Citation
The iron chain and the golden

Material Information

Title:
The iron chain and the golden
Creator:
A. L. O. E., 1821-1893
Thomas Nelson & Sons ( Publisher )
Place of Publication:
London ;
Edinburgh ;
New York
Publisher:
T. Nelson and Sons
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
208 p. : ill. ; 19 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Superstition -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Monks -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Husband and wife -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Parent and child -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1893
Genre:
novel ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
United States -- New York -- New York
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

Ownership:
UA Library copy with presentation bookplate from Brighton & Preston School Board, dated 1896.
General Note:
by A. L. O. E. author of "The Blacksmith of Boniface Lane," "Beyond the black waters," "Driven into exile," &c.
General Note:
Title page printed in red and black.
General Note:
Original red pictorial cloth.--C.f. C.R. Johnson (Dealer).
Statement of Responsibility:
by A.L.O.E.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
026995479 ( ALEPH )
ALH9363 ( NOTIS )
182659348 ( OCLC )

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* And so Anscln’s stern reproof fell into the hands of the last person whom
Alphege would have wisheel to resd it.”

Page 117.



5

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“SOMETHING FOR CHRISTMAS”

T. NELSON & SONS

LONDON, EDINBURGH & NEW-YORK.



Hit TRON CHAIN
AND THE GOLDEN

BY

AL. 0. &.,

Author of ‘The Blacksmith of Boniface Lane,”
“Beyond the Black Waters,”

“Driven into Exile,”

&e.



T. NELSON AND SONS

London, Edinburgh, and New York



1893







III.
Iv.

VI.
VIL.
VIIl.
Ix,

XL
XIL
XIII,
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.

@ontents.

THE SAXON PRIEST,

. AN OLD ENGLISH HOME,

RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE,
THE SUDDEN CALL,

. THE CONFESSOR,

THE ECLIPSE,
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL,
THE WEARY AT REST,

THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER,
A PATRIOT’S APPEAL,

THE LOST ONE FOUND,

A LONELY GRAVE,

BABY’S BLUNDER,

SUNSHINE OVERCAST,
DARING THE WORST,

TRIED AND CONDEMNED,
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA,
A FADING FLOWER,

NEWS AT LAST,

PERILS BY THE WAY,

THE CAPTIVE,

ON THE WOOD-CART,

FOUND OUT,

ESCAPE FOR LIFE,









ii VRON CHAIN AND
THE GOLDEN.



CHAPTER I.
THE SAXON PRIEST.

“T TELL ye, Cousin Alphege, priest and learned clerk
though ye be, ye stand in no small danger of ecclesias-—
tical censures, and our abbot has his eye upon you.
Were not your mother and mine sisters, I should be
loath to be seen under your roof.”

So spake Hyppolyte (whilom Codric Batson), the lean
“brother” of Basilton Abbey. He stood wrapt in his
“monk’s shroud,” his waist girdled by a rope from
which a black crucifix hung suspended, and a tonsure
on a head which nature had made so bald that the
razor had hardly been needed. Hyppolyte was a
wasted, hollow-eyed man, who looked as if he had had
more than his fair share of the fastings and penances
for which the monastery to which he belonged was by



Io ‘THE SAXON PRIEST.

no means noted. The monk had about as much resem-
blance to his bright-eyed cousin asa salted herring has
to a fish cleaving its free way through the waters, ever
and anon in its vigorous life springing above them, its
scales flashing like silver in the sun. The elder man
belonged to what was called the regulars, attached to
some monastic-order; Alphege was one of those termed
the secular clergy, and held the position of what in
modern days we should call a village pastor. There
was a long-continued struggle in England between the
regulars and the seculars; a good many of the latter
were married men, whilst the former took vows of
celibacy, and usually resided in monasteries.

“What may my crimes and misdemeanours be?”
asked Alphege in a voice whose rich, cheerful tones
contrasted with the monotonous drawl of his cousin’s.
The clerk—as educated men were often called—was
seated on a bench engaged in mending a spinning-
wheel; his occupation engaged his hands and eyes, but
left his tongue free for conversation. As Alphege bent
over the wheel he occasionally gave a slight, quick toss
of his head, to prevent a rather profuse quantity of
auburn locks from falling over his eyes.

“Tn the first place,” said the monk, looking with
grave disapprobation at the offending locks, “you ‘have
let your hair so grow as to hide every vestige of the
tonsure.”

Alphege gave a low laugh. “I wot my hair is my



THE SAXON PRIEST. Ww

own,” he replied, “and I wear it to please—’ He did
not finish the sentence; for he could not add “myself”
in what was to him a matter of little importance, and
he did not choose to say “my wife” to one of the regu-
lars bound by vow to abstain from marriage. As late
as the year 1129 ecclesiastics were still, without perfect
success, trying to force parish priests to give up their
wedded wives. At the earlier period of which I write
the full fury of the storm which was to burst upon them
had not yet swept over England, to make desolate once
happy homes, but its distant mutterings were ever and
anon. heard.

“You neglect some of the other rules of Holy Church,”
continued the monk in the same monotonous drawl;
“you do not strictly exact tithes.”

“T have let off a few poor wretches who had nothing
wherewithal to pay them.”

“You do not sufficiently enforce penances—”

“T should like to inflict penances on some who now
get off scot-free!” exclaimed Alphege with a burst of
honest indignation. “I'd forbid all fasting by proxy;
no poor fellow earning his bread by the sweat of his
brow should be paid a penny to go without food, that
some fat sinner should feast with an easy conscience. I
should mightily enjoy seeing some abbots, who pamper
their flesh on what is wrung from their half-starved
villeins, fast upon stale oat-cake. I would give pen-
ances to such men as use God’s house for a place wherein



12 | THE SAXON PRIEST.

to crack jokes or quaff liquor in drunken bouts. I should
like,’ continued the Saxon, starting to his feet as he
warmed with his subject, “to enforce with rigour the
‘canons of Aelfric, Bishop of Ramsbury,* that priests are
not to get drunk, nor to wear arms, nor frequent
taverns, nor swear oaths. As for monasteries, you know
well—too well—what passes in many of them.”

“T have no eyes to see such things,” replied the
monk, looking down with affected humility; “I need
only to know what: belongs to my office. I am but an
ostiary, whose business is to attend to the church doors
and bells, the lowest of the seven orders; I give notice
of the wht-song [matins], the prime-song, the wndern-
song, the none, the even-song, and the compline. The
abbot also commands that the curfew be regularly
sounded, albeit no one now puts out his fire when he
hears it, as in the Conqueror’s days.”

“JT hate the very name of curfew!” exclaimed the
Saxon. “The light which Norman William sought to put
out was the pure light of gospel truth kindled by such
men as our glorious Alfred and venerable Bede. He
fain would have crushed out the spark of liberty in
English hearts; but he could not do it—no, not though
he wasted whole counties, and left hundreds—thousands
—tens of thousands of families to perish of hunger !”

“Tt is better not to speak of these matters,” quoth the
monk.

* See “ Student’s History of England,” page 126.



THE SAXON PRIEST. 13

«But, Codrie—”

“Call me not Codric; I am now Brother Hyppolyte,
called so after the blessed saint of that name,” said the
monk, crossing himself as he spoke.

“A Norman saint, I trow,” observed iptere: cali
would rather have my good Saxon name, that of a saint
and martyr too.”

“Archbishop Lanfranc (the saints give him peace!)
said that Alphege was no martyr, as he was slain by the
heathen Danes only for not paying a sum of money, not
for contending for the faith.”

This was too much for the naturally fiery spirit of
the “secular ” clerk, tempered as it was by genuine piety,
_ albeit piety not unmixed with the superstitions of the
age. “Archbishop Alphege died. because he was faithful
to his trust,” exclaimed the Saxon; “he died because
he would not redeem himself from insult and danger by
giving up to pagan robbers the offerings of the poor.
He was as much a martyr dying under the ox-bones
hurled at his head as was blessed St. Peter on his cross.
But Normans will see no merit in an Englishman; they
have dared to open the tombs of our saints, and to
scatter their bones! Normans have made themselves
the slaves of Rome ever since their William got a Pope
to hallow with his blessing that piratical invasion of our
once merry England, which has crushed a land of free-
men under his iron heel.”

“You must have a care how you speak, brother,” said



14 THE SAXON PRIEST.

Hyppolyte, raising his skinny finger with a warning
gesture, “or, clerk as you are, you may end your days
in one of the dungeon keeps of a Norman lord.”

“JT spake foolishly, and not with the meekness of one
who seeks to follow the steps of Him who bade us love
our enemies,” said Alphege penitently. “My temper is
like a fiery horse, and I have not yet learned as I ought
to curb it. May Heaven forgive me! I cannot yet forget
that my grandfather—and yours, Codric Batson—fell
by King Harold’s side on the red field of Hastings.”
Thus saying, the clerk resumed his seat, but not his
occupation.

There was a pause. A dark colour had risen on the
sunken cheek of the monk, a warmer flush on that of
his cousin.

Alphege was the first to break the silence. “Am I
accused of anything else, anything worse than being a
Saxon ?” he asked of the monk.’

“Yes, something much worse,” was the deep-toned
reply. “You have dared, in defiance of what Rome en-
joins, to take to yourself a wife.”

Alphege’s face cleared like the blue sky after a
storm. “Sit down beside me, brother,’ he said, “and
hear why I have chosen the golden chain of matrimony
instead of the iron chain of a foreign Pope.”

The monk slowly and demurely seated himself on the
bench beside his cousin.

“You know,’ pursued the Saxon, “that Frediswed



THE SAXON PRIEST. 15

and I loved each other from childhood; you know that
when you and I were boys together, I used to speak of
her as my little wife. Ours was the attachment of
years; we were as trees which, when saplings, had been
twined together, and so could not be torn apart. I be-
lieved, and Frediswed believed, that Heaven smiled on
our future union. When I became an acolyte under
our saintly Archbishop Anselm, and was destined for
the Church, then first a doubt arose in my mind. I
looked up to the prelate with intense reverence ; he was
to me as one inspired, and I knew that he regarded the
marriage of priests as almost, if not altogether, a sin.
Then all my peace of mind was gone. I had a terrible
struggle with myself. JI had honestly resolved to give
myself body and soul to the service of my Lord and
His Church, and it might be that Christ required the
sacrifice of all that I desired or loved upon earth. If
my Lord required the sacrifice, He would give me
strength to make it. For years I knew not one waking
hour of peace.”

“And what made you decide that no such sacrifice
was required?” asked the monk in a cold, hard tone.

“Hear me patiently, brother. I made a weary pil-
grimage to Rome—made it with bleeding feet, and an
almost broken heart. I would, I thought, strengthen
my faith by intercourse with holy men; I would see
for myself this hill of piety which dominated over the
earth, like the famous mountain Vesuvius, which I also



16 THE SAXON PRIEST.

visited, to behold its mysterious light. Even as that
mountain, so found I the Church of Rome. If a few
lurid flames gleamed from the summit, they were lost
sight of in such a dense cloud of noisome smoke as
created darkness in the day. I will not dwell on the
luxury, the pride, the presumption, ay, and crimes of
simony, and others yet more revolting, which hung like
a pall over what men call the chair of St. Peter. What
likeness could be traced by superstition itself between
the true-hearted, simple fisherman of Galilee and the
pampered tyrant who called himself his successor ?”

“ Alphege, this is rank blasphemy. JI dare not
listen!” cried Hyppolyte, rising.

“Sit down; I will leave this subject and come to the
point, the gist of the matter,’ said Alphege. “I lingered
many months in France on my return to England,
generally resting at monasteries on the way. . Under
the instruction of my revered patron, Anselm, I had be-
come pretty deeply read, and Latin was as familiar to
me as my own native tongue. I had a passionate love
for study, and a very fervent desire to find out all that
is written in Scripture concerning the marriage of priests.
I concluded that the practice must be sinful, as so holy
a man as my master condemned it.”

“Of course, of course,” chimed in the monk.

“ At one monastery: in France,” pursued Alphege, “I
found what was to me a priceless treasure, an illumin-

ated copy of the entire New Testament, of which pre-
(17)



THE SAXON PRIEST. | 17

viously I had seen but portions. By the favour of the
abbot I was permitted to examine and even make ex-
tracts from the precious manuscript. I cannot describe
to you, Codric Batson, the feverish eagerness with
which I searched the gospels and epistles through and
through ; still less can I tell of the intense joy which I
felt when, one dark midnight, by the light of a dull
lamp, I came upon words which have ever since made
life sunshine to me.”

“What words?” inquired the monk, who himself
always lived in a fog.

“T wrote them out, and much more besides; but I
know them by heart,’ replied Alphege. “Listen,
brother, to what an inspired apostle wrote. St. Paul
tells us that St. Peter himself was married.”

“That was when he was under the law,” said the
monk. “When St. Peter became a Christian he put
away his wife.” *

“False—false and slanderous!” exclaimed Alphege
eagerly. “Hear what is written in the Word of God
by St. Paul, in the ninth chapter of First Corinthians.
Have we not power to lead about a sister, a wife, as well
as the other apostles, and as the brethren of the Lord,
and as Cephas ?—that is Peter. It is evident that it was
common with the Lord’s apostles to take about with
them wedded wives, and St. Peter is specially mentioned

* This answer, betraying gross ignorance of Scripture, was actually given

by a Church dignitary.
(317) 2



18 ; THE SAXON PRIEST.

as one who did so. Think you that what was right in
him is sin in us? There are other passages in Scripture
from which we can prove—”

“Stay! I have heard too much already!” exclaimed
Hyppolyte, raising his thin hands to his ears. “I should
have a grievous penance if it were known that I had
listened to such profane talk!” Rising hastily, and
shaking his garment as if it had been polluted, the
monk hurried out of the house.



CHAPTER II.
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

ALPHEGE was not long left alone. There was soon the
sound of a rapid step, so light that perhaps no ear but
that of a fond husband would have heard it at all.
Frediswed entered hastily, as if frightened, a bright
colour on cheeks usually pale, and an uneasy, troubled
look in the soft dark eyes, whose habitual expression
was that of serene calm and loving trustfulness. Fred-
iswed went up straight to her husband, threw her arms
round his neck, and hid her face on his breast.

“My darling, has anything happened? why, you are
trembling!” said Alphege, drawing his wife still closer
to him.

Two bright drops fell on his fustian dress; but in
a few moments Frediswed lifted her head and looked
up at her husband, as if his presence, his protecting arms,
had already charmed trouble away.

Alphege made his wife sit very close beside him,
holding one of her small hands in his own.

“What is it that has frightened you, sweet heart?



20 “ AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

You came in looking like a startled fawn that hears the
hounds baying behind her.”

“JT will tell you all, Alphege—at least nearly all,”
said Frediswed ; “nothing frightens me much when you
are at my side. I went out to carry a dish of porridge
for sick Allen’s children, and some healing herbs for the
poor man himself. You know that the shortest cut is
by the abbey; there is a path across the fields.”

“T do not care for you to go that way alone,” said
Alphege gravely; “nor do I wish you to go near the
rookery of monks.”

“J will not do so again,” said Frediswed meekly; “I
only took the short path because I was in haste to get
back to prepare your meal. The sun had almost reached
his topmost height.”

“Did you meet any one?” asked the Saxon.

“Yes; on my return I met two monks near the stile.
They had hoods over their shaven heads, and were pass-
ing the beads of their rosaries through their fat fingers ;
but I wot that they were laughing rather than praying.
I tried to pass on the other side of the path, but they
stood right in my way, as if to stay me.”

Alphege clenched his teeth and grasped his wife’s
hand more tightly.

“Why doesn’t the pretty little woman come to con-
fession?’ said the elder of the two, and he actually
patted me on the cheek. I started back,—-the saints
forgive me the fierce anger that I felt!”



AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. 27

“No forgiveness needed,’ muttered Alphege; “the
saints have more of that work to do in the cloisters.”

««Why don’t you come to confession ?’ said the other
monk,—he looked the worse of the two; ‘I promise you
an easy shrift, and added an oath.

““Why should I confess to you?’ I cried angrily
enough ; ‘I only confess to God and my husband. My
husband is a priest himself, and eke as learned a clerk
as any in the land’”” Frediswed again hid her blushing
face on Alphege’s breast as she continued her story :—
“O dearest, the two monks burst out laughing, and
said ;—but I cannot repeat even to you the shocking
wicked things that they said.”

“Tf I had been there with my oaken staff, belikes I
should have broken their shaven polls!” exclaimed the ~
indignant husband. “But staffs and staves are not
weapons which God’s servants should wield,” added Al-
phege, struggling to keep down the anger which boiled

in his breast. “What happened then?” he inquired.
“Oh, I made a dart towards the stile and crossed it—
I don’t exactly know how. I ran across the field; the
monks were too fat to overtake me. But I could not
bear for all this to happen again. Would it not be well
to complain to the abbot ?”

“The abbot!” cried Alphege somewhat fiercely ; “do
we ask the wolf to chide his cubs for worrying lambs ?
The Abbot of Basilton is—but I had better not say what
he is. God knows; God is the righteous Judge, to whom



22 ‘AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

we must commit our just cause. . He will not suffer the
innocent—the pure—to be oppressed for ever.”

“When I next go to Allen’s,” began Frediswed, but
her husband did not give her time to finish the sentence.

“You shall never go again; I will myself carry to the
sick man whatever you please to send him.”

“But you have so many sick to visit, so many serv-
ices to conduct.”

«Tt matters not; I must give more time to the work,”
said Alphege, gathering up his carpentering tools and
carrying them to a recess sunken in the thick wall. “I
must devote myself more entirely to my study, the care
of my flock, and my wife.” He put a fond emphasis on
the last word, and closed the conversation by impressing
a kiss on the fair brow of his English bride.

Frediswed hastened off to her cooking operations, and
whilst she is engaged in preparing a savoury stew for
her husband, we will take a brief glance, first at her, and
then at the home of which she is the sunshine.

Sweet and winsome is the face, slight and graceful
the form of her who is now stirring up the fagots to a
brighter blaze, the homeliness of her occupation by no
means detracting from a quiet matronly dignity which
sits well on the pastor's wife. One of the greatest of
attractions is unconsciousness of being attractive: Fredis-
wed’s perfect simplicity is one of the chief charms of her
who, to the guilelessness of a child, adds the thoughtful-
ness of a loving woman. Frediswed, by her winning



AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. 23

ways, is one easily to win affection, and by her higher
qualities firmly to retain it. To love Frediswed once is
to love her always: gilding wears away with rubbing,
but that only brightens pure gold.

The Saxon dress which Frediswed wears, with its
‘folds, unmarred by flounce or trimming, descending to
her feet, is of simple material but almost statuesque
grace. When, as at this time, pursuing household occu-
pations, Frediswed throws aside the large linen veil or
mantle, resembling what daughters of India now wear,
which, when she goes out, with its soft folds completely
covers every part of the head but the face, and shrouds
the upper part of her person. Not a sparkle of jewel-
lery is seen, save the one little gold circlet on her finger,
the pledge of connubial love, a representative link of the
golden chain which binds her heart to her husband.

The clerk’s house is a substantial one, built principally
of solid oak. ‘True, there is no glass in the windows;
true, the fireplace is in the midst of the kitchen, and the
rafters above it are blackened by smoke; but still the tene-
ment is by no means destitute of such comforts as were
known to upper-class franklins in the days of Henry the
First. Of course there is no clock to tell the time, for
clocks have not been dreamt of; but there is a stand,
deftly carved by Alphege, to hold the candle from which
little metal balls drop at regular intervals, as the flame
round the wick reaches the threads by which they are care-
fully suspended. But the sun and the stars, heaven’s own



24 AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

grand chronometers, are the usual measurers of time for
the parish priest and his wife, supplemented by the
crowing of cocks and the twitter of birds in the morning.

The furniture is heavy and mostly ancient, for Alphege
ig a scion of an old Saxon line, being a descendant of
Ethelbert, the first Christian king of Kent, who reigned
in the days of the Heptarchy. The massive silver bowl
on a shelf is a precious heirloom: it is a family tradition
that St. Augustine himself once drank mead out of that
cup. A curtain of rich tapestry hangs by the outer
door; it is drawn aside in warm weather, but is very
useful in winter to keep out the wind and cold. Some
skins are spread on the rushes that cover the floor; and
a pair of stag’s antlers adorn the wall, the spoils of a
quarry killed in the time of Edward the Confessor,
before forest laws were enacted. :

Beyond the open door we see a little garden, cultivated
by the clerk himself, and chiefly filled with vegetables,
and a few herbs used in medicine. There is, however,
a.portion kept for flowers; not the imported beauties
which now adorn our parterres, but the simple, old-
fashioned blooms which grew as freely in old England
in the days of Alfred as they do now in our fields.
Cowslips, orchis, and the lovely white flower called
wild onion, blue-bells, primroses, and violets adorn Fredis-
wed’s garden in spring. There is also a luxuriant vine
hanging gracefully over her porch and peeping in at
her glassless windows. In autumn, the season in which



AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. 25

my story opens, this vine shows some clusters, not such
as would figure on our tables now, nor perhaps equal in
sweetness the blackberries ripening on the outer hedge
which divides the garden from the road. At a little
distance a grove of trees, some of great age, with gnarled
roots and bossy stems, their foliage tinted here and
there with yellow or red, breaks on the horizon line, and
adds to the peaceful charm of an English home. A chorus
from winged songsters comes from those trees in spring.
No marauding Dane has ever brought devastation to
this quiet retreat ; even the Normans have not plundered
it, at which the neighbourhood marvels. Alphege the
priest leads such a life of active usefulness and practical
piety that he is regarded by the intruders themselves
with a kind of respect. Probably, however, the chief
cause of his immunity from annoyance is the well-known
fact that he has long been a favourite disciple of An-
selm, once the Abbot of Bec, who has now for more
than eight years held the very high position of Arch-
bishop of Canterbury and Primate of England.



CHAPTER III.
RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

Wate the bacon and vegetables were stewing in the
pot, and their savoury scent gave a foretaste of the
coming meal, Frediswed (keeping, however, an eye on
the fire) came and sat down at her husband’s feet, her
favourite position. Alphege laid aside the parchment
which he had been studying, and gave up the brief
time before the food should be ready to the enjoyment
of conversation with his wife.

“ You had just begun to tell me the story of our good
Archbishop Anselm and Rufus the king when you had
to go to vespers,” said Frediswed. “I have heard bits
of the story before; but I want one clear, unbroken
thread, such as I like to spin on my own wheel.”

“Tt is difficult for a village clerk to spin a clear
thread, there are so many breaks,” observed Alphege,
smiling. “But if Lubin come not for a mash for his
sick cow, nor poor old Edwy to complain of his dame’s
shrewd tongue, if none of the young villeins appear to
consult me about marriage, and no other interruption



RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 27

occur, mayhap I shall finish my story before the final
bubble and sputter announce that our stew is ready.”

“You must be more than ready for it,” said Fredis-
wed; “itis mid-day, and you have tasted nothing yet,
though you were up at cock-crow. In the morning
you were called off just as you were seated at the table ;
and as I knew not when you could return, I hurried
off to Allen’s, We are hours later than usual. I
thought that the franklin whose babe you baptized
would surely give a feast on such an occasion, and you
would certainly share it.”

“The man is a bit of a churl; or perhaps, poor fel-
low! the Normans have emptied his poultry-yard and
drained his cask of brown ale. As regards feasting, I
saw not a crust. I came back fasting, just as I went.
But such trifles are not worth a thought. To what
point in my story had I come yestereven ?”

“To the time when, after the death of Archbishop
Lanfranc (rest his soul !), the red Norman king, William,
refused for years to fill up the vacant see.”

“That he might himself plunder the Church of the
large revenues belonging to it,” said Alphege indignantly.
“Our Saxon Alfred would rather have died than have
committed so sacrilegious a deed.”

“ And you were beginning to tell me what our present
great and holy archbishop did,” said Frediswed.

“Archbishop Anselm held not that title then; he
was Abbot of Bee when first I knew him, and loved



28 RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

and honoured him as I never deemed that I could
love and honour a monk from the other side of the
Channel. It was he who came once and again to
our sorely oppressed England. We were groaning
under the exactions of the wicked Ralph Flambard, to
whose care King Rufus had made over the church and
lands of Canterbury, that he should squeeze out of them
gold, even if life-blood should follow. There was such
indignation in England at the rapine and profanity
which prevailed, that the nobles resolved to ask the
king’s leave to have prayers offered in all the churches
that God might incline his heart to fill up the see of
Canterbury. Anselm himself, at the ‘nobles’ earnest
request, drew up this singular petition.”

“Sinoular, indeed!” exclaimed Frediswed, smiling.
“T ghould like to have seen the face of the Red William
when he heard the petition read.”

“JT. did chance to see it,” said Alphege, reflecting the
gmile of his wife; “for young as I was, I was in at-
tendance on one who bore it. I shall not soon forget
that face reddened with anger up to the roots of the
fiery hair, or how Rufus showed his white fangs in a
mocking laugh as he gave his royal assent. ‘ The
Church may pray as much as it likes, he growled; ‘1
shall nevertheless do justas I please’ Some one present
—I wot not who—ventured to remind the king that
Anselm was a holy man, who loved nothing but God.
‘Except the Archbishoprie of Canterbury !’ eried the





RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 29

mocking Norman, who dared to impute a worldly motive
to the most saintly of men. ‘I do not think that
Anselm wishes the dignity? observed the old noble.
‘He would run to it dancing and clapping his hands,
cried the king; and then he added, with a blasphemous
oath, ‘Neither he nor any one else shall be archbishop
at this time except myself.” *

“O my Alphege, what a wicked and profane man this
king must have been!” exclaimed Frediswed. “ But the
tyrant had not his will?” -

“No; for Rufus was opposing the will of Him who
ruleth over the mighty of the earth, of Him who can
crush them like worms at His feet. Our just God heard
the groans and prayers of His people ; Rufus was smitten
with sore sickness, and a rumour spread through the
land that the spoiler of the Church was going to die.”

« And that he was repenting of the foul sins which
he had committed ?”

« Ay, when Rufus thought that death, like a thunder-
bolt from a wrathful God, was going to descend upon

him,” said the Saxon priest. “ Rufus wanted to confess
and be forgiven—he would fain make a clean breast ;
and as a bribe to Divine justice, he resolved to do what
good he could in his last hours to make up for a life
spent in sin. Prisoners were released from dungeons ;
Rufus promised to fill up vacant benefices ; Anselm him-
self should be raised to the see of Canterbury ;—what

* Hadmer.



30 RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

more could be done to appanse the righteous wrath of
Heaven ?”

«Was the holy Abbot of Bec glad, think you, to be
appointed to a place so high ?”

“No,” said Alphege with emphasis. “I was in at-
tendance on my patron when the king’s message came,
and can bear witness to the overpowering dismay with
which the good abbot shrank from the post of honour,
which was a true martyrdom to a man such as he.
The abbot was made archbishop almost by violence.
Hurried to the chamber of the sick king, Anselm had
the symbolic ring forced on his unwilling hand. He
foresaw that a conscientious primate must be engaged
in almost perpetual conflict with an unscrupulous king.
‘T am like an old ram yoked with a furious young
bull? was the pious prelate’s own description of his new
position.”

“The king, I know, recovered from his illness,”
Frediswed observed.

“Yes; he recovered to be again a scourge to the land,
recovered to plunge yet more deeply into sin, recovered
' to perish at last by a violent death which left him not
a minute’s space for a second repentance.”

“ And the holy Anselm still lives.”

“Heaven prolong his life!” cried Alphege with
fervour.

“© dearest, I should like so much, so very much, to
see him, to have his blessing, to receive the housel [sacra-





RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 31

ment] from his holy hand. Would it be impossible to
persuade your first patron and friend to stop at our
humble dwelling, which lies on his road from London
to Canterbury?” cried Frediswed eagerly, her face
brightening with happy excitement at the thought.
“Would the archbishop deign to cross our threshold ?
would he condescend to leave his golden footprints on
our floor, and drink out of St. Augustine’s cup?” she
added, glancing up at the silver bowl.

The beaming look of enthusiasm on the wife’s lovely
face was met by a grave, almost sad one on that of her
husband. Alphege pressed his lips together and looked
down. “TI could not ask the archbishop to stop here,”
he said, “even if there were a storm, and no other place
of shelter nigh.”

“Why? Surely holy Anselm is not proud?” Fredis-
wed exclaimed in surprise.

“It is not pride that would keep the archbishop
away from us,” said Alphege, suppressing a sigh.

“Then why?” Frediswed paused abruptly as a
painful thought crossed her innocent’ mind, and ob-
served in an altered tone, “Can it be that the good
archbishop does not approve of our marriage 2”

Alphege made a mute sign of assent.

“But that can soon be set right,” said Frediswed
cheerfully. “You have only to write to the archbishop
all that you have said to me; you are such’a good clerk
that you can make it all clear, You will tell him that



32 ‘RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

you can show warrant from Scripture that marriage is
honourable in all, which of course must include the
priests. You will tell him that apostles were married
men; that Christ Himself blessed the bridal feast,
and said that man and wife are one flesh. O darling,
you remember how miserable we both were for nearly
two years, when you thought that the safety of your
soul depended on our being severed for ever! You re-
member the agony of our parting, as we believed, never
to meet on this side of the grave! When you went to
Rome and left your poor Freddie behind, I should in
my blind wretchedness have gone into a convent, had not
my sick mother needed my care. Her long, long illness
was the means of preserving me for the happiness which
now I enjoy; it was God’s means—of that I feel cer-
tain—to save me from my foolish despair. When you
came back suddenly to claim me, when you told me
that God’s Word sanctioned our union, when my dear
mother on her deathbed joined our hands and said, like
old Simeon, ‘ Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace,
I felt my conscience at rest, so perfectly at rest, every
care, every scruple removed. Are you not satisfied, my
beloved husband, that our marriage was made in heaven,
that we are united only in the Lord 2”

“T am satisfied,” was Alphege’s calm reply.

“And the dear archbishop will be satisfied also, if
only you write and explain.”

Alphege gravely shook his head. He had written.





RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 33

he had explained, and had received such a reply as had
caused him acute pain, though no emotion of anger, nor
the least doubt as to the lawfulness of his marriage.

“ Do write,” pleaded the gentle wife, pressing her lips
on her husband’s hand, which she held within both her
own.

“My love, you know not our saintly archbishop.
Grand, pure as marble as his character is, in matters
such as these he is as cold, almost as hard. Anselm has
never known what it is to love as I love.”

Frediswed again kissed the hand which she clasped.
Her husband’s affection was the whole world to her.

Alphege wished to change a painful subject. “There
will be a grand council held at Michaelmas in St. Peter’s
Church, Westminster,” said he ; “the bishops, archbishops,
and abbots of the realm will be gathered together.
It is said that King Henry and his nobles will also
attend by our great prelate’s special desire, as one of
the great objects of the synod will be the correction of
morals.”

“T am sure that such a council must be much needed,”
observed. Frediswed, “ especially if there be many abbeys
like that of Basilton here. I am so glad that king,
barons, and holy bishops are to join together to bring
about a reform. We shall have happier times when we
have holier times in this dear land of England. Do
you not think, my Alphege, that the grand council will

prove a great blessing ?”
(17)

qo



34 RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

“I hope so, in some ways,” was the clerk’s grave and
guarded reply.

“But surely——’ Frediswed had no time to finish
her sentence, as the bubble and sputter of which Alphege
had spoken announced that, unless the good housewife
should hasten to the rescue, the savoury contents of the
stew-pot would soon be hissing on the fire.

“Your dinner is ready for you at last,” cried Fredis-
wed, lifting up the steaming vessel.

“And I am well pleased to break my long fast,”
observed Alphege, anticipating a pleasant meal, to be
shared by his wife, with the relish which is given by
hunger.





CHAPTER IV.
THE SUDDEN CALL.

THE deft hands of Frediswed had spread the table, and
her husband with a thankful heart had just pronounced
the benediction, when an interruption occurred. The
door was open, for the September air was mild and the
dwelling faced the sunny south. Suddenly, and with-
out ceremony, a Saxon peasant strode into the room.
He was a manly-looking fellow, with: broad shoulders,
gray eyes, and tawny hair. His head and.legs were
bare; he wore a kind of tunic girt with a leathern belt
a good deal the worse for wear. From the stranger’s
coarse dress it was at once seen that he belonged to the
class of churls or villeins-—husbandmen bound to the
soil that they tilled, “a condition above actual slavery,
though below freedom. The villeins were, in fact,
labourers whose wages were paid not in money, but in
a small holding.”* As these peasants were not allowed
to change their masters, under a cruel and rapacious one
their lot was hard; they were at the mercy of a tyrant,

* Thompson’s History.



36 i THE SUDDEN CALL.

Alphege did not know the man who had so uncere-
moniously entered his home; but he recognized him at
once as a fellow-countryman, and, as such, bidding him
welcome, asked him to sit down and share his meal.
But the villein remained standing, resting one of his
bony, sinewy hands on the oaken table.

“T come on an errand to you, Sir Clerk,” said the
stranger; “your offices are needed by the Baron La
Fleche of Fortlamort Castle.”

Alphege was surprised. The Norman baron was one
with whom he had never had any intercourse, nor did
he wish to have any. The clerk had often congratulated
himself that Fortlamort was good six miles away from
his village: could he have had his will, that distance
would have been increased to sixty.

“What is the baron’s hest ?” asked Alphege.

“The Baron La Fleche is in sore sickness, and like to
die,” said the peasant. “He bade me call a priest to
hear his confession, shrive him, housel him, and anoint
before the death-grapple come on.”

“There are many priests and monks who live nearer
to Fortlamort than I do,” observed Alphege, who was
by no means desirous to go on such an errand ‘to such
a place. “Why does not the baron send for one of
them ?”

“Tt is you, Sir Clerk, that must come, and no other,”
said the peasant with blunt decision, striking his hand
on the table to enforce his words. “I ween there are





:
2
:

THE SUDDEN CALL. 37

priests and monks by the score, but there is work to be
done at Fortlamort which needs a man like you. I wot
you do not know me—my name is Jackson; but I have
heard enough of you from Offa of the Fen to know of
what metal you are made.”

“ Offa, of the Fen—I remember him, a fine bold Saxon
who won a prize for stone-hurling at a fair held in the
last king’s reign. Is the tall yeoman living still 2”

“Mayhap he is, mayhap he isn’t,” replied Jackson,
evading giving a direct reply. “It is you as is wanted,
Sir Clerk ; and you must come quickly, lest the baron die
without shrift.” There was a peculiar expression on the
villein’s rough features as he uttered the last word which
aroused vague uneasiness in Frediswed’s mind.

Alphege rose from his seat at the table.

“O dearest, you must take your meal first,” cried
the wife.

“You forget I cannot give the housel but when fast-
ing,” was the priest’s reply. “Let this good fellow have
the food, whilst I go and bring from the church what is
needful for celebrating high mass.”

Frediswed obeyed, but she could not help heartily
Wishing that Jackson had come an hour later, or had
gone somewhere else. She showed the hospitality ex-
pected of a Saxon dame, and the villein took voraciously
the food which was set before him,

“Did the baron specially name my husband ?” Fred-
iswed inquired,



38 | THE SUDDEN CALL.

“ Mayhap he did, mayhap he didn’t,” was the peasant’s
evasive answer, as he emptied his wooden platter.

Within half-an-hour Alphege was on his way to Fort-
lamort, with Jackson striding at his side. The priest
was hungry, very hungry; he had the healthy appetite
of a vigorous man who has eaten nothing for nigh
twenty hours. A doubt crossed the mind of Alphege—
he tried to put it away as a sin—whether any command
in the Scriptures enjoined that the holy sacrament
should be taken fasting. Was it not enough that the
Roman Church commanded the custom, and that holy
saints had practised it? Alphege, intelligent as he was,
had become too much accustomed to the iron chain of
superstition to make, in such a matter, even an effort to
break it, as he was aware that some less scrupulous
members of his order frequently did.

Jackson did not seem disposed for conversation, and
his companion was too weary and hungry to care to
begin one. Alphege amused his own mind by thinking
how Frediswed would pass the hours of his absence.
He pictured her at her spinning, or at her sewing-class
for village girls, telling them stories from Holy Writ
while their nimble fingers plied the needle. Then, in
his mind’s eye, Alphege saw Frediswed watering the
flowers in her garden, feeding her chickens, scattering
grain to the pigeons which fluttered around her, or milk-
ing her brindled cow. It was still pleasanter to image
her sitting by the old blind woman who lived down the



THE SUDDEN CALL. 39

lane, and singing to cheer her in her lifelong darkness.
Even to think of gentle Frediswed was a refreshment
to her husband. Often had Alphege said to himself,
“My wife is my guardian angel; without her, what a

\?

savage, ill-tempered brute I should be Pride was not
the besetting sin of the Saxon clerk.

“And is it not so with others?” thought Alphege.
“The very best priests that I know—dear, good Wilfred
and clear-headed Wolfstan—are both of them married
men. Albeit the spouse of the latter be a somewhat
high-tempered dame, yet well doth she order her house
and show hospitality to many. Are not married clerks
humanized by having little children’s feet pattering
about the house? Are their lives not purified, elevated,
by their love for their virtuous wives? Why should
man presume to sever those whom God hath joined to-
gether? In such a matter as this I will be ruled by
neither prelate nor pope.”

More than half the distance between the parsonage
and the castle had been accomplished before Jackson
chose to break his dogged silence, and then he did so
abruptly :—

“Do you think it a priest’s business, Sir Clerk, to
send robbers, tyrants, and murderers to heaven by put-
ting a few drops of oil on their brows, or a bit of wafer

into their mouths ?”

“Speak more reverentially of holy things,” said the
priest.



40 - THE SUDDEN CALL.

“I crave your pardon,” said the peasant. “I ama
plain-spoken man, and maybe put the question too
roughly. Nevertheless I want an answer. Can shriv-
ing, and anointing, and that sort of thing, help a tyrant
and murderer to heaven ?”

“Of course there must be confession on the part of a
sinner before he can be shriven, and restitution also,”
quoth Alphege.

“Restitution, ay, restitution—giving back—righting

{?

the wronged!” cried Jackson eagerly. “That is just
what I hoped that you would say, and thunder into the
ears of that vile baron also. It was because I had
heard that you are a true-born Saxon, and a brave,
honest man, that I went to you instead of to any
shaven monk that might live nearer to a den of thieves.
You will insist on the dying ruffian doing all that can
be done now to repair the foul wrong wrought by him
on Offa of the Fen.” Jackson clenched his fist as he
spoke, and his swarthy, sunburned visage glowed with
fierce indignation. He could hardly bring out his words
distinctly.

“Had Offa of the Fen offended the Baron La Fleche?”
asked Alphege.

Both the Saxons stood still as they spoke.

“Offa had but sought to protect his daughter, his
own flesh and blood, as any Englishman—albeit only a
villein—would have done!” exclaimed Jackson. “He
knocked a proud Norman down, and laid him sprawling



THE SUDDEN CALL. 41

in the dust—that was all. The fellow got up again—
more the pity! For this Offa’s cottage was burned, his
wife and children turned out to starve, he himself
thrown into a dungeon, with no light and little food,
just enough to prolong his misery and satisfy a bad
man’s love of revenge.”

“ How long has Offa lain in prison?” asked Alphege,
the hot blood mounting to his cheek.

“ Months—eight —ten—more,” replied Jackson, count-
ing on his fingers. “Offa was seized, bound, lashed like
a dog, thrown into darkness, some weeks afore Yule-tide
last year.”

“He shall not remain there one day longer, if I can
help it!” cried Alphege. “I will not shrive the baron,
nor housel, nor anoint, until my poor injured brother be
free.”

Jackson caught hold of the priest’s hand and wrung
it. It was the peasant’s only way of expressing thanks,
for he could not speak.

Alphege strode on again over the wide heath which
spread before him. He was aware that he was entering
on a work of great difficulty and more than possible
danger, but from that he was not the man to shrink.
In silence and in prayer the Saxon walked on, till, at
some distance, on a wooded hill, were seen the tall
towers of a gloomy castle, one of those with which the
Norman conquerors had studded the land.

“There lies the oppressor in his keep, almost within



ae> : THE SUDDEN CALL.

sound of the groans of his victim in the dungeon below!”
cried Jackson, gloomily pointing to the stone pile.

The Saxon clerk had never before entered a castle ;
the very sight of one reminded him of tales of rapine
and wrong. To go forward was to Alphege something
like entering a wild beast’s den. But the priest ad-
vanced with steady resolution, onward and then up-
ward, when it came to ascending the steep, narrow path
which led up to the castle. Fortlamort was encircled
with a moat, but the bridge by which alone it could be
crossed had been let down, and the iron-studded port-
cullis which protected the entrance had been raised.
The warder stood at the door, expectant of the coming
priest, and many retainers of the baron thronged the
inner bailey, or enclosed court-yard, beyond which
towered the lofty keep. Moat, portcullis, and the
narrow loop-holes in the massive walls, all betokened a
fortified place, made to stand a siege; and most of the
retainers were more or less armed. Alphege, however,
passed in without hindrance, and the seneschal of
Fortlamort met him at the inner gate which admitted
into the keep.

“Thou hast tarried long, Sir Priest,” said the sene-
schal, eying the Saxon with .no glance of favour, for
the Norman had expected to see some sandalled, ton-
sured monk.

“Conduct me to the baron’s chamber,” said Alphege ;
“T hope that he is living still.”



THE SUDDEN CALL. 43

“ Ay, living ; though the leech says that his hours are
numbered. The baron, after quafiing a bowl of sack,
has fallen into a heavy sleep, from which he must on no
account be awakened. I will show you into a chamber,
where you can wait until he be ready to be shriven.”

