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

rising; we shall have it quite light soon."

"Would it had risen earlier," croaked Ralph.

The dogs, their noses to the ground, went on bravely, winding in and out between quagmire and rotting herbage. Had the light been brighter, our Normans would have perceived the impressions of numerous footmarks of men on the path they were taking--the dogs were at last on the scent they had sought all day, whether for weal or for woe.

At length the path suddenly ascended a bank, and the light through the tree tops showed that they were approaching a clearing.

They ascended cautiously, and from the summit of the short ascent looked out upon an elevated tableland in the midst of the morass. Before them, encircled by a little brook, which shortly afterwards swelled the waters of the morass, stood a large rustic dwelling, overgrown with ivy; and not far distant rose many houses or huts--in fact, to their no small amazement, they beheld a village, and one, too, that no individual amongst them had ever seen or heard of before.

"'Tis the very nest of vipers we have sought all day," said Etienne.

"And have found to our undoing," lamented Ralph.

"See, there is light behind that shutter, I will creep up and look in," said Etienne; "rest you all here."

There was no glass in common use in those days, and, save when horn was employed, people--the poor at least--had to choose, even in the daytime, between darkness and warmth; for when they let in the light, they let in the weather.

Looking through the chinks in the shutters, Etienne gazed inside.

It was the farmhouse occupied by a former lord, Elfwyn of Aescendune, during the Danish invasions, as recorded in a former Chronicle, and was larger and more commodious than usual in those days. There were several smaller houses, or rather huts, around; but if they had inmates, they were all silent--perhaps asleep, for the hour was late.

Beside a fire, kindled beneath a large open chimney, such as were then in use in the bettermost houses--for the poor were content with a hole in the roof--sat a youth of some sixteen years of age, busily attending to a large pot over the fire, from which, from time to time, savoury fumes ascended, the odour of which gladdened even the olfactory organs of our young Norman aristocrat.

Etienne knew him: it was Eadwin, the son of Wilfred's old nurse, for whom he had an ancient grudge, which he at once resolved to gratify.

He summoned Ralph and the rest who had escaped the morass--they were only ten in number, the others had succumbed to the horrors of that fearful night.

Yet even so, the impulses of pride and cruelty were not subdued in the heart of Etienne, son of Hugo.

"The English robbers have left their haunt for a time; doubtless they were the fellows who passed us in the forest, and there is but one boy left in charge, of whom I know something; we will seize him and learn the truth."

"Suppose they come back while we tarry here?"

"We will set a watch to warn us in good time."

Etienne stepped lightly to the door; it was actually unbarred, so secure did the English feel in this hitherto inaccessible retreat, and his hand was on the shoulder of his intended victim before he had taken the alarm. He turned round and started violently as he recognised his ancient enemies, then made a vain attempt to gain the door, which was immediately and easily frustrated.

"Nay, thou young oaf, thou canst not escape. Dost thou not know thy own lords? Thou art a runaway thrall, and thy life is forfeited; but if thou wilt but use thy tongue, thou mayest perchance save it and escape lightly. Tell me--Who are the people who live here? Who is their leader? How many there be? Where they are now?"

The young dweller in the woods had by this time recovered his self possession. He was a mere lad, yet endued with manly courage which fitted him to endure nobly for the sake of those whom he loved.

"Thou art not my true lord, and never wast; neither will I answer thy questions, though thou slay me."

"Then thou mayst prepare for death."

"They live who may avenge me."

"We will chance that. Stand yonder, against the wall, stretch out thine arms, or they shall be stretched for thee.

"Tie him, my men, to that post--" pointing, as he spoke, to one of the uprights which supported the roof, and which was partially detached from the wooden wall--"and extend his arms to the posts on either side."

Conscious that resistance was hopeless, Eadwin submitted quietly to be bound, listening nevertheless so eagerly for sounds from without that Ralph marked his strained attention; Etienne was intent upon his designed cruelty.

"Once more, wilt thou answer me?" he said.

"No," said his victim, quietly and firmly.

"Then thou must suffer. Thou shalt die as thy St. Edmund did--fit death it was, too, for a beggarly English saint. I ask thee for the last time."

No reply. Etienne bade the men stand aside, and then, taking his stand at the other end of the room, which may have been twenty feet long, took accurate aim and shot an arrow through the muscle of the right arm.

"Wilt thou speak?"

Beads of sweat stood upon the brow; but the lips found strength yet to answer--once more the bolt flew, and the left arm was pierced in turn.

"Wilt thou answer my questions now?

"The rebels and fools, thy countrymen, have been amusing themselves by shooting at us all day; methinks the tables are turned now."

He shot again and wounded his victim in the shoulder. The whole frame trembled; the lips moved, as if in prayer.

"Let me shoot this time," said Pierre, "if he will not answer."

"Take the bow then; hit the other shoulder."

Pierre took very accurate aim, and shot right through the heart. One convulsive throb, and the body hang by the cords dead, and past the reach of suffering.

"Thou fool!" said Etienne, forgetting his customary courtesy to his equals, "thou hast spoilt all--we may never learn the truth now."

"He was too brave a lad to be tortured," said Pierre, upon whom the patient courage of the sufferer had made a very deep impression, "so I gave him the coup de grace."

"My lord, had we not better depart? These English may return at any moment; tomorrow we may come with all the force at our command."

"We will sup first at all events. That soup smells good; it will put a little warmth into our bodies, and it is worth a little risk to have the chance of drying our clothes at this fire."

