And he had hope, too, that when it was discovered that he and his bravest men had fled eastward, pursuit would be attracted in that direction, and the poor fugitives in the woods left unmolested, at least for the present.

As they rode rapidly and silently along, they saw in the distance, with what bitter feelings may be imagined, the Norman castle of Warwick, where at that moment the Conqueror himself was reposing, and where the Norman heir was perhaps counting the hours, until daylight should arouse him to go and seize upon his inheritance. Onward they rode, conducted with the greatest skill and success by their guide from the Camp of Refuge, Leofric of Deeping, who entertained them by the way, when circumstances permitted, by many a story about Hereward and his merry men, each one of whom he said was a match for three Normans, while Hereward would not turn his back upon seven at once.

When the east grew red with the coming light they were traversing an immense tract of wild forest land, bright with the gorse, then in flower, and tenanted only by myriads of rabbits; here they came upon a grassy dell, with plenty of good grazing for their horses, and a clear stream running through the bottom.

"We shall scarce find a better place than this to rest," said their guide; "I know the spot well. When a boy my grandfather lived in that ruined farmhouse which you can see peeping through the trees; I remember I was just tall enough to look over yon wall."

"Is it in English hands now?" said Wilfred, anxiously.

"It is desolate—waste—ruined. The Normans butchered the inmates long since, God knows why, save that they gave shelter to some proscribed fugitives, who were being hunted like wild beasts. They were not my own kinsfolk; by God's blessing my grandparents died while Edward was yet alive. I often feel grateful that they did not live to see these evil days."

They hobbled the horses, and took their own repast by the side of the stream. Each man had brought rations for two days with him, and there was no lack.

Then, after carefully setting sentinels in each direction, they slept under the shade of the trees. The moss was a delicious couch, the day was warm, and the murmur of the little stream, united to the hum of the insects, lulled them to sleep.

It was not till after midday that Wilfred awoke. He found Leofric already on foot, stretching himself after his nap.

"I am going to look at the old place," said he; "it stimulates my feeling of hatred to the Normans. Will you come with me and see their work?"

They crossed two or three fields lying fallow—indeed, no hand of man had been busy there for more than a year; soon they came upon the blackened ruins of a house, of which, however, some portions had escaped the general conflagration; upon which Leofric observed:

"This was the work of Ivo Taille-Bois {xxi}, a Norman woodcutter, whom the duke has manufactured into a noble, and set to tyrannise over free-born Englishmen. Like a fiend he ever loves to do evil, and when there is neither man, woman, nor child to destroy, he will lame cattle, drive them into the water, break their backs, or otherwise destroy them."

"But does not William ever administer justice, according to the oath he swore at his coronation?"

"Not when the case is Englishman against Norman; then these foreigners stick together like the scales on the dragon's back, one overlapping the other. But we must waste no more time; it is just possible, although unlikely, owing to the unfrequented route we have taken, that your old enemy may be upon our track, with five hundred Norman horse to back him."

They rejoined their comrades, and all were soon again in the saddle—horses and men alike refreshed by the halt; with great knowledge of the country their guide led them by unfrequented routes towards the fenny country; in the distance they beheld the newly rising castles, and heard from time to time an occasional trumpet; more frequently they passed ruined villages, burnt houses and farms, and saw on every side the evidence of the ferocity of their conquerors.

Nightfall came and still they continued their route; Leofric enlivening the way with many a tale of the exploits of the great hero, whom he looked upon with confidence as the future deliverer of England.

At length they left the woods and entered, just as the east was brightening, into the level plains and marshes of East Anglia, and here for the first time had reason to think they were pursued.

Looking back towards the deep shades of the woods they had left, they caught sight of a dark moving mass, which seemed pursuing them; but even as they looked its movements became uncertain, and appeared to halt.

"The cowards fear to pursue us farther; they have a wholesome dread of Hereward and his merry men, and we may embark in peace: we are near an old manor house belonging to our great captain, and there we may leave the horses in safety, satisfied no Norman will get them—such is the terror of his name; then we will all take boat for Ely."

The morning, the second of their journey, was already breaking across a vast expanse of water and fenland, and the dawn was empurpling the skies and making the waters glow like burnished metal; so beautiful was the scene that it seemed a happy omen to our tired wanderers.

The face of the country was level as the sea itself; no hillock varied the monotony of the surface; but here and there some sail glistened in the glowing light; and afar off Leofric pointed out the towers of Ely Abbey, white and distinct in the rays of the rising sun, which, just then, rose grandly out of the waters.

They left their horses at the manor house, which was garrisoned by Hereward's retainers, and broke their fast, gladdened by an enthusiastic reception; hope was not yet dead here.

Afterwards, they all embarked in large flat-bottomed boats, which were sluggishly impelled, by oar and sail, towards the distant towers of Ely.

The sweet fresh breeze, the cheerful warmth of the sun, soothed our travellers, wearied with their long night ride; the monotonous splash of the oars assisted to lull them into sleep, oblivious of past fatigue. Wilfred awoke to find himself approaching the wharf of Ely.

And here our narrative must perforce leave him for the space of two years, sharing the fortunes of the famous Hereward, until the fall of the last refuge of English liberty: the events of those two years are matters of history {xxii}.



CHAPTER XXI. TWO DOCUMENTS.

Two years had passed away since his last visit, and Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, was again a visitor in England, this time the guest of the new primate of the conquered country, Archbishop Lanfranc, a native of Pavia, and formerly abbot of the famed monastery of Bec in Normandy, to whom the king had been greatly indebted for his services as negotiator with the Court of Rome, while the conquest was in deliberation.

He was a man of deep learning and great personal piety, yet not without some of the faults of the race, under whose auspices he had come to England. Still, in spite of his deep prejudices, he was often, as we shall see in these pages, the protector of the oppressed English.

Lanfranc was seated with his episcopal brother in the embrasure of a deep window, looking out upon the cathedral close of Canterbury.

"It was sad, indeed, my brother," said the archbishop. "I scarcely have known a sadder day than that of my installation. The cathedral which thou seest slowly rising from its ruins yonder, had been destroyed by fire, with all its ornaments, charters, and title deeds. One would think that the heathen Danes had once more overspread the land, instead of our own Christian countrymen."

"And yet we two are answerable to some extent for this conquest. Without thee it had never been; thou didst gain the sanction of the Pope and then preach it as a crusade. I followed the army to Hastings, absolved the troops, and blessed its banners on the day of the great victory."

"Heaven grant we may not have done wrong; but the sheep are scattered abroad, as when a wolf entereth the fold."

"Thou mayest yet be the means of reconciling the conquerors and the conquered—the Church is their natural mediator."

"God helping me, I will do justice between them; but the task is a heavy one—it is hard, nay, terrible, to stand against the will of this Conqueror."

"For this cause, perhaps, thou, who fearest not the face of man, art chosen of Heaven."

A low knock at the door interrupted them.

"Enter," cried Lanfranc; and a monk of the Benedictine order, who discharged the duty of chamberlain, appeared.

"A brother of our order craves an audience."

It must be remembered that Lanfranc was the abbot of a Benedictine monastery ere he was called to Canterbury {xxiii}.

"Is he English or Norman? Hath he told thee his errand?"

"English. He hath travelled far, and says that his errand is one of life or death."

"Let him enter," said the primate.

A man in a faded Benedictine habit, evidently spent with travel, appeared at the door. His beard was of long growth, his hair was uncombed, and his whole appearance that of a man who had passed through perils of no small difficulty and danger.

Lanfranc gazed fixedly at him, and seemed to strive to read his character in his face.

"Pax tibi, frater; I perceive thou art of our order. At what monastery hast thou made thy profession?"

"At the priory of St. Wilfred, Aescendune," said Father Kenelm, for it was he, as he bent the knee to the primate.

"A pious and learned home, doubtless, but its fame has not reached my ears."

"But it has mine," said Geoffrey, who started and listened with great attention.

"It was founded and enriched by Offa, thane of that domain, in the year of grace 940, and burnt in the second year of our misery, now three years agone. In its place stood for a short time the priory of St. Denys."

"Thou mayest well say 'stood,'" interrupted Geoffrey, "for I hear that it has also been destroyed by fire."

"By fire also?" said the astonished Lanfranc.

"It is a sad and tragical story," replied Geoffrey, "and it would weary you and sadden me to relate it now. Bloodshed and all the horrors of midnight rapine and warfare are mingled in it, and there is a deep mystery yet unsolved. Tell me, my brother, wert thou an inmate of St. Wilfred's priory when it was so mysteriously destroyed?"

"I was."

"And how didst thou escape?"

"Our prior, the sainted Elphege, despatched me to some of our poor flock, who had taken refuge in the woods, that I might commit one deeply loved to their care."

"His name?"

