Brian Fitz-Count. A. D. Crake
marauders made a swoop from the woods on the little party, slew them all and carried off the child—at least the body was never found, while those of the attendants lay all around, male and female."
"And did not they make due search?"
"Thou mayst take thy corporal oath of that. They searched every thicket and fastness, but neither the child nor any concerned in the outrage were ever found. They hung two or three poor churls and vagrants on suspicion, but what good could that do; there was no proof, and the wretches denied all knowledge."
"Did not they try the 'question,' the 'peine forte et dure?'"
"Indeed they did, but although one poor vagrant died under it, he revealed nothing, because he had nothing to reveal, I suppose."
"What ho! warder! dost thou see nought on the roads?" cried a stern, loud voice which made both start.
"Nought, my lord."
"Keep a good look-out; I expect guests."
And Brian Fitz-Count resumed his walk below—to and fro, communing with his own moody thoughts.
An hour had passed away, when the sentinel cried aloud—
"A party of men approaches along the lower Ickleton Way from the west."
"How many in number?"
"About twenty."
"Where are they?"
"They cross the moor and have just left the South Moor Town."
"Canst thou make out their cognisance?"
"The light doth not serve."
"Order a troop of horse: I ride to meet them; let the banquet be prepared."
In another quarter of an hour a little party dashed over the lowered drawbridges and out on the western road; meanwhile the great hall was lighted, and the cooks hurried on the feast.
In less than another hour the blast of trumpets announced the return of the Lord of the Castle with his guest. And Brian Fitz-Count rode proudly into his stronghold: on his right hand rode a tall knight, whose squires and attendants followed behind with the Wallingford men.
"Welcome, Sir Milo of Gloucester, to my castle," exclaimed the Lord of Wallingford, as he clasped the hand of his visitor beneath the entrance tower.
"By'r ladye, a fine stronghold this of yours; that tower on the keep might rival in height the far-famed tower of Babel."
"We do not hope to scale Heaven, although, forsooth, if the Masses said daily in Wallingford are steps in the ladder, it will soon be long enough."
And they both laughed grimly in a way which did not infer implicit belief in the power of the Church.
"The bath, then the board—prepare the bath for our guest."
So they led him to the bathroom, for the Normans washed themselves, for which the natives charged them with effeminacy; and there they brought towels, and perfumed waters, and other luxuries. After which two pages conducted the guest to the great hall, which was nearly a hundred feet in length. The high table stood at the one end upon a platform, and there the Lord of Wallingford seated himself, while upon his left hand sat the Lady Maude, a lady of middle age, and upon his right a seat of state was prepared, to which the pages led his visitor.
Fully two hundred men banqueted in the hall that night, boards on trestles were distributed all along the length at right angles to the high table, with space between for the servers to pass, and troops of boys and lower menials squatted on the rushes, while the men-at-arms sat at the board.
A gallery for the musicians projected above the feasters on one side of the hall, and there a dozen performers with harps and lutes played warlike songs, the while the company below ate and drank. The music was rough but seemed to stir the blood as its melody rose and fell.
And when at last the banquet was ended, a herald commanded silence, and Brian Fitz-Count addressed the listening throng:
"My merry men all, our guest here bringeth us news which may change our festal attire for helm and hauberk, and convert our ploughshares and pruning-hooks into swords and lances; but nought more of this to-night, the morrow we hunt the stag, and when we meet here on to-morrow night I may have welcome news for all merry men who love war and glory better than slothful ease."
A loud burst of applause followed the speech, the purport of which they fully understood, for the long peace had wearied them, and they were all eager for the strife as the beasts of prey for rapine, so in song and wassail they spent the evening, while the Baron and his guest withdrew to take secret council in an inner chamber.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.
[2] William's first wound came from the hand from which a wound is most bitter. Father and son met face to face in the battle; the parricidal spear of Robert pierced the hand of his father, an arrow at the same moment struck the horse on which he rode, and the Conqueror lay for a moment on the earth expecting death at the hands of his own son. A loyal Englishman sped to the rescue—Tokig, the son of Wigod of Wallingford, sprang down and offered his horse to the fallen king—at that moment the shot of a crossbow gave the gallant thane of Berkshire a mortal wound, and Tokig gave up his life for his sovereign.—Freeman.
[3] Leland writes—giving his own observations in the sixteenth century (temp. Henry VIII.):—"The castle joineth to the north gate of the town, and hath three dykes, large and deep and well watered; about each of the two first dykes, as upon the crests of the ground, runneth an embattled wall now sore in ruin; all the goodly building with the tower and dungeon be within the three dykes." The dykes or moats were supplied with water from the Moreton brook.
CHAPTER II THE CHASE
"Hail, smiling morn,
That tips the hills with gold."
The merry sound of horns blowing the reveillée greeted the sleepers as they awoke, lazily, and saw the morning dawn shining through their windows of horn, or stretched skin, or through the chinks of their shutters in the chambers of Wallingford Castle, and in a very short space of time the brief toilettes were performed, the hunting garb donned, and the whole precincts swarmed with life, while the clamour of dogs or of men filled the air.
Soon the doughty Baron with his commanding voice stilled the tumult, as he gave his orders for the day; the déjeûner or breakfast of cold meats, washed down with ale, mead, or wine, was next despatched, a hunting Mass was said in "St. Nicholas his Chapel"—that is, a Mass shorn of its due proportions and reduced within the reasonable compass of a quarter of an hour—and before the hour of Prime (7 A.M.) the whole train issued from the gates, Milo, Sheriff of Gloucester,[4] riding by the side of his host.
It was a bright, bracing morning that First of October, the air keen but delicious—one of those days when we hardly regret the summer which has left us and say we like autumn best; every one felt the pulses of life beat the more healthily, as the hunting train rode up by the side of the Moreton brook, towards distant Estune or East-town, as Aston was then called.
They were now approaching a densely-wooded district, for all that portion of the "honour" of Wallingford