With scant courtesy Alphege was guided to a small
almost unfurnished apartment. There he threw himself
on a settle, to prepare by prayer and meditation for
what he felt to be a severe ordeal before him. The
window, or rather open slit in the stone wall, which ad-
mitted but little light, was too high for the clerk to see
anything out of it except a strip of blue sky. This
strip gradually changed its colour, as weary hour after
hour rolled on, reddening with sunset glow, then darken-
ing into twilight gray. Alphege seemed like one shut
up in prison; never had he passed a more tedious time
than that in Fortlamort. At length, weary with fast-
ing, he fell into troubled, uneasy slumber, from which he
was suddenly and rudely awakened.



CHAPTER V.
THE CONFESSOR.

“ AROUSE ye, arouse ye, Sir Priest; the baron is awake,
he is calling for a confessor !”

Alphege sprang up at the call, and, guided by two
men, one of whom held a torch which threw a dull
gleam on the gray stone walls, he mounted a steep,
narrow, winding stair which led to the uppermost room -
in the tower. There, under a canopy, gaudy with scarlet
and heavy with gold, lay the dying Baron La Fleche.
The ashen hue on his bloated features, the convulsive
gasp which heaved his breast, the clutching of his hands
at the silken coverlet, all told that the death-struggle
could not be very long delayed.

“I must be alone with him,” said Alphege, waving
back the attendants who crowded the room. The torch
was stuck into a horn-shaped ornament on the wall,
silver cressets shed their light in the now almost empty
chamber, when the Saxon clerk, after closing the door,
returned to the baron’s side, and bent down his ear to



THE CONFESSOR. 45

catch the words, mingled with groans, which came from
the sufferer’s dying lips.

As Alphege listened his brow was knit with indigna-
tion, not at the sins avowed by La Fleche, but at the
puerility and insincerity of what a man of notoriously
wicked life would fain have passed off for a confession.

“I did—I did—eat—venison and boar’s head—in
Lent. I forgot to fast—on Fridays.”

“Nothing else?” asked the confessor sternly.

“T did not pay due reverence to holy relics—not even
to—a nail from St. Peter’s cross.”

The baron paused. Alphege bade him go on.

“I burned no candles before St. Veronica’s shrine.”
There was a longer pause than before. Was the dying
man’s conscience troubled by nothing worse than the
‘neglect of ceremonies and ordinances made by man,
when he had trampled, and was trampling still, on the
holy commandments of God ?

“Have you nothing more that lies heavy on your
soul—no innocent blood shed, no homes desolated and
burned? Is there at this moment no prisoner dying by
inches in a foul dungeon beneath us?” asked Alphege
sternly.

The baron’s bloodshot eyes rolled wildly; they told
of rage, but not of repentance.

“You must produce the foully-wronged Offa of the
Fen; you must set him free ere you die,” said the
Saxon. .



46 - THE CONFESSOR.

With a horrible oath far too blasphemous to tran-
scribe, the baron yelled out, “I will never set him free ;
he shall rot where he lies!” :

“Then I will never shrive -you, nor housel, nor give
you extreme unction. You: shall never be deceived by
me into thinking that a bold, impenitent sinner can
escape by any priestly rite from the dread punishment
of his guilt!” Alphege raised his hand as he spoke
with the calm dignity of.an’ Anselm reproving a royal
sinner. oe
The baron was filled with fury. With fingers that
trembled violently from weakness and rage, he seized
hold of a silver bell which lay on the pillow beside him,
and rang it so furiously. that a number of retainers
who were waiting outside rushed into the room.

“Seize the false priest—tie him hand and foot—fling
him over the battlements!” yelled the baron.

“We must have a care what we do,” said a squire
who was present; “this clerk has as patron the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury himself.”

These words saved Alphege from fatal violence, for
the powerful primate was dreaded almost as much as
King Henry himself. Yet Alphege felt the grasp of
rude hands; he was uncertain ‘as to the fate which his
honest rebuke might bring upon him, for he was sur-
rounded by wicked and lawless men accustomed to
deeds of blood. But at that moment the bugle hung at
the outer gate of the castle sounded loud and clear



THE CONFESSOR. Ay

from below. Startled at the clarion, some of the men
rushed to the window which commanded a view of the
gate,

“ Torches—many—hborne. by hooded monks—there’s
the Abbot of Basilton Abbey himself, just dismounted
from his mule!”

“Let the abbot be admitted at once—bring him
hither—quickly !” gasped La Fleche. “I will promise
—a thousand marks—double—treble—and lands—if
he will shrive me——save me from—”’

“Purgatorial fires,” said the seneschal, in a low,
hollow voice, completing the unfinished sentence.

“ As for that Saxon dog there—kick him out!” cried
the baron, glaring at Alphege.

The command was almost literally obeyed. With
insult, derision, even blows, Alphege the Saxon was
pushed down the narrow staircase. It was well that it
was narrow and winding, as that lessened the number
of those who could torment him at once. The clerk, by
what he had to endure, was reminded of the fate of the
martyr whose name he bore; but even the rude re-
tainers of La Fleche dared not lay murderous hands on
a priest, especially on one favoured by Anselm the
primate.

At the bottom of the staircase the clerk met the train
of monks, headed by the stout abbot himself, wearing
his richly - embroidered vestments. The consecrated
wafer, in a golden pix, was borne before him. At the



48 - THE CONFESSOR.

sight of it the lawless band of La Fleche fell on their
knees. Alphege could now pass out unnoticed by the
men within the castle, but not by a motley crowd
gathered in the bailey. The Saxon was not only
bruised in body, but more painfully wounded in spirit.
The baron’s vassals had known comparatively little of
what passed in the village of Basilton; but the abbot’s
attendants, who waited below, were ready enough to
fling insulting jests at the priest, and the woman—
some used a worse word—who was sharing his home.
Like a hunted creature, but not a timid one—rather. like
the stag that turns to face the yelping hounds—Alphege
quitted the castle of Fortlamort. The night, with its
deep shades and cooling air, brought some relief to one
whose powers, both physical and mental, had undergone.
a very severe strain.

Ere midnight the death-bell was heard from the
tower of Fortlamort. The bell was tolled only for
the proud baron, but two souls had passed on that night
to their last account—one from a tapestried chamber,
the other from the dungeon beneath ; one stained with
more sin than Dives, the other a greater sufferer than
Lazarus: each went to his own appointed place. The
poor prisoner’s skeleton-like corpse was thrown into
some ditch ; the baron’s pampered body was enclosed in
a coffin emblazoned with silver armorial bearings and
covered by a magnificent pall. After a while over the
baron’s grave was raised a grand marble monument, on



THE CONFESSOR. 49

which his name and titles were inscribed, with the ful-
some praises given to a benefactor of H oly Church.
Masses were said for the soul of La Fleche; they were
to be said till the day of doom, for such had been the
will of the terrified sinner who, on the brink of perdi-
tion, had grasped desperately at such hope as sacraments
and prayers for the dead could give. But what would
sacraments or masses, the sculptured stone or its lying
inscription, avail to revoke the sentence, The wages of
sin is death. The wicked shall be cast into hell?
Such honours paid to La Fleche, the Lord of Fortlamort,
were but as painting and gilding a ghastly skull.

(817) 4



CHAPTER VIL
THE ECLIPSE.

ALPHEGE, as he struggled along what seemed to be the
almost interminable miles between him and his home,
could at first hardly collect his thoughts; he felt be-
wildered as well as exhausted. Yet something was
haunting his soul—words ; he could hardly remember
by whom they had been spoken. These words were
about sending robbers and tyrants to heaven by putting
drops of oil on their brows, or a wafer into their
mouths.

“That abbot doubtless shrived and so deceived the
expiring wretch before him, and with wicked hands per-
formed the greatest miracle which—” So spake the
Saxon to himself, but he suddenly stopped in his walk;
a doubt, to him terrible indeed, had suddenly flashed on
his mind—a suspicion which, to a man nursed in super-
stition, appeared almost like the sin of heresy. Could
the doctrine of transubstantiation be itself a gigantic

lve, proceeding from Rome, that fountain-head of false-



THE ECLIPSE. 51

hood? Could the Evil One have dared to tamper even
with the holy sacraments ordained by Christ? It
would be necessary for the reader to have been himself
brought up in the darkness of medieval superstition to
comprehend the horror with which Alphege regarded the
doubt which had entered his soul, never to leave it again.
- Had the doctrine which gave such enormous power to
the priesthood any real warrant in Scripture? Alphege,
with racking brain, taxed his memory, well stored with
Bible truths, for confirmation of the dogma, but nothing
came to recollection but such texts as these: Christ was
ONCE offered to bear the sins of many (Heb. ix. 28) ;
We are sanctified through the offering of the body of
Jesus Christ ONCE FOR ALL (Heb. x. 10); Christ, being
raised from the dead, dieth no more...... jor in that He
died, He died unto sin once (Rom. vi. 10); By ONE
offering He hath PERFECTED FOR EVER them that are sanc-
tified (Heb. x. 14). Alphege could not recall one verse
on which the sacrifice of the mass could rest, though he
could remember decrees of Councils or fulminations of
Popes. The grand scriptural idea of one complete, full,
and perfect sacrifice for sin was summed up in the
Saviour’s triumphant dying cry, Jé is finished. The
doctrine of transubstantiation gives the lie to these
glorious words.

“But, O my Mother Church, dearer to my soul than
life, I cannot——will not—dare not believe that thou hast
wandered into deadly error!” exclaimed the priest, as



52 . L£HE ECLIPSE.

he gazed on the round bright orb of the moon which
had now risen in beauty. “I have thought thee pure
and bright, even as yon moon; I have loved to walk in
thy light, and to believe that thou art the chosen bride
of my Lord. Now—but what do I see 2—not a cloud
—no! The rim of the moon is becoming black, the
light is waning; it appears as if an unholy shadow,
growing wider and wider, were blotting out the heavenly
beauty! What is the evil cause?” |

Alphege stood motionless for several minutes, watch-
ing the slow progress of the first total eclipse that he
ever had seen. It is unnecessary to remind the reader
how much gross ignorance pervaded the minds of even
intelligent men in the dark ages regarding astronomical
phenomena. To Alphege the moon was chiefly dear as
a type of the Church, and as that type he regarded her
now. Foolish as it may appear, it was an actual relief
to the Saxon when the blackness of an unnatural night
gradually passed away, and he saw that the shadow was
not a part of the moon herself, but a shadow cast upon
her, resembling that of error and sin.

“If there be something looking like a stain now on
Christ's Church, His blood-bought Church, it will not
dim her beauty for ever. A time will come, though I
may never see it, when England will emerge from dark-
ness, and a pure scriptural worship be offered to God.
A time may come when Bibles in the mother tongue, at
least portions of them, may not be within reach only of



THE ECLIPSE. 53

the rich and mighty, but shed radiance on humble homes.
A time may come when oppressors shall cease to grind
down the poor, when Normans and Saxons may meet as
brethren, and there shall be one law, one justice for all.
Is it impossible that a descendant of our own glorious
Alfred may sit on his throne, to do justice and love
merey as he did?”

Such hopes seemed to give the weary clerk strength to
struggle once more on his way. It was no longer such a
dark one, though many troubles and doubts, like night-
clouds, hung over his earthly path. At length Alphege with
Joy saw the well-known gleam of the light in his home.
He would yet have strength to reach his door, and the
welcome there would repay him for all he had suffered.
The Saxon had not to wait for that welcome till he trod
the little path through his garden. Frediswed had been
for hours waiting at the gate, and when she caught a
glimpse of her husband’s form in the moonlight, she
darted forth with a cry of joy to meet him. It was no
slight shock to her, however, to see the plight in which
her Alphege returned ; he was pale even to his lips, his
hair in disorder, his vestments torn and stained with
blood, his step feeble, almost staggering, as that of
one who was sorely hurt.

“O Alphege, my beloved! what has happened 2” cried
the frightened wife, as her husband folded her in his
arms.

“A little rough work,” replied Alphege, speaking in



pee ee EMESD

cheerful tones to reassure her. - “I am well and happy,
now that I am with you. I trow that you have kept
something for a hungry man’s supper; no food has
passed my lips since yestereven, so I shall eat with a
relish now.”



CHAPTER VIL
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

“Wuat have you for me to take to Allen to-day?”
asked Alphege of his wife on the following day.

“Only a porringer of butter-milk,’ was Frediswed’s
reply. “But, Alphege, dearest, I am loath that you
should take it.”

“Why so, sweet heart? I shame me that I have
neglected a sick man so long. But Allen is not one of
my flock, and I thought that as he lives so close to the
monastery, it was the business of the monks to look
after the patient who holds land adjoining those of the
abbey.”

“The monks would never go near him,” said Fredis-
wed. “Do you not know that Allen was convicted,
after trial by ordeal, of firing the abbot’s corn-rick ?
Allen was very, very heavily mulcted; and though his
beeves were sold, he had not money enough to pay the
fine. So the abbot got all the poor man’s land; Allen
has not a hide of ground left, only the patch on which



56 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

his cottage stands. He and his family are almost
starved, and he was once a wealthy franklin.”

“The worse for him, I trow,” said Alphege gravely.
“The monks have always had an eye to his fat pastures
and lowing kine. I knew that a man had undergone
trial by ordeal on a charge of burning the abbot’s rick,
but I wist not that the crime was laid at Allen’s door.”

“O husband, is it wrong to think that Allen was not
guilty ?” said Frediswed, in a tone of hesitation, for it
was next to heresy to doubt the efficacy of an appeal
to the judgment of Heaven. “Allen seems to me like
one who would do no wrong to any being on earth.”

Alphege knitted his brows in gloomy thought. “ Per-
. haps he has suffered wrong,” he said slowly, rather as if
thinking aloud than as addressing himself to his wife..

“ Every one said that if Allen were innocent, the hand
which he had to plunge in boiling water would, after
three days, show no sign of hurt. All the prayers were
prayed; the monks invoked the Lord and all the saints
to guard innocence from harm and expose the guilty. to
shame. The poor scalded hand was carefully bandaged—”

“By whom?” asked Alphege abruptly.

“By the monks; it was their business. No one
opened the bandages for the three appointed days,
though Allen says that his hand burned as if in a flame ;
he could searce restrain himself from screaming aloud,
so great was the anguish. When, at the end of the
three days, the bandages were removed, the hand was



UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. By

found to be in a fearful state—so bad that it was thought
that nothing but cutting it off would save the sufferer’s
life. Poor Allen was preserved from that; but the use
of his right hand is lost—he will never grasp hatchet
again.”

The gloom on Alphege’s expressive features deepened.
“Foul play,” he muttered under his breath.

“Alphege, I have not dared to speak to any one,
scarce to allow myself to harbour such a thought,” said
Frediswed, sinking her voice to a whisper, and glancing
around to see that no listener but her husband was near ;
“but—but Allen says that he is sure that his hand was
potsoned |”

Alphege gave a slight start, and then, forgetful of
the porringer, with rapid strides hurried out of the
house.

“Qh, I would that I had not told him!” exclaimed
the anxious wife. “Alphege, wise, learned, good as
he is, can never set such wrong right. If he try to
do so, he will only bring down on himself the wrath of
the abbot, and be thought an unbeliever for questioning
the decision of Heaven !”

Alphege walked on rapidly, painful thoughts acting
on him as a spur. He never paused till he came near
the beautiful abbey, most picturesquely situated on a_
gentle rise, beneath which a winding stream flowed
through a verdant meadow bordered by trees arrayed in
the gorgeous hues of autumn. Fair and stately as was



58 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

the building consecrated to the service of God, Alphege
looked on it with no eye of satisfaction.

“Tf those walls could speak,” he murmured to himself,
“would they tell only of holy prayers rising from saintly
lips? I trow they would have a different tale to tell.”

An abrupt turn in the road brought the clerk in sight
of Allen’s dwelling, still at some little distance. Ere
Alphege reached it he came suddenly on the tall, gaunt
form of Hyppolyte the monk, who had been standing in
the shadow of a large tree, against whose trunk he was
leaning.

“T may learn something from him,” thought Alphege ;
“Codrie must know much of what passes in the monas-
tery to which he belongs.—Well met!” said the clerk
to his cousin, who looked somewhat startled at the un-
expected greeting. “Come you from the cottage of the
maimed franklin Allen ?”

“All the saints forfend!” cried the monk; “I never
go near him. Wot you not that Allen is under the
curse of the abbot, whose corn-rick he fired ?”

“How know ye that Allen fired the corn-rick ?” asked
the clerk.

“Have you not heard that there was a solemn appeal
to the judgment of Heaven?” Hyppolyte looked as
if he wished to escape from further questioning, but
Alphege laid his firm, strong arm on his cousin’s shoulder.

“ List to me, Codric, and answer. Were you present
at that trial by ordeal ?”



UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 59

“Of course—we were all present—to join in the
solemn prayers offered up,” said Hyppolyte, vainly try-
ing to get away. But Alphege did not relax his grasp.

“As you are a man and a Saxon, answer me, Codric
Batson. Have you any reason to think that the ordeal
was not conducted fairly, that the franklin was given no
chance of escape from condemnation?” Alphege’s keen
blue eyes were fixed on the monk’s sallow face, which
grew more cadaverous under that gaze, which Hyppolyte
made no attempt to meet. His evident confusion con-
firmed his cousin’s suspicions.

“Tf an innocent man has been cruelly wronged, have
you no courage to speak out?” asked Alphege.

“You forget—I have the vows upon me—I am
bound hand and foot,’ was Hyppolyte’s agitated reply.

“You were a man before you were a monk!” ex-
claimed Alphege ; “and your conscience—”

“My conscience is in the care of my superiors; I
have no right, no wish to think for myself!” cried
Hyppolyte, and with a sudden effort he wrenched himself
from the grasp of Alphege, and hurried towards the
monastery, which adjoined the abbey.

“Poor slave!” exclaimed the Saxon with pity not
unmingled with contempt; “his whole soul has been
cramped, his conscience seared till he knows not right
from wrong. And wrong has evidently been done; but
what can I do to clear an innocent man? Only one
thing—make an appeal to the righteous Anselm; ask



60 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

him to interpose his authority to command a fair trial
for the accused.” Alphege intuitively slackened his
pace as he realized the difficult and painful position into
which such an appeal must bring a married priest.
“The archbishop would hardly consent to see me; or if
he granted an interview, it would be to torture me by
‘urging me to act against my honour, my reason, my
conscience, the word of my God, by abandoning the
faithful wife who trusts and loves me. O my early
patron and friend, you whom I almost worshipped, I
now realize why our Lord forbade us to call any one on
earth our master or our father: no reverence for the
_ holiest of mortals must make us take his word for our
guide, his example for our model, in the place of that of
our blessed Redeemer’s.” ;
Alphege was too much engrossed with his thoughts
when he reached Allen’s half-ruined tenement to notice
that an ass, with a pillion on its back, was grazing out-
side. When the priest entered, with the customary
form of blessing, he observed that Allen’s three children
were seated on the floor, so eagerly engaged in eating
a large dumpling studded with plums that they did not
raise their heads to see who had come. Their father,
seated on a broken chair, looked pale and sickly, as if
he would never know health again. In a corner sat an
elderly woman of very diminutive size and peculiar
appearance. Her face, from which peered very small
but piercing black eyes, in its hue and with its wrinkles



UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 61

had something in resemblance to a wizened apple.
Her dress was unmistakably French. Alphege bowed
courteously to her—he was always courteous to women—
but he felt annoyed at the presence of a stranger, before
whom he must speak with restraint. There was a
curious half-smile on the woman’s lips as she responded
to the salutation, which did not prepossess the Saxon in »
her favour. “She looks like a French witch,” thought
Alphege ; “ what brings the old woman here? There is
nothing in this ruined home which even a Norman can
carry away.”

“This is Dame Elise, the widow of my brother,” said
Allen, introducing the stranger. “She waits on the
Lady Warrenne.”

Alphege knew the name as that of the wife of a
wealthy Norman noble, whose castle lay on the other
side of Basilton, beyond the limits of his own parish,
but not much more than a mile from his home. The
Warrennes were almost constantly in London, and spent
so little of their time on their Kentish estate that even
their own vassals scarcely knew them by sight. War-
renne had the character of an easy-going man, who, like
his lady, loved a life of luxurious ease. They oppressed
none, but helped none, and were little more than ciphers
as regarded the villeins who dwelt on their lands.

Allen’s children, having finished their feast, ran out
to play. Alphege heartily wished that Dame Elise
would follow them; but the old woman provokingly sat



62 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

still, watching the priest with her sharp little eyes, her
tiny hands folded demurely upon her knees,

Alphege gave some words of religious comfort, to
which Allen listened with respect, though with no great
attention. The clerk then spoke on other topics, pur-—
posely choosing such as, he thought, could in no wise
interest a woman. Still Dame Elise kept her seat, still
she watched Alphege with that half-smile which both
annoyed and perplexed him. “ Will the witch never
leave us alone together?” he said to himself; “I can-
not speak freely whilst she is here, and my time is
precious.”

At last, when the patience of Alphege was almost
exhausted, a sharp cry of pain from outside the house,
following the noise of a fall, told that some mishap had
occurred, lise, shrewdly conjecturing that the children
had been attempting to mount her donkey, rose, and,
still silent as a shadow, glided out of the room. Alphege
seized the opportunity of saying what he wished to
Allen.

“My friend,” began the clerk in an earnest but sub-
dued tone, watching the door lest Dame Elise should
suddenly return, “let me speak to you freely; I have
your interest at heart. You were accused—men said
that you were convicted, through trial by ordeal, of -
burning a rick of corn.”

“FT never burned it—never went near it—never so
much as thought of setting fire to the rick,” said the



UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 63

poor, maimed franklin, speaking in a manner that
carried conviction to his hearer that he was telling the
truth,

“And you suspect that the monks put something into
the bandage round your scalded hand which prevented
it from healing ?”

“I do not suspect—l know it,” was the irritable
reply, and Allen held up the injured member.

“Then in what way can I help you to obtain justice,
that justice which is every Englishman’s right?” said
Alphege. “If I should go to London, see the holy
primate Anselm, ask him to investigate the—”

Allen was too much alarmed and annoyed at the pro-
posal to suffer his visitor to finish the sentence. “ Never!”
he cried in excitement, “never! What could the arch-
bishop do but command a second trial by ordeal? more
torture for a poor wretch to endure! I have lost one
hand; would you deprive me of both?” Something of
anger mingled with the passionate appeal.

“I seek but to obtain justice for you, my poor
brother,” said Alphege mildly ; “I do not wish that you
and yours should always remain in this state of misery,
if any effort on my part could relieve you.”

Allen little guessed how great was the effort which
Alphege was ready to make for one with whom he had
never exchanged a word before.

“Leave us alone!” cried the sick man pettishly ;
“we are not without friends to help us. Dame Elise,



64 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

my worthy sister-in-law, has secured for me a good
place in Castle Warrenne. I am to take care of the
fine things there while my lord and lady are away, and
they are almost always away. My eldest boy will earn
groats by looking after the pigs. We shall fare well,
and have no one to trouble us. Sister Elise has been a
rare friend to me;” and Allen looked gratefully at the
little, dapper, wizened Frenchwoman, who, having
soothed the crying child, now re-entered the dwelling.
Still that half-smile was on her lips, but how differently
did Alphege regard it now! He was angry with him-
self for the ungenerous prejudice which he had enter-
tained towards one of whom he had known nothing,
except that she belonged to the conquering race. What
lack of charity, even of justice, had the Saxon shown!
Unable to apologize with his lips for what had been a
wrong only in thought, Alphege rose intuitively, and
going up to the little Frenchwoman, held out his hand
with the respectful courtesy which he felt to be her
due.

“ You have relieved my mind of a burden of anxiety,”
he said; “may the Master bless and reward you for
what you have done to help the oppressed !”

“TJ need no reward for what is a pleasure, Sir Priest,”
was the cheerful reply. “Yet am I going to ask a
favour of you. I hear that your wife is the kindest
and sweetest of women, and I want to judge of that for
myself. Castle Warrenne is not so very far from your



UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 65

home; could not Mistress Frediswed now and then walk
over and see us? If brother Allen were never to meet
his good friend again, he would think that he had done
ill in exchanging an angel for a wrinkled old woman
like me.”

Alphege, much gratified, readily made the promise. He
knew not of what importance its fulfilment might prove
to his wife,

The Saxon, bidding adieu to Elise and Allen, left the
place with a lighter heart, but reproaching himself still
for the prejudice which he had felt.

“Tt is no Christian conduct,” reflected the pastor,
“under the influence of blind passion, to mistake pearls
for pebbles, and so trample them under foot. Not every
Norman is an oppressor, nor does the hood of a monk
always cover a hypocrite’s head.”

or

(817)



CHAPTER VIIL
THE WEARY AT REST.

As Alphege neared his own dwelling, the sight of Jack-
son’s stalwart form at a little distance reminded him
that he had another wrong to right of even more cruel
nature than that sustained by Allen. Had not the
Saxon pledged his word to do all that lay in his power
to procure the release from his dungeon of the unfor-
tunate Offa ? ;

Jackson had caught sight of the priest, of whom he
was in quest, and came with hasty strides to meet him,
The peasant, as he drew near, looked at Alphege’s face,
which showed signs of the ill-usage which he had met
with at Fortlamort.

“You have been in the wars, Sir Clerk,” said the
villein. “TI trow those scars are as honourable as any
crusader can show.” Then, changing his tone, the
peasant abruptly said, “The wicked baron is dead!”

“TI know it; the news soon spread far and wide. The
abbey bell was being tolled half the night. The baron
is succeeded by his brother, who is much of the same



THE WEARV AT REST. 67

temper, I hear, and is not likely to empty the dungeons
soon, either from a sense of justice or of pity; but I
have not forgotten my promise to do all that I can to set
poor Offa free.”

“ Offa is free,” said Jackson sternly. “We found his
corpse this morning in a ditch. We could hardly tell
that it was his, he looked so changed—so_ starved!
Offa of the Fen was once the finest fellow in the Hun-
dred ; no one could plough so straight a furrow, or hurl
a stone so far as he,”

Alphege sighed in bitterness of spirit; he well re-
membered the man. “Where will you bury him?”
asked the priest; “in the graveyard beside the abbey ?”

“Never!” cried Jackson fiercely. “La Fleche’s car-
cass is to lie in the abbey; d’ye think Offa could rest
quiet in his grave if his murderer’s were so near? No,
no; we'll dig for him a quiet resting-place near a tree
at a cross-road, where birds sing and monks never
come.” Then the rough peasant added, in a softened
tone, “ But we’d be loath to bury Offa without a priest
to speak a blessing over his grave. We leave pomp to
the oppressor; but Offa of the Fen should not be buried
like a dog, though in life he was. treated worse than a
dog. Offa thought so much of you, Sir Clerk, and of
some words about his soul which you spoke to him at
that fair. Will you come and do the service at the
funeral of an honest man? No one else would, I wis;
but you are a secular and a Saxon,”



68 THE WEARV AT REST.

Alphege could not refuse the villein’s request. He
was thankful that poor Offa had treasured up the few
words from Scripture which the pastor had found op-
portunity of speaking to the winner of the prize. Maybe
they had been a light to the dying man in his dungeon.

“When will the burial take place?” asked Alphege.

“Two hours after sunset,” was the reply. “The moon
will give light enough, and we, Offa’s old companions,
will carry him to the grave ourselves: we're digging it
deep. I will be at the turn of the road to show you
the place.”

Jackson went off, refusing an invitation to rest at the
pastor’s house, and Alphege returned to his home.

Frediswed was distressed and alarmed when she heard
that her husband was to make another wearying jour-
ney to the neighbourhood of that dreaded Fortlamort.

“But yesterday you scarcely escaped from it with
your life,” exclaimed the anxious wife, “and you have
not recovered yet from the effects of that expedition.
Alphege, my Alphege, why should you go again ?”

“Because I have plighted my word to do so,” was the
quiet reply.

So, in the stillness of night, the ministering servant
of God stood by a lonely grave to pay the last tribute
of respect to a murdered man. The service was solemn
and impressive, though few were present, Offa’s family
having left the place after his cottage was burned down.
The moon looked down like a pure bright spirit; silver-



THE WEARY AT REST. 69

ing the leaves that rustled gently over the peasant’s
grave. Alphege did not restrict himself to Latin
prayers. He took the opportunity of giving a short
but earnest address in English, taking as his text the
words from Seripture which he had spoken to Offa:
Run the race which is set before you, looking wnto Jesus,
the author and finisher of your faith. Alphege dwelt
briefly on the Christian’s faith, the Christian’s hope, and
of that glorious coming day when God’s eternal justice
shall be shown forth in the presence of men and angels.

Alphege paid the penalty of his two nights’ visits to
Fortlamort in a slight attack of fever, which his vigor-
ous constitution soon threw off. He merely, as he said,
gave Hrediswed an opportunity of showing her skill in
making a posset.

The clerk did not forget his promise to Dame Elise,
and Frediswed found her way more than once to Castle
Warrerne, when a suitable escort could be found.
Frediswed returned delighted with the castle, its goodly
rooms, its surrounding woods, and above all was she
charmed with Dame Elise. The Saxon wife expatiated
- on the apt wit, ready kindness, and good humour of the
Norman widow—a kind of good fairy in Frediswed’s
eyes.

“Dame Elise is so clever with her fingers—so clever
in everything, except, of course, reading and writing!”
(In these accomplishments Frediswed had made such
progress under her husband’s tuition as might have done



70 THE WEARYV AT REST.

credit to an intelligent child of six years old in these
modern days.) “Dame Elise has taught me some secrets
in cooking, and others besides; in short,” added Fredis-
wed, laughing, “my good fairy has given me so many
wrinkles that I wonder that she has any left for herself !”

Alphege liked to listen to the playful talk of his wife,
but his own mind was much absorbed in thoughts of
the coming great council to be held at Michaelmas-tide.
Frediswed was also interested in this. She was full of
hope that the king and the archbishop between them
would set everything right. Good decrees would be
made. King Henry had promised at the beginning of
his reign that the laws of the pious Edward the Con-
fessor should again be observed in England. Then
surely there would be a reform in the abbeys ; good,
holy Anselm could never abide the evil manners of the
monks. There would also, Frediswed hoped, be some
restraint put on the lawless nobles, who played the part
of petty tyrants to all the country around them.

“We shall soon know all about the results of the
great council from the wise clerk Wolfstan,” observed.
Frediswed ; “though he be a Saxon, he has some office
about the court.” 5

“Wolfstan will, if possible, get a copy of the decrees
when they have been passed,” said Alphege.

“You will like to hear them,” observed his wife.
“But you look grave, my Alphege. The decrees are
not likely to affect us—are they ?”



THE WEARY AT REST. q1

The Saxon clerk gave no reply, and Frediswed was
too discreet to press the question, but went on with the
spinning in which she was engaged, but in which she
showed somewhat less than her usual skill.

“T do not know what has come over my yarn, it is
always breaking!” cried Frediswed. “There it goes
again! But I will be patient,” she added with a smile;
“happily there are some threads which no one can break,
let the wheel go round as it may !”



CHAPTER IX.
THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

MICHAELMAS arrived, and the momentous Council of
Westminster met, with a good deal of pomp and display.
As Basilton was but fifteen miles from London, and
Woltstan possessed a good horse, Alphege knew that he
should have early tidings of the result of the grand
synod of 1102 aD. Sympathizing with the anxiety
of Deacon Wilfred, an old friend of the family, whose
parish was more remote from London, Alphege had in-
vited him to stay in his parsonage till the decrees of
the council should be known. Alphege, however, half
repented of his proffered invitation when his clerical
guest arrived. The thin, anxious father of seven chil-
dren, the husband of a sickly wife, Wilfred could think
of nothing, talk of nothing but the danger of some
decree being passed against the married clergy. The
pastor of Basilton had hitherto, as far as possible,
shielded Frediswed from the full knowledge of the dan-
ger which lay before her—a danger which he hoped and
prayed might yet be averted. But poor clerk Wilfred,



LHE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 73

prematurely old with care, a man of bent figure and
furrowed brow, did not, and perhaps could not, show
any reticence on the subject which haunted him night
and day.

“The Master of the Grange was courting my lass,’
Wilfred bitterly observed on the day after the council
closed; “my wife and I thought that the eldest of our
seven would be well provided for, and a protector found
for the rest. But now the suitor is hanging back, and
he said lately, and in my girl’s presence too, about
priests’ marriages not being lawful! Poor Elgiva’s heart
is half broken. She has sent back the trinkets which
the master gave her; and my wife is so upset that, if
the bishops give us trouble, I think that it will be her
death. My poor dear has had worries enow already
bringing up her large family, with her own health so
weak, four children dead and seven alive, and scarce
enough from tithes and the Grange to keep the pot
a-boiling.. It will bring a curse on the land, it will, if
women such as my Mary are to be turned out of their
homes, and with the brand of disgrace upon them

Alphege saw Frediswed turn very pale, and made an

1?

attempt to turn the conversation.

“Wolfstan, the archdeacon, seems to be in King
Henry’s favour, and to have some influence with him.
Do you know, Wilfred, how he won his way ?”

“The archdeacon is an eloquent man, and did the
king good service amongst his English subjects when



74 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

the Norman barons wanted to seat Duke Robert upon
the throne. Wolfstan is a leading man, able to manage
any one but his wife, and she is shrewd and sharp.
The dame is not one to submit tamely either to insult
or wrong. She would face out, ay, and scold out, the
great archbishop himself.”

“Surely the holy Anselm would never countenance
either insult or wrong to a woman,” said Frediswed
with a quivering lip and eyes brimming with tears,
though she tried to hinder them from falling.

“Here comes Wolfstan at last!” exclaimed Alphege,
starting up from his seat; “I hear the hoofs of his
horse !”

“He comes, and doubtless brings with him the copy
of the decrees,” cried Wilfred, trembling with agitation.
“We will hear them at once.”

But they were not to be heard at once, however im-
patient the two Saxon clerks and Frediswed might be.
Wolfstan was a portly, well-fed man, and prided himself
on never being in a hurry. He must dismount, see his
horse led to the stable and fed, and must himself par-
take deliberately of a plentiful meal, before anything
could be got out of him by questioning, beyond, “ Pa-
tience! you shall hear all after supper; one thing at a
time.”

At last it was finished, that wearisome, as it seemed,
almost interminable meal. Wilfred had talked nerv-
ously, almost incessantly ; Wolfstan had hardly opened



THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 75

his mouth, except to fill it with food. When supper
was ended, and the lamp lighted, then the archdeacon
seated himself in the only chair which had arms, slowly
opened his leathern satchel, and drew out a roll of
parchment.

“© Alphege,” whispered Frediswed to her husband,
“may I not stay to hear it? I will not utter a word.
I will say nothing, only listen.”

Alphege gave a silent sign of assent; he felt that his
wife had a right to know all.

Deliberately unrolling the parchment, while his lis-
teners sat, as it were, on thorns, Wolfstan began reading
the Latin document aloud in a sonorous voice, translat-
ing it sentence by sentence as he went on, specially for
the benefit of Wilfred, who was not much of a scholar.
We will confine ourselves to the translation as given in
the history of the time, though of course even that was
couched in language which would be unintelligible in
our modern days.

“First canon. That bishops do not be at secular courts
of pleas; that they be apparelled not as laymen but as
befits religious persons ; and—”

“Never mind that first canon,” cried Wilfred im-
patiently ; “none of us here are bishops.”

“We cannot read the future,” said Wolfstan, sen-
tentiously ; but pitying the anxiety expressed in the
faces around him, he went on with his reading.

“ Second. That archdeaconries be not let out to farm.”



76 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

“Good!” said Alphege emphatically.

“Third. That archdeacons be deacons.”

Wolfstan paused before the fourth canon, and some-
thing in that ominous pause, and the little cough which
followed it, made the heart of Frediswed flutter like a
terrified bird.

“ Fourth. That no archdeacon, priest, deacon, or canon
marry a wife, or retain her if married !”

Wolfstan could not read on, such a bitter wail burst
from poor Wilfred beside him. “My wife’s knell!”
exclaimed the poor deacon, and he buried his thin face
in his trembling hands.

Alphege laid his hand on Frediswed’s arm, and mur-
mured in the words of Ruth, “The Lord do so to me,
and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”

The rest of the twenty-nine decrees were read, but
they appeared scarcely to be listened to, except that
Alphege smiled bitterly at the thirteenth, “That the
tonsure of clerks be visible.” It seemed like mockery
that such a trifle as the cutting of hair should engage
the attention of king, lay and spiritual lords. The roll
was ended. Wolfstan deliberately fastened it up and
replaced it in his satchel.

“One satisfactory bit of work was done by the coun-
cil,” he observed. “Six abbots were deposed for simony ”
(he gave their names, which we need not repeat) ; “ three
others, amongst them your fat abbot here, were dis-
graced for other offences.”



THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. Weal

“Yes; our archbishop does seek to do his duty by
the guilty,” observed Alphege. “Would that he would
spare the innocent,” he added with a sigh.

“My wife, my seven poor children!” groaned the
unhappy Wilfred.

“What course shall we take?” asked Alphege of
Wolfstan. “I for one will die rather than submit to
so infamous a decree.”

“T know it, for I know you and others like-minded,”
quoth the archdeacon, “men, ay, and women, who are
made of good English metal. I said as much to King
Henry last night.”

“You saw the king—you spoke with him—tell us
all,” cried Alphege eagerly, while Wilfred raised his
tear-stained face to listen.

“*Are you and your brother clerks going to give up
your wives?’ quoth the king. He was engaged in
eating lampreys, and seemed to give as much attention
to the fish as to the question which he asked.

“*No, an’t please you, said I; ‘they have not done
it, and they don’t mean to do it!

“The king laughed at the stoutness of my answer.
“You are prepared, then, to do battle with the primate,
armed as he is with the decrees.’

“«We look to your grace for help in the fight, quoth
I, whereat the king laughed louder still.

“«What if I take the matter into mine own hands,
said the Norman, pushing back his platter, for he had



78 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER

finished the fish, ‘I see a way of replenishing our
royal coffers out of the business. I'll inflict a good
heavy fine on priests wicked enough to keep their wives,
and see that no one but myself gives them trouble about
the matter.’ ” .

“Qh, preserve us from falling into the hands of a
Norman king!” cried Wilfred. “But how could even
Henry get fleece from a luckless sheep shorn to the
quick already? I’ve not a silver penny to give.”

“Td rather give my last penny than give up my
wife,” said Alphege, in a low, determined voice.

“The king will make us buy our dames as dear as
he can,” observed Wolfstan. “Luckily mine has a store
of jewels, and they shall go first,’ he added with a
philosophic smile.

“But will not the archaeon oppose the king? and
Anselm is not aman easy to grapple with, as Rufus
proved,” observed Alphege with a cloud of care on
his brow.

“Oh, Anselm is so fiercely engaged in fighting the
king on other ground,” said Wolfstan, laughing, “ that
he may let us poor clerks escape in the scrimmage.
There is a grand battle going on about the investiture
and consecration of bishops. The primate maintains
that the pall, the ring, and the staff can only be received
from Rome. Henry, on his part, is resolved that every
bishop in England shall be ‘a king’s man,’ as he calls it.
‘What has the Pope to do with my concerns?’ he cried



THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 79

in my hearing. ‘That which my predecessors enjoyed.
is mine; if any one take it away, he is my enemy. ‘I
desire to take nothing away,’ quoth Anselm; ‘but I
would rather lose my head than yield in this’ So
there the two go at it tooth and nail; we'll see who
proves to be the better man.” Wolfstan laughed again ;
but the other three had no heart for mirth.

“Tt is resolved,” continued Wolfstan, “that the arch-
bishop should himself go to Rome to consult the Pope
concerning this weighty matter.”

“May he-go soon, may he go soon,” cried Wilfred,
“and leave us poor clerks in peace.”

It did indeed appear that the evil day might be
postponed, at least if enough gold could be squeezed out
of the married clergy to satisfy the rapacity of their
royal protector, who cared little about their domestic
concerns save as a means of increasing his wealth.

Wolfstan and Wilfred remained in the parsonage for
the night, which was a sleepless one to Alphege and
his wife. Both were silently calculating how much
their heirlooms and the gifts received by Frediswed
at her bridal would bring, and how they could reduce
their daily expenditure without ceasing to help their
sick poor. Alphege decided on drinking water instead of
ale or mead, and having but two meat meals in the week.

In the morning Frediswed said to her husband, “ Poor
brother Wilfred is far worse off than we are—his wife
80 sick, so many mouths to feed, and his poor daughter



80 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

never likely to be mated, as the deacon told me last
night with tears in his eyes. Could we do nothing, my
Alphege, to help them? It would be.a work well pleasing
to God.”

“We shall be rather hard put to it ourselves,” was
Alphege’s ‘reply. “But do what you will, my sweet
one; no one is the poorer for what he lends to the
Lord.”

Armed with her husband’s permission, Frediswed
went forth into her garden, where Wilfred was: rest-
lessly pacing up and down the path with his hands be-
hind his back. Frediswed approached the deacon so
softly, and he was so absorbed in distressing thoughts,
that he did not hear her step, and started nervously
when he turned and saw her.

“Brother, I fear that I have disturbed you,” said
Frediswed gently, looking up with heart-felt pity into
the poor deacon’s face. “My husband and I have been
thinking that your wife being weak and your house
rather crowded, you might spare us one of your chil-
dren, to be brought up as if our own, though never
ceasing, of course, to be yours.”

Wilfred was so overcome by this unexpected kind-
ness that he burst into tears. It pained Frediswed’s
kindly heart to see him weep.

“Perhaps I made the proposal too abruptly,” she
said timidly—a father would not willingly part with
his child, even for a few years; but I thought that as



THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 81

your Elgiva is in trouble, a change might do her good,
or that perhaps one of your six boys might come and
learn under my husband, so as maybe in time to be-
come a clerk himself.”

