Brian Fitz-Count. A. D. Crake
"Nay, my friend, my mind is ill at rest, I want solitude. Return with the hunting train and await my arrival at the castle; and the Baron beckoned to his handsome young page Alain, to lead the horse to him.
"Well, Alain, what didst thou think of the young Englishman? He confronted death gallantly enough."
"He is only half an Englishman; I am sure he has Norman blood, noblesse oblige," replied the boy, who was a spoiled pet of his stern lord, stern to others.
"Well, the old man feared the cord as little."
"He has not much life left to beg for: one foot in the grave already."
"How wouldst thou like that boy for a fellow-page?"
"Not at all, my lord."
"And why not?"
"Because I would like my companions to be of known lineage and of gentle blood on both sides."
"The great Conqueror himself was not."
"And hence many despised him."
"They did not dare tell him so."
"Then they were cowards, my lord; I hope my tongue shall never conceal what my heart feels."
"My boy, if thou crowest so loudly, I fear thou wilt have a short life."
"I can make my hands keep my head, at least against my equals."
"Art thou sorry I pardoned the lad then?"
"No, I like not to see the brave suffer; had he been a coward I should have liked the sport fairly well."
"Sport?"
"It is so comical to see deer-stealers dance on nothing, and it serves them right."
Now, do not let my readers think young Alain unnatural, he was of his period; pity had small place, and the low value set on life made boys and even men often see the ridiculous side of a tragedy, and laugh when they should have wept: yet courage often touched their sympathies, when entreaty would have failed.
But the Lord of Wallingford was in a gentle frame of mind, uncommon in him: he had not merely been touched by the strife, which of the two should die, between the ill-assorted pair, but there had been something in every tone and gesture of the boy which had awakened strange sympathy in his heart, and the sensation was so unprecedented, that Brian longed for solitude to analyse it.
In truth, the prisoners had not been in great danger, for although their judge was pleased to try their courage, he had not the faintest intention of proceeding to any extremities with either grandsire or grandson—not at least after he had heard the voice of the boy.
The party broke up, the Baron rode on alone towards the heights, the sheriff, attended by young Alain, returned down the course of the stream towards the castle. The rest separated into divers bands, some to hunt for deer or smaller game, so as not to return home with empty hands, to the great wrath of the cooks and others also. Malebouche with six archers escorted the prisoners. They rode upon one steed, the boy in front of his sire.
"Old man, what is the stripling's name?"
"Osric."
"And you will not tell who his sire was?"
"If I would not tell your dread lord, I am not likely to tell thee."
"Because I have a guess: a mere suspicion."
"'Thoughts are free;' it will soon be shown whether it be more."
"Which wouldst thou soonest be in thy heart, boy, English or Norman?"
"English," said the boy firmly.
"Thou preferrest then the deer to the lion?"
"I prefer to be the oppressed rather than the oppressor."
"Well, well, each man to his taste, but I would sooner be the wolf who eats, than the sheep which is eaten; of the two sensations I prefer the former. Now dost thou see that proud tower soaring into the skies down the brook? it is the keep of Wallingford Castle. Stronger hold is not in the Midlands."
"I have been there before," said old Sexwulf.
"Not in my time."
Our readers may almost have forgotten the existence of the poor thrall Judith during the exciting scene we have narrated.
She loved her masters, young and old, deeply loved them did this hereditary slave, and her anxiety had been extreme during the period of their danger: she skipped in and out of the hut, for no one thought her worth molesting, she peered through the bushes, she acted like a hen partridge whose young are in danger, and when they bound Osric, actually flew at the men-at-arms, but they thrust her so roughly aside that she fell; little recked they. An English thrall, were she wife, mother, or daughter, was naught in their estimation.
Yet she did not feel the same anxiety in one respect, which Sexwulf felt. "I can save him yet," she muttered; "they shall never put a rope around his bonnie neck, not even if I have to betray the secret I have kept since his infancy."
So she listened close at hand. Once or twice she seemed on the point of thrusting herself forward, when the fate of her dear boy seemed to hang in the balance, but restrained herself.
"I promised," she said, "I promised, and he will grieve to learn that I was faithless to my word. The old woman has a soul, aged crone though she be: and I swore by the black cross of Abingdon. Yet black cross or white one, I would risk the claws of Satan, sooner than allow the rope to touch his neck: bad enough that it should encircle his fair wrists."
When at last the suspense was over, and the grandsire and grandson were ordered to be taken as prisoners to the castle, she seemed content.
"I must see him," she said, "and tell him what has chanced: he will know what to do."
Just then she heard a voice which startled her.
"Shall we burn the hut, my lord?"
A moment of suspense: then came the stern reply.
"He that doth so shall hang from the nearest oak."
She chuckled.
"The spell already works," she said; "I may return to the shelter which has been mine so long. He will not harm them."
The time of the separation of the foe had now come; the Baron rode off to his midnight watch on Cwichelm; Malebouche conducted the two captives along the road to the distant keep; the others, men and dogs, circulated right and left in the woods.
The woods and reeds were still smoking, the atmosphere was dense and murky, as Judith returned to the hut.
She sat by the fire which still smoked on the hearth, and rocked herself to and fro, and as she sat she sang in an old cracked voice—
"They sought my bower one murky night,
They burnt my bower, they slew my knight;
My servants all for life did flee,
And left me in extremitie:
But vengeance yet shall have its way,
When shall the son the sire betray?"
The last line was very enigmatical, like a Delphic response; perhaps our tale may solve it.
Then at last she arose, and going to a corner of the hut, opened a chest filled with poor coarse articles of female attire, such as a slave might wear, but at the bottom wrapped in musty parchment was something of greater value.
It was a ring with a seal, and a few articles of baby attire, a little red shoe, a small frock, and a lock of maiden's hair.
She kissed the latter again and again, ere she looked once more at the ring: it bore a crest upon a stone of opal, and she laughed weirdly.
The crest was the