"And there, amidst the banners which surround the ducal lion of Normandy, I see our own," cried young Edward. "Oh! let us charge through that rabble and join them."

"Thine is a spirit I love to see; come, it shall be done—St. George for merry England—Holy Sepulchre—en avant;" and the whole galloped madly down the descent, first bringing the news of their own arrival to a mixed crew of Saracens and Turks—an irregular corps of observation which had got in their way.

They cleft their way to the very centre, as a wedge driven by a powerful mallet cleaves its way to the heart of the tree. The followers of Mohammed scattered in all directions, and then, like wasps, clustered around in hope to sting.

Their fleet horses enabled them to keep near the Christian cavalry, and to annoy them by countless flights of arrows, darts, and spears, while, as usual, they avoided close contest, as a hunter would avoid the hug of the bear. When they could not do so, it was wondrous to see how limbs flew about, and bodies were cleft to the very chine before the ponderous battle-axes of Western Christendom.

Still, it was with lessened numbers that our heroes fought their way through, and had it not been that a body of Crusading cavalry, attracted by the tumult, came prancing down the hill to their rescue, in all the pomp and panoply of mediaeval warfare, they might have fared worse.

There was a smart engagement when the succours arrived, ending in the complete disappearance of all the Saracens and Turks from the scene, while the victors rode together to the camp, exchanging news, as if such a small affair was not worth talking about.

When they reached the camp, Edward of Aescendune exerted his powers of persuasion in vain to induce the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre to accompany him to his father's tent, there to receive the paternal thanks.

"When the city is taken, and the Holy Sepulchre free, and the army (bareheaded and barefooted) accomplishes its vow on Calvary—then, but not before—we shall meet—Etienne de Malville and—" he paused, then continued, "and I shall meet once more."

"Once more? have you ever met before?"

"We have, but long ago—let it pass, my son. God's blessing rest upon thee and protect thee on the morrow, when thou wilt, I fear, have scant care for thyself."

"It is for Jerusalem or Paradise. I shall rest in one or the other by tomorrow night at this time. I leave which to God."

"Good youth; the saints keep thee, dear boy, for thy fond mother's sake."

At that word mother, a tear stood in the warlike stripling's eye. An embrace fonder than seemed usual with the stern knight of many deeds, and they parted.

If our tale had not protracted itself to such an extravagant length already, it would delight us to tell of the feats of valour performed respectively, by the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, by Etienne de Malville, and by Edward his son; but it must suffice to narrate in as few words as may be, the oft-told history of that eventful day.

On the fortieth day of the siege the city was carried by assault, and on Friday, at three in the afternoon, the day and even the hour of the death of the Son of God, Godfrey de Bouillon planted his standard on the walls, the first of the noble army of Crusaders.

Thus, four hundred and sixty years after the conquest of Christian Jerusalem by the Mahometan, Caliph Omar, it was delivered from the yoke of the false prophet.

Seventy thousand Moslems were slain by the sword; for three whole days the massacre continued, until each worshipper of Mahomet had been sought out amidst the hiding places of the city—full of secret nooks and corners—and put to death.

And now, after this bloody sacrifice—the fruit of mistaken zeal—the Christians proceeded to accomplish their vow, with every mark of penitence. With bare heads and bleeding feet they mounted the Via Dolorosa (the sorrowful way) and wept where the great sacrifice had been offered for their sins. They literally bedewed the sacred soil with their tears.

So strange a union of fierceness and piety may well astonish us, but our office is to relate the facts.

It was over, this strange but touching act of devotion, and the sacred hill was partially deserted. Here and there a group of weeping penitents lingered, and on the spot where tradition asserted the cross to have been raised, many were seen yet waiting their turn to salute the ground reverently with their lips.

Two knightly warriors, a father and a son, who had just performed this act of devotion, arose together, and as they gained their feet, observed their immediate predecessor in the pious act, awaiting them, as if he wished to accost them.

They were all, as we have seen, bareheaded, neither did they wear any armour or weapons—all resistance had ceased, and with it all warfare, before the ceremony of the day had begun.

"Father," said young Edward, "it is my deliverer."

The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre beckoned them to follow, and together they gained the outskirts of the crowd.

Etienne de Malville has greatly changed since we last beheld him. In the place of the sprightly, impetuous youth, our readers must imagine a warrior, past the middle age; one whose scanty hair was already deeply tinged with gray. Thirty years had left many wrinkles on his brow; but where impatience and fiery temper had once sat visible to all, age and experience had substituted self-control and wisdom.

"I have to thank thee, my valiant brother in arms, for the life of my son. To whom do I render my thanks? Well do I know thy fame as the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre; but our vow accomplished, we may lay aside our incognitos and assume our names once more."

"We may indeed, and I will utter the name of one—long since numbered with the dead in the records of men, and re-assume it upon this sacred mount."

Etienne gazed intently upon the open face, but no look of recognition followed.

"I crave thy pardon, if I ought to recognise thee, yet truth compels me to say I do not."

"Nor can I wonder; didst thou recognise me, thou wouldst think me a ghost permitted to revisit the land of the living—one whom thou didst actually behold wrapped in the cere cloth of the tomb!—whose funeral thou didst witness with thine own eyes! Yet he lives, and feels sure that thou wilt not revoke, upon this holy hill, that pardon from the living, thou didst bestow upon the seeming dead."

Etienne trembled.

"Art thou then? nay, it cannot be!"

"Etienne de Malville, I am Wilfred of Aescendune."

For a moment Etienne turned pale, and gazed as if to make sure he did not behold a ghost or a vampire—gazed like one startled out of his self possession, and the first emotion which succeeded was sheer incredulity; there was small trace of the once fair-haired English boy in the sunburnt, storm-beaten warrior of fifty to assist his memory.

