The Rival Heirs; being the Third and Last Chronicle of Aescendune

by A. D. Crake

  CHAPTER IV. THE NORMAN PAGES.

  In the days of chivalry the first step towards the degree ofknighthood was that of page. Boys of noble birth, about theirtwelfth year, were generally transferred from the home of theirchildhood to the castle of some gallant baron to learn the customsof war and peace at his hand, and to acquire habits of good orderand discipline. These lads fared harder by far than modern boys doat our great schools; they slept on harder couches, rose earlier,and had less dainty food. They were forced to pay implicitobedience to their superiors; modesty in demeanour, as becomingtheir age, was strictly required before their elders; and they hadto perform many offices which would now be deemed menial.

  First they learned how to manage their horses with ease anddexterity; next how to use the sword, the bow, and the lance. Theyhad to attend upon their lords in hunting--the rules of which, likethose of mimic war, had to be carefully studied. The various blastsof the horn, indicating when the hounds were slipped, when the preywas flying, and when it stood at bay, had to be acquired, as alsothe various tracks of the wild animals--the fox, the wolf, thebear, the wild boar. Nights and days were frequently spent in thepathless woods, and the face of the country had to be carefullystudied, while pluck and address were acquired by the necessity ofpromptitude when the wild beast stood at bay.

  And when the deer or hart was slain they had to "brittle," or breakhim up, with all precision, and during the banquet they hadfrequently to carve the haunch or chine, and to do it with somegracefulness.

  All these arts were being acquired at the castle of Aescendune byEtienne de Malville, Louis de Marmontier, Pierre de Morlaix, andWilfred of Aescendune, all of the age of fifteen or sixteen, butmore advanced physically than boys of such years would be now; and,sooth to say, the boys had a stern preceptor in Hugo de Malville.

  They slept in a common dormitory in one of the towers, on bedsresembling boxes, stuffed with straw, with the skins of the wolf orbear for coverlets. They sprang out when the morning horn blew thereveille. First they attended the early mass in St. Wilfred'smonastic church, said at daybreak--for the Normans were very exactin such duties--after which they fenced, rode, or wrestled, and inmimic war gained an appetite for breakfast.

  They ate dried meats, as a rule, with their cakes of bread, andwashed them down with thin wine or mead, much diluted, and then theforest was generally the rendezvous.

  On winter evenings, or when the weather was very bad, the chaplainwas expected to teach them a little reading or writing in Latin orNorman French--never in English; and this was almost all thelearning they acquired, in the modern sense of the word.

  But they knew a hundred things modern boys know nothing at allabout, and every muscle and nerve was braced to be steady and true,whether for fight or sport. Our young pages could find their way inthe deep woods by observing the moss on the trees, or the sides onwhich the oaks or elms threw their branches the most freely; andwhen benighted they could sleep with patience on a couch ofwithered leaves, and not suffer with a cold in the head the nextday. They feared neither wolf nor bear, nor, for that matter,anything save disgrace.

  The imputation of cowardice, or of any mean vice, such as lying,was only to be avenged by bloodshed. No gentleman could bear it andretain his claim to the name. But there were higher dutiesinculcated wheresoever the obligations of chivalry were fullycarried out: the duty of succouring the distressed, or redressingwrong--of devotion to God and His Church, and hatred of the deviland his works.

  Alas! how often one aspect of chivalry alone, and that the worst,was found to exist; the ideal was too high for fallen nature. Ouryouthful readers will be able to judge which aspect was uppermostat Aescendune under its first Norman lords.

  Nought was changed in the outward aspect of the scene, save that astern Norman castle, with its dungeons and towers, was rising inthe place of the old hall, doomed to destruction because it was illadapted for defensive warfare.

  Such defect had hardly been appreciated in the days of the oldEnglish thane, for England had enjoyed half a century ofcomparative peace, and her people had begun to build like those whosat at peace beneath their own "vine and fig tree," ere the Normansbrought the stern realities of war into the unhappy land, or ratherof serfdom, oppression, and slavery, only varied by convulsivestruggles for liberty--always, alas! destined to be made in vain.

  The four pages were one day wandering in the outskirts of theforest, clothed in light hunting dresses--tunics, confined by broadbelts and edged with fur; while leggings protected the feet andankles from thorns. They each had hunting spears and bows, whichwere borne by young thralls, with sheaves of arrows strung to theirbacks, while they held dogs by leashes of leather.

  He who bore the air of the leader of the party was tall and dark,of slender build, but with all those characteristics which denotedthe conquering race; the fearless eye, the haughty air of thoseborn to command. A second, our readers would have recognised as atypical English boy; his nut-brown hair and blue eyes contrastedstrongly with the features of his companions, so marked then werethose differences which have long since vanished--vanished, or atleast have become so shared amongst the English people, that nonecan say which is of Anglo-Saxon, which of Norman blood, by the castof the face.

