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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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"And the yet harder and sterner discipline which awaits the
transgressor?"
"None of these things move me: I am prepared to bear yet harsher
and sterner things, if so be I may save my soul."
"The Lord Jesus Christ so perform in you what for His love's sake
you promise, that you may have His grace and life eternal."
"Amen," said all present.
The rule of the order was then read aloud.
"Here," said the Abbot, "is the law under which thou desirest to
serve: if thou canst observe it, enter; but if thou canst not, freely
depart."
"I will observe it, God being my helper."
"Doth any brother know any just cause or impediment why Alphege
the novice should not be admitted to our brotherhood?"
None was alleged.
"Do you all admit him to a share in your sacrifices and prayers?"
The hands were solemnly raised.
"It is enough: prepare with prayer and fasting for the holy rite," said
the Abbot.
For there was of course a solemn form of admission into the order
yet to be gone through in the Church, which we have not space to
detail.
It was not necessary that a monk should take Holy Orders, yet it
was commonly done; and dismissing the subject in a few words, we
will simply say that Wulfnoth took deacon's orders after he had
taken the life vows, and later on was ordained priest by Bishop
Alexander of Lincoln, aforesaid.
His lot in life was now fixed: no longer was he in any danger from
the Lord of Wallingford; nor could he execute vengeance with sword
and woe for the household stricken so sorely by that baron's hands
at Compton on the downs. It was over—he left it all to Him Who
once said, "Vengeance is Mine, I will repay." Nor mindful of his own
sins, did he pray for such vengeance. He left it, and strove to pray
for Brian.
One bright day at the close of July the Abbot called him to ride with
him, for the order was not strictly a cloistered one, nor could it
indeed be; they had their landed estates, their tenantry, their farms
to look after. The offices were numerous, of necessity, and it was the
policy of the order to give each monk, if possible, some special duty
or office. Almost all they ate or drank was produced at home. The
corn grew on their own land; they had their own mill; the brethren
brewed, baked, or superintended lay brothers who did so. Other
brethren were tailors, shoemakers for the community; others
gardeners; others, as we have seen, scribes and illuminators; others
kept the accounts—no small task.[23] In short, none led the idle life
commonly assigned in popular estimation.
They rode forth then, the Abbot Alured and Alphege, the new
brother. First into the town without the gates, far larger then than
now, it was partly surrounded by walls, partly protected by the
Rivers Isis and Tame; but within the space was a crowd of
inhabitants dwelling in houses, or rather huts; dwelling even in
tents, like modern gypsies, crowding the space within the walls, with
good reason, for no man's life was safe in the country, and here was
sanctuary! Even Brian Fitz-Count would respect Dorchester Abbey:
even if some marauding baron assailed the town, there was still the
abbey church, or even the precincts for temporary shelter.
But food was scarce, and here lay the difficulty. The abbey revenues
were insufficient, for many of the farms had been burnt in the
nightly raids, and rents were ill-paid. Everything was scarce: many a
hapless mother, many a new-born babe, died from sheer want of the
things necessary to save; the strong lived through it, the weak sank
under it: there may have been those who found comfort, and said it
was "the survival of the fittest."
Day by day was the dole given forth at the abbey gates; day by day
the hospitium was very crowded. The hospitaller was at his wits'
end. And the old infirmarer happening to die just then, folk said, "It
was the worry."
"Who is sufficient for these things?" said Abbot Alured to his
companion, as they rode through the throng and emerged upon the
road leading to the hamlet of Brudecott (Burcot) and Cliffton (Clifton
Hampden).
Their dress was a white cassock under a black cloak, with a hood
covering the head and neck and reaching to the shoulders, having
under it breeches, vest, white stockings and shoes; a black cornered
cap, not unlike the college cap of modern days, completed the attire.
"Tell me, brother," said the Abbot, "what is thy especial vocation?
what office wouldst thou most desire to hold amongst us?"
"I am little capable of discharging any weighty burden: thou knowest
I have been a man of war."
"And he who once gave wounds should now learn to heal them. Our
brother the infirmarer has lately departed this life, full of good works
—would not that be the office for thee?"
"I think I could discharge it better than I could most others."
"It is well, then it shall be thine; it will be onerous just now. Ah me,
when will these wars be over?"
"Methinks there was a great fire amongst the Chilterns last night—a
thick cloud of smoke lingers there yet."
"It is surely Watlington—yes it is Watlington; they have burned it.
What can have chanced? it is under the protection of Shirburne."
"I marvel we have had none of the people here, to seek hospitality
and aid."
They arrived now at Brudecott, a hamlet on the Thames. One
Nicholas de Brudecott had held a mansion here, one knight's fee of
the Bishop of Lincoln; but the house had been burnt by midnight
marauders. The place was desolate: on the fields untilled a few poor
people lived in huts, protected by their poverty.
They rode on to Cliffton, where the Abbot held three "virgates" of
land, with all the farm buildings and utensils for their cultivation; the
latter had escaped devastation, perhaps from the fact it was church
property, although even that was not always respected in those
days.
Upon the rock over the river stood the rustic church. Wulfnoth had
often served it as deacon, attending the priestly monk who said
Mass each Sunday there, for Dorchester took the tithes and did the
duty.
Here they crossed the river by a shallow ford where the bridge now
stands, and rode through Witeham (Wittenham), where the Abbot
had business connected with the monastery. The same desertion of
the place impressed itself upon their minds. Scarcely a living being
was seen; only a few old people, unable to bring themselves to
forsake their homes, lingered about half-ruined cottages. The parish
priest yet lived in the tower of the church, unwilling to forsake his
flock, although half the village was in ruins, and nearly all the able-
bodied had taken refuge in the towns.