"Nay, my brother, it cannot be; thou art jesting;—not, at least, the Wilfred of Aescendune I once knew, and by whom I fear I dealt somewhat hardly; he died, and was buried at Oxenford thirty years agone. I saw his dead body; I beheld his burial; I have joined in masses for his soul; I have prayed for his repose; nay, it cannot be!"

But when in few words, but words to the purpose, Wilfred explained the device of Geoffrey of Coutances—when he reminded Etienne of facts, which none but he could have known—conviction gradually, but firmly, seized the mind of his ancient enemy.

"I believe that thou art he," said the latter, with trembling voice; "believe, though I cannot yet realise the fact, and I thank God."

He extended his hand gravely, and Wilfred grasped it with equal solemnity.

"Thou art, then, my uncle Wilfred I have so long been taught to think dead, for whom I have prayed many a time, for whom countless masses have been offered at St. Wilfred's shrine," said young Edward.

"Thou hast not, then, been taught to hate me?"

"No, indeed," said the boy; "why should I?"

"He knows nought of the quarrel between us, save what it is fitting that Edith's child should know," said Etienne. "It is well that upon this holiest spot on earth, whence the Prince of Life uttered the words which have floated through the ages—'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do'—that Etienne de Malville and Wilfred of Aescendune should become friends."

"It is, indeed."

"I have long been conscious that thou wast not alone to blame—that thou hast to forgive as well as I; but thou, like myself, hast long since, I am sure, earned the right to breathe the prayer, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"

Once more they grasped hands—Etienne still like one in a dream.

"Come now to my tent. There thou mayst tell me all the details of thy story, and I will tell thee news, unless this boy, my son and thy nephew, has anticipated me, of those thou didst leave behind thirty years ago in England. Thy sister Edith is my beloved wife, and in this boy Norman and Englishman meet together, the merits of each combined, the faults obliterated, if a father may be trusted."

And the friends, who once were foes, entered the tent of Etienne.



CHAPTER XXVIII. AESCENDUNE ONCE MORE.

"Last scene of all, Which ends this strange eventful history."

Once more we must ask our readers to accompany us to Aescendune—it is for the last time—to witness the final scenes recorded in these veracious Chronicles.

Thirty-four years have passed since the battle of Hastings; and our tale has now advanced to the autumn of the last year of the eleventh century.

The face of the country is little altered since we last beheld it, so far as the works of God are concerned: the woods, His first temples, and the everlasting hills stand, as when Elfric and his brother hunted therein with Prince Edwy, or the sainted Bertric suffered martyrdom in the recesses of the forest, at the hands of the ruthless Danes {xxix}.

But the works of man are more transitory, and in them there is a great change. The Norman castle rebuilt by Etienne stands where erst stood the Anglo-Saxon hall; the new Priory of St. Wilfred's resembles that of St. Denys in architecture, although it bears the name of the old English saint, to whose honour the first sacred pile, erected by Offa of Aescendune was dedicated; the houses which dot the scene are of a more substantial character; stone is superseding wood. Whatever were its darker features, the Norman conquest brought with it a more advanced civilisation, especially as expressed in architecture {xxx}.

Within her bower, as the retiring apartments of the lady of the castle were termed, sat Edith of Aescendune, not the first who had borne that name. She had now passed middle age, and her years would soon number half a century, yet time had dealt very kindly with her, and but few shades of grey appeared amidst her locks. The traces of a gentle grief were upon her, but men said she mourned for the absence of her lord and her eldest son, and her thoughts seemed far away from the embroidery at which she worked with her maidens—an altar frontal for the priory church.

She thought of the far East—of the sandy wastes of Syria. Or her fancy painted the holy city, with her dear ones as worshippers in its reconquered shrines.

For she had not found an unkind lord in Etienne. The scenes which he had passed through, as related in the earlier pages of this Chronicle, had produced fruit for good, which Lanfranc (under whose spiritual guidance he placed himself) had zealously tended and fostered.

He dared not think of his father, of whose guilt he could not but be unwillingly convinced; nor was it true in his case:

"He who's convinced against his will Is but an unbeliever still."

But there was one act of mercy of which he had been the object, which above all influenced and changed his heart towards the English. And that was the Christian charity he had received from the aged Englishwoman, the nurse of Wilfred, whose son Eadwin he had so cruelly slain in the Dismal Swamp.

Acting under the advice of Lanfranc, he had sought and obtained Edith in marriage, and had thereby, like Henry Beauclerc, united the claims of conquerors and conquered in his person. He had obtained from the king a promise of free pardon to all the refugees yet in the Dismal Swamp, where it will be remembered the poor English had fled, who were unfit to accompany Wilfred to the Camp of Refuge, and had thereupon invited them all to rebuild their old homes and dwell in them.

At first they would not trust him, but through the mediation of Father Kenelm and of poor old Hilda, he succeeded in gaining their confidence, and he did not betray their trust.

So Norman and Englishman were happily united at Aescendune, and in spite of some little difficulties, arising from the airs the conquerors could not help giving themselves, became more like one people daily; and in a few years, so many followed their lord's example, and intermarried with the English, captivated by the beauty of the Anglo-Saxon maidens, that distinction of race became speedily abolished, and hence Aescendune was perhaps the happiest village in the distracted island.

The priory was rebuilt, as well as the castle, and occupied by Benedictine monks of both races; but unlike most other monasteries, it had an English prior. Lanfranc had appointed Father Kenelm, at Etienne's earnest request, in gratitude for events in which that good father had borne his part in the Dismal Swamp. This appointment, more than aught else, reconciled the English to Norman rule.

At first Edith feared her new lord, whom she had been compelled to marry, remembering the sadness of her mother's married life; but his persistent kindness won her heart; and after the birth of young Edward, whom we have introduced to our readers, all restraint was removed, and they were as happy a pair as need be.

