“Open your ranks, good people,” cried Hugh de Moreville in a loud voice, as he entered the hall of the Louvre, with the two fiddlers and the man who played the guitar and the two noble demoiselles carrying the heron; “I have a heron which my falcon has caught, and which, methinks, is fitting food for the knights who are subject to the ladies, who have such delicate complexions. My lords, there should be no coward sitting at this board, except the gentle lovers; yet I have with me the bird which is the most cowardly of all others; for such is the heron by nature, that, as soon as it sees its own shadow, it is astonished, and gives way to fear; and, since the heron is so timorous, and the timid ought to make their vows on it, I opine that I ought to give it to my Lord Louis, who is so faint-hearted that he allows himself to be deprived of England, the noble country of which his lady and companion is the rightful heir; and, seeing that his heart has failed him, she is like to die disinherited. However, he must vow on the heron to take some step befitting the occasion.”
Louis reddened perceptibly as De Moreville and the demoiselles stood before him with the heron, and his eye flashed with pride and ire.
“By St. Denis!” said he, solemnly, “since I am charged with timorousness, and the word coward is almost thrown in my face, I must needs prove my worth. I do vow and promise that, before this year is past, I will cross the sea, my father’s subjects with me, and defy King John; and, if he does come against me, I will fight him, let him be sure of that. With my oath have I taken this vow; and, if I live long enough, I will perform it, or die in labouring to accomplish it—so help me God and St. Denis!”
When Hugh de Moreville heard the words of Prince Louis, he smiled with the anticipation of triumph.
“Now, in truth,” exclaimed he, “matters will go right; and, for my part, I ought to have joy that, through this heron I have caught, victory will be ours; and I swear by St. Moden that I will attend the Lord Louis to England, and act as marshal of his army, and do all that in me lies to set him on the throne, which is his lady’s by right; and, if I live, I will accomplish the vow I have taken.”
Again Hugh de Moreville moved on with the two silver dishes, and while the fiddles and the guitar played, and the demoiselles sang, he carried the heron to the Count of Nevers, and the Count of Perche, and the Lord de Coucy, and to each of the knights and barons present, who each took the vow, and then to the Viscount of Melun, who, however hostile to King John and England, was not much gratified with the scene that was being enacted before his eyes.
“Sir,” said De Moreville, pausing before the viscount, “vow to the heron, I pray thee.”
“At your will,” replied the viscount, sighing deeply; “but I marvel greatly at so much talk. Boasting is nothing worth unless it be accomplished. When we are in taverns or in festive halls, drinking the strong wines, and looked upon by ladies drawing the kerchiefs round their smooth necks, every man is eager for war and glory. Some, at such times, in imagination conquer Yaumont and Aguilant, and others Roland and Oliver; but when we are in the field, on our steeds, our limbs benumbed with cold, with our shields round our necks, and our spears lowered, and the enemy approaches, then we wish we had never made such vows. For such boasts, in truth, I would not give a bezant; not that I say this to excuse myself; for I vow and promise, by the finger of St. John the Baptist, which was of late brought from Constantinople, that if our lord, Louis, will cross the sea, and enter England, I will accompany him with all my forces, and do my devoir in aiding him to gain the realm which is by right his lady’s.”
Hugh de Moreville smiled grimly as the Viscount of Melun made his vow, and took the dishes, and again moving, with the fiddles and guitar playing, and the demoiselles singing, he knelt before Blanche of Castile, and said that “the heron he would distribute in time, but meanwhile he implored her to say that which her heart would dictate;” and the princess, having vowed, in case of need, to embark for the war which Louis and his lords had sworn to undertake, the bird was cut up and eaten, and the ceremony closed.
And now Louis of France delayed no longer. Next day he presented himself to Philip Augustus, and begged that his voyage might not be obstructed, for that he was under a vow which he could not break; and the king, though somewhat against his inclination, granted his son’s request; and Louis, with his lords and knights, and Hugh de Moreville, hastened to Calais.
At that time, one of the most remarkable of naval heroes was a Fleming by birth, who had originally been in a convent, and who was popularly known as Eustace the Monk. It is said that, on the death of his brother without children, Eustace cast the cowl, and threw aside the monk’s habit, and abandoned the convent to inherit the property. But, be that as it may have been, he had become a captain of pirates, and made his name terrible on the sea. Allured into the service of Louis, Eustace had fitted out at Calais a fleet to transport the French army to the English coast; and the prince, having embarked with his fighting men, put to sea. The voyage was not particularly prosperous. The winds were stormy, and the mariners of the Cinque Ports were eager and earnest in their attacks on the French armament. Louis, however, escaped all perils, and on the 26th of May, 1216, landed at Sandwich.
But no sooner did he set foot in England than the legate excommunicated him, and the pope, on hearing that he had crossed the Channel, exclaimed, significantly—
“Sword, sword, spring from the scabbard, and sharpen thyself to kill!”
HUGH DE MOREVILLE did not await the sailing of Prince Louis and the fleet which Eustace the Monk had fitted out at Calais. Indeed, the Norman baron was all eagerness to reach London, and communicate to his confederates the intelligence that the French prince was really coming with a formidable force. Embarking in a swift vessel, and having a prosperous voyage, he soon reached the English coast, and, hastening to the capital, carried to Fitzwalter, and De Quency, and Stephen Langton, intelligence that his important mission to the court of Paris had been crowned with complete success.
De Moreville was still in London at his great mansion in Ludgate, but preparing to set out for Chas-Chateil, where he had reason to believe all was not quite right, and whither he had already despatched Ralph Hornmouth, in whom he had great faith, when one morning a visitor was announced, and the Norman baron, on looking up, perceived that it was Walter Merley. The young noble, however, looked haggard, careworn, and sad, and marvellously unlike the keen and sanguine partisan of Fitzwalter and the barons who had appeared as a guest at the board of Constantine Fitzarnulph, and aided in alluring the citizens into the alliance which enabled the confederates to seize the capital and strike dismay into the king.
“Walter Merley,” said De Moreville, a little taken by surprise at his visitor’s woe-begone look, “I give thee welcome, and have news of great import to tell thee, so I pray thee be seated.”
“Nay, De Moreville,” replied the young noble, sadly, very sadly indeed, “it needs not. I already know it, and I grieve to think that other matters should be as they are. For yourself, I must say that you have misled me. Nay, frown not; it avails nought with me. I believed you to be a man true to England in thought, word, and deed; and I, the son of a woman of English blood, mark you, and therefore more closely interested in the national welfare than any mere Anglo-Norman, understanding that it was the object of yourself, and the barons with whom you are associated, to secure the liberties of England by forcing John of Anjou to confirm the laws of the Confessor, and to restore the usages that prevailed in England in the Confessor’s reign—understanding this, I repeat, I not only gave you all the aid in my power, but exposed my brother and my mother to the vengeance of a king who is as cruel and unjust as he is treacherous. And now neither of them have a roof under which to shelter their head. Their hearths are desolate, their castles and manors in the hands of strangers.”