"Wilfred of Aescendune. It is on his behalf that I have sought his grace the new archbishop, led by his reputation for charity and justice, but hardly expecting to meet any one here who knew the story of our misfortunes and wrongs."

"Thou wilt wonder less, perhaps, if thou lookest at me a little more closely. Dost thou not remember Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, who married Winifred of Aescendune to Hugo de Malville?"

"I do, indeed; and marvel, my lord," said he, "that I recognised thee not at once; I bear a letter for thee written by hands long since ashes—by our good Prior Elphege, the night before the monastery was burned."

"Tell me, my brother," said Geoffrey, as he took the letter, "dost thou know who burnt the monastery?"

"I do."

"Who, then? All the world names the youth thou didst save."

"Who would accuse the lamb of devouring the wolf? Hugo, sometime baron of Aescendune, did the accursed deed."

"Canst thou prove it?"

"When thou hast read the letter, I have yet another document for thee. I had brought both here to submit to my lord of Canterbury."

It was startling to watch Geoffrey as he read the parchment, the very hairs of his head seemed to erect themselves, and his colour changed from pale to red, from red to pale again.

"My brother," said Lanfranc, "what dost thou read which so disturbeth thee?"

"Read it thyself," said he, giving the letter which he had finished to the primate. "It purports to be the copy of a letter addressed to me three years ago, when I was at Oxenford, but which never reached me. Oh, what a story of damnable guilt! Tell me, man, where didst thou obtain this?"

"I saw the original written by him, whose name it bears at the foot, and at his request took this copy, which he has attested by his name, for I was the chief calligrapher of the house of St. Wilfred. It was his last act and deed on earth: within a few hours he perished in the flames which consumed our poor dwelling."

Here Father Kenelm, not without emotion, handed a second parchment to Geoffrey.

"And this?" said he of Coutances, interrogatively.

"Is the confession of a dying Norman, which he has attested by his mark, for he could not write his name. I heard his last confession, when, to remove the stain of guilt from the innocent, he made me write this statement, and signed it as best he could."

"How didst thou get hold of this, brother?" said the Bishop of Coutances, feeling himself, to use the expression of the writer, "sick with horror."

"Thou hast heard, my lord, of the destruction of Baron Hugo in the Dismal Swamp?"

"Surely; I was at Abingdon when his son Etienne brought the news."

"Only one who entered that swamp, so far as I know, escaped. Half burnt, he dragged himself out, on our side, from the awful conflagration, and hid himself till eventide in the woods, suffering greatly.

"That day I had guided young Etienne de Malville from his concealment in our midst, to liberty and safety, and as I returned I heard the groans of a man in severe pain, but which seemed a long distance away, borne on the night winds which swept the forest. Guided by the sound, I found Guy, son of Roger, and tended him as I had tended the son of the wicked baron. He lingered a few days, and then died of his injuries, leaving me this confession, as his last act and deed, with full liberty to divulge it when a fitting day should arrive."

"But why hast thou not done so before?"

"Because it was not needed; nor could I leave my refuge in the woods, where I had my own little flock to attend to, the few poor sheep saved from the Norman wolf. Pardon me, for ye are Normans."

"We are Benedictines," said Lanfranc, reprovingly; "English or Normans, the children of our father Benedict are brethren, even as there is neither Jew nor Gentile, bond nor free, in Christ."

"But why hast thou now come?" said Geoffrey.

"Hast thou not heard that the Camp of Refuge has fallen?"

"And what then?"

"Wilfred of Aescendune was a refugee therein."

"And is he taken?"

"He was sent, together with Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, as prisoner to Abingdon, and will be brought to trial, when William arrives there next week, and, unless thou savest him, will undoubtedly die the death."

"He shall not die," said Geoffrey, "if we can save him. William must acquit him if he hear all."

"Acquit him, yes," said Lanfranc, "of sacrilege and parricide; but not, I fear, of the guilt of rebellion against his lawful king {xxiv}."

"At least, if he must die, let him die freed from the supposed guilt of such awful sacrilege, and let men know to what kind of father King William committed the innocent English lad."

"Most certainly: if we cannot save him from the consequences of his rash appeal to the sword, we will yet save him from the cord, or worse, the stake, which might be thought the not inappropriate penalty of the destruction of two successive houses of God by fire."

"The stake! it is too horrible to think of!" said the monk; "thank God I have not sought thee in vain. Forgive me, my lord, but the lad is very dear to me."

"Nor is my own interest much less keen in him," said Geoffrey. "I first met him at Senlac, where he sought his father's corpse amidst the slain, and since that time have watched his tragic career not without grief."

"But one question remains," spake Lanfranc. "The documents will be disputed: how shall we prove them genuine?"

"There is much internal evidence; but may not some of the witnesses of the crimes be living? For instance, the Jew, Abraham of Toledo, he who sold the poisons to Hugo?" said Geoffrey.

"He shall be sought for," replied Lanfranc. "Meanwhile, Father Kenelm, thou art my guest, and I must at once commend you to the chamberlain, who will supply all your wants. You need food and rest."

Bowing humbly—his heart full of gratitude—the good old Benedictine followed the chamberlain, who appeared at the summons of the primate, to more comfortable lodgings and better fare than he had known for years.



CHAPTER XXII. THE CHAPTER HOUSE OF ABINGDON.

On the morrow of Michaelmas, in the year of grace 1071, an imposing group of warriors and ecclesiastics was gathered in the chapter house of the ancient Abbey of Abingdon.

The chamber in question was of rectangular form, but terminated at the eastern end in an apse, where, beneath a column with radiating arches, was the throne of the Lord Abbot.

A stone seat encompassed the other three sides of the building, cushions interposing, however, between the person and the bare stone beneath, as was meet.

The walls were arcaded, so as to form stalls, and in the arcades were pictures of the Saints of the order, in glowing colours—St. Benedict occupying the place of honour. Nor was St. Dunstan, the most noted of English Benedictines, unrepresented.

A light burned perpetually in the midst of this chamber, framed so as to image a tongue of fire, emblem of Him, whose inspiration was sought at the gatherings of the chapter for deliberation.

Here novices were admitted and monastic punishment administered, while penitential chambers adjoined, to which offenders were taken after sentence had been delivered.

It was just after the chapter mass, and the fourth hour of the day.

William sat in the abbot's chair; on his right band Lanfranc himself—for the Benedictine order was deeply interested in the investigation about to be made. The abbot and all the elder brethren were present, and sat on the right or northern side of the building. Next the abbot sat Geoffrey of Coutances; amidst the brethren was Father Kenelm.

But on the other side sat William's principal nobles and courtiers, to whom reference has been made in former chapters—De la Pole, Arundel, Clyfford, Fitz-Maurice, Hastings, Maltravers, Peverill, Talbot, Harcourt, and many others—some of then grey-headed—in arms.

Odo of Bayeux and Fitz-Osborne were there likewise, as also Robert of Mortain and Pevensey.

A large coffer, called "the trunk," not unlike the box in which prisoners appear in modern courts of justice, stood in the midst; and therein, pale with illness and worn by mental distress, yet still undaunted in the spirit, stood Wilfred of Aescendune.

Poor Wilfred! he needed all his courage, for he stood almost alone, a mere youth, amidst many enemies. At the most there were but three hearts present which beat with any sympathy for him.

Lanfranc had, however, possessed the king with certain general facts, which disposed William to give the accused a patient hearing, and when his "starkness" was not roused, William could be just.

And so Wilfred, his face pale, his lips compressed, his hands clasped upon the desk before him, gazed into the face of this awful Conqueror, whose frown so few dared to meet—the very incarnation of brute force and mental daring combined.

On his head was the crown of England, which he wore only on state occasions, four times yearly as a rule, at certain great festivals. One of these had just been held at Abingdon, and on this occasion, as we see, he again assumed it. The sceptre was borne beneath by a page who stood by his side.

William's voice first broke the silence—a stern, deep voice.

"Wilfred of Aescendune, we have chosen to hear thy defence in person—if thou hast any defence becoming thee to make and us to hear."

"Of what am I accused?" said the prisoner.

It was noticed that he omitted the royal title.

"Of rebellion, parricide, and sacrilege."

"I admit that I have fought against the invaders of my country, and am nowise ashamed of it," said the brave youth, in a tone which, without being defiant, was yet manly; "but I deny, as base and wicked lies, the other charges made against me."

"Thou ownest thy rebellion?"

"I own that I have fought against thy people and thee; but I have never sworn allegiance. Thou art not my rightful sovereign, and hence I do not acknowledge the guilt of rebellion."

There was a general murmur of indignation, which William repressed.

