Chapter IV: Part 4

"Nay, reverend father," returned the Benedictine, "but a lay-brother I, of the holy house of Alban."

"And I," returned the other, "am but the unworthy priest who serves the altar of St. Nicolas in yonder chapel. But the chapel," he continued, eying the lay-brother closely, "is occupied by other than its priest to-night. A lady hath sought sanctuary there. She must be guarded, watched, tended."

The Benedictine was puzzled. The voice sounded to him like the voice of him whom he had heard talking with De Breaute without the chapel door. Should he ask his advice and help? He was the priest of the chapel; surely he was to be trusted.

"Tended she hath been by my mother," he answered, "and I myself have watched and guarded the chapel door. But she must remove hence. It is not fit that our fair lady of Bletsoe should remain in this plight, tended by peasants only. She must to her father's house."

Bertram saw his opportunity.

"Sooth, thou speakest truly, brother," he said. "I would fain despatch her thither. Not that I quite make out her case," he continued craftily. "My people do tell me that yester evening a lady came into the village in sore plight, and leading a steed well-nigh ridden to death, and thou sayest she is the Lady de Pateshulle. She should to Bletsoe. But can she walk?"

"Walk, father! nay, in good sooth. For all my mother's care she is so weary with her ride that she even now sleeps. Besides, do ladies such as she tramp the country roads like a churl's wench? And her palfrey cannot carry her!"

"She should be carried thither in a litter," replied Bertram de Concours; "but whither shall we fetch one? A messenger must forthwith to Bletsoe, and acquaint the noble house of De Pateshulle with its lady's need, and that at once."

The bait was thrown out by which he hoped to remove the lay-brother out of the way. The fish rose.

"I am thy messenger, father," responded the Benedictine with eagerness. "I will myself to Bletsoe, and devise means to transport my lady thither in safety and comfort."

"By my faith, brother," exclaimed Bertram, in simulated gratitude, "thou hast well spoken. A burden is lifted from my heart. Haste thee, and see that help is here by dawn. But tarry a moment," he continued, still weaving his treacherous web; "we must to the chapel and let the lady know that aid is at hand, and that she will shortly be quit of this dangerous and unpleasant position."

The two men entered the chapel. The old woman was still watching by the sleeping girl, but hearing steps, she came out of the sacristy.

"Tell thy mother to warn her charge that she may expect to journey shortly," said the priest.

"But my lady still sleeps softly," objected the good woman.

"Then let her know when she awakens that thy son hath gone to Bletsoe for aid, and that help she shall have shortly, and means of travelling hence," said Father Bertram.

Mistress Hodges returned to the sacristy.

"My lady is awakened," she said. "She heard your voices. Ye should have spoken more softly. She needs yet rest."

"Go thou then to the door," said Bertram to the lay-brother. "She knows thy voice, but I am a stranger. Tell her what thou purposest to do."

The Benedictine did as he was bid. Standing at the half-open door, he announced in a few words that he was off to Bletsoe for help.

Aliva, barely aroused, sank back again into slumber, murmuring words of thanks to her messenger.

"And now haste thee on thy road," said the priest to the lay-brother; "I myself will watch the chapel door."

The latter set off. He did not again attempt to cross the bridge, still guarded as he imagined by De Breaute and his men, or he would now have found it clear of sentinels. He made his way along the right bank of the river to the ford at Milton in the dark quietness of the small hours that precede the dawn. But ere he reached the spot which had so well-nigh proved fatal to him some few weeks before, the birds had begun to twitter in the brushwood and the sedge, and on the eastern horizon

"Lightly and brightly breaks away
The morning from her mantle gray."

In the uncertain light he became aware that a horseman was in front of him, trying apparently to force a wearied steed through the ford. As he approached, a clearer view revealed the rider to be none other than Dicky Dumpling, the fat porter.

"Soho, soho, Dickon! And whither so early, or so late, as you will?"

Thus apostrophized, Dicky turned his horse and recognized the lay-brother.

"St. Dunstan be praised! Here is a friend from Bletsoe. O brother, there is ill news--a sore mishap! Our Lady Aliva is chased, and carried captive too, for aught I know, by that devil in man's shape, Fulke de Breaute, or his brother. The livelong night have I sought her on the road 'twixt here and Elstow, over marsh and bank, up hill and down dale. Not a bite or a sup--"

"Peace, Dicky, and cheer thy heart. Thy lady is safe."

"Safe, thou sayest? Oh, the saints be praised!--safe?"

