Chapter XII At the Castle of Eaton Socon
While Aliva de Pateshulle lay in a dreamy state listening to the praises of her lover, the said lover was far away on the other side of Bedford, in anything but such a complacent frame of mind.
Since the day Aliva had escaped from him up the turret stairs he had not seen her, and she had left him in much perplexity as to whether she intended to obey her father or to follow her own inclinations.
But on one point his mind was made up. Ralph was determined to be off to the Scottish war. In any case a soldier’s life or perhaps a soldier’s death was still before him, and in his youthful imagination he saw himself performing deeds of daring against the northerners, and dying heroically in the moment of victory, leaving Aliva to mourn for his loss and regret her own cruelty.
To carry out these plans, however, it was necessary, in the first instance, that he should interview his uncle, William de Beauchamp, for it was by the latter’s influence, as he had told Aliva, that Ralph hoped to obtain a command in the royal army.
Since they had been wrongfully deprived of their castle, Bedford was no longer a home to the De Beauchamps. The usual gathering-place of the family now was at Eaton Socon, some twelve miles further down the river. The castle there has as completely disappeared as that of Bedford, but a huge mound on the banks of the Ouse marks the site of the stronghold. Here was established a younger branch of the De Beauchamps, and here William de Beauchamp met Ralph and his kinsmen, to discuss the position of the family, and to consult as to the best means of overthrowing the robber chief at Bedford.
“Beshrew me, Nephew Ralph,” said his uncle, “if I wot what to make of this talk of thine of fighting against the northern savages, when savages far worse hold the castle of thy fathers.”
Ralph had been holding forth to his seniors upon the duty of a young knight taking up his country’s quarrels and joining his sovereign’s army.
“Ay,” rejoined the lord of Eaton Socon, an elderly man, “were I but of thy age and strength, with my gilded spurs newly girt upon my heels, I would never throw myself away on this mad Scottish scheme—craving his majesty’s pardon, if indeed so be that our young king favours it—whilst there lacked not an excuse for the placing myself at the head of bold men who would rally to the cry of ‘A De Beauchamp! a De Beauchamp!’”
“And, Cousin Ralph,” whispered one of his uncle’s married daughters, for some of the ladies of the family were present, “they tell me there is one in Bedford Castle with whom thou wouldest fain splinter lances, were he but worthy to meet thee in knightly combat!”
Something of William de Breauté’s visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception there by Aliva, had evidently leaked out.
Ralph shook his head dismally. For the time being he was that most unhappy individual, a wet blanket to all around him, a despondent lover.
“Come now, coz,” continued the Lady Mabel, “if our reverend elders will dismiss us from attendance at this table, we young folk will out on to the castle walls and take a turn. Kinsfolk do not often gather together in these days, at least in our family, and thou knowest I have not forgotten old times in Bedford Castle, even though I have formed new ties. Blood is thicker than water.”
It was early afternoon. The mid-day meal, which took place at the then fashionably late hour of noon, was just over. Ralph could not refuse the invitation of his fair cousin, who had been to him as a sister in his boyhood. So, with due obeisance to the others, the pair quitted the hall, leaving their elders deep in talk over old times, and the departed glories of the house of Beauchamp, and the days of Hugo, the Conqueror’s favourite.
In truth, Ralph was not sorry to have a confidant to whom he could confide his troubles. For the last few weeks both he and his uncle William had been but melancholy guests at Eaton Socon, despite the efforts of their cheery old kinsman to rouse them. William de Beauchamp was naturally a taciturn, reserved man, and the loss of his affianced bride, followed by the loss of his ancestral castle and domains, had further increased the gloom of his character. His uncle’s depression, of course, added to Ralph’s low spirits.
“And now, fair coz,” said Lady Mabel, linking her arm in Ralph’s, as they passed up a flight of stone steps leading to a walk on the top of the encircling wall behind the battlements, “thou art to talk to me of somewhat else than this Scottish war, or even the battering down of Bedford Castle about the ears of that dear friend of our family, Fulke de Breauté. Nay, seek not to deny it. I can see by thy face that thou hast somewhat to tell me, and perchance I have somewhat to tell thee.”
“I have naught to say, sweet cousin, but what I have already spoken of in the hall. But yet so be—”
“I knew it!” interrupted the lady; “so it ever is with men. First they will tell naught—those were thy very words—and then with the same breath they go on to say much. They are parlous, like my favourite sleuth-hound, my lord’s morning gift, who at times from mere wantonness refuseth to feed from my hand, and then when I make a show to turn away, cannot fawn on me enough. Had I but said to thee, Let us speak of the land of the Picts and Scots, and of the honour that, forsooth, will never be found there by Norman knights, thou wouldest straightway have spoken on what lies nearest thy heart nimbly enough. Now, thou art hesitating; thou leavest me to lay the scent, and then thou wilt follow. Yet, I gage, thou wouldest fain speak of the fair damsel of Bletsoe?”
Ralph flushed, and the lady smiled.
“Tell me,” she added, “when thou last didst set eyes on thy lady-love?”
The ice was broken. Ralph thawed rapidly, and related to the Lady Mabel his meeting with the Lady Aliva on the morrow of St. Vincent’s Day, and of her sudden flight from him.