"Peace, my lords; peace, churchmen. We are not moved by a boy's rhetoric. The facts lie on the surface, and we need not enquire whether one is truly a rebel who was taken red-handed in the so-called 'Camp of Refuge;' nor do we deign to discuss those rights, which Christendom acknowledges, with our subjects. The question is this: Does the youth simply merit the lighter doom of a rebel, or the far heavier one of a parricide and a sacrilegious incendiary?"

"Parricide!" exclaimed the indignant prisoner. "My father, more fortunate than I, died fighting against thee at Senlac."

"Hugo of Aescendune and Malville was nevertheless thy father by adoption; and by the law of civilised nations, carried with that adoption the rights and prerogatives of a sire. But we waste time. Herald, summon the accuser."

"Etienne de Malville et Aescendune, enter!" cried the herald of the court.

And Etienne appeared, dressed in sable mourning, and bowed before the throne. He was pale, too, if that sallow colour, which olive-like complexions like his assume when wrought upon, can be called pale. He cast upon Wilfred one glance of intense hatred, and then, looking down respectfully, awaited the words of the Conqueror.

"Etienne de Malville, dost thou appear as the accuser of this prisoner?"

"I do."

"Take thine oath, then, upon the Holy Gospels, only to speak the truth; my Lord Archbishop will administer it."

Lanfranc administered the oath, much as it is done in courts of justice nowadays, but with peculiar solemnity of manner.

Etienne repeated the words very solemnly and distinctly. No one doubted, or could doubt, his sincerity.

"Of what crimes dost thou accuse the prisoner?"

"Parricide, in that he hath compassed the death of his adoptive father; sacrilege, in that he burnt the priory of St. Wilfred with all the monks therein, and later the Priory of St. Denys, from which the inmates had happily escaped, and in support of this accusation I am ready to wager my body in the lists, if the King so allow."

"We do not risk thy safety against one who is already proved guilty of rebellion, and who is not of knightly rank like thyself."

(Etienne had duly received knighthood after the taking of the Camp of Refuge.)

"This is a question of evidence. State thy case."

Etienne spake clearly and well; and as he told the story of the destruction of the priory of St. Wilfred, of the subsequent appearance of our hero in the woods at the head of the outlaws, and the later conflagrations, there were few who did not think that he had proved his case, so far as it admitted of proof.

"We will now hear thy story of the destruction of the priory, and the manner in which thou didst escape from it," said the Conqueror to Wilfred.

Wilfred spoke good Norman French, thanks to his early education, in company with Etienne and the other pages, after the Conquest. So he began his story lucidly, but not without some emotion, which he strove in vain to suppress.

"Normans," he said, "I would not defend myself against this foul charge to save my forfeit life, nor could I hope to save it. Ye have met like wolves to judge a stag, and since ye have taken from me all that makes life dear, I refuse not to die; only I would die with honour, and hence I strive, speaking but the words of truth, to remove the stain which my enemy there" (he turned and pointed at Etienne) "has cast upon my honour, for I am of a house that has never known shame, and would not disgrace it in my person.

"I submitted to the father ye Normans gave me, and bore all the wrongs he and his heaped upon me, until the day when I discovered in that father" (he pronounced the word with the deepest scorn) "the murderer of my own mother."

A general burst of incredulity, followed by an indignant and scornful denial from Etienne.

"Silence," said a stern voice, "this is not a hostelry; the prisoner has the right of speech and the ear of the judge; only, Englishman, be careful what thou sayest."

"I repeat the simple fact, my lord" (this was the only title Wilfred would give the King); "the baron, whom ye are pleased sportively to call my father, poisoned my own mother."

"Poisoned! poisoned! My liege, can this be endured?"

"Hear him to the end, and then, if he have spoken without proof, it will be time to pronounce his aggravated sentence. SILENCE!"

Wilfred continued, and told the whole story as our readers know it, until his arrival at the Dismal Swamp. He described all that had passed so clearly that his foes became interested in spite of themselves, and listened. He did not charge Hugo with the burning of the priory, for he had no evidence to sustain the charge, being only aware that such was at hand to be produced by others; as he had learnt from Father Kenelm, who had been granted admittance to his cell.

At length he finished in these words:

"And now I have told you all the truth, and if ye will not believe me, but prefer to think I betrayed those to death I loved so dearly, I cannot help myself; but if there be a God, and a judgment day—as ye all profess to believe—I appeal to that God and that day, knowing that my innocence will then be made clear. That I fought with them who slew the baron I freely admit, and hold myself justified, as ye must, if ye believe my story; but I myself protected the monks of your kindred, albeit they had taken the places of better men than themselves, and not one was harmed; and when we fled, we burnt castle, priory, and village, without distinction, that they might not shelter an enemy. This, too, I hold to be lawful in war.

"I know that Englishmen find scant justice at Norman hands, and that ye will slay me as a rebel. Do so, and I will thank you; only defile not the memory—slay not the reputation as well as the body. If the house of Aescendune, which was planted in this land when ye Normans were but pagan Danes, is to perish, let it at least go unsullied to its grave. I have spoken."

There was strong sensation. His speech had produced some reaction in his favour.

"It is, as we said before, a question of evidence," said the King. "Is any forthcoming on one side or the other? for as yet neither party has really shown who burnt the priory and the monks therein. We have only assumptions, and they are not facts."

Lanfranc looked at the King, as if asking permission to speak. The King bent his head, and the Archbishop began, addressing Etienne:

"Amongst the followers of thy father, was there a warrior named Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville?"

"There was."

"Didst thou know him well?"

"Intimately."

"What became of him?"

"He was lost when my father perished—faithful, doubtless, to the last."

"Didst thou ever see his mark as a witness to any charter, or the like?"

"I did; instead of making a cross, he preferred to draw a bow."

"Wouldst thou recognise it, then?"

"I should, indeed."

"Then," said the Archbishop, holding a parchment folded up so as to conceal all but the name and the mark of a bow beside it, "dost thou know this mark?"

"I do; it is the mark of Guy, the son of Roger."

"Do ye all," said Lanfranc, turning round, "hear his affirmation?"

"We do—"

"Then hear what the paper contains."

I, Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville, being a dying man, and about to meet my God, do make this, my last confession, for the safety of my poor soul.

In the summer of the year 1068, in the mouth of June, I, with twenty other men, who have, so far as I know, perished by firs in the Dismal Swamp, was summoned to wait upon the Baron of Aescendune in a private chamber. He told us that the honour of his house depended upon us, and asked us whether we were willing to stand by him in his necessity. He had selected us well. We were born on his Norman estates, and trained up from childhood to do his will, and that of the devil. We all promised to do whatever he should ask, and to keep the matter a secret.

Then he told us that we were to burn the Priory of St. Wilfred at midnight, and to allow none to escape.

This we did, we took possession silently of every exit, piled up wood and straw, set it on fire on every side at once, and transfixed all those who tried to break out with arrows or lances, and hurled them back into the flames.

Long has my soul been sick with horror that I slew these holy men, and now that all who were my companions in this deed have perished by God's just judgment—burnt alive even as they burned—I, willing to save my soul from the everlasting flame, do make this my penitent confession, praying God to have mercy upon my soul.

Given in the Dismal Swamp, in the month of June, 1068.



CHAPTER XXIII. "GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY."

A dead silence followed the reading of the dying confession of Guy, son of Roger.

The mighty Conqueror looked around, as if he would read men's hearts.

Etienne de Malville was flushed, and seemed ready to sink into the earth for shame, as though he himself were responsible for the guilt of his father.

Wilfred of Aescendune, on the other hand, looked like one whose innocence was vindicated; there was an expression of joy on his face—joy, however, so tempered by other feelings, that it could not be called exultation.

"It is a forgery—a vile and shameful forgery," cried Etienne.

"Thou didst thyself recognise the mark," said the king sternly. "We pardon thine excitement, but do not forget the presence of thine elders."

"Can I sit thus tamely, and hear my dead father accused of the vilest crimes?"

"Justice shall be done his memory—justice, neither more nor less," said the Conqueror sternly.

"I claim, then, my privilege to meet the accuser in knightly combat."

"The accuser is dead. Wilt thou go to purgatory to meet him? for we trust his penitence has saved him from going farther and faring worse. Keep silence, and do not further interrupt the course of justice. We can pity thee, believing thee to be incapable of such deeds thyself."

Then, turning to the court:

"Is there any other evidence, verbal or written, bearing upon this question?"

"There is, my liege," said Bishop Geoffrey.

"What is it?"

"A letter addressed to me by the murdered prior of St. Wilfred's Priory, who perished in the flames on the fatal night of which we have heard so much."

"Its date?"

"The night in Ascensiontide, three years agone, in which the prisoner left his stepfather's protection and made a vain attempt to reach me at Oxenford, striving to bear the missive of which this is a copy."

"And the original?"

"Fell into the possession of the late baron, his stepfather, after Eustace, Count of Blois, had borne the lad back again by force."