"As safe as Holy Church can make her," replied the other. "She hath found refuge in the chapel on Bromham Bridge."

Dumpling gave a vast sigh of satisfaction, and his face once more assumed its usual jolly expression.

"That was it then! Beshrew me for a fool! I found her palfrey in Bromham village, and though I asked up and down among the folks, no one could tell me aught of the lady. Even the women, whose tongues go fast enow, like the clapper of a bell at vespers time, when they are not wanted, had nothing to say. Gramercy! safe in the chapel! But you, brother, what doest here?"

"On an errand thou canst well relieve me of. Four legs are better than two. Thy Dobbin has still enow strength left in him to carry him back to his manger. So haste thee, good Dickon, with all speed thou mayest, and bid them at Bletsoe Castle send quickly a litter for my lady to bear her home. She is weary and weak. I, meantime, will return to her. Somehow it mislikes me leaving her alone with priests and women, when those devil's servants, the Breaute varlets, are about. And 'twill cheer her heart to hear good news of thee, for she misdoubted some mishap to thee also."

"I fall not lightly, brother," replied Dicky. "The armed men came with the rush of a battering-ram. But thanks to St. Dunstan and the muddy roads, I got off scathless.--And now, Dobbin--to our oats, Dobbin, to our oats; and to our lady's aid."

The lay-brother, much relieved in his mind, hurriedly retraced his steps. It was broad daylight as he once more approached the chapel, and while yet at a distance he plainly perceived a little crowd gathered at the door.

A horse-litter, consisting of a kind of curtained couch resting on two poles, borne by two stout horses, was in waiting. On the foremost horse rode a groom. Another mounted man stood by, leading a spare saddle-horse.

As the lay-brother drew nearer, he saw three figures issue from the chapel, and recognized the Lady Aliva, his mother, and Father Bertram.

Struck with astonishment that the desired conveyance should have appeared so speedily, the Benedictine halted in the middle of the road. Then the truth flashed upon him.

It was impossible that the litter could have come from Bletsoe. There must be treachery afoot.

A glance at the De Breaute livery worn by the mounted groom confirmed his suspicion.

Without a moment's hesitation he rushed forward, exclaiming in warning tones,--

"Mother! my lady! Stay, stay! for God's sake stay!" and as he spoke he stretched out a detaining hand towards the litter.

But ere he could grasp it, the priest, who had been assisting Aliva into the conveyance, turned sharply round, and with the key of the chapel door, which he still held in his hand, dealt the Benedictine a heavy blow on the head.

Then he shouted to the postillion to hurry off, and himself jumping on to the spare saddle-horse, followed the litter towards Bedford, leaving the lay-brother senseless and bleeding on the road, his mother bending over him.

*CHAPTER XV.*

_*RALPH RAPS AT THE CASTLE GATE.*_

At the moment when the Benedictine lay-brother, haggard and wounded, rushed into the yard of Eaton Castle, Ralph de Beauchamp was on the point of starting for Bletsoe, reassured as to Aliva by his cousin's account of the reception the former had given to William de Breaute. The single sentence uttered by the Benedictine ere he fell senseless to the ground came as a terrible reaction. His impulse had been to ride off rapidly to Bletsoe and urge his suit with Aliva and her father; and now, at one fell swoop, came the news that she was prisoner in the hands of his rival, her discarded and insulted lover. Overcome with the shock of the news, following so soon upon his late rapture, he rode out of the castle yard, after commending the messenger to the care of the by-standers. He was almost reeling in his saddle with mental agony.

When the lay-brother, left senseless at the door of the bridge chapel, had been restored to consciousness by his mother's care, his first thought was for the young lady so treacherously kidnapped.

Despite his mother's entreaties, he made his way into Bedford, his bleeding head roughly bandaged; and soon learned that the horse-litter of Margaret de Ripariis had passed through the town into the castle in the early morning. But who might be within it no one could tell.

Then the Benedictine hastened to tell the townsfolk of this new outrage on the part of the De Breautes, and endeavoured, but in vain, to stir them to action. They had lived too long under the tyranny of the Robber Baron to have courage enough to attempt to throw off his yoke.

Baffled and disheartened, the brave young fellow now determined to seek Ralph de Beauchamp. The latter's devotion to the Lady Aliva was too well known among the dependents of the De Pateshulles for the Benedictine to think for a moment that he should implore his aid in vain.

Once outside the castle wall, Sir Ralph turned his horse's head towards Bedford. What he intended to do there, alone and unaided, he perhaps had scarcely considered. An irresistible impulse drew him to the spot where she whom he loved was imprisoned.