They were on the point of crossing the ford beneath Synodune Hill,
situated near the junction of Tame and Isis, when the Abbot
suddenly conceived the desire of ascending the hills and viewing the
scene of last night's conflagration from thence. They did so, and
from the summit of the eastern hill, within the entrenchment which
still exists, and has existed there from early British times, marked
the cloud of black smoke which arose from the ruins of Watlington.
"What can have happened to the town—it is well defended with
palisades and trench?"
Just then a powerful horseman, evidently a knight at the least,
attended by two squires, rode over the entrance of the vallum, and
ascended to the summit of the hill. He saluted the Abbot with a cold
salute, and then entered into conversation with his squires.
"It is burning even yet, Osric; dost thou mark the black smoke?"
"Thatch smoulders a long time, my lord," replied the squire
addressed.
The Abbot Alured happened to look round at Wulfnoth; he was
quivering with some suppressed emotion like an aspen leaf, and his
hand involuntarily sought the place where the hilt of his sword
should have been had he possessed one.
"What ails thee, brother?" he said.
"It is the destroyer of my home and family, Brian Fitz-Count," and
Wulfnoth drew the cowl over his head.
The Abbot rode down the hill; he felt as if he were on the edge of a
volcano, and putting his hand on his companion's rein, forced him to
accompany him.
It was strange that Wulfnoth did not also recognise his own son.

FOOTNOTE:
[23] Many monastic rolls of accounts remain, and their minuteness is
even startling.
 CHAPTER XIX
IN THE LOWEST DEPTHS

The morning watch looked forth from the summit of the lofty keep,
which rose above Wallingford Castle, to spy the dawning day. From
that elevation of two hundred feet he saw the light of the summer
dawn break forth over the Chiltern Hills in long streaks of azure, and
amber light flecked with purple and scarlet. The stream below
caught the rays, and assumed the congenial hue of blood; the
sleepy town began to awake beyond the castle precincts; light
wreaths of smoke to ascend from roof after roof—we can hardly say
of those days chimney after chimney; the men of the castle began to
move, for there was no idleness under Brian's rule; boats arrived by
the stream bearing stores from the dependent villages above and
below, or even down from Oxford and up from Reading, for the river
was a great highway in those days.
Ah, how like the distant view was to that we now behold from the
lessened height of the ruined keep! The everlasting hills were the
same; the river flowed in the same channel: and yet how unlike, for
the cultivated fields of the present day were mainly wood and
marsh; dense forests of bush clothed the Chilterns; Cholsey
Common, naked and bare, stretched on to the base of the downs;
but on the west were the vast forests which had filled the vale of
White Horse in earlier times, and now were but slightly broken into
clearings, and diversified with hamlets.
But still more unlike, the men who began to wake into life!
The gaolers were busy with the light breakfasts of their prisoners, or
attending to their cells, which they were forced sometimes to clean
out, to prevent a pestilence; the soldiers were busy attending to
their horses, and scouring their arms; the cooks were busy providing
for so many mouths; the butler was busy with his wines; the
armourers and blacksmiths with mail and weapons; the treasurer
was busy with his accounts, counting the value of last night's raid
and assigning his share of prize-money to each raider, for all had
their share, each according to rank, and so "moss-trooping" was
highly popular.
Even the Chaplain, as he returned from his hastily said Mass, which
few attended—only, indeed, the Lady of the Castle, Maude d'Oyley,
and her handmaidens—received his "bonus" as a bribe to Heaven,
and pocketed it without reflecting that it was the price of blood. He
was the laziest individual in the castle. Few there confessed their
sins, and fewer still troubled him in any other spiritual capacity. Still
Brian kept him for the sake of "being in form," as moderns say, and
had purposely sought out an accommodating conscience.
In the terrace, which looked over the glacis towards the Thames, of
which the remains with one window in situ may still be seen, was
the bower of Maude d'Oyley, wife of Brian Fitz-Count and sister of
the Lord of Oxford Castle, as we have before observed. It was called
otherwise "the solar chamber;" perhaps because it was best fitted
with windows for the admission of the sunlight, the openings in the
walls being generally rather loopholes than windows.
The passion for great reception-rooms was as strong in mediæval
days as in our own, and the family apartments suffered for it,—being
generally small and low,—while the banqueting-hall was lofty and
spacious, and the Gothic windows, which looked into the inner
quadrangle, were of ample proportions. But the "ladye's bower" on
the second floor consisted of, first an ante-chamber, where a
handmaiden always waited within hearing of the little silver hand-
bell; then a bower or boudoir; then the bedroom proper. All these
rooms were hung with rich tapestry, worked by the lady and her
handmaidens. For in those days, when books were scarce, and few
could read, the work of the needle and the loom was the sole
alleviation of many a solitary hour.
The windows looked over the river, and were of horn, not very
transparent, only translucent; the outer world could but be dimly
discerned in daylight.
There was a hearth at one end of the bower, and "dog-irons" upon it
for the reception of the logs, of which fires were chiefly composed,
for there was as yet no coal in use.
There were two "curule" chairs, that is, chairs in the form of St.
Andrew's Cross, with cushions between the upper limbs, and no
backs; there were one or two very small round tables for the
reception of trifles, and "leaf-tables" between the windows. No one
ever sat on these "curule" chairs save those of exalted rank: three-
legged stools were good enough for ladies in waiting, and the like.
The hangings, which concealed the bare walls, were very beautiful.
On one set was represented Lazarus and Dives; Father Abraham
appeared very much in the style of a mediæval noble, and on his
knee, many sizes smaller, sat Lazarus. In uncomfortable proximity to
their seats was a great yawning chasm, and smoke looking very
substantial, as represented in wool-work, arose thence, while some
batlike creatures, supposed to be fiends, sported here and there. On
the other side lay Dives in the midst of rosy flames of crimson wool,
and his tongue, which was stretched out for the drop of water, was
of such a size, that one wondered how it ever could have found
space in the mouth. But for all this, the lesson taught by the picture
was not a bad one for the chambers of barons, if they would but
heed it; it is to be feared it was little heeded just then in Wallingford
Castle.
