foe, whilst Oswald
dashed from behind the boulder, and closed with the Norman leader. Their
gleaming eyes met for a second; the Norman dealt a hurried forceless
blow with his sword, which the Saxon received on his shield; then his
ponderous battle-axe came crashing down with irresistible force. The
Norman interposed his shield, but the axe bore it down and, glancing
therefrom, came full upon his cranium, tearing away his helmet, and
felling him through the shrubs down into the water-course in the bottom
of the glen. As the Normans witnessed the overthrow of their leader,
they were completely panic-stricken, and helplessly huddled together
like sheep, unable to strike a blow. The Saxon dominated the path in
front, cutting down the foremost with marvellous celerity; whilst on one
flank the deadly arrows were being poured into them, and on the other
flank the huge stones clashed through their ranks and decimated their
numbers. This hesitancy lasted but for a minute or two; very speedily
the discomfiture became an abject panic, and each one for himself made a
rush for the valley. The Saxons followed them swiftly, relentlessly, and
cut them off in numbers, as they impetuously rushed away towards the
valley and the castle. At a signal from Oswald, the Saxons ceased their
harrying of the scattered and flying foe, and with swift footsteps they
regained the head of the gorge and over the shoulder of the hills, to
the help of their comrades, who barred the advance of the second band of
Normans.

Now, whilst Oswald, with sagacity and conspicuous valour, had routed one
contingent of the Normans, the sturdy Viking Sigurd, with a dozen of his
own reckless and desperate band, reinforced by less than a score of
Oswald's followers, pressed eagerly on to the fray with the other band
of Normans. Sigurd possessed none of the qualities of generalship,
beyond a desperate and headlong valour, which always bore him into the
thickest of the fight. His personal strength was prodigious, and no
other man could wield his ponderous sword; in a rough and desperate
struggle where strength and valour were everything, and skill of little
avail, he had no equal in all Northumbria. His own followers, too, in
thicket warfare, with their short but heavy swords in one hand, and a
long, gleaming knife or dagger in the other, were unrivalled in such an
encounter as the one they challenged to-day. In Oswald's struggle, the
place and plan of attack had more to do with the complete demoralisation
of the Normans, than the desperate valour with which it was carried out.
In Sigurd's case, it is true, the surprise, the thicket, and the rough
and precipitous ground, were stout allies of his. But otherwise,
everything depended on the vigour and valour of himself and men. Now
Pierre led this second company, and he was a sturdy rogue who had to be
reckoned with when it came to a tussle with weapons; and any one who
counted on Pierre succumbing to panic or to fear would be grievously
mistaken.

On, however, the Normans pressed, like their routed compatriots, never
dreaming that the Saxons would be prepared for them; and, as a matter of
fact, despising them, in any case. Right into the ambush they marched,
recklessly and unheeding. Instantly the Saxon war-cry rends the air, and
the wood is alive with men who frantically hurl themselves upon the
astonished foe. The Normans stagger and reel at the fierce onset, and
some fly, coward-like, without striking a blow. But the presence of mind
and personal bravery of Pierre stands them in good stead at this
juncture. In stentorian tones he shouted, "Notre Dame! Have at the dogs!
Follow me!" And whipping out his sword he headed the onset, laying about
him lustily and encouraging his men. But the burly Viking, Sigurd, finds
none to withstand him, and he makes sad havoc amongst the men-at-arms,
who quail and cower before him; whilst his followers, like mountain
goats, dart from behind trees and boulders, dealing stealthy and
effective strokes, completely nonplussing the Normans with their
organised methods. Pierre quickly perceives, however, that they number
five to one of the Saxons; and, if the burly Viking's arm can be
arrested for ten minutes, victory will come speedily. There is none but
he to do it. So boldly he dashes off on the instant and confronts the
giant. No mean foeman is Pierre in point of physical strength and
courage; but, when to that was added his superb skill in handling his
weapon, he is not to be trifled with, even by so doughty a foe as
Sigurd.

"Ha, ha!" roared the Viking chief, as he witnessed the temerity of this
Norman in courting battle with him, and with reckless vigour he smites
at Pierre. But the Norman plies shield and sword in defence, and
dexterously shifts his ground to get an advantage. In swift succession
the thunder-strokes fall, and gleams of fire dart from Pierre's shield
and sword as he parries the blows. Scathless, however, he endures the
ordeal.

"Bravo, Pierre!" his comrades shouted. "Hold _him_ in play a little
while, and we will make short work of these churls."

Truly everything points to this conclusion, for the Normans have
gathered courage wonderfully, and by sheer numbers the Saxons are being
rapidly overborne. At the instant, however, the Saxon battle-cry, Ahoi!
Ahoi! Ahoi! wakes the echoes in the hills, and Oswald and his men dash
into the flanks of the Normans. The effect is electrical.
Panic-stricken, they fly before the onrush of the avenging Saxons. The
retreat was a regular stampede; and Pierre and his men, along with the
stragglers from the first company, rushed into the castle yard
breathless with haste, never having made attempt to rally.

De Montfort and Vigneau, who had received the former troop with rage and
dismay, were little less than frantic at this double disaster and
ignoble defeat.

"Pierre, you scurvy villain, what is this? I wish thou hadst left thy
ugly carcase with those Saxon dogs yonder, ere thou disgraced thy
calling thus!" roared Vigneau at his henchman.

"You will take care that fat carcase of yours is put in no manner of
danger, master!" rasped out Pierre, in fierce retort.

"How now, villain!" said Vigneau, drawing his sword and advancing on
Pierre. "I'll put a stop to thy unmannerly insolence, dog!"

"Stand back!" said Pierre fiercely, and whipping out his sword. "You
will have to take your chance, mark me, if you put not up that weapon.
I'll have no more of your bullying! My weapon is as good as yours any
day, whether I have won my spurs or no."

"Stop that!" said De Montfort, authoritatively, and stepping between
them. "How is this, Pierre? What has happened?"

"Treachery, my lord! The Saxons were well advised of our purpose, depend
upon it, for they were prepared for us, lying in ambush to receive us.
But in spite of this we should have worsted them; but when we were just
getting the mastery, the Saxon Oswald and fifty others dashed into our
rear and demoralised us entirely. A burly monster, huge as a bull, led
the first company. Look at my shield! cut through in several places by
his weapons. Depend upon it, we were betrayed by some one; they were
evidently awaiting us, everything prepared."

Wonderfully elated and heartened these Saxons were at the day's
successes; for this was the first encounter since the Normans'
disastrous march through the north when, matching force with force, they
had gained so signal a victory. The fame and prowess of Oswald spread
like wildfire amongst the hunted refugees, who were lurking, like beasts
of the forest, in any hiding-place they could find. Salutary also was
the lesson the arrogant and vindictive oppressors learnt, for both their
respect and their fears were marvellously increased by it.




CHAPTER XVII.

EVIL COUNSELLORS.

    "All good to me is lost.
    Evil, be thou my good."

    Milton.


Great was the chagrin and rage manifested by Vigneau, Count de Montfort,
and the Normans generally, at this unexpected rebuff; and increased
cruelties and indignities were heaped upon the hapless and degraded
Saxons who had accepted the yoke of villeinage. Indeed, the lives of
these Saxons were of no account whatever; and the honour of the Saxon
women was at the mercy of besotted and degraded Norman troopers. Very
few indeed were there amongst the Saxons who had not grievous cause to
cherish the most deadly hatred against these ruthless oppressors and
usurpers, the Normans.

It was too much to expect that, amid the general confiscation, the
monastery should continue to be governed by myself, and that monks of
Saxon origin should minister to the poor and the sick, and have control
of our endowments. So, as I had expected, one fateful day, my office was
taken from me and bestowed upon a Norman Father, who, with a number of
monks, had followed at the heels of the conquerors, and were as greedy
for the emoluments of the Church, as their brethren-in-arms were for the
possessions of the Saxon laymen. So one Father Vigneau, who was a
brother of Baron Vigneau, became our Abbot, and degradation and much
oppression was meted out to us Saxons, with the object of driving us
forth to other shelter, or to become mendicant friars or mere hedge
priests. Some of my subordinates went forth, like Abraham, to seek a
country. Some cast in their lot with their outlawed countrymen, and, I
am sorry to say, not unfrequently became as great adepts at the wielding
of carnal weapons as they were at saying Mass or burying the dead. But I
had so many ties, and such affection for my flock, that I resolved to
stay and bear the heavy yoke; counting it no small honour to be found
worthy to suffer like my Master.

I was also greatly fortified in this my resolve by the friendship and
help which I received at the hands of Alice De Montfort, who proved to
be a real friend, not only to myself, but to all who were in suffering
and distress.

Our new Abbot, I found, had not been trained to the service of the
Church, but had been, at one time, a soldier by profession. Latterly he
had taken to the Church, as I suspect because he found the sacred
calling less arduous, and could be made to serve his inordinate desire
for idleness and good living. His god was indeed his belly, and his life
loose and irregular to great excess. He was a man of florid countenance,
and much too pursy for a man whose first duty was to crucify the flesh.
His garments, also, ill became a man in the sacred office he had
assumed. He was an exceedingly vain man, and loved to adorn his person,
and affect the airs and swaggering gait of a young gallant. By his side
he constantly dangled a sword, and under his monk's robes he usually
wore a coat of link-mail--which, I suspected, arose from a cowardly fear
of assassination; for, despite his swaggering deportment, I ever found
him to be an arrant coward, and, like every coward, relentless and
cruel, loving to oppress and to insult those whose position made it easy
for him so to do.

Amongst the monks who came with him I found not one truly holy and
devoted man. Most of them were so ignorant as to be totally unable to
read the sacred books in the Latin tongue. These men, like their
superior, lived loose, irregular lives; habitually neglecting prayers,
fasting, and abstinence from carnal indulgences. Indeed, of most of
them, if it had not been for their dress they could not have been
distinguished from the riotous and disorderly soldiery.

Our new Abbot and his brother, Baron Vigneau, were spending the night
together, indulging in one of those nightly carousals which were a
disgrace and a crying scandal to our ancient and holy monastery, which
had earned itself a good repute by the piety and learning of the
brotherhood, and by the wise and charitable administration of the
princely revenues which appertained to it. Never had it been known, in
times past, that any palmer, or wandering minstrel, had been turned away
from its hospitable doors, unhoused and unfed; and any distressed or
suffering peasant was sure to have sympathy in trouble, and relief in
want. But since the advent of the Normans, its revenues were dissipated
by rioting and drunkenness, chambering and wantonness, and in
entertaining Norman riff-raff and debauching Saxons, who were willing to
sell themselves for the gluttonous eating and drinking to which they
were treated. In vain it was for us Saxons to preach virtue and chastity
to the poor peasantry, whose cattle, implements of husbandry, and homes,
had been destroyed, and who could not till the ground, knowing that they
would be despoiled of their harvest. The poor were at best half starved,
and subjected to most gross and cruel treatment.

To-night, however, more than ordinarily weighty matters were being
discussed over their wine by the brothers.

"What progress, then, have you made in the matter?" said the Abbot.

"Well, I have, by a most determined effort, forced the Count, much
against his will, to name a day for the fulfilment of his promise. But
the jade, his daughter, takes high ground, and I fancy to get her nose
to the grindstone will be no easy task."

"I suppose it is the old excuse the vixen makes?"

"Yes; my tongue is not smooth enough, and my manners do not suit her
dainty notions. She's in a precious dudgeon just now over a Saxon wench
I took a fancy to; and she's as flighty as a two-year-old filly, and as
proud as Lucifer. In fact, she gets more stately and arrogant from day
to day. Never mind!" said he, bringing his fist down upon the table.
"I'll take her ladyship down a peg or two by-and-bye. I scarcely know
whether I love or hate her most, now. She's got a pretty face and
figure, or I'd as soon try steel upon her as wed her."

"Well, I must confess she's a very handsome wench, brother--not a finer
in Britain; but I never see her without feeling that I would give
something to humble her pride. You think the Count would be out of it if
he knew how to get, do you?"

"Not a shadow of a doubt of it. He would murder me at a minute's notice,
if he could get possession of those letters I told you about. But he
knows you are fully informed about them, and of his treachery to
William, and he dare not resort to violence until he knows how to secure
the letters by his effort. I have come to the conclusion to hand them
over to you; they will be safer than in my possession."

"They contain conclusive evidence of his treachery, don't they?"

"No mistake about that. They are in his own handwriting, and sealed with
his own crest and coat-of-arms. They make offer upon certain
considerations, to sell his influence and his men to the Saxons during
William's absence. He was also fool enough to give me a written promise
of his daughter's hand, in consideration of my fidelity to him. Nothing
in the world could be clearer and straighter than the whole thing. He
sees now pretty clearly that _his_ game is up; but I'll show him that
_my_ game is not up, or likely to be, until he hands over his stately
daughter."

"He must have greatly miscalculated the odds when he put his head into a
noose like that."

"Yes; he's not played many false cards in his life, but that was one,
and he will lose his head by it if he does not play up square with the
remainder. I'll promise him that much at least."

"What cause had he to quarrel with the king?"

"Oh, jealousy. He prides himself upon the services he has rendered to
William, and he expected in consequence to be high in the king's favour,
and in his council. He expected to have some fat lands too, near to
London. William, however, did not think so highly of his services, or
else he had been prejudiced against him by some courtezan, which is more
probable. Anyhow, no sooner was William firmly seated on the throne than
he gave De Montfort the cold shoulder. He made Odo, Lanfranc, and
Fitz-Osborne his chosen counsellors.

"Now, a mortal feud existed between Odo and De Montfort, and he quickly
got the cold side of his master's favours. He had given to him a paltry
estate in the Fen country, where he had that Saxon devil, Hereward,
hanging on to his skirts, and foraging all over his possessions,
whenever hunger drove him from his infernal den in the marshes. The
slight which he received rankled, I can promise you; and when the
insurrection broke out whilst William was in Normandy, and when the
Saxons took York, and put to the sword the garrison of three thousand
Normans, with the Danes swarming into the Humber ripe for plunder, and
the Atheling trooping in from Scotland--why, the cunning of the wily one
was at fault for once. He thought the thing would succeed; and succeed
it would have done, sure enough, if it had not been levelled against
that devil's own favourite, William. He sent me with letters to Waltheof
and the others, offering to put his men into the field on condition that
he received ample reward. He hoped no doubt, also, that he would get a
little revenge upon his enemies at Court.

"When I got to York I was not foolish enough to rush into the thing
until I saw how matters looked. I had a bit of respect for my own neck,
whether I had for De Montfort's or not. If he was willing to risk his
head to gratify his spite, the prospect was not alluring enough for me.
Well, I did not like the look of Waltheof, and whilst I waited, William
hurried across the Channel, and, with a stroke of matchless craft, he
bought off the rascally Danes. The double-dyed traitor and coward,
Waltheof, very soon succumbed to the same influences; and away also went
the Atheling, full speed, for Scotland. I saw the thing was burst up. A
few of the smaller chieftains, like this Saxon Oswald, held their ground
and fought it out; but it was a nine days' wonder, and nothing more.

"Well, I thought I would try a cast of my own net. I had followed the
fortunes of De Montfort to very little profit as yet. I had thought by
following the fortunes of a leader like him, I should get a tolerably
fair share of the spoils; and I had an understanding that I should have
the hand of his daughter. But, I had already begun to notice that the
damsel was not made altogether of pleasant humours, and probably she
would require a good deal of persuading to complete the bargain. So I
told him I had handed the letters to a brother of mine who was in the
Church, and held in favour by Lanfranc; and, brother, that accounts for
your being installed in such a snug crib as this. I flaunt these
letters, metaphorically speaking, pretty regularly before him, to keep
him to the mark. The operation makes him wince; but, whether he likes it
or not, it will be done, and to greater purpose, I can assure you, if
his word is not made good shortly, and his friskish daughter brought to
her senses."

"Well, take the letters," said the Baron, tossing them across to his
brother. "Pour out a flagon of good old sack; preaching is dry
throat-work. I say, what has become of that pretty Saxon wench I found
here at first? Have you any idea? I had no notion they bred cattle of
that quality amongst these louts of Saxons. You have not seen anything
of her about, have you, since you came?"

"No. I heard of that little stroke of yours, but I've not seen the wench
at all; but I have a notion that old Saxon snake, Adhelm, knows all
about it. I would have made an end of him long before this, but that
minx Alice has taken him under her protection. I would take an oath he's
in league with those rats on the hill, and he is making mischief among
our own brotherhood! One fellow, who has half the brains of the
monastery, has given utterance to sundry remonstrances which I shall not
tolerate; and I find that he and Adhelm are very friendly."

"Well, take care of the letters anyhow; I shall feel safer when they are
out of my custody."




CHAPTER XVIII.

LOVE IS STRONGER THAN HATE.

    "True love's the gift which God has given
    To man alone beneath the heaven:

           *       *       *       *       *

    It is the secret sympathy,
    The silver link, the silken tie,
    Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
    In body and in soul can bind."

    Scott.


It is a lovely morning in August; the hush of perfect restfulness is in
the air. The cattle have retired from the heat and glare of the sun, and
are quietly chewing the cud beneath the sheltering foliage of the
plantain trees; whilst here and there, through the long vistas between
the trees, may be seen a tall stag with two or three hinds at his heels,
venturing within sight of the haunts of men, as though timidly inviting
man's protection against the foes of the forest. This lovely morning has
tempted forth from the castle the two females who are directing their
steps to a rustic house on the banks of the river, where there are
housed a couple of boats. One boat is of delicate trim and dainty
workmanship. The oars are small and carefully made, the handles having a
rich silken covering, showing they are intended for delicate hands to
wield.

This is Alice's favourite recreation, and dearly she loves to have a
quiet hour on the still bosom of the river, with Jeannette to row, and
she, book in hand, to sit and read or sit and muse in quiet rapture as
she gazes on the noble scenery around. The dip and plash of the oars, as
Jeannette beats up against the current, is as the soothing tones of
delicate music. Then to float slowly and in perfect stillness down
stream, beneath the tall trees that line the banks, where busy insects
dance and sing, and where the trout leap to catch their prey; to catch
the scents from the wooded bank, where breathing shrub, and plant, and
flower, and tree, load the air with their perfumed exhalations. Truly to
the lover of Nature the smell of a wood is "as the smell of a field
which the Lord hath blessed!" On this day everything seems exceptionally
lovely, and, slowly as Jeannette is pulling, the confines of the park
are quickly overpassed, and the castle is cut off from view by
embowering woods.

"We are already past the limits of the park, my lady," said Jeannette.
"Shall I put the boat about now, and drift back with the stream?"

"Oh, no, not just yet, Jeannette. Let us go a little farther to-day. It
is such a charming morning, and I have been longing for a great while to
explore a little more of this delightful river."

"But you are forgetting the Count's express commands, my lady. You know
he bade us be very careful not to go beyond sight of the castle."

"Never fear, Jeannette. I think we may safely venture a little farther.
You know we have never so much as seen any human being in these
excursions."

"No, my lady; but you know what horrid, wild people these Saxons are;
and they may be lurking in the woods and shoot their arrows at us, and
wound or kill us before the least help could reach us."

"I don't think we have any enemies amongst the Saxons, Jeannette. You
and I, at least, do not merit their vengeance, and I am quite prepared
to trust them."

"But it is really dangerous, my lady," remonstrated the maid. "And Paul
Lazaire has told me that they really kill and eat people, do these
horrid Saxons!"

"Fie, fie, Jeannette! What a coward you are, and a simpleton to boot, to
believe all the silly tales you hear about the Saxons! Look how
exquisitely lovely the river is ahead of us. Pull a little farther up
stream."

Truly it was as Alice said, exquisitely lovely. The huge mountains on
either side spread out their bases down to the water's edge, whilst
deep, dense woods clothed the river's brink with well-nigh impenetrable
depths of undergrowths and foliage. The huge trees on either side spread
out their long arms across the river as though anxious to shake hands
with their giant neighbours on the opposite bank. Ahead, each bend of
the river through the tortuous hills was obscured from view; and it
looked in the distance as though it was issuing from the bowels of the
mountain promontory in front, through a thick bower of foliage, whilst
here and there, as they voyaged on, the bare and frowning limestone
crags jutted out through the slender covering of the green fir-tree tops
which vainly strove to hide them--lonesome, fearsome, and grand, the
solitude all around. The strange wildness and grandeur of the scene
stirred the soul of Alice to its very depths, and it is needless to say
she was perfectly oblivious to everything save the sweet voice of
Nature.

As the boat and its occupants moved slowly up stream, numbers of
water-hens rushed off into the impenetrable recesses of foliage and
undergrowths, or dived hurriedly beneath the roots of trees or
overhanging embankment.

Yonder in the distance, in the bared and tortuous roots of a huge tree
overhanging the water, an otter is sitting, warily watching his finny
prey disporting themselves beneath; but at sight of these unwelcome
visitors he drops from the root of the tree on which he sits, with hasty
plunge, leaving no trace of his whereabouts saving the streaming
headline in the water indicating the direction in which he hastes for
safety.

Fearlessly also, ahead, a flock of wild-duck are floating regally on the
limpid waters, unconscious of danger, and gabbling in utmost glee and
content; but at this unlooked-for intrusion they set up a startled cry,
take hurriedly to wing, and are quickly lost in the distance.

Looking carefully, also, at the entrance of yon water-course, which
comes tumbling over its rocky bed from the hills, a heron stands
pensively watching for any incautious trout that, quitting the deep
waters, comes to the lips of the mountain stream for food; but,
disturbed, he utters a scream, and spreading out his long wings, with
low and measured beat mounts into the air, probably to rest not until
the far-away sea-coast is reached.

Kingfishers too--haunters of quiet river-stretches--in coats of the
loveliest green and gold, flit over the bosom of the water with quiet
assurance. Snipe, also, in goodly numbers, with swift, arrow-like
flight, dart ahead up stream, or, rising high over the tops of the
trees, circle back again to the rear of the boat.

Alice is in raptures, and Jeannette's cautions and remonstrances alike,
fall on ears which are preoccupied with other sounds, and are quite deaf
to everything but the peaceful harmonies of nature.

"Look, Jeannette, at those fine hazel nuts, which hang in ripe and ruddy
clusters there! Pull to the side at once, and let us gather them!"

Jeannette's caution is completely upset at this tempting sight, and the
order is scarcely given ere it is executed. Eagerly the pair stand up in
the boat to reach the brown clusters, totally oblivious and regardless
of danger and molestation. Presently, with increasing boldness, they
fasten the boat's chain round the bole of a tree, and clamber upon the
bank. With nimble feet and nimble fingers they rush from tree to tree,
stripping them of their dainty burden, and coming again and again with
their hands full of nuts, and showering them into the bottom of the
boat.

But they would not have been so content and composed had they but known
that two pairs of Saxon eyes had been watching intently the progress up
stream of the frail bark, and the fair Norman women who occupied it.
One, at least, has determined, if chance offers, he will have a word of
thanks with them for his deliverance. These Saxons are Oswald and his
almost inseparable comrade, Wulfhere. So the two slowly push aside the
foliage and, unnoticed, emerge in close proximity to the eager nutters.
Jeannette utters a scream, and narrowly escapes an attack of hysterics.

"Calm your fears, ladies," said Oswald. "We are too much your debtors to
wish you ill. Allow me, fair lady, to tender to you on this, the first
opportunity I have had, my undying gratitude for the life you so
magnanimously gave me a while ago. Though we Saxons, I am afraid, must
appear to you as rude and uncivilised islanders, I assure you we are not
insensible to, or ungrateful for, any favours bestowed upon us--much
less such favours as you have conferred on myself."

"Sir Knight," said Alice, much assured by the sincere and courteous tone
in which the valiant and virtuous Saxon chieftain had addressed her, "we
did but do what pity and admiration combined moved us to. Heaven made us
two weak women, and we played a woman's part. But we have not repented
in that we did an act prompted by those intuitions of mercy which are
our woman's heritage."

"I am made a life-long debtor, fair lady, for that womanly act, and I
trust I may find opportunity to repay so generous a loan."

"I am glad we have met a Saxon who is our debtor, or we should have
fared badly for our boldness this morning."

"My people, lady, will not injure a hair of your head, nor permit any
one else to do so. You may roam at will; far or near, you are perfectly
safe."

"This river scenery is perfectly enchanting, Sir Knight. If I may
presume upon the friendship and goodwill of your people, I should like
to explore it thoroughly?"

"The river, lady, becomes even finer as you push into the solitudes. If
that craft were not so frail, we two would give you a merry spin for a
mile or two. Indeed, if you dare trust yourself with a Saxon, let me
pull you up stream. I think I can promise you a rare treat. Wulfhere, my
comrade, will take care of your maid until we return."

"I dare venture. It would not be knightly conduct to betray a woman's
confidence. But will it be safe to leave Jeannette?"

"Perfectly! Wulfhere and the hound are a pair of faithful and valiant
defenders."

"No, no!" almost shrieked Jeannette. "You must not go! You will be
killed and eaten! I have heard for certain that these horrid Saxons eat
people!"

"Nonsense, Jeannette! Don't be foolish, and don't listen to such silly
tales!"

"Oh, dear! I shall be eaten if you aren't! Holy Mother protect me!" said
she, crossing herself; and, pulling her rosary out of her bosom, she
began counting her beads most violently.

"Come, my pretty," said Wulfhere, in his blandest tones. "If I were a
cannibal I wouldn't eat you. Sit on this fallen tree; I and the hound
will keep a respectful distance." So saying, he retreated half a dozen
paces from her, and began putting the dog through some capers.

"If you eat Jeannette, Wulfhere, I shall call you to account when I come
back," said Oswald laughingly, as the boat sped away.

In the meantime, Jeannette sat rocking herself in great distress,
watching the receding boat, and telling her beads at a great pace,
whilst Wulfhere continued his play with the hound, quite oblivious--or
apparently oblivious--of the tearful maiden. But nothing to this pretty
Frenchwoman was so insupportable as to be ignored. So, after bemoaning
her distressing circumstances without finding any special calamity
happening, she began casting furtive glances at her Saxon comrade, and
she gradually dropped her cries and tears, at his nonchalant behaviour,
and her beads began to pass much more slowly through her fingers. To her
coquettish fancy there was something piquant in the indifference of this
stalwart Saxon. Her curiosity was excited, and this speedily passed into
admiration for the muscular limbs and well-developed frame of Wulfhere.
For it is not in the disposition of many daughters of Eve--much less in
such as this coquettish Frenchwoman was--to look upon such a fine piece
of muscular anatomy as Wulfhere's, without falling into admiration of
it. This did not pass unmarked by him, despite the hypocritical
indifference which he had assumed. Presently he turned his gaze upon
Jeannette, and a good-humoured grin spread over his features, developing
into a broad smile, as he ventured to break the silence.

"I say, pretty one, you'll not run away whilst I'm gathering a few
sticks to make the fire with, will you, eh?"

"Fire!" exclaimed Jeannette, clutching her beads, which had dropped into
her lap. "What do you want a fire for?"

"Want a fire for! Why, I couldn't think of eating you raw!" and he
twirled on his heel, to laugh.

Jeannette uttered an inimitable little scream. "You horrid man, I shall
jump into the water if you stir! I'm sure I shall!" Then, bursting into
a little laugh, all the more bewitching as it came, rainbow-like,
betwixt smiles and tears, she said, "You are trying to frighten me, I
know; but all the same you Saxons do eat people. I've heard it said
hundreds of times. And once, as we came along, we saw a pile of bones,
and Paul Lazaire said they were the bones of people whom the Saxons had
eaten. So you see we know all about you."

"Oh, but that's all fudge, pretty one. You shall be my sweetheart, and
then you'll soon learn quite different."

"But I'm not going to be your sweetheart. So you see. I wouldn't have
any one for a sweetheart with hair and beard as long as yours. Normans
have more sense than to wear horrid beards."

"Oh, but you shall cut my hair, and trim my beard; and I would try to
look like a little Norman ninny of five feet six. Then you wouldn't be
frightened in the least, would you?"

Jeannette thought to herself she would rather take him as he was, though
she kept the matter to herself. The upshot of the whole was this:
Wulfhere found himself sitting by her side on the fallen tree, with the
hound in front, and neither party very anxious for the return of the
boat and its occupants.

"So they say we eat such as you, do they, sweetheart?"

"Yes, they do. And they don't call me 'Sweetheart,' either. And don't
you think I don't know you, for I saw you fighting on that wall."

"Well, don't be offended now; but what do they call you?"

"They call me Jeannette--and that's nothing to you."

"Oh dear, no! nothing whatever. And do they really say that we eat such
as you?"

"Yes, they do! And it's quite true besides! for everybody says so."

"Well, that's dreadful, anyhow. And how many do you suppose I shall have
eaten like you?"

"You wouldn't have to eat _one_ like me. If you did, Paul Lazaire would
kill you for it."

"Paul Lazaire? Oh, I suppose Paul Lazaire will be a sweetheart of yours.
Is that so, Jeannette dear?"

"Yes, he is my sweetheart. But I'm not going to marry him for all that!
So you see."

"No, I wouldn't have _him_, I'm sure. Tell him you have got a better
now--a Saxon."

"Fancy! That is fine, to be sure! Don't you think it! I'm not going to
have a husband at all. They are horrid things, for they are never happy
but when they are swilling ale. Just to think of my marrying a Saxon!
That would be fine indeed!"

"Really now, my pretty Jeannette, I really am over head and ears in love
with you; and if you were my wife, why, I should take great care of
you."

"Wife, to be sure! The wife of a Saxon? Just think of it! I suppose I
should have to run about in the woods all day, clothed in sheepskins;
then I suppose I should have to creep into a hole in the earth at night.
That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

Wulfhere burst into a horse-laugh. "Perhaps you would prefer sleeping up
a tree to creeping into a hole, would you?"

"I'm not going to do either. Besides, I daresay you have got a Saxon
wife somewhere, for you are all deceitful--Norman and Saxon alike."

"Nonsense, Jeannette! I have no wife, or sweetheart either, and I have
made up my mind now, that my wife shall be Norman--just such a wife as
yourself, Jeannette."

"Why, what would such a giant as you want a wife like me for?"

"Why? Well, I can hardly answer that question, I declare. But something
must be put down to your pretty face, something to your slender waist,
and a good deal to something I can't explain; but I never felt anything
like it before, for no sooner did I set eyes upon that pretty face of
yours than I felt I should like to kiss it."

"Oh, you horrid, naughty man!" said Jeannette, slipping her slender hand
into Wulfhere's huge paw, and unconsciously hitching closer to him on
the log, "to try and deceive me with such nonsense! I know you are
deceiving me! Why, where should we live? I don't know where _you_ live
now. I should die if I had to live in the woods, and had no home. I
should like a home of my own, where I could play my guitar and spin my
wool, and make you some better garments than those coarse ones you
wear."

"Oh, you shall not be my wife until I can find you a home, and protect
you! We shall probably have to teach the Normans another lesson or two.
Then they will listen to reason. When we have got a settlement of our
own, then you shall be my wife, Jeannette."

"Oh, but I dare not! I should be frightened to live amongst the Saxons.
But you wouldn't harm a little woman like me? That would be cowardly."

"I think it would, Jeannette," said Wulfhere, passing his arm around her
slim waist, drawing her to him, and planting a kiss on her sunny cheek.
"When I go to war I should like a sturdier foe to wreak my vengeance
on."

"But would you be a serf, and wear one of those horrid iron collars the
serfs wear? I shouldn't like a husband who was a bondman."

"No, my pretty one, I have never been a bondman; and, what is more, I
never shall. I am a Saxon freeman."

"A 'freeman'? What is a 'freeman'?"

"A freeman is one who tills his own land, and is no man's vassal or
bondman. I shall remain a freeman, and my sons shall be freemen after
me."

At this juncture the hound gave a start, and threw back his head, at the
same time giving utterance to a low, fierce growl. Presently a footstep
is heard, not approaching stealthily, but crashing through the trees and
underwood. Wulfhere springs to his feet; his bow is unslung, and an
arrow affixed in a moment. The hound also starts to his feet, his
eyeballs glitter, and the veins of his neck and body are distended
almost to bursting. The low branches are put aside, and the burly form
of Sigurd, the dispossessed viking chieftain, emerges before them. His
lowering brow and impetuous manner tell but too plainly that there is a
tempest raging within him.

"Wulfhere," said he, "what does this mean?"

"What does what mean, my lord?"

"Why, the drivelling folly I have witnessed for the last half hour or
more! Fitter stuff for a Norman libertine than for a Saxon freeman, and
one who makes pretence of valour!"

"I am at a loss to know what you mean, my lord."

"I mean? Why, I mean that whilst I and others of thy countrymen are
lurking near the haunts of these French dogs, that we may have revenge
upon them, thou and thy master are toying and fooling with their women.
But enough of this! Make an end of this woman, and an end of thy folly
at a blow, and thou hast then made amends."

"Indeed I shall do no such thing. This maiden and her noble mistress
gave my chief his life, and it will be woe to the man who dares injure
either the one or the other."

"What care I for thy master's scruples? These Normans owe us
satisfaction for a thousand Saxon lives they have taken. So stand aside;
I'll do my own business."

"Indeed you will do no such thing, until you have disposed of me;" and
Wulfhere threw himself boldly in front of Sigurd.

"Ah, art thou insolent into the bargain, dog? I will chastise thy
bravado out of thee if thou stand not aside;" and he grasped the hilt of
his sword.

Wulfhere, seeing the movement, and having no sword, sprang upon him and
dealt him a stinging blow with his clenched fist. So violently was this
given that, sturdy as he was, Sigurd reeled back several paces.

"Ah, is that it, my buck? Then I'll have thee with thine own weapon, for
I do not need to take any advantage of a varlet like thyself!"

So saying, he rushed on Wulfhere, with intent to come to close quarters.
But Wulfhere knew well the great personal strength of his bulky
antagonist, so he dodged with great agility every effort Sigurd made to
grapple with him. And he did not fail to deal him repeatedly heavy blows
with his clenched fists. This so exasperated Sigurd that he was as
furious as a mad bull, and for a considerable time it seemed to be a
battle between brute force and agility, the balance being much in favour
of the more agile. Unfortunately, a trip on the part of Wulfhere, over
the root of a tree, gave Sigurd the chance he had been vainly striving
for. Ere he could recover himself, Sigurd gripped him in his powerful
embrace, and gathering him up as though he were a child, he hurled him
to the ground, exclaiming, "Now I will kill thee, churl!" and he grasped
him by the throat. The hound, which had been dancing round the
combatants during the fray, with many furious and irresolute darts at
Sigurd, seeing Wulfhere in such desperate straits, sprang upon Sigurd,
and buried his teeth in the fleshy part of his arm.




CHAPTER XIX.

ALICE DE MONTFORT AND THE SAXON CHIEFTAIN.

    "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
    And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind."

    Shakespeare.


The boat containing Oswald and Alice, impelled by the strong arms of the
Saxon chieftain, sped along swiftly through the magnificent scenery.

"Now, lady, what think you? Did I speak truly when I praised the
scenery?"

"Yes. Truly it would be an earthly paradise if it were not for the greed
and cruelty of man. I think it richer and grander in these leafy
solitudes than anything I have seen; or else it is because it fits my
taste so wondrously."

"Yes. I cannot say, lady, that I hope you and your people will long
enjoy the new home you have found, for I confess to you I cherish most
ardent desires to be its lord again; though I think I can renounce my
hopes, and well-nigh welcome exile if you are to be its mistress, and I
may be permitted to look with unsinning eyes upon a form which has
become even dearer to me than freedom and home. I doubt me, however,
this latter wish may not be, for I hear some Norman knight claims your
hand."

"My father has affianced me to one of the knights of his retinue; but
this betrothal is without my consent, if I may be so bold as to confess
it to a stranger. Indeed, I care not to disguise the fact that it is a
most hateful alliance, and most abhorrent to me. I shall much prefer, if
I may be permitted, to retire to a convent in my native land, rather
than wed a man so incapable of inspiring either my love or my respect as
this Baron Vigneau."

"I am afraid it is I who am too bold, in intruding in so delicate a
matter, and one so remote from my concerns. But I would fain think, and
hope, that the Count will not press a loveless marriage upon you; to do
such violence to your affections would be cruel."

"My father is a soldier, Sir Knight, seared and blunted by his calling,
and sentiment has little place in his nature. Latterly, also, I have
noticed moroseness of disposition creeping over him; and upon this
question he is more stern and peremptory than ever he was wont to be,
and I lose heart and hope. Indeed, I am in sore straits. And your
intrusion--if intrusion it be--I recognise is dictated by sympathy; and
I stand much in need of this."

"I would I could convey to you, lady, in adequate terms--terms in which
I should not be presumptuous--how honoured I should be if I could serve
you in any way whatever. My resources, my men--nay, believe me, lady,
for exaggeration would be most gross--my life is at your disposal, fully
and unreservedly."

"I would fain accept of you as an ally and a friend, for I stand alone,
and have not even a confidante, saving my maid, and I find the iron
wills of my father and Vigneau completely bear me down; and if I escape
from the toils of Vigneau, some stronger arm will have to interpose a
rescue."

"I am but a Saxon outlaw, lady, a wolfshead, landless, penniless, and
hunted; but if you can bethink you how I may serve you, my arm is
strong, and my sword's edge unblunted. If time but tarry a while, I am
confident something may be done to set you free from the life-long
misery of a union with Vigneau; and I know enough of him to convince me
that there is no community of taste or of disposition between you. I
dare not say more, for my presumptuous heart runs riot with my
understanding, and I may say things most unbefitting my present
desperate estate."

"Make no apology, worthy knight," said Alice, blushing scarlet, then
pale and trembling, "for your worldly misfortunes. A knight despoiled,
but not disgraced, has no need to humble himself to me. Gold and lands
are at best but an accident, but virtue and nobility of character are
the slow growth of virtuous thinking and noble endeavour. And which,
think you, valiant Saxon, are most highly valued by a simple maiden like
myself? You are my debtor, you say; then here is an enterprise will tax
your wisdom--I fear your prowess also. Doughty knights have in past
times, it is said, effected wonderful deliverances for maidens in
distress. Is it only the language of romance? I will not affectedly
profess that I do not understand your language; but there is a challenge
for you. If lightly won, Sir Knight, I may be lightly worn."

Now this high-born maiden was cultured, virtuous, womanly, and,
moreover, she was young--a matter to be taken note of, for maidens then
do not often dilute the gift of the heart with worldly considerations;
but only few men are capable of winning such love. Does it require great
tact, address, astuteness--such as men employ to catch some young colt,
unbroken, shy, and suspicious? No. Whenever such love is won, it is won
easily, without laying of siege, or clever generalship; in fact,
astuteness, or tactics of any sort, are fatal to success. It is not a
bargain, a huckstering _quid pro quo_. It is an inspiration, an
intuition. It is a rush of all that is holiest, truest, tenderest, and
trustful in woman towards the man who is capable of inspiring it, and of
setting free the abounding wealth of a woman's heart. What conditions
does it demand? Well, these are essentials: it asks for broad and ample
strength to lean upon without misgiving. It demands an integrity that
may be trusted to the uttermost, beyond the bounds where prudence,
discretion, and kindred virtues cry halt. It asks the frankness and
transparency of soul where nothing is hidden, and where there are no
dark corners, suspicious and unreadable, suggestive of things to be
disguised with care. When these qualities are present, they are
luminously visible to a woman's intuitions, and the citadel of her heart
is won easily and without capitulation terms. There are more hearts won
at short notice than cynics would allow; but it is the spontaneous
embrace of the divine that is in us, and alas! there is little of the
divine in most mortals.

As the foregoing words fell from the lips of Alice, Oswald started
forward as though electrified, and laid his hand on the hilt of his
sword.

"Believe me, lady," said he, "I never dared to dream such a cup of
blessedness would be held to my lips; and I assure you I needed no other
stimulus than the debt of gratitude I owe to you for my deliverance from
death, in order to brave anything and everything for you. But if there
be hope, however remote, of winning a place in your affections, as my
desperate estate has already moved your compassion, and that some day,
in happier circumstances, I may even dare to ask you to be my bride,
such an inpiration will nerve my arm and brace my energies, so that
difficulties shall be most desperate if I overcome them not."

"I fear me, Sir Knight, if you undertake so desperate an enterprise as
this, with success, it will require matchless skill and daring, coupled
with deadliest peril. I fear, also, it will have to be a sharp sword
that severs so unholy and hated a bond."

Alice hesitated a moment, as though feelings of delicacy forbade farther
advances; then, although the blushes on her countenance deepened, she
said,--

"Having confided so much of the story of my sorrows--I fear at the peril
of my modesty--may I venture farther confidence?"

"I dare not ask you for confidences you hesitate to give, fair lady, for
I am deeply conscious my worthiness to receive them has not been put to
the proof. Consult your own heart in this, for it is your best and
safest guide."

"I think I may safely venture everything, and trust you, Saxon, even to
the uttermost and with all my heart. This involves my father's secret,
and his deadly peril also, for this Vigneau has obtained a fatal
ascendency over him. He holds documents most compromising to my father,
in addition to the promise given long ago; and which my father might
possibly have revoked with impunity had not Vigneau obtained possession
of these treasonable documents. These he uses with brutal terrorism to
enforce his claim to my hand. In an unhappy moment my father entered
into negotiations with the leaders of the late Saxon rebellion, and he
made use of Baron Vigneau as his intermediary. The Baron never delivered
those letters, but with brutal cunning he still holds them, and he uses
them with deadly effect to enforce his claims."

"Ah! I have a distinct remembrance of this," said Oswald, as the
memorable scene at the Council, in York, presented itself to his mind.
"I remember too well this traitor entering our assembly, under pretext
of joining our ranks in opposition to the king; and I remember well,
also, I met him face to face in combat next day, and 'tis a quarrel
still unsettled, but which may be fought to the bitter end some day.
Take heart, lady; some means will assuredly be devised for circumventing
the purposes of this unscrupulous braggart, Vigneau. But if this should
not be accomplished by human agency, I would fain think and hope, if the
wisdom and the valour of man should fail, a kindly Providence has in
store a happier lot for one so fair, so virtuous, and so good. Let us
foster hopes of brighter days; these are troublous times, and one
revolution of Fortune's wheel may bring momentous changes. Perhaps the
asperities and hatreds of race, engendered by these cruel wars, may be
soothed and healed again, and Saxon and Norman may be blended in one
united people."

