.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 44374
   :PG.Title: The Robber Baron of Bedford Castle
   :PG.Released: 2012-12-06
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \A. \J. Foster
   :DC.Creator: \E. \E. Cuthell
   :DC.Title: The Robber Baron of Bedford Castle
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1903
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE ROBBER BARON OF BEDFORD CASTLE
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   .. _`"Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps"`:

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      :alt: "Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps."  Page 143.

      "Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps."  Page `143`_.

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      THE ROBBER BARON
      OF BEDFORD CASTLE

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      BY A. J. FOSTER AND E. E. CUTHELL

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      LONDON, EDINBURGH,
      DUBLIN, AND NEW YORK
      THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
      1903

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   *CONTENTS*

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I.  `By the Banks of Ouse`_
II.  `Bletsoe Manor-House`_
III.  `How Aliva received a Second Suitor`_
IV.  `In Bedford Castle`_
V.  `In Elstow Abbey`_
VI.  `A Penitent`_
VII.  `"*Arcades Ambo*"`_
VIII.  `Justice in Bonds`_
IX.  `An Unexpected Meeting`_
X.  `Through Ouse Marshes`_
XI.  `Breathing-Time`_
XII.  `At the Castle of Eaton Socon`_
XIII.  `The Bird in the Cage`_
XIV.  `The Sanctuary Violated`_
XV.  `Ralph raps at the Castle Gate`_
XVI.  `Within the Castle Walls`_
XVII.  `The King in Council`_
XVIII.  `Heard Underground`_
XIX.  `Fears and Hopes`_
XX.  `Love Laughs at Locksmiths`_
XXI.  `The Castle Falls`_
XXII.  `Ralph to the Rescue`_
XXIII.  `A tête-à-tête Ride to Elstow Abbey`_
XXIV.  `"*De Mortuis*"`_

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   *LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*

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`"Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De
Beauchamps"`_ . . . . . . *Frontispiece*.

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`"The soldiers cast the bailiff into the midst of the fire"`_

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`The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church`_

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`"Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants
and retainers"`_

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`A wild chase through Ouse marshes`_

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`The council at Northampton`_

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`A desperate plunge`_

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`"Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the breach"`_





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.. _`BY THE BANKS OF OUSE`:

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   THE ROBBER BARON OF
   BEDFORD CASTLE.

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CHAPTER I.

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*BY THE BANKS OF OUSE.*

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In the first quarter of the thirteenth century, the
evil doings of King John were yet fresh in the
minds of men all over England, and the indirect
consequences of his evil deeds were still acutely felt, and
nowhere more than in Bedfordshire, where the scene
of our story is laid.  The county itself has much
altered in appearance since that period.  Great woods,
intersected by broad, soft green lanes, overran its
northern portion.  Traces of these woods and roads
still survive in Puddington Hayes and Wymington
Hayes, and the great broad "forty-foot."  South of this
wild wooded upland, one natural feature of
Bedfordshire remains unchanged.  Then, as now, the Great
Ouse took its winding, sluggish course from
southwest to north-east across the county, twisting
strangely, and in many places turning back upon
itself as though loath to leave Bedfordshire.  Some
fifteen miles from point to point would have taken it
straight through the heart of the little county,
whereas its total course therein is more like fifty.  One
poetic fancy likens the wandering stream to a lover
lingering with his mistress, but old Drayton compares
it to one of the softer sex:--

   |  "Ouse, having Olney past, as she were waxed mad,
   |  From her first staider course immediately doth gad,
   |  And in meandering gyves doth whirl herself about,
   |  That, this way, here and there, back, forward, in and out.
   |  And like a wanton girl, oft doubting in her gait,
   |  In labyrinthine turns and twinings intricate,
   |  Through those rich fields doth flow."
   |

It is in the Ouse valley that the events of our story
will chiefly be laid, for here was centred the life of
the county, in those castles which once crowned with
their keeps the various mounds which still exist,--

   |        "Chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells
   |  From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells."
   |

It was along the banks of the Ouse, a little north
of Bedford, that a young knight was riding one bright
January morning in 1224.  By his side hung his
good sword, though he was clad only in the ordinary
riding dress of the period; for these were troublous
times, and the country round by no means secure.
At Bedford Castle, Sir Fulke de Breauté, one of the
late King John's lieutenants, sat strongly intrenched,
like the robber-barons of a later day in their castles
on the Rhine, spreading devastation far and wide.

Young Ralph de Beauchamp, who was making his
way that winter morning along the marshy banks of
the river, which were later to develop into Drayton's
"rich meadows," was the son of the younger brother
of the former occupant and ejected owner of Bedford
Castle.  For more than a hundred years the banner
of the De Beauchamps had waved from Bedford keep.
Their ancestor, Hugo de Beauchamp, had received the
feof from the Conqueror, together with many a broad
manor in the county.  His son, Pain, had reared the
strong keep on the lofty mound which to this day
overlooks the Ouse, and from which Cuthwulf the
Saxon had driven the Britons in 572, pursuing them
far south into the Thames valley.  Later on, the
Danes, sailing up the Ouse, had burned the Saxon
*Burh*; but the Norman keep, though it had
surrendered, had never yet been taken by assault.  Eight
years before the time of our story, William de
Beauchamp, the head of the family, and the uncle of young
Ralph, had sided with the barons who were standing
up for the liberties of England against King John,
and had been ousted by John's ferocious lieutenant,
Fulke de Breauté.  This latter, as has been told, now
held the castle, no longer as lieutenant for Henry,
John's youthful successor, but as the leader of a band
of robbers, who knew no right but might.

Thus it had come to pass that the house of De
Beauchamp, once so powerful in Bedfordshire, was
rather down in the world in the early part of the
thirteenth century, and young Sir Ralph felt the
reverses of his family.  Left an orphan in childhood,
he had been brought up by his uncle William, and
though a penniless knight, heir neither to the estates
of Bedford, nor to those of another branch of the
family seated at the castle of Eaton Socon, lower
down the river, he had, as it were, been rewarded by
nature with more than a compensating share of the
graces of face and form.  He was, moreover, a
proficient in those exercises of the tilt-yard which formed
an important part of a knightly education, and which
were as dear to young men in the thirteenth century
as are their athletic pursuits to those of the present
day.  Nor had his mental training been entirely
neglected.  True, the latter would not be considered
much now-a-days; but in his boyhood, in Bedford
Castle, Ralph had sat many hours in the chaplain's
room, when he would much rather have been bathing
or fishing in the stream below the walls, learning
from the venerable priest how to read, write, and
speak Latin, then a most necessary part of a
gentleman's education.

But neither poverty nor the misfortunes of his
family appeared to weigh heavily on Sir Ralph's mind,
to judge by the cheerful expression of his countenance,
as he rode along humming the refrain of an old
Provençal love-song, which some of De Beauchamp's
retainers had brought into Bedfordshire from fair
France.  Neither did he seem in any dread of Fulke
de Breauté's myrmidons, for the valley was clear of
such as far as eye could reach, though it was then in
great measure overflowed by the waters of the Ouse.
As was not unusual then in winter-time, the broad
river had risen above its low-lying banks, and a vast
expanse of water shimmered far and wide in the
sunlight.  Later on, in Fuller's time, a not uncommon
saying gave the Ouse the name of the "Bailiff of
Bedfordshire," from the quantity of hay and other
produce *distrained* from the low-lying lands by these
frequent and extensive floods.

As Ralph approached Milton Mill, which was half
submerged, and perforce inactive, he reined up his
steed, who was already up to her fetlocks in the
shallow flood which covered the meadows and the track,
and eagerly scanned the watery waste before him, for
his keen eye had caught sight of something dark
being whirled down the rushing torrent.  For an
instant he doubted as to whether it were not some snag
or tree-branch torn from the willows in the osier-bed
further up.  But the truth flashed upon him when he
perceived a slight struggle on the part of the object,
something which might be an arm raised from the
water, and clutching despairingly at nothing.

"B' our Lady!" exclaimed the young knight,
"there goes some poor wretch who seems like to die
unshriven, unless I can give him a helping hand!
'Tis but a chance.--But come up, my lady," he added,
admonishing his good gray mare with a slight prick
from the heavy goads or "pryck spurs" which armed
his heels; "we can but do our best!"

So saying, Ralph hastily turned his steed to the
left, and rode quickly through the slush, down the
half-submerged bank, and into the stream.  There
was not a moment to lose.  Judging his distance
carefully, he forced the mare into the river a little
below the struggling figure, which seemed to be
encumbered with heavy clothing.  The current, turgid
and lead-coloured, swirled violently round the stout
steed, who had enough to do to keep on her feet
against it, weighted as she was with her stalwart
rider.  Further and further Ralph forced her with
voice and spur, though she backed and stumbled,
bewildered by the novel situation, and battling against
the current.  Already the swiftly-eddying water had
reached her shoulders, when, by her head thrown
back, her distended nostrils and starting eye, Ralph
saw she could do no more.

So, bending low down over his saddle-bow, and
reaching out his right arm as far as he was able to
stretch, he awaited the critical moment when the
drowning man should be swept down towards him.
Then, quick as thought, he gripped with an iron
grasp at the black frock in which the figure was
clothed, and turned his horse sharply round.  The
good steed fought her way bravely out of the
stream, her rider dragging the drowning man behind him.

The moment he found himself on dry land once
more, Ralph leaped off to breathe his horse, and to look
at the half-unconscious man he had rescued, and who
was clad in the lay or serving brother's habit of the
Benedictines.

Kneeling by his side, the knight chafed his wet
face and hands, and presently his eyes opened, and he
sat up.

"Thanks to Our Lady and St. Benedict!" he
muttered, "and to you, Sir Knight!  But I thought
it was all over with me."

"And, in good sooth, *I* thought so too, my good
fellow!" exclaimed Sir Ralph, stamping to shake the
water off his leathern hose and jerkin and woollen
surcoat.  "But how came you to venture alone, and
without a guide, across the ford at flood time?" he
added, much relieved to see the lay-brother, who was
young and robust, rise to his feet and begin to wring
his habit.

"I was bred and born in these parts, Sir Knight,"
replied the latter, "and I could find my way across
Milton Ford blindfold.  Nay, I have even crossed it
in worse seasons than this.  But that was before I
took upon me this habit, and I trow our holy founder
did not contemplate that his followers should have to
swim for their lives in it.  Moreover, I have travelled
far and swiftly, and I am weary."

"And have you much further to go yet?" inquired
the knight.

"But as far as Bletsoe," replied the lay-brother.

"Then get you up behind me on my horse,"
answered Ralph, "and together we will take our road,
for my journey also ends at Bletsoe."

"Nay, Sir Knight," replied the lay-brother, glancing
at Ralph's gilt spur of knighthood; "that would be
far from seemly.  This is not the first time by any
means that the Ouse has tried to knock the breath
out of my body, for I was brought up on his banks.
My father is one of the retainers of my Lord de
Pateshulle, and lives just between my lord's house and
the river.  Moreover, it will be best for me to trudge
along on foot, and maybe my clothes will be dry
before I have finished my journey.  Not that I can
ever forget your kind help, sir, or my merciful
deliverance, thanks be to God," he added, devoutly
crossing himself.

Accordingly Ralph, the mare having recovered herself
from her gallant struggle in the water, remounted,
and the lay-brother stepped out bravely by his side.

"And prithee, my good fellow," asked the knight,
"how came you to be struggling in the Ouse this
morning in your Benedictine dress?"

"Alas, sir!" replied the lay-brother, "I am one of
the humblest servants of the holy Abbey of
St. Albans, and I am but just now escaped from greater
danger than that which you beheld befall me in the
Ouse, for at dusk yesterday came that enemy of God,
Sir Fulke de Breauté--"

"Ay!" interrupted Ralph, "that disgrace to
knighthood--the treacherous robber who hath seized my
uncle's castle!"

The lay-brother looked up at the handsome face
turned down upon him, and then at the arms
embroidered on his surcoat.  Bowing his head in
obeisance to his companion when he recognized that he
was in the presence of one of the family of De Beauchamp,
he proceeded to relate a terrible tale of murder
and outrage committed at St. Albans but the day
before by the Robber Baron of Bedford Castle.

"We had but just finished the office of nones in
our beautiful abbey church, Sir Knight," he continued,
"when we heard a terrible noise of fighting and
confusion at the very gate of the abbey itself.  The
porter's man came rushing in to tell us that De
Breauté (whom the saints send to perdition!), with a
large band of his Bedford robbers, was in possession
of the town, ill-treating the townsfolk in every way,
binding many of them fast as prisoners, and
demanding admission into our own sacred precincts.  I
and some others ran to the gate-house, and looking
forth from the upper windows, beheld a terrible sight.
In front of the gate the soldiers and men-at-arms had
formed a half-circle, and in the midst were a great
crowd of townsfolk--men, women, and children--all
with their arms bound behind their backs, buffeted,
kicked, and mocked by the villains who guarded
them.  And against the gate there was a huge fire
kindled, in order that the gate itself might, if possible,
be destroyed.  And by the fire stood that arch-fiend
Fulke himself, calling to our reverend father abbot
to come and speak with him.  Then, as we looked,
we saw certain soldiers drag forward one of the
townsmen, and by the light of the blaze--for it was
already dark--I saw that it was no other than his
worship the bailiff of the town who was thus treated.
And then (O merciful God, show thy vengeance
upon Fulke and his crew!) they cast him, bound as he
was, into the midst of the fire!  O sir, the shrieks of
this man, dying in torture, as the soldiers thrust him
down with their spears!"

.. _`"The soldiers cast the bailiff into the midst of the fire"`:

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   :alt: "The soldiers cast the bailiff into the midst of the fire."

   "The soldiers cast the bailiff into the midst of the fire."

He paused for breath a moment, as if overwhelmed
with the horrible memory of what he had witnessed.
The gray mare started, spurred unconsciously in his
wrath by her rider, who, with teeth clinched, muttered
imprecations upon Fulke de Breauté.

"Go on," he said; "let me hear the whole of this
devil's work!"

The lay-brother went on.

"Next our father abbot looked down from the
window and began to upbraid the impious Fulke for
his great wickedness.  But when De Breauté heard
him, he looked up and cried, 'Hasten, my Lord Abbot,
and send me, with all speed, from your abbey coffers
the sum of one hundred pounds, not more, not less, or,
by my soul, the whole town shall be sacked, and the
burgesses served as their bailiff!'  Then some of my
lord's court waxed wroth, and one of them, a young
noble, and a dear friend of my lord abbot, cried,
'Who will with me, that we drive these impious
robbers away?'  And certain of the household,
together with some of the younger serving-brothers,
and myself among them, agreed to follow the young
knight if he would lead us--"

"'Twas bravely spoken--bravely done," interrupted
Ralph impetuously.

"And we rushed out through the gate, and through
the fire, and across the burnt body of the bailiff.  But,
alack! we had but staves in our hands, and clubs--for
Holy Church forbids us to use more carnal weapons--and
so what could we do against armed men?  Our
leader was struck down dead by Fulke himself--I
saw the deed with my own eyes.  We could not get
us back into the abbey, for the brethren had closed
the gate behind us.  We fled, or tried to flee, in all
directions.  I myself made my way by force of my
right arm and my club through the soldiers where
the line was the weakest.  Whether my comrades
escaped I know not.  God be with their souls!  Then
I girded up my frock and ran until I had distanced
those who pursued me, clad as they were in their
heavy armour.  Praise be to the saints, I am healthy
and strong, and, thanks to you, Sir Knight, have
escaped the broad Ouse's waters as well this day!"

Ralph, who during the lay-brother's narrative had
kept up an undercurrent of muttered curses on Fulke
de Breauté and his followers, glanced with admiration
at the sturdy young hero by his side.

"Methinks," he said, smiting him a good-natured
slap upon the back, "that Mother Church has despoiled
us of a good soldier here!  But, say, how comes it
that you make your way by Milton Ford at this flood
season, and not high and dry over Bedford Bridge?"

"I have journeyed all night, Sir Knight," he replied,
"save that I rested a space in the houses of acquaintances
at Luton and Ampthill, to whom I told my tale,
and who refreshed me with meat and drink.  But
when I drew nigh to Bedford, I left the main road,
and took the right bank up the river till I reached
Milton Mill.  I dared not venture to pass through the
town.  How could I tell but that some of De Breauté's
men might not have already returned to the castle,
and be ready to fall on any one clad in Benedictine
habit, and crossing the bridge from the direction of
St. Alban's?  The rest, Sir Knight, you know.  I suppose
I was weak and weary with my fighting and my
journeying, and when I missed the ford, had not
strength to battle with the stream, many times as I
have swum the broad Ouse.  Perils by fire! perils by
water!  But thanks to Heaven and you, Sir Knight,
in a short space I shall be once again in my old
village home.  I have not exactly found the religious
calm and peace which was promised me when I professed
as a lay-brother six months ago," he added, with
a smile.

The recital of this raid on the town of St. Alban's,
an account of which has been handed down to us in
manuscript by an unknown scribe, together with
various suggestions on the part of Sir Ralph for the
destruction of Fulke and his "nest of the devil,"
occupied our travellers till they reached the village of
Bletsoe.  There the knight saw the lay-brother safe
to his father's house, and after many renewed
expressions of gratitude from him, rode on alone, further
up the village to the mansion of the De Pateshulles.





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.. _`BLETSOE MANOR-HOUSE`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   *BLETSOE MANOR-HOUSE.*

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The manor-house of Bletsoe stood on the north
side of the parish church of St. Margaret,
about a mile from the point where the river makes a
sharp bend from east to south.  Of the manor-house,
and of the castle which succeeded it, no traces remain,
but portions of a seventeenth century mansion, now a
farm-house, mark its site.  The Pateshulles had come
into Bedfordshire from Staffordshire, where is situated
the village of Pateshulle, from which they took their
name.  From them Bletsoe passed to the De Beauchamps,
another branch of the family to which Ralph
belonged.  Their heiress married into the family of
St. John, who possess Bletsoe to this day.

But in the early part of the thirteenth century,
when the Pateshulles first possessed it, Bletsoe was
but a small place, not even fortified, till in 1327,
more than a century later, John de Pateshulle
obtained from the king a license to crenellate his
mansion--that is, to erect defensive parapets on the walls.

The house to which Sir Ralph de Beauchamp made
his way was therefore built in the usual fashion of a
gentleman's residence at that period--timber-framed,
and of no architectural pretensions.  At one end of a
central hall were the private apartments of the family,
at the other the domestic offices and the rooms of the
servants and retainers.  In front of the hall was a
gate-house, where a porter watched continually in
his lodge; and from this gate-house flanking wooden
palisades ran on either side to the private
apartments and servants' offices, enclosing a small
courtyard.

As Ralph rode through the gate, a round, white-haired
face peeped from the lodge door.

"Soho!  Dicky Dumpling," cried the young knight,
springing from his gray mare with a ringing of his
spurs upon the pavement.

The individual thus accosted emerged from the
doorway of his dwelling.  Many years of service and
of good living in the porter's lodge of the De
Pateshulles, combined with very little active exercise, had
caused Dicky's figure to assume the rotund proportions
not inaptly expressed by the nickname by which he
was universally known.  When he perceived Sir
Ralph, his broad countenance lighted up with a grin
of satisfaction, which caused his twinkling eyes almost
to disappear among wrinkles of fat, and he waddled
forward with as much alacrity as he was capable of
and seized the horse's bridle.  As he did so, his eyes
rested on Ralph's still moist and mire-stained surcoat
and dripping hose.

"By St. Dunstan!" exclaimed the old servitor,
speaking with the freedom of having known Ralph
ever since the latter was a page in his uncle Sir
William's service, and came often in his train to Bletsoe
Manor--"by St. Dunstan, Sir Knight, and beshrew me
if I don't think you choose a cold season to go
swimming in the Ouse at flood time!"

"You speak with your usual wisdom, O Dumpling
mine," responded Ralph, laughing; "but I've been
a-fishing."

Dumpling opened his wide mouth to it fullest extent.

"A-fishing, good my lord?"

"Ay, a-fishing; and I've caught a larger and a
fatter pike than ever yet gladdened your eyes and
made that huge mouth of thine water, and with a
finer set of teeth than you have, after all the hard
work you have given yours.  There has been bad and
bloody work at St. Alban's, and fresh foul deeds have
been done by yon devil in human form of Bedford.
You can hear more anon, if your curiosity can drive
your fat carcass as far down the village as Goodman
Hodge's cottage.  I cannot tarry to tell thee more.
Say, Dickon, is your lord within?"

It was now Dumpling's turn to have a joke.  His
face assumed a mock expression of the utmost gravity,
belied by the twinkle of his merry little eyes.  He
stood on tiptoe, and spoke in a low voice close to
Ralph's ear.

"My lord went forth an hour ago to fly a new
falcon he has just bought.  He will return at noon to
dine.  I can smell even now the good and savoury
odours that arise from the spit.  But I'll warrant me
that the meat is not yet done to a turn, and that you
have yet time.  Hist!"

Whereupon he laid his hand on the young knight's
arm, and with finger on his lips drew him from under
the gate-house arch, and pointed to the farther corner
of the court-yard.

Under the windows of the Lord of Bletsoe's apartments
a sort of garden had been railed off from the
rest of the court-yard, so as to be somewhat private.
Out in this garden, in the bright January sunshine,
stood a tall and graceful girl engaged in nailing up
some sort of creeper round the windows.  Her long
arms--bare to their full length, for the long loose
sleeves of the period had slipped up to her
shoulders--were stretched above her head in order that she
might reach her work.  Her small, delicate head,
which was uncovered, was thrown back as she looked
up at the wall, and from it thick masses of brown
hair waved down her shoulders.  She had evidently
been tempted out by the sunshine to do a little
winter gardening, and wore neither fillet nor mantle,
while the rather tight robe of the period, clinging
to her figure, set off admirably her tall stately form,
just budding into the full maturity of young womanhood.

There came a clanking of armed heels and the
rattle of a scabbard over the stones of the court-yard,
and the young lady turned sharply round.  A smile
of recognition and a deep flush passed together across
her fair face.  The next moment she glanced back
at the half-open door of a turret staircase close at
hand, evidently communicating with the private
apartments above, and made a movement as if to flee.

But Ralph was too quick for her.  In an instant
he had vaulted the low fence, and gained her side, so
that common courtesy, if no stronger motive, obliged
her to remain.  Then he caught her by both hands
and made as if he would kiss her; but she shook her head.

"Aliva, my heart's darling!" he exclaimed; "I
prithee tell me what is wrong this morning?  You
seem not glad to see me.  Have I frightened you in
coming on you so suddenly?" he added, half jesting.

The maiden's lips curled bewitchingly.

"A daughter of the De Pateshulles has yet to learn
what fear is," she replied; "and I warrant you could
not teach it me, Ralph, either in person or in
practice," she added.  And then the smile died away,
and the grave expression stole over her face
immediately.

"But, my ladye fair, I would fain have you overjoyed
to see me this morning, for I bring news which
will perhaps lead your father to look more favourably
on my suit," continued Ralph.  "But perchance that
is news you would therefore be ill-pleased to hear," he
added.

Aliva tossed her head with a laugh in her eyes.

"Try me, Sir Knight," she said--"say on your
news," and her face lit up again with pleasure.

"One point in my fate still remains unchanged,"
Ralph went on.  "A soldier of fortune I am, and such
I must continue; there is no fresh news on that score.
If you will wed me, dear heart, you will still have to
wed one who must depend on his own right arm.
But now I see a chance before me of exerting that
right arm."

For the moment, however, the member to which he
alluded had found its way round Aliva's waist, and did
not appear to exert itself any further for the time
being.

"Now that I have received my knightly rank,"
Ralph continued, "I have a hope, also, of active
service.  The king, as I have lately heard, meditates an
expedition across the Border to punish the Scots, and
a great council of the nation is to be summoned to
meet at Northampton in the summer.  When once the
business is arranged, and the royal forces set forth for
the north, methinks I am sure of a good post.  My uncle's
weight and interest have not been utterly lost, though
he has been driven from the home of our ancestors.
When he begs for a command for a De Beauchamp,
the king surely cannot say him nay.  And then, when
the war is over, when we have taught the Scots a
lesson, in a few months I shall come again, my Aliva,
and come no longer penniless and unknown, but with
rank, position, the promise of further employment,
and perhaps, if fortune favours me--for I will do
all man can dare to do--with some deed of glory,
some honour not unworthy to lay at your feet as
a wedding-gift.  Oh say, Aliva, your father will
hearken then?"

Aliva had not spoken, had not interrupted him.
She stood, her eyes cast on the ground, a fierce struggle
going on within her.  As a daughter, she felt that
she ought not to have allowed this stolen interview
against her father's wishes.  She ought to have fled
by the turret-stair, with merely a courteous salutation
for her visitor.  Yet there he stood, this penniless
young knight, by her side, his arm round her waist,
and his large gray eyes gazing with devotion and
love into her face.  Moreover, he was telling her
of a soldier's duties; he spoke of war and danger.
What could she do?  She was but a woman, warm-hearted
and also of impulsive nature.  The court-yard
was clear, for Dicky Dumpling had hobbled off to
the stables with the gray mare.  For all answer she
laid her head upon his shoulder and her right hand
sought his left--the one, be it remembered, that was
disengaged.

It was but for a moment, however, and then it was
not only maidenly instinct which made her draw
herself free from his embrace.

"Ugh!" she exclaimed; "where in the name of
all that's marvellous have you been this morning,
Ralph?  You are dripping wet, or at least anything
but dry!"

"Have no fear, lady; I have had no worse encounter
than one with our old river this morning, and I
crave your forgiveness for thus presenting myself, for
time brooked no delay.  But I bear evil tidings for
the ears of a devout daughter of Holy Church," he
continued; and he told her the story of De Breauté's
impious raid upon St. Alban's Abbey.

The maiden listened horror-stricken, and when he
had ended, pressed her fingers to her eyes, as if to
shut out the horrible scene he had conjured up.

"O Mother of God!" she exclaimed, in a low shuddering
voice, as if to herself.  "And it is with one of
this family of spoilers of churches and murderers of
the servants of holy men that my father would have
me wed!"

Ralph drew back, astonished at her words.

"Aliva! what say you?  You are dreaming!  Wed
with a De Breauté?  Never while I draw breath; by
the holy Cross I swear it.  Your father! he speaks
in sorry jest or in madness.  And besides, the scoundrel
Fulke has a wife already--that ill-fated Lady Margaret
de Ripariis, affianced at one time to my uncle, Sir
William, and forced against her will into a marriage
with Fulke by our late king.  Aliva, speak, I conjure
you.  What mean you by such words?"

"Alas!" replied the maiden, hesitatingly and
mournfully, and answering only the latter part of her
lover's question, "my father knows full well the sad
history of the Lady Margaret, and ofttimes hath he
said, more in jest than in earnest I trust, that after
all the lady has become the *châtelaine* of Bedford
Castle, and that since your noble uncle has been
turned out, she did well to marry with the man who
has got inside--"

"Peace, my sweetest Aliva," interrupted Ralph
impetuously.  "Speak not of that unfortunate Lady
Margaret.  But tell me, I beseech thee, what your
father means by joining your name with one of the
house of De Breauté."

The Lady Aliva drew herself together, as with an
effort.

"Nay, I would not have spoken--the name escaped
me when you spake of the outrage on the church--forget--"

She stopped short, her voice breaking.  The
excitement of this unexpected meeting with the man
she loved, the news that he was about to leave her
for war and danger, the sweet moment in which she
had allowed him to clasp her in his arms, the fearful
tale of slaughter he had unfolded, which brought back
suddenly to her mind, with the mention of the name
of De Breauté, the fate that was proposed for her,
and which she had well-nigh forgotten in her happiness
of finding herself by Ralph's side once more,--all
these emotions proved too much for her.  Bursting
into a flood of tears, she made for the turret door,
and, in spite of the young knight's effort to detain her,
disappeared up the stairs.

Ralph, stunned and mystified, was staring at the
door which had closed behind her, when he heard a
wheezing at his elbow.

"Sir Knight, the pasty is done brown and the cook
is ready to serve up, and from the gate-house window
I see my lord herding his falcons, and preparing to
return," said Dicky Dumpling's voice.

It aroused Ralph as from a dream.  Pressing a
piece of money into the porter's fat palm, he hastened
to fetch his mare from the stable, and mounting her,
rode away with a heavy heart through the gate of
Bletsoe Castle.

Dicky Dumpling looked after him and shook his head.

"He comes with a jest, and he goes without a
word!  Things look ill, I trow.  'Laugh and grow fat'
is my motto, laugh and grow fat!  Plague on that
lazy scullion! why lingers he so long with my dinner?"





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.. _`HOW ALIVA RECEIVED A SECOND SUITOR`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   *HOW ALIVA RECEIVED A SECOND SUITOR.*

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So fair and noble a maiden as the Lady Aliva de
Pateshulle deserved a better father than she
possessed.  The Lord of Bletsoe was rather too
inclined to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,
to play a double part, waiting to see where his own
interests would best be served.  But we must bear in
mind the condition of affairs in the time in which he
lived.  The old and formerly powerful county family
of the De Beauchamps were fallen from their high
estate; for Sir William, their head, had been ousted
from his castle, and in those days a baron without
castle and stronghold occupied but an inferior position.
On the other hand, the house of De Breauté had come
decidedly to the front; for, as the chroniclers of the
time tell us, Fulke held not only the castle of Bedford,
but also the castles and the shrievalties of Oxford,
Northampton, Buckingham, and Cambridge.  All these
he had received as the reward for his services against
the barons on behalf of King John, so there could be
no doubt but that the De Breauté family was wealthy,
and also, apparently, firmly rooted at Bedford.