There was no carpet on the floor, only rushes, from the marshes.
The Countess sat on her "curule" chair in front of the blazing fire.
Three maidens upon three-legged stools around her were engaged
on embroidery. They were all of high rank, entrusted to her
guardianship, for she liked to surround herself with blooming youth.
She was old,—her face was wrinkled, her eyes were dull,—but she
had a sweet smile, and was quite an engaging old lady, although, of
course, with the reserve which became, or was supposed to become,
her high rank.
A timid knock at the door, and another maiden entered.
"Jeannette, thou art late this evening."
"I was detained in Dame Ursula's room; she needed my help, lady."
"Wherefore?"
"To attend to the wounded of last night's raid."
"Ah, yes, we have heard but few particulars, and would fain learn
more. Send and see whether either of the young squires Osric or
Alain can come and give us the details."
And shortly Osric entered, dressed in his handsomest tunic—the
garb of peace, and properly washed and combed for the presence of
ladies.
He bowed reverently to the great dame, of whom he stood in more
awe than of her stern husband: he was of that awkward age when
lads are always shy before ladies.
But her kind manner cheered him.
"So thou didst ride last night, Osric?"
"I did, my lady."
"Come, tell us all about it."
"We started, as thou knowest, soon after the arrival of the prisoner
William Martel, to harry his lands."
"We all saw you start; and I hear the Crowmarsh people saw you
too."
"And assailed us at Bensington."
"And now tell me, my Osric, didst thou not slay one of Lord
Ranulph's people?"
"I did, by my good fortune, and his ill-luck."
"And so thou shouldst receive the meed of valour from the fair.
Come, what sayest thou, ladies?"
"He should indeed; he is marvellous young to be so brave."
"We are short of means to reward our brave knights and squires, but
take this ring;" and she gave one containing a valuable gem; "and
we only grieve it is not of more worth."
So Osric, encouraged, continued his tale; and those fair ladies—and
fair they were—laughed merrily at his narration of the burning of
Watlington, and would have him spare no details.
"Thou hast done well, my Osric. Come, thou wilt be a knight; thou
dost not now pine for the forest?"
"Not now; I have grown to love adventures."
"And it is so exciting to ride by night, as thou didst last winter with
the Empress Queen."
"But I love the summer nights, with their sweet freshness, best."
"Thou dost not remember thy boyhood with regret now, and wish it
back again?"
"Not now." And Osric made his bow and departed.
"There is a mystery about that youth; he is not English, as my lord
thinks; there is not an atom of it about him," said the Countess, and
fell into a fit of musing.
From the halls of pleasure let us turn to the dungeons beneath; but
first a digression.
Even mediæval barons were forced to keep their accounts, or to
employ, more commonly, a "scrivener" or accountant for that
purpose; and all this morning Brian was closeted with his man of
business, looking over musty rolls and parchments, from which
extract after extract was read, bearing little other impression on the
mind of the poor perplexed Baron than that he was grievously
behind in his finances. So he despatched the scrivener to negotiate a
farther advance—loan he called it—from the mayor, while he
summoned Osric, who was quick at figures, to his presence.
"There is scarcely enough money to pay the Brabanters, and they
will mutiny if kept short: that raid last night was a god-send," said
Brian to himself.
Osric arrived. The Baron felt lighter of heart when the youth he
loved was with him. It was another case of Saul and David. And
furthermore, the likeness was not a superficial one. Often did Osric
touch the harp, and sing the lays of love and war to his patron, for
so much had he learned of his grandsire.
They talked of the previous evening's adventures, and Brian was
delighted to draw Osric out, and to hear him express sentiments so
entirely at variance with his antecedents, as he did under the
Baron's deft questions.
So they continued talking until the scrivener returned, and then the
Baron asked impatiently—
"Well, man! and what does the mayor say?"
"That their resources are exhausted, and that you are very much in
their debt already."
The reader need not marvel at this bold answer. Brian dared not use
violence to his own burghers; it would have been killing the goose
who laid the golden eggs. In our men of commerce began the first
germs of English liberty. Men would sometimes yield to all other
kinds of violence, but the freemen of the towns, even amidst the
wild barons of Germany, held their own; and so did the burgesses of
Wallingford: they had their charter signed and sealed by Brian, and
ratified by Henry the First.
"The greedy caitiffs," he said; "well, we must go and see the
dungeons. Osric, come with me."
Osric had seldom been permitted to do this before. He had only
once or twice been "down below." Perhaps Brian had feared to shock
him, and now thought him seasoned, as indeed he seemed to be the
night before, and in his talk that day.
And here let me advise my gentler readers, who hate to read of
violence and cruelty, to skip the rest of this chapter, which may be
read by stronger-minded readers as essential to a complete picture
of life at Wallingford Castle. What men once had to bear, we may
bear to read.
They went first to the dungeon in the north tower, where William,
Lord of Shirburne, was confined. Tustain the gaoler and two
satellites attended, and opened the door of the cell. It was a cold,
bare room: a box stuffed with leaves and straw, with a coverlet and
pillow for a bed; a rough bench; a rude table—that was all.
The prisoner could not enjoy the scenery; his only light was from a
grated window above, of too small dimensions to allow a man to
pass through, even were the bars removed.
"How dost thou like my hospitality, William of Shirburne?"
"I suppose it is as good as I should have shown thee."
"Doubtless: we know each other. Now, what wilt thou pay for thy
ransom?"
"A thousand marks."
Brian laughed grimly.
"Thou ratest thyself at the price of an old Jew."
