Now you shall witness a striking scene. You are gazing at the castle of Oxford, that stands up grim and square in the midst of its encircling waters. Oxford is already renowned as the abode of quiet scholars and learned men; for “Beauclerc,” who has now gone to his rest, made it an academy and a sanctuary of letters. He it was who built this grim castle, in which to sojourn when he came to Oxford to enjoy the converse of the bookish men who dwelt beneath its shadow. It is, however, no learned concourse of scholars, no peaceful trial of wits, which we are about to witness, but an incident of stern warfare.

The castle is undergoing a siege, which has already lasted three months. An iron girdle of armed men forbids entrance or exit. You see, however, no great engines for hurling missiles into the fortress; you perceive no battering-rams; no pent-houses for undermining its walls; no scaling-ladders and towers for assault. Hunger and cold are the weapons of the besiegers; within, starvation and disease are fighting their battle. It is early morning of the vigil of St. Thomas, a cold, gray day, with a sharp frost in the air. In the camp of the besiegers a white flag is raised in token of truce, and presently you see a stalwart knight clad in full armour bestride his charger. Behind him assembles a train of abbots and priests bearing Church banners and crucifixes. Slowly they wend their way over the powdery snow to the edge of the castle moat, and presently the loud blast of a trumpet startles the ear. Now you see on the battlements of the castle a warder appear and inquire the meaning of the summons. “Say to thy mistress that I beseech a parley,” cries the knight, and the warder disappears.

There is a pause, and presently on the battlements you see a woman, pale and gaunt, but proud and haughty as angry Juno. You notice her flashing eye, her hard, resolute look, and you know that she will never yield to mortal man. “Why come ye?” she asks in imperious tones, and the Lord Abbot of Reading answers her. He bids her yield the castle, and he promises, in the name of the king, that no harm shall befall her or any that are with her. She shall have honourable escort to the coast, lands and money shall be hers, and no vengeance of any kind shall be wreaked on her adherents. “Gracious lady,” he concludes, “I implore thee to yield and end this cruel war, which is a reproach to Christendom and ruin to the people of England. Thy famishing state is well known, and all hope of escape is gone.”

“Who told thee, thou meddling monk, that I thought of escape?” she answers. “Wherefore should I escape? My brother, Earl Robert, is at hand, and ye wot well how the foul usurper was forced to yield to him at Lincoln. The like will happen again here at Oxenford, so let the false recreant begone. I will not throw open my gates nor quit these walls until thy perjured master is in chains, pleading at my feet for the life I have once too often granted him.”

“Madam, madam, I beseech thee,” begins the abbot in reproof, but the wrathful figure on the wall waves him away. “Get thee gone!” she screams in a fierce passion, “or I will remember to hang thee on the gate of thy abbey when this rebellion is over.” So the knight and the churchman depart, and anon you see the former riding from post to post urging his men to keep closer watch on the besieged, and doubling the guards that lie in wait near every exit from the castle.

The early dusk arrives, and the snow begins to fall, and you can scarce see the dark mass of the fortress. The cold wind drives the falling snow into the eyes of the sentinels; they grow numb and drowsy, and their vigilance is relaxed. Now, strain your eyes, and watch the postern of yonder tower. Slowly the door opens, and dimly you perceive five white-clad figures flit out and descend into the moat. You see their ghost-like forms reappear and make all speed for the river. Across its ice-bound surface they hasten, and as they draw near you perceive that one of them is a woman. Now they plunge into the snowdrifts on the other side, and struggle on towards Abingdon. There they will find friends and horses, and speedily they will make for the coast and hie them to the shores of friendly France.

What is the meaning of the incidents which you have witnessed? The woman who has just escaped is Matilda, sole surviving child of Beauclerc. When Henry’s only son went down in the White Ship, she alone remained as heir to the realm. Forthwith Henry called his barons together, and bade them swear fealty to his daughter as “Lady” of England. They did his bidding reluctantly, for they scorned to be ruled by a woman. Amongst the knights who swore the oath was Henry’s nephew Stephen, he whom you saw directing the siege of Oxford. He is handsome, tall, strong, and one of the most renowned knights in all Christendom. Even while the barons obeyed the king’s behest, many of them deemed Stephen far worthier to rule them than the haughty, passionate Dame Matilda.

