CHAPTER XXXV.
HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RANSOM.
Though Hereward had as yet no feud against "Bysshoppes andArchbysshoppes," save Egelsin of Selsey, who had excommunicated him, butwho was at the other end of England, he had feud, as may be supposed,against Thorold, Abbot of Peterborough, and Thorold feud likewiseagainst him. When Thorold had entered the "Golden Borough," hoping tofatten himself with all its treasures, he had found it a smoking ruin,and its treasures gone to Ely to pay Sweyn and his Danes. And sucha "sacrilege," especially when he was the loser thereby, was theunpardonable sin itself in the eyes of Thorold, as he hoped it might bein the eyes of St. Peter. Joyfully therefore he joined his friend IvoTaillebois; when, "with his usual pompous verbosity," saith Peter ofBlois, writing on this very matter, he asked him to join in destroyingHereward.
Nevertheless, with all the Norman chivalry at their back, it behovedthem to move with caution; for (so says the chronicler) "Hereward had inthese days very many foreigners, as well as landsfolk, who had come tohim to practise and learn war, and fled from their masters and friendswhen they heard of his fame; and some of them the king's courtiers, whohad come to see whether those things which they heard were true, whomHereward nevertheless received cautiously, on plighted troth and oath."
So Ivo Taillebois summoned all his men, and all other men's men whowould join him, and rode forth through Spalding and Bourne, havingannounced to Lucia his bride that he was going to slay her one remainingrelative; and when she wept, cursed and kicked her, as he did once aweek. After which he came to Thorold of Peterborough.
So on the two worthies rode from Peterborough to Stamford, and fromStamford into the wilderness, no man knows whither.
"And far they rode by bush and shaugh, And far by moss and mire,"--
but never found a track of Hereward or his men. And Ivo Taillebois leftoff boasting how he would burn Torfrida over a slow fire, and confinedhimself to cursing; and Abbot Thorold left off warbling the song ofRoland as if he had been going to a second battle of Hastings, andwished himself in warm bed at Peterborough.
But at the last they struck upon a great horse-track, and followed it attheir best pace for several miles, and yet no sign of Hereward.
"Catch an Englishman," quoth the abbot.
But that was not so easy. The poor folk had hidden themselves, likeIsrael of old, in thickets and dens and caves of rocks, at the far-offsight of the Norman tyrants, and not a living soul had appeared fortwenty miles. At last they caught a ragged wretch herding swine, andhaled him up to Ivo.
"Have you seen Hereward, villain?" asked he, through an interpreter.
"Nay."
"You lie. These are his fresh horse-tracks, and you must have seen himpass."
"Eh?"
"Thrust out one of his eyes, and he will find his tongue."
It was done.
"Will you answer now?"
The poor wretch only howled.
"Thrust out the other."
"No, not that! Mercy: I will tell. He is gone by this four hours. Howhave you not met him?"
"Fool! The hoofs point onward there."
"Ay,"--and the fellow could hardly hide a grin,--"but he had shod allhis horses backwards."
A storm of execration followed. They might be thrown twenty miles out oftheir right road by the stratagem.
"So you had seen Hereward, and would not tell. Put out his other eye,"said Taillebois, as a vent to his own feelings.
And they turned their horses' heads, and rode back, leaving the manblind in the forest.
The day was waning now. The fog hung heavy on the treetops, and drippedupon their heads. The horses were getting tired, and slipped andstumbled in the deep clay paths. The footmen were more tired still, and,cold and hungry, straggled more and more. The horse-tracks led over anopen lawn of grass and fern, with here and there an ancient thorn, andround it on three sides thick wood of oak and beech, with under copse ofholly and hazel. Into that wood the horse-tracks led, by a path on whichthere was but room for one horse at a time.
"Here they are at last!" cried Ivo. "I see the fresh footmarks of men,as well as horses. Push on, knights and men at-arms."
The Abbot looked at the dark, dripping wood, and meditated.
"I think that it will be as well for some of us to remain here;and, spreading our men along the woodside, prevent the escape of thevillains. _A moi, hommes d'armes!_"
"As you like. I will go in and bolt the rabbit; and you shall snap himup as he comes out."
