Chapter XXII: The Chapter House of Abingdon

On the morrow of Michaelmas, in the year of grace 1071, an imposing group of warriors and ecclesiastics was gathered in the chapter house of the ancient Abbey of Abingdon.

The chamber in question was of rectangular form, but terminated at the eastern end in an apse, where, beneath a column with radiating arches, was the throne of the Lord Abbot.

A stone seat encompassed the other three sides of the building, cushions interposing, however, between the person and the bare stone beneath, as was meet.

The walls were arcaded, so as to form stalls, and in the arcades were pictures of the Saints of the order, in glowing colours--St. Benedict occupying the place of honour. Nor was St. Dunstan, the most noted of English Benedictines, unrepresented.

A light burned perpetually in the midst of this chamber, framed so as to image a tongue of fire, emblem of Him, whose inspiration was sought at the gatherings of the chapter for deliberation.

Here novices were admitted and monastic punishment administered, while penitential chambers adjoined, to which offenders were taken after sentence had been delivered.

It was just after the chapter mass, and the fourth hour of the day.

William sat in the abbot's chair; on his right band Lanfranc himself--for the Benedictine order was deeply interested in the investigation about to be made. The abbot and all the elder brethren were present, and sat on the right or northern side of the building. Next the abbot sat Geoffrey of Coutances; amidst the brethren was Father Kenelm.

But on the other side sat William's principal nobles and courtiers, to whom reference has been made in former chapters--De la Pole, Arundel, Clyfford, Fitz-Maurice, Hastings, Maltravers, Peverill, Talbot, Harcourt, and many others--some of then grey-headed--in arms.

Odo of Bayeux and Fitz-Osborne were there likewise, as also Robert of Mortain and Pevensey.

A large coffer, called "the trunk," not unlike the box in which prisoners appear in modern courts of justice, stood in the midst; and therein, pale with illness and worn by mental distress, yet still undaunted in the spirit, stood Wilfred of Aescendune.

Poor Wilfred! he needed all his courage, for he stood almost alone, a mere youth, amidst many enemies. At the most there were but three hearts present which beat with any sympathy for him.

Lanfranc had, however, possessed the king with certain general facts, which disposed William to give the accused a patient hearing, and when his "starkness" was not roused, William could be just.

And so Wilfred, his face pale, his lips compressed, his hands clasped upon the desk before him, gazed into the face of this awful Conqueror, whose frown so few dared to meet--the very incarnation of brute force and mental daring combined.

On his head was the crown of England, which he wore only on state occasions, four times yearly as a rule, at certain great festivals. One of these had just been held at Abingdon, and on this occasion, as we see, he again assumed it. The sceptre was borne beneath by a page who stood by his side.

William's voice first broke the silence--a stern, deep voice.

"Wilfred of Aescendune, we have chosen to hear thy defence in person--if thou hast any defence becoming thee to make and us to hear."

"Of what am I accused?" said the prisoner.

It was noticed that he omitted the royal title.

"Of rebellion, parricide, and sacrilege."

"I admit that I have fought against the invaders of my country, and am nowise ashamed of it," said the brave youth, in a tone which, without being defiant, was yet manly; "but I deny, as base and wicked lies, the other charges made against me."

"Thou ownest thy rebellion?"

"I own that I have fought against thy people and thee; but I have never sworn allegiance. Thou art not my rightful sovereign, and hence I do not acknowledge the guilt of rebellion."

There was a general murmur of indignation, which William repressed.

"Peace, my lords; peace, churchmen. We are not moved by a boy's rhetoric. The facts lie on the surface, and we need not enquire whether one is truly a rebel who was taken red-handed in the so-called 'Camp of Refuge;' nor do we deign to discuss those rights, which Christendom acknowledges, with our subjects. The question is this: Does the youth simply merit the lighter doom of a rebel, or the far heavier one of a parricide and a sacrilegious incendiary?"

"Parricide!" exclaimed the indignant prisoner. "My father, more fortunate than I, died fighting against thee at Senlac."

"Hugo of Aescendune and Malville was nevertheless thy father by adoption; and by the law of civilised nations, carried with that adoption the rights and prerogatives of a sire. But we waste time. Herald, summon the accuser."

"Etienne de Malville et Aescendune, enter!" cried the herald of the court.

And Etienne appeared, dressed in sable mourning, and bowed before the throne. He was pale, too, if that sallow colour, which olive-like complexions like his assume when wrought upon, can be called pale. He cast upon Wilfred one glance of intense hatred, and then, looking down respectfully, awaited the words of the Conqueror.

"Etienne de Malville, dost thou appear as the accuser of this prisoner?"

"I do."

"Take thine oath, then, upon the Holy Gospels, only to speak the truth; my Lord Archbishop will administer it."

Lanfranc administered the oath, much as it is done in courts of justice nowadays, but with peculiar solemnity of manner.

Etienne repeated the words very solemnly and distinctly. No one doubted, or could doubt, his sincerity.

"Of what crimes dost thou accuse the prisoner?"

"Parricide, in that he hath compassed the death of his adoptive father; sacrilege, in that he burnt the priory of St. Wilfred with all the monks therein, and later the Priory of St. Denys, from which the inmates had happily escaped, and in support of this accusation I am ready to wager my body in the lists, if the King so allow."

"We do not risk thy safety against one who is already proved guilty of rebellion, and who is not of knightly rank like thyself."