"Alas! can this ever be? My people seem drunk with greed and blood, and
thy people given to fierce reprisals."

"This reconciliation does not seem as though it were near, truly, lady.
Our peasantry have been massacred by scores. The more spirited of them
have taken to outlawry, and would as soon take the life of a Norman as
the life of a stag. We have also chieftains amongst us who have lost
all, and live only for revenge; fierce and implacable, they cherish mad
schemes of re-conquest, which are utterly futile. But all the same, it
will be woe to the man who argues for peace in the Saxon witan in the
presence of these implacable men."

"Is there anything I can do to soothe these hatreds?"

"You have begun well, and it seems marvellous to report, your deeds of
mercy and kindness are being talked about through the countryside where
Saxons meet together. These acts of kindness make for peace with
mightier force than deeds of arms or years of a rule of force."

"But what is to be the solution of this race difficulty? Some of our
people speak and act as though there were no solution but the
extermination of all those who offer any resistance to their being
reduced to villeinage the most abject."

"In a policy of force there is no other conclusion. If you were to take
yonder sapling and tie its head down to earth, there would be unceasing
resistance to the ignoble bond. And why? Because the Creator made it to
be free, to rear its head aloft, contemporaneous with its fellows. The
human spirit loves its freedom even better than yon sapling, and its
resistance to all tyranny is eternal. Force may fetter it, but perpetual
force will be necessary to keep it fettered. Mark me, lady, it is easier
to talk of extermination than to effect it. I command at present a band
of men who are the pick of my race for valour, who will defy thy people
with impunity, and are capable of striking fierce blows of revenge in
every unguarded moment. If ever the hour of thy nation's weakness should
come, terrible will be the revenge, if some strong hand curb not the
wild spirit."

"This unholy strife between our peoples is madness. How may we avert
it?" said Alice.

"I confess, lady, that but a little while ago I had no feelings but
those of undying hatred to thy race. But as I lay in that dungeon
beneath the castle, an angel in human form, by an act of pure mercy,
gave me liberty and life. 'Twas wonderful! The cold, frozen blood at my
heart turned, at a stroke, to warmth. I felt that there is a passion of
the human heart more potent than hatred, and some obligations more
binding than an oath. Let those who do not love strife, but love mercy,
work for mercy and reconciliation; and I think I see the day when there
shall be such a blending of races that each shall be strengthened by the
other."

"I shall welcome the day, Sir Knight. But had we not better return?
Jeannette, I am afraid, will be in great trouble."

"I am not a knight, lady; we Saxons are slow at learning the language of
chivalry. If it be not presumptuous to ask it, call me Oswald; 'twill
bring us so much nearer."

"Then if you have not learnt the language of chivalry, you will be the
better able to call me Alice. Is it agreed?"

"With all my heart, Alice. It is a compact. Let me again assure you that
you and your maid are perfectly safe in the woods or anywhere, so far as
my followers and vassals are concerned. There is just one thing I would
caution you about," said he, with a twinkle in his eye. "One Saxon has a
very great admiration for the very spots which you are likely to choose;
and I warn you, if he see a certain light in his lady's eyes, never more
look for peace."

"Really this does sound like the language of our Norman gallants, after
all. But come, now, if you are really heart-hungry, just a crumb of
comfort will sustain you; for our Norman ballads declare very loudly
that valorous knights for their lady-loves will do and dare, or suffer
and wait,--well, really, without going through the list, it is wonderful
what valiant knights will do for love and chivalry--_in books_. I used
to see the said valiant knights in books, but latterly I have been face
to face with the reality; and alas! I find them most devoted to wine and
ale, and incontinence. So, Sir Knight,--for such I will call you once
more--he who wins Alice de Montfort will have a knightlier soul than
this."

"Well, I will not sound a trumpet before me, as the hypocrites do, so no
more of this. Let time declare it. But did you learn how I made my
escape from the castle that fateful night?"

"No. Pray tell me now? I am most curious to know it."

"Wait a little. But let me tell you I can enter the castle when I like.
If you wish an interview with me at any time, you need but make some
signal from the tower, and at nightfall I will meet you there whenever
you wish."

"But can you come with perfect safety?"

"With absolute safety."

"Then that shall be our trysting-place, to which I will summon my Saxon
ally when good news stirs--but I fear me more often when my sad heart
needs cheering. But I sorely fear your coming there will be full of
peril. Could I not meet you elsewhere?"

"Courage, dear one! and take no thought for me. Let your heart be stout,
for the future is luminous with hope."

As the boat rounded a bend in the river, Oswald beheld the fierce
struggle going on between the two Saxons, and, with an exclamation of
pain, he gave two or three lusty strokes which sent the boat flying
amongst the trees which lined the embankment. Hastily springing upon the
bank, he tore Sigurd from the prostrate form of Wulfhere.

"Jarl!" said he, "how is this? Making war upon your friends! This will
not do, mark me!"

"And how is this?" retorted Sigurd fiercely. "You and this
chicken-hearted slave making love to deadly enemies. This will not do,
_mark that_!"

"Enough, enough!" said Oswald, gathering up the prostrate form of
Jeannette, who was in a dead swoon. He lifted her into the boat and
dashed a few drops of cold water in her face. "There, now," said he,
"she is all right." And in a whisper he said to Alice, "Pull away,
dearest. Remember the tryst, and be not dismayed. This man is a scion of
the untamed Vikings who linger in the land. I shall know how to deal
with him."

Oswald watched the boat and its occupants glide away, and waving a last
adieu he turned to his companions, and said, "Let us go. Sigurd," he
continued, in tones of severity, "this fierce quarrel bodes no good to
the Saxon cause."

"Does this dawdling with Norman women bode some good to the Saxon cause?
I wot Viking, or Dane, or old-time Saxon would not have warred like
this. Are we going to avenge ourselves upon our enemies by simpering to
their women? My ancestors have conquered with the sword, and I will
thrust through any Norman I can--aye, and their women, too! To spare the
dam to suckle cubs will not do for me!"

"Sigurd, mark me, thy fierce, implacable temper will hurt the Saxon
cause more than ever thy sword will aid it. Kindly understand that I am
lord in these parts, and my will shall be law. If thou art not
satisfied, well, thou had better return to thy own domain of Lakesland,
and make war according to thy own notions. If thou succeed better than
us, well, then we may copy thy methods; but here we will have no slaying
of defenceless women and children. As for these two in particular, they
gave me my life, and whoever injures a hair of their heads is my mortal
foe. Let that suffice, Jarl."

"Tut, tut! Fine, no doubt; but I like not such modes of warfare, and if
I cannot be allowed to spill Norman blood whenever I can, I'll none of
it."

"I have my own plans for the protection of my people and for the
amelioration of their lot, and I think it is the best. As for thy
methods, and the hopes thou hast of driving out the Normans, I regard
them as worse than madness, and they will end in the annihilation of the
Saxon race. So be pleased to interfere no more with my plans," said
Oswald.




CHAPTER XX.

WAR'S VICISSITUDES.

    "Hope tells a flattering tale,
      Delusive, vain, and hollow.
    Ah! let not hope prevail,
      Lest disappointment follow."

    Miss Wrother.


The desperate repulse which the Normans received at the hands of the
Saxon outlaws, made them exceedingly chary of attempting again the
extermination of them. This afforded a welcome respite to the fugitives,
particularly to the women and children. But the vigilance of their
sentinels was never permitted to be relaxed. The retreat to which Ethel
had been conveyed was thus free from alarms, and lacked nothing in
picturesqueness and beauty. Oswald had taken care that it should be
furnished with some comfort and taste, for he had been wont in
summertime to spend often many days, and even weeks, in this secluded
and lovely spot. To Ethel, this home in the mountains was dearly
welcome. During the day she busied herself with the books of history,
travel, and romance which Oswald loved; and at even her countenance
brightened at his cheery words and pleasant greetings. But for some days
a strange feeling of anxiety and foreboding had clouded her happiness;
for more than a week Oswald had not so much as paid a hurried visit to
his favourite rendezvous.

"Your master has not been here for more than a week, Bretwul," said she
one day, when her anxiety for tidings could no longer be resisted. "Do
you know what detains him? I fear me he has fallen into the hands of the
Normans."

"He will not fall into the hands of the Normans so easily, lady. If he
does it will only be his body, though I am afraid he ventures on some
desperate enterprises."

"Whither has he gone, Bretwul? Know you?"

"I know not for certainty, lady, but I have belief he has gone with one
Sigurd, lord of Lakesland, for he has disappeared and taken his wild-cat
crew with him. Good riddance, I trow! and may my eyes never look upon
such starved, ill-clad, unsavoury mortals again!"

"Who is this Sigurd you speak of, Bretwul?"

"He is lord of the Lakes, but has had served out to him the same
treatment as every other Saxon chieftain has had; first wholesale
butchery of his followers, then death, or flight and exile, for
himself."

"What has he been doing here?"

"He has been hunted, harassed, and driven from one hiding-place to
another, until he had but a handful of followers left. Then he sought
respite in flight, and has been for a little while with us here, he and
a dozen of his housecarles. Now he hears the Norman army has gone south,
so he would fain return to the fray, and has craved the assistance of
the Earl and a dozen stout retainers, in return for the services he
rendered us."

"I had a dream last night, Bretwul. I saw Oswald fighting desperately
with Norman foes, and then he was surrounded by them and sorely wounded.
Then I saw him borne by rough hands to a cave in the mountain side, and
I saw him swiftly bleeding to death, and no one there knew how to
staunch his wounds or cool his feverish brow; and I heard him cry
'Ethel!' And as I stretched out my hands to help, I awoke."

"It was but a dream, lady. Do not let your mind run on such thoughts as
these. You are looking pale and ill. My master will be angry when he
returns, if he knows I told you of his purpose."

"Can we not go to-night? I do not care to spend my time in idleness and
ease while he thus braves danger and death for his country. By hard
riding we can reach Lakesland ere the sun is up, and I am sure I can be
of service."

"Beshrew me if I dare budge a stone-throw from this place until he gives
the word! I like not lying to rust, like the Earl's old swords hung
there, in idleness; but I would rather not face him after disobeying
orders."

"But he may be wounded, and no one near to nurse him but these rough
men, whilst I am worse than useless here, with nothing to do but burden
others!"

"Set your fears at rest, lady. These rough men know how to lay a
splintered bone, or close a wound, like any practised leech. But if you
let your mind run on these things you will be miserable. I have no fear
for him. The Normans will find their match, I trow, and give him a wide
berth. I have seen them cut down churls like myself with vigorous
strokes, and strike halting blows at him, through sheer terror at his
appearance."

"But they are many to one, and better armed, and he will be overborne by
the numbers of them. I am sure I could be of service, and I should like
to be near; I don't mind the rough life at all. Saddle us a pair of
horses, and let us start to-night."

"I warrant the Earl would slit my ears if I dared do any such thing! But
these are idle fears. I forget me, though; I have a message from the
Abbot Adhelm. But, by our Lady! he is no longer abbot, but a humble
friar, with no more power in his own abbey than any scullion priest. He
was a worthy Father, and never turned a lean dog of a Saxon away without
crumbs and comfort. But, among the other bad things these Normans have
brought, are a lot of swag-bellied monks, who broach more ale-casks than
they say prayers; and, by the Mass! they drink the ale, too, for there
is never a drop, or a taste of venison, to bestow on a famishing palmer,
or starving yeoman. I wish I could stick a nettle under their tails and
make them trot, the whole brood of them. The Church will never make much
out of my prayers, beshrew me! but I would with right good will rid her
of these shaveling carrion who have come swarming at the heels of the
fighting men."

"But you said you had a message from Adhelm, did you not, Bretwul?"

"Aye, aye, lady!" said Bretwul, highly gratified at the diversion he had
effected. "When my tongue is set a-wagging, it is as long as my dog's
when he is dead beat in chasing a hare; there's no hauling it in. Well,
Adhelm has found some pity in a wolf's den. Whoever would have looked
for a she-wolf having compassion on the sheep?"

"I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about Bretwul."

"Marry, no! there's no sense in an ass's braying; but bringing him to
the end on't is another matter. Well, gramercy! this fire-eating Norman
count has got a daughter who belies her own father."

"Belies her own father? What may that mean?"

"Aye, marry, it's true enough--belies her own father. I take the liberty
to dodge about a bit amongst the churls who have submitted to these
Normans, to see what encouragement there may be to feed at the same
trough as these broken-spirited cattle. Well, an iron collar about my
neck is an ornament I don't covet, and kicks and cuffs always did bruise
my flesh, and, what is even more painful, they bruise my mind; so a
Norman serf I will not be. But they tell me this count has a daughter
who has compassion, and visits them, carrying dainties to such as are
sick. Adhelm also and she are great friends, and he says she occupies
herself much in this sort of work."

This colloquy was cut short by a sharp knock at the door and the hurried
entrance of one of the Earl's retainers.

"Bretwul!" said he; but, his eye alighting on Ethel, he suddenly paused.
"I crave your pardon," said he, hastily doffing his cap. "Matters of
importance, which stand not on ceremony, have brought me."

"What are they, my man?" said Ethel, eager and apprehensive.

"The Earl is slightly unwell," said the stranger, noticing Bretwul's
cautioning gesture; "and I have ridden hard to request that a bed may be
prepared."

"My dream! my dream!" almost shrieked Ethel, starting from her seat. "He
is not dead yet! Say he is not dead?"

"Calm yourself, lady," said Bretwul, giving the stranger another
significant look.

"No, no, lady; a mere scratch. A few weeks of your nursing will set him
on his feet as sound as a rock. But you will make ready, Bretwul? They
are not far behind."




CHAPTER XXI.

VIKING CHIEF AND SAXON MAIDEN.

                          "He beheld
    A vision, and adored the thing he saw."

    Wordsworth.


Ere long, the hum of voices and the scrambling sound of approaching
footsteps were heard. Then hurried orders, given in an undertone,
muffled footsteps, as of persons bearing a burden, accompanied by a low,
deep groan, broke upon the anxious ear of Ethel, who was listening with
nerves in a state of utmost tension and alarm. These sounds gradually
abated as the party retired to a more distant room, and doors were
softly closed behind. By-and-bye her anxious suspense was abated by the
entrance of Bretwul and his wife, accompanied by Sigurd, the lord of
Lakesland. A cold tremor ran through her blood as her eyes rested for
the first time upon the burly figure of the stranger; and she tried to
evade the rivetted gaze which he turned upon her, by turning to Bretwul.

"I think the Earl is much worse than the messenger would have us
believe, Bretwul. Can I go to him? I may be of use. I have some skill in
nursing, thanks to my instructions and the terrible times upon which our
land has fallen."

"Do not be alarmed," said Sigurd, trying to infuse as much of gentleness
as he could into the gruff tones which issued from the deep, broad
chest. "Oswald is put to bed, and his wound is a mere nothing--a
flesh-wound, which ought to have healed itself; but his body has been
pampered and daintily housed, and the merest cuts tell on such. The
wound has cankered and brought on a touch of fever. Pity that men, who
ought to know better, swathe their limbs, and pamper their bodies, and
live in cunningly decorated houses, and spend their time toying with
such finikin things as these"--pointing to sundry books and musical
instruments. "Women's things, and baby's toys!"

"I think I had better go with you, Eadburgh," said Ethel, anything but
assured by the unsympathetic words of the strange visitant.

This was just what Eadburgh was anxious to say; and the two immediately
disappeared.

"Be seated, my lord," said Bretwul to Sigurd, "and I will find some
eatables. I doubt not you are well-nigh famished."

"Aye, aye. We have ridden eight hours continuously in the darkness, and
you well say we are famishing."

No sooner had the door closed behind Bretwul than Sigurd's astonishment
at the vision his eyes had just seen, found vent.

"What is this I have looked upon?" he murmured to himself. "Some
inhabitant of Valhalla, where our gods and heroes have gone? Surely our
priests have told me of nothing so fair as she, even there! I would
covet a hero's grave this very hour, and the dark beyond, if they who
dwell there get them wives so fair as she."

Here, let me, for the further information of the reader, say that this
Sigurd, or "lord of Lakesland," as he was known, whom we have met with
before in these pages, was a typical example of many a Norse chieftain
who still held sway in the land, ruling their followers after the manner
of the rude past; and the important part which he plays in these
"Chronicles" calls for a more elaborate introduction than we have yet
accorded him. He was a man who rivetted the gaze at once, but it was a
fascination, and not a delight, to the beholder. Men could not forbear
to look, but they far oftener turned away from him with a shudder and a
sense of relief than otherwise. When Halfdane, the viking marauder,
pounced down upon Northumbria, and the north of England generally, he
divided a great part of the lands of the Saxons amongst his followers;
and they, settling amongst the Angles, intermarried with them; and thus,
in the course of time, the two became almost one people. But in some
districts there were clearly defined lines of separateness. Sigurd, in
unbroken line, was a descendant of one "Rollo, the Ganger" (or walker).
Wonderful traditions lingered amongst the people of the height and build
of this warrior: such fragmentary histories, or folk-lore, declared that
he was compelled to walk because no horse could bear his weight. Hence
his name, the "Ganger," or walker.

As this Sigurd was in body and physical proportions, so he was in mind.
He was rough, rude in manners, tastes, and pursuits, but strong in the
sturdy virtues of honesty and chastity, his Viking heritage. In the case
of Oswald notably, and of Ethel, and many others of our Saxon chieftains
and chieftainesses, some measure of education had been sought after and
prized. Contact also with the Normans, who in goodly numbers dwelt in
England during our late King Edward's lifetime, had done much to modify
the vulgar tastes and habits of the English. But in the case of Sigurd,
the undiluted primitiveness of the marauding Norseman, untainted and
uninfluenced by the undoubted advance the world was making, was
embodied. He never travelled beyond the rugged hills and weird gorges of
his domain, unless it were to meet the hardy robbers from over the
Scottish border. To fish in the glorious lakes; to hunt in the
stretching forests and dense woods; to excel in the rude games of
wrestling, archery, putting the stone, and many other games which
constituted the sole recreations of vulgar churls, was his delight. He
had little sympathy and little intercourse with those members of his
class who were awaking to the presence of, and yielding to, the
civilising influences which were beginning to be felt in England, by its
increasing contact with the continent of Europe. Still, there was a
rugged honesty about this man altogether admirable. He loved deeply and
faithfully; but he hated just as fiercely and implacably. He was a man
of great, even gross extremes, magnificent in energy and force of
character. Happy was the man who shared his affection; but woe be to the
man who incurred his hatred. This first interview with Ethel had a
distinctly repellent influence upon her; her very blood seemed to freeze
under his ardent gaze. It seemed to her that she was face to face with
one of the unlovable gods or heroes, their sagas, or wise men, were
never tired of glorifying. The sense of shrinking and dread which Ethel
experienced at this first meeting might have been intensified by her
anxiety with regard to Oswald; but Sigurd was quick to notice the
involuntary start, the shrinking from him, and it cut him deeply, and to
the quick.

When the door was closed he stood for some minutes like one petrified,
blankly staring at the closed door through which the fair vision had
disappeared. The form and features of the beautiful Saxon floated
indistinctly before his vision. "She shrank from me!" he fiercely
ejaculated, but the tones were half a groan as well. "Why this
ill-disguised dread of me?" he murmured. He slowly surveyed himself from
head to foot in the vain endeavour to discover what it was about him
which so startled and repelled Ethel. Then he strode across the room and
stood before a mirror which hung from the wall in an elaborately wrought
frame--an article he had never used before, and seldom met with, and
which he faced now with a scowl of contempt upon his face. His head and
face were faithfully reflected, and some of his muscular frame. His
visage was bronzed and brown, his beard unshaven and unkempt, whilst
from underneath his helmet there escaped masses of hair of an unlovely
red colour. "Ah!" he ejaculated, "I should better win me a bride as my
fierce Viking ancestors won theirs, with their swords, getting them as
the spoil of war, or winning them at Holmganga (duel), where valour and
prowess in arms were recognised. Any Norman gallant with a well-trimmed
beard would put me to the rout as wives are won in these degenerate
days! Any Saxon with a smattering of clerk's gear and book-learning,
would have me on the hip. One who could play at joust with foppish
Norman gallants, or lilt his heel to the sound of music, would be
preferred before me. Yet, what is there ails these sturdy limbs of mine?
Sturdy limbs counted for much in the days of our ancestors; but now
every dainty girl shrinks at them with contempt, as marks of
boorishness. Why should this girl shrink from me so? Hist to me,
Viking," said he, apostrophising himself, "and tell me this. Why should
this fair Saxon thus unhinge me? Why should I care for blue eyes, flaxen
tresses, and a sylph-like form? Viking warriors were not mothered by
girls like this. Then clearly, if Viking warriors cannot be mothered by
such, Viking warriors should not be wived by them. A wife of brawny
build, with hardihood enough to be a sea-king's consort, and nurse me
warrior sons, would surely mate me best. My home will have to be the
rugged hills where the eagle hath his eyrie, or the dense forest where
prowls the wolf, and where the lordly red deer roam at will. Yet I do
believe this fair Saxon hath bewitched me; she is comely beyond aught my
eyes have seen before. But what of that? 'Tis despisable--maudlin! Yet
those blue eyes of hers, and that comeliness of form, is quite new to
me. Those maidens of brawny build, and bold, unwomanly features--I never
bethought me to love them yet. Ah! I have been ever ready to fight the
bold, but I never could love it; 'tis the gentleness and maidenly grace
of this Saxon maiden hath done it. Her speech is gentle, and her manner
is coy and shy, and nothing forward. Out upon me for a dotard!" said he
savagely. "I'll no more on't! I will not sleep under this roof; 'tis
enervating! I'll get me out upon the heath, where I can hear the sough
of the night winds, and listen to the night-birds' screech. 'Twill bring
me back my Viking's mood, and scare away this flimsy dream of love. How
could I mate with a timid dove, except I shed my talons! A Viking sleek
and pursy, well fed, and ease-loving!--a monstrosity I should be! The
door of Valhalla would be closed against me. The gods and heroes in the
land beyond the deep sea, whose company I hope to join at death, would
disown me. My boast and pride, my Viking's race, would fitly come to end
with me."

Meanwhile Ethel, accompanied by Eadburgh and Bretwul, repaired to the
room where Oswald had been laid at rest. Some knowledge of medicine and
the art of healing, happily, was possessed by all Saxon gentlewomen.
Also there were a few amongst the serfs, who were the lowest class of
the peasantry, that had some knowledge of herbs, potions, poultices,
bandages, and simple remedies and expedients, which were frequently very
effective, though sometimes mistaken.

Oswald smiled a pleasant smile as they entered; but it required no great
skill or discernment to see that he was weak and suffering. The hectic
flush upon his countenance, and the short, hurried breathing told but
too plainly that the wound and the weakness were not the worst foes that
had fastened on him. He could not fail to note the dismay and alarm
depicted on the pale and anxious face of Ethel.

"Ethel, girl," said he, putting as much pleasantness into his tone of
voice as he could command, "never let that sweet face wear so sad a
look. The case is not so bad as that--nothing worse than a mere
flesh-wound; but the damp and exposure on those mountain sides, and that
long and horrid home-coming on horseback, has taken the life out of me."

But in spite of his efforts to be cheerful, he could not suppress a
groan and a painful contortion of his face.

"Bretwul," said he, uncovering his shoulder, "for mercy's sake undo
those bandages! My arm swells, and they screw me tight as a vice, and
give me a sickening pain."

Ethel, however, advanced, and with firm and nimble fingers undid the
clumsy bandages, cleaning and washing the festering wound wonderfully
gently, but resolutely, and without faltering. Without faltering or
hesitancy also, she bathed and salved, lotioned and bandaged it again.
Oswald, with the passiveness of a tired child, submitted to it all.

"Ah!" said he, "now I've got a chance."

But this done, Ethel's culinary arts were called into requisition, and
delicacies from the mere, the flock, or the chase succeeded each other
with tempting regularity.

"If the wound could have had but a week's start of the fever, I should
have been hopeful," said she to Eadburgh.

But this was not to be, for next day Oswald became restless, with
occasional wanderings of the mind, and this was speedily followed by a
total relapse. Never for a moment, by night or by day, except for the
most necessary things, did Ethel quit his side; and never was there a
moment, by night or day, but either Bretwul or Wulfhere watched by his
bed. And when the fever was at its height, it was as much as the two
strong men could do to hold him in his bed.

During this season of mental aberration, he would be at one time engaged
in mortal strife with his hated rival Vigneau. Anon, he was over seas
with Alice de Montfort, a refugee in a foreign land. Then the graphic
scene enacted in the dungeon beneath the castle, where Alice, torch in
hand, and alone, saved him out of the hands of her own countrymen, and
gave him liberty and life, was acted over again, with intense realism of
voice and gesture.

Frequently he recoiled, with horror depicted in his countenance, as
Ethel gently smoothed his pillow, or moistened his parched lips. Then he
would call vehemently for the fair Norman with the dark eyes and raven
tresses.

Ethel heard all this with agony at heart, and often the tear, unbidden,
dropped upon the coverlet as she bent over him. Often she would murmur
to herself,--

"He thinks not of me. I am but a Saxon girl, to pet and speak gently to.
Would he were harsh and forbidding, like this stranger! But he is what
he is, and God made me a woman, and I will bear this burden, as too oft
a woman must; for he will never know, and that will make it bearable."

So for many weary days and nights the resolute struggle of life and
death for victory went on, and the weary, anxious watchers looked on,
helpless, except to pray and hope that favouring Providence would give
the victory as they wished.

At last the crisis passed. Thanks to the wonderful physique and
recuperative faculties of the patient, combined with the ceaseless care
and patient nursing of the Saxon maiden, the strong man vanquished, and
cast off the malignant foe. Then commenced the slow rallying from the
utter prostration, and the gradual regaining of strength.




CHAPTER XXII.

A VIKING'S LOVE.

     "Love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the
     grave."--Song of Solomon, viii. 6.


During the time that Oswald was recovering from the prostration
consequent upon the fever, he and Wulfhere drew carefully a plan for the
fortress already determined upon. Every detail was gone carefully over
and elaborated. In the meantime, also, messengers were despatched far
and near, and artificers and handicraftsmen rallied to the work.
Speedily the foundations were dug, and the outer walls encircling the
summit began to rise steadily and rapidly before the persistent and
energetic labours of the Saxon refugees. Each one wrought with a will,
knowing that life and freedom depended upon their ability to raise a
fortress strong enough to defy their enemies.

Ere the Normans were aware of what was going on, a rampart had been
erected, which was soon to develop into a stronghold, impregnable, and
secure against assault. This first line of defence having been raised,
vigorous attention was given to the interior. Wells were dug, stables
were built, habitations also sprang up as by magic. Women and children
hurried into it, bringing everything they had saved from the desolation
of the past. Cattle were driven into it at night, and emerged in the
morning to feed around its shoulders, pushing their way in sheer
audacity down into the green valleys, for there were always bands of
sturdy outlaws in the woods between them and danger--outlaws, who snared
game, which literally swarmed in the woods, or cut their timber for
their bows and arrows. For these men the Normans were no match in the
solitudes which were familiar to them, and they soon learnt to have a
semi-friendliness with them, and to court relationships with the
hill-men, all of which decidedly made for peace. But to a tacit
acknowledgment of these outlaws the Norman leaders were bitterly
opposed. De Montfort feared that this thing would grow until it became a
menace to his own position, though he remembered most vividly the words
used by Oswald on that memorable night when he confronted him in his own
house as though he had dropped from the clouds, when, in burning words,
the Saxon told him that they wished to be at peace, but would assert
their right to pasturage, and to freedom. De Montfort also feared the
effect this thing would have upon William, if once he learnt that his
subject was conniving at an incipient rebellion, which might ultimately
threaten the peace of the kingdom. So, what between the pleadings of his
daughter Alice for peace towards the harassed Saxons, and the sharp
lesson they had taught him once before, that they were an enemy not to
be trifled with on ground of their own choosing, the days and weeks sped
on in delays and hesitation as to how this defiance on the part of a
handful of desperate men, who defended themselves with such vigour when
attacked, should be met; seeing also that they were, upon the whole,
non-aggressive and peace-loving when left alone to the pursuit of
peaceful avocations.

The Saxons encamped were, nevertheless, a strange and motley company,
and nothing less than the sagacity, watchfulness, and marvellous
forbearance of Oswald, coupled with the matchless valour and firmness
which he displayed, would have served to restrain the undisciplined and
heterogeneous company over whom he ruled. There was a moiety of
desperate and blood-thirsty men who were almost incapable of restraint,
and who were so blinded by their hatred of the Normans that motives of
prudence or of policy were most hateful to them, and Oswald's efforts to
enforce self-restraint upon his own followers, and to cultivate friendly
relations with the enemy, were gall and wormwood.

Sigurd was the acknowledged leader of these, and they, by their dense
ignorance and superstitions, fittingly represented the dark heathenism,
and plunder, and bloodshed, characteristics of their Norse ancestors.
They were utterly unable to realise the fact, which Oswald saw most
distinctly, that all hope of wresting the kingdom from the Normans by
force of arms was an idle dream, unless the Normans should be involved
in a struggle with other foes. They clung to their heathenish religion,
encouraged by their grim old priest Olaf, who, periodically quitting his
cave in an adjacent valley, haunted the settlement like a hyena on the
scent of blood, and found little difficulty in stirring up the ferocious
passions of his followers, often to the verge of open revolt and mutiny.
Oswald surveyed the situation with the eye of a statesman; but the
reconciling of these turbulent factions to his ideal was a task which
required the utmost efforts of wisdom and valour too, and which
perpetually threatened the peace of the camp.

These desperate complications were further intensified into a private
and personal cause of enmity and hatred on Sigurd's part--as we shall
presently see--by reason of his strange and fierce love for the fair
Saxon, Ethel. Despite his passionate endeavours to cast out the deep
impression made upon him at his first interview with Ethel, we need
scarcely say such efforts were utterly vain and futile. She was a
beloved and familiar figure to every one in the little colony, and he
was necessarily brought frequently into intercourse with her; and day by
day he became more deeply involved. The love of the fierce Viking had
this quality in common with more ordinary mortals; it was like a
quagmire, in which, being once fairly entangled, the more he struggled
to get free of it the deeper he sank, until all hope of extrication
therefrom became perfectly impossible.

"Ethel, girl," said he, addressing her one day with the bluntness which
was a characteristic of his whole nature and disposition; and his
love-making was of a piece with his whole disposition, "I have no skill
in the art of making love, or, what is pretty much the same thing, a
make-believe of love, and I much fear me my rough manners and rough-hewn
limbs commend me not to fair maidens like thyself. But since I saw thee
first, feelings have been kindled in my breast which I thought were
dead, and utterly out of place in these times. But scorn me not, Ethel.
Thou art as surely of Viking extraction on thy father's side as I am;
and though I have no gentle manners, there is no honied falseness in my
nature, and perhaps through thy gentle influence I may come to love the
ways of peace."

This confession of love on the part of Sigurd was the very thing Ethel
had been dreading to hear; and her confusion and sickness of heart were
pitiably manifest.

"Alas! my lord," said she, "these are times when the funeral rites for
our dead are more opportune than the marriage rites. I could not think
of wedlock in times like these, when children born may well-nigh curse
the day when they first saw the light."

"But I will carry thee to the court of Malcolm of Scotland, where thou
shalt dwell in safety. My sword will receive a hearty welcome by him.
Then, if peace should come, we may return to our own land."

"My lord, you know not what you ask. These are not times for love. With
my country laid desolate, and my people scattered, I can indulge no
affection but for these."

"My love for my country is as great as thine, and wedlock between us two
need not diminish our love for our country."

"Say no more, my lord. You know not what you ask. 'Tis painful to me,
for I am not free to love."

Sigurd started as if stung by a serpent.

"Ah! what a dolt I must be, not to see it! How could a maiden come in
contact with _him_, and not love him. Well, Ethel, Sigurd would throw no
shadow across thy path. Happy be thy love, and its consummation timely!"

"My lord, I have no lover!" said Ethel, hastily leaving the room.

Sigurd slowly paced the room, in profound meditation. The memorable
occasion when he found Oswald and Wulfhere in the company of the two
Norman women passed in review before his mental vision, and its
significance laid hold upon his mind as it had never done before.

"Can it be," said he, "that _he_ should be insensible to such a
treasure, and should add to his culpable blindness the base treachery of
seeking an alliance with the Norman supplanter?"

The thought of this stirred his passions into fury, and he nervously
grasped the hilt of his sword, as though he meditated vengeance on some
foe. "I will watch this thing, and if it be as I fear I will no longer
ally myself with him; but woe be to him if my arm be stronger than his,
for so base a betrayal can only be washed out in blood!"

So saying, he sallied forth, pacing round the fortifications in quest of
Oswald, where he learnt that he and Wulfhere had betaken themselves
towards the valley. Away he sped him, intent on probing this matter to
the bottom; and instinctively his footsteps turned toward the spot where
once before his ire had been roused at the conduct of the two he sought.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A VILLAIN DEMANDS HIS WAGES.

    "Oh pilot! 'tis a fearful night;
    There's danger on the deep."

    _The Pilot._


Count De Montfort strolled leisurely to and fro on the rising ground in
front of the castle, rapt in admiration of the fine scenery and noble
woods which environed it on all its sides. Then he turned to take a
leisurely survey of the massive proportions of the castle, and, with a
veteran soldier's instincts, fell to a planning of additional
fortifications, so as to increase its impregnability. Whilst thus
engaged, a figure seen in the distance, caused the complacent smile to
vanish from his countenance, and his visage grew dark with a frown. The
intruder was none other than Baron Vigneau, who, after salutations,
said,--

"When may I expect the fulfilment of the promise made to me at York,
Count? Lady Alice has now had some months of preparation, and now the
time has come when our nuptials should be celebrated."

"Well, what says the lady, Baron? If you have her consent there need be
no further delay. I have no opposition to offer, though, as Alice's
father, and wishing her happiness, I am bound to say I wish you would
eschew the wine-cup. I note with pain and concern this most unwholesome
habit grows apace."

"Tut, tut, Count! Many thanks for your homily! But to the point in hand.
I have no recollection that the lady's consent had aught to do with the
bargain. Soldiers usually dispense with ceremonies of that description,
and, by your consent, we will still consider it apart from her
ladyship's wishes or whims. 'Twas, I think, a part of the wages of
services rendered."

"But, as a soldier and a knight, making professions of gallantry and the
rest of it, you would not think of forcing a lady's hand? Surely you
have opportunities of winning her as a soldier should. I have expressly
stated that such are my wishes. What more can you expect of me?"

"Finely spoken no doubt! But I would remind you of a matter which you
know well enough without a reminder, that I have not the manners of a
simpering gallant, nor am I used to chanting love-songs beneath my
lady's window. I am a soldier, a blunt and unpolished one maybe. Alice
has been thoroughly well spoiled, that is plain enough, by prating nuns
and her convent life. Her head has been filled with their silly notions
of romance, and religious scruples. My rough life does not fit me for
playing the part of a dangling fop, or uttering canting lies about
religion. Bah!"

"I cannot force my daughter into this marriage, Baron. Win her if you
can," said the Count peremptorily.

"A bargain is a bargain, force or no force, and I'll have it kept. Any
canting parade of virtue will not go down with me; I'm too familiar with
your antecedents. If this promise is not ratified promptly, I'll
straight away to the king and expose your foul conspiracy, and I shall
have the pleasure of seeing your head dangling from the gate within a
week. Then the haughty wench, your daughter, will rue the day she vented
her scorn on me."

"Cowardly villain!" said the Count. "Come with me to yonder copse, and
I'll measure steel with you."

"Not quite so fast, master. I keep my mettle for other purposes. We'll
try steel as a last resort. But in the meantime, I'd rather have your
daughter than your blood; and nothing prevents but the lack of your
commands. Let these be forthcoming, and all is well; but I'll not be
trifled with, mark me!"

So saying, he strode away, leaving De Montfort beside himself with rage
and fear.

The same evening, as he and Alice sat together, he said,--

"Alice, I told you some time ago that I had betrothed you to Baron
Vigneau, and I told you some other matters connected therewith, which I
trust you have not forgotten. He has been claiming the fulfilment of my
promise, and becomes very wroth and threatening. I trust you are
prepared now to accept him at once."

"I cannot say that I am, father; the acquaintance I had with him in
Normandy before the wars caused me to form but a poor opinion of him. I
find that the life he has been leading since the wars began has
brutalised him. His sottish habits, also, have become most outrageous.
If you wish me to marry, let me make my choice. Or, better still, let me
stay with you in singleness. You need some one to keep house for you,
I'm sure."

"Alice, I told you I had betrothed you to Vigneau, which is a matter
binding upon my honour; and 'tis a debt you must discharge. The Baron is
not worse than many others whose life has been cast in these troublous
times. He is also famous at the joust; his deeds of arms, also, and his
personal prowess, are known throughout the land. Pray what would you
have in a husband?"

"Father, I have no feelings but of abhorrence for him. If I may, I would
very much prefer retiring to a convent, as I have said before, to
spending my life with one so besotted and utterly lost to human feeling.
If this will relieve you of your bond, pray give me permission, and I
will prefer no other request."

"Alice, it does not suit me that you should retire to a convent, or do
anything but _obey me_. Let me tell you, once for all, these mock
heroics, these school-girl sentiments and bookish whims, cannot be
tolerated. Your mother was betrothed to me by her parents, who never
thought of asking her consent. I tell you once for all, this marriage
shall be consummated this day three months. So let this suffice."

Alice retired to her room well-nigh heart-broken at her father's
harshness and the hateful prospect of a union with Vigneau. She laid her
face in her hands and sobbed most distressingly, defying Jeannette's
utmost efforts to console her.

"What shall I do, Jeannette? I shall never wed Vigneau! I shall be
sweetly sleeping in that still pool beneath the hazel trees, where we
met the Saxon the other day, on the morning that Vigneau claims me for
his bride."

"Hush, my lady! don't say that. Let us go again in the morning. Perhaps
we may meet those Saxons again, and they will advise us what to do."

Jeannette dared not give utterance to the thing that was uppermost in
her own mind. But as a simple matter of fact, the well-developed manhood
of Wulfhere the Saxon had never been wholly absent from the waking
thoughts of this coquettish damsel since that romantic interview she had
had with him, when her ears tingled with a newborn delight, as she
listened to his flattery in the wood by the riverside. She was, as a
matter of fact, ready for any desperate enterprise or expedient that
would result in another interview.

"We will, Jeannette. Perhaps we shall see the Saxon knight again. I had
been taught to believe these Saxon chieftains were loutish boors. But I
can assure you I found him anything but that."

"Yes, lady; and the other chieftain, who was with me, was a very
handsome man, and spoke so pleasantly to me. I have heard, too, lady,
they have built a fortress on the mountains. He asked me to be his wife,
but I thought we should have to run wild in the woods, and sleep in
caves; but if they have a fortress to live in, I would run away and be
his wife, if you would run away with the other chieftain."

Alice smiled, in spite of herself, at Jeannette's willingness,
evidently, to take Wulfhere pretty much on trust. But, nevertheless, the
morrow found them wending their way to the river, where, getting out the
boat, they pulled away up stream.

"I wonder if the Saxon, will see us, Jeannette?"

"If he should come, he will be sure to have his comrade with him. Don't
you think he will?"

"I think you are in love with that tall bondman of the Saxon
chieftain's, Jeannette."

"He is not a bondman of any one's my lady, for he told me so himself. He
is a Saxon freeman."

"A 'freeman,' Jeannette. What does that mean, prithee?"

"A freeman is next to a knight, I believe; at least, they have lands of
their own."

"Oh, is that so? Well, we shall soon reach the spot where we landed
before. Shall we get out of the boat, think you?"

"I think we had better not, my lady, until we see them. What should we
do if that fierce Saxon should catch us?"

"The Saxon earl told me his people would not harm us--any of them; but
we must not be overbold. We are now completely out of sight of the
castle; let us pull gently, and keep a sharp look-out."

So steadily they glided underneath the long arms of the trees, sending
the water-hens scurrying away into the thick recesses of foliage, or
diving beneath the surface, and coming up again on the other side with a
plash; whilst the snipe and lovely kingfishers, on fleet wing, skimmed
over the surface into the solitudes ahead.

"Surely," said Alice, "this is a slice out of Paradise."

"Yes," said Jeannette; "it is lovely. And that's the fallen tree where
the Saxon and I sat together."

"Not the Saxon, Jeannette; his follower, you mean."

"Oh, but I don't think he is merely a follower, my lady. I believe they
are equal; leastways, he is only a little lower in rank."

It is, perhaps, needless to say that since Oswald's recovery, scarcely
had a sunny day passed when the placid bosom of the river had not been
anxiously scanned by the other two persons most interested in a second
meeting with these fair Norman women. It is scarcely necessary to say
also that two stalwart individuals had seen the slim boat gliding slowly
up the stream, and, for the last quarter of an hour, had been rapidly
clearing the distance which separated them from it. We may also say,
without exaggeration, that these frail women met these stalwart Saxons
with much less of perturbation than when they last met; though if we
were to say that there were no fluttering of hearts, and no crimson
blushes mounting to the face and neck, and no trembling of limbs, as
they reached out their hands to be helped on to the embankment; or if we
were to say that Jeannette did not utter a little scream, and clutch
Wulfhere most tenaciously, as the boat gave a treacherous lurch as she
stepped from it; we should not be faithful chroniclers. Again Wulfhere
and Jeannette sat on the fallen tree and watched by the boat; whilst
Oswald and Alice sauntered by the river's side, and Alice told her tale
of coming disaster. We know she did not resist as Oswald's arm lovingly
encircled her, and he bade her be of good cheer. In low, earnest tones
they talked of all that lay in their hearts; and Oswald was able to
convince her that the dark cloud ahead would be found to have a silver
lining. It was truly passing strange that this high-born lady should
yield herself so unreservedly to this Saxon. There was no reason, or
prudence, or wisdom in it possibly. But the divine instinct of love,
which is born in--not acquired--but born in and indigenous to every pure
and unsullied woman's heart, ventured, with sheer and utter abandonment,
to give her heart to him. The same instinct which revolted in utter
abhorrence at the thought of contact with the brutal Norman, drove her
irresistibly to the sheltering arms of the pure-minded and valorous
Saxon. They laid their plans for further interviews, all the while
unconscious that eyes, glistening with fury, were peering through the
brushwood, and mad hate was rankling in the breast of an unseen foe, who
scarce could forbear to rush in and execute vengeance on the spot.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE TRYST.