“Even taking it at the worst, Walter,” said De Moreville, startled more and more at the young noble’s aspect and style of address, “you must own that others in the North besides your kindred have felt the king’s vengeance. De Vesci, and De Roos, and Delaval, and half a dozen others, are equally sufferers.”
“But, De Moreville,” continued Merley, still calmly and sadly, “what I complain of is this: that you and your confederates have deserted all the professions so loudly and so boastfully made, and that you have betrayed England. Nay, frown not, for I tell you again that the son of Dame Juliana Merley is not to be daunted by a frown; I say you have betrayed the cause of England by calling into the kingdom a foreign prince who is certain to hold the ancient laws of England in lighter regard than the worst Plantagenet whom the imagination could conjure up; and of all foreigners a Frenchman, and of all Frenchmen a Capet, and of all Capets a son of Philip Augustus, England’s fellest foe.”
“Necessity, Walter—a stern necessity.”
“However,” continued Merley, more calmly, “I do not recognise the necessity; nor, credit me, will the country long recognise it. Meanwhile I can take no part in the struggle. King John I abhor; Prince Louis I abhor still more than I do King John. I have, under your counsel, De Moreville, taken such a course as to involve in ruin the house to which I belong. My brother and my mother are exiles north of the Tweed, dependent on our potent kinsman for the very bread they eat. All that I could have endured to behold; but to think that this was suffered to place a Frenchman and a Capet on the throne of Alfred and Edward maddens me. But, farewell! I go to Flanders to seek oblivion in the excitement of war; and may God pardon you, De Moreville, for having brought this wretched foreign prince and his rascal myrmidons into England, for I own that I cannot. I have said.”
De Moreville was much affected, and buried his head in his bosom to conceal his agitation. This was not the kind of language he expected to hear from an eager partisan of the baronial cause; and he certainly began to view the matter in a different light than when he was at the court of Paris, and thinking only of vengeance on King John. However, he felt that every awkwardness and inconvenience must be endured, and every reproach borne, now that the great step was taken, and it was too late to recede. He raised his head resolutely, with the intention of bringing his young friend over to his view. When he did so, he found that he was alone. Walter Merley was gone.
MEANWHILE King John had left Dover for Guildford, and marched from Guildford to Winchester, and from Winchester to Bristol, having taken the precaution of strongly garrisoning the castles of Windsor, Wallingford, and Corfe; and Louis of France, after landing at Sandwich, in spite of the legate, led his army to Rochester, and on the 30th of May, 1216, took that fortress from the garrison which John had left within its walls six months earlier. Having thus inaugurated his career in England with a conquest which raised the hopes of John’s enemies, Louis, accompanied by the Lord de Coucy, the Viscount of Melun, the Count of Nevers, and the Count of Perche, marched his army towards London.
It was Thursday, the 2nd of June, when the heir of the Capets rode into the capital of England, and met with a reception which must have excited at once his wonder and contempt. Both by barons and citizens he was welcomed with rapturous applause, and conducted to the church of St. Paul’s, a rude and homely structure, standing amidst the ruins of the Temple of Diana, so soon to be replaced by a magnificent edifice; and within St. Paul’s the mayor, aldermen, and chief citizens took the oath of allegiance. This ceremony over, Louis mounted his steed, and, riding to Westminster, entered the abbey, where the Anglo-Norman barons solemnly acknowledged him as their sovereign, and swore to be true to him—the French prince taking an oath on his part to restore to every one his rights, and to recover for the crown whatever had been lost to it by King John. Louis, being under a sentence of excommunication, could not be crowned. However, he was hailed King of England, and, in that capacity, nominated Langton to the office of chancellor.
But Louis and the companions of his adventurous enterprise were well aware that ceremonies, however solemn, could not render his position secure, and that the crown could only be his by right of conquest. No time, therefore, did he lose before letting loose his foreign troops and his Anglo-Norman partisans on the unfortunate country which he hoped, when conquered, to govern by the strong hand. Having despatched the Count of Nevers to besiege Windsor, Robert Fitzwalter to make war in Suffolk, and the Earl of Essex to gain possession of Essex, he himself raised the royal banner of France, led his army from London into Sussex, seized the fortresses in that county, and manned them with French troops; marched from Sussex into Surrey, taking the castles of Reigate, Guildford, and Farnham; and, passing into Hampshire, appeared on the 14th of June before Winchester, and soon made himself master of the ancient capital of England and all that it contained—the city, in fact, surrendering at his summons, and the king’s castle and the bishop’s palace eleven days later.
Naturally enough, so brilliant an opening of the campaign exerted a powerful influence on men of all opinions. The populace, indeed, continued sullen, and their hatred of the foreigner grew daily stronger. But people who had much to lose were startled by events so important as weekly occurred. The friends of Louis gained confidence, and took bolder steps; his foes were disheartened, and led to doubt and hesitate. Neutrals began to make up their minds as to the merits of the controversy, and, in most cases, decided on taking the winning side. So far the invader was pleasant to all men, and so charmed his Anglo-Norman partisans by his affability, that his praise was on thousands of tongues; and he was everywhere contrasted most favourably with King John. Even the reports spread abroad as to the beauty, the intelligence, and the high spirit of his wife had their effect. Besides, victory seemed to sit on his helm, and misfortune to have claimed his rival as her own. Everywhere the shout of “Montjoie, St. Denis, God aid us, and our Lord Louis!” was shouted by warriors confident of triumph. Nowhere could John remain, even for a week at a time, without having to make a hasty exit. Daily the shouts for “our Lord Louis” became louder and more general; and at length the nobles who had hitherto adhered to the royal cause, believing that, do what they might, the invader was destined to reign, lost heart and hope, and, in order to escape the utter ruin that stared them in the face, ventured to the camp of Louis, and gave in their adhesion.
First appeared Hugh Neville, and yielded the castle of Marlborough; then the Earls of Oxford, and Arundel, and Albemarle, and Warren made their submission; and so hopeless appeared the struggle, that even Salisbury, notwithstanding the Plantagenet blood that ran in his veins, appeared at the French camp, and did as Hugh Neville and his peers the other earls had done before him. Pembroke, however, remained stanchly loyal, and somewhat startled the conquerors by wresting the city of Worcester from their grasp, almost while they were triumphing in the thought of having taken it; and, what in the end proved of immense importance to the royal cause, the mariners of the Cinque Ports continued to be loyally devoted to the crown. Everything, however, led Louis to believe in the ultimate success of his enterprise; and having obtained possession of Odiham, he was already master of all the country as far as Corfe Castle, when, on the 22nd of July, he appeared at Dover, and laid siege to that stronghold rising in silent majesty from the range of cliffs, and regarded as the key of the kingdom.