It must not be supposed, however, that De Pateshulle
could excuse Fulke's outrages, or that he would
have gone so far as to give his daughter to one who
bore so evil a name, even had he not been already
married.  The intended son-in-law was another
member of the De Breauté family.

As the Lady Margaret de Ripariis, the unhappy
wife of Fulke, had born her husband no children, the
heir to his wealth was his younger brother William.
Now this William de Breauté was not yet as widely
known, nor as hated, as his brother, nor was it even
asserted that he had taken part in any of the foul
deeds committed by the latter.  Soldier of fortune
like his brother, he had but lately arrived from
France, and taken up his residence in Bedfordshire,
where perhaps he was not altogether unpopular, for
he had even gone so far as to hint that, should Sir
Fulke come to a violent end in one of his forays, and
he, William, become the lord of Bedford Castle, the
neighbourhood should have no reason to mourn the
change.  With regard to the De Beauchamps, however,
he intimated pretty strongly that he considered
his family to have sufficient title to the castle from
the grant of King John, and no one, naturally, was
prepared to say that the young King Henry was in a
position to upset his father's arrangements.

Accordingly, when William de Breauté approached
De Pateshulle with a proposal that he should give
him his daughter Aliva in marriage, it was not
altogether unnatural that that gentleman, being of poor
estate though of good family, and not even possessing
a fortified dwelling--in itself a mark of position
in those days--should be willing to listen to a suit
which would place his descendants at Bedford Castle,
and in the position held in former days by the De
Beauchamps.

It was on the afternoon of the same day on which
Ralph de Beauchamp had met Aliva de Pateshulle in
the garden that William de Breauté presented himself
in person at the mansion of Bletsoe.  Had he been
aware of the stolen interview which had taken place
a few hours before by the turret door, he would
hardly have selected this day for pressing his suit
with Aliva herself.  But ignorance is bliss.  De
Breauté had not been sufficiently long in the
neighbourhood to learn that there had been love passages
between Ralph and Aliva, so he rode over to Bletsoe
in a self-satisfied frame of mind, armed as he was
with De Pateshulle's permission, which, in those days
when ladies were often given in marriage against
their will, was, he flattered himself, of considerable
force.  But he little knew with what a resolute
maiden he had to deal.  Moreover, he was still
ignorant of the outrages at St. Alban's the previous
evening, which were likely to bring fresh discredit on
his name.  He only knew that Fulke had gone off on
some raid, and had not yet returned when he left
Bedford.

William de Breauté was several years younger
than his brother--not much senior, in fact, to Ralph
de Beauchamp himself.  French by title and education,
he had imported something of Continental grace
and manners into the Anglo-Norman society of the
time in Bedfordshire.  He was more careful of his
dress and person than the other young men of the
neighbourhood.  Instead of the short curling beard
and half-long hair which was the fashion in England,
he wore only a small, carefully-trimmed moustache,
and his dark hair was cut short all over his head.
He had first met the Lady Aliva at a hunting-party
held in the woods on the other side of the river, by
Sir William Wake of Stevington Castle, when the
maiden, no mean horsewoman nor inferior shot with
the cross-bow, had greatly distinguished herself by
her prowess in venery.  Since then, upon every
occasion, William de Breauté had attempted to
ingratiate himself with the daughter of De Pateshulle,
by his foreign-cultured manners, and by showing, not
altogether unsuccessfully perhaps, that he was more
of a lady's man than the young knights and squires
of the county who flocked around her.  But up till
now he had not ventured to make serious love to her.
Indeed, with his frothy, shallow nature, an impetuous,
earnest wooing such as Ralph's would not have
been easy.

There was a twofold motive in the suit De Breauté
now sought to press.  With his admiration for the
stately beauty mingled a desire to establish himself
firmly in his position by an alliance with an old
family, such as that of a De Pateshulle.  He was by no
means totally insincere in disclaiming any part in Sir
Fulke's malpractices, and was keenly alive to the
precarious footing upon which he stood in Bedfordshire,
both on account of the sympathy universally
felt for the ejected De Beauchamps, and also by
reason of his brother's lawless freebooting career.

In anything but an enviable state of mind Aliva
sat at the little window of her chamber, her hands
clasped convulsively round her knees, and watched
the watery rays of the sunshine of a winter's
afternoon piercing the fog, which slowly mounted from the
river over the low-lying country around.  The scene
seemed to her typical of her unhappy position.

"The sunshine of my life is past and gone," she
exclaimed to herself, with the acute bitterness of
sorrowing youth.  "My sun has vanished, and the
mists creep on apace!  They threaten to enshroud
me.  I know not which way to turn!" she added,
with the reaction of despair common to all proud,
high-spirited natures.  "O my father, my father! the
burden you have laid upon me is too heavy to
bear!  Since you first told of your wishes--nay, your
commands--I have been torn hither and thither.  Had
I a mother, had that dear parent not been taken so
early from me, she would have known, have felt, that
this is no idle fancy, no passing friendship for Ralph!
O be merciful! do not force me to take another!"

Those were the days when a dutiful and reverential
spirit of obedience to parents, of which we find now,
unhappily, not so much trace, was looked upon as a
sacred duty.  Daughters were given in marriage by
their parents with but little regard for their own
wishes, and rich heiresses--though indeed poor Aliva
was not one of these latter--were even disposed of by
royal authority for political purposes.  In the hapless
Margaret de Ripariis, the wife of Fulke, Aliva had
herself seen an instance of such a forced marriage.
No wonder that she was in despair, and had torn
herself away from Ralph in confusion and distress,
when her miserable position was suddenly recalled
to her.

Even as she thus moaned to herself, the sun sank
behind a bank of mist, and a raw, gray gloom fell
over the landscape, while home-coming rooks settled
in the tall elms round the house, cawing mournfully.

"My father said he might come this very day,"
Aliva thought to herself.  "But surely the vesper-bell
will soon be ringing from the church, and then,
thanks to our blessed St. Margaret, I shall be safe for
yet another day!"

But even as she spoke she heard the sound of a
horseman riding in under the gateway, and of Dicky
Dumpling's voice bawling to a serving-man; for after
his visit to the lay-brother's cottage, and the news he
had there heard, the fat porter felt in no mood to
hold the bridle of a De Breauté.

But Aliva did not peep from her window as she
had done when Ralph rode off, for she guessed who
had come, and her heart sank within her.

Quickly there came a knock at the door, and the
old serving-woman entered.

"My lady, my lord thy father desires you attend
him in the great hall."

"Tell him I come," answered Aliva, and she rose.

A daughter's obedience she owed, and she would
indeed obey an order to confront this unwelcome
suitor.  But even as she smoothed her flowing hair,
and, with the natural vanity of a girl about to meet
an admirer, arranged it beneath the fillet, and settled
the sweeping lines of her tight-fitting robe, the
exigency of the crisis raised the maiden's spirit.  For
she was of Anglo-Norman blood.  Her sires had
fought at Hastings, and from each line of ancestors
she inherited totally distinct qualities of bravery,
dogged resolution, intrepid pride, and tenacity of
purpose, which, blended together, have produced the
finest race the world has ever seen.

As she entered the hall door opening into the dais
or upper end, her father and William de Breauté,
standing together in the oriel, thought they had never
seen her look so "divinely tall, and most divinely fair."

With one glance at the latter she swept straight
up to her parent, and spoke slowly and clearly, though
it needed all her strong self-will to suppress her
agitation.

"Father," she said, "I saw Sir Ralph de Beauchamp
here this morning."

A complete silence followed as she ceased and
stepped quietly to the deep oriel window, passing her
father on the other side to that on which De Breauté
stood.  There was silence as she gazed fixedly out
into the distant winter landscape, over which the
dusk was already gathering, her teeth set, her lips
firmly closed, and her clasped hands so tightly clinched
that the nails cut into her flesh.  She moved not a
muscle, but stood rigid as a statue.

De Pateshulle shifted uneasily on his feet, and
sought his guest's face with restless eyes and troubled
expression, giving an apologetic cough.

The large log burning in the open fireplace half-way
down the hall fell with a sudden crash from the
fire-dogs, as one charred end gave way.

De Breauté started.  He had been cowed for a
moment by the flashing glance Aliva had given him
as she entered the hall.  He had been stabbed by a
maddening pang of jealousy at the few words she
had spoken.  But in the silence which followed he
regained courage, and plunged vehemently into the set
speech he had prepared,--

"Most beauteous Lady Aliva, fairest daisy of an
English meadow, witching Diana of the woods, behold
in me a poor suppliant from *outre mer*, falling at your
fair feet, wounded to death by the glance of your
bright een, the victim of Venus *venerie*!  I pray
thee, proud damoiselle, to deign to look upon me with
favour, and to fan with words of comfort the fire
ardent your beauty hath enkindled!"

He paused for lack of breath, and then launched
out again into Continental flowers of compliment and
gallantry.

As he spoke he advanced gradually towards Aliva,
bowing, his hand upon his heart.

The two were only about six paces apart.  Slowly
and deliberately Aliva took those six paces, with an
expression of indignation and scorn.  Her right fist
was tightly clinched.  She raised her arm, and (we
must remember this was the thirteenth and not the
nineteenth century) she struck the dark little
Frenchman full in the face.





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.. _`IN BEDFORD CASTLE`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


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   *IN BEDFORD CASTLE.*

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A few weeks after William de Breauté, his face
smarting and disfigured by a blow from a
woman's hand, had ridden off from Bletsoe, his elder
brother Fulke--"that disgrace to knighthood," as
Ralph de Beauchamp had termed him--sat one morning
in his wife's apartment in his castle of Bedford.

The lady's bower, as the private room of the *châtelaine*
was called, was at Bedford pleasantly situated
in the upper part of the great keep reared by Pain
de Beauchamp.  The interior arrangement of a
Norman castle was usually as follows:--

The ground-floor, to which there was no entrance
from without, was called the *dungeon*, and was used
as a storehouse for the provisions which were
necessary to enable the castle to stand a siege.  Here,
also, was the well, another necessity, and prisoners
were also sometimes confined in the ground-floor,
hence the application of the name to prisons in
general.  The greater part of the first floor was occupied
by the large apartment called the hall.  This was
approached by steps outside the building, and was
entered through a portal which was often highly
ornamented.  The great hall was common ground to
all who had any right to enter the keep, but above
it were the private rooms for the lord and his family,
which were usually approached by a staircase built
at one corner of the keep.  The windows were very
small: in the lower portion of the building were long
narrow tunnels pierced through the thickness of the
wall; but in the upper stories, where the walls were
safe from attack by battering-rams or such engines,
they were often splayed within at a wide angle.  In
the recess thus formed seats could be placed commanding
a view through the narrow window, covered only
by a wooden shutter, which could be hooked back
when the weather permitted.

In such a nook, in her own private room, sat
Margaret de Ripariis, the lady of Bedford Castle.  The
view from out of the open window was a pleasant
one.  Immediately at her feet was the strong wall
surrounding the keep itself; its exact position can even
now be determined, as we stand on the flat bowling-green
which occupies the summit of the mound where
the keep once stood.  Beyond, the broad stream of the
Ouse protected the castle along the whole of the
southern front.  Across the river, to the right, the
Micklegate, or southern portion of the town, clustered
round the two churches of St. Mary and St. Peter,
Dunstable; and the view from the upper stories of the keep
embraced the abbey of Elstow, with its great Norman
church, some two miles further to the south, and was
only bounded by the blue line of the Ampthill hills.

But charming as was the prospect, the Lady
Margaret was not regarding it with any expression of
satisfaction.  In fact, her thoughts were quite
otherwise occupied.  A controversy was going on at that
moment between herself and her lord and master, and
she merely gazed out of the window in order to turn
away her eyes from him, for they were full of tears.
An unfortunate contrast to the scene within were the
calm river and the bright spring sunshine without.

The Lady Margaret had barely reached middle age,
but sorrow and care had worn weary lines on a face
which, some twenty years before, must have been one
of exceeding beauty.  When a young girl, she had
betrothed herself to William de Beauchamp, Ralph's
uncle; but by an overstraining of that feudal law
which allowed the king, or any other chief, the power
to give his ward in marriage, she had been forced by
King John into a distasteful match with Fulke de
Breauté.  It would have been possible, but difficult,
for a strong-willed woman to resist the will and the
command of a feudal superior.  But in the case
of an heiress, such as was Margaret de Ripariis,
great pressure was exercised, and many women in
those days had to yield against their will and
inclination.  Fulke de Breauté himself was at that time a
young man in the height of favour with King John,
who was then engaged in his desperate struggle with
his barons, and who eventually rewarded his supporter
with the governorship of Bedford, and the hand of
the rich heiress.

But on the morning in question in this chapter the
redoubtable Fulke was in a somewhat less defiant,
and even in a penitent mood.  Not, however, that he
had as yet made any act of reparation for the terrible
deed of pillage and murder committed on St. Vincent's
Eve at St. Alban's, and which the ferocious knight
had finally crowned by carrying off a crowd of men,
women, and children to his stronghold at Bedford.

In those days freebooting barons pounced upon
prisoners for the sake of ransom, much as the Greek
brigands do now, and we may be sure that the
burgesses of St. Alban's had to pay up pretty heavily
ere their fellow-townsfolk were restored to them.
The chronicler, however, does not relate the fate of
these unfortunate creatures thus hurried off to
Bedford, but what he does tell us is, that the conscience
of Fulke, dead enough probably when that miscreant
was awake, had been pricking him as he slept; and
"conscience doth make cowards of us all."

De Breauté was suffering mentally from an uneasy
night and a very ugly dream.  He had seen, the
chronicler relates--though how he came by such an
intimate knowledge of the knight's dream does not
transpire--he had seen a huge stone fall from the
summit of the great central tower of St. Alban's
Abbey--that tower built of the bricks of the Roman
Verulam which we still see rising high above the
city--and had felt it fall upon him and crush him to
powder.

One cannot but think that Sir Fulke was paying
the penalty for a too hearty indulgence in some
indigestible dish at the supper-table the evening
before.  Be that how it may, however, he awoke
with a great cry, and told the dream to Lady
Margaret.  The latter, as much alarmed as her husband,
drew from him an account of his late raid, of which
the presence of the captives had given her an inkling,
and then urged him to go off forthwith to St. Alban's,
and make reparation at the shrine of the saint.

With the morning light, however, Sir Fulke,
himself again, demurred.  He began to regret that he
had told his wife all.  The brief season of superstitious
fear had passed away, and his usual condition
of ferocity and self-will supervening, he was
endeavouring, and not unsuccessfully, to master the better
feeling that had arisen within him.

The Lady Margaret had, under the seemingly
fortuitous circumstances of her husband's brief
penitence, ventured to bring forward a matter she had at
heart.  It was now the season of Lent.  In the
famous Benedictine Nunnery of Elstow, close to
Bedford, Martin de Pateshulle, Archdeacon of Northampton,
and the uncle of Aliva, was holding a series of special
devotional services for women, or what we should now
call a retreat, which was attended by many of the
ladies of the county.  Margaret, sick at heart with
her life at Bedford Castle, and weary of the
blasphemies and the sacrilege of her husband, was most
anxious to escape, if only for a time, into the seclusion
of religious life.

The old chaplain of the castle, the pious and
venerable priest, who had taught Ralph de Beauchamp his
*hic*, *hæc*, *hoc*, had long since been gathered to his
rest.  Indeed, had he still been alive, he could scarcely
have continued in his office under the new *régime*.
So chaplain at this time there was none in Bedford
Castle.  He must, indeed, have been a strange priest
who would have been acceptable to Fulke and his crew.

St. Paul's, the principal church in the town, had
been despoiled by the sacrilegious baron, who had
carried off the stones of which it was built to repair
his stronghold, and it is not clear if the Augustinian
canons who continued to serve it, though they had
removed many years before to the priory erected for
them at Newenham by Roisia de Beauchamp, would
have found just then an altar to serve.  Only on
certain occasions would her brutal husband permit
Margaret to attend to her religious duties at the
chapel of St. Thomas-at-bridge, which stood at the
foot of the bridge outside the castle gate.  This
morning, however, taking advantage of the fit of
penitence which had seized him in the night, she
was craving permission to go to the retreat at Elstow.

"I like not your running after these priests and
their masses," remonstrated Sir Fulke.  "We have
gone many years with chapel unserved here.  You
know I have made of it a lumber-room; and we are
none the worse for it, and," he added, with a grim
chuckle, "perchance none the better."

"But, and did you allow me, I would go pray for
you, while you yourself get you to the shrine of
St. Alban, and make reparation to the holy servants of
St. Benedict there, as you promised me last night, on
your honour, you would do," pleaded the wife.

Sir Fulke winced at this allusion to his weakness
and terror in the hours of darkness.

"Besides, you have often exhorted me to stand
well for your sake with the knights and noble families
round, and you know full well how many ladies are
like to be at Elstow."

Sir Fulke paused awhile.  It was perfectly true,
as his wife had said, that he wanted to improve his
social position in the neighbourhood, and though the
superstitious fears arising from his fearful dream had
now vanished, he was well aware that his last raid,
with its accompanying murders, was more than any
decent-minded men could put up with, even in those
rough and cruel days.  Therefore, as religious
observances counted for much in the way of expiation of
crime, he came to the conclusion that no harm would
be done by a little vicarious repentance.

"Go, then," he said roughly.  "But take care that
if aught is said to you concerning this St. Alban's
turmoil, you make out the best case you can for me.
Say that the bailiff was burned by my men ere I got
to the abbey gate, and that I knew naught of it till
afterwards.  You can add that some of my men-at-arms
have been hanged for it, or aught else that
occurs to you.  Your woman-wit will tell you what
to say."

"And then," exclaimed Lady Margaret, overlooking,
in her thankfulness, the condition of lying imposed on
the desired permission--"and then you will go yourself
to St. Alban's, and--"

"Peace, woman!" interrupted the knight; "leave
me to order my own doings.  I will command your
palfrey to be ready.  Take one of your women with
you, and I will order varlets to go attend you.  I
would not that the wife of De Breauté should go
to Elstow with any fewer train than the other dames."

So saying, Sir Fulke strode from the room, leaving
his wife setting about her preparations for departure
with all alacrity.

De Breauté, rough and cruel as he was, had a great
idea of keeping such state at Bedford as befitted a
castle of such importance, and had no notion of letting
it go down from the position which it had occupied
in the time of the De Beauchamps.  Indeed, from a
military point of view, he had considerably strengthened
it by adding to its defences with the material he
had robbed from St. Paul's.  Within, it was well
garrisoned and provisioned, and held by a force of
nearly one hundred men-at-arms, or trained soldiers,
besides grooms, servants, and followers.  Though
deprived of the services of a chaplain, the Lady Margaret
was allowed to have two or three waiting-women or
attendants, who held more the position of companions
than mere servants.

Accompanied by one of these, she found herself, an
hour or two after her interview with her husband,
riding on her palfrey towards Elstow Abbey.

Her companion was a young and pretty girl who,
by her combined prudence and archness, managed to
hold her own among the rough crew who garrisoned
Bedford Castle, while her bright wit and merry laugh
at times shed a brief ray of brightness on the gloomy
life of her unfortunate mistress, whose loneliness was
cheered by her faithful attachment.

Beatrice Mertoun might, had she been inclined,
have chosen a husband for herself from her many
admirers among De Breauté's chief retainers.  But
her affections were already fixed upon an officer in
the royal army, one John de Standen, the king's
miner, from the Forest of Dean.  De Standen
occupied an important post as director of the mining
operations so necessary in a siege, though he did not
hold the rank of a knight, and therefore could hardly
be said to represent a modern officer of engineers.

As the two ladies, followed by their grooms,
proceeded on the way, the Lady Margaret confided to
Beatrice the story of her lord's dream, congratulating
herself on its result being so far favourable as to
allow her to pay this visit to the abbey.

"Now, by my halidom," quoth the maiden, as she
listened to the account of the vision, her thoughts
running rather on her lover than on this pious
pilgrimage, "methinks to hurl down a stone like that
were rather more like the work of Master John de
Standen than of the holy Alban!"

"Tush, child! jest not of the blessed saints!"
reproved the elder woman.

"I meant no harm, lady," retorted the incorrigible
Beatrice.  "I was ever taught that the holy Alban
was a good soldier and true, like De Standen, but I
never heard that he was at his best in the mining
works of a siege!"

But her lady hardly caught her last remark.  Her
eye perceived the tall central tower of Elstow rising
among the trees, and the sight suggested alarming
thoughts to her harassed mind.

"Ah me!" she said, half to herself.  "What if my
lord in his madness should attack the holy abbey of
Elstow and the reverend women there!"

"And lack-a-day, my lady," Beatrice went on,
"men do say that the king will certes one day pull
down Bedford Castle over Sir Fulke's head; and who
could raze those stout walls without the aid of bold
John and his men?"

But the elder lady continued to pursue her own train
of thought concerning the abbey and the approaching
retreat, so that the conversation ran on between the
two in the following somewhat disjointed fashion, the
venerable Archdeacon Martin de Pateshulle and the
bold John de Standen being alternately the theme.

"He will draw us all up higher when we come
within those walls."

"Nay, lady; methinks he will draw them down
about our ears and ourselves with them."

"How meanest thou?  I speak of the holy church
and the reverend father."

"In good sooth, it looks strong and stout, the
abbey church; and yet, were it a castle, methinks
John could find his way beneath its walls."

"And how, Beatrice?  To me it seems to figure
the firmness of Holy Church, founded on the rock of
the blessed apostle, the see of our lord his Holiness
the Pope."

"Yet neither rock nor sea can withstand the skilful
miner's advances; for John has ofttimes explained
to me how he has dug his mines beneath the water
of the deepest moat."

And so, running on at cross purposes, they rode
through the abbey gateway, and entered the outer
or guests' yard.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN ELSTOW ABBEY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *IN ELSTOW ABBEY.*

.. vspace:: 2

Elstow is probably connected in the minds of
most people with the name of John Bunyan
only.  But long before the time of the Puritan
tinker Elstow had a history and a renown of its own.
Here Judith, niece of the Conqueror and wife of
Waltheof, Earl of Northampton and Huntingdon, the
Saxon hero and martyr, had founded an abbey of
Benedictine nuns, endowing it with many broad acres.
The stately abbey church still remains in part, and is
used as the parish church, though much shorn of its
beauty; for the central tower, chancel, and Ladychapel
have all disappeared, and the nave only is left.
The Lady de Breauté and her attendant dismounted
from their palfreys in the outer yard, beyond which
men were not allowed to penetrate, and whence the
grooms returned to Bedford with the horses.  The
servants of the convent approached, headed by the
ancient steward.  He recognized the wife of the
Robber Baron, but received her with a low obeisance;
for he knew her to be a dutiful servant of the Church,
and one who protested, as far as in her lay, against
her husband's outrages on church and monastery.
Informing her that the office had already commenced
in the church, and that the archdeacon would address
the congregation when vespers were over, he led them
into the crowded nave.

It was now late in the afternoon, and already dusk
within the depths of the severe Norman church.  The
narrow windows admitted but little light, and there
were no lamps burning in the bare, unfurnished nave,
which on an occasion like the present was thrown open
to the public, who could listen to the offices chanted
by the nuns within the massive screen, beyond which
the *externs* were not allowed to penetrate.  On the
west side of the screen a small temporary platform
or pulpit had been erected.

From within the choir, behind the screen, came the
solemn sound of the sisters' voices, chanting vespers
to Gregorian tones, unaccompanied by any instrumental
music, and rolling thrillingly through the
echoing church.  As she knelt in the dim light
Margaret felt almost happy.  A calm, a peace, such
as she had not known for months, stole over her
somewhat weak and susceptible nature as she listened
to the singing in the gloomy twilight of the grand
church, and it fanned the ray of hope which her
husband's professed penitence had kindled in her
weary heart.  Nor was Beatrice Mertoun, whose
opportunities of worship since she had been at
Bedford had been confined to attendance at the tiny
chapel at St. Thomas-at-bridge, unimpressed.

The office over, the Archdeacon of Northampton,
Martin de Pateshulle, took his stand on the little
platform by the screen and began his sermon.  It was
addressed, not to the nuns in the choir behind, but to
the lay-folk gathered in the nave before him.  His
subject--a favourite one with ecclesiastics of all
ages--was the persecution of the Church; his text, so to
speak, was the evil-doings of Fulke de Breauté.  Of
course he was unaware of the presence of the latter's
unhappy wife, or he would not have touched so
directly on the personal character of the Robber
Baron, nor enlarged so particularly on the destruction
of St. Paul's Church and the raid upon the Abbey of
St. Alban.  Finally, he rose to a passion of indignation
and stern vengeance in denouncing the perpetrator
of these outrages, and concluded in a different
key--supplicating divine aid for Zion in her bondage, and
describing the Church under forms of scriptural
imagery much employed by the preachers of the time.

When the discourse was ended the congregation of
*externs* passed out of the nave and into the outer
court to the abbey gateway.  But the Lady Margaret
made her way to the lodgings of the abbess at the
south-west corner of the church.

The foundation of Judith had risen in importance,
and was now one of the principal religious houses in
the neighbourhood.  The abbess was of noble birth,
and the convent was largely composed of ladies
belonging to the county families, if we may believe the
chronicle of names which has come down to us.  In
later days, just prior to the dissolution, these religious
ladies waxed somewhat secular in their mode of life,
and drew down upon them the stern reproof of their
bishop; but in the thirteenth century Elstow Abbey
retained most of its proper character and strict
discipline.  In so important a house, owning such wide
estates, the abbess had many secular rights, duties, and
privileges to occupy her without, so a prioress was
responsible for the internal arrangement and order.  To
the abbess it fell, as the dignified head of the house,
to receive visitors and to exercise hospitality.  To the
abbess Lady Margaret accordingly presented herself,
that she might gain entrance to the convent, and share,
during the archdeacon's special services, in the life of
the nuns, as far as might be permitted to an outsider.
A lay-sister, the portress of the abbess's lodgings,
conducted Lady Margaret to the parlour or room
open to guests.  The dignified lady who had for
some years so discreetly ruled at Elstow Abbey had
just returned from the evening office, and received her
visitor while still clad in her choir habit.

   |  "Black was her garb, her rigid rule
   |  Reformed on Benedictine school;
   |  Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;
   |  Vigils and penitence austere
   |  Had early quenched the light of youth."
   |

Above the long black robe and the scapulary, which
formed the ordinary monastic dress of Benedictine
nuns, she wore a cowl or hood similar to that used by
the monks of the order and worn by the nuns in
church.  In her right hand she carried her pastoral
staff, and the third finger of her left hand was adorned
by a massive gold ring--the symbol of her profession
as the spouse of Christ.

The abbess advanced to meet Lady Margaret with
much cordiality, for the latter's sad history was well
known to her; and all persons of whatever ecclesiastical
degree who were acquainted with it felt sympathy
and pity for her who was the wife, against her
will, of the Church's deadly enemy.

"Lady of Bedford Castle," she said, "you are
welcome to our abbey of Helenstowe, and to the
protection of Our Lady and the Most Holy Trinity,"--for
it was by this latter dedication that the house
was then known.

As she spoke the nun made a gesture of benediction,
and the Lady Margaret a low reverence of respect.

"Reverend mother," she replied, "to enter your
sanctified dwelling and to pray in your holy church
is indeed a privilege which lessens for me the
remembrance of the many burdens which I have already
borne and the dread expectation of the many sorrows
which are still before me."

"Ah, my daughter," exclaimed the abbess, "you
have already been in the church and joined in the
holy office?  Alas that it has been so, and that on
your ears have fallen the words of our venerable
Father Martin!  He knew not of your presence, or
he would have chosen another theme."

The words of the preacher had reached the nuns
in the choir on the farther side of the screen, and they
had heard that denunciation of Fulke de Breauté by
Martin de Pateshulle which had thrilled all who had
listened to it.

"It is indeed true, venerable abbess," replied the
lady; "but no one knows better than your unworthy
servant that the deeds of my lord have indeed
deserved the just vengeance of Heaven.  But I have
come to entreat the prayers of yourself and of your
holy sisters that the first signs of a repentance tardily
begun may bear fruit."

The unhappy lady proceeded to recount to the
abbess Fulke's dream of the preceding night, and the
nun gave her comfort and encouragement.

"Reverend mother," said Margaret, "your peaceful
words fall like balm on a weary heart.  Suffer me,
I pray, to remain awhile under this holy roof, that
I may share in the ministration of Father Martin, and
also for a time become, as it were, a dweller in this
holy house."

"My daughter," replied the abbess, "right gladly
do I accede to your request.  Holy Church has ever
been a consoler to those who labour and are heavy
laden, and I doubt not but much peace shall come
to you from the venerable father's exhortations.
And indeed, that you may enjoy more frequent opportunities
of converse with him in the intervals between
the offices, I will arrange for you to be my guest in
my lodgings, instead of sharing that portion of the
abbey buildings which has been set aside for the
*extern* women; for you know full well that Father
Martin lodges in the priest's chamber in these lodgings,
as no priest may enter further into the abbey except
when engaged in the sacred office."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears at the abbess's
kind words.

"Mother," she said, "I am all too unworthy of
your goodness and hospitality.  Who am I,
alas! that you should treat me thus?"

"My daughter, you are sorrowful; that is enough.
To all who are in misery does Holy Church hold out
her arms.  Enter in and find peace," she added, with
a sign of benediction.