“No son of mine will ever be a priest; no bishop
would consecrate him,” said Wilfred with extreme bitter-
ness. “My boys must turn cobblers, or till the soil and
earn scant bread by the sweat of their brows. As for
Elgiva, we cannot part with our only girl. My poor
wife is so ill that our daughter can in no wise be spared
from the house where soon, perhaps, there will be no
mother.” Wilfred paused, then with an effort went on.
“But we have a sickly little fellow, Edgar, rising twelve
years of age, who is weak, and needs better food than
we can give him. Edgar cannot eat our coarse bread ;
we see him wasting away before our eyes. If you could
give him a home, the lad might be spared to us yet.”

“We will welcome your sick laddie with all our
hearts,” cried Frediswed. “He will have a warmer
house here than in your more northern home, and I
hope that he will thrive on the good milk of my brin-
dled cow.”

Her kindness warmed the heart of the poor deacon.
A little comforted, or rather a little less despondent,
Wilfred, about an hour afterwards, set out on his home-
ward way. Frediswed had tied up a bundle of good
things to refresh Wilfred on the long journey which
poverty compelled him to make on foot. When the

(317) 6



82 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

traveller opened that bundle at mid-day, he found two
silver pieces neatly inserted in the cake which Fredis-
wed had made for her parting guest. ervently the
deacon blessed the kind hand that had put the coins
there, and earnestly he prayed that the pious pair who
so tenderly cared for the afflicted, might even in this
world receive a bounteous reward from the Giver of
good.



CHAPTER X.
A PATRIOTS APPEAL.

A FEW events which occurred in the next year, 1108
A.D., must be briefly recorded. That of most public
importance was Archbishop Anselm’s journey to Rome,
whither the crafty king had sent an envoy, one William
Warelwast, to oppose him. But all the envoy’s dexter-
ity did not suffice to make a Pope renounce his claim to
giving investitures in England, though Warelwast, as
is suspected, enforced his patron’s arguments by bribes,
too common a custom in Rome. Anselm, returning
triumphant, was in his homeward passage through
France informed by Henry’s envoy that unless the
archbishop would return as “the king’s man,” the
monarch would prefer his not coming at all. On re-
ceiving this unwelcome message, Anselm, as history in-
forms us, decided to remain at Lyons, which he did for
a year and a half, hoping that the Pope would take his ©
part and excommunicate King Henry. This is a sad
blemish on a life in which we see so much to admire.
It is grievous to behold a great and good man so in-



84 A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

toxicated by the cup of Rome’s sorceries as to be led to
desert a God-given post, desire evil to be wrought on
his king, leave a people to crime and misery, and appear
himself to be incapable at last of discerning between
right and wrong. The unscrupulous king, as might
have been expected, seized upon the estates of the see
of Canterbury in the primate’s absence, appointing as
receivers of the revenues two of the archbishop’s men,
Terrible disorders followed, and Anselm must be con-
sidered as partly responsible for the evils consequent on
his keeping away from the post of duty. .

A very commonplace event, yet to the Alpheges one
of great interest, occurred that same year in their quiet
home,—Frediswed had the delight of seeing a lovely
little babe in a rejoicing father’s arms. Blue-eyed,
golden-haired Winnie, an infant cherub in her parents’
eyes, was received as a direct gift from Heaven. She
seemed like a sign of God’s approval of her father’s
resolution never to break a holy bond which the Lord
Himself had made.

Edgar, Wilfred’s son, had “been for some time an
inmate of Alphege’s home. The delicate boy, under
Frediswed’s fostering care, had struggled through the
winter. The milder climate of Kent had done much for
the lad, with warm wraps made by Frediswed’s hands,
and the good milk of her brindled cow. When May
came, and the infant May-blossom with it, Edgar wel-
comed the babe with pleasure almost equal to that of



A PATRIOT'S APPEAL. 85

her parents. He was never weary of carrying the babe
in his now strong arms.

While the expenses of Alphege’s little household had
increased, his means of meeting them had sensibly
diminished. Henry the First did indeed make his
clergy pay dear for the privilege of keeping their wives.
A requisition had been received by Alphege early i in the
year which had startled him not a little. The sum de-
manded by his royal protector was far beyond the small
amount of money which, by rigid economy, the clerk had
managed to save. We will go back some months to
relate what occurred.

“Has anything happened to trouble my Alphege ?”
asked Frediswed, who came into the room just after the
King’s officer had departed.

Alphege did not wish to lay the burden of his cares
on his wife, or change to anxiety the bright cheerful-
ness with which she had entered the parlour. Instead
of replying to her question, he said, “So Dame Elise has
been here on her ass. I had hoped to have seen her ere
she left, but a far less welcome visitor engrossed all my
time and attention. What said the good dame to our
home? As this was her first visit, I suppose that you
showed her all that was to be seen.”

“Everything without and within,” replied Frediswed
gaily, “from the pans in the kitchen to the brindled cow
in the yard. What charmed the dame most was St.
Augustine’s cup; I could hardly persuade her to drink a



86 A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

little milk out of the silver bowl which the lips of the
first Archbishop of Canterbury had touched. ‘It is an
honour too great, she said, ‘for a wizened little body
_ like me, but one which I will remember all my days.
My Lord de Warrenne, added Elise, ‘quaffs his mead
from a silver bowl, but it has no value beyond that of
the metal. The earl would give ten times its weight in
silver for such an heirloom as yours,’ ”

“Would he?” said Alphege thoughtfully, a shadow of
care and perplexity crossing his face for a moment.

“Perhaps when I said that Dame Elise liked the cup
best of all our good things, I made a little mistake,”
observed Frediswed. “My visitor seemed most delighted
with my little golden reliquary holding a lock of the
hair of St. Anne. Dame Elise declared that the rich
countess herself, amongst all her jewels, has nothing so
pretty and rare. She said that she was sure that Lady
de Warrenne would gladly buy the reliquary, and give a
good round sum for it too.”

“What replied you to that?” asked Alphege.

“Oh, of course I laughed, and said that I did not
choose to sell the most precious thing given to me on
my wedding-day except one,” and Frediswed glanced
fondly at the plain gold ring on her ae placed there
by Alphege at her bridal.

The Saxon did not pursue the subject, but again and
again he recalled the words of Elise when the rapacious
contractor employed by King Henry to fleece his clerical



A PATRIOT'’S APPEAL. 87

subjects became more loud and threatening in his de-
mands. At last the state of affairs could no longer be
hidden. Alphege took down St. Augustine’s cup from
the place of honour which it had occupied in the family
home from generation to generation, and repressing every
sign of reluctance, gave it into the hands of his wife,
who was about to start to pay a visit to her kindly old
friend.

“Edgar is going with you to Castle Warrenne; he-
will carry this bowl, and we will see if your good fairy
can indeed change it for ten times its weight in silver.”

Frediswed looked startled and distressed. “You
would never part with your cup, the most precious thing
which you possess!” she exclaimed.

“T have something far more precious, with which I
never will part,” said Alphege, pressing a kiss on the
brow of his wife.

The truth flashed on Frediswed’s mind in a moment.
She had known of the last visit of the king’s purveyor,
and had more than guessed the nature of his errand,
recalling what Wolfstan had said.

“Tf your bowl go, so shall my little treasure,” ‘sighed
Frediswed, taking her reliquary from her bosom, for she
usually kept it hung round her neck. “But do you not
think that St. Anne might be angry,” she added with
the naiveté of a child, “if I sold her hair to the
countess ?”

“I think that the saint would forgive you,” replied



88 A PATRIOT’S APPEAL,

Alphege with a smile which had nothing of mirthful-
ness in it. “During eleven hundred years the relic had
doubtless been often sold, had passed through many
hands before it came to yours.”

And so the two most valued jewels in the parsonage
were parted with without a grumble, but certainly not
without pain. Elise skilfully managed the sale, and the
sum realized seemed more than enough to satisfy any
claims that could be made on the purse of the clerk.
The king was indeed satisfied, but not so the purveyor
for the king. Unfortunately this man had had a
glimpse of Frediswed milking her brindled cow, and had
resolved to make that cow his own. Resistance to ex-
tortion was vain; the decrees of the council hung over
the heads of married priests like a Damocles’s sword ;
they dared not refuse to give what was demanded, how-
ever unjust the claim. Edgar had to lead away the cow
to her new master, and most reluctantly he did so.

“TI can hardly grieve now that my poor dear mother
has been taken to a place where there are no tyrants
or extortioners to grind down the poor,” muttered the
indignant young Saxon.

To Alphege the bitterest thought was that the sacri-
fices made to avert present danger gave no assurance
of safety for the future. The family were still at the
mercy of a king who might be capricious, and of ecclesi-
asties who would regard persecution as a sign of superior
piety. Even if no open censure were to be met, there



A PATRIOT’S APPEAL. © 89

was contempt to be endured, the pillory of public opinion,
in which Alphege and his pure, faithful wife might be
exposed to the scorn of the unreasoning crowd, to be
pelted with coarse epithets and unseemly jests.

Who can measure the height of cruelty and the depth
of suffering comprehended in one clause of the scriptural
description of the great falling away, forbidding to
marry ?

Notwithstanding the trials which have been just de-
scribed, the first years that followed the birth of her
child were, on the whole, happy years to the Saxon
mother. Frediswed had little time for brooding over
the troubles prevailing throughout the land. Alphege,
though alike as a Christian and a patriot he was sorely
burdened, had always a bright look and word of cheer
for his wife. Frediswed knew little of what was
passing beyond her own small circle; the greatest dis-
tance to which she ever wandered, and that but rarely,
was Castle Warrenne. Alphege’s wife indeed some-
times wondered why Archbishop Anselm did not come
back, but she secretly scarcely wished him to do so.
She saw her darling child expand like a flower before
her eyes, gradually making those steps in progress which
so delight a proud mother: Winnie could first crawl,
then walk, then clamber up on her father’s knees; the
child could first lisp two or three sweet words, then
gradually learn to clasp her little hands together and
repeat an infant’s prayer. She could do all this before



go A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

Anselm returned to England, for his absence lasted three
years. At any time the primate could have returned if
he would have yielded on one disputed point—that of
the investiture of bishops by England’s king instead of by
the Pope of Rome. But Anselm would not yield; rather
would he remain idle at Lyons or Bec, whilst grievous
wolves were ravaging his flock, than make a compromise
with the king.

Alphege heard, with burning indignation, of the wide-
spread distress in poor parishes caused by the cruel
exactions of Henry. ‘Two hundred presbyters in their
albs and stoles appeared barefooted before the monarch
to implore his mercy. They were rudely repulsed by
the king.* In vain bishops, almost in despair, entreated
Anselm to return; always came the disappointing reply
that he was waiting for envoys from Rome. To English-
men like Alphege, who longed for freedom from a galling
yoke, the very name of Rome was becoming hateful.

Notwithstanding the efforts made by Alphege to guard
his Frediswed from the sufferings which he himself
endured, he was of too frank and she of too loving a
nature for her not to perceive that heavy anxieties were
weighing on the mind of her husband. Frediswed
marked silver threads prematurely mixing with his
auburn hair; she saw that, except when conversing with
herself or playing with his child, Alphege’s habitual ex-
pression had become one of deep thought and care. The

* A historical fact.



A PATRIOT’S APPEAL. 9x

wife felt that some sore trouble might be at hand, and
tried to strengthen her gentle heart to endure it by faith
and prayer. As time rolled on, the thought of the
decree of that dreadful council more and more haunted
Frediswed like a phantom, but she never spoke of it to
her husband or any one else.

One day Frediswed gently stole up to her husband
when he was engaged in writing. Golden-haired Winnie
was in her arms, the child’s dimpled chubby hands hold-
ing a daisy-chain, her first work of art, accomplished by
her mother’s aid and that of a crooked pin. Winnie, in
her baby heart, was as proud of her chain as Frediswed
was of the first yard of elaborate lace which Dame Elise
had taught her to make; the child was eager to slip the
daisies round her father’s neck with an unexpected kiss.
Winnie put the chain very softly over her father’s head,
and then startled him by the sudden energy of her em-
brace, given in baby fashion by moist rosy lips very
tightly pressed on his cheek.

“My darling! my little cherub!” cried Alphege,
taking the child into his arms; but he looked vexed at
seeing that his sudden movement had caused a blot of
ink to disfigure the parchment on which he was writing.
Parchment was expensive and not to be wasted; but
Alphege was penning something too important to be
marred by a blot. “I must write it over again,” said
the clerk.

“JT think that I could erase the blot,” observed his



92 A PATRIOT'S APPEAL.

wife. “Is the letter which you are penning, dearest, too
secret to be intrusted to my hands ?” :

“T do not see why my Frediswed should not read it,”
observed Alphege after a moment’s hesitation. He felt
a strong yearning to make his wife a partner in some
of his cares, as she always was in his pleasures, “I
am writing to the archbishop, now at Lyons, having an
opportunity of sending a letter, which does not often
occur. It has been laid on my heart to make an effort
to induce the primate to return to his see, where his
presence is needed more and more.”

“His coming might perhaps bring us:some trouble,”
observed Frediswed in a tone of hesitation.

“Nothing personal must weigh against the sufferings
of England,” said Alphege, who had deeply revolved the
subject. “I know that the persuasions of wiser and
better men than myself have failed; but God can use
the feeblest instrument, and—my revered patron loved
me once.”

Here the little one in her father’s arms asserted her
claim to notice. “Winnie loves 00, so—so big!” and
the small plump arms were stretched out to their widest
extent.

“I wish you to pray for me, Frediswed, my love,
that a blessing may go with this letter.”

“Moder pray, Winnie pray, Winnie say, ‘Pray God

299

bless fader,’” said the child, who was taught to repeat

her infant prayer in her native tongue,



A PATRIOT’S APPEAL. 93

“Yes, pray for father, my darling; he needs your
prayers,” cried Alphege, pressing his little one close and
closer to his breast, and almost covering her face with
passionate kisses.

This letter is matter of history, though the name of
the writer is not recorded in the “Student's History of
England.” As its substance has been preserved by the
Saxon Eadmer, we may believe that Anselm himself,
however resolved not to follow its advice, set some
value upon it. The letter being interesting, I will
transcribe what is written regarding it in the pages of
Canon Perry :-—

“A letter given by Eadmer reached him [Anselm]
from England, which described, in terms sufficient, one
would suppose, to move the firmness of the primate, the
miserable state of things in the English Church. The
writer declares that the point in dispute appeared to
every sane man in England to be nothing at all, but
rather a contrivance of the devil to vex the English
Church. Meantime the possessions of the Church were
being plundered, and the service of God neglected. The
clergy were given over to all iniquity...... Things were
worse than could be shown by writing. Men openly
said that this was all the archbishop’s fault, inasmuch
as he who could have done most to abate these evils
kept away for a mere nothing. The writer solemnly
appeals to the archbishop whether such proceedings
Were justifiable.”



94. A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

This was a bold, a very bold letter, especially as
penned by a poor Saxon clerk, and sent to a primate of
a lordly race, a man already almost canonized as a saint.
But Alphege regarded the work as one given to him by
God, and come what might, he could never regret having
penned that patriotic appeal.

“God could make an ass’s jawbone an effective
weapon,” thought Alphege, as he rose from his knees
after finishing his letter. “If the Lord speed my-
arrow, it matters little what becomes of the hand that
drew the string!”



CHAPTER XI.
THE LOST ONE FOUND.

“ SWEET HEART, you will spoil your eyes,” said Alphege
one evening; when he found his wife singing Winnie to
sleep, whilst herself bending over some piece of work
which required so much light that she had to sit very
close to the window to catch the last red gleam still
lingering in the sky where the sun had set. “I always
find you stitching away at the self-same strip of fine
linen, not wide enough to make a little coif for Winnie.
I marvel that you find time for such vain labour, with
the cooking, the mending, the garden, the chickens, all
the sick of the parish on your hands, Winnie to cherish,
and a troublesome husband’s every possible want to
supply, down to darning his old torn alb.”

“T intend to. leave off darning old albs, and to have
new ones instead,” replied Frediswed gaily.

“You will hardly make an alb or anything else out
of that finger’s breadth of linen on which you have
been engaged these two years at least,” observed
Alphege.



06 THE LOST ONE FOUND.

“Ig it not beautiful?” asked Frediswed, holding up
her work with a little pride, though there was hardly
enough light left for her husband to examine its
elaborate pattern.

“ Beautiful, no doubt, but not very useful, I fear,”
was the Saxon’s reply.

Then Frediswed’s innocent little secret came out.
She had learned from Dame Elise to make the exquisite
point-lace which was worn by grand ladies at festivals
and tournaments, and by bishops on days dedicated to
special saints. Frediswed was building grand hopes on
the difficult and laborious art which she had, with much
patience, acquired.

“Stitch by stitch the work grows,” said Frediswed ;
“see what a length I have finished!” and she opened the
roll of lace, which she had kept carefully covered up
from the dust. “ Would it not be funny if I should
manage to pull another brindled cow out of this tiny
roll ?”

Alphege smiled at what he thought the vain hopes
of his spouse; he did not wish to damp them. The
lace-making, though exceedingly tedious, had given
Frediswed pleasant occupation, and had often saved her
from fostering gloomy forebodings in regard to the
future, and from fretting over the hardships of the
present.

On the following morning Frediswed, with her child in
her arms, came to Edgar, who was weeding the garden.



THE LOST ONE FOUND. 97

“Will you come with me, Edgar,” she said, “to help
to carry my Winnie? Her little feet will not bear her
as far as Castle Warrenne, and I must go there to-day
to take my completed work to my good fairy-friend
Dame Elise. Oh, how often my eyes have ached over
it; methought the task would never be done!”

Edgar readily consented. He was a bright, kindly
lad, with a warm and grateful heart. It was a pleasure
to him to do anything for her whom he now always
called his mother.

The visit was accomplished. Dame Elise examined
the lace with her sharp, critical eyes, then with her
peculiar smile gave the verdict—*It will do.” Fredis-
wed returned towards home in high spirits, singing and
laughing to her child, and chatting gaily with Edgav.

The party had nearly reached the parsonage, when
Frediswed was startled by seeing something lying in a
ditch by the wayside which she at first took to be a
corpse, so ghastly it looked.

“O Edgar, some one has been murdered!” she ex-

‘claimed.

“The poor fellow is not dead—see, he moves!” ex-
claimed Edgar, putting down Winnie, and going up to
the spot.

An almost skeleton hand was feebly raised, and a
hollow voice came from under the reeds and rushes
which grew in the ditch. “Have mercy on me—for

the love of Heaven!”
(317) ae



98 THE LOST ONE FOUND.

Edgar sprang down into the almost dry ditch and
raised the sufferer’s head. The man was evidently in
almost a dying state.

“I will go and call peasants to carry the poor fellow,”
said Frediswed, “and bring him some water. When
he revives a little, the sick man must be taken to the
monastery ; the monks are bound by their vows to tend
the sick, and Brother Innocent, as I have heard, is a
skilful leech.”

“Not to the monastery—no!” exclaimed the man
with more energy than could have been expected from
his emaciated frame. “I have been there, and they have
turned me out, because I did not kiss the crucifix or
pray to the Madonna. The monks said that a cursed
heretic should not abide under their holy roof.”

“T should not like a heretic to bide under mine,”
thought the clerk’s wife; “and yet we cannot leave
this poor creature to die in a ditch. He will hardly
live till the morning. Christ wills that we care for the
poor.”

A peasant chancing to come that way, Frediswed
enlisted him to assist Edgar to support the sufferer’s
wasted form, she herself lending her aid, whilst Winnie
trotted beside her. The man was carried to the par-
sonage, and laid on the only bed which it now con-
tained. Edgar slept on straw, and on straw that night
the family would have to sleep. The Saxon wife was
following the example of the good Samaritan, for the



THE LOST ONE FOUND. 99

poor waif was not only a stranger, and possibly a here-
tic, but of a different race from her own. The man’s
complexion was darker than that of either Norman or
Saxon, more like that of an inhabitant of Italy or the
south of France. His clothes, now ragged and soiled,
had evidently been made after a different fashion than
that which prevailed in England in the time of
Henry the First.

Frediswed did what she could for the stranger, chafed
his cold feet, and gave him almost all the scanty supply
of milk in the house. The poor exhausted creature had
fallen asleep before Alphege came in from his village
round at sunset.

“God has sent to us a strange gift,” said Frediswed
to her husband, whom she met in the garden.

“Whatever God sends is welcome,” was the reply of
the clerk.

Frediswed explained in few words why she had
taken the stranger in. “Did I do right?” she asked
when her brief account was ended.

“Right, quite right,” replied Alphege, and entering
the house he went up to the bed on which the sufferer
lay.

“He will hardly survive the night,’ observed the
clerk after feeling the faint, fluttering pulse, and laying
his hand on the sick man’s brow, already damp with
the sweat of death.

“T hope that he will live long enough to repent and



Io0o THE LOST ONE FOUND.

be shriven,” said gentle Frediswed. “It were pity in-
deed if his soul were lost.”

“Frediswed, no soul is lost that trusts in the Lord
Jesus, and no soul is saved by any rite that a priest can
perform,” said Alphege. ae

This was not the first time that the Saxon had
uttered words that surprised and somewhat shocked
his wife. Frediswed felt that some change was going
on in her husband’s views which she did not perfectly
understand. Alphege must be right—he was always so
in her eyes; but Frediswed had a vague sense of un-
easiness in regard to some of his views. ‘Though him-
self an ordained priest, Alphege did not seem to think
much of the rites and ceremonies of Holy Church; he
even forgot to cross himself when passing a crucifix or
a saint’s image by the wayside.

Alphege watched by the sufferer till he awoke. The
stranger stared wildly around at first, then seemed
gradually to recover his senses. The first intelligible
words were, “Oh, that I could but see my father before
I die!”

“Where is your father? Shall I send for him?”
said the clerk.

“Beyond reach—beyond sea—far, far away at Tou-
louse!” gasped the sick man. “He cannot come—he
would be too late; but, after I am—dead, a letter might
reach him—to tell him that—that his prodigal died _
repentant—though he could not”—for some minutes



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“SOMETHING FOR CHRISTMAS”

T. NELSON & SONS

LONDON, EDINBURGH & NEW-YORK.
Hit TRON CHAIN
AND THE GOLDEN

BY

AL. 0. &.,

Author of ‘The Blacksmith of Boniface Lane,”
“Beyond the Black Waters,”

“Driven into Exile,”

&e.



T. NELSON AND SONS

London, Edinburgh, and New York



1893

III.
Iv.

VI.
VIL.
VIIl.
Ix,

XL
XIL
XIII,
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.

@ontents.

THE SAXON PRIEST,

. AN OLD ENGLISH HOME,

RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE,
THE SUDDEN CALL,

. THE CONFESSOR,

THE ECLIPSE,
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL,
THE WEARY AT REST,

THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER,
A PATRIOT’S APPEAL,

THE LOST ONE FOUND,

A LONELY GRAVE,

BABY’S BLUNDER,

SUNSHINE OVERCAST,
DARING THE WORST,

TRIED AND CONDEMNED,
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA,
A FADING FLOWER,

NEWS AT LAST,

PERILS BY THE WAY,

THE CAPTIVE,

ON THE WOOD-CART,

FOUND OUT,

ESCAPE FOR LIFE,



ii VRON CHAIN AND
THE GOLDEN.



CHAPTER I.
THE SAXON PRIEST.

“T TELL ye, Cousin Alphege, priest and learned clerk
though ye be, ye stand in no small danger of ecclesias-—
tical censures, and our abbot has his eye upon you.
Were not your mother and mine sisters, I should be
loath to be seen under your roof.”

So spake Hyppolyte (whilom Codric Batson), the lean
“brother” of Basilton Abbey. He stood wrapt in his
“monk’s shroud,” his waist girdled by a rope from
which a black crucifix hung suspended, and a tonsure
on a head which nature had made so bald that the
razor had hardly been needed. Hyppolyte was a
wasted, hollow-eyed man, who looked as if he had had
more than his fair share of the fastings and penances
for which the monastery to which he belonged was by
Io ‘THE SAXON PRIEST.

no means noted. The monk had about as much resem-
blance to his bright-eyed cousin asa salted herring has
to a fish cleaving its free way through the waters, ever
and anon in its vigorous life springing above them, its
scales flashing like silver in the sun. The elder man
belonged to what was called the regulars, attached to
some monastic-order; Alphege was one of those termed
the secular clergy, and held the position of what in
modern days we should call a village pastor. There
was a long-continued struggle in England between the
regulars and the seculars; a good many of the latter
were married men, whilst the former took vows of
celibacy, and usually resided in monasteries.

“What may my crimes and misdemeanours be?”
asked Alphege in a voice whose rich, cheerful tones
contrasted with the monotonous drawl of his cousin’s.
The clerk—as educated men were often called—was
seated on a bench engaged in mending a spinning-
wheel; his occupation engaged his hands and eyes, but
left his tongue free for conversation. As Alphege bent
over the wheel he occasionally gave a slight, quick toss
of his head, to prevent a rather profuse quantity of
auburn locks from falling over his eyes.

“Tn the first place,” said the monk, looking with
grave disapprobation at the offending locks, “you ‘have
let your hair so grow as to hide every vestige of the
tonsure.”

Alphege gave a low laugh. “I wot my hair is my
THE SAXON PRIEST. Ww

own,” he replied, “and I wear it to please—’ He did
not finish the sentence; for he could not add “myself”
in what was to him a matter of little importance, and
he did not choose to say “my wife” to one of the regu-
lars bound by vow to abstain from marriage. As late
as the year 1129 ecclesiastics were still, without perfect
success, trying to force parish priests to give up their
wedded wives. At the earlier period of which I write
the full fury of the storm which was to burst upon them
had not yet swept over England, to make desolate once
happy homes, but its distant mutterings were ever and
anon. heard.

“You neglect some of the other rules of Holy Church,”
continued the monk in the same monotonous drawl;
“you do not strictly exact tithes.”

“T have let off a few poor wretches who had nothing
wherewithal to pay them.”

“You do not sufficiently enforce penances—”

“T should like to inflict penances on some who now
get off scot-free!” exclaimed Alphege with a burst of
honest indignation. “I'd forbid all fasting by proxy;
no poor fellow earning his bread by the sweat of his
brow should be paid a penny to go without food, that
some fat sinner should feast with an easy conscience. I
should mightily enjoy seeing some abbots, who pamper
their flesh on what is wrung from their half-starved
villeins, fast upon stale oat-cake. I would give pen-
ances to such men as use God’s house for a place wherein
12 | THE SAXON PRIEST.

to crack jokes or quaff liquor in drunken bouts. I should
like,’ continued the Saxon, starting to his feet as he
warmed with his subject, “to enforce with rigour the
‘canons of Aelfric, Bishop of Ramsbury,* that priests are
not to get drunk, nor to wear arms, nor frequent
taverns, nor swear oaths. As for monasteries, you know
well—too well—what passes in many of them.”

“T have no eyes to see such things,” replied the
monk, looking down with affected humility; “I need
only to know what: belongs to my office. I am but an
ostiary, whose business is to attend to the church doors
and bells, the lowest of the seven orders; I give notice
of the wht-song [matins], the prime-song, the wndern-
song, the none, the even-song, and the compline. The
abbot also commands that the curfew be regularly
sounded, albeit no one now puts out his fire when he
hears it, as in the Conqueror’s days.”

“JT hate the very name of curfew!” exclaimed the
Saxon. “The light which Norman William sought to put
out was the pure light of gospel truth kindled by such
men as our glorious Alfred and venerable Bede. He
fain would have crushed out the spark of liberty in
English hearts; but he could not do it—no, not though
he wasted whole counties, and left hundreds—thousands
—tens of thousands of families to perish of hunger !”

“Tt is better not to speak of these matters,” quoth the
monk.

* See “ Student’s History of England,” page 126.
THE SAXON PRIEST. 13

«But, Codrie—”

“Call me not Codric; I am now Brother Hyppolyte,
called so after the blessed saint of that name,” said the
monk, crossing himself as he spoke.

“A Norman saint, I trow,” observed iptere: cali
would rather have my good Saxon name, that of a saint
and martyr too.”

“Archbishop Lanfranc (the saints give him peace!)
said that Alphege was no martyr, as he was slain by the
heathen Danes only for not paying a sum of money, not
for contending for the faith.”

This was too much for the naturally fiery spirit of
the “secular ” clerk, tempered as it was by genuine piety,
_ albeit piety not unmixed with the superstitions of the
age. “Archbishop Alphege died. because he was faithful
to his trust,” exclaimed the Saxon; “he died because
he would not redeem himself from insult and danger by
giving up to pagan robbers the offerings of the poor.
He was as much a martyr dying under the ox-bones
hurled at his head as was blessed St. Peter on his cross.
But Normans will see no merit in an Englishman; they
have dared to open the tombs of our saints, and to
scatter their bones! Normans have made themselves
the slaves of Rome ever since their William got a Pope
to hallow with his blessing that piratical invasion of our
once merry England, which has crushed a land of free-
men under his iron heel.”

“You must have a care how you speak, brother,” said
14 THE SAXON PRIEST.

Hyppolyte, raising his skinny finger with a warning
gesture, “or, clerk as you are, you may end your days
in one of the dungeon keeps of a Norman lord.”

“JT spake foolishly, and not with the meekness of one
who seeks to follow the steps of Him who bade us love
our enemies,” said Alphege penitently. “My temper is
like a fiery horse, and I have not yet learned as I ought
to curb it. May Heaven forgive me! I cannot yet forget
that my grandfather—and yours, Codric Batson—fell
by King Harold’s side on the red field of Hastings.”
Thus saying, the clerk resumed his seat, but not his
occupation.

There was a pause. A dark colour had risen on the
sunken cheek of the monk, a warmer flush on that of
his cousin.

Alphege was the first to break the silence. “Am I
accused of anything else, anything worse than being a
Saxon ?” he asked of the monk.’

“Yes, something much worse,” was the deep-toned
reply. “You have dared, in defiance of what Rome en-
joins, to take to yourself a wife.”

Alphege’s face cleared like the blue sky after a
storm. “Sit down beside me, brother,’ he said, “and
hear why I have chosen the golden chain of matrimony
instead of the iron chain of a foreign Pope.”

The monk slowly and demurely seated himself on the
bench beside his cousin.

“You know,’ pursued the Saxon, “that Frediswed
THE SAXON PRIEST. 15

and I loved each other from childhood; you know that
when you and I were boys together, I used to speak of
her as my little wife. Ours was the attachment of
years; we were as trees which, when saplings, had been
twined together, and so could not be torn apart. I be-
lieved, and Frediswed believed, that Heaven smiled on
our future union. When I became an acolyte under
our saintly Archbishop Anselm, and was destined for
the Church, then first a doubt arose in my mind. I
looked up to the prelate with intense reverence ; he was
to me as one inspired, and I knew that he regarded the
marriage of priests as almost, if not altogether, a sin.
Then all my peace of mind was gone. I had a terrible
struggle with myself. JI had honestly resolved to give
myself body and soul to the service of my Lord and
His Church, and it might be that Christ required the
sacrifice of all that I desired or loved upon earth. If
my Lord required the sacrifice, He would give me
strength to make it. For years I knew not one waking
hour of peace.”

“And what made you decide that no such sacrifice
was required?” asked the monk in a cold, hard tone.

“Hear me patiently, brother. I made a weary pil-
grimage to Rome—made it with bleeding feet, and an
almost broken heart. I would, I thought, strengthen
my faith by intercourse with holy men; I would see
for myself this hill of piety which dominated over the
earth, like the famous mountain Vesuvius, which I also
16 THE SAXON PRIEST.

visited, to behold its mysterious light. Even as that
mountain, so found I the Church of Rome. If a few
lurid flames gleamed from the summit, they were lost
sight of in such a dense cloud of noisome smoke as
created darkness in the day. I will not dwell on the
luxury, the pride, the presumption, ay, and crimes of
simony, and others yet more revolting, which hung like
a pall over what men call the chair of St. Peter. What
likeness could be traced by superstition itself between
the true-hearted, simple fisherman of Galilee and the
pampered tyrant who called himself his successor ?”

“ Alphege, this is rank blasphemy. JI dare not
listen!” cried Hyppolyte, rising.

“Sit down; I will leave this subject and come to the
point, the gist of the matter,’ said Alphege. “I lingered
many months in France on my return to England,
generally resting at monasteries on the way. . Under
the instruction of my revered patron, Anselm, I had be-
come pretty deeply read, and Latin was as familiar to
me as my own native tongue. I had a passionate love
for study, and a very fervent desire to find out all that
is written in Scripture concerning the marriage of priests.
I concluded that the practice must be sinful, as so holy
a man as my master condemned it.”

“Of course, of course,” chimed in the monk.

“ At one monastery: in France,” pursued Alphege, “I
found what was to me a priceless treasure, an illumin-

ated copy of the entire New Testament, of which pre-
(17)
THE SAXON PRIEST. | 17

viously I had seen but portions. By the favour of the
abbot I was permitted to examine and even make ex-
tracts from the precious manuscript. I cannot describe
to you, Codric Batson, the feverish eagerness with
which I searched the gospels and epistles through and
through ; still less can I tell of the intense joy which I
felt when, one dark midnight, by the light of a dull
lamp, I came upon words which have ever since made
life sunshine to me.”

“What words?” inquired the monk, who himself
always lived in a fog.

“T wrote them out, and much more besides; but I
know them by heart,’ replied Alphege. “Listen,
brother, to what an inspired apostle wrote. St. Paul
tells us that St. Peter himself was married.”

“That was when he was under the law,” said the
monk. “When St. Peter became a Christian he put
away his wife.” *

“False—false and slanderous!” exclaimed Alphege
eagerly. “Hear what is written in the Word of God
by St. Paul, in the ninth chapter of First Corinthians.
Have we not power to lead about a sister, a wife, as well
as the other apostles, and as the brethren of the Lord,
and as Cephas ?—that is Peter. It is evident that it was
common with the Lord’s apostles to take about with
them wedded wives, and St. Peter is specially mentioned

* This answer, betraying gross ignorance of Scripture, was actually given

by a Church dignitary.
(317) 2
18 ; THE SAXON PRIEST.

as one who did so. Think you that what was right in
him is sin in us? There are other passages in Scripture
from which we can prove—”

“Stay! I have heard too much already!” exclaimed
Hyppolyte, raising his thin hands to his ears. “I should
have a grievous penance if it were known that I had
listened to such profane talk!” Rising hastily, and
shaking his garment as if it had been polluted, the
monk hurried out of the house.
CHAPTER II.
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

ALPHEGE was not long left alone. There was soon the
sound of a rapid step, so light that perhaps no ear but
that of a fond husband would have heard it at all.
Frediswed entered hastily, as if frightened, a bright
colour on cheeks usually pale, and an uneasy, troubled
look in the soft dark eyes, whose habitual expression
was that of serene calm and loving trustfulness. Fred-
iswed went up straight to her husband, threw her arms
round his neck, and hid her face on his breast.

“My darling, has anything happened? why, you are
trembling!” said Alphege, drawing his wife still closer
to him.

Two bright drops fell on his fustian dress; but in
a few moments Frediswed lifted her head and looked
up at her husband, as if his presence, his protecting arms,
had already charmed trouble away.

Alphege made his wife sit very close beside him,
holding one of her small hands in his own.

“What is it that has frightened you, sweet heart?
20 “ AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

You came in looking like a startled fawn that hears the
hounds baying behind her.”

“JT will tell you all, Alphege—at least nearly all,”
said Frediswed ; “nothing frightens me much when you
are at my side. I went out to carry a dish of porridge
for sick Allen’s children, and some healing herbs for the
poor man himself. You know that the shortest cut is
by the abbey; there is a path across the fields.”

“T do not care for you to go that way alone,” said
Alphege gravely; “nor do I wish you to go near the
rookery of monks.”

“J will not do so again,” said Frediswed meekly; “I
only took the short path because I was in haste to get
back to prepare your meal. The sun had almost reached
his topmost height.”

“Did you meet any one?” asked the Saxon.

“Yes; on my return I met two monks near the stile.
They had hoods over their shaven heads, and were pass-
ing the beads of their rosaries through their fat fingers ;
but I wot that they were laughing rather than praying.
I tried to pass on the other side of the path, but they
stood right in my way, as if to stay me.”

Alphege clenched his teeth and grasped his wife’s
hand more tightly.

“Why doesn’t the pretty little woman come to con-
fession?’ said the elder of the two, and he actually
patted me on the cheek. I started back,—-the saints
forgive me the fierce anger that I felt!”
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. 27

“No forgiveness needed,’ muttered Alphege; “the
saints have more of that work to do in the cloisters.”

««Why don’t you come to confession ?’ said the other
monk,—he looked the worse of the two; ‘I promise you
an easy shrift, and added an oath.

““Why should I confess to you?’ I cried angrily
enough ; ‘I only confess to God and my husband. My
husband is a priest himself, and eke as learned a clerk
as any in the land’”” Frediswed again hid her blushing
face on Alphege’s breast as she continued her story :—
“O dearest, the two monks burst out laughing, and
said ;—but I cannot repeat even to you the shocking
wicked things that they said.”

“Tf I had been there with my oaken staff, belikes I
should have broken their shaven polls!” exclaimed the ~
indignant husband. “But staffs and staves are not
weapons which God’s servants should wield,” added Al-
phege, struggling to keep down the anger which boiled

in his breast. “What happened then?” he inquired.
“Oh, I made a dart towards the stile and crossed it—
I don’t exactly know how. I ran across the field; the
monks were too fat to overtake me. But I could not
bear for all this to happen again. Would it not be well
to complain to the abbot ?”

“The abbot!” cried Alphege somewhat fiercely ; “do
we ask the wolf to chide his cubs for worrying lambs ?
The Abbot of Basilton is—but I had better not say what
he is. God knows; God is the righteous Judge, to whom
22 ‘AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

we must commit our just cause. . He will not suffer the
innocent—the pure—to be oppressed for ever.”

“When I next go to Allen’s,” began Frediswed, but
her husband did not give her time to finish the sentence.

“You shall never go again; I will myself carry to the
sick man whatever you please to send him.”

“But you have so many sick to visit, so many serv-
ices to conduct.”

«Tt matters not; I must give more time to the work,”
said Alphege, gathering up his carpentering tools and
carrying them to a recess sunken in the thick wall. “I
must devote myself more entirely to my study, the care
of my flock, and my wife.” He put a fond emphasis on
the last word, and closed the conversation by impressing
a kiss on the fair brow of his English bride.

Frediswed hastened off to her cooking operations, and
whilst she is engaged in preparing a savoury stew for
her husband, we will take a brief glance, first at her, and
then at the home of which she is the sunshine.

Sweet and winsome is the face, slight and graceful
the form of her who is now stirring up the fagots to a
brighter blaze, the homeliness of her occupation by no
means detracting from a quiet matronly dignity which
sits well on the pastor's wife. One of the greatest of
attractions is unconsciousness of being attractive: Fredis-
wed’s perfect simplicity is one of the chief charms of her
who, to the guilelessness of a child, adds the thoughtful-
ness of a loving woman. Frediswed, by her winning
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. 23

ways, is one easily to win affection, and by her higher
qualities firmly to retain it. To love Frediswed once is
to love her always: gilding wears away with rubbing,
but that only brightens pure gold.

The Saxon dress which Frediswed wears, with its
‘folds, unmarred by flounce or trimming, descending to
her feet, is of simple material but almost statuesque
grace. When, as at this time, pursuing household occu-
pations, Frediswed throws aside the large linen veil or
mantle, resembling what daughters of India now wear,
which, when she goes out, with its soft folds completely
covers every part of the head but the face, and shrouds
the upper part of her person. Not a sparkle of jewel-
lery is seen, save the one little gold circlet on her finger,
the pledge of connubial love, a representative link of the
golden chain which binds her heart to her husband.

The clerk’s house is a substantial one, built principally
of solid oak. ‘True, there is no glass in the windows;
true, the fireplace is in the midst of the kitchen, and the
rafters above it are blackened by smoke; but still the tene-
ment is by no means destitute of such comforts as were
known to upper-class franklins in the days of Henry the
First. Of course there is no clock to tell the time, for
clocks have not been dreamt of; but there is a stand,
deftly carved by Alphege, to hold the candle from which
little metal balls drop at regular intervals, as the flame
round the wick reaches the threads by which they are care-
fully suspended. But the sun and the stars, heaven’s own
24 AN OLD ENGLISH HOME.

grand chronometers, are the usual measurers of time for
the parish priest and his wife, supplemented by the
crowing of cocks and the twitter of birds in the morning.