It could not be denied that the castle of Dover presented a formidable aspect; and even the most sanguine of the invaders must have eyed its towers and battlements with some misgiving. Louis, however, had no doubt of being able to reduce it. In fact, he had made preparations which he believed could not fail in their object, and particularly relied on engines of war sent by his father, Philip Augustus, particularly a machine called a “malvoisine,” with which to batter the walls. But the effect was not commensurate with the prince’s expectations. Hubert de Burgh not only looked calmly upon the besieging force and apparatus, but soon took such measures to mitigate the violence of the assault that the French were driven back, and forced to remove their lines to a greater distance from the castle than they had at first deemed necessary. Louis, Capet like, lost his temper when he found matters were not going so favourably as he wished.
“By St. Denis!” cried he in a rage, “I swear that I will not depart hence till I have taken the castle, and hanged the garrison.”
Meanwhile the Count of Nevers and the barons of England who served under his banner had failed to take Windsor, which was defended by Ingelard D’Athie, a warrior of great experience; and learning that King John was moving northward at the head of a slender force, they marched to intercept him. John, however, contrived to elude them; and learning that he had taken possession of Stamford, they retraced their steps, and proceeded to Dover to aid Louis in the siege, which was making no progress.
It happened, however, that among the prisoners taken by the French was Thomas, brother of Hubert de Burgh, and Louis now smiled with triumph as he anticipated the hour for setting the royal standard of France on the heights of Godwin’s tower. Demanding a parley, he sent to inform Hubert de Burgh of what had happened.
“If you do not surrender the castle,” said the messengers of Louis, “you are likely presently to see your brother put to death, with every torment likely to render death horrible.”
“I grieve to hear it,” replied Hubert, calmly; “but I cannot value any man’s life in comparison with the loyalty which I have sworn to maintain.”
“Our lord, Louis,” said the messengers, returning, “will give you a large sum of money to surrender.”
“I intend to hold out the castle and maintain my loyalty,” was the brief and conclusive reply.
Finding that Hubert de Burgh was proof against threats and promises, Louis became very irritable, and treated the Anglo-Norman barons with a disdainful indifference which sorely galled them, and at the same time gave much offence by bestowing the earldoms of Wiltshire and Surrey on the Count of Nevers, who was very avaricious and exceedingly unpopular. Jealousy was already at work in the camp before Dover, and many of the barons were beginning to think less unkindly of King John, and were inclined to return to their allegiance, when a story which was spread abroad gave them an excellent excuse for changing sides, and in the long run did better service to the royal cause than could have been rendered by a thousand knights.
While Louis was prosecuting the siege of Dover, the Viscount of Melun, who had remained in London, was attacked by a malady which his physicians assured him could not fail to end fatally; and, finding himself drawing near to the gates of death, he sent for Hugh de Moreville and others of the barons who were then in the capital, and, turning on his couch, he informed them that he had something on his conscience, of which he felt bound to relieve it before going to his account.
“Your fate,” continued the viscount, “grieves me, for you are doomed. Our lord Louis and sixteen of his comrades, on leaving France, bound themselves by an oath, as soon as the realm of England is conquered and he is crowned king, to banish for ever you who have joined his standard, as traitors, who are not to be trusted. Moreover, your whole offspring will be exterminated or beggared. Doubt not my words. I who lie here dying was one of the conspirators. Look to your safety.”
And, having given this warning, the Viscount of Melun lay back on his couch and died.
Naturally enough, this story, when it reached the camp at Dover, made a strong impression, and the barons regarded the movements of their foreign allies with grave suspicion, and communicated their thoughts to each other in whispers. But they had placed themselves in such a predicament that they knew not what steps to take. In fact, Louis had them under his thumb. He had made himself master of the whole South of England. In the West and in the North his power was great, supported in one quarter by the Prince of Wales and in the other by the King of Scots.
“We are like woodcocks caught in our springe,” said one.
“And ere long,” remarked others, “we may be dealt with as deer in a buckstall.”
“In truth,” observed Hugh de Moreville, “our lord Louis is a deceiver, and we are his dupes. But patience, and the tables will be turned, without our cause being lost. It is possible to dupe the deceiver. Meantime, let us use these Frenchmen while they believe they are using us. Patience, I say, and one day they will discover with amazement that the tables are turned. By St. Moden, I swear it!”
“Our friends are already beginning to fall away from our cause, as rats desert a falling house,” said the first speaker bitterly.
“It is true,” said De Moreville; and he sighed as he thought of Walter Merley.
IT was August, 1215, and Oakmede, with its old house of timber and Roman brick, and its great wooden gates, and irregular pile of outbuildings, reposed in the warmth and sunshine of a bright autumn day. All was still and peaceful around the homely hall of the once mighty Icinglas; and though the country was ringing with alarms and rumours of war, the inhabitants pursued their ordinary avocations, apparently taking as little interest in the quarrel of King John and the Anglo-Norman barons as if Oakmede had been situated in the recesses of the forests of Servia.
The hinds were employed in the fields with the labours of harvest; the swineherd was in the woodlands with his grunting herd; and nobody appeared in the shape of living mortal save an old cowherd, in a garment much resembling the smock-frock still worn by English peasants, and Wolf, the son of Styr, and half-a-dozen urchins from the neighbouring hamlet, who watched the varlet with interest and admiration as he fed a couple of the dogs which were then commonly used to hunt wild boars, and ministered to the wants of two young hawks, which he had procured by a long journey and by climbing a precipice at the risk of his life.
The urchins evidently regarded Wolf as a very important personage, and even the old cowherd treated him with deference. Having embarked at a Spanish port, bound for London, with the servants and baggage of the English knights and squires who fought at Muradel, and deemed it prudent to free themselves from all incumbrances before undertaking their adventurous expedition to Flanders, Wolf had reached Oakmede many months before Oliver Icingla, and made the most of his and his master’s adventures in Castile and at the court of Burgos, telling such stories and singing such songs as he had picked up, and playing on a small musical instrument which he had brought with him, and which the inmates of Oakmede deemed very outlandish. However, he contrived to establish such a reputation for himself that, boy as he was, rivals bent before him. Even Dame Isabel’s steward could not hold his own against a varlet who had figured in yellow and scarlet at a king’s court; and the swineherd—great official as a swineherd was in a Saxon household—was fain to content himself with being deemed of inferior interest.