The Lady Margaret shared the abbess's supper later
in the evening.  The archdeacon himself and the
abbess's chaplain--that is to say, one of the sisters
specially selected as her companion or secretary, and
who bore that title of office--were the only other
guests.

After the meal the Lady Margaret had an
opportunity of unburdening her mind to Martin de
Pateshulle, and of relating her story.  The good priest was
able to add further cheering suggestions to those
already made by the abbess.  Comforted and thankful,
at the conclusion of the conversation the lady
rose, and said,--

"Venerable father and reverend mother, thanks to
your kind words I feel less heart-sick than I have
been for many a long day.  I pray you now to permit
me to retire into the church, and there pray and
meditate in thankfulness ere begins the hour of compline."

The abbess acceded, volunteering herself to
accompany her.  The two women passed out into the dark
and silent cloisters, which ran along the south side
of the nave of the church.  Up and down the pavement,
in silent meditation, paced here and there in the
gloom a

   |  Pensive nun, devout and pure,
   |  Sober, steadfast, and demure,
   |  All in a robe of darkest grain,
   |  Flowing with majestic train,
   |  And sable stole of cypress lawn."
   |

The abbess led her companion along the northern
side, or *walk* as it was called, and entered the church
by the door into the south transept; for no opening
was allowed to exist in the close screen shutting off
the nave, which was occasionally open to the public.
Into the chancel and the transepts were permitted to
enter none but the officiating clergy and the sisters
themselves, or women introduced by authority.

Leaving the transept, they paused for a moment
beneath the central tower, and the abbess drew her
monastic cowl over her head.  Save for the faint glow
of a few lamps before the images of the saints, the
church was almost dark.  At the extreme end of the
chancel, before the high altar, above which the blessed
sacrament was deposited for veneration in a closed
tabernacle or shrine, burned one solitary lamp.

The abbess had happened to stop close to the
massive Norman pier which supported the south-eastern
angle of the great tower above them.  In
front of this pier stood a more than life-size figure of
St. Paul.  But the uplifted right hand was empty,
and the sword it should have grasped was carefully
laid at its feet.

"See, mother," cried Lady Margaret, "the sword
has fallen from the hand of the blessed apostle!"

"Nay," replied the abbess, "I removed it with my
own hand.  On that evil day when we heard that
Sir Fulke de Breauté had destroyed the fair church
of St. Paul at Bedford, I vowed to the saints that his
statue in our church should not bear the sword again
till vengeance had been taken upon the destroyer."

The unhappy wife covered her face with her hands
with a low moan.

"May it be the vengeance of a true repentance!"
she ejaculated.

The abbess laid her hand soothingly on her head.

"Pardon me, my daughter," she said, "I should not
have told you of the vow."

They passed on through the choir of the nuns,
whose stalls occupied the central crossing under the
tower and a portion of the chancel, and approached
the high altar.  At the foot of the steps a black-robed
figure knelt motionless in prayer.

"See," whispered Lady Margaret, "one of the
sisters is here already!"

"Nay," replied the abbess; "she is not one of our
sisters.  She is a young damsel of the neighbourhood
who has come to our retreat and has craved permission
to wear for the time the habit of our novices.
Poor child, she is in sore distress!  It is sad to see
one so young and fair thus cast down.  Her talk is
all of embracing the religious life.  But a vocation is
not given to all damsels of lovely face and form.
God has for each woman her work and her duty.
Some must perchance be wives and mothers."

The abbess paused.  A faint smile flickered over
her still handsome face as her thoughts wandered for
a brief moment, even in the precincts of her abbey
church, back to bygone days when she, too, had been
a young and high-born beauty.

"The damsel," she continued, returning to the
present, "is evidently in sore perplexity.  She has
had much talk with her uncle, the revered archdeacon.
Perchance you know her.  Her name is--"

At this moment the kneeling girl, aroused by the
sound of whispering behind her, looked round, and
perceiving the abbess, rose and approached to make
an obeisance.  The sad face, marble-like in its pallor,
which appeared above the black robes of a novice,
was that of Aliva de Pateshulle.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PENITENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *A PENITENT.*

.. vspace:: 2

Fulke de Breauté had been in earnest
when he had allowed his wife to go to the
retreat at Elstow, on condition that she should try
to set matters straight between himself and the
Church; and she had no sooner gone than he set to
work to think matters over, and to consider how best
he could reinstate himself in the ecclesiastical good
graces which he felt he had entirely forfeited, but,
however, without expending any of his worldly wealth
in restitution or reparation.

In those days there were two acknowledged ways
of making peace with offended ecclesiastical authority.
One of these was the endowing, building, or otherwise
pecuniarily assisting religious foundations,
especially monasteries.

But Fulke had no notion of spending his ill-gotten
gain in such a manner.

There was another plan which he could adopt,
and for which he had the highest precedent.  Just
half a century before the date of our story, no less
a personage than the King of England himself,
Henry II., had submitted to the penance of corporal
punishment in the chapter-house of Canterbury, in
expiation of words spoken in hasty anger which
had indirectly brought about the death of an archbishop.

The idea seized Fulke of a similar form of
reconciliation with Holy Church.

Accordingly, the day after his wife's departure he
set off for the abbey of St. Alban.  His dress was of
studied simplicity.  He wore no armour, but was clad
in the ordinary long robe or gown which was worn
in civil life by all above the rank of labourers and
manual workers, and a plain cloak, fastened by a
buckle or brooch on his right shoulder, fell over his
left side.

The gowns or cloaks of the upper classes at that
time were richly ornamented with deep borders of
embroidery, but Fulke had carefully selected
garments free from any such adornments.  He had also
removed his gilt spurs of knighthood, and any who
met him riding along the road might well have taken
him for a physician, notary, or some professional man
of the laity.  The grooms who followed him also
wore the plainest attire; and the whole party were
mounted upon mere hacks or palfreys, very unlike
the ponderous war-horses usually bestridden by men
in armour.

By the afternoon Fulke had reached St. Alban's,
and saw before him rise the abbey towers.

   |        "Once resplendent dome,
   |  Religious shrine......
   |  Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb.
   |  Years roll to years, to ages, ages yield,
   |  Abbots to abbots in a line succeed;
   |  Religion's charter their protecting shield,
   |  Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed."
   |

At the abbey gate he made known his name and
rank to the astonished porter, who failed to recognize
in the unobtrusive figure requesting an audience with
the abbot the dreaded leader of the murderous attack
upon the sanctuary but a few weeks before.

The abbot came hurrying out.  He, too, was
amazed that the sacrilegious robber who had lately
extorted from him the sum of one hundred pounds,
under threat of destroying the town, should again pay
him a visit, and in such a guise.

Fulke was well acquainted with the etiquette
necessary on such occasions.  He dismounted, went
down on one knee before the dignified ecclesiastic,
and raised the hem of the latter's habit to his lips.

"Thou seest in me, reverend father," he exclaimed,
"a humble penitent come to offer submission to his
holy Mother, and to crave thy gracious absolution for
misdeeds committed!"

The abbot was well aware how to deal with such
cases.  Penance he knew he could enjoin;
restitution he hoped he might suggest.

"My son," he said, "Holy Church ever receives back
into her fold those who have erred and strayed.  But
follow me," he added; "I, the humble servant of the
Church, will call my brethren together to treat with
me of so weighty a matter as concerneth this visit of
thine."

Consigning Fulke to the care of the guest-master,
the abbot went off to give directions for the immediate
summoning of a chapter, and the Robber Baron was
left swearing, in his usual brutal way, at his men for
some carelessness as to his orders.

Wondering much for what cause a council was
assembled at so unusual an hour, the monks came
streaming into the chapter-house.  The long, narrow,
barrel-roofed apartment opening from the east walk
of the cloister on the south side of the transept was
soon filled, and the chapter duly opened according to
the usual custom.  Then the abbot announced the
purpose of the assemblage.

"My brethren," said he, "we are here gathered
together upon no slight matter.  The prayers of this
poor house have been heard, and God and our holy
Alban have stretched forth their power and moved a
heart of stone deeply sunken in iniquity.  But even
now came Fulke de Breauté to our gates, and came,
not as before, an impious marauder, but as a penitent
and a suppliant craving absolution."

A great sigh of amazement floated from the lips of
the assembled brethren up to the vaulted roof.

"Brothers," added the abbot, "I beg you to grant
me the benefit of your wisest counsel in this matter."

There was a silence.  Advice is a thing usually to
be had for the asking.  But the abbot of the great
house of St. Alban was a personage of much power
and importance, and accustomed to rule with a high
hand, and no one seemed at this moment in any way
inclined to grudge him his supreme authority.

"By the holy rood," exclaimed the father almoner,
breaking the silence at last, "this is no easy task.
The French tyrant is even within our gates, say you,
reverend father?  Would he had stayed in his own
ill-gotten castle!  The lion is dangerous even in a
cage, and Sir Fulke respects not even holy places, we
know.  We have e'en heard of a wolf in sheep's
clothing."

"But he cometh as a penitent, we are to understand,"
put in the prior.--"Brothers, we see the
finger of God in this matter.  He hath delivered this
Philistine of Gath into our hands.  Praise be to
him!"  And they all crossed themselves devoutly.

"And a penitent beseeching absolution," said
another brother, the old father cellarer.  "He must
show his repentance in works.  A tree is known by
its fruits.  Let him give back the hundred pounds he
hath taken from Holy Church."

"And furthermore," added the father sacristan,
"let us do even as the Israelites were commanded
when they left the land of Egypt.  Let us spoil him
of silver and gold.  He owes us not only our own,
but some reparation."

The discussion grew.  The assembly seemed of
many minds.  At length, in the hope of arriving at
some conclusion, the prior made a suggestion, an
unfortunate one for the abbey, as matters turned out.

"By the mass, reverend father and brothers of the
order of Holy Benedict, we waste our time.  Were it
not well to have this penitent before us, and to
question him as to his purpose of showing his
repentance?" he said.

In an evil moment the motion was carried, so to
speak, and Fulke was invited to enter the chapter-house.

Unarmed and alone though he was, the monks began
to tremble visibly as their grim visitor strode into
the assemblage, and a silence fell on all the tongues
so ready to wag but a few moments before.

The Robber Baron made obeisance to the abbot,
who began by delivering a suitable homily, adorned
with texts and quotations, on the special subject of
the readiness of the Church to receive sinners back to
her arms.  It concluded with a broad hint that the
abbey should be compensated for the harm done to
her; but it was a guarded discourse, for the abbot
could not tell how the dreaded tyrant might receive
his suggestion.

.. _`The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church`:

.. figure:: images/img-067.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church.

   The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church.

Fulke ignored it.

In a reply full of proper respect and deep
humiliation, he brought forward the leading case of Henry II
at Canterbury, and expressed his willingness to
submit to like discipline as full and complete satisfaction
for his crime.

He chose his words carefully.  The discipline was
to be complete satisfaction.  There was no mistaking
the drift of his meaning.

Feeling that they had indeed been foiled, the
chapter requested the penitent to withdraw, and
deliberated again.

"By the light of Our Lady's brow," muttered the
prior, under his breath, "had I been the reverend
father, I would so have spoken that the knight could
not fail to see that reparation was essential to
repentance, as well as penance."

"Tush!" answered the old father cellarer; "we
want not a martyr here in the abbey, even as the
poor bailie (God rest his soul!) hath been martyred for
the town."

"Methinks it was evil counsel that was given when
we decided to let the penitent appear before us and
choose his own punishment," said the abbot, with a
scowl at the prior.  "But, my brethren, we must
even be content.  As the humble ruler of this house,
I think I may say that what was not thought too
heavy a censure for the King of England, in the
holy church of Christ at Canterbury, for the fearful
crime of the murder of a minister of Christ, will be
sufficient punishment for the sacrilege of this nameless
Norman knight against our house.  Is this the counsel
of the brethren?"

Perforce every one agreed.

Accordingly, next morning a solemn conclave again
assembled in the chapter-house.  First came the
brothers in their cowls, two and two; then the prior,
sub-prior, and other officers; and, lastly, the father
abbot himself in his robes of office.  One of the
officers, the master of the novices, carried in his hand
a scourge of cords.

The chapter assembled, Fulke was introduced
between two of the brothers.  He had passed a not
uncomfortable night, for though, as a penitent still
under the displeasure of the Church, he could not be
admitted to the abbot's table in the latter's lodgings,
he seemed in no wise to feel the indignity, and had
done ample justice to the guest-master's entertainment.

The abbot pronounced the sentence of the chapter,
and Fulke, stripping himself to the waist, knelt down,
and leaning forward, presented his bare back to the
lash.

Round him in a circle stood the abbot and the
monks, and from one to the other the brethren handed
a discipline or scourge of small cords, and each monk
in turn stepped forward and struck De Breauté a
blow upon his naked shoulders.

We need not inquire with what force the lashes
were given.  The humiliation and the obedience were
sufficient without taking into consideration the actual
pain inflicted.  The Church triumphed in the indignity
of her enemy's position, and her ministers in avenging
her insulted honour.

The penance over, Sir Fulke rose and kissed each
monk present.  His punishment was complete, and he
left the chapter-house absolved.  It did not,
apparently, occur to him that any act of restitution should
accompany the outward form of penance, for, as the
chronicler pathetically remarks, "Christ's faithful poor
stood at the door of the chapter-house expecting that
something would be restored to them; but in vain."

It may seem inconsistent in such a brutal and
godless man as Fulke to have submitted himself to
this ignominious punishment.  He acted, however,
from mixed motives.  First, it was a little bit of
religious feeling, very small indeed, and call it
superstition if you will, such as caused him uneasiness the
morning after his dream, which led him to pay this
visit to St. Alban's.  Excommunication he feared, if
indeed his brutal nature could feel fear.  But he
dreaded it quite as much for its temporal consequences
as for those of the future; for it was apt to affect
unpleasantly a man's social and worldly position.
Secondly, Sir Fulke reflected that King Henry had
certainly greatly strengthened himself by that visit
to the chapter-house at Canterbury.  With such an
example, no one could aver that Sir Fulke's penance
was unknightly or derogatory to his position.  Further,
he was obliged to confess to himself that he had much
greater need of a coat of moral whitewash than had
Henry; and, lastly, there was what he considered the
great advantage of making his peace with the Church
by an act of submission which did not necessarily
involve any restitution--a matter so alien to his
greedy disposition.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"*ARCADES AMBO*"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   "*ARCADES AMBO.*"

.. vspace:: 2

In the evening of the day on which the strange
scene at St. Alban's Abbey just described had
taken place, Sir Fulke de Breauté sat with his younger
brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.

The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well
satisfied with himself.

"By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have
done a good morning's work;" and he reached across
to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood on the
table beside him, and poured himself out a deep
draught.  Then he passed the wine across to his
brother, who sat moodily staring into the log-fire.

"Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering."

"'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the
other sulkily.  "I like it not overmuch.  Give me
the pure clarets of France and Italy," he added, but
replenishing his horn all the same.

Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother.  A great
change had come over William since that eventful
evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe in a
perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses
keeping time to the rattle of his horse's hoofs.  First
and foremost he had cursed Ralph de Beauchamp--for
now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage
he drove the rowels again and again deep into the
flanks of his unfortunate steed.  Next he cursed all
the De Beauchamp family and all connected with it.
Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De
Pateshulle had urged him to prosecute the suit which had
resulted in such dire humiliation.  But here he had
paused in his curses.

He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's
daughter with an oath.  Her face haunted him as he
rode along: her face--first, cold and set as marble, as
when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then,
flushed and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended
nostrils, as she turned to him from the window, and
took those six paces to confront him.  Her scornful
beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid
passion seized him.

He had flung himself from his horse in the castle-yard,
and strode into the hall, scattering curses right
and left at the astonished servants, used only to such
a display of anger from his elder brother.

For weeks after this outburst he lived in a state of
brooding sullenness, broken only by occasional violent
fits of rage.  His sister-in-law, if she met him in the
hall, turned and fled.  Even pretty Beatrice Mertoun,
whom he was wont to regard with more favour than
perhaps the bold miner would have approved of,
flitted past him as quickly as possible, with a mere nod.

Sir Fulke observed this change in his brother with
grim satisfaction.  In furtherance of his new evil
schemes he determined to turn to good or bad account
the dormant ferocity which had been aroused.

"Marry, brother," he remarked, "methinks there
sits a cloud on your brow, as if your thoughts were
far away--perchance over Bletsoe way?" he added,
with a grim chuckle.

"What's that to you?" retorted William sullenly.
"In good sooth you had better mind your own
business, and attend to your masses, and your flagellations,
and your retreats, along with the rest of the
women folk, and leave my thoughts to myself!"

"I crave your pardon, brother," replied Sir Fulke,
in mock humility.  "Fill up again, man.  I was a
fool not to see that your meditations were too
unpleasant to be connected with so fair a subject as the
Lady Aliva."

"The Lady Aliva!" exclaimed William fiercely,
leaning forward on the table eagerly, and confronting
his brother, his chin supported on his hands, and his
eyes gleaming--"the Lady Aliva!  By the mass, I
swear to you, brother, I cease not to think of her
night and day!  I see her ever before me, those eyes,
those flashing eyes, that queenly form; I dream I
clasp her, and I awake mad with despair!  May the
curses of St. Denis of France light for ever on that
traitorous villain who dared supplant me, on that
lying fool of a De Pateshulle, who--"  And he buried
his face in the deep flagon once more, as if to drown
his feelings.

Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm.

"Hark ye, brother," he said; "calm yourself and
lower your voice.  I have somewhat to say unto you
which I care not that all the varlets in the hall hear.
Do you wish for vengeance on a De Pateshulle?"

"Do I?" gasped William.  "Try me!"

"So be it.  I will put vengeance within your reach.
It shall lie with you to take it, if you carry out the
plan I have in my head."

"Another fat abbey to sack!" cried the younger
brother.  "In good sooth, brother, you smite with
your hands while you give your back to be smitten,"
he laughed.

"Not so," rejoined Fulke.  "I am in no mind to
meddle with churches for the nonce.  This is quite
another kind of deer to chase.  You mind that special
commission of the king's justices, convoked at
Dunstable not long since to inquire into certain of my
doings in these parts, which it seemed pleased not
those most concerned with them.  It hath come to
my knowledge that the court has pronounced
judgment against me.  They may, by my troth, if it
pleases *them*, for it does *me* no harm.  No less than
thirty verdicts did they bring against me," he went
on chuckling, "and for these thirty verdicts some one
shall suffer, I warrant me, though it shall not be he
whom their worships had in their mind's eye when
they delivered them!"

William gazed at his brother admiringly.  His
weaker, shallower brain, already somewhat fuddled
with his copious libations of the past few weeks,
followed him with difficulty.

"Beshrew me, brother, if I see what nail thou art
hammering at.  These justices will have none of me."

"But I fain will that you have some of them,"
Fulke went on.  "It would beseem ill to the repentant
son of Holy Church to lift his arm so soon against
her after she has absolved him, for one of these
justices is a priest.  But you, brother, owe her naught.
From trusty sources I learn that these three legal
spiders are to meet again at Dunstable for further
spinning as soon as this retreat at Elstow is over.
Now, what say you, brother, to meeting them upon
their journey thither, and to bringing to Bedford
Castle, instead of to Dunstable town, the worshipful
Thomas de Muleton, Henry de Braybrooke, and
Martin de Pateshulle?"

"Martin de Pateshulle!" interrupted William eagerly.
"Pardie! a De Pateshulle is a quarry that would please
me well."

"He is learned in the law, this priest," Fulke
continued, apparently not heeding how his fish had risen
to his bait.  "The king can fare ill without his counsel
in these parts, and methinks, were he and his brother
worships safe caged in our stronghold here, it would
prove Fulke de Breauté to be a greater fool than men
hold him for did he not get what ransom he named.
But, certes, I would be merciful, as it beseemeth with
a priest.  I would ask neither silver nor gold, naught
save the remission of the thirty judgments that are
out against me.  What say you, brother?  Is the
snaring this legal vermin to your mind?"

"'Twould be good sport, by my troth!" ejaculated
William, "though methinks it is no easy emprise!
To seize the king's justices!  'Tis a bold swoop,
brother."

"Tush!" replied Fulke scornfully; "there speaks
no brother of mine!  I trow a De Breauté, bastard
from a little Norman village, had ne'er sat in the
seigneur's parlour of this, one of the fairest of English
castles, had he piped in that strain.  Take another
draught, brother," he added, pushing the flagon across.

"In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood
in this cursed land of fogs," apologized William,
draining his horn.  "But I must have some of your best
varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the
country, and plenty of them."

"Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks
for such game as this, man!  These reverend justices
shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a noble train!
Take heart o' grace.  Think thee of thy vengeance.
It is a De Pateshulle that is the booty!"

"Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing
up his courage still further by another drink.
Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the niece and
not the uncle!"

Fulke smiled grimly.

"And why not?" he asked quietly.

William, half stupified as he was fast becoming,
saw the development of a new plot.

"Pardie!  That proud maiden here!  Helpless--a
prisoner!  Niece snared with the uncle!  Ha, ha!"
he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly.  "Ha, my
lady! who would say me nay a second time?  Not you, by
St. Denis, I warrant me!" and he laughed wildly.
"Travel they together, say you?  Father Martin to
Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay,
beshrew me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"

Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a
maudlin giggle.  Sir Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon
out of his reach, and called to two varlets from
the hall to carry his brother off to bed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JUSTICE IN BONDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *JUSTICE IN BONDS.*

.. vspace:: 2

A few mornings later the two worshipful justices
of the king, Thomas de Muleton and Henry de
Braybrooke, were riding together through the central
part of the county, a few miles south of Bedford.
They had been engaged at Northampton in making
preliminary arrangements for the great council which
the king proposed to hold there in the summer, and
having concluded that part of the business, were now
journeying towards Dunstable to clear off certain
matters which had been left unfinished, as their time there
previously had been entirely taken up with examining
the many suits brought before them against Fulke
de Breauté.

They had entered the county from Northamptonshire
by the ford through the Ouse at Turvey, and
were riding leisurely along on their stout palfreys,
with their serving-men jogging behind them, and
discussed as they went grave legal questions and learned
points of law.

For about eight miles after passing the ford, they
took their way along the boundary-line between the
counties of Bedford and Buckingham, in a southerly
direction.  Then turning eastward, they reached
the amphitheatre of hills which encloses the vale
of Bedford on the south-west.  Passing the village
of Cranfield and its Norman church, still in part
existing, they rode under the old fortifications and
earth-works of Brogborough--old even at that time--until
at noon they reached the castle of Rougemount,
standing on a red sandy hill (whence its name,
corrupted in modern pronunciation and spelling into
Ridgmount) and commanding the country to the north.

Here they were expected by the lord of the castle, the
Baron Lisle, who had invited them to rest upon their
journey and partake of his mid-day meal.  Here also
they had arranged to meet their colleague, Archdeacon
Martin de Pateshulle, with whom they proposed to
travel on to Dunstable.

As soon as the retreat at Elstow was over, the
archdeacon had promised to come direct to Rougemount,
but Lord Lisle had awaited him in vain.  So when
the other justices made their appearance, their host
commanded the repast to be served, without any
further waiting for the absent guest, whose non-arrival
was unexplained.

Lord Lisle had exerted himself to provide a suitable
entertainment for guests of such high degree as the
lords justices of the king.

   |  "'Twas now the merry hour of noon,
   |  And in the lofty arched hall
   |  Was spread the gorgeous festival.
   |  Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
   |  Marshalled the rank of every guest;
   |  Pages with ready blade were there,
   |  The mighty meal to carve and share.
   |  O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,
   |  And princely peacock's gilded train,
   |  And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,
   |  And cygnet......
   |  The priest had spoke his benison."
   |

At the high table sat the host, his distinguished
visitors on either hand.  Some of the notables of the
neighbourhood were also present, among whom was
the lord abbot of the abbey of Woburn hard by.
The head of the Cistercian house, founded not a
century before by Hugh de Bolebec, had already come to
hold a high position in the county.

Thronging the hall and the castle-yard was a crowd
of servants and retainers, who had accompanied their
masters, many of them strangers not only to one
another, but to the servants belonging to the castle.
In those days any festivities at a great castle were
attended by a motley crowd of hangers-on, such as
beggars, travelling minstrels, and the like, who seemed
to scent from afar the preparations for the banquet.

.. _`"Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers"`:

.. figure:: images/img-081.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers."

   "Thronging the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers."

On this occasion, however, these gentry were
somewhat disappointed to find that the expected guests
were to be grave judges and churchmen.  The beggars,
indeed, ranged themselves into position to ask for
alms in the name of religion, but the minstrels and
the jugglers felt themselves *de trop*.  Finding their
entertainments unacceptable to the guests, they betook
themselves to an audience of grooms and varlets in
the castle-yard.

The ancient seneschal of the castle, moving through
the various groups, his keys of office jingling at his
side, remarked a swarthy man of considerable height
and size, who was evidently not connected with the
Saxon peasants around him.  He was wrapped in a
long, large cloak.

"So ho, friend! and whence comest thou?" asked
the seneschal.

The nondescript stranger answered him in French;
not in the Norman-French which his interlocutor
could easily have followed, but in a dialect imperfectly
known to the worthy head of the household of Lord Lisle.

"I come from distant lands, noble seneschal.  I
chant love-lays to fair ladies' ears."

"We have e'en no ladies here anon," replied the
functionary gruffly, "naught but abbots and justices.
So get thee gone!"

At the mention of the word "justices" a momentary
gleam of satisfaction passed over the swarthy
face of the stranger.

"Justices, good my lord seneschal?" he repeated.

"Yea, justices," retorted the seneschal, not noting the
look.  "Art deaf, man?  My lord the king's justices
who travel towards Dunstable.  Did you *jongleurs*
expect a bevy of giddy damsels and young gallants?"

The burden of his duties had made Lord Lisle's
officer somewhat testy.

"But perchance, with your good leave, I may
sing to my lords the justices' serving-men a song
of fair France; or a love *chansonnette* will I teach
them, wherewith to tingle the ears of their Saxon gills?"

"As you will, man," answered the seneschal with a
shrug, turning away, "an you find fools to listen to
such trash!"

"Thanks for your leave, good sir," the stranger
called after him, with a queer twinkle in his dark eye.
Then he turned to one of De Braybrooke's men,
staring open-mouthed and stolid at the strange dialect
and stranger countenance.  "Wilt list to a song,
friend?  It hath a refrain will ring in thy ears and
cheer thee on thy long journey."

"A long journey!  Gramercy, a mole might see as
how thou art a stranger in these parts.  A long
journey to Dunstable, forsooth!"

"And is it not far?"

"Nine miles as the crow flies, I trows, and but eke
some ten the way we ride, through the woodland, by
way of Eversholt," replied the varlet, with a snigger
of contempt.

"Aver--aver--sole," repeated the dark stranger,
mispronouncing the name.  "This English tongue
cracks the jaw!"

"Marry, he stammereth like a cuckoo at
hay-harvest," jeered the other.  "Say it plain, man--Eversholt."

"Gather your fellows together while I go fetch my
rebec I left at the gate-house, and, pardie, you shall
see what you shall see, and hear what you shall hear,"
retorted the stranger imperturbably.  But as he
strode across the yard, the serving-man, had he not
been so busily engaged mimicking the Frenchman's
accent to his companions, might have noticed an
armed heel glitter beneath the folds of his cloak.

The day was wearing on ere the justices could tear
themselves away from Lord Lisle's hospitable board
and once more proceed on their journey.

Southwards, beyond Rougemount, the country
becomes more wooded.  In the higher parts of Woburn
Park old timber trees even now show where once the
forest extended round the famous Cistercian abbey.
In the midst of this district stands a village, whose
name, Eversholt--the *holt*, or wood, of the *efer* or
wild boar--still hands down the characteristics of the
neighbourhood.

Into this wood, in the waning afternoon, rode,
unsuspectingly, the two justices, engaged in a warm
discussion over some quibble of the law.

"Now, by my troth, brother Thomas," De Braybrooke
was saying, "all our jurisconsults are agreed
that if the judge be free to act--"

He stopped short, and never finished his sentence,
for he was "free to act" no longer.

With a fierce cry of "A De Breauté! a De Breauté!"
armed men rushed down from either side of the road
upon the hapless representatives of the law, and
surrounded them ere they could recover from their
stupefaction.

"Let the varlets go free!" cried William de
Breauté.  "We have no need of grooms!" he added,
as he saw his men seizing the bridles of the servants'
horses as well as those of their masters.

It was a lucky cry for Thomas de Muleton, for it
led to his escape.  By some mistake, the men who
held his horse, not distinguishing in the confusion
between master and man, released their hold, and his
servants, closing round him, hurried him back along
the woodland bridle-path towards Rougemount.

Too late De Breauté saw the error.  But De Muleton
and his men had put spurs to their horses, and
he and his men-at-arms were all dismounted, their
horses tethered to the trees, or held by some of the
band.  Pursuit was out of the question, even had the
marauders dared to follow up their prey to the very
walls of Rougemount Castle.

William de Breauté's rage knew no bounds when he
became aware that but one of the desired prisoners had
been secured.  Swearing roundly at his men for their
blunder, he struck the unfortunate serving-man who
had been detained instead of his master a blow with
the flat of his sword which nearly knocked him off his
horse, and allowed him to ride away after his fellows.

"Pardie!" he swore.  "We trouble not ourselves
with dogs that can pay no ransom.  Get you gone!"