"Hast thou satisfied thyself of the authenticity of the copy?"

"I have; it was attested by Prior Elphege himself, in the presence of the Benedictine from whom I received it."

"Then read the letter."

And amidst breathless attention, Geoffrey read:

Elphege, prior of the house of St. Wilfred at Aescendune, to the noble prelate Geoffrey, Bishop of Coutances, now resident at Oxenford, sendeth greeting.

It will not have escaped thy remembrance, most holy father in God, that on the fatal field of Senlac—fatal, that is, to my countrymen, for I am not ashamed to call myself an Englishman—thou didst favourably notice a youth, who sought and found his father's dead body, by name Wilfred, son of Edmund of Aescendune.

Nor wilt thou forget that thou didst intercede for the boy that he might retain his ancestral possessions, which boon thou didst only obtain at the cost of his widowed mother's marriage with Hugo, Lord of Malville, outre mer.

It was then settled that the two boys, Etienne de Melville and Wilfred of Aescendune, thereby thrown together, should each inherit the lands and honours of their respective sires; but that, should the latter die, the united estates should fall to Etienne de Malville, did he still survive.

In this arrangement, we naturally saw danger to our own precious charge—for our spiritual child he was—Wilfred of Aescendune.

His mother died the year after the Conquest, and passed, as we thought, happily from a world of sin and sorrow.

The boy, at first disconsolate with grief, recovered his health and spirits after awhile, and if allowed to live, might assuredly grow to man's estate, and perpetuate his ancient line.

If allowed, I say, for we have just received evidence that the mother was poisoned, and we tremble with horror lest the boy should share her fate.

This evidence is in the form of a dying confession, which, at the request of the poor penitent, we have written with pen and ink.

When thou hast read it, for the love of God and of His saints, especially of our father Benedict, stretch forth thine hand and protect the unhappy bearer, the youthful lord of Aescendune.

We commend him with all confidence to thy care.

Given at St. Wilfred's priory, in the octave of Ascension, 1068.

"Hear ye the confession enclosed," said Geoffrey.

It is five years since I fled the face of my lord, Edmund of Aescendune, for I had slain his red deer, and sold them for filthy lucre, and I feared to meet his face; so I fled to the great city, even London, where I was like to starve, till a Jew, who saw my distress, took pity on me, and gave me shelter.

His name was Abraham of Toledo, and he was mighty in magic arts, and in compounding of deadly drugs to slay, or medicines to keep alive. He made me his servant, and I, albeit a Christian man, soon learned to do the bidding of the devil at his command.

One day there came a Norman noble, and bought of my master a liquid, which would cause those who drank but one drop, daily, to die of deadly decline within the year. I heard the bargain made as I was compounding some drugs within a recess of my master's chamber. No sooner was the man gone than Abraham descended the stairs, calling for me. I managed to reach him without raising his suspicions, when he bade me follow the retreating stranger, not yet out of sight in the gloom, and learn his name. I did so; it was Hugo de Malville, the new lord of Aescendune.

I knew of his marriage, and felt sure whom he wanted to destroy; but I dared not show myself at home. At length an incurable disease seized me, and I determined to unburden my conscience, and dragged myself here, only to learn that the sweet lady of Aescendune had died within the year, with all the symptoms of rapid decline, and upon my sod I charge Hugo de Malville with the murder.

Given in the infirmary of the house of St. Wilfred, in the month of May, 1068.

This dying confession was made in our hearing this day.

Elphege, Prior.

Ceadda, Sub-Prior,

Tuesday in Oct., Asc., in the year of grace, 1068.

After a moment's silence, Odo of Bayeux, the Conqueror's half brother, and a hateful oppressor of the poor English, rose up:

"This letter does not afford any absolute proof of the guilt of our departed brother in arms, Hugo of Aescendune. He may have bought the liquid; there is no proof he administered it—people die of decline daily."

"May I produce and question a witness before the court," said Geoffrey, "in the absence of the prisoner?"

"Certainly," replied William.

A signal was given to an expectant usher of the court. Wilfred was led out, and in a few moments two wardens entered in charge of another prisoner.

He was tall and haggard; a long beard descended to his waist. His peculiar nose—the most marked characteristic of his race, long and beak-shaped, yet not exactly aquiline—marked the Jew. He looked anxiously around.

"Thou art Abraham of Toledo?"

The Hebrew bowed submissively.

"A compounder of poisons?"

"Say rather of medicines, lord; for the making of one is the rule—of the other, the exception."

"Thou dost not deny the accusation, which places thy life at the mercy of the court?"

"I will own all, and throw myself on its mercy, trusting that the relief I have oft afforded in bodily anguish, maybe allowed to atone, in its measure, for any aid my fears may have driven me to lend to crime."

"It is thine only chance, Jew, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

"I am at your lordship's disposal."

"Didst thou ever deal with Hugo, sometime lord of Malville. and afterwards of Aescendune?"

"Once only."

"On what occasion?"

"He sought a medicine."

"A medicine?" said Geoffrey, sternly; "thou triflest."

"Nay!—a poison, I would have said."

"Of what specific nature?"

"To produce the symptoms of decline—the patient would sink and die."

"What was the appearance of the poison?"

"Dropped in water it diffused at first a sapphire hue, but after exposure to the air the hue of the ruby succeeded."

"Didst thou know the purpose for which he bought the drug?"

"My lord, I did not, nor do I know now; my humble occupations do not lead me amongst the mighty of the land, save when they seek my humble shop."

"Still thine offence, Jew," said the stern voice of the Conqueror, "is a damnable one, and lendest itself readily to the purposes of crime.

"Let the unbeliever be removed in custody.

"My lord of Canterbury, he is a heretic—perchance a sorcerer; let the Church see to him."

And so the poor Jew was removed to his dungeon.

"And now with your favour," said Geoffrey, "I would ask a few questions of the prisoner, in your presence."

"The permission is given," said William.

Wilfred was again conducted before the court.

"Thou hast dared to brand thy late stepfather as the poisoner of thy mother; wilt thou state any cause or justification thou mayest have, over and above that indicated by the letter and confession we have read?"

"I did not dream of such guilt before I heard that confession, months after the death of my mother."

"Hadst thou ever seen medicine administered to her?"

"Frequently, by the baron her second husband himself. He called it the elixir of life, and stated he had obtained it at a high price, from a noted Jewish physician."

"What was its colour?"

"A drop only was let fall into water, which it tinged with a greenish hue, as of a sapphire."

"Didst thou mark any peculiarity?"

"On one occasion, when, owing to very sudden sickness, the medicine was not taken, my sister and I marked with surprise, that the medicine thus diluted had changed to a crimson colour."

General sensation. Etienne hid his face in his mantle; the churchman and nobles conferred together. William spoke:

"Thou hast thy lesson perfect, boy. Didst thou ever see this Jew Abraham?"

"Never; or he had not lived to tell thee."

"Then there is no possible collusion between the witnesses—I appeal to thee, my lord of Coutances?"

"None; I will answer for it as a bishop. It was a providential thought, which led me to interrogate the Jew respecting the appearance of the medicine, and one utterly unpremeditated."

"Remove the prisoner," said the king.

While Wilfred was absent, William conferred with his lords spiritual and temporal. This was no court wherein the popular element found place; the whole issue of the trial lay with the mighty chieftain—the rest were but his consultees.

We will not record the deliberations, only their result.

After half an hour had passed—a time of dread suspense to the prisoner—Wilfred was again summoned to the bar.

William addressed him:

"We have duly considered thy case, Wilfred of Aescendune, and fully acquit thee of the guilt of sacrilege, while we also admit that there were causes, which might go far to justify thy rebellion against thy stepfather, and to mitigate the guilt of armed resistance to thy king.

"We are not met to judge thy stepfather; he has been called to a higher and an unerring tribunal, and there we leave him, satisfied that the Judge of all the earth will do right.

"For thee—the guilt of rebellion and of bearing arms against thy king for three whole years has to be expiated; but if thou art willing to take the oath of allegiance on the spot, and bind thyself to discharge the duties of a subject to his king, we will consider thy case favourably, and perchance restore thee, under certain conditions, to thy ancestral possessions. Speak, what sayest thou—dost thou hesitate?"

Every eye was fixed on the prisoner.

He stood there, firm as a rock, and looked bravely into that face whose frown so few could bear.

"My lord of Normandy," he said, "by birth I owe thee no allegiance, and I cannot acknowledge that thy masterful and bloody conquest of an unoffending people has given thee any right to demand it. I cannot betray the cause for which my father bled and died, or ally myself to my mother's murderers. You have acquitted me of deeper guilt. I can now die for my country without shame."

The Conqueror heard him patiently to the end.

"Thou knowest, then, thine inevitable fate?"

"I accept it. Ye have robbed me of all which made life worth living."