The furniture is heavy and mostly ancient, for Alphege
ig a scion of an old Saxon line, being a descendant of
Ethelbert, the first Christian king of Kent, who reigned
in the days of the Heptarchy. The massive silver bowl
on a shelf is a precious heirloom: it is a family tradition
that St. Augustine himself once drank mead out of that
cup. A curtain of rich tapestry hangs by the outer
door; it is drawn aside in warm weather, but is very
useful in winter to keep out the wind and cold. Some
skins are spread on the rushes that cover the floor; and
a pair of stag’s antlers adorn the wall, the spoils of a
quarry killed in the time of Edward the Confessor,
before forest laws were enacted. :

Beyond the open door we see a little garden, cultivated
by the clerk himself, and chiefly filled with vegetables,
and a few herbs used in medicine. There is, however,
a.portion kept for flowers; not the imported beauties
which now adorn our parterres, but the simple, old-
fashioned blooms which grew as freely in old England
in the days of Alfred as they do now in our fields.
Cowslips, orchis, and the lovely white flower called
wild onion, blue-bells, primroses, and violets adorn Fredis-
wed’s garden in spring. There is also a luxuriant vine
hanging gracefully over her porch and peeping in at
her glassless windows. In autumn, the season in which
AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. 25

my story opens, this vine shows some clusters, not such
as would figure on our tables now, nor perhaps equal in
sweetness the blackberries ripening on the outer hedge
which divides the garden from the road. At a little
distance a grove of trees, some of great age, with gnarled
roots and bossy stems, their foliage tinted here and
there with yellow or red, breaks on the horizon line, and
adds to the peaceful charm of an English home. A chorus
from winged songsters comes from those trees in spring.
No marauding Dane has ever brought devastation to
this quiet retreat ; even the Normans have not plundered
it, at which the neighbourhood marvels. Alphege the
priest leads such a life of active usefulness and practical
piety that he is regarded by the intruders themselves
with a kind of respect. Probably, however, the chief
cause of his immunity from annoyance is the well-known
fact that he has long been a favourite disciple of An-
selm, once the Abbot of Bec, who has now for more
than eight years held the very high position of Arch-
bishop of Canterbury and Primate of England.
CHAPTER III.
RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

Wate the bacon and vegetables were stewing in the
pot, and their savoury scent gave a foretaste of the
coming meal, Frediswed (keeping, however, an eye on
the fire) came and sat down at her husband’s feet, her
favourite position. Alphege laid aside the parchment
which he had been studying, and gave up the brief
time before the food should be ready to the enjoyment
of conversation with his wife.

“ You had just begun to tell me the story of our good
Archbishop Anselm and Rufus the king when you had
to go to vespers,” said Frediswed. “I have heard bits
of the story before; but I want one clear, unbroken
thread, such as I like to spin on my own wheel.”

“Tt is difficult for a village clerk to spin a clear
thread, there are so many breaks,” observed Alphege,
smiling. “But if Lubin come not for a mash for his
sick cow, nor poor old Edwy to complain of his dame’s
shrewd tongue, if none of the young villeins appear to
consult me about marriage, and no other interruption
RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 27

occur, mayhap I shall finish my story before the final
bubble and sputter announce that our stew is ready.”

“You must be more than ready for it,” said Fredis-
wed; “itis mid-day, and you have tasted nothing yet,
though you were up at cock-crow. In the morning
you were called off just as you were seated at the table ;
and as I knew not when you could return, I hurried
off to Allen’s, We are hours later than usual. I
thought that the franklin whose babe you baptized
would surely give a feast on such an occasion, and you
would certainly share it.”

“The man is a bit of a churl; or perhaps, poor fel-
low! the Normans have emptied his poultry-yard and
drained his cask of brown ale. As regards feasting, I
saw not a crust. I came back fasting, just as I went.
But such trifles are not worth a thought. To what
point in my story had I come yestereven ?”

“To the time when, after the death of Archbishop
Lanfranc (rest his soul !), the red Norman king, William,
refused for years to fill up the vacant see.”

“That he might himself plunder the Church of the
large revenues belonging to it,” said Alphege indignantly.
“Our Saxon Alfred would rather have died than have
committed so sacrilegious a deed.”

“ And you were beginning to tell me what our present
great and holy archbishop did,” said Frediswed.

“Archbishop Anselm held not that title then; he
was Abbot of Bee when first I knew him, and loved
28 RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

and honoured him as I never deemed that I could
love and honour a monk from the other side of the
Channel. It was he who came once and again to
our sorely oppressed England. We were groaning
under the exactions of the wicked Ralph Flambard, to
whose care King Rufus had made over the church and
lands of Canterbury, that he should squeeze out of them
gold, even if life-blood should follow. There was such
indignation in England at the rapine and profanity
which prevailed, that the nobles resolved to ask the
king’s leave to have prayers offered in all the churches
that God might incline his heart to fill up the see of
Canterbury. Anselm himself, at the ‘nobles’ earnest
request, drew up this singular petition.”

“Sinoular, indeed!” exclaimed Frediswed, smiling.
“T ghould like to have seen the face of the Red William
when he heard the petition read.”

“JT. did chance to see it,” said Alphege, reflecting the
gmile of his wife; “for young as I was, I was in at-
tendance on one who bore it. I shall not soon forget
that face reddened with anger up to the roots of the
fiery hair, or how Rufus showed his white fangs in a
mocking laugh as he gave his royal assent. ‘ The
Church may pray as much as it likes, he growled; ‘1
shall nevertheless do justas I please’ Some one present
—I wot not who—ventured to remind the king that
Anselm was a holy man, who loved nothing but God.
‘Except the Archbishoprie of Canterbury !’ eried the


RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 29

mocking Norman, who dared to impute a worldly motive
to the most saintly of men. ‘I do not think that
Anselm wishes the dignity? observed the old noble.
‘He would run to it dancing and clapping his hands,
cried the king; and then he added, with a blasphemous
oath, ‘Neither he nor any one else shall be archbishop
at this time except myself.” *

“O my Alphege, what a wicked and profane man this
king must have been!” exclaimed Frediswed. “ But the
tyrant had not his will?” -

“No; for Rufus was opposing the will of Him who
ruleth over the mighty of the earth, of Him who can
crush them like worms at His feet. Our just God heard
the groans and prayers of His people ; Rufus was smitten
with sore sickness, and a rumour spread through the
land that the spoiler of the Church was going to die.”

« And that he was repenting of the foul sins which
he had committed ?”

« Ay, when Rufus thought that death, like a thunder-
bolt from a wrathful God, was going to descend upon

him,” said the Saxon priest. “ Rufus wanted to confess
and be forgiven—he would fain make a clean breast ;
and as a bribe to Divine justice, he resolved to do what
good he could in his last hours to make up for a life
spent in sin. Prisoners were released from dungeons ;
Rufus promised to fill up vacant benefices ; Anselm him-
self should be raised to the see of Canterbury ;—what

* Hadmer.
30 RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

more could be done to appanse the righteous wrath of
Heaven ?”

«Was the holy Abbot of Bec glad, think you, to be
appointed to a place so high ?”

“No,” said Alphege with emphasis. “I was in at-
tendance on my patron when the king’s message came,
and can bear witness to the overpowering dismay with
which the good abbot shrank from the post of honour,
which was a true martyrdom to a man such as he.
The abbot was made archbishop almost by violence.
Hurried to the chamber of the sick king, Anselm had
the symbolic ring forced on his unwilling hand. He
foresaw that a conscientious primate must be engaged
in almost perpetual conflict with an unscrupulous king.
‘T am like an old ram yoked with a furious young
bull? was the pious prelate’s own description of his new
position.”

“The king, I know, recovered from his illness,”
Frediswed observed.

“Yes; he recovered to be again a scourge to the land,
recovered to plunge yet more deeply into sin, recovered
' to perish at last by a violent death which left him not
a minute’s space for a second repentance.”

“ And the holy Anselm still lives.”

“Heaven prolong his life!” cried Alphege with
fervour.

“© dearest, I should like so much, so very much, to
see him, to have his blessing, to receive the housel [sacra-


RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 31

ment] from his holy hand. Would it be impossible to
persuade your first patron and friend to stop at our
humble dwelling, which lies on his road from London
to Canterbury?” cried Frediswed eagerly, her face
brightening with happy excitement at the thought.
“Would the archbishop deign to cross our threshold ?
would he condescend to leave his golden footprints on
our floor, and drink out of St. Augustine’s cup?” she
added, glancing up at the silver bowl.

The beaming look of enthusiasm on the wife’s lovely
face was met by a grave, almost sad one on that of her
husband. Alphege pressed his lips together and looked
down. “TI could not ask the archbishop to stop here,”
he said, “even if there were a storm, and no other place
of shelter nigh.”

“Why? Surely holy Anselm is not proud?” Fredis-
wed exclaimed in surprise.

“It is not pride that would keep the archbishop
away from us,” said Alphege, suppressing a sigh.

“Then why?” Frediswed paused abruptly as a
painful thought crossed her innocent’ mind, and ob-
served in an altered tone, “Can it be that the good
archbishop does not approve of our marriage 2”

Alphege made a mute sign of assent.

“But that can soon be set right,” said Frediswed
cheerfully. “You have only to write to the archbishop
all that you have said to me; you are such’a good clerk
that you can make it all clear, You will tell him that
32 ‘RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

you can show warrant from Scripture that marriage is
honourable in all, which of course must include the
priests. You will tell him that apostles were married
men; that Christ Himself blessed the bridal feast,
and said that man and wife are one flesh. O darling,
you remember how miserable we both were for nearly
two years, when you thought that the safety of your
soul depended on our being severed for ever! You re-
member the agony of our parting, as we believed, never
to meet on this side of the grave! When you went to
Rome and left your poor Freddie behind, I should in
my blind wretchedness have gone into a convent, had not
my sick mother needed my care. Her long, long illness
was the means of preserving me for the happiness which
now I enjoy; it was God’s means—of that I feel cer-
tain—to save me from my foolish despair. When you
came back suddenly to claim me, when you told me
that God’s Word sanctioned our union, when my dear
mother on her deathbed joined our hands and said, like
old Simeon, ‘ Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace,
I felt my conscience at rest, so perfectly at rest, every
care, every scruple removed. Are you not satisfied, my
beloved husband, that our marriage was made in heaven,
that we are united only in the Lord 2”

“T am satisfied,” was Alphege’s calm reply.

“And the dear archbishop will be satisfied also, if
only you write and explain.”

Alphege gravely shook his head. He had written.


RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE. 33

he had explained, and had received such a reply as had
caused him acute pain, though no emotion of anger, nor
the least doubt as to the lawfulness of his marriage.

“ Do write,” pleaded the gentle wife, pressing her lips
on her husband’s hand, which she held within both her
own.

“My love, you know not our saintly archbishop.
Grand, pure as marble as his character is, in matters
such as these he is as cold, almost as hard. Anselm has
never known what it is to love as I love.”

Frediswed again kissed the hand which she clasped.
Her husband’s affection was the whole world to her.

Alphege wished to change a painful subject. “There
will be a grand council held at Michaelmas in St. Peter’s
Church, Westminster,” said he ; “the bishops, archbishops,
and abbots of the realm will be gathered together.
It is said that King Henry and his nobles will also
attend by our great prelate’s special desire, as one of
the great objects of the synod will be the correction of
morals.”

“T am sure that such a council must be much needed,”
observed. Frediswed, “ especially if there be many abbeys
like that of Basilton here. I am so glad that king,
barons, and holy bishops are to join together to bring
about a reform. We shall have happier times when we
have holier times in this dear land of England. Do
you not think, my Alphege, that the grand council will

prove a great blessing ?”
(17)

qo
34 RUFUS AND THE PRIMATE.

“I hope so, in some ways,” was the clerk’s grave and
guarded reply.

“But surely——’ Frediswed had no time to finish
her sentence, as the bubble and sputter of which Alphege
had spoken announced that, unless the good housewife
should hasten to the rescue, the savoury contents of the
stew-pot would soon be hissing on the fire.

“Your dinner is ready for you at last,” cried Fredis-
wed, lifting up the steaming vessel.

“And I am well pleased to break my long fast,”
observed Alphege, anticipating a pleasant meal, to be
shared by his wife, with the relish which is given by
hunger.


CHAPTER IV.
THE SUDDEN CALL.

THE deft hands of Frediswed had spread the table, and
her husband with a thankful heart had just pronounced
the benediction, when an interruption occurred. The
door was open, for the September air was mild and the
dwelling faced the sunny south. Suddenly, and with-
out ceremony, a Saxon peasant strode into the room.
He was a manly-looking fellow, with: broad shoulders,
gray eyes, and tawny hair. His head and.legs were
bare; he wore a kind of tunic girt with a leathern belt
a good deal the worse for wear. From the stranger’s
coarse dress it was at once seen that he belonged to the
class of churls or villeins-—husbandmen bound to the
soil that they tilled, “a condition above actual slavery,
though below freedom. The villeins were, in fact,
labourers whose wages were paid not in money, but in
a small holding.”* As these peasants were not allowed
to change their masters, under a cruel and rapacious one
their lot was hard; they were at the mercy of a tyrant,

* Thompson’s History.
36 i THE SUDDEN CALL.

Alphege did not know the man who had so uncere-
moniously entered his home; but he recognized him at
once as a fellow-countryman, and, as such, bidding him
welcome, asked him to sit down and share his meal.
But the villein remained standing, resting one of his
bony, sinewy hands on the oaken table.

“T come on an errand to you, Sir Clerk,” said the
stranger; “your offices are needed by the Baron La
Fleche of Fortlamort Castle.”

Alphege was surprised. The Norman baron was one
with whom he had never had any intercourse, nor did
he wish to have any. The clerk had often congratulated
himself that Fortlamort was good six miles away from
his village: could he have had his will, that distance
would have been increased to sixty.

“What is the baron’s hest ?” asked Alphege.

“The Baron La Fleche is in sore sickness, and like to
die,” said the peasant. “He bade me call a priest to
hear his confession, shrive him, housel him, and anoint
before the death-grapple come on.”

“There are many priests and monks who live nearer
to Fortlamort than I do,” observed Alphege, who was
by no means desirous to go on such an errand ‘to such
a place. “Why does not the baron send for one of
them ?”

“Tt is you, Sir Clerk, that must come, and no other,”
said the peasant with blunt decision, striking his hand
on the table to enforce his words. “I ween there are


:
2
:

THE SUDDEN CALL. 37

priests and monks by the score, but there is work to be
done at Fortlamort which needs a man like you. I wot
you do not know me—my name is Jackson; but I have
heard enough of you from Offa of the Fen to know of
what metal you are made.”

“ Offa, of the Fen—I remember him, a fine bold Saxon
who won a prize for stone-hurling at a fair held in the
last king’s reign. Is the tall yeoman living still 2”

“Mayhap he is, mayhap he isn’t,” replied Jackson,
evading giving a direct reply. “It is you as is wanted,
Sir Clerk ; and you must come quickly, lest the baron die
without shrift.” There was a peculiar expression on the
villein’s rough features as he uttered the last word which
aroused vague uneasiness in Frediswed’s mind.

Alphege rose from his seat at the table.

“O dearest, you must take your meal first,” cried
the wife.

“You forget I cannot give the housel but when fast-
ing,” was the priest’s reply. “Let this good fellow have
the food, whilst I go and bring from the church what is
needful for celebrating high mass.”

Frediswed obeyed, but she could not help heartily
Wishing that Jackson had come an hour later, or had
gone somewhere else. She showed the hospitality ex-
pected of a Saxon dame, and the villein took voraciously
the food which was set before him,

“Did the baron specially name my husband ?” Fred-
iswed inquired,
38 | THE SUDDEN CALL.

“ Mayhap he did, mayhap he didn’t,” was the peasant’s
evasive answer, as he emptied his wooden platter.

Within half-an-hour Alphege was on his way to Fort-
lamort, with Jackson striding at his side. The priest
was hungry, very hungry; he had the healthy appetite
of a vigorous man who has eaten nothing for nigh
twenty hours. A doubt crossed the mind of Alphege—
he tried to put it away as a sin—whether any command
in the Scriptures enjoined that the holy sacrament
should be taken fasting. Was it not enough that the
Roman Church commanded the custom, and that holy
saints had practised it? Alphege, intelligent as he was,
had become too much accustomed to the iron chain of
superstition to make, in such a matter, even an effort to
break it, as he was aware that some less scrupulous
members of his order frequently did.

Jackson did not seem disposed for conversation, and
his companion was too weary and hungry to care to
begin one. Alphege amused his own mind by thinking
how Frediswed would pass the hours of his absence.
He pictured her at her spinning, or at her sewing-class
for village girls, telling them stories from Holy Writ
while their nimble fingers plied the needle. Then, in
his mind’s eye, Alphege saw Frediswed watering the
flowers in her garden, feeding her chickens, scattering
grain to the pigeons which fluttered around her, or milk-
ing her brindled cow. It was still pleasanter to image
her sitting by the old blind woman who lived down the
THE SUDDEN CALL. 39

lane, and singing to cheer her in her lifelong darkness.
Even to think of gentle Frediswed was a refreshment
to her husband. Often had Alphege said to himself,
“My wife is my guardian angel; without her, what a

\?

savage, ill-tempered brute I should be Pride was not
the besetting sin of the Saxon clerk.

“And is it not so with others?” thought Alphege.
“The very best priests that I know—dear, good Wilfred
and clear-headed Wolfstan—are both of them married
men. Albeit the spouse of the latter be a somewhat
high-tempered dame, yet well doth she order her house
and show hospitality to many. Are not married clerks
humanized by having little children’s feet pattering
about the house? Are their lives not purified, elevated,
by their love for their virtuous wives? Why should
man presume to sever those whom God hath joined to-
gether? In such a matter as this I will be ruled by
neither prelate nor pope.”

More than half the distance between the parsonage
and the castle had been accomplished before Jackson
chose to break his dogged silence, and then he did so
abruptly :—

“Do you think it a priest’s business, Sir Clerk, to
send robbers, tyrants, and murderers to heaven by put-
ting a few drops of oil on their brows, or a bit of wafer

into their mouths ?”

“Speak more reverentially of holy things,” said the
priest.
40 - THE SUDDEN CALL.

“I crave your pardon,” said the peasant. “I ama
plain-spoken man, and maybe put the question too
roughly. Nevertheless I want an answer. Can shriv-
ing, and anointing, and that sort of thing, help a tyrant
and murderer to heaven ?”

“Of course there must be confession on the part of a
sinner before he can be shriven, and restitution also,”
quoth Alphege.

“Restitution, ay, restitution—giving back—righting

{?

the wronged!” cried Jackson eagerly. “That is just
what I hoped that you would say, and thunder into the
ears of that vile baron also. It was because I had
heard that you are a true-born Saxon, and a brave,
honest man, that I went to you instead of to any
shaven monk that might live nearer to a den of thieves.
You will insist on the dying ruffian doing all that can
be done now to repair the foul wrong wrought by him
on Offa of the Fen.” Jackson clenched his fist as he
spoke, and his swarthy, sunburned visage glowed with
fierce indignation. He could hardly bring out his words
distinctly.

“Had Offa of the Fen offended the Baron La Fleche?”
asked Alphege.

Both the Saxons stood still as they spoke.

“Offa had but sought to protect his daughter, his
own flesh and blood, as any Englishman—albeit only a
villein—would have done!” exclaimed Jackson. “He
knocked a proud Norman down, and laid him sprawling
THE SUDDEN CALL. 41

in the dust—that was all. The fellow got up again—
more the pity! For this Offa’s cottage was burned, his
wife and children turned out to starve, he himself
thrown into a dungeon, with no light and little food,
just enough to prolong his misery and satisfy a bad
man’s love of revenge.”

“ How long has Offa lain in prison?” asked Alphege,
the hot blood mounting to his cheek.

“ Months—eight —ten—more,” replied Jackson, count-
ing on his fingers. “Offa was seized, bound, lashed like
a dog, thrown into darkness, some weeks afore Yule-tide
last year.”

“He shall not remain there one day longer, if I can
help it!” cried Alphege. “I will not shrive the baron,
nor housel, nor anoint, until my poor injured brother be
free.”

Jackson caught hold of the priest’s hand and wrung
it. It was the peasant’s only way of expressing thanks,
for he could not speak.

Alphege strode on again over the wide heath which
spread before him. He was aware that he was entering
on a work of great difficulty and more than possible
danger, but from that he was not the man to shrink.
In silence and in prayer the Saxon walked on, till, at
some distance, on a wooded hill, were seen the tall
towers of a gloomy castle, one of those with which the
Norman conquerors had studded the land.

“There lies the oppressor in his keep, almost within
ae> : THE SUDDEN CALL.

sound of the groans of his victim in the dungeon below!”
cried Jackson, gloomily pointing to the stone pile.

The Saxon clerk had never before entered a castle ;
the very sight of one reminded him of tales of rapine
and wrong. To go forward was to Alphege something
like entering a wild beast’s den. But the priest ad-
vanced with steady resolution, onward and then up-
ward, when it came to ascending the steep, narrow path
which led up to the castle. Fortlamort was encircled
with a moat, but the bridge by which alone it could be
crossed had been let down, and the iron-studded port-
cullis which protected the entrance had been raised.
The warder stood at the door, expectant of the coming
priest, and many retainers of the baron thronged the
inner bailey, or enclosed court-yard, beyond which
towered the lofty keep. Moat, portcullis, and the
narrow loop-holes in the massive walls, all betokened a
fortified place, made to stand a siege; and most of the
retainers were more or less armed. Alphege, however,
passed in without hindrance, and the seneschal of
Fortlamort met him at the inner gate which admitted
into the keep.

“Thou hast tarried long, Sir Priest,” said the sene-
schal, eying the Saxon with .no glance of favour, for
the Norman had expected to see some sandalled, ton-
sured monk.

“Conduct me to the baron’s chamber,” said Alphege ;
“T hope that he is living still.”
THE SUDDEN CALL. 43

“ Ay, living ; though the leech says that his hours are
numbered. The baron, after quafiing a bowl of sack,
has fallen into a heavy sleep, from which he must on no
account be awakened. I will show you into a chamber,
where you can wait until he be ready to be shriven.”

With scant courtesy Alphege was guided to a small
almost unfurnished apartment. There he threw himself
on a settle, to prepare by prayer and meditation for
what he felt to be a severe ordeal before him. The
window, or rather open slit in the stone wall, which ad-
mitted but little light, was too high for the clerk to see
anything out of it except a strip of blue sky. This
strip gradually changed its colour, as weary hour after
hour rolled on, reddening with sunset glow, then darken-
ing into twilight gray. Alphege seemed like one shut
up in prison; never had he passed a more tedious time
than that in Fortlamort. At length, weary with fast-
ing, he fell into troubled, uneasy slumber, from which he
was suddenly and rudely awakened.
CHAPTER V.
THE CONFESSOR.

“ AROUSE ye, arouse ye, Sir Priest; the baron is awake,
he is calling for a confessor !”

Alphege sprang up at the call, and, guided by two
men, one of whom held a torch which threw a dull
gleam on the gray stone walls, he mounted a steep,
narrow, winding stair which led to the uppermost room -
in the tower. There, under a canopy, gaudy with scarlet
and heavy with gold, lay the dying Baron La Fleche.
The ashen hue on his bloated features, the convulsive
gasp which heaved his breast, the clutching of his hands
at the silken coverlet, all told that the death-struggle
could not be very long delayed.

“I must be alone with him,” said Alphege, waving
back the attendants who crowded the room. The torch
was stuck into a horn-shaped ornament on the wall,
silver cressets shed their light in the now almost empty
chamber, when the Saxon clerk, after closing the door,
returned to the baron’s side, and bent down his ear to
THE CONFESSOR. 45

catch the words, mingled with groans, which came from
the sufferer’s dying lips.

As Alphege listened his brow was knit with indigna-
tion, not at the sins avowed by La Fleche, but at the
puerility and insincerity of what a man of notoriously
wicked life would fain have passed off for a confession.

“I did—I did—eat—venison and boar’s head—in
Lent. I forgot to fast—on Fridays.”

“Nothing else?” asked the confessor sternly.

“T did not pay due reverence to holy relics—not even
to—a nail from St. Peter’s cross.”

The baron paused. Alphege bade him go on.

“I burned no candles before St. Veronica’s shrine.”
There was a longer pause than before. Was the dying
man’s conscience troubled by nothing worse than the
‘neglect of ceremonies and ordinances made by man,
when he had trampled, and was trampling still, on the
holy commandments of God ?

“Have you nothing more that lies heavy on your
soul—no innocent blood shed, no homes desolated and
burned? Is there at this moment no prisoner dying by
inches in a foul dungeon beneath us?” asked Alphege
sternly.

The baron’s bloodshot eyes rolled wildly; they told
of rage, but not of repentance.

“You must produce the foully-wronged Offa of the
Fen; you must set him free ere you die,” said the
Saxon. .
46 - THE CONFESSOR.

With a horrible oath far too blasphemous to tran-
scribe, the baron yelled out, “I will never set him free ;
he shall rot where he lies!” :

“Then I will never shrive -you, nor housel, nor give
you extreme unction. You: shall never be deceived by
me into thinking that a bold, impenitent sinner can
escape by any priestly rite from the dread punishment
of his guilt!” Alphege raised his hand as he spoke
with the calm dignity of.an’ Anselm reproving a royal
sinner. oe
The baron was filled with fury. With fingers that
trembled violently from weakness and rage, he seized
hold of a silver bell which lay on the pillow beside him,
and rang it so furiously. that a number of retainers
who were waiting outside rushed into the room.

“Seize the false priest—tie him hand and foot—fling
him over the battlements!” yelled the baron.

“We must have a care what we do,” said a squire
who was present; “this clerk has as patron the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury himself.”

These words saved Alphege from fatal violence, for
the powerful primate was dreaded almost as much as
King Henry himself. Yet Alphege felt the grasp of
rude hands; he was uncertain ‘as to the fate which his
honest rebuke might bring upon him, for he was sur-
rounded by wicked and lawless men accustomed to
deeds of blood. But at that moment the bugle hung at
the outer gate of the castle sounded loud and clear
THE CONFESSOR. Ay

from below. Startled at the clarion, some of the men
rushed to the window which commanded a view of the
gate,

“ Torches—many—hborne. by hooded monks—there’s
the Abbot of Basilton Abbey himself, just dismounted
from his mule!”

“Let the abbot be admitted at once—bring him
hither—quickly !” gasped La Fleche. “I will promise
—a thousand marks—double—treble—and lands—if
he will shrive me——save me from—”’

“Purgatorial fires,” said the seneschal, in a low,
hollow voice, completing the unfinished sentence.

“ As for that Saxon dog there—kick him out!” cried
the baron, glaring at Alphege.

The command was almost literally obeyed. With
insult, derision, even blows, Alphege the Saxon was
pushed down the narrow staircase. It was well that it
was narrow and winding, as that lessened the number
of those who could torment him at once. The clerk, by
what he had to endure, was reminded of the fate of the
martyr whose name he bore; but even the rude re-
tainers of La Fleche dared not lay murderous hands on
a priest, especially on one favoured by Anselm the
primate.

At the bottom of the staircase the clerk met the train
of monks, headed by the stout abbot himself, wearing
his richly - embroidered vestments. The consecrated
wafer, in a golden pix, was borne before him. At the
48 - THE CONFESSOR.

sight of it the lawless band of La Fleche fell on their
knees. Alphege could now pass out unnoticed by the
men within the castle, but not by a motley crowd
gathered in the bailey. The Saxon was not only
bruised in body, but more painfully wounded in spirit.
The baron’s vassals had known comparatively little of
what passed in the village of Basilton; but the abbot’s
attendants, who waited below, were ready enough to
fling insulting jests at the priest, and the woman—
some used a worse word—who was sharing his home.
Like a hunted creature, but not a timid one—rather. like
the stag that turns to face the yelping hounds—Alphege
quitted the castle of Fortlamort. The night, with its
deep shades and cooling air, brought some relief to one
whose powers, both physical and mental, had undergone.
a very severe strain.

Ere midnight the death-bell was heard from the
tower of Fortlamort. The bell was tolled only for
the proud baron, but two souls had passed on that night
to their last account—one from a tapestried chamber,
the other from the dungeon beneath ; one stained with
more sin than Dives, the other a greater sufferer than
Lazarus: each went to his own appointed place. The
poor prisoner’s skeleton-like corpse was thrown into
some ditch ; the baron’s pampered body was enclosed in
a coffin emblazoned with silver armorial bearings and
covered by a magnificent pall. After a while over the
baron’s grave was raised a grand marble monument, on
THE CONFESSOR. 49

which his name and titles were inscribed, with the ful-
some praises given to a benefactor of H oly Church.
Masses were said for the soul of La Fleche; they were
to be said till the day of doom, for such had been the
will of the terrified sinner who, on the brink of perdi-
tion, had grasped desperately at such hope as sacraments
and prayers for the dead could give. But what would
sacraments or masses, the sculptured stone or its lying
inscription, avail to revoke the sentence, The wages of
sin is death. The wicked shall be cast into hell?
Such honours paid to La Fleche, the Lord of Fortlamort,
were but as painting and gilding a ghastly skull.

(817) 4
CHAPTER VIL
THE ECLIPSE.

ALPHEGE, as he struggled along what seemed to be the
almost interminable miles between him and his home,
could at first hardly collect his thoughts; he felt be-
wildered as well as exhausted. Yet something was
haunting his soul—words ; he could hardly remember
by whom they had been spoken. These words were
about sending robbers and tyrants to heaven by putting
drops of oil on their brows, or a wafer into their
mouths.

“That abbot doubtless shrived and so deceived the
expiring wretch before him, and with wicked hands per-
formed the greatest miracle which—” So spake the
Saxon to himself, but he suddenly stopped in his walk;
a doubt, to him terrible indeed, had suddenly flashed on
his mind—a suspicion which, to a man nursed in super-
stition, appeared almost like the sin of heresy. Could
the doctrine of transubstantiation be itself a gigantic

lve, proceeding from Rome, that fountain-head of false-
THE ECLIPSE. 51

hood? Could the Evil One have dared to tamper even
with the holy sacraments ordained by Christ? It
would be necessary for the reader to have been himself
brought up in the darkness of medieval superstition to
comprehend the horror with which Alphege regarded the
doubt which had entered his soul, never to leave it again.
- Had the doctrine which gave such enormous power to
the priesthood any real warrant in Scripture? Alphege,
with racking brain, taxed his memory, well stored with
Bible truths, for confirmation of the dogma, but nothing
came to recollection but such texts as these: Christ was
ONCE offered to bear the sins of many (Heb. ix. 28) ;
We are sanctified through the offering of the body of
Jesus Christ ONCE FOR ALL (Heb. x. 10); Christ, being
raised from the dead, dieth no more...... jor in that He
died, He died unto sin once (Rom. vi. 10); By ONE
offering He hath PERFECTED FOR EVER them that are sanc-
tified (Heb. x. 14). Alphege could not recall one verse
on which the sacrifice of the mass could rest, though he
could remember decrees of Councils or fulminations of
Popes. The grand scriptural idea of one complete, full,
and perfect sacrifice for sin was summed up in the
Saviour’s triumphant dying cry, Jé is finished. The
doctrine of transubstantiation gives the lie to these
glorious words.

“But, O my Mother Church, dearer to my soul than
life, I cannot——will not—dare not believe that thou hast
wandered into deadly error!” exclaimed the priest, as
52 . L£HE ECLIPSE.

he gazed on the round bright orb of the moon which
had now risen in beauty. “I have thought thee pure
and bright, even as yon moon; I have loved to walk in
thy light, and to believe that thou art the chosen bride
of my Lord. Now—but what do I see 2—not a cloud
—no! The rim of the moon is becoming black, the
light is waning; it appears as if an unholy shadow,
growing wider and wider, were blotting out the heavenly
beauty! What is the evil cause?” |

Alphege stood motionless for several minutes, watch-
ing the slow progress of the first total eclipse that he
ever had seen. It is unnecessary to remind the reader
how much gross ignorance pervaded the minds of even
intelligent men in the dark ages regarding astronomical
phenomena. To Alphege the moon was chiefly dear as
a type of the Church, and as that type he regarded her
now. Foolish as it may appear, it was an actual relief
to the Saxon when the blackness of an unnatural night
gradually passed away, and he saw that the shadow was
not a part of the moon herself, but a shadow cast upon
her, resembling that of error and sin.

“If there be something looking like a stain now on
Christ's Church, His blood-bought Church, it will not
dim her beauty for ever. A time will come, though I
may never see it, when England will emerge from dark-
ness, and a pure scriptural worship be offered to God.
A time may come when Bibles in the mother tongue, at
least portions of them, may not be within reach only of
THE ECLIPSE. 53

the rich and mighty, but shed radiance on humble homes.
A time may come when oppressors shall cease to grind
down the poor, when Normans and Saxons may meet as
brethren, and there shall be one law, one justice for all.
Is it impossible that a descendant of our own glorious
Alfred may sit on his throne, to do justice and love
merey as he did?”

Such hopes seemed to give the weary clerk strength to
struggle once more on his way. It was no longer such a
dark one, though many troubles and doubts, like night-
clouds, hung over his earthly path. At length Alphege with
Joy saw the well-known gleam of the light in his home.
He would yet have strength to reach his door, and the
welcome there would repay him for all he had suffered.
The Saxon had not to wait for that welcome till he trod
the little path through his garden. Frediswed had been
for hours waiting at the gate, and when she caught a
glimpse of her husband’s form in the moonlight, she
darted forth with a cry of joy to meet him. It was no
slight shock to her, however, to see the plight in which
her Alphege returned ; he was pale even to his lips, his
hair in disorder, his vestments torn and stained with
blood, his step feeble, almost staggering, as that of
one who was sorely hurt.

“O Alphege, my beloved! what has happened 2” cried
the frightened wife, as her husband folded her in his
arms.

“A little rough work,” replied Alphege, speaking in
pee ee EMESD

cheerful tones to reassure her. - “I am well and happy,
now that I am with you. I trow that you have kept
something for a hungry man’s supper; no food has
passed my lips since yestereven, so I shall eat with a
relish now.”
CHAPTER VIL
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

“Wuat have you for me to take to Allen to-day?”
asked Alphege of his wife on the following day.

“Only a porringer of butter-milk,’ was Frediswed’s
reply. “But, Alphege, dearest, I am loath that you
should take it.”

“Why so, sweet heart? I shame me that I have
neglected a sick man so long. But Allen is not one of
my flock, and I thought that as he lives so close to the
monastery, it was the business of the monks to look
after the patient who holds land adjoining those of the
abbey.”

“The monks would never go near him,” said Fredis-
wed. “Do you not know that Allen was convicted,
after trial by ordeal, of firing the abbot’s corn-rick ?
Allen was very, very heavily mulcted; and though his
beeves were sold, he had not money enough to pay the
fine. So the abbot got all the poor man’s land; Allen
has not a hide of ground left, only the patch on which
56 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

his cottage stands. He and his family are almost
starved, and he was once a wealthy franklin.”

“The worse for him, I trow,” said Alphege gravely.
“The monks have always had an eye to his fat pastures
and lowing kine. I knew that a man had undergone
trial by ordeal on a charge of burning the abbot’s rick,
but I wist not that the crime was laid at Allen’s door.”

“O husband, is it wrong to think that Allen was not
guilty ?” said Frediswed, in a tone of hesitation, for it
was next to heresy to doubt the efficacy of an appeal
to the judgment of Heaven. “Allen seems to me like
one who would do no wrong to any being on earth.”

Alphege knitted his brows in gloomy thought. “ Per-
. haps he has suffered wrong,” he said slowly, rather as if
thinking aloud than as addressing himself to his wife..

“ Every one said that if Allen were innocent, the hand
which he had to plunge in boiling water would, after
three days, show no sign of hurt. All the prayers were
prayed; the monks invoked the Lord and all the saints
to guard innocence from harm and expose the guilty. to
shame. The poor scalded hand was carefully bandaged—”

“By whom?” asked Alphege abruptly.

“By the monks; it was their business. No one
opened the bandages for the three appointed days,
though Allen says that his hand burned as if in a flame ;
he could searce restrain himself from screaming aloud,
so great was the anguish. When, at the end of the
three days, the bandages were removed, the hand was
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. By

found to be in a fearful state—so bad that it was thought
that nothing but cutting it off would save the sufferer’s
life. Poor Allen was preserved from that; but the use
of his right hand is lost—he will never grasp hatchet
again.”

The gloom on Alphege’s expressive features deepened.
“Foul play,” he muttered under his breath.

“Alphege, I have not dared to speak to any one,
scarce to allow myself to harbour such a thought,” said
Frediswed, sinking her voice to a whisper, and glancing
around to see that no listener but her husband was near ;
“but—but Allen says that he is sure that his hand was
potsoned |”

Alphege gave a slight start, and then, forgetful of
the porringer, with rapid strides hurried out of the
house.

“Qh, I would that I had not told him!” exclaimed
the anxious wife. “Alphege, wise, learned, good as
he is, can never set such wrong right. If he try to
do so, he will only bring down on himself the wrath of
the abbot, and be thought an unbeliever for questioning
the decision of Heaven !”

Alphege walked on rapidly, painful thoughts acting
on him as a spur. He never paused till he came near
the beautiful abbey, most picturesquely situated on a_
gentle rise, beneath which a winding stream flowed
through a verdant meadow bordered by trees arrayed in
the gorgeous hues of autumn. Fair and stately as was
58 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

the building consecrated to the service of God, Alphege
looked on it with no eye of satisfaction.

“Tf those walls could speak,” he murmured to himself,
“would they tell only of holy prayers rising from saintly
lips? I trow they would have a different tale to tell.”

An abrupt turn in the road brought the clerk in sight
of Allen’s dwelling, still at some little distance. Ere
Alphege reached it he came suddenly on the tall, gaunt
form of Hyppolyte the monk, who had been standing in
the shadow of a large tree, against whose trunk he was
leaning.

“T may learn something from him,” thought Alphege ;
“Codrie must know much of what passes in the monas-
tery to which he belongs.—Well met!” said the clerk
to his cousin, who looked somewhat startled at the un-
expected greeting. “Come you from the cottage of the
maimed franklin Allen ?”

“All the saints forfend!” cried the monk; “I never
go near him. Wot you not that Allen is under the
curse of the abbot, whose corn-rick he fired ?”

“How know ye that Allen fired the corn-rick ?” asked
the clerk.

“Have you not heard that there was a solemn appeal
to the judgment of Heaven?” Hyppolyte looked as
if he wished to escape from further questioning, but
Alphege laid his firm, strong arm on his cousin’s shoulder.

“ List to me, Codric, and answer. Were you present
at that trial by ordeal ?”
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 59

“Of course—we were all present—to join in the
solemn prayers offered up,” said Hyppolyte, vainly try-
ing to get away. But Alphege did not relax his grasp.

“As you are a man and a Saxon, answer me, Codric
Batson. Have you any reason to think that the ordeal
was not conducted fairly, that the franklin was given no
chance of escape from condemnation?” Alphege’s keen
blue eyes were fixed on the monk’s sallow face, which
grew more cadaverous under that gaze, which Hyppolyte
made no attempt to meet. His evident confusion con-
firmed his cousin’s suspicions.

“Tf an innocent man has been cruelly wronged, have
you no courage to speak out?” asked Alphege.

“You forget—I have the vows upon me—I am
bound hand and foot,’ was Hyppolyte’s agitated reply.

“You were a man before you were a monk!” ex-
claimed Alphege ; “and your conscience—”

“My conscience is in the care of my superiors; I
have no right, no wish to think for myself!” cried
Hyppolyte, and with a sudden effort he wrenched himself
from the grasp of Alphege, and hurried towards the
monastery, which adjoined the abbey.

“Poor slave!” exclaimed the Saxon with pity not
unmingled with contempt; “his whole soul has been
cramped, his conscience seared till he knows not right
from wrong. And wrong has evidently been done; but
what can I do to clear an innocent man? Only one
thing—make an appeal to the righteous Anselm; ask
60 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

him to interpose his authority to command a fair trial
for the accused.” Alphege intuitively slackened his
pace as he realized the difficult and painful position into
which such an appeal must bring a married priest.
“The archbishop would hardly consent to see me; or if
he granted an interview, it would be to torture me by
‘urging me to act against my honour, my reason, my
conscience, the word of my God, by abandoning the
faithful wife who trusts and loves me. O my early
patron and friend, you whom I almost worshipped, I
now realize why our Lord forbade us to call any one on
earth our master or our father: no reverence for the
_ holiest of mortals must make us take his word for our
guide, his example for our model, in the place of that of
our blessed Redeemer’s.” ;
Alphege was too much engrossed with his thoughts
when he reached Allen’s half-ruined tenement to notice
that an ass, with a pillion on its back, was grazing out-
side. When the priest entered, with the customary
form of blessing, he observed that Allen’s three children
were seated on the floor, so eagerly engaged in eating
a large dumpling studded with plums that they did not
raise their heads to see who had come. Their father,
seated on a broken chair, looked pale and sickly, as if
he would never know health again. In a corner sat an
elderly woman of very diminutive size and peculiar
appearance. Her face, from which peered very small
but piercing black eyes, in its hue and with its wrinkles
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 61

had something in resemblance to a wizened apple.
Her dress was unmistakably French. Alphege bowed
courteously to her—he was always courteous to women—
but he felt annoyed at the presence of a stranger, before
whom he must speak with restraint. There was a
curious half-smile on the woman’s lips as she responded
to the salutation, which did not prepossess the Saxon in »
her favour. “She looks like a French witch,” thought
Alphege ; “ what brings the old woman here? There is
nothing in this ruined home which even a Norman can
carry away.”

“This is Dame Elise, the widow of my brother,” said
Allen, introducing the stranger. “She waits on the
Lady Warrenne.”

Alphege knew the name as that of the wife of a
wealthy Norman noble, whose castle lay on the other
side of Basilton, beyond the limits of his own parish,
but not much more than a mile from his home. The
Warrennes were almost constantly in London, and spent
so little of their time on their Kentish estate that even
their own vassals scarcely knew them by sight. War-
renne had the character of an easy-going man, who, like
his lady, loved a life of luxurious ease. They oppressed
none, but helped none, and were little more than ciphers
as regarded the villeins who dwelt on their lands.

Allen’s children, having finished their feast, ran out
to play. Alphege heartily wished that Dame Elise
would follow them; but the old woman provokingly sat
62 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

still, watching the priest with her sharp little eyes, her
tiny hands folded demurely upon her knees,

Alphege gave some words of religious comfort, to
which Allen listened with respect, though with no great
attention. The clerk then spoke on other topics, pur-—
posely choosing such as, he thought, could in no wise
interest a woman. Still Dame Elise kept her seat, still
she watched Alphege with that half-smile which both
annoyed and perplexed him. “ Will the witch never
leave us alone together?” he said to himself; “I can-
not speak freely whilst she is here, and my time is
precious.”

