The Robber Baron of Bedford Castle

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

"Ouse, having Olney past, as she were waxed mad,

From her first staider course immediately doth gad,

And in meandering gyves doth whirl herself about,

That, this way, here and there, back, forward, in and out.

And like a wanton girl, oft doubting in her gait,

In labyrinthine turns and twinings intricate,

Through those rich fields doth flow."

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

"Chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells

From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lay-brother went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

BLETSOE MANOR-HOUSE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dumpling opened his wide mouth to it fullest extent.

"A-fishing, good my lord?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The maiden's lips curled bewitchingly.

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

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

Aliva tossed her head with a laugh in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ralph drew back, astonished at her words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dicky Dumpling looked after him and shook his head.

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

CHAPTER III.

HOW ALIVA RECEIVED A SECOND SUITOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

IN BEDFORD CASTLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

IN ELSTOW ABBEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Black was her garb, her rigid rule

Reformed on Benedictine school;

Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;

Vigils and penitence austere

Had early quenched the light of youth."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pensive nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestic train,

And sable stole of cypress lawn."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The abbess laid her hand soothingly on her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

A PENITENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Once resplendent dome,

Religious shrine......

Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb.

Years roll to years, to ages, ages yield,

Abbots to abbots in a line succeed;

Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church.

Fulke ignored it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perforce every one agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

"ARCADES AMBO."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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