"Thou must die, then: but we spare thee torture or mutilation. Prepare to meet the headsman within the castle yard, at the third sun-rising after this day—

"and, my lord of Coutances, since you have taken so much interest in this young English rebel, we charge thee with the welfare of his soul."

And the court broke up.



CHAPTER XXIV. THE CASTLE OF OXFORD.

"It is the crime and not the scaffold makes The headsman's death a shame."

Wilfred sat alone in an upper chamber of the donjon tower the Conqueror had erected at Oxford, hard by the mound thrown up by Ethelfleda, lady of the Mercians and daughter of Alfred. For thither the king had caused him to be removed, unwilling to stain the holy precincts of Abingdon with a deed of blood, and confiding fully in Robert d'Oyly, the governor of his new castle.

The passage up the river had occupied two full hours, under the care of trusty and able rowers; for the stream was swift in those days, before locks checked its course, as we have stated elsewhere.

Under the woods of Newenham, past the old Anglo-Saxon churches of Sandford and Iffley, up the right-hand channel of the stream just below the city, and so to the landing place beneath the old tower {xxv}.

William had given orders to treat our Wilfred with all possible consideration, and to allow him every indulgence, which did not militate against his safe keeping, for he admired, even while he felt it necessary to slay. So he was not thrust into a dungeon, but confined in an upper chamber, where a grated window, at a great height, afforded him a fair view of that world he was about to leave for ever.

"Ah! if I were but in those woods," sighed the prisoner to himself, "I would give these Normans some trouble to catch me again; but the poor bird can only beat himself against the cruel bars of his cage."

He counted the hours. It was the evening of his condemnation; two whole days, followed by a feverish night, and then when that next sun arose—

Strange thoughts began to arise—what sort of axe would they use?—who would be there?—would they bind his eyes?—would he have to kneel on the stones?—what kind of block would they use?

Little trifling details like these forced themselves upon him, even as an artist represents each humble detail in a finished picture.

Did he repent that he had refused life and Aescendune? No, he hated the Normans with too profound a hatred.

Was he prepared to die? We are sorry to record that he shook off every thought of the future. God had delivered the English into the hands of the Normans—his father and mother had been good religious people, and what had they got by it? If there was a God, why were such cruelties allowed to exist unavenged? He and His saints must be asleep. Such were the wicked thoughts which arose, as we grieve to record, in poor Wilfred's mind.

But now heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon Lanfranc, conducted by the Norman governor, entered the cell.

Against him Wilfred could not, in reason, feel the enmity he bore to all others of Norman race; it was owing to his exertions, and to those of Geoffrey of Coutances, that he was about to die as a patriot, and not as a sacrilegious incendiary.

It was the object of this worthy prelate to save the soul, where he had failed to save the body, and to direct the thoughts of the condemned one to Him, who Himself hung like a criminal between earth and heaven, that He might save all who would put their trust in Him.

The great obstacle in Wilfred's mind was his inability to forgive. This his visitor soon perceived, and by the example of those dying words, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," he gently impressed upon the penitent the duty of forgiving those who had wronged him—however deeply.

"But how can I forgive the murderers of my mother?"

"Thou believest that mother is in Paradise?"

"Indeed I do."

"Dost thou not wish to be with her at last?"

"As the hart desireth the water brooks."

"Then ask thyself what she would have thee do. Canst thou hope for the pardon of thine own grievous sins, unless thou dost first forgive all who have offended thee?"

"I will try. See me again tomorrow, father."

"I will do so: I remain at St. Frideswide's for—a day or two."

Wilfred understood the hesitation.

A different scene transpired simultaneously in the dungeons below, which, with their accustomed ruthless policy, the Normans had hollowed out of the soil.

The Jew, Abraham of Toledo, was resting uneasily, full of fears—which experience too well justified—as to his personal safety in this den of lions, when he also heard steps, this time descending the stairs, and Geoffrey of Coutances was ushered in.

"Leave the cell," said the bishop to the gaoler, "but remain in the passage. Close the door; I would speak with this penitent, as I trust he will prove, in private."

"Never fear, your holiness," said the gaoler with somewhat undue familiarity; "I care little for a Jew's patter, and this fellow will need a long shrift before they make a roast of him—for that, I suppose, will be the end of it."

The door slammed.

It was a miserable cell, composed of rough stones, lately put together, oozing with the moisture from the damp soil around, for the river was close by and the dungeon beneath its level.

"Art thou prepared to meet thy fitting end?"

"What crime have I committed to deserve death?"

"Thou hast knowingly and wilfully abetted, not one but many poisoners, and the stake is the fitting doom for thee and them."

"Oh! not the stake, God of Abraham. If ye must slay, at least spare the agonising flames; but what mercy can we hope for, we faithful children of Abraham, from Nazarenes?"

"What price art thou willing to pay for thy forfeit life, if thy sentence is commuted to exile from this land?"

"Price? Canst thou mean it? I will fill thy chambers with gold."

"I seek it not—albeit," added the worthy bishop, "some were fitly bestowed on the poor—but that thou, whose former crime hast brought a worthy youth to the block, shouldst undo the mischief as far as thou art able."

"But what can I do? who would heed me?"

"Dost thou not know of a drug, which shall throw the drinker thereof into a trance, so like death that all shall believe him dead?"

"I do indeed."

"And art thou sure of thy power to revive the sleeper from this seeming death, after the lapse of days—after men have committed him as a corpse to the tomb?"

"I can do so with facility if I have the necessary drugs; but I am stripped of all. Were I in London—"

"Hast thou no brethren in Oxenford?"

"Yea, verily, I remember Zacharias the Jew, who lives hard by the river, in the parish of St. Ebba."

"Canst thou trust him with thy life?"

"He is a brother."

"Ye are better brothers than many Christians. I will send him to thee, and he shall supply thee with the necessary medicaments. If the experiment succeed, and absolute secrecy be observed, I will cause thy sentence to be commuted to banishment, with the forfeiture of some portion of thine ill-gotten goods; otherwise there remaineth but the stake."

And Geoffrey of Coutances departed.

An hour later, Zacharias of St. Ebba's parish entered; the two conferred a long time—Zacharias departed—returned again—and in the evening of the following day sought the bishop and placed a packet in his hand.

It was the last night on which poor Wilfred was allowed by Norman mercy to live. The archbishop was with him.

He was penitent and resigned; his last confession was made, and it was arranged that on the morrow he should receive the Holy Communion at St. George's Chapel, within the precincts, from the hands of Lanfranc, ere led forth to die, as now ordered, upon that mound the visitor to Oxford still beholds, hard by that same donjon tower.

"I thank thee, father," he said to Lanfranc—"I thank thee for the hope thou hast given me of meeting those I have lost, in a better and brighter world."

"Thou diest penitent for thy sins, and forgiving thy foes?"

"I do, indeed; it has been a struggle, but thou hast conquered."

"Not I, but Divine grace;" and the mighty prelate turned aside to hide a tear.

Another visitor was announced, and Geoffrey of Coutances drew near.

"Thou art resigned, my Wilfred?"

"I am, by God's grace."

"Yet thou lookest feeble and ill. Drink this tonic; it will give thee strength to play the man tomorrow."

He emptied the contents of a phial into a small cup of water. Wilfred drank it up.

"And now, my son, hast thou any message to leave behind thee?"

"When thou seest Etienne, tell him I forgive, as I trust he forgives also—we have much to pardon each other—and beg him to be a merciful lord to such poor English as yet dwell in Aescendune."

"I will, indeed, and so second your last appeal that I doubt not to prevail."

"And my sister—Hugo sent her, as he said, to be educated in the convent of The Holy Trinity at Caen; convey her my last love, and a lock of hair as a memento of her only brother. Poor Editha! she will be alone now. Thou wilt care for her future fortunes; she has a claim on the lands of Aescendune. Oh, Aescendune!—bright sky, verdant fields, deep forest glades, pleasant river—thou passest to Norman hands now."

It was the last moment of weakness.

"May I lie there beside my father?"

"Yes, thou shalt," said Lanfranc.

"After many years," muttered Geoffrey to himself, for he had a secret, which he concealed from his more scrupulous brother.

Lanfranc rose to depart.

"Commend thyself to God in prayer; then sleep and dream of Paradise. I will be with thee ere the October dawn."

And Lanfranc departed.

"How dost thou feel, my son?" said Geoffrey.

"Well, but strangely sleepy, as if control were leaving me and my frame not my own. Was it a strengthening dose thou gavest me?"

"One which will, perchance, save thee. Lie on this bed; now sleep if thou wilt—thou wilt arise the better for it."

And in a few minutes, all anxiety forgotten, Wilfred slept—slept heavily. Geoffrey watched him awhile, then departed.