(Etienne had duly received knighthood after the taking of the Camp of Refuge.)

"This is a question of evidence. State thy case."

Etienne spake clearly and well; and as he told the story of the destruction of the priory of St. Wilfred, of the subsequent appearance of our hero in the woods at the head of the outlaws, and the later conflagrations, there were few who did not think that he had proved his case, so far as it admitted of proof.

"We will now hear thy story of the destruction of the priory, and the manner in which thou didst escape from it," said the Conqueror to Wilfred.

Wilfred spoke good Norman French, thanks to his early education, in company with Etienne and the other pages, after the Conquest. So he began his story lucidly, but not without some emotion, which he strove in vain to suppress.

"Normans," he said, "I would not defend myself against this foul charge to save my forfeit life, nor could I hope to save it. Ye have met like wolves to judge a stag, and since ye have taken from me all that makes life dear, I refuse not to die; only I would die with honour, and hence I strive, speaking but the words of truth, to remove the stain which my enemy there" (he turned and pointed at Etienne) "has cast upon my honour, for I am of a house that has never known shame, and would not disgrace it in my person.

"I submitted to the father ye Normans gave me, and bore all the wrongs he and his heaped upon me, until the day when I discovered in that father" (he pronounced the word with the deepest scorn) "the murderer of my own mother."

A general burst of incredulity, followed by an indignant and scornful denial from Etienne.

"Silence," said a stern voice, "this is not a hostelry; the prisoner has the right of speech and the ear of the judge; only, Englishman, be careful what thou sayest."

"I repeat the simple fact, my lord" (this was the only title Wilfred would give the King); "the baron, whom ye are pleased sportively to call my father, poisoned my own mother."

"Poisoned! poisoned! My liege, can this be endured?"

"Hear him to the end, and then, if he have spoken without proof, it will be time to pronounce his aggravated sentence. SILENCE!"

Wilfred continued, and told the whole story as our readers know it, until his arrival at the Dismal Swamp. He described all that had passed so clearly that his foes became interested in spite of themselves, and listened. He did not charge Hugo with the burning of the priory, for he had no evidence to sustain the charge, being only aware that such was at hand to be produced by others; as he had learnt from Father Kenelm, who had been granted admittance to his cell.

At length he finished in these words:

"And now I have told you all the truth, and if ye will not believe me, but prefer to think I betrayed those to death I loved so dearly, I cannot help myself; but if there be a God, and a judgment day--as ye all profess to believe--I appeal to that God and that day, knowing that my innocence will then be made clear. That I fought with them who slew the baron I freely admit, and hold myself justified, as ye must, if ye believe my story; but I myself protected the monks of your kindred, albeit they had taken the places of better men than themselves, and not one was harmed; and when we fled, we burnt castle, priory, and village, without distinction, that they might not shelter an enemy. This, too, I hold to be lawful in war.

"I know that Englishmen find scant justice at Norman hands, and that ye will slay me as a rebel. Do so, and I will thank you; only defile not the memory--slay not the reputation as well as the body. If the house of Aescendune, which was planted in this land when ye Normans were but pagan Danes, is to perish, let it at least go unsullied to its grave. I have spoken."

There was strong sensation. His speech had produced some reaction in his favour.

"It is, as we said before, a question of evidence," said the King. "Is any forthcoming on one side or the other? for as yet neither party has really shown who burnt the priory and the monks therein. We have only assumptions, and they are not facts."

Lanfranc looked at the King, as if asking permission to speak. The King bent his head, and the Archbishop began, addressing Etienne:

"Amongst the followers of thy father, was there a warrior named Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville?"

"There was."

"Didst thou know him well?"

"Intimately."

"What became of him?"

"He was lost when my father perished--faithful, doubtless, to the last."

"Didst thou ever see his mark as a witness to any charter, or the like?"

"I did; instead of making a cross, he preferred to draw a bow."

"Wouldst thou recognise it, then?"

"I should, indeed."

"Then," said the Archbishop, holding a parchment folded up so as to conceal all but the name and the mark of a bow beside it, "dost thou know this mark?"

"I do; it is the mark of Guy, the son of Roger."

"Do ye all," said Lanfranc, turning round, "hear his affirmation?"

"We do--"

"Then hear what the paper contains."

I, Guy, son of Roger, born at Malville, being a dying man, and about to meet my God, do make this, my last confession, for the safety of my poor soul.

In the summer of the year 1068, in the mouth of June, I, with twenty other men, who have, so far as I know, perished by firs in the Dismal Swamp, was summoned to wait upon the Baron of Aescendune in a private chamber. He told us that the honour of his house depended upon us, and asked us whether we were willing to stand by him in his necessity. He had selected us well. We were born on his Norman estates, and trained up from childhood to do his will, and that of the devil. We all promised to do whatever he should ask, and to keep the matter a secret.

Then he told us that we were to burn the Priory of St. Wilfred at midnight, and to allow none to escape.

This we did, we took possession silently of every exit, piled up wood and straw, set it on fire on every side at once, and transfixed all those who tried to break out with arrows or lances, and hurled them back into the flames.

Long has my soul been sick with horror that I slew these holy men, and now that all who were my companions in this deed have perished by God's just judgment--burnt alive even as they burned--I, willing to save my soul from the everlasting flame, do make this my penitent confession, praying God to have mercy upon my soul.

Given in the Dismal Swamp, in the month of June, 1068.