    "The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea.
    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
    And leaves the world to darkness and to me."

    Gray.


From the flagstaff on the tower of the castle was to be seen for a
little while at midday a pennant, with long streamers fluttering in the
breeze. There was no one on the tower at the time but Alice. What is the
significance of this? Nothing, apparently, but a freak of fancy. But any
one sufficiently observant would notice that Alice takes her stand on
the north side of the tower, and, leaning her elbows on the battlements,
looks long and eagerly towards yonder grim mountain looming blackly in
the hazy distance, whose scarred limestone precipices seem fearful to
look upon. But presently there became visible to any one possessed of
strong, keen vision, a dark speck of something which had sprung into
sight against the clear background of heaven's blue. It seemed perfectly
motionless in the air, and might be some bird of prey hovering on poised
wing, and watching for its prey. But it was no bird of prey. Alice gave
an exclamation of surprise.

"He sees it," she said; "he will be here to-night. Speed away laggard
hours that separate me from him! There is music in his voice, and refuge
in his strong arms and loving heart!"

She piously uttered a prayer to the saints to guide him. But perhaps,
wise one, that prayer was breathed into the idle April breeze--a
contribution of nothingness--an impalpable seedling, flung out of a
needy human soul, but deposited nowhere, and having fruition never--I
trow not, for prayers, like curses, have an assured harvest, and are as
surely reaped by the sowers, no inspired vision being requisite to see
it done from day to day.

The laggard hours quickly passed, and the lingering twilight deepened
into sombre night. The thrushes which carolled to each other from tree
to tree as the deepening gloom gathered about them, as though loth to
say good-bye to the joyous day, had long since sought their
resting-place for the night. Standing beside the old oak in the wood
might be seen the form of Oswald, listening intently for sound of human
voice or human footfall. Nothing disturbs the silent night air that
gives uneasy thoughts to the listener, though there are many sounds
distinctly audible to one so familiar with nature, and the woods are
most alive now that man has gone to his rest. There is the hurried
pattering here and there and everywhere, of game and vermin, or the
unhurried crawl of the urchin as he issues from his bed in quest of
food. Overhead the bats are flitting in and out amongst the branches of
the trees, followed by the heavy beat of the owlet's wing, whose eyes,
catlike, are gleaming like live coals in the darkness. In the distance
the sharp yelp of the fox proclaims Reynard also to be abroad and busy.

None of these sounds give uneasiness to Oswald. On the contrary, they
are to him most reassuring. He turns his gaze towards the tower, the
outlines of which are clearly marked against the starlit sky. Soon he
sees a dark figure move towards the battlements, and peer over on the
side on which he stands. Perhaps some sentinel keeps watch from the
lonely heights whilst his comrades below are resting in peace. No; that
is no sentinel, for the figure waves something to and fro for a moment
or two, then slowly sinks behind the battlements. On witnessing the
signal, Oswald quickly mounts the tree, and disappears in its cavernous
recesses. The journey along the underground passage is quickly
traversed, and he emerges on the battlements, and the muffled figure is
folded in his arms, and a loving kiss is implanted on her cheek.

"What ails you, Alice, dear? No ill news, I trust?"

"Alas! I have only ill news for you, dearest, and I know you are hard
beset without my adding other troubles to your perplexities."

"Hush, darling! Never think _your_ needs add to my perplexities. I never
feel so like surmounting everything as when I think I live for you; to
champion your cause against all comers, and flaunt defiance in the face
of your enemies."

"I fear the championing of my cause will bring you into deadly peril,
perhaps to death."

"If it does, dearest, you gave me my life when an ignominious death
awaited me. If I die in defence of you, well, I am willing, aye, more
than willing. But let us not cherish thoughts like these, for I think a
merciful Providence will always reserve a blessing for one like you; so
let us have faith, and never doubt the future. I am full of faith and
hope. Come, tell me what new trouble distracts and disturbs your mind."

Then they sat together on an abutment, and Alice, nestling close to her
virtuous knight, told of the new complications which had arisen.

"My father has been very wroth to-day, chiding me roughly because I make
not preparations for my nuptials, and threatening my marriage to Vigneau
by force."

"He is still determined, then, to press on this hateful and heathenish
alliance?"

"Yes; but judge him not too harshly, dearest. I am well assured he loves
me dearly, in spite of this seeming harshness. I have seen again and
again a frown on his brow, and heard bitter words break from his lips at
the intrusion of Vigneau. I am satisfied that if it were not for the
hateful power he wields over my father, I should not be forced into this
alliance. But Vigneau claims my hand as the price of peace."

"You still hate this man, and abhor a union with him, Alice, dear? Is it
not so?"

"I loathe him with my whole heart, and would rather die a hundred deaths
than marry him. But what it may be my duty to do, for my father's sake,
I know not."

"And will it come to this, that, as the price of peace, you are to be
offered to this devil incarnate--to one whose hands are red with the
blood of murdered men and women, and whose life is one coarse round of
brutal indulgence?"

"The prospect is most sickening. But what can I do in an extremity like
this?"

"Rest assured, my love, you will not do that," said Oswald, drawing his
sword. "Here is a trusty friend which will cut this Gordian knot, if it
be not unloosed by more peaceable means. This Vigneau owes his
villainous life a hundred times told, for the foul crimes he has
committed, and is committing from day to day, upon my helpless
countrymen. The sword has been hanging over him a long time, and it will
fall before he claims you as his bride. Though he live to stand at the
altar with you, he shall not compass his vile ends, for I will confront
him there; and rest assured I will make sure of _him_ if it be the last
stroke my trusty sword shall ever make. Drive the matter to the utmost
verge of delay, and if relief come not in the meantime, it will come ere
the extremity. But come now, let us think of other things, for this
matter, I see, sits like a grievous nightmare upon your spirits. I am
pleased to be able to report upon the forward state of the fortress on
the hill."

"But, alas! I have ill news for you with regard to that matter. It was
partly on that account I summoned you from the hills to-night."

"What is it, dearest? Come, unburthen your mind of all troublesome
matters. I can assure you, nevertheless, that we are now very
indifferent as to what steps may be taken."

"But I am afraid this will be serious. The king is now at York with a
large contingent of his men-at-arms, and a number of mercenaries, intent
on quelling any attempts at insurrection on the part of the Saxons. One
of his Bodes[2] arrived here this morning, asking for all information
with regard to the attitude of your people. My father is having a
parchment writing made out, with full particulars of your doings, and
asking for help to reduce your fortress, and slay your rebellious
followers. I fear me if William exerts himself he will not desist, until
he has captured your stronghold; and he will give no quarter to those
who try to thwart him."

[Footnote 2: Messengers.]

"This is, indeed, serious news, and we must move heaven and earth to
prevent this despatch reaching its destination. Do you know when the
messenger will depart?"

"The day after to-morrow, I heard my father say. See, I have here a copy
of the despatch. I drew it up at father's dictation."

"Many thanks, my dear. We must devise some expedient to meet this
emergency. I think I know a sly rogue who will, either by hook or crook,
circumvent the king's messenger. But no time must be lost. Give me a
parting kiss. Ah! get you to bed, you trembling puss, and may sweet
sleep enfold you in his gentle arms! Adieu, adieu, for a little while."




CHAPTER XXV.

BADGER CRACKS THE NORMAN'S PATE.

    "Those who in quarrels interpose
    Must often wipe a bloody nose."

    _The Mastiffs._


A few miles down the valley from the Norman headquarters at the castle,
and following the trend of the river--because there was on its banks to
be found a path, or track, very irregular, it is true, but which was
made to serve the purposes of pedestrians, and which was little
frequented--a Norman runner, or messenger, the bearer of De Montfort's
despatch to the Conqueror, was steadily pressing on towards his
destination. He had had a sharp walk along a road none of the best, and
the springiness was beginning to disappear from his tread. He carried a
sword by his side. Over his shoulder there was fastened a wallet
containing provisions, and a long bow with a small quiver of arrows. In
his right hand he carried a quarterstaff, which he used as a
walking-stick. This latter weapon was much affected by the Normans, they
having learnt its use from the Saxons, and it was now inseparable from
their rough games and amusements, it being singularly adapted to call
forth the powers of strength and dexterity of the wielders of it, whilst
its vigorous application seldom resulted in anything worse than bruises
and ruffled tempers. Ahead of this Norman, and quite unobserved by him,
there was patiently lying in wait a remarkable being, who was quietly
peering over the top of a knoll which commanded a view of a turning in
the road. His dress plainly proclaimed him to be a child of the forest
and the chase, his weird and outlandish appearance being simply
indescribable. He sprang to his feet with remarkable agility as the form
of the Norman runner rounded the corner into view. He fell into the
path, and affected to journey as the stranger did, though as yet the
Norman had not got a glimpse of him. As he went slowly trudging along,
he burst into a merry ditty, trolling it right lustily. The burden of
his doggerel ran something like the following:--

    "My song is of a palmer bold,
      Who footed it o'er the lea.
    A monkish buck to him stepp'd up,
      'What's the news, my man?' quoth he.

    "'Bad news! Why, wine is getting scarce,
      And venison, too, I trow.
    And this I know the Normans vow;
      They are eat and drunk by you.

    "'And paunches measuring a cloth-yard's girth,
      They tap them with lance or spear;
    For good old sack is kept in stock
      By such, the Normans swear.'

    "'Then take my bottle, thou palmer bold,
      My venison pasty too.
    I'll fast and pray, and hair-shirt wear,
      As a pious monk should do.'"

The strange singer affected to be totally oblivious of the approach of
the Norman, for he accompanied his song by a vigorous twirling of his
quarterstaff, ever and anon flinging it into the air and catching it
again. So he kept trudging along all the while, as merrily as a cricket.
He was apparently greatly startled when the Norman accosted him in the
following unceremonious fashion:--

"Hilloa, old weazen-face! you appear to be in a wonderfully merry mood
this morning. What is't makes you wag your tail at such a rate this
morning, eh?"

"I give you good morning, fair sir. My obedience to your honour. Give me
a moment; you quite startle me. What was your honour saying to me?"

"What is it makes you so merry, pray?"

"Why, it is better to be merry than sad; and, begging your pardon for
being so bold, but I have that about me would make a man merry if he had
a foot in the grave."

"Oh, aye, that is it makes you so merry, old bogskipper, is it? I
thought you were going sweethearting."

"Marry, no! Did you ever see as old a dog as I am amuse himself by
catching his tail. Mark me, I have in my wallet good barley-bread, and a
stout collop of venison; and in my case I have a stiff supply of old
Flemish wine," said he, tapping a huge leathern bottle he carried. "So I
will be merry while it lasts, anyhow."

"I warrant, too, you have had that snout of yours to the neck of that
bottle pretty frequently, old fellow, eh?"

"Thou art in error, friend; grossly in error. Such words are a grave
reflection upon my character for sobriety. But it is only fair to say
that I have smelt at it occasionally as I came along; but I never drink
except I'm thirsty, begging your pardon, fair sir--only when I'm
thirsty."

"Thirsty, eh? And how oft does that sensation come on? Not a week
between, I'll go bond."

"No, I grant you this much. I always seem to have a parched sensation at
the pit of my stomach when wine or ale is about; and I have noticed this
frequently, good wine seems to go straight to the spot. It is a very
soothing medicine if it be applied regularly, and pretty oft, so as to
keep my stomach nice and moist."

"Well, I think you might ask a thirsty comrade to have a taste of your
wine, anyhow, old sucker. 'Tis a very small favour, that."

"Not so fast, my buck; don't jump your fence afore you come to't! First
fee your priest, then have your shriving. How should I know whether thou
beest a comrade or no. Dost thou see, to give good wine to a bad fellow
were to waste good liquor, and there is no sin in the calendar half so
bad as to waste good liquor. Marry, 'twere mortal sin."

"Ho, ho, my master's all! Dost thou know, old fellow, when an ass kicks
his heels he inquires for the cudgel. Come, now, what if I lay siege to
thy weazen carcase, and carry off thy bottle, and flay thy carcase for
thee into the bargain. How then?"

"Easy there, my hearty!" said the stranger, twirling lustily his staff.
"I trow I would flatten thy crown with my staff ere thou take my bottle;
though 'twere pity truly to flatten thee any more above thy shoulders,
for, gramercy! I take it thou would be welcome where flats are wanted."

"I perceive thou art a stout rogue enough when driven to a push, and
saucy into the bargain. But I can stop thy brag, my cock-a-loup, pretty
handy, I doubt not."

"That may be, or that may not be, which signifies nothing. But just let
me point out to thee, by way of caution, that my staff is harder than
thy pate, anyhow. So, in a friendly sort of way, I would advise thee to
take no unnecessary risks."

"Risks, eh? Ha, ha, ha! And from such a swag-belly as thou art! There
are not many risks, I flatter me."

"Very well, then; since thou wilt not be advised, take thy staff for a
friendly bout," said the Saxon, unstrapping his wallet and leathern
bottle, and laying them on the ground. "If I crack thy pate, thou shalt
have half my wine; and marry, if thou crack mine thou shalt have the
whole, for I love a bout with the staff almost as well as I like Flemish
wine."

Now the Norman prided himself upon his prowess with the staff. He was
also a span taller than the Saxon. The uncouth garments of the latter,
also, made him appear as though much beyond the time of youth, and so
disguised his stout limbs that the Norman could scarcely conceal his
contempt for such an opponent. So he readily accepted the challenge, and
at once the pair were toe to toe, and dealing blow or parry with right
good will. The Saxon did not appear to very great advantage at the
commencement of the fray. Frequently he received slight blows here and
there, at which the Norman was visibly elated, and he led the attack
with much vigour, and equal recklessness. The Saxon seemed to shrink
from the onset, but there was a sly humour lurking about his wicked grey
eye which was very ominous. Eventually taking a mild blow, without
parrying, from his foe, the Saxon put a giant's strength into his arm,
and like a thunderbolt his staff came down with a crash upon the
Norman's skull, cutting open his head, and knocking him senseless on the
ground.

"Poor fellow!" said Badger, for it was he. "You don't know how sorry I
feel to have to give you a crack like this; but less would hardly do the
business."

He quickly undid the Norman's doublet, and took from an inside pocket
the sealed message from De Montfort. Then he deposited a similar one in
its place. Next, he went down to the river and steeped a cloth in the
water, then gently bathed the Norman's head, and staunched the bleeding,
also carefully drawing the hair over it to hide the wound as much as
possible. He next poured down his throat some of the Flemish wine he
carried. The Norman slowly opened his eyes, and stared about him with a
dazed, unmeaning look.

"All right, my gallant fellow," said Badger. "Here you are. Have another
taste of my bottle."

The Norman took a good long pull, which seemed to revive him
considerably. By degrees the whole scene came back to his stunned
senses, and mechanically he put up his hand to his head, and felt the
wound.

"You hound!" said he. "You've cracked my skull!"

"Not a bit of it, my hearty! Your skull is not so easy to crack. The
skin is peeled a little, that is all, and a day or two will put it right
again."

"I trow not, nor a week or two either. You villain! You meant to brain
me, I do believe!"

"Not a bit of it, comrade. Why, if I meant you harm, what so easy whilst
you have been lying here? The fact is, you beat me black and blue. My
limbs will be sore for many a day after this. It was the first time I
had touched you; and you were so eager to knock me out of it that you
left your head unguarded. Why, man, you had the best of it up to the
last stroke."

By touching up the Norman's vanity by such artful speeches, and by
pouring good wine down his throat, the pair were speedily on good terms,
and they parted the best of friends, Badger chuckling to his heart's
content as he struck off on a short cut for the hills.

In the meantime, Oswald waited anxiously at an appointed place for the
coming of Badger, profoundly hoping that his mission would be
successful. He knew that, excepting some untoward accident had happened,
Badger would hang on to the heels of his man until, by either fair or
foul means, he secured the despatches. But he himself had prepared for
drastic means, if stratagem had failed. For failure to intercept the
message would probably mean disaster to the little Saxon colony on the
hill. His mind, however, was greatly relieved as he beheld Badger in the
distance with beaming countenance, hurrying towards him.

"Well, I'm glad to see you, Badger. How has the business gone? No
miscarriage, I hope?"

Badger made no reply, but, quickly hauling out the parchment from his
bosom, he handed it to Oswald.

"I trust this will make better answer than I can muster, my lord."

Oswald took the parchment, and quickly tore it open, and ran his eyes
over its contents.

"All right, Badger. How came you by it? Does the messenger know that you
have relieved him of his message?"

"He has not the slightest idea. He trudged off, after carefully
ascertaining, as he thought, that his packet was safe."

"You are the slyest rogue in the world, Badger, I do declare. Come, let
us hear the news, how you came by this paper?"

So, as the pair journeyed on together, Badger, in high glee, told how he
had circumvented the Norman, and sent him on his journey with a cracked
skull into the bargain, all of which Oswald highly relished.




CHAPTER XXVI.

SAXON AND VIKING AT THE SWORD'S POINT.

                  "Who overcomes
    By force hath overcome but half his foe."

    Milton..


The burning and rankling feeling of hatred and contempt engendered in
the breast of Sigurd against Oswald (as the result of his spying a
second time upon the Saxon chieftain and Alice de Montfort) was of such
a consuming nature that he must needs force himself into the presence of
Ethel at the very first opportunity. In tones fierce and rancorous, he
told her the story of Oswald's secret and unprincipled love--as he
considered it--for the fair Norman.

"Ethel, girl," said he, "I have dogged this renegade myself, and know of
a truth that he holds illicit intercourse with this dark-eyed Norman
hussy, and that he keeps tryst with her o' nights when honest men are
abed, deceiving Saxon and Norman alike."

"What have I to do with this, my lord? I pray you pursue this matter no
farther," said Ethel.

"All honest men, whether Saxon or Norse, have to do with traitors to
their country. This deceiver professes undying enmity against our common
foe, but does not hesitate to betray his country and the Saxon cause to
win a smile from this temptress."

"My lord," said Ethel, in firm tones, "I cannot listen to your harsh
judgments of him. He is our chosen leader, and I do not hesitate to say
in your hearing, he is our only possible leader. He is sagacious as
brave, and if _he_ cannot rally our scattered and dispirited people,
then our cause is hopeless. I do not believe he is a renegade, as you
say. He is no traitor to his country, but her most valorous and faithful
defender."

"I tell thee, girl, he is in league with this siren! I know of what I
speak! How can he prostrate himself before _her_ without despising and
betraying his own people?"

"My lord, what is this to _me_? If he loves this fair Norman, it is not
to be wondered at; she gave him his life. She is surpassingly beautiful;
and she is virtuous and good as well. Listen, my lord, to what the
palmers tell us of her benefactions, and her kindness to those in
distress."

"She supplanted thee, girl, dost thou think of that? She hath stolen
what of right should be thine--what would have been thine, but for her!
How canst thou find excuses for this she-wolf and her base paramour?"

"My lord, such words are an affront to me. A Saxon maiden does not need
to go a-begging for a lover."

"Ethel, thou dost tantalise me! Thou art blind. Thy love for him doth
make thee mad! But I will be avenged on them both, whether thou approve
of it or not."

"My lord," said Ethel, drawing herself to her full height, whilst her
eyes flashed fire, "who told you I loved him? Are you going to make a
palmer's song about me, and sing it through the whole camp? I will not
have you assuming what I have not told you. Let me tell you, once for
all, a Saxon girl will love where she pleases, and only where she
pleases. Your references are an insult to me!"

This was said with all the energy she could command. Then, rising, she
passed hastily from the room. But scarcely had she closed the door
behind her when her strength failed, and she sank exhausted into a seat.

"Mercy on us!" shrieked Eadburgh, rushing off for a mug of cold water,
and dashing it over her face with her fingers. "Whatever is the matter?
That loutish fellow has been making love again, I'll warrant! He'll
drive the poor body clean mad if he does not let her alone. Such a great
mountain of flesh would frighten anybody, let alone a wee bit of a
lady-like creature as my mistress."

Sigurd, we need not say, was still further maddened by this additional
repulse, and in a rage which would brook no further control, he hurried
off in quest of Oswald, whom he found superintending the efforts of the
workmen. Oswald saw that he was greatly agitated and evidently in a
terrible passion.

"A word in thine ear," he hissed fiercely to Oswald, as he passed.

Oswald followed him until they were beyond the hearing of others.

"What is thy business this morning, pray?" said Oswald, who saw quite
plainly that a rupture was imminent.

"My errand is to unmask a traitor, and either make an honest man of him,
or else make an end of him."

"If thou hast business of such import as this--and thy looks betoken
it--it were best to speak plainly, and come to the point at once."

"My business is with thee, for thou art a renegade, and a trickster;
dancing attendance on a Norman woman, and bartering thy country's cause
and thy people's liberties, to win a smile from a trumpery Norman jade.
Now thou hast it in plain terms."

"Thou liest, Jarl. And once more thy madness passes the bounds of
toleration. Let me tell thee I will have no more ebullitions of thy
ungovernable temper, or any more of thy intriguing and sowing of discord
amongst my people. So be pleased at once to betake thyself to thy own
domain, or anywhere thou likest, so that thou cross my path no more.
There thou art at liberty to act thine own part without let or
hindrance."

"Ah, finely spoken, no doubt! and smoothly as any Norman courtier could
mouth it! Thou hast the trick of it, truly. But thou mayest save thy
fine speeches, and lisp them to thy lady-love, for they win not upon me.
I will tell thee further,--to put a few leagues of honest Saxon soil
between thee and me will not heal our differences. Nor will I try such a
remedy unless more wholesome methods fail me."

"There are no differences between us, saving such as are hatched in thy
muddy brain, Jarl; and what may be the methods of healing them which
thou hintest at, I know not. But I see that madman's look in thy eye,
with which I am too familiar, and I opine that mischief, aye, deadly
mischief, is designed by thee, if thy ability to work mischief fail thee
not."

"The curse of Skuld be upon thee, traitor! Thou hast guessed rightly, so
draw at once and stand upon thy guard, or I will run thee through with
as little compunction as I would a dog," said the Viking, wildly
brandishing his sword, and advancing on Oswald.

Whilst this war of words was proceeding, the whole camp was thoroughly
aroused, and curious eyes from every nook and corner anxiously peered
out to see what this fateful altercation would lead to. But when weapons
were unsheathed, the churls eagerly thronged about their respective
chieftains in feverish excitement. Oswald would fain have settled this
quarrel without appeal to arms; or if that could not be, then he would
have preferred it apart from the clamour and partizanship of the camp.
Sigurd's unbridled rage, however, put this out of the question. Being,
therefore, forced into this appeal to the sword, he unsheathed his
weapon; and the two broadswords, in the grip of two as powerful
antagonists as the sea-encircled lands of Britain contained, came
together like the shock of lances in knightly charge.

Oswald, unlike his opponent, was perfectly cool, though not by any means
blind or indifferent to the momentous issues involved in this
life-and-death struggle. He knew that any yielding, or declining of the
combat, either in the interest of peace, or for any other reason, meant
the loss of supremacy in the camp. He knew also that Sigurd meant it to
be to the death. Now, Oswald fell little short of Sigurd in sheer brute
strength and force; and in coolness of temper, agility, and skill, he
was much more than a match for his opponent. He saw clearly also that
this was to be no child's play, but dead earnest. The look in the black
and louring visage of Sigurd, and the unmitigated ferocity of his
onslaught, told more plainly than words that he, at least, would give no
quarter. Oswald fought a purely defensive battle, having no desire to
injure his foeman, but steadily parrying, with masterly skill, the
thundering blows of Sigurd, steadily giving ground before his eager and
impetuous onslaught. None knew better than he, however, that vital
exhaustion must follow quickly on the heels of such dire rage; and it
soon became very evident to him that the pace was telling upon his
adversary. The rush and eagerness of his attack, and the consuming
passion within him, told their tale very speedily, for the perspiration
poured from him in streams, and his countenance became deadly pale. This
was soon followed by a palpable weakening of the strength of his wrist;
and Oswald, watching carefully every stroke of his adversary, awaited
his chance. Soon it came; and with one powerful blow he sent the weapon
from Sigurd's grasp. Then, in a climax of senseless rage at losing his
weapon, Sigurd rushed on Oswald, in the vain endeavour to close with
him. But Oswald, turning the flat of his sword, dealt him a powerful
blow on the head with its broadside, which knocked him senseless and
bleeding to the ground. He quickly rose to his feet again, however.

"There," said Oswald, coolly sheathing his weapon, "take thy sword. I
have given thee thy life. Be advised, and cross my path no more whilst
thou art in thy present mood, for, Saxon or no Saxon, there will be but
one more passage-at-arms between me and thee; and thou mayest fare worse
at our next meeting."

"I offer thee no thanks for thy clemency, nor do I abate one jot of my
hatred of thee and of thy womanish philandering with Norman wenches,
when thy countrymen's blood cries aloud for vengeance. I warn thee to
take heed lest, next time we meet, fortune may not be on thy side." So,
with a scowl, he hurried off.

Oswald remained for a long time with folded arms and bowed head, pacing
to and fro on the sward, in anxious and troubled thought, which found
vent in audible words.

"Too well I understand that foul menace, and well I understand the
untamed and implacable nature of this foe in my own household. When our
forefathers broke upon this land, wild and daring, counting human life
as nothing, and ruthlessly trampling underfoot their fallen enemies,
none more fierce and cruel in all the savage crews were there than he.
But this is the question to be settled: were those old days of
heathenish rites and savage valour the prime days of our race? Our
forefathers braved all hazards, and they were a conquering people. What
are we? Are we not abjectly ground down--a subject race, and serfs of a
braver people? Is this lingering type of our ancient race in the right?
What are books; and music; and chivalry? What is this lately born love
of mercy, and justice, and righteousness? Tell me, is it merely a
debilitating southern wind come this way, transforming heroes into
effeminate dreamers, and weaklings? Can I be again a Saxon of the old
type?--for I must make my choice here, and now. A Viking, with savage
instincts, and implacable, undying hatred of my enemies; indulging in
ruthless butchery and indiscriminate massacre of helpless women and
children. Can I see eye to eye with this man? This question I must
settle once for all!"

He took a turn, in deep mental conflict.

"No!" said he, with concentrated energy; "it cannot be, come what may. I
abominate his savagery! I despise his ignorance, and his boorish habits!
He and I can never be one in aim and action. Then, I owe my life to this
fair Norman; such a debt upon my honour calls aloud for a full requital.
Besides all this," said he, whilst his broad chest heaved with the
powerful emotions which stirred within him, "waking I hear continually
the music of her voice, and I see the love-light in her dark eye.
Sleeping I commune with her, and I dream of days of peace and happiness
to come. The die is cast, and my path is marked out for me! Perilous it
is in very truth, with Norman foes destitute of mercy, and, added to
them, a foe in this mad Norseman, cruel and revengeful as death. I will
follow the light! Let God judge between me and this people he hath given
me to defend."




CHAPTER XXVII.

JEANNETTE AND WULFHERE, OR LOVE'S COMEDIES.

    "Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
    And innocence hath privilege in her
    To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,
    And feats of cunning...."

    Wordsworth.


Lest it should be imagined that our coquettish little Frenchwoman,
Jeannette, had been perfectly quiescent all this time, we proceed to
give particulars of some little exploits in which she acted an important
part. Hers was not the disposition to act the _rôle_ of a lay figure, it
will be easily imagined. No. To be engaged in some little romance on her
own account was as essential to her existence as the breath of her
nostrils; and the more romantic and unconventional the part she played,
the keener the zest with which she entered into it. She had managed to
subsist on a little flirtation with Paul Lazaire when nothing better
presented itself; but now, the tall and handsome Saxon, Wulfhere, had
fired her inflammable little heart with such a passion as she had never
experienced before. Her scanty knowledge of Saxon heraldry and Saxon
customs, coupled with Wulfhere's constant comradeship with the great
Saxon earl, had caused her to think highly of this doughty Saxon lover
of hers. It must be confessed, too, that Wulfhere's fine presence, his
undoubted valour, and the unflagging goodnature and ready wit with which
he alternately bantered, flattered, or caressed her, quite carried her
by storm; and over head and ears in love, at a stroke almost, went this
born coquette.

Right skilfully had she woven many a Cupid's net for others, and, with
tantalising inconsistency, frowned to-day and smiled to-morrow upon her
hapless victims. The truth was, none hitherto had fired her imperious
imagination sufficiently. But at last Cupid had transfixed her
unmistakably; and Jeannette was not the one to stand on ceremony, or be
a slave to petty prudencies. Not she, indeed!

To have a brush with the chapter of accidents, to set wise
heads and slanderous tongues a-wagging; added piquancy to the
romance, and was quite to her liking. Hate has its plots and
counterplots, its subterfuges and scheming, its dogged persistence in
malevolence; but love also has its expedients, its inventions, its
circumlocutions, which, for ingenuity, and for that final grace of all
plotters--_audacity_, will circumvent its hateful opposite any day. Love
also has this final advantage; it dares to be found out, and is never a
whit abashed when its devices are discovered.

Upon Wulfhere, too, the advent of this pretty and coquettish little dame
had burst like a revelation. The saucy pertness, the mischief and
merriment which glanced in her sparkling eye, the feminine gracefulness
of form and figure, the pretty devices with which she was wont to adorn
herself, and set off her charms, and the sheer _abandon_ with which she
rushed into this love affair with him, completely carried him away, and
he was speedily as helpless as a slave in her hands. The contrast
between this dainty Frenchwoman, and the Saxon women of the lower orders
was simply inexpressible, and Wulfhere, in his Saxon simplicity, was
charmed beyond measure.

Upon poor Paul Lazaire the altered demeanour of Jeannette towards
himself operated somewhat hardly. Being quite in the dark as to the
existence of a new disturbing factor, he was wont to obtrude his
presence as heretofore upon Jeannette. But alas! Jeannette had now lost
the little interest which aforetime she had manifested in Paul. She had,
in past time, deigned occasionally to bestow a smile, amid her many
frowns, on his pretensions; and this occasional smile and ray of
sunshine had refreshed him, and given him hope. Now, alas! the smiles
had all vanished, whilst the frowns deepened in intensity, and were
frequently accompanied by a perky toss of the head, and little scornful
speeches. 'Tis just like poor human nature, though, the world over; when
once enmeshed in Cupid's net, the shaking-off process makes one cling
the tighter, and it made poor Paul more and more desperate in his
endeavours to win a smile from his lady-love. It had become, however,
not only unpleasant to Jeannette, but vastly inconvenient, too, to have
her footsteps dogged as she sauntered through the woods, or by the
river's side, as any one who has had experience of these things will
easily understand. No matter, if Paul caught a glimpse of Jeannette's
golden hair as she slid away at still eventide for a quiet walk in the
woods, why, poor short-sighted mortal, he was sure to consider his
presence and protection indispensable; and though he had had latterly
some very unpleasant experiences of the fact that Jeannette neither
considered his presence indispensable nor agreeable, yet he persevered
most desperately.

Seeing this infatuation on Paul's part, it had occurred to another
participator in these sylvan _tête-à-têtes_ that more drastic expedients
would have to be resorted to in order to disillusionise him. So a slight
rebuff was administered to poor Paul, which had the happy effect of
somewhat disenchanting him.

It was at the still eventide. Jeannette had laid aside the duties of the
day, and had ascended to the tower. Why? Well, perhaps to see the
sunset. It was somewhat strange, but somehow, like her mistress, she had
acquired the habit of reconnoitring at odd hours from the tower of the
castle. Probably she and Alice had confidences in these matters. But, be
that as it may, a very hasty survey of the beauties of nature on this
occasion made her hurry off for a closer scrutiny. Paul's vigilant eye
espied the fair form making for the path by the river's side, and, on
the assumption that "faint heart never won fair lady," he would venture
again. So he started off in pursuit. It must be confessed he did not
approach this imperious fair one without many tremblings and
forebodings. The keen edge of her saucy tongue had greatly dismayed him
in many a wordy tussle lately, and it had begun dimly to dawn upon him
that this waspish habit had something of dislike for him. Poor fellow!
These very quakings of heart presaged coming trouble and defeat. 'Twas
in his case pretty much as the old saw has it:--

    "Tender-handed touch a nettle,
    And it stings you for your pains.
    Grasp it like a man of mettle,
    And it soft as silk remains."

Never, my dear Paul, should you have approached a saucy, perky dame like
this, in the character and with the attitude of a milksop. "Buxom dames
will have a buxom wooing." "He who goes trembling will come back
shambling."

"My dear Jeannette," began Paul, most humbly, as he caught up to her, "I
wonder how you dare venture in these woods alone."

"Humph! I dare do anything I like to. And pray what have you got to do
with it, Master Lazaire? I didn't invite you, I know!"

"Well, I thought you ought to have some protection, and I would
accompany you if you didn't mind."

"But I do mind; so get off with you to that Saxon hussy I caught you
kissing. You may tell her to wash her face, and comb her hair; and if
she could tighten the bands about her skirts to make herself a waist, it
would greatly improve her appearance. But she is good enough for you,
anyway. So be off with you!"

"I never speak to those Saxon wenches. I love you alone, Jeannette; you
know that well enough. But you seem now as though you hated to see me."

"I know I caught you kissing a Saxon wench, and a precious dirty one
too. I know that well enough, Paul Lazaire. And I'll not have you
following me at all. So be off, you softhead, and don't be told again!"

This style of rebuff was more than poor Paul had calculated upon,
dubious though he had been, and his temper was considerably ruffled in
consequence. His eye assumed an unnatural fierceness as he took in the
lonely surroundings of the forest, and desperate resolves were quickly
forming in his breast. Jeannette all the while kept her eye steadily
fixed on a certain trysting-place, a little ahead, and her nimble feet
were on the lilt ready for flight if necessary.

Paul laid his hand on her shoulder somewhat roughly, and said,--

"Stop a bit, _ma grande dame_. You give yourself too many airs for me
altogether."

Jeannette shook him off and at the same time dealt him a stinging slap
in the face; then she took to her heels like a deer, with Paul in hot
pursuit, in an ungovernable rage.

"_Voulez vous_ slap me in the face, _vous renarde_? _Vous serez_ taught
different when I catch you!"

Just as he was about to lay hands on the fugitive, out sprang Wulfhere
from the thicket, and seizing Paul by the throat, he well nigh shook the
life out of him.

"You villain!" said Wulfhere. "You assault defenceless women, do you,
you undersized little imp? I'll screw your neck round before I've done
with you! It is well I was near, you wretch, you!"--the sentences and
the shakings alternating with equal vigour, until poor Paul scarcely
knew whether he was on his head or his heels. During this operation,
Wulfhere was steadily backing him to the river's brink, which, having
reached, he gathered him up and pitched him in, head foremost. Paul came
floundering out again, like a half-drowned rat.

"There!" said Wulfhere, catching him again by the scruff of the neck;
"you may thank your stars I haven't drowned you altogether. Now be off
with you;" administering at the same time a hearty kick to the baser
parts of Paul's anatomy, which considerably accelerated his retreat.

Paul was not slow to take advantage of this privilege, and he quickly
put a safe distance between himself and the Saxon. Suddenly, however, it
occurred to him that he was possessed of a sword. Whipping it out
savagely he turned to make a tremendous lunge at the foe, when, oh
horrors! he was just in time to see in the distance the long arm of the
Saxon fondly entwining the slender waist of Jeannette, and the perky
little face, all smiles and blushes, upturned to receive a spanking kiss
from the "beast of _a Saxon_!"

"_Le diable!!_" he screamed with rage, whilst the veins of his face and
neck were distended almost to bursting. Off he started in pursuit, sword
in hand, and bent on executing summary vengeance on the perfidious pair.
Just at that moment, however, the Saxon gave a backward glance over his
shoulder, and this had the effect of bringing Paul to a stand instantly.
No; he decided, upon second thoughts, that he would not slay them
himself, but bring a troop down upon them promptly. So he turned again
and rushed off towards the castle for reinforcements. But having time on
the way to become fully sensible of the pickle he was in, and of the
very inglorious part he had played in this encounter, he decided
otherwise. Discretion would be the better part of valour; for if his
comrades but set eyes on him in his present state, or heard the story of
this exploit, his peace was gone for ever. So he decided, upon mature
reflection, to say nothing about it for the present, but nurse his wrath
for some more favourable opportunity of wreaking vengeance upon them
both.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

A GRIM TEMPLE, A GRIM PRIEST, AND A SAD HEART.

    "When true hearts lie wither'd
      And fond ones are flown,
    Oh! who would inhabit
      This bleak world alone?"

    Moore.


Ethel, deeply muffled and disguised, passed through the little
postern-gate of the fortress. A word in the ear of the sentinel who
paced to and fro before it on guard, secured instant obedience. Ethel's
position in the fortress was thoroughly understood by all. Her
self-denial, her patience, and her burning patriotism, were well known
in this camp of Saxon outlaws. The readiness with which she undertook
positions involving fatigue and privation, for the cause, was a constant
inspiration to the common people. They watched her come and go with
veneration--almost with awe and superstition. They whispered one to
another of her strange journeyings by night and day; and many regarded
this young chieftainess as a special favourite of the gods. As she
glided through the gate in the early morning hours, the sentinel thrust
his head forth and watched her swiftly descend the slope, like a ghost
in the darkness. When her form was no longer visible, he closed the
door, and secured it with bolt and bar.

"Whatever can she be after so early in the morning, and before the day
dawns? There's something very uncanny about her, tramping over hill and
dale by night and day like any wolfshead, or wicca-hag.[3] I saw the
fiery lights in the heavens two hours ago. I wonder what it all means. I
almost wish I was safely out in the Bruneswald, where I could hop about
like a bird from tree to tree, and where never a Norman could corner
one. This being cooped up like a rabbit in a hole I don't relish. I like
room to ply my heels. Howsomever, I'll stick, and stand my chance, for
the women can't be whisked through the air; and the children, too, they
must have a nest." So the sentinel continued his watch, and ruminated on
these things.

[Footnote 3: Witch.]

Meanwhile, Ethel sped with quick step over the rugged limestone hills,
flying before the fastly pursuing dawn like a fugitive who dreaded his
revealing power. Ever and anon she turned to measure with her eye the
distance she had traversed. The shadowy outlines of the fortress she
left behind began to take shape in the distance, and she quickened her
pace. "I shall soon be beyond the reach of vision," she muttered to
herself. "I would not have Oswald know my errand to-day for worlds. My
mind is dark, I know not what I do; but my hope dies, and my heart
breaks. Perhaps the Norseman's gods may help me, for the Christian's God
fails me. 'Tis a dread alternative; but I would know, if I could, what
Fate has decreed for me."

For three weary hours she sped over dreary moors and scraggy,
precipitous valleys, which were often little better than ravines.
Presently she turned into a declivity running between two banked-up,
precipitous sides. A little ahead, the two sides curved inwards and came
together, and to all appearance this strange gorge came to an end. Ethel
marched forward with unfaltering step, evidently straight at the blunt
face of the joined limestone rock. But when she reached the extremity,
there became visible, what at a very short distance could not be seen,
an obscure opening behind a jagged projection of rock. It might be, to
all appearance, merely an entrance to a fox's or wolf's den. Into this
opening, however, Ethel crept, without halt or questionings of any kind.
Presently the narrow entrance became larger, and she stood upright, but
continued to descend a rough and precipitous path, until she reached a
level piece of ground. Looking up--the place was simply a stupendous
slit in the limestone rock, broadening downwards into a considerable
area. The trees and shrubs growing at the top interlocked from side to
side, and the light came streaming through a network of branches.
Desolate and awe-inspiring was the place. At the farther end were two
mounds of earth, or tumuli, where the grim priests of Thor and Woden
were sleeping the long sleep of death--lives which had been literally
burnt out by the fierce fires of fanaticism, and savage asceticism.
Ethel paused to look around, but everything was still as death; she
shuddered and drew her cloak tighter about her.

"The last time I came to this spot my father brought me. I feel his
untamed Norseman blood stir within me. The fierce gods of war and
revenge and death his Viking ancestors and he worshipped, I dare to
consult to-day. 'Tis a cruel necessity, and jars my woman's instincts--I
feel it petrifies my heart with unlovely savagery; but the followers of
this Christ have slain my people with a wicked and unsparing slaughter.
They differ in no way in their wanton cruelty to Norseman and Dane.
Their women, too, with their fair faces, dainty fingers, and courtly
manners, have stolen the heart of Oswald, and I am slighted and
disdained; nothing in my beauty--and suitors of noble lineage have
sought me ere now for my beauty; nothing in my rank--and it is but
yesterday that I might have stood amongst the proudest of the land. No;
I am a withered leaf, battered, bruised, and trampled upon. My love is
unrequited! My misfortunes are compassionated, but that soothes not my
wounded spirit, and is but a hateful substitute for the love I crave.
Alas! nothing avails me, for I am only a heathen woman and an outcast.
So, hard driven by my misfortunes and my wounded love, I will consult
the gods of my father. The Norseman's gods may help me perhaps. Yet,"
said she, pausing for a moment, whilst her breast heaved with strange
and powerful emotions which struggled for the mastery within her, "my
mother was Christian and Saxon. She was a follower of this Christ. She
was gentle, and taught me to pray to Him. I remember it well, though I
was but a child. 'Our Father which art in heaven.' Ah, that is
wonderfully soothing to me, and not like the prayers I was taught to
offer to Thor and Odin. But my mother could not have known this Jesus;
for if He was merciful and gentle, why do His blood-thirsty followers
delight in treachery and bloodshed. 'Twas a part of my cruel fate that
she should die in my infancy, for had she lived I might have learned of
her more perfectly. O ye gods!" said she, wringing her hands in agony
above her head, and looking up to the vaulted roof with tear-blinded
eyes and with agonised entreaty,--"have pity on me in my
friendlessness!"