The morrow, and a great multitude of spectators had arranged themselves around the slopes of the mound, just before sunrise.

On the tower itself stood Etienne de Malville, eager to see the end of his hated rival, and to make sure, by ocular evidence, of his death.

The morning was clear, after high dawn. The spectator on the tower looked towards the eastern hills, over the valley of the Cherwell, to see the sun arise above the heights of Headington.

It came at last—the signal of death: a huge arc of fire, changing rapidly into a semi-circle, and then into a globe. All the earth rejoiced around, but a shudder passed through the crowd.

The headsman leaned upon his axe, but no procession yet approached.

The sun was now a quarter of an hour high, when a murmur passed through the crowd that something had happened. At length the murmur deepened into a report that Wilfred had been found dead in his bed.

"Died," said some, "by the judgment of God."

"The better for him," said others.

And there were even those who murmured bitterly that they were disappointed of the spectacle, which they had left their beds to witness. Such unfeeling selfishness is not without example in modern times.

Etienne left the roof, burning with indignation, suspecting some trick to cheat him of his vengeance.

"Come into this cell," said the soft voice of Lanfranc.

Etienne obeyed.

There lay his young rival, cold and pale. Etienne doubted no longer; death was too palpably stamped upon the face.

"Canst thou forgive now?" said Lanfranc. "His last message was one of forgiveness for thee."

"I know not. An hour ago I thought no power on earth could make me; but we have each suffered wrongs."

"Ye have."

"I do forgive, then; requiescat in pace."

"So shall it be well with thee before God," said the good prelate.

So Wilfred was buried in the vaults of St. Frideswide's church. The Archbishop Lanfranc celebrated the funeral mass. It was noticed with surprise that Bishop Geoffrey absented himself from the function and the subsequent burial rites.

The week ended, as all weeks come to an end. Lanfranc had gone to Canterbury. The Conqueror, assured by trusty reporters of the death of Wilfred, rejoiced that so satisfactory an accident had befallen, sparing all publicity and shame to one he could but admire, as he ever admired pluck and devotion.

Geoffrey alone remained a guest at a monastic foundation hard by St. Frideswide's.

The midnight bell has struck twelve—or, rather, has been struck twelve times by the sexton, in the absence of machinery.

All is silence and gloom in the church of St. Frideswide, and upon the burial ground around.

Three muffled figures stand in a recess of the cloisters.

"This is the door," said the sexton; "but, holy St. Frideswide, to go down there tonight!"

"Thou forgettest I am a bishop; I can lay spirits if they arise."

The sexton stood at the open door—a group of the bishop's retainers farther off—that iron door which never opened to inmate before.

Geoffrey and the Jew advanced to the grave, amidst stone coffins and recesses in the walls, where the dead lay, much as in the catacombs.

They stopped before a certain recess.

There, swathed in woollen winding sheets, lay the mute form of Wilfred of Aescendune.

"Let him see thee when he arises. The sight of this deathly place may slay him. He will awake as from sleep. Take this sponge—bathe well the brow; how the aromatic odour fills the vaults!"

A minute—no result. Another.

"Dog, hast thou deceived me and slain him? If so, thou shalt not escape."

"Patience," said the Jew.

A heavy sigh escaped the sleeper.

"Thank God, he lives," said the bishop.

"Where am I? Have I slept long?"

"With friends—all is well.

"Cover his face; now bear him out to the air."

. . . . .

A barque was leaving the ancient port of Pevensey, bound for the east. Two friends—one in the attire of a bishop, and a youth who looked like a recent convalescent—stood on the deck.

"Farewell to England—dear England," said the younger.

"Thou mayest revisit it after thou hast fulfilled thy desire to pray at thy Saviour's tomb, and to tread the holy soil His sacred Feet have trodden; but it must be years hence."

"My best prayers must be for thee."

"Tut, tut, my child; thy adventures form an episode I love to think of. See, Beachy Head recedes; anon thou shalt see the towers of Coutances Cathedral across the deep."



CHAPTER XXV. IN THE FOREST OF LEBANON.

Thirty years had passed away since the events recorded in our last chapter, and the mighty Conqueror himself had gone to render an account of his stewardship to the Judge of all men.

The thoughts and aspirations of all Christian people were now attracted to far different subjects from the woes or wrongs of the English nation. The Crusades had begun. Peter the Hermit had moved all Christendom by his fiery eloquence, and sent them to avenge the wrongs the pilgrims of the cross had sustained from Turkish hands, and to free the holy soil from the spawn of the false prophet.

Since the Caliph Omar received the capitulation of Jerusalem, in 637, and established therein the religion of Mahomed, no greater calamity had ever befallen Christendom than the conquest of Asia Minor, and subsequently Syria, by the Turks.

The latter event, which occurred about nine years after the Norman Conquest of England, transferred the government of Palestine, and the custody of the holy places, from a race which, although Mahometan, was yet tolerant, to a far fiercer and "anti-human" government The "unspeakable Turk" had appeared on the scene of European politics.

For, under the milder rule of the Fatimite Caliphs, who reigned over Jerusalem from A.D. 969 to 1076, a peculiar quarter of the holy city had been assigned to the Christians; a fair tribute secured them protection, and the Sepulchre of Christ, with the other scenes identified with the Passion, were left in their hands. Greeks and Latins alike enjoyed freedom of worship, and crowds of pilgrims flocked from all the western nations.

Then appeared our Turks on the scene. They first ravished Asia Minor from the weak grasp of the later Roman Empire, and established their capital and worship—the abomination of desolation—where the first great Christian council had drawn up the Nicene Creed, that is, at Nicaea in Bithynia.

Then, later on, under the Sultan Malek Shah, they attacked Syria and Egypt, and the Holy Land passed under that blighting rule, which has ever since withered it in its grasp, with a few brief intervals.

And now the scene changed: the pilgrims, who through innumerable dangers had reached the holy city, only entered it to become the victims of contumely and savage insult, and often perished by brutal violence before they reached their goal—the Holy Sepulchre.

The very patriarch of Jerusalem was dragged by the hair and cast into a filthy dungeon, in order to exact a heavy ransom from the sympathy of his flock, and the tale of his sufferings harrowed all hearts.

For twenty years all this was borne.

At length came a pilgrim—then unknown to fame. He was a hermit, named Peter, and came from Picardy in France. He mingled his tears with those of the patriarch, to whom he obtained access.

"What can we do?" said the poor prelate. "The successors of Constantine are no match for the fiery Turk."

"I will rouse the martial nations of Europe in your cause," was the reply.

History tells how Peter the Hermit kept his word: how his fiery eloquence aroused and kindled all hearts; how Christendom sent forth her myriads, as under some potent spell.

At the council of Clermont, in November 1095, took place that famous scene in the presence of Pope Urban, when the cry, "God wills it," thrilled from myriad lips, and became the watchword of the Crusaders.

Men sold their estates for mere trifles; kings and dukes, like Robert of Normandy, mortgaged their very crowns, that they might fight in so holy a cause; and avaricious, cunning, and greedy monarchs, like Rufus, stayed at home and bought cheaply.

And as with the monarch, so with the vassal; land was a drug in the market, and horses and arms went up cent per cent.

The principal leaders of the first great Crusade {xxvi} were Godfrey de Bouillon (duke of the empire), Hugh of Vermandois, Robert of Normandy, Raymond of Toulouse, Bohemond and Tancred of the race of Robert Guiscard, the Norman conqueror of southern Italy.

Under their leadership, Constantinople was reached in safety. Nicea was besieged, and taken from the Turkish Sultan, Soliman.

Then they first met the Turks in battle array at Dorylaeum—an awful conflict which took place on the 4th of July 1097, in which nearly four hundred thousand Moslems were arrayed against the Crusaders.

The Sultan evacuated Asia Minor, and the expedition passed through a wasted land and deserted towns, without meeting a single enemy.

Nine months they were delayed before the city of Antioch, from October 1097 to June 1098, when the city was taken by storm.

Then they were besieged themselves in that city, by nearly half a million of Turks, and though reduced to the shadow of their former strength, they sallied forth and utterly defeated their besiegers, whose camp fell into their hands. Nothing could stand before the enthusiasm of the western warriors, who fancied they saw spectral forms of saints and martyrs fighting by their side.

At length, all obstacles removed, in the month of May, in the last year of the eleventh century, they entered the Holy Land.

On this sacred soil the action of our tale recommences.

. . . . .

It was a lovely evening in May, and the year was the last of the eleventh century.

The sun had gone down about half an hour, but had left behind him a flood of golden light in the west, glorious to behold—so calm, so transparent was that heavenly after glow, wherein deep cerulean blue was flecked with the brightest crimson or the ruddiest gold.

The moon had risen in the east, and was shining from a deep dark-blue background, which conveyed the idea of immeasurable space, with a brilliancy which she seldom or never attains in our northern sky.