And Ivo, who was as brave as a bull-dog, thrust his horse into the path,while the Abbot sat shivering outside. "Certain nobles of higher rank,"says Peter de Blois, "followed his example, not wishing to rust theirarmor, or tear their fine clothes, in the dank copse."
The knights and men-at-arms straggled slowly into the forest, some bythe path, some elsewhere, grumbling audibly at the black work beforethem. At last the crashing of the branches died away, and all was still.
Abbot Thorold sat there upon his shivering horse, shivering himself asthe cold pierced through his wet mail; and as near an hour past, and nosign of foe or friend appeared, he cursed the hour in which he tookoff the beautiful garments of the sanctuary to endure those of thebattle-field. He thought of a warm chamber, warm bath, warm footcloths,warm pheasant, and warm wine. He kicked his freezing iron feet in thefreezing iron stirrup. He tried to blow his nose with his freezing ironhand; but dropt his handkerchief into the mud, and his horse trod on it.He tried to warble the song of Roland; but the words exploded in a coughand a sneeze. And so dragged on the weary hours, says the chronicler,nearly all day, till the ninth hour. But never did they see coming outof the forest the men who had gone in.
A shout from his nephew, Sir Ascelin, made all turn their heads. Behindthem, on the open lawn, in the throat between the woods by which theyhad entered, were some forty knights, galloping toward them.
"Ivo?"
"No!" almost shrieked the Abbot. "There is the white-bear banner. It isHereward."
"There is Winter on his left," cried one. "And there, with the standard,is the accursed monk, Ranald of Ramsey."
And on they came, having debouched from the wood some two hundred yardsoff, behind a roll in the lawn, just far enough off to charge as soon asthey were in line.
On they came, two deep, with lances high over their shoulders, heads andheels well down, while the green tufts flew behind them, "_A moi, hommesd'armes!_" shouted the Abbot. But too late. The French turned rightand left. To form was impossible, ere the human whirlwind would be uponthem.
Another half-minute and with a shout of "A bear! a bear. The Wake! theWake!" they were struck, ridden through, hurled over, and trampled intothe mud.
"I yield. Grace! I yield!" cried Thorold, struggling from under hishorse; but there was no one to whom to yield. The knights' backswere fifty yards off, their right arms high in the air, striking andstabbing.
The battle was "_a l'outrance_." There was no quarter given that day.
"And he that came live out thereof Was he that ran away."
The Abbot tried to make for the wood, but ere he could gain it, theknights had turned, and one rode straight at him, throwing away a brokenlance, and drawing his sword.
Abbot Thorold may not have been the coward which Peter of Blois wouldhave him, over and above being the bully which all men would have him;but if so, even a worm will turn; and so did the Abbot: he drew swordfrom thigh, got well under his shield, his left foot forward, and struckone blow for his life, and at the right place,--his foe's bare knee.
But he had to do with a warier man than himself. There was a quick jerkof the rein; the horse swerved round, right upon him, and knocked himhead over heels; while his blow went into empty air.
"Yield or die!" cried the knight, leaping from his horse, and kneelingon his head.
"I am a man of God, an abbot, churchman, Thorold."
"Man of all the devils!" and the knight lugged him up, and bound hisarms behind him
with the abbot's own belt.
"Ahoi! Here! I have caught a fish. I have got the Golden Borough in mypurse!" roared he. "How much has St. Peter gained since we borrowed ofhim last, Abbot? He will have to pay out the silver pennies bonnily, ifhe wishes to get back thee."
"Blaspheme not, godless barbarian!" Whereat the knight kicked him.
"And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?" cried Hereward, gallopingup. "And we have three or four more dainty French knights, and aviscount of I know not where among them. This is a good day's work. Nowfor Ivo and his tail."
And the Abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were hoisted on totheir own horses, tied firmly, and led away into the forest path.
"Do not leave a wounded man to die," cried a knight who lay on the lawn.
"Never we. I will come back and put you out of your pain," quoth someone.