At last, when the patience of Alphege was almost
exhausted, a sharp cry of pain from outside the house,
following the noise of a fall, told that some mishap had
occurred, lise, shrewdly conjecturing that the children
had been attempting to mount her donkey, rose, and,
still silent as a shadow, glided out of the room. Alphege
seized the opportunity of saying what he wished to
Allen.

“My friend,” began the clerk in an earnest but sub-
dued tone, watching the door lest Dame Elise should
suddenly return, “let me speak to you freely; I have
your interest at heart. You were accused—men said
that you were convicted, through trial by ordeal, of -
burning a rick of corn.”

“FT never burned it—never went near it—never so
much as thought of setting fire to the rick,” said the
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 63

poor, maimed franklin, speaking in a manner that
carried conviction to his hearer that he was telling the
truth,

“And you suspect that the monks put something into
the bandage round your scalded hand which prevented
it from healing ?”

“I do not suspect—l know it,” was the irritable
reply, and Allen held up the injured member.

“Then in what way can I help you to obtain justice,
that justice which is every Englishman’s right?” said
Alphege. “If I should go to London, see the holy
primate Anselm, ask him to investigate the—”

Allen was too much alarmed and annoyed at the pro-
posal to suffer his visitor to finish the sentence. “ Never!”
he cried in excitement, “never! What could the arch-
bishop do but command a second trial by ordeal? more
torture for a poor wretch to endure! I have lost one
hand; would you deprive me of both?” Something of
anger mingled with the passionate appeal.

“I seek but to obtain justice for you, my poor
brother,” said Alphege mildly ; “I do not wish that you
and yours should always remain in this state of misery,
if any effort on my part could relieve you.”

Allen little guessed how great was the effort which
Alphege was ready to make for one with whom he had
never exchanged a word before.

“Leave us alone!” cried the sick man pettishly ;
“we are not without friends to help us. Dame Elise,
64 UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL.

my worthy sister-in-law, has secured for me a good
place in Castle Warrenne. I am to take care of the
fine things there while my lord and lady are away, and
they are almost always away. My eldest boy will earn
groats by looking after the pigs. We shall fare well,
and have no one to trouble us. Sister Elise has been a
rare friend to me;” and Allen looked gratefully at the
little, dapper, wizened Frenchwoman, who, having
soothed the crying child, now re-entered the dwelling.
Still that half-smile was on her lips, but how differently
did Alphege regard it now! He was angry with him-
self for the ungenerous prejudice which he had enter-
tained towards one of whom he had known nothing,
except that she belonged to the conquering race. What
lack of charity, even of justice, had the Saxon shown!
Unable to apologize with his lips for what had been a
wrong only in thought, Alphege rose intuitively, and
going up to the little Frenchwoman, held out his hand
with the respectful courtesy which he felt to be her
due.

“ You have relieved my mind of a burden of anxiety,”
he said; “may the Master bless and reward you for
what you have done to help the oppressed !”

“TJ need no reward for what is a pleasure, Sir Priest,”
was the cheerful reply. “Yet am I going to ask a
favour of you. I hear that your wife is the kindest
and sweetest of women, and I want to judge of that for
myself. Castle Warrenne is not so very far from your
UNDERGOING THE ORDEAL. 65

home; could not Mistress Frediswed now and then walk
over and see us? If brother Allen were never to meet
his good friend again, he would think that he had done
ill in exchanging an angel for a wrinkled old woman
like me.”

Alphege, much gratified, readily made the promise. He
knew not of what importance its fulfilment might prove
to his wife,

The Saxon, bidding adieu to Elise and Allen, left the
place with a lighter heart, but reproaching himself still
for the prejudice which he had felt.

“Tt is no Christian conduct,” reflected the pastor,
“under the influence of blind passion, to mistake pearls
for pebbles, and so trample them under foot. Not every
Norman is an oppressor, nor does the hood of a monk
always cover a hypocrite’s head.”

or

(817)
CHAPTER VIIL
THE WEARY AT REST.

As Alphege neared his own dwelling, the sight of Jack-
son’s stalwart form at a little distance reminded him
that he had another wrong to right of even more cruel
nature than that sustained by Allen. Had not the
Saxon pledged his word to do all that lay in his power
to procure the release from his dungeon of the unfor-
tunate Offa ? ;

Jackson had caught sight of the priest, of whom he
was in quest, and came with hasty strides to meet him,
The peasant, as he drew near, looked at Alphege’s face,
which showed signs of the ill-usage which he had met
with at Fortlamort.

“You have been in the wars, Sir Clerk,” said the
villein. “TI trow those scars are as honourable as any
crusader can show.” Then, changing his tone, the
peasant abruptly said, “The wicked baron is dead!”

“TI know it; the news soon spread far and wide. The
abbey bell was being tolled half the night. The baron
is succeeded by his brother, who is much of the same
THE WEARV AT REST. 67

temper, I hear, and is not likely to empty the dungeons
soon, either from a sense of justice or of pity; but I
have not forgotten my promise to do all that I can to set
poor Offa free.”

“ Offa is free,” said Jackson sternly. “We found his
corpse this morning in a ditch. We could hardly tell
that it was his, he looked so changed—so_ starved!
Offa of the Fen was once the finest fellow in the Hun-
dred ; no one could plough so straight a furrow, or hurl
a stone so far as he,”

Alphege sighed in bitterness of spirit; he well re-
membered the man. “Where will you bury him?”
asked the priest; “in the graveyard beside the abbey ?”

“Never!” cried Jackson fiercely. “La Fleche’s car-
cass is to lie in the abbey; d’ye think Offa could rest
quiet in his grave if his murderer’s were so near? No,
no; we'll dig for him a quiet resting-place near a tree
at a cross-road, where birds sing and monks never
come.” Then the rough peasant added, in a softened
tone, “ But we’d be loath to bury Offa without a priest
to speak a blessing over his grave. We leave pomp to
the oppressor; but Offa of the Fen should not be buried
like a dog, though in life he was. treated worse than a
dog. Offa thought so much of you, Sir Clerk, and of
some words about his soul which you spoke to him at
that fair. Will you come and do the service at the
funeral of an honest man? No one else would, I wis;
but you are a secular and a Saxon,”
68 THE WEARV AT REST.

Alphege could not refuse the villein’s request. He
was thankful that poor Offa had treasured up the few
words from Scripture which the pastor had found op-
portunity of speaking to the winner of the prize. Maybe
they had been a light to the dying man in his dungeon.

“When will the burial take place?” asked Alphege.

“Two hours after sunset,” was the reply. “The moon
will give light enough, and we, Offa’s old companions,
will carry him to the grave ourselves: we're digging it
deep. I will be at the turn of the road to show you
the place.”

Jackson went off, refusing an invitation to rest at the
pastor’s house, and Alphege returned to his home.

Frediswed was distressed and alarmed when she heard
that her husband was to make another wearying jour-
ney to the neighbourhood of that dreaded Fortlamort.

“But yesterday you scarcely escaped from it with
your life,” exclaimed the anxious wife, “and you have
not recovered yet from the effects of that expedition.
Alphege, my Alphege, why should you go again ?”

“Because I have plighted my word to do so,” was the
quiet reply.

So, in the stillness of night, the ministering servant
of God stood by a lonely grave to pay the last tribute
of respect to a murdered man. The service was solemn
and impressive, though few were present, Offa’s family
having left the place after his cottage was burned down.
The moon looked down like a pure bright spirit; silver-
THE WEARY AT REST. 69

ing the leaves that rustled gently over the peasant’s
grave. Alphege did not restrict himself to Latin
prayers. He took the opportunity of giving a short
but earnest address in English, taking as his text the
words from Seripture which he had spoken to Offa:
Run the race which is set before you, looking wnto Jesus,
the author and finisher of your faith. Alphege dwelt
briefly on the Christian’s faith, the Christian’s hope, and
of that glorious coming day when God’s eternal justice
shall be shown forth in the presence of men and angels.

Alphege paid the penalty of his two nights’ visits to
Fortlamort in a slight attack of fever, which his vigor-
ous constitution soon threw off. He merely, as he said,
gave Hrediswed an opportunity of showing her skill in
making a posset.

The clerk did not forget his promise to Dame Elise,
and Frediswed found her way more than once to Castle
Warrerne, when a suitable escort could be found.
Frediswed returned delighted with the castle, its goodly
rooms, its surrounding woods, and above all was she
charmed with Dame Elise. The Saxon wife expatiated
- on the apt wit, ready kindness, and good humour of the
Norman widow—a kind of good fairy in Frediswed’s
eyes.

“Dame Elise is so clever with her fingers—so clever
in everything, except, of course, reading and writing!”
(In these accomplishments Frediswed had made such
progress under her husband’s tuition as might have done
70 THE WEARYV AT REST.

credit to an intelligent child of six years old in these
modern days.) “Dame Elise has taught me some secrets
in cooking, and others besides; in short,” added Fredis-
wed, laughing, “my good fairy has given me so many
wrinkles that I wonder that she has any left for herself !”

Alphege liked to listen to the playful talk of his wife,
but his own mind was much absorbed in thoughts of
the coming great council to be held at Michaelmas-tide.
Frediswed was also interested in this. She was full of
hope that the king and the archbishop between them
would set everything right. Good decrees would be
made. King Henry had promised at the beginning of
his reign that the laws of the pious Edward the Con-
fessor should again be observed in England. Then
surely there would be a reform in the abbeys ; good,
holy Anselm could never abide the evil manners of the
monks. There would also, Frediswed hoped, be some
restraint put on the lawless nobles, who played the part
of petty tyrants to all the country around them.

“We shall soon know all about the results of the
great council from the wise clerk Wolfstan,” observed.
Frediswed ; “though he be a Saxon, he has some office
about the court.” 5

“Wolfstan will, if possible, get a copy of the decrees
when they have been passed,” said Alphege.

“You will like to hear them,” observed his wife.
“But you look grave, my Alphege. The decrees are
not likely to affect us—are they ?”
THE WEARY AT REST. q1

The Saxon clerk gave no reply, and Frediswed was
too discreet to press the question, but went on with the
spinning in which she was engaged, but in which she
showed somewhat less than her usual skill.

“T do not know what has come over my yarn, it is
always breaking!” cried Frediswed. “There it goes
again! But I will be patient,” she added with a smile;
“happily there are some threads which no one can break,
let the wheel go round as it may !”
CHAPTER IX.
THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

MICHAELMAS arrived, and the momentous Council of
Westminster met, with a good deal of pomp and display.
As Basilton was but fifteen miles from London, and
Woltstan possessed a good horse, Alphege knew that he
should have early tidings of the result of the grand
synod of 1102 aD. Sympathizing with the anxiety
of Deacon Wilfred, an old friend of the family, whose
parish was more remote from London, Alphege had in-
vited him to stay in his parsonage till the decrees of
the council should be known. Alphege, however, half
repented of his proffered invitation when his clerical
guest arrived. The thin, anxious father of seven chil-
dren, the husband of a sickly wife, Wilfred could think
of nothing, talk of nothing but the danger of some
decree being passed against the married clergy. The
pastor of Basilton had hitherto, as far as possible,
shielded Frediswed from the full knowledge of the dan-
ger which lay before her—a danger which he hoped and
prayed might yet be averted. But poor clerk Wilfred,
LHE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 73

prematurely old with care, a man of bent figure and
furrowed brow, did not, and perhaps could not, show
any reticence on the subject which haunted him night
and day.

“The Master of the Grange was courting my lass,’
Wilfred bitterly observed on the day after the council
closed; “my wife and I thought that the eldest of our
seven would be well provided for, and a protector found
for the rest. But now the suitor is hanging back, and
he said lately, and in my girl’s presence too, about
priests’ marriages not being lawful! Poor Elgiva’s heart
is half broken. She has sent back the trinkets which
the master gave her; and my wife is so upset that, if
the bishops give us trouble, I think that it will be her
death. My poor dear has had worries enow already
bringing up her large family, with her own health so
weak, four children dead and seven alive, and scarce
enough from tithes and the Grange to keep the pot
a-boiling.. It will bring a curse on the land, it will, if
women such as my Mary are to be turned out of their
homes, and with the brand of disgrace upon them

Alphege saw Frediswed turn very pale, and made an

1?

attempt to turn the conversation.

“Wolfstan, the archdeacon, seems to be in King
Henry’s favour, and to have some influence with him.
Do you know, Wilfred, how he won his way ?”

“The archdeacon is an eloquent man, and did the
king good service amongst his English subjects when
74 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

the Norman barons wanted to seat Duke Robert upon
the throne. Wolfstan is a leading man, able to manage
any one but his wife, and she is shrewd and sharp.
The dame is not one to submit tamely either to insult
or wrong. She would face out, ay, and scold out, the
great archbishop himself.”

“Surely the holy Anselm would never countenance
either insult or wrong to a woman,” said Frediswed
with a quivering lip and eyes brimming with tears,
though she tried to hinder them from falling.

“Here comes Wolfstan at last!” exclaimed Alphege,
starting up from his seat; “I hear the hoofs of his
horse !”

“He comes, and doubtless brings with him the copy
of the decrees,” cried Wilfred, trembling with agitation.
“We will hear them at once.”

But they were not to be heard at once, however im-
patient the two Saxon clerks and Frediswed might be.
Wolfstan was a portly, well-fed man, and prided himself
on never being in a hurry. He must dismount, see his
horse led to the stable and fed, and must himself par-
take deliberately of a plentiful meal, before anything
could be got out of him by questioning, beyond, “ Pa-
tience! you shall hear all after supper; one thing at a
time.”

At last it was finished, that wearisome, as it seemed,
almost interminable meal. Wilfred had talked nerv-
ously, almost incessantly ; Wolfstan had hardly opened
THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 75

his mouth, except to fill it with food. When supper
was ended, and the lamp lighted, then the archdeacon
seated himself in the only chair which had arms, slowly
opened his leathern satchel, and drew out a roll of
parchment.

“© Alphege,” whispered Frediswed to her husband,
“may I not stay to hear it? I will not utter a word.
I will say nothing, only listen.”

Alphege gave a silent sign of assent; he felt that his
wife had a right to know all.

Deliberately unrolling the parchment, while his lis-
teners sat, as it were, on thorns, Wolfstan began reading
the Latin document aloud in a sonorous voice, translat-
ing it sentence by sentence as he went on, specially for
the benefit of Wilfred, who was not much of a scholar.
We will confine ourselves to the translation as given in
the history of the time, though of course even that was
couched in language which would be unintelligible in
our modern days.

“First canon. That bishops do not be at secular courts
of pleas; that they be apparelled not as laymen but as
befits religious persons ; and—”

“Never mind that first canon,” cried Wilfred im-
patiently ; “none of us here are bishops.”

“We cannot read the future,” said Wolfstan, sen-
tentiously ; but pitying the anxiety expressed in the
faces around him, he went on with his reading.

“ Second. That archdeaconries be not let out to farm.”
76 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

“Good!” said Alphege emphatically.

“Third. That archdeacons be deacons.”

Wolfstan paused before the fourth canon, and some-
thing in that ominous pause, and the little cough which
followed it, made the heart of Frediswed flutter like a
terrified bird.

“ Fourth. That no archdeacon, priest, deacon, or canon
marry a wife, or retain her if married !”

Wolfstan could not read on, such a bitter wail burst
from poor Wilfred beside him. “My wife’s knell!”
exclaimed the poor deacon, and he buried his thin face
in his trembling hands.

Alphege laid his hand on Frediswed’s arm, and mur-
mured in the words of Ruth, “The Lord do so to me,
and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”

The rest of the twenty-nine decrees were read, but
they appeared scarcely to be listened to, except that
Alphege smiled bitterly at the thirteenth, “That the
tonsure of clerks be visible.” It seemed like mockery
that such a trifle as the cutting of hair should engage
the attention of king, lay and spiritual lords. The roll
was ended. Wolfstan deliberately fastened it up and
replaced it in his satchel.

“One satisfactory bit of work was done by the coun-
cil,” he observed. “Six abbots were deposed for simony ”
(he gave their names, which we need not repeat) ; “ three
others, amongst them your fat abbot here, were dis-
graced for other offences.”
THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. Weal

“Yes; our archbishop does seek to do his duty by
the guilty,” observed Alphege. “Would that he would
spare the innocent,” he added with a sigh.

“My wife, my seven poor children!” groaned the
unhappy Wilfred.

“What course shall we take?” asked Alphege of
Wolfstan. “I for one will die rather than submit to
so infamous a decree.”

“T know it, for I know you and others like-minded,”
quoth the archdeacon, “men, ay, and women, who are
made of good English metal. I said as much to King
Henry last night.”

“You saw the king—you spoke with him—tell us
all,” cried Alphege eagerly, while Wilfred raised his
tear-stained face to listen.

“*Are you and your brother clerks going to give up
your wives?’ quoth the king. He was engaged in
eating lampreys, and seemed to give as much attention
to the fish as to the question which he asked.

“*No, an’t please you, said I; ‘they have not done
it, and they don’t mean to do it!

“The king laughed at the stoutness of my answer.
“You are prepared, then, to do battle with the primate,
armed as he is with the decrees.’

“«We look to your grace for help in the fight, quoth
I, whereat the king laughed louder still.

“«What if I take the matter into mine own hands,
said the Norman, pushing back his platter, for he had
78 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER

finished the fish, ‘I see a way of replenishing our
royal coffers out of the business. I'll inflict a good
heavy fine on priests wicked enough to keep their wives,
and see that no one but myself gives them trouble about
the matter.’ ” .

“Qh, preserve us from falling into the hands of a
Norman king!” cried Wilfred. “But how could even
Henry get fleece from a luckless sheep shorn to the
quick already? I’ve not a silver penny to give.”

“Td rather give my last penny than give up my
wife,” said Alphege, in a low, determined voice.

“The king will make us buy our dames as dear as
he can,” observed Wolfstan. “Luckily mine has a store
of jewels, and they shall go first,’ he added with a
philosophic smile.

“But will not the archaeon oppose the king? and
Anselm is not aman easy to grapple with, as Rufus
proved,” observed Alphege with a cloud of care on
his brow.

“Oh, Anselm is so fiercely engaged in fighting the
king on other ground,” said Wolfstan, laughing, “ that
he may let us poor clerks escape in the scrimmage.
There is a grand battle going on about the investiture
and consecration of bishops. The primate maintains
that the pall, the ring, and the staff can only be received
from Rome. Henry, on his part, is resolved that every
bishop in England shall be ‘a king’s man,’ as he calls it.
‘What has the Pope to do with my concerns?’ he cried
THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 79

in my hearing. ‘That which my predecessors enjoyed.
is mine; if any one take it away, he is my enemy. ‘I
desire to take nothing away,’ quoth Anselm; ‘but I
would rather lose my head than yield in this’ So
there the two go at it tooth and nail; we'll see who
proves to be the better man.” Wolfstan laughed again ;
but the other three had no heart for mirth.

“Tt is resolved,” continued Wolfstan, “that the arch-
bishop should himself go to Rome to consult the Pope
concerning this weighty matter.”

“May he-go soon, may he go soon,” cried Wilfred,
“and leave us poor clerks in peace.”

It did indeed appear that the evil day might be
postponed, at least if enough gold could be squeezed out
of the married clergy to satisfy the rapacity of their
royal protector, who cared little about their domestic
concerns save as a means of increasing his wealth.

Wolfstan and Wilfred remained in the parsonage for
the night, which was a sleepless one to Alphege and
his wife. Both were silently calculating how much
their heirlooms and the gifts received by Frediswed
at her bridal would bring, and how they could reduce
their daily expenditure without ceasing to help their
sick poor. Alphege decided on drinking water instead of
ale or mead, and having but two meat meals in the week.

In the morning Frediswed said to her husband, “ Poor
brother Wilfred is far worse off than we are—his wife
80 sick, so many mouths to feed, and his poor daughter
80 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

never likely to be mated, as the deacon told me last
night with tears in his eyes. Could we do nothing, my
Alphege, to help them? It would be.a work well pleasing
to God.”

“We shall be rather hard put to it ourselves,” was
Alphege’s ‘reply. “But do what you will, my sweet
one; no one is the poorer for what he lends to the
Lord.”

Armed with her husband’s permission, Frediswed
went forth into her garden, where Wilfred was: rest-
lessly pacing up and down the path with his hands be-
hind his back. Frediswed approached the deacon so
softly, and he was so absorbed in distressing thoughts,
that he did not hear her step, and started nervously
when he turned and saw her.

“Brother, I fear that I have disturbed you,” said
Frediswed gently, looking up with heart-felt pity into
the poor deacon’s face. “My husband and I have been
thinking that your wife being weak and your house
rather crowded, you might spare us one of your chil-
dren, to be brought up as if our own, though never
ceasing, of course, to be yours.”

Wilfred was so overcome by this unexpected kind-
ness that he burst into tears. It pained Frediswed’s
kindly heart to see him weep.

“Perhaps I made the proposal too abruptly,” she
said timidly—a father would not willingly part with
his child, even for a few years; but I thought that as
THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER. 81

your Elgiva is in trouble, a change might do her good,
or that perhaps one of your six boys might come and
learn under my husband, so as maybe in time to be-
come a clerk himself.”

“No son of mine will ever be a priest; no bishop
would consecrate him,” said Wilfred with extreme bitter-
ness. “My boys must turn cobblers, or till the soil and
earn scant bread by the sweat of their brows. As for
Elgiva, we cannot part with our only girl. My poor
wife is so ill that our daughter can in no wise be spared
from the house where soon, perhaps, there will be no
mother.” Wilfred paused, then with an effort went on.
“But we have a sickly little fellow, Edgar, rising twelve
years of age, who is weak, and needs better food than
we can give him. Edgar cannot eat our coarse bread ;
we see him wasting away before our eyes. If you could
give him a home, the lad might be spared to us yet.”

“We will welcome your sick laddie with all our
hearts,” cried Frediswed. “He will have a warmer
house here than in your more northern home, and I
hope that he will thrive on the good milk of my brin-
dled cow.”

Her kindness warmed the heart of the poor deacon.
A little comforted, or rather a little less despondent,
Wilfred, about an hour afterwards, set out on his home-
ward way. Frediswed had tied up a bundle of good
things to refresh Wilfred on the long journey which
poverty compelled him to make on foot. When the

(317) 6
82 THE COUNCIL OF WESTMINSTER.

traveller opened that bundle at mid-day, he found two
silver pieces neatly inserted in the cake which Fredis-
wed had made for her parting guest. ervently the
deacon blessed the kind hand that had put the coins
there, and earnestly he prayed that the pious pair who
so tenderly cared for the afflicted, might even in this
world receive a bounteous reward from the Giver of
good.
CHAPTER X.
A PATRIOTS APPEAL.

A FEW events which occurred in the next year, 1108
A.D., must be briefly recorded. That of most public
importance was Archbishop Anselm’s journey to Rome,
whither the crafty king had sent an envoy, one William
Warelwast, to oppose him. But all the envoy’s dexter-
ity did not suffice to make a Pope renounce his claim to
giving investitures in England, though Warelwast, as
is suspected, enforced his patron’s arguments by bribes,
too common a custom in Rome. Anselm, returning
triumphant, was in his homeward passage through
France informed by Henry’s envoy that unless the
archbishop would return as “the king’s man,” the
monarch would prefer his not coming at all. On re-
ceiving this unwelcome message, Anselm, as history in-
forms us, decided to remain at Lyons, which he did for
a year and a half, hoping that the Pope would take his ©
part and excommunicate King Henry. This is a sad
blemish on a life in which we see so much to admire.
It is grievous to behold a great and good man so in-
84 A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

toxicated by the cup of Rome’s sorceries as to be led to
desert a God-given post, desire evil to be wrought on
his king, leave a people to crime and misery, and appear
himself to be incapable at last of discerning between
right and wrong. The unscrupulous king, as might
have been expected, seized upon the estates of the see
of Canterbury in the primate’s absence, appointing as
receivers of the revenues two of the archbishop’s men,
Terrible disorders followed, and Anselm must be con-
sidered as partly responsible for the evils consequent on
his keeping away from the post of duty. .

A very commonplace event, yet to the Alpheges one
of great interest, occurred that same year in their quiet
home,—Frediswed had the delight of seeing a lovely
little babe in a rejoicing father’s arms. Blue-eyed,
golden-haired Winnie, an infant cherub in her parents’
eyes, was received as a direct gift from Heaven. She
seemed like a sign of God’s approval of her father’s
resolution never to break a holy bond which the Lord
Himself had made.

Edgar, Wilfred’s son, had “been for some time an
inmate of Alphege’s home. The delicate boy, under
Frediswed’s fostering care, had struggled through the
winter. The milder climate of Kent had done much for
the lad, with warm wraps made by Frediswed’s hands,
and the good milk of her brindled cow. When May
came, and the infant May-blossom with it, Edgar wel-
comed the babe with pleasure almost equal to that of
A PATRIOT'S APPEAL. 85

her parents. He was never weary of carrying the babe
in his now strong arms.

While the expenses of Alphege’s little household had
increased, his means of meeting them had sensibly
diminished. Henry the First did indeed make his
clergy pay dear for the privilege of keeping their wives.
A requisition had been received by Alphege early i in the
year which had startled him not a little. The sum de-
manded by his royal protector was far beyond the small
amount of money which, by rigid economy, the clerk had
managed to save. We will go back some months to
relate what occurred.

“Has anything happened to trouble my Alphege ?”
asked Frediswed, who came into the room just after the
King’s officer had departed.

Alphege did not wish to lay the burden of his cares
on his wife, or change to anxiety the bright cheerful-
ness with which she had entered the parlour. Instead
of replying to her question, he said, “So Dame Elise has
been here on her ass. I had hoped to have seen her ere
she left, but a far less welcome visitor engrossed all my
time and attention. What said the good dame to our
home? As this was her first visit, I suppose that you
showed her all that was to be seen.”

“Everything without and within,” replied Frediswed
gaily, “from the pans in the kitchen to the brindled cow
in the yard. What charmed the dame most was St.
Augustine’s cup; I could hardly persuade her to drink a
86 A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

little milk out of the silver bowl which the lips of the
first Archbishop of Canterbury had touched. ‘It is an
honour too great, she said, ‘for a wizened little body
_ like me, but one which I will remember all my days.
My Lord de Warrenne, added Elise, ‘quaffs his mead
from a silver bowl, but it has no value beyond that of
the metal. The earl would give ten times its weight in
silver for such an heirloom as yours,’ ”

“Would he?” said Alphege thoughtfully, a shadow of
care and perplexity crossing his face for a moment.

“Perhaps when I said that Dame Elise liked the cup
best of all our good things, I made a little mistake,”
observed Frediswed. “My visitor seemed most delighted
with my little golden reliquary holding a lock of the
hair of St. Anne. Dame Elise declared that the rich
countess herself, amongst all her jewels, has nothing so
pretty and rare. She said that she was sure that Lady
de Warrenne would gladly buy the reliquary, and give a
good round sum for it too.”

“What replied you to that?” asked Alphege.

“Oh, of course I laughed, and said that I did not
choose to sell the most precious thing given to me on
my wedding-day except one,” and Frediswed glanced
fondly at the plain gold ring on her ae placed there
by Alphege at her bridal.

The Saxon did not pursue the subject, but again and
again he recalled the words of Elise when the rapacious
contractor employed by King Henry to fleece his clerical
A PATRIOT'’S APPEAL. 87

subjects became more loud and threatening in his de-
mands. At last the state of affairs could no longer be
hidden. Alphege took down St. Augustine’s cup from
the place of honour which it had occupied in the family
home from generation to generation, and repressing every
sign of reluctance, gave it into the hands of his wife,
who was about to start to pay a visit to her kindly old
friend.

“Edgar is going with you to Castle Warrenne; he-
will carry this bowl, and we will see if your good fairy
can indeed change it for ten times its weight in silver.”

Frediswed looked startled and distressed. “You
would never part with your cup, the most precious thing
which you possess!” she exclaimed.

“T have something far more precious, with which I
never will part,” said Alphege, pressing a kiss on the
brow of his wife.

The truth flashed on Frediswed’s mind in a moment.
She had known of the last visit of the king’s purveyor,
and had more than guessed the nature of his errand,
recalling what Wolfstan had said.

“Tf your bowl go, so shall my little treasure,” ‘sighed
Frediswed, taking her reliquary from her bosom, for she
usually kept it hung round her neck. “But do you not
think that St. Anne might be angry,” she added with
the naiveté of a child, “if I sold her hair to the
countess ?”

“I think that the saint would forgive you,” replied
88 A PATRIOT’S APPEAL,

Alphege with a smile which had nothing of mirthful-
ness in it. “During eleven hundred years the relic had
doubtless been often sold, had passed through many
hands before it came to yours.”

And so the two most valued jewels in the parsonage
were parted with without a grumble, but certainly not
without pain. Elise skilfully managed the sale, and the
sum realized seemed more than enough to satisfy any
claims that could be made on the purse of the clerk.
The king was indeed satisfied, but not so the purveyor
for the king. Unfortunately this man had had a
glimpse of Frediswed milking her brindled cow, and had
resolved to make that cow his own. Resistance to ex-
tortion was vain; the decrees of the council hung over
the heads of married priests like a Damocles’s sword ;
they dared not refuse to give what was demanded, how-
ever unjust the claim. Edgar had to lead away the cow
to her new master, and most reluctantly he did so.

“TI can hardly grieve now that my poor dear mother
has been taken to a place where there are no tyrants
or extortioners to grind down the poor,” muttered the
indignant young Saxon.

To Alphege the bitterest thought was that the sacri-
fices made to avert present danger gave no assurance
of safety for the future. The family were still at the
mercy of a king who might be capricious, and of ecclesi-
asties who would regard persecution as a sign of superior
piety. Even if no open censure were to be met, there
A PATRIOT’S APPEAL. © 89

was contempt to be endured, the pillory of public opinion,
in which Alphege and his pure, faithful wife might be
exposed to the scorn of the unreasoning crowd, to be
pelted with coarse epithets and unseemly jests.

Who can measure the height of cruelty and the depth
of suffering comprehended in one clause of the scriptural
description of the great falling away, forbidding to
marry ?

Notwithstanding the trials which have been just de-
scribed, the first years that followed the birth of her
child were, on the whole, happy years to the Saxon
mother. Frediswed had little time for brooding over
the troubles prevailing throughout the land. Alphege,
though alike as a Christian and a patriot he was sorely
burdened, had always a bright look and word of cheer
for his wife. Frediswed knew little of what was
passing beyond her own small circle; the greatest dis-
tance to which she ever wandered, and that but rarely,
was Castle Warrenne. Alphege’s wife indeed some-
times wondered why Archbishop Anselm did not come
back, but she secretly scarcely wished him to do so.
She saw her darling child expand like a flower before
her eyes, gradually making those steps in progress which
so delight a proud mother: Winnie could first crawl,
then walk, then clamber up on her father’s knees; the
child could first lisp two or three sweet words, then
gradually learn to clasp her little hands together and
repeat an infant’s prayer. She could do all this before
go A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

Anselm returned to England, for his absence lasted three
years. At any time the primate could have returned if
he would have yielded on one disputed point—that of
the investiture of bishops by England’s king instead of by
the Pope of Rome. But Anselm would not yield; rather
would he remain idle at Lyons or Bec, whilst grievous
wolves were ravaging his flock, than make a compromise
with the king.

Alphege heard, with burning indignation, of the wide-
spread distress in poor parishes caused by the cruel
exactions of Henry. ‘Two hundred presbyters in their
albs and stoles appeared barefooted before the monarch
to implore his mercy. They were rudely repulsed by
the king.* In vain bishops, almost in despair, entreated
Anselm to return; always came the disappointing reply
that he was waiting for envoys from Rome. To English-
men like Alphege, who longed for freedom from a galling
yoke, the very name of Rome was becoming hateful.

Notwithstanding the efforts made by Alphege to guard
his Frediswed from the sufferings which he himself
endured, he was of too frank and she of too loving a
nature for her not to perceive that heavy anxieties were
weighing on the mind of her husband. Frediswed
marked silver threads prematurely mixing with his
auburn hair; she saw that, except when conversing with
herself or playing with his child, Alphege’s habitual ex-
pression had become one of deep thought and care. The

* A historical fact.
A PATRIOT’S APPEAL. 9x

wife felt that some sore trouble might be at hand, and
tried to strengthen her gentle heart to endure it by faith
and prayer. As time rolled on, the thought of the
decree of that dreadful council more and more haunted
Frediswed like a phantom, but she never spoke of it to
her husband or any one else.

One day Frediswed gently stole up to her husband
when he was engaged in writing. Golden-haired Winnie
was in her arms, the child’s dimpled chubby hands hold-
ing a daisy-chain, her first work of art, accomplished by
her mother’s aid and that of a crooked pin. Winnie, in
her baby heart, was as proud of her chain as Frediswed
was of the first yard of elaborate lace which Dame Elise
had taught her to make; the child was eager to slip the
daisies round her father’s neck with an unexpected kiss.
Winnie put the chain very softly over her father’s head,
and then startled him by the sudden energy of her em-
brace, given in baby fashion by moist rosy lips very
tightly pressed on his cheek.

“My darling! my little cherub!” cried Alphege,
taking the child into his arms; but he looked vexed at
seeing that his sudden movement had caused a blot of
ink to disfigure the parchment on which he was writing.
Parchment was expensive and not to be wasted; but
Alphege was penning something too important to be
marred by a blot. “I must write it over again,” said
the clerk.

“JT think that I could erase the blot,” observed his
92 A PATRIOT'S APPEAL.

wife. “Is the letter which you are penning, dearest, too
secret to be intrusted to my hands ?” :

“T do not see why my Frediswed should not read it,”
observed Alphege after a moment’s hesitation. He felt
a strong yearning to make his wife a partner in some
of his cares, as she always was in his pleasures, “I
am writing to the archbishop, now at Lyons, having an
opportunity of sending a letter, which does not often
occur. It has been laid on my heart to make an effort
to induce the primate to return to his see, where his
presence is needed more and more.”

“His coming might perhaps bring us:some trouble,”
observed Frediswed in a tone of hesitation.

“Nothing personal must weigh against the sufferings
of England,” said Alphege, who had deeply revolved the
subject. “I know that the persuasions of wiser and
better men than myself have failed; but God can use
the feeblest instrument, and—my revered patron loved
me once.”

Here the little one in her father’s arms asserted her
claim to notice. “Winnie loves 00, so—so big!” and
the small plump arms were stretched out to their widest
extent.

“I wish you to pray for me, Frediswed, my love,
that a blessing may go with this letter.”

“Moder pray, Winnie pray, Winnie say, ‘Pray God

299

bless fader,’” said the child, who was taught to repeat

her infant prayer in her native tongue,
A PATRIOT’S APPEAL. 93

“Yes, pray for father, my darling; he needs your
prayers,” cried Alphege, pressing his little one close and
closer to his breast, and almost covering her face with
passionate kisses.

This letter is matter of history, though the name of
the writer is not recorded in the “Student's History of
England.” As its substance has been preserved by the
Saxon Eadmer, we may believe that Anselm himself,
however resolved not to follow its advice, set some
value upon it. The letter being interesting, I will
transcribe what is written regarding it in the pages of
Canon Perry :-—

“A letter given by Eadmer reached him [Anselm]
from England, which described, in terms sufficient, one
would suppose, to move the firmness of the primate, the
miserable state of things in the English Church. The
writer declares that the point in dispute appeared to
every sane man in England to be nothing at all, but
rather a contrivance of the devil to vex the English
Church. Meantime the possessions of the Church were
being plundered, and the service of God neglected. The
clergy were given over to all iniquity...... Things were
worse than could be shown by writing. Men openly
said that this was all the archbishop’s fault, inasmuch
as he who could have done most to abate these evils
kept away for a mere nothing. The writer solemnly
appeals to the archbishop whether such proceedings
Were justifiable.”
94. A PATRIOT’S APPEAL.

This was a bold, a very bold letter, especially as
penned by a poor Saxon clerk, and sent to a primate of
a lordly race, a man already almost canonized as a saint.
But Alphege regarded the work as one given to him by
God, and come what might, he could never regret having
penned that patriotic appeal.

“God could make an ass’s jawbone an effective
weapon,” thought Alphege, as he rose from his knees
after finishing his letter. “If the Lord speed my-
arrow, it matters little what becomes of the hand that
drew the string!”
CHAPTER XI.
THE LOST ONE FOUND.

“ SWEET HEART, you will spoil your eyes,” said Alphege
one evening; when he found his wife singing Winnie to
sleep, whilst herself bending over some piece of work
which required so much light that she had to sit very
close to the window to catch the last red gleam still
lingering in the sky where the sun had set. “I always
find you stitching away at the self-same strip of fine
linen, not wide enough to make a little coif for Winnie.
I marvel that you find time for such vain labour, with
the cooking, the mending, the garden, the chickens, all
the sick of the parish on your hands, Winnie to cherish,
and a troublesome husband’s every possible want to
supply, down to darning his old torn alb.”

“T intend to. leave off darning old albs, and to have
new ones instead,” replied Frediswed gaily.

“You will hardly make an alb or anything else out
of that finger’s breadth of linen on which you have
been engaged these two years at least,” observed
Alphege.
06 THE LOST ONE FOUND.

“Ig it not beautiful?” asked Frediswed, holding up
her work with a little pride, though there was hardly
enough light left for her husband to examine its
elaborate pattern.

“ Beautiful, no doubt, but not very useful, I fear,”
was the Saxon’s reply.

Then Frediswed’s innocent little secret came out.
She had learned from Dame Elise to make the exquisite
point-lace which was worn by grand ladies at festivals
and tournaments, and by bishops on days dedicated to
special saints. Frediswed was building grand hopes on
the difficult and laborious art which she had, with much
patience, acquired.

“Stitch by stitch the work grows,” said Frediswed ;
“see what a length I have finished!” and she opened the
roll of lace, which she had kept carefully covered up
from the dust. “ Would it not be funny if I should
manage to pull another brindled cow out of this tiny
roll ?”

Alphege smiled at what he thought the vain hopes
of his spouse; he did not wish to damp them. The
lace-making, though exceedingly tedious, had given
Frediswed pleasant occupation, and had often saved her
from fostering gloomy forebodings in regard to the
future, and from fretting over the hardships of the
present.

On the following morning Frediswed, with her child in
her arms, came to Edgar, who was weeding the garden.
THE LOST ONE FOUND. 97

“Will you come with me, Edgar,” she said, “to help
to carry my Winnie? Her little feet will not bear her
as far as Castle Warrenne, and I must go there to-day
to take my completed work to my good fairy-friend
Dame Elise. Oh, how often my eyes have ached over
it; methought the task would never be done!”

Edgar readily consented. He was a bright, kindly
lad, with a warm and grateful heart. It was a pleasure
to him to do anything for her whom he now always
called his mother.

The visit was accomplished. Dame Elise examined
the lace with her sharp, critical eyes, then with her
peculiar smile gave the verdict—*It will do.” Fredis-
wed returned towards home in high spirits, singing and
laughing to her child, and chatting gaily with Edgav.

The party had nearly reached the parsonage, when
Frediswed was startled by seeing something lying in a
ditch by the wayside which she at first took to be a
corpse, so ghastly it looked.

“O Edgar, some one has been murdered!” she ex-

‘claimed.

“The poor fellow is not dead—see, he moves!” ex-
claimed Edgar, putting down Winnie, and going up to
the spot.

An almost skeleton hand was feebly raised, and a
hollow voice came from under the reeds and rushes
which grew in the ditch. “Have mercy on me—for

the love of Heaven!”
(317) ae
98 THE LOST ONE FOUND.

Edgar sprang down into the almost dry ditch and
raised the sufferer’s head. The man was evidently in
almost a dying state.

“I will go and call peasants to carry the poor fellow,”
said Frediswed, “and bring him some water. When
he revives a little, the sick man must be taken to the
monastery ; the monks are bound by their vows to tend
the sick, and Brother Innocent, as I have heard, is a
skilful leech.”

“Not to the monastery—no!” exclaimed the man
with more energy than could have been expected from
his emaciated frame. “I have been there, and they have
turned me out, because I did not kiss the crucifix or
pray to the Madonna. The monks said that a cursed
heretic should not abide under their holy roof.”

“T should not like a heretic to bide under mine,”
thought the clerk’s wife; “and yet we cannot leave
this poor creature to die in a ditch. He will hardly
live till the morning. Christ wills that we care for the
poor.”

A peasant chancing to come that way, Frediswed
enlisted him to assist Edgar to support the sufferer’s
wasted form, she herself lending her aid, whilst Winnie
trotted beside her. The man was carried to the par-
sonage, and laid on the only bed which it now con-
tained. Edgar slept on straw, and on straw that night
the family would have to sleep. The Saxon wife was
following the example of the good Samaritan, for the
THE LOST ONE FOUND. 99

poor waif was not only a stranger, and possibly a here-
tic, but of a different race from her own. The man’s
complexion was darker than that of either Norman or
Saxon, more like that of an inhabitant of Italy or the
south of France. His clothes, now ragged and soiled,
had evidently been made after a different fashion than
that which prevailed in England in the time of
Henry the First.

Frediswed did what she could for the stranger, chafed
his cold feet, and gave him almost all the scanty supply
of milk in the house. The poor exhausted creature had
fallen asleep before Alphege came in from his village
round at sunset.

“God has sent to us a strange gift,” said Frediswed
to her husband, whom she met in the garden.

“Whatever God sends is welcome,” was the reply of
the clerk.

Frediswed explained in few words why she had
taken the stranger in. “Did I do right?” she asked
when her brief account was ended.

“Right, quite right,” replied Alphege, and entering
the house he went up to the bed on which the sufferer
lay.