Then she sped on with a quick, determined tread. Down each side of this
weird retreat there were standing out, like grim, ghostly sentinels in
the uncertain light, a long line of runic stones, on which were carved
many strange devices; rude figures of uncouth and unearthly animals and
reptiles. She had been taught that these strange hieroglyphics and signs
had marvellous potency for good or ill. They could cause passionate
love, or undying hatred, in the breasts of those over whom their spell
was thrown. Indeed, the power of life and death was wielded by them.
Strange supernatural agencies and powers were their messengers, and did
their bidding. Starting from the rock, or planted here and there, were
many of the ominous rowan trees, or witch-wood. The hemlock and the
nightshade clustered together, and the nodding cypress dropped sombrely
over the runic stones beneath them. Ethel glanced nervously round, but
not a living thing was visible; not a sound broke the death-like silence
of the place. Quickly gliding beneath the drooping branches of one of
the cypress trees, she fell on her knees before the frowning pillar of
stone. She had knelt there before by the side of her father, who had
remained heathen to the last. But to kneel alone, in this very vestibule
of the Place of Darkness, and to pour out her passionate entreaties to
powers which she knew were the Powers of Darkness, strange to mercy, and
which had but the attributes of fiends; the ordeal was terrible indeed.
With feelings tumultuous and frenzied, she apostrophised the weird and
forbidding emblem before her.

"O ye gods of my fathers, whether ye be Powers of Light or of Darkness I
know not. Pity my ignorance, and my apostasy, for I have turned to this
Jesus whom the Christians worship, and He has failed me, and turned my
joy into mourning. My father and my brother have been slain by the
followers of this Jesus. My home is made desolate, and I flee for life
and honour from these Christian fiends. There is one also who might have
been my lover, who is bravest amongst the brave, and most chivalrous
amongst the chivalrous; who is gentle as a sunbeam, and tender as my own
lost mother, yet strong as any tower in the storm. He is lost to me
through the subtle arts of their women. My life has become to me but a
living torment. Can ye turn again the heart of Oswald to me? 'Tis said
ye can turn even hatred into love. I know it is unmaidenly to plead for
a love I cannot inspire, but I can bear this burden no longer alone, and
I would ye could give me favour in his eyes, or give me a long home in
one of these sepulchral mounds."

She started to her feet with a shriek, as a deep voice saluted her from
behind,--

"Waes hael, Viking's daughter!"

She hastily turned, and behold there stood before her Olaf, the aged
priest of this Vikings' temple, to whom for a couple of generations the
heathenism and savagery of the countryside had repaired for ghostly
consolation, and into whose ears had been poured the secrets of fierce
loves and fiercer hatreds of these descendants of the Norsemen. He had
been the grim dispenser of dark and mystic rites and potent spells to
weirdly savage and credulous votaries. A strange being surely to claim a
place in times so advanced as these! He was a living embodiment and
personification of a bygone era, and so totally destitute of all
humanising instincts that he might have slid down the ages,
glacier-like, from prehistoric times--when men dwelt in caves, and
gnawed the flesh from the bones of their prey like wild beasts--without
ever having come in contact with the outermost fringe of civilisation; a
Viking of the Vikings in savagery and blood. His head was uncovered, and
his long and matted grey hair fell over his shoulders. His form was
shrunken and racked with rheumatic pains, from his long exposure and
unlovely life. Long, deep furrows ploughed his face, and the long,
powerful, and uncleanly teeth stood away from the shrunken cheeks,
whilst his sunken eyes gleamed like the eyes of some savage beast of
prey. He was a visible and concentrated embodiment of the _war spirit_
in its unrelieved and unredeemed essentials. No touch of pen or pencil,
however graphic, could depict, in all his hideous grimness, this
stranded relic of a bygone age of savage lawlessness and force, who
seemed to be but half a dozen removes from the tooth-and-claw methods of
wild beasts.

"Ha! ye are come at last, are ye?" he hoarsely croaked. "Ye are come
now, when ye find that this strange God, this Christ of whom the
Christians speak, has proved to be no God, and cannot save ye! But the
gods of your fathers have given ye over to desolation because ye have
forsaken them. Ha, ha, ha! I could laugh at ye now! Ye despised the old
priest, did ye not? ha, ha, ha!"

As the harsh, grating voice of the priest fell upon her ears, Ethel
almost cowered in terror before him. At sight of her terror, the old
priest somewhat relented his fierceness.

"Hist to me," said he. "Ye are a Viking's daughter, after all, and come
of a stock whose deeds our Sagas tell of, though the Christian taint has
mixed too freely with your father's blood. It does my old tired bones
good, nevertheless, to see ye come back again to me once more. I have
been very lonely and forsaken, for my fellow priests are all lying
beneath these mounds. I buried the last myself not a month agone. See!
the mound is newly heaped. I shall soon be gone also, and there will be
never a priest at hand to give me back into the arms of mother earth, to
reveal to ye the dark mysteries of Valhalla, or to call from the land of
the dead the Sein-loeca,[4] to speak with you. Viking's daughter, are
ye now aweary of following this strange God of the Christians?"

[Footnote 4: Apparition.]

"Alas! I know not what to do, priest! I am as desolate and forsaken as
ye are. I would have the heart of Oswald, the Saxon chieftain, turned
towards me. If ye have any charm that will give me favour in his eyes, I
covet it, priest."

"Ah, but this Oswald is Christian; ye do not well in seeking thus to
further dilute the Viking blood that flows in your veins. Is there no
hardy Norseman ye can mate with? and I can help ye."

"None, father! I gave my heart to this valiant Saxon long ago; but alas!
a Norman woman has won his love, and when he comes into my presence now,
I see that there is always a far-away look in his eye, and I know he is
looking in imagination upon the dark-haired Norman he loves more than
me. He shuns his couch to keep nightly tryst with her. I have dogged his
steps, and watched them in the starlight nights, pacing the battlements
of the castle in loving converse, and in loving embrace. He is kind and
gentle to me, but there is none of the subtle tones of love so dear to
us women when once our heart is won. Men say I am fair; but have ye any
charm to make me fair to _him_? It matters not what men may say, or what
the multitude may say. There is but _one_ man in all the world, and if I
am not fair to _him_, why then the sun goes down on all my hopes, and
leaves naught behind but the long black shadows of despair! Ah! I fear
me, priest, it is in my spirit! There is no charm for him in the passion
and frenzy, the fire and restlessness, of my Viking spirit. This
voluptuous southern maiden, with her courtly manners and her gentle
speech, has touched a chord in his heart which never responds to the
Saxon maiden!"

"Girl, ye are no Saxon maiden! ye are a Viking's daughter! I claim ye
for the old race that has swept every sea, and made the Viking name a
terror to all lands. I will not have ye despise the fierce spirit of
your race that lives in ye! Listen. I know a Viking of the old stock, a
true descendant of our heroes whose mighty deeds our Sagas tell. He hath
a passion for ye deep and fierce, and pure as a Viking's love should be.
'Tis Sigurd of Lakesland, who was here but yestere'en. Let me plight
your troth with him, and there shall spring a progeny like unto our
forefathers, who will sweep the infamous Norman brood into the sea, and
make the cowardly Saxon cower at the feet of the Norseman, as in the
days gone by."

"Ye speak, priest, as though a maiden's heart were like a willow bush,
to veer about as any idle wind may blow, or so gross a thing that it may
be huckstered for a consideration, or be cast as a mere makeweight into
the scale of policy. Never dream, priest, that this is a possible
remedy; for I have nothing to offer Sigurd or any other. If ye cannot
tell me that I shall be Oswald's bride, then I will be wedded to my
people, and I will serve my country till death comes to free me."

"A curse on the evil times I have lived to see, girl!" said the priest
savagely. "This simpering sentiment is not like the love of a Viking
maiden at all! The sturdiest and fiercest warrior was wont to be the
choice of our maidens in the old days. What charm would ye have? There
is but one charm will serve the Viking cause in love or war. It never
failed them, in the past, and will not fail them now if 'tis wielded
fearlessly."

"What is this spell--this charm ye speak of? Tell it me at once!" said
Ethel eagerly.

The priest slowly withdrew from his bosom a bright-bladed dagger, at
sight of which Ethel shuddered and drew back.

The priest scowled, and said angrily, "If ye shrink at this ye are not
fit to be a Viking's daughter. This will serve you if ye are resolute,
for 'tis easy to get an audience of this Norman that hath bewitched
Oswald, and then it were easy to plunge this dagger into her heart; and
what then were thy hated rival? Take the blade in thy hand, nor shrink
from it; the touch of steel will fire thy heart, and purge away the
accursed leaven of effeminacy which is creeping over our Viking race.
There is a magic in the touch of cold steel; my fingers tingle as I feel
it. It has served the Viking's cause as nothing else could do for a
thousand years."

As he spoke he pressed the fearsome weapon into her unwilling hand.

"But how then, priest, when I have taken the life of this innocent lady?
Will that bring back the heart of Oswald? Nay, he will loathe me then,
and I shall be as a 'daughter of perdition' unto him."

"Idle scruples, daughter!" said the priest, testy and irritable. "Who
shall tell him it was your hand did this deed? Be resolute, and fear
not; the Vikings' gods will help ye if ye be bold."

"But after I have done this deed, priest, and if Oswald should never
know it was I that did this foul, this desperate deed, I can never rid
me of the loathsome memory, nor the clinging horror, of
blood-guiltiness. What after that? when self-respect, womanhood--nay,
when the last shred of my _humanity_ is gone--what would remain that
were worth the having? What should I be, and how could I look to mate
with his upright and chivalrous nature? What daily horror would be mine!
for each look of his unsuspecting eye would damn me! Nay, priest, take
back this dagger, for such means as these can never help me. My
innocence is my heaven, and I will keep it while I may; for when this is
lost, then all is lost. I thought ye might have gentler means."

At this the old priest fairly roared with impotent rage.

"Avast!" he cried. "'Tis this Christ hath done it all! Why do ye come to
the Vikings' gods until ye have renounced Him? How can I summon spirits
from Valhalla to your help, or send the wicca-hag skirling on the wind
to ply her sorceries on Oswald, that his heart may be turned to ye, if
ye are Christian?"

Then, dropping into a gentler and more persuasive tone, as he saw Ethel
fairly cowering in terror before him, he said,--

"Go, Viking's daughter. Ye know my heart is sore for ye and for my race;
but it must be either Odin or Jesus. Go renounce this Christ, and then I
can help ye. Nay, nay! keep the dagger, for it hath wondrous virtue in
it. It was with this dagger that Thore Hund slew the Christian renegade
Olaf Haraldssen on the bloody field of Sticklarstad, and Odin proved
himself a mightier than this Christ. It shall be so again, for the
Viking race shall be a terror to all lands. Why should ye be fearful and
afraid? Why should ye hesitate and shrink at this act of revenge? Surely
ye have suffered enough at the hands of this accursed race. How can ye
be so scrupulous, when ye think of the vengeance ye owe these Norman
tyrants and usurpers for a father and brother slaughtered, for your
sadness, and your homelessness? Think of the love this Norman woman hath
stolen from ye. Nurse these thoughts, and be courageous, Viking's
daughter."

Ethel slowly climbed from the weird retreat, where for generations these
savage priests of Thor and Odin had exercised a dread and mystic sway
over the descendants of the Norsemen conquerors, who in past times had
swooped down on Northumbria, peopling it with rough and hardy warriors;
and still the barbarous rites and crude beliefs held extensive sway, in
spite of the leavening influences of the Saxons' Christ. Ethel had
entered this nature's temple with dim hopes that by some exercise of
supernatural powers the heart of Oswald might be influenced so as to
turn to her; and if not this, that she might know the worst. Alas! the
sad heart and the wounded love had met with no amelioration of its
sadness and despair; but the dormant passion and frenzy which ran in her
Viking blood had been stirred in its lethargy into a madness of revenge,
the extent and power of which she had never felt before.

"What is to be the end of this?" she said to herself, as she sped over
the wild hills. "Either I must conquer or be crushed. There is no middle
course; either it is hell or heaven. I cannot cast off or change my
love; that is given unreservedly and beyond recall. This Viking, Sigurd,
is a warrior true as steel, and his love is as sincere and true. But
what of that? To wed him were a suggestion most gross, and impossible as
gross. How could I crouch beside the ingle of an untamed Viking husband,
and in all unloveliness mother a rude progeny, and blur out, in the
grossness and savagery of it, the vision of better things, and of the
nobler love I have seen? Question. Shall I tamely submit to the
usurpation of a love that might have been mine, but of which I have been
despoiled by a Norman woman? Or shall I fling to the winds my Christian
trammels and scruples, and, Viking-like, take the Viking's remedy?" and
she drew forth from her bosom the unlovely and murderous weapon the
priest had given her. "The priest said this was my only remedy. 'Tis a
grim alternative. But why should I suffer this for a love too readily
given? I never told my heart to dote on Oswald. 'Twas a wild freak of
affection I could not bridle; and I cannot undo it now, so that change
is impossible. It was without effort of mine, also, that he has filled
my eye so fully that I cannot see another. Shall I tamely suffer this
eclipse at the hands of this southern woman? This priest tells me what a
Viking woman would do, and surely, if foul wrongs call for fierce
revenge, then I should not timidly shrink from this avenging act.
Madness and despair nerve my arm and steel my heart, and I will act as a
Viking woman would act!"

But just at that moment, as the fierce spirit of revenge assumed the
mastery, there flitted before her mental vision a scene of long ago,
when, as a child, she knelt at her mother's knee, and heard the wondrous
story of the Redeemer's mercifulness and love for his enemies. The
revulsion of feeling was instant and overpowering. Stretching her
clenched hands heavenwards, she shrieked, in an agony of prayer, "Jesu,
_God of mercy_, help!"

Overwrought nature could bear no more, and she sank in insensibility to
the ground, her fair countenance convulsed with agony. Speedily,
however, the shadows of despair gave place to a placid smile of sweet
content. Again she was a child, and her mother's form was bending over
her, but wondrously ennobled and beautified; and she spoke words of
comfort and of hope. "Daughter, be of good courage, and remember the
words of the Master that I taught you: 'Come unto Me all ye that labour
and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'; 'Lo, I am with you
always, even unto the end of the world.'" Then, with a smile angelic in
its sweetness, the heavenly vision faded away.

Slowly Ethel staggered to her feet, for her physical strength was
exhausted; but the look of blank despair had passed away, and her
countenance was transfigured until it shone like the countenance of a
saint of God. And drawing the dagger from her bosom she hurled it over a
precipice, shuddering as she did so. Then she slowly turned her
footsteps towards the fortress on the hill.




CHAPTER XXIX.

EDGAR ATHELING.

                            "Oh how wretched
    Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!"

    Shakespeare.


Sigurd, after the rebuff he had received at the hands of Oswald, sped
him on his way to Scotland, aflame with a wrath which was about equally
divided between Oswald and the Normans. He was accompanied by some
half-dozen of his followers. And there, at the court of Malcolm of
Scotland, he laid before the Prince Atheling his scheme for the recovery
of the kingdom.

Now, Prince Edgar was a weak, voluptuous prince, who spent his days in
dissipation, and surrounded by foreign parasites; but he was universally
acknowledged to be the legitimate heir to the throne of England. Every
one who knew him intimately had little hope of his ever winning it by
force of arms, or of his worthily filling it, if it should ever be
wrested from the grasp of the astute William. The Conqueror well knew
the weakness of this princeling, and with consummate policy he kept him
well supplied with money, knowing that if he had the means to gratify
his vicious and effeminate disposition, he would not be easily moved to
undertake any dangerous or arduous enterprise.

But the Atheling, like all weak and vacillating natures, could be false
or fickle to his master William at very short notice. He was capable
also, in a vain and feeble sort of way, of grasping at the English
sceptre, for no better or nobler motive than the desire to gratify his
childish vanity, and to further indulge his voluptuous and sensual
habits.

There was nothing in common between the fierce and fiery descendant of
the Vikings, Sigurd, and this weathercock of princely descent. Sigurd
was as valorous and uncompromising as the Atheling was ease-loving and
cowardly. Still, it was quite easy for this enthusiast to infuse into
the Prince's mind most exaggerated ideas of the rally of the Saxons
under Oswald, and to lead him to believe that the prospect of regaining
the throne of England was easy of achievement. He also managed to fan
into a flame the petty jealousies of which the prince was capable, by
representing to him that Oswald was intent on asserting his own claims
to the kingdom.

It was a matter of profound surprise to us, and not a little
consternation also, when scarcely a month had elapsed from the date of
Sigurd's expulsion from the camp, to find that Saxon runners everywhere
throughout the kingdom were conveying the Prince's summons to all Saxon
leaders, outlaws, and ecclesiastics, together with a certain number of
freemen, and churls, who, according to Saxon laws, had the right to
attend these parliaments, or witans, of the nation. The witan was
summoned to meet in Lakesland, one of the wildest and most inaccessible
parts of Northumbria. Oswald and I were summoned, and a number of those
who owned Oswald's chieftainship.

We weighed carefully this matter, and we could not rid ourselves of the
apprehension that Sigurd somehow was at the bottom of it, seeing that
the _bodes_ who bare these summonses were followers of the Jarl.

Personally, I was much averse to the project, being unable to see what
good could come of it, in our present feeble and distracted state. But
Oswald considered it desirable that we should obey this summons as loyal
Saxons. Accordingly, a company of us, under the leadership of Oswald,
started for this rendezvous amid the Lakes. We were compelled to use the
utmost secrecy in our movements, and travel by night, as the Normans
were still thickly posted throughout the north. It would certainly have
been most dangerous to travel by day, even with so small a company as
ours. We were practically but two days march from the place of
rendezvous. So we started after nightfall on the first day, and, by
steadily pressing on, we covered one-half the distance, arriving ere it
was daylight at a place of refuge evidently well known to our leader,
but which came as a revelation to me, for we came upon a band of Saxons
near to an inlet of the sea, which ran into a thickly wooded headland.
Here were a company of hardy men, partly fisherman, and partly traders
and freebooters, who owned a vessel capable of carrying a considerable
cargo; which bare sometimes Saxon refugees to foreign lands, at other
times engaged in peaceful trading with distant ports, and had frequently
been employed by armed bands of Saxons for the purpose of making swift
descents upon their foes in various parts of the kingdom. From this
source I found that wines and breadstuffs, as well as munitions of war,
had systematically been supplied to the Saxon outlaws. I was told
voyages were frequently made, not only to Ireland and Scotland, but even
to ports on the Mediterranean sea.

Here we rested for the day, and at nightfall we went aboard this vessel;
and, the wind being favourable, in a couple of hours they ran us across
the bay of Morcam, landing us in sight of the Westmoreland hills, and
certainly saving us more than a twenty miles' trudge. We were now within
some eight miles of our destination, and still had the most of the night
before us. Our sailor friends were able to tell us, also, that there was
no encampment of Normans within many miles of our route; so we continued
our march for an hour or two at a steady pace, without the slightest
alarm or molestation. At last, our path lay through a narrow pass or
defile in the mountains, and we were rapidly drawing near to the
rendezvous. We now found it necessary to move with the utmost caution,
for the path was rugged and narrow, and there was an eeriness about the
place which was suggestive of anything uncanny. Huge boulders frequently
confronted us, looming up out of the darkness so suddenly as quite to
take my breath away. Oswald and I were a trifle ahead of the others, and
were discussing to ourselves as to what could be the purpose of the
Prince, in summoning at so unpropitious a time the Saxon witan.

"Does the Prince intend to take up arms, think you, my lord?" said I to
Oswald.

"I expect little from the Atheling, Father, of that sort of thing. He is
fickle, cowardly, and dissolute into the bargain. He dallied at the
court of Malcolm at our last effort at York, until the cause was lost;
and he sped him back again, and never stayed to strike a single blow. I
am afraid some hare-brained purpose moves him, or some petty ambition
which is unworthy of a prince, and which he will not back with any force
of character, or any persistence. He will simply provoke a revolt which
cannot be successful, whilst at the very first repulse he will vanish,
and leave his unhappy followers to the relentless extermination policy
of William."

"You have no faith in revolt, I think?"

"None whatever. It is absolutely hopeless. If we had but had a leader at
York, brave and skilful as our last King Harold, and one who could have
united us, the thing was half assured. But now Saxon graves hold
prisoner for ever the flower of our people; and to attempt to offer an
organised opposition to the Norman forces--why, it were sheer madness.
The only two points in the kingdom where any show of resistance is made,
is our own little colony, and in Lincolnshire, where Hereward still
precariously holds out."

"But does not the Prince know this, think you? Or is he incapable of
grasping the situation?"

"The Prince, I have already intimated, is not a factor worth considering
for a moment. I very strongly suspect that Sigurd is at the bottom of
this. He, I believe, has stirred the Prince up either to ambition or to
jealousy, and I should not wonder if I were arraigned as traitor as a
preliminary to some madcap exploit of Sigurd's. Do not be in the least
surprised if this gathering ends in dire mischief and disunion."

"What is that?" we both exclaimed in a breath, as we saw the figure of a
man dart from behind a huge boulder, and swiftly run along the pass
ahead of us.

"I like not that," said Oswald. "He has no friendly motive, I warrant;"
and he at once drew his sword, and called Wulfhere. "Your Grace had
better take second rank," said he to me. Then, halting a moment till the
company drew near, he addressed them.

"Men, have all your weapons ready."

Immediately every swordsman's blade gleamed in the darkness, and every
archer's bow was unslung, and an arrow affixed.

"Rear guard!" said he, in an undertone.

"Aye, aye!" responded two gruff voices, which I knew to be Badger's and
Bretwul's.

"Beware! and be ready; and keep close up. Now, men, let us move steadily
forward."

So we pressed slowly and steadily forward, Oswald and Wulfhere passing
no boulder or obstruction without first carefully peering behind it to
see if any foe ambushed there. Suddenly there was a halt, the sword of
Oswald was uplifted, and I could descry a muffled human figure standing
in the centre of the path.

"Who art thou?" said Oswald. "Speak, or I will cleave thee from head to
foot."

"Listen!" said the figure. "I am the shadow of a vanishing race. When
Saxon hates Saxon and is greedier than greedy hawk for Saxon's blood;
and when Saxon loves Norman habits, and makes friends of the hated
oppressor; what hope is there of a restoration of the old race! If the
Fates have decreed it, well--'tis enough. I only ask for a grave in some
lonely spot, where the groans of my people will not disturb my long
repose. But beware, Saxons! there are fierce enemies abroad--Saxon, too.
Beware! The would-be avenger has a sharp sword, and will not stay his
hand. So beware! the swoop of the eagle is swift and strong, and his
talons are sharp."

With that, the strange figure turned and fled along the pass with the
speed of a mountain roe.

"That is a strange visitant," I said. "The voice might be the voice of a
woman. I almost fancied I had heard it before."

"In any case, it is the voice of a friend. The warning is unmistakable;
the enemy to be dreaded is Saxon also," said Oswald.

I began to wish most devoutly that the night were past. My nerves were
quite unstrung, and the yelp of a fox, or wolf, in the vicinity, the
flap-flap, of the night-owl's wing, or the scurrying footsteps of the
rabbits, set me in a violent tremble. Oswald headed the party forward,
though I would most gladly have called a halt, and waited for the clay.
We quickly found that our troubles were not yet past, for not a quarter
of a mile had been traversed since our last visitant, when suddenly, and
without warning, we were beset behind and before by armed men, who
hurled themselves upon us with the fury of wild beasts. Oswald had only
time to raise his shield to save himself from the furious stroke of some
powerful enemy. Before I had time to realise it, friend and foe were
laying about them with the fury of madmen. No sooner did I grasp the
situation than immediately I rushed to the front, though it was at the
imminent peril of my life. Lifting up the sacred emblem of my office, I
cried,--

"Peace! In God's name, I charge peace!"

At the sight of the blessed cross the assailants recoiled a pace or two.

"Who are you?" I cried. "Saxon or Norman?"

"They are Saxon," said Oswald. "I know well who aimed the blows at my
life. 'Tis Sigurd, one professing to be of our nation."

"I am not of thy nation, dastardly renegade, dancing attendance upon
Norman wenches, and warring in silken hose."

"If I warred with as little sense and as little skill as thyself, I
should soon be as impotent as thou art, and have never a Saxon left me
to lead to battle."

"Sigurd," said I, in as authoritative tone as I could command, and still
holding up the emblem of peace and goodwill to men, "I charge you, in
God's name, that you call off your men, and cease this fratricidal
strife."

"What care I, monk," said he fiercely, "for thy God? He is the God of
cowards, and not of warriors."

But having breathed out this defiance, he gathered up a wounded comrade
who had felt the keenness of Wulfhere's sword, and, without uttering
another word, he headed his men for the hills.

"Now, my lord," said I, "what is to be done? This, I fear, is only a
precursor of trouble and discord at our witan. I would you were willing
even now to beat a retreat, nor take further risks to yourself and men,
in so bootless an errand.

"The Prince professedly has summoned me, and I would not draw back until
fully assured that mutual council is profitless," said Oswald.

"Let me go forward, my lord, and meet the Prince. I think my sacred
office will protect me. If I think good will come of this gathering, I
will communicate with you."

"No, Father; no man shall ever say I failed to respond to the call of my
Prince, despisable though I believe him to be. Nor will my duty to my
race and to my country permit me to stand aloof from this witan, for God
knows we have need both of council and of all the wisdom left to us.
But, nevertheless, I have no faith in this gathering. The Prince, I
doubt me, is an indolent sensualist, and, like all weak-minded men, most
easily provoked into jealousy. The ominous figure we have just met is
deeply involved in this scheme, I am now sure. A sturdy, valorous man,
and a foeman of direst sort, but utterly incapable of moderation. He
cherishes a mortal hatred of me, and I now know that I shall take my
life in my hand when I enter the council; but that is a risk which gives
me no uneasiness. So let us advance, for the light, I see, is breaking
over the tops of the mountains, and very soon we shall have the day."

So, nerving ourselves for any contingency, we continued our march. This
had now become much pleasanter, and infinitely easier, in consequence of
the approach of day.

By-and-by we drew aside into a sheltered dell, in order to partake of
our morning meal, which we despatched as hastily as possible, in order
that we might reach the rendezvous early. We had not journeyed far,
however, before we were accosted by a man, who emerged from behind a
heap of stones at the head of the pass, and surveyed us narrowly.

"Saxons?" said he.

"Aye, Saxons all," we replied.

"What say ye?"

"Down with the Normans!" we replied.

"Right," said he. "Down with the Normans!" Then he gave us sundry
directions as to the nearest route to the place of meeting. We found
this route to be again somewhat difficult; for such a stern, wild
country it is difficult to imagine, much more to describe. We again
entered a narrow defile between two frowning and rugged hills, and in a
little while this defile opened out into a magnificent,
amphitheatre-like vale, enclosed with lofty peaks and rugged hills on
every hand, whilst below us there lay a magnificent sheet of water in
the centre of the valley, with thick woods running around it; the bald
and boulder-strewn hills towering high above all, most imposing in their
rugged grandeur and might. Underneath them, the valley was most
bewitching in the loveliness of its umbrageous woods. As outlets to this
beautiful valley, there were but the pass we had descended, and another
narrow defile at the foot of the lake, where the water made its exit.
Involuntarily we came to halt. Indeed, the prospect before us was at
once so wild, and yet so charming, that we could not but stand and gaze,
enchanted with the scene.

"Now, Father," said Oswald, "what think you of Lakesland?"

"Well," said I, "lovely as our beloved Craven is, it pales before this
magnificent country."

"Yes; and the strength of it! Had Sigurd but a tithe of moderation and
self-restraint, there are no Norman forces in this Northumberland that
could drive him out."

Well, we resumed our march by rounding the head of the lake by a
difficult and tangled forest path. This done, we continued our journey
down the opposite side of the valley and along the side of the lake,
until eventually we were taken in hand by one of a group of men,
evidently set for the purpose, and by him we were conducted to a
yeoman's dwelling, embowered in trees of massive girth on all sides. The
habitation was similar to the rough but substantial dwellings we were
all familiar with. There were some considerable outbuildings and an
enclosure carefully fenced round by a lofty wall, and evidently intended
for the protection of the sheep and cattle at night, during the winter
months; for the wolves were wont to pack, sometimes in considerable
numbers, and become very daring and vicious, when the pinch of hunger
was upon them.

As soon as we entered this enclosure, we found there was assembled
already a goodly company of men of various grades, all of them armed to
the teeth. Many of them were evidently Saxons who had held considerable
positions in the land prior to the coming of the Normans, though now
evidently much broken. The scared and suspicious looks with which they
scrutinised every new-comer, told plainly that they were much used to
treachery, and familiar with double-dealing. There were also numbers who
were clearly men of war. The look of defiance on their countenances, and
the well-stocked quivers over their shoulders, told plainly they were
chiefs of the bold outlaws who lived by the might of their trusty
swords, and their long bows. No one could misunderstand their fierce and
daring attitude.

There were some also who, by their armour, had evidently learned
something of the methods of war pursued by the Normans. Indeed, as we
have said, before the coming of William, large numbers of the Normans
had thronged the court of the pious Edward, and Saxon noblemen in goodly
numbers had practised the joust at tournaments, adopting Norman weapons,
affecting a budding errantry, and talking Norman French. There was here
also a goodly number of the humbler ranks; for, according to old Saxon
law, not only freemen, but even villeins and churls had the right of
representatives at the witanagemot, or council. Oswald immediately
joined himself to a company of these men of knightly appearance, many of
whom he knew, having fought side by side with them at York.

Sigurd I quickly espied, standing with another group of the old stock,
rude, unlettered, and primitive in habit and dress. I could easily see,
without seeming to notice or observe them narrowly, that these men
viewed with no favourable eye what they were wont to call the pranking
of Norman manners and dress on the part of Oswald and the others I have
spoken of. It was plainly to be seen, also, that Sigurd had done
something to inflame their minds against Oswald, for they eyed him
savagely and suspiciously.

I proceeded, however, at once to the house place, to make my obedience
to Prince Edgar, who, with certain of his personal friends, awaited the
assembling of the members of the witan. The Prince was dressed in a rich
velvet dress, with elaborate fringing of silk, and for a head-dress the
hat and feather worn by Norman courtiers. He was also accompanied by a
Norman favourite, a most truculent parasite, of a vain and dissipated
appearance, and, as I thought, a very unsuitable companion for a prince
who preferred claims to the Saxon throne.

Elaborate arrangements had evidently been made for display, and for the
comfort and luxury of the Prince. He was accompanied by his cook, his
valet, and several serving-men; whilst he had, with infinite trouble to
the servants, brought with him wines, and delicacies, and dainties,
which were to me no good augury, and which, do as I would, I could not
but despise in one who made pretence of so desperate an enterprise as
the overthrow of the Norman rule in England. For, view it as we might, a
most desperate enterprise it most surely was.

At the appointed hour for the council to begin, a chair was brought out
of doors, and placed in such a position that its occupant could command
a view of the whole company. Over this chair a richly-embroidered cover
was thrown, and the Prince immediately took possession of it; whilst the
Norman favourite came behind, and ostentatiously placed a crown upon his
head. This burlesque of royalty was expected to produce a shout of loyal
enthusiasm from the assembled company; but, with the exception of his
own followers, not a whisper of applause greeted it, though the marks of
derision on the countenances of many of the Saxons were open and
undisguised.

Now, as the senior ecclesiastic present, it became my lot to read what
the Prince was pleased to call the "Royal Proclamation," calling this
meeting of the witan, which being done, the Prince next addressed the
company. In pompous and affected tones he said,--

"Reverend fathers, valiant knights and liegemen, I have called together
my faithful witan to consider the state of our unhappy country, and what
may best be done for the recovery of my rights as the lawful King of
England. To this end I seek your advice; and not only so, but I further
lay my commands upon you, as my faithful subjects, liegemen, and
vassals, to help me in this enterprise. To this end I would further
insist that it is necessary that you should lay aside all purposes of
individual self-assertion, and join yourselves and your forces to the
general movement. Now, whilst speaking on this head, I may say, with
shame and regret, it has been reported to me that sundry knights, of
whom I expected better things, are not true to our cause, but are acting
without regard to the claims of myself as the lawful King of England,
and are setting up a separate authority; warring according to methods
not sanctioned by me or my faithful witan. I hear there are those who
are willing to forfeit their allegiance to me, and, for their own
personal ends, going even so far as to seek a servile alliance with our
foes, to the betrayal of the Saxon cause. Now let it be known to you
that I claim the undivided allegiance of all Saxons, and that I purpose
with rigour to punish all traitors to my cause and to my kingdom. I have
been too long slighted and set at naught by my lieges and vassals, and I
would know what of it? There are loyal men and true in your ranks, I
know, who despise and hate such factious conduct as much as I do myself;
and I call upon all who can bear testimony to this flagrant disloyalty
on the part of certain of my subjects, to stand forth and declare it at
this council, for I purpose with utmost rigour to punish all factionists
and traitors who are cringingly seeking alliances with the Norman foe."

At this invitation Sigurd stepped from the ranks, and said,--

"Puissant Prince, if it be your will, I have a charge to make against
Oswald the Ealdorman, son of Ulfson, who is now present. As he well
knows, I have made this charge to his face, that he has built a fortress
for himself and all such churls and freemen as are willing to
acknowledge his chieftainship. I charge him also with speaking
slightingly of your Highness's valour, and your ability to regain your
rightful throne. I charge him also with endeavouring to enter into
cowardly alliance with the Norman foe--promising, if certain meagre
concessions be made to him, he will withhold his followers from
rebellion, and all endeavours to resist the Normans. I charge him with
attempting to gain a dishonourable alliance with the house of De
Montfort. Which several charges I have attempted to make good at the
sword's point. And I call upon him now to answer for it with his life,
as all traitors and trucemakers should."

"If Oswald the Ealdorman be present, I call upon him to make such answer
as best he can against the charges preferred by our valiant and trusty
knight, Sigurd the Saxon Dane, who, by his fealty to us and his zeal for
the Saxon cause, has won our hearty trust and confidence."

At this summons Oswald stepped forth a pace or two, and, removing his
helmet and visor, said, in firm and unfaltering tones,--

"Sire, may I be bold enough to ask if this is the purpose for which
valiant knights and lieges have been summoned from far and near?"

"Silence, dog! and answer the charges made against thee! Then we shall
consider the weightier matters appertaining to our realm. But we will
have an answer to these charges."

"The charges, sire, made against me by the Jarl, are the creation of his
own heated brain; and the reason he has brought them hither is because
he failed ignobly to make them good with his weapons. I decline
altogether to wrangle out with him this petty personal quarrel in
presence of this assembly. If we are to consider matters of greater
moment, matters which concern our country and the present desperate
state of the Saxon cause, then I am prepared to offer my poor services,
either in this council or in face of our common foe."

"Well said, Sir Knight!" cried a gruff voice, which belonged to the
leader of a party of knights who had entered the enclosure during the
foregoing dialogue, and whose seedy and travel-stained garments, and
rusty arms and accoutrements, bore ample token of much exposure and much
rough usage.

"Sirrah!" shouted the Prince, waxing wroth at the bold front and
fearless language of Oswald, "dost thou presume to answer thy King after
this fashion? By my halidame, if this continues there will be never a
scurvy clown in my kingdom who will not think he may beard his Prince
with impunity. But I will know whither all this is tending. I have long
had my eye upon that boorish and untamed son of Earl Leofric, whom men
call Hereward, who is carrying on warfare in the Fen country--palpably
for his own ends and his own glory, for he never so much as acknowledges
my sovereignty or sends his dutiful submission to me. Now thou dost
presume to imitate the conduct of the braggart Hereward, and must needs
collect an army for thy own personal advantage, and not for the glory of
thy Prince. Men of my faithful witan, I call upon you to note this, for
I have determined I will rid the Saxon cause of all such disloyal
traitors."

"'Tis pity, sire," said Oswald, in tones in which anger and contempt
were mingled, "that you never thought it worth your while to collect an
army for yourself, or at least to place yourself at the head of one
collected for you. We would fain see what kind of stuff our Prince is
made of. Will you tell this witan, Prince, where you were when so many
good lives were lost at York in your cause?"

"Well spoken, sir!" shouted the gruff voice, with even more emphasis
than before.

"Dost thou call in question my valour, villain!" roared the Prince. "By
our Lady, I'll have no more of thy effrontery, dog! Disarm him, loyal
knights!"

Immediately half a dozen of the Saxon leaders sprang forward at the
bidding of the Prince; but they quailed before Oswald as they saw the
broadsword whipped from its scabbard, and perform a swift circle in the
air.

"Here's to thee, with all my heart, Sir Knight! I like thy metal!" said
the stranger knight, as he sprang to Oswald's side, brandishing a huge
sword; whilst his followers quickly ranged themselves on the same side,
ready for the fray.

"Treason! treason!" almost screamed the Prince, in abject terror,
starting from his seat and preparing to beat a retreat.

I gently laid my hand on his shoulder, and said, "Have patience, sire.
These men mean no harm, only they are not wont to receive such harsh
rebukes."

This seemed to reassure him, for, addressing the unknown knight, he
said,--

"Who art thou who thus boldly takes sides with this traitor to my
cause?"

The stranger made no answer, but slowly removed his headgear.
Immediately a score of voices shouted, "The Wake! the Wake! 'Tis
Hereward!"

"Yes," said Hereward. "I am the Wake, whom thou hast been cowardly
charging with treason. Hark! Dost thou think Hereward is going to peril
life and limb, or waste precious lives, to set such a dolt on the throne
of England as thou hast proved thyself this day; and on the former
occasion, when we met at York, for instance? Marry, no! A niddering who
flies for his life at the first approach of danger is not fit to wield a
sceptre in these lands. A Prince who fosters faction, and is pettishly
jealous of braver men than himself, had better turn monk; a _shaven_
crown would better become thee than the Crown of England."

"By the blessed Virgin, I vow I will humble thy pride, dog, ere I have
done with thee! I will not be bullied in my own witan, though thou be a
son of Earl Leofric!"

"Ah, well," said Hereward, with a sneer, "thou art of the wrong metal
thyself, but if thou hast a knight brave enough to cross a sword on thy
behalf, let him stand forth, and I will oblige him with a bout; 'twould
be a little diversion in this fool's errand of ours."

"I will champion the Prince, braggart; with a curse on thee for thy
base-hearted treachery to thy wife Torfrida!" shouted the brave and
choleric Sigurd, rushing forward and brandishing his sword in the face
of Hereward.

Instantly there was such a clamour of voices, clash of swords, and dire
confusion, in the arena, that I was terrified at this tumult of fierce
and angry passions. Oswald and I rushed in between these fierce
combatants and called aloud for peace, which with the utmost difficulty
we obtained. Seeing the strange state of frenzy in which most present
were, I urgently requested that all further discussion should cease for
the day.




CHAPTER XXX.

PRINCE AND PARASITE.

    "Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
    As shallow streams run dimpling all the way."

    Pope.


"I say, Alred!" exclaimed the Atheling to the Norman parasite who had
accompanied him hither, as they sat drinking wine the same evening,
"what sayest thou to the baiting thy Prince has had to-day? I have no
stomach for more. Malediction on them!"

"Heyday, so say I! Scrambling over moor and bog hither was bad enough,
but parleying with quarrelsome thanes and with vulgar braggart churls
such as these, I would not endure with a kingdom thrown into the
bargain. Your Majesty probably thinks different."

"Whew! Not I, Alred! These garlic-bred swine have no more regard for the
person of a prince than for a scurvy villein. A malediction on them!
They would pick my bones within a week, were I to attempt to rule them.
By the bye, that huge Danish boor stood by me. I wish he had been at the
bottom of the sea, for all that, when he enticed me on this fool's
errand. What is the lout's name? Sigurd?"

"The same, my lord. But be advised, for at bottom he's as loutish and as
snarling as the very worst of them, and I would not trust my head in his
jaws for a moment; for as we passed him but yesterday, in our courtly
attire, I heard him under his breath snorting and grumbling like a boar
with a spear between his ribs. The churl! Would he have his Prince dress
like a scurvy swineherd?"

"Beshrew me, Alred, I never could make pretence of ruling such unwashen
clowns. And then, into the bargain, every snarling villein elects to be
king over his own starveling crew, and there would be a king for every
rood of land in England. I'll no more of it, Alred! I thank Heaven my
skin is whole to go back to Scotland with."

"A wise resolve, I swear. Make further oath of fealty to William, and
take his subsidies. Then heigho! for a jolly life at the court of
Malcolm! or, what is better still, to Rouen, where summer's sun tarries
longer, and winter's frosts pinch not the daintiest fingers. There
dark-eyed beauties are kinder, and easier in the wooing. That is Alred's
philosophy. Canst thou gainsay the wisdom of it, my Prince?"

"Alred, thou know'st well the joints of my armour; thou hast pierced a
vulnerable spot. I vow thou hast waked one pleasant memory, sweet Alred;
and there is but one sunny spot in this dreary wilderness of
insubordination and braggadocia."

"What is it, my Prince? Has some nymph awoke the tender passion of love
in thy breast?"

"Rightly guessed, Alred! Did'st thou mark the fair Saxon, whose fiery
zeal for our cause has been so marked. I did not fail to notice she
marked me much and often, and I flatter myself her admiration extends
not only to our cause, but also to our royal person. How sayest thou? By
our Lady, a prize like that would be some recompense for our sickening
and intolerable journey over the wretched moors atween us and Scotland."

"Thou hast the eye of an eagle, puissant Prince, or, to be more correct,
the eye of a vulture. I had hoped this pretty bird would fall to my net.
But alas! thy eye has seen this comely virgin, and I am undone, I trow.
Why, I have already pranked myself before her with some success; but now
I shall lose my quarry."

"Come, come, my jackal! don't despise thine office. Why, man, I never
grudge thy picking the bones, when our royal self hath fed."

"Small thanks is enow for what is left when your gorge rises at
it,--with my humble submission."

"Enough, enough! Canst thou get speech of her? Thou canst bear a message
which should be gratefully received. Tell her her Prince would like to
tender her his special thanks for her great zeal and devotion to his
cause; and invite her hither."

"Have a care, my Prince, and bait your hook daintily. Think you you will
catch your fish with the bare hook? By all the saints, I tell you I saw
forked lightning playing about her eyes when I incautiously gave play to
a little premature pleasantry. Nothing but an imperturbable and brazen
countenance prevented my being transfixed with a thunderbolt. It would
be better to make a great show of bravery, and talk of plans for the
recovery of the kingdom; throwing in battles, sieges, and valorous
hotch-potch of that sort, by the bushel. You will have to tie this filly
with a pretty long tether, or you are undone, for she's high-spirited
and mettlesome enough for anything."

"Good, my ambassador-in-chief; thy wisdom never fails. Would I had my
kingdom, sweet Alred, if 'twere only that I might make thee lord high
chancellor! To be forewarned is to be forearmed: the net shall be a
silken one. But now not another word, for expectancy is on tiptoe. Do
thine errand, and I will bestow on thee further tokens of my regard if
good luck go with thee."