No sooner, therefore, did Wolf ask the urchins to bear a hand than they vied with each other in their efforts to have the pride of assisting him. At length, however, they grew weary of watching the operations going on in the stable-yard, and wandered forth to feast their eyes on the apples clustering on the trees of an unguarded orchard—to roll among the lambs that nibbled on the sunny sward—to gaze on the brindled cows reclining under the shady trees or cooling their hoofs in the pond—and to throw pebbles at the white pigeons cooing on the roofs of the brewhouses or winging their way over the stable-yard to settle and bask on the barn-tops; and Wolf—who, in default of older and more experienced functionaries, united at Oakmede the offices of falconer, huntsman, and groom in his own person—applied himself to the most congenial of all his duties—namely, attending to a young horse, iron-grey, which was own brother to Ayoub, and had lately been distinguished by the name of Muradel, in honour of King Alphonso’s famous victory over the Moors. Ayoub and Muradel were steeds of value, and had a great pedigree, being, in fact, the descendants of a Spanish horse and a mare with which Cœur-de-Lion had gifted his good knight Edric Icingla. Some enthusiasts added that the said horse was the identical Spanish charger which King Richard bestrode at Cyprus when he went forth to chastise the Emperor Isaac Angelus; but this was more than doubtful. Wolf, however, was happy in the company of these steeds: he had been familiar with Ayoub and Muradel from the day they were foaled, and was in the habit of speaking to them almost as if they had been human beings; and fierce as they were by nature, and intractable in the hands of strangers, they were in the hands of this boy quiet as lambs and patient as asses. It is true Wolf treated them with real kindness, and he was engaged combing and washing Muradel’s mane and tail, and singing to the dumb animal snatches of a Spanish ballad about the Cid, and Bavieca, the Cid’s renowned charger, when he was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps. As he turned round, his father, Styr, the Anglo-Saxon, stood before him.
“All hail, father,” said Wolf, kindly, as he resumed his operations on the mane of Muradel. “How farest thou?”
“Passing well, Wolf, boy,” answered Styr, examining the iron-grey with the eye of a judge of horseflesh; “but I have tidings that sit heavy on my heart. Knowest thou what has come of the young Hlaford?”
“Nought further than that he left the Tower of London with King John, and sent word to Dame Isabel that he had, with Holy Edward’s aid, escaped the peril that threatened him,” said Wolf, desisting from his work, and turning round to look in the old man’s face. “Wherefore askest thou, father?”
“Wherefore do I ask?” said Styr, repeating his son’s words. “Marry, because he is missing, and his friends know not what has befallen him.”
Wolf gave a long, low whistle, and then shrugged his shoulders, and drew a long face.
“Wolf, boy,” said Styr, after a pause, during which the expression of his countenance became very serious, “I wish he may not have come to grief. St. Dunstan forbid that it should so prove; but my fear is that he has fallen into the hands of the Lord Hugh de Moreville, who is a cruel man, and heir, as thou mayst have heard, of the Moreville who imbrued his hands in the blood of St. Thomas of Canterbury; albeit the world, in consideration of the son’s ill-gotten wealth and power, forget his father’s crime. If so, peradventure the young Hlaford may lose his life as well as his liberty; for as my departed master—may his soul have gotten grace!—told King Richard the Lion-hearted, Hugh de Moreville is a man who would not spare his own child, if his own child stood in the way of his ambition. But say nought of all this to the Hleafdian, for it might bring her down with sorrow to the grave.”
“But how came this to thine ear, father?” asked Wolf, after a brief silence.
“In truth,” answered Styr, somewhat confused, “it was made known to me by him whom men call Will with the Club.”
“But methought Forest Will had saved the king’s life while hunting by taking a bull by the horns, and been received into favour, and turned out to be a great lord.”
“True; but matters did not go with him as he would fain have had them go, and he has again taken to the greenwood.”
Wolf whistled, and, meditating the whilst, combed Muradel’s tail, then laid aside the comb, took off his light cap, smoothed his long yellow hair, and looked long up to the rafters of the stable, and then spoke.
“And hast thou any notion where the young Hlaford may be, father?” asked he, suddenly.
“Certes, boy, I wot not where he is,” replied Styr; “but I deem it most like that, if he has fallen into Hugh de Moreville’s hands, he has been carried either to Chas-Chateil, or to Mount Moreville on the Scottish marches.” “If,” added the Saxon, “there was any means of gaining access to De Moreville’s castle, and learning whether such a prisoner is there, all might be amended.”
Wolf cast his eyes on the ground, reflected long and earnestly, and then looked up with the exultation of one who has solved a difficult problem.
“Father,” said he, “I have it; leave the business to me. It is, I own, parlous ugly; yet, with the blessing of St. Edward, who is known to favour the Icinglas and such as serve them, I will hazard limb and life in the adventure.”
Styr the Saxon winced, and his paternal affection got the better of his hereditary devotion, as before his mind’s eye rose a vision of his son—so young, so comely, and so slight of frame—at the mercy of Hugh de Moreville, and in the clutches of De Moreville’s myrmidons.
“Wolf, boy,” said he, tenderly, “this may not be. Hugh de Moreville is a man whom it is not chancy to meddle with.”
“Hout, father!” exclaimed Wolf, who was waxing very valiant under the influence of his imagination. “What more dangerous is the Lord Hugh than any other lord? Perchance, after all, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“But thou art young, Wolf, being as yet a boy, with years to grow; thy form is too slight and thy strength all-insufficient to fight with so stormy a sea as that on which thou wouldst venture.”
“Fear not for me, father,” interrupted Wolf, half offended; “nor deem that because I am not so big of body as Forest Will, my peril will, therefore, be the greater. Bulk is not craft, or the fox would be less cunning than the ass; nor is size courage, or the sheep would not run before the dog; nor is stature swiftness, otherwise a cow could out-race a hare. Anyhow, I will go, and time will try whether I have mettle enough in me or not, as frost tries the strange plants in the physic garden of the monks of St. Alban’s. But speak on, father, that I may be instructed by thy words, for does not the proverb tell us that as the old cock crows the young one learns?”
Styr the Saxon, however, was not listening to his son’s remarks, for a great struggle was taking place in his breast, and when Wolf turned round for a reply his father’s chin was resting on his bosom, and his eye directed to the ground.
“Wolf,” said he, at length raising his head, with a sigh, “this is not an adventure to be undertaken lightly, nor without asking leave of the mother who bore thee. But pass through the woodland to thy home at eventide, and I will then tell thee more fully what I think concerning it.”
“As thou wiliest, father,” said Wolf, with filial reverence; “but fail not to consider what our grief would be, if, through our neglect, or aught of cowardice on our parts, evil befel the young Hlaford—the son, father, of him who is away.”
The eyes of Styr the Saxon filled with tears, and he did not attempt to speak; but, abruptly leaving the stable, he strode away from Oakmede, and made his way through the forest.
