Chapter XXI The Castle Falls
The unfortunate Lady Aliva was in despair.
The cup of happiness had been rudely dashed from her lips. After all her perils and anxieties of the last few weeks, her lover had been suddenly restored to her; once more she had heard his voice, had listened to his vows and caressing words, but only to see him slain, as she imagined, by his rival before her very eyes. From the summit of unexpected joy she was plunged into a depth of misery tenfold harder to bear than that which had gone before. All hope seemed over.
But within some twenty-four hours she was rudely awakened from her grief by the horrible din of the assault, which at dawn of day commenced against the old tower and the inner bailey.
“Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music’s novel din!
The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign,
High-crested banners wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels, the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnished arms,
The braying trumpets, and the hoarser drum
Unite in concert with increased alarms.”
“The wall is rent, the ruins yawn,
And, with to-morrow’s earliest dawn,
O’er the disjointed mass shall vault
The foremost of the fierce assault.”
The storm of war reached nearer to the ladies in the keep than it had ever yet done. Through the crack of the closely-shuttered windows they could watch the fray below, and catch the sound of angry voices borne up to them, and mingling with the crash of falling masonry.
The Lady Margaret, whose shattered nerves could ill bear such tumult, betook herself to the little chapel in the angle of the wall, and passed the time upon her knees in prayer. But Aliva and Beatrice, impelled by the curiosity of youth, could not forbear to see what was to be seen.
The point of interest was the old tower. The girls knew it to be undermined, and watched anxiously to see it totter to its fall.
“I see a mass of soldiers gathering under the outer wall and halting as if for a signal,” cried Aliva.
“The tower will soon fall, and these are ready to rush in,” said Beatrice.
“But how falls it?” asked Aliva. “Thou art in the miner’s secrets; tell, prithee.”
“They tie ropes to the great wooden beams and props on which John hath supported the foundations. At a safe distance stand men ready to pull them away; and then—ah, our Lady have them in her keeping!”
And as she spoke a sound was heard, a rumbling as of thunder, followed by a cloud of blinding dust, which obscured everything—court-yard, men, and masonry. There was a fearful crash, and the girls shrank with terror and looked at each other.
“Oh, this is horrible!” whispered Aliva, hiding her face.
“My lady, my lady, I can see! The tower is down—it is a heap of rubble; and they come, they come! O lady, you are saved!”
“Saved!” said Aliva with a sad smile, shaking her head; “what boots it now? What wish have I for aught but death?”
“Death, lady? and in the moment of victory? Oh, speak not so! See the king’s men, how they hurry, they scramble, they pour through the breach! ’Tis a noble sight. Forward, forward! Down with the Breauté!” shouted the excited waiting-woman, opening the shutter wide and craning out her neck.
“Beatrice, have a care. They will let fly a bolt at thee, and what will say the master miner? Thou hast some one to live for!”
“If I die for it, I must look!” protested Beatrice. “Oh, the king’s men, how they fall! Alas, alas! William de Breauté hath well posted his men in all the best places for defence! But on they come—they waver not! By my halidom, there comes a gallant band, though small! How fast that knight leads them across the inner bailey! They make for the steps of the door of the keep. But how thick the arrows fly! William must have lined every loophole in the donjon and in the hall with men!”
“But how the royal men-at-arms pour in! De Breauté is far outnumbered—his men fly—they fall back—they seek to gain the steps,” gasped Aliva, looking over Beatrice’s shoulder.
“Gallantly done, gallantly done! That little close band follows them hard up the steps. Well led, Sir Knight! (Hold my hand, prithee, lady, lest I fall out and break my neck! I must see.) But our men make a stand upon the steps; that is to gain time to close the door. The swords are at it now—I hear the ringing. Ah me! it is Sir William himself defends the steps. He raises his sword; he will smite that bold knight who leads them! He has smitten—By our Lady, ’twas a near thing! Who was that parried the stroke with his staff? I see! a man in monkish dress. And now the knight falls—he rolls down the steps—his armour is heavy—he strives in vain to rise, but alack, alack!”
“What seest thou? speak, Beatrice!”
“The poor brother, lady, he who saved the knight—he has fallen. Oh, he moves not! Alack, he is slain!”
“They are all falling back; what means it, Beatrice?”
“I cannot see, lady; the wooden porch over the steps hinders me. But the knight has risen—he is unhurt—he calls his men back.”
“They retreat—they retreat?”
“Meseemeth Sir William and his men have shut to the door, lady,” replied Beatrice, drawing in her head; and as the two girls stared blankly in each other’s faces, the Lady Margaret, pallid and haggard, entered the apartment.
“Daughters,” she exclaimed, “the king’s men have won the inner bailey; the old tower is down; we now only hold the keep!”
That evening sore disappointment reigned in the camp of the besiegers. Had they but been able to reach the door ere it was closed, the keep would have been theirs; but as it was, they were compelled to draw off after considerable loss from the storm of arrows which rained upon them from the loopholes.
All had to be begun over again. John de Standen and his men once more set to work. The cat was wheeled up close to the walls of the keep, and the digging recommenced. This time the task was more laborious and difficult than ever. The foundations were strongly laid. The work of Pain de Beauchamp was built to last, and the besieged did all they could to hinder the operations. It was not till the fourteenth of August that De Standen could report that his work was ready.
Late that afternoon the fourth and last attack commenced. The miners sprung a huge fissure in the wall of the keep. Simultaneously another agent was set to work—fire. A light was set to the wooden porch over the steps.
The work was finished. The flames, caught the woodwork within, and broke out in some of the apartments. Through fire and smoke the besiegers stormed the breach, the besieged fighting desperately, and only yielding step by step.
At last, however, William de Breauté was forced to acknowledge himself beaten.
“My brother cannot say I did not do my utmost,” he gasped to one of his officers as they leaned exhausted against the pillar of the turret stair.
“Yield thee, now yield thee, William de Breauté!” cried a voice through the din.
“I yield me to the king’s mercy,” began the Frenchman, “but not to thee,” he added, as the tall form and gloomy visage of William de Beauchamp loomed down upon through the smoke. “To a De Beauchamp? never!”
His men had ceased to offer any resistance, and stood with spears and swords point downwards and cross-bows unstrung. William looked around.
“My Lord Lisle of Rougemount, I surrender to you, rescue or no rescue.”
The baron thus addressed seized De Breauté’s outstretched sword, and signalled to his men. They closed round the prisoner and his immediate attendants, and prepared to march them off to the dungeon.
But as they crossed the great hall they met a young knight, followed by two or three men-at-arms, hurrying towards the turret stair.
“Ho, nephew!” exclaimed Sir William de Beauchamp, pointing to Lord Lisle’s prisoner with the nearest approach to a smile of which his lugubrious features were capable; “see here! He hath tried long enough how it feels to sit in our great hall; we go now to give him a taste of our dungeon.”
William de Breauté turned his head, and for the first time, and for a few moments only, found himself face to face with his rival, Ralph de Beauchamp. He cast upon him a look in which malignant hatred was mingled with the haggard despair of frustrated hopes.
“Dog!” he ejaculated, “methought thou liedst safe at the bottom of thy muddy Ouse!”
“Not so safe as thou wilt shortly lie in our donjon vaults,” retorted Ralph, scarcely deigning to glance at him. “I can dive, man.”
The guards led on.
To engage in such open rebellion against Henry was a somewhat different matter to joining in the confederation of barons against the tyranny and injustice of King John, as William de Beauchamp had done: and as William de Breauté and his men were led away down the steep stairs to the gloomy cells beneath the keep, they felt that their doom was sealed.