"What dost thou ask?"
"Ten thousand marks, or the Castle of Shirburne and its domains."
"Never! thou villain—robber!"
"Thou wilt change thy mind: thou mayst despatch a messenger for
the money, who shall have free conduct to come and go; and mark
me, if thou dost not pay within a week, thou shalt be manacled and
removed to the dungeons below, to herd with my defaulting debtors,
and a week after to a lower depth still."
Then he turned as if to depart, but paused and said, "It is a pity this
window is so high in the wall, otherwise thou mightst have seen a
fine blaze last night about Shirburne and its domains."
He laughed exultantly.
"Do thy worst, thou son of perdition; my turn may yet come," replied
Martel.
And the Baron departed, accompanied still by Osric.
"Osric," said he, "thou hast often asked to visit the lower dungeons:
thou mayst have thy wish, and see how we house our guests there;
and also in a different capacity renew thine acquaintance with the
torture-chambers: thou shalt be the notary."
"My lord, thou dost recall cruel memories."
"Nay, it was for love of thee. I have no son, and my bowels yearned
for one; it was gentle violence for thine own good. I know not how it
was, but I could not even then have done more than frighten thee.
Thou wilt see I can hurt others without wincing. Say, wouldst thou
fear to see what torture is like? it may fall to thy duty to inflict it
some day, and in these times one must get hardened either to inflict
or endure."
"I may as well learn all I have to learn; but I love it not. I do not
object to fighting; but in cold blood——"
"Well, here is the door which descends to the lower realms."
They descended through a yawning portal to the dungeons. The
steps were of gray stone: they went down some twenty or thirty,
and then entered a corridor—dark and gloomy—from which opened
many doors on either side.
Dark, but not silent. Many a sigh, many a groan, came from behind
those doors, but neither Brian nor his squire heeded them.
"Which shall I open first?" said Tustain.
"The cell of Nathan, the Abingdon Jew."
The door was a huge block of stone, turning upon a pivot. It
disclosed a small recess, about six feet by four, paved with stone,
upon which lay some foul and damp litter. A man was crouched upon
this, with a long, matted beard, looking the picture of helpless
misery.
"Well, Nathan, hast been my guest long enough? Will not change of
air do thee good?"
"I have no more money to give thee."
"Then I must bid the tormentor visit thee again. Thy race is
accursed, and I cannot offer a better burnt-offering to Heaven than
a Jew."
"Mercy, Baron! I have borne so much already."
"Mercy is to be bought: the price is a thousand marks of gold."
"I have not a hundred."
"Osric," said Brian; and gave his squire instructions to fetch the
tormentor.
"We will spare thee the grate yet awhile; but I have another plan in
view. Coupe-gorge, canst thou draw teeth?"
"Yes," said the tormentor, grinning, who had come at Osric's bidding.
"Then bring me a tooth from the mouth of this Nathan every day
until his ransom arrive. Nathan, thou mayst write home—a letter for
each tooth." And with a merry laugh they passed on to the other
dungeons.
There was one who shared his cell with toads and adders,
introduced for his discomfort; another round whose neck and throat
a hideous thing called a sachentage was fastened. It was thus
made: it was fastened to a beam, and had a sharp iron to go round
a man's neck and throat, so that he might nowise sit or lie or sleep,
but he bore all the iron.
In short, the castle was full of prisoners, and they were subjected to
daily tortures to make them disclose their supposed hidden
treasures, or pay the desired ransom. Here were many hapless Jews,
always the first objects of cruelty in the Middle Ages; here many
usurers, paying interest more heavy than they had ever charged
others; here also many of the noblest and purest mixed up with
some of the vilest upon earth.
Well might the townspeople complain that they were startled in their
sleep by the cries and shrieks which came from the grim towers.
And the Baron, followed by Osric, went from dungeon to dungeon;
in some cases obtaining promises of ransom to be paid, in others
hearing of treasures, real or imaginary, buried in certain places,
which he bid Osric note, that search might be made.
"Woe to them who fool me," he said.
Then they came to a dungeon in which was a chest, sharp and
narrow, in which one poor tormented wight lay in company with
sharp flints; as the light of the torch they bore flashed upon him, his
eyes, red and lurid, gleamed through the open iron framework of the
lid which fastened him down.
"This man was the second in command of a band of English outlaws,
who made much spoil at Norman expense. Now I slew his chief in
fair combat on the downs, and this man succeeded him, and waged
war for a long time, until I took him; and here he is. How now,
Herwald, dost want to get out of thy chest?"
A deep groan was the only reply.
"Then disclose to me the hidden treasures of thy band."
"We have none."
"Persevere then in that lie, and die in thy misery."
Osric felt very sick. He had not the nerves of his chief, and now he
felt as if he were helping the torture of his own countrymen; and,
moreover, there was a yet deeper feeling. Recollections were
brought to his mind in that loathsome dungeon which, although
indistinct and confused, yet had some connection with his own early
life. What had his father been? The grandfather had carefully hidden
all those facts, known to the reader, from Osric, but old Judith had
dropped obscure hints.
He longed to get out of this accursed depth into the light of day, yet
felt ashamed of his own weakness. He heard the misery of these
dens turned into a joke by Alain and others every day. He had
brought prisoners into the castle himself—for the hideous
receptacles—and been complimented on his prowess and success;
yet humanity was not quite extinguished in his breast, and he felt
sick of the scenes.
But he had not done. They came to the torture-chamber, where
recalcitrant prisoners, who would not own their wealth, were hanged
up by the feet and smoked with foul smoke: some were hanged up
by the thumbs, others by the head, and burning rings were put on
their feet. The torturers put knotted strings about men's heads, and
writhed them till they went into the brain. In short, the horrid
paraphernalia of cruelty was entered into that day with the utmost
zest, and all for gold, accursed gold—at least, that was the first
object; but we fear at last the mere love of cruelty was half the
incitement to such doings.