"Pardon me, sire! If I am qualified to be lord high chancellor, I am
qualified to give a little further advice in this matter."

"What is it, Alred? Prithee, come to the point at once: none of thy
sermons. When I am king thou shalt be court preacher, if thou affect
that office; but spare me now, an' thou lovest me."

"Well, here it is. When fair maids of this quality have favours to
grant, mark me, they will have it done daintily. Faugh! What do you take
her for? Don't trust to second-hand dealings too much. Vulgar eyes
looking on at it! Pshaw! What a stomach you credit her with! Listen.
This must be a grand passion; you are entranced, bewitched, dying for
very love of the matchless queen of your heart! Mark me, pitch your
notes high if you would have this pretty bird come fluttering to your
bower. Why, canst thou not rhyme a maudlin verse or two? Come, cudgel
thy brains, and I will help thee with a stave; here are writing
materials."

"Ha, ha, ha! I like thy notions. Come, thou shalt draw us up a rhyme,
such as the gallant knights of Normandy address to their lady-loves. By
my soul, I am three parts Norman, and the other part is not Saxon. So
I'll superscribe no screeching Saxon verse. I declare 'tis a language
which is a cross between the screech of a witch and the grunt of a hog.
Something elegant, or I'll none of it, mark me, Alred."

"Well, it shall be something lofty, I warrant, as becomes a prince. So
here goes:--

    "Fair maid of the flaxen hair,
    And eyes of the heavenly blue,"----

"Bravo! Ha, ha, ha! Go it, sweet Alred? 'Tis fine! I'll sing that at my
lady's tent door. Get me thy guitar."

"Pray don't interrupt me, my King. The poetic fire is burning; don't let
us miss the glow of it.

    "Fair maid of the flaxen hair,
    And eyes of the heavenly blue,
    Whose graces bewitchingly rare
    Have sweetly enchanted my view.

    "Oh! haste to thy Prince ever true,
    Whose adored one ever thou art.
    Thy presence shall sweetly renew
    The joy to my languishing heart."

"Bravo! By my soul, Alred, I swear 'tis fine! 'Twould fetch St.
Elizabeth from her pedestal."

"Well, if it will do, draw us up your proposal atop of it, sire, and
I'll try its effect upon this dainty bird of a Saxon."

"Nay, marry! not I, Alred. I'll not spoil thy elegant rhyme by adding
to't my bungling prose. Finish up thy letter handsomely, as 'tis begun,
and I'll affix my seal."

"By our Lady, I'll promise many things, then, which thou wilt not
perform, I warrant. Here it is; listen to't,--

     "'FAIR SAXON,--Thy Prince is entranced, bewitched, by thy
     incomparable loveliness. My throne, my kingdom, were nothing
     compared with thee. Come to me; I vow to make thee the proudest
     dame in England. Fly to the arms of your impatient, expectant
     lover,

     "'EDGAR THE ATHELING.'

"Now affix your sign-manual, sire. I warrant this would make the hearts
of half the damsels at the court of Malcolm frantic with delight. Mark
me, this falcon will strike his quarry quick; if not, I vow I will not
fly another this side Martinmas. Wish me luck, and a share in the spoil
anon, my Prince."

So saying, Alred buttoned up his doublet, buckled on his sword, and,
with the rakish air of an unprincipled Norman gallant, he swaggered off
to the tent of Ethel. There, after many foppish grimaces, and much
foolish adulation, he delivered the missive into her hands; adding to it
suggestions and explanations which Ethel scarce comprehended, and we
cannot chronicle.




CHAPTER XXXI.

PRINCE AND VIKING.

    "This hand, to tyrants ever sworn the foe,
    For freedom only deals the deadly blow;
    Then sheathes in calm repose the vengeful blade,
    For gentle peace in freedom's hallowed shade."

    John Quincy Adams.


My vespers were done, and I was bethinking me of retiring to rest, when
I heard the plaintive voice of Ethel beseeching me to let her come
within my tent. I had scarce time to reply when the poor child came
rushing into my tent, bathed in tears, and in great distress. I soothed
her as best I could. Then I gently inquired as to the cause of her
grief, when, without answering me, she thrust into my hand the letter of
the Prince. "I scarce know what he means," she said, burying her face in
her hands.

I read the letter with a burning sense of shame and indignation, and my
heart ached for this poor child who, in the purity of her patriotism and
her unquenchable love for her country and the Saxon cause, had braved
this rough journey and its exposure, in the hope that her woman's
devotion might nerve the arms of the remnant of Saxon leaders still left
to the cause. But this ghastly unmasking of a Prince who was false,
fickle, shameless, and altogether worthless, was a cruel wound to her--a
wound that would fester and rankle, but was destined never to heal
again. She quietly lifted her tear-stained face, and timidly inquired,
"Is it as I feared, Father?"

"Alas! my child," said I, "'tis a vile, dishonouring missive, and
altogether without excuse. To come from a prince, and from a would-be
king also--'tis sad to think of it."

"My country! my unhappy country! what will become of thee?" was the
heart-broken exclamation as she fell at my feet, her long, fair hair
falling in dishevelled tresses around.

"Comfort thee, my poor child," said I, though I scarce had heart or hope
for anything. I endeavoured to calm her with such soothing, hopeful
words as I had at command; but I saw that words were in vain.

"Father," said she, "my life is a weary burden. My people's woes are
breaking my heart. I had vainly hoped that our scattered and hunted
people might have been rallied by the presence amongst them of their
Prince--that factions would have come together, and a bold stand might
have been made for liberty; but to find my Prince so poor in valour and
so rich in all cowardly and licentious feeling--so bereft of honour and
chivalry as to offer dishonourable proposals to a forlorn and wretched
girl like myself--this is more than I can bear. I have watched and
prayed these two nights, hoping that favouring Heaven would smile upon
us again, and upon this council. But as I watched in lonely vigil, I
could hear no answering voice, saving the soughing of the night-winds in
the passes of these lonely hills; and they seemed to bear no message to
me, saving a message of desolation and death. Is there any rest, any
joy, for one like me in life, Father? Surely the grave is the only hope
for me!"

"My poor child," said I, "let us not think of death until He who gave us
life shall say 'It is enough.' Let us obey, and submit to the chastening
hand of our Father in heaven. Perhaps we err greatly in cherishing
thoughts of resistance and of bloodshed. Let us rejoice that there is a
kingdom which is stable, and which shall know no end; whose Prince is
the Prince of Peace. Angels are its heralds, and saints its warriors.
Love and mercy are the twin pillars of our Prince's throne; and gentle
hands and loving hearts may battle for His supremacy. 'Tis a Kingdom in
which torn and bleeding hearts may find the herb called heartsease, and
sweet content. Into this Kingdom let us press, my child, and for it let
us contend, for the kingdoms of this world are fickle, and built up on
fraud and wrong; and they will ultimately shrivel up and pass away like
the mists of the morning, and be no more."

"I fear me, Father, that the fierce war-spirit of my ancestors reigns in
my heart. I am more than half heathen, it seems to me. I have been
hoping for revenge for a murdered father and brother, and for a ravished
country. They tell me the fair Torfrida, forsaken by her lord, this
Hereward, has taken shelter in the monastery of Crowland. Shall I join
her there? This fierce agitation is more than I can bear."

"What does thy heart say, Ethel?"

"My heart is not to be trusted, Father, for 'tis wayward and wilful, and
there is strong need for some curb, some overmastering restraint, to
crush its fierce revolt."

"Thine, I fear, Ethel, is not the nature to bear easily the constraints
of the cloister, unless it were first schooled by the iron rod of
discipline. Listen to nature's own prompting; I fancy it declares
strongly for the freer life of the camp and the field. There is scope
for activity, and I think a fair measure of protection, where Oswald is.
On his virtue, wisdom, and valour, much depends, and I believe he will
be equal to winning many privileges for us."

"Father, may I confide a maiden's secret to thee? I love him whom thou
hast named. 'Twere heaven, indeed, to share his toils and
privations--nay, even to be near him. But 'tis _agony_, and soon I fear
it will be _sin_. His heart has fallen captive to a Norman lady who
saved his life, and I know he cannot be mine. Advise me, Father, in this
sore strait, I beseech you."

"Thy love is unknown to him, my child, is it not?"

"He knows not; I could not bear it for one hour if he knew it."

"'Tis a hard lesson, my poor child, but thou mayest have to learn that
the _essence_ of love is _sacrifice_. The human heart will not be
hindered here, but will raise its own altar, free of all dictation.
Alas! full oft it must offer itself, and be both priest and victim. Many
are the sad hearts that here have offered sacrifice before thy day.
Alas! many here will offer a hopeless, heart-consuming sacrifice when
thou art gone. If it should be that there is demanded of thee a painful
act of self-renouncement, strength and fortitude are always given us
when we are minded to do a brave deed. I shall be near, my child; let us
await what Providence has in store for us calmly. Lie down upon my
couch, and rest. I will lay this matter before our people, and I will
not be long."

I immediately gathered up the letter, which had fallen at my feet, and
betook myself to the yeoman's dwelling-house, and knocked at the door.
There was immediately a hush of voices, and some one under his breath
said, "Who knocks?" "Adhelm," said I. My voice was well known to many
who were inside, and the door was opened without more ado. Gathered
here, evidently in secret conclave, were Sigurd and a number of the
followers of the Prince. Their lowering brows told me plainly that
mischief was brewing; nevertheless, I determined to execute my purpose,
come what might. The Prince said,--

"What wouldest thou have with us, reverend Father? We are now discussing
purposes of bloodshed, unfitted, I fear, for saintly ears. But if thou
wilt be brief, our royal pleasure shall be at thy service."

"I am afraid my message is one which can scarcely be welcome to your
Highness's ears; nevertheless, it is enjoined upon a bishop that he be
found faithful."

"Well, be faithful an' thou wilt, Bishop; but let not thy exordium be
drawn out any longer than is necessary. So to the point without further
prevarication, an' it please you."

"Well, to the point then, Prince," said I. "I hold in my hands an
epistle, which purports to have come from your Highness, and is
addressed to the Saxon maiden, Ethel. I would fain know if it is indeed
from yourself."

"What have I to do to answer thy impertinent questions, priest?" said
he, snatching the letter from my hands.

"Since it is so, and as I feared, I have to denounce thee, Prince, as
becomes my office; and I say fearlessly that the offering of
dishonouring proposals such as these to a virtuous and gentle maiden, is
an act of unblushing infamy, and I disown thee and thy cause."

"I am a thousand times thy debtor, dog of a priest, if thou wilt rid me
of thy presence, and of all such eavesdropping carrion, who worm
themselves into the secrets of silly wenches, to the annoyance of their
betters."

"Stay a moment, sire," said Sigurd, who was evidently in a towering
rage. "I would know further of this matter. If thou hast offered an
insult to this girl, to this Ethel, _I_ have something to say to thee,
as well as this priest. Let me see that letter," said he, striving to
take it from the Prince's hand; but the Prince hastily drew back, and
attempted to tear it in pieces. Sigurd instantly grasped him with his
iron fists, and wrung the letter from him as though he were a child;
then, handing it to me, he said, "Read it for us, priest. I have no
scholar's gear."

I took the epistle and read it in the hearing of the assembled company.
When I had finished it, Sigurd drew his sword, and stalking up to the
Prince, he said,--

"I will cut thy craven soul from thy craven body for offering this
insult to the daughter of Beowulf."

Half a dozen hands, however, immediately grasped him, and kept him from
his purpose; but, standing like a tiger at bay, his words coming hissing
through his foaming lips with tumultuous rage, he shouted,--

"I disown thee, too, dastardly villain, for I perceive there is not a
drop of honest blood, either Saxon or Skald, in thy craven body! Get
thee gone quickly, for I warn thee to pollute no longer Saxon soil with
thy loathsome, cowardly presence. And beware, too! for if to-morrow's
sun finds thee within reach of my arm, I will avenge this insult in thy
coward's blood."

I confess I could not but look with admiration on this sturdy descendant
of the Viking rovers. Though he was rough and uncouth as the wild hills
of Westmoreland, over which he had hunted and fought from his youth, yet
he loved the beautiful Ethel with a love as deep and pure as a
mother's--a love so utterly unselfish that he would willingly renounce
his hope and his claim, nor murmur if Ethel's love should find its
requital in the love of Oswald. But he was beside himself with rage when
he found that this fair Saxon, whose love was of priceless value to him,
should be deemed a fitting object of this princeling's insults. It is
needless to say that this unprincipled act alienated finally the small
remnant of Saxons who hitherto had hoped to see Edgar occupy the throne,
last filled by the valorous Harold.




CHAPTER XXXII.

BADGER ON THE ALERT.

    "A thing of shreds and patches."

    Shakespeare.


After the incidents narrated in the foregoing chapter, there followed a
scene of complete disorder. Many of those who were well affected towards
the Prince and his cause, fell away from him, and quitted the dwelling
with Sigurd and myself; and speedily the Atheling was left quite alone,
saving his personal friends, who had journeyed with him from Scotland,
and who were mostly foreigners.

Whilst this had been transpiring, most of the camp was wrapped in
profound slumber. The followers and housecarles who had accompanied
their masters, had found resting-places in the outhouses, amid the hay
and bracken which had been accumulated for the fodder and bedding of the
cattle during the winter months. But Badger was ill at ease amid it all.
Some presentiment of evil disturbed his slumbers, and he turned uneasily
again and again; finally he sprang bolt upright, and grasped his sword,
at the same time giving Wulfhere a rough shake, which thoroughly roused
him also on the instant.

"What is the matter, Badger? Anything amiss?"

"Hush! there are men astir in the camp. I warrant there is some mischief
abroad, and I'll know the bottom of it."

At that moment two men entered stealthily at the farther end, where the
horses were stalled. Wulfhere and Badger drew their swords, and
instinctively ran their fingers down the blades in the darkness. The
movements of the two men were plainly visible to the watchers, for the
moonlight streaming in through the open door showed their outline very
distinctly as they moved to and fro. Immediately the men began to saddle
several horses belonging to the Prince, and then they led them out.

"There is a move of some sort, Wulfhere, and I warrant mischief is in
it, for there are snakes about. A murrain on them! I am determined to
know what it means. You stay here," said Badger--he, at the same time,
stealing noiselessly out at the opposite end of the building.

As soon as he reached the open air, he saw, across the enclosure, that
there were lights in the dwelling; so he nimbly dodged round, keeping in
the shadow of the buildings, until he reached the rear of the house.
There, peering through a crazy, patched window, he not only saw what was
going on inside, but he overheard this conversation between the Atheling
and his favourite Alred:--

"My stomach will stand no more on't, sweet Alred. Such a ruffian,
boorish crew are not fit company for a prince. Then I believe that huge,
over-grown Norse clown would carry out his threat, and take my life in a
moment, if he got the chance. Curses on them all! Upon my soul, I wish
the Normans would swoop down upon them, and cut the vile hogs into
mincemeat."

"Bravo, Prince! That is a Heaven-sent suggestion, upon my soul!"
interjected Alred. "I match you against any one of the seven sages.
Whew! it just jumps with my humour. The Normans are in force, too, not
more than half a dozen miles away. What a _tour-de-force_ to bring the
Normans down upon them by the morning! 'Twould be a stroke of policy
William could not excel. Ah! look here--speaking of William: he would
load you with favours, and replenish your royal treasury bountifully;
then, heigho! there would always be a flowing bowl of Rhenish, or good
Canary, and the sweet blue eyes of my lady-love would sparkle again. A
fig for a kingdom, and the toiling and moiling of it! Give me the jolly
life where care sits lightly, and my own sweet will can be indulged. To
Rouen, say I again, with William's goodwill and his gold pieces!"

"Let us away, Alred! Upon my soul, revenge is sweet. You say right, too;
when one does a service for William, there follow royal gifts enow. I
would rather have a double purpose than a bootless errand, any day?
Where are the churls who are saddling the horses?"

Having overheard this speech, Badger darted back to his comrade, who was
awaiting his return impatiently.

"Heigho, Wulfhere! this princeling plots mischief. He will betray the
camp, the hound, I do believe. Come along; let us dog his footsteps."

So the pair sallied out of the enclosure in the wake of the Prince, his
parasites, and several serving-men. The party slowly threaded their way
through the woods and entered a narrow defile between precipitous hills
on either side; all the while being steadily followed by the two Saxons.
Suddenly, on one side, the mountain range came to an abrupt termination,
ending in a bold promontory running up to a point. At this juncture the
valley broadened out into magnificent proportions, and a spacious lake
of water gleamed in the darkness. Turning to the left, they skirted the
lake for a couple of miles or more. Suddenly, however, they were
confronted by a pair of Norman sentries, who challenged the party, and
some time was spent in _pourparlers_; then one of the sentries
accompanied them to the Norman encampment, not more than a quarter of a
mile away, the lurid light of their fires making visible some portions
of the Norman quarters.

Wulfhere and Badger were obliged to come to a halt, for the remaining
sentry barred their further progress, even if they dared come nearer the
encampment of the enemy. They waited and watched until they saw the
forms of the Prince and his followers come within the circle of light
thrown off by the blazing wood fires.

"Now," said Wulfhere, "there is nothing more to be done, Badger, I
think. Let us go back now, and promptly warn our friends."

"Hold there, Wulfhere; there is something more to be done. Get _thee_
back, and do thine errand. I have a little further business here, I can
see. Tell the Earl I shall be rounding the great Nab's Head about break
of day."

"What hast thou in the wind, Badger? Thou wilt be hazarding one prank
too many some of these days."

"Never fear, comrade, I know my way about, whether it be light or dark.
Besides, my business is such as would disgrace a half-bred knight like
thyself. Dost thou see, Grizzly here, and myself, have no dignity to
uphold? so we may do anything either boldly or slily, as it suits our
humour, if it only brings grist to the mill. Well, now be off. There is
no time to talk, for it only hinders business. Come, Grizzly," said
Badger, addressing his hound as soon as the form of Wulfhere was lost to
view. "You know, Grizzly, you and I are not supposed to be above
borrowing a few head of cattle, or to be too proud to do our own
droving, at a pinch."

The fact was, the lynx eyes of Badger had espied a herd of cattle lying
together under the trees by the side of the lake, although the darkness
was so deep that none but keen eyes would have detected their presence.
He had seen them at once, and instantly his nimble brain began revolving
some scheme for carrying them off.

"The cackling and talking has come to naught, as it mostly does," said
he grunting to himself; "but beshrew me if I like a bootless errand.
I'll try a cast of my own net, whether there is aught to it or not."

Now there was but one formidable obstacle in the way, and that was the
solitary sentinel who still stood at his post, and who continued slowly
pacing to and fro in a limited space.

Badger turned to the hound and addressed him, for he was in the habit of
having sundry conferences with his favourite, who had partnered him in
many a daring exploit.

"Well, Grizzly, what is to be done now? Eh, sir? We must have yon
cattle, Grizzly, come fair or come foul. There is this scurvy Norman in
the way. What are we to do with him? I think we can dispose of him
somehow or other. What say you?"

Grizzly answered by a vigorous attempt to lick Badger's chops.

"Eh, sir? I don't doubt but we can finish him off easily enough, you and
I together, Grizzly. But what will our Abbot say? Are you aware, sir,
that you and I have a sacred calling--that we belong to the monastic
order? Don't you remember the many sermons we have from our Abbot, on
loving our enemies? I don't quite see the turn of the wit in the case of
these Norman dogs, somehow or other. No doubt it is sound doctrine
enough, but bad to practise. Well, let that pass. I have a feeling,
though, I would rather not brain this fellow, if another turn will serve
as well. Now it would certainly ease my mind to do it if I caught him,
_flagrante delicto, flagrante delicto_. Grizzly, did you note, that is
the _monk_ that is speaking? You see I can mouth my Latin when it
pleases me, Grizzly. There is many a scurvy monk knows less. But I say,
Grizzly, I fancy the fellow's knees are knocking together already with
fear at being left alone, and that is very suggestive. Let us try
playing ghost with him."

So saying, Badger divested himself of his upper garments, leaving his
shoulders and the upper parts of his body exposed. Then he took the
garments and tied them deftly about the shoulders of Grizzly, giving him
a most strange and uncouth appearance. Having done this, and without
exposing themselves to view, Badger commenced to give forth, in a low
tone, the most dismal groans, and varying this by most piercing shrieks
of pain.

The Norman turned a terrified gaze in the direction from whence these
strange noises came, evidently in great trepidation and fear. Then he
darted off a few paces, as though about to beat a hasty retreat. This
was enough. Badger saw at once that the ruse would answer. So, without
more ado, he dropped down on all fours, and, accompanied by the dog,
each of them presenting a most unearthly and fantastic appearance, they
started off in the direction of the sentinel, the groans and shrieking
of Badger deepening, and becoming most diabolical in tone and intensity.

The Norman for one moment turned a scared gaze on the advancing figures,
which appeared to him to be none other than the Saxon devil Zernebock,
of which many Normans went in mortal dread. Then, with the speed of the
wind, he took to his heels and dashed off towards the camp. Quick as
thought, Badger freed the dog from his trammels, and bade him fetch the
cattle. In a very few minutes he was making off, all speed, with the
herd.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

DOG ROBS DOG.

    "I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff."

    Sir Henry Wotton.


Badger, with his valuable plunder, had four good hours start ere
daybreak, which was as early as the Normans would be likely to discover
their loss. It was slow and tedious work driving cattle through the
passes, and the wooded country, and the most that he could hope for in
the way of start would be eight or ten miles. But there was considerable
probability that the enemy would plan a night attack upon the Saxons,
and in that case, if the loss was discovered by those remaining in camp,
they would be quite unprepared for pursuit; and if no start could be
made by them before the return of the expedition, then he would have his
prize safely aboard the schooner.

In the meantime, Wulfhere, summarily dismissed by his comrade, returned
to the Saxon camp, ruminating upon the strange vagaries of Badger's wit.
He nothing doubted but that some sufficient purpose, if not some daring
exploit, dictated his erratic movements. When he reached the encampment,
he lost no time in rousing his chieftain, Oswald. After a brief
consultation, they decided at once to rouse the whole camp. Then a
council of war was held by the leaders. Hereward and Sigurd were for
forming an ambush, and trying a brush with the foe; but the more prudent
were very doubtful about the success of such a movement, seeing the
Normans were far more numerous than they. Ultimately, it was decided not
to risk an engagement. So hasty preparations were made, and in less than
an hour's time the camp was broken up, and each party chose its own
route for retreat.

"Wulfhere," said Oswald, when we had collected our little party, and had
started home. "I miss Badger. Is he on before?"

"Well, I almost think he will be, my lord, though I left him lurking
within a bowshot of a Norman sentinel, and within sight of their camp
fires. What he had in his head I know not. Some crank, I warrant, by
means of which he will get the best of the enemy."

"He will be venturing too far, I doubt, some day, and he will find he
has got his head in a noose which all his ingenuity will not enable him
to slip."

"No fear, my lord. It will take all the wit in the Norman camp to put
him in a corner where there is not room enough for him to wriggle out.
There is something in that old pate of his which will make him a match
for them all, and something to spare. I have an opinion he will
circumvent grim Death with some dodge or other."

"Well, he will know that we shall be bound homewards, I suppose, and he
will follow when it suits his humour to do so."

"Nay, I fancy he will be ahead of us even now. He gave me instructions
that he would be rounding the Great Nab's head at daybreak, so we may
hope to meet with him ere long."

Thus we kept steadily pressing on through the darkness, and ere long the
beams of the morning sun shot up athwart the eastern sky, and our march
became much more easy and pleasant. By-and-by we rounded the bluff
promontory indicated by Badger, and known as the "Great Nab's head;" and
shortly we espied Badger, and his comrade Grizzly, seated most
contentedly on a mossy bank, Badger regaling himself with a hunch of
bread, and salt beef, whilst Grizzly, foraging for himself, was putting
the finishing touches to a rabbit he had killed.

"Well, Badger," said the Earl, "alive and well, I see. What exploit have
you been perpetrating? Reconnoitring the Norman camp, eh?"

"Reconnoitring, my lord? Mercy on us, no!--if that means sitting on a
boulder like a moulting fowl, and gazing at nothing in particular. I
never reconnoitre; that means _can_ anything be done. I always _know_
something can be done if one sets about it."

"Very good philosophy, Badger--well to the point. What have you been
_doing_, then? What is the trick this time? and have you been found out
for once in a way?"

"Just come with me, my lord, and we'll see."

So saying, he led us over the shoulder of the hill, revealing to us a
lovely little dell where there was a stream of fresh water and an
abundance of fresh green herbage. Here, also, were about twenty head of
cattle browsing lustily.

"There, my lord. I thought we should have a bootless errand, for the
wagging of tongues and the cackling of geese I never could understand;
they are both pointless, and equally profitable. I never was a great
hand at crooning since I was a baby, so I give that business up. But I
owe a grudge to the Normans, and I borrowed these few cattle from them.
They will be of service, I trow, on the top of the hill. And if you find
you don't need them, why, there's no harm done--send them back again."

"Well, every man wields his own staff best, Badger. You do credit to
yours. But I think we had better be moving, or the Normans may fetch
them before they get to their journey's end."

"Quite ready, my lord. We can now reach the boat without another halt,
if the Normans do not dock our tails in the meantime. Come, Grizzly, the
drover's trade is a thriving trade in these times. The thieving Scot and
the robber Dane have turned over their business to honester men. I never
dreamed it was so respectable and well-spoken a trade as I find it to be
now."

So saying, Badger and his hound set about collecting the beasts, and
soon we were able to resume our march with as much celerity as we could
command. Everybody seemed anxious to hear Badger's recital of his
exploit, which he told us with much grim humour, and evidently much
inward relish.

We were able to reach our destination without molestation from the
enemy, their energies being fully occupied by other matters until we had
got clear away. It was thought desirable not to embark until nightfall,
unless we were compelled to do so; for it was more than probable, had we
put out to sea, the movements of the vessel would have been observed by
the enemy. A gangway, however, was laid ready for emergencies, whilst
scouts were posted at points of observation, thus making it impossible
for us to be surprised. During the day, the cattle were permitted to
graze in the wood near, and when the shades of night gathered about us,
they were driven aboard, and we weighed anchor and stood across the bay.
Ultimately we reached our destination without mishap, though we had, in
consequence of our cattle, to travel with the utmost circumspection.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

WILD DARING OF SIGURD THE VIKING.

    "When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war."

    Nathaniel Lee.


It was a most grievous disappointment to Sigurd when the Saxon leaders
finally decided not to attack the Normans, and thus checkmate them as
they sought to capture the Saxons whilst in council. When he saw that
there was no hope of the Saxons uniting in this, he appealed most
importunately to Hereward to join him, but in vain. When everything
failed, so insatiate was his thirst for vengeance that he determined to
attack them single-handed, trusting to his prowess, and his familiarity
with the passes and the mountain retreats, to secure for himself
immunity from capture.

"If I had but a dozen of my hardy mountaineers, I would lead these
Normans a dance before this day was done!" he muttered, as he saw the
remnant of the Saxons departing. His hatred of the Normans had so eaten
into his soul, that every opportunity to attack them was a favourable
one, and he was ready for any scheme of wild daring if only Norman blood
could be spilled. So, alone, he grimly and resolutely strode up the
pass, until he reached a spot he deemed suitable for his purpose.
Boulders and bushes intermingled thickly on one side; on the other was a
precipice--a sheer drop of twenty feet into a trout-stream, which
threaded its way amid limestone boulders.

Behind him the gaunt, gloomy mountains shot up far away, their lower
parts covered thickly with bracken, bushes, and boulders; behind and
amid which a retreating figure need never be exposed for more than a
second at a time. Looking around for a second or two, he gave a grunt of
satisfaction, and then he climbed a few yards from the path, and laid
himself down amid the bracken and deep grass, with his broad sword
unsheathed and laid by his side, ready for the fray. Thus he waited for
the oncoming Norman soldiery. For more than an hour he lay thus in
ambush, with wild and turbulent passions fermenting in his breast, and a
wild look in his eyes--reason for the moment dethroned by this one
overmastering passion.

Presently on the still night air was borne the sound of stealthy
footsteps. Sigurd bounded to his feet as the first sounds broke upon his
ear. He fixed tightly his helmet, closed his visor, and adjusted his
coat of link-mail, which had swung a little awry. Then, grasping his
powerful broadsword, he made a vigorous lunge at an invisible foe, and
then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he took his stand behind a massive
boulder, flanked on the side next the advancing foe with a thick network
of shrubs, through which, however, he could watch the movements of the
Normans. The darkness was ebbing away fast. Already the morning's sun
had smitten the head of mighty Helvellyn in the distance, and bathed his
kingly head in a halo of golden glory; but substantial remains of
laggard night still hung moodily about the bottom of the pass, as though
nature, in shame and sadness, would fain cast her mantle over this mad
strife of men, and over the deed about to be enacted before her eyes.
Slowly, with hushed voices and stealthy tread, on came the unsuspecting
foe. The head of the column threaded its way past the lurking-place.
Sigurd clenched his sword with an impatient grip, for the sight of
Norman foemen, within reach of his sword, was well nigh more than he
could resist. On they passed, all unconscious that a human tiger was
lurking near and making ready for his spring. File after file of the
Normans strode on, mostly afoot, but some were leading their horses. Now
the rear men are abreast. A second more, their backs are seen. A spring
and a blow, and the hindmost Norman is cloven to the waist, and drops
with scarce a groan. There is a wild shriek, and consternation is
rampant amongst the rearmost ranks.

Sigurd, in mad rage, hacks and hews at the panic-stricken crew, cutting
down man after man with terrific celerity, whilst some, in their efforts
to escape his onslaught, fall over the precipice. Presently the Normans
discover that but one solitary Saxon attacks them. A shout goes up, "The
mad Saxon! Cut him down! Down with him! Run him through!" Immediately a
hundred swords are whipped from their scabbards, and a united rush is
directed towards him. Sigurd sees his chance is gone; he dashes along
the path in swift retreat, followed by the yelling foe. Presently he
darts from the path and makes for the hills, tearing through bracken,
furze, and brushwood, and leaping boulders with an agility none but a
mountaineer and a hunter who had been wont all his life to go swinging
over these mountain sides, until the sinews of his legs had become like
thongs of steel, could make pretence to imitate. Presently he turns to
glance at the crew behind, and he laughs a savage laugh as he sees them
huddling together like sheep at the bottom of the pass, some afraid to
follow, and all of them conscious of the hopelessness of it. With an
exclamation of contempt, he catches up a fragment of rock and hurls it
with terrific energy amongst them, striking one of them on the shoulder,
and knocking him to the ground with a broken shoulder-blade. Then, with
a hysterical laugh, and a fierce brandish aloft of his sword, he dashes
off again towards the summit. With wondering gaze the Normans watch him
scaling, ridge after ridge, the beetling brow of the hill far above
them, like a stag bounding from the hunter. Presently he darts over the
topmost ridge, and is lost to view. He halts in a tiny hollow of the
mountain's brow, and, pulling out his sword, dripping with gore, he
wipes it on the sward.

"Aha!" he cried, apostrophising the fearsome weapon; "One more taste of
blood! Norman blood, too. I love to see Norman blood. It drips, too;
that means more will soon be shed."[5] Then, running his hand along its
edge, he exclaimed, "Nothing blunted, my trusty friend Tyrfing,[6] ready
as ever for the fray!" he shouted in frenzy, and commenced to hack and
hew as though in deadly conflict with an invisible foe, the perspiration
pouring off him in streams. But human nature, though it be never so
strong, has its limits. This frenzied, this almost maniacal outburst,
was followed by complete physical exhaustion. Like a stone, he dropped
flat upon the ground, and there he lay without motion or any sign of
existence whatever for a full hour or more. Had the Normans but known of
the wild drama being enacted beyond the brow of the mountain, it would
have been a fatal day to Sigurd, for the Normans had had so many tastes
of his prowess, and of his mad daring, that they would have given large
treasure to have this dreaded foe within their power. But this was not
destined to be the last time when he should strike terror into their
ranks when they least suspected him.

[Footnote 5: It was a Norse superstition that if the blood flowed, more
would soon be shed.]

[Footnote 6: The foe hater.]

The sun had performed a considerable part of his day's journey when
Sigurd began to manifest signs of returning consciousness. First there
were sundry stretchings of the muscles, followed by a momentary
unclosing of the eyelids. Then he sat up and gazed around, as though
bewildered with his surroundings. By-and-by he seemed to recover a
recollection of the incidents preceding the stupor he had been passing
through. By an effort he rose to his feet, and staggered rather than
walked to a cool spring of water, which, born of the clouds which
constantly encircled these lofty peaks, was hurrying away with musical
ripple to the lowlands. He drank a hearty draught of the ice-cold water;
then he bathed his throbbing temples with it. Sitting down then, and
taking from a wallet slung behind him a substantial piece of roast kid's
flesh and a hunch of bread, he ate a hearty meal, and washed it down
with another copious draught of water. Much refreshed by this, he next
mounted to the topmost ridge. There, lying at full length, he ran his
eye most minutely over every inch of the valleys on either side,
carefully noting every suspicious object that came within the sweep of
his vision. Then, with equal care, he searched the adjacent hills. The
Normans he could see hurrying to and fro near their camp, some five
miles away. But apparently there was nothing at all menacing to his
position.

Rising to his feet, he strode along the ridge for a mile or two, then
commenced to descend for another mile or two, in an oblique direction,
until he disappeared from view in a dense wood, which covered the lower
reaches of the valley on either side. Holding a downward course, and
pushing aside the brushwood, he came ultimately to a stream of water,
which, with one gigantic leap, started from its rocky bed and leaped
unimpeded full eighty feet, falling into a deep, surging pool, where the
waters, finding a level, flowed sluggishly away. The vast amphitheatre
appeared to have been worn away by this leap of the waters, and by the
crumbling away of the softer shale below, which had undermined and
brought down the rocks from above.

This untamed warrior stood on the brink of the precipice with folded
arms. There was something in the scene which consorted with his rude and
rugged nature, and wonderfully soothed his warring passions. The daws,
with cawing clamorousness, flew to and fro across the abyss, and crept
into the crevices of the rock where their nests were. The swallows
skimmed along the surface of the waters, ever and anon darting upwards
to some skilfully made nest of baked clay, clinging to the rocky sides,
and from which little black heads were anxiously peeping, and twittering
lustily. Bird life here seemed to have found a veritable paradise, and
they literally thronged bush and tree, and rock and bank, everywhere.
Sigurd stood gazing down the ravine through an interminable labyrinth of
foliage-laden trees. Here was a grand solitude such as his soul loved,
and he regarded every tree in the forest as a personal friend. Presently
he turned to one side of this abyss, and steadfastly regarded three
stones which were laid side by side for a moment or two; then he altered
the position of one of them, and immediately dropped down on to a
shelving rock, and from that to another, and so on, until he had
descended a considerable distance. Then suddenly he disappeared on hands
and knees into an aperture of the rock which was completely hidden from
the view of any one standing above. As soon as this portal was passed,
he found himself in a spacious cavern, where evidently men were wont to
resort, for there were many things denoting human occupation. Sigurd
hastily threw off his armour and reared his sword, with the belt
appended, against the rock. Then he threw himself upon a couch of dried
bracken and grass, and was soon fast asleep.

Presently two wild-looking men appeared on the scene. One carried a
brace of rabbits, and the other had over his shoulder a young fawn;
whilst at their heels there followed a couple of fierce-looking hounds.
They looked at the three stones, and one of them exclaimed,--

"The Jarl is here!"

"Doubtful luck that," growled the other.

They, however, changed the position of the other two stones, and then
they followed their chieftain to his retreat. No sooner did they enter
than one prepared to light a fire, and the other to skin and dress the
animals they had brought. As soon as this was done, a huge iron pot was
suspended on cross-poles over the fire, with about a gallon of water. In
this were thrown a couple of haunches of venison with the rabbits. Then
one of them turned to a vessel in which a quantity of corn was steeping
in water. Two or three pounds of this, along with some savoury herbs and
roots, and a quantity of salt, were deposited in the pot. Then the pair
sat down to await the cooking of this substantial and savoury mess.
Whilst this was being done, Sigurd slept soundly, and the pair carried
on a conversation in a low tone, and interspersing their talk with
sundry nods and motions towards the sleeping chieftain.

"There will be stirring times again, now, I warrant," said one.

"Yes; plenty of blood-letting, and plenty of scurrying over the
mountains with the Normans at our heels," said the other.

"There will soon be none of us left, either for fight or aught else.
There has been a desperate thinning going on."

"Well, it won't be a cow's death, anyhow, and that is some comfort for
us."

Soon the boiling-pot began to send forth a most savoury and appetising
smell, to these half-famished men.

"Wake the Jarl," said one to the other; "he must first break his fast."

So one of them gave Sigurd a rough shaking, and he presently sat up and
rubbed his eyes; then he saluted his men.

"Skalds, how fare ye?"

"The hawks have not been so much abroad of late, so we have fared
tolerably."

"But ye'll soon have to be on the alert, for the old eagle has been
playing havoc with the hawks down in the pass yonder; a dozen of them at
least will swoop upon their prey no more. But I'll taste your stew. Hot
victuals have not been plentiful lately. Where are your comrades?"

"Scattered a good deal. There are a dozen lurking among the pikes. Some,
the family men, have snug quarters near Deepwaters."

"Make signals for them. We have been idle long enough. We must bestir
ourselves, for the Norman gets a tighter grip upon us every day we are
idle."




CHAPTER XXXV.

THE SAXON DEVIL AND THE WICKED ABBOT.

                            "When night
    Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
    Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine."

    Milton.


Most humiliating and distressing to us _Saxon_ monks was the state of
lax morality in which these foreign monks lived. One of the worst vices
imported into England by the Normans was that of uncleanness, a vice
practically unknown amongst Saxons, and looked upon by them with great
abhorrence. This was an offence, too, which the hardy Norsemen regarded
with loathing. Fierce and blood-thirsty as they were, seduction,
adultery, and the violation of the sanctity of blood-relationship, they
detested. Amongst the Normans, not only the wild troopers, but the monks
also, lived loose, irregular lives; and the chief and vilest offender,
in this respect, was our new Abbot. Many were the outrages perpetrated
by this man. Night by night, under cover of the darkness, he issued from
the Monastery with lascivious intent, often accompanying his outrages by
crime and bloodshed if he met with opposition. In vain I sought the
assistance of Alice, who entreated the Count, her father; but he was
either powerless, or cynical and indifferent--probably both. Sometimes a
fierce check was given to these scoundrels by a sudden outburst of rage
and revenge on the part of the Saxons; but for the most part, the Saxons
who meekly submitted to serfdom were the most abject of their race,
being often so broken in spirit that they submitted to unfathomable
indignities, rather than face the consequences of opposition. Indeed,
any display of spirit, and any act of retaliation or revenge, was sure
to be followed by the most cruel vindictiveness, and most sweeping
punishment. I stay to note one act of retaliation done to our Abbot by
Badger, on one occasion, when the Abbot was bent on carrying his
unscrupulous violence to the cottage of one of the serfs. I note it
because of its comicality, as well as its effectiveness in punishing the
vicious priest.

Now the Abbot, though it will scarcely be believed, was, in spite of his
turbulent wickedness, a most abjectly superstitious man, as indeed most
ignorant and wicked people are. Of this fact Badger, who was a most
observant and shrewd judge of character, quickly became aware; and,
taking advantage of this weakness, he used it to teach the Abbot a most
valuable and salutary lesson. One of the serfs had frequently made most
doleful complaints to Badger of the violation of the sanctities of his
home by this man. Now Badger most cordially hated the Abbot, as indeed
any one who knew the man could not fail to do; and on the other hand,
his sympathies, either openly or veiled, were always extended to his
countrymen, and he frequently wrought substantial amelioration in their
lot. Badger turned this matter over in his mind, and at last hit upon a
plan which he conceived would have the desired effect if successfully
carried out. So, making use of his old expedient, he decked himself most
fantastically as the Saxon "Zernebock" or devil. He expended much skill
and ingenuity in the manufacture of some wondrously grotesque apparel,
introducing a pair of horns and a tail after the orthodox fashion. In
addition to this, he had also decked out one of the most savage of his
hounds in a most fantastic garb, and, so disguised and ludicrously
tricked out, they sallied forth at eventime, intent on frustrating the
Abbot's vile intentions. Having selected their place of ambush, they
patiently lay in wait for the object of their enterprise, bent both on
terrifying and worrying him into a relinquishment of his devilish
purpose.

The night selected as fitting for Badger's enterprise was moonless and
somewhat dark, especially so within the added shade of the forest.
Having selected a suitable place, Badger lay quietly in wait until he
heard the approaching footsteps of the Abbot; then he strode into the
path with the hound by his side, and together they fronted the object of
their quest. Great was the consternation of the Abbot when he confronted
this awful apparition. His knees smote together, and his teeth chattered
in his head, as the awful voice of the fiend accosted him in angry
tones.

"Abbot, I know thy errand; I am the Saxon devil 'Zernebock,' and this is
my Hel-hound. I have come to kill thee, and my hound will tear thee in
pieces, for thy cup of wickedness is now full; I give thee, therefore,
two minutes in which to prepare for death."

So saying, the fiend uplifted a mighty sword, which seemed to the Abbot
to tower almost to the height of the trees. It was a wooden one, but the
night was too dark for this to be perceived, even if the victim had not
been too terror-stricken to note it.

In a terrible fright he fell on his knees and began to call upon all the
saints to protect him, writhing and groaning piteously.

"Silence!" said the fiend in still more awful tones. "Thou must die! I
have been waiting long for permission to slay thee! The saints will not
protect thee any longer, for thou hast professed to be a holy man, and
thou art bent this night on an errand of wickedness, and I have
permission to kill thee at last. Thy life is now in my hands. Art thou
ready?" again roared the fiend in savage tones, whilst the hound, seeing
the threatening attitude of his master, waxed furious, snarling and
growling savagely, and making many half-executed attempts to fly at the
Abbot, which half a word of encouragement from the fiend would have
completed. "Speak!" said the fiend, "thy time is now expired."

And the uplifted sword began most ominously to sway to and fro, as
though about to fall.

"Have mercy on me, fiend!" screamed the Abbot, "and I will make a vow to
thee that I will repent me of my sins, and I will cease from fleshly
lusts! I will set about mortifying my flesh this very night! I vow to
abstain from meats and strong drink for the space of twelve months if
thou wilt have mercy on me."