Their children were taught to converse in both tongues—Old English and Norman French—and to treat all alike, the kinsfolk of father or of mother.

Putting together the details given by Edward of Aescendune to the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, and these few outlines of intervening events, our readers will have little difficulty in understanding the history of the thirty years.

Within her bower (as we have said) was the lady of Aescendune. Seated in an embrasure of the lofty tower in which her rooms were situate, her attention became fixed upon a horseman, who was riding swiftly towards the castle from the direction of Warwick.

"I wonder," thought she, "whether this be a messenger from—" and then she checked the thought, as though it must end in disappointment.

For months she had not heard from the absent ones. She knew Jerusalem was taken; but if any letters had been sent, they had miscarried—no unlikely circumstance in those days.

The messenger reached the castle.

Soon steps were heard ascending the stairs with such precipitate haste, that the lady felt sure that some important tidings had arrived.

Young Hugh—an active, fresh-coloured boy, with his Father's features, tempered by the softer expression of his mother, perhaps—bounded into the room.

"Oh, mother! lady mother!—letters from father, about him and Edward. The man below is old Tristam—you remember Tristam who went to the wars. They have landed, landed, and are upon the road home. Oh! happy day. Tristam was sent forward. Read,—only read."

She was as pale as death, and fainting from the sudden shock. Excess of joy has its dangers.

Her two girls, Margaret and Hilda, had followed their brother, and their gentle care soon restored her: but the shock had been great.

"Read, mother,—read," said Hugh.

The accomplishments of reading and writing—for they were accomplishments then—were possessed both by husband and wife.

We will give but one paragraph in the letter:

We have landed safely at Southampton, my own Edith. God has preserved us from many dangers, doubtless owing to thy many prayers at St. Wilfred's altar. Thou hast, I hope, received safely the letters I sent from Joppa last autumn, and knowest whom I am bringing home with me. How wonderful it all is, and with what strange feelings the exile must approach the home of his boyhood! But he is very composed and quiet in his manner, and we grow in mutual esteem daily. He declares that he will accept no part of his ancient inheritance, but that he finds his highest joy in thinking that, in his sister's children, the descendants of the ancient line yet possess the land of their forefathers.

"What can he mean? Whom is he bringing with him? Send for Tristam. Ah! I see there is the old prior at the gate—he is talking with him;" and Hugh hurried down to fetch them up.

They entered the room: our old friend, Father Kenelm, as hale an old man as one could well find at seventy-five years of age—Wilfred's protector and friend, in the most critical moments of his life—and Tristam—do our readers remember him?

"God bless you, my children, in joy as in sorrow," was his salutation.

"How far are they off?"

"When will they be here?" and Tristam, who stood humbly at the door, found himself the object of universal attraction, and did not know which to answer first.

"Welcome, Tristam, welcome," said his lady; "thou art the morning star, the harbinger of my sun. How far hence are they?"

"They will be here by sunset, my lady."

"I will go and meet them," cried Hugh, and ran down stairs to get his horse ready.

"But whom is he bringing with him?"

"My child," said Father Kenelm, "has he not told thee?"

"Nay, he speaks so mysteriously—read."

Father Kenelm read. Then, looking up, he spoke with deep emotion. Tristam had told him all.

"One long since dead to the world, and as many thought buried. I alone knew of his existence, as a secret which I was absolutely forbidden to disclose; and as many years had elapsed since I last heard of him, I thought him dead—he who was once the hope of Aescendune."

"End our suspense!"

"Thou hadst a brother once—a bright, laughing, fair-haired boy, whom thou didst love whilst father and mother lived. I speak of events long forgotten, save by me."

"Nay, I have never forgotten him. Hast thou not often commemorated him amongst the faithful departed, at my request?"

"Only as one, whom the world might yet contain in the body, or whose soul heaven might have received—I knew not which. Well, my lady, this thy brother yet lives."

"Wilfred?"

"And is returning home with thy husband."

"Wilfred alive!—nay, thou jestest. He died at Oxenford and was buried there, nearly thirty years agone."

"Geoffrey, then Bishop of Coutances, deceived the lad's enemies by a fictitious death and burial, but forbade the rescued youth to return home, or make his existence known, save to me."

At this moment, the gleams, the parting beams, of the setting sun shone upon pennon and upon lance, issuing from the wood afar off. The multitude, who had assembled below, saw the sight, and rushed tumultuously forward to meet their kinsfolk.

Hugh forgot the story about his uncle, ran down stairs, and joined the throng, who pressed over the bridge.

Amidst the pomp of banners, the crash of trumpets, and the loud acclamations and cheers of the crowd, the Crusaders reached home, and entered the castle yard.

Edith fell into the arms of her lord as he dismounted, then sought her son. She knew not to which to turn.

A grave personage, who studied hard to maintain his composure, but whose eyes were filled with tears, had also dismounted, and was standing by.

"Edith," cried Etienne, "behold our brother."

And she fell upon his neck with a torrent of tears, as all the life of her childhood rushed upon her—"hours that were to memory dear."

Only a few more lines are needed to dismiss the heroes and personages of our tale to rest.

Wilfred spent a few happy days with his brother-in-law cheered by the society of his sister and her children.

Between him and Etienne all clouds had departed; they had learned, amidst the perils of the return journey, to appreciate each other, and wondered they had ever been such foes.

Once only he visited the Dismal Swamp, the scene of such exciting events in his earlier life. He found it an utter wilderness, not a house had been left standing; Etienne had wished to abolish the very remembrance of the scenes in which, as his conscience told him, he had acted so ill a part, and when he had succeeded in persuading the English to trust him, and return to Aescendune, he had fired the little hamlet and reduced it to ashes.