So they left the body of poor Eadwin where it had fallen, and being now spent with hunger, they poured the soup into basins and ate it greedily.

Suddenly the door was burst open, the room was filled with their foes--uplifted weapons, deadly blows, cries, curses in English and French--in short, such a melee ensued that it passes all our power to describe it. The fire was kicked over the place--blood hissed as it ran over the floor and met the hot embers--the torches were speedily extinguished or converted into weapons--men rolled over and over in deadly strife, seeking where to plant the dagger or knife--they throttled each other, or dashed hostile heads against the floor--they tore the hair or beard as they struck beneath, not with the fist, but the knife--on rolled the strife--the very building shook--till there was a sudden lull, and in a few more minutes it was peace.

A dozen Englishmen stood upright amidst prostrate corpses, many streaming with blood; while many bodies lay on the floor, eight of which were discovered, when the lights were rekindled, to be Normans.

Only one Norman yet lived, and he was wounded--it was Pierre.

The young Breton lay on the ground, grievously wounded in several places, yet not mortally--and fully conscious--when he heard an eager voice inquire in a tone of authority:

"What is the meaning of all this? How did they cross the morass? Are many of our people hurt?"

He looked up; the voice startled him. Well it might--it was to him a voice from the grave.

There, in the doorway, living and well, strong and well-liking, in the glare of torchlight, stood his former companion, Wilfred of Aescendune.

Their eyes met, and they gazed fixedly, yes, and proudly, upon each other; but the glance of Wilfred softened first. He saw before him the only one of his former companions who had ever given him a friendly word, whom misapprehension alone had estranged from him, which he (Wilfred) had refused to remove.

"We meet again, Pierre de Morlaix."

"Thou art not dead, then. How didst thou escape? Who burnt the monastery?"

"Art thou so demented as to ask me? Dost thou think English torches fired an English house of God? Times are changed now, and thou seest me surrounded by the vassals of my father's house, who own no lord but their natural chieftain. But where is Etienne? We have watched your party all day, and know that the young tyrant was their leader. Is he amongst the dead?"

"Look for thyself."

No. Etienne was not amongst the dead. How, then, had he escaped?

"Search the premises--search the woods--stop the paths across the morass--men and dogs, all of you. Better all the rest had escaped: he shall never, never live to be lord of Aescendune."

And Wilfred vanished to give orders out of doors.

An hour had passed away; the dead had been removed, the English to be decently buried--for there was an old church built by Elfwyn of Aescendune, during the Danish wars {xi}, and around it lay the graves of those who had died in troublous times; there English priests were still found to serve at the altar; Norman tyranny did not spare the English Church any more than the English nobility.

But the Norman dead were simply carried to a quagmire of bottomless depth which absorbed the bodies, and furnished a convenient though dreadful grave.

And in this division of the slain, young Eadwin, pierced with four wounds, was found; and the arrows, yet remaining, showed at once that he had not fallen in fair strife.

The search for Etienne, still unsuccessful, was being eagerly pursued, when Wilfred returned, bent on questioning Pierre, and beheld the dead body of Eadwin.

He was deeply moved, for he had loved the poor lad, his foster brother, well, and could not easily restrain his emotion, but so soon as he was master of himself, the desire for vengeance superseded softer emotions, and he ordered the wounded Pierre to be brought before him.

He had no difficulty in learning the truth. Pierre, now upon his mettle, somewhat sorrowfully said that as the young thrall would not answer his lord when bidden, Etienne had endeavoured to compel him.

"Thou hadst, then, no part in it?"

"I gave the coup de grace."

"Then thou hast sealed thine own fate: it is folly to extend mercy to those who never show it."

"I have not asked it of thee--of the associate of murderers and outlaws."

The sun rose clear and bright after that eventful night--the storm was over--its rising beams fell upon a company of archers drawn up in the English encampment--upon a young warrior doomed to die, who stood bravely before them. The gray-haired priest who had prepared him for death--the only favour shown him--bade him a last farewell; the bows twanged, and the same arrows which had transfixed the flesh of Eadwin pierced the heart of Pierre de Morlaix.

CHAPTER XII. THE ENIGMA SOLVED.

We owe our readers some apology for having so long trifled with their patience concerning the fate of Wilfred, and we trust they are somewhat anxious to hear how he escaped the flames on that fatal night when the monastery was burnt.

When good Father Alphege heard that the boy had returned under captivity, for whose safety he was so anxious, he sent at once another messenger to the good Bishop Geoffrey, imploring his aid for the orphan.

But the monastery was already watched and neither letter nor messenger was ever heard of again.

Imagine the good Father's astonishment when the following night he received Wilfred safe and sound from the hands of Hugo, to do penance.

"Wilfred, my dear boy, tell me all. What has become of the letter I entrusted you with?"

"It was taken from me in my sleep. Write another; oh father, let me start again at once!"

"The roads are all beset, my dear child, as I have heard today. I have already sent a messenger, but tremble for his safety."

"What can I do to avenge my mother--my dear mother?"

"Wait, my child, only for a little while; God is too just to let such crime remain unpunished."

"Why was not his arm outstretched to save? Oh, my father, I shall become an infidel if this villain escapes unpunished!"

"Only wait; one day is with Him as a thousand years."

"But I shall not live a thousand years; I must see the day myself."

"Nay, dear child, thou art not thyself; this is wicked. Go