Disgusted with the less than half success of his
scheme, he ordered his men to remount, and the party
rode off rapidly towards Bedford, the hapless Henry
de Braybrooke well guarded in their midst.  De
Breauté's rage was a little softened, however, when
he learned that he had not missed two of his prey--that
Martin de Pateshulle had not been of the party,
though as to his whereabouts De Braybrooke could
give no information.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN UNEXPECTED MEETING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.*

.. vspace:: 2

The troop of horsemen made their way out of
the wood, and soon afterwards, riding down
the romantic glen of Millbrook, reached the Bedford
valley.  They were now on the road to Elstow, and
nearing Bedford itself; but as they approached the
town, an incident occurred which changed the
direction of De Breauté's route.

The cavalcade were hurrying along, as their leader
was anxious to get his prisoners safe into the castle
ere the town-folk should be aware of their capture.
For although the burgesses of Bedford had by this
time been sufficiently cowed by the Robber Baron
and his men, and were by no means unaccustomed
to seeing prisoners swept off into the "devil's nest," as
they called his castle, yet it was more satisfactory
that the impounding should be done without any fuss
or disturbance.

So through the little village of Elstow clattered
the horsemen, their arms and accoutrements ringing
as they went.  The village people recognized with a
shudder the soldiers from Bedford Castle.  They were
mostly retainers of the abbey, and they crossed
themselves devoutly and uttered a prayer as the enemies
and spoilers of the church rode by.  They scarcely
noted the unfortunate judge who was being jolted
along in their midst at a pace so different from that
at which he usually travelled, and who

   |  "Little thought when he set out
   |    Of running such a rig."
   |

Increasing their pace, the hurrying troop scattered
the wayfarers right and left.  The inhabitants fled
into their houses; the peasants dragged their beasts
and carts into the ditches.  All knew that there could
be the servants of but one man who would ride
through the country in this fashion.

But as they passed the abbey gate, De Breauté and
his men, in their headlong career, charged full tilt
into a small party of riders just turning out of the
archway.

This knot of travellers seemed in no wise disposed
to give De Breauté's horsemen more than their fair
share of the road, and did not draw aside into the
hedge, after the manner of the peasants.  The two
foremost of the little company were an elderly and
dignified ecclesiastic, and a young and graceful lady
whose wimple and riding-hood concealed her face.
The old priest, encumbered with his ecclesiastical
habit, was unable to resist the impetus with which
the armed party bore down upon the defenceless
travellers.  Too late, he drew rein aside; but the
ponderous war-horse of the foremost man-at-arms
struck his palfrey full on the flank, and rolled both
horse and rider to the ground.

The mass of horsemen, rushing in wedge shape,
separated the priest from his companion, and the
latter was forced to the opposite side of the road.
She was either quicker, more skilful, or better mounted
than was the elderly ecclesiastic; for not only did she
turn her horse aside just at the right moment and
avoid an imminent collision, but putting him at the
boundary hedge which bordered the road, cleared it
in a style which showed her to possess the hand and
seat of a first-rate horsewoman.

The unexpected encounter caused a sudden and
confused halt to De Breauté's party, and their leader
was able to give a by no means pleased look at those
who, by no fault of their own, but by reason of the
furious onrush of his own men, had unintentionally
impeded his progress.  But when once he had glanced
at the bold horsewoman escaping by her leap from
the confused throng, he hardly deigned to notice the
prostrate priest striving to extricate himself from his
dangerous position.  For as her horse cleared the
obstacle, the riding-hood, which concealed the features
of the rider, fell back upon her shoulders, and revealed
to his astonished gaze the lovely face of Aliva de
Pateshulle.

In a moment his brother's orders were all forgotten.
Even had he recognized Martin de Pateshulle in the
dismounted horseman, it is not likely he would have
paused to capture him.  But shouting to two of his
men to follow him, he turned quickly round, and
putting spurs to his horse, rode after the retreating
figure at the top of his speed.

His leaderless party pulled themselves together, so
to speak, and gazed after the pursued and the pursuer
till they vanished round the corner of the abbey
walls.  They gave vent to a few coarse jests over their
master's disappearance, and then the senior among them
took upon himself the command of the party.  He
turned to the unlucky priest, whom his servants had
now raised from under his fallen steed.  Martin de
Pateshulle--for it was he--had evidently been severely
injured, and lay prostrate in his attendants' arms.  In
reply to the soldier's questions they told that their
master was the Archdeacon of Northampton, and the lady
his niece.  Had they mentioned his name, it is possible
the trooper might have recognized that of one of the
justices they had sallied out to seize.  But as it was,
deeply imbued with a soldier's notion of implicit
obedience to orders before all things, he thought only of
conveying the prisoner he had already made with all
speed to Bedford.  Even Henry de Braybrooke, whom
his guard had removed to a little distance from the
scene of the accident, could only learn that it was an
old priest who had been injured, ere he was again
hurried off in the direction of the Robber Baron's castle.

Meanwhile, the grooms who had picked up the
archdeacon proceeded to carry him, moaning with
pain, back to the abbey they had just left.  In vain
the unhappy priest conjured them to leave him to his
fate, and to hasten after his niece, as soon as he
realized that she was being pursued by De Breauté.

With one exception, none seemed inclined to obey
their master, protesting that it was their first duty to
see his injuries attended to within the abbey walls.

That exception was our fat friend Dicky Dumpling,
who had been of the party, in attendance on his young
mistress.  He, too, had been rolled over; but no
sooner had he picked himself up out of the mire and
learned that she had fled, than his distress was great.

"Alack! alack!" he cried.  "Chased by that
young French popinjay, say you?  Oh, woe the day!
He came a-wooing her that day the gallant Sir Ralph
rode over, and he departed with his beauty marred,
the serving-maid doth say--but women have such
long tongues!  Oh, my hapless young lady!  I must
after her to her succour!"

"Thou Dickon!" gasped one of his fellows,--"with
thy feather weight, to say nothing of that good dinner
of beef and ale in the porter's lodge."

"And thy nag's good browse in the abbey stables,"
put in another.  "Think you he is a match for the
knight's war-horse?"

"Alack! alack!" moaned worthy Dicky; "my
heart misgives me sore.  But bring me my horse,
lads, and find me my cap.  With good St. Dunstan's
aid I will do my best.  Give me a leg up, lads, and
Dobbin and I will after her as long as there is a
breath left in our bodies!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THROUGH OUSE MARSHES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *THROUGH OUSE MARSHES.*

.. vspace:: 2

The Lady Aliva had gone to the retreat at Elstow
with a heavy heart.  In the first place, she had
dismissed the man whom she loved with all her soul
without giving him to understand that she would
remain true to him; indeed, she even doubted within
herself whether the words she had used to him might
not, in fact, have implied the exact opposite.  Then,
further, her conduct to her father had given her pain.
She confessed to herself that in that scene in the hall
she had acted as an undutiful daughter, and even, at
the conclusion of it, with want of maidenly reserve
and self-respect.

Thus it was that with all true sorrow of repentance
she had knelt in the abbey church.  When the Lady
Margaret and the abbess came upon her in the dusk
bending before the high altar, she was indeed, as the
abbess had intimated, praying not for strength to face
the troublesome world again, but for grace to take
the vows of the Benedictine rule.

It has already been shown how she had made
known her wish to the lady abbess, and had obtained
leave to wear for the time the habit of a novice.
But her desire for the profession of a religious life
had been combated, strange to say, by two persons
who in any other case would have thought it their
duty to strengthen it.

These two were the lady abbess herself and the
archdeacon her uncle; and when she had learned
Aliva's story, the Lady Margaret added her objections
to theirs.  All these three elders deemed it unadvisable
for so young a girl--she was only eighteen--to think
of monastic vows, and held out hopes that the course
of true love might yet run smoothly.  The archdeacon
himself had always been a supporter of Ralph
de Beauchamp's suit, and the two ladies joined with
him in comforting the distressed damsel with plans
for the future happiness of Ralph and herself.

With regard to the unlucky incident in the hall
which had so abruptly terminated the other suitor's
visit, Aliva made a clean breast of the whole matter.
The ladies even went so far as to justify her conduct;
and the archdeacon, speaking as a spiritual father,
considered it sufficiently condoned by the exhortation he
administered on the duty of maidenly reserve and
the virtue of checking anger.

So when the retreat was ended, Aliva's plans were
discussed in real earnest, and a determination arrived
at.  The good archdeacon decided to give up his
projected journey to Dunstable, leaving his learned
friends to finish their business by themselves, and to
accompany his niece to Bletsoe.  There he hoped to
convince his brother of the injustice of repressing
Ralph de Beauchamp's suit.

The *pros* and *cons* of this discussion occupied all
the early part of the day, and it was accordingly late in
the afternoon when Aliva, after an affectionate parting
with the two elder ladies, set off towards home,
accompanied by her uncle and his two serving-men, and by
Dicky Dumpling, who had brought over her riding-horse
that morning.

Of the untoward event that befell the little party
as they passed out of the abbey gateway we are
already aware, and we must now take up the story
of Aliva's flight and De Breauté's pursuit.

After a short spurt across country, she turned her
horse back again into the road, that she might take in
the situation and see what had become of her uncle.
But she could see nothing in the distance save a
confused group of horsemen.  Between herself and
that group, however, she was soon aware that a rider,
William de Breauté, was following her at the top of
his speed.

Now, had he been alone, it is not improbable that
the courageous maiden, who had already faced him
once, would boldly have awaited his arrival; but close
at his heels came two of his men, and Aliva felt that
there was nothing for it but a flight towards home.

The road to Bedford was quite cut off from her by
the advancing horsemen, but she knew that at some
distance further west there was a bridge across the
Ouse at Bromham, and she determined to try to
escape in that direction.

It was a desperate chance.  Her horse was a mere
palfrey, while De Breauté and his men were mounted
on some of the best horses to be found in the stables
of Bedford Castle.

She hurried through the little village of Kempston
on the river-bank, for she knew it would prove no
safe asylum.  The approach of De Breauté's men
always struck terror into the peasants of the villages
around Bedford.  They gazed open-mouthed after the
flying maiden, and then slunk back into their huts as
the mail-clad soldiers came clattering after her in
pursuit.

Only upon her own wit and readiness could Aliva
depend in this terrible race.  She was less acquainted
with this side of the Ouse valley than with the other,
in which she had been accustomed to ride and hawk
since childhood.  But she knew that between
Kempston and Bromham lay a stretch of marshy ground
intersected by broad ditches, and into these marshes
she resolved to ride with the hope of baffling her
pursuers.  She thought it not unlikely that in the
ground which would bear the weight of herself and
her palfrey the armed men and huge horses might
be bogged.

Her conjecture proved not incorrect, and for a time
the distance increased between herself and her pursuers.
But the spring afternoon was now closing in, and in
the failing twilight it was difficult to select the best
track through the marshy ground.  Once or twice
Aliva had actually to return upon her path, and the
men behind gained an advantage, as they watched her
movements and avoided the impassable places.
Moreover, her lightly-built horse, not much more than a
pony, was beginning to tire.  He had cleared one or
two of the ditches with difficulty, and now, as he
attempted to jump one of considerable breadth, a rotten
take-off sent him floundering into the middle of it.

Aliva scrambled quickly from the saddle, and threw
herself on the bank.  But unfortunately it was the
nearer one.  For a minute or two she stood vainly
trying to reach the reins, and calling to her palfrey
to approach her.

But her pursuers were drawing on apace.  The
foremost was not De Breauté himself, but one of his
men, who sprang from his horse and seized Aliva by
the hood which hung loosely from her shoulders.

"Let go thy hold, varlet!" shouted De Breauté, in
the rear.  Even in his madness he could not bear to
see her thus roughly handled by a rude soldier.

But Aliva was free ere he spoke.  She unclasped
the buckle which fastened her hood and mantle round
her neck, and as the man fell back with the garments
in his hand, flung herself into the muddy dike.

The water reached nearly to her waist, and with
difficulty she struggled through.  As she passed her
horse, standing half bogged in the middle, she seized
the reins and drew them over his head.  By good
chance a stunted willow overhung the further bank.
She made a snatch at it, caught it, and with a supreme
effort gained firm ground.

With the purchase afforded by the tree, Aliva was
now able to get a tight hold of her horse's head, and
encouraging him with her voice, she induced him to
follow her example, and to struggle up the bank.

The two soldiers, meanwhile, watched her manoeuvres
from the further side in some perplexity.  Their
lord's order to release her had been peremptory, and it
was now apparent that she was escaping them again.
Their lord himself, at some little distance, dismounted,
his horse dangerously engulfed in a bog, was in as
much uncertainty as they were.

When he had first started off in his wild chase of
Aliva, he had indeed no fixed intention with regard to
her, except perhaps to carry her off to Bedford along
with Henry de Braybrooke; and now that he had
pursued her thus far from Elstow, and held her, as it
were, in his grasp, he was still undecided.

.. _`A wild chase through Ouse marshes`:

.. figure:: images/img-098.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: A wild chase through Ouse marshes.

   A wild chase through Ouse marshes.

Any brutal violence was far from his thoughts; for
had he not forbidden his man to lay a hand upon
her?  A marriage was what he contemplated, though
indeed it might be a forced marriage, like that of his
brother Fulke with the Lady Margaret.

But no sooner did he perceive that the draggled
girl was remounting her tired palfrey than he called
to his men, standing stupidly looking at her from the
nearer side of the ditch.

"Here, varlets, quick!  Plague take you and these
English morasses!  Why came ye not to my help
sooner?  Saw ye not how I am well-nigh smothered
in this cursed bog?"

It took some little time for the men-at-arms to free
their master and his floundering steed.  They dragged
him out in as deplorable condition as that in which
Aliva found herself, and by that time both he and
they had had enough of the Ouse marshes.

Not that De Breauté was by any means inclined
to give up the chase.  He could see the hapless
horsewoman he was pursuing far ahead and entering
the little village of Bromham, and he followed her
along firmer ground at some distance from the river.

The long, many-arched bridge which still stretches
over the flat meadows at Bromham was furnished at
the western end in those days with a small wayside
chapel, the ruins of which can still be traced in the
mill-house.  Aliva rode slowly into the village, and
wearily approached the foot of the bridge.  As she
cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, she saw that
her pursuers had now reached hard ground, and were
gaining on her rapidly.

Her little palfrey was dead beat.  The struggle in
the dike had completely exhausted him, and he no
longer answered to his mistress's voice or to the touch
of her riding-wand.  As he reached the first cottage
at Bromham, he stumbled and rolled heavily from side
to side.

Aliva was off his back in a moment.  A rustic stood
by, gazing in astonishment at the young lady's
condition--drenched and hoodless, her fair hair streaming
over her shoulders.

But Aliva's first thought was for her horse.

"Prithee, friend," she cried to the peasant, "take
my palfrey and tend him.  You shall be well
rewarded.  I am the daughter of the lord of Bletsoe,
and if I come not to claim him myself, take him to
Bletsoe Castle when he has recovered."

She hurried on.  How to escape now she knew not.
But suddenly, as she approached the bridge, she
perceived a haven of refuge.  The chapel door stood open,
and the poor hunted girl stepped into the welcome
sanctuary.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BREATHING-TIME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *BREATHING-TIME.*

.. vspace:: 2

As Aliva entered the little chapel on the bridge,
she saw, in the uncertain twilight, two figures
kneeling before the altar.  One was that of a stalwart
young man in the garb of a lay-brother of the
Benedictine order, and the other that of an elderly woman
in the dress of a peasant.

Both rose from their knees, disturbed by the
hurried entrance of Aliva, and were surprised to see
before them a lady of the upper classes so damp and
bedraggled and hoodless.  The heart of the woman
was touched.

"Lack-a-day, lady!" she exclaimed; "hast thou been
in Ouse water?" she added, with a slight shudder.

"I have come here for rest," replied Aliva, not
wishing to reveal her story to peasant strangers.  "I
have indeed, as you say, suffered somewhat by mishap
in a stream, and I have lost my horse."

As she spoke, the sound of her voice, and a closer
scrutiny of her features, increased the astonishment of
the two listeners.

"Gramercy on us!" cried the woman; "if this is
not our lady from Bletsoe!"

Aliva looked more narrowly at her, and then at the
lay-brother.

"Our Lady be praised!" she murmured faintly; "I
find friends.  Are you not the wife of Goodman
Hodges; and is this not your son, the lay-brother from
St. Alban's?"

Mother and son both made a deep obeisance, and
Aliva continued:--

"My friends, I am in sore plight.  But I know ye
to be faithful to your lord, and I trow ye will aid his
daughter.  I have ridden far and fast, at peril of my
life, to escape De Breauté and his men, who even now
follow hard upon my track.  But I trust I am safe in
this holy house, and with--"

But here exhausted nature gave way, and the brave
girl, now that she found herself in comparative safety,
fell senseless on the chapel floor.

Mistress Hodges, though but a peasant, was a
woman of resource and energy.

"Alack, alack! she will die of chill in this cold
chapel," she exclaimed.  "Son, we must bear her hence!"

"But what if De Breauté's men be without, mother?"
replied the cautious lay-brother.

"In good sooth, you speak true," replied the woman,
casting an anxious gaze round the chapel, while she
supported the head of the unconscious Aliva in her
arms.  Then she noticed a gleam of light shining
through a half-open door on the south side of the altar.

"See, my son," she exclaimed, "whither that door
leads.  There may be help near at hand."

The lay-brother opened the door and looked into
the apartment within.

"'Tis a sacristy, or priest's room," he replied, with
his knowledge of ecclesiastical arrangements.  "There
is no one within," he added, glancing hastily around,
"and there is a fire on the hearth, and a settle with
cushions."

The mother and son lifted up Aliva's senseless form,
and carrying her into the sacristy, laid her on the
couch.

"Go thou now," said the Mistress Hodges, "and
guard the chapel door, and I will see to the young
lady.  Praise be to our Lady, with warmth and care
I shall yet bring her round."

The young man shut the door of the sacristy behind
him, and crossing the chapel to the entrance, closed
the heavy door and drew its strong oaken bar across
it.  He then took up his position against it, keeping
a careful and patient watch.

The woman, left alone with Aliva, proceeded to
treat her with maternal care; for had not the young
lady herself once tended her when the fever ravaged
the peasants' huts round Bletsoe Manor House?

She removed her wet garments and chafed her cold
hands and feet.  As she undressed her, she found,
fastened round her waist, a wallet containing a small
flask of cordial and some food, with which the good
abbess of Elstow had provided Aliva for her journey.
Mistress Hodges poured some of the wine down Aliva's
throat, and she revived.

Delighted that her efforts had so far succeeded, the
good woman redoubled her care.  She even stripped
herself of some of her rough but warm clothing, and
wrapped it round Aliva, as she lay on the settle.
Then she busied herself in drying and cleaning the
soiled and dripping garments, for fortunately, in this
room prepared for the priest who served the chapel,
there was a good store of firewood.

Aliva lay watching her feebly, with the half-dazed
gaze of returning consciousness.

"Thanks to our Lady and the blessed saints," she
murmured at last in such weak voice, "that I have
happed on you, good mother; else methinks the cold
of this chapel might have finished the work the stream
began."

"The saints forfend!" ejaculated the worthy woman.
"But, lady," she added, her curiosity getting the upper
hand, "might I crave your pardon, and ask how comes
it that you are in a woful plight?  They said in
the village you had gone to the retreat at Elstow,
which the venerable archdeacon--"

"Ah!" cried Aliva, "selfish wretch that I am, I had
well-nigh forgotten him in my own trouble!  Know
you, good mother, that it was even as he and I were
leaving the abbey of Elstow, on our return home, that
this fierce company of De Breauté and his men rode
down upon us.  They scattered us as a hawk scattereth
a flight of doves.  I escaped by the lucky chance
that my good genet can be stopped by no fence or
dike in all this countryside.  When I last saw my
uncle, he was surrounded and closed in upon by the
horsemen.  I wot not what became of him."

"Alack, alack!" said Mistress Hodges, shaking her
head.  "These be evil days now in the which we live,
when that terrible Frenchman from over the seas, Sir
Fulke de Breauté (may the foul fiend fly off with him!),
spares neither the ministers of Holy Church nor
defenceless damsels--"

"Indeed, it would seem as if De Breauté had a
grudge against me," Aliva could not help interposing,
with a half smile.  "He owes me somewhat, by my
faith.  He asked for my hand; he cannot say he
did not get it.  How like to a drowned water-rat he
looked, coated with our good honest English mud!
A pretty dance I led him, I trow," she added, with a
ripple of laughter.  "He'll ne'er forgive me."

Mistress Hodges grinned good-humouredly, pleased
to see the lady's spirits rising again.

"In good sooth, lady, but young knights find it hard
to forgive fair ladies who will have none of them when
they come a-wooing."

The conversation was becoming too personal.  Aliva
flushed slightly, and tried to turn it.

"And now, prithee goody, it seems to me that I
too may well ask, how comes it that you and your
son come so far from Bletsoe this evening?"

The smile faded from the woman's face.

"I am on a weary errand, fair lady," she replied.
"I have come thus far in company with my son, who
is on his journey back to the abbey of St. Alban,
where he is a lay-brother.  I have come but to say a
prayer with him, in this the wayfarer's chapel, to good
St. Nicolas, who protects all travellers.  Alas! he
will return to St. Alban's; he says it is his duty.  I
have dissuaded him sore with tears and prayers, but
it is of none avail.  In these bad times there is no
peace even in the religious houses, nothing but wars
and rumours of wars."

"Certes, I did hear from Dicky Dumpling--(ah,
poor Dickon! how fares it with him, I wonder?  He
presented a broad surface to the horsemen's charge)--that
your son had barely 'scaped with his life from
that fearful St. Vincent's Eve at St. Alban's!"

"Gramercy, lady," replied the woman, wiping her
eyes, "'twas a hairbreadth 'scape, in good sooth!  But,
thanks to our Lady and the good St. Benedict--who,
my son says, preserved the humblest of his servants
to serve him further--he got off scot-free from the
fire and the sword, yea, and the water too!"

"The water! how mean you?" asked Aliva.

"Marry, lady, he was weary and worn, and he
mistook the ford at Milton as he was fleeing
homewards.  The Ouse was in full flood, and but for that
noble knight Sir Ralph de Beauchamp, whom the
saints preserve--"

"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp!" murmured Aliva, now
deeply interested.  "Ah," she added, with a blush,
"I mind me how soaked he was with water!"

"Ay, a fair gallant he is," the other proceeded.
"He thought naught of riding boldly into the Ouse
at full stream, and saving my poor lad in the very
nick of time, when he was being swept down the
river like a truss of hay in a midsummer flood!"

Aliva lay listening, her large eyes fixed dreamily
on the speaker.

"It sounds like a bold deed, and a truly marvellous
turn of luck for your son.  Tell on, good mother, I
prithee.  I would fain hear more of the fishing out of
the worthy lay-brother--thine only son, too--tell on,"
added the astute maiden, playing on maternal feeling.

Mistress Hodges' tongue was unloosed by the
evident interest the young lady of the manor evinced.
His recent dangers and escapes had made the lay-brother
somewhat of a hero in the village of Bletsoe.
His mother was nothing loath to fight his battles over
again, and prattled on with maternal pride for some
time ere she perceived that her fair charge had sunk
into a sound and healthful slumber, lulled by the
account of her lover's daring.

Meanwhile De Breauté and his men had hurried
up.  They passed Aliva's riderless palfrey.

"Ah, pardie! the fair hare has run to ground, and
cannot be far distant.--Lady, thy pride is nigh unto
a fall," murmured William to himself, chuckling.

But the rustic in charge of the horse was either
naturally or intentionally stupid.  De Breauté could
make nothing of him.

Riding eagerly to the bridge-foot, he scanned its
length.  But he saw no sign of Aliva's retreating
figure in the fast-falling twilight, and heard no sound
save the swirl of the rushing river as it swept beneath
the arches.

Had she escaped him?

Leaving one of his men to guard the bridge, he
proceeded to search the cottages round.  But from the
trembling peasants he could only gather that they
had indeed seen a lady, in soiled and damp clothing,
pass down the village.

But as he was thus cross-questioning and searching,
he was approached by a personage clad in ecclesiastical
garb.  He was a coarse-looking individual,
the expression of whose features showed a mixture of
greed and cunning.

"William de Breauté," he asked, "thou seekest a
bird?  Shall I show thee the nest where that bird is
hidden?"

"If thou meanest that thou canst tell whither the
lady has escaped who but now made her way through
the village," replied De Breauté, not much relishing
the tone of familiarity in which he was addressed,
"thou shalt be well rewarded if thou dost direct me
thither.  And understand," he added, trying to speak
with dignity, "no harm is intended to the lady.  It
is simply needful for her own protection that I
conduct her to my brother's castle at Bedford."

"Ay, in good sooth, all are in safe keeping there!"
muttered the priest with a sneer, not brooking haughty
patronage from a soldier of fortune.  "But,
perchance, my secret will remain with me, and she will
not take the road to Bedford."

William de Breauté saw that he was not going the
right way to work, and altered his tone.  He had a
shrewd guess that a bribe would both be expected and
received.

"Certes, reverend father," he replied, "but I mean
a reward to Holy Church in the person of one of her
ministers."

"Knightly sir," answered the priest, "we understand
each other.  I am but a minister, as you rightly
say, and humblest, you would more rightly have said,
of Holy Church.  Whatever her ministers receive, it
is really the Church who receiveth and benefiteth."

And if winking were the fashion in the thirteenth
century, doubtless he winked at De Breauté as he spoke.

"Follow me," he added.

And he led him to the door of the chapel on the bridge.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AT THE CASTLE OF EATON SOCON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *AT THE CASTLE OF EATON SOCON.*

.. vspace:: 2

While Aliva de Pateshulle lay in a dreamy
state listening to the praises of her lover,
the said lover was far away on the other side of
Bedford, in anything but such a complacent frame of
mind.

Since the day Aliva had escaped from him up the
turret stairs he had not seen her, and she had left
him in much perplexity as to whether she intended
to obey her father or to follow her own inclinations.

But on one point his mind was made up.  Ralph
was determined to be off to the Scottish war.  In any
case a soldier's life or perhaps a soldier's death was
still before him, and in his youthful imagination he
saw himself performing deeds of daring against the
northerners, and dying heroically in the moment of
victory, leaving Aliva to mourn for his loss and regret
her own cruelty.

To carry out these plans, however, it was necessary,
in the first instance, that he should interview his
uncle, William de Beauchamp, for it was by the
latter's influence, as he had told Aliva, that Ralph
hoped to obtain a command in the royal army.

Since they had been wrongfully deprived of their
castle, Bedford was no longer a home to the De
Beauchamps.  The usual gathering-place of the family
now was at Eaton Socon, some twelve miles further
down the river.  The castle there has as completely
disappeared as that of Bedford, but a huge mound on
the banks of the Ouse marks the site of the stronghold.
Here was established a younger branch of the
De Beauchamps, and here William de Beauchamp
met Ralph and his kinsmen, to discuss the position of
the family, and to consult as to the best means of
overthrowing the robber chief at Bedford.

"Beshrew me, Nephew Ralph," said his uncle, "if I
wot what to make of this talk of thine of fighting
against the northern savages, when savages far worse
hold the castle of thy fathers."

Ralph had been holding forth to his seniors upon
the duty of a young knight taking up his country's
quarrels and joining his sovereign's army.

"Ay," rejoined the lord of Eaton Socon, an elderly
man, "were I but of thy age and strength, with my
gilded spurs newly girt upon my heels, I would never
throw myself away on this mad Scottish scheme--craving
his majesty's pardon, if indeed so be that our
young king favours it--whilst there lacked not an
excuse for the placing myself at the head of bold
men who would rally to the cry of 'A De Beauchamp! a
De Beauchamp!'"

"And, Cousin Ralph," whispered one of his uncle's
married daughters, for some of the ladies of the family
were present, "they tell me there is one in Bedford
Castle with whom thou wouldest fain splinter lances,
were he but worthy to meet thee in knightly combat!"

Something of William de Breauté's visit to Bletsoe,
and of his reception there by Aliva, had evidently
leaked out.

Ralph shook his head dismally.  For the time
being he was that most unhappy individual, a wet
blanket to all around him, a despondent lover.

"Come now, coz," continued the Lady Mabel, "if
our reverend elders will dismiss us from attendance
at this table, we young folk will out on to the castle
walls and take a turn.  Kinsfolk do not often gather
together in these days, at least in our family, and
thou knowest I have not forgotten old times in
Bedford Castle, even though I have formed new ties.
Blood is thicker than water."

It was early afternoon.  The mid-day meal, which
took place at the then fashionably late hour of noon,
was just over.  Ralph could not refuse the invitation
of his fair cousin, who had been to him as a sister in
his boyhood.  So, with due obeisance to the others, the
pair quitted the hall, leaving their elders deep in talk
over old times, and the departed glories of the house
of Beauchamp, and the days of Hugo, the Conqueror's
favourite.

In truth, Ralph was not sorry to have a confidant
to whom he could confide his troubles.  For the last
few weeks both he and his uncle William had been
but melancholy guests at Eaton Socon, despite the
efforts of their cheery old kinsman to rouse them.
William de Beauchamp was naturally a taciturn,
reserved man, and the loss of his affianced bride,
followed by the loss of his ancestral castle and
domains, had further increased the gloom of his
character.  His uncle's depression, of course, added
to Ralph's low spirits.

"And now, fair coz," said Lady Mabel, linking her
arm in Ralph's, as they passed up a flight of stone
steps leading to a walk on the top of the encircling
wall behind the battlements, "thou art to talk to me
of somewhat else than this Scottish war, or even the
battering down of Bedford Castle about the ears of
that dear friend of our family, Fulke de Breauté.
Nay, seek not to deny it.  I can see by thy face that
thou hast somewhat to tell me, and perchance I have
somewhat to tell thee."