The brook murmured in solitude and silence, the birds sang undisturbed by the strife of men.

The scene of Edwin's death from the arrows of Etienne's followers could hardly be identified; but under the very tree where Pierre had fallen in stern retaliation, Wilfred knelt, and besought pardon for himself and rest for the soul which he had sent so hurriedly before the judgment seat.

"Oh how much we had to forgive each other, Etienne and I," he said half aloud.

These words caused him to raise his head, and look instinctively over the place where the light wind was bowing down the heads of the tall reeds and sedges, which grew where the fire, that destroyed Count Hugo and his band, had swept over their predecessors.

These remembrances saddened him, he returned to the castle—the prey of conflicting emotions.

But much did Wilfred marvel at the peace and concord that reigned in this happy village, in such contrast to the discord which elsewhere marked the relations between Englishman and Norman, the conquered and the conquerors; and one day he ventured to remark upon the happy change to his old rival and brother-in-law.

"Come with me," said Etienne, "and I will explain it all."

He led Wilfred to the Priory Church, and they entered the hallowed pale, with its round Norman arches and lofty roof, where the very tread seemed an intrusion upon the silence, which spake of the eternal repose that shall be, after the storms of this troublesome world have their end.

There is something in the Early Norman architecture which appears to the writer awe-inspiring; the massive round column, the bold and simple arch, have a more solemn effect upon his senses than the loveliest productions of the more florid and decorated period.

Such a stern and simple structure was this Priory Church of St. Wilfred of Aescendune.

It was the hour of nones, and the strains of the hymn of St. Ambrose, "Rerum Deus tenax vigor," were pealing from the Benedictines in the choir: which has been thus paraphrased:

"O strength and stay, upholding all creation: Who ever dost Thyself unmoved abide, Yet, day by day, the light, in due gradation, From hour to hour, through all its changes guide.

"Grant to life's day a calm unclouded ending, An eve untouched by shadow of decay, The brightness of a holy death bed, blending With dawning glories of the eternal day {xxxi}."

His thoughts full of the ideas suggested by the solemn strain, Wilfred followed Etienne into the south transept.

There, upon a plain altar tomb of stone lay the effigy of an aged matron, her hands clasped in prayer, and beneath were the words:

HILDA IN PACE BEATI PACIFICI {xxxii}.

The "rival heirs" stood by the tomb, their hands clasped, while the tears streamed down their cheeks. It was she indeed, who by her simple obedience to the Divine law of love, which is the central idea of the Gospel, had reconciled jarring hearts, and brought about, in Aescendune, the reign of peace and love.

"I strove," said Etienne, at last breaking the long silence, "to be a son to her, in place of the ill-fated boy whom I so cruelly slew; nor were my efforts in vain, or my repentance unaccepted. We built her a house, on the site of her ancient cottage, and when strife arose, we often submitted the matter to her judgment, and she, who had been the foster mother of one lord, and the preserver from death of the other, reconciled the followers of both.

"When at last the hour came for her to commit her sweet soul to God, I stood by her dying bed.

"'Mother,' said I, 'what can I do when thou art gone to show my love for thy memory?'

"'Only go on as thou hast begun,' she replied, 'be a father to all thy people, Englishman and Norman alike, and their prayers will succour thee at the judgment seat of God—I go into peace.'

"And she left peace behind her—"

Here Etienne could say no more, and the two "rival heirs" stood a long time gazing upon the "cold marble and the sculptured stone," while tears which were no disgrace to their manhood fell like gentle rain from heaven.

Soon after this Wilfred had a long conference with Prior Kenelm. The result was, that he announced his intention of retiring from the world and ending his days in the cloister. His years had been years of strife and tumult—he would give the residue to God.

So he entered the famous order of St. Benedict, and after the death of Father Kenelm became the prior of the monastery dedicated to his patron saint—founded by his own forefathers.

His greatest joy was when surrounded by his nephews and nieces—yea, great-nephews and great-nieces, after the happy marriage of Edward of Aescendune to Lady Agatha of Wilmcote.

Etienne and Edith lived blessed in each other's love to the end. The Norman estates fell to Hugh, the English ones to Edward, who not unworthily represented both English and Norman lines—"a knight without fear and without reproach."

The last years of our hero, Wilfred, were years of tranquil happiness and serene joy, such as Milton wrote of in later ages, in those lines of wondrous beauty:

"Let my due feet never fail To walk the cloisters hallowed pale, With storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religions light, And let the pealing organ blow To the foil-voiced choir below, Bring all heaven before mine eyes, Dissolve me into ecstasies."

In the ruins of the abbey of St. Wilfred the spectator may notice a cross-legged knight, whose feet rest upon a vanquished lion. His whole attitude is expressive of intense action; the muscles seem strained in the effort to draw his sword and demolish a Turk, while the face expresses all that is noble in manly courage.

Hard by lies a prior in his vestments, his hands meekly clasped. The colour has not yet quite faded, which embellished the statue; but the remarkable thing is the face. Even yet, in spite of the broken and mouldering stone, there is a calmness of repose about that face which is simply wonderful.

It has been our task to call them both back to life—knight and prior, and to make them live in our pages. Pardon us, gentle readers, for the imperfect way in which we have fulfilled it.

Thus ends the Third and last Chronicle of Aescendune.

i Ordericus Vitalis, lib. iv. 523.

ii William of Malmesbury.

iii Sassenach equals Saxon.

iv It seems strange how such a misconception could ever have arisen and coloured English literature to so great an extent, for if we turn to the pages of the contemporaneous historians, such as Henry of Huntingdon, William of Malmesbury, Florence of Worcester, Ordericus Vitalis—born within the century of the Conquest—we find that they all describe the Anglo-Saxons as English, not Saxons.

v See the Second Chronicle, chapter VI.

vi Genealogy of Aescendune.