And all this time Brian sat as judge, and directed the torturers with
eye or hand; and Osric had to take notes of the things the poor
wretches said in their delirium.
At last it was over, and they ascended to the upper day.
"How dost thou like it, Osric?" said Alain, whom they met on the
ramparts.
Osric shook his head.
"It is nothing when you are used to it; I used to feel squeamish at
first."
"I never shall like it," whispered Osric.
The whisper was so earnest that Alain looked at him in surprise;
Osric only answered by something like a sigh. The Baron heard him
not.
"Thou hast done well for a beginner," said Brian; "how dost thou like
the torture chamber?"
"I was there in another capacity once."
"And thou hast not forgot it. But we must remember these canaille
are only made for such uses—only to disgorge their wealth for their
betters, or to furnish sport."
"How should we like it ourselves?"
"You might as well object to eating venison, and say how should we
like it if we were the deer?"
"But does not God look upon all alike?"
They were on the castle green. Upon the sward some ants had
raised a little hill.
"Look at these ants," said Brian; "I believe they have a sort of
kingdom amongst themselves—some are priests, some masters,
some slaves, one is king, and the like: to themselves they seem very
important. Now I will place my foot upon the hill, and ruin their
republic. Just so are the gods to us, if there be gods. They care as
little about men as I about the ants; our joys, our griefs, our good
deeds, our bad deeds, are alike to them. I was in deep affliction
once about my poor leprous boys. I prayed with all my might; I gave
alms; I had Masses said—all in vain. Now I go my own way, and you
see I do not altogether fail of success, although I buy it with the
tears and blood of other men."
This seemed startling, nay, terrible to Osric.
"Yet, Osric, I can love, and I can reward fidelity; be true to me, and
I will be truer to you than God was to me—that is, if there be a God,
which I doubt."
Osric shuddered; and well he might at this impious defiance.
Then this strange man was seized with a remorse, which showed
that after all there was yet some good left in him.
"Nay, pardon me, my Osric; I wish not to shake thy faith; if it make
thee happy, keep it. Mine are perchance the ravings of
disappointment and despair. There are times when I think the most
wretched of my captives happier than I. Nay, keep thy faith if thou
canst."
 CHAPTER XX
MEINHOLD AND HIS PUPILS

We are loth to leave our readers too long in the den of tyranny: we
pant for free air; for the woods, even if we share them with hermits
and lepers—anything rather than the towers of Wallingford under
Brian Fitz-Count, his troopers and free lances.
So we will fly to the hermitage where his innocent sons have found
refuge for two years past, under the fostering care of Meinhold the
hermit, and see how they fare.
First of all, they had not been reclaimed to Byfield. It is true they
had been traced, and Meinhold had been "interviewed"; but so
earnestly had both he and the boys pleaded that they might be
allowed to remain where they were, that assent was willingly given,
even Father Ambrose feeling that it was for the best; only an
assurance was required that they would not stray from the
neighbourhood of the cell, and it was readily given.
Of course their father was informed, and he made no opposition,—
the poor boys were dead to him and the world. Leprosy was
incurable: if they were happy—"let them be."
So they enjoyed the sweet, simple life of the forest. They found
playmates in every bird and beast; they learned to read at last; they
joined the hermit in the recitation of two at least of the "hours" each
day—Lauds and Vespers, the morning and evening offerings of
praise. They learned to sing, and chanted Benedictus and Magnificat,
as well as the hymns Ecce nunc umbræ and Lucis Creator optime.
"We sing very badly, do we not?"
"Not worse than the brethren of St. Bernard."
"Tell us about them."
"They settled in a wild forest,—about a dozen in number. They could
not sing their offices, for they lacked an ear for music; but they said
God should at least be honoured by the Magnificat in song; so they
did their best, although it is said they frightened the very birds away.
"Now one day a wandering boy, the son of a minstrel, came that
way and craved hospitality. He joined them at Vespers, and when
they came to the Magnificat, he took up the strain and sang it so
sweetly that the birds all came back and listened, entranced; and
the old monks were silent lest they should spoil so sweet a chant
with their croaking and nasal tones.
"That evening an Angel flew straight from Heaven and came to the
prior.
"'My lady hath sent me to learn why Magnificat was not sung to-
night?'
"'It was sung indeed—so beautifully.'
"'Nay, it ascended no farther than human ken; the singer was only
thinking of his own sweet voice.'
"Then they sent that boy away; and, doubtless, he found his
consolation amongst troubadours and trouveres. So you see, my
children, the heart is everything—not the voice."
"Yet I should not like to sing so badly as to frighten the birds away,"
said Richard.
So the months passed away; and meanwhile the leprosy made its
insidious progress. The red spot on the hermit's hand deepened and
widened until the centre became white as snow; and so it formed a
ghastly ring, which began to ulcerate in the centre, the ulcer eating
deep into the flesh.
Richard's arm was now wholly infected, and the elbow-joint began to
get useless. Evroult's disease extended to the neighbouring regions
of the face, and disfigured the poor lad terribly.
Such were the stages of this terrible disease; but there was little
pain attending it—only a sense of uneasiness, sometimes feverish
heats or sudden chills, resembling in their nature those which attend
marsh or jungle fevers, ague, and the like. Happily these symptoms
were not constant.
And through these stages the unfortunate boys we have introduced
to our readers were slowly passing; but the transitions were so
gradual that the patient became almost hardened to them. Richard
was so patient; he had no longer a left hand, but he never
complained.
"It is the road, dear child, God has chosen for us, and His Name is
'Love,'" said the hermit. "Every step of the way has been
foreordained by Him Who tasted the bitter cup for us; and when we
have gained the shore of eternity we shall see that infinite wisdom
ordered it all for the best."
