  Produced by Al Haines. [image] "Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps." Page THE ROBBER BARON BY A. J. FOSTER AND E. E. CUTHELL LONDON, EDINBURGH, CONTENTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE ROBBER BARON OF CHAPTER I. BY THE BANKS OF OUSE. 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:--
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,--
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!" [image] "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. CHAPTER II. BLETSOE MANOR-HOUSE. 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?" CHAPTER III. HOW ALIVA RECEIVED A SECOND SUITOR. 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. |
|