ONE day in autumn, about a month after Styr the Anglo-Saxon had taken counsel with his son in the stable at Oakmede, when King John was occupied with the siege of Rochester, and Hugh de Moreville was in London urging on his confederates the desperate expedient which they subsequently adopted, a gallant party of knights and squires, armed with spears and hunting-horns, and attended by huntsmen with boar-hounds, left the castle of Chas-Chateil.
Riding through the chase, the hunters penetrated into the great forest of Berkshire, which at that time stretched from Windsor right away up the vale of the Kennet to Hungerford, a distance of some forty miles as the crow flies. Their object was to hunt a wild boar, and they were headed by Sir Anthony Waledger, who rode Oliver Icingla’s black steed Ayoub, an animal to which the Norman knight had taken a decided fancy, and which he already looked on as his own property.
It has been hinted that Sir Anthony Waledger was somewhat boastful over his cups, in which he at times indulged more deeply than prudence warranted; and after a carouse, while his blood was still heated, he at times deluded himself with the idea that he was an important feudal magnate. On such occasions, and in De Moreville’s absence, the knight gave himself much greater airs than ever the lord of the castle took the trouble to do; and as he paid his vows to St. Hubert, the patron of sylvan sports, as well as to St. Martin, the patron of mediæval Bacchanalians, he was particularly fond of displaying his mightiness and getting rid of his superfluous energy by indulging in that violent sport which has been described as “the image of war.” Nay, more; Sir Anthony relished violent sport in its most violent form, and looking with contempt on hawking and hunting the deer, even by way of whet for fiercer game, devoted himself to the wolf and the wild boar. Many were the perilous adventures he had passed in the forest; but he boasted frequently that he loved danger for its own sake, and loved it all the better that it was accompanied by the excitement of the chase.
“Sirs,” he would exclaim, when the red wine of Bordeaux sparkled in his cup, and the fire began to glow in his brain, “let us leave falconry to the ladies, and damsels, and spaniels, and stag-hunting to the greyhounds and men who are women in all but the name. By the head of my namesake, St. Anthony, I prefer pressing close on the track of the bear or the wild boar, beasts that have the courage to turn to bay and rend their pursuers.”
On this occasion Sir Anthony Waledger, having washed down his breakfast with copious draughts, was particularly enthusiastic. Moreover, he was violent in proportion to his enthusiasm. He talked loudly and largely about the qualities of De Moreville’s dogs, and which was likely to hunt the best, always in a way which would have led a stranger to believe they were his own, brooking no contradiction whatever; and no sooner had the huntsmen roused a huge boar from his lair than he became highly excited, and, shouting loudly as he hounded the dogs on the game, dashed his spurs into Ayoub’s side and went off in keen pursuit. All the forenoon the chase continued, and as their horses grew weary and began to flag, the hunters gradually tailed off; but Sir Anthony never halted in the pursuit, nor did the black steed give the slightest sign of weariness, though his glossy coat was literally covered with foam. On the knight went, the dogs gradually gaining on the boar, and the boar making a circuit till he led them back to within a mile of Chas-Chateil, and turned fiercely to bay under a gigantic oak hard by the spot where the castle of Donnington was afterwards built—perhaps the oak under which, according to tradition, Geoffrey Chaucer in his last years wrote many of his poems.
And terrible was the aspect which the boar now presented; his ears erect, his shaggy hair standing in bristles, and his mouth foaming with rage, as, tearing and tossing aside the dogs with his mighty tusks, he collected all his remaining strength to spring at the horse and the rider. Nor did Sir Anthony shrink from the stern encounter. Blowing his horn till it resounded through the woods, and shouting with a ferocity which rivalled the dumb ferocity of his grisly antagonist, he, with an oath and a gesture of fiery impatience, threw down his hunting-spear, and, drawing his sword of Bordeaux steel, dashed the rowels of his spurs into Ayoub’s flank and swung aloft his weapon to deal a decisive blow.
But the blow was not destined to be struck. Unaccustomed to such treatment, rendered furious by the provocation of hours, and startled by the fierce aspect of the boar, the noble animal made one plunge, reared himself high in the air, and then fell prostrate on the ground, bearing his rider with him. It was a terrible moment. Sir Anthony was, indeed, little hurt by the fall, but his sword had dropped from his hand, and he lay at the boar’s mercy.
The knight in terror bawled out for St. Anthony and St. Hubert to come to his aid.
Only two moments did the boar lose ere making the rush; they were employed in freeing himself from the dogs, already blinded by the blood from the wounds he had inflicted; and then he made his final rush—a rush that brought his very snout in contact with the prostrate knight’s person. But ere that rush took place, and ere mischief could be done, from the branches of the oak dropped something which to the knight’s swimming eyes looked like a large ball. Next moment the sword of Bordeaux steel, driven by a sure hand, penetrated the boar’s throat; and, as the monster rolled back on the grass, writhing in the agonies of death, and Sir Anthony freed himself from the steed, and the steed sprang to his feet with a bound, he found standing before him, holding Ayoub’s bridle-rein in his left hand and the Bordeaux blade in the right, a dark-haired and rather swarthy youngster, in parti-coloured garments of an outlandish cut, with a smile on his countenance. The smile was meaningless, and the boy looked marvellously innocent; nevertheless, Sir Anthony was so enraged with his mishap that he almost felt inclined to kill his preserver on the spot for that meaningless smile and that innocent look.
“Who in the fiend’s name are you?” he asked with a frowning brow and in a voice of thunder.
The boy, who had not, as it happened, parted with the sword, replied with a smile which disarmed Sir Anthony’s anger; but the answer was in a language which the knight did not understand; so he muttered a slight imprecation to rid himself of the remnant of his wrath, and, having again loudly sounded his horn, began to look more kindly on the mysterious stranger who had come to his rescue at the very moment of his extreme need, and when otherwise he must have been torn to pieces.
“By my faith,” said he in a low tone and with a thrill of superstitious awe, “I firmly believe that St. Anthony or St. Hubert has sent this youth to my aid, and it behoves me, therefore, to treat him as one whom the saints account worthy of being their messenger. One thing is lucky,” continued he: “the youth cannot speak our tongue, and therefore cannot report the unworthy spectacle I have presented.”
As Sir Anthony thus soliloquised, the huntsmen and two squires, attracted by the repeated blasts of his horn, rode up to the spot, and the knight, having given a very inadequate description of the scene that had been enacted, and consigned the boar to the huntsmen to be cut up, ordered them to take care of the boy and bring him to the castle. He then attempted to remount, but he might as well have attempted to scale the heavens. Ayoub positively resisted, and, despising both threats and caresses, stood proudly upon the dignity which had been so recently and so deeply injured. The knight was finally under the necessity of mounting the horse of one of the huntsmen, and leaving Ayoub, and the mystic boy, and the dead boar under their care, rode slowly away through the trees towards Chas-Chateil.