"Silence when I bid thee!" again roared the fiend. "I know thee for a
hypocrite, and thou wilt not abide thy vow. Art thou ready? Quick! bow
thy head, so that I cut it off clean."

Quick as thought in this dire strait the Abbot sprang to his feet, and
fled with miraculous energy for one so stout and pursy.

"Hist! hist!" said the fiend to his hound.

There was a fierce growl and a few long, slouching strides, and the
hound grasped the Abbot's nether parts in his powerful jaws; and with a
yell of pain his reverence fell prone upon his face, writhing, groaning,
wriggling, and yelling, as though ten thousand fiends clutched him. But
the hound clung to him like a vice, chawing his struggling prey the more
lustily as he tried to shake him off. At last the fiend called off his
hound; but at the same time he lifted his sword over the prostrate
Abbot.

"It is no use thy attempting to fly; thy doom is come, and I am here to
kill thee. Choose at once whether thou wilt be torn in pieces by my
hound or slain by my fiery sword; there is no escape for thee."

"Have mercy, fiend!" groaned the Abbot piteously; "thy hound hath
well-nigh killed me already. His teeth are red hot, as thou well
knowest. I shall surely die now, after the savage manner he hath torn
me. In mercy leave me the little time left me for repentance. Think of
my poor soul."

"I am the foul fiend, and there is no mercy now for thee. Thy soul is
forfeited and given into my hands; but what of thy body? decide quick!
Shall I kill thee, or wilt thou be devoured by my hound?"

Just at that moment, however, the fiend was interrupted, for footsteps
and voices were heard approaching, and presently a couple of troopers,
attracted by the terrible howling of the Abbot, drew near. As they did
so the fiend and his hound promptly disappeared in the wood.

As these troopers timidly and fearfully advanced to the spot, to their
consternation they beheld the Abbot lying flat along, and bellowing like
any bull of Bashan, and calling upon the saints to come to help him. At
once he was recognised by the pair.

"Ho, your reverence! what is this? What ails you?"

"Now the saints be praised! the foul fiend is fled; the Blessed Virgin
hath sent me help, but too tardily, for I am surely done for. The
mischief is ended, and I shall surely die. Had ye tarried but one minute
more, my poor body would have been devoured also."

"What is it, your reverence! Have you been attacked by wolves?"

"Alas! I have been set upon by the wolf of hell; I have met face to face
in this very spot the foul fiend. 'Twas the Saxon devil Zernebock, for
he spoke Saxon. He and his furious Hel-hound hath set upon me together.
The fiend was about to kill me with his fiery sword when ye drew near so
opportunely; and his hound hath torn me dreadfully. His teeth were red
hot, and he spouted fire out of his fearful mouth. Can ye lift me up?
for I hardly know whether he hath left me any legs to stand upon. Oh!
not there! not there! did I not tell you he had torn me fearfully
behind. Lift me by the shoulder, but do not touch me behind. Steady, ye
maudlin villains! did I not tell ye to be steady?" he roared most
savagely.

"I think your reverence had better let me go for help; my comrade will
stand by ye till I come again," remarked one trooper.

"Stay ye where ye are, villain! Ye do not stir from me, either of ye,
not a yard! If the fiend come again the other one will run also, and I
shall be slain and devoured. Lift me up, ye lazy louts! ye are well
able."

By dint of tugging and lifting, eventually they set the Abbot on his
legs; but he could not bear to walk, neither could he bear to be
carried; and he would not be left for a moment. Slowly he made an effort
to shamble along, but every step was torture to him, and he swore at the
two troopers as roundly as in his extremity he had prayed to the saints.
It was a most painful and protracted home-coming to all of them; for the
Abbot clutched his deliverers most tenaciously, terrified almost into
frenzy if there was a rustle in the bushes, and conjured up visions of
the fiend and his hound in every object that met his gaze; whilst all
the while he vented upon the two his spleen and rage, sometimes for
their clumsiness and want of sympathy, and at other times for their
having been so long in coming to his aid.

With infinite trouble they at last reached the Abbey, and the Abbot was
put to bed; but when there he was obliged to lie upon his stomach, for
the hound had severely mauled him behind. Two of the monks were set
apart to nurse him by night, and two by day. The rest of the monks were
commanded to spend so many hours of each day in prayers and in
invocations, whilst penances and fasting were imposed upon all.

In time, by dint of careful nursing, the Abbot was restored. But he
could not so easily forget the painful lesson he had learnt; and as he
still firmly believed that it was indeed the Saxon devil Zernebock and
his Hel-hound that had set upon him, he never dared venture abroad after
dark until he had banished the fiend from the adjacent woods.

Then ensued the most comical part of the whole affair. A procession of
the monks to the place of adventure was organised. One headed the solemn
procession bearing a crucifix on which our blessed Lord was impaled.
Others followed next in order bearing the sacred relics, most of which
had been brought from Normandy, and consisted of bones of eminent saints
of the order, also a shred of the garment of our Saviour, the identical
one for which the soldiers cast lots. One carried a front tooth of the
apostle Peter, said to have been broken out at the last supper of our
Lord; and another had a small vial containing a portion of the tears
which Peter shed at the denial, when "he went out and wept bitterly";
the last had possession of a pair of straps or leathern thongs, said to
have been used to fasten the sandals of the Apostle John when he dwelt
in the lonely isle of Patmos. But most laughable it was to see Badger
and several of the lay brothers of the monastery following behind, with
large ewers containing holy water, with which the monks plentifully
besprinkled the path and its surroundings; all the while chanting psalms
and repeating prayers for the exorcism of the devil and all evil spirits
that haunted the woods.

One can imagine the uncontrollable delight with which Badger assisted at
this solemn function. And I confess when he told me the whole story I
could not help but laugh most immoderately, though such levity scarcely
became my office, especially when I remembered that our sacred things
had been associated with so ridiculous an exploit. Though I can scarcely
undertake to excuse the deception practised upon this occasion, yet it
had a most salutary effect upon the Abbot, for seldom after that
incident did he venture, under cover of the night, to prosecute his
villainies; though, like most vile and wicked persons, he found other
means of giving rein to his lusts, which were infamous and cruel.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

LOVERS PLOTTING.

    "Good-night, good-night; parting is such sweet sorrow,
    That I shall say good-night, till it be morrow."

    Shakespeare.


The day appointed for Alice's ill-starred nuptials draws near with
ill-omened celerity. Anxious consultations and meetings at the
trysting-place with her Saxon lover become most frequent as the fatal
day approaches. To-night, as she climbs the rough stone stairs which
lead to the tower, her heart seems to grow lighter in the toilsome
ascent. When she reaches the top night has already asserted its sway
over the face of nature, and deep silence broods solemnly everywhere
around. On the turret she paces to and fro in deep meditation, whilst
occasionally she steps upon the stone platform and peers anxiously
towards the adjacent wood, and waves her handkerchief. But the night is
dark, and she knows not whether any one is there to heed her signal.
Then she steps down and listens at the head of the stair for the sound
of the welcome footsteps. Though this most serious and portentous crisis
in her life is approaching, and dark-browed Fate seems from day to day
to frown more darkly upon her path, and though she recognises most
vividly the perilousness of the enterprise which Oswald is entering upon
for her deliverance, yet to-night none but pleasant thoughts dance
through her mind, and ever and anon also pleasant smiles persist in
wreathing her countenance in sweet hopefulness, for she conjures up some
pleasing dream of a possible escape from the dreaded union designed for
her. But the wonderful secret of this hopeful spirit is this: her
champion, the Saxon chieftain, will be here to-night. Here it must be
confessed was the chief inspiration of those pleasant thoughts and
pleasant smiles. When he was nigh fear and doubt and dismay never
oppressed her. But alas! this buoyancy of hopefulness was just as surely
followed by cruel depression of spirit, and a dread sense of loneliness
and helplessness, when he was far away--when the hated presence of
Vigneau was obtruded upon her especially. Worst of all, as the appointed
time of marriage drew near, he presumed more and more to thrust himself
upon her; and she must needs hide, as best she could, the feelings of
abhorrence and deep loathing with which she regarded him. She had come
to see the futility of resistance, and of manifesting dislike to him;
for she had no hope that he would abate one jot of his determination to
force the fulfilment of this marriage contract.

Presently, as she listens, a feeble grating sound strikes her ear, and
she strains anxiously to hear further. Soon a distinct sound of movement
in the winding stair is heard. She rushes to the spot where the steps
reach the platform of the tower, and anxiously peers into the dark
beneath. One moment more and Oswald clasps her to his heart.

"Ah, you lonely watcher," said he, tremulous with emotion. "How long
have you been waiting here alone? are you not afraid to watch here in
the darkness?"

"I am not afraid to-night, dearest. I am only a woman, you know, with a
woman's weakness; but I have always fortitude enough to dare anything
for you. Why should I be afraid of darkness, which is only God's
coverlet, drawn with infinite gentleness over tired and sleeping
nature?"

"Ah! there is a good angel watching over you, Alice dear, whether 'tis
dark or light, and whether I am near or far. So be of good courage."

"I have faith in God, and I have faith in my Saxon lover; but alas! my
heart fails me often as the fateful day draws nigh. Sometimes I am
almost paralysed with fear, lest some cruel fate should, after all, doom
me to a hated meeting of Vigneau at the altar; but I have a little
friend which I keep sharp and bright, and there is a step beyond which I
go no farther with him."

"Hush, dearest! such thoughts are cruel; that dreadful alternative you
will never resort to. Vigneau, in his gross attempt to force your hand,
in the face of earth and heaven, will rush upon a fate he recks not of,
but which he richly merits. No more of this, dearest; this hour we will
dedicate to more welcome topics. So a truce to all unpleasant thoughts.
How does the question of questions wear apace? Have you become more
reconciled to my project?"

"Dearest, do not think me foolish; but since you intimated your
intention of appearing in the lists, I have been engaged in a little
enterprise of my own. I have still my forebodings that you will be
discovered if you venture to enter the lists of the tournament, without
some more effectual disguise than you seem to possess. So, excuse me, I
have been taxing my poor woman's wit in the matter. Would it be wrong to
practise a little ruse upon my father, think you? I have a cousin, who,
some years ago, joined the ranks of the king of Spain, and has gone to
war with him against the Moors in the south. He is much commended by the
king of Spain for his valour. If we could dare to convey to my father a
message that this knight would be present at the festival, and take part
in the joust and feat of arms, you yourself might then assume this
disguise. You would, I think, pass easily for this valiant southern
knight, providing you could arrive opportunely, so as to preclude as
much as possible previous intercourse. Your followers also might be
prepared to enact their part. It would disarm suspicion effectively, I
think."

"Ah! to be sure, set love a-plotting and the thing is done at once."

"Nonsense! you jest with me. Now listen! I have already set about
embroidering you handsome trappings for your horse, with quaint,
southern devices, which I learnt under the tuition of the good sisters
of the convent. Now, don't laugh, you think it a mad whim, I can see."

"Nay, nay! my Lady Suspicion," said Oswald, stooping and kissing her,
and giving her a tighter squeeze. "I almost begin to fear you as I think
of the dark plots you are capable of weaving. I never for a moment
dreamed I had found such a subtle schemer. Now, go on; you have got your
finger on the weak point in the plot. I certainly feared the ordeal of
exposure on the field myself; and you have been taxing your 'poor
woman's wit,' and have anticipated my one difficulty. Now for the rest,
dearest."

"Come down with me to my room. All is perfectly quiet."

So together they descended the winding stair, and sought Alice's room.
Here she and Jeannette had been deftly plying their fingers in
embroidering most quaint devices upon the trappings of the horses of the
knight and his esquire, and a couple of men-at-arms. Oswald's were most
gorgeously embroidered with silk and gold, upon the finest Bayeaux
cloth, by the fingers of Alice alone. Most beautiful and chaste was the
workmanship, for she had lavished not only her skill, but her love in
the equipment of her champion. The figures were so quaint, the design so
original, and the whole so rich in quality, that no prince could hope to
ride with more tasteful and imposing housings for his steed. Jeannette
also had done her best, it can easily be imagined, to equip her valiant
squire like his master.

Oswald took the garments in his hands.

"Well, dearest," said he, "no one will expect a boorish Saxon outlaw to
appear like a Norman prince, that is certain; and I dare warrant no
curious eyes will penetrate a disguise so complete as you are preparing.
Love is not blind in this case, Alice dear, I avouch it; but it has the
gift of prevision also. There remains but one condition to give point
and consummation to this, and it is that your valiant cousin shall prove
himself worthy of such a lady love. But, darling, can you answer this
question,--if Vigneau should be overthrown ignominiously, will the
spoils of war, the fair queen of this high festival, be the lawful prize
of the victor? Now, beware! if you escape the toils of Vigneau, there is
another ominous figure hovering near, who is ready to pounce down upon
you and carry you off."

"So, I suppose, like an unhappy maiden, I may sing--

    "'Then woe is me! a bride I'll be,
      Whether I will or no;
    For 'tis a law of chivalry--
      Victors will have it so.'

"Well, if only the 'fair queen' may have the option of choice, I think
in that case the Norman cousin will have it. But do not cherish any vain
hopes; I am sure that Vigneau will gulp down his humiliation, if he
cannot avenge it; and there is no hope of his relinquishing any claims
to myself, though I believe malignant hatred is the only feeling he
cherishes towards me."

"It were an easy matter to sweep him out of the way; that would be an
easy task; but here comes in a tax upon my conscience, for in spite of
the fact that he richly merits it, to compass his overthrow in cold
blood is abhorrent to my feelings. If I should worst him in the
encounter, he will probably claim satisfaction, and if he does not, but
persists in his determination to claim you as his bride, then, in
accordance with the laws of chivalry, I also will claim your hand, and
challenge him to mortal combat. So, honour and my conscience will be
appeased. May Heaven nerve the arm that battles for the right!"

"I am afraid the complications will not end even if Heaven rid us of the
Baron, for his brother at the Abbey is fully conversant with my father's
ill-starred confidence."

"Well, enough, dearest; one step at once. Are there many knights
expected in this tourney?"

"I scarcely think there will be many. My father is very half-hearted in
the matter, and you may be sure he has no encouragement from myself. The
fewer who are witness of my humiliation the better."

"Well, I am sure that so far as Vigneau is concerned, the feebler the
opponents the better he will like it; I daresay, though, he counts upon
an easy conquest in any case. Well, now, dearest, don't be discouraged;
I must be away, but I shall look daily for the signal. May happier days
soon dawn for you, and for this unhappy country. _Au revoir_, darling."

So saying, with a parting kiss Oswald sped him for the home on the
hills.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE JOUST, SAXON AND NORMAN.

     "The age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists,
     and calculators has succeeded."--Burke.


The time had now come about on which De Montfort had promised his
daughter to Vigneau. As was the wont invariably of the Normans, the
ceremony must be preceded by the usual festivities, the most marked of
which was the tournament, or feat of arms. During the reign of our late
king Edward, this was one of the things in which the idle and dissolute
Norman nobility who came over in swarms spent their time. To my very
great sorrow and disappointment, the Saxon nobility copied only too
slavishly this vain and foolish propensity, many of the Saxons being
quite a match for the most skilful of the Normans. For some weeks before
the marriage festivities were to begin, messengers had been sent out to
the various Norman encampments situate within a reasonable distance; and
many knights were expected to take part in the joust. The place which
was selected for this spectacle was near to the castle, and well adapted
for the humbler people, who never failed to gather in considerable
numbers. The tournament would take place in a considerable hollow, with
green hillsides and dense copses around, where a multitude might witness
the wondrous pageantry and the struggle for the honours of the day. The
central arena, where the knights were to contend, was a spacious
enclosure, railed round to the height of about four feet, having two
means of entrance and exit, one at each side, directly opposite each
other, the one used as an entrance solely. There knights, squires,
marshals, judges, etc., were to enter in all the panoply of war and
glittering accoutrements. The other opening was used exclusively for
purposes of exit. Here discomfited knights, disabled horses, and others
who wished to retire might emerge. To the right of the main entrance was
a raised platform, covered with rich tapestry, and capable of seating
some fifty persons. Upon this platform was a dais, or raised central
platform of small dimensions, on which the throne, an elegantly
upholstered chair, was placed, and designed for the occupation of the
"Queen of Beauty." The crowd were kept waiting considerably after the
appointed time, in anticipation of an expected knight from over the sea;
from whom a messenger had been sent, announcing his intention of taking
part in this knightly fray. Eventually, however, Count de Montfort, amid
a flourish of trumpets, issued from the gates of the castle, with his
daughter leaning upon his arm, followed by two of her maids and a
formidable retinue of invited guests, amongst whom was the Abbot
Vigneau, and one or two other ecclesiastics, and a number of Norman
guests. De Montfort escorted his daughter to the throne, and Jeannette
occupied a seat to the right of her. Most fascinatingly lovely was Alice
as she sat in the place of honour, with the victor's chaplet by her
side. Pale, nervous, and anxious, but a veritable queen withal she
looked--her lustrous dark eyes, and masses of dark wavy hair flowing in
graceful undulations over her shoulders, and down to her girdle; her
head crowned with a coronet of beautiful flowers, and one solitary gem
in the centre. All eyes were upon her. Men of gentle blood marvelled at
her surpassing loveliness. Norman men-at-arms and Saxon churls turned
dazed and dreamy eyes towards her, with a persistent gaze as of
fascination. Most of those present, whether gentle or simple, knew well
the manner of man her betrothed was; for Vigneau was notorious in the
camp and the cot for his gross villainy; and most knew, or surmised,
that to-morrow's nuptial tie would be to her a most hateful tie, and a
most unhappy union.

Jeannette sat close to her mistress; but no dark cloud frowned ominously
over her as over her mistress. Volatile and mercurial to a degree, she
never courted trouble, or recognised his unwelcome visage until it was
thrust upon her; though, like most natures of a like temperament, when
once fairly cornered, as we have seen, the collapse was pitiable and
complete. There, however, she sat, perfectly self-possessed, with an
irrepressible flutter of expectation in her heart and unfaltering
confidence in her star, which was the wonderful and valorous Wulfhere,
whom that day she should see companying with knights and men of renown.
There was more than a wonted animation in her eye, and the roses on her
cheek had taken a deeper and a rosier tint. All agog with the pleasing
promptings of her fluttering little heart, she ran her eyes along the
ranks of the common people who lined the enclosure, or stood together in
groups, discussing the merits of the combatants who were to take part,
and the spectacle which every one looked forward to with such zest. But
Saxon and Norman alike of inferior station were to her contemptible; and
as her eyes fell upon Paul Lazaire, who with despondent gaze looked at
her, she could not restrain a saucy and coquettish smirk of laughter,
which Paul, who thought she never looked half so lovely before, put a
favourable construction upon, and was greatly comforted.

"Jeannette," said Alice, turning to her anxiously, "I fear the day will
be disastrous, and the Saxon knight will be discovered. That would be
most fearful; I don't think I could survive it."

"Don't be alarmed, my lady; I am not in the least. Wulfhere and the Earl
will be a match for them all, I'm sure."

"But, Jeannette, what could a single knight do, contending with so many
foes?"

"One knight truly would not do much; but you forget, my lady, that he is
sure to be accompanied by his valiant squire."

"But a solitary esquire would not be of much use. If the Earl be
discovered, he would be surrounded and cut to pieces."

"Never fear, my lady, you will see Wulfhere will protect him. He'll soon
make an end of a score of this beer-drinking crew."

"Really, Jeannette," said Alice, smiling in spite of herself, "you have
a good deal of faith in this Wulfhere."

"Why should I not? He is as pretty a man, and just as valiant as his
leader, and I never intend to halt for want of faith, or starve for want
of hope. Besides, don't you know there has been given to me an
_omen_?--and I have noticed that they always come true if you have faith
in them."

"Oh, indeed! Pray, what is the _omen_ you have had, Jeannette?"

"Well, last night when I went to bed it was not quite dark, and I have a
little window in my room which overlooks a certain spot in the wood
which I shall not tell you about, for it is my _tryste_."

"Your _tryste_, Jeannette? I am afraid you will never cease your
coquetry and foolishness. But your _omen_, Jeannette?"

"Well, I was telling you. It was not dark when I went to bed, so I sat
down in front of this window which faces the place where the Saxon and I
meet."

"_The Saxon_, Jeannette?"

"Yes, my lady, the Saxon Wulfhere. Well, in front of the window I told
my beads for a full hour or more."

"Told your beads, Jeannette I Why, was that to Wulfhere, or to our
Blessed Lady?"

"To our Lady, of course, though I was thinking about Wulfhere. But I
said my _aves_ and _paters_ to our Blessed Lady most dutifully. Then,
when I went to bed, I put my beads under my pillow as usual, and I soon
fell asleep. Then I dreamed such a strange and wonderful dream. I dreamt
that I was walking through the woods all alone, when I was startled by a
horrid, howling noise behind me, and, turning round, I beheld a number
of fierce wolves pursuing me. I ran for my life, but they ran faster
than I did, and just as the first one was about to grasp me with its
fearful teeth, who should come to my rescue but Wulfhere. I sprang into
his arms, and just as he clasped me safely the wolves all turned tail
and ran off into the wood as though they had been whipped, for they ran
as fast as they could scamper, and howled fearfully. Then I saw there
was a holy man with Wulfhere, with whitened beard, and bearing a
crucifix with our Blessed Lord thereon. This holy man took my rosary
from my hand, and he placed it around my neck. Then he took my hand and
joined it with Wulfhere's. After this, Wulfhere kissed me and placed a
ring on my finger, and I was his wife. Then the holy man placed his
hands on us as we kneeled before him, and he gave us his blessing. But,
wonderful to tell, in the morning when I awoke, I knew it had all taken
place as I dreamed; for I found the rosary was indeed around my neck,
though I am almost certain I put it under my pillow the night before. I
also felt most distinctly Wulfhere's kiss upon my cheek; and, when I
looked in the glass, sure enough there was a little rosy spot around
this little dimple on my cheek where he kissed me."

Jeannette's invaluable optimism and unflagging hopefulness, though
simple almost to the verge of childishness, did much to fortify Alice
for the trying ordeal before her. In spite of her anxiety, she laughed
outright at the recital of Jeannette's dream. Presently, at the sound of
the trumpet the castle gates were again thrown open, and forth issued a
gaily dressed cavalcade; heralds, marshals, judges, leading the way, and
followed by eight or ten knights armed _cap-à-pié_, each one being
attended by his esquire. Alice scrutinised closely each knight as they
severally filed past her, and dipped the point of their lances in
salutation.

"The Saxon is not here. Some accident, I fear, has happened," she
tremulously whispered to Jeannette.

"Don't agitate yourself, my lady; they will not fail us. Wulfhere said I
should see his face this day; but I was to be careful not to show my
recognition of him, or I should probably betray them."

Now the scene presented an animated appearance, as the knights and their
esquires ranged themselves on opposite sides of the enclosure, whilst
the heralds, marshals, and judges rode between the ranks, examining the
points of each combatant's lance, to see that each one was blunt, and
such as was allowed by the laws of the tourney.

Meanwhile, Norman soldiers crowd round the enclosure, whilst here and
there groups of Saxons are wedged amongst them. Some half-dozen Saxon
churls have been stood together on the outskirts of the crowd for some
time, engaged in eager conversation. A careful observer would perceive
that, despite their cowed and woe-begone appearance, they have some
common purpose in view. They each of them carry a quarter staff,--not a
formidable weapon, it is true; but no formidable weapon would be
permitted them. At one end of those staves they have deftly inserted
stout steel goads, which no casual observer would detect. I was first
attracted to this group, in particular, by having observed them obey
certain signals given by their leader. But my eyes turned on all
occasions naturally and sympathetically to the Saxon portion of the
crowd; and the result of my diligent scrutiny of this little band was
quickened by my discovery of the fact that the leader was none other
than Badger. Presently they divide themselves into couples and take
their stand equidistant from each other, along with the spectators who
line the enclosure. Soon, by dint of pushing and wriggling, they force
their way close to the railings' side.

Now, at a signal the trumpet again sounds, and a marshal rides into the
centre of the arena, and reads the proclamation and rules of the
tourney. Just at that moment, however, a piercing blast from a horn in
the distance makes the greenwood ring again. Immediately from the leafy
bower there emerges a knight tall of stature, and mail-clad from head to
foot. On his shield he bears a device of the rising sun on a field vert,
and as the rays of the midday sun smite upon his helmet and
breast-plate, the refulgence thereof is as of molten gold. He rode a
handsome charger, whose trappings and housings were richly embroidered
and resplendent with many strange devices. In close attendance rode his
squire, bearing his lance and shield; he also was of brawny and athletic
build, like his master. He had on a helmet with harness of link mail.
His face and hands, which were uncovered, seemed deeply tanned, as
though they had been subjected to long exposure in some sunny clime.
Behind the knight and his esquire there rode a couple of men-at-arms,
bronzed and brown as the squire.

It was soon buzzed about amidst the crowd that this was the foreign
knight for whose advent the tourney had been delayed a full hour. The
knight and his squire were admitted into the enclosure at once; but the
couple of men-at-arms stood without. There was a brief consultation with
the stewards in the Norman tongue, and the explanations were evidently
satisfactory, for the knight rode on. And as he passed the dais, where
sat the Queen of Beauty, he dipped the point of his lance and bowed low.

The crimson flood mounted to Alice's face and neck, as she, with great
nervousness, acknowledged the salute. This momentary flush, followed by,
if possible, a still deeper pallor and greater agitation, did not escape
the notice of our Abbot, who turned keen and scrutinising glances, first
on the knight, and then on Alice. He was suspicions as usual. Could it
be possible that there was some love entanglement between these two
which boded evil to his brother the Baron? Hitherto, none had appeared
in the lists, saving knights who would probably be easily overthrown by
Vigneau. Though this was but a joust of courtesy, yet the ignominy of
being unhorsed, he knew, would exasperate his brother into desperation.
This knight of commanding stature, and of warlike appearance and renown,
introduced an element of grave uncertainty into the day's contest. There
was, further, the gravest suspicion that this stranger knight was
imported on purpose to frustrate his brother's union with Alice, a union
which, he knew, was cordially detested by both father and daughter. The
Baron also, suspicious by disposition, with lowering brow glared upon
the stranger from behind his visor, and hated him at sight.

Not that he feared being overthrown, for his self-confidence was
unlimited. His great weight and personal strength and skill had borne
him to victory in many a famous joust in times past, and he was
contemptuous of any rival he might chance to meet. But a knight young,
handsome, and well-appointed as this stranger, might yet, with De
Montfort's connivance, wrest the prize from his grasp. He swore a deep
oath under his breath, and grasped his lance with a keener clutch.
Clearly he meant mischief.

The preliminaries being now over, the knights wheeled into line and
faced each other, ready for the signal to charge, their squires being in
close attendance behind. Vigneau and the stranger knight found
themselves opposed by antagonists much smaller in stature, and
indifferently horsed. The trumpeter stood at the head of the lists,
bugle in hand, ready to sound the onset at a signal from De Montfort.
Excitement was visibly expressed in every countenance, the clamour of
voices having given place to a hushed suspense, which was painful and
sickening to Alice; though she saw that Vigneau and the "Knight of the
Sun" would not antagonise each other in the first shock. Now the trumpet
sends forth a shrill blast, and on the instant spurs are driven into
each charger's side, and, with a snort of pain, they dash across the
sward. There is a loud shock, and a confused and struggling mass of men
and horses. Vigneau had thrown the whole weight and strength of himself
and a powerful horse upon a feeble opponent, and both man and horse
rolled over together before him. Then, with a contemptuous oath, he
wheeled again to his place, utterly regardless of his fallen antagonist,
whose horse had kicked him severely in its plunges to regain its feet.
The "Knight of the Sun," on the other hand, rode steadily at his
opponent, and seemed rather to push him over the horse's croup than to
strike him with unmeasured force. Immediately, also, he sprang to the
ground and chivalrously assisted the fallen knight to rise, exclaiming,
as he did so,--

"None the worse, I trust, Sir Knight?"

"Only my pride hurt a little," was the reply; "but it was gallantly done
and by a worthier knight, so I yield my steed and wish you further
success; which you will have, I trow, whether I wish it or not, or I am
no judge of your mettle."

"Take your horse, Sir Knight, I have no need of him, for there is a
better in the lists, I perceive," said the stranger.

"You have my hearty wishes in the winning of it, if they will do you any
good. Just a word in your ear, nevertheless," said he, drawing close to
the "Knight of the Sun," and uttering in an undertone, whilst he
professed to be adjusting his sword-belt, "You are a stranger, Sir
Knight, but I have known Vigneau a round dozen years at least, so let me
warn you. Beware your man, and doubly so if you throw him. His ugly
carcase is charged with venom from head to foot, and no treacherous
villainy will be too mean, in order to compass his revenge."

"Thanks for your good wishes, and I will not neglect your advice; but if
he be wise, he will look to himself or he will rue it."

At the blast of the bugle, the knights who had proved victorious wheeled
into line again; one pair had failed to unhorse each other; but
evidently they were not consumed with a desire to try further their
prowess in the mimic war, for both of them retired from the fray. So
there were but four knights called upon to take part in the next
encounter and brave again the fortunes of war. The stranger knight was
now brought side by side with Vigneau, who surveyed him from head to
foot, then turned sneeringly away, growling to himself, "If length of
limb counted for anything, why, then, he would be formidable enough."

At the signal calling for the _ready_, each lance was laid in rest, and
each knight braced himself afresh. Springing again at the call to the
charge, the turf flew from the horses' hoofs, and the shock, in more
than one instance, was enough to throw the horses on their haunches. The
"Knight of the Sun" and Vigneau were again victorious; but the latter
had met a doughtier opponent than he had bargained for, for he had
received a vigorous and well-aimed blow at the pit of his stomach,
discomposing most unpleasantly its contents, and causing his head to
swim with sickly qualms. He recovered his balance quickly, however, much
more quickly than he recovered from the fury of his temper; for, as he
faced about to meet the "Knight of the Sun," he poured out a volley of
fierce oaths at Pierre, who was too slow in his attentions to him. The
tall squire of the stranger dismounted and ran his eyes over the
trappings of his master's steed, tightening a girth here and there, and
whispering to his master as he did so, "He is strong and heavy; it were
better policy to dodge his blow, I think, for he is unmistakably clumsy
and slow."

"That is the very thing I have been turning over in my mind, and I think
I will try it. Hand me a shorter lance, will you?"

The squire immediately reached him a lance shorter by some feet; and the
bugle sounded again for the ready amid breathless silence. The whole
scene floated dimly before the sickened gaze of Alice, who was but half
conscious of what was passing in the lists; though she realised with
painful vividness that Vigneau and the stranger were now opposed to each
other. Jeannette put her arm around her mistress and held a small silver
flask of rich scents to her nose, whispering gently to her,--

"Courage, lady! all goes well, never fear. The stranger will be the
victor."

Now the combatants brace themselves for the final charge and for
victory. The "Knight of the Sun" grasps his short lance with sinews of
iron, whilst his gaze is intent upon the weapon of his antagonist. The
signal is given, and the chargers bound like an avalanche across the
intervening space. There is a quick swerve of the stranger's body, and
Vigneau's lance passes like a flash over the mailed arm of the knight, a
clear miss. Righting himself as deftly as he had swerved, and without
permitting the point of his lance to deviate one iota from its mark, he
closed in a deadly shock with the bulky Norman. The lance he held was so
short that they seemed almost to rush into each other's arms; but the
point was direct for his antagonist's chest. Vigneau, with an oath at
the failure of his stroke, let go his lance, and aimed a blow with his
clenched fist at his antagonist; but his act of blind fury was utterly
futile and vain; with unerring aim the stranger struck him full on his
steel breast-plate. There was a loud crash of tearing girths, and
Vigneau rolled ignominiously to the ground amid a motley heap of horses,
harness, and trappings.

Alice's head dropped on Jeannette's shoulder as she faintly asked,
"Who's victor, Jeannette?"

"The stranger, lady; courage, courage! Vigneau is ignominiously
overthrown."

"Thank God!" she ejaculated feebly, and her eyes closed in
insensibility.

All eyes were now turned with a strange fascination towards the two
antagonists, for Vigneau sprang to his feet, drew his broadsword, and
brandishing it in the air like a demon, shouted "_Joûte à l'outrance!_
Come on, varlet! it is to the death!"

The Abbot rushed into the arena, vainly endeavouring to restrain the
blind fury of his brother; but with an oath the Baron threw him off, and
rushed at his antagonist, who by this time had dismounted and stood on
his guard. Fiercely exasperated, Vigneau rained blow upon blow, with the
fury of a madman, whilst the stranger contented himself with coolly
parrying or receiving on his shield the frantic blows of his assailant.
The volcano-like rage of Vigneau quickly expended itself uselessly; soon
limp, and spent, and utterly blown, he aimed a last blow with greatly
diminished force. The stranger received it on his shield, whilst with
concentrated energy he sprang upon Vigneau; his broadsword divided the
air like lightning, and descended on the nape of Vigneau's neck, cutting
clean through his armour, and well-nigh severing his head from his body.
Vigneau threw up his arms wildly in the air as he dropped into his
brother's arms, and shrieked frantically in his death agony, "_The
Saxon! 'Tis the Saxon!_"

The cry acted like magic upon the whole multitude. Men sprang into the
arena shouting madly to each other they knew not what. Horses reared and
snorted, and plunged in dire confusion. The ruse also so consummately
planned by Badger, in case of any hitch or exposure, was vigorously
acted out. On the instant he and his comrades leaped into the arena, and
deftly dodged in and out amongst the horses, and vigorously applied
their goads to their flanks and sides, increasing the disorder and
confusion a hundredfold.

Meantime, whilst the vengeful and sanguinary combat between the
champions had been going on, the stranger's squire had seized the reins
of Vigneau's charger as the spoil of the victor; but Pierre sprang at
him in fierce resistance, and immediately the two squires also became
engaged in a passage of arms as fiercely and as determinedly as their
masters. Promptly Badger gave Wulfhere a vigorous push, which separated
the pair. Then in a low tone, but unmistakably in earnest, he said,
"Zounds, man! what are you doing? and where are your eyes? Can you not
see there is not a moment to lose? Do you not see the Norman has
detected your master? Fly, man, quick! or you're a dead man, and Oswald
also."

Wulfhere, thus suddenly awakened to the peril of the situation, promptly
took Badger's advice and vaulted into his saddle. But his blood was up,
and as he did so, he turned to Pierre, and said,--

"I'll take care we meet again, villain, never fear. Then we will see
whether aught will save thee from the fate which has befallen thy
master, and which has been dogging thy heels this many a day."

Oswald, the stranger knight, also by this time fully comprehended the
peril of the situation, and that if they would save their lives flight
was their only resource. So promptly he sprang into the saddle, and
immediately made for the gate, followed by Wulfhere. The two men-at-arms
without the arena had been watching the movements of Oswald and Wulfhere
with feverish anxiety, irresolute whether to rush in to effect a rescue
or not. But no sooner did they see them make for the entrance than they
pushed their horses amid the spectators, and vigorously plying the flats
of their swords upon the shoulders of the churls who thronged and choked
the way, they quickly cleared a passage; whilst Badger and his party
continued to maintain a state of dire confusion in the enclosure. As
soon as the entrance was passed the safety of the Saxons was assured,
and at once falling into the rear of their leader, they dashed across
the plain, and were lost in the woods ere any one comprehended for
certain what strange things had happened.

Then the Abbot Vigneau strode up to De Montfort, the veins of his neck
standing out with rage and his face livid with passion, and he hoarsely
shouted,--

"I arraign thee traitor to thy king! and I will have thy head for this
treacherous act! I tell thee if thou hast successfully conspired to
murder my brother, I myself hold the letters thou wouldest give thy
right hand to possess! I will use them to the full, nor rest till thou
hast atoned with thy blood for thy treachery!"

Meantime, the scene which followed baffled description. The assembled
company could not comprehend the charges made by Vigneau, and were
bewildered at the tragic ending of what was designed for a day's
festivities.

The condition of Alice was pitiable in the extreme. With returning
consciousness she had seen the fiendish attitude of the Abbot as he
fronted her father. She had heard the wild threats of vengeance, and a
dim sense of uttermost calamity, hanging over her and her father, sent
her back again into a swoon. I roused Jeannette and her companion from
the state of helplessness into which they seemed to have relapsed, and,
under my directions, Alice was carried to her room and laid upon her
couch, whilst such restoratives as were at hand were applied to
stimulate the laggard consciousness, which seemed as though it would
never return.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE SAXON'S REVENGE.

    "E'en these, when of their ill-got spoils possess'd,
    Find sure tormentors in the guilty breast."

    Homer.


The same night, following the tragic ending of the tournament, and about
two hours after Curfew had rung out its warning to churls, housecarles,
and Saxons, all and sundry, who should be caught abroad after the bell
had voiced the hour, there were seated in the Abbot's room two
individuals engaged in a most earnest conversation. The look of deadly
malignity on their countenances, and the low, fierce oaths with which
they frequently emphasised their speech, was palpable evidence that they
plotted mischief. Though one of them had partially divested himself of
his attire, there was that about his dress which betokened that it was
strangely out of keeping with the language he was using, and the
business he was engaged in. The other was dressed in soldier's attire,
and in the sturdy figure we easily recognise Pierre, confidante and
willing tool of Baron Vigneau, and the sharer in most of his villainous
exploits. The Abbot's room was spacious and lofty, and he had had it
hung with costly silken hangings, and rich Turkish carpets covered the
floor. The furniture also was of carved oak, delicate in workmanship,
and of priceless value; for many handicraftsmen of great skill and
experience came over with the Normans, or followed in the wake of the
soldiery. On an exquisitely carved cabinet had been hastily thrust the
remains of a substantial repast of boiled capon and venison cutlets;
whilst on the table between them were two silver tankards containing
good Rhenish wine, and from which libations, copious and frequent, were
poured down two throats which it seemed impossible to effectually slake.
Several letters on parchment, with the massive seal of De Montfort
impressed upon them, were lying on the table betwixt them, the contents
of which had been duly read over to Pierre by the Abbot; and the
following conversation was proceeding:--

"No doubt," said the Abbot, "the whole thing was arranged by the cunning
old fox De Montfort and his daughter. The make-believe of a foreign
cousin was a ruse to prevent the exposure of the Saxon villain. His
advent, also, was so timed that not the slightest opportunity was given
to any one to see through his disguise; and he spoke the Norman language
well."

"Well, I have often wondered at De Montfort's leniency to those Saxon
wolves on the hills. He professed to send for help to William when he
was at York last; but there has been no help forthcoming," said Pierre.

"I don't believe he ever sent such message; but the devil himself is not
more cunning than De Montfort, and, unless we act promptly, he'll
circumvent _us_."

"Well, what's the business? Are you going to make use of those letters,
and have him brought to book promptly?"

"That is it. What I wish, is that you, Pierre, should take this matter
in hand; for it must be done by some one with sufficient courage and
determination. I should like you to proceed forthwith to the court of
his Majesty William, and lay before him these damning proofs of De
Montfort's treachery. If you will undertake this, I confidently
anticipate that within three months the traitor's head will be suspended
over the gates of his castle. That done, I shall urge my suit for the
possession of his forfeited lands, with well-assured success. Then,
trust me, I will humble the pride of his haughty and scornful daughter.
She shall know promptly, for I will teach her, that though Vigneau is
dead, Vigneau still lives. I love her, and I hate her, and when she is
in my power I will have my fill of both love and hate, mark me! I will
have quits for all I owe her, for she has not only compassed the death
of my brother, but she has thwarted me here constantly, by taking under
her protection that old hypocrite Adhelm (meaning myself). I'll be
revenged on both of them at a blow, mark me, Pierre!"

"Humph! This sounds well and good, your Reverence, no doubt, from your
standpoint; but, if you will excuse me, I didn't see very clearly at
what point Pierre came in when these good things were to be distributed.
Now, it appears that I shall figure very prominently in the work of
scotching this snake. So, so! well and good, revenge may be very sweet
to you, and maybe it will be sweet to me; I'll not deny I like the
flavour of it, but, after that, what additional? I shall want either the
skin or the carcase, certainly, if I shoot the deer; if not, why, marry,
I'll never bruise my shins in the chase. So, will you please point out
where this thing is to be profitable to me? Devil's work, you know,
should be well paid, for we must scorch for it by-and-bye, must we not,
eh?"

"Thou shalt have everything I am able to bestow, Pierre; and thou shalt
find that in my exalted position my powers of promotion will be equal to
thy deserts. How sayest thou? wilt thou try the monk's calling? Nothing
easier! I was a soldier ere I donned the _hair shirt_, eh! and took to
mortifying the flesh, as thou well knowest I have done most rigidly at
all times."

"Marry, 'tis quite true, the devil himself would vouch for it; and a
merry jest it is. And now, after your Reverence's example, there's no
saying, but we may expect the devil himself to turn monk some day; and,
in faith, by copying your Reverence closely, he'd make more sinners
in't, than he would by his old tricks;" and Pierre laughed most
immoderately.

"Thou hadst ever a sharp tongue, Pierre, and little regard for thy
betters; but I absolve thee. Nevertheless, I advise _thee_ to the _holy_
calling also. Then what could hinder me bestowing upon thee my Abbot's
office? The best of all things would be at thy command--ease, wine,
wenches, and a jolly fat trencher at all times. I warrant thee there is
no life so merry and so bountiful as the command of a good fat
monastery."

"Bravo!" shouted Pierre, who was immensely tickled by the Abbot's
suggestion; and, bursting again into a roar of laughter, he cried,
"well, this is too rich for anything! Pierre turned _Saint_; ha, ha, ha!
'Twould be after the most godly example of your Grace, I trow. Ha, ha!
good! I'll wash it down, anyhow;" and he raised the tankard to his lips,
and cried, "Drink to't, your Reverence. Here's to _Saint Pierre of pious
memory_;" and promptly he drained the tankard to the bottom; then,
bringing it down again with a bang upon the table, he fairly roared with
laughter.

"Thou art an ass, Pierre! An arrant ass!" said the Abbot, who was
considerably nettled at the freedom with which Pierre made a jest of him
and his office. "Canst thou not see that after the Baron's death De
Montfort will soon be quit of us if we cannot checkmate him? To jest
under the gallows, and end it by swinging on them, is fool's work."