"I have naught to say, sweet cousin, but what
I have already spoken of in the hall.  But yet
so be--"

"I knew it!" interrupted the lady; "so it ever is
with men.  First they will tell naught--those were
thy very words--and then with the same breath
they go on to say much.  They are parlous, like my
favourite sleuth-hound, my lord's morning gift, who
at times from mere wantonness refuseth to feed from
my hand, and then when I make a show to turn
away, cannot fawn on me enough.  Had I but said
to thee, Let us speak of the land of the Picts and
Scots, and of the honour that, forsooth, will never
be found there by Norman knights, thou wouldest
straightway have spoken on what lies nearest thy
heart nimbly enough.  Now, thou art hesitating;
thou leavest me to lay the scent, and then thou wilt
follow.  Yet, I gage, thou wouldest fain speak of the
fair damsel of Bletsoe?"

Ralph flushed, and the lady smiled.

"Tell me," she added, "when thou last didst set
eyes on thy lady-love?"

The ice was broken.  Ralph thawed rapidly, and
related to the Lady Mabel his meeting with the Lady
Aliva on the morrow of St. Vincent's Day, and of her
sudden flight from him.

"And, in good sooth," ejaculated the lively lady,
with a shrug of her fair shoulders, "in this slough of
despondency hast thou remained ever since!  Not so
should I have done had I been in thy shoes, cousin.
Thou a bold lover, Ralph, thy charger at hand!  The
fair damsel should have been on the croup of thy
saddle ere she could reach the turret stair.  Then
hadst thou brought her hither to me, I would have
guarded her safety and honour till priest and chapel
were ready, which would not have been long waiting,
I trow."

"But, cousin," Ralph put in gloomily, "thou hast
forgotten: she spake to me unawares, as she
confessed, and unmindful of her father's command that
she should wed with a De Breauté.  Nay, it boots
not here of carrying off a bride.  Rather let me carry
off my wretched self to the war.  I spake to her of
winning glory for her sake, but now, methinks, I
would rather win death."

And folding his arms the young man leaned over
the parapet of the castle wall, and gazed dejectedly
into the shining Ouse below him, as if he would fain
cast himself headlong into the stream.

But Lady Mabel answered with such a ripply
laugh that Ralph turned round to her, now really
offended at the light manner with which she met his
tragic mood.

"And what thinkest thou, Ralph, that William de
Breauté will go a-wooing to Bletsoe Manor again?"

Ralph's face assumed such an angry look, as he
ground out something between his teeth about
"wooing" and "Bletsoe Manor," that the Lady Mabel drew
back, half frightened at the storm she had aroused.

"William de Breauté, in good truth, came to Bletsoe!"
he ejaculated; "but when, and how?  Tell me all, tell
me the worst, cousin, for the love of Heaven!"

"Thou knewest not that he went thither?" she
asked, puzzled.

"I know naught of it," replied Ralph sulkily.

"And that he hath gained the hand of the Lady
Aliva?" she continued.

Ralph turned upon her, furious.  But the Lady
Mabel laughed louder than before.

"Certes he did.  But upon his face!" she added.

Her cousin looked bewildered.

"Where hast thou been, and what hast thou heard
these weeks last past?" Lady Mabel went on.

"Thou knowest!" replied Ralph, still offended.
"Here I have been at Eaton Castle with thy father.
I have heard no news;" and he heaved a sigh, and
turning away, looked out vacantly again over the
Ouse valley.

"Ay, moping like a pair of owls at noontide, had
I not come hither to bear ye company," Lady Mabel
continued, "till, perchance, ye had been driven to
make two holes for yourselves in the stream yonder.
By my troth," she added, with very little of the
reverence for elders which was such a characteristic
of the age, "I intend to stir my father into life again
ere I leave Eaton; and as for thee, Cousin Ralph,"
touching him lightly on the shoulder, "I command
thee to be of good cheer, and no longer to look down
on that vile cold water as though thou lovest it!"

Ralph turned to her again, though still sulky under
her apparently meaningless gaiety.

"Now hearken to me, Ralph, and I will tell thee
much of the Lady Aliva that thou wottest not of."

And Lady Mabel went on to relate the story of the
second suitor's visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception,
which had not penetrated to Ralph's ears, shut up
hermit-fashion at Eaton.

As she continued, the light gradually broke in on
Ralph's mind, and the gloom vanished from his face;
and when she described the blow inflicted by Aliva
upon William de Breauté, his eyes positively sparkled
with delight.

Scarcely had the Lady Mabel finished her recital
ere her hearer had rushed from her.  Such broken
exclamations as "My brave girl!" "Still my own!"
escaping from him, he ran headlong down the steps,
across the bailey yard, and abruptly disturbed his
elders' conversation round the board in the hall.

Hardly giving himself time to pay the usual
salutation of respect which the period demanded from
juniors to elders of their house, he broke in upon
them with these words:--

"By thy leave, my revered uncle, and with thine,
my noble kinsman, I leave thy castle at once, tarrying
but to give thee my best thanks for thy hospitality
of the last few weeks."

In a moment, ere De Beauchamp could recover
from his surprise, Ralph was out of the hall again,
and shouting eagerly in the yard for his groom, his
squire, or any one, to assist him in getting ready his
horse.

Meanwhile the guests streamed out of the hall
behind him, headed by their host and William de
Beauchamp.  Lady Mabel, who had followed her
cousin in his headlong career as fast as she was able,
rushed to her father.

"Stay him not!" she exclaimed; "rather bid the
varlets hasten to help him.  'Tis no demon hath
gotten possession of him--unless, in good sooth, love
may be termed a demon.  Speed him on his way, and
I will tell whither he goes, and wherefore."

Lady Mabel's laughing face dispersed any fears
which might have been entertained for Ralph's sanity,
and a moment or two later, the latter, who had hastily
girded on his armour, emerged into the yard as his
groom brought round his horse.

"Adieu, fair cousin!" he exclaimed.  "Thou hast
indeed removed a burden from my heart!" he added,
placing his foot in the stirrup.

At that moment a man hurried into the castle-yard
through the outer bailey, and made his way through
the group of serving-men and grooms gathered round
the hall door.

It was a young lay-brother in the garb of a
Benedictine.  His long frock was girt up round his
loins, as though he had been running violently.  He
was muddy and wayworn, and one side of his face
was smeared with blood, flowing apparently from
a wound in the head, hastily bound up with a
bandage.

Tottering and reeling from exhaustion, the
Benedictine pushed his way up to Ralph, his eyes staring
wildly and starting from his head.

"Sir Ralph," he cried, "the Lady Aliva hath been
carried captive to Bedford Castle!"

And then he fell senseless into the arms of the
nearest bystander.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BIRD IN THE CAGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *THE BIRD IN THE CAGE.*

.. vspace:: 2

When William de Breauté and the priest reached
the door of the chapel on Bromham Bridge,
the latter simply pointed to it, saying,--

"There is the bird in the cage.  But the key of
the cage is in the keeping of the Church."

After this parabolic remark, he led De Breauté
away again to a small hostelry, where they entered
a private room.  De Breauté perceived that the priest
had a proposal to make, but waited for him to begin.

"Thou spakest anon of guerdon to Holy Church
for helping thee on with thy plans in hand," the
priest commenced.

"Ay, in good sooth," said De Breauté, seeing that
the ecclesiastic meant business; "or a reward to her
servants," he added.  "Speak! what wouldst thou--money,
lands, wealth?"

Fixing his cunning dark eyes on his companion's
face, the latter answered in one word,--

"Power!"

"Ah, pardie! and what have I to do with the
advancement of churchmen?" said De Breauté, with a
shrug.  "Our name is in no good odour with Mother
Church at this time, forsooth!"

The priest smiled sardonically.

"Certes, I have no wish that your brother Fulke
should recommend me for high office among the
Benedictines of St. Alban's, for example."

The news of Fulke's penance and pardon had
already spread far and wide among the churchmen of
that neighbourhood.

"At St. Alban's, pardie!" laughed De Breauté, as
he recollected his brother's account of the scene in the
chapter-house, and of the manner in which he had,
for the second time as it were, defrauded the abbey
coffers.

But the priest suddenly changed the tone of banter
in which he had hitherto addressed De Breauté, and
the sarcastic expression of his face gave place to one
of bitter anger.

"Hearken, Sir Knight," he exclaimed.  "Once I
stood high in my order.  Brother Bertram was
honoured, respected, rising, among the brethren of
St. ----.  But I care not to tell a layman the reason
of my fall.  Suffice it that I fell, and that I was
expelled my order.  I, of more noble blood than all the
other brethren together--I, more than half a Norman--here
have I been for the last three years, ministering
to Saxon swine who grovel in their hovels
round yon bridge chapel; a mere mass-priest, offering
prayers to St. Nicolas that travellers may pass safe,
that sordid merchants may keep their chattels safe
from roadside robbers!  A fair portion, forsooth, for
one who might have commanded men, been honoured,
famed, obeyed!"

De Breauté shrugged his shoulders again.

"Marry, Sir Priest, but by my troth I see not how
I am to help thee!  What power can I give thee, save
the command of a party of men-at-arms?"

"Sir De Breauté," replied the other, "your chapel
is unserved.  No priest passes 'neath the castle
portcullis."

"Ay, and you speak true."

"Hark ye," continued the priest, "the castle of
Bedford will be still more famous ere long.  The star
of the De Breautés riseth fast.  The fault thy brother
hath committed against Holy Church hath been
pardoned, and what matter a few Saxon churls, if the
Norman nobles but own him their peer?"

"Marry, Sir Priest, and I thank you heartily.  I
am, in good sooth, glad to hear that my family are
so in fortune's way.  But how mattereth that to thee?"

"When the De Breautés rise and are ennobled, all
who serve them will rise too.  The chaplain of
Bedford Castle shall be no mean priest then.  As one of
the secular clergy I would then lord it over the
regulars, and show the order that expelled me, Bertram
de Concours, that they must needs bow before one
who stands well with a rich and powerful Norman baron."

"If, then, the chaplaincy of the castle is all thou
dearest, I can safely promise it shall be thine," replied
De Breauté, laughing in his sleeve at the price the
other had named.  "But, certes, we must have the
chapel swept out and the altar repaired.  By my
troth, there will be much ado with my sister and her
women when they hear there will be mass sung again
at home," he added, with a cynical laugh.  "But say
on now, Sir Priest or Sir Chaplain, as I may well call
thee, how about the present work on hand?"

"Leave that to me," returned the other.  "The
Church shall open her doors, and the bird will hop
out.  See thou to it that thou secure her when she
is beyond my care."

"And how so?" said William.

"Marry, that is your affair," replied the priest.
"Mine ends at the chapel door."

"Pardie! shall I swing her up to my saddle-bow
and be off with her?  By St. Hubert, I might have
done so this evening had I not bidden my varlets loose
her.  A curse on my hesitation!  But counsel me,
prithee."

"If it is my counsel you wish, I will not deny it.
Methinks the damsel should be conveyed through the
streets of Bedford town otherwise than swinging to
a saddle like a market-wife's butter-basket.  But, Sir
Knight, thou knowest far better than I how to treat
a fair lady."

"I have it!" exclaimed De Breauté.  "There is the
horse-litter of my sister, in the which she sometimes
is graciously permitted to go abroad, when her
ailments allow her not to mount her palfrey.  She is
ever sickly, the woman.  I will send to Bedford for
it.  Nay, I would go myself, could I trust my men
to guard."

"Go thyself, if thou art so minded," replied the
priest.  "I will so far stand, on my part, to my
pledge, that I will answer for it that the bird be not
uncaged till I hear from thee.  Do not thou show
thyself in the matter at all.  Seest thou not that in
that case thou canst anon tell the fair one a pretty
tale, of how thou callest thy men off from chasing her,
even as thou didst in the marshes, and that they
captured her without thy knowledge or consent?  See,"
he continued, "here is this small crucifix.  Send it to
me.  When I receive it back from thy hands, I shall
know that all is ready--that the litter waits anon."  And
as he spoke, the priest handed the soldier a small
metal emblem of redemption, the pledge of his
nefarious doings.  "See, also, that the Lady Margaret's
women prepare a suitable lodging for the lady.  Thou
wouldst, certes, see her well attended?  I have thy
knightly word that she is in honour treated, or I loose
her not?  Withdraw, then, thy men from guard here,
and send others more seemly to escort a lady.  I plight
my word that, as I hope to be chaplain of thy brother's
castle, I loose her not till I receive thy pledge."

"But," objected De Breauté, "how am I to warrant
me she will be conveyed--"

"Leave that to me," said the treacherous priest.
"If she be not placed of her own free will in the
litter, I shall not have done my share of the work--that
thou mayest hold sure.  Have only a care, however,
that naught about the horses or the litter
proclaimeth it to be from De Breauté's stables."

So saying he passed out of the room.  De Breauté
followed him.  Calling to the man who was not on
guard to bring him his horse, and then to come after
him with his fellow, De Breauté rode off to Bedford,
some two miles distant from Bromham Bridge.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *THE SANCTUARY VIOLATED.*

.. vspace:: 2

"The key is in the keeping of the Church."

At the actual moment when Father Bertram,
at the beginning of the interview recorded in
the last chapter, uttered these words, the door of the
chapel was literally in the Church's charge, in the
person of the stout lay-brother, who, hearing footsteps
and voices without, now stood with his broad shoulders
leaning against the oak.  He could hear but little of
the conversation through the thick door, but he guessed
it had to do with his lady, and concluded that De
Breauté had tracked her to her hiding-place.

For a time he remained uncertain how to act.
Churchman as he was, it seemed almost impossible
to him that any one, even a brutal soldier, should dare
to violate the sanctuary of the chapel; but yet he
feared that those without were plotting to carry off
the Lady Aliva.

At length, when all was quiet again outside, he
crossed the little building, and knocked gently at the
door of the sacristy.  It was opened by his mother,
who laid her finger upon her lips as a sign to him to
keep silence.

"My lady sleeps," she whispered, and shut the door
again.  Evidently no advice was to be had from her.

Uncertain whither to turn for aid, he recrossed the
chapel, and, for the first time since Aliva had sought
refuge in it, unbarred the door and looked out.

It was now past midnight.  The village was sunk
in silence, and no one was to be seen about.  His first
idea was to make his way towards Bedford, and he
passed half across the bridge over the dark river.
Then he fancied he heard the sound of a horse's hoof
echoing from a distance through the stillness of the
night.  Though he knew it not, it was the sound of
De Breauté spurring towards Bedford.

But another sight close at hand called off his
attention.  Through the gloom he became distinctly aware
of a tall, armed figure leaning against the parapet of
the bridge.

"Gramercy!" he said to himself, stopping short;
"here is one of the soldiers on guard!  There can be
no escape this way.  St. Benedict aid us!"

Of course, unaware that in a few minutes the man
would be withdrawn, the lay-brother retraced his steps.
Next he met the other man-at-arms leading the horses
toward his comrade, and his heart sank within him at
what he imagined were further measures to guard
the Bedford road.  He passed the soldier unchallenged
in the dark, and then a little further met a man
coming towards the chapel.

It was the priest, straight from his conclave with
De Breauté.

Bertram de Concours approached the lay-brother.

"A brother servant in the ministry of Holy Church,
an I mistake not," said he.

"Nay, reverend father," returned the Benedictine,
"but a lay-brother I, of the holy house of Alban."

"And I," returned the other, "am but the unworthy
priest who serves the altar of St. Nicolas in yonder
chapel.  But the chapel," he continued, eying the
lay-brother closely, "is occupied by other than its
priest to-night.  A lady hath sought sanctuary there.
She must be guarded, watched, tended."

The Benedictine was puzzled.  The voice sounded
to him like the voice of him whom he had heard
talking with De Breauté without the chapel door.
Should he ask his advice and help?  He was the
priest of the chapel; surely he was to be trusted.

"Tended she hath been by my mother," he answered,
"and I myself have watched and guarded the
chapel door.  But she must remove hence.  It is not
fit that our fair lady of Bletsoe should remain in this
plight, tended by peasants only.  She must to her
father's house."

Bertram saw his opportunity.

"Sooth, thou speakest truly, brother," he said.  "I
would fain despatch her thither.  Not that I quite
make out her case," he continued craftily.  "My
people do tell me that yester evening a lady came
into the village in sore plight, and leading a steed
well-nigh ridden to death, and thou sayest she is the
Lady de Pateshulle.  She should to Bletsoe.  But can
she walk?"

"Walk, father! nay, in good sooth.  For all my
mother's care she is so weary with her ride that she
even now sleeps.  Besides, do ladies such as she tramp
the country roads like a churl's wench?  And her
palfrey cannot carry her!"

"She should be carried thither in a litter,"
replied Bertram de Concours; "but whither shall we
fetch one?  A messenger must forthwith to Bletsoe,
and acquaint the noble house of De Pateshulle with
its lady's need, and that at once."

The bait was thrown out by which he hoped to
remove the lay-brother out of the way.  The fish rose.

"I am thy messenger, father," responded the
Benedictine with eagerness.  "I will myself to Bletsoe,
and devise means to transport my lady thither in
safety and comfort."

"By my faith, brother," exclaimed Bertram, in
simulated gratitude, "thou hast well spoken.  A burden
is lifted from my heart.  Haste thee, and see that
help is here by dawn.  But tarry a moment," he
continued, still weaving his treacherous web; "we
must to the chapel and let the lady know that aid is
at hand, and that she will shortly be quit of this
dangerous and unpleasant position."

The two men entered the chapel.  The old woman
was still watching by the sleeping girl, but hearing
steps, she came out of the sacristy.

"Tell thy mother to warn her charge that she may
expect to journey shortly," said the priest.

"But my lady still sleeps softly," objected the good
woman.

"Then let her know when she awakens that thy
son hath gone to Bletsoe for aid, and that help she
shall have shortly, and means of travelling hence,"
said Father Bertram.

Mistress Hodges returned to the sacristy.

"My lady is awakened," she said.  "She heard
your voices.  Ye should have spoken more softly.
She needs yet rest."

"Go thou then to the door," said Bertram to the
lay-brother.  "She knows thy voice, but I am a
stranger.  Tell her what thou purposest to do."

The Benedictine did as he was bid.  Standing at
the half-open door, he announced in a few words that
he was off to Bletsoe for help.

Aliva, barely aroused, sank back again into slumber,
murmuring words of thanks to her messenger.

"And now haste thee on thy road," said the priest
to the lay-brother; "I myself will watch the chapel
door."

The latter set off.  He did not again attempt to
cross the bridge, still guarded as he imagined by De
Breauté and his men, or he would now have found
it clear of sentinels.  He made his way along the
right bank of the river to the ford at Milton in the
dark quietness of the small hours that precede the
dawn.  But ere he reached the spot which had so
well-nigh proved fatal to him some few weeks before,
the birds had begun to twitter in the brushwood and
the sedge, and on the eastern horizon

   |  "Lightly and brightly breaks away
   |  The morning from her mantle gray."
   |

In the uncertain light he became aware that a
horseman was in front of him, trying apparently to
force a wearied steed through the ford.  As he
approached, a clearer view revealed the rider to be none
other than Dicky Dumpling, the fat porter.

"Soho, soho, Dickon!  And whither so early, or so
late, as you will?"

Thus apostrophized, Dicky turned his horse and
recognized the lay-brother.

"St. Dunstan be praised!  Here is a friend from
Bletsoe.  O brother, there is ill news--a sore mishap!
Our Lady Aliva is chased, and carried captive too,
for aught I know, by that devil in man's shape, Fulke
de Breauté, or his brother.  The livelong night have
I sought her on the road 'twixt here and Elstow, over
marsh and bank, up hill and down dale.  Not a bite
or a sup--"

"Peace, Dicky, and cheer thy heart.  Thy lady is safe."

"Safe, thou sayest?  Oh, the saints be praised!--safe?"

"As safe as Holy Church can make her," replied
the other.  "She hath found refuge in the chapel on
Bromham Bridge."

Dumpling gave a vast sigh of satisfaction, and his
face once more assumed its usual jolly expression.

"That was it then!  Beshrew me for a fool!  I
found her palfrey in Bromham village, and though I
asked up and down among the folks, no one could
tell me aught of the lady.  Even the women, whose
tongues go fast enow, like the clapper of a bell at
vespers time, when they are not wanted, had nothing
to say.  Gramercy! safe in the chapel!  But you,
brother, what doest here?"

"On an errand thou canst well relieve me of.
Four legs are better than two.  Thy Dobbin has still
enow strength left in him to carry him back to his
manger.  So haste thee, good Dickon, with all speed
thou mayest, and bid them at Bletsoe Castle send
quickly a litter for my lady to bear her home.  She
is weary and weak.  I, meantime, will return to her.
Somehow it mislikes me leaving her alone with priests
and women, when those devil's servants, the Breauté
varlets, are about.  And 'twill cheer her heart to hear
good news of thee, for she misdoubted some mishap to
thee also."

"I fall not lightly, brother," replied Dicky.  "The
armed men came with the rush of a battering-ram.
But thanks to St. Dunstan and the muddy roads, I
got off scathless.--And now, Dobbin--to our oats,
Dobbin, to our oats; and to our lady's aid."

The lay-brother, much relieved in his mind, hurriedly
retraced his steps.  It was broad daylight as
he once more approached the chapel, and while yet at
a distance he plainly perceived a little crowd gathered
at the door.

A horse-litter, consisting of a kind of curtained
couch resting on two poles, borne by two stout horses,
was in waiting.  On the foremost horse rode a groom.
Another mounted man stood by, leading a spare saddle-horse.

As the lay-brother drew nearer, he saw three figures
issue from the chapel, and recognized the Lady Aliva,
his mother, and Father Bertram.

Struck with astonishment that the desired conveyance
should have appeared so speedily, the Benedictine
halted in the middle of the road.  Then the truth
flashed upon him.

It was impossible that the litter could have come
from Bletsoe.  There must be treachery afoot.

A glance at the De Breauté livery worn by the
mounted groom confirmed his suspicion.

Without a moment's hesitation he rushed forward,
exclaiming in warning tones,--

"Mother! my lady!  Stay, stay!  for God's sake
stay!" and as he spoke he stretched out a detaining
hand towards the litter.

But ere he could grasp it, the priest, who had been
assisting Aliva into the conveyance, turned sharply
round, and with the key of the chapel door, which he
still held in his hand, dealt the Benedictine a heavy
blow on the head.

Then he shouted to the postillion to hurry off, and
himself jumping on to the spare saddle-horse, followed
the litter towards Bedford, leaving the lay-brother
senseless and bleeding on the road, his mother bending
over him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RALPH RAPS AT THE CASTLE GATE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *RALPH RAPS AT THE CASTLE GATE.*

.. vspace:: 2

At the moment when the Benedictine lay-brother,
haggard and wounded, rushed into the yard of
Eaton Castle, Ralph de Beauchamp was on the point
of starting for Bletsoe, reassured as to Aliva by his
cousin's account of the reception the former had given
to William de Breauté.  The single sentence uttered
by the Benedictine ere he fell senseless to the ground
came as a terrible reaction.  His impulse had been to
ride off rapidly to Bletsoe and urge his suit with
Aliva and her father; and now, at one fell swoop,
came the news that she was prisoner in the hands of
his rival, her discarded and insulted lover.  Overcome
with the shock of the news, following so soon upon
his late rapture, he rode out of the castle yard, after
commending the messenger to the care of the by-standers.
He was almost reeling in his saddle with
mental agony.

When the lay-brother, left senseless at the door of
the bridge chapel, had been restored to consciousness
by his mother's care, his first thought was for the
young lady so treacherously kidnapped.

Despite his mother's entreaties, he made his way
into Bedford, his bleeding head roughly bandaged;
and soon learned that the horse-litter of Margaret de
Ripariis had passed through the town into the castle
in the early morning.  But who might be within it no
one could tell.

Then the Benedictine hastened to tell the townsfolk
of this new outrage on the part of the De Breautés,
and endeavoured, but in vain, to stir them to action.
They had lived too long under the tyranny of the
Robber Baron to have courage enough to attempt to
throw off his yoke.

Baffled and disheartened, the brave young fellow
now determined to seek Ralph de Beauchamp.  The
latter's devotion to the Lady Aliva was too well
known among the dependents of the De Pateshulles
for the Benedictine to think for a moment that he
should implore his aid in vain.

Once outside the castle wall, Sir Ralph turned
his horse's head towards Bedford.  What he
intended to do there, alone and unaided, he perhaps
had scarcely considered.  An irresistible impulse drew
him to the spot where she whom he loved was
imprisoned.

Bedford is some twelve miles from Eaton Socon,
and when Ralph arrived there he found the burghers
much exercised in their minds over the event of that
morning.  They had hardly recovered from the shock
of seeing Henry de Braybrooke, but the evening before,
hurried through the streets as a prisoner, ere this fresh
outrage had followed.  Not that it was by any means
strange to see luckless women carried off to the castle--as,
for instance, after the St. Alban's raid; but never
yet had the Robber Baron dared to treat a member
of one of the noble families of the county in this
fashion.

But though the Bedford burgesses were duly
impressed with the enormity of Fulke de Breauté's
doings, they were loath to take any steps to put a stop
to them.  And indeed Ralph himself was obliged to
confess that any attempt to climb those lofty stone
walls, or to throw themselves on to the spears of the
armed men who kept watch and ward night and day
at the castle gate, would have been utter madness.
The only hope was that, now that one of the king's
justices was actually a prisoner, the royal forces might
be sent to extirpate this nest of robbers.

"Ah, Sir Knight," quoth one of the fathers of the
town to Ralph, as he gravely shook his head, "our
goodly town has indeed grievously suffered since thy
noble family and thy renowned uncle were driven
away.  In the old days the castle was a protection
and a great benefit to us.  But now--alas, fair
sir! thou knowest as well as we do what we suffer.  We
can scarce call our souls our own."

"Ay," put in one of the clergy of the town, who
formed one of the group which had gathered round
young De Beauchamp, "see our fair church of
St. Paul.  It hath stood here since the days of the Saxon
Bedicanford.  And now, alas! how forlorn and shorn
it standeth, even as a widow in her weeds mourning
for her lord!  Thus hath she stood since the day the
impious Fulke did wickedly break down the carved
work of our Zion with axes and hammers, and carry
off her stones to strengthen yon great castle which
towers above us.  In the chancel resteth thy ancestor
Simon, he who finished the good work begun by his
mother, the Lady Roisia--to wit, the priory at
Newenham for the canons of St. Paul's.  In good sooth, Sir
Knight, thy house and Holy Church have both good
reason to curse these French intruders."

Ralph turned dejectedly away from priests and
burghers.  The loss of his family possessions hardly
weighed with him, compared with the loss of her who
was more precious to him than spoils wrested from the
Church.  He rode slowly and deliberately to the
castle gate.

The sentinels on duty stood at attention, ready to
resist an attack should a single horseman be so
foolhardy as to ride against their uplifted spears.

Ralph looked upwards at the stern walls frowning
down upon him, and shook his sword at them in futile
rage.

As he did so two figures appeared above the battlement
of the barbican.  They were the Robber Baron
and his brother, who had been informed that Sir Ralph
de Beauchamp had ridden up to the castle.

Fulke made the knight a mocking gesture of salutation.

"Sir Ralph," he said, "it grieves me sore that I
cannot bid thee enter within these walls, and proffer
thee the hospitality which is suitable to thy rank.
But we entertain guests already."

So saying, he turned round and shoved forward the
disconsolate-looking judge, Henry de Braybrooke.

"Our worthy guest here," he continued, "has not
yet thought proper to cancel those writs which he and
his brethren were pleased to issue from their court at
Dunstable.  In consequence, he hath been forced to
partake of the somewhat meagre hospitality of bread
and water in the dungeon-vault beneath the keep.
It may perchance be even necessary to resort to yet
more painful measures."

"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," called out the plucky
little judge, trying to lean over the battlements, "I
prithee, convey to the king, my royal master, that his
servant will never consent to any reversal of
judgments given in concert with the learned Thomas de
Muleton and the learned Martin de Pateshulle, at the
bidding of the unlearned--

"Peace!" cried De Breauté, pushing the little man
back violently; "I brought thee not hither to speak,
but to be seen.--Soho, warder! take the justice back
again to the dungeon, and see that his supper be
somewhat more scanty than was his dinner.  Those who
bend not must starve."

And the warder led away the little justice,
remonstrating and quoting legal Latin anent wrongful
imprisonment and detention.

Fulke de Breauté again looked over the parapet.

"Yet another prisoner have I here, Sir Ralph," he
said; "but she is entertained in the lady's bower, as
befits a damsel who is shortly to be the bride of the
brother to the lord of the castle.  Even now our new
chaplain, Bertram de Concours, he who anon served
the chapel on Bromham Bridge, prepares our
long-disused chapel for the marriage rites."

Ralph could bear it no longer.  He gnashed his
teeth, and whirling his sword round his head in
impotent fury, flung it at the speaker.  The good blade
shivered in two against the stone wall, and Fulke
resumed his banter.

"Little boots it sending thy sword where thou
thyself darest not follow," said he; "but methinks thou
hast tarried long enow beneath our walls.  Get thee
gone ere thy churlishness be returned with usury."

Ralph sprang from his horse.  Unarmed though he
was, he made for the gate, as if he would tear it down
with his bare hands.

Fulke coolly signed to the sentinel who stood at his
post over the gate-house, with cross-bow ready strung
and quarrel fitted in the slot.  The man took aim and
released his string.  The missile struck Ralph in a
spot where his hastily-donned armour was imperfectly
fastened, and he fell wounded to the ground.

