The Rival Heirs; being the Third and Last Chronicle of Aescendune by A. D. Crake (best desktop ebook reader .txt) 📖

game they continually aroused might not lead them astray; men followed who, like American Indians, looked for "trails" in every soft surface of ground, and along the banks of each stream of sweet water, where men might come to drink, but by noon they had traversed the whole extent of their territory in a straight line, and discovered nothing. Once, indeed, they thought they were on the scent of man; but they had crossed the trail of a wild boar and could not restrain themselves from following it up, the scent was so fresh, and herein they wasted much time, but succeeded in killing their boar; and Etienne at once proposed that, since it was midday, they should light a fire and dine upon its flesh.

The forester, old Ralph, objected that the smoke would reveal their presence, and frustrate the object of their expedition; but the young noble replied so rudely that the old man withdrew his objection.

The fire was kindled, the smoke arose high above the tree tops in the clear atmosphere, and soon the poor boar was dissected, and the choicest parts of his flesh held on spits. 'Twas somewhat fresh, but none the worse, thought the roasters, for that.

The glade in which they were seated, through which the little brook foamed and tumbled, was surrounded by magnificent old oaks, some with hollow trunks, others with branches gnarled and twisted in a thousand fantastic shapes, some yet retained a portion of their leaves--brown and sere, one or two were enveloped with ivy, and here and there the mistletoe could be seen, thick and verdant. It was a spot the Druids must have delighted to haunt in the times gone by, and one a painter might like to hap upon now in his woodland strolls.

Some fallen logs were close by the stream, and upon these one party placed the viands, or seated their own comely forms, while others piled fresh sticks upon the fire, and held out the fizzing meat on spits--full of enjoyment of the hour, and utterly careless of danger.

Pierre was seated on one of the fallen trees; Etienne was playing with the dogs, now only two in number, when the elder of them lifted its nose in the air, and then began to growl ominously.

"The dog begins to be uneasy," said old Ralph.

"Another wild boar, probably."

"Had we not better appoint a sentinel or two? we might be taken by surprise in this glade."

"Ralph, where hast thou left thy manhood? Art thou afraid of these shadows?"

"They were not shadows who burnt our farms."

"I wish they had some substance, then we might get hold of them."

"May I appoint men to keep watch?"

"It is not necessary," replied Etienne, quite wilfully, for he had determined not to be advised.

The meal was now prepared, and the whole party gathered round the fire, arranging the logs so as to form seats. They were soon eating with the zest of men who have had the advantage of forest air, when they were disturbed by another growl from the older dog.

Ralph looked uneasily round.

"He smells another boar, but one is enough for our dinner," said Etienne, and they turned again to their meal.

Suddenly one of their number, a woodman named Gilbert, leapt up with a wild cry, and then fell down in their midst dead.

An arrow had pierced his heart.

The Normans rose aghast at this sudden intrusion of death, and gazed wildly around.

But all was yet silent, no war cry followed this deadly act of hostility--the woods seemed asleep.

"To cover," cried Ralph the forester, assuming instinctively the command; "let your own arrows be ready for these lurking cowards."

And the Normans, sheltering themselves behind the trunks of the trees, stood, their arrows fitted to the string, to await the onset they momentarily expected.

But it did not take place, and after a trying pause of some minutes, Etienne, who had quite recovered his audacity, and who was a little nettled at being, as it were, superseded in the command for the moment, shouted:

"Keep your eyes open and search the cover, the miscreants have probably fled, but we may put the dogs on the track."

The obedient vassals obeyed, not without some hesitation, for they felt that the moment of exposure might be that of death. Still they were forced to undergo the risk, and they searched the immediate neighbourhood, omitting no precautions that experience in woodland warfare suggested.

But all their search was in vain.

"Shall we blow the horn and summon further assistance?" said Ralph.

"No, we shall but recall the other parties from their duties," said Etienne, not wisely, for the cause was sufficient--they were at least in the neighbourhood of the foe whom all panted to discover; but he was angry with the old forester, and would receive no suggestion.

The dogs, although they ran hither and thither, their noses to the ground, seemed as much in fault as the men, and after an hour had passed in this vain attempt to track the invisible foe, Etienne gave orders to abandon the spot and resume their appointed task, for they had yet to explore a square mile or two of forest--those nearest the morass.

But here Ralph ventured a remonstrance; the day was far spent, they had but an hour or two of daylight, and there were heavy clouds in the northeast, which seemed to indicate a snowstorm; he thought "they had better return towards home as fast as they could, and finish their work on the morrow."

"If thou fearest for thyself, I give thee leave to return, old man; for me, I will stay here till my duty is accomplished, and so will all who value their fealty."

"It is the first time one of thy house has ever thus spoken to me, my young lord."

"Let it be the last time then," said the proud youth; "it depends but upon thyself; and now lead the way--our path is westward. Examine the ground closely; we know we are in the neighbourhood of the foe."

They obeyed, and an hour passed away without any further alarm, when the dogs recommenced their warning growls.

The men appeared terrified: they knew what had followed those warnings before, and their light jerkins of untanned leather were not proof against arrows. They directed their keenest glances into the forest.

The tall trees rose like the pillars of a cathedral, supporting the fretwork of branches on every side; here and there some monarch of the woods had fallen, and was now covered over with ivy; but no other shelter seemed at hand which might conceal a foe, save some little undergrowth here and there.