"Well, well, I'll turn the matter over carefully, I think," said Pierre
a little more soberly. "Your Grace has done it, and I think there is
something in it. I don't know how the sneaking method of doing things,
after the dare-devil manner familiar to me, will suit my stomach. I have
always liked the chase better than the game, and I confess I would
rather fight it through, come what may.

"But," said he, bursting into a loud guffaw, as the ludicrousness of his
turning monk thrust itself upon him, and relapsing again into the
jocularity and bitter sarcastic tone familiar to him,--

"Now that _you_ recommend it so strongly, I think I will retire from
_active duties_, and grow fat and wheezy like yourself. Anyhow, it
stands to reason, the bigger the paunch the more good sack wine it will
hold, and that is an item. True, too, a lazy life and a lascivious
appetite are bound to go together. Less force to labour, and more to
lechery; that's the sum of it. I think I come to't, your Reverence.
Beshrew me! what would any man have? for if he lust lustily, and be a
jolly trencherman to boot, with his fill provided to him, what can he
wish for more? My hand on it, your Reverence! I'll undertake the
venture. It is a mad hazard, but I like it none the worse for that!"

"Then when wilt thou start on thine errand, Pierre? Time is precious.
The Count knows I have possession of those letters, and, mark me, he
will circumvent us if he can."

"Line my pocket with gold pieces and I'll start at cock crowing, and De
Montfort may catch me if he can, when once I get the start of him."

Slowly at that instant the door opened behind them, and Oswald, Wulfhere
and a couple of attendants, armed to the teeth, entered, and closed the
door behind them, whilst one stout yeoman set his back against it. The
countenance of Vigneau fell on the instant as though a sword had pierced
him, and he became livid as death. Hastily clutching at the letters
lying on the table, he endeavoured to thrust them into a recess of the
cabinet, and he fairly cowered in abject terror before these strange
visitants. On the contrary, Pierre whipped out his broadsword, and
fiercely stood at bay; his savage valour being in striking contrast to
the crouching cowardice of the Abbot.

"Give place, master," said Wulfhere, advancing on Pierre; "this fellow
is mine. You have already had your revenge. Now, blood-thirsty villain,"
said he, addressing Pierre, "I told thee, did I not, that the time would
come when thou shouldest answer to me for thy cruelties and murders? the
time has come now; and thou canst no longer shirk the fate that has long
awaited thee."

"Did I ever shirk meeting thee, or any churlish Saxon in Britain? Give
me fair play, and I'll give thee a speedy passage to the devil, sirrah!"
said Pierre savagely, striding towards Wulfhere.

So the two stood upon their guard. The Abbot shrinking in mortal terror
in one corner, whilst Oswald and his followers looked on in anxious
suspense; for they knew well the strength and brutal valour of Pierre,
who was ever foremost in any fray, and equally an adept at either stroke
or thrust. Wulfhere also was second to none amongst the Saxon outlaws in
skill and strength, or personal bravery. Toe to toe for a moment they
stood eyeing each other with lips set, and mortal enmity in their eyes.
Then stroke and thrust and parry followed each other in rapid
succession. The rapid advancing or retiring, as each one gave or
received a stroke, by these powerful gladiators, wrought the spectators
to such a pitch of excitement that they held their breath almost to
suffocation. But the climax came in a totally unexpected manner.
Wulfhere drove at his antagonist a powerful sweep of his sword, but
Pierre effectually interposed his sword and parried the blow. Such was
the force of the blow, however, that the treacherous weapon flew in two,
the point striking the opposite side of the room, and the hilt, with
half the broken blade, remaining in Wulfhere's hand. Ere Oswald could
interpose between them, Pierre shouted,--

"Aha! Now I have you!" and rushed in with a furious lunge at Wulfhere's
body.

The words were true enough, but not in the sense in which Pierre had
uttered them; for with lightning-like agility Wulfhere sprang aside, and
the glittering weapon slid harmlessly into the empty air beyond him. So
confident, however, had Pierre been of the helplessness of his opponent,
and so confident of the deadliness of his thrust, that he took no
precaution whatever of his own body. The eager rush also of his own
onslaught, coupled with the force with which Wulfhere drove the broken
blade at him, caused it to pass clean through his body, and, with a
groan and a half-uttered oath, he fell forward on his face, dead.

The Abbot, as he witnessed the close of the tragic scene, literally
crawled to the feet of Oswald, begging piteously for mercy. One of the
men-at-arms who accompanied Oswald, advanced upon him, and said,--

"Leave him to me, master. Now, dastardly fiend!" said he, addressing the
Abbot, "there has come a reckoning day even for you. You remember the
little cot out yonder befouled by your infamous presence. You know the
boy murdered by you in cold blood, and waiting to be avenged until this
hour. The time has come at last."

"Have mercy upon me," moaned the Abbot, "and I will recompense you
liberally. Take this gold chain," said he, removing a massive gold chain
from his neck, "it is very valuable, and I will give thee more."

"If you think a gold chain will recompense me for my dead child, base
hound, you are greatly mistaken. His blood cries for vengeance, and I
will exact it now."

As he spoke he raised his sword, and at a blow he severed the Abbot's
head from his body.

"This is most ghastly work," said Oswald, "and to be done within the
sacred precincts of this edifice it is most deplorable. But surely
iniquities such as these men have constantly and unblushingly
perpetrated call for most drastic remedies. Men, gather up these bodies,
and bury them deep in the woods before the dawn."

The two men-at-arms called in some of their fellows who were watching in
the corridors outside, and, swathing the bodies in the Abbot's robes,
they hurried along the corridors and out of the grounds, bearing their
ghastly burden to secret burial in the forest.

Oswald and Wulfhere remained behind engaged in diligent search.

"There are certain documents possessed by this man which are of vast
importance to some one I would like to serve," said Oswald. "We must
find them, if possible, ere we quit this place. I saw the Abbot hastily
remove some papers as we entered, as though he was exceedingly anxious
to conceal them. I strongly suspect they are the letters I would fain
lay hands upon."

So saying, he advanced to the cabinet, and throwing it open, almost
immediately drew forth the letters which had well-nigh had such dire
effects upon the life and happiness of Alice De Montfort. Oswald gave an
exclamation of pleased surprise as the seal of De Montfort caught his
eye, and, hastily unfolding them, he eagerly ran over their contents one
by one, and, as he gathered their import, he said to Wulfhere,--

"These are indeed a treasure more precious than gold. They bear evidence
of one fatal mistake on the part of one whose astuteness is otherwise
marvellous; and they have been an instrument of terror to the author of
them for a long time. Now this dread secret will henceforth be sealed
for ever. Sealed it is in the death of those who knew and used it so
unscrupulously; and it will soon be sealed in the destruction of these
documents."

So he hastily thrust them into his bosom, and they continued their
search. But nothing further that had any bearing upon the subject could
be found.

"Our work in this place is evidently at an end for the present," said
Oswald. "So let us be gone, for I would finish this day's work. I wot
there are some who at this moment are in terrible suspense, and are
awaiting in well-nigh mortal terror for the further development of this
tragedy. So let us away, the night is still young, and there is a voice
eagerly calling for me."




CHAPTER XXXIX.

BEWARE THE VIKING.

    "O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare,
    With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way,
    And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies."

    Milton.


We left Sigurd and his two followers in the cave in the mountains.
Sigurd, as usual, was restless and eager for further attacks upon the
Normans. So, early next morning, one of his men, in obedience to his
commands, climbed to the top of the mountain for the purpose of
signalling the scattered band, who, since the departure of their leader,
with the wounded chieftain Oswald--narrated previously--had been in
hiding in small companies, or singly, with their wives and children.
This messenger laboriously scaled peak after peak until he mounted the
loftiest eminence of all; from whence, far away in the hazy distance,
summit after summit towered heavenwards, with scarred weird valleys
lying between them, and the placid wood-encircled lakes in goodly number
shining like burnished silver, looking up to heaven, reflecting sun and
cloud in their still depths. The man, ignorant, unlettered, and
uncultured as he was, felt the mighty inspiration; and he stood
passively for a few minutes surveying the scene lying before him. Then
slowly he turned upon his heel until he had faced every point of the
compass, taking in the mighty distances within the circle of these
mountain sentinels, with the magnificent and inspiring solitudes around
on every hand. The cool mountain breeze stirred his long, unkempt locks
and beard; and the air, pure as the unsullied breath of heaven, like an
inspiration thrilled through his lungs, and poured its vitalising energy
through every vein in his body. Not a sound, however, broke from his
lips betokening any sense of admiration or appreciation of what he
looked upon. Only some half-articulated guttural sounds betokened
intense inward satisfaction. But now, in a moment, quick as thought, his
brawny arms unfolded from across his broad chest, and a fierce fire of
rage kindled in his eye; a savage expression also escaped his lips, for
the deep baying of a hound broke upon his ear, and turning, he saw down
in the valley yonder, Norman soldiers putting bloodhounds on the trail
of his chieftain, Sigurd. Instantly, without staying to rear aloft the
beacon, which was to speak to comrades hiding in distant valleys or on
the distant hills, he darted over the shoulder of the hill, and with
long, fleet strides, seemed almost to fly towards the cave, where, in
hiding, he had left his master. On reaching the cave he hurriedly
explained to Sigurd the position of affairs. With a savage exclamation
the chieftain said,--

"Ha! they hunt me with dogs again, as though I were a wolf or a hog.
Well, let them beware! the wild boar of the mountains will find them
more sport than will be pleasant, as he has done many times before! I
suppose it will be a long race, for these Norman sleuthhounds are sure
of scent, and will not be easily shaken off! Forward ye up the burn; we
will go over the head, for there is a trap laid for them up yonder. From
thence we go down into Deepdale, keeping along round the head of
Ulleswater. Ye will get a good start, and may take it easy."

"What will ye do, Jarl? If ye mean to attack these Norman dogs, we would
rather stand by you and share the risk."

"I shall be ruled by fate. Skuld, the Viking's friend, has me in his
keeping; I shall not be slain; but one thing I must do, I must show
myself to them, so as to divert the scent from this place. We must not
let the hounds lead them to our lair here, for it is a snug port in a
storm, and we shall need it for rest many times yet, I fear. When I have
showed myself to them, I shall follow after you. As ye scale the summit
ye may look out; if I need you I will signal, but it is not likely."

Buckling on their swords alone, so as to be lightly equipped, the two
men followed the water-course which marked the dividing line betwixt the
hills on either side, and which, in its turn, was flanked on each hand
by the dense wood stretching for more than a mile further up the burn,
until the inhospitable Zone was reached, where tree and shrub were
pinched and stunted into barrenness by the chill mountain air, and where
shelter only could be obtained by the innumerable and gigantic limestone
boulders, which grimly stood sentinel over the leaping and tumbling
waters. Sigurd hastily stowed away some provisions in a leathern case,
which he strapped over his shoulders. Then, buckling on his belt, from
which his broadsword was suspended, he crept from his hiding-place and
strode upwards through the tangled undergrowth, making for the clear on
the mountain side. His purpose, as we have already said, being to throw
the hounds off the old scent which led to the cave overlooking the tarn,
and to draw them directly after himself; for he was very little dismayed
at the prospect, so confident was he of his own power to keep them at a
safe distance, and weary out, if need be, the Norman band. Having
cleared the wood, he climbed up the hillside for a little way, scanning
carefully the course along which the enemy must come. All was quiet as
yet, so he sat him down to await events. He had not long to wait in this
position, however, ere the cry of the hounds and the shouting of men
smote upon his ear, and he started to his feet. Yonder in the distance,
and coming along the mountain side, he espied a couple of men, each
leading a hound, and a company of thirty or forty Norman men-at-arms
followed after. Climbing upon a knoll, professedly to survey the party,
but in reality to attract attention to himself, he stood for a moment, a
conspicuous figure on the barren hillside, and speedily he was seen by
the Normans, who set up a great shout of exultation as they beheld the
burly figure of their dire foe so nearly in their power. Sigurd waved
his sword defiantly in their faces, and then turned and sped him after
his men, towards the valley's head. Eagerly the Normans followed after,
having Sigurd almost constantly in view; and, as they deemed, soon to be
run down and captured.

As they followed after Sigurd up the valley it grew gradually into a
most desolate and awe-inspiring solitude. All along the mountain summits
the limestone rocks jutted out clear of every vestige of verdure--bare,
bold, ominous, and frowning. The slow, but persistent disintegrating
influences of climate and atmosphere had, through the centuries, slowly
diminished their beetling heads; and all adown their scraggy sides layer
upon layer of rocky fragments testified most eloquently that rugged and
strong as were these rocky eminences, there was a despoiler strong
enough even to cope with their might; whilst in the bottom of the glen
were huge rocks lying where Nature's invisible fingers had toppled them
from the summit. Few living things haunted the place. Yonder, over the
crest of the mountain, a pair of golden eagles were wheeling in circles,
delighting in the strength of their matchless pinions. Here and there a
rabbit might be seen stealing in and out amongst the boulders. Several
carrion crows, with hoarse croak, flitted from boulder to boulder in
ominous expectation of coming carnage. Rich and plentiful had been their
fare since the coming of the Normans, and, with true instinct, these
flying Saxons and pursuing Normans, they knew, were prophetic of
gratification to their base appetites.

On the Normans came, their following after being greatly expedited by a
constant sight of the quarry. For there was no need to be careful, or
anxious lest their hounds lost the trail. Sigurd was not a quarter of a
mile ahead, but in consequence of the ascent, and the rough ground to be
traversed, it represented a good start. He was also a much more powerful
and skilful mountaineer than they were, and with the utmost ease he held
the distance. As they progressed the ascent became steeper and steeper,
wilder and more rugged. Frequently they lost sight of the Viking chief,
as he disappeared behind huge boulders or frowning rocks, only to see
him reappear again on some promontory still higher, from which he would
watch them for a minute or two as they struggled after him, the savage
defiances he shouted falling easily upon their ear. Nearer and nearer,
however, they came towards the head of this rugged and water-furrowed
gorge. Running along the topmost ridge of the hill on either side of the
cleft, down which the water rushed, was a long line of steep beetling
crags, bare, jutting, verdureless rocks, well-nigh impossible to scale,
and involving a wide circuit to outflank. The waters, through countless
generations, with unceasing rush and swirl, had shorn these flinty
limestone rocks asunder in one steep slit from top to bottom; and to
track the "mad Saxon"--as Sigurd was called by the Normans--through this
weird crevice, was to penetrate a mere fissure between steep and
overhanging rocks on either side, and so full of twists that the path
was frequently completely hidden a couple of yards in advance. The Saxon
knew his ground well.

Not so these Normans; but, enough for them, their foe was a flying foe,
and they were numerous and consequently valorous. Ignoring completely
the many lessons of personal valour and mad daring this man had taught
them in the past, without pause they boldly followed after, the hounds
foaming at the mouth and tugging at the leash. 'Twas a fearsome gap to
enter, and they had not proceeded far when a jutting crag projected, and
the waters were compelled to make a circuit in order to flow round it.
With a deep bay, and an eager plunge in the turbid, rushing waters--for
he scented blood--the hound which led the party dashed past the
projection, eagerly dragging the Norman who followed after and held him.
But a blow of Sigurd's sword cut the hound clean in two, and a second
blow clave the Norman who held him. With a great shriek, a
terror-stricken cry, and without pretence of defence, they turned in an
eager scrambling retreat, each caring only for himself, and leaving the
rearmost to the mercy of the savage giant who followed after. When they
reached the open ground, where in numbers they could assail their foe,
no foe was in sight. Sigurd had exhausted his opportunity and was gone.
Who now would be first to enter again, and force this wild man from his
lair? Alas! not one! There was, however, no time to lose, and the
Normans were consumed with impotent rage. So some of them hurried round
by the end of the crags, whilst some scaled the face of the cliff, each
and all endeavouring, with utmost speed, to come upon the rocks above.
This was done eventually, and, swarming to the brink of the rift, many
heads endeavoured cautiously to peep over and down into the
water-course, intensely hoping, but almost fearing, to set eyes upon
their foe. But no Saxon was to be seen. They then rushed along the sides
of the fissure, peeping down as they ran, and making sure that their
victim was safely entrapped in his lair after all. But there was not a
trace of him. On and on they rushed, over-lapping each other in turns,
until, eventually, they came to the very summit, where the water-course
had completely run out into a mere hollow, a deep, spongy marsh or bog.
Hastily overtopping the hill, they eagerly looked down into the valley
beyond. With wild execrations of rage they beheld the object of their
direst hatred and fear moving down the mountain side with long, swinging
strides, nearly a mile ahead, and immediately he disappeared in a dense
wood, which seemed to stretch out its sheltering arms to the fugitive.

Sigurd was now joined by his two comrades, and together they pushed on
for two or three miles through the forest, eventually rounding the head
of Lake Ulleswater, and patiently climbing the steep headland on the
opposite side of the lake. Here they halted for a while to rest and eat;
but they were soon again roused to action by the voices of men and hound
persistently following after. For the Normans were enraged, and, with
the remaining hound, they continued mile after mile to track their arch
enemy. Sigurd and his men, at a steady trot, continued to lead the
chase, covering another five or six miles down the side of the lake
without halting.

"Shall we keep up the race until we weary them out, Jarl?" remarked one
of the men to Sigurd.

"No, I have another purpose in view; but this long race, with the taste
of steel in the middle of it, will do them good."

"Ye do not purpose making for the cave, Jarl, do ye? There are not half
a dozen men there, and we are no match for this company. Then there are
the women and children to be thought of."

"No, that will not do at present. The boat will be safely moored at the
foot of Hawks' Cliff, will it not, think ye?"

"Yes, I doubt not," was the reply. "I see now, Jarl. It is very good. To
slip the noose so deftly when the Normans think to hang us is well
thought of."

On for a little while the three continued, until coming to the
rendezvous known to them as Hawks' Cliff--stupendous rocks shorn down
with well-nigh a perpendicular face and overhanging the lake. Down these
rocks, which required a cool head, deft feet, and a knowledge of the
giddy path, these three swiftly descended, until the water was reached,
where a boat was found snugly moored beneath the sheltering arms of the
trees which fringed the water's edge. Into this boat the three stepped,
and as the pursuers drew near they pulled away from the shore, making
for the opposite side of the lake. Here was a masterly manoeuvre,
completely foiling the enemy. For whether they went round by the bottom
of the lake, or retraced their steps by the head, it meant a start of
ten or twelve miles to the fugitives; and with the day wearing on, and
the pursuers wearied and fagged, the chase was manifestly closed for the
day, with one more futile attempt to destroy this redoubtable enemy, who
unweariedly persisted in exacting bloody tribute from their ranks,
disdaining every overture of reconciliation, and defying their utmost
efforts to subdue him.




CHAPTER XL.

THE HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN.

    "What outward form and feature are
    He guesseth but in part;
    But what within is good and fair
    He seeth with the heart."

    Coleridge.


Through the woods with sure-footed fleetness their powerful horses bore
Oswald and Wulfhere on the fateful night of their visit to the
monastery. Matters of most momentous importance to Oswald at least, as
well as to Alice and the Count her father, called for urgency, and would
brook no delay. Presently the pair stood together in the wood, hard by
the place of the mysterious passage. "Hold the horses, Wulfhere, and
await my return; our rest will be more welcome, and much sweeter when we
have brought peace unto others, and disburthened our minds of the
momentous issues following on this day's work." So saying, he swung
himself aloft, and speedily disappeared in the cavernous recesses of the
giant oak.

Meanwhile, on the turret a lonely figure paced round and round its
battlemented heights in the shivering cold, but all unconscious, and
insensible to its chilling influences. It was Alice De Montfort who
waited and watched in the loneliness of the night, hoping, yet
despairing of hearing the welcome voice, or seeing the welcome form of
her Saxon lover. Ever and anon, as she paced to and fro, she lifted up
her tear-stained eyes in voiceless prayer to the heavens above her; but
the driving clouds as they scudded across the face of the sky, seemed to
shut out hope, and all response from the vaulted blue, toward which she
looked for succour and for comfort. Then in mute agony she turned from
the Omnipotent, whose form she could not see; and whose voice she could
not hear, but who, though as yet there was no token, had nevertheless
heard her prayer ere it was uttered, and in His own way was sending
fleet messengers of hope.

Was there hope and help in man? She mounted the parapet and peered long
and anxiously over the bastions into the cheerless night, listening with
strained attention for sound of voice or human footfall. But the teeth
of the driving wind bit with piteous severity her wan cheek, and she
sank down again beneath the shelter of the wall.

"Will he come to-night?" she yearningly asked of the empty air.

Her faint heart gave the answer to the question.

"No, he is a fugitive and a hunted Saxon; a wolfshead and an outlaw; and
after this day's vengeance he must hide himself as best he can. But I
love him all the more for that, for he is brave and true, and I will
gladly share poverty and exile with him. What would I not give this
moment to know that he is safe? to feel the grasp of his strong arm; to
hear his voice, resolute as a hero's should be, yet withal so tender,
that a little babe would be hushed to sleep by its gentleness, as though
'twere a mother's lullaby. How danger seems to fly from me, and dark,
overhanging fate is fronted by silver-winged hope when he is nigh! But,
alas! vain are all my hopes, for he comes not. Perhaps already the
traitorous minions have avenged themselves in his blood, and I shall
never see him more. I must fain get me to my chamber and weep, and pray
the night away, in the hope that with to-morrow's light there may come
some tidings of him. Just one last look from the bastion ere I descend."

So saying, she rose to her feet. Ah! a footstep on the stone stair
arrests her attention. Some spy upon her movements--she is discovered!
Her heart beats feverishly, and she sinks to the ground with the day's
carnage flitting indistinctly before her mental vision. Ah! what is
that? The tall form of the Saxon chieftain is outlined in the dim light,
and with a cry of uncontrollable delight, and with supernatural energy
she bounds across the intervening space, and flings herself into his
strong arms in sweet insensibility.

"You are my own now, sweetheart," said Oswald, folding her to his
breast, and imprinting a kiss upon her cold brow. "You anxious one;
whatever have you been doing? watching in this chill night air all
alone, and so scantily clad too."

The ears into which he uttered his loving words were deaf; and the eyes
into which he vainly strove to look were closed.

"Poor child," said he, "this is too bad."

Then he folded her tightly in his arms and rested his warm cheek against
hers. Her eyes slowly unclosed, and for a moment she gazed up into his
face. Then slowly they closed again, and a sweet smile passed over her
features, the revulsion of feeling from despair to the joy of hope was
delicious. Like a little child waking in agony from some horrid dream,
and finding its mother's form bending over it, and forthwith dropping
once more into sleep, and peace, and rest.

For a minute or two she was perfectly passive, whilst the new joy seemed
to be saturating her whole being.

"I am so glad you have come," she said, rousing herself. "I was filled
with most dreadful forebodings of disaster to you, to my father, and to
all of us. Excuse my silence, but the joy was so great I could do
nothing but quietly drink it in. This horrid day has nearly killed me.
Even now I am more afraid of the future. After you fled the Abbot boldly
charged my father with disloyalty, and with having planned the day's
slaughter of his brother. His rage and his threatenings were dreadful to
hear, for he vowed that he would forthwith lay the matter before the
king."

"Fear not, dearest, the worst is past. Everything has this day been
purged away in blood. I care not to think about it, much less to talk
about it. But after all, only the barest justice has been done, and I
know of nothing that calls for repentance. Has the Count retired to
rest?"

"No. I fear there will be little rest for him to-night. I left him some
time ago pacing his room in despair, and revolving in his mind various
plans for frustrating the malicious intentions of the Abbot."

"Other hands have already frustrated the evil designs of that most
wicked and loathsome representative of the Church. The avenger has met
him face to face, and he is no more. Come, let us go down to the Count.
I am the bearer of news which will make him look kindly upon even a
Saxon outlaw. Come with me, one telling of the story will suffice."

So together they descended the turret stair and sought De Montfort's
room. Alice gave a gentle knock upon the heavy oaken door, but there was
no response. Then she gently pushed open the door, and the pair entered
together. The Count was sat with his elbows on the oaken table, his face
buried in his hands, and totally oblivious of their entrance.

"Father!" said Alice gently.

The Count gave a start and raised his head, and immediately started to
his feet at the spectacle which met his sight; for the stalwart Saxon
once more stood before him: his astonishment being still more inflamed,
as he witnessed his fair daughter lovingly clinging to the outlawed
chieftain's arm, and radiant with smiles.

"Alice!"

"Father, give this noble Saxon a hearty welcome, for he richly merits
it. A long time since I unwittingly gave him my heart, or rather he took
it, and he has proved himself our bravest and truest friend. He is
bearer also to-night, I believe, of most welcome news."

So saying, she led her Saxon lover to the Count, and Oswald, dropping on
one knee, said,--

"Noble sir, your lovely daughter some time ago, in pure pity, gave me my
life. On the night of the taking of this castle she opened the prison
doors, and with her own hands undid my shackles----"

"Alice, I little thought that it was your doing!"

"Wait, father, till you hear this noble Saxon's story, and you will
chide me no more for that act of mercy."

"Noble sir," said Oswald, "we Saxons never permit a debt of honour to go
unrequited. I have endeavoured as best I could to discharge the debt of
honour so nobly laid upon me; but the fair creditor has taken possession
of my heart. I cannot eject her, if I would; and I would not, if I
could, eject so lovely and so winsome a tenant."

"Pray be seated, Saxon; I confess I do not understand the language used
by either you or my daughter, nor do I know how far it is permissible
for me to hold friendly intercourse with one whom my king expects me to
be at deadly enmity with. But Saxon or not, you deported yourself to-day
as a brave man and a true knight should do. The disguise was well
planned and complete, and your advent timely. It was most daring, but
what its purpose was I am at a loss to know."

"Its purpose was to rid you and yours of a most deadly viper, and to rid
our race of a blood-thirsty tyrant."

"I divine thou knowest more of my concerns than it is meet a stranger
should. But, be that as it may, I know not whether I am indebted to thee
or not, for one viper laid low has given birth to others, whose venom I
dread even more, and whom I have no means of appeasing.

"It is better I should explain, sire. It is true I became possessed of
your secret, but the gratitude I owed to your daughter for the life
given back to me from the jaws of death, as well as for the love I bore
her, also for the fierce retribution I and my people owed to the
brothers Vigneau, for numberless cruelties and outrages dealt out to our
people, caused me to watch with scrupulous care, that I might serve you
and yours and rid my people of a deadly terror. I have news for you,
sire. Not only is Baron Vigneau dead, but also the Abbot, his brother,
has fallen by the avenging hand of an outraged countryman of mine, and
has been carried to his burial in the silent woods. Furthermore, here
are the fatal letters," said Oswald, drawing them from his bosom and
handing them to the Count.

"No living man, save ourselves, I believe, is aware of the nature of
them, so it is easy to end their potency for mischief."

At the sight of the fatal letters which had for so long a time hung over
him like the sword of Damocles, the countenance of the Count lighted up
as though it were by magic, and, reading them over carefully, one by
one, he ejaculated, "Thank God!" Then rising from his seat he walked to
the huge fireplace, in which were the smouldering remains of a wood
fire, and he dropped them into the embers, and watched the quick flame
as it sped up the chimney. After this he most carefully raked over the
filmy remains a pile of burning charcoal; then he returned to the table,
and turned a satisfied and kindly look upon Oswald.

"Did I understand you to say, Saxon, that the Abbot was dead also?"

"Yes, sire, I knew well that the work was but half done and the
deliverance half accomplished whilst the Abbot lived. I knew also that
the least delay would be fatal, so I and a few followers made bold to
force an entrance to the monastery, where we found the Abbot in close
consultation with one Pierre, whom doubtless you have met."

"Yes, yes, Pierre--I know him well--a brave man, but an arrant villain
withal. I trust he is not acquainted with this foolish act of mine."

"We found the Abbot communicating the whole matter to him, and by bribes
and promises inciting him to proceed at once to London, and lay the
letters before William. He hoped to bring down upon you the King's
vengeance, and then to possess himself of your lands and possessions."

"And what of Pierre? then, is he at large, and in possession of this
information?"

"No, sire. The stalwart fellow who acted the part of squire to me in the
tournament had cause of quarrel with him personally, as well as a long
catalogue of crimes against our people to avenge. He challenged Pierre,
and single-handed, and in fair fight slew him; so he also is no more."

"Saxon, 'tis well done, whilst I have been moping and irresolute how to
act, you have planned and executed. It is well done, as I have said, and
I am a life-long debtor to you. But what is this betwixt yourself and my
daughter? I am bewildered. Alice, are you two lovers?"

"Yes, father."

"And this thing has been going on for some time evidently, and under my
very nose, and I as blind as a bat. This is passing strange; I confess,
almost with shame, my obtuseness."

Alice rose from her seat, threw her arms about her father's neck, and
affectionately imprinted a kiss upon his cheek, saying,

"Forgive us, father; we meant you no wrong, and we dared not confess
until the circumstances were favourable; but all the while have we been
carefully planning how we might extricate you from the power of your
enemy."

"I have nothing to forgive, truly, you silly child. But was it wise to
turn your heart adrift like a rudderless boat on a tempestuous sea, and
leave the errant winds to drive it into port whenever they listed. A
kindly providence, however, has watched over you, and you deserved it.
Blindly, humanly speaking, your love has been placed, but it has been
well placed, in the keeping of a brave man and true, though he be not of
our race. But whither will all this tend, and how will imperious William
receive the tidings--that the daughter of De Montfort has a Saxon
lover?"

"Father, let us have patience and faith; all fear of disaster is now
removed. This valiant Saxon lover of mine can wait the pleasure of our
liege lord; and I--my happiness is so complete, I scarcely know whether
I shall be, happiest as a lover or a wife. There remains much to be
done, and I doubt not but William will know how to estimate the value of
an ally and friend, who is at once wise and brave, even though he be a
Saxon."




CHAPTER XLI.

NOBILITY IN CONTRAST.

    "Shall show us how divine a thing
    A woman may be made."

    Wordsworth.


After the stirring episode which ended in the removal from the scene of
the brothers Vigneau, and their henchman Pierre, the relationship
between the outlawed Saxons and the Normans,--as it related to the
domains owned by De Montfort and those contiguous,--became much more
amicable and peaceful. The Saxon colony on the mountains boldly advanced
to the valley, and took up without molestation the tilling of the soil.
The sturdy outlaws whose home had been the greenwood, and their
sustenance the chase and plunder, now many of them returned to the
peaceful calling they had pursued before the Normans drave them from
their homes, and the plots of ground they lived upon. Intercourse
between the races became regular and uninterrupted; intermarrying being
of frequent occurrence. The Norman lost in great measure his haughty and
overbearing manner, and the Saxon hatred of the Norman accordingly
abated. The language also began to be a compound of Saxon and Norman,
for each nation was driven by the exigencies of combined intercourse to
learn a little of the other's language; and before my eyes daily did I
witness the interblending of peoples. This was a joy to me, to Oswald,
and to Alice; and indeed no one who thoroughly grasped the situation
could ever again look for the overthrow of the Normans; and whilst there
were wild, untamed, and irreconcilable Saxons, who fomented strife and
rebellion, and on the other hand Normans proud, overbearing and cruel,
yet there were to me palpable signs that the two races would eventually
become one people, to their mutual advantage.

Happy am I also to relate that, through the interposition of Alice, and
the kindness and confidence of De Montfort, I was once more restored to
the rule of this monastery, and with its privileges and emoluments but
little curtailed. Thus was I able to do much towards the reconciling of
these two peoples. Thankful also I am to relate that, amid the multitude
of claims upon me, I yet had strength and leisure sufficient to write
these chronicles.

The kind reader I hope will pardon me this digression, and the little
egotism I have indulged in, and I will proceed once more with this
history.

De Montfort made no attempt to ignore the deep obligations that Oswald
had laid him under; nor did he attempt to interfere with the plighted
troth of these two lovers. Still many misgivings arose in his mind, with
regard to the attitude his sovereign would assume towards this union. He
knew well that if William disapproved of it, his will would have to be
law. He debated long with himself the question, whether it would be best
to first obtain William's consent to the marriage, or boldly solve the
difficulty by uniting the pair and then presenting them to the king. The
bolder course was finally adopted, and the day of the nuptials fixed. By
the unanimous wish of all concerned, it was determined that the marriage
should be celebrated without pomp and wholesale merriment, as was so
often the case; but that there should be the rustic games and rural
sports so dear to the common people.

So accordingly on the eventful morning the bridal party wended their way
through the forest to this sanctuary, which we had decorated for the
occasion. As the party passed through the forest with light hearts and
joyous, there were others to whom these nuptials had most tragic
results. Secreted in the thicket and watching the party go by was one,
to whom every note of the joyous bells rang out a knell. Secreted also
in another part was one to whom this nuptial act was infamous, and
basest treachery; and like a wild beast he waited for an opportunity to
spring upon the pair, and with one more wild deed of revenge to
accentuate his undying hatred towards the Norman usurper. Soon after the
party passed on their way and came near to the Abbey gates, Ethel,
muffled and disguised as a peasant woman, stepped from the thicket from
which she had watched the party go by, and slowly followed them. But she
had not proceeded very far, ere some movement in the thicket attracted
her attention, and turning more attentively to observe, she espied
Sigurd's stealthy figure gliding amongst the trees with his naked sword
in his hand, and evidently dogging the footsteps of the bridal party. A
few fleet footsteps brought her abreast of him.

"My lord!" she said, addressing him, "what does this mean?"

"Ethel, is that you? I little thought to see you here," said he,
ignoring altogether the question addressed to him.

"I am here, and opportunely my lord, too, if your attitude does not
deceive me. What means that naked sword when there are no enemies
present?"

"Do you not know," he said in low fierce tones, "what deed is to be done
to-day? Oswald completes his infamy by wedding this Norman woman, and I
will kill him before this day is done, or henceforth ye shall brand me a
coward."

"My lord," said Ethel placing herself before him, "what madness is this
that you purpose? Put up that sword, and mark me well! if any evil
befall him, and if you dare to injure him or his bride, either now or
henceforth, you make of me a mortal enemy, and I will not rest until
your crime be punished."

"Ethel, 'tis ye are mad! or else your love at sight of this would be
turned to mortal hatred! Would I had not met you this day, then would I
have wiped out this stain from the Saxon race."

The power wielded by this beautiful Saxon woman over this untamed
warrior was unbounded, and bore eloquent testimony to the depth and
purity of his love for her; for without another word of remonstrance he
sheathed his sword, and strode away into the depths of the forest.

Then Ethel pursued her journey, following the bridal party into the
chapel, and sitting down, quite unnoticed, amid a motley throng of
peasant women and Saxon churls, who had gathered to witness the
nuptials. The marriage ceremony was designed to be carried out with
great privacy, nevertheless there were a few Normans of note gathered
there to witness it. There were also some Saxons, who had claim to
honoured names and substantial estates, were it not for the greed of
these usurpers; but most of these were now at best but fief-holders of
their conquerors, and with cowed and brow-beaten looks, they were
content to herd with their still more degraded countrymen.

It was manifest to any careful observer also that, amid the few Normans
gathered, there was great disapprobation of the rite about to be
celebrated; and as the tall muscular Saxon, who had maintained his
independence and defied them all, advanced to the altar, they could not
forget that the glamour of this man's name had given heart to the
Saxons, and that, on innumerable occasions, he had vigorously interposed
himself between these tyrants and the objects of their tyranny. To see
him now standing side by side with one of the noblest, and one of the
most beautiful of their race, was to them bitter as gall. And I could
hear distinctly ominous muttering, and the handling of weapons. This, I
must confess, was what I had dreaded, and others also, I found, had
foreseen it; for at that moment Wulfhere and a sturdy band of Saxons,
armed to the teeth, entered the chapel, and boldly took their stand near
to the bridal party. At this the exasperation of the Normans was
increased, but nevertheless they were distinctly overawed by it, and no
further demonstrations of disapproval were made.

Ere the marriage ceremony was completed, and as the monks chaunted the
Benedicite, Ethel glided noiselessly from her place in the chapel, and
hurried from the grounds. As soon as she was clear of them she turned
into an unfrequented path, which led to the heart of the forest. Sigurd
had been secreted near, watching for her return, and immediately she was
obscured from the gaze of others he joined her.

"Has this Saxon traitor completed his dishonour, by wedding a daughter
of the Norman tyrant?" said he.

"Oswald has wedded the fair Norman, and I bestow my blessing on them,
for 'tis the herald of peace to our downtrodden race, and an augury of
the coming union of our people and the Norman."

"My curses on him and the coward brood of Saxons, who have betrayed
their country and, by their submission to the tyrant usurper, have
helped to rivet the fetters of bondage upon our race for generations to
come!"

"My lord, this is most distasteful to me. I will hear no more of it. You
are utterly incapable of understanding them or their motives, it is
plain; so desist, once for all, from your unreasoning hatred."

"Whither go ye now, Ethel? and may I go with ye?" said Sigurd humbly.

"I am bound for the Monastery of Crowland, my lord."

"_Monastery of Crowland! Never say it, girl!_ What do ye mean? Ye cannot
go _there_, Ethel! _Say ye will not go there, Ethel!_" he shrieked, in
agonised tones.

"It is quite true, my lord," said Ethel firmly.

"It cannot be, Ethel! Ye' cannot leave us thus! We are undone if ye
leave us! Say ye will not go to Crowland! _anywhere but there!_ I
thought ye would now forget my fierce and boorish habits, and be my
wife. Oswald is wedded, and ye cannot be his. What hinders ye from being
my wife? I will be anything ye ask of me, Ethel! I am quite broken now;
my spirit is broken. I will make my peace with the Normans, and wear a
serf's collar, and let them _whip me, cuff me--anything_! only say ye
will not leave me," he pleaded piteously.

"Alas! my lord, that can never be! My love is dead, and will never more
have resurrection in this world. I have no capacity for a new affection.
A maiden's heart can be won but once. Do not importune me, my lord,
further. The end has come; 'tis a new epoch, and in it there is no place
for you and me, and 'tis best we should quietly vanish from the scene."

"Is there no _hope_, Ethel, that ye will be my bride? Ye'll maybe change
some day. I can wait twenty years, if ye bid me."

"There is no hope, my lord. There can be but one other change for me,
and that will be when I don the cerements of the tomb."

"_No hope, Ethel? No hope?_" he slowly and painfully ejaculated, as
though each word was a dagger thrust at his heart. "Then I am lost!"

Slowly he drew himself up, expanded his broad chest, and threw abroad
his brawny arms, as though about to grapple with an enemy.

"Then," said he, "I'll have a sweet revenge on the Norman foe. I'll give
my blood again to the soil I love so well, and get me a warrior's grave.
Then, welcome Valhalla! Odin! Odin! Norseman's god!" he cried; "I am
coming soon to join the hero spirits, awaiting me in the land beyond the
dark and troubled sea."

His head drooped upon his chest, and he covered his face with his hands,
whilst his whole frame quivered with emotion. It was the cry of a blind
faith, but it was the cry of the soul, and it grappled him to the loving
heart of infinite mercy.

Ethel trembled violently at the bitterness of soul displayed by this
noble Viking, and the unbidden tears coursed down her cheeks in sympathy
with his sorrow.

"Adieu, my lord! May God have mercy upon you," she said in broken and
tender accents.

"Nay, Ethel! I'll go with you, I would like to see the door close upon
you safe, if it must be. 'Tis not fitting ye should take this journey
alone. These Norman dogs are abroad everywhere, and 'tis full of peril
for ye to journey alone; they will not respect ye as I do. These Normans
have no respect for such as you."

"I am sorry to say I cannot permit this, my lord. It would be both at
your peril and my own. Do you not know what a heavy price these Normans
have put upon your head?"

"Ah! they have made me a wolfshead truly, but they have not done with me
yet, Ethel; not done with me, they will find! Broken in spirit, as I am,
I do not fear them; nor do I care what price they have put upon my head.
I have nothing to live for, but I will _die like a Viking_. If it will
be a peril to you if I go with you, well, let it be so; but 'tis bitter
parting, Ethel."

"Do not fear on my account, my lord. The Abbot Adhelm has made
arrangement for two of the monks to bear me company; and their sacred
office and my vow will protect both them and myself from the violence of
the Normans."

"Shall I never see ye more, Ethel? _Never more?_ Won't ye come
_sometimes_ just to have a look at the _old hills_ again? and I'll meet
ye, and we'll see how the world fares with you and me. Promise me ye'll
come sometimes, Ethel, and let me look upon your sweet face. I've nought
to live for but you!"

Ethel was deeply moved at Sigurd's importunity, but she said,--

"My lord, I cannot hope to meet you any more on earth; but I will
venture to hope and pray that, when our God, who is a God infinite in
mercy and compassion, shall strike the balance betwixt right and wrong,
between high ideals and a grovelling ambition--in short, when He shall
'judge the world in righteousness,' He will find that the recording
angel has made many an entry to your account, and blurred out many a
fault with his tears; and that after all it will be found that your
erring but sturdy virtues outweigh by far your many faults, and the
limitations of your life. Then we shall meet again beyond the grave,
where we shall see eye to eye, and 'where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest.' Once more adieu, my lord!" So
saying, she sped on her way.

Sigurd stood silently watching her retreating form until she disappeared
from view, and for several minutes he still stood gazing after her like
one bereft, whilst his massive frame was shaken with powerful emotions.
Then slowly he muttered to himself: "The sun is set upon all my hopes;
my day is done, and all is lost, save love of country and revenge. I
cannot, like this Oswald, bend and crouch. A Viking once a Viking for
ever." Then, turning round, he crashed into the forest.




CHAPTER XLII.

VIKINGS ALL! AN OLD TIME SAGA.

    "Sonorous metal, blowing martial sounds;
    At which the universal host upsent
    A shout, that tore hell's concave, and beyond
    Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night."

    Milton.


Not many months after the foregoing, Sigurd, followed by a score of his
wild Vikings, sought the cave of the priest Olaf, and they received of
the old priest a very hearty but a very grim welcome.

"Welcome, Jarl! welcome, skalds! all of ye. Ye are the bonniest warriors
I have seen for many a day," he croaked. Truly the sunken eyes of the
gnarled old Viking sparkled with strange delight, at the sight of so
many hardy-looking warriors. He went round to every man of them, and
felt severally the stoutness of their limbs, examined their weapons,
capering gleefully at the old-style weapons he was so familiar with, and
grunting and muttering gibberish all the time of his inspection. Such a
display of force, unmistakably of the old stock, seemed almost to make
him young again; and he mumbled snatches of old time sagas, and weird
folk-talk of bygone generations.

