Читать книгу The Last of the Vikings - John Bowling - Страница 19

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"And thus I clothe my naked villainy

With old odd ends, stol'n out of holy writ,

And seem a saint, when most I play the devil."

Shakespeare.

My readers, I am sure, will pardon me for passing over the bitter sufferings and humiliation I and the members of our Order had to endure, and the still more harrowing cruelties and bloodshed heaped upon the common people, who, despite the Earl's advice, still clung to their homes and their patches of land.

We therefore proceed to follow the fortunes of certain characters who are the central figures in our history. In reality the history of our time was made by the important actors, the common people playing a very ignoble part, and being little better than chattels and instruments of the leaders' wills.

The Normans overran the adjacent country like a flood let loose, leaving desolation behind them. Indeed, if the Saxons had not fled before, and secreted themselves, their wives, their children, and their cattle, there would have been nothing but annihilation and utter extermination. The main body of the Normans swarmed forwards like locusts as soon as they had devastated one part. But the castle of the youthful Ealdorman Oswald could not be taken without siege operations. Its splendid situation and rich lands attracted the cupidity of the De Montfort already mentioned, and he sat down before it with the determination to take possession of it and the splendid domain belonging thereto.

Carefully De Montfort reconnoitred the castle from all points, and though it had no pretension to invulnerability, yet it was plain to him that some days must elapse before he would be sufficiently prepared to venture an assault upon it.

In the meantime, however, he despatched heralds to summon Oswald to surrender. The Saxon paced the walls, clad in complete armour, and in person directed the labours of the housecarles who laboured at strengthening and repairing the fortifications; whilst a score or so of his choicest bowmen, with well-stocked quivers, were set apart for the defence of those who toiled.

The heralds, three in number, rode up to the walls, and, after blowing a blast from their bugles, they accosted Oswald thus:—

"What ho, there, Saxon!"

To which Oswald responded—

"What ho, there! What message have ye from your master?—I perceive ye are messengers."

"Our master, the valiant Count de Montfort, of great renown and valour, giveth thee summons to deliver up to him, within the space of twenty-four hours, without let or hindrance, this castle, with the appurtenances thereof."

"What conditions doth your master tender if we yield to his wishes, and without resistance obey his summons?"

"De Montfort hath given us this message: 'Yield thee forthwith without conditions, and trust to our clemency.' Defiance of our summons is torture and death."

"Tell your master that we have too many illustrations of his clemency, and that of Norman tyrants generally, to put any trust or reliance in his word. If he would fain have possession of this castle, tell him he must first take it, for we put no faith in his professions of clemency; and that we defy him and his myrmidons to wrest this castle from us."

These were brave words, and intended to inspire his own followers; but no one knew better than he where victory must inevitably rest. Many times had he told over the number of the Norman tents pitched little more than a bowshot away. With sinking heart he had noted the masses of archers and men-at-arms who swarmed around the camp by day. In the stillness of night he had crept within earshot of wary sentinels in company of Wulfhere the freeman, in the hope that some chance, or some overweening confidence on the part of the enemy, might afford the opportunity for some desperate deed of valour. But de Montfort was far too wise and experienced a soldier to permit negligence or over-confidence to prevail. The pickets at all points were thickly posted and kept on the alert by patrols.

The tents of the Count de Montfort and his daughter, Lady Alice de Montfort, were pitched on a knoll in the centre of the encampment, which was sufficiently elevated to overlook every other tent and beyond them on every side. The tents of the maids and personal attendants were situated to the rear, and were intercommunicable by a covered way. The entrance to Lady Alice's tent was hung with richly embroidered curtains, whilst costly figured velvet carpets from the looms of Rouen were spread over the soft carpet of nature. As already stated, Lady Alice had been affianced to Baron Vigneau by her father, for the most ignoble reason of policy and personal ambition, Alice's wishes or preferences not being consulted in the least. But a union more abhorrent to her feelings could not possibly be imagined.

Indeed, to one much less refined and gentle than Alice, this union would have been most distasteful. Vigneau was at once drunken, licentious, and boorish, his habits being such as befitted the company of the besotted and brutal troopers whom he led, rather than that of one of the gentlest ladies of Normandy. True, he had won for himself a large measure of fame on the battle-field, and in the lists at tournaments. He had undoubtedly a large measure of reckless valour, and enormous physical strength; but he was utterly destitute of that chivalry and knightly courtesy which was reckoned only second to personal prowess. His chief recommendation in De Montfort's eyes was that he commanded a "free company" of mercenaries as reckless and blood-thirsty as himself. De Montfort cherished a lofty ambition: he aspired to, and in fact held, an exalted position in the estimation of William; and this he well knew was due in great part to the number of lances in his retinue, and the men-at-arms who followed his standard.

Need we say that Alice scorned this hateful yoke; for the warm current of romance which ran in her southern blood demanded a nobler and courtlier knight than Vigneau as the object of her love. Through a vista in the noble line of beeches and oaks which studded the park she had a full view of the castle and its defenders, and she shuddered as she contemplated the impending carnage and bloodshed which hovered over the camp and the castle alike. Thus, often as she sat in her tent did she watch the mailed Saxon chief, as he paced his walls and directed the housecarles as they laboured at the fortifications—far too often, indeed, for her peace of mind; for the contrast between Oswald's mien and Vigneau's was most glaring. Then the fact that Oswald was fighting against fearful odds, and for dear life, awoke the keenest interest in him, whilst the stories current in the camp of his prowess threw around him a glamour most piquant.