Bedford is some twelve miles from Eaton Socon, and when Ralph arrived there he found the burghers much exercised in their minds over the event of that morning. They had hardly recovered from the shock of seeing Henry de Braybrooke, but the evening before, hurried through the streets as a prisoner, ere this fresh outrage had followed. Not that it was by any means strange to see luckless women carried off to the castle--as, for instance, after the St. Alban's raid; but never yet had the Robber Baron dared to treat a member of one of the noble families of the county in this fashion.

But though the Bedford burgesses were duly impressed with the enormity of Fulke de Breaute's doings, they were loath to take any steps to put a stop to them. And indeed Ralph himself was obliged to confess that any attempt to climb those lofty stone walls, or to throw themselves on to the spears of the armed men who kept watch and ward night and day at the castle gate, would have been utter madness. The only hope was that, now that one of the king's justices was actually a prisoner, the royal forces might be sent to extirpate this nest of robbers.

"Ah, Sir Knight," quoth one of the fathers of the town to Ralph, as he gravely shook his head, "our goodly town has indeed grievously suffered since thy noble family and thy renowned uncle were driven away. In the old days the castle was a protection and a great benefit to us. But now--alas, fair sir! thou knowest as well as we do what we suffer. We can scarce call our souls our own."

"Ay," put in one of the clergy of the town, who formed one of the group which had gathered round young De Beauchamp, "see our fair church of St. Paul. It hath stood here since the days of the Saxon Bedicanford. And now, alas! how forlorn and shorn it standeth, even as a widow in her weeds mourning for her lord! Thus hath she stood since the day the impious Fulke did wickedly break down the carved work of our Zion with axes and hammers, and carry off her stones to strengthen yon great castle which towers above us. In the chancel resteth thy ancestor Simon, he who finished the good work begun by his mother, the Lady Roisia--to wit, the priory at Newenham for the canons of St. Paul's. In good sooth, Sir Knight, thy house and Holy Church have both good reason to curse these French intruders."

Ralph turned dejectedly away from priests and burghers. The loss of his family possessions hardly weighed with him, compared with the loss of her who was more precious to him than spoils wrested from the Church. He rode slowly and deliberately to the castle gate.

The sentinels on duty stood at attention, ready to resist an attack should a single horseman be so foolhardy as to ride against their uplifted spears.

Ralph looked upwards at the stern walls frowning down upon him, and shook his sword at them in futile rage.

As he did so two figures appeared above the battlement of the barbican. They were the Robber Baron and his brother, who had been informed that Sir Ralph de Beauchamp had ridden up to the castle.

Fulke made the knight a mocking gesture of salutation.

"Sir Ralph," he said, "it grieves me sore that I cannot bid thee enter within these walls, and proffer thee the hospitality which is suitable to thy rank. But we entertain guests already."

So saying, he turned round and shoved forward the disconsolate-looking judge, Henry de Braybrooke.

"Our worthy guest here," he continued, "has not yet thought proper to cancel those writs which he and his brethren were pleased to issue from their court at Dunstable. In consequence, he hath been forced to partake of the somewhat meagre hospitality of bread and water in the dungeon-vault beneath the keep. It may perchance be even necessary to resort to yet more painful measures."

"Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," called out the plucky little judge, trying to lean over the battlements, "I prithee, convey to the king, my royal master, that his servant will never consent to any reversal of judgments given in concert with the learned Thomas de Muleton and the learned Martin de Pateshulle, at the bidding of the unlearned--

"Peace!" cried De Breaute, pushing the little man back violently; "I brought thee not hither to speak, but to be seen.--Soho, warder! take the justice back again to the dungeon, and see that his supper be somewhat more scanty than was his dinner. Those who bend not must starve."

And the warder led away the little justice, remonstrating and quoting legal Latin anent wrongful imprisonment and detention.

Fulke de Breaute again looked over the parapet.

"Yet another prisoner have I here, Sir Ralph," he said; "but she is entertained in the lady's bower, as befits a damsel who is shortly to be the bride of the brother to the lord of the castle. Even now our new chaplain, Bertram de Concours, he who anon served the chapel on Bromham Bridge, prepares our long-disused chapel for the marriage rites."

Ralph could bear it no longer. He gnashed his teeth, and whirling his sword round his head in impotent fury, flung it at the speaker. The good blade shivered in two against the stone wall, and Fulke resumed his banter.