At the same moment two female figures reached
the western end of the walk which ran along the top
of the long wall bordering the river side of the castle,
at right angles to the gate-house.

One of them, a damsel of inquisitive disposition,
hearing the twang of the cross-bow, sprang on to the
parapet to see what was happening.  From the angle
she could look down upon the level space outside the
gate.

"What see you, Beatrice, that you watch so closely?"
inquired a girl's voice from the wall beneath the
former's vantage-ground.

"My lady," exclaimed Beatrice Mertoun, "the
archer hath struck some knight below, for I see the
townsfolk carrying off a wounded man clad in armour.
His helmet hath rolled from his head.  What curly
hair!  How pale he looks, alas, poor youth!  Ah, I
see my lord pointing to the helmet.  There goes a
man from the wicket-gate.  He has picked it up; he
is bringing it in.  Marry, how the burghers shrank
back when he appeared!  Methought they were like
to drop the wounded man.  But no; they have borne
him off."

"I wot not what this may mean," said Lady Aliva;
for she was the speaker from below.  "There is no
attack on the castle?  There come no more armed men?"

"Nay, none but the wounded one," replied Beatrice.
"But stay, my lady; I will to the gate-house.
Perchance I may learn somewhat."

Impelled by curiosity, the girl made her way down
from the wall, and quickly crossed the yard.

Fulke, when the helmet had been brought him,
glanced at it and then threw it contemptuously on one
side.  Then, when the burghers carrying Ralph had
disappeared into a neighbouring house, he turned away
and went to another part of the castle.

No sooner had he vanished than Beatrice Mertoun,
standing below, called up in her most bewitching tones
to the archer who had shot the quarrel.

"Ho, Hubert--Hubert of Provence!  Wilt do me a favour?"

The man-at-arms was one of her most ardent
admirers.  He looked down on the pretty upturned face.

"A thousand, Mistress Beatrice!  You have but to
ask, pardie."

"Then throw me down yon helmet your lord cast
away anon."

The man hesitated.  He glanced round; but Sir
Fulke was out of sight.  Beatrice pouted deliciously.

"I said not a thousand, but one favour, Hubert.
By my troth, Arnoul or Denis would have given it me
in a trice.  Methinks you set less store on my words
than--"

"Be not so cruel, fair one," exclaimed the admiring
archer.  "I obey your slightest wish.  Here!"

The helmet fell at her feet.  Beatrice picked it up,
and then, without so much as a look at the archer,
ran back with it to Aliva.

"See, my lady," she cried, "thou canst read these
riddles of the heralds."

.. _`143`:

Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De
Beauchamps.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WITHIN THE CASTLE WALLS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *WITHIN THE CASTLE WALLS.*

.. vspace:: 2

The Lady Aliva had been carried off to Bedford
in a half-unconscious state; for though she
had awoke from her sleep refreshed and restored--thanks
to the kind care of Mistress Hodges--the
treacherous priest had so arranged that nothing
should hinder him from carrying out his part of the
shameful contract.

After the departure of the lay-brother he returned
to the chapel.

"Daughter," he said to Aliva, through the half-open
door of the sacristy, "thou hast done well in
seeking the protection of Mother Church, and I, the
humble minister of this altar, will see that thou art
well guarded if thou remainest here."

"Thanks, reverend father," replied the maiden;
"but a short time since, towards dawn of day,
methinks (but I have slept since), this faithful woman's
son offered to set off to my father's house at Bletsoe
and warn the household there of my whereabouts."

"Thy messenger will be yet some time ere he
returneth," answered the priest, "and if thou art
minded to depart at once, we needs must find some
other means of conveyance for thee, lady.  I have
looked round about since it grew light, and thy
pursuers have departed," he added, revolving in his
mind how best to induce Aliva to enter the horse-litter
from Bedford, which he guessed would by now
not be far off.

"Thanks for the hospitality of this holy sanctuary,"
Aliva replied, "but I would fain depart as speedily
as may be," she added, not caring to occupy the
sacristy of a chapel as her apartment any longer than
was necessary, and with an indefinable dislike, if not
distrust, of the speaker.

"So be it, lady," Bertram hastened to answer.
"I will myself to Bedford.  Doubtless from some of
the burghers can I procure a conveyance suited to
thy rank.  Moreover, thou art doubtless weak in
body, and I have taken upon myself to order food to
be brought thee."

So saying he moved to the door and beckoned to
some one without.  A woman from the village entered,
bringing such food and wine as the hostelry could
supply.

"Thou mayest eat yonder in the sacristy, my
daughter, for it is not consecrated to holy purposes."

He followed the woman into the priest's room and
then dismissed her.  This left him alone for a few
moments, for Aliva had entered the chapel to kneel
down before the rude altar, and offer up a heartfelt
thanksgiving for her preservation.

Father Bertram took a small vial from within his
robe and poured some drops from it into the wine-flask.

He had not studied the art of drug-concocting in
the infirmary of his late monastery in vain.

Then he passed out of the chapel, saying that he
was going to Bedford.

Aliva rose from her knees and went into the
sacristy and found the food awaiting her.  But she
could not swallow, famished though she was, the
rough village fare copiously seasoned with garlic.

"Alack!" exclaimed Goody Hodges.  "But thou
wilt die of weakness.  See the wine-flask, lady!
Drink, if thou canst not stomach the food."

Aliva did as she advised; and when the priest
shortly returned, having brought the litter which he
had found waiting on the bridge, and having received
back again the pledge of the crucifix, he found the
maiden in a half-unconscious state.

"Alack, alack! father, she hath swooned again!"
cried the deluded peasant woman.

"She is overwrought with her hardships," replied
the priest.  "We must get her home with all speed.
I have found a litter on the road, and it is in readiness.
Help me to bear her to it."

The fresh morning air outside the chapel door
partially revived Aliva.  Opening her eyes she
moaned,--

"Where am I? where are you taking me?"

"Home, daughter, to Bletsoe.  Let me lay you in
the litter!" exclaimed Bertram hurriedly, and rudely
pushing back Dame Hodges, who had stopped short
when she too recognized the De Breauté livery, and
saw that she had been deceived.

Aliva sank back languidly on the cushions, and her
eyes closed again.  She was deaf to a well-known
voice imploring her to stay, and unaware of the
lay-brother's gallant attempt to detain her.

When she recovered her senses again, the litter was
jolting fearfully, for the horses were going at the top
of their speed.  Bertram rightly conjectured that
Aliva had taken but little of the drugged wine, and
was alarmed lest its numbing influence should wear
off ere his captive was safely secured.  So he urged
the postillion along, galloping by his side.

With returning consciousness Aliva drew aside the
curtains of the litter and looked out.  They were
certainly not on the road to Bletsoe; she saw that at
once.  They were swinging through streets, and curious
burgesses came to their house doors, marvelling what
brought the litter of the Lady Margaret out so early.

While she was doubting whether she should cry
for help or fling herself from the litter, it turned
under an echoing gateway, and stopped in a
courtyard before the entrance of a castle keep.

A girl of about her own age came down the steps.

"Lady, please to alight and follow me to the
apartment prepared for you."

Aliva descended from the litter and looked around
her, bewildered.  A group of men-at-arms were drawn
up at a respectful distance, and the grooms who had
brought her stood silent by their horses.  The priest
had vanished as soon as he had seen her safe into the
castle.

Aliva turned to the girl beside her.

"Where am I?" she murmured, still half dazed.
"Is this not Bedford Castle?  There has been
treachery--treachery by that ill-looking priest!
This is more of De Breauté's doings, damsel."

"Nay, lady, I can tell thee naught, save that my
lord Sir Fulke bade me prepare a lodging in the
keep for a lady who was to arrive in my lady's litter.
Thy chamber is ready on the floor above the great
hall, next to my lady's bower.  Prithee, let me lead
thee thither."

Aliva felt somewhat reassured by this reception.
At least she found herself in the care of women.

Silently she allowed her conductress to show her
the way across the hall and up a turret stair to her
apartment, where she sank wearily on a couch.

The pretty waiting-woman bustled about, offering
the unhappy girl various attentions.  She brought
her articles of dress from her mistress's coffer, and
assisted Aliva to remove her travel-stained garments
and clothe herself in becoming attire.

The latter eyed her curiously.

"And who art thou, maiden?" she inquired.

"My name is Beatrice Mertoun.  I am the waiting-woman
of the Lady Margaret, the wife of Sir Fulke.
And thou, lady, if I might make so bold?"

"I am Aliva de Pateshulle from Bletsoe," returned
Aliva.

"From Bletsoe!" echoed Beatrice.  "Methought
I remembered your face and figure as one of the nuns
at Elstow when I attended my mistress to the retreat
there.  We returned but yesterday.  But thou art
no nun--no sister of an abbey?"

"Nay," replied Aliva, "but I wore the habit of a
novice as a penitent during the retreat.  Doubtless,"
she added, sighing, "this trouble which hath come
upon me is the reward of my sins."

"Fair lady," said Beatrice gently, "you look sad;"
and she came and knelt down at her feet.

"Sad!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself on her
elbow and gazing down at the waiting-maid with
horror-stricken face; "I am miserable--betrayed--undone!
Ah, I see it all now--this foul plot!
William de Breauté hath encompassed my ruin!"

"William de Breauté!" cried Beatrice.  "It is he
who is at the bottom of this, forsooth!  By my halidom,
*I* see daylight now!  I overheard him speaking of
you with his brother--and then the chapel, repaired
and cleaned.  That was what Sir Fulke meant as he
watched the men at work and said in jesting mood
that from his own experience an unwilling bride was
all the sweeter for the trouble of snaring and catching
her, and William de Breauté answered that for his
part he cared not for a ripe plum that fell into one's
mouth without the picking."

"The chapel--an unwilling bride!" gasped poor
Aliva.  "The Lady Margaret was such!  I see it all,
alas!  Does my father know of this?  Does he give
his consent?"

"Alas, fair lady, I know naught!  It pains me to
see thee in such grief, and in good sooth I mind me
well of the stories I have heard of the unwilling
wooing, the hasty bridal of my mistress.  But, lady, cheer
thee.  Thou art weary and mazed.  Rest here awhile,
and talk no more, and I will watch by thee."

The bright spring afternoon was already waning
when, some hours after the events related above, the
two maidens walked out upon the south wall of the
castle.  Beatrice had persuaded Aliva to come thither,
hoping that the fresh air might revive her drooping
spirits; and Sir Fulke had given permission that his
prisoner might repair thither when she pleased, though
the precincts of the castle were forbidden.

As they paced up and down the terrace the fertile
brain of Mistress Beatrice, already a warm partisan
of the fair young prisoner, began to weave plans of
escape.

"Canst swim, fair lady?" she inquired.  "'Twould
be naught to leap into Ouse water from yon turret!
Or, better still, that thy knight (she took it for
granted that Aliva had a knight) should bring hither
a skiff some dark night, beneath the walls!"

At that moment they heard the twang of an archer's
bow sounding from the gate-house hard by.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE KING IN COUNCIL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *THE KING IN COUNCIL.*

.. vspace:: 2

For some time Ralph lay in a precarious state in
the house of one of the burgesses of Bedford.
The bolt from the cross-bow had given him a nasty
wound, which it required all the skill of the leech to
heal.  Moreover, he lay fretting and fuming at the
thought that his Aliva was a prisoner in the hands of
his enemy, and his mental anxiety seriously interfered
with his bodily recovery.

As he got better, however, he received visits from
many of the principal townspeople, who were much
attached to the house of De Beauchamp, and full of
pity for the young knight.

"Sir Ralph," quoth one of these grave personages,
as he sat solemnly stroking his beard by the pallet
where the young man still lay, "if one richer in the
experience of years than thou art may be permitted
to advise thee, I would show thee how useless a waste
of life and blood would be any attempt of thine,
unaided, to rescue thy fair lady from her direful plight."

"Marry, but have I not learned that lesson already!"
ejaculated Ralph irritably; "but whither then to get
aid? for get aid I must.  This emprise is of more
worth to me than a dozen lives!  Speak you on behalf
of your kind, Gilbert the Clothier, the other traders
and craftsmen of the town?  Are ye ready to strike
a blow against this tyrant?"

"I crave thy pardon, Sir Knight, but we are men
of peace, unused to warlike weapons, and we have
much to lose.  With one swoop Fulke de Breauté
could burn about our ears all the amassed gain of a
lifetime!"

Ralph shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"'Tis vain to speak to barn-door fowls of the liberty
of the hawk's flight!" replied Ralph, somewhat
ungraciously.  "But, Sir Merchant, if the only weapons
ye can use be your tools and your measuring-yards,
yet methinks ye have store of wisdom in your heads,
in full measure above us who spend all our wits upon
our sinews!" he added laughingly.  "Prithee, counsel me."

"There are none in all the county round, in these
days when so many of our gentlefolks are impoverished
with the wars and disturbances of these last
years, who can hope to lift a spear successfully against
this rich Frenchman," the merchant began.  "We
must e'en seek aid further afield.  Anon I had word
brought me that the churchmen brook ill that the
learned brother of Martin de Pateshulle and Thomas
de Muleton lies in the keeping of the enemy of the
Church, and are minded to stir in this matter with
the king."

"The king!" exclaimed Ralph, half raising himself.
"That is in good sooth good news!"

"The king holds a council shortly at Northampton,
as ye know," Gilbert went on, "and it is there they
purport to lay our case before him and his barons and
bishops assembled."

"I will to Northampton, then," cried Ralph eagerly.
"Certes, I was even purposing to go thither ere this
unlucky scratch detained me.  I sought the king's
favour to give me some command in this army which
is about to inarch for the north."

"Better turn your lance-point nearer home, Sir
Knight," the merchant replied.  "There will be work
enow and glory enow to be gotten for all who list in
pulling down this robber Frenchman's stronghold!"

"I will to Northampton as soon as this leech who
holds me in his clutches gives me leave to buckle on
my armour again," Ralph added.

And so it came about that, not many days later,
our hero rode over to Northampton, where he found
the king in council with the bishops, abbots, barons,
and justices.

.. _`The council at Northampton`:

.. figure:: images/img-154.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The council at Northampton.

   The council at Northampton.

The youthful Henry III. was at this time only
seventeen years old, though he had been declared
to be of age two years before.  His trusted guardian
and adviser, Hubert de Burgh, was, however, still
with him, and was present at the council.  The old
chronicler tells how, while the monarch and his
advisers were thus assembled, deliberating on the
affairs of state, news was brought of the raid upon
the judges, and of the capture of Henry de
Braybrooke by William de Breauté.

Here was an unbearable insult to the royal
supremacy.  The attention of the council was instantly
turned from the banks of the Tweed to those of the
Ouse.

In the storm of indignation which was aroused by
the Robber Baron's latest misdeed the voice of the
Church made itself heard.  The judges of the land
were at that period mostly ecclesiastics.  Could they
put up with this indignity to their learned brother?
Was not Fulke also a destroyer of abbeys and churches?
Had he not pulled down St. Paul's Church at Bedford? and
had not that impious raid upon St. Alban's Abbey
been but poorly atoned for by the discipline in the
chapter-house?  Had any restitution been made?

Further, doubtless, the great barons called to their
master's council--they whose sires had forced his
father to sign Magna Charta on the field of Runnymede,
and who had spilt their blood for the liberties
of England--had somewhat to say against this French
upstart, De Breauté, this bastard soldier of fortune,
who had ensconced himself in a fortress where one of
the old Norman families had been established ever
since the days of the Conqueror.

Prelate and lord both agreed that the most pressing
question of the day was the overthrow of this robber
chief.

When Ralph rode into the ancient town of Northampton,
now crowded with the magnates of the land,
he had no difficulty in finding men of position and
weight who were willing to introduce him, as a scion
of the De Beauchamp family, to the council.

Henry and his advisers, in earnest discussion over
this business of Bedford, were not sorry to find one
who was well acquainted with the castle and its
fortifications.  Accordingly, when Ralph was presented to
the council, he was received by the young king with
much cordiality.  Henry III., though one of the few
weak-minded monarchs of the strong Plantagenet
line, was still so young that his character could hardly
be said to be yet formed, and any mistakes he might
make were naturally set down to his youth and
inexperience.  This affair of Bedford Castle, however,
was an undertaking in which he exhibited all the
promptitude and energy of his predecessors upon the
throne.  He resolved to attend the siege in person,
and ordered his council to suspend all other business
and direct their attention solely to the means of
carrying it out.

The council of war, or committee, to whom were
confided the necessary preparations, took Ralph into
their confidence.  They were presided over by no less
a personage than Hubert de Burgh himself, who
summoned the young knight to appear before them in
the chamber in Northampton Castle, where they held
their conclave.

Ralph's feelings, as he found himself in the presence
of one so renowned, formerly the governor of Dover
Castle, and the custodian in Brittany of King John's
luckless nephew Arthur, and the late guardian of the
king, were those of some shyness.  He was a plain,
country-born youth, unused to courts and dignitaries,
and even of late years a landless, penniless knight,
one of an outcast family.  But the great justiciary's
manner reassured him.

"Sir Ralph," he said, "we understand that thou
wast brought up in Bedford Castle, and art well
acquainted with all its parts."

"Certes, noble Hugh," replied Ralph, "always
excepting those portions where Fulke de Breauté may
have made alterations and additions during the last
few years."

"Well answered, and with a caution exceeding thy
years, Sir Knight.  Say on--what alterations?"

"By my faith, I can scarcely tell!  But he hath
pulled down and well-nigh destroyed the church of
St. Paul, and the stones thereof have been used in the
castle walls."

"For new work, mean you, or for the strengthening
of old work?" inquired the justiciary.

"That cannot I rightly say," answered Ralph, "for
since my uncle was driven forth, or rather
surrendered to Fulke acting in his sovereign's name, I have
not set foot within the castle walls."

But he added beneath his breath: "Would I were
within at this moment!"

De Burgh overheard him, and with some surprise.

"So shalt thou be, and that shortly, and with stout
men-at-arms at thy back, an I mistake not.  But
for the nonce we must learn more about these walls.
How sayest thou the castle lieth?"

"Along the banks of the Ouse, and on the north
side of the stream."

"And its defences--what be they?  All say that
the keep was indeed built by thy ancestor Pain de
Beauchamp, and is strong and not easily to be assaulted."

"The keep is indeed strong and well built," Ralph
replied, "and round it run a high wall and a deep
moat.  On the west side only might an attack be
made with any hope of victory, for there lie the bailey
yards, the gate-house, and the barbican.  Moreover,
between the outer and the inner bailey there standeth
a tower, which we call the old tower, the like of
which, I have heard tell, is not to be found in many
castles, and which commands the bridge."

As he spoke Ralph made a sort of rough drawing.

"Here," he said, "is the keep, upon a lofty mound.
On this side only is an entrance possible.  We must
e'en break through all the outer defences, and pass on
from west to east.  But it will be no light emprise."

A gleam of pleasure came over the face of the veteran.

"By the bones of St. Thomas," he exclaimed, "thou
showest no mean knowledge or skill, fair sir.  Where
hast thou learned the art of war?"

"I have oft heard my uncle tell the story of how
King Stephen besieged the castle when our ancestor
Milo de Beauchamp held it for the Empress Matilda,
nigh upon a hundred years ago," modestly answered
Ralph.  "He even contended that it was so strong
that no attack could prevail, and that had it been
better victualled it would never have surrendered.
And then, noble knight, if I may make so bold as
to remind thee, there is that sad passage in the history
of our house which hath been seared into the memory
of my boyhood--I mean when my uncle, Sir William,
surrendered to this same Fulke, who came in the name
of our late king, who was indeed the enemy of our
house.  Ofttimes hath my uncle gone over that tale
with me, and hath showed me how he might yet have
held the castle had he possessed better stores and
more men."

The end of this interview was that Ralph, in
consideration of the valuable information he had proved
himself willing and able to bestow, was admitted to
all the deliberations of the council, and was listened
to with attention.  Neither his uncle William de
Beauchamp, nor his kinsman at Eaton Socon, had
come to Northampton; the latter by reason of his
age, and the former on account of his sullen despair,
and perhaps also hindered by a latent distrust of the
house of Plantagenet, which had dealt so ill with him.
Thus it happened that Ralph represented, as it were,
the De Beauchamp family.

He was given plenty to do in the way of hastening
preparations, moreover, and as his heart was in
the work, for Aliva's sake, he was busy both night
and day.

His duties brought him into frequent communications
with a personage who was much to the front
when any question of a siege was on hand--namely,
John de Standen, the chief of the miners.  Ralph soon
discovered that John had considerable knowledge of
Bedford Castle and its fortifications.  This puzzled
him not a little at the time, and it was not till later
on that he solved the mystery.

When the chief of the miners and his assistants had
determined what supplies of material were necessary
for the siege, royal writs were issued for their
production.  Timber was required for the manufacture of
the bombarding engines or *petraria*, which were to
fling great stones at the castle, and ox or horse hides
were needed for the protection of these machines.
Thousands of quarrels were ordered for the cross-bows
and dart-throwing engines.  Iron was ordered in
great quantities, to be worked up on the spot, and
pickaxes and other tools were not forgotten.

Moreover, writs were issued to the sheriffs of
Hertford, Oxford, Cambridge, Huntingdon, Northampton,
Warwick, Leicester, Rutland, Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk,
Lincoln, and Middlesex, directing them to send two
men from each plough-land (the usual division of land
in those days) to work the aforementioned engines.
Then the feeding of these men had to be attended to.
One Peter Buyam, a Burgundian merchant, was ordered
to purchase one hundred and eight casks of wine at
St. Botolph's fair, at forty-three shillings and
four-pence a cask.

From St. Briavels in Gloucestershire, the native
place of John de Standen, were brought thirty assistant
miners.  But carpenters, saddlers, and leather-workers,
to shape the shields for the engines, were
found nearer at hand by the sheriffs of the counties of
Northampton and Bedford, as were also the men who
were to fashion the stones to be discharged from the
petraria.  The whole of the midlands was astir over
the siege of Bedford Castle.

Neither was the Church inactive.  To show their
horror at the outrages of the wicked Fulke, the
assembled prelates and abbots forthwith granted the
king a subsidy of half a mark for each of their
plough-lands, and also sent, for each hide of land held by
them, two men to work the engines, taking care,
however, to obtain an acknowledgment from the king
that this was a special grant.  The priory of
Newenham, which had been founded by the De Beauchamps,
furnished the stones for the bombardment, and the
abbey of St. Alban's naturally took a deep interest
in the proceedings, which are fully chronicled in the
records of the house.

No sooner, however, was it known that a Bedfordshire
maiden, the Lady Aliva de Pateshulle, was a
prisoner of the foreign interloper, than all the men of
the county rose to assist in the undertaking.  Even
our stalwart friend the Benedictine lay-brother, as
soon as--thanks to the care of Lady Mabel--he had
recovered at Eaton Socon from the dastardly wound
inflicted by Bertram de Concours, found his way to
the headquarters of preparations.

Martin de Pateshulle, also, as one of those justices
whose writs had been so rudely repudiated by Fulke,
was summoned to the council.  This worthy
ecclesiastic, who was none the worse for his overthrow by
William de Breauté's horsemen, was much concerned
over the fate of his niece.

In him Ralph, tortured by anxiety which he was
striving to drown in work, found a friend and ready
sympathizer.

"My son," said the archdeacon one day at the close
of a long sitting of the council of war, "thou toilest
in this business both as a servant of Holy Church and
as a gallant knight for the rescue of fair lady."

Ralph sighed.

"Indeed, venerable father, it is only when my
whole heart is busy with my work that it finds peace.
I am torn with doubts and fears concerning her whom
I love.  Could I but have one word, one token from
her!  Could I but hear something of her, were it
even ill news!  But this silence, it ofttimes is more
than I can bear."

John de Standen, still busy at the table over a
rough sketch, looked up at these words.

"Sir Knight," he said, "thou meanest what thou
sayest?  Hast a stout heart?  Canst bear ill news?"

Ralph sprang from his seat, and gripped the king's
miner by the arm till he winced.

"Speak, man, I conjure thee!  Thou hast heard aught?"

"Speech is just what is forbidden to me," replied
John.  "My lips are sealed.  All the message I have
for thee is: 'Haste, or it may be too late!'  Ask
me no more."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HEARD UNDERGROUND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *HEARD UNDERGROUND.*

.. vspace:: 2

On the twenty-second of June 1224, the king
arrived at Bedford, and the siege of the castle
commenced almost immediately.  Outside the town,
on the Northampton road, pavilions were pitched for
himself, for Hubert de Burgh the justiciary, and other
great officers, while the troops and their officers, Ralph
de Beauchamp among them, were quartered in rude
shelters near the castle, or billeted upon the
townsfolk, that they might be ready to repel any sortie
which the besieged might make with a view of
burning the engines of war.  Close to these latter
were encamped the men who worked them, together
with the miners, carpenters, and other artificers ready
for their respective turn of duty.

Before any hostile movement was commenced, however,
the king, in due form, summoned the castle to
surrender.  An ecclesiastic was detailed for the
purpose; for priests in those days often performed strange
functions.

It was but an empty form, for no one expected
that the king's command would be obeyed.  Moreover,
Sir Fulke de Breauté himself was not in the
castle.  With the astute craftiness which pervaded all
his actions, he had gone away some little while before,
leaving his brother in command.  He took himself off
into Wales, where he joined the Earl of Chester, who,
though siding for some time with the king, had left
him, in conjunction with some other barons, under
somewhat suspicious circumstances.

As was to be expected, William de Breauté made
answer to the archdeacon--for such was the office of
the king's messenger--that he had received no orders
from his brother to surrender the castle, and that he
certainly should not do so without authority from
him.  So the siege was begun without delay.

The method of taking a castle in those days was
much the same as that which continued in vogue till,
long afterwards, stone walls gave place to earthworks.
The walls were first battered by stones thrown from
the petraria, and when a breach had been made a
storming-party rushed in.  The only change consequent
upon the introduction of gunpowder was that cannon
then took the place of the stone-throwing engines.

The machines were placed one or two on each side
of the castle, and they must have been of considerable
size and strength, as one of them projected stones right
across the river.  The men who worked them were
protected against the quarrels, arrows, and other
missiles directed at them from the walls, by screens
made of ox and horse hides.  Two lofty erections,
which towered far above the fortifications of the
castle, were manned by slingers and cross-bowmen,
who thence shot down upon the garrison on the walls
and in the baileys below them.

Close up against the face of the wall itself was
pushed a movable screen, called the "cat," the object
of which was to protect John de Standen and his
men as they carried on their work of undermining
the walls.

Ralph was ordered by his superior officer, a grim
old baron who had been one of those assembled at
Runnymede when John signed the charter, but who
now supported his son, to pay special attention to the
mining operations.  To Ralph and John de Standen
attached himself one who could hardly be called a
soldier, though he exhibited all the courage and zeal
which are the necessary qualities of a man of war.
This was the young lay-brother from St. Alban's.  He
was received as a sort of volunteer, and was granted
permission to serve in the mining work, for his
religious vows, he said, forbade him to carry sword or
spear.  This young man proved, however, a valuable
assistant.

A kind of friendly rivalry went on between the
two branches of warfare into which the besiegers
were divided.  Those who had charge of the engines
favoured the notion of pounding the walls till they
battered them down.  The sappers and miners,
however, built their hopes of reducing the fortress upon
their methods of burrowing underneath it.  But
before these latter were able to push on far with their
works, the besiegers above ground gained two
important advantages.  They carried by assault the
barbican or outer defence of the gate, and with but a loss
of four or five men.  By this means they were able
to rush the gate itself, and in a second assault forced
their way into the outer bailey or yard, the first one
on the west side.

Here were the store-houses, and here also were kept
the horses and live stock which the besieged took care
to have always within the castle walls.  Forage, grain,
and such like bulky articles as could not be removed
into the keep were likewise stored in the yard.  All
these fell into the hands of the besiegers, who removed
the arms, the horses, and the pigs, and burned the
buildings which contained the corn and hay.  The
besieged retreated within the inner wall, which
defended the lesser bailey.

But between the upper and lower bailey there
stood--a rather unusual feature in a Norman castle--a
strong building known by the name of the "old
tower."  It had probably something to do with
fortifications which at an earlier date protected the bridge
across the Ouse, before the castle precincts were
prolonged westwards.  Here the besieged gathered in
strength and made an obstinate stand.

The assistance of John de Standen and his men
was now necessary.  The other defences, the barbican
and the wall of the outer bailey, had been carried by
assault, the soldiers climbing the walls and forcing
their way within.  But the wall which separated the
two baileys, protected as it was by the old tower,
proved a more formidable obstacle.  The king's troops
intrenched themselves in the outer bailey, and the
cat was wheeled into position ready for the operations
of the miners.

These latter worked with a will.  Ere long they
were able to report to Ralph de Beauchamp, as their
superior officer, that the foundations of the old tower
were undermined, and that the building would fall
directly the stays and struts with which they had
propped it up should be removed.

So Ralph went down into the mine with John de
Standen, that he in his turn might report to his
superiors that the underground work was indeed
finished, and that the soldiers might be held in
readiness to storm the inner bailey.

With some professional pride the king's miner
conducted the knight through the dark passages he
had burrowed, explaining as he went the manner in
which the supports should be removed directly he
received the signal to do so.

They were just beneath the old tower, and John
de Standen was enlarging on the excellent arrangements
which he had made for the overthrow of the
building, when, to their intense astonishment, a woman's
voice was heard speaking in the vault overhead.