"Siward! Siward Le Blanc! Are you in this meinie?" cried the knight inFrench.
"That am I. Who calls?"
"For God's sake save him!" cried Thorold. "He is my own nephew, and Iwill pay--"
"You will need all your money for yourself," said Siward the White,riding back.
"Are you Sir Ascelin of Ghent?"
"That am I, your host of old."
"I wish I had met you in better company. But friends we are, and friendsmust be."
And he dismounted, and did his best for the wounded man, promising toreturn and fetch him off before night, or send yeomen to do so.
As he pushed on through the wood, the Abbot began to see signs ofa fight; riderless horses crashing through the copse, wounded menstraggling back, to be cut down without mercy by the English. The warhad been "_a l'outrance_" for a long while. None gave or asked quarter.The knights might be kept for ransom: they had money. The wretched menof the lower classes, who had none, were slain: as they would have slainthe English.
Soon they heard the noise of battle; and saw horsemen and footmenpell-mell, tangled in an abattis, from behind which archers andcross-bowmen shot them down in safety.
Hereward dashed forward, with the shout of Torfrida; and at that theFrench, taken in the flank, fled, and were smitten as they fled, hip andthigh.
Hereward bade them spare a fugitive, and bring him to him.
"I give you your life; so run, and carry my message. That isTaillebois's banner there forward, is it not?"
"Yes."
"Then go after him, and tell him,--Hereward has the Abbot of Burgh, andhalf a dozen knights, safe by the heels. And unless Ivo clears the woodof his men by nightfall, I will hang every one of them up for the crowsbefore morning."
Ivo got the message, and having had enough fighting for the day,drew off, says the chronicler, for the sake of the Abbot and hisfellow-captives.
Two hours after the Abbot and the other prisoners were sitting, unbound,but unarmed, in the forest encampment, waiting for a right good meal,with Torfrida bustling about them, after binding up the very few woundedamong their own men.
Every courtesy was shown them; and their hearts were lifted up, as theybeheld approaching among the trees great caldrons of good soup; forestsalads; red deer and roe roasted on the wood embers; spits of pheasantsand partridges, larks and buntings, thrust off one by one by fair handsinto the burdock leaves which served as platters; and last, but notleast, jacks of ale and wine, appearing mysteriously from a cool oldstone quarry. Abbot Thorold ate to his heart's content, complimentedevery one, vowed he would forswear all Norman cooks and take to thegreenwood himself, and was as gracious and courtly as if he had been atthe new palace at Winchester.
And all the more for this reason,--that he had intended to overawe theEnglish barbarians by his polished Norman manners. He found those ofHereward and Torfrida, at least, as polished as his own.
"I am glad you are content, Lord Abbot," said Torfrida; "I trust youprefer dining with me to burning me, as you meant to do."
"I burn such peerless beauty! I injure a form made only for the courtsof kings! Heaven and all saints, knighthood and all chivalry, forbid.What Taillebois may have said, I know not! I am no more answerable forhis intentions than I am for his parentage,--or his success this day.Let churls be churls, and wood-cutters wood-cutters. I at least, thanksto my ancestors, am a gentleman."
"And, as a gentleman, will of course contribute to the pleasure of yourhosts. It will surely please you to gratify us with one stave at leastof that song, which has made your name famous among all knights,"holding out a harp.
"I blush; but obey. A harp in the greenwood? A court in the wilderness!What joy!"
And the vain Abbot took the harp, and said,--"These, if you will allowmy modesty to choose, are the staves on which I especially pride myself.The staves which Taillefer--you will pardon my mentioning him--"
"Why pardon? A noble minstrel he was, and a brave warrior, though ourfoe. And often have I longed to hear him, little thinking that I shouldhear instead the maker himself."