The reader may be glad to have the genealogy of the family, in whom it has been the author's aim to interest him, placed clearly before him. The following table includes the chief names in the three Chronicles; the date of decease is given in each case.

Offa, 940. * Oswald, 937. + Ragnar, 959. * Ella, 959. + Elfric, 960. + Alfred, 998, m. Alftrude. o Elfric, 975. o Elfwyn, 1036, m. Hilda. # Bertric, 1006. # Ethelgiva, 1064, m. Alfgar. @ Edmund, 1066, m. Winifred. - Wilfred, 1122. - Edith, 1124, m. Etienne, 1110. @ Elfleda, 1030. o Cuthbert, 1034 (Prior). o Bertha, 1030, m. Herstan. # Winifred, 1067. + Edgitha, 990.

vii This Herstan figures largely in "Alfgar the Dane." He married Bertha, daughter of Alfred of Aescendune, the hero of the "First Chronicle." See the genealogical table at the end of the book.

viii "By Thy Cross and Passion; Good Lord, deliver her."

ix Poison amongst the Normans.

It may be thought by many readers that the poisoner's art could never have flourished among so chivalrous a people as the Normans; but the contrary was the case; and there are several instances of such foul murders in the pages of the old chroniclers, sufficient to justify the introduction of the scene in our story.

At the plot called the Bridal of Norwich, A.D. 1075, Roger, Earl of Hereford, and Ralph, Earl of Norwich, did not scruple to accuse William himself of the murder of Conan, Duke of Brittany, who, finding that the duke was on the point of withdrawing all his troops for the invasion of England, prepared to take advantage of it by making a raid upon Normandy. It was said that William could think of no other means of meeting the difficulty, than by causing the gauntlets and helmet of the unfortunate Conan to be poisoned by one of his chamberlains, who held lands in Normandy, and was under William's influence. Conan, however, did not die till the 11th of December, after the battle of Senlac, and the accusation is hard to reconcile with the general character of William. Ordericus relates that Walter, Count of Pontoise, and his wife, were murdered at Falaise, when prisoners, by poison "treacherously administered by their enemies," A.D. 1064.

x Anglo-Saxon Outlaws.

The true secret of the sympathy of the English people with such noted outlaws as Robin Hood and Little John, and their companions, is, that they were made such by Norman tyranny, and maintained their freedom in the greenwoods, when the usurping barons had reduced the people elsewhere to slavery. Hence their exploits were sung by every minstrel, and received with enthusiasm.

"History," says Thierry, "has not understood these outlaws; it has passed them over in silence, or else, adopting the legal acts of the time, it has branded them with names which deprive them of all interest—such as 'rebels,' 'robbers,' 'banditti.'

"But let us not," continues the historian, "be misled by these odious titles; in all countries, subjugated by foreigners, they have been given by the victors to the brave men who took refuge in the mountains and forests, abandoning the towns and cities to such as were content to live in slavery."

Such were our refugees in the Dismal Swamp.

xi See "Alfgar the Dane."

xii "If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."

xiii Martyrdom of St. Edmund, King of East Anglia.

This saintly king fought against the Danes, under Hinguar and Hubba, in defence of his country. Being defeated, he was taken prisoner by the enemy, who offered him his life, and restoration to his kingdom, if he would renounce Christianity, and become tributary. Upon his refusal he was tied naked to a tree, cruelly scourged, and then shot slowly to death with arrows, calling upon the name of Christ throughout his protracted martyrdom, Who doubtless did not fail His servant in his hour of extreme need.

The strangest part of the story has yet to be told. An old oak was pointed out as the tree of the martyrdom until very recent years. Sceptics, of course, doubted the fact; but when the tree was blown down in a violent storm, a Danish arrowhead was found embedded in the very centre of the trunk, grown over, and concealed for nearly a thousand years—the silent witness to the agonies of a martyr. The martyrdom took place A.D. 870, the year before Alfred ascended the throne. In the churches of Norfolk and Suffolk the picture of St. Edmund, pierced with arrows, is often seen on old rood screens.

xiv Norman Torture Chamber.

We read in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle of the barons in Stephen's days.

"They greatly oppressed the wretched people by making them work at their castles, and when the castles were finished they filled them with devils and evil men. Then they took those whom they suspected to have any goods, by night and by day, seizing both men and women, and they put them in prison for their gold and silver, and tortured them with pains unspeakable. They hung some up by their feet, and smoked them with foul smoke; some by their thumbs, or by the head, and they hung burning things on their feet. They put a knotted string about their heads, and twisted it till it went into their brain. They put them into dungeons, wherein were adders and snakes and toads, and thus wore them out. Some they put into a crucet house—that is, into a chest that was short and narrow, and not deep, and they put sharp stones in it, and crushed the man therein so that they broke all his limbs. There were hateful and grim things called Sachenteges in many of the castles, and which two or three men had enough to do to carry. The sachentege was made thus: it was fastened to a beam having a sharp iron to go round a man's throat and neck, so that he might noways sit, or lie, or sleep, but must bear all the iron. Many thousands they exhausted with hunger. I cannot and I may not tell of all the wounds and all the tortures they inflicted upon the wretched men of this land."

This awful description of the cruelty of the Norman barons under the grandson of the Conqueror may partially apply to the barons of an earlier period, such as Hugo de Malville.

xv Destruction of Norman Forces by Fire.

We read that at the instigation of Ivo Taille-Bois (see Note), William had the weakness to employ a sorceress to curse the English in the Camp of Refuge, and by her spells to defeat those of the supposed English magicians. She was placed in a wooden turret at the head of the road, which the Conqueror was labouring to make across the fens, to get at the refugees; but Hereward, watching his opportunity, set fire to the flags and reeds; the wind rapidly spread the conflagration; and the witch, her guards, the turret, and the workmen, all alike perished in the flames, even as in our story, Hugo de Malville in the Dismal Swamp.

xvi State of England in 1069.