“Cog’s wounds! friend Martin,” said one of the huntsmen to his fellow, after examining the boy as to his proficiency in the vernacular tongue, “I can make nothing of this jackanapes. Beshrew me if I do not think he is such a creature as was of late taken in the sea on the coast of Suffolk.”
“Hubert, lad, I fail to comprehend thee,” said Martin.
“Natheless, it is true as any story ever sung by minstrel,” continued Hubert. “It was a fish in the form of a man, and they kept it alive six months on land, feeding it the whilst on raw meat; but seeing they could get no speech out of it, they cast it back into the sea.”
“I doubt thee not, Hubert, lad—I doubt thee not,” said Martin cheerily; “but, credit me, this is no such creature, but a boy from some outlandish country beyond the seas. I have heard the like of him ere now singing glees on the great bridge at London. Mark how simple and innocent he is. Even that fiend of a horse, that wouldn’t so much as look at Sir Anthony, takes kindly to the child and licks his hand.”
AFTER reaching Chas-Chateil, and relating his adventure to Dame Waledger, Sir Anthony saw no reason to repent of the resolution he had expressed to befriend the mysterious entity whom, as he devoutly believed, the saints had sent to his succour in the hour of peril, and when, otherwise, nothing could have intervened between him and certain destruction. The dame encouraged his pious intent, and expressed unbounded curiosity to see the strange child but for whose timely appearance she would have been a weeping widow; and no sooner had the knight dined than he sent for the young stranger to the daïs of the great hall.
Apprehensive, however, that the whole business—the carouse of the previous night, the boar-hunt of the morning, and the danger to which her husband had been exposed, might be a device of Satan, and that the boar and the boy might be agents of his satanic majesty, Dame Waledger suggested the propriety of first handing over the child to be examined by the chaplain of the castle as to his origin and position in life; and Father Peter, though a little nervous, undertook the delicate investigation.
The result was, in the main, satisfactory. Father Peter was no great linguist, but he had been on the continent, and knew enough of continental tongues to comprehend that the boy’s name was Pedro; that he was a native of Burgos, the capital of Castile; that he had left his country as one of a band of musicians bound for London: that they had been shipwrecked on the coast, and that he, having escaped a watery grave, had wandered into the woods, not knowing whither he went; and on the approach of the boar, and the hounds, and the hunter, he had climbed a tree to escape observation; and, with an innocent smile, he confirmed his story by producing an instrument, and accompanying himself, while he sang the ballad of “The Captive Knight and the Merle;” and finally melted all hearts by bursting into tears, and deploring his plight as a helpless orphan in a strange land.
The victory was now complete. Dame Waledger insisted on young Pedro being handed over to her as a page; and in a day or two he was strutting about dressed in crimson, accompanying the ladies of the castle when they ventured into the chase to fly their hawks, singing to them his native ballads, and diverting them with his droll attempts to speak the language of the country in which he found himself, and of the people among whom he had been so strangely cast.
Sir Anthony’s liking for Pedro rather increased as weeks passed over, and he allowed the boy to come about him at times when he would not have been seen by any other mortal—even in a certain wainscoted chamber of the great hall, which was reserved for the use of the lord of the castle and the governor, and which none of the household—knights, squires, or grooms—were ever allowed to enter; not that there was anything very particular about the interior, except one tall panel, on which was depicted the battle of Hastings, with a very grim De Moreville bearing one of the conqueror’s standards. But this panel appeared to have much more interest for Pedro than even the pictorial embellishment would account for, and often his eye stole furtively towards it.
Ere long Pedro did something which, but for superstition and jealousy, ought to have won golden opinions among that part of De Moreville’s household attached to the stables, and devoted to the Norman baron’s stud. After being conducted to his stall, fresh from the horrors of the boar-hunt, Ayoub displayed a very haughty temper. For days he declined in the most distinct manner to be groomed, and refused all provender, and after his hunger got the better of him, and he began to feed, he took refuge in sullenness, and repelled every attempt to deal with him as an ordinary steed.
At length Sir Anthony’s peremptory command had such an effect that the grooms forcibly cast the refractory steed in his stall, bitted and bridled him, and led him forth to exercise. But a fresh difficulty now arose. Do what they would, he kicked against all attempts to mount him, and Clem the Bold Rider, a lad of seventeen, and one of those mediæval stable-boys who had hitherto had the credit of being able to deal successfully with the wildest and fiercest of chargers, in vain essayed to bring Ayoub to reason or reduce him to submission.
It was a November morning, but the sun was shining brightly for the time, when the grand struggle took place outside the great drawbridge leading into the courtyard, and all the officials connected with the stable, and the huntsmen, and most of the garrison, were present to witness the contest between the skilful equestrian and the refractory steed. Sir Anthony also was there, determined that—no matter how many necks might be broken—Ayoub should be mounted and ridden; and with him were Richard de Moreville, Hugh’s nephew, and Pedro, the lady’s page, who appeared to take a lively interest in the business, and clapped his hands in the excess of his innocent excitement, till the knight, smiling kindly on him, patted his head, and remarked to young De Moreville that of all urchins this urchin was the most diverting.
At length the critical moment arrived, and Clem the Bold Rider manned himself with dauntless air, and, coaxing and caressing the while, attempted quietly to mount. It was vain. Ayoub declined. Unable to accomplish his purpose by flattery, Clem had recourse to stratagem, and made a brave effort to take the charger unawares, vault on his back, and then trust to his skilful hand and strong arm. But it would not do. Ayoub was vigilant as a rabbit, and though his eyes were covered for the moment by the grooms who held him, he seemed instinctively to know what was intended, and baffled the stratagem by a sudden movement which left Clem sprawling on the ground. Still, the word of Sir Anthony being law, and his purpose continuing inflexible, force was resorted to, and a fierce struggle ensued, the men having the advantage at one moment and the horse at another. But in the long run, Ayoub, by plunging, and capering, and kicking furiously, gained the victory, and the knight’s rage knew no bounds.
“By the head of St. Anthony!” exclaimed he, drawing his dagger, “the accursed brute shall pay the penalty of its obstinacy by dying on the spot where he has defied our will.”
“Holy Woden, sir knight!” exclaimed Richard de Moreville in surprise, “you would not kill that noble horse, and he the property of another person? Master Icingla is a prisoner, but not taken in battle, and neither his steed nor his sword is forfeit. Credit me, the world, if it hears of this, will cry shame on us if we so flagrantly violate the laws of honour, which are binding on all chevaliers—especially on you and me, who are of Norman race, and therefore doubly bound to observe all usages.”