But the most serious thing was the hour; the day was fast declining; the clouds which floated above them were fast assuming those roseate tints which they receive from the setting sun; while behind them vast masses, which looked black by contrast with the glowing west, were slowly obscuring the heavens, and the winds were heard moaning more and more loudly as each minute passed.

There was hardly a member of the band who did not share Ralph's uneasiness, and who would not have given much to find himself safe in the castle; but their wilful young leader was still unmoved--it must be owned that his courage bordered on foolhardiness.

At length the darkness came, as with a rush, upon them; the black clouds were overhead; some feathery flakes of snow blew about them--precursors of the coming storm. Their work was still unaccomplished, but Etienne at length heeded the murmurs of the party, and calling them together, for they had dispersed to look after the signs they hoped to find, said:

"I fear we must leave our work unfinished--we can see no longer, and may as well return home."

"My lord, would it please thee to number the party? we should be twenty."

"Count them thyself," he said.

"Fifteen."

"We left one behind us where we rested, but where are the rest?" said Ralph.

"It is useless to search for them now--it is so dark, the hour is late--we must return tomorrow."

"Perhaps," said the old forester, sorrowfully, "but we are in a forest infested by these English fiends, perhaps by real demons. There are many who affirm as much, and there is not a man here who might not profitably give up a year of his life to be just five miles nearer home."

The old man took the office of guide upon himself, naturally, as the most experienced in woodcraft, and for a mile or two led with confidence; but at length the darkness became intense, and the guide paused.

The night was indeed terrible; it was as black as ink--they could scarce see the uplifted hand when held before the face; while, to add to their discomfort, the snow, now they had changed their course, blew into their faces; the wind had risen and moaned in hollow gusts amidst the tree tops. Its wailings seemed like prognostications of coming evil.

It was at this juncture Ralph was forced to confess he could no longer feel certain of the track.

"Let us trust to the dogs," said he; "they have an instinct better than our reason. Let them have long leashes, and go as freely as possible; we shall easily follow them, and, please God, shall reach home in time."

"There is a better guide," replied Etienne, as they all suddenly saw a solitary light, as from a man carrying a torch, arise before them in the darkness, and glide gently on into the depths of the forest.

CHAPTER X. EVEN THE TIGER LOVES ITS CUB.

We must once more use the privilege of an author, and transport our readers from the distant forest to Aescendune, speedily as the Genius of the Lamp transported the palace of Aladdin.

The November evening was setting in drearily, the fast-fading gleams of daylight were disappearing amidst thickly-falling snow--it was the hour when tired mortals shut doors and windows, turn instinctively to the cheerful hearth, and while they hear the wind roar without, thank God they are sheltered from its blasts; and perhaps think with some pity of poor homeless wanderers, in pathless forests, or on dismal moors.

Troop after troop, the wearied and dispirited Normans returned from their fruitless chase, till all were safely housed, save one unhappy band. First came the wicked old baron himself, with all his twenty retainers, safe and sound, then Bernard de Torci, who had won to himself an English wife and the manor of Wylmcotte; then Gilbert D'Aubyn of Bearleigh. One after another the troops came in from the outer darkness, white with snow, and shook their mantles and jerkins in the guard chamber within the entrance archway, after which their leaders repaired to the bathroom--for, in their way, the Norman warriors were luxurious--and afterwards, perfumed and anointed, donned the festal robes in which they hoped to dazzle the eyes of the fair, if such were to be found in the Castle of Aescendune.

The hour appointed for the banquet was the first hour of the night--six in the evening we should now call it--and the Majordomo sought his lord.

He found him risen from the bath and vested in flowing robes of richest texture, with an ermine mantle around his shoulders.

"The banquet is ready, my lord, but the guests have not all arrived."

"Has my son returned?"

"He has not come back yet, my lord. Shall I delay the banquet?"

"Are all the others in?"

"Sir Eustace de Senville has not yet come from the forest."

"Let it be delayed half an hour."

The old servant shook his head--the roast meats were done to a turn, and he feared the reputation of the ten cooks, who had toiled the long afternoon before the fires, might suffer.

The baron paced impatiently up and down his chamber.

There is some redeeming feature in the hearts of the worst of us: even Lady Macbeth could not herself slay King Duncan, "he looked so like her father," and the one weak point in the armour of proof--of selfishness, we should say--which encrusted Hugo de Malville, was his love for his son.

Etienne was to him as the apple of his eye; and little wonder--the qualities which, we doubt not, nay, we trust, disfigure that amiable youth in the minds of our gentle readers--his pride, his carelessness for the bodily or mental sufferings of others--all these things were nought to the Norman noble, he loved to see his son stark and fierce, and smiled as he heard of deeds which better men would have sternly refused to condone.

He almost longed for war--for some rebellion on the part of the English--that Etienne might flesh his sword and win his spurs, and, as we see, that wish, at least, was gratified.

But it was this very love for his own son which had made the old baron so unloving a stepfather to Wilfred, in whom he could only see the rival of his boy, and both mother and son were obstacles to be removed--the old sinner did not sin for himself, it must be confessed.

Half an hour passed. Sir Eustace, the last who arrived that night, came in, and the