“And, in good sooth,” ejaculated the lively lady, with a shrug of her fair shoulders, “in this slough of despondency hast thou remained ever since! Not so should I have done had I been in thy shoes, cousin. Thou a bold lover, Ralph, thy charger at hand! The fair damsel should have been on the croup of thy saddle ere she could reach the turret stair. Then hadst thou brought her hither to me, I would have guarded her safety and honour till priest and chapel were ready, which would not have been long waiting, I trow.”
“But, cousin,” Ralph put in gloomily, “thou hast forgotten: she spake to me unawares, as she confessed, and unmindful of her father’s command that she should wed with a De Breauté. Nay, it boots not here of carrying off a bride. Rather let me carry off my wretched self to the war. I spake to her of winning glory for her sake, but now, methinks, I would rather win death.”
And folding his arms the young man leaned over the parapet of the castle wall, and gazed dejectedly into the shining Ouse below him, as if he would fain cast himself headlong into the stream.
But Lady Mabel answered with such a ripply laugh that Ralph turned round to her, now really offended at the light manner with which she met his tragic mood.
“And what thinkest thou, Ralph, that William de Breauté will go a-wooing to Bletsoe Manor again?”
Ralph’s face assumed such an angry look, as he ground out something between his teeth about “wooing” and “Bletsoe Manor,” that the Lady Mabel drew back, half frightened at the storm she had aroused.
“William de Breauté, in good truth, came to Bletsoe!” he ejaculated; “but when, and how? Tell me all, tell me the worst, cousin, for the love of Heaven!”
“Thou knewest not that he went thither?” she asked, puzzled.
“I know naught of it,” replied Ralph sulkily.
“And that he hath gained the hand of the Lady Aliva?” she continued.
Ralph turned upon her, furious. But the Lady Mabel laughed louder than before.
“Certes he did. But upon his face!” she added.
Her cousin looked bewildered.
“Where hast thou been, and what hast thou heard these weeks last past?” Lady Mabel went on.
“Thou knowest!” replied Ralph, still offended. “Here I have been at Eaton Castle with thy father. I have heard no news;” and he heaved a sigh, and turning away, looked out vacantly again over the Ouse valley.
“Ay, moping like a pair of owls at noontide, had I not come hither to bear ye company,” Lady Mabel continued, “till, perchance, ye had been driven to make two holes for yourselves in the stream yonder. By my troth,” she added, with very little of the reverence for elders which was such a characteristic of the age, “I intend to stir my father into life again ere I leave Eaton; and as for thee, Cousin Ralph,” touching him lightly on the shoulder, “I command thee to be of good cheer, and no longer to look down on that vile cold water as though thou lovest it!”
Ralph turned to her again, though still sulky under her apparently meaningless gaiety.
“Now hearken to me, Ralph, and I will tell thee much of the Lady Aliva that thou wottest not of.”
And Lady Mabel went on to relate the story of the second suitor’s visit to Bletsoe, and of his reception, which had not penetrated to Ralph’s ears, shut up hermit-fashion at Eaton.
As she continued, the light gradually broke in on Ralph’s mind, and the gloom vanished from his face; and when she described the blow inflicted by Aliva upon William de Breauté, his eyes positively sparkled with delight.
Scarcely had the Lady Mabel finished her recital ere her hearer had rushed from her. Such broken exclamations as “My brave girl!” “Still my own!” escaping from him, he ran headlong down the steps, across the bailey yard, and abruptly disturbed his elders’ conversation round the board in the hall.
Hardly giving himself time to pay the usual salutation of respect which the period demanded from juniors to elders of their house, he broke in upon them with these words:—
“By thy leave, my revered uncle, and with thine, my noble kinsman, I leave thy castle at once, tarrying but to give thee my best thanks for thy hospitality of the last few weeks.”
In a moment, ere De Beauchamp could recover from his surprise, Ralph was out of the hall again, and shouting eagerly in the yard for his groom, his squire, or any one, to assist him in getting ready his horse.
Meanwhile the guests streamed out of the hall behind him, headed by their host and William de Beauchamp. Lady Mabel, who had followed her cousin in his headlong career as fast as she was able, rushed to her father.
“Stay him not!” she exclaimed; “rather bid the varlets hasten to help him. ’Tis no demon hath gotten possession of him—unless, in good sooth, love may be termed a demon. Speed him on his way, and I will tell whither he goes, and wherefore.”
Lady Mabel’s laughing face dispersed any fears which might have been entertained for Ralph’s sanity, and a moment or two later, the latter, who had hastily girded on his armour, emerged into the yard as his groom brought round his horse.
“Adieu, fair cousin!” he exclaimed. “Thou hast indeed removed a burden from my heart!” he added, placing his foot in the stirrup.
At that moment a man hurried into the castle-yard through the outer bailey, and made his way through the group of serving-men and grooms gathered round the hall door.
It was a young lay-brother in the garb of a Benedictine. His long frock was girt up round his loins, as though he had been running violently. He was muddy and wayworn, and one side of his face was smeared with blood, flowing apparently from a wound in the head, hastily bound up with a bandage.
Tottering and reeling from exhaustion, the Benedictine pushed his way up to Ralph, his eyes staring wildly and starting from his head.
“Sir Ralph,” he cried, “the Lady Aliva hath been carried captive to Bedford Castle!”
And then he fell senseless into the arms of the nearest bystander.