"Little boots it sending thy sword where thou thyself darest not follow," said he; "but methinks thou hast tarried long enow beneath our walls. Get thee gone ere thy churlishness be returned with usury."

Ralph sprang from his horse. Unarmed though he was, he made for the gate, as if he would tear it down with his bare hands.

Fulke coolly signed to the sentinel who stood at his post over the gate-house, with cross-bow ready strung and quarrel fitted in the slot. The man took aim and released his string. The missile struck Ralph in a spot where his hastily-donned armour was imperfectly fastened, and he fell wounded to the ground.

At the same moment two female figures reached the western end of the walk which ran along the top of the long wall bordering the river side of the castle, at right angles to the gate-house.

One of them, a damsel of inquisitive disposition, hearing the twang of the cross-bow, sprang on to the parapet to see what was happening. From the angle she could look down upon the level space outside the gate.

"What see you, Beatrice, that you watch so closely?" inquired a girl's voice from the wall beneath the former's vantage-ground.

"My lady," exclaimed Beatrice Mertoun, "the archer hath struck some knight below, for I see the townsfolk carrying off a wounded man clad in armour. His helmet hath rolled from his head. What curly hair! How pale he looks, alas, poor youth! Ah, I see my lord pointing to the helmet. There goes a man from the wicket-gate. He has picked it up; he is bringing it in. Marry, how the burghers shrank back when he appeared! Methought they were like to drop the wounded man. But no; they have borne him off."

"I wot not what this may mean," said Lady Aliva; for she was the speaker from below. "There is no attack on the castle? There come no more armed men?"

"Nay, none but the wounded one," replied Beatrice. "But stay, my lady; I will to the gate-house. Perchance I may learn somewhat."

Impelled by curiosity, the girl made her way down from the wall, and quickly crossed the yard.

Fulke, when the helmet had been brought him, glanced at it and then threw it contemptuously on one side. Then, when the burghers carrying Ralph had disappeared into a neighbouring house, he turned away and went to another part of the castle.

No sooner had he vanished than Beatrice Mertoun, standing below, called up in her most bewitching tones to the archer who had shot the quarrel.

"Ho, Hubert--Hubert of Provence! Wilt do me a favour?"

The man-at-arms was one of her most ardent admirers. He looked down on the pretty upturned face.

"A thousand, Mistress Beatrice! You have but to ask, pardie."

"Then throw me down yon helmet your lord cast away anon."

The man hesitated. He glanced round; but Sir Fulke was out of sight. Beatrice pouted deliciously.

"I said not a thousand, but one favour, Hubert. By my troth, Arnoul or Denis would have given it me in a trice. Methinks you set less store on my words than--"

"Be not so cruel, fair one," exclaimed the admiring archer. "I obey your slightest wish. Here!"

The helmet fell at her feet. Beatrice picked it up, and then, without so much as a look at the archer, ran back with it to Aliva.

"See, my lady," she cried, "thou canst read these riddles of the heralds."

Aliva recognized on the helmet the crest of the De Beauchamps.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

_*WITHIN THE CASTLE WALLS.*_

The Lady Aliva had been carried off to Bedford in a half-unconscious state; for though she had awoke from her sleep refreshed and restored--thanks to the kind care of Mistress Hodges--the treacherous priest had so arranged that nothing should hinder him from carrying out his part of the shameful contract.

After the departure of the lay-brother he returned to the chapel.

"Daughter," he said to Aliva, through the half-open door of the sacristy, "thou hast done well in seeking the protection of Mother Church, and I, the humble minister of this altar, will see that thou art well guarded if thou remainest here."

"Thanks, reverend father," replied the maiden; "but a short time since, towards dawn of day, methinks (but I have slept since), this faithful woman's son offered to set off to my father's house at Bletsoe and warn the household there of my whereabouts."

"Thy messenger will be yet some time ere he returneth," answered the priest, "and if thou art minded to depart at once, we needs must find some other means of conveyance for thee, lady. I have looked round about since it grew light, and thy pursuers have departed," he added, revolving in his mind how best to induce Aliva to enter the horse-litter from Bedford, which he guessed would by now not be far off.

"Thanks for the hospitality of this holy sanctuary," Aliva replied, "but I would fain depart as speedily as may be," she added, not caring to occupy the sacristy of a chapel as her apartment any longer than was necessary, and with an indefinable dislike, if not distrust, of the speaker.

"So be it, lady," Bertram hastened to answer. "I will myself to Bedford. Doubtless from some of the burghers can I procure a conveyance suited to thy rank. Moreover, thou art doubtless weak in body, and I have taken upon myself to order food to be brought thee."