Often Alice would turn to her favourite maid and confidante, Jeannette, for confirmation of her thoughts.

"Methinks he is a comely knight, this Saxon, and valiant withal. Jeannette, how sayest thou? is it not so?"

"He is a comely knight, my lady, and brave too, the fighting men say."

"Didst thou notice, when he removed his visor to answer the Count's summons, his handsome visage? 'Twas, I thought, so like the statue of Mars in the old home in Normandy. The same curly locks; the same inflexible cast of features, as though ready to front a host. Didst thou notice this, Jeannette?"

"I marked it much, my lady."

"Yet, didst thou notice, there was a nobility about the open brow which bespeaks a magnanimity which wondrously beseemeth brave men?"

"I noticed all this, my lady."

"Ah me, Jeannette, I read those old romances in my father's hall, and listened to the stories of Christian knights and warriors told me by the good sisters of St. Justin's, until I came to think that all knights and soldierly men must be brave to avenge the oppressed, and magnanimous to the fallen and the weak, scorning to wreak vengeance upon helpless men and women. I thought all brave men must be at least chivalrous to my sex. I thought all brave men must be virtuous, too; for how could they be brave to conquer their enemies, and yet be the slaves of their own over-grown lusts like this Baron Vigneau?"

"These are evil times, lady. I much fear me that nothing good thrives now; and the Baron may not be much worse than others, though I go in daily fear of him. His gloating eyes are ever upon me, and once he caught me in his arms. But let him beware! I carry that in my bosom will teach him a lesson he will not need to learn over again!" and she displayed the flashing blade of a small stiletto.

"Listen, Jeannette! I saw the Baron lay hold upon a young and beautiful lady, who had found shelter with the monks down at the abbey. I heard his lascivious, gloating words, and I looked into his greedy eyes, and his steely gaze made me shudder as though it were the gaze of a serpent. I hate him, but I fear him beyond expression!"

"Hush, lady! Perhaps you will think better of him when these horrid times have passed."

"Never, Jeannette! My heart's revolt is complete. Let death come, and welcome, but never wedlock with him. He is but a huge mountain of evil-smelling carrion. I shall hie me to Normandy, and there in my books I'll find a worthy knight, all brave and pure, and I'll wed him in imagination. But I will never share my young life with a knight besotted and cruel as Vigneau."

"Hush, lady. He comes to your tent. Shall I retire?"

"No, no! Stay by me, Jeannette. I shall feign sickness; let me lean my head upon you."

Baron Vigneau unceremoniously brushed aside the curtains and stalked into the tent. His gait was unsteady, and his eyes bloodshot; unmistakable evidences of a recent debauch.

"What, Alice, how is this?" said he, taking her hand in his. But it involuntarily shrank from his grasp. "What! aren't we friends yet? I did but drag the fair Saxon from among those monkish scoundrels to save her life."

"You seemed loth to part with her, Baron."

"Well, well, we'll take a goose till we can get our swan. But no great harm would have been done. They're jolly fellows, those monks, and know what's what, I warrant. The wench wouldn't have suffered, exchanging sniffling priests for a valiant knight."

Alice shuddered, and made haste to change the subject.

"What says the Saxon knight to your latest summons?"

"'Saxon whelp,' is much more like it, I trow. Well, he struts himself upon his trumpery battlements like a valiant scarecrow. I would he were a true knight and worthy of my prowess, I would challenge him to single combat, and you should see how he would fare when matched with Norman valour. But let him boast himself a day or two until we get our gear ready; then, if he does not get a short shrift in the mêlée, we'll have a little sport with him and make him dance to the music these Saxons like least best."

"Have you offered him honourable terms?"

"Honourable terms to a dog of a Saxon! He'll get the same terms as other Saxons, a sudden exit at the sword's point, or a slower process but a rougher passage. I am hoping we shall see sport yet."

Alice shuddered, for she knew too well that instruments of torture were meant; and she well knew that the Baron would not only use them, but would derive positive pleasure in watching the agonies of his victim.

"I don't care about such practices; they are hideous and barbarous. What good it can do to massacre and torture helpless men and women I can't tell; indeed, I cannot help despising those who indulge in such detestable things."

"You have been trained in too gentle a school to relish these rough times, Alice. We must exterminate these Saxon pests, especially the leaders, and those who have spirit in them. The churls may serve some useful purpose, when we have knocked their freemen manners out of them. But they will need to be well knocked about, and ground into shape."

"When will it all end? And if this castle is taken is it to be our resting-place? I am aweary of being dragged at the heels of a soldiery thirsting like wild beasts for blood and plunder."

"Ha, ha! Softly, softly, my sweet one! This is to be the end of it for us. Then comes love and downy pillows—eh, my queen, is it not so?" said he, endeavouring to chuck her under the chin.

Alice hastily fled, followed by her maid; for, sickening as was Vigneau's general conversation, his amorous advances begat in her an overpowering disgust.

A horrible scowl spread itself over Vigneau's base countenance, and he stood as though petrified with rage. Then his tongue gave vent to this pent-up storm, and, with a volley of oaths and threatenings, he strode out of the tent, demoniacal hatred of his betrothed raging in his heart.