Chapter XXIII A tête-à-tête Ride to Elstow Abbey
Contrary to his dream and to the gloomy forebodings which he had been hugging to himself after the manner of certain dismal natures which delight to make themselves miserable, William de Beauchamp, as we have seen, escaped unscathed from the assaults on the castle. But lest his melancholy should lack food, as it were, fate had another blow in store for him. No sooner had the castle of Bedford been captured than the royal mandate went forth that it should be destroyed.
Henry III., young though he was, was too well aware of the difficulties which his father had experienced with his barons not to be convinced that his best policy lay in curbing their power. Now the chief strength of a medieval noble lay in his castle. In the taking of Bedford an excellent opportunity seemed ready to Henry’s hand for getting rid of one of the most important and substantial fortresses in his kingdom.
He was, moreover, completely in his rights in so doing. King John had granted the castle to Fulke de Breauté as a reward for his services, more especially in turning out the De Beauchamps. But now that De Breauté had rebelled against John’s successor, deprivation brought the castle once more into royal hands. What came absolutely to the king, the king could destroy.
This determination was a severe blow to William de Beauchamp. He was grievously hurt when he learned that the destruction of his ancestral home was definitely settled, but he was unable to take any steps to preserve it. It was, however, intimated to him that the site of the castle would be granted to him, together with certain of the lands and manors thereunto appertaining, after the fortress itself had been pulled down. No occupier or owner of a house could then proceed to fortify or crenellate—that is, erect defensive parapets—without the royal license; and William de Beauchamp was informed that though he might build within the castle precincts as suitable a dwelling as he pleased, on no account would such permission be granted.
So he had no choice in the matter, but found himself under the painful necessity of silently beholding the mighty keep where he had been born, and in which all his early days had been spent, destroyed before his very eyes.
The work of destruction, however, was no easy one. Securely and solidly had Pain de Beauchamp erected his fortress, less than a century and a half before. It was necessary to employ John de Standen and his men again. For many a long day after the king and his justiciary, and the barons, ecclesiastics, soldiers and labourers who had been gathered together for the siege had dispersed, the crash of falling masonry was to be heard. Mines had to be dug and the walls overthrown, just as though the siege were still proceeding, with the important difference that the miners could work unmolested by attacks, and with no need of the protecting “cat.”
John de Standen seemed in no wise to regret that the work of demolition detained him so long at Bedford. In the midst of his duties he contrived to find many opportunities for visits to Master Gilbert’s house, where Beatrice Mertoun was also detained in attendance upon her mistress, who was prostrated by illness consequent on the anxieties she had undergone during the siege. Aliva de Pateshulle also stayed with the Lady Margaret, loath to leave her and return to Bletsoe till she should be quite recovered; for she felt she owed the lady a debt of gratitude for her care of her during her imprisonment, and also for interposing on her behalf with Fulke and his brother, which she could never sufficiently repay.
The consequence was that the king’s miner did not appear surprised to run against Sir Ralph de Beauchamp issuing one evening from the ladies’ temporary abode.
“By my troth, Sir Knight,” exclaimed John de Standen, with a merry laugh, “methinks we come both on the same errand here. You seek the lady; I seek the maid. But it is easier work than when we had to break through stone walls and swim broad rivers to get speech of them.”
“Certes, bold miner. Meseemeth I have now discovered whence thou gottest that close knowledge of Bedford Castle which stood thee in such good stead at the Council of Northampton. I warrant me thou wast oft enow within its walls ere thou breakedst through in the breach not many days since, and I doubt not thou hast paid many a visit to fair Mistress Beatrice when no paving-stones came between ye. But thy siege is over now, bold miner. Thou hast won thy bride. I have yet to win the fortress of De Pateshulle the sire,” he added, with a sigh.
“If the lord of Bletsoe be what I take him for,” the miner responded consolingly, “he will not say nay for his daughter to such a knight as Sir Ralph hath proved himself in this tough work.”
“I hope from my heart thou speakest true,” replied Ralph; “but naught hindereth thy bridal?”
“Nay, certes. Beatrice is an orphan with no friend but her lady, who took charge of her when she was but a child. And as it would seem the Lady Margaret purposeth to betake her to a nunnery, she is quite ready to hand over the maiden to one who asks no less than to burden himself with her!” laughed the miner.
And so it turned out. One bright September morning, not long after the fall of the castle, and when John de Standen had completed his work of destruction, he and Beatrice were married in the chapel of St. Thomas-at-bridge, the little edifice where she had occasionally been allowed to attend mass with her mistress when Sir Fulke was in a more benign mood than usual. The ceremony was graced by the presence of Lady Margaret and Sir Ralph, but Lady Aliva had already returned to her father’s house.