Sir Anthony was about to reply, but at that moment Pedro, who had been listening to the conversation, without, of course, understanding it, ran forward to the spot where the grooms were still holding Ayoub, and commenced earnest endeavours to communicate by signs something which he wished them to understand, now pointing to the sky, then to the ground, and then to the horse. Meanwhile Richard de Moreville resumed the conversation.
“By my faith, Sir Anthony,” said he, half laughing, as if thinking that he had spoken too strongly, and wishing to soothe the knight, “methinks, since this steed proves too much for the whole garrison, we could not do better than bring forth the captive, and let him try his powers of persuasion. Master Icingla, doubtless, could find some way of casting out the devil which seems to have entered into his charger.”
Sir Anthony laughed a hoarse laugh.
“Bring forth the captive!” said he—“bring forth the captive, and give him an opportunity of escape! That, forsooth, were blind policy, and you may call me Englishman when I do aught so foolish. No, by St. Anthony’s head, had I my will the young Saxon churl should be in the deepest dungeon of Chas-Chateil till he rotted, if it were only to avenge ourselves for the heart of pride which made the father who begot him look down, as from an elevation, on better men than himself. I myself forget not his insolence when he was on the eve of departing from Mount Moreville, where he was a guest, when last summoned to embark with Cœur-de-Lion for Normandy. ‘Good Norman,’ said he, ‘I pray thee hold my stirrup while I mount;’ and when I showed some disinclination, he added, calmly, ‘Nay, sir, it misbecomes you not; albeit you have lands and living, and wear golden spurs as well as myself, you are still the descendant of one of the adventurers who fought for hire at Hastings: I am still the heir of the Icinglas.’”
“Holy Woden!” exclaimed Richard de Moreville, with a sly laugh, which had its meaning, “and what answered you, sir knight? You drew your sword, or challenged him to mortal combat on the spot?”
Sir Anthony changed colour, and hesitated.
“No,” said he, at length, “I wished not to have the death of the husband of a de Moreville on my conscience, and I pardoned his insolence for his lady’s sake.”
“And held his stirrup?”
Sir Anthony did not reply, but turned away to avoid doing so; and a broad grin was on the Norman squire’s aquiline face.
Meanwhile Pedro, unable to make the grooms comprehend his meaning, advanced to the head of the stubborn charger, looked in his face, muttered in his ear, led him a few paces by the rein, then turned his head from the sun, jabbering to the grooms as he did so what to them was unintelligible. Then he made a sign that he would mount, and as they lifted the boy to the charger’s back, Ayoub not only stood still and quiet, but immediately obeyed the touch of his heel, and walked quietly down among the trees that grew on the slope that led from the castle, and then returned at a gentle canter. All present stood amazed, but none more than Sir Anthony and Richard de Moreville.
“By the saints!” cried the knight, forgetting in his wonder to mention his patron in particular, “this is marvellous to behold. I have ever deemed that boy more than mortal since he came so opportunely to my rescue.”
“On my faith,” said the squire, “I believe that never has the like been seen since Alexander of Macedon mounted Bucephalus in spite of his heels and horns.”
“It is magic,” exclaimed Hubert the Huntsman, in terror.
“Nay, nay, Hubert lad,” said old Martin; “bearest thou not in mind that I said the fierce steed took kindly to the simple child from the first?”
No sooner had Pedro alighted from Ayoub than he commenced jabbering and inviting Clem the Bold Rider to mount, and Clem, having done so, rode quietly down the acclivity. But it did not suit the Bold Rider to occupy the seat which he did “on sufferance,” and on reaching the level ground he took measures to convince Ayoub that the rider and not the horse was master. The experiment was not successful, and the result was not flattering to his vanity. A brief struggle took place. When it was over, the Bold Rider lay prostrate on the grassy sward, and Ayoub, the refractory steed, with his head reared aloft and his bridle-rein flying hither and thither, was snorting and rushing with the speed of the wind towards the banks of the Kennet.
Sir Anthony uttered a fierce oath as he saw Ayoub disappear among the trees, and watched Clem the Bold Rider rise from the ground.
“My curse on the braggart churl’s clumsiness!” said he. “The steed is gone beyond hope of recovery. Would that the fall had smashed every bone in his body!”
And the knight, having thus given vent to his disappointment, went with Richard de Moreville to see his dame and De Moreville’s daughter mount their palfreys and ride forth to fly their falcons, escorted by a body of horsemen, and attended by their maidens, and their spaniels, and Pedro the page.
“Sir Anthony,” said Richard de Moreville as they went, “you have excited my curiosity as to these Icinglas. I crave your permission to visit this captive squire, and hear the adventures in love and war which he had in Castile and Flanders.”
“Nay, nay,” replied the knight sternly; “ask anything in reason, but not that. By St. Anthony’s head! even the chaplain should not have gone near him, but that he pressed me hard. Let him pine in solitude; would that it were in chains and darkness!”
“But men say that he is fair, and brave, and high of spirit!”
“He is his father’s son,” replied Sir Anthony in a conclusive tone, “and the calf of a vicious bull is ever vicious. Besides,” continued the knight, his anger rising as he proceeded, “he is English by birth, and the eggs of the serpent hatch only serpents; and,” added he, staying his step to stamp on the ground, while he ground his teeth with vindictive rage, “it is ever safest for us when we have our armed heel on the viper’s brood.”
THE position of Pedro the page at Chas-Chateil was much endangered by the feat of horsemanship which he had performed. A general impression prevailed in the castle that he was an emissary of the powers of darkness, and that the wild boar, the black steed, the outlandish boy, and the Devil were all in league to bring some misfortune on the inmates. Moreover, the lady, who was already tiring of the page, was inclined to take this view of the case; but Father Peter, having again subjected the suspected person to examination, gave it as his deliberate opinion that he was in reality what he professed to be—one of a band of musicians from Burgos.
The good chaplain had considered the matter gravely, and made use of the intelligence he drew from Oliver Icingla to test the youngster’s veracity. He asked Pedro the name of the King of Castile, and Pedro answered, King Alphonso. He asked who was Alphonso’s chief enemy, and Pedro answered, the Moorish King of Granada. He asked what great event had happened before he left his own country, and Pedro told him about the battle of Muradel, and how the king, in gratitude to the saints for his victory, was about to convert his palace in the gardens of La Huelgas into a convent. He asked what was the sin on King Alphonso’s part which had brought such dangers on the kingdom, and Pedro very innocently related the well-known story of the beautiful Jewess whom the royal Castilian loved too well. The holy man was satisfied. How could he be otherwise? And Sir Anthony was satisfied also, for he had taken a notion into his head that the page’s songs and musical instrument were necessary to his existence.