“He will hardly survive the night,’ observed the
clerk after feeling the faint, fluttering pulse, and laying
his hand on the sick man’s brow, already damp with
the sweat of death.

“T hope that he will live long enough to repent and
Io0o THE LOST ONE FOUND.

be shriven,” said gentle Frediswed. “It were pity in-
deed if his soul were lost.”

“Frediswed, no soul is lost that trusts in the Lord
Jesus, and no soul is saved by any rite that a priest can
perform,” said Alphege. ae

This was not the first time that the Saxon had
uttered words that surprised and somewhat shocked
his wife. Frediswed felt that some change was going
on in her husband’s views which she did not perfectly
understand. Alphege must be right—he was always so
in her eyes; but Frediswed had a vague sense of un-
easiness in regard to some of his views. ‘Though him-
self an ordained priest, Alphege did not seem to think
much of the rites and ceremonies of Holy Church; he
even forgot to cross himself when passing a crucifix or
a saint’s image by the wayside.

Alphege watched by the sufferer till he awoke. The
stranger stared wildly around at first, then seemed
gradually to recover his senses. The first intelligible
words were, “Oh, that I could but see my father before
I die!”

“Where is your father? Shall I send for him?”
said the clerk.

“Beyond reach—beyond sea—far, far away at Tou-
louse!” gasped the sick man. “He cannot come—he
would be too late; but, after I am—dead, a letter might
reach him—to tell him that—that his prodigal died _
repentant—though he could not”—for some minutes
THE LOST ONE FOUND. IOL

the parched, blackened lips could not finish the sentence,
then, almost with a sob, came the words—‘ could not
arise and go to his father.”

“T will write,” said Alphege, strongly touched by the
poor Frenchman’s repentance. “Give me your father’s
name and address, and I pledge myself to do all that I
can to make a letter reach him.” Then, turning to
Frediswed, who was hastening to bring writing materials,
Alphege remarked in a low tone, “Our guest has evi-
dently some acquaintance with Scripture.”

The stranger overheard the observation.

“Yes, yes; I was taught from boyhood. My father
was a disciple of Berengarius,* who preached the truth
so boldly. But I—I never cared for religion—my god
was the world. I would go to Normandy to serve
Duke Robert. I chose the clank of steel and the wav-
ing of banners rather than the doctrine which Bruis
preached, the truth which my father loved.”

Thus in the darkest ages of medieval gloom, God had
His faithful witnesses, the true successors of the apostles,
martyrs, and saints who formed the primitive Church.
‘These were the men who followed in the track of Peter,

* Berengarius and Bruis were the forerunners of Waldo, who, a little
later on, became the founder of the Waldensian Church, which was to send
such glorious recruits to “the noble army of martyrs.” From this Church
missionaries are going forth to do battle with Rome at the present day. In
a paper dated September 13, 1890, we read: ‘The Waldensian Church re-
ports 44 churches, 86 pastors, 27 evangelists (including colporteurs and
Bible-readers), 4,074 communicants.” Rome had tried hard, but in vain, to
quench a pure light in blood. See Foxe’s “ Martyrs.”
102 LHE LOST ONE FOUND.

John, and Paul—early lights, all the brighter for the
blackness of superstition around them.

At intervals, poor Martin of Toulouse, though speak-
ing with painful difficulty, gave a tolerably connected
account of his past life and present position. He had
served under Duke Robert of N. ormandy, King Henry’s
eldest brother, and had fallen into many of the vices of
the court, Martin had crossed the Channel with his
royal patron when Robert invaded England to wrest the
crown from his brother. As is well known, the Saxons
stood by Henry, and Anselm’s efforts caused the feud
between the two brothers to end for the time without
civil war. Robert returned to his Norman duchy, but
Martin, being smitten with sickness, was unable to quit
England. The Frenchman struggled for a miserable
existence, going begging from place to place, finding no
rest for the sole of his foot. At last Martin had written
a repentant letter to his father, telling him that he was
lying sick at a hospice in London.

“T doubt that the letter ever reached him,” faltered
Martin ; “it is so difficult to send one by a safe hand.
But I hope—I earnestly hope that my father may
one day know that his son grieved over his sin, and
yearned,” with a gasp came the words, “and yearned to
die in his arms!”

“Let us pray that he may know it,” said Alphege.
“Let us pray that your father may give you his bless-
ing ere you depart.” Kneeling down, with Frediswed
LTHE LOST ONE FOUND. 103

beside him, the Saxon offered up a simple, fervent
prayer.

“There is some one at the gate!” exclaimed Martin,
vainly trying to raise his head to listen.

“Go and see who it is,” said Frediswed to Edgar;
“few, save on some urgent errand, come at this hour of
night.”

It was moonlight, and through the now open door the
bent form of an aged man was dimly seen at the gate.

“Tt is a white-bearded pilgrim with a staff,” said Hd-
gar, returning. “He seems to have come from foreign
parts, for his speech is strange; I could scarcely make
out anything but that he wants to know the way to
London.”

“Tt is my father!” exclaimed the dying man, stretch-
ing out his arms, and making a futile attempt to rise
to a sitting posture. “God has answered your prayer!”
With this exclamation Martin sank back exhausted.

Frediswed herself flew to the gate, wondering—and yet
why should she wonder ?—at such an answer to prayer.
She flung the gate open with eager haste, and told the
old man to come in without a moment’s delay. He did
not comprehend her words but her eager gesture, and
came up the path and into the house as fast as his
tottering steps would permit.

The Provencal was in time, only in time, to clasp his
son to his heart and bless him. Martin was granted
his heart’s desire—he expired in the arms of his father.
CHAPTER XIU
A LONELY GRAVE.

Watst Frediswed, in the still midnight hour, laid out
the corpse for burial, devoting one of her only two pair
of sheets to the purpose, Alphege, after prayer with poor
old Martin (his name was the same as his son’s), wrote
a letter to the Abbot of Basilton, craving a spot in the
churchyard as a burial-place for a poor stranger from
France, who had died in the house of the priest. The
graveyard by the abbey was the only consecrated
ground within many miles, Norman and Saxon alike
bringing their dead from some distance to rest under
the shadow of the venerable pile.

Alphege did not send his letter till day-dawn, in
order not to disturb the rest of the abbot, as the mid-
night service would be over. The present head of the
monastery was, as Alphege well knew, a very different
man from the one who had been deposed from the
dignity of abbot nearly three years before. Urban
bore the reputation of being a strict disciplinarian, a
man showing an example of an unblemished life, a
A LONELY GRAVE. 105,

monk much given to fasting and prayer. Urban was
not popular with some of the brotherhood, who pre-
ferred the lax rule of their former sensual superior to
that of one who permitted no open breach of St. Bene-
dict’s rule.

Edgar took the letter to the clerk. He did not return
for many hours, and then did not return alone. A
grave-looking, tonsured, and sandalled monk was with
him, accompanied by Brother Hyppolyte, with whom
the reader is acquainted.

Alphege went forth to greet the abbot’s messengers,
whom he conducted into the house. Brother Ignatius
looked sternly around, and the spinning-wheel, with a
yarn of fine thread hanging over a settle, brought on
his stern features a look of disgust. He roughly pushed
out of the way with his foot little Winnie, who was
playing with a rag puppet made by her mother.

“He hurt me—bad man!” cried the child, tears
glistening in her blue eyes. Winnie held out her little
arms to her father, who carried her into the inner room
and left her under Frediswed’s care.

“T have a stranger on business; do not come in, dear
wife,” said Alphege as he quitted the apartment.

“Shameful! disgraceful!” muttered the monk, who
had looked at the lovely, innocent child as he might
have done at a toad. The insulted father would have
liked to have turned him out of the house.

Alphege returned to his unwelcome visitors, taking
106 A LONELY GRAVE.

care to close the inner door behind him. The counten-
ances of the monks told him that no pleasant interview
was before him.

“Was this stranger for whom you crave a grave a
Frenchman of the name of Martin?” asked Ignatius,
after refusing to take the seat which Alphege offered.

“He was,” the Saxon replied.

“We know him,” said Ignatius with an ominous
scowl, “The fellow was for two days in our hospice, and
was turned out on grave suspicion of holding heretical
views. Did he make to you his dying confession ?”

“Martin made a kind of irregular confession—not
such as the Church requires.”

“Of course you did not shrive him.”

“He did not ask to be shriven.”

“And is it for this wretch, this dead dog, that you
pray for a grave in hallowed ground? Is it for such
that you expect the bell to be tolled and the mass to be
offered ?”

“TI only asked for a spot in which to lay the
corpse.”

“Bury it like a hound—in a ditch—where you will;
such is the holy abbot’s reply to your prayer. And
have a care to yourself, Priest Alphege; the Church has
her eye upon you; you will not long with impunity
break her decrees. You may soon have to answer for
your conduct.”

“T can answer to my God,” said Alphege firmly.
A LONELY GRAVE. 107

Ignatius’s only reply was a darker scowl, as he
turned, and with his silent attendant quitted the house.

The heart of Alphege was sad when, after the de-
parture of the monks, the clerk re-entered the inner
room where old Martin, with his gray head bowed
down, was watching by the lifeless remains of his son.
How could Alphege tell the sorrowing father that his
boy was denied even a grave in consecrated ground ?

As gently as he could the clerk broke the painful
tidings. Frediswed looked pained and shocked, but
Martin was calmly serene.

“Tt matters not,” he said in the French tongue, which
Alphege had acquired during his long pilgrimage towards
Rome. “Wherever God’s sun shines and God’s dew
falls, lay my penitent boy. He needs no monks’ masses
to lull him to sleep, as he will need none to bid him
arise when the Saviour returns for His own.”

Alphege went forth into a small field at the back of
the parsonage, and there chose a quiet spot for the
grave. It was not easy to find help in digging; for a
rumour had spread far and wide that a heretic, under _
the ban of the Church, had to be buried in unhallowed
ground, and that the digging of his grave would bring
with it a curse. The clerk himself, with such aid as
could be given by Edgar, who worked with a will, per-
formed the task himself. The ground was hard, as no
rain had recently fallen, and fast fell the toil-drops
from the Saxon’s brow, as he laboured far into the
108 A LONELY GRAVE.

night. The narrow bed was ready at last, and thither
Alphege, assisted by his companions, bore the emaciated
form of the stranger. Old Martin followed with falter-
ing steps. When the corpse had been lowered into the
grave, the priest repeated aloud the blessed declaration,
I am the Resurrection and the Life; and then the be-
reaved father prayed aloud, but not for the dead—for
those left behind in a world of sorrow. When the earth
began to be thrown into the grave, Frediswed, stepping
forward, dropped in a number of autumn flowers. The
old man noticed the kindly act, and faltered a blessing.
“May God repay you,” he said, “for your goodness to
me and mine!”

Old Martin remained for three days under the clerk’s
hospitable roof, to gather strength for the long, difficult
journey before him.

“Why not stay always with us?” said Frediswed,
who was loath to let the aged pilgrim depart.

“Stay me not, daughter,” was the reply. “I must go
where I can hear a pure gospel preached; I cannot for-
sake the Church where Christ is honoured as the one
only Saviour.”

The three days had been very important ones to the
Saxon priest, for during them he had held deep con-
verse with Martin on various religious subjects. Never
before had Alphege seen so clearly the hollowness of the
claims of Rome. As a patriot he had disliked her
tyranny, as an honest man condemned her wiles, but
A LONELY GRAVE. 10g

now he beheld her falseness in the light of evangelical
truth. Alphege became convinced that the Popes had
assumed powers that had never been bestowed by God;
that the story of St. Peter ever having been Bishop of
Rome was but an improbable legend; that what was
called the power of the keys was a stupendous edifice of
error, like a palace built of ice, certain to melt and dis-
appear under the beams of the sun of truth. Alphege
was more than confirmed in his doubts regarding the
dogma of transubstantiation ; he also saw clearly that
the worship of Mary and the saints was a breach of the
second commandment. Never again could the Saxon
bow down before image or crucifix; never could he
adore an idol, though it might be given a Christian
name.

Martin, at parting, fervently blessed Frediswed and
her child. Winnie liked to feel the pressure of his
hand on her golden locks, smiled up confidingly into the
old man’s face, and gently stroked his long, white beard
with her dimpled hand. Martin then turned to Alphege,
and said in a low tone, “I have nothing to give to re-
mind you of the blessed time which I have spent under
your roof-tree but this treatise by Bruis. It will tell you
far more than I can; it has from my youth been my
companion. Take it, beloved brother; and may it be to
you all that it has been to me!”

Alphege was loath to deprive his guest of what he
valued so highly, but he saw that a refusal to take the
IIo ; A LONELY GRAVE.

gift would give pain. He therefore placed the manu-
script within his vest, and promised to give it careful
study. Alphege then accompanied his aged friend for
more than a mile, and bade him farewell on an emin-
ence which commanded an extensive view of the fair
county of Kent.

“Goodly!” murmured the old man; “forest, meadow,
plain, with a silver stream flowing through; blue hills
in the distance, and the canopy of heaven over all!”
Martin paused for a moment, and then went on: “A
fairer prospect lies before me; for my pilgrimage must
soon be over, and I seem to stand, as it were, on Pisgah,
to behold the heritage of the saints. Press on, press on
bravely, my brother. You may have to traverse a desert,
and to grapple with many a foe; but there is an omnip-
. otent arm to uphold you, a heavenly light to guide you,
and there will be glorious victory and peaceful rest at
the last.”
CHAPTER XIII.
BABYS BLUNDER.

“ ALPHEGE, dearest, would you take care of ‘our darling
for one or two hours?” asked Frediswed, as she, on the
following morning, entered the sitting-room leading
Winnie by the hand. “TI do not often ask you to play
the nurse, but Edgar will be away all day, and I wish—
I so very much wish—to visit my good fairy at Castle
Warrenne.”

“Could not your errand wait, sweet heart?” asked
Alphege, looking up from the treatise, in the perusal of
which his mind was absorbed.

“Tt could, perhaps,” replied Frediswed ; but her gentle
face wore an expression of disappointment at the idea of _
delay.

“T hardly like your going so far without my escort
or that of Edgar, and I am somewhat tied to the house
to-day.”

“Oh! I think nothing of going that way alone; it is
a quiet road, with some cottages belonging to our parish,
where everybody knows me. You think me childish,
Ii2 BABY’S BLUNDER.

darling,” continued Frediswed, laying her hand playfully
on her husband’s shoulder. “ Well, just for once, humour
me as you might a little, impatient child; for I am as
eager to make a visit to-day to Elise as our Winnie is to
get her bowl of porridge in the morning.”

“Why are you going to the dame?” asked Al-
phege.

“Oh, that is a secret!” cried Frediswed, trying to
look mysterious. “If you are tied to the house this
morning, could you not let Winnie play beside you ?
She is good, she will give no trouble; and if I have not
her to carry, I can be back very soon.”

Alphege smiled consent, and took his child on his knee,
after locking up his treatise, which no one must see but
himself. “No more reading, I suppose,” he said, “ere I
see you again.”

Certainly the treatise would have had little chance of
attention just then. Winnie was in a laughing, playful
mood, and her innocent mirth drove away for a while
from her father’s mind the polemics which were making
lines on his face and racking his mind with doubts and
cares. Alphege forgot all about councils, decrees, and
papal usurpations, while, with his laughing cherub
perched on his shoulder and clutching hold of his hair,
he coursed round the room, then into the garden, then
back again into the house. The clerk’s pale cheek
glowed and his eye brightened as if youth were return-
ing again. Alphege felt as if the chill of approaching
BABY’S BLUNDER. 113

winter were suddenly exchanged for the balmy breath
of spring laden with violet perfume.

When this amusement had lasted long enough,
Alphege seated himself, and taking Winnie on his knee,
amused his child with stories, and those strange old
ditties which have come down to us from ages we know
not how remote, amusing uncounted generations of
babies.

Winnie listened with blue eyes opened wide with
wonder, a happy little child who only interrupted her
father ever and anon with a merry laugh, which ex-
pressed the very soul of glee.

“ Now, darling, sit on the rushes, and amuse yourself
quietly,” said Alphege. “Father has something to do.”
He looked around for some plaything for Winnie. The
rag doll was not at hand, but the clerk lighted on a
plate of walnuts which would answer the purpose of
amusing the child. Her soft little hands could not
break the hard shells of the nuts; but she could toss
them up and roll them about, and this simple amuse-
ment diverted the infant for a considerable time.

“You will give them to mother when she comes
back,” said Alphege.

“Winnie give all,” replied the child, who already
knew something of the duty of keeping a promise.
When she had said that she would keep quiet, she
always tried to do so, though sudden temptation might
make her break her word; when Winnie had engaged

(317) 8
II4 BABY’S BLUNDER.

not to touch a cate or an apple, she put her plump
hands behind her back.

Whilst Alphege was engaged with some writing, and
his child with her nuts, 4 shadow darkened the thresh-
old. Alphege glanced up and saw the gaunt form of
Codric, alias Hyppolyte, the bare-footed monk, who held
in his hand a parchment missive to which was attached
a large red seal.

“This came in a parcel of letters from France ad-
_ dressed to the abbot,” quoth Hyppolyte, looking curiously
at the parchment as he handed it to his cousin. “Your
name is on it, in the holy primate’s own handwriting,
and a mitre is on the seal. I marvel what manner of
communication the saintly Anselm can hold with you.”
Hyppolyte’s curiosity hatl been shared by the other
monks, and even by the dignified abbot himself.

Alphege, though very impatient to open the missive,
which he was convinced was an answer to his own, did
not choose to do so under the inquisitive eyes of the
monk. Hyppolyte seemed to seek an excuse for linger-
ing, for he cast his glance on the golden-haired child
playing on the rush-strown floor with the nuts. The
unconscious Winnie quite mistook the motive of the
tall, lean man in a hood who was looking down in
her direction. She thought in her baby mind that he
must be hungry, and concluded that he must be big
enough to crack and eat nuts as she had seen her
father do.
BABY’S BLUNDER. I15

“Oo like one?” she said graciously, holding up a nut
in her dimpled hand.

Alphege watched the result of the infant’s offer. He
expected Hyppolyte to turn away, perhaps with such a
scowl on his face as that which had darkened the brow
of Ignatius when he beheld the child of a priest. But
Hyppolyte stooped his tall, stiff form, and accepted the
walnut so kindly offered, his grim features relaxing into
something almost resembling a smile. “Bless thee, little
one!” he murmured; adding, as if to excuse his own
weakness, “I had a baby sister once.”

As Alphege evidently did not intend to break the
seal of Anselm’s epistle in the presence of his cousin,
Hyppolyte, having no excuse for lingering longer, left
the dwelling, casting a parting glance, as he passed out,
at the blue-eyed cherub playing at the feet of her father.
“The hardest nut may have a soft kernel,” thought Al-
phege, who noticed the glance.

The Saxon rose and closed the door before he broke
the red seal of the missive and read its contents. He did
so with a throbbing heart, for the archbishop had for
long been to him the object of enthusiasm—veneration,
for Alphege had looked up to Anselm as to the wisest
and holiest of men. The epistle, the reply to the
Saxon’s earnest appeal, was very brief :—

“ When the clerk Alphege remembers his own duties
and repents of his own sins; when, obedient to Holy
116 BABY’S BLUNDER.

Church, he discards, and for ever, the woman whom he
dares to call wife, he may then venture to advise and to

reprove his spiritual father, Aegean

Alphege dropped the letter with a groan which made
Winnie look up with a startled expression. But the
child had no time to ask any baby question, for the
closed door was almost burst open by a peasant, who
came so breathless with running that he could scarcely
gasp out, “Dame Cotton’s a-taken with a fit'”

The clerk rose hastily; he ever promptly obeyed the
call of distress, but he did not like to leave Winnie alone.

“ Stay there, my darling,” he said. “I see your mother
coming along the road; she will soon be here,” and the
clerk hurried away.

Winnie was not at all frightened. Her baby mind
was preoccupied with two objects—one the big red
geal on the letter, which she crawled over the rushes to
get into her hand, and the other the nuts which she
had promised to give to her mother. The first object
was one of pleasure. “ Pitty, pitty,” said the child to
herself as she stroked the episcopal seal. But the
second object involved responsibility; and the rosy
three-years-old had already a tiny bud of a conscience.
Winnie tried to gather up the nuts with which she had
been playing, but there were too many for her little
hands to grasp; they rolled away as she attempted to
hold them. A bright thought occurred to the intelli-”
BABV’S BLUNDER. | I17

gent child—even infants do something in the way of
reflecting. The nuts might be wrapped up in the big
letter; that would keep them from rolling about.
Winnie had made up a very untidy kind of parcel by
the time that Frediswed, looking exceedingly happy,
crossed the threshold of her home.

“Oh, the naughty father to leave his baby alone!”
exclaimed Frediswed playfully. “I must not trust him
again.”

Winnie had her little speech ready. Holding up the
letter inwrapping the nuts, which all tumbled out as
she did so, the child made a brave attempt to convey a
message. “Fader go—fader say give dat to moder.”

And so, through baby’s innocent blunder, Anselm’s
stern reproof fell into the hands of the last person
whom Alphege would have wished to read it,
CHAPTER XIV.
SUNSHINE OVERCAST,

FREDISWED had set out for Castle Warrenne that morn-
ing with eager speed. Dame Elise was to tell her on
that day whether the labour of years had brought a
reward—whether the yards of exquisite point-lace, on
which tens of thousands of stitches had been expended,
had been approved of, purchased, and paid for by the
wealthy Norman countess. Alphege had become so
poor from manifold extortions, so many things were
needed before winter should set in, that no one could
wonder at the desire of his wife to eke out his now
insufficient means by the labour of her clever hands.

Impatient as she was to reach the castle, Frediswed
paused at a cottage on the way to poultice the bad arm
of Goody Growler, the most waspish woman in the
parish. For this the priest’s wife received no thanks;
yet was her service not unappreciated even by the
shrew.

“Folk say that clerks should have no wives,” ob-
served Goody when Frediswed had quitted the cottage; -
SUNSHINE OVERCAST. 11g

“but if all priests were single men, who would thread
the old women’s needles, or dandle the babies, make
possets, or teach the girls to scrub and to sew? Folk
will say next that it was a mistake to make hands and
feet and eyes and ears in pairs.”

Frediswed made such speed that she soon arrived at
the castle. She augured well from the smile with which
the kind-hearted old Frenchwoman greeted her on her
entrance.

“I guessed that we should see you to-day,” said
Elise.

“ Have you sold it?” cried the eager Frediswed, pant-
ing from the speed with which she had come, for im-
patience had made her quick pace ever and anon break
into a run.

“See into what my fairy wand has turned your light
lace,” said Elise, holding up and shaking a heavy bag.

“Ts it all in coppers?” asked Frediswed, who would
have preferred having the payment in silver, as she
would have to carry the bag home. .

“Coppers!” repeated Elise in scorn; “as if a Nor-
man countess would pay in coppers, and make you hire
a donkey to carry them. Look here! it is all silver,
child,” she continued, opening the bag; “ only you will
find one shining bit of gold at the bottom.”

Frediswed clapped her hands with delight. “ There

??

is enough to buy a cow she exclaimed.

“A cow—a calf—and a kirtle too. Come, child,


cwifo Ss SUNSHINE OVERCAST.

sit down and count the money. You look all in a
flutter.” ;

“Oh, God is good, so very good!” exclaimed Fredis-
wed, clasping her hands. She felt as if wealth, when
most needed, had been showered down upon her; but
hers was no selfish joy. It was chiefly for the sake of
others that Frediswed was so glad to receive the reward
of her long, long labour of patience.

“Sit down and rest yourself,” said Elise. “I will see
whether some honey and cates be not left in the cup-
board.”

“T cannot wait,” said the joyous Frediswed, “I so
long to carry my earnings home to my husband; and I
was never so long parted from Winnie before. Thanks
from my heart, dear Dame Elise. I shall never forget
how much I owe to your kindness.”

Frediswed took up the heavy bag and sped home-
wards with joyous steps, her pleasure only damped by
a fear, never experienced before, of being robbed on the
way. Riches bring their cares. Frediswed was almost
afraid to pass cottages where she had often been wel-
comed; a greeting from a man at the farther side of a
hedge made her turn cold with alarm. Only when she
reached the spot where poor young Martin had first
been discovered did Frediswed even stop to take breath.
There, indeed, she paused to return thanks for the silver
and gold which, in some indistinct way, she connected
with the kindness shown to a dying stranger.



bale

SUNSHINE OVERCAST. “BYar

Heated and weary, but too happy to realize her ‘

fatigue, Frediswed reached her home, and relieved her-
self of her heavy bag by resting it on the oaken table.
The Saxon wife was surprised and disappointed at not
finding her husband within, but tiny Winnie in sole
charge of the house. Laughingly Frediswed held out
her arms to the child, and heard her message, as toddling
up with the parchment the little one said, “ Fader go;
fader say give dat to moder.” The large seal at once
gave assurance that the missive was from the primate.
Tt must be full of kindness, or Alphege would not have
sent it thus by the hands of his child.

Frediswed could read even handwriting; she had
_ learned that then rare accomplishment from her husband.
She had therefore no difficulty in perusing Anselm’s
clearly penned lines; but their import filled her almost
with horror. What! was it on account of her that such
harsh, bitter words had been penned? was her pure,
high-souled Alphege rebuked and despised on account of
his wife? Was his Frediswed keeping him from prefer-
ment and honour, and causing him to be regarded by a
pious man as a flagrant sinner? Frediswed astonished
and frightened her child by sinking down into the
vacant chair and bursting into a flood of passionate
tears.

In the meantime, Alphege had made his way to the
house of Dame Cotton, who was slowly recovering from
her dangerous fit. The place was crowded with rela-

an
SUNSHINE OVERCAST.



tives and friends, chiefly women, who were imploring
the aid of the Virgin and others of the numerous saints _
canonized by Rome. A monk was holding up a cru-
cifix before the woman’s wildly staring eyes; an old
dame was insisting upon sending for some relic which,
as she asserted, had performed innumerable cures.
Those who live constantly in an impure atmosphere
gradually drink in disease without being aware of its
cause: those brought up in gross superstition are uncon-
scious of its evil effects. But Alphege could no longer
take idolatry and deceit as things of course. From the
conversation of old Martin—above all, from the pages of
God’s own Book, the soul of the Saxon had been draw-
ing in pure, healthful air. He now sickened at what
he felt to be but a hollow mockery of religion.

Perhaps at another time, at some calmer moment, Al-
phege might have refrained from giving expression to
his disgust ; but the perusal of Anselm’s letter had left
his mind in an excited, irritable state. The husband
had felt himself to be cruelly misjudged, and his wife
to be rudely insulted. Alphege’s naturally fiery temper
_ now burst from the control which he habitually exer-
cised over it.

“Do not crowd thus about the poor woman,” he angrily
exclaimed ; “do not excite her with your cries and your
noise. Open the window, and bring fresh water; that
will do more for her than all your vain prayers to the
dead, or your relics hallowed by silly legends.”


SUNSHINE OVERCAST. —

The words were unguarded, and Alphege regretted,

their utterance when he saw the surprise on the faces ~ .

of some of his hearers, the indignation on those of
others. Did he actually set no value on a rag of St.
Veronica’s veil, a bone of St. Anthony’s toe? The
monk with the crucifix gave an ominous scowl at the
daring speaker, and muttered, “The abbot must hear
of this.”

As his presence was not needed, the clerk was well
pleased to make his way out of the place. His thoughts
on his way home were exquisitely painful. The times
were out of joint, indeed; but how could he set them
right? How could Alphege, an obscure parish priest,
with no one to back him, oppose himself to the tremen-
dous power of Rome? It would be like an emmet en-
deavouring to stop in full career a powerful charger:
the emmet would inevitably be crushed, and who would
regret or even notice its destruction ?

“Tf I could suffer alone,” thought Alphege, “I would
lift up my voice, even were it a dying man’s voice,
against what I now see to be falsehood, idolatry, blas-
phemy. But I cannot draw down on myself the crush-
ing fury of Rome without dragging down with me in
my fall my innocent wife and child. JI am their pro-
tector and guide, my slender income their only support.
My Frediswed, my heart’s treasure, would be exposed
not only to penury, but to contempt; she would be
treated as if—”’ Alphege writhed under the thought,
124 SUNSHINE OVERCAST.

which seemed to half-madden his brain. O merciful
Heaven! show me some way to save her. In follow-
ing what seems to me a clear though terrible duty,
preserve me from ruining those dearer to me a thousand
times than my life.”

Was the answer to Alphege’s prayer for guidance
given by the lips of his wife when, with pale face,
down which fast flowed the tears, she ran to the thresh-
old to meet him—-when she threw her arms round his
neck and sobbed forth, “We must part! we must
part !”? Alphege had little expected such an exclama-
tion from her lips; he could not have said whether it
most distressed or relieved him. Like one shocked and
half-stunned by a sudden blow, Alphege staggered to a
seat, with the clinging arms still around him. .

“Tt must be!” said Frediswed in a low, despairing
tone; “you meant me to read the archbishop’s letter,
and I have read it. I will not stay here to draw down
his wrath upon you.”

Alphege saw that his wife, in a spirit of self-sacrifice,
was offering to quit her home; it was in a spirit of
self-sacrifice that he would suffer her to do so. The
clerk saw before him dangers which Frediswed must
not see. Anselm’s displeasure was a small thing to
what a priest must expect who should dare to renounce
the errors of Rome. Alphege knew that nothing but
parting from him could save his wife from ‘sharing his
probable doom. ©
SUNSHINE OVERCAST. 125

“ Where could you go, where find a home?” asked the
Saxon.

His words struck like cold steel into Frediswed’s
heart. Was her husband so ready to accept what cost
her so dear? The wife had expected a firm refusal, a
fervent repetition of her husband’s exclamation that
nothing but death should part them. Did Alphege—
could Alphege value the primate’s favour more than
his wife’s fond love? In a bitterness of spirit which
had almost a touch of wounded pride, Frediswed replied,
“My uncle at Wanbury-on-sea would readily receive and
shelter me and your child. He and his wife have been
kind to me from childhood. I would be no burden on
_ them, Alphege; I can earn my own bread,—see what I
have gained by the sale of my lace,” and she pointed to
the heavy bag on the table.

“A godsend!” exclaimed Alphege; “this relieves my
mind of a heavy burden.”

“ Mine is not so easily relieved,” said Frediswed with
desperate calmness; “I had thought—hoped—that Al-
phege and I should live and die together.”

Her husband read her thoughts. He saw how deep
a wound he had inflicted: she had taken that readiness
to let her go as a sign of coldness, when it was really a
proof of the tenderest regard for her safety.

“ Frediswed,” he said, laying his hand on hers, which
felt cold as ice to his touch, “you are more to me than
all the world—you and our little treasure.” Alphege
126 SUNSHINE OVERCAST.

glanced as he spoke at golden-haired Winnie, who had
fallen into the sweet sleep of innocent childhood, uncon-
scious of sorrow or of danger. “If I consent that you
should for a while dwell at Wanbury-on-sea under your
uncle’s protection, it is for your sake, not my own. You
leave me to a desolate home, which, in your absence, will
never be home to me. But I see God’s overruling hand
in—” Alphege stopped at the sound of an approaching
step. Edgar appeared, returning before he had been
expected.

“T made a capital bargain,” began the lad; then he
stopped short. The agitation betrayed by the counten-
ances of both Alphege and his wife showed that some
terrible misfortune must have occurred. Had Winnie
‘suddenly been taken from them? This was Edgar's
first thought ; but no, there she lay smiling in her sleep,
her curly head resting on her plump little arm.

“Edgar,” said the clerk, “go to Farmer Wilmot and
ask him to let us hire his light cart for a week. My
wife starts for Wanbury-on-sea to-morrow ; she is going
to visit her relations.”

“To-morrow !—so soon!” exclaimed Frediswed in
anguish. She felt somewhat as Prince Arthur must
have felt on hearing that both his eyes were to be put
out, and by a hand that he loved.

“Tf you start early,” continued Alphege, still address-
ing Edgar, though his wife’s exclamation had cut him to
the quick, “the horse may manage the journey in two-
SUNSHINE OVERCAST. 127

days ; the distance is about thirty miles. You will arrive
before Sunday. You, Edgar, will be your mother’s
escort, and remain with her to be her help and comfort.
I am tied here by the necessity of performing the duties
of the office which I fill.”

“Not to-morrow !—not to-morrow!” gasped Fred-
iswed,

“Delay is but lengthening pain.—Go, Edgar, and do
my hest.”

Frediswed moaned in irrepressible pain when the
youth had quitted the house to obey what seemed to her
a most cruel command. She had expected to have
weeks, if not months, in which to prepare for the
terrible sacrifice which she had offered to make—if;
indeed, Alphege would permit her to make it. But
Alphege knew that if his wife went not at once, she
never might go at all. The coming Sunday would be a
crisis in his life.

“T must then be free to act according to my con-
science, and obey the will of my Lord at whatever cost,”
said the Saxon priest to himself. “Never again dare I
teach the flock committed by Him to my charge to wor-
ship anything made by man—to bow down to a wafer
as if ib were God. Frediswed must be away before the
bolt fall, as it assuredly will. So utterly retired from
the world will be my wife in a small secluded hamlet,
that the tidings of what must happen will reach her but
slowly, if they ever reach her at all. Once assured that
128 SUNSHINE OVERCAST,

my treasures are safe, I can dare all, and by God’s help
endure all that He wills that I suffer.”

The suffering indeed had begun already ; for Tae}
with the morrow’s terrible parting before him, realized
that, as regards this world, the parting would probably
be final, the separation one for life. It was no light
addition to his pain to feel that his almost idolized wife
deemed him hard, if not cruel—that she for whom he
would have shed his heart’s blood misjudged him, perhaps
even doubted the depth of his love.

Frediswed’s most bitter resentment was against the
primate, whom she, though unjustly, deemed the cause
of all her woe. It was Anselm whose baneful influence
had destroyed the peace of her Eden—had made the
kindest of husbands cruel, the happiest of women
wretched. Gentle as was her nature, it was hard, very
hard for Frediswed to pardon the man who had written
that heartless letter which, as she supposed, had turned
her paradise into a desert. She tried earnestly, she
prayed fervently to be enabled to forgive as she would
be forgiven; but it was a frequently recurring trial, a
prayer which had often to be repeated, before Frediswed
could really feel that the grace which she sought had
been granted.

The miseries of war, the horrors of a battletield have
often been depicted, the wailing of widows, the desola-
tion of orphans described; but where have we seen a
picture of the anguish occasioned by the long, alas!
SUNSHINE OVERCAST. 129

losing battle maintained year after year, reign after
reign, by married clergymen, from whom Rome sought,
with persevering cruelty, to wrench away the wives
whom they loved? History merely gives us facts,
bare outlines to be filled up by imagination. Does not
any colouring fail to give a true idea of the long torture
inflicted by the unscriptural dogmas of Rome on her
innocent victims ?

(317) 9
CHAPTER XV.
DARING THE WORST.

THE morrow’s parting need not be described; it was
inexpressibly painful. There were few words spoken,
few tears shed; but well hath the poet said —

“The grief which does not speak,
Whispers the o’erwrought heart, and bids it break.”

Winnie was the one merry member of the party. To
her the novel pleasure of riding in a cart, and watching
the “gee-gee,” as he pricked up his ears, impatient to
start, was a great joy, making her clap her hands with
delight. Winnie could not understand her parents’ dis-
tress; she did not even realize that she was to be parted
from her father, as Alphege accompanied his loved ones
for miles. Then one last embrace, one more faltered
blessing, one kiss to his child (the father’s tear fell on
her sunny locks), and Alphege sprang out of the cart.
“Surely the bitterness of death is past!” he murmured
to himself as he strode away, after turning to take a
long last look of faces that he might never behold
again. ; ,
DARING THE WORST. I31

For Alphege had made up his mind to follow what he
felt to be the guidance of God. “I cannot go on ad-
ministering sacraments which are polluted by idolatry,”
he said to himself; “I cannot be a party to deceiving
the flock who trust me and follow where I lead. I
cannot let those whose consciences tell them that the
disease of sin is upon them come to me as to a physician,
and then give them as medicine what I know to be poi-
son. I cannot be a Popish priest, and I must not shrink
from disclaiming the name. But what is before me if I
speak boldly ?—slow martyrdom, misery, shame, and ruin!

“Yet shall I, like a coward, shrink from the duty
before me? Shall I not rather count it gain to suffer
for the truth? If our Alfred or holy Edward had given
to his servant—his slave—a jewel taken from his own
crown, would not that jewel have been received with
joy and worn with pride? My King is giving to me a
jewel from His crown, the only one which He wore on
earth—His crown of thorns. It will wound, it will
pierce deep; but it pierced Him first—-Christ was de-
spised and rejected of men. Shall the servant refuse to
wear what the Master wore before him ?”

Foxe’s book gives us a long, grand roll-list of the
glorious army of martyrs, but a far fuller one is kept in
heaven. No one on earth can count the number of
those who have suffered for Christ.

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.”
132 DARING THE WORST.

Yes, under the dark, dark waves of superstition which
seemed entirely to cover England in the olden time, long
before the name of Lollard was known or a Wickliff
shed light over the gloomy waters, who can tell how
many a true believer was counted by Christ as His own
—how many, who for ages have been forgotten by man,
dared to suffer for Him? These things shall be revealed
at the last day, when the Lord shall make up His jewels.

On the morning after Frediswed’s departure, as her
husband was preparing for the services of the morrow, he
had another visit from Brother Hyppolyte of Basilton
Abbey. It cannot be said that the monk was welcome—
perhaps no one would have been so at that time—but
Alphege received his cousin with courtesy.

“T am well pleased to hear that you have done your
duty to Holy Church at last,” quoth the monk as he
took a seat. “You have turned off the woman whom
you had ventured to marry.”

“T have not turned off my wife,” said the Saxon with
an emphasis on the last word. “Frediswed has gone, as
she herself proposed, to visit a relation whom she has
not seen since we wedded. The tie which unites us two
neither prelate nor pope has power to sever.”

“We will see—we will see,” said the monk ; “ prelates
and popes are not easy to deal with. You are not
called to break your skull against a stone wall. I’m glad
that your wife has gone. I suppose that she has taken
with her that smiling cherub who gave me the nut.”
DARING THE WORST. 133

Alphege made a silent sign of assent.

“T have not eaten the nut,” said Hyppolyte with a
grim smile; “I have put it on my little shelf beside my
scapulary; ’tis a kind of keepsake to mind me of the
pretty child.” Then Hyppolyte, changing his softened
tone to one which expressed the curiosity which peered
forth from his sunken eyes, went on, “ Of course it was
the primate’s letter, received through me, that made you
decide on sending away your wife. Tell me, I pray
thee, what was written by the holy Anselm.”

“The primate’s letter was between him and me; no
one but myself has read it ;” then correcting himself, the
priest added, “except my wife.”

“Your wife! did you show it to her?” exclaimed the
monk with surprise.

Alphege discouraged further conversation. He glanced
at his manuscript, and then said something about pre-
paration for Sunday. The monk was not quick at tak-
ing a hint, nor willing to go without the information
which he sought. But at last, finding that lingering
and questioning were of no avail, Hyppolyte, to the no
small relief of his relative, rose and took his departure.

Alphege, during the two last sad nights, had hardly
slept at all. Nature now claimed her due, and before
the momentous Sunday the clerk’s slumber was long
and deep. Thus sometimes sleep the condemned before
execution, nor dream of the gibbet or the axe. The
griefs of the past, the perils of the future are forgotten, to
134 DARING THE WORST.

whatever suffering the morning’s dawn may awaken the
weary man. It was with much of the feeling of one
going to lay his head on the block that Alphege, on the
Sunday morning, crossed the field which separated the
parsonage from the small, simple Saxon church in which
he had officiated so often. The building was unusually
crowded, even the low porch was full to overflowing.
Curiosity, regret, pity moved the congregation, which
chiefly consisted of peasants; for Frediswed had been
greatly beloved, and every one knew that on the Friday
morning she and her child had gone from the place.
But on the countenances of several monks, who for the
first time had entered that church, there was an expres-
sion of triumph. The Saxon had been defeated at last :
would he openly express his penitence for having held |
his ground so long? One of the monks grimly observed
that the place in the church for holy water was dry.
A yet more strange thing was that the crucifix and
lighted candles no longer appeared on the altar. Of
what fearful heresy could this be a sign ?

Alphege silently passed to his place within the altar
rails, his face pale as parchment, but resolution marked
by the compressed lips and the steadfast gaze. When
these lips unclosed, it was to utter no Latin prayer. In
a clear, calm voice Alphege addressed his flock in the
Saxon tongue, which even the poorest, the most illiterate
could readily comprehend.

To their astonishment, almost dismay, the people -
DARING THE WORST. 135

heard in condensed form the doctrines drawn from
Scripture condemning and exposing the falsehood of
the Papal dogmas which had so long passed current as
truth. Alphege asked the forgiveness of his flock for
having for years connived at deceptions, and for having
led them into a perilous quicksand, instead of the green
pastures beside the still waters. The priest more solemnly
besought the pardon of God for having fought against
conviction, and for having so tardily, so unwillingly taken
up his cross.

The astonishment of the monks was so great at what
they thought the clerk’s unexampled presumption in
setting up his interpretation of Scripture against the
opinions of popes and colleges of cardinals, that for
some time Alphege was able to speak on almost with-
out interruption; only a few indignant exclamations
were heard, like the first droppings from a heavy
thunder-cloud. Then the full fury of the storm burst
on the heretic’s head. Had not some of his parishioners
rallied round Alphege for his defence, he would well-
nigh have been torn in pieces. Egged on by the furious
monks, and excited by blind bigotry, a rabble hooted,
howled, and rushed upon Alphege, till a most unseemly
struggle went on in the house dedicated to the God of
peace. The Saxon’s voice was utterly drowned in the
wild uproar; Alphege could no longer make himself
heard. Rude hands were laid upon him, he was dragged
hither and thither, while the sound of blows dealt with
136 DARING THE WORST.

staff and stave was heard even above the roar of voices,
At last, breathless and bleeding as he was, Alphege was
dragged off to Basilton Monastery, and there thrown
into a cell to fast on bread and water till his trial for
heresy should come on.