"Is it really so? Can it be for the best?" said Evroult.
"Listen, my son: this is God's Word; let me read it to you." And from
his Breviary he read this extract from that wondrous Epistle to the
Romans—
"'For we know that all things work together for good to them that
love God, who are the called according to His purpose.'"
"Now God has called you out of this wicked world: you might have
spent turbid, restless lives of fighting and bloodshed, chasing the
phantom called 'glory,' and then have died and gone where all hope
is left behind. Is it not better?"
"Yes, it is," said Richard; "it is, Evroult, is it not—better as it is?"
"Nay, Richard, but had I been well, I had been a knight like my
father. Oh, what have we not lost!"
"An awful doom at the end perhaps," said Meinhold. "Let me tell you
what I saw with mine own eyes. A rich baron died near here who
had won great renown in the wars, in which, nevertheless, he had
been as merciless as barons too often are. Well, he left great gifts to
the Church, and money for many Masses for his soul: so he was
buried with great pomp—brought to be buried, I mean, in the priory
church he had founded.
"Now when we came to the solemn portion of the service, when the
words are said which convey the last absolution and benediction of
the Church, the corpse sat upright in the bier and said, in an awful
tone, 'By the justice of God, I am condemned to Hell.' The prior
could not proceed; the body was left lying on the bier; and at last it
was decided so to leave it till the next day, and then resume the
service.
"But the second day, when the same words were repeated, the
corpse rose again and said, 'By the justice of God, I am condemned
to Hell.'
"We waited till the third day, determined if the interruption occurred
again to abandon the design of burying the deceased baron in the
church he had founded. A great crowd assembled around, but only
the monks dared to enter the church where the body lay. A third
time we came to the same words in the office, and we who were in
the choir saw the body rise in the winding-sheet, the dull eyes
glisten into life, and heard the awful words for the third time, 'By the
justice of God, I am condemned to Hell.'
"After a long pause, during which we all knelt, horror-struck, the
prior bade us take the body from the church, and bade his friends
lay it in unconsecrated ground, away from the church he had
founded. So you see a man of blood cannot always bribe Heaven
with gifts."
"It is no use then to found churches and monasteries; I have heard
my father say the same," said Evroult.
"Yet in any case it is better than to build castles to become dens of
cruelty—to torture captives and spread terror through a
neighbourhood."
"It is pleasant to be the lord of such a castle," said the incorrigible
Evroult, "and to be the master of all around."
"And, alas, my boy, if it end in like manner with you as with the
baron whose story I have just related, of what avail will it all be?"
"Yes, brother, we are better as we are; God meant it for our good,
and we may thank Him for it," said Richard quite sincerely.
Evroult only sighed as a wolf might were he told how much more
nutritious grass is than mutton; inherited instinct, unsubdued as yet
by grace, was too strong within him. But let us admire his
truthfulness; he would not say what he did not mean. Many in his
place would have said "yes" to please his brother and the kind old
hermit, but Evroult scorned such meanness.
There is little question that had he escaped this scourge he would
have made a worthy successor to Brian Fitz-Count, but—

"His lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone

His growing virtues but his crimes confined,
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind."

Still, let it be remembered, that in Stephen's days we see only the

worst side of the Norman nobility. In less than a century the barons
rallied around that man of God, Stephen Langton, and wrested
Magna Charta from the tyrant John, the worst of the Plantagenets.
Proud by that time of the name "Englishmen," they laid the
foundations of our greatness, and jealously guarded our
constitutional liberties; and it was not until after the Wars of the
Roses, in which so many of the ancient houses perished, that a
Norman baron was said to be "as scarce as a wolf," that the
Bloodstained House of Tudor was enabled to trample upon English
liberty, and to reign as absolute monarchs over a prostrate
commonalty.
All through the summer our boys were very happy, in spite of
Evroult's occasional longings for the world. They cultivated a garden
hard by their cave, and they gathered the roots and fruits of the
forest for their frugal repast. They parched the corn; they boiled the
milk and eggs which the rustics spontaneously brought; they made
the bread and baked the oatcakes. They were quite vegetarians
now, save the milk and eggs; and throve upon their simple fare; but
it took, as our readers perceive, a long course of vegetable diet to
take the fire out of Evroult.
Then came the fall of the leaf, when the trees, like some vain
mortals, put on their richest clothing wherein to die; and damps and
mists arose around, driving them within the shelter of their cave;
then winter with its chilling frosts, keener then than now, and their
stream was turned into ice. And had they not, like the ants, laid by
in summer, they would have starved sadly in winter.
In the inner cave was a natural chimney, an orifice communicating
with the outer air. Fuel was plentiful in the forest, and as they sat
around the fire, Meinhold told them stories of the visible and
invisible world, more or less, of course, of a supernatural character,
like those we have already heard. His was an imaginary world, full of
quaint superstitions which were very harmless, for they left the soul
even more reliant and dependent upon Divine help; for was not this
a world wherein Angels and demons engaged in terrestrial warfare,
man's soul the prize? and were not the rites and Sacraments of the
Church sent to counteract the spells and snares of the phantom
host?
And as they sat around their fire, the wind made wild and awful
music in the subterranean caves: sometimes it shrieked, then
moaned, as if under the current of earthly origin there was a
perpetual wail of souls in pain.
"Father, may not these passages lead down to Purgatory, or even to
the abode of the lost?"
"Nay, my child, I think it only the wind;" but he shuddered as he
spoke.
"You think they lie beneath the earth, Richard?"
"Yes, the heavens above the stars, which are like the golden nails of
its floor; the earth—our scene of conflict beneath; and the depths
below for those who fail and reject their salvation," said Meinhold,
replying for the younger boy.