  And this English lad, whose dress in no wise distinguished him fromhis companions, was evidently ill at ease amongst them; from timeto time he reddened as Etienne, Pierre, or Louis called the unhappythralls "English swine," "young porkers," or the like, and bestowedupon them far more kicks than coins.

  "You forget, Etienne, that I am English."

  "Nay, my brother Wilfred, thou wilt not allow me to do that, but ofcourse in thy case 'noblesse oblige.'"

  These last words were uttered with a most evident sneer, and theother lads laughed aloud; whereupon the English lad reddened, thenhis fists clenched, and a looker-on would have expected animmediate outbreak, when suddenly a change passed over hisfeatures, as if he were making a violent effort at self composure.

  "Thou hast dropped an arrow, thou young porker," cried Etienne, thewhile he struck a violent blow with his switch across the face andeyes of one of his attendants; "dost thou think there are so few ofthy fellow swine to shoot, that arrows are useless in these woods!Ah! look at that sight there, and take timely warning."

  The sight in question was a gallows, from which rotted, pendant,the corpse of an unhappy Englishman, hanged for killing a deer.

  "If every oak in Aescendune woods bore such acorns, civilised folkmight soon be happy."

  Wilfred uttered a deep malediction, which he could not suppress,and, leaving the party, disappeared from sight in the woods.

  One of the Norman lads looked after him with some little appearanceof sympathy, and when he had gone, said:

  "Is it like gentlemen to torment each other thus?"

  "Not each other, certainly!"

  "He is your brother in a way, the son of your stepmother, the ladyof Aescendune."

  "He is in a way, but some brothers would be better out of the waythan in it, besides--why does he not show fight? A Norman wouldwith half the provocation."

  "You could not fight with him," said Louis de Marmontier, who wasthe youngest of the pages who were learning "chivalry" at thecastle of Aescendune, in company with Etienne and Wilfred, underthe fostering care of the baron.

  "I don't know," said the fierce young Norman, and, breaking off theconversation, switched savagely at the head of a thistle close athand, which he neatly beheaded.

  The others quite understood the action and the bitterness withwhich he spoke, for they knew that he considered himself defraudedof the lands of Aescendune by the arrangements Bishop Geoffrey hadeffected in favour of Wilfred.

  Meanwhile, plunging into a thicket, and crossing a brook, Wilfredarrived by a shorter route first at the hall, and made his way tohis mother's bower, situated in a portion of the ancient buildingnot yet destroyed, although doomed to make way for Normanimprovements.

  The lady of Aescendune sat lonely in
her bower; her features werepale, and she seemed all too sad for one so highly born, and sogood a friend to the suffering and the poor; her gaze was like thatof one whose thoughts are far away--perhaps they had strayed intoParadise in search of him whose loss was daily making earth morelike a desert to her.

  Wilfred came and stood beside her, and her hand played with hisflowing hair until she felt that he was sobbing by her side.

  "What is the matter, my dear boy?"

  "Matter! I cannot bear it any longer. I must break the promise thouhast forced me to give."

  "Break thy promise, Wilfred? What would thy sainted father say, didhe hear thee? And how dost thou know that he does not hear?"

  "If he were here he would exact no such promise, I am sure; hewould not at least make me appear as a coward in outlandish eyes,and cringe before these proud Frenchmen."

  Wilfred used the word Frenchmen with the greatest scorn. He knewthat the Normans scorned the name as much as they did the nameEnglishmen, of which their descendants lived to be so proud.

  What was this promise which bound the poor lad as in a chain ofiron?

  Not on any account to let himself be drawn into a quarrel withEtienne.

  "Thy father would feel as I do, dear son, were he in our place.Dost thou not see that we poor English only hold our own bysufferance, and that any pretext upon which they could seize wouldbe used ruthlessly against us? Yes, thy death might be the resultof any ill-timed quarrel, and thou mightest leave thy mother alone.Nay, dear, dear son, at least while thy mother lives."

  "Oh, how can I?"

  "Bear as a Christian, then, if thou canst not as an Englishman. Thetime will not be long that I shall live to implore thee."

  "Nay, dear mother, surely thou art not ailing."

  "Sick unto death, Wilfred, I fear; nay, but for thee I should say,I hope; for shall I not then rejoin thy dear father in a land wherewar and violence are unknown? But for thy sake, dear son, I wouldfain live."

  Poor Wilfred was sobbing by her side, overcome by the blank visionthus opening before him. What would the world be to him, left aloneamidst fierce and hateful foreigners, who had slain his father, andwould willingly slay him?

  "Mother, I cannot live without you. If you die--" and he could sayno more, for it shamed his manhood to weep, as he would have said,"like a girl."

  Poor lad, we must excuse him.

  "Now, my dear Wilfred, wilt thou not renew thy promise, and prayGod for help to keep it?"

  "Yes, by God's help, at least while you live; but dost thou thinkthou art so ill, dear mother?--it is but fancy."