A group of warriors had kindled a fire beneath the wide-spreading branches of an immense cedar tree, which had, perhaps, been planted in the reign of Solomon to supply the loss of those cut down for the temple by Hiram of Tyre.

The landscape was a striking one.

Above them, in the distance, opened a mighty gorge, through which flowed the rushing waters of a mountain torrent, one of the sources of the Jordan, issuing from the snows of Hermon.

Below, the country expanded into a gently undulating plain, studded with cedars, which resembled in no small degree the precincts of some old English park.

Let us glance at the warriors, and we shall speedily learn that they are no natives of the soil.

The armour they have laid aside, the coats of linked mail, with long sleeves of similar material, the big triangular shields, plated gauntlets, and steel breastplates, sufficiently bespoke their western nationality; but the red cross, conspicuous on the right sleeve, told that they were Crusaders.

Their leader appeared to be a young knight who, one would think, had scarcely won his spurs, or had but recently done so; and his retinue was limited to the customary attendance upon a single "lance," a dozen men-at-arms, completely equipped, and twice that number of light archers.

Their horses were picketed at a slight distance, so that they might graze easily, and like their owners, were divested of their armour—for the steeds also were usually loaded with defensive mail covering the more vital parts of their frames.

The flesh of a deer was roasting at the general fire, and diffusing a savoury odour around, and all the members of the company were intent upon rest and enjoyment.

Apart from them stood their solitary sentinel, looking with dreamy gaze over the fair landscape, and musing, perchance, of far-off England—of his distant love, or of wife and children, and wondering, very likely, whether, the war ended, he would live to return, with all the prestige of a warrior of the Cross, and tell of the marvels of Eastern climes to many a rustic audience.

Amidst these musings a sound fell upon his ear, which at first he did not recognise, but which rapidly assumed the character of that rumbling, earth-shaking, thunder-like sound which a large body of cavalry, approaching at a gallop, but yet afar off, would make.

He strained his gaze along the desert wastes, beneath the spreading branches of many cedars; but as yet no sight met the eye to support the impressions made already upon the ear.

It was not long, however, before the rapidly approaching sounds became too distinct to suffer him to hesitate, and he gave the alarm.

The merry song ceased; the conversation dropped; and in the awful stillness the senses of each man confirmed the report of the sentinel.

"They may be friends," said the young knight.

"Friends are scarce in the desert," said an aged man-at-arms, the Nestor of the expedition; "permit us to arm, my lord."

The word was given, and each man-at-arms hastened to his steed; the archers—footmen—adjusted their bows, when a troop of wild horsemen, approaching with the speed of the wind, became visible.

They appeared to number a hundred men, so far as they could be discerned and their force estimated amidst the dust which they created, and their ever-changing evolutions. Anon grim forms and wild faces appeared from the cloud; spears glanced in every direction—now whirled around their heads, now thrown and caught with the dexterity of jugglers.

They seemed to manage their horses less by the bridle than by the inflections of their bodies, so that they could spare, at need, both hands for combat—the one to hold the bucklers of rhinoceros skin or crocodile hide, the other to wield spear or scimitar.

Turbans surrounded their heads, and light garments their bodies; but defensive armour had they none.

"Let them come on," said the young knight; "we would not give way, though the desert yielded twenty times such scum."

But they knew too well their own inferiority in the charge to venture upon the steel of their mail-clad opponents. At about a hundred yards distance from their quarry they swerved, divided into two parties, and, riding to the right and left of their Christian opponents, discharged upon them such a storm of darts and arrows that the very air seemed darkened.

"Charge," shouted the young knight, "for God and the Holy Sepulchre."

They charged, but might as well have ridden after the mirage of the desert; the speed of the Arab horses seemed incredible, and they eluded the charge as easily as a hare might elude that of a tortoise. The Crusaders returned to their original station around the cedar.

They looked at each other. Ten bodies, dead or wounded, lay still, or writhing on the ground; for they had not had time to cover themselves fully with their defensive armour, ere the storm of arrows came down upon them, and most of the party were bleeding.

"They are gone," said the young knight.

"Not they, my lord," replied his Nestor; "a hungry wolf does not so easily satisfy his craving with a mouthful—not they; they will come again, and in such a fashion, I fear, as to try our strength rarely. See, they are wheeling round. Let each man look well to his armour, steady his spear, guard himself well with shield. They may charge this time, seeing our strength so sadly reduced."

"Hourra! hourra!" rang over the desert, and once more the savage horsemen came down like eagles swooping upon their prey.

Again they divided; again they passed at a slight interval of time—just enough to prevent their receiving, on either side, such arrows from their own brethren as found no sheath in English shield or flesh—passed like the wind, and the deadly cloud of death-dealing darts came like the fatal simoon of the desert, upon their helpless foe.

Nay, not quite helpless; for at least a dozen Arab steeds roamed the plain riderless. English archers, for they were from England, were English archers still.

But in so unequal a strife numbers must have finally prevailed.

It was impossible for the English to charge so impalpable an assailant; all they could do was to protect themselves, as far as possible, by shield and coat of mail, while behind the living rampart of steel-clad warriors, the archers returned arrow for arrow, so far as time and numbers suffered them.

"Shall we not charge?" whispered more than once our boyish knight to the old warrior, who had fought thirty years before at Hastings, by whose advice his elders had instructed him to abide in case of emergency.

"Nay, were we separated, they would find out every joint in our mail, and riddle us with arrows till we looked like porcupines, while they would never tarry to abide one honest blow of a battle-axe. Upon our archers depends our chance."

It would be a waste of time to tell in detail how the assailants again and again repeated the same manoeuvre, until their Christian opponents were reduced to a handful, when at length the Turks changed their tactics and suddenly charged with all their force.

All would have been over with the Crusaders, crushed beneath the weight of numbers, in spite of their superior weapons, at close quarters. All seemed ended; the young knight, indeed, protected by his excellent armour, still fought with all the valour of his Norman race—fought like a paladin of romance—when—

A sudden cry, "Holy Cross to the rescue!" and a gallant band of light horsemen charged the Infidels in the rear.

The assailants became the assailed, and fled in all directions.

"Rise up, sir knight—for knight you should be," said a stern manly voice; and a warrior of noble mien, whose features were yet hidden behind his visor, raised the youthful hero from the ground.



CHAPTER XXVI. "QUANTUM MUTATUS AB ILLO HECTORE."

An hour had passed away since the conflict had ceased, and all was again peaceful and still. The Christian dead were buried; the Moslems yet dotted the plain with prostrate corpses, whose unclosed and glassy eyes met the gazer in every direction.

Of these the Crusaders reckoned little, nor did the ghastly spectacle at all disturb their rest. They sorrowed, indeed, for their own comrades; but when the parting prayers were breathed over their desert graves, they dismissed even them from their thoughts.

"They have given their lives in a noble cause, and the saints will take good care of them and make their beds in Paradise," was the general sentiment.

And now the fire was rekindled, the wine skins passed round, the venison steaks again placed on the glowing embers, and they refreshed the inner man, with appetites sharpened by their desperate exertions in the late struggle.

Close by the side of the young knight sat their deliverer, whose followers mingled with the Englishmen around at one or other of the fires they had kindled.

"A health," said the young knight—"a health to our deliverer. Had he not come so opportunely to our rescue, we were now supping in Paradise.

"What name shall I give to our honoured guest?"

"Men call me the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, but it is too proud a title to be borne by mortal man."

"Art thou he, then, whose fame has filled our ears, of whom minstrels sing, who with a band of stout followers defied the Moslem's rage in these forest fastnesses, before even Peter preached the word of God?"

"Thou hast exaggerated my merits, but be they many, or as I would say few, I am he of whom they speak."

"We are indeed honoured, thrice honoured, to be saved by thee; and these thy followers—of what nation are they?"

"Of all countries which rejoice in the light of the True Faith, but they were Varangians {xxvii}, of the household guard of the Emperor of the East, whose service I left, to avenge the injuries of the pilgrim, and to clear him a path through these robber-infested wastes."

"And may I ask the country which is honoured by thy birth, the nation which claims thee as her worthiest son?"

"I have no nation," said the knight; sadly; "for these thirty years I have been an exile from home."

The young knight asked no further questions, fearing to probe some secret wound. He gave the toast, and all drank it with cheers, which made the solitude ring.

An indefinable interest centred in this knight: rumour made him a noble of the later empire, the "Acolyth" or commander of that famous band of guards, whom the policy of the Caesar gathered around the tottering throne of Constantinople—exiles from all nations, but especially from England—driven by various fortunes from home. Hereward—and before him Norwegian Harold, who perished at Stamford Bridge—had served in their ranks.