"Then the burning mountains of which we have heard are the
portals of hell?"
"So it is commonly supposed," said the hermit. The reader will laugh
at his simple cosmogony: he had no idea, poor man, that the earth
is round.
"Please let me explore these caves," said Evroult.
"Art thou not afraid?" said Meinhold.
"No," said he; "I am never afraid."
"But I fear for thee; there are dark chasms and a black gulf within,
and I fear, my child, lest they be tenanted by evil spirits, and that
the sounds we hear at night be not all idle winds."
"You once said they were winds."
"Yes, but do winds utter blasphemies?"
"Never."
"Of course not. Is it not written, 'O all ye winds of God, bless ye the
Lord?' Now as I lay on my bed last night, methought the sounds
took articulate form, and they were words of cursing and blasphemy,
such as might have come from a lost soul."
A modern would say that the hermit had a sort of nightmare, but in
those credulous days the supernatural solution was always accepted.
"And, my son, if there be, as I fear, evil spirits who lurk in the
bowels of the earth, and lure men to their destruction, I would not
allow thee to rush into danger."
"No, brother, think no more of it," said Richard.
And Evroult promised not to do so, if he could help it.
"There be caves in the African deserts, of which I have heard, where
fiends do haunt, and terrify travellers even to death. One there was
which was, to look upon, the shadow of a great rock in a weary
land, but they who passed a night there—and it was the only
resting-place in the desert for many weary miles—went mad,
frightened out of their senses by some awful vision which blasted
those who gazed."
"But ought Christian men to fear such things?"
"No; neither ought they without a call to endanger themselves: 'He
shall give His Angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways.'
Now our way does not lie through these dark abodes."
So the caves remained unexplored.
But we must return to Wallingford Castle again, and the active life of
the fighting world of King Stephen's days. Suffice it for the present
to say, that the lives of the hermit and his two pupils, for such they
were, continued to roll on uneventfully for many months—indeed,
until the occurrence of totally unexpected events, which we shall
narrate in due course.
 CHAPTER XXI
A DEATHBED DISCLOSURE

An excessive rainfall during the late summer of this year destroyed

the hopes of the harvest,—such hopes as there were, for tillage had
been abandoned, save where the protection of some powerful baron
gave a fair probability of gathering in the crops. In consequence a
dreadful famine succeeded during the winter, aggravated by the
intense cold, for a frost set in at the beginning of December and
lasted without intermission till February, so that the Thames was
again frozen, and the ordinary passage of man and horse was on the
ice of the river.
The poor people, says the author of The Acts of King Stephen, died
in heaps, and so escaped the miseries of this sinful world,—a phrase
of more meaning then, in people's ears, than it is now, when life is
doubtless better worth living than it could have been then, in King
Stephen's days, when horrible and unexampled atrocities disgraced
the nation daily, and the misery of the poor was caused by the cruel
tyranny of the rich and powerful.
All this time our young friend Osric continued to be the favourite
squire of Brian Fitz-Count, and, we grieve to say, became habituated
to crime and violence. He no longer shuddered as of yore at the
atrocities committed in the dungeons of the castle, or in the
constant raids: the conscience soon became blunted, and he felt an
ever-increasing delight in strife and bloodshed, the joy of the
combat, and in deeds of valour.
Facilis descensus averno, wrote the poet, or, as it has been
Englished—
 "The gate of Hell stands open night and day,
Smooth the descent, and easy is the way;
But to return and view the upper skies,
In this the toil, in this the labour lies."

For a long period he had not visited his grandfather—the reader will
easily guess why; but he took care that out of Brian's prodigal
bounty the daily wants of the old man should be supplied, and he
thought all was well there—he did not know that the recipient never
made use of Brian's bounty. He had become ashamed of his English
ancestry: it needed a thunder-clap to recall him to his better self.
There were few secrets Brian concealed from his favourite squire,
now an aspirant for knighthood, and tolerably sure to obtain his wish
in a few more months. The deepest dungeons in the castle were
known to him, the various sources of revenue, the claims for feudal
dues, the tribute paid for protection, the rentals of lands, the
purchase of forest rights, and, less creditable, the sums extracted by
torture or paid for ransom,—all these were known to Osric, whose
keen wits were often called on to assist the Baron's more sluggish
intellect in such matters.
Alain was seldom at Wallingford; he had already been knighted by
the Empress Maude, and was high in her favour, and in attendance
on her person, so Osric lacked his most formidable rival in the
Baron's graces.
He could come and go almost when he pleased; he knew the secret
exit to the castle, only known to a few chief confidants—two or three
at the most, who had been allowed to use it on special necessity.
It led to a landing-place on the bank of the river, and blindfolded
prisoners, to be kept in secret, were sometimes introduced to their
doleful lodgings through this entrance.
Active in war, a favourite in the bower, possessing a good hand at
games, a quick eye for business, Osric soon became a necessity to
Brian Fitz-Count: his star was in the ascendant, and men said Brian
would adopt him as his son.
Constitutionally fearless, a born lover of combat, a good archer who
could kill a bird on the wing, a fair swordsman, skilled in the
exercises of chivalry,—what more was needed to make a young man
happy in those days?
A quiet conscience? Well, Osric had quieted his: he was fast
becoming a convert to Brian's sceptical opinions, which alone could
justify his present course of action.
The castle was increasing: the dungeon aforementioned had been
built, called Brian's Close,[24] with surmounting towers. The
unhappy William Martel was its first inmate, and there he remained
until his obstinacy was conquered, and the Castle of Shirburne ceded
to Brian, with the large tract of country it governed and the right of
way across the Chilterns.
Brian Fitz-Count was now at the height of his glory—the Empress
was mistress of half the realm; he was her chief favourite and
minister—when events occurred which somewhat disturbed his
serene self-complacency, and seemed to infer the existence of a God
of justice and vengeance.