So saying he moved to the door and beckoned to some one without. A woman from the village entered, bringing such food and wine as the hostelry could supply.

"Thou mayest eat yonder in the sacristy, my daughter, for it is not consecrated to holy purposes."

He followed the woman into the priest's room and then dismissed her. This left him alone for a few moments, for Aliva had entered the chapel to kneel down before the rude altar, and offer up a heartfelt thanksgiving for her preservation.

Father Bertram took a small vial from within his robe and poured some drops from it into the wine-flask.

He had not studied the art of drug-concocting in the infirmary of his late monastery in vain.

Then he passed out of the chapel, saying that he was going to Bedford.

Aliva rose from her knees and went into the sacristy and found the food awaiting her. But she could not swallow, famished though she was, the rough village fare copiously seasoned with garlic.

"Alack!" exclaimed Goody Hodges. "But thou wilt die of weakness. See the wine-flask, lady! Drink, if thou canst not stomach the food."

Aliva did as she advised; and when the priest shortly returned, having brought the litter which he had found waiting on the bridge, and having received back again the pledge of the crucifix, he found the maiden in a half-unconscious state.

"Alack, alack! father, she hath swooned again!" cried the deluded peasant woman.

"She is overwrought with her hardships," replied the priest. "We must get her home with all speed. I have found a litter on the road, and it is in readiness. Help me to bear her to it."

The fresh morning air outside the chapel door partially revived Aliva. Opening her eyes she moaned,--

"Where am I? where are you taking me?"

"Home, daughter, to Bletsoe. Let me lay you in the litter!" exclaimed Bertram hurriedly, and rudely pushing back Dame Hodges, who had stopped short when she too recognized the De Breaute livery, and saw that she had been deceived.

Aliva sank back languidly on the cushions, and her eyes closed again. She was deaf to a well-known voice imploring her to stay, and unaware of the lay-brother's gallant attempt to detain her.

When she recovered her senses again, the litter was jolting fearfully, for the horses were going at the top of their speed. Bertram rightly conjectured that Aliva had taken but little of the drugged wine, and was alarmed lest its numbing influence should wear off ere his captive was safely secured. So he urged the postillion along, galloping by his side.

With returning consciousness Aliva drew aside the curtains of the litter and looked out. They were certainly not on the road to Bletsoe; she saw that at once. They were swinging through streets, and curious burgesses came to their house doors, marvelling what brought the litter of the Lady Margaret out so early.

While she was doubting whether she should cry for help or fling herself from the litter, it turned under an echoing gateway, and stopped in a courtyard before the entrance of a castle keep.

A girl of about her own age came down the steps.

"Lady, please to alight and follow me to the apartment prepared for you."

Aliva descended from the litter and looked around her, bewildered. A group of men-at-arms were drawn up at a respectful distance, and the grooms who had brought her stood silent by their horses. The priest had vanished as soon as he had seen her safe into the castle.

Aliva turned to the girl beside her.

"Where am I?" she murmured, still half dazed. "Is this not Bedford Castle? There has been treachery--treachery by that ill-looking priest! This is more of De Breaute's doings, damsel."

"Nay, lady, I can tell thee naught, save that my lord Sir Fulke bade me prepare a lodging in the keep for a lady who was to arrive in my lady's litter. Thy chamber is ready on the floor above the great hall, next to my lady's bower. Prithee, let me lead thee thither."

Aliva felt somewhat reassured by this reception. At least she found herself in the care of women.

Silently she allowed her conductress to show her the way across the hall and up a turret stair to her apartment, where she sank wearily on a couch.

The pretty waiting-woman bustled about, offering the unhappy girl various attentions. She brought her articles of dress from her mistress's coffer, and assisted Aliva to remove her travel-stained garments and clothe herself in becoming attire.

The latter eyed her curiously.

"And who art thou, maiden?" she inquired.

"My name is Beatrice Mertoun. I am the waiting-woman of the Lady Margaret, the wife of Sir Fulke. And thou, lady, if I might make so bold?"

"I am Aliva de Pateshulle from Bletsoe," returned Aliva.

"From Bletsoe!" echoed Beatrice. "Methought I remembered your face and figure as one of the nuns at Elstow when I attended my mistress to the retreat there. We returned but yesterday. But thou art no nun--no sister of an abbey?"

"Nay," replied Aliva, "but I wore the habit of a novice as a penitent during the retreat. Doubtless," she added, sighing, "this trouble which hath come upon me is the reward of my sins."