In order that the reader may the better comprehend the chances which lay before the insurgents of this year, the third after Hastings, we will briefly summarise the state of affairs.

At the close of the preceding year the Midlands, after several spasmodic struggles, appeared prostrate and helpless at the feet of the Conqueror, who had taken advantage of the opportunity to build strong castles everywhere, and to garrison them with brave captains and trusty soldiers. Warwick Castle was given to Henry de Beaumont, whose lady we have seen at Aescendune, at the dedication of the priory, and the jousts which followed; Nottingham was held by William Peverill; and similar measures were taken at York, Lincoln, Huntingdon, Oxford, Cambridge, and elsewhere.

But ere all this was fully accomplished, the three sons of King Harold—Godwin, Edmund and Magnus—who had been kindly received by Dermot, King of Leinster in Ireland, reappeared in the southwest, and although, after some partial success, they were forced to retreat, yet they aroused anew the spirit of resistance to the Norman yoke, and kindled the expiring embers of patriotism.

In the month of February 1069—at which period the city of York was the extreme limit of the Conquest—one Robert de Comyn was sent to reduce Durham and the banks of the Tyne to subjection. As he approached the city, Egelwin the bishop met him, and begged him not to enter or there would be bloodshed; but he disdained the mild request, and, entering, his soldiers behaved with the utmost insolence, and slew a few inoffensive men "pour encourager les autres," to intimidate the rest. The soldiers then encamped in the streets of the town, and the general took up his quarters in the bishop's palace.

When night came on, the gallant countrymen who dwelt on the Tyne lit the beacon fires on all the hills; the country arose, and all hastened to Durham. By daybreak they had forced the gates, which the Normans defended; the soldiers then took refuge from the people they had so cruelly insulted, in the Episcopal palace; thence they had the advantage with their arrows, until the English, unable to storm the place, set it on fire, and burned the dwelling, with Robert de Comyn, who well deserved his fate, and all his men: twelve hundred horse, and a large number of foot soldiers and military attendants, perished, and only two escaped.

A larger body, sent to avenge them, halted between York and Durham, and, seized with an unwonted terror, refused to proceed; the good people said that Saint Cuthbert had struck them motionless by supernatural power to protect his shrine in Durham.

This success stirred up the people of Yorkshire, who, later in the year, besieged William Mallet in York, aided by a Danish force which had landed on the coasts, and took it on the eighth day, when all the garrison was slain—"three thousand men of France," as the Chronicles express it. The Earl Waltheof killed, with his own battle-axe, twenty Normans in their flight, and, chasing a hundred more into the woody marshes, took advantage of the dry season, like our friends at Aescendune, and burned them all with the wood.

All over England the struggle spread. Hereward took the command at the Camp of Refuge, in the Isle of Ely, and crippled the Normans around. Somerset and Dorset rose again; the men of Chester and a body of Welshmen under "Edric the Wild" (sometimes called the Forester), besieged Shrewsbury. The men of Cornwall attacked Exeter, and a large body of insurgents collected at Stafford.

It was in putting down the northern insurrection that William devastated Yorkshire and Northumberland, with such severity that the country did not recover for centuries, while the victims to famine, fire, and sword equalled a hundred thousand. These spasmodic insurrections were only the dying throes of Anglo-Saxon liberty. Everywhere they miscarried, and the Normans prevailed.

xvii The readers of Alfgar the Dane will remember that we gave a brief account of this interesting spot in that chronicle. It was the town to which Edmund Ironside and Alfgar first repaired after their escape from the Danes in the Isle of Wight.

xviii On one of these islands now stands the mill, on the other the Nag's Head Inn; the site of the old abbey is chiefly occupied by a brewery!

xix Monastic Offices.

These were seven in number, besides the night hours. Lauds, before daybreak; Prime, 7 A.M.; Terce, 9 A.M.; Sext, noon; Nones, 3 P.M.; Vespers, 6 P.M.; and Compline, 9 P.M. These were in addition to many daily celebrations of Mass.

Our modern prayer-book Matins is an accumulation and abridgment of Matins, Lauds, and Prime; our Evensong of Vespers and Compline. Terce, Sext, and Nones, which consisted mainly of portions of Psalm 119, with varying Versicles and Collects, are unrepresented in our Anglican office.

If the older reader is curious to learn of what Compline consisted, he may be told that its main features were Psalms 4, 31, 91, and 184; the hymn, Te Lucis ante Terminum, "Before the ending of the day."—H. A. & M. 15; and the Collect, "Lighten our Darkness."

xx Roll of the Conquerors.

These names are taken from a charter, long preserved in Battle Abbey, and quoted in the notes to Thierry's Norman Conquest. It gives a list of the principal warriors who fought at Hastings, whose names are afterwards found, much to their advantage, in Domesday Book. Many names now common, even amongst the poor, make their first appearance in England therein, besides the noble ones quoted in our text. We regret that our space does not allow us to give the roll, which is many columns in length.

xxi Ivo Taille-Bois.

This petty tyrant, of infamous memory, was the chief of the Angevin auxiliaries of William, who received as his reward the hand of Lucy, sister of the Earls Edwin and Morcar; and with her also received all the ancient domains of their family in the neighbourhood of the Camp of Refuge, which proximity did not augment his prosperity. The ancient chronicler of the Abbey of Croyland (Ingulf) says:

"All the people of that district honoured Ivo with the greatest attention, and supplicated him on bended knee, bestowed on him all the honour they could, and the services they were bound to render; still he did not repay their confidence, but tortured and harassed, worried and annoyed, imprisoned and tormented them, every day loading them with fresh burdens, till he drove them, by his cruelty, to seek other and milder lords. Against the monastery and the people of Croyland he raged with the utmost fury; he would chase their cattle with dogs, drown them in the lakes, mutilate them in various ways, or break their backs or legs."