It was early one fine day when a messenger from the woods
reached the castle, and with some difficulty found access to Osric,
bringing the tidings that his grandfather was dying, and would fain
see him once more before he died.
"Dying! well, he is very old; we must all die," was Osric's first
thought, coupled with a sense of relief, which he tried to disguise
from himself, that a troublesome Mentor was about to be removed.
Now he might feel like a Norman, but he had still a lingering love for
the old man, the kind and loving guardian of his early years; so he
sought Brian, and craved leave of absence.
"It is awkward," replied the Baron; "I was about to send thee to
Shirburne. We have conquered Martel's resolution at last. I
threatened that the rack should not longer be withheld, and that we
would make him a full foot longer than God created him. Darkness
and scant food have tamed him. Had we kept him in his first prison,
with light and air, with corn and wine, he would never have given
way. After all, endurance is a thing very dependent on the stomach."
"I will return to-morrow, my lord;" and Osric looked pleadingly at
him.
"Not later. I cannot go to Shirburne myself, as I am expecting an
important messenger from Queen Maude (of course he called her
Queen), and can trust none other but thee."
"It is not likely that any other claim will come between me and thee,
my lord; this is passing away, and I shall be wholly thine."
The Baron smiled; his proud heart was touched.
"Go, then, Osric," he said, "and return to-morrow."
And so they parted.

Osric rode rapidly through the woods, up the course of the brook;
we described the road in our second chapter. He passed the Moor-
towns, left the Roman camp of Blewburton on the left, and was soon
in the thick maze of swamp and wood which then occupied the
country about Blewbery.
As he drew near the old home, many recollections crowded upon
him, and he felt, as he always did there, something more like an
Englishman. It was for this very reason he so seldom came "home"
to visit his grandfather.
He found his way across the streams: the undergrowth had all been
renewed since the fire which the hunters kindled four years agone;
the birds were singing sweetly, for it was the happy springtide for
them, and they were little affected by the causes which brought
misery to less favoured mankind; the foliage was thick, the sweet
hawthorn exhaled its perfume, the bushes were bright with "May."
Ah me, how lovely the woods are in spring! how happy even this
world might be, had man never sinned.
But within the hut were the unequivocal signs of the rupture
between man and his Maker—the tokens which have ever existed
since by sin came death.
Upon the bed in the inner room lay old Sexwulf, in the last stage of
senile decay. He was dying of no distinct disease, only of general
breaking-up of the system. Man cannot live for ever; he wears out in
time, even if he escape disease.
The features were worn and haggard, the eye was yet bright, the
mind powerful to the last.
He saw the delight of his eyes, the darling of his old age, enter, and
looked sadly upon him, almost reproachfully. The youth took his
passive hand in his warm grasp, and imprinted a kiss upon the
wrinkled forehead.
"He has had all he needed—nothing has been wanting for his
comfort?" said Osric inquiringly.
"We have been able to keep him alive, but he would not touch your
gold, or aught you sent of late."
"Why not?" asked Osric, deeply hurt.
"He said it was the price of blood, wrung, it might be, from the
hands of murdered peasants of your own kindred."
Ah! that shaft went home. Osric knew it was just. What else was the
greater portion of the Baron's hoard derived from, save rapine and
violence?
"It was cruel to let him starve."
"He has not starved; we have had other friends, but the famine has
been sore in the land."
"Other friends! who?"
"Yes; especially the good monks of Dorchester."
"What do they know of my grandfather?"
Judith pursed up her lips, as much as to say, "That is my secret, and
if you had brought the thumb-screws, of which you know the use
too well, you should not get it out of me."
"Osric," said a deep, yet feeble voice.
The youth returned to the bedside.
"Osric, I am dying. They say the tongues of dying men speak sooth,
and it may be because, as the gates of eternity open before them,
the vanities of earth disappear. Now I have a last message to leave
for you, a tale to unfold before I die, which cannot fail of its effect
upon your heart. It is the secret entrusted to me when you were
brought an infant to this hut, which I was forbidden to unfold until
you had gained years of discretion. It may be, my dear child, you
have not yet gained them—I trow not, from what I hear."
"What harm have mine enemies told of me?"
"That thou shalt hear by and by; meanwhile let me unfold my tale,
for the sands of life are running out. It was some seventeen years
ago this last autumn, that thy father——"
"Who was he—thou hast ever concealed his name?"
"Wulfnoth of Compton."
Osric started.
"Doth he live?"
"He doth."
"Where?"
"He is a monk of Dorchester Abbey. I may tell the secret now; Brian
himself could not hurt him there."
"Why should he wish to hurt him?"
"Listen, and your ears shall learn the truth. Thy father was my guest
in this hut. Seventeen years ago this last autumn he had been
hunting all day, and was on the down above, near the mound where
Holy Birinus once preached, as the sun set, when he perceived, a
few miles away, the flames of a burning house, and knew that it was
his own, for he lived in a recess of the downs far from other houses.
He hurried towards the scene, sick with fear, but it was miles away,
and when he reached the spot he saw a dark band passing along
the downs, a short distance off, in the opposite direction. His heart
told him they were the incendiaries, but he stopped not for
vengeance. Love to his wife and children hurried him on. When he
arrived the roof had long since fallen in; a few pitying neighbours
stood around, and shook their heads as they saw him, and heard his
pitiful cries for his wife and children. Fain would he have thrown
himself into the flames, but they restrained him, and told him he had
one child yet to live for, accidentally absent at the house of a
neighbour.—It was thou, my son."
"But who had burnt the house? Who had slain my poor mother, and
my brothers and sisters, if I had any?"
"Brian Fitz-Count, Lord of Wallingford."
"Brian Fitz-Count!" said Osric in horror.
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