“Though they curse, do Thou bless, Lord; for I suffer
for Thy truth,” exclaimed the persecuted priest, as he
sank exhausted on the straw which was to be his only
bed.
CHAPTER XVI.
TRIED AND CONDEMNED.

Nive days elapsed before arrangements were completed
for the solemn trial of Alphege, the heretic priest, though
he was subjected in the meantime to harassing examina-
tions. Bishops must be consulted, abbots summoned,
canons searched, before the terrors of the law could be
brought into action. This could only be the ecclesias-
tical law, for the secular courts could have nothing to
do with the matter. Alphege’s offence was strictly one
against what was called the Church, and he was himself
an ecclesiastic ; his life, therefore, could not be forfeited,
however malice might desire his death. In Henry the
First’s time there was no “whip with six strings,” no
law to make heresy a capital crime, no fires had yet
been lighted in Smithfield, no Inquisition had in En-
gland the privilege of sending victims to rack or stake.
Yet the punishment of a recusant priest must be signal ;
the man who had denounced the doctrine of transub-
stantiation, and spoken against Mariolatry and image-
worship, the clerk in whose house had been found such
138 TRIED AND CONDEMNED.

a treatise as the “ Antichrist” by Bruis, must be made
the object of vengeance so signal that none should dare
to follow in his steps.

The case excited interest even at court. Henry,
whose reign had been one struggle of king against
primate, the power of the crown and that of the papal
tiara, made mirth out of the audacity of the Saxon
clerk who had flown in the face of Rome, and had
dared to defy what a monarch had learned to fear.

“This clerk is a bold wight!” exclaimed Henry with
an oath; “I wot that a wasp might presume to dart at
the cheek of a holy pope, ay, and that a pope might
start at the sting and wince, though he would smash
the troublesome insect.”

The news of Alphege’s arrest for heresy reached
Anselm in Lyons, where the primate was lingering still.
The archbishop was shocked, distressed; he fasted, he
prayed. But with Anselm’s rigid notions of ecclesias-
tical duty, he decided that he could not interfere to
protect one whom he had tenderly loved from the
punishment due for guilt so tremendous. “A diseased
member must be cut off,’ said the pious prelate; “it is
right to sacrifice a limb to save a life.”

It may seem strange that tidings of what so deeply
concerned her should not reach Frediswed in her pro-
foundly quiet retreat. The fishing hamlet in which her
uncle lived was almost shut out from the rest of the
world. There were no newspapers then, no post-oflice ;.
TRIED AND CONDEMNED. 139

few persons could write letters at all, and such as were
written had to be sent by hand. One county might be
in profound ignorance of what passed in the county
adjoining.

Frediswed had laboriously penned an epistle to her
husband, to be carried by the driver of the cart in
which she has travelled to Wanbury-on-sea. In her
letter she had entreated Alphege to.send a messenger as
soon as he could with news, unless indeed he could spare
time to come himself. Sorely grieved was the wife when
week after week passed without bringing a reply, or
any token of love; but though distressed, she was hardly
surprised. It would be difficult to make a letter reach
Wanbury, now that autumn rains had set in and bridge-
less streams could not be forded. The roads in Henry
the First’s time were such as might be found in Africa
now ; heavy rain made them well-nigh impassable. Thus
Frediswed was happily ignorant of what, if known,
would have filled her with grief and dismay. She
thought that by parting with her, Alphege had been
saved from all danger; she had sacrificed herself for
him, and the sacrifice had been accepted. So Frediswed
worked diligently at her lace-making, fondled her child,
and prayed constantly and fervently for her husband,
without any idea of how greatly he needed her prayers.

In the meantime the day of trial came on. In the
monastery of Basilton great preparations were made for
feasting Church dignitaries, who were to come with their
140 TRIED AND CONDEMNED.

retinues in order to judge the culprit who had dared to
offend the Church. “Merry is the hall where beards
wag all,” and haunches of venison, peacocks, capons,
rounds of beef, and the indispensable boar’s head smoked
on the table of the abbot, to do honour to those who
came to decide the fate of the captive fasting on bread
and water in his comfortless cell.

On the morrow Alphege was brought before the
judges, who had already decided on his doom.

The prisoner's enemies had hoped by hardships to
break his spirit, but they only succeeded in injuring his
health. The body suffered indeed, but the soul rose
above tribulation. He who stood beside the three in
the burning fiery furnace never forsakes His servants.
Alphege was even given grace to rejoice, and, like Paul
and Silas, to make a prison echo a song of praise.

Knowing that he was foredoomed, Alphege had at
first resolved to stand silent before his judges, or briefly
to answer such questions as might be asked. But in
the early dawn of the day of his trial, when the Saxon
awoke half-famished and chilled, for he was not given
even a blanket to wrap round his now emaciated form,
another thought came into the prisoner’s mind.

“JT shall to-day have one God-given opportunity,
probably my last, of witnessing to the truth, of letting
those who are enchained by superstition, those who are
sunk in vice hear—to some it may be for the first
time—what God’s inspired Word declares. A few years
TRIED AND CONDEMNED. T41

ago I was myself in darkness; this day I may be called
upon to flash back on others the light which I have
received. God can put into these unworthy lips such
words as may rouse at least some to thought, if not to
repentance. Like the voice in the wilderness, I may
ery out, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven ws at
hand. Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away
the sin of the world!’ though my witness, like John’s,
be followed by dungeon and death.”

The prisoner threw himself on his knees, and fer-
vently prayed for help from above. Alphege besought
mercy even for his persecutors, and for himself the
courage which dares, the patience which endures. Very
earnest, too, were his supplications for his wife and child.
Alphege was found on his knees by the monks who
came to conduct him to the large hall which had been
prepared for the trial.

The sight of the array before him—mitred bishop with
gilded crosier, gorgeously attired prior, the abbot in
severe dignity, the crowd of monks of various orders,
all the pomp of sacerdotal pride—might have overawed
many a bold spirit, but Alphege the Saxon faced it with
dauntless heart. The public were not admitted; it was
not the way with Rome to let the vulgar crowd look on
her mysterious proceedings, or criticise her merciless deeds.
Alphege glanced around him in vain to find some earthly
friend who would sympathize with him, even if not
venturing to encourage. Hyppolyte’s face was averted ;
142 TRIED AND CONDEMNED.

the gaunt monk, Alphege’s fellow-countryman and rela-
tion, avoided meeting his eye.

The proceedings began with a long Latin prayer: the
Almighty was invoked to do justice and uphold truth.
Alphege gave a firm “Amen” to the prayer, false and
hypocritical as the priest had been who had performed
this mockery of supplication. Bound and fettered stood
the Saxon, whilst numerous articles of accusation were
brought against him. Then the bishop who had been
called to preside, in a stern, harsh voice asked the
prisoner what he had to say for himself.

If accusers, witnesses, and judges had been surprised
at the Saxon’s silent dignity when he listened, far more
were they startled, almost confounded, when he made
his reply. Alphege was a far more learned clerk than
most of the ecclesiastics present; he had read “the
fathers,” and freely could quote them; the decrees of
councils, ancient and more recent, could easily be re-
ferred to by one possessing a memory singularly reten-
tive. But Alphege had no wish to display his learning.
He endeavoured to keep as closely as might be to the
simple declarations of Scripture; the carnal weapons of
man’s forging he cared not to wield; his sword was the
Word of God. Alphege spoke sometimes in Latin, the
language used in church service; sometimes in French,
as Normans formed the majority of his hearers, and
some monks knew no Latin beyond Aves and Pater-
nosters ; and sometimes, but not often, the Saxon broke’
TRIED AND CONDEMNED. I43

into his own mother tongue, its rough vigour giving
force to his speech. None could help listening, for the
manner of the accused was like that of a Paul before a
Festus—the manner of one who feared not, but who was
intent on saving souls even when arraigned as one
worthy of death.

Alphege passed lightly over the subject of the mar-
riage of priests—it was too personal to himself; but on
other matters he drew a vivid and startling contrast
between the teaching of Rome and that of Christ and
His apostles. .

“I was in ignorance of the truth myself,” he said,
“when I took on me the vows of priest. I thought, as
you think, that the voice of what is called the Holy
Church is the voice of God. I believed in the power to
absolve; I believed in the power of a mortal like myself
to change a wafer into the blessed body of Him who is
now on the right hand of God the Father Almighty. But
now my eyes are opened. I believe in a royal priesthood
(1 Peter ii. 9); but it is conferred on all, men or women,
who are saved by grace, justified by faith. The cry of
the redeemed saints is what St. John heard when heaven
was opened before him: Unto Him that loved us, and
washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath
made us kings and priests unto God, to Him be glory and
dominion (Rev. i. 5,6). I believe in a daily, an hourly
sacrifice, to be offered by all such priests; but it is such
as St. Paul describes when exhorting the early Church
144 TRIED AND CONDEMNED.

of Rome: I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies
of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice,
holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable serv-
ice (Rom. xii. 1). A child can offer this sacrifice, a
pontiff can do no more. I believe—”

But Alphege had now uttered the last word which he
was suffered to speak in that stately hall. The bishop
rose in uncontrollable wrath, and something like a yell
of mingled derision and hatred burst from abbot and
monks. Alphege was condemned without further hear-
ing. Ecclesiastical law, as has been mentioned, did not
sanction a capital sentence, but his judges, with one
accord, condemned the prisoner to worse than death.
The heretic and apostate, as he was called, was to be de-
graded and excommunicated with bell and book ; he was
deprived of his rights as a priest, he was deprived of
his rights asa man. Alphege was sentenced to receive
a hundred lashes from a knotted rope; then to be con-
fined for life in a cell, with the prospect of renewed
scourging at the pleasure of the bigoted abbot.

The first part of the punishment was carried out
before the set of sun. With every circumstance of in-
dignity, the descendant of Ethelbert was degraded, ex-
communicated, cut off from the Church, in the presence
of a numerous assembly of clergy and monks. Alphege
was then partially stripped, bound to a_pillar, and mer-
cilessly scourged, every successive blow inflicting agony
more acute, as the knotted rope fell on bruised skin,
TRIED AND CONDEMNED. I45

scarred flesh, and at last on open wounds, from which
great red drops fell and splashed on the marble pave-
ment.

Alphege did not utter a shriek, not even a groan,
under the prolonged torture. His soul, firm in faith, was
unconquered still; but, ere the final blow was given, his
mangled form was only prevented by the ropes which
held him from falling senseless on the floor.

“ Martyr-spirit, faithful to the end!” murmured
Hyppolyte the monk, as, sickening at what he had
witnessed, the poor brother sought his own cell, where
no one could see him weep for a heretic’s fate.

(317) 10
CHAPTER XVII.
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

FREDISWED’S uncle, Jock Bannerman, lived at Wanbury-
on-sea, a humble hamlet consisting of a few rude dwell-
ings, occupied by those who, like himself, pursued a
fisherman’s calling. There was not even a church or a
monastery within miles of the place. The land near
the beach was barren, so that for some little distance
from the sandy shore a few stunted trees and tufts of
coarse grass were almost the sole representatives of the
vegetable kingdom. The one exception was a small
farm possessed by a man named Swinton, where labour
on an ungrateful soil produced but a meagre result.

But in those lawless times the seclusion and poverty
of the hamlet was rather an advantage to its Saxon in-
habitants. The spoiler was not attracted by anything
that he was likely to get from Wanbury-on-sea. The
nearest town was the sea-port of Dover, and occasionally
some noble, or high ecclesiastic, bound for France, passed
by the quiet hamlet, and raised contribution in the shape
of fish, or pig and poultry from Swinton’s farm; but
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. I47

happily such unwelcome visitors were few and far
between. Usually the place was so quiet that the cry
of the white-winged sea-bird, or the plash of the waves
on the shore, alone broke the perfect stillness.

Jock Bannerman was considered well-to-do, as he
possessed the largest boat and the best nets in the place,
and had usually the best luck in bringing them filled to
the beach. About once in a year he would go as far as
Dover to bring needed stores to the hamlet, for the place
boasted no shop. Jock was a kind-hearted, honest man,
and gave a hearty welcome to his afflicted niece. Jock’s
wife, Esther, was a tall, high-featured, sunburned woman,
with more mother-wit than her husband. The dame
was glad to have Frediswed to share her home. Esther’s
was a somewhat dull and lonesome life, as her husband
was often out fishing, and her children had not lived to
grow up. It was a real pleasure to the bereaved mother
to take Winnie into her arms, and to talk to Frediswed
about the happy days when Jock and Esther had had
two little ones of their own.

Frediswed’s offer to pay for her board was the only
thing which displeased the somewhat elderly couple.

“Bless your dear heart! d’ye take us for Norman
thieves that ye think that we grudge a bit o’ bannock or
a morsel of fish to our own kith and kin?” cried Esther.
“We shall never miss what you eat; and as for the

-pretty one here, we'll get her a sup of milk, and
now and then an egg, from Swinton’s farm, for chil-
148 THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

der need delicate fare. She’s welcome to whatever is
here.”

“But I have plenty,” said Frediswed, holding up the
bag, which to her seemed like that of Fortunatus.

The fisherman’s wife laughed. “Keep that heap o’
siller for your own little maid; she'll want a portion
one of these days, if you do not spend it afore. And I
advise ye, Frediswed, not to blab of your shining bits ;
for if it got wind that you have more than would buy a
pickled herring, you might awake some fine morning to
find yoursel’ as scant of money as the sand by the shore
is of grass.”

“Tet me at least pay for the keep of Edgay.”

“Edgar keeps himself,” growled the honest fisherman
from the corner where he sat mending his nets. “He
seems a handy lad, and takes to the oar as if he were
born to it. Swinton said but yestere’en that he wanted
a boy to look after his horse Trusty. A tall lad of
fifteen ain’t worth a dry fish-bone if he can’t earn his
bit and sup.” Having made this, for him, unusually
long speech, Jock relapsed into his habitual silence.

Frediswed tried to make the best of her new sur-
roundings. She never complained, though she could not
help missing the neatness and order which had prévailed
in her own loved home. Her present life was compara-
tively rough. She thought with regret of visits to her old
parishioners, her pleasant chats with Dame Elise, and the
flowers in her garden which she had delighted to tend.
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 149

Yet, had her husband been at her side, Frediswed’s life
at Wanbury-on-sea would not have been unhappy. She
assisted Esther in many ways, and still worked hard at .
lace-making, though no one in the hamlet would ever
think of purchasing what she wrought. Some time or
other, Frediswed hoped, the lace would be disposed of
by Dame Elise.

Winnie, who had no cares or regrets, was happy as
the day was long, picking up shells or long strands of
sea-weed on the beach, and bringing them to her
mother. Edgar dug for the child holes in the sand,
and to see them filling with water as the tide came up
‘ made the little one clap her hands with delight. Then
she was a great pet with Jock and Esther. More than
once the fisherman took the curly-headed child out in
his boat, which was a wonderful treat to Winnie.

But though Frediswed was thankful for a peaceful
retreat, and the kind hospitality of her relations, she
could not be happy away from her husband. She
longed, with passionate yearning, for a letter from
Alphege, some token of affection, should it be but a
flower from her garden. The autumn rains ceased,
communication between Wanbury and Basilton was
open, though the road was bad; why did Alphege
never come? oh, why did he never write ?

Frediswed had early confided the story of her troubles
to Esther, not omitting mention of Anselm’s letter,
which she considered to be the cause of them all.
150 THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

“Oh, was it wrong—selfish in me—to linger in my
happy home? Was it wrong to stay so long with my
husband ?” asked the poor wife with tearful eyes.

“Wrong! fiddlesticks and nonsense!” cried the
fisherman’s wife. “A woman’s place is with her wedded
spouse, whatever the friars may say. D’ye think I’d
leave my old Jock if the bishops and archbishops, ay,
and the Pope and his cardinals, bade me go? I'd shake
my fist in the faces of ’em all if they tried their tricks
upon me. I'll tell you an old woman’s notion of a
wife's duty, Frediswed, my child; I had it from my
father, who was a learned clerk, and had as much.
religion in him as a score of crusaders, with their
scallop shells in their caps and their crosses on their
shoulders. Says my father, says he, “A wife's home
should be her country, her husband her king; his will
should be her law, and his company her delight” I
take it that is something like what is in the Evangel
(my father put bits of it into good Saxon), but I can’t
just make out whether that piece was about Holy
Church or poor women like as we.”

“ Perhaps both,” said Frediswed softly.

Frediswed would have been more impatient still at
Alphege’s long silence, but for a touch of the super-
stition so prevalent in the dark ages. One morning
Frediswed entered the little room which was both
sitting-room and kitchen, with Winnie in her arms, and
such a bright look on her face that Esther, who was
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 151

hanging up some dried fish on hooks fixed in the rafters,
observed with a smile, “I’ll be bound you've had news
of your man, though I ha’n’t seen any messenger come.”

“T may say yes and no in a breath,” was Frediswed’s
cheerful reply. “No one has come to this hermitage ;
but I have had a good dream, such a delightful dream !
It has filled my heart with delight, for I dreamed it
three times over.”

“Then it is sure to come true,” said the sagacious
Esther. “Tell us your dream.”

“Tt wants but three weeks to the anniversary of our
marriage. I dreamed that the happy day had come. I
have often comforted my hungry heart by thinking
that the reason for my Alphege’s silence may be that
he wishes to give me a joyful surprise on our wedding-
day.”

“Likely enough,” interrupted Esther. “Did ye dream
as he’d come ?”

“Oh yes. But this place was so changed, oh, so
changed, you would not have known it! Instead of the
smell of fish the fragrance of roses, and garlands of white
May-blossom hung from the beams and hid the walls.
I was in a kind of fairy bower, and Alphege was beside
me, so bright and happy, with Winnie on his knee; and
he put round my neck such a beautiful chain of gold.”

“Maybe the dream won't come all exactly true,”
observed Esther, gravely shaking her head. “I can't
make out how yon dried fish could be turned into May-
152 ? THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

blossom and roses; and as for the chain of gold, it’s not
suited for the wife of a clerk.”

“Oh, dreams are never quite precise,” laughed Fred-
iswed. “If my own Alphege come, I shall need no
flowers to make earth all brightness to me; and as for
the chain of gold, it must mean the chain of pure love,
which is a thousand times more precious.”

Old Jock, when he heard of the thrice-repeated
dream, was even more sure than his wife had been that
it would come true. Neither of the good folk con-
sidered that what is perpetually in waking thoughts is
likely enough to shape itself into a dream.

Frediswed made joyful preparations for the coming
anniversary ; and so often repeated to Winnie the joy-
ful tidings, “Father is coming!” that the bright little
child caught up the strain of hope, and her last word
at night was, “ Fader is comin’,” her first question in the
morning, “Is fader come?”

But though Frediswed prepared a fair alb as a gift
for her husband, made cakes, and got ready a little
banquet of fish, with the rare luxury of a fowl from the
farm; though the cottage was decked with sea-weed
and shells in default of flowers, and every sound, how-
ever slight, sent the eager wife rushing to the door—
Alphege never appeared. In vain Frediswed thrice
took her way inland, mounting a low hill which com-
manded a view, and straining her eyes to catch the first
sight of her husband’s form: thrice had she to return
THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA. 153

disappointed. Hour after hour passed, but no one came
to lonely Wanbury-on-sea. With a most bitter sense
of disappointment, Frediswed retired to her pallet at

night.
* And still she said, ‘Tis very dreary ;
He cometh not,’ she said.”

Frediswed could now endure suspense no longer.
She managed to find another messenger, penned with
difficulty another letter to Alphege, and also a little note
to Dame Elise, full of gratitude and love, and then sent
the man on his way.

“Surely an answer will come now,” said Frediswed
to Esther. “If it do not, I shall break my heart, for
I shall think that my Alphege loves me no more.”

“You would be a fool to think such a thing,” ob-
served Esther; “and as for breaking your heart, that’s
not so easy a matter. My heart did not break when I
laid my last child in the grave. I doubt me but that
you are one of little faith. You doubt your heavenly
Father’s love or His wisdom, one or the other, or you
would not go on fretting at His will; and now you
take to doubting your husband. Shame on the faith-
less little woman !”

Frediswed took the honest rebuke very humbly, and
tried hard neither to fret nor to doubt. But week after
week passed by, wintry storms now raged over the
coast, and still no word from Alphege, still no messenger
returned.
154 THE COTTAGE BY THE SEA.

Of course the letter to Alphege had never reached
him, nor had that addressed to Elise ever met her eye.
Before the trial of Alphege had come on, the kindly
Frenchwoman had been taken at midnight with a fit,
and before dawn broke her spirit had peacefully and
painlessly passed away. When her friends, surprised at
her non-appearance at breakfast, sought her, they found
the body stiff and cold, but with a half-smile still on
the face.

Frediswed’s messenger was returning with the news
of the death of Elise, and the yet sadder news of the
terrible fate of Alphege the priest, when the poor man
was seized by a baron’s retainers, and forced to assist
in building a fort. In those days of slavery, legal or
illegal, it was no marvel if unhappy peasants were
obliged, against their will, to work for those who needed
the help of their thews and sinews. The Wanbury
man was far from his home, and had no protector or
friend. It was not till the oppressor’s fort was finished
that he was suffered to return to his little home on the
coast, and that was not till the following year.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A FADING FLOWER.

In the meantime Frediswed, still tortured by suspense,
had another cause of distress. The blasts of winter
were too sharp and keen for her little Winnie; ague
and fever came on. ‘The child’s cheeks were now suf-
fused with a burning glow, anon became pale as the
pillow placed under her curly head. Sometimes Winnie
shivered with cold, sometimes a fiery heat consumed
her. The once dimpled hands became thin, the once
merry voice was only heard in a feeble wail which
pierced her mother’s heart. In vain Frediswed and
Esther tried the various remedies prescribed by the wise
women of that day—dried herbs, which had been often
found efficacious, and (let the age be responsible for the
folly) curious charms to be worn round the neck. The
child grew worse and worse, and Jock gloomily re-
marked to his wife that this little one would soon pass
away as their own two children had done.

Frediswed had never let Winnie forget her absent
father. Not only was he, morning and evening, named
156 A FADING FLOWER.

in her simple prayers, but Frediswed never wearied of
telling his little one stories about him. Winnie heard
much of her parent’s kindness and goodness, so that,
though her baby memory could not recall his features,
there was in her mind a glorified image of him whom
she loved though she could not see him. It is thus that
the Church, during the absence of her Lord, brings up
her children to love and revere Him, and long for the
happy time when the blessed One shall return.

Frediswed was one early morning watching anxiously
by the sick child—Edgar was with her, for the boy
insisted on taking his share in nursing “ little sister ”—
when Winnie awoke from feverish sleep. Opening her
blue eyes wide, and stretching out her little arms, the
child exclaimed in an excited manner, “ Winnie see
fader! Winnie see fader !”

“Where?” exclaimed Frediswed eagerly.

“Up—high—all bright ;” the tiny hand was raised,
the blue eyes gazed upwards. “Fader call Winnie;
but—”’

“But what, mine own darling?” cried Frediswed,
taking the burning little hand into her own.

“Winnie want moder to go too,” lisped the child in
a fainter voice, and then the transparent fringed lids
drooped heavily over the languid eyes.

“OQ Edgar, my Winnie is dying; and perhaps her
father is dead!” exclaimed Frediswed in an agony of
fear. “The Lord has sent my Alphege’s spirit to call
A FADING FLOWER. 157

his child. If I could only know the worst, I could
better endure this terrible grief; it is the suspense
which kills me.”

“Tl go to Basilton!” said Edgar, springing to his
feet. “I warrant you I'll bring back a true report,
whatever it be.”

“How could you go—in the winter, too? You are
not strong enough to walk thirty miles and back, and
that in weather such as this.”

“TI know now how to ride Trusty bareback ; maybe
Farmer Swinton would lend him, as there is no field
work now,” said Edgar, after a pause for thought.

“Dear boy, you do not know the way,” said Fredis-
wed, glancing anxiously at the slightly-made lad whom
she had nursed in sickness, and whom she did not deem
strong enough or experienced enough for such a long
journey and difficult errand, for the roads were very
bad. a
“T trow I'll find it!” said the brave-hearted boy.
“T have a tongue in my head to ask the way and eyes
to mark sign-posts and landmarks; besides,” added
Edgar in a softer tone, “won't you be praying for me
all the way ?”

Frediswed was too hungry for tidings to prevent
Edgar from undertaking the journey, so Trusty was
hired from Swinton. The mother, kneeling by Winnie’s
bed, was only able to pen the few words: “Dearest,
come; our child is very ill.” Frediswed had not the
158 A FADING FLOWER.

heart to add, “dying.” A straggling “F” was the
only signature to the scarcely legible scrawl, which was
blotted with tears,

“Go, my son, my dear son, and God be with you!”
was Frediswed’s farewell to Edgar as she saw him start,
and then she returned to her mournful watch beside
her fading flower.

Frediswed, like others in that age of superstition,
put almost implicit faith in dreams, and was persuaded
that Winnie’s had been a call to depart from this
world.

Almost worn out with sorrow and nights of watching,
Frediswed had fallen one morning into a light sleep,
when she was awakened by the voices of the Banner-
mans, who were talking together outside the door, un-
aware that she overheard them.

“She’s agoin’ fast,” observed Esther sadly; “she
looks just as our Essie looked the day afore she was
taken. I saw a winding-sheet in the candle last night,
and it was turned towards the poor child.”

“T heard a raven croak yesterday ; it’s a bad omen,”
said Jock.

“I wonder whether the dear little one will be buried
high up on the beach beside the graves of our children,
or carried all the long way to the big town, where
masses will be said for her soul,” observed Esther. «If
so, you'll have to make a small coffin out of the drift-
wood that’s lying about.”
A FADING FLOWER. I59

“ Winnie don’t need masses; she’s a little angel,” ob-
served the fisherman.

Frediswed heard the choking sound in the voice of
the kind-hearted man, but she could not see the tear
which he* brushed from his sunburned cheek with the
back of his hard, toil-roughened hand.
CHAPTER XIX.
NEWS AT LAST.

But Winnie was to live, notwithstanding dreams,
omens, and predictions. Even as Frediswed, with a
heart harrowed by what she had just overheard, turned
to take what might be a last look at her darling before
her spirit departed, the child’s drooping eyelids unclosed ~
again, something like a smile shone in the soft blue
eyes, and her lips, instead of a moan, uttered the sweet
name, “Moder!” Frediswed laid her hand on the little
girl’s brow,—it was cooler than it had been since the
illness began. The crisis was past—the fever was gone.

After this the little one’s recovery was steady.
Winnie enjoyed the nourishment which was given to
her hour by hour. Oh the delight that it was to her
mother to hear Winnie laugh again as she played with
and fondled on her bed the little kitten which was a
gift from Esther! There was improvement also in the
weather: a south wind gently blew, and the sun shone
with kindly warmth into the fisherman’s cottage. On
the fifth day after Edgay’s departure, Winnie was tod-
NEWS AT LAST. 161

dling again on the floor; and except that she was much
thinner than before her illness, and had not yet regained
her roses, there was nothing to confirm the fears raised
by the raven’s croak and the winding-sheet in the candle.

Swinton had made, as he did at long intervals, an
expedition to the sea-port town. His return was always
looked forward to as an event in the isolated hamlet of |
Wanbury-on-sea, as it was almost the only opportunity
which the fishermen enjoyed of hearing anything of
what was passing in the great outer world. Esther
went off to the farm to bring back eggs for Winnie and
news for the rest of the party.

“ What's a-going on?” asked Jock on his good wife’s
return,

“Not much news a-stirring,” observed Esther as she
took her eggs out of the basket; “only it’s reported
that Archbishop Anselm is likely to come back from
France afore the end o’ the year.”

Jock gave a growl of satisfaction, with the remark,
“T can’t make out why he has bided away so long.”

“There will be better times now,” observed Esther.

Frediswed was silent and sad. She could not re-

‘joice in the thought of Anselm’s return. “If a few
lines from his pen made my Alphege willing to part
with his wife and child, what may the effect of the
archbishop’s presence be?” was Frediswed’s bitter reflec-
tion. “He may persuade my husband that even to

love me—to think of me—is a sin.”
(817) 11
162 NEWS AT LAST.

However Frediswed might regard Anselm’s return, it
was with eager, longing anticipation that she awaited
that of Edgar. He would bring certain tidings of
Alphege; he might—oh! he assuredly would bring
Alphege himself. The news of his darling’s illness
would be an irresistible call to a loving father. Fredis-
wed judged, and judged rightly, of Alphege’s feelings
by her own.

But anxiety mingled with joyful expectation in the
mind of the wife. Frediswed was certain that Edgar
would waste no time on the way, but in these troublous
days many accidents might occur. Edgar might lose his
way, be lost in a bog, drowned in a river, or even be
murdered for the sake of the horse. There were
robbers in forests, footpads on roads. The messenger
was only a lad; would he succeed in reaching his des-
tination or in accomplishing his return ?

Frediswed calculated that on the fifth day from his
departure Edgar might possibly return. Ten times on
that day, when hours seemed to move on so slowly,
had Frediswed hastened to the summit of the low hill
which commanded a view of a long, straight road lead-
ing inland. Ten times had she returned to the cottage
with an increasing feeling of disappointment.

“T will try yet once again,” said the anxious wife,
when a red canopy of fiery hue hung over the setting sun.
She toiled wearily up the ascent, and when the summit
was reached, exclaimed in an excited tone, “He comes
NEWS AT LAST. 163

at last; but, alas! he comes alone. The horse is weary—
at least to my impatient eyes his pace seems terribly slow.”

Too eager to wait, Frediswed hastened forward to
meet the young traveller, who looked to her, as he
came nearer, very pale and worn; but for that the long
journey might well account.

“Have you seen him—my husband?” exclaimed
Frediswed as soon as she could make her voice reach
the ear of Edgar.

The boy dismounted and threw the rein over Trusty’s
neck, The tired animal found his own way to his
master’s paddock, for the farm was scarce a hundred
yards from the place.

Again Frediswed, now very near to Edgar, repeated
her question, “Have you seen him? Oh, say, have you
seen him ?”

Edgar for some moments did not reply. He sat
down by the side of the road, bowed his head, and
silently wept.

“He is dead—I know it!” cried Frediswed wildly.

“No; he is not dead,” said Edgar, raising his head.

“ Have you seen him?” asked the eager wife.

“How could I see him? He is shut up—for life—
in a cell in Basilton Monastery ; no one will ever see
him again.”

“T will see him!” exclaimed Frediswed, a wild hope
springing up from the depth of her former despair.
Her mind was relieved of two great objects of dread:
164 NEWS AT LAST.

her Alphege was not dead, and his silence was not owing
to his having ceased to care for his wife. The priest’s
very punishment was a sign that he had persisted in
maintaining the sanctity of his marriage tie; for
Frediswed could imagine no other offence for which
her Alphege could be persecuted. She had been the
one, she thought, to bring her husband into trouble ;
she should be the means of bringing him out. Fredis-
wed felt as if no one could resist her entreaties, her
pleading tears. The persecutors would relent, the cruel
sentence would be revoked.

Edgar had not the heart to tell his mother of the
horrible scourging which had been endured by her
husband, nor the charge of heresy, the nature of which
the simple boy himself could not comprehend.

Frediswed looked more eager than miserable when
she returned to the fisherman’s cottage, where Jock,
with his cracked, tuneless voice was singing a sea-ditty
to Winnie, as she sat on the knees of his wife.

1?

“ Alphege lives—I must be off to-morrow eXx-
claimed the agitated wife.

“ Off! where ?—how? Bless the little woman! I
think that she has lost her wits,” cried Jock.

“JT must be off to Basilton at dawn. I cannot de-
lay; every hour is precious,” cried Frediswed, taking
her child from Esther’s arms, and pressing the little one
closely to her throbbing heart. “O Winnie, darling,
you may see your father yet !” :
NEWS AT LAST. 165

~

“ Fader’s comin’, fader’s comin’ !” cried Winnie, clap-
ping her thin little hands with joy.

“Do be calm and talk sense,” said Esther, to whom
Edgar had just told in few words the state of affairs.
“Your husband is in prison; how can you see him ?
What would be the use of your going? and how could
you go at all? Would you make the journey on foot
and die by the side o’ the road ?”

“J would ride on a pillion on Trusty—Uncle, you
would go with me?” said Frediswed.

“T ride on a horse—a thing I never did in all my
born days!” eried the boatman; “I'd as lief ride on a
fish !”

“Tl go—I'm ready !” exclaimed Edgar.

“ Bless the boy, he can hardly stagger along; he’s as
stiff, ll warrant ye, as if he had been beaten all over.
And I take it that Trusty is not in much better case.
Freddie, woman, you can’t go to-morrow, that’s the long
and the short of the matter,’ said Esther with rough
decision.

'“ And did you mean to take the child with you and
kill her outright ?” asked Jock.

“No; I must leave my darling under your kind care.
I could run no risks with her,” Frediswed decided at
once. “I know that the journey is long and somewhat
dangerous too; but I must go, if I die. If rest be need-
ful for Edgar, dear, kind Edgar, and the horse, I will
stay here till the day after to-morrow.”
166 - NEWS AT LAST.

So the matter was settled, and Frediswed at once set
about making preparations for her momentous journey.
Esther gave to Edgar the good supper which he greatly
needed, and then bade him stretch his weary limbs be-
side the warm hearth. No sooner had the lad closed
his eyes than he was asleep, and he remained so till
broad daylight had returned.

When Esther went into the tiny back room where
Frediswed had her small pallet, the fisherman’s wife
found his niece, by the feeble light of a rush-candle,
already making up her bundle, though she was not to
start till the second day.

“What! ye’re going to take that bit o’ lace?” cried
Esther.

“Tt is light, it weighs next to nothing ; and bishops
and abbots wear such things on occasion,” replied Fred-
iswed, without raising her eyes from her occupation.

“Shame that Church fathers should don such frip-
peries,” observed Esther. “Tl be bound that good St.
Peter didn’t go out a-fishing in womanish finery like
that. And I say, little woman, ye mustna take with
you that heavy bag o’ siller ; robbers would smell it out,
as wolves would smell out a sheep.”

“JT must have money,’ said Frediswed, who had
already formed a plan which she was intent on working
out.

“A few bits o° siller perhaps that ye might hide
away in your bodice,”
NEWS AT LAST. 167

“I may need every groat,” said Frediswed ; “I will
only leave a little to be used for my child.”

Esther shook her head gravely. “You go on a fool’s
errand,” said she ; “you will return wiser, if you ever
return at all,”

“Tam in the Lord’s hands,” faltered Frediswed ; “if
He be with me, what should I fear? God will help me
to save my husband.”

But when the day came for starting, poor Frediswed’s
heart was exceedingly sore. She wept when giving a
parting kiss to Winnie, with a terrible presentiment that
she should never again behold that sweet little face.
Nothing but the yet stronger tie which bound the poor
wife to her husband could have nerved Frediswed to
wrench, as it were, her very heart-strings from the
object around which they so closely twined. Again and
again poor Frediswed turned for yet another embrace.
Winnie clung to her, erying, terrified by the fear of
being parted from the parent from whom she had
hitherto seldom been separated, even for an hour.

“Let me go, my darling!” exclaimed Frediswed. “I
want to bring back father.”

The little girl stopped her crying. “To bring back
fader!” she exclaimed, and the words of the infant re-
vived the almost failing courage of her mother.
CHAPTER XX.
PERILS BY THE WAY,

Trusty was happily a good strong horse, and not a slow
one, but he could not by any means keep pace with his
rider’s impatience. Frediswed longed for wings. Thrice
she and Edgar dismounted, he from his saddle, she from
her pillion, and hobbled the horse where a, bit of pasture
could be found by the side of the road; but each such
pause was a trial to the anxious wife. Edgar had some
difficulty in persuading her to partake of the food which
Esther had put up in a basket; but when he reminded
her that her strength might fail before she could accom-
plish her object, Frediswed did her best to eat what she
knew that she needed. The travellers spoke to none,
except occasionally to ask the way. The miles seemed
to be interminably long. Now and then a wayside
crucifix was reached which served as a landmark. Fred-
iswed and Edgar prayed there, but not to the lifeless
stone ; Alphege had taught a purer religion. The sup-
plications of the weary pilgrims rose higher than Oe
sculptured form—to the living Mediator above.
PERILS BY THE WAY. 169

Frediswed broke a long silence by saying, rather as
speaking to herself than addressing her companion, earl
think that on our reaching Basilton my best course will
be to go at once to Castle Warrenne, and try to persuade
Dame Elise to induce the earl to use his power to free
my husband.”

“Earl Warrenne and his gay lady only use their
power, which I take it is their wealth, to enjoy feasting
and wassail, and hold high state. As for Dame Elise—”
The lad paused as the name rose to his lips.

“She is my friend, my counsellor. Dame Elise will
help me in my troubles, and show me how to bear them,
‘for she has had troubles of her own.”

“They are all over now,” said Edgar. He was well
pleased that, from his mother’s sitting behind him, he
could not see the grief on her face; but he felt the start
with which his sad tidings were received.

“You do not mean that she has died!” exclaimed his
mother. |

“Dame Elise went to rest not long after we left
Basilton,” was Edgar’s reply. “She just fell asleep one
night, and did not awake upon earth.”

Frediswed did not speak; the tears were coursing
down her pale cheeks. The thought in her heart was,
“The Lord is taking from me all my earthly props, that
I may lean upon Him alone.”

The dusky veil of twilight hung like a pall over the
earth. Trusty could not see his way distinctly.
170 PERILS BY THE WAY.

“We must find some inn or hovel in which to put up
for the night,’ said Edgar at last. “It is growing dark,
the air is bitterly cold.” As he spoke, some snow-flakes
fell from the gloomy sky.

“I dare not go to inn or cottage; we should be
robbed,” said Frediswed, grasping her heavy bag with
her numbed fingers, and shivering alike from cold and
from fear.

“ There is a forest before us,” observed Edgar, point-
ing towards what looked in the semi-darkness like a
black curtain concealing the path. “I mind me that in
yon forest there is a half-ruined chapel. I rested there
on my way home. Three walls are standing. The place
would give us something like shelter; and if I found
enough of dry sticks, we might light a fire. I have
brought with me flint and steel.”

“Let us seek the chapel,” said Frediswed faintly ; she
felt half dead with fatigue and cold.

On, on went the weary horse. It was now almost too
dark to find the pathway at all; being little used, it
was almost overgrown with weeds, Edgar, who had the
task of guiding the horse, and could not see his way in
the dark, was burdened sorely with the consciousness of
having undertaken that which he was not able to per-
form. Many a silent prayer rose from the lad’s heart for
guidance, as Trusty went half-stumbling over the hard
stony ground, or painfully struggled through a thicket
of briers. It was with a feeling of surprise as well as
PERILS BY THE WAY. 171

of relief that the travellers suddenly found themselves
close to the ruined chapel. An exclamation of thank-
fulness burst from the lips of both.

Frediswed had no small difficulty in dismounting, she
was so cold and stiff’ She felt thankful that her little
child was safe in the fisherman’s home. Winnie could
not have survived that journey.

Edgar set about finding sticks. Happily, to do so was
not difficult, as the wind had blown down large boughs,
and had drifted together heaps of dry leaves which
could be readily kindled into a blaze. The chilled
travellers gladly warmed themselves at the fire.

“Tt will help to scare away wolves,’ observed Edgar.

“Wolves! are there wolves in the wood?” cried his
mother.

“ Likely enough; there are a good many in England,
both four-legged and two-legged,” observed Edgar.

Then the lad, as he fed the blaze by throwing in one
stick after another, told wolf stories, which might have
made Frediswed’s blood curdle when told at night in a
gloomy wood, had not her mind been so preoccupied
with her pilgrimage of love that she hardly heard what
was spoken.

“ Mother,” said Edgar, who noticed her abstraction,
“you have never told me how you hope to deliver my
second father from prison. I wot that the monastery
walls are thick, and the bolts are strong, and no woman
is suffered to enter the place. Have you formed any
172 PERILS BY THE WAY.

plan for rescue, or‘ do you just go on blindly without
one ?”

“TJ have formed plans—many plans. One of them fell
to the ground when I heard of the death of my friend,
but others remain. I have done nothing but think over
them and pray over them all this long weary way.
Edgar, dear son, I have no one but you with whom to
talk over my troubles. It is a relief to my heart to
open it to you, my trusty and tried.”

Edgar was exceedingly gratified by the confidence
placed in him by his mother ; and after replenishing his
little stock of fuel, and seeing that Trusty was too
securely fastened to a stump to stray, he returned to the
glowing, crackling fire, and squatting on the ground to
listen, held out his hands to the kindly blaze.

“You know—every one knows—that my dear hus-
band’s trouble comes from his having wedded and re-
fused to desert his wife.”

“ There were other charges too,” observed Edgar.

“ But this was the principal—the first; the primate’s
letter accused my Alphege only of this, which Arch- >
bishop Anselm deemed a sin. Now, if this be a crime
(which I know it is not), I am at least as guilty as
my husband: if I have shared what they call a sin,
it is but right that I should take my full share of
the punishment which it brings. I mean some way
—any way—to get an interview with the abbot.
If I cannot see him, I will try to seek out Archbishop
PERILS BY THE WAY. 173

Anselm himself. Folk say he is coming back to En-
gland at last.”

“TJ heard a rumour of it,” observed Edgar.