Truly they were a desperate, and a desperate-looking band,--wild,
daring, and uncouth; having all the instincts of wild beasts,--recking
nothing of life, unless it were accompanied by some wild triumph over
their enemies, and caring nothing for death; for it meant to them an
entrance into Valhalla, the Viking's heaven.

"Priest," said Sigurd, "have ye any message of _forth-telling_ for us?
We are hotly pursued by these foreign dogs; they have hunted us out of
our mountain fastnesses, and now they tread on our heels closely. They
are encamped for the night in a neighbouring valley, and we cannot shake
them off, for they are tracking us with sleuthhounds. Shall we give them
battle to-night? Our stomachs are empty, and we shall be sore pressed on
the morrow."

"Skalds, tarry ye here a little while and eat, and I will inquire for
ye. Skuld is our friend, and he rules all _man slaying_. He will hear me
this night, and if he ride with you to battle, woe will be to these
Normans--ye shall sweep them before ye. We will set up the
_Skaldstong_[7] also, presently, and invoke our ancient god Odin, that
he may send his '_Maidens of Victory_,' the '_Valkyrias_,' and if they
help, what shall hurt ye? Ye shall hurl your enemies to the ground and
slay them every one. Come into my cave, the night falls in."

[Footnote 7: Imprecation pole.]

So saying, the old priest led the way into a spacious cavern, which
opened out from the vast cleft where they stood. To the right of the
cave a wood fire was burning low, and along the edge of it there were a
number of natural seats, formed by ledges of the rock. Olaf bade his
visitors be seated, then he lighted several torches at the fire, and
suspended them against the rocky sides of the cave. In their flickering
and fitful light the cave presented a very weird appearance. Here and
there the white and jagged surfaces of the limestone rock seemed like
human figures standing in the shadows, whilst the dark recesses threw
them out like sentinels on guard.

Evidently it was a great occasion for the priest Olaf,--his ghostly
office had fallen greatly into disuse of late years, to his great grief
and chagrin. But troublous times had come, and men, unable to cope with
their enemies, came now humbly to him for aid in their dire distress;
and as he rambled about the cave, his mumbling, muttering and chanting
never ceased. First he ransacked the cave for food for these famishing
guests, and whilst they were eating he mended his fire. Then, from a
stone coffin in one of the recesses, he fetched the whitened bones of
some famous chieftain who had led them in the olden time. These he
proceeded to fasten around his neck and body. Next he fetched from
another recess a long pole with runes carved upon it. This he erected,
and made it to stand by inserting its lower end in a hole evidently
prepared for it. This was the "_Skaldstong_" or _Imprecation pole_: its
use being to invoke the curses of Odin upon their enemies, and to invoke
the help of the "Valkyrias," whom warriors often saw riding on fiery
steeds to their help.

All this time Olaf never ceased the horrid chant, or song. Strange
gibberish indeed--sometimes running into metric verse, which he chanted
in a rude sing-song voice--at other times it was wild imprecations and
interjections, which he flung out with frenzied gestures, and in
thrilling tones and loud.

Whilst this proceeding was confined to himself, it acted with electrical
effect upon these wild men. Slowly at first, then with accelerated pace,
they were worked up into a strange frenzy; first giving utterance to low
passionate interjections, then, as the infection became more feverish,
they seemed completely carried away,--shouting, starting to their feet,
and brandishing their swords, as though in deadly combat. Ere long every
man, Sigurd included, was in a state of overwhelming excitement,
capering round the Skaldstong, holding aloft their weapons in the air,
and making the cave ring again with their shouts and shrieking.

The following is a sample of the rude and uncouth song which Olaf
chaunted:--

    "Odin, the Norse god,
    Skaldstong we rear;
    Curse us the foe near,
    Cold-ribbed[8] and foul.
    Nithing[9] is the Saxon,
    Marrowless his bones;
    Jötun,[10] we call thee,
    Loose us the watch-dogs.
    Snarls the fierce wolf,
    Creeping light[11] bearing;
    Gyg, woman of Jötnar,
    Haste on before;
    Gird on the Hel-shoes,[12]
    Freeze up the blood.
    Terror-full and shaking,
    The sallowy kite hovers;
    The wolf digs his fangs,
    Drinks up the blood.
    Skuld[13] has gotten him
    Vedrfölnir's[14] prey;
    Told o'er the corpses
    Fattened with gore.
    Water sprinkled heroes,
    Nornir hath life fated;
    Valkyrias hath guarded,
    Shout for the prey."

[Footnote 8: Cold-hearted.]

[Footnote 9: Coward.]

[Footnote 10: Race of gods.]

[Footnote 11: Lantern.]

[Footnote 12: The dead were fitted with Hel-shoes.]

[Footnote 13: Ruler of man-slaying.]

[Footnote 14: fabled Hawk.]

Gibberish it seems to modern ears; but upon these rude men,--with
grossly over-grown superstitions, and dwarfish reasoning
faculties,--this song, jerked out in frenzied exclamations and fanatical
intensity, the effect was electrical and intensely contagious.

Whilst the excitement was at its height, above the din the priest's
voice was heard as he shouted,--

"_Skalds, hoi! I scent the battle_; I smell the blood of the Normans.
"Gyg,[15]" the woman of Jötun race, has gone before ye, to confound the
foe. _Scalds, hoi!_ Arise! scatter your enemies!"

[Footnote 15: Witch.]

As he said this he handed to every man a small piece of wood, with runes
carved upon it, and each one hid it under his garment. It was a sure
protection against wounds and death. Then, catching up an image of Thor
and carrying it before him, he cried,--

"Follow me."

So saying, he led the way, followed by Sigurd and the rest in a state of
intense excitement. Together they scrambled out on the limestone hills
above them. It was quite dark, saving as the boisterous wind sent the
broken and ominous-looking clouds scurrying before it, across the face
of the heavens, and permitting the stars to look down to earth. The
elements seemed, indeed, to have caught the fierce infection, for the
wind howled and whistled against the huge boulders, and the bare
limestone precipices on the hillside; and it soughed and roared through
the woods below, rocking and tossing the tree-tops until they seemed
possessed by the furies. The fierce band of men responded in savage glee
to this tempest of the elements; every man amongst them believing that
this fierce raging of nature was the work of the supernatural agencies
invoked, and already hastening to help them in this work of revenge. The
old priest's vigour and animation was marvellous: he seemed to have
shaken off the infirmities of age; the wild fanatic spirit within
achieving a complete triumph over the weak and shattered body. He led
the band at a brisk pace, chanting as he went the same weird song. Ere
long, the downward trend which they had followed led them within sight
of the Norman camp fires, at the sight of which they could not resist
the impulse to shout and savagely brandish their swords. But the state
of the elements was such that scarcely any liberties of that sort would
betray them.

The Normans were encamped in an open glade, with the wood all around
them and within twenty yards of their camp fires. Previous bitter
experience, however, had taught them extreme caution. Two or three
sentinels paced to and fro, and several fierce dogs lay curled up in the
glow of the fire. Besides this, every sleeper, as he lay wrapped in the
arms of peaceful sleep, grasped the hilt of his sword.

Presently one of the dogs raised his head and listened, then he started
to his feet with a fierce growl.

"What is the matter, Gripper?" said one of the sentinels stooping and
patting him on the head. "'Tis only the shrieking of the wind amid the
trees."

The dog listened intently with his eyes on the wood, and gave one or two
impatient snarls as though somewhat appeased, but not satisfied.

"Lie down again, sir," said the sentinel, again patting him.

The dog very reluctantly obeyed this command, stretching himself again
with a low, fierce growl, and placing his nose between his forepaws,
whilst his eyes shone in the darkness, and rolled from side to side most
ominously. Not a minute had elapsed before he sprang to his feet again;
this time sending forth a loud, fierce bay, which woke the echoes and
effectually roused every sleeper in the camp. Immediately the dog sprang
towards the adjacent thicket with savage fierceness. But just as quickly
he beat a cowardly retreat with his tail between his legs, like a
whipped spaniel, for he had fronted the weird and unearthly form of the
priest Olaf bearing the image of Thor before him, and the bones of the
dead hero dangling from his neck and girdle.

With a savage yell and impetuous rush the Vikings burst into the centre
of the camp, sending up their fierce war cry--SKALDS HOI!--to the utter
terror and bewilderment of the half-awakened Normans. Like infuriated
demons they laid about them with terrible effect; and as the Normans
realised the position, many of them sprang forward on the instant, sword
in hand, only to recoil abashed with terror as they faced the weird form
of the old priest, who, without weapon, or implement of war of any kind,
headed the fierce onslaught. In their terror and superstition they
thought that the devil himself fought for the Vikings, and they gave
back in mortal terror. Meantime their assailants made good use of these
moments of abject consternation of their enemies, yelling frantically,
and cutting down the Normans wholesale; they themselves being thoroughly
possessed with the belief that the supernatural powers fought for them.
The onslaught was so furious that the Normans staggered and reeled
before them, and hovered for a moment on the verge of an utter rout and
stampede. But one Norman in this desperate strait broke the spell, for
he sprang towards Olaf shouting,--

"_Witch or devil, have at thee!_ I'll try cold steel upon thy pate," and
with a blow he cleft the skull of the old priest.

The effect of this was magical, the Normans sent up a shout which made
the greenwood ring again, and the echoes in the distant hills to send
back long reverberations.

Now the Normans laid about them with vigour, and to some purpose. They
outnumbered the Saxon by two or three to one, but fully one-third had
been cut down ere they had courage to face the foe. Now the battle raged
with more equal fortunes. Blow upon blow, no quarter, no mercy given or
taken. At a terrible pace the ranks of each party dwindled, and ere long
Sigurd alone of the Saxons was left to do battle with three of the
Normans. A giant he was in strength compared with his antagonists.
Better equipped also he was for defence, for he wore a coat of mail, and
on his head a spiked helmet, with a shield of bronze upon his arm. But
his antagonists wilily beset him behind and before. With a spring and a
blow he cut down the man who fronted him; but whilst doing it, one of
the others cut a deep gash in his thigh from behind, and the third drave
the point of his sword between two of his ribs. Furiously Sigurd turned
upon them, and with a blow cut down another of his assailants. But again
a cowardly stroke from behind severed the sinews of his left arm, and
his shield dropped immediately from the powerless limb. So these two
alone remained of two stalwart bands of men, who a quarter of an hour
ago revelled in the pride of health and vigour. Sigurd was fearfully
wounded, with a deadly faint coming over him from pain and loss of
blood. He still, however, retained his sword arm unimpaired. Had the
Norman fought an evasive battle, time was in his favour, and the burly
giant would have been helplessly at his mercy. But the Norman was not
sufficiently alive to this fact, though he knew Sigurd was deeply
wounded. On he came, furiously attacking his man, and the battle was
ended, for with one sweep of his long broadsword Sigurd cut him down.
Then for a moment he swayed to and fro, with strength all gone. Next, he
staggered forward a step or two, rolling his eyes around as though in
quest of further foemen. Stumbling eventually over the corpse of a
fallen enemy, he fell forward amid a heap of mangled corpses; and, with
a deep groan, consciousness was gone.




CHAPTER XLIII.

THE CONQUEROR CONQUERED.

    "Proceed my son! this youthful shame expel:
    An honest business never blush to tell."

    Homer.


Not many days were permitted to elapse after the marriage of Oswald and
Alice, ere De Montfort, accompanied by his Saxon son-in-law, proceeded
to London. The Count knew well that, if the resentment of William was
once aroused, it would be a difficult matter to appease him. He was well
aware also of the fact that there were Norman neighbours, who were
exasperated at his conduct in bestowing his daughter upon a Saxon rebel;
even though that rebel had but maintained a defensive attitude, and used
his influence to calm the fierce passions which had been aroused in this
strife of races. They knew he had effectually barred them in the
barbarous policy on which they were bent; for which they gave him no
thanks. If these malcontents but got the ear of the Conqueror, grievous
complications might possibly ensue.

When De Montfort reached London the king was at Winchester; so to that
place he and Oswald at once repaired. They proceeded to the castle
together, but De Montfort alone sought an audience of the king.

It should here be stated that Northumbria, as the north of England
generally was termed, was a grievous thorn in the side of William. To
keep in check this people, and to suppress the ferocious outbursts of
the downtrodden Saxons which were constantly taking place, was a most
harassing and costly business; so he was keenly anxious to have reliable
information and advice, with regard to the turbulent north. Thus De
Montfort was welcomed heartily. As fortune would have it, Odo, who was
De Montfort's chief enemy, was away in Normandy, and there was nothing,
consequently, but the jealousy of Fitz-Osborne, that was likely to
interfere with the success of his suit; and this nobleman alone was
present at the audience which De Montfort had with the king.

The Count was ushered into the audience chamber without delay. There,
the king occupied a chair of state in the centre of the wall opposite to
the entrance, with a richly embroidered canopy above his head, and side
hangings drooping to the wall and floor on either side.

As De Montfort prostrated himself to the floor, the king rose from his
seat and, bidding him rise, shook him by the hand.

"Ye did well for our cause at Hastings, De Montfort, and should not be
forgotten by us; but how comes it we have had so little of your presence
at court since then? I trow ye have been over busy scaring Saxon rooks
from their nests, and preparing yourself a roost in them. 'Tis an
occupation my valiants knights have much busied themselves in since that
day. Natheless, I mind me I have set my scribes to make a _book_, so I
may know where all the fat manors lie; my liegemen and barons know their
business well enough, and are going scot free of taxes; whilst the king
has got nothing yet but hard blows and a beggar's dole. Howsomever, I
will hear thy plaint. Thou would'st have more lands, or royal warrant
for what thou hast already grabbed, I suppose; for that is the usual
thing."

"I crave your pardon, sire, but it is not for lands I ask, for I fought
my way into savage Northumbria, and ventured to lay hold of a tolerable
demesne there, and----"

"'Twill be passing fair, I warrant, De Montfort, if thou think it
tolerable. Fat, fertile, and ample. Well, proceed! proceed! I make a
note of it thou didst not deem it necessary to say to thy king, May I?
But no matter, that has come to be a mere formality."

"My purpose, sire, if your majesty will hear me, is to report the state
of the land and its prospects; as well as to acquaint your majesty with
an alliance which I have formed with one of the ablest of the Saxon
chieftains of the north."

"By my halidame, De Montfort! hast thou ventured to form an alliance
_too_, with the Saxon dogs? Truly thou art over bold. Much too bold. I
think also thou hast forgotten the example of the countryman who warmed
the snake by the fire. I'll none of this setting at nought of my
authority, De Montfort, mark me!"

"Hear me patiently, your majesty," said De Montfort, alarmed at
William's testiness. "I have brought this Saxon to court, and he will,
if permitted, make oath of fealty to your majesty, and there is no Saxon
leader north of the Humber whose influence is so great as his."

"Aye, aye! make oath of fealty readily enough! like the rest of them,
and with as much honesty also. Truly, he matches thy boldness, De
Montfort, in venturing hither after the tumult which has taken place at
Durham. Natheless, we will see him, we will see him nevertheless; for
such boldness is catching. But if he be advised, he will be somewhat
careful how he deport himself, for he ventures into the jaws of the
lion; and some of these Saxon boors are too loud of the mouth, and think
it fine to 'beard' me, as they call it. Thou hast brought him hither
thou sayest?"

"Yes, sire, he awaits your majesty's pleasure."

"Let him be ready, and we will call him presently, when we have
considered the matter for a little while."

So De Montfort vanished from the presence chamber, and the king grasped
Fitz-Osborne's arm, and together they paced the room in earnest
conversation.

"What thinkest thou Fitz-Osborne, of this conduct of De Montfort? I
would our brother Odo, who is now in Normandy, were here; for he hath
somewhat against the Count, though I know not of a certainty what it is.
I have myself heard some whisper of his playing fast and loose in his
loyalty to me, but nothing of it has ever come to head. Knowest thou
ought of this?"

"H--m!" said Fitz-Osborne warily, and craftily, "there are whispers
about, as your majesty says, but I would advise your majesty to hear him
and his Saxon ally, as he calls him. Northumbria is a wild part, and if
he can, through this Saxon caitiff, exercise any substantial influence
over that part of the country, it may be worth while to use him for the
purpose; but I would not trust overmuch to either."

As a matter of fact, Fitz-Osborne was pleased at the prospect of having
De Montfort removed so far from the councils of the king; for he was
jealous of the ascendency he had acquired, and feared greatly any
division of the royal favour.

"Thou sayest right. Tis best to hear the whole matter; though 'tis
characterised by too much boldness to be to my liking. However, if there
be a fox in the bag he cannot help but stink; and thou hast a sharp
nose, Fitz-Osborne, and will smell him out promptly, I warrant."

So the king ordered the suppliants to be brought in.

William still clung to the arm of Fitz-Osborne when De Montfort was
ushered in, followed by Oswald; and together they stood at the entrance,
awaiting the king's command to advance. But no sooner did William set
eyes on Oswald than he convulsively clutched the arm he held, and
hoarsely whispered, "_Notre Dame!_ What is this, Fitz-Osborne? 'Tis
Harold come to life again! Did we not find his corpse at Hastings?"

"Be calm, Your Majesty. This is a much younger man than Harold, though
he belikes him wonderfully."

The king calmly surveyed Oswald for a minute or two, and his composure
returned. Then he motioned De Montfort to draw near, and the Count and
Oswald advanced together, and bent their knees before the conqueror, De
Montfort saying,--

"If it please Your Majesty, this loyal subject of yours is Oswald, Saxon
Ealdorman, son of Ealdorman Ulfson, chieftains of Northumbria under
Saxon rule."

"Rise, De Montfort," said William.

Then he motioned them to a seat opposite to his chair of state, which he
resumed.

"Saxon," said he, addressing Oswald, "thou hast come, I understand, to
make oath of fealty to me, and to swear in presence of myself and my
chamberlain to be my faithful liegeman unto death."

"I have come with that purpose, sire, if it be your royal pleasure."

"If thou art minded to be both hypocrite and knave, first swearing
fealty to me, and then proceeding straightway to stir up my subjects to
rebellion, thou wilt have many illustrious examples before thee, truly.
How long hast thou been of thy present mind? 'Tis a late-found
repentance, I warrant me! Didst thou oppose me at Hastings?"

"I did oppose Your Majesty at Hastings, I confess."

"At York, also, I doubt not, if thou art minded to confess it, Saxon!"

"I opposed Your Majesty at York, too," said Oswald fearlessly.

"Tut, tut, dog!" said William, grinding his teeth vehemently, and
grasping the hilt of his sword. "A very promising liegeman, truly, De
Montfort!" turning savagely to the Count. Then addressing Oswald, he
said, "Thou art to the fore, I perceive, when half a chance offers to
overthrow my authority, and to kill my men, Saxon dog! How comes this
whining for peace now? Thou hast had the Norman grip upon thy throat, I
opine. 'Tis that has changed thy mind."

"I fear not the Norman, sire, for, if needs be, I am prepared to die for
my country; but I have duly weighed the whole matter, and I recognise
the futility of further resistance. I have also steadily, and for some
time, counselled peace in our witan. If Your Majesty is pleased to
extend your royal clemency to me, you will find me a loyal subject."

The frank and fearless tone and bearing of the Saxon chieftain evidently
impressed the king, for he surveyed Oswald steadily for a minute or two,
measuring him from head to foot, and studying his face as though he
would read him through and through. Then addressing De Montfort, said,--

"Wait in the ante-room; we will consider this."

No sooner had the pair retired, than William started from his seat, and
grasping Fitz-Osborne's arm, he exclaimed,--

"By the splendour of God![16] this Saxon is a pretty fellow,
Fitz-Osborne! Got character in him! A demon, I warrant me, as an enemy,
but to be sought after as a friend. Didst thou mark how he stood up like
a man to me? By the holy rood! he looked me in the face without wincing,
and there was none of that hypocritical whine in his tone, which I hate
above all. Didst notice also how he out with the truth boldly, in a
please God and dare the devil sort of way that I like? If he be really
friendly disposed, we will conciliate him by all that lies in our power.
How sayest thou, Fitz-Osborne?"

[Footnote 16: William's favourite oath.]

"He looks like a man who could be of service if he be minded to do so.
Though, I confess it, there is an independence about him, which would be
better if it were taken out of him. He looks as though he could make
mischief. But I would question De Montfort further about this alliance
he speaks of. It would be better if we had further light."

"Gramercy! Fitz-Osborne, I forgot about this alliance altogether. Call
De Montfort alone!" said he, addressing one of the attendants.

When the Count again entered the room the king said,--

"What is this alliance thou hast formed with this Saxon, De Montfort?"

"I drove him, sire, in the first instance from his castle; but he built
himself a stronghold on one of our mountains, from which the force I had
at hand utterly failed to dislodge him; it is a wild and mountainous
part, sire."

"Then thou shouldest have applied to me for help, and not have permitted
a nest of vermin to thrive under thy nose."

"I crave Your Majesty's pardon; but, if you can call it to mind, I
communicated with you at York the last time you came north, and then set
forth fully the position of this Saxon and his followers."

"But thou asked no help! I remember it well; thou didst say how
peaceably disposed this man was; and that he might safely be left
alone."

"I think Your Majesty slightly mistakes the tenor of my message.
Nevertheless, friendly intercourse was opened between us. He visited me
at the castle with overtures of peace, which he has loyally kept. He is
also at this present time at deadly feud with another Saxon chieftain,
one Sigurd; because he refused to join an organised insurrection. Also
in a secret assembly of the Saxon witan, which was summoned and presided
over by the Atheling, he boldly advocated peace."

"Hold there! Thou saidst the Atheling summoned an assembly of the Saxon
witan? My despatches say that the Prince gave secret information to my
forces of this traitorous assembly, and protested his loyalty; and he is
now at Rouen at my charges."

"True, Your Majesty, he did; but not until this Oswald denounced him as
a coward to his face, and declared that he was unfit to reign in
England. Many others then, following this Oswald's lead, declared they
would not follow such a prince. Then, in the darkness, he sneaked away
to a neighbouring encampment of Normans and gave information."

"Hearest thou this, Fitz-Osborne? By the splendour of God! But we must
know more of this. But no matter," said he with an impatient gesture.
"Proceed. What further about this alliance which thou hast formed with
the Saxon?"

"We have dwelt together in a neighbourly way, having little trouble with
the numerous bands of outlaws ranging the bruneswald; for his authority
is acknowledged as far south as Sherwood Forest. If it please Your
Majesty, I have likewise given him my daughter in marriage."

"Gramercy! De Montfort; but thou shouldst be king! Thou dost act right
royally! I lose my breath discoursing with thee! Is this the lovely
Alice we admired so much, now years agone, thou hast given him then?"

"My only daughter, Alice, Your Majesty."

"Were there none of my barons thou couldst have bestowed the hand of thy
daughter upon? Dost thou not know I claim to be consulted in such
matters?"

"'Twas a love match, Your Majesty. These two plighted their troth in
true romance fashion, without consulting me. I was satisfied, however,
that it would greatly strengthen Your Majesty's authority in the north
of England."

"Tut, tut! Ha! that was deftly put, De Montfort; but I have too many of
my knights, who make loud professions of strengthening my authority,
whilst all the while they deliberately set it at naught. A precious
loyalty it is. Now wait a little while, till thou hearest our commands."

"Now Fitz-Osborne, the cat is out of the bag! what thinkest thou? De
Montfort is a wily dog, and has not told the whole story, I warrant me.
I like not this setting me at naught in my own kingdom; 'tis passing
strange, but I like this Oswald, Saxon though he be, better than my own
countryman. I like the look of him, and I think good will come out of
him. What sayest thou?"

"If this Saxon can be depended upon, it will do good doubtless, sire.
His Norman wife, too, should influence him aright."

"So think I, Fitz-Osborne. Call De Montfort and the Saxon."

On the entrance of the pair, William said,--

"De Montfort, thy conduct has been most irregular, but, I condone it on
conditions, which I will name presently." "Saxon," said he, addressing
Oswald, "I congratulate thee on winning one of our most accomplished
Norman maidens. I am further, upon a consideration of the whole matter,
disposed to trust thee; and upon thy taking the oath of fealty, I will
confer upon thee lands ample for thy needs. De Montfort, I create thee
Earl of Northumberland; upon thee and thy Saxon son-in-law, I lay my
charges for the welfare of that province. If ye do well, well will come
of it; but I will have you beware, for if I find you unfaithful, I will
root you out of the land, root and branch." So saying, with an imperious
wave of his hand he dismissed them from his presence.




CHAPTER XLIV.

THE LAST OF THE VIKINGS.

    "An old man broken with the storms of state,
    Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
    Give him a little earth for charity!"

    Shakespeare.


One chill December morning, as certain lay brothers of the monastery of
Crowland were engaged gathering faggots in the woods to feed the fires
of the Abbey, they came across a strange-looking figure, sitting on a
fallen tree and leaning heavily against another. His cheeks were
blanched like the snow, and his long red hair and beard was falling
unkempt and matted over his shoulders and chest. He seemed sadly worn
and helpless, with strength utterly exhausted; but beneath his shaggy
eyebrows his eyes glowed with a strange, unnatural light. Beside him sat
a half-starved hound whining piteously, and licking the cold and
emaciated fingers of his master. The churls gazed upon the stranger in
abject terror, thinking him to be some satyr or spirit of the wood, who
would surely work them ill; but as the figure beckoned them feebly to
approach nearer, with much trembling and irresolution they drew near
enough to hear his voice.

"Can you tell me if I am near the monastery of Crowland?" said he
feebly.

"You are not many bowshots from thence," they replied.

"Can you tell me whether Ethel the Saxon, daughter of Beowulf, dwells
there?"

"Torfrida, wife of Hereward, and Godiva, wife of Leofric, are here; and
there is a younger one called Ethel, with the flaxen hair. She is a holy
woman, much given to penances and fasting, and she is very good to the
poor; is it her you seek?"

"I have come a long way to seek this Ethel, and I am sorely wounded and
very faint. Could ye, for love or charity, carry me in your bullock
cart, for I have no further strength, and must perish shortly if ye
leave me here."

So, assured by the evident helplessness of this strange being, the
churls came a little nearer, and asked him some further questions
concerning his strange quest. Eventually, they unloaded their rude cart
of its burden of wood; then they hastily pulled some tall grass, and
scraped together some dead leaves. Of these they made a rough sort of
bed to ease the jolting of the rude cart over the rough ground. With
much difficulty they lifted the stranger in, for he was of burly build,
though sorely wasted. Then, slowly and tediously, through the windings
of the forest, they returned to the Abbey. Nourishments and cordials
were administered to him, his untended wounds were washed and dressed,
and he was put to bed.

"Ye are very kind to me, but have ye not a maiden called Ethel here? Let
me but speak with Ethel, daughter of the Saxon thane, Beowulf," pleaded
the stranger.

"Be patient, stranger," said Torfrida, who bent tenderly over him,
moistening his parched lips. "Ethel is on an errand of mercy to the sick
poor."

"Ah! ye know not how I love this Ethel--things might have been different
if Ethel had not left me."

As soon as Ethel returned from her mission, she was informed that a
wounded stranger had come from far in quest of her. Immediately she
hastened to the bedside of the sick one, wondering, and tremulous with
agitation, and with many strange misgivings of heart.

It was as she feared--there lay Sigurd in pain and great weakness, his
broad frame shattered and wasted almost to skin and bone. It was
palpable also, that the fierce, restless spirit was hopelessly and
rapidly consuming the small remnant of vitality still spared to him. His
eyes were deeply sunken, and shining with unnatural light, telling but
too plainly that another grim and unwelcome visitor was lurking near,
and that no human skill could long keep _him_ at bay.

Ethel sat down beside him in her convent habit. What a transformation
was here! Sigurd uttered a deep groan when he set eyes on her. The long
flaxen locks, once the crown and glory of her youth, were cut short, and
the remnant hidden by her hood. The blue eyes, so tender and expressive,
and the fine, regular features were still there. The soft, fair skin was
a shade paler, and the short time which had elapsed had palpably aged
her, or else it was the cloister habit which made her seem so much
older. One thin hand was immediately grasped by the worn and attenuated
fingers of Sigurd, as he looked up most reverently into her face. This
fair Saxon had long been to him _St. Ethel_, and her form was enshrined
in his heart. He proceeded to question her in serious tones.

"I am well nigh hunted to death, as you see, Ethel--dead beat--dead beat
at last. What think ye, Ethel; shall I get well?"

Ethel shook her head.

"I am afraid not in this world, my lord."

He responded with a low groan.

"But I can't be spared now, Ethel; the old cause is desperate now, and
sorely in need of me. What will become of my oppressed countrymen, with
never a leader to look to?"

"God alone knows, my lord, but all things are in His hand; and I trust
that through this fiery ordeal, and through the long struggle, He will
bring profit to the nation. Already signs are manifest that the hatred
of William is abating, and Saxons here and there are being received into
favour."

"Ah! Saxons being received into favour by the tyrant usurper! Then, I
wot the renegade Oswald, and sycophants and timeservers generally, will
thrive. My curses on the cowardly brood!"

"Call them not renegade, my lord, neither curse them. Oswald will best
serve his countrymen by frankly accepting what was inevitable in any
case."

"Nothing was inevitable, if he had but had the mind to stand by his
country. We would have followed him anywhere, for there was none of us
with a head to command like he had; and he wielded a powerful sword. No
other man ever got the better of me in single combat, and I could have
worshipped him had he stood by us. 'Twas the Norman woman bewitched him,
and I hate him for saving his coward's skin and betraying his country,
because a dark-eyed siren and temptress beckoned him."

"My lord, no more of this! He was the wisest amongst us, and saw
farthest; and if you and others had been guided by him, there would have
been less of Saxon blood shed. I think I see clearly in this revolution
the hand of a wiser and a mightier than he--One who has seen fit to cast
your Viking hardihood and valour, and stern, severe virtues, and the
Saxons' milder traits, along with Norman chivalry and refinement, into
the eternal crucible. You and I and ours, it is true, may lose our
identity; but all that is best will reappear in the ages to come."

"Ye speak in riddles, Ethel. Do ye think the Viking race will lose its
identity? Never!" said he, with fierce emphasis. "Vikings, who have
sailed every sea and conquered everywhere, to be swallowed up by this
womanish people--never! This will not do! Get me my sword, Ethel; if I
but feel it I shall be strong again."

"The sword is resting in its scabbard, my lord. It has long since drunk
in its fill of blood--let it rest for ever."

"Why have ye taken my sword from me, Ethel? I can wield it yet. I tell
thee, Ethel"--making a vain effort to raise himself--"there's marrow in
the Viking race yet, and we shall sweep the seas again as of old! I will
not lie here. Let me to the Bruneswald; I have men left yet, and we'll
make a fight for it to the end!"

"My lord, you will never handle sword again. The Viking's cause--the
_reign of force_--has received its mortal wound. 'Twill linger probably
through centuries of darkness, and amid the twilight of the days still
later; for men, benighted men, here and there, will give it a spasmodic
and fitful revival; but never more in the ages of the world will the
gaunt and hateful reign of force be paramount."

"Ethel! Ethel! Ye embitter my death. What will ye have, girl? Are our
gods dead, think ye? Where are our Sagas? Bethink ye, there is the
Viking race beyond the North Sea, and they'll come again; and do ye
think these sleek and well-fed Normans will drive them out? The hardy
warriors from the mountains and fiords over the fierce sea are coming.
Hist!" he shouted, half delirious, "do ye hear their shouts? Will ye
reach me my sword, Ethel? I must be up and meet them!" Then he sank back
exhausted once more. "Tut, tut, we deserve this for our folly. What am I
doing; going to die in a bed? The sea is the Viking's home. Why did we
ever take to land, except for plunder? Accursed ease and effeminacy have
undone us. But we'll to the sea again. Wait awhile, Ethel; ye shall see
who will be masters."

"Calm yourself, my lord, and think of other things, for time is short.
The Viking's gods _are_ dead if ye ask me, or what is more true, they
never had an existence, and were only the creation of a wild and
barbarous fancy."

Sigurd looked at her steadily.

"Oh, ye are a Christian now, Ethel! Ye should not have left the old
faith; ye take the heart out of me; ye should have stood by the old
faith, then we should have met again in Valhalla, you and I. Ye know not
how ye make the Viking's death hard to bear: ye take my staff from me as
I ford the stream."

"We shall never meet in Valhalla, my lord! but we may meet again in the
kingdom of our God."

"Not me, Ethel! ye do not mean that I may go to the Christian's
heaven--bethink you what I am."

"Yes, you may go, my lord. I am not without hopes that even you may be
found there. Certain you shall, if you are willing."

"Will you be there, Ethel?"

"Through the mercy of God I hope to be there."

"But ye say He is a Prince of Peace?"

"Yes, He is the Prince of Peace."

"Ye know I am a Viking; what could I do in the Christian's heaven?
Should I have my trusty sword?"

"No, my lord, you would need no sword there, for hatred, oppression, and
wrong, are unknown in heaven."

"Will ye be my bride then, Ethel?"

"They neither marry, nor are given in marriage, my lord."

"Should I be near _you_, Ethel, always?"

"I should like to be near you, if I may, my lord."

"Ah, then I would like to go to the Christian's heaven if I might be
near _you_. There will be no Normans there, will there, Ethel?"

"Yes, my lord, I hope there will be Normans there also."

"Norman's there! Ah! that would spoil it, Ethel. What would a Skald like
me do with my heart on fire with hatred of these Normans? It will not
do, Ethel! It will not do! The Christian's heaven will not do for the
Viking!"

"But our God will give you a new heart. He takes our heart of stone and
gives us a heart of flesh, so that we _love_ our enemies."

Sigurd responded with a deep groan. "But Ethel, girl, what madness is
this? I should not be a Viking! what should I be, then? Should I wear
silks, and strut about in feathers and fringeing and be a flabby
courtezan? If so, I think I would prefer the Viking's Valhalla, after
all; it suits the Viking best. Why won't ye go with _me_, Ethel, girl?
Let the Norman and the slaves of Saxons have their heaven. Perhaps ye
think I should drag ye over the wild hills, or through the greenwood;
but I would be gentle to ye. Ye little know how I love ye, Ethel."

"My lord, your mind is very dark; I will send a priest who will instruct
you in these things."

"I want never a priest, Ethel; ye can tell me best. Do ye know, Ethel,
the old priest Olaf is dead? What evils have befallen our race! I fear
ye prophesy rightly; the end is indeed come."

"I have no news, my lord; but I expected this."

"Yes, he is dead; he would drag his crazy limbs after us in our last
struggle with the Normans; he said the gods would protect him, for he
had a charmed life, and that they would fight for us and give us the
victory; but we were outnumbered, my followers were all slain to a man;
but the Normans were also, for I cut down the last of them. Olaf, our
old priest, was also hacked to death by the enemy."

"He was the last priest of the old heathen line, and he will have no
successor. The old heathenism is gone for ever, my lord."

Sigurd groaned deeply, and called in frantic tones upon the spirits of
Valhalla. "Odin! Norseman's god! Can't ye help us in this pinch? can't
ye help us, I say?" Then with a deep groan he sank back in complete
exhaustion.

"Calm yourself, my lord, or I must leave you," said Ethel. "But Sigurd
heard her not, his eyes were closed and he was evidently spent. With a
feverish start, however, he opened his eyes again, and sought eagerly
for the loved form of Ethel.

"Ah, I thought ye had left me. The end has come, Ethel; I shall not get
well again, but I have one request; let me be buried near the _sea_, for
I know the Vikings will come again, and I'll hear their shouts of
victory and the shock of their onslaught; and, Ethel, let me be _mound
laid_, mound laid, mark me, Ethel! then they'll know 'tis a Viking
chief's grave, and the Skalds will sing of my exploits. Ethel, have my
sword also laid under my head, ready, my trusty sword 'Tyrfing,'
(foe-hater), we must not be parted. It's very dark, Ethel." Slowly his
eyes closed, and for a little while he lay quiet; then he started up and
shouted. "Down with the Normans! Ho, men! carry me out of the cave; I
cannot breathe here." After this fashion for a little while the fitful
struggle continued, and then in quietness the contest ended; and the
last of the Vikings closed his eyes with the loved form of Ethel bending
over him.




CHAPTER XLV.

SUNSHINE HAS ITS SHADOWS.

    "Man's love is of a man's life a thing apart,
    'Tis woman's whole existence."

    Byron.


We must now make an end for the present of our extracts from these
somewhat interesting chronicles. Sigurd, when we last saw him, was lying
in the arms of death, overborne by many wounds and hard circumstances.
He closed life's fitful career, clasping tightly the hand of Ethel; and
his great wish anent his burial was conscientiously carried out by her.
Saxon hands bore him by stealthy night-marches to a silent spot where
the fierce North Sea waves break upon the lonely Fen-country shore. They
dug for him a grave overlooking a wind-sheltered bay, where ofttimes the
Viking rovers had anchored their vessels of war, and from thence burst
like an avalanche over the country, sweeping it bare of its cattle and
its treasures. They dug deep his grave and laid his trusty sword beneath
his head; and Ethel was there--a sincere mourner at his burial. Then
they heaped the mound high, as Vikings were wont to bury their chiefs,
and as Sigurd wished it. Now, silently he awaits the great awakening,
and not without hope; for, according to his light, he had a great ideal,
and with rare courage, unselfishness, and devotion he struggled to
accomplish what was beyond him, and that which the march of the ages had
decreed should come to an end, but which should never be forgotten so
long as men long to know what races were the important factors in the
history-making peoples of the world.

It is scarcely necessary to say that Oswald's being received into favour
by the king, had a most beneficial effect upon the Saxon portion of the
population; and it did much to mitigate the rigours of that race
ascendency which the Normans strove to maintain. Our part of the country
began gradually to assume the wonted appearance of cultivation it had
worn prior to the troublous times of the Conquest. The lazy and
overbearing manners of the conquerors received a salutary check, and
Norman men-at-arms gradually settled down to peaceful occupations.
Wulfhere, the stalwart freeman, resumed possession of his ancient
patrimony, and in company of his charming little wife, Jeannette, was
more than content. Soon there began to play about his doors stout-limbed
youngsters, who, for enterprise and daring, bid fair to contribute
vigorously to the perpetuation of the stalwart race of _freemen_, which
had been such an important factor in English history for many
generations prior to the Norman Conquest.

The only other incident we need mention happened many years after the
events recorded in these pages.

One bright autumnal day, several of the children of Oswald were at play
in the woods near the castle, alternating their play by gathering the
walnuts and chestnuts which had fallen from the trees, or pelting the
squirrels as they leaped from tree to tree overhead, happy as only
children can be, when surrounded by bounteous and beautiful nature.
Suddenly there emerged from the thicket a woman, in the habiliments worn
by those who had renounced the world and devoted their lives to the
service of the church. The children were somewhat startled at the advent
of this strange figure; but her sweet face and winning smile completely
reassured them. She went up to the eldest boy and asked him his name.
"Oswald" was the reply. Then she took from her neck a beautiful crucifix
of gold, chastely and tastefully engraved, and to which was attached a
gold chain. This chain she put around his neck, depositing the crucifix
in his bosom. Then she removed his cap from his head, displaying a
profusion of curly locks, saying as she did so, "God bless thee, my
son!" Next she turned to the other children, inquiring their names, and
kissing and blessing them also. This done, she turned from them, and
stood gazing upon the castle in the distance for a minute or two; then,
as abruptly as she came, she disappeared in the wood, and was seen no
more. The children hastened home to show to their parents the beautiful
crucifix the stranger woman had given them, and to relate the strange
incident. Oswald pondered over the matter a long time, but with the
strange obtuseness which had marked the whole of his intercourse with
the beautiful Saxon, Ethel, he was utterly unable to identify the
strange visitant with any one he had known or remembered. A shade of
sorrow and sadness passed over Alice's face; and a tear trembled on her
eyelid, and fell unobserved to the ground. But she hinted not at the
personality of the stranger, though she understood the sad mystery, and
comprehended the tragedy which had been slowly and painfully enacted
through the years, in which a noble and virtuous woman's love had been
crucified.


THE END.




BRAILSFORD:

A Tale of West Riding Life.

BY JOHN BOWLING.


"'Brailsford' is a capital book, and, to those who can master the
Yorkshire dialect, it will give a great deal of pleasure. The excellent
teaching it contains makes it a most suitable book for a Sunday School
Library. If it once gets into a library, I feel sure it will be in great
demand. It is a thorough boy's book, and I wish every boy could read
it."--_Rev. Charles Garrett._

"Brailsford: a Tale of West Riding Life."--"This story ... is written in
a wholesome moral tone, and strikingly portrays the temptations which
assail young men in the business life of a large town. The hero of the
story is a draper's apprentice, who, by steadfast fidelity to duty,
rises to success; and the incidents are related with vigour, introducing
the reader to some curious phases of town life ... the book may be
safely placed in the hands of youths about to enter the commercial
world."--_Leeds Mercury._

"There is about this book a simplicity which charms, and an interest
that will carry the reader through every page. As pointing a moral, and
affording a stimulus to honest work, despite adverse circumstances, the
little volume will be of great value, and we trust it will have a wide
sale."--_Wharfedale and Airedale Observer._

"Our readers will recognise this as a reprint of a story which appeared
in serial form in the _Wesleyan Methodist Magazine_. At the time of its
original appearance we noticed it from time to time. In its new and more
convenient form it will greatly delight all lovers of the racy Yorkshire
dialect, and will at the same time prove instructive. It is a story of
the good and idle apprentice type, well told and satisfactorily ended.
The moral, of course, is unexceptional.... We heartily commend this
venture."--_Methodist Recorder._

"'Brailsford,' by John Bowling, is a tale of West Riding life, written
with animation and a keenly observant eye to various phases of character
that manifest themselves in rural districts. There is much humorous
dialogue in the book, bringing out several traits of Yorkshire life
excellently. There are, moreover, pathetic passages in this story, and
the author does not fail to inculcate some useful and noble
lessons."--_Methodist Times._

"... A most thrilling story.... We have the utmost pleasure in
recommending the book to our readers as one well worthy of a place in
every home.... The lessons which it sets forth are bound to make a deep
impression on every reader. We therefore earnestly wish the author every
success."--_Hunslet News._





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