"By my faith," cried John de Standen, "but I wot
not that we had dug so close to the lower vault of
the tower.  Methinks I must be out of my reckoning,
Sir Knight, or mayhap your recollection of the place
plays you false."

"In good sooth we are close beneath the tower,"
replied Ralph.  "How thinkest thou, good John?
Has the enemy countermined, or are they about to
break in upon our works?"

Before John de Standen could vouchsafe an opinion,
the voice again was heard from above.

"Ho, royal miners, are ye below?"

"We be miners sure enow," called John de Standen
in reply.  "But who be ye above there?--They
cannot be for Sir Fulke," he added in a lower tone to
Ralph, "or they would not let us hear them.  Methinks,
too, the voice is that of a woman or a boy."

"I am for the king and his miners," spoke the
voice again.  "But tell me, prithee, is your master,
John de Standen, with thee?"

"I, John de Standen, myself am here, and speak;
and with me is no one save Sir Ralph de Beauchamp,"
replied the miner.  "But speak; who art thou?
Woman or boy; no man, I trow?"

"Now fie upon thee, John de Standen," said the
unseen speaker, "that thou knowest not the voice of
Beatrice Mertoun."

"Beshrew me, Beatrice, if I can know thy voice,
an it *be* thou, if it come to me through these plaguy
paving-stones," cried De Standen.  "Moreover, why
askest *thou*, hearing me speak, if I am John de
Standen?"

"Marry," exclaimed Beatrice, "in the night all cats
are gray.  All men's voices sound the same.  But
mind thee, John, how oft thou hast sworn that thou
wouldest know my voice anywhere."

John de Standen felt he was getting the worst of
the argument.  He changed the subject.

"And prithee, fair Beatrice, what art doing above us?"

"Hush! not so loud," she answered.  "I have but
a few moments.  The guard watch closely the vault
ever since that machine of thine was dragged up
against the tower.  I marvel much that they have
not heard the noise of thy workers, and broken in
upon thee.  But for many days have I too watched,
hoping to get a word with thee, for I have a message
to send to a knight.  But stay--didst not say one Sir
Ralph de Beauchamp was with thee?"

"In good sooth I am here," replied Sir Ralph, both
amused and puzzled by this unexpected and
remarkable meeting between the king's miner and a lady
who seemed an old acquaintance, if nothing nearer.
"I am here, lady fair, whosoever thou art, for
methinks a fair face must e'en suit so sweet a voice."

"She is the waiting-woman of the Lady Margaret
de Ripariis, and a mighty comely damsel withal,"
explained the bold miner.

"Now a truce to fair speeches!  I have somewhat
to say to Sir Ralph that ill brooks delay.  The Lady
Aliva, who is prisoner here--

"The Lady Aliva!  I know it well!" shouted
Ralph, forgetful of the caution to speak softly.  "But
tell me quick, I pray thee, is she safe? is she well?"

"Safe as yet," replied Beatrice.  "But there is
mischief brewing against her.  Say, did I not see
thee carried away wounded from before the castle
gate not many weeks since?  They brought thy
helmet into the castle.  I showed it to the Lady
Aliva, and she knew it for thine by the crest.  And
then darkness seized her mind, for not long after
came Fulke de Breauté to her, and told her that thou
wast slain!"

"The lying scoundrel!" cried Ralph hotly.  "Could
I but meet him, he would see I am yet alive!"

"Ere he quitted the castle he came oft to her with
suit of marriage for his brother," Beatrice went on,
lying down upon the stone floor above and speaking
with her mouth to an open joint she had discovered
between two of the paving slabs.  "Canst hear me,
Sir Knight?  The guards approach; I must tell thee
in few words, for I hear the warders relieved not
many posts away.  William de Breauté came himself
to the lady to plead his suit.  But she hates him.
She told him so to his face."

"She told him so on his face!" muttered Ralph.

"But the chapel hath been prepared," continued the
waiting-woman, "and that traitor priest, Bertram de
Concours, was ready.  They dragged the lady thither
by force.  Sir Fulke and William de Breauté were
waiting.  What might have happened I know not,
but my Lady Margaret stepped forward, and shamed
the shameless man into respect for a lady."

"And all this while she was faithful to me, though
believing me dead!" exclaimed Ralph, half to himself.

"But Sir Fulke, ere he left for the marches of
Wales, swore a great oath he would find her wedded
ere he return, or else--And William de Breauté, he
apeth the fine French gentleman.  He maketh sweet
speeches, and vows that when the king's troops be
driven back, and the care of the castle be passed from
him, he will return to bask once more in the sunlight
of his lady's eyes!  Faugh! the smooth-tongued
villain!  He has sung the same song to me, but not
to my honour.  But hist! they come!"

A sound, as of the trampling of armed men, penetrated
to those below.  Then the eager listeners there
caught some words in a rough man's voice.

"Pardie!  pretty maiden, what doest here?  Must
pay forfeit with a kiss ere thou depart!"

Then there was the sound of a struggle and a
scream, and John de Standen shook his fist in mute
rage at the floor above him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FEARS AND HOPES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *FEARS AND HOPES.*

.. vspace:: 2

William de Beauchamp, the taciturn and
melancholy, had not attended the council at
Northampton.  But he could not well absent himself
when an attack was made upon the castle which once
had been his; and for his own benefit, for the king
had promised to reinstate him as soon as the Robber
Baron should have been driven out.  He had been
given a command in the royal force, and found
himself in the anomalous position of besieging his own
castle.

But the march of events did not, as might well
have been imagined, raise his drooping spirits.  He
was, indeed, more dismal than ever, having got a fixed
idea in his head that he should never come to his own
again.  Though he had escaped unhurt from the two
first assaults, by which the barbican and the outer
bailey had been won, he was well aware that yet
more serious struggles were before the besiegers ere
they might hope to win the inner bailey and the keep.
These assaults, he had made up his mind, he should
not survive, and in his gloomiest, most funereal
manner, called Ralph to him at the close of a summer's
evening, when they were resting from duty in the
house of Gilbert the Clothier, where they were
quartered, and prepared to deliver to him what he
supposed to be his last wishes and dispositions.

"Nephew Ralph," he began, in his most lugubrious
tones, "thou hast been as a son to me, since my only
son was cut off in early childhood."

"True, uncle much revered by me," replied Ralph,
puzzled at this solemn address.  "I know not quite if
I have been a good son to thee, but thou hast, in good
sooth, given me all the father's care I have ever known."

"And now, Nephew Ralph," William de Beauchamp
continued, "I am about to confide to thee a very
precious and holy message.  Thou hast heard tell of
the Lady Margaret de Ripariis?"

"Ay, certes," replied Ralph.

"And now that my time is at hand, and that the
sands of my life are--"

"Thy time is at hand!  By my faith, uncle, what
mean these words?"

"Thou wottest that ere long we attack the old
tower and the inner bailey," the uncle proceeded, in
a tragic manner.

"I have but just come from the old tower, where
John de Standen hath showed me how nigh is its
overthrow."

"Hark ye, nephew.  I shall fall then; I know it of
a certainty.  I have seen in a dream that I shall not
survive the assault.  I shall ne'er again set eyes on
the Lady Margaret, now for many years the unhappy
wife of Fulke de Breauté.  Once, when we were
young and she was fair, we plighted our troth, and
I have never forgotten it, though a cruel fate tore us
asunder.  My wife, who was ne'er to me as the first
love of my youth the Lady Margaret, hath been dead
these many years; and had the time come for the
end of the miserable Fulke, I would fain have offered
myself again to my once affianced bride.  But I die
before him.  I feel it.  For us there is no hope."

Ralph began to perceive the gloomy forebodings
that had seized his uncle, and tried, but in vain, to
reassure him, pointing out how much danger he had
already escaped, and bidding him hope for the best.

"For eight long years thou hast pined an exile
from the halls of thine ancestors, uncle.  But to-day
our star is again in the ascendant, and fortune smiles
once more upon the De Beauchamps."

William shook his head sadly.

"It may not be, nephew.  But bear thou to the
Lady Margaret my last words of unalterable affection
for the love of my youth."

"Nay, uncle, thou shalt bear them thyself, when
Fulke shall have gone to the perdition reserved for
him!  But cease these dark meditations, and list
awhile to a sprightly wooing I overheard 'twixt one
of those within the castle, and no less a person than
the king's miner, in the old tower, this very noontide."

And to turn his uncle's thoughts, Ralph proceeded
to relate the strange meeting between John de Standen
and Beatrice.

But at the very hour these two talked thus together
in Master Gilbert's guest-chamber, the subject of their
conversation, the Lady Margaret, sat with her
waiting-woman in the deep window of the lady's bower.

The latter was brimming over with eagerness to
impart to Aliva the good news she had just ascertained
as to Ralph's safety, but deemed it prudent to confide
it first to her mistress.

"By'r Lady, mistress mine, I vow I heard him,
though I cannot say I saw him, and he is whole and
in good heart."

"The saints be praised!" ejaculated Lady Margaret.
"It hath grieved me sore that this sweet maiden
should be thus held prisoner by my evil-disposed
brother, and yet sadder am I to think that she should
have been told her knight was slain."

"And such a knight, lady!  Fair spoken, and of
good courage.  I heard it in the ring of his voice, as
he hasted to ask after her welfare, how much he
loveth her."

"Thou knewest that he was the Lady Aliva's
knight, then, Beatrice?"

"Ever since the affair of the helmet, lady.  My
Lady Aliva could not contain herself then, when she
knew him wounded, and told me all.  She is as true
to him as the pole-star to the north, or as I to--"

"I know it, Beatrice, and it would be a deadly sin,
and one I will stand out against as long as I draw
breath, were she to be forced to wed William.  The
lying wretch! he will stick at naught to gain his
end.  To tell Aliva Sir Ralph was dead!  Alas, alas!
But peace, Beatrice; here she comes.  I will tell her
the news."

Inwardly chafing at being deprived of the pleasure
of imparting such delightful information, Beatrice
retreated behind the chair of her mistress as Aliva
entered.

The weary weeks the latter had spent as a prisoner
since that fatal morning when she was hurried into
the castle, and the intense mental anguish she had
endured since the helmet of the wounded knight had been
handed to her on the ramparts that same evening, had
left their traces on Aliva's pale cheek.  The listless
attitude in which she sank upon a stone seat, and
gazed with mournful eyes out into the fast-falling
summer twilight, contrasted strangely with the natural
vigour and vivacity of the brave horsewoman who
had led William de Breauté such a chase over the
Ouse marshes.  Something akin to despair had crushed
her soul since Sir Fulke had brought her the news of
Sir Ralph's death.

"Daughter," began Lady Margaret, tenderly drawing
the fair head which leaned so wearily upon the
thin hand down upon her knee, "I have somewhat to
say to thee.  This suit of my husband's brother--methinks
Sir Fulke knew, as well as thou and I, how
vain it was to urge it while thy true knight yet
lived--"

"It were ever vain, lady, were Ralph alive or
dead.  Death would be sweeter to me than marriage
with William de Breauté," replied Aliva mournfully.

"He hath used treachery once to gain his end; what
if he hath also used deceit of words?" Lady Margaret
went on.  "Other De Beauchamps than thy knight
bear the crest thou sawest on the casque."

"Ah, lady," moaned Aliva, "beguile me not with
vain hopes.  Did not Beatrice here see him fall?"

"In good sooth!  But, lady, I saw him not die."

"Mind you how the townsfolk bore him off with
much care?  Perchance Hubert of Provence aimed
not o'er true with his quarrel--"

"He is but a sorry wight in many things, lady,"
put in Beatrice scornfully.

"And the leeches are possessed of marvellous skill,
as thou well knowest, and Sir Ralph is young and
strong--"

"*Was* young and strong, you mean, lady.  O
prithee, peace!  Open not thus afresh a wound which
bleeds, ay, and will bleed for ever!"

"My lady means what she says, and naught else,"
interrupted Beatrice, unable to restrain herself any
longer.  "He is young and strong, or beshrew me for
a deaf old crone, for I trow his voice was strong
enough this noontide!"

"His voice!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself
eagerly, and a faint colour overspreading her pallid
cheek.  "O Beatrice, mock me not!"

"Thou mockest thyself, daughter," said Lady Margaret,
smiling.  "Take heart o' grace.  Beatrice speaks
true; she hath heard him not many hours since."

And Beatrice, coming forward and falling at her
lady's knees, poured forth her wonderful tale in a
torrent of words.

When she paused for lack of breath, Aliva rose,
like one waking from a dream, and clutched Beatrice's arm.

"Beatrice, an thou lovest me, take me to this chink
in the vault of the old tower.  Haste thee, haste thee!
Let me hear him speak again."

"Alas, lady! but this very evening William de
Breauté hath ordered that all women keep within the
keep, as the enemy presseth us round so close."

A merry laugh as of old, the first which had rung
from her since she had been a prisoner, and the
first to which the lady's bower had re-echoed for
many a day, burst from Aliva's lips.  With the
violent revulsion of feeling born of her youth and high
mettle, she waved her hand scornfully and laughed
again.

"William de Breauté!  Oh, he may command and
order, in good sooth, if it please him.  What
for him now, or for his commands!  Methinks his time
comes apace, and Ralph de Beauchamp will be master
here.  My Ralph--to think they had dared to tell me
that he was slain!"

And then she fell to bidding Beatrice tell her story
all over again.

"Pretty Beatrice, an could I, I would give thee a
lapful of gold nobles for this news thou hast brought.
It is to me worth a king's ransom.  I feel like one
risen from the dead.  But I trow, Mistress Beatrice,"
she added archly, "that thou hast had thy reward, in
that the bold miner was also below.  But tell me once
more the very words Sir Ralph spake."

"Nay, nay, maidens," put in Lady Margaret; "it is
already night, and joy oft wearies as much as grief.
Let us now to rest while we may.  The strife will
begin again at dawn."

"Lady," cried Aliva, embracing the elder woman
with tenderness, "go thou and rest if thou canst.  I
could not close my eyes for very joy.--Go, Beatrice,
and leave me here a while alone, that I may think
it all o'er again.  Go to thy dreams of mines and
miners!"

Left to herself, Aliva sat down in the deep window-seat
where Lady Margaret had sat when Sir Fulke related
to her a less pleasant vision of the night than
that which probably haunted the couch of Beatrice--a
dream which now seemed in fair way of coming
true.  The short July darkness had fallen.  Across
the river the petraria were at rest, and in the silence
of the night Aliva only

   |  "Heard the sound, and could almost tell
   |  The sullen words of the sentinel,
   |  As his measured step on the stone below
   |  Clanked as he paced it to and fro."
   |

Aliva gazed out into the beautiful balmy night, and
a peace to which she had long been a stranger stole in
upon her heart.  The world was at rest, and it seemed
sad to think that in a few short hours, when the
darkness should be over, man would be once more at his
cruel work of war.  But the stars, shining deep in the
purple overhead and reflected in the placid stream
below, seemed to her stars of hope.

   |  "It is the hour when lovers' vows
   |  Seem sweet in every whispered word,
   |  And gentle winds and waters near
   |  Make music to the lonely ear."
   |

As she gazed she thought she heard her name called
softly from out of the gloom below.

"Aliva!" said a voice, "Aliva!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS.*

.. vspace:: 2

When the interview with his uncle had ended
and Ralph's endeavours to cheer the latter's
gloom had in a measure succeeded, the young knight
went off to make his report upon John de Standen's
operations to his superiors.  Evening was falling fast
ere he found himself free, and then it suddenly came
into his mind to pay a kind of unofficial visit to the
sentries on the south side of the river, and see if they
were on the alert.  Perhaps, also, he was impelled by
an uncontrollable desire to gaze from as close a point
as was possible on that stern keep, where he had that
noontide learned from Beatrice Mertoun that his
lady-love lingered in much doubt and distress.

He crossed the bridge and walked along the river-bank,
giving the required password to each post, and
adding a few syllables of caution.  In so doing, he
told himself he was but fulfilling the object of his
nocturnal ramble.  Ere long he found himself facing
the huge keep, rising on the opposite shore of the
river black against the northern sky.

Ralph knew every window of the southern face of
the keep, and well-nigh every stone.  He perceived a
light in one of the large openings of the upper story.
He knew that window well.  It was that of the lady's
bower, which had been his cousin's apartment in the
old days, and was probably now occupied by the Lady
Margaret.

Dark though the night was, the young man's
eyesight was keen, and as he gazed at that window, a
crowd of tender thoughts flooding his heart, he saw in
the opening two figures in dark profile against the
light behind them.

Seized by an uncontrollable impulse, Ralph hastily
doffed his armour, and, clad only in the soft leathern
dress which knights wore beneath their harness,
dropped into the stream so quietly as to be
unperceived by the nearest sentry on the river-bank.

Starting from a well-known old pollard willow, Ralph
breasted the stream manfully, making, as nearly as the
sweep of the current and the darkness of the night
would allow him, for certain iron stanchions which he
remembered he had fixed, when a boy, into the castle
wall.

To his great joy he found they had not been
removed.  He caught hold of the lowest, which was
near the water's edge, and quickly scaled the wall.
When he reached the top he looked eagerly down and
around.

No one was near.  William de Breauté, whose
garrison was but scanty, had judged that no attack would
be made upon the river side of the castle, except
by boat, and accordingly had contented himself with
posting sentries at each end of the long river-wall,
concentrating his principal strength on the landward
side of the castle.

Ralph slid down the other side of the wall, and
cautiously crossed the open space which separated him
from the huge mound on which stood the keep.  He
was still unperceived; so, climbing the steep side of
the mound, he crouched down against the lofty wall,
immediately beneath the lighted window.

Were those two figures still there?

Twice he softly called Aliva by name, and then, to
his intense rapture, sweet as an angel's voice from
heaven to him, came the words from above,--

"Ralph!  Ralph! can it be thou?"

   |  "Stone walls do not a prison make,
   |    Nor iron bars a cage."
   |

Love laughs at locksmiths.  In this case it made
light, too, of some forty perpendicular feet of massive
stone wall.  After five weary months of uncertainty, all
doubts, mistrusts, and tortures of anxiety were swept
away in a breath, as these two heard, each one once
more, the loved voice neither had expected ever to hear
again; and old Father Ouse, rippling sluggishly on
between the willows through the dark summer night,
had never listened to warmer raptures, to more
passionate protestations of love.

But some one else was listening too.

In the thickness of the wall, at the south-east
corner of the keep, on the same floor as the great hall,
was the small chapel of the castle.  It was a tiny
apartment, affording room for but few worshipping
besides those attending on the ministrations of the
priest.  Behind a round arched arcading in a stone
gallery were accommodated the ladies and the
household of the lord's family; but the bulk of the
congregation would have to stand in a sort of antechapel
opening out of the great hall, and join in the mass
from that position.

Up and down the narrow space in front of the
altar--freshly repaired and cleaned for the bridal of
Aliva and De Breauté--paced restlessly at midnight
Bertram de Concours.  His thoughts were not pleasant
ones.  The freshly-appointed chaplain of Bedford
Castle had conceived that his new position would be
one which would lead him to power and authority,
and probably give him an opportunity to triumph over
those whom he considered his enemies, the ecclesiastical
superiors who had dishonoured and disowned him.
But now, instead of rising to power with the De
Breauté family, he found his new patrons in sore
distress.  He was well aware that the two assaults which
had already been made on the castle had been
completely successful, and that all the outer defences had
been taken.  He gleaned, from the talk of De Breauté
and his under-officers, that if the walls were really
undermined, and a fresh attack should be made with
the same vigour, nothing could avert the fall of the
castle.

For the fate of De Breauté and his men Bertram
de Concours cared nothing, but in the event of his
own capture he clearly foresaw for himself condemnation
in the ecclesiastical court.  The sentence would
be perpetual imprisonment in the cell of some stringent
order, where offending priests were subjected to even
more severe discipline than that voluntarily assumed
by the most austere monks themselves.

"Fool that I was," he muttered to himself, "to have
thrown in my lot with these French upstarts!  Why
did I not see this maiden safe to her father's house,
and so have won me the eternal gratitude of this
love-sick knight, and what is more, the favour of his
family?"

As he moved restlessly to and fro, he paused, and
opening the rude shutter which closed the narrow
window on the south, looked out into the silent
summer night.  The calm freshness seemed to mock the
consuming uneasiness in his mind.

But as he gazed he heard voices.  He leaned out
and listened intently.

Yes, he was not mistaken: a voice there was above
him--a woman's--answering to a man's below in the
darkness.

"Escape, my Ralph, ere dawn break!  There are
watchers at each end of the long wall, and they will
certes espy thee if thou lingerest till it grows light.
How it came that thou crossedst the glacis, and
scaledst the keep mound unseen, I cannot tell.  May
the saints bear thee safe across the river!"

And then another female voice went on,--

"And take my message to thy revered uncle, bold
young Sir Knight.  Tell him that Margaret de
Ripariis has but lived these long years in sorrow and
mourning for the false step into which she was both
forced and betrayed, and that she hath ever held his
memory dear."

Then a man's voice answered from below,--

"Fare thee well, my heart's darling, Aliva!--My
Lady Margaret, I salute thee.  Forget not the signal.
When the last assault comes--as come full soon it
must--and we attack this mighty keep, hang your
scarves from the windows of the chamber to which
ye retreat, and I will come and convey ye both away
in safety."

Then Bertram heard the speaker cautiously feeling
his way among the loose stones which lay at the foot
of the keep.

He drew a short, sharp breath, and clinched his
teeth.

"By the mass," he exclaimed, "though naught can
undo my folly in the past, yet I will have vengeance
now!  Ho, warder, ho!" he cried, hurrying from
the chapel into the hall, and shouting to the sentry on
duty at the entrance; "ho! quick to the window,
and take thy aim at yon figure hastening down to the
river wall.  'Tis the young knight De Beauchamp.
It grows light enow for thee to see thy mark."

At that moment William de Breauté entered the
hall from the turret staircase in the corner.  He had
been taking a few hours' sleep in one of the upper
chambers, and was now about to sally out on his
early morning rounds, fearing an attack when his
guards were weary and drowsy.

"How sayest thou, Sir Chaplain?" he exclaimed;
"Ralph de Beauchamp here--beneath the castle wall!
'Tis not possible!"

"Nay, Sir William, not so impossible," replied the
priest.  "I trow he hath been drawn across the Ouse
by a lodestar within these walls.  From the chapel
window I heard him e'en now hold converse with the
Lady Aliva at a window above."

With a furious volley of French oaths William de
Breauté rushed wildly out of the hall, calling upon all
the sentries near to stop or kill Sir Ralph.

It was a maddening race.  From the upper window
the girl watched it in agony.  The cross-bow bolts
flew thick and fast around Ralph as he hurried to
the wall.  Some shattered themselves against the
stones as he scaled it.

For a brief moment he stood out clearly upon the
summit against the gray dawn, an easy mark for the
archers.  Then, without waiting to descend by the iron
stanchions, he took a desperate plunge into the stream.

.. _`A desperate plunge`:

.. figure:: images/img-188.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: A desperate plunge.

   A desperate plunge.

Aliva saw him rise to the surface, and watched
him swimming with all his might to the opposite bank.

But as he leaped from the top of the wall she saw
another figure reach it, and she recognized the
pursuer to be William de Breauté.

He held in his hand a ready-strung cross-bow
which he had snatched from one of the warders.

Aliva saw him take aim and loose the shaft.

The figure of the swimmer half rose in the water,
and then disappeared from view beneath its surface.

With a faint cry Aliva fell back swooning into the
arms of Lady Margaret.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CASTLE FALLS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *THE CASTLE FALLS.*

.. vspace:: 2

The unfortunate Lady Aliva was in despair.

The cup of happiness had been rudely dashed
from her lips.  After all her perils and anxieties of the
last few weeks, her lover had been suddenly restored to
her; once more she had heard his voice, had listened to
his vows and caressing words, but only to see him slain,
as she imagined, by his rival before her very eyes.
From the summit of unexpected joy she was plunged
into a depth of misery tenfold harder to bear than
that which had gone before.  All hope seemed over.

But within some twenty-four hours she was rudely
awakened from her grief by the horrible din of the
assault, which at dawn of day commenced against the
old tower and the inner bailey.

   |  "Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
   |    Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
   |  The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
   |    High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
   |  Of changing sentinels, the distant hum,
   |    The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnished arms,
   |  The braying trumpets, and the hoarser drum
   |    Unite in concert with increased alarms."
   |
   |  "The wall is rent, the ruins yawn,
   |  And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn,
   |  O'er the disjointed mass shall vault
   |  The foremost of the fierce assault."
   |

The storm of war reached nearer to the ladies in
the keep than it had ever yet done.  Through the
crack of the closely-shuttered windows they could
watch the fray below, and catch the sound of angry
voices borne up to them, and mingling with the crash
of falling masonry.

The Lady Margaret, whose shattered nerves could
ill bear such tumult, betook herself to the little chapel
in the angle of the wall, and passed the time upon
her knees in prayer.  But Aliva and Beatrice, impelled
by the curiosity of youth, could not forbear to see
what was to be seen.

The point of interest was the old tower.  The girls
knew it to be undermined, and watched anxiously to
see it totter to its fall.

"I see a mass of soldiers gathering under the outer
wall and halting as if for a signal," cried Aliva.

"The tower will soon fall, and these are ready to
rush in," said Beatrice.

"But how falls it?" asked Aliva.  "Thou art in
the miner's secrets; tell, prithee."

"They tie ropes to the great wooden beams and
props on which John hath supported the foundations.
At a safe distance stand men ready to pull them away;
and then--ah, our Lady have them in her keeping!"

And as she spoke a sound was heard, a rumbling
as of thunder, followed by a cloud of blinding dust,
which obscured everything--court-yard, men, and
masonry.  There was a fearful crash, and the girls
shrank with terror and looked at each other.

"Oh, this is horrible!" whispered Aliva, hiding her face.

"My lady, my lady, I can see!  The tower is
down--it is a heap of rubble; and they come, they
come!  O lady, you are saved!"

"Saved!" said Aliva with a sad smile, shaking her
head; "what boots it now?  What wish have I for
aught but death?"

"Death, lady? and in the moment of victory?
Oh, speak not so!  See the king's men, how they
hurry, they scramble, they pour through the breach!
'Tis a noble sight.  Forward, forward!  Down with
the Breauté!" shouted the excited waiting-woman,
opening the shutter wide and craning out her neck.

"Beatrice, have a care.  They will let fly a bolt at
thee, and what will say the master miner?  *Thou*
hast some one to live for!"

"If I die for it, I must look!" protested Beatrice.
"Oh, the king's men, how they fall!  Alas, alas!
William de Breauté hath well posted his men in all
the best places for defence!  But on they come--they
waver not!  By my halidom, there comes a gallant
band, though small!  How fast that knight leads
them across the inner bailey!  They make for the steps
of the door of the keep.  But how thick the arrows
fly!  William must have lined every loophole in the
donjon and in the hall with men!"

"But how the royal men-at-arms pour in!  De
Breauté is far outnumbered--his men fly--they fall
back--they seek to gain the steps," gasped Aliva,
looking over Beatrice's shoulder.

"Gallantly done, gallantly done!  That little close
band follows them hard up the steps.  Well led, Sir
Knight!  (Hold my hand, prithee, lady, lest I fall out
and break my neck!  I *must* see.)  But our men
make a stand upon the steps; that is to gain time to
close the door.  The swords are at it now--I hear
the ringing.  Ah me! it is Sir William himself
defends the steps.  He raises his sword; he will smite
that bold knight who leads them!  He *has* smitten--By
our Lady, 'twas a near thing!  Who was that
parried the stroke with his staff?  I see!  a man in
monkish dress.  And now the knight falls--he rolls
down the steps--his armour is heavy--he strives in
vain to rise, but alack, alack!"

"What seest thou? speak, Beatrice!"

"The poor brother, lady, he who saved the knight--he
has fallen.  Oh, he moves not!  Alack, he is slain!"

"They are all falling back; what means it, Beatrice?"

"I cannot see, lady; the wooden porch over the
steps hinders me.  But the knight has risen--he is
unhurt--he calls his men back."

"They retreat--they retreat?"

"Meseemeth Sir William and his men have shut to
the door, lady," replied Beatrice, drawing in her head;
and as the two girls stared blankly in each other's
faces, the Lady Margaret, pallid and haggard, entered
the apartment.

"Daughters," she exclaimed, "the king's men have
won the inner bailey; the old tower is down; we
now only hold the keep!"

That evening sore disappointment reigned in the
camp of the besiegers.  Had they but been able to
reach the door ere it was closed, the keep would have
been theirs; but as it was, they were compelled to
draw off after considerable loss from the storm of
arrows which rained upon them from the loopholes.

All had to be begun over again.  John de Standen
and his men once more set to work.  The cat was
wheeled up close to the walls of the keep, and the
digging recommenced.  This time the task was more
laborious and difficult than ever.  The foundations
were strongly laid.  The work of Pain de Beauchamp
was built to last, and the besieged did all they could
to hinder the operations.  It was not till the
fourteenth of August that De Standen could report that
his work was ready.

Late that afternoon the fourth and last attack
commenced.  The miners sprung a huge fissure in the
wall of the keep.  Simultaneously another agent was
set to work--fire.  A light was set to the wooden
porch over the steps.

The work was finished.  The flames, caught the
woodwork within, and broke out in some of the
apartments.  Through fire and smoke the besiegers
stormed the breach, the besieged fighting desperately,
and only yielding step by step.

.. _`"Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the breach"`:

.. figure:: images/img-195.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the breach."

   "Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the breach."

At last, however, William de Breauté was forced to
acknowledge himself beaten.