“ Abbot or primate, I have one thing to say, and I
will say it on my knees,” cried Frediswed, who had a
hundred times in imagination acted over her part. “I
will cry, ‘My Alphege has gone through his part of the
penance ; now set him free, and let me suffer mine. I
will even consent to our life-long separation.” (Fredis-
wed uttered the terrible words with a convulsive sob.)
“*T will agree to being shut up in a convent, or perform-
ing penance, however hard. I am willing to go on pil-
grimage—hbarefoot—fasting—to any shrines you may
name. At each I will leave offerings— ”

“They go a long way with monks,” was the comment
of Edgar.

“* And burn candles—’ ”

“You have money enough to buy a heap of candles,”
interrupted the boy; “but our priest was wont to say
that saints dwell in a place too bright to have any need
of tapers.”

“JT don’t think that the saints would care about them,
but the abbot might,” said simple Frediswed. “I will
give all that I possess, bear all that may be inflicted, if
only—only I can save my Alphege from further cruelty
and wrong!”

Both Frediswed and Edgar were so engrossed with
the subject that neither of them noticed the sound of
174 PERILS BY THE WAY.

crackling of branches, till suddenly, as wolves might
have rushed from the thicket, a band of outlaws burst
upon them. There were many such desperate men, hid-
ing amongst fens or lurking in woods, in the time of the
first Norman kings.

“ Ha! ha! what prize have we here?” cried the fore-
most.

“ A good store of money—heavy!” exclaimed another,
who had caught hold of Frediswed’s bag, placed for con-
venience in the provision basket. He shook it gleefully,
and held it up in triumph.

“Oh, do not take my money!” pleaded Frediswed,
thinking more of her defeated plans than even of her
personal safety. “I need it all—I must have it—to
free my husband from prison.”

“Who has imprisoned your husband, good dame?”
asked a powerful-looking man, who appeared to be the
leader of the band. “Take off your hands from the
lady, my merry men, and let us hear what she has to
say.

“My husband is shut up in Basilton Monastery; the

?

abbot has confined him in a cell.”

The outlaw muttered something between his teeth
which did not sound like a blessing.

“Would that we could sweep all the rookeries out of
the land!” eried one of the band.

“For what crime was your husband condemned ?”
asked the leader.
PERILS BY THE WAY. 175

“That of marrying,” murmured Frediswed, drooping
her eyes, and colouring up to the roots of her hair.

“Marrying! then he must have been a priest. What
is his name, and what his race?”

“ Alphege—a Saxon,” was the reply.

“J know him!” exclaimed the leader. “I came to
the clerk once, when the wicked Baron of Fortlamort
wanted shriving ; I stood beside him a second time when
Offa of the Fen was laid in the grave with Christian
rites. Your husband showed himself to be a true
Saxon and a brave good man. No one belonging to
Alphege shall ever suffer wrong at the hands of Jackson.
Give back the money-bag, my mates ; we'll pay ourselves
back from the store of the first fat abbot we meet.”

The outlaw’s command was at once obeyed.

“ And bring of the venison of the buck which I shot
to-day ; here is a fire ready,” said Jackson. “Did the
king know of my taking his deer, and could his minions
catch me,” he added, addressing himself to Edgar, “I
should be sentenced to lose both mine eyes. But the
bloodhounds shall never take Jackson alive—Sit down,
lady,” he said to Frediswed; “thou and thy lad shall
share our meal; no one here will touch a hair of thine
head. We are no ruffians, not we, but men driven by
tyranny to take to the woods, determined to do what
noble Hereward did, even should we have to share his
fate.”

It was a strange surprise to Frediswed to find friends
176 PERILS BY THE WAY.

in those by whom she had feared to be plundered and
possibly murdered.

While the venison was being cooked, Jackson seated
himself beside Frediswed and conversed in a low tone,
to avoid being overheard by the band, who formed a
picturesque group, as seen by the red glow of the fire.

“How thinkest thou, lady, to free thy husband?”
said he.

Frediswed repeated to the outlaw, but more briefly,
what she had said to Edgar. Jackson shook his head,
and looked at her from beneath his shaggy, overhanging
brows with an expression of doubt and pity.

“Do what thou wilt, plead as thou mayest, give what
thou canst, the monks will never let a man go free.
whom they have scourged within an inch of his life.”
(Frediswed started in horror at the words.) “ They will
never suffer him to go abroad to show his scars, and tell
Saxons of the tender-mercies of Rome. Thou goest on
a hopeless errand, lady.”

“But what can Ido?” cried the agonized wife; “I
cannot, I will not leave my husband to perish!”

“If one string break, mayhap the archer may find
another to fit on his bow,” observed Jackson. “We will
think over the matter. I would give my right hand—
and I ill could spare it—to wrench his prey from the
abbot. Take good heart of grace, fair lady ; Alphege,
the excommunicated priest, the persecuted prisoner, may
live to be a free man yet.” :
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CAPTIVE.

WE must now return to Frediswed’s sorely-tried hus-
band, enduring his living martyrdom in a dreary cell in
Basilton Monastery.

It is probable that Alphege would not have long sur-
vived his terrible punishment had his wounds been left
untended, but this was not the case. Brother Hyppolyte,
gloomy and silent, yet acted the good Samaritan’s part.
The monk carefully washed the injured back, and put
on healing ointment, which with a sufferer of vigorous
constitution had a rapid effect.

“It appears that I am not to die soon,” thought the
excommunicated man. “I doubt whether prolonged life
in this prison be a boon; yet wherefore should I doubt
it, since all is ordered by a God of wisdom and love?
My Lord, who sustained me under torture, may have
some work for me still. I must try so to prepare my
heart that, by His grace, even a prison may be a train-
ing-place for enjoyment of heaven, if not for usefulness

upon. earth.”
(17) 12
178 THE CAPTIVE.

Quite aware of the danger of the mind becoming
weakened and even maddened by solitary confinement,
Alphege tried so to portion out his time as to have
varied occupation, though he had neither a book nor
writing materials in his cell. His memory must not be
allowed to forego a single sentence from Holy Writ
which had been confided to its keeping.

“Tf I repeat all the verses and Bible narratives that I
know in my native tongue,” said Alphege to himself,
“this will be delightful employment, to be divided
between two days of the week. My Latin prayers,
verses, and quotations from the old fathers will give
mental occupation for another two, and the remaining
week-days I will give to keeping up my knowledge of
Scripture in Norman French. Every time that I hear
the convent-bell ring for prayers, I too will engage in
devotion. May God enable me to pray in the spirit, as I
trust that some of the poor monks do! Sunday shall be
my special day for praise and thanksgiving, and inter-
cession for the flock which I have tended, for my
country, my friends—and my foes. O my Frediswed
and my beautiful child, every day, every hour will I
think of and pray for you. I shall hardly be lonely
with the memory of my treasures, the presence of my
Lord, and the feast of His Word spread before me.”

Alphege was ingenious in inventing methods of work-
ing to fill up the tedious, monotonous days. Making the
grand discovery of a nail in a dusty corner of: his
THE CAPTIVE. 179

cell, the clerk began laboriously to scratch portions of
Scripture on the once white-washed walls. “These may
afford comfort and instruction to the next occupant of
this place,” thought the Saxon, and there was pleasure
in the thought. “Manuscripts are dear, Bibles are
scarce; I would fain make a free gift to some fellow-
sufferer of that which is far more precious than gold.”

There was also the resource of composing verses, a re-
creation for which Alphege had had little leisure in his
former busy life. He made rhymes, and sang them to
old English tunes that he had loved from boyhood; for
the Saxons, from Alfred to the ploughman in his field,
were very fond of their native music. Here is one of
the songs which, both in its composing and singing,
softened the rigour of the prisoner’s lonely lot. The air
was wild and somewhat lively, but with a touch of deep
pathos in the fall into the minor key, which was the
close of each verse.

SONG.

If to pine in a dungeon were e’er my fate,

Where light struggled in through an iron grate,

What view would most soothe my unwearied eye—
That of ocean, or earth, or sky?

Oh, not the ocean—its ceaseless swell

With restless grief would accord too well;

The voice of its billows would break my sleep,
I'd bend o’er my chain, and weep!

*Twere sweet to gaze on the smiling earth,
And view, though distant, its scenes of mirth ;—
Ah, no! beholding its woodlands fair,

I'd yearn so to wander there.
180 THE CAPTIVE.

The flowers that bloom in the changing year,
I could not pluck them, although so near ;
Their beauty would only past joys recall

To one who had lost them all!

The sky—the sky, unbounded, bright,
With its silvery moon and its gems of light,
The blush of morning, the evening glow,
Tis clouds, and its radiant bow,—
There, there would I fix my unwearied eye,
Till fancy could paint bright worlds on high,
And earth and its sorrows would fade in night,
With freedom and heaven in sight !

But though Alphege was not so utterly miserable as
his enemies designed that he should be, his lot was suffi-
ciently painful. He was by nature an active, vigorous
man ; now, one of his ankles being confined by a chain
fixed to the wall, Alphege could only take two steps
instead of the three which the length of his cell might
have allowed. The minister of religion had found his
life-work in giving instruction to others; now the only
two human beings whom he ever saw were a stone-deaf
old monk and Hyppolyte, who had in turn to bring his
meagre meals. With the former Alphege could absolutely
have no converse ; the poor creature seemed as insensible,
as much cut off from all human interests as a toad im-
bedded in a stone. But it was not so with Codrie, as
Alphege always called his cousin. Hyppolyte’s curiosity
was roused by the characters which the prisoner so dili-
gently scratched on the wall. He could not read them,
but he paused to look at them as though he fain would
do so.
THE CAPTIVE. 181

“Would you know what is written there?” asked
Alphege.

The monk was divided between his fear of being
chidden for lingering and his desire to know what it was
that the priest thought it worth while to write in a way
so painful and slow. Thus, day after day, precious
verses from Scripture sounded in Hyppolyte’s ears. The
monk listened at least, and gradually the cold, hard
nature appeared to thaw. Alphege not only spoke of
Spiritual things to Codric, but made his cousin’s conver-
sion a subject of earnest prayer. The clerk had but one
plant to water, and that one more like a thistle than a
vine, but he did not stint his labour. Though Codric
never said anything to encourage a belief that his nature
was thoroughly changed, yet hope did not die out in the
warm heart of the Saxon.

The prisoner's physical sufferings increased as the
weather grew cold and colder and the light short and
shorter. The sky, which was all that he could see
through the bars of his window, became of a monotonous
gray; at night the stars refused to shine. Time crept
on, and there seemed no prospect of release. Alphege
found it difficult to prevent his spirit sinking at last
under the constant strain. The pain of separation from
wife and child became, as month succeeded month, an
intense yearning to see them again which the prisoner
could hardly endure.

“To-morrow will be Christmas,” thought Alphege one
182 THE CAPTIVE.

day, and he could not repress a heavy sigh-—“ a different
Christmas indeed from that which I passed last year,
with my Frediswed by my side, and Winnie, my darling,
on my knee.” Will the prisoner be thought unmanly
if for a moment his eyes were suffused with tears ?

Alphege dashed them away on hearing a step. It
was only the slow, heavy tread of Codric, bringing the
morning meal. But Alphege noticed, when the monk
entered, something peculiar in his manner, and half-
timidly, after glancing behind him, Hyppolyte drew from
under his black vest a single long roll of bread.

“Something for Christmas,’ he muttered, and then
instantly slunk out of the cell, locking the door as usual
behind him.

“Any change from my usual fare is welcome,” said
Alphege, taking the bread into his now thin, wasted
hand. This looks like one of the rolls which my
Frediswed. was wont to make for my breakfast. Let
me imagine that she made it, and it will prove a dainty
indeed. But what is this?” continued Alphege; “the
roll has something uncommonly hard inside.” Breaking
it eagerly, to the clerk’s delight and surprise there
dropped out a strong, sharp-edged file.

But the file was at first hardly noticed, for there was
something else in the roll which riveted the prisoner’s
attention. Wrapped up carefully in a piece of linen,
which looked as if torn from a woman’s dress, was a bit
- of bark from a silver beech. On it was traced some-
THE CAPTIVE. 183

thing in not very distinct letters ; for if the bark was a
rude substitute for parchment, some blackened stick had
been an equally rude substitute for ink. Alphege’s hand
shook with excitement and joy as he made out what was
written upon it.

“On second night horse at trysting-tree, Godower
Heath.”

“The file is the key to the riddle, and a most intelli-
gible hint!” exclaimed Alphege, picking it up; “I will
not be slow to take it. My chain must go first, and
then these bars at the window; happily they look rust-
eaten and old. But I must choose my time for working,
or the sound of the grating of the file will betray me at
once. When I hear the bell summon the monks to
prayers, that will be my opportune time, for the chapel
is at the other end of the building, and the choristers’
voices will drown any sound that might reach so far.
To-morrow, too, there will be grand feasting, and as
much wassail and uproar as the stern old abbot will
permit. Yule-time is a merry time even with monks.
Through God’s merey, liberty is before me; and with
such a hope, will I not work with a will!”

Alphege had difficulty in bridling his impatience till
the bell sounded for undern-song; never before had its
familiar clang been so welcome. The prisoner prayed
earnestly before he began his labour, and afterwards,
when sounds in the courtyard below told that the monks
were returning from chapel. Before midnight the chain
184 THE CAPTIVE.

was filed through. Alphege gave a bound again and
again, to realize that his limbs had indeed free play.

“Not quite strength enough for a hurdle-race,” the
prisoner laughed to himself; “but vigour will come with
air and sunshine.”

Filing the window-bars was joyous work for Christ-
mas, when, as Alphege had anticipated, the monks had
pleasanter occupation than that of watching a captive’s
cell. As night closed in the last of the iron bars no
longer darkened the window.

The old monk in the meantime had made his usual
visit, but he was too stupid to notice much. Codric
also had come, but did not stay for two minutes; he
seemed afraid to linger, and would not listen even to
thanks,

Not all difficulties were over; the worst was yet to
come. Alphege, in his weakened state, found it almost
impossible to raise his form to the window, or to put it
into such a position as might enable him to squeeze him-
self through the narrow opening. Had he been less
emaciated, he would have found it a hopeless thing to
attempt making an exit at all. The prisoner clutched
at the fragments left of the severed bars to raise him-
self to a level with the opening, but again and again had
to drop down to the floor exhausted. At last, with the
help of the file, Alphege succeeded in making a hole in
the brickwork beneath the window, into which he could
insert one of the severed bars. This served as a foot-
THE CAPTIVE. 185

hold, though not a very secure one. Climbing up by its
help, Alphege managed to put one of his feet through
the opening, and, clinging to the upper edge with his
hands, with extreme difficulty and effort forced out the
other limb. In accomplishing this the prisoner was
terribly torn and scratched, but he was so eager to make
his escape that he was scarcely aware of the pain, At
last, having entirely extricated himself from his difficult
and dangerous position, Alphege was able to drop to the
ground. Great was his joy at finding himself in the
open frosty air, with the sparkling stars above him.

Alphege now hastened to cross the courtyard, but in
doing so he stumbled and almost fell over some one
lying on the ground. An exclamation, an angry curse
from an intoxicated monk who had been indulging too
freely in Christmas revels, was almost loud enough to
wake up the sleeping brotherhood, and destroy the
prisoner’s chance of escape. .

“Who are you?” yelled the monk, catching hold of
Alphege’s tattered garment.

“A sober man, which is more than you are,” replied
Alphege with presence of mind ; “you deserve to be re-
ported to the abbot.”

The wretched inebriate let go his hold of the dress,
and relapsed into his former state of drunken slumber.

Alphege felt that the greatest difficulty of all had to
be overcome now. He could not climb the outer wall,
and the heavy gate was always closed and locked at
186 _ LHE CAPTIVE,

night.’ His file had been injured in his work, and, even
if perfect, would scarcely be a sufficiently powerful in-
strument to saw through heavy bolt and chain. With
what a sense of thankful relief Alphege, on reaching the
gate, discovered that it was, though apparently closed.
neither bolted nor fastened with a chain.

“This must be Codrie’s doing ; the Lord bless him for
it!” exclaimed Alphege, as, cautiously and as noiselessly
as might be, he opened the gate sufficiently wide to en-
able himself to pass out.

2

“The abbot and monks will awake in the morning to
find the cage empty and the bird flown!” exclaimed the
freed captive, in his exulting joy, as he rapidly sped on
his way.

But Alphege had soon an alarming consciousness of
being pursued. There was assuredly some one tracking
_ his steps as he hurried towards the well-known trysting-
tree, which was more than a mile from Basilton Abbey.
Alphege turned to face the danger. The night was too
dark for him to distinguish objects clearly, but there
was evidently some one from the monastery coming on
in pursuit.

“Tf there be only one,” thought the Saxon, “I can
deal with a single foe.”

“ Alphege—cousin—stop!” gasped out an imploring
voice, and by the faint starlight the clerk could dimly
make out the gaunt form of Codric. who came panting
up to his side.
THE CAPTIVE. 187

«J dare not stay behind; I am certain to be suspected
of having helped your escape. Take me with you, for
mercy’s sake!” cried the monk.

“Come with me, and welcome,” replied Alphege,
grasping Hyppolyte’s bony hand. “I greatly owe my
freedom to you, and will never forget the debt. You
shall share my fortune, whatever it be.”

Not another word was spoken between them, till the
weird outline of the trysting-tree, with its long, crooked,
leafless branches, appeared to blot’ out some of the stars
from the dark-blue sky above them. Then the im-
patient neigh of a horse suddenly broke the stillness.
It told that the Saxon clerk’s unknown friend had kept
his tryst.

“Who is there?” cried Alphege.

“Oh, joy, he is saved!” exclaimed Edgar's familiar
voice. It was the son of poor Wilfred who had brought
the horse for his second father; who had contrived to
gain an interview with Codric, to place the loaf in his
hands, and to persuade the timorous monk to carry it to
Alphege. Edgar had had to play a difficult part, and
had played it like a man.

“My brave boy!” cried the rescued prisoner. * How
is my wife—my child? are they here ?”

“Oh no; mother pleaded hard to ‘come, till she heard
that her being here might hinder your escape. The
horse, though it is a good one, would carry but you and
me, and the faster we go the better. We must be far,
188 . THE CAPTIVE.

far away before the daylight appear. And the clouds are
beginning to gather; a snowstorm may be coming on.”

“We are three,” said Alphege slowly. “My kinsman
Codric is also making his escape.”

“Then I will walk,” cried Edgar. “I have disguised
myself as a peasant, and no one would recognize me.
You cannot get on fast when you reach the cart which
is waiting for you at about ten miles’ distance, at the
foot of the hill on which the windmill stands. When
these ten miles are passed, so is the worst of the danger ;
for this snow, which is just beginning to fall, will hide
the prints of the horse’s hoofs. The monks, when they
awake in the morning, will not know whether you have
taken the London or the Canterbury road, or the cross
one which leads to Wanbury-on-sea. O dear father,
mount quickly ; not a moment is to be lost.”

Alphege was exceedingly unwilling to leave the
gallant Edgar behind, but there was evidently no other
course to be taken. Joyfully Alphege mounted the
pawing horse which was to bear him to freedom. Very
clumsily indeed Hyppolyte scrambled up behind, a feat
which it is doubtful that he could have accomplished
without the aid of Edgar. The monk had never been
on a horse before, and was almost as helpless as a sheep.

Alphege, waving a farewell to Edgar, and uttering a
blessing from the bottom of his heart, started upon his
night journey. The Saxon’s patience was not a little
tried during that dangerous ride. Codric held his
THE CAPTIVE. 189

weary companion so fast round the waist to steady
himself that Alphege, burdened with the dead weight,
was nearly dragged out of the saddle. “Oh, more
softly—softly—I'll be off!” was the ery ringing in the
ears of one who felt that on speed his very life might
depend. Once Codric fairly slipped down, nearly pull-
ing his cousin after him, and startling the horse. The
snow, too, was falling more fast, and the night was so
dark that it was difficult to get on. Alphege was not
sure of the road, and had to trust much to the instinct
of the animal which he bestrode. Notwithstanding
every effort to make good speed, the winter's morning
broke before the riders came in view of the windmill on
the hill. Alphege gave a deep sigh of relief when he ~
saw at last its outline against the pale, dappled sky.
CHAPTER XXII.
ON THE WOOD-CART.

“ ALPHEGE! my beloved! O merciful Heaven be
praised!” cried Frediswed, as she sobbed with delight
in her husband’s arms. But when she raised her head
to gaze on his face, it shocked her to see the changes
caused by the sufferings through which he had passed.

“You think that I have come back to you a broken-
down old man,” cried Alphege, “but I trow a few weeks
with my sweetheart will bring back youth and strength
again. You, too, are wondrously changed, Frediswed.
Your voice I shall always recognize, but only my eye
could find out my Saxon fair one in the dark-skinned,
coarsely-dressed peasant girl who ran forth to greet me.
Codric, I could see, was much scandalized by my taking
you into my arms.”

“Codrie would not so much as touch the hand which
I held out to him,” said Frediswed merrily ; “I was well
pleased to see how thoroughly I was disguised. And
you must lay aside your clerk’s dignity, too, dear
ON THE WOOD-CART. I9QI

Alphege, and be a brown, peasant husband to a brown,
peasant wife. I have a disguise for you also; Jackson
and I contrived it between us.”

“Jackson! is Jackson here?” exclaimed Alphege.

“Yes, here ab your service, Sir Clerk,” said a rough,
manly voice, and Alphege heartily wrung the outlaw’s
hand, Frediswed scarcely needed to tell her husband
what valuable help she had received from the friend of
Offa of the Fen.

“I must not tarry here,” said Jackson; “that horse
is mine, and I must prove his mettle to-day, for if
caught I should be strung up to the nearest tree. Who
is yon sour-faced monk? He will bring you ill- ue
you cannot be burdened with such as he.”

“Codric is my cousin, my friend, and my helper in
escape,” replied Alphege. “I would rather return to
my prison than leave him behind.”

“Keep an eye upon him!” cried Jackson, as he sprang
on the horse; “I never knew an honest man’s face
under the cowl of a monk!”

“T wonder what we can do for Codric,” said Fredis-
wed in a low tone. “I have no second disguise for him.
But look here, my Alphege; the archbishop himself
would not recognize you if you put on this.”

Frediswed produced what was certainly a very im-
genious specimen of woman’s contrivance and_ skill.
Alphege laughed like a blithe boy when he saw a kind
of wig made of light horse-hair and tow, to which were
192 ON THE WOOD-CART.

attached shaggy, overhanging eyebrows and beard, made
by his wife’s deft fingers.

“Do you mean me to wear this tiara?” he laughed.
“T trow I shall feel no cold if I don it.”

“T must cut off your hair first, or a stray auburn
lock might betray the learned clerk under the guise of
a woodman.” Frediswed laughed as merrily, though
not so loudly, as her husband, as, after accomplishing
this task, she produced brown wash for his face and
hands, and a carter’s rough smock for his dress. Al-
phege’s transformation would soon be complete.

“And whom am I to personify?” asked Alphege, as,
after the staining process was over, he donned his
singular head-geavr.

“You are to drive the cart, and sell the bundles of
fagots with which it is piled,” said Frediswed, “ and I
am to sit on the top of the cart.”

“And what am I to do?” growled poor Codric. “I
can neither drive cart, nor sell wood, nor play a clown’s
part, like Alphege.”

This was a real and serious difficulty. Frediswed
reproached herself for wishing with all her heart that
the monk had not been of the party.

“We must get rid of your cowl and upper garment,
and burn them,” said Alphege, after a pause for thought ;
“the sight of them might betray us all. You must
wrap yourself in this large brown blanket which I see
that my thoughtful wife has brought.”
ON THE WOOD-CART. 193

“Not for him,” almost rose to Frediswed’s lips, but
she checked the utterance of words so unkind. .

“You must both need food after your long chill ride,”
she said, “and a good warm breakfast is ready. But
where is Edgar ? where is our dear, faithful boy ?” added
Frediswed, anxiously glancing around.

_“Coming up behind, on foot,” replied her husband.
“He will, I hope and trust, overtake us ere long; we
will never start without him.”

The disguising of Alphege had taken up some time.
Codrie lingered long over the breakfast after his com-
panions had finished theirs. It was the first good meal
which Alphege had tasted for months, and he enjoyed
‘it as a hungry man might do. But Frediswed was
too excited to eat much. Her impatience for the
arrival of Edgar amounted almost to agony; she feared
for him, she dreaded delay for her husband.

“Let us have our morning prayers,” suggested Al-
phege ; “who on earth have more cause to thank and
bless God for His mercy than we have ?”

The outpouring of prayer and praise calmed the
anxious mind of Frediswed more than anything else
could have done. What can so strengthen under present
cares and trials, what can so arm the Christian to en-
counter dangers seen or unseen, as devout thanksgiving
for the goodness which has sustained him during the
troubles and perils of the past ?

“Now let us start,” said Codric, after they had
(817) 13
194 ON THE WOOD-CART.

risen from their knees; “the sun is high in the
sky.”

“Not without Edgar,” said Alphege.

Most welcome was the sight of Edgar when he
arrived at last, exceedingly tired, but the sense of
weariness almost lost in excitement and joy.

After supplying with food the hungry peasant lad, as
Edgar appeared to be, Frediswed turned to her husband, .
who was putting the horse into the shafts in prepara-
tion for a start.

“ Alphege,” she began.

“You must call me Joe,” cried the clerk, mirth gleam-
ing in his blue eyes under the shaggy, light-coloured
brows. “I must have a name suitable to my new call-
ing. Iam Joe, and you shall be my Jill.”

“And Til be Lubin!” exclaimed Edgar, who had
finished his hurried repast.

“ Mount the cart, Lubin, my lad,” said Alphege ; “ you
have had enough of walking to-day.”

Frediswed scrambled up to her place lightly; and
then Codric, heavily and clumsily, managed to climb up
to his. Joe, the carter, chose to walk by his horse, and
the way in which he whistled and cracked his whip
made Lubin burst out laughing and brought a smile to
the lips of Jill.

The progress of that cart was necessarily very slow ;
there were three people in it, besides the load of fire-
wood. The road was exceedingly bad, and the horse
ON THE WOOD-CART. 195

had been chosen rather for strength than for speed: a
fine-looking animal would have been unsuitable for a
woodman’s cart, and might have aroused suspicion. But
Joe and his Jill, notwithstanding the jolting and the
cold, never complained of the tediousness of the journey,
for after long separation were they not again together.

Frediswed was at first exceedingly uneasy if any one
overtook them on the road; she had a natural dread of
their being pursued; but even her fears were changed
into mirth when she saw how capitally her husband
played the part of a seller of wood. ‘Talking in the
broadest Saxon, Alphege invited cottagers by the way
to buy his bundles of sticks.

“ Nothing like a good blaze to keep out old Winter !”
he would say, and he bargained and bartered in a fashion
that made Frediswed laugh, and provoked from Edgar
loud bursts of mirth.

Codric never smiled, and rarely uttered a word. The
chill of his night ride had given him aguish cold.
Wrapped up, head and all, in the brown blanket, he
acted naturally enough the part of an invalid, crouching
with weakness, shivering in the chill air.

“Yon poor soul is sore sick; he'll starve to death if
ye don’t warm him up wi’ a drop of hot ale,” observed
a countrywoman who had stopped to give a copper for
a bundle of sticks.

Codric was indeed in more than one way a -trial to
his companions. He often forgot to keep the blanket
196 ON THE WOOD-CART.

closely drawn over his face, and Frediswed feared that
his peculiar physiognomy, his hollow eyes and hard
features, might be recognized by some one, or at least
attract attention. Codric’s company was certainly not
calculated to keep up the spirits of the party. Edgar
named him the Raven; for whenever Codriec broke
silence, except by a cough, it was always to prognosti-
cate evil. Jf Frediswed with thankfulness observed
that the winter was milder than she had ever known it
before, the Raven croaked, “A mild Yule-time makes a
green kirk-yard.” If Edgar remarked that the shortest
day being past, the sun would soon get up in better
time, Codric reminded him of the proverb, “ As the days
lengthen the frosts strengthen.” When Alphege joy-
fully said that a sight of the waves and the smell of
the sea-breezes would make him a strong man again,
Hyppolyte prognosticated that they never would reach
the sea, they were sure to be seized on the way. Even
Alphege’s happy anticipation of having his Winnie again
in his arms brought a deep sigh from the monk. “ Poor
child, poor child!” he’ moaned, as if he already beheld
in her a homeless, fatherless outcast.

During the slow journey towards Wanbury-on-sea,
Alphege never forgot that though he was an excom-
municated man, one whose foot was never to cross the
threshold of a church, he was yet a pastor, consecrated
to the service of God. In the hamlets or isolated
dwellings where pauses were made for rest, Alphege
ON THE WOOD-CART. 197

dropped many a seed of truth in a plain and homely
way. Controversy was of course avoided; but there
were not a few who had cause to bless to their dying
day their brief intercourse with one who did not hide
his light, whatever outward disguise he might wear.

“That wood-seller was a wondrous pious old man,”
said a poor cripple, many years afterwards, as he lay on
a death-bed ; “it’s plain as he loved the Lord Jesus, and
I mind me how he spoke of the Blessed One dying for
sinners. I'd rather have that wood-seller beside me now
than any monk or priest. It makes dying easy when
I remember the blessed text he taught me.”

’ The journey had its perils, though Frediswed’s now
empty bag could tempt no robber.

At noonday Frediswed, with a startled look, remarked
to her husband that a party of monks, and she thought
men-of-arms with them, were coming after them, some
on horseback, some mounted on mules.

“Men from Basilton! we are lost!” exclaimed Codric,
dropping the blanket from his head, as he gazed with
dismay at those who were following on the track of the
cart.

“Down with you, Codric! pull your blanket over you!
_If they catch sight of that face of yours, we are lost
indeed!” said Alphege in a tone of command.

Edgar wondered to himself whether it would not be
justifiable to keep Hyppolyte quiet by a stunning blow
on his head.
198 ON THE WOOD-CART.

The leader of the band which was overtaking the
party was a layman employed by the abbot to gather
in rents from his numerous vassals. Alphege knew
this man’s face, and his character too, for the pastor
had often been appealed to by members of his flock for
protection against Manruff’s merciless exactions. High
words had passed between the clerk and the abbot’s
agent, and the latter had sworn that the Saxon should
rue his meddling.

“T say, fellow!” cried Manruff, drawing in his rein
as he came abreast of the cart, “have you seen a fugitive
priest and a runaway monk anywhere on this road?
We're hunting out the vermin, and will not rest till we
catch them.”

“Tve seen no one more of a priest than myself,’
replied Alphege in his rude vernacular, without a trace
of fear or hesitation, and he cracked his whip and bade
his horse “ gee-up.”

“Tt would pay any one to give us information where
the caitiffs hide,” said Manruff. “The abbot has offered
a large reward for the apprehension of Alphege, the ex-
communicated heretic, and the renegade who has helped
his escape.” So saying, Manruff put spur to his horse,
and he and his party rode forward. ;

Frediswed’s heart was beating almost audibly with
her terror; Codrie’s teeth were chattering with fear.

“They'll turn back, [’'m certain that they will!” ex-
claimed the poor monk; “we shall be seized, and the
ON THE WOOD-CART. 199

abbot will think it a holy deed to scourge us both to
death. I’ve a mind to get out of the cart, and find my
way alone.”

“JT wish that he would,” said Edgar.

Alphege gave a glance of reproof. “Poor Codric
could no more find his way to Wanbury than could a
blind child,” he said in a lowered voice; “my poor
cousin’s only chance of safety is keeping with us.”

When the cart reached the wood in which Frediswed
had encountered Jackson, the party stopped for some
time in the ruined chapel. It was necessary to renew
the stock of wood, as most of the fagots had been sold
on the way; and all Frediswed’s silver having been
expended, it was a case of “no wood, no food,” as
Alphege playfully remarked. He and Edgar set ener-
getically to work to collect sticks, Frediswed tied up
the fagots, but Codric offered no help. In that ruined
chapel the party spent the night, after offering up their
evening devotions. Early on the following morning the
fugitives resumed their journey.

A good many people passed them on the road during
that day; the slow cart was overtaken by almost every
one walking in the same direction.

“ What’s up, my masters?” asked Alphege. “Is there
a fair ahead, where I have a chance of selling my
fagots ?”

“No fair in this part of the country,’ said the
franklin whom he had addressed.
200 ON THE WOOD-CART.

“Then what takes so many folk towards the coast?”

“ Ha’n’t ye heard the news? The. great, good arch-
bishop, our holy Anselm, is expected to land at
Dover !”

“Heaven bless him and give him a safe voyage!”
cried Alphege; “ England sorely needs such a man!”

On and on went the cart; slowly revolved the big,
creaking wheels, jolting over ruts, and there were many,
and sticking at times in mud so deep that it was with
difficulty that it was extricated at last. But a worse
trouble was in front. It did not come till the tedious
journey was nearly ended.
CHAPTER XXIII.
FOUND OUT.

“My Alphege, we are almost close to home and Winnie
now!” exclaimed Frediswed joyfully; “can you not
smell the sea-breeze already? We have only to mount
to the top of this hill, and we shall see the wide, spark-
ling ocean before us, and our darling—”

A jolt, worse than even the preceding ones, prevented
Frediswed’s finishing her sentence. A big wheel suddenly
came off, the cart was overturned, and the horse lay
struggling on the ground.

Alphege and Edgar jumped down. They tried to
relieve the poor beast from the pressure of the shaft,
but more help was required.

“We're not far from the farm,” cried Edgar; “ Far-
mer Swinton and his big son will help us to get the
horse up.”

Off went Alphege and Edgar to the farm, after
Frediswed, a little bruised, had been assisted to get
down by her husband.
202 FOUND OUT.

“ You are not hurt or frightened, sweet heart?” asked
Alphege.

“Oh no; I am too happy to mind a trifling shock or
bruise. Jam so near our Winnie, my feet will carry
me faster than the cart.” ;

Winged with impatience, the mother sped fast up the
hill, never pausing to take breath or look back. Fredis-
wed felt rewarded for all past trials by the view which
rejoiced her eyes when she gained the summit of the
hill. She saw Winnie playing at Bannerman’s cottage
door; and the fisherman himself, returning from a suc-
cessful expedition, was, with the assistance of a sailor,
bringing his big boat to the shore. The sea, sparkling
as if strown with glittering diamonds, seemed to reflect
back the gazer’s delight. As Frediswed ran down the
hill towards the beach, she uttered such a loud ery of
joy that it reached the ears of her little Winnie. The
child, stretching out her arms, ran to meet her, calling
out, “ Moder! fader come back !”

“There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip,”
Hyppolyte had muttered, as he stood up in the over-
turned cart to watch Frediswed running up the hill.
His words came too true on the present occasion. In
standing up, Codric, as usual, had let the brown blanket
drop behind his bald head, and with terror, such as the
hare feels when suddenly pounced upon by a dog, the poor
fugitive heard the loud exclamation from some one coming
up behind, “’Tis Hyppolyte! ’tis our run-away monk !”
FOUND OUT. 203

Codric turned his ghastly face to see who spoke, and
recognized a lad belonging to Basilton Abbey; @ sharp,
swift-footed fellow, who was often sent on messages
requiring haste. The youth was even now hurrying
towards Dover to secure lodgings for the abbot, who,
with his train of monks, was following on to greet the |
archbishop on his landing in England. Ganna knew
that the abbot and his train were but a few miles
behind him. He guessed that Alphege himself must be
near—a double prize for his winning! The lad deemed
his fortune already made, for the reward offered for
the arrest of the fugitives was a large one. He therefore
ran back with eager speed, neither hearing nor caring
to hear the entreaties of the terrified Codrie.

“ve ruined you—we're found out!” exclaimed the
poor monk, when but five minutes afterwards Alphege
and Edgar returned, accompanied by the Swintons. “ I
knew that it would be so—I knew that we should
never escape ! Ganna has tracked us hither; we are
lost—we are both dead men!”

“Never say die—never despair! God is above, and
the wide waves before us,” was the Saxon’s reply.
CHAPTER XXIV.
ESCAPE FOR LIFE.

“ O’ER the blue waters of the boundless sea,” borne on ‘the
bright dancing waves, slowly moves on a heavily-laden
boat. There are but two sets of oars, but four pairs of
willing hands to take them in turns,—Alphege, Edgar,
and the two fishermen relieving each other. On the prow,
like a figure-head representing a fairy, stands a lovely
little blue-eyed child, stretching out her hands towards
the cliffs now visible to the south. Winnie knows noth-
ing of the danger, nothing of the cause of her parents’
sudden flight from their native land. She has scarcely
got over her surprise at their strange transformation.

“You no fader-—oo old man!” had been her saluta-
tion to Alphege, drawing back from his proffered em-
brace; but the child had soon recognized his voice and
his smile, and had let him press her close to his heart.

“ Are you not afraid?” asks Codric gloomily. “It is
an unheard-of thing to cross the Channel in an open
boat; we shall certainly all be drowned.”

And yet the party were not drowned. Alphege, the
ESCAPE FOR LIFE. 205

persecuted, the denounced, the excommunicated man,
lived to spring to the shore of France, and then falling
on his knees, return fervent thanks to Him who had so
wonderfully delivered him from all his troubles. If a
happy heart beat upon earth, it was that of Frediswed,
his true, faithful wife, as her rescued husband assisted
her out of the boat.

And yet the path before them would be beset with
difficulties and dangers. They were in a foreign land,
strangers and almost friendless. Jock, ere starting for
a return trip across the Channel, tried to force on his
niece a few bits of silver, besides what had been reserved
for her child.

“TI owe you a great deal too much already, dear
uncle!” said the grateful woman, declining the gift.
“Tf the money which I earned by my work be gone,
here are the fingers that made it still. Maybe we shall
meet with wealthy countesses here.”

“Have you made any plans?” asked her uncle.
“Folk usually can say what part they’re bound for ;
they don’t leave all the choosing to whatever wind may
chance to blow.”

“We hope slowly to wend our way to the sunny
south,” said Alphege, “where old Martin has found a
protector in the noble Count of Toulouse; we may find
one too. The Great Shepherd has His own little flock
of true believers in this land; they will, I doubt not,
receive His hunted sheep into their fold.”
206 ESCAPE FOR LIFE.

Alphege’s hope did not deceive him, nor were those
of Frediswed disappointed. Gradually, by slow stages,
generally on foot, sometimes having a lift in a cart, the
English pilgrims made their way to Toulouse, where old
Martin received them with joy, as if they had come to ~
him from heaven. Alphege, who talked the language
of the province well, soon found himself the pastor of a
little congregation, who were the first-fruits of a pure
Church which is flourishing still. Edgar became a
favoured retainer of the Count of Toulouse, whose lady
was a ready purchaser of Frediswed’s beautiful lace;
but all the earnings of Alphege’s wife were given, as a
thank-offering, to the poor. Even for Codric was found
congenial employment; the ex-monk was appointed to
be grave-digger, sexton, and bell-ringer in Toulouse.
Poor Hyppolyte certainly grew in religious knowledge,
but hardly at all in cheerfulness either of manner or
look, in his adopted country. No one could win a smile
from Codric except Winnie, of whom he was exceedingly
fond, and whom he petted in his own shy, awkward
way. Codric brought his favourite many sweetmeats,
and often a handful of nuts, reminding her of the day
when he had taken one from her little hand.

With one more glimpse of the party whose fortunes
we have been following, let me close my little tale.

It is the first day of the merry month of May in the
year 1109. The weather is delicious; “every sound is
ESCAPE FOR LIFE. 207

melody, and every breeze perfume.” It is luxury to be
out in the open air under the deep blue canopy, in
which not a single cloud appears. Alphege and _ his
family are taking their simple meal on the verdant turf,
in a retired spot, where fragrant lilacs and myrtles form
a screen around them, and the laburnum, the “ shower
of gold,” hangs its gorgeous tresses above them. Winnie,
now a lovely little maiden of seven summers, carries
round the sweet cates, which she has helped her mother
to make, and the dried apples of which the simple meal
consists. Never was there a prettier little handmaid.
Winnie has exchanged her title of baby for that of
“little mother ;” for two blooming boys have been added
to Frediswed’s treasures, and to take care of Alphy and
Alfred is Winnie’s pleasure and pride. :

“Where is Codric?” asked Alphege of Edgar; “I
have not seen him to-day.”

“T am here,” said a sepulchral voice, and Codric,
looking more dismal than usual, took his seat on the
turf.

“ Have you heard bad tidings in the market?” asked
Frediswed, noticing his gloomy aspect. “I have been
told that some letters have arrived from dear England,
but I know not what news they have brought.”

“ Archbishop Anselm is dead,” said Codrie abruptly ;
“he died on the twenty-first day of last month.”

Alphege started, as if suddenly hearing of the loss of
a friend or a father.
200m ae ESCAPE FOR LIFE.

“He died in the odour of sanctity,” continued Codric ;
“*tis rumoured that the Pope will canonize him.”

“Anselm was a saint indeed!” said Alphege with
emotion; “a great and good man has passed away from
the earth.”

“He was somewhat of a persecutor,’ murmured
Frediswed in a low voice, overheard only by the quick
ear of her husband.

“My Frediswed, let no English tongue speak a word
against one who sought nobly to do his duty, though,
through the darkness prevailing: around him, he might
sometimes be mistaken as to what duty required. An-
gelm is now, we cannot doubt it, rejoicing in unclouded
light ; he sees now clearly, with no mist between, what
was on earth hidden from his eyes. Death has, for
Anselm, broken, and for ever, the iron chain of supersti-
tion, and left but the golden chain of love, which,
throughout eternity, will bind together those who, how-
ever differing upon earth, yet, serving the same Master,
adoring the same Lord, will find themselves brothers in

1?

heaven

THE END.



ties On
cS ea d