When the marriage was over the Lady Margaret prepared to start for Elstow. In her present forlorn condition, the forsaken wife of an outlawed and fugitive baron dispossessed of all his lands, homeless and sickly, the unfortunate lady had implored shelter within the abbey walls, and not in vain. But short as was the distance from Bedford, in the present shattered condition of her nerves it was impossible for her to take the journey alone. Sir Ralph had offered to be her escort, but at the last moment he was detained by some duty in connection with the destruction of the castle which was really John de Standen’s business, but which the worthy miner’s marriage had hindered him from seeing to.
Ralph found an unexpected substitute. When the Lady Margaret emerged from Master Gilbert’s hospitable door to mount her palfrey, she beheld to her surprise Sir William de Beauchamp waiting to assist her.
“I crave thy pardon, lady, if I intrude upon thee. But to my nephew and me it beseemed ill-fitting that Margaret de Ripariis should arrive unattended at the gates of Elstow. I beseech thee, grant me the melancholy joy of escorting thee thither.”
It was many years since William de Beauchamp and his once affianced bride had found themselves alone together. During the days of Fulke’s power there had been no meetings between De Breauté’s and De Beauchamps. It was only once during the confusion of the capture of the castle that the two quondam lovers had set eyes on each other. As they somewhat silently started on their tête-à-tête ride, the groom in charge of the sumpter mule lagging a little distance behind, they had ample time to observe in each other the changes wrought by time.
“How strange it seemeth to miss the sight of the great keep, rising proud and stately to the north across the river!” began the lady, turning her head as they were crossing the bridge.
“Alack, lady, what a change! Was ever luckless man doomed to see such a destruction of his own, and not be able to lift a hand or to utter a word?”
“But I am told that thou purposest to build thyself a fair dwelling between the inner and outer baileys, with a goodly hall and large apartments.”
“Alack! what boots a fair dwelling and a goodly hall to one whose whole life has been marred—a solitary man whose years creep on—who finds himself alone?”
“Alone!” murmured Lady Margaret. “Free, unshackled by a bondage worse than death, not trembling lest a hateful tyrant return at any moment and claim his rights. ’Twere good to be so alone!”
“Alack, lady,” said Sir William, “can naught be done to aid thee? Will not Holy Church loose this unholy bondage, forced upon thee unwillingly by the king’s command?”
“Alas, no, Sir Knight! On that score have I sought advice of the venerable archdeacon and other ecclesiastics, but they offer me no hope. Therefore I go hide me in a nunnery, lest Sir Fulke return. We must e’en each bear our fate. We each have our woes. Thou hast lost thy castle.”
“Is thy memory so short, lady, that thou sayest it is only my castle I have lost, most miserable of men that I am? Hast forgotten the days—”
“When I came to Bedford Castle with my father and his train to the great tourney,” interrupted Lady Margaret, wishing to turn the conversation, and reining in her palfrey that she might turn round to survey the ruins, “’twas a noble sight. How the banners waved from the pavilions on the tilt-ground, and the trumpets blared, and the horses pranced! How like silver ran old Ouse that merry summer’s morning, when I sat ’neath the canopy—”
“The Queen of Beauty, fair lady, and rightly so! And how your bright eyes dazzled a certain youth on whom you had deigned to bestow your favour to wear on his crest, and who ill deserved such an honour!”
“But who acquitted himself right gallantly. I can see him still! But all is changed: the castle is no more; we are not what we were; only the old river runs the same. But come, Sir Knight; the reverend mother waits me.”
“Lady, it grieveth me sore that the way ’twixt Bedford and Elstow is so short. See how near loometh the abbey tower.”
“To me it riseth like the beacon of a port to the weary, wind-driven mariner. Would I could find rest within its walls for aye!”
“Say not so, lady; it sounds to my heart like a funeral knell.”
“No fear, Sir Knight; as long as Sir Fulke draws breath no cloister may receive me. The reverend mother tells me that so long as my vows to him are unloosed by death, I can ne’er plight any others; so long as I am his wife, I cannot become the spouse of Christ.”
“Alack, lady, how woful a fate is mine! I, too, once plighted vows. Dost recall them, lady? Nay, I received others in return. I can hear them yet. Vows they were, not less sacred than those made to priest before altar. Yet here I stand alone, like some wind-swept oak on the hill-side, bowed before the blast.”
“Yet the helpless ivy would fain twine round the proud lord of the woods,” replied the lady, somewhat coyly. “Be thou sure, Sir Knight, my heart grieveth sore for thee. I promise thee that thou shalt have my prayers.”
And shortly afterwards the pair parted at the abbey gate.