  "Nay, I feel I am daily, hourly, drawing nearer my end, as if thelamp of life were burning more and more dimly. Morning aftermorning I rise weaker from my bed, and mortal strength seems slowlyand surely forsaking me. But it will be but a short parting; thoumust pray that we may live for ever together. God will grant it forHis dear Son's sake."

  And the mother and son knelt down to pray.

  It was too true, the English lady of Aescendune was slowlydeclining--passing away, drawing nearer daily to the bright landwhere her lost Edmund had gone before.

  It was a complaint which no one understood, although a Jewishphysician, whom her husband in his anxiety consulted, prescribed amedicine which he said would ensure her recovery in a few weeks.This medicine the baron--for to such rank had Hugo de Malville beenraised, on his accession to the lands of Aescendune--this medicinehe would always administer with his own hand. Sometimes Wilfred wasstanding by, and noticed that, dropped in water, it diffused atfirst a sapphire hue, but that upon exposure to the air, that ofthe ruby succeeded.

  Oh, those days of anxiety and grief--those days when the lovedpatient was so manifestly loosing her hold upon life, althoughsometimes there would come a tantalising change for the better, andbring back hopes never to be realised.

  The boyish reader will easily imagine what Wilfred had to bear allthis time from his Norman companions, from whose society there wasno escape--with whom he had to share not only the very few hoursallotted to study, but those of recreation also. Study, indeed,meant chiefly the use and practice of warlike weapons, the learningof the technical terms of chivalry, and the acquirement, it may be,of sufficient letters to spell through a challenge.

  So thoroughly was war the Norman instinct, that every occupation oflife was more or less connected with it; and the only recreationwhich varied the hours of fencing, jousting, tilting, etc., was thekindred excitement of the chase, pursued with the greatest avidityamongst the wooded hills around Aescendune.

  Wilfred was not backward either in mimic war or in love of thechase; but he was growing taciturn and sullen, scarcely everspeaking, save when spoken to, and even in the latter case hegenerally replied with brief and curt words.

  Hence it may be easily guessed that he was not popular.

  For this he cared little; all his leisure was spent by the bedsideof his dying mother, whom he felt he was so soon about to lose, andwhen with her and his sister Edith he felt that home--the home ofhis happy childhood--was not yet a mere remembrance of the vanishedpast.

  But the sad day, so long foreseen, at length arrived.

  She was in her chamber, with her son and daughter--the three weretogether for the last time on earth. They had been talking of thehappy days when the husband and father was yet alive, before thefatal day of Senlac. Alone with her children, she felt far more atpeace than usual; it seemed, she said, like the dear old times.

  But this evening the presentiment of the coming end seemed strongupon her, and she spoke to her darling boy of the duties whichwould devolve upon him when she was gone, bidding him be obedientand loyal to his Norman stepfather, that he might have the morepower to protect the poor oppressed people of Aescendune, and toshield his dear sister from harm in a world of wrong and violence.She bade him look forward to a better world, where parents andchildren, separated by death, would meet together never to part,and to live as a Christian man should, that he might not lose sodear a hope. The sun was slowly sinking in the west, amidstgorgeous clouds, and she gazed into the glowing depths, as if shesaw the gate of Paradise therein.

  It was but a few moments, while they yet lingered in conversation,that her children observed a deadly paleness, a strange gray hue,come over her face; suddenly she extended her arms, and fell backupon her couch.

  Wilfred ran for help. Even the Norman servants loved theirmistress, and hurried to her chamber; baron, priest, all werethere; she lay as if insensible, but when Father Elphege, theprior, arrived, and began the litany for the dying, she raised herhead and strove to follow.

  That morning she had received the Holy Communion at his hands; andof the familiar rites prescribed by the Church of those days forthe comfort of the dying, only the last anointing, after theexample of Him, whose body was anointed for His burial, remained,and with humble faith she received the holy rite.

  This done, she made signs for her children to approach; she threwher arms fondly around them in turn, but could not speak.

  The priest bade them all kneel down, and he recommenced the litanyfor the dying. Soon he came to the solemn words:

  "Per Crucem et Passionem Tuam,Libera eam Domine {viii}."

  She strove to make the holy sign of our redemption, and in makingit, yielded her chaste soul to the hands of her merciful Father andloving Redeemer. She had gone to rejoin her own true love, and herpoor children were orphans in a world of violence and wrong.

  They laid her by the side of Edmund, and the same solemn rites wehave described before were yet once more repeated. There were many,many true mourners, all the poor English who felt that herintercession alone had interposed between them and a cruellord--and the very foreigners themselves, whom her meekness andgentle beauty had strangely touched--all mourned the lily ofAescendune.

  But her children!--Who shall describe the sense of desolation whichfell upon them as they stood by the open grave?

  "Comfort them, O Father of the fatherless," prayed the good prior;"comfort
them and defend them with Thy favourable kindness as witha shield."