The Family Feud
The Baron Simon de Guerre-à-mort (whose name, considerably transformed by his Saxon neighbours, was familiarly rendered as “Old Grammar”) was an individual who, not to belie the said name, was of a somewhat warlike disposition. His ancestors had come over to these peaceful shores with “Billy the Norman, that very great war-man,” as the old song calls him, and very great war-men had they been also from the time of their first arrival. They warred against the Saxons as long as the latter showed fight; then they warred with their brother barons; then they went to the crusades; afterwards they joined Simon de Montfort in his gallant struggle for English liberties; they had a turn at the Welsh at one time, and took their share in the Scotch wars at another; in short, wherever and whenever opportunity for fighting offered itself, the Guerre-à-mort family or its representative eagerly seized it and rushed into the thickest of the battle as cheerfully as a duck into water. Nor was the Baron Simon one whit behind his ancestors in this respect. On the contrary, he was as ready for war as any of them, and fully maintained the character and traditions of his house.
In the days of which I write it was very much the fashion for great families to indulge in the luxury of hereditary foes, and a feud of long standing between this and that ancient house was such a customary thing that a nobleman who lived peaceably with all his neighbours was regarded as a slow kind of fellow, whose acquaintance was hardly worth having. There were generally wars of greater or less magnitude going on either within England herself or with some foreign enemy, which, one would have imagined, might have furnished sufficient employment to the fighting nobility of the day. This, however, was by no means the case; and though private feuds were sometimes left in abeyance for a time, when something more attractive in the way of battle and bloodshed happened to offer, yet they were never allowed to slumber too long, and were invariably revived as soon as more peaceful times permitted their proprietors to indulge their private feelings and natural love of quarrelling.
The hereditary enemy of Simon de Guerre-à-mort was the house of St. Aunay, which, like his own, had been first known in England after the Battle of Hastings had flooded the country with Norman nobility, and which was at the moment of which we speak represented by Count Horace as the head of its race. It is difficult to say why or wherefore these two families should have been at variance, since there was no apparent reason for such a state of things. Their castles were upon opposite sides of my dear old river, at no great distance, though neither of them within sight of it. Their lands stretched down to my waters, which formed a reasonable and proper boundary, and there was consequently none of that intermingling of field with field or farm with farm which has in all ages proved a fertile source of unpleasantness between neighbouring landed proprietors. Moreover, the two noblemen had never brushed against each other or differed materially upon any public matters. In fact there was no probability of their doing so; for Baron Simon was at this time the wrong side of sixty by several years, whilst Count Horace had not lived half the years which constitute that respectable age. No: it was a good, respectable old family feud, and I verily believe that it was more from family feeling than for any other reason that it was still cherished by both houses.
It was, according to my firm belief, entirely in consequence of their private differences that, when the wars of the Roses broke out, the two Norman noblemen took different sides, the Count of St. Aunay standing forward boldly for the House of York, whilst the Lord of Guerre-à-mort was Lancastrian to the backbone. As the latter was a leader of great repute, and could muster around his standard no inconsiderable number of retainers, he might probably have rendered great service to the cause he had espoused if he had acted with those well-known men who led its armies and managed its councils. But the Baron greatly preferred going his own way and fighting for his own hand and as soon as the country was well into the war, and everybody was harassing and worrying everybody else as much as they could, he determined that by far the best thing he could do to aid Henry of Lancaster was to cross the river and demolish the Castle of St. Aunay. Accordingly, he collected his forces, summoned his vassals and friends from all quarters and prepared for the expedition.
I remember, as well as if it were but yesterday, when the Baron’s army was halted along my banks preparatory to their crossing the river early on the following morning. The old chieftain himself, mounted on his powerful black charger, from whose eyes and nostrils the fire of war seemed to stream forth as he impatiently pawed the ground, rode out upon a hill above his troops, and gazed upon the scene before him. The moon was rising behind the distant hills, the evening was calm and still; but the heavens were cloudy, and strange lights from time to time darted across the sky, as if presaging the days of war and bloodshed which were about to come upon unhappy England. The old Baron was completely armed, and his long, straggling beard fell down upon his horse’s mane before him as he sat erect in his saddle. I saw him elevate his mighty sword and shield, raising each arm on high as he looked with flashing eye and threatening gesture upon the country upon the other side of the river, and then and there he vowed a solemn vow that before he recrossed the Thames the Castle of St. Aunay should be sacked, his pride lowered, and his banner trailed in the dust. On high he shook his weapon as he took the oath, and full well I knew that the proud Norman would not fail to keep it, unless his foeman (who was probably taking an oath of a similar character about the same time) should have strength or cunning enough to prevent its accomplishment.