In fact, the nerves of the knight required music to soothe them. Since his encounter with the wild boar in the wood at Donnington, Sir Anthony Waledger had never been quite himself, and, as he continued his daily potations, and ran into excess oftener than of yore by day, his condition did not improve during the winter; and ere spring came strange stories were abroad as to his habits by night. Still matters went on about the castle as of old, and no particular notice was taken of the governor’s eccentricities till about Easter, when Richard de Moreville became so alarmed that he made some excuse for leaving, and embarked for Paris to intimate to his uncle that the knight who had the custody of Chas-Chateil was beside himself.
“My lord,” said the Norman squire when he presented himself to his astonished kinsman about a month before that May-day when Hugh de Moreville had persuaded Prince Louis to vow on the heron, “Sir Anthony is crazy—in truth, he is mad. He has got into a custom of rising in the night-time when he is asleep; of arming himself, drawing his sword, and beginning to fight as if he were in battle!”
“By St. Moden,” said De Moreville with a sneer, “I never knew the good knight so fond of fighting when blows were going. But, nephew, proceed, for this touches me nearly.”
“Well,” continued the squire, “the servants who sleep in his chamber to watch him on hearing him rise go to him, and next morning tell him what he has been doing, but he forgets all about it, and cries out that they lie. Sometimes they leave neither sword nor arms in his chamber, but when he rises and finds them gone he makes such a noise as if all the fiends were there. They therefore think it best to leave his sword and arms, and sometimes he remains quietly in his bed, but only sometimes. Seldom a night passes without a scene.”
“Ha!” exclaimed De Moreville, thoughtfully, “I little expected such tidings, and it behoves me to hasten my return to England and put matters on a better footing at Chas-Chateil. It is no time for a man who has lost his senses to be in command of a fortress.”
However, in the thirteenth century the time required to pass from the banks of the Seine to the banks of the Kennet was considerable, and April was speeding on without De Moreville having appeared at the castle or giving any intimation that he was likely to come; and Sir Anthony became worse rather than better, declaring that nothing soothed him but the music of Pedro the page, and insisting more strongly than ever that Pedro had been sent to him by St. Anthony and St. Hubert at the very instant he had cried out to them for protection.
By this time Pedro’s equestrian feat was all but forgotten. It had been a nine days’ wonder and nothing more. Yet one person had neither forgotten nor forgiven—namely, Clem the Bold Rider. In fact, Clem, feeling certain that there was some mystery in the business, and blaming Pedro for his mishap, had, under the influence of mortified vanity, vowed revenge, and continued to watch Pedro wherever he went when outside the castle as a cat watches a mouse it has destined as a victim. No matter at what hour he went forth or in what direction he turned, he was sure to meet Clem hanging about the courtyard, or the stable-yard, or the drawbridge talking the slang of the age to one person or another, but never without a sharp eye on Pedro’s movements. This was, doubtless, annoying. Pedro certainly looked much too innocent to have any evil intention. Still, one likes not to be watched every time he moves out to take the air.
Now Pedro, since his reception into Chas-Chateil, had been quite free to go about wherever he liked. But there was one place from which he was strictly excluded, and that place was “the ladies’ walk,” which was strictly guarded by a sentinel. It was wonderful, by-the-bye, how this fact used to slip out of Pedro’s memory, and how many efforts he made by hook or by crook to reach that battlement. But his efforts were unavailing.
At length he seemed to think that a view from a distance was better than no view at all, and after singing a Spanish song he clambered up a parapet, and strained his eyes towards the prohibited region. As he descended Clem stood before him, seized him by the collar, and administered a hearty buffet on the cheek. But he little calculated the consequences. Pedro’s frame shook with rage, his eyes flashed fire, and he turned savagely on his assailant.
“Son of a theorve!” said he in very good English, “hadst thou known how I can return that blow, thou hadst never had the courage to deal it. This is the way I requite such courtesy, as chevaliers phrase it.”
As the page spoke, his clenched fist avenged the wrong he had suffered, and the Bold Rider lay sprawling by the parapet. But he rose instantly from the ground, not, indeed, to renew the attack—of that he had had enough, and more than enough. But he retreated several paces, and then looked his adversary in the face.
“Master page,” said he, glowering with malice, “thy speech has betrayed thee. Ere half an hour passes the governor shall know that a spy is within the castle, and the dule tree is your sure doom;” and Clem ran off to take measures for insuring his revenge.
Pedro did not seem quite easy under the influence of this threat. But perhaps he had heard that to pause at the crisis of one’s fate is to lose all, and he did not hesitate. It was the hour when he was in the habit of singing to Sir Anthony Waledger in the chamber so vigilantly guarded against intrusion that the inmates of the castle believed it contained De Moreville’s treasury. Pedro entered, and found Sir Anthony seated at a table with his wine-cup before him. Pedro having purposely left the door half-open, sat down on a low footstool, and prepared to sing. Sir Anthony rose and moved slowly to close the door, and Pedro, quick as thought, drew forth a little bag, and shook some powder into the wine. Sir Anthony resumed his seat and drained the wine-cup, and Pedro began to sing. Sir Anthony gradually fell sound asleep, and Pedro, rising from the footstool, went to the panel on which the battle of Hastings was depicted, examined it minutely, and pressed his finger on a knob that caught his eye. As he did so it flew open with a spring, and Pedro, entering, closed it as gently as he could, and, descending a stair that lay before him, found himself in a dark but broad and high passage, along which he walked with what speed he could, not without stumbling as he went.
It was not, however, until he had travelled full half a mile and taken several turns that he at last began to descry something like daylight. It was, indeed, only a glimmer. But he proceeded, pushed through a cleft of a rock, and going head-foremost through some brushwood, found himself to his great joy in a thicket close by the Kennet. Pedro, indeed, leapt for joy as he reflected on the discovery he had made, but did not in his excitement forget to leave such marks as to insure his being able to find the place on his return, for to return he intended. Cunningly he set marks on the trees around, measured the distance to the margin of the river, impressed on his memory the various objects around, and then, turning his face southward, made for the neighbourhood of London as fast as he could, to obviate the chance of being recaptured in case of pursuit.
But he was in no danger in that respect. At Chas-Chateil his disappearance was heard of with superstitious awe, and the inmates told each other that the goblin who had been figuring as a lady’s page, and whose spells and devices had driven the governor half-crazy and caused him to walk while asleep, had been suddenly carried off by his master who sent him. Only one person dissented—it was Clem the Bold Rider, who gave his reasons for believing the page to have been a spy. But Clem’s character for veracity did not rank high, and he did not improve it by the story which he told on this occasion.
As for Sir Anthony Waledger, he woke up before sunset, much refreshed with his sleep. It was the first sound sleep the knight had enjoyed for months. Of course he could give no account as to how and where the mysterious page had gone, only he very much missed the music and the song.
Meanwhile, Hugh de Moreville was leaving Paris, resolved on placing Chas-Chateil in safer custody. The Norman baron was destined to reach the castle five hours too late for his purpose.