"My brother cannot say I did not do my utmost,"
he gasped to one of his officers as they leaned
exhausted against the pillar of the turret stair.

"Yield thee, now yield thee, William de Breauté!"
cried a voice through the din.

"I yield me to the king's mercy," began the
Frenchman, "but not to thee," he added, as the tall form
and gloomy visage of William de Beauchamp loomed
down upon through the smoke.  "To a De Beauchamp? never!"

His men had ceased to offer any resistance, and
stood with spears and swords point downwards and
cross-bows unstrung.  William looked around.

"My Lord Lisle of Rougemount, I surrender to you,
rescue or no rescue."

The baron thus addressed seized De Breauté's
outstretched sword, and signalled to his men.  They
closed round the prisoner and his immediate attendants,
and prepared to march them off to the dungeon.

But as they crossed the great hall they met a young
knight, followed by two or three men-at-arms,
hurrying towards the turret stair.

"Ho, nephew!" exclaimed Sir William de Beauchamp,
pointing to Lord Lisle's prisoner with the
nearest approach to a smile of which his lugubrious
features were capable; "see here!  He hath tried
long enough how it feels to sit in our great hall; we
go now to give him a taste of our dungeon."

William de Breauté turned his head, and for the
first time, and for a few moments only, found himself
face to face with his rival, Ralph de Beauchamp.  He
cast upon him a look in which malignant hatred was
mingled with the haggard despair of frustrated hopes.

"Dog!" he ejaculated, "methought thou liedst
safe at the bottom of thy muddy Ouse!"

"Not so safe as thou wilt shortly lie in our donjon
vaults," retorted Ralph, scarcely deigning to glance at
him.  "I can dive, man."

The guards led on.

To engage in such open rebellion against Henry
was a somewhat different matter to joining in the
confederation of barons against the tyranny and
injustice of King John, as William de Beauchamp had
done: and as William de Breauté and his men were
led away down the steep stairs to the gloomy cells
beneath the keep, they felt that their doom was sealed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RALPH TO THE RESCUE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *RALPH TO THE RESCUE.*

.. vspace:: 2

As William de Breauté was being marched to his
fate, Ralph hurried up the winding turret
stair, half choked by the blinding smoke which poured
from the burning wood-work, and much impeded in
his impetuous course by the chain of soldiers engaged
in passing up water to extinguish the conflagration.

Even in the heat and din of the final assault his
keen lover's eye had found time to look for and to
note the signal promised by Aliva.  High up from
one of the windows hung her scarf.  But when Ralph
and his men had toiled thither they found the room
empty.

Ralph experienced a painful tightening of the
heart.  Whither had the bird flown?

But it was the smoke which had driven the ladies
from their apartment, and Ralph, exploring higher
still, up a rude stone stair, found them collected on
the flat wooden roof covering the inner space between
the lofty parapets and the four corner turrets.

Aliva, standing out tall and slim against the August
twilight, was assisting Beatrice Mertoun to support
the Lady Margaret, who was quite overcome with all
that was taking place.

Ralph fell on his knee before Aliva, and kissed her
hand with a rapture too deep for words.  But Aliva
bent over him, and throwing up his visor, kissed his face.

A voice sounded behind them.  "Tut, children! this
is neither time nor place to tarry to make
love.--Ladies, haste you, and get you gone to a place of
safety.  We have conquered our enemies, but not yet
subdued the fire.--Lady Margaret, permit that I assist
thee down these stairs.--Nephew Ralph, bring the
Lady Aliva."

And the whole party, guided by De Beauchamp,
hurried down into the hall, and thence into the *débris*
and confusion which reigned in the bailey yards.  The
fast-falling darkness added to the weirdness of the
scene--the ruins, the dead and dying, the shouts and
cries of the victors, the crackling of the flames, and
the crash of the charred beams as they fell.

Somehow or other in the tumult Ralph and Aliva
got separated from the rest, and found themselves,
when once clear of the fortifications, obliged for a
few moments to stand aside on the river-bank to let a
company of men-at-arms pass by with wounded and
prisoners.

Suddenly, from behind some dark corner, a figure
rushed at them in the gloom, and fell on his knees
before Aliva.  She started violently, and Ralph drew
his sword.

"Misericorde, misericorde! for the love of Heaven
and our Lady!" whined a familiar voice, that of
Bertram de Concours.  "Fair lady, as you hope for
mercy, show some to me, and mind you how I
succoured you in the chapel, when De Breauté and his
men might have--ah!"

He never finished.  A trampling of armed feet was
heard behind, and he turned his head to see a guard
advancing upon him.

"Better a watery grave than a living tomb!" he
shrieked, and, before Ralph could stop him, plunged
into the stream.

"Plague take the traitor priest!  We have lost
him," growled the veteran man-at-arms in command.

"Old Ouse will have naught of such foul spawn, I
trow," corrected Ralph.  "There are but two feet of
water 'neath this bank at harvest-time.  Fish him
out; he sticketh in the mud, and is set fast.--But
come, sweet Aliva," he added, turning to the maiden
at his side; "let us hasten.  The Lady Margaret hath
without doubt ere now gained the house of good
Master Gilbert the Clothier, who bade me offer thee
his hospitality."

Aliva moved on, clinging to her lover's arm.  Behind
them, into the darkness, the guard marched off
the bedraggled priest.  As regards the latter's ultimate
fate the chronicler is silent, beyond relating the fact
that he was committed for trial in the court of the
archbishop, and doubtless the ambitious Bertram de
Concours fretted away the remainder of his days a
prisoner in the cell of some austere order.  But the
little episode had awakened another memory in Aliva's
breast.

"My Ralph," she exclaimed, "and what of the other,
the Benedictine lay-brother, the Bletsoe youth, who
did in all truth and fidelity succour me and strive
to bring me aid?"

Sir Ralph looked down on the fair face resting on
his arm, and then up to the purple sky of the summer
night--

   |        "The azure gloom,
   |        When the deep skies assume
   |  Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven."
   |

"God rest his soul!" he answered, in a low voice.
"I owe it to his strong arm and ready wit, as he
parried with his mace the blow De Breauté aimed at
me, that I am here to-night with thee."

Ralph only waited to see the ladies safely bestowed
in the worthy burgess's abode ere he hurried back again
to the castle.  There was no rest for him that night.
Not the least onerous part of a commander's duty in
those rough times was to restore order and discipline
among his men after the capture of a fortress which
had held out against them.  It was a melancholy
sight to the young knight this sacking and firing of
his ancestral castle, the home of his boyhood.  It
stood there with ruined walls and a huge rift in the
side of the great keep like a lightning-stricken oak.

And morning light brought more work.  Hubert
de Burgh, the king's justiciary, opened a court of
justice in his sovereign's name, and before it were
brought William de Breauté and eighty of his men.

Late in the afternoon Beatrice Mertoun, devoured
with curiosity as to what was happening, and chafing
at her restraint in Master Gilbert's house, persuaded
one of Lady Margaret's women to come with her
towards the castle, intending, under cover of the
twilight, to secure such of their possessions as the fire
and the plunderers should have spared.  But they
returned quicker than they went, and empty-handed,
driven back by horror; for in the bailey yard they
came suddenly upon a rude gallows on which, grim
and stark in the dim twilight, hung William de
Breauté and seventy-three of his men.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A TÊTE-À-TÊTE RIDE TO ELSTOW ABBEY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   *A TÊTE-À-TÊTE RIDE TO ELSTOW ABBEY.*

.. vspace:: 2

Contrary to his dream and to the gloomy
forebodings which he had been hugging to
himself after the manner of certain dismal natures
which delight to make themselves miserable, William
de Beauchamp, as we have seen, escaped unscathed
from the assaults on the castle.  But lest his
melancholy should lack food, as it were, fate had another
blow in store for him.  No sooner had the castle of
Bedford been captured than the royal mandate went
forth that it should be destroyed.

Henry III., young though he was, was too well
aware of the difficulties which his father had
experienced with his barons not to be convinced that his
best policy lay in curbing their power.  Now the
chief strength of a medieval noble lay in his castle.
In the taking of Bedford an excellent opportunity
seemed ready to Henry's hand for getting rid of one
of the most important and substantial fortresses in
his kingdom.

He was, moreover, completely in his rights in so
doing.  King John had granted the castle to Fulke
de Breauté as a reward for his services, more especially
in turning out the De Beauchamps.  But now that
De Breauté had rebelled against John's successor,
deprivation brought the castle once more into royal
hands.  What came absolutely to the king, the king
could destroy.

This determination was a severe blow to William
de Beauchamp.  He was grievously hurt when he
learned that the destruction of his ancestral home
was definitely settled, but he was unable to take any
steps to preserve it.  It was, however, intimated to
him that the site of the castle would be granted to
him, together with certain of the lands and manors
thereunto appertaining, after the fortress itself had
been pulled down.  No occupier or owner of a house
could then proceed to fortify or crenellate--that is,
erect defensive parapets--without the royal license;
and William de Beauchamp was informed that though
he might build within the castle precincts as suitable
a dwelling as he pleased, on no account would such
permission be granted.

So he had no choice in the matter, but found himself
under the painful necessity of silently beholding
the mighty keep where he had been born, and in
which all his early days had been spent, destroyed
before his very eyes.

The work of destruction, however, was no easy one.
Securely and solidly had Pain de Beauchamp erected
his fortress, less than a century and a half before.
It was necessary to employ John de Standen and his
men again.  For many a long day after the king and
his justiciary, and the barons, ecclesiastics, soldiers
and labourers who had been gathered together for the
siege had dispersed, the crash of falling masonry
was to be heard.  Mines had to be dug and the walls
overthrown, just as though the siege were still
proceeding, with the important difference that the miners
could work unmolested by attacks, and with no need
of the protecting "cat."

John de Standen seemed in no wise to regret that
the work of demolition detained him so long at
Bedford.  In the midst of his duties he contrived to find
many opportunities for visits to Master Gilbert's
house, where Beatrice Mertoun was also detained in
attendance upon her mistress, who was prostrated by
illness consequent on the anxieties she had undergone
during the siege.  Aliva de Pateshulle also stayed
with the Lady Margaret, loath to leave her and return
to Bletsoe till she should be quite recovered; for she
felt she owed the lady a debt of gratitude for her care
of her during her imprisonment, and also for
interposing on her behalf with Fulke and his brother,
which she could never sufficiently repay.

The consequence was that the king's miner did not
appear surprised to run against Sir Ralph de Beauchamp
issuing one evening from the ladies' temporary abode.

"By my troth, Sir Knight," exclaimed John de
Standen, with a merry laugh, "methinks we come
both on the same errand here.  You seek the lady;
I seek the maid.  But it is easier work than when
we had to break through stone walls and swim broad
rivers to get speech of them."

"Certes, bold miner.  Meseemeth I have now
discovered whence thou gottest that close knowledge of
Bedford Castle which stood thee in such good stead
at the Council of Northampton.  I warrant me thou
wast oft enow within its walls ere thou breakedst
through in the breach not many days since, and I
doubt not thou hast paid many a visit to fair Mistress
Beatrice when no paving-stones came between ye.
But thy siege is over now, bold miner.  Thou hast
won thy bride.  I have yet to win the fortress of
De Pateshulle the sire," he added, with a sigh.

"If the lord of Bletsoe be what I take him for,"
the miner responded consolingly, "he will not say nay
for his daughter to such a knight as Sir Ralph hath
proved himself in this tough work."

"I hope from my heart thou speakest true," replied
Ralph; "but naught hindereth *thy* bridal?"

"Nay, certes.  Beatrice is an orphan with no friend
but her lady, who took charge of her when she was
but a child.  And as it would seem the Lady Margaret
purposeth to betake her to a nunnery, she is quite
ready to hand over the maiden to one who asks no less
than to burden himself with her!" laughed the miner.

And so it turned out.  One bright September morning,
not long after the fall of the castle, and when
John de Standen had completed his work of destruction,
he and Beatrice were married in the chapel of
St. Thomas-at-bridge, the little edifice where she had
occasionally been allowed to attend mass with her
mistress when Sir Fulke was in a more benign mood
than usual.  The ceremony was graced by the presence
of Lady Margaret and Sir Ralph, but Lady Aliva had
already returned to her father's house.

When the marriage was over the Lady Margaret
prepared to start for Elstow.  In her present forlorn
condition, the forsaken wife of an outlawed and
fugitive baron dispossessed of all his lands, homeless and
sickly, the unfortunate lady had implored shelter
within the abbey walls, and not in vain.  But short
as was the distance from Bedford, in the present
shattered condition of her nerves it was impossible for
her to take the journey alone.  Sir Ralph had offered
to be her escort, but at the last moment he was
detained by some duty in connection with the destruction
of the castle which was really John de Standen's
business, but which the worthy miner's marriage had
hindered him from seeing to.

Ralph found an unexpected substitute.  When the
Lady Margaret emerged from Master Gilbert's
hospitable door to mount her palfrey, she beheld to her
surprise Sir William de Beauchamp waiting to assist her.

"I crave thy pardon, lady, if I intrude upon thee.
But to my nephew and me it beseemed ill-fitting that
Margaret de Ripariis should arrive unattended at the
gates of Elstow.  I beseech thee, grant me the
melancholy joy of escorting thee thither."

It was many years since William de Beauchamp
and his once affianced bride had found themselves alone
together.  During the days of Fulke's power there
had been no meetings between De Breauté's and De
Beauchamps.  It was only once during the confusion
of the capture of the castle that the two *quondam*
lovers had set eyes on each other.  As they somewhat
silently started on their *tête-à-tête* ride, the groom in
charge of the sumpter mule lagging a little distance
behind, they had ample time to observe in each other
the changes wrought by time.

"How strange it seemeth to miss the sight of the
great keep, rising proud and stately to the north
across the river!" began the lady, turning her head as
they were crossing the bridge.

"Alack, lady, what a change!  Was ever luckless
man doomed to see such a destruction of his
own, and not be able to lift a hand or to utter a word?"

"But I am told that thou purposest to build thyself
a fair dwelling between the inner and outer baileys,
with a goodly hall and large apartments."

"Alack! what boots a fair dwelling and a goodly
hall to one whose whole life has been marred--a
solitary man whose years creep on--who finds himself
alone?"

"Alone!" murmured Lady Margaret.  "Free, unshackled
by a bondage worse than death, not trembling
lest a hateful tyrant return at any moment and claim
his rights.  'Twere good to be so alone!"

"Alack, lady," said Sir William, "can naught be
done to aid thee?  Will not Holy Church loose this
unholy bondage, forced upon thee unwillingly by the
king's command?"

"Alas, no, Sir Knight!  On that score have I
sought advice of the venerable archdeacon and other
ecclesiastics, but they offer me no hope.  Therefore I
go hide me in a nunnery, lest Sir Fulke return.  We
must e'en each bear our fate.  We each have our
woes.  Thou hast lost thy castle."

"Is thy memory so short, lady, that thou sayest it
is only my castle I have lost, most miserable of men
that I am?  Hast forgotten the days--"

"When I came to Bedford Castle with my father
and his train to the great tourney," interrupted Lady
Margaret, wishing to turn the conversation, and
reining in her palfrey that she might turn round to survey
the ruins, "'twas a noble sight.  How the banners
waved from the pavilions on the tilt-ground, and the
trumpets blared, and the horses pranced!  How like
silver ran old Ouse that merry summer's morning,
when I sat 'neath the canopy--"

"The Queen of Beauty, fair lady, and rightly so!
And how your bright eyes dazzled a certain youth on
whom you had deigned to bestow your favour to wear
on his crest, and who ill deserved such an honour!"

"But who acquitted himself right gallantly.  I can
see him still!  But all is changed: the castle is no
more; we are not what we were; only the old river
runs the same.  But come, Sir Knight; the reverend
mother waits me."

"Lady, it grieveth me sore that the way 'twixt
Bedford and Elstow is so short.  See how near loometh
the abbey tower."

"To me it riseth like the beacon of a port to the
weary, wind-driven mariner.  Would I could find rest
within its walls for aye!"

"Say not so, lady; it sounds to my heart like a
funeral knell."

"No fear, Sir Knight; as long as Sir Fulke draws
breath no cloister may receive me.  The reverend
mother tells me that so long as my vows to him are
unloosed by death, I can ne'er plight any others; so
long as I am his wife, I cannot become the spouse of
Christ."

"Alack, lady, how woful a fate is mine!  I, too,
once plighted vows.  Dost recall them, lady?  Nay,
I received others in return.  I can hear them yet.
Vows they were, not less sacred than those made to
priest before altar.  Yet here I stand alone, like some
wind-swept oak on the hill-side, bowed before the blast."

"Yet the helpless ivy would fain twine round the
proud lord of the woods," replied the lady, somewhat
coyly.  "Be thou sure, Sir Knight, my heart grieveth
sore for thee.  I promise thee that thou shalt have
my prayers."

And shortly afterwards the pair parted at the
abbey gate.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"*DE MORTUIS*"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV.


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   "*DE MORTUIS.*"

.. vspace:: 2

..

   |  "O God, that it were possible, after long years of pain,
   |  To find the arms of my true love around me once again!"
   |
   |  "The walls where hung the warriors' shining casques
   |        Are green with moss and mould;
   |  The blind worm coils where queens have slept, nor asks
   |        For shelter from the cold."

.. vspace:: 2

Three years had passed since John de Standen
pulled down the stronghold of the De Beauchamps.
William de Beauchamp, making the best of
the necessity which was forced upon him, set to work
to erect himself a house between the inner and outer
bailey.  It still went by the name of the castle.
Unfortunately no plan or description of this
building has been handed down to us.  It only existed
for about twice as long as its predecessor, the
Norman keep of Pain de Beauchamp.  Camden, writing
in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, describes it as a
stately ruin overhanging the Ouse; and an old map
of about the same time shows that these ruins
occupied a pleasant position a little back from the
river, and looking south.  As it was strictly an
unfortified mansion, we may opine that it was much
such a building as that which we have described at
Bletsoe, consisting of a large, long hall, with private
apartments at one end one story high, but larger and
built of stone.

In one of these apartments, one afternoon in the
summer of 1227, sat Aliva de Pateshulle, now Aliva
de Beauchamp, with her baby-boy upon her knee.
She was looking out of the round, arched window,
which was somewhat larger than the shuttered
apertures in the old keep.  The house was intended for a
comfortable dwelling, and not for a place of defence.
The walls were not half the thickness of those which
had enclosed her prison of three years before, though
built of identically the same stones.  The rooms, too,
were lighter, larger, and more habitable.  The science
of domestic architecture was beginning.

Aliva herself was also a more fully developed
specimen of beautiful young womanhood.  The
angularity of her tall figure had disappeared, and there
was more ripeness and fulness about her cheeks and
mouth.  But her large gray eyes remained unchanged.
Her beautiful fair hair, perhaps a shade darker than it
had been when it hung down over her shoulders that
morning in the garden at Bletsoe, was partly covered
with the ugly wimple, the matronly head-dress of the
period, which had replaced the maidenly fillet.

Aliva was gazing from the window, which
commanded a view of the river, and was apparently
watching for the approach of some one from the
entrance to the west.  Presently she waved her hand in
that direction, and holding up the boy to the window,
bade him look down at his father.

Ralph entered the house, crossed the large hall, and
made his way to his wife's apartment.  He also had
somewhat altered in three years.  His massive frame
had filled out, and with his large limbs more covered
with flesh and muscle, he looked even more like a
young giant than he had done that eve of the
Assumption when he had fought his way into the keep.

He strode into the room, his face lighting up with
a smile as his little son clambered down from his
mother's knee and toddled to meet him.  He lifted
the boy up and kissed him.  Then he kissed his wife;
and she, returning his embrace, began forthwith with
feminine curiosity,--

"Well, sweetheart mine, what news?"

Ralph was in his riding-dress.  He had come in
from a journey, and this was why Aliva was watching
for him so anxiously from the window.  The country
had, indeed, much quieted down since the siege of
Bedford Castle and the ejection of the De Breauté
marauders.  During the period which elapsed between
the revolt against King John and the wars of the
barons, which troubled the latter end of his successor's
reign, there intervened a period of peace.  Nevertheless,
Aliva was always glad to see her husband safe home
again.

"And so, Ralph mine, if thou hast news, prithee
tell it me.  Here naught has passed out of the
common.  The boy and I have played together, and
awaited the home-coming of father."

"My business for which I set forth is ended," began
Ralph; "but, marry, 'twas dull work!  'Tis ill to deal
with scriveners and such like folk!  But as I rode
through St. Alban's I bethought me of turning in to
the abbey gate, and making my obeisance to the
reverend father abbot.  Thou knowest that a De
Beauchamp is ever welcome in a house of Holy Church."

"Ah, St. Alban's!" cried Aliva; "and, prithee, didst
give my message relating to the incised stone to the
memory of my protector, who was slain at the siege,
the bold young lay-brother of Bletsoe?"

"Ay, verily I did," replied Ralph.  "And the
father abbot was well pleased to learn that one of
their house, who fell in fighting for Holy Church (for
thus, thou knowest, these priests always speak of the
siege), should sleep in our fair church of St. Paul at
Bedford.  He hath given me an inscription to have
writ on the slab.  He saith it should be cut in letters
as is cut the inscription to Muriel Colt on the north
of the high altar.  But hearken, wife," he added,
sitting down beside her; "I have other news for thee."

"And good news, prithee?"

"Heaven forfend that I should speak hastily or
harshly of a dead enemy!" continued Ralph gravely.
"Sir Fulke is no more.  The reverend father hath
instructed me that I may say, an if I will, 'Rest his
soul in peace.'  For it seemeth he died free from the
censure of Holy Church."

Aliva received the news in silence.  Her thoughts
flew back to those few terrible weeks when she was
an unwilling guest in Fulke's castle.  Then she replied,--

"I, too, would say, 'God rest his soul.'  As thou
knowest, I scarce saw him here, for he fled to Wales
when he heard that the council had determined to
attack the castle.  But his brother--"

She paused, for even now she could not make the
least allusion to William de Breauté without a
shudder.

"Tell me all thou hast heard," she added.

"I will give the tale in few words," Ralph answered.
"Thou mindest how, after he had submitted himself
to our lord the king in Bedford here, he was given, as
an enemy of Holy Church, into the safe-keeping of my
Lord Eustace, the Bishop of London."

"Ay," put in Aliva.  "Some time since, when I
went to Elstow to visit Lady Margaret, the reverend
mother told me how she had restored the sword into
the hands of the figure of St. Paul in the abbey
church, as soon as it was told her that the holy
apostle had the destroyer of St. Paul's Church safe
in the keeping of the Bishop of St. Paul's in London."

"But see here," Ralph went on.  "The good father
has had writ out for me a copy of the entry of Sir
Fulke's history, as recorded by the scribe of the
monastery to be laid in the scriptorium.  I will e'en
read it to thee, if I have not forgot the Latin the old
chaplain taught me when I was a boy."

And Ralph read out the following history, which
is still preserved to us in the chronicles of
St. Alban's:--

"Fulke, after that he was pardoned at London, and
because he was marked with the cross, was allowed
to depart for Rome.  After crossing the sea he
applied for a passport at Fiscamp, and was detained by
the bailiffs of France.  At last, the following Easter,
after that he had been released from prison, he went
to Rome, and sent very piteous letters to the king,
asking that his wife and his lands might be restored
to him."

"Alack!  The poor Lady Margaret!" put in Aliva,
with a sigh.

"Whereupon the king, with his barons," read on
Ralph, "sent word to our lord the Pope of the
treachery of Fulke; and the latter, having had his
refusal, set off for Troyes; and after staying there
a year, was sent out of France, because he would not
pay homage to the king.  He went to Rome, and
again, with much entreaty, begged that his wife and
his patrimony might be restored to him; and on his
return from that city, burdened with debt, he died at
St. Cyriac."

"His wife would ne'er have returned to him!"
ejaculated Aliva indignantly.

"Neither had he any patrimony here, either in the
castle or in the manors," added Ralph.  "Were they
not wrested from my uncle and from others, and given
to him as a reward for his evil services to our late king
John?  And hark ye, my Aliva, the father abbot
showed me also, written by his learned scribe, the
whole account of the siege of the castle; and he saith
that, in after ages, the history of Bedford will be
known ever as it is known now.  Perchance our
names are mentioned, but I read not that portion of
the chronicle."

His wife scarcely heeded.  She was thinking of the
present, and not of the future.  Woman-like, her mind
was running on match-making.

"Does the Lady Margaret know of Sir Fulke's
death?" she asked.

"I trow not," answered Ralph.  "The news hath
but even now reached England, and hath but just
been set down by the abbey scribe at the end of his
history of the siege.  But doubtless news will be sent
to Earl William de Warenne, who, as thou knowest,
has charge of the lands and possessions which were hers
ere she married, and which have been restored to her."

"Then she is free!" mused Aliva.

"Ay, free, poor lady.  The priests decided, when she
sought to be released, that there had been no
impediment of canon law to her marriage, and that it could
not, even if it had been in a manner forced, and the
bride unwilling, be dissolved by the authority of the
Church.  Death hath loosed her bonds."

There was a stirring of the heavy curtain which
hung in the doorway of the apartment.  But so
engrossed were the two speakers that no one noticed it
but the child, who, after looking towards it, began to
toddle uncertainly in that direction.

"She is free," repeated Aliva thoughtfully.  "Her
husband is dead, and she hath not yet bound herself
by the vows of a religious life, even did she wish it,
which, often as I have talked with her these three
years past since she hath sought shelter at Elstow, I
doubt much."

"True, wife; if any one should know the Lady
Margaret's mind, it should be thou, who art to her as
a daughter.  But beshrew me if I wot what thou art
driving at, sweetheart."

Aliva sprang up, and throwing her arms round her
husband's neck, exclaimed, with an arch smile,--

"How oft dunder-headed men are where love is
concerned!  Ralph, we shall see the Lady Margaret the
*châtelaine* of Bedford again!"

And then a most extraordinary thing occurred.
Behind, in the doorway, they heard a joyful laugh.

There stood their uncle, Sir William, who never
within the memory of either of them had been known
even to smile.

He advanced hurriedly into the room, and catching
up his great-nephew in his arms, kissed his little
flaxen head, and laughed again.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium

   THE END.

.. vspace:: 4

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MY FIRST VOYAGE TO SOUTHERN SEAS.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   A tale of adventure at sea and in Cape Colony, Ceylon, etc.

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OLD JACK.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   An old sailor's account of his many and varied adventures.

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ON THE BANKS OF THE AMAZON.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   A boy's journal of adventures in the wilds of South America.

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SAVED FROM THE SEA.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   The adventures of a young sailor and three shipwrecked
   companions.

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SOUTH SEA WHALER, THE.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   A story of mutiny and shipwreck in the South Seas.

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TWICE LOST.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   A story of shipwreck and travel in Australia.

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TWO SUPERCARGOES, THE.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   An adventurous story full of "thrills."

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VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   A young sailor's account of his adventures by land and sea.

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WANDERERS, THE.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   The adventures of a Pennsylvanian merchant and his family.

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YOUNG LLANERO, THE.  W. H. G. Kingston.
   A thrilling narrative of war and adventure.

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"THE" BOOKS FOR BOYS.

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AT TWO SHILLINGS.

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By R. M. BALLANTYNE.


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CORAL ISLAND, THE.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   The author of "Peter Pan" says of "The Coral Island": "For the
   authorship of that book I would joyously swop all mine."

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DOG CRUSOE AND HIS MASTER.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   A tale of the prairies, with many adventures among the Red
   Indians.

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GORILLA HUNTERS, THE.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   A story of adventure in the wilds of Africa, brimful of exciting
   incidents and alive with interest.

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HUDSON BAY.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   A record of pioneering in the great lone land of the Hudson Bay
   Company.

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MARTIN RATTLER.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   An excellent story of adventure in the forests of Brazil.

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UNGAVA.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   A tale of Eskimo land.

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WORLD OF ICE, THE.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   A story of whaling in the Arctic regions.

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YOUNG FUR TRADERS, THE.  R. M. Ballantyne.
   A tale of early life in the Hudson Bay Territories.

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FAVOURITE TEMPERANCE STORIES.

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AT TWO SHILLINGS.

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FRANK OLDFIELD.  Rev. T. P. Wilson, M.A.
   A very popular book, now appealing to a new generation.  It is
   a story of life in a Lancashire mining village, and is remarkable
   for its record of simple heroism and piety.

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LIONEL FRANKLIN'S VICTORY.  E. Van Sommer.
   A powerfully written tale on an old but by no means negligible
   theme--namely, that he who conquers must suffer.

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EVERYDAY DOINGS.  Hellena Richardson.
   A prize temperance tale, founded on fact and "written for an
   earnest purpose."

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NARESBOROUGH VICTORY.  Rev. T. Keyworth.
   A well-constructed tale advocating temperance.  The style is
   excellent, and the story is a favourite.

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OWEN'S HOBBY.  Elmer Burleigh.
   This prize temperance tale is replete with touching scenes
   pleasantly relieved by humorous incidents.

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SOUGHT AND SAVED.  M. A. Paull.
   A prize temperance tale for the young.  The book succeeds in
   its purpose without labouring the moral.

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THROUGH STORM TO SUNSHINE.  William J. Lacey.
   A temperance story which opens in gloom and ends in sunshine.
   It presses home a moral lesson unobtrusively, and therefore
   effectively.

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TIM'S TROUBLES.  M. A. Paull.
   The hero of this temperance tale is an Irish lad who owes
   everything in after life to the lessons learned
   at a Band of Hope which
   he joined in boyhood.

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\T. NELSON AND SONS, London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York.

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