It is pleasing to learn that he met some punishment for his evil deeds. Hereward took him prisoner, very ignominiously, and held him a captive for a long time, to the delight of the poor vassals; he fell under the displeasure of William Rufus, in 1089, as a partisan of Robert and was sent home to Anjou deprived of all his ill-gotten wealth. He was, however, allowed to return under Henry, and died of paralysis in 1114 at his manor of Spalding, where, the old chronicler pithily says, "he was buried amidst the loudly expressed exultation of all his neighbours."

xxii The Camp of Refuge.

There still exists, in the southeastern district of Lincolnshire and the northern part of Cambridgeshire, a vast extent of flat land, intersected in every direction by rivers and dykes, known as the fen country.

Eight centuries ago, before many attempts had been made to confine the streams within their banks, this country resembled an inland sea, interspersed with flat islands of firm ground.

One portion of this country was called the "Isle of Ely;" another the "Isle of Thorney;" another, partially drained by the monks, the "Isle of Croyland."

In many parts half bog, it was quite impracticable for heavy-armed soldiers, and hence it offered a refuge to bands of patriots from all the neighbouring districts when worsted by the Normans.

Hither came the true Englishman Stigand, sometime Archbishop of Canterbury, and after the conquest of the north, Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, who found both substantial entertainment at the board of Abbot Thurstan, abbot of the great monastery of Ely, and one of the stoutest patriots of the day.

At this time Hereward was living in Flanders; but hearing that his father was dead, that a Norman had seized his inheritance, and was grievously maltreating his aged mother, he returned home secretly, and, assembling a band of relations and retainers, expelled the intruder from his house after a sharp but brief conflict.

But he could not hope to rest after such an exploit; therefore he waged open war with the Normans around, and by his extraordinary bravery and good fortune soon attracted such universal attention that the patriots in the Camp of Refuge besought him to come and be their leader.

Here, for nearly three years, he defied all the efforts of William. His uncle Brand, Abbot of Peterborough, conferred on him the order of knighthood, for which act William designed adequate punishment. The abbot would doubtless have been expelled, but death anticipated the Conqueror of England. To punish the monks, the King appointed the fighting abbot, Turauld, as the successor of Brand, and in order to conciliate this ruffian-for such he was-the monks of Peterborough prepared their best cheer. But Hereward and his merry men anticipated Turauld's arrival by an hour or two, ate up the dinner prepared for the Normans, and spoiled what the did not eat; carried away, for safe keeping at Ely, all the treasures of the abbey, and left an empty house for the intruder.

Shortly afterwards, that worthy, together with Ivo Taille-Bois, concerted a plan for attacking the English. Hereward entrapped them both, and kept them in captivity, much to the joy of the monks of Peterborough, and the vassals of Ivo, as we have elsewhere noted.

All the valour and nobility of Old England yet surviving, gathered around the great chieftain; thither came Edwin and Morcar, the brothers-in-law of King Harold; and many an earl and knight, fearless as the warriors of the Round Table, fought beneath the banner of Hereward, and banqueted while there was aught left to eat, at the board of the large-hearted Abbot Thurstan.

The Danes, who had been summoned to the aid of the English patriots, were bought off soon after their arrival by the gold of William, but still Hereward fought on.

At length William stationed his fleet in the Wash, with orders to guard every outlet from the fens to the ocean; still he could not reach Hereward, who had retired, with his valiant men, to their stronghold, situate in an expanse of water, which, in the narrowest part, was at least two miles in breadth. Then the king undertook a tremendous task-that of constructing a solid road through the inundated marshes, throwing bridges over the deeper channels, and building a causeway elsewhere. But in the face of an active enemy this was no easy task; and so frequently were the Normans surprised by Hereward that they believed he must be aided by sorcery, and employed the "witch," who perished by fire (as mentioned in another Note), to counteract his magic, with the result already described.

But William was determined that the last refuge of English liberty should fall, and, backed by all the resources of a kingdom, the end came at last. The monks of Ely, starved out, deposed their abbot, the gallant Thurstan, and betrayed the secret approaches of the camp to the Normans.

In the gray dawn of an autumnal morning, in the year 1071, the Normans, guided through the labyrinth by the traitors-the guards having been decoyed from their posts-entered the camp.

Hereward and his men fought like heroes, with all the courage of despair; they did all that men could do; but, assailed from all sides, many of the English lords, dismayed by the hopeless character of the conflict, threw down their swords, and cried for quarter. But their brave chieftain-with a mere handful of men-disdaining to save their lives by submission, cut their way through the foe, and escaped across the marshes, after most doughty deeds of valour, for the assault was led by William in person.

For a long time Hereward maintained the hopeless struggle-for it was now hopeless-till the king sent to offer him his favour, and restoration to his paternal estates, on condition his accepting accomplished facts, and taking the oath of allegiance to the Conqueror. Feeling that all hope of shaking off the Norman yoke was lost, Hereward laid down his arms and accepted "the king's peace."

There are two accounts of his death; the one, which we hope is true, that he ended his days in peace; the other, that his Norman neighbours fell upon him as he was sleeping in the open air; that he awoke in time to defend himself, and slew fifteen men-at-arms and a Breton knight ere he succumbed to numbers-the chief of the troop, named Asselin, swearing, as he cut the head from the corpse, that he had never seen so valiant a man. It was long a popular saying amongst the English, and amongst the Normans that, had there been four such as he, the Conquest could not have been accomplished.