Ere Henry died, many of the barons had determined to forswear their oath and throw in their lot with Stephen. They knew him as easy-going, soft-hearted, “unstable as water,” and, as such, he was the very king for them. With Stephen on the throne, every baron might be king in his own domain, free to raid and harry and fight as he listed. So when the old king was carried to his tomb, Stephen seized the crown, and, after the fashion of usurpers, strove to win friends to his side. He scattered Henry’s treasure in lavish bribes, he promised men all they asked, he hired foreign soldiers, and was crowned king. Right well pleased were the barons, and right soon they built them those strong castles which they had not dared to rear while Henry was alive. Then they quarrelled and fought, and robbed, and tortured, and hanged to their hearts’ content.

Sad indeed was the condition of England at that time. Turn to the old Chronicle and read:—“They put the wretched country folk to sore toil with their castle-building; and when the castles were made, they filled them with devils and evil men. Then they took all those that they deemed had any goods, both by night and by day, men and women alike, and put them in prison to get their gold and silver, and tortured them with tortures unspeakable, for never were martyrs so tortured as they were.... All this lasted nineteen winters while Stephen was king, and ever it was worse and worse. Thou mightest easily fare a whole day’s journey, and shouldest never find a man living in a village nor land tilled. Then was corn dear, and flesh and cheese, for there was none in the land. Wretched men starved for hunger, and some were begging alms that were once rich men, and some fled out of the land.”

And to add to all this horror, Matilda, aided by her noble half-brother, Robert of Gloucester, and her kinsman, David of Scotland, waged war against the usurper. The fortune of battle wavered, now to this side, now to that. Sometimes Stephen was victor, sometimes Matilda. You remember how she taunted Stephen from the battlements of Oxford Castle about the affair at Lincoln. The story is worth telling. Stephen was besieging Lincoln Castle when a superior force of his foes assailed him. With only three faithful followers he fought like a lion at bay, disdaining either to fly or yield. At length his sword-blade snapped; but one of his companions handed him a two-handed Danish axe, with which he did terrible execution. Then the axe-helve splintered in his hand; but all feared to seize him until he was hurled to the ground by a stone thrown by an unknown hand. A knight, greatly daring, ran up and laid hands on the fallen king; but Stephen shook him off, and it was only to Robert of Gloucester that he would deign to surrender. Stephen was put in ward at Bristol, and a great Council elected Matilda queen in his stead.

Ere long her haughty behaviour, her self-will, her revengeful spirit, and the injustice with which she treated the Londoners, disgusted even her best friends. One day, while she was sitting at dinner, the city bells rang out a call to arms, and the Londoners, “like angry wasps from their comb,” swarmed into her palace. She had barely time to escape on a swift steed to Winchester. Then the Londoners arrayed themselves under Stephen’s brave queen and laid siege to Matilda. She was forced to retreat, and in the strife that followed the King of Scots and Robert of Gloucester were captured. Matilda fled on horseback to Devizes; but enemies thronged about her, and her friends only got her safely out of the town by covering her with grave-clothes and carrying her forth on a bier. Robert was now exchanged for Stephen, and once more the tide of war turned in his favour. This brings us up to the incidents which we have just witnessed in front of Oxford Castle.

Little remains to be said. Robert died, and Matilda found that she had lost her best and most gallant champion. Her son Henry, however, was now of an age to take his part in the strife. Strong, able, and rich, he sailed from France with an army, but was too wise to fight a pitched battle. He could afford to wait; and so he made peace with Stephen, who was to reign in England until his death, when Henry was to succeed him. A year later Stephen died, and all good men rejoiced. Peace was coming to the distracted realm, and the old days of “war, wickedness, and waste” were over, men fondly hoped, never to return.