So said Hereward; and the Abbot sang--those wondrous staves, whereRoland, left alone of all the Paladins, finds death come on him fast.And on the Pyrenaean peak, beneath the pine, he lays himself, his "facetoward the ground, and under him his sword and magic horn, that Charles,his lord, may say, and all his folk, The gentle count, he died aconqueror"; and then "turns his eyes southward toward Spain, betakeshimself to remember many things; of so many lands which he conqueredvaliantly; of pleasant France; of the men of his lineage; ofCharlemagne, his lord, who brought him up. He could not help to weepand sigh, but yet himself he would not forget. He bewailed his sins, andprayed God's mercy:--True Father, who ne'er yet didst lie, who raisedSt. Lazarus from death, and guarded Daniel from the lions, guard my soulfrom all perils, for the sins which in my life I did! His right glovethen he offered to God; St. Gabriel took it from his hand; on his armthe chief bowed down, with joined hands he went unto his end. God sentdown his angel cherubim, and St. Michael, whom men call 'del peril.'Together with them, St. Gabriel, he came; the soul of the count theybore to Paradise."
And the Abbot ended, sadly and gently, without that wild "Aoi!" thewar-cry with which he usually ends his staves. And the wild men ofthe woods were softened and saddened by the melody; and as many asunderstood French, said, when he finished, "Amen! so may all goodknights die!"
"Thou art a great maker, Abbot! They told truths of thee. Sing us moreof thy great courtesy."
And he sang them the staves of the Olifant, the magic horn,--how Rolandwould not sound it in his pride, and sounded it at Turpin's bidding, buttoo late; and how his temples burst with that great blast, and Charlesand all his peers heard it through the gorges, leagues away in France.And then his "Aoi" rang forth so loud and clear, like any trumpet blast,under the oaken glades, that the wild men leaped to their feet, andshouted, "Health to the gleeman! Health to the Abbot Thorold!"
"I have won them," thought the Abbot to himself. Strange mixture thatman must have been, if all which is told of him is true; a very typicalNorman, compact of cunning and ferocity, chivalry and poetry, vanityand superstition, and yet able enough to help to conquer England for thePope.
Then he pressed Hereward to sing, with many compliments; and Herewardsang, and sang again, and all his men crowded round him as the outlawsof Judaea may have crowded round David in Carmel or Hebron, to hear,like children, old ditties which they loved the better the oftener theyheard them.
"No wonder that you can keep these knights together, if you can charmthem thus with song. Would that I could hear you singing thus inWilliam's hall."
"No more of that, Sir Abbot. The only music which I have for William isthe music of steel on steel."
Hereward answered sharply, because he was half of Thorold's mind.
"Now," said Torfrida, as it grew late, "we must ask our noble guestfor what he can give us as easily and well as he can song,--and that isnews. We hear naught here in the greenwood, and must throw oneself onthe kindness of a chance visitor."
The Abbot leapt at the bait, and told them news, court gossip, bringingin gr
eat folks' names and his own, as often and as familiarly mingled ashe could.
"What of Richilda?" asked Torfrida.
"Ever since young Arnoul was killed at Cassel--"
"Arnoul killed?" shrieked Torfrida.
"Is it possible that you do not know?"
"How should I know, shut up in Ely for--years it seems."
"But they fought at Cassel three months before you went to Ely."
"Be it so. Only tell me. Arnoul killed!"
Then the Abbot told, not without feeling, a fearful story.
Robert the Frison and Richilda had come to open war, and Gerbod theFleming, Earl of Clueter, had gone over from England to help Robert.William had sent Fitz-Osbern, Earl of Hereford, the scourge and tyrantof the Welsh, to help Richilda. Fitz Osbern had married her, there andthen. She had asked help of her liege lord, the King of France, and hehad sent her troops. Robert and Richilda had fought on St. Peter's day,1071,--nearly two years before, at Bavinchorum, by Cassel.
Richilda had played the heroine, and routed Robert's left wing, takenhim prisoner, and sent him off to St. Omer. Men said that she had doneit by her enchantments. But her enchantments betrayed her nevertheless.Fitz Osbern, her bridegroom, fell dead. Young Arnoul had two horseskilled under him. Then Gerbod smote him to the ground, and Richilda andher troops fled in horror. Richilda was taken, and exchanged for theFrison; at which the King of France, being enraged, had come down andburnt St. Omer. Then Richilda, undaunted, had raised fresh troops toavenge her son. Then Robert had met them at Broqueroie by Mons, andsmote them with a dreadful slaughter. [Footnote: The place was calledtill late, and may be now, "The Hedges of Death."] Then Richilda hadturned and fled wildly into a convent; and, so men said, torturedherself night and day with fearful penances, if by any means she mightatone for her great sins.