The fate of those who submitted, or were taken in the Camp of Refuge, was pitiable; many had their hands cut off, or their eyes put out, and with cruel mockery were set "free;" the leaders were imprisoned in all parts of England.

Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, was sent to Abingdon, where within a few months he died of hunger, either voluntary or enforced; while Archbishop Stigand was condemned to perpetual imprisonment.

xxiii Lanfranc.

This noted ecclesiastic was a native of Pavia; he was bred up to the law, and, coming to France, established a school at Avranches, which was attended by pupils of the highest rank.

On a journey to Rouen he was robbed and left bound in a wood, where some peasants found him, and brought him for shelter to the Abbey of Bec, recently founded by Herluin. Here he felt himself called to the monastic life, and became a monk at Bec, which sprang up rapidly under him into a school no less of literature than of piety, where William often retired to make spiritual retreats, and where an intimacy sprang up between them. He became successively Prior of Bec and abbot of William's new foundation of St. Stephen's at Caen. His influence with the Pope procured the papal sanction for the invasion of England; and afterwards, in 1070, the Archbishopric of Canterbury was pressed upon him by William, which he held until his death in 1089, in the eighty-fourth year of his age.

In some respects he dealt harshly with the English clergy, and connived at their wholesale deprivation. We must own, in extenuation, that their lives and conduct had not been such as to do honour to God, that they were said to be the most ignorant clergy in Europe; and that the sins of the nation under their guidance were owned, even by the English, to have brought the heavy judgment of the Conquest upon them. Otherwise, Lanfranc was a protector of the oppressed, in which character he is introduced in the tale.

If Englishmen can only forgive him his share in the Conquest, few Archbishops of Canterbury can be named more worthy of our respect.

xxiv It must be remembered that Lanfranc was a firm believer in the right of King William, in the supposed testament of Edward the Confessor; and in the right of Rome to dispose of disputed thrones. Good man though he was, he believed in all this rubbish, as true Englishmen must ever deem it.

xxv Oxford in the Olden Time.

The earliest authentic record in which Oxford finds a place is of the year 912, when we read in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle that King Edward took possession of the city, when he took upon himself the responsibility of defending the valley of the Thames against Danish incursions, upon the death of his sister's husband, Aethelred, Ealdorman of the Mercians, to whom the city had formerly belonged.

Then, probably, was that mound thrown up which still exists opposite the old Norman tower of Robert D'Oyly; and from that period the city gradually grew into importance, until it quite superseded the more ancient city, Dorchester. which was situated at the angle formed by the tributary river Tame, fifteen miles lower down the stream, even as Oxford occupied the similar angle formed by the Cherwell.

The charge of Oxford, and the district around, was committed to Robert D'Oyly, afore-mentioned, who built the lofty tower opposite the mound, deepened the ditches, enlarged the fortifications he found already there; and, about the date of our tale, founded the Church of St. George in the Castle.

He had a ruinous city to preside over. Before the Conquest it contained about three thousand inhabitants; but the number was greatly diminished, for out of seven hundred and twenty-one houses formerly inhabited, four hundred and seventy-eight were now lying waste.

The University was yet a thing of the future. Mr. James Parker (in his pamphlet, on the history of Oxford during the tenth and eleventh centuries, which he kindly presented to the writer.) has clearly shown that its supposed foundation by Alfred is a myth. The passage in Asser, commonly quoted in support of the statement, is an interpolation not older, perhaps, than the days of Edward III. During the twelfth century the town appears, from whatever causes, to have recovered from the effects of the Conquest, and from that period its growth was rapid, until circumstances brought about the growth of a University honoured throughout the civilised world.

xxvi An undisciplined mob had preceded them and perished on the road. We have not space to write their history.

xxvii The Varangians.

Ordericus Vitalis, B. iv., says, "When the English had lost their freedom, they turned themselves eagerly to discover the means of regaining their liberty. Some fled to Sweyn, King of Denmark, to excite him to fight for the inheritance of his grandfather, Canute. Not a few fled into exile in other lands, either to escape the Norman rule, or in the hope of acquiring the means of renewing the struggle at home. Some of these, in early manhood, penetrated into a far distant land, and offered their services to the Emperor of Constantinople, against whom (the Norman) Robert Guiscard had arrayed all his forces. The English exiles were favourably received, and opposed in battle to the Normans, who were far too strong for the Greeks in personal combat.

"The Emperor Alexius began to build a town for the English, a little above Constantinople; but the troubles from the Normans increasing, he soon recalled them to the capital, and intrusted the palace, with all its treasures, to their keeping. This was the way in which the English found their way to Ionia, where they still remain, honoured by the Emperor and his people."

xxviii Particularly those portions found in the Gospels for the different Sundays in the Christian year, which even then (and long before) existed in nearly the same order as in our present Prayer-book, and were read in the vernacular each Sunday at Mass.

xxix See First and Second Chronicles.

xxx Anglo-Saxon and Norman Churches.

Originally, the churches of the Anglo-Saxons were built of wood, with perhaps a foundation of stone; but before the Conquest nobler buildings were introduced. Thus, for instance, the church which Harold built at Waltham was designed in the new style of architecture, of which the earliest specimen in England was Edward's Abbey Church at Westminster. Waltham was sumptuously adorned: the capitals and bases of the pillars were curiously carved; and the ornaments of the altar, vestments, hooks, furniture, most elaborate (see the tract De Inventione Sanctae Crucis, edited by Professor Stubbs). But with the advent of a more highly civilised people, the churches generally shared in the revival of architecture, as the many massive remains, still extant, of that early period sufficiently testify.

xxxi H. A. & M. 12.

xxxii "Blessed are the peacemakers."—St. Matthew v.

THE END