This knight, whose real name none knew, had been the first to take up the sword in defence of the pilgrims, who sought the Holy Sepulchre, and who, on their passage southward, through these solitudes, were grievously maltreated by robbers, whom the Turkish Government—ever the same—protected, provided they paid the due tithe of their spoils to the Sultan.

In their mountain solitudes, fame reported the knight to have his secret retreat, whence no Turk nor Saracen could dislodge him, and whence he often issued, the protector of the Christian, the dread of his oppressor.

He had thrown aside his visor. Time, and perhaps grief, had marked many a wrinkle on his manly forehead; his hair and beard were grizzled with time and exposure; his age might have been variously estimated: he seemed to bear the weight of half a century at the least, but perhaps toil and trouble had dealt more severely with him than time.

"My son," he said, as he marked the intent gaze of the youth, who was excited by finding himself the companion of one so distinguished by feats of arms, "I have told thee my own vain designation; now, let me be anon the catechist. Of what country art thou?"

"Hast thou heard of a fair island across the sea men call England?"

"Have I not?"

"That is then my home."

"Thou art an Englishman? or do I not rather see one of the blood of the conquerors of that fair land."

And here he suppressed what might have been a sigh.

"I am indeed Norman by my father's side—a race none need blush to own, and received but recently knighthood from the hands of Robert of Normandy, after the battle of Dorylaeum; but by my mother's side I am of English blood."

"And thou blushest not to own it?"

"Why should I? Norman and English have long been peacefully united on my father's lands, and we know no distinction."

"Such, I have heard, is not yet everywhere the case in thine island; but thou hast not told me thy name."

"Edward of Aescendune, son of Etienne, lord of Aescendune in England, and Malville in Normandy."

The stranger started as if an arrow had suddenly pierced him. The young knight looked on him with amazement.

"A fit to which I am subject—it is nothing," said he, regaining his composure and drinking a goblet of wine. "May I ask thy mother's name? Thou saidst she was English."

"Edith, daughter of Edmund, the English lord of Aescendune, and Winifred his wife."

The knight was still evidently unwell—a deadly pallor sat on his face.

"I fear me thou art hurt."

"Nay, my son; one who like myself has lain for weeks in unwholesome caverns, with but scanty fare sometimes, contracts a tendency to this kind of seizure. It will pass away."

"Art thou interested in England? Perhaps thyself English by birth?"

"I have said I have no country," replied he, sadly.

The young lord of Aescendune remembered his designation of himself as an exile, and forbore to inquire, lest he should unawares renew some ancient wound.

The manner in which the knight addressed his young companion had something in it of tender interest; his voice sounded like that of one who spake with emotion forcibly suppressed.

"Thy mother is yet living?" said he, with forced calmness.

"She mourns our absence in the halls of Aescendune, yet she could not grudge us to the Cross, and methinks she finds consolation in many a holy deed of mercy and charity."

"Hast thou any brethren, or art thou her only child?"

"Nay, we are four in number—two boys and two girls. My brother Hugh is destined to be the future lord of Malville, and I, if I survive, shall inherit Aescendune."

"Thy mother, my boy, must miss thee sadly. How bore she the pain of separation?"

"Religion came to her aid, and does still. I can fancy her each morning as she kneels before the altar of St. Wilfred, and wearies heaven with prayer for her absent lord and her boy, and perhaps those prayers sent thee to my deliverance this night."

"Thrice blessed they who have so pious a mother. The Priory of St. Wilfred didst thou say? Methinks he was an English saint."

"It is the third building which has existed within the century on the spot. The first was burnt in the troubles which followed the Conquest; the second, dedicated to St. Denys, shared the same fate, and when the present priory was built, my father, who had brought his English wife from the convent of the Holy Trinity at Caen, where she received her education, restored the old dedication, as I imagine to give her pleasure."

"Thy father, thou sayest, is with thee in this land?"

"He has gone forward with the host to the siege of the Holy City. I was wounded on that glorious day when we scattered half a million followers of Mohammed, who had penned us within the walls of Antioch; and he left me with this faithful squire, Osmund—an old man who fought with my grandsire at Hastings—to tarry in the city till I should be fit to travel. Now we are journeying southward in haste, fearing we shall be too late for our share in the holy work. Dost thou not travel thitherward—thou of all men?"

"Even now I hasten, lest my unworthy eyes should fail to behold the deliverance of that Holy Sepulchre whence my designation is taken. We will travel together, so will thy journey be safer, for these Turks hang like carrion upon the skirts of the grand army."

"Blithely do I accept thine offer. I would not willingly perish in some obscure skirmish when the gates of Jerusalem are as the gates of heaven before me, and I shall present my preserver to my father. Are you ill again—I fear me—"

"It is nothing. Earthly feelings must not be permitted to mingle with our sacred call."

"But I may introduce you to him?"

"When our work is done—thou mayest. The hill of Calvary will be the fitting place, where—"

Here the knight paused, and was silent for awhile, then said—"It is night, and night is the time for rest; we must sleep, my young brother in arms, if we would be fit for travel tomorrow. See, we alone are watchers; our companions are all wrapped in slumber—save the sentinels, I will but assign the latter their posts and hours, and seek nature's greatest boon to man."

Edward of Aescendune would fain have joined in this duty, but the older soldier bade him rest, in a tone of gentle authority which he could not resist. And the stern warrior drew the embers of the fire, so as to warm the feet of the youth, while he cast a mantle over him to protect him from the heavy dew.

The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre departed upon his rounds, and assigned to the sentinels their posts, after which he returned and lay amidst the sleeping forms beneath the cedars, the branches of which were ever and anon fitfully illumined as some brand fell and caused a flame to arise. He gazed intently, nay, even fondly, upon the ingenuous face of the sleeping youth.

"How like his mother he is—what a load his simple tale has removed from my breast! God, I thank thee! the old house of my fathers yet lives in this boy—worthier far than I to represent it."



CHAPTER XXVII. THE FRIENDS WHO ONCE WERE FOES.

The remainder of the journey of Edward of Aescendune to the camp of the Crusaders before Jerusalem was uneventful. With such an escort as the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre and his well-known band, there was little occasion to dread the onslaught of any of those troops of Turks or Saracens, who hung on the skirts of the Crusading hosts, to cut off the stragglers.

They skirted the western shore of the Sea of Galilee, crossed the Jordan at the fords below, and travelled southwards along its eastern bank.

The reason of this detour was twofold.

First, it was the route taken by the Saviour of mankind, on His last journey to the guilty city which crucified Him; and the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre felt a spiritual satisfaction in tracing the steps of the Redeemer.

Secondly, the direct route had been taken by the host, and, like locusts, they had devoured all the provisions on the way, and scared from their track every edible beast.

From time to time the elder knight pointed out some venerable ruin which tradition—ever active, if not always truthful—identified as a resting place of the Divine Wayfarer; but there was little doubt that they crossed the Jordan at the same fords which had been in use in those far-off days, shortly before they entered and passed through the city of ruins, which had once been Jericho.

Then followed the ascent of the rocky way, familiar to the readers of the parable of the "Good Samaritan;" and let me remind my younger friends that even in the days when there were few readers and fewer books, all the leading episodes of our Lord's life, including His miracles and parables, were oft-told tales {xxviii}.

It was a day of feverish excitement when they drew near Bethany and the Mount of Olives. All the followers of the young English knight, who had never been in Palestine before, looked forward to the moment when the Holy City would first meet their gaze with an intense expectation which even rendered them silent; only as they pressed onward they sometimes broke out into the Crusading hymn—familiar to them as some popular song to modern soldiers.

And this was the song:

"Coelestis urbs, Hierusalem Beata pacis visio,"

It was hardly to be a vision of peace to them.

At length they stood on the slope of the same hill where the Redeemer had wept over the guilty city; and—will my readers believe me?—many of these men of strife—familiar with war and bloodshed—did not restrain their tears of joy, as they forgot their toils past, and dangers yet to come, ere they could enter the holy walls.

This had been their longing expectation—this the goal of their wearisome journey; they had oft doubted whether their eyes would ever behold it—and now—It lay in all its wondrous beauty—beautiful even then—before them; but, the banners of the false prophet floated upon the Hill of Zion.

Across the valley of the Kedron rose the Mosque of Omar, on the site of the Temple of Solomon; farther to the left lay the fatal Valley of Hinnom, once defiled by the fires of Moloch; but on neither of these sides lay the object of the greatest present interest—the Christian Host.

Their attack was directed against the northern and western sides of the city, where the approach was far more easy.

"There is the standard of Godfrey de Bouillon, on the first swell of Mount Calvary," said the elder knight; "there on the left, where the Jewish rabble erst stoned St. Stephen, Tancred and Robert of Normandy conduct the attack; there, between the citadel and the foot of Mount Zion, floats the banner of Raymond of Toulouse."