Torfrida heard, and laid her head upon her knees, and wept so bitterly,that the Abbot entreated pardon for having pained her so much.
The news had a deep and lasting effect on her. The thought of Richildashivering and starving in the squalid darkness of a convent, abode byher thenceforth. Should she ever find herself atoning in like wise forher sorceries,--harmless as they had been; for her ambitions,--just asthey had been; for her crimes? But she had committed none. No, shehad sinned in many things: but she was not as Richilda. And yet in theloneliness and sadness of the forest, she could not put Richilda frombefore the eyes of her mind.
It saddened Hereward likewise. For Richilda he cared little. But thatboy. How he had loved him! How he had taught him to ride, and sing, andjoust, and handle sword, and all the art of war. How his own rough soulhad been the better for that love. How he had looked forward to the daywhen Arnoul should be a great prince, and requite him with love. Nowhe was gone. Gone? Who was not gone, or going? He seemed to himself thelast tree in the forest. When should his time come, and the lightningstrike him down to rot beside the rest? But he tost the sad thoughtsaside. He could not afford to nourish them. It was his only chance oflife, to be merry and desperate.
"Well!" said Hereward, ere they hapt themselves up for the night. "Weowe you thanks, Abbot Thorold, for an evening worthy of a king's court,rather than a holly-bush."
"I have won him over," thought the Abbot.
"So charming a courtier,--so sweet a minstrel,--so agreeable anewsmonger,--could I keep you in a cage forever, and hang you on abough, I were but too happy: but you are too fine a bird to sing incaptivity. So you must go, I fear, and leave us to the nightingales. AndI will take for your ransom--"
Abbot Thorold's heart beat high.
"Thirty thousand silver marks."
"Thirty thousand fiends!"
"My beau Sire, will you undervalue yourself? Will you degrade yourself?I took Abbot Thorold, from his talk, to be a man who set even a highervalue on himself than other men set on him. What higher compliment can Ipay to your vast worth, than making your ransom high accordingly, afterthe spirit of our ancient English laws? Take it as it is meant, beauSire; be proud to pay the money; and we will throw you Sir Ascelin intothe bargain, as he seems a friend of Siward's."
Thorold hoped that Hereward was drunk, and might forget, or relent; buthe was so sore at heart that he slept not a wink that night. But inthe morning he found, to his sorrow, that Hereward had been as sober ashimself.
In fine, he had to pay the money; and was a poor man all his days.
"Aha! Sir Ascelin," said Hereward apart, as he bade them all farewellwith many courtesies. "I think I have put a spoke in your wheel aboutthe fair Alftruda."
"Eh? How? Most courteous victor?"
"Sir Ascelin is not a very wealthy gentleman."
Ascelin laughed assent.
"Nudus intravi, nudus exeo--England; and I fear now, this mortal lifelikewise."
"But he looked to his rich uncle the Abbot, to further a certainmarriage-project of his. And, of course, neither my friend Gilbert ofGhent, nor my enemy William of Normandy, are likely to give away so richan heiress without some gratification in return."
"Sir Hereward knows the world, it seems."
"So he has been told before. And, therefore, having no intention thatSir Ascelin, however worthy of any and every fair lady, should marrythis one; he took care to cut off the stream at the fountain-head. If hehears that the suit is still pushed, he may cut off another head besidethe fountain's."
"There will be no need," said Ascelin, laughing again. "You have verysufficiently ruined my uncle, and my hopes."
"My head?" said he, as soon as Hereward was out of hearing. "If I do notcut off thy head ere all is over, there is neither luck nor craft leftamong Normans. I shall catch the Wake sleeping some day, let him benever so wakeful."