"Fair lady," said Beatrice gently, "you look sad;" and she came and knelt down at her feet.

"Sad!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself on her elbow and gazing down at the waiting-maid with horror-stricken face; "I am miserable--betrayed--undone! Ah, I see it all now--this foul plot! William de Breaute hath encompassed my ruin!"

"William de Breaute!" cried Beatrice. "It is he who is at the bottom of this, forsooth! By my halidom, _I_ see daylight now! I overheard him speaking of you with his brother--and then the chapel, repaired and cleaned. That was what Sir Fulke meant as he watched the men at work and said in jesting mood that from his own experience an unwilling bride was all the sweeter for the trouble of snaring and catching her, and William de Breaute answered that for his part he cared not for a ripe plum that fell into one's mouth without the picking."

"The chapel--an unwilling bride!" gasped poor Aliva. "The Lady Margaret was such! I see it all, alas! Does my father know of this? Does he give his consent?"

"Alas, fair lady, I know naught! It pains me to see thee in such grief, and in good sooth I mind me well of the stories I have heard of the unwilling wooing, the hasty bridal of my mistress. But, lady, cheer thee. Thou art weary and mazed. Rest here awhile, and talk no more, and I will watch by thee."

The bright spring afternoon was already waning when, some hours after the events related above, the two maidens walked out upon the south wall of the castle. Beatrice had persuaded Aliva to come thither, hoping that the fresh air might revive her drooping spirits; and Sir Fulke had given permission that his prisoner might repair thither when she pleased, though the precincts of the castle were forbidden.

As they paced up and down the terrace the fertile brain of Mistress Beatrice, already a warm partisan of the fair young prisoner, began to weave plans of escape.

"Canst swim, fair lady?" she inquired. "'Twould be naught to leap into Ouse water from yon turret! Or, better still, that thy knight (she took it for granted that Aliva had a knight) should bring hither a skiff some dark night, beneath the walls!"

At that moment they heard the twang of an archer's bow sounding from the gate-house hard by.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

_*THE KING IN COUNCIL.*_

For some time Ralph lay in a precarious state in the house of one of the burgesses of Bedford. The bolt from the cross-bow had given him a nasty wound, which it required all the skill of the leech to heal. Moreover, he lay fretting and fuming at the thought that his Aliva was a prisoner in the hands of his enemy, and his mental anxiety seriously interfered with his bodily recovery.

As he got better, however, he received visits from many of the principal townspeople, who were much attached to the house of De Beauchamp, and full of pity for the young knight.

"Sir Ralph," quoth one of these grave personages, as he sat solemnly stroking his beard by the pallet where the young man still lay, "if one richer in the experience of years than thou art may be permitted to advise thee, I would show thee how useless a waste of life and blood would be any attempt of thine, unaided, to rescue thy fair lady from her direful plight."

"Marry, but have I not learned that lesson already!" ejaculated Ralph irritably; "but whither then to get aid? for get aid I must. This emprise is of more worth to me than a dozen lives! Speak you on behalf of your kind, Gilbert the Clothier, the other traders and craftsmen of the town? Are ye ready to strike a blow against this tyrant?"

"I crave thy pardon, Sir Knight, but we are men of peace, unused to warlike weapons, and we have much to lose. With one swoop Fulke de Breaute could burn about our ears all the amassed gain of a lifetime!"

Ralph shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"'Tis vain to speak to barn-door fowls of the liberty of the hawk's flight!" replied Ralph, somewhat ungraciously. "But, Sir Merchant, if the only weapons ye can use be your tools and your measuring-yards, yet methinks ye have store of wisdom in your heads, in full measure above us who spend all our wits upon our sinews!" he added laughingly. "Prithee, counsel me."

"There are none in all the county round, in these days when so many of our gentlefolks are impoverished with the wars and disturbances of these last years, who can hope to lift a spear successfully against this rich Frenchman," the merchant began. "We must e'en seek aid further afield. Anon I had word brought me that the churchmen brook ill that the learned brother of Martin de Pateshulle and Thomas de Muleton lies in the keeping of the enemy of the Church, and are minded to stir in this matter with the king."

"The king!" exclaimed Ralph, half raising himself. "That is in good sooth good news!"

"The king holds a council shortly at Northampton, as ye know," Gilbert went on, "and it is there they purport to lay our case before him and his barons and bishops assembled."

"I will to Northampton, then," cried Ralph eagerly. "Certes, I was even purposing to go thither ere this unlucky scratch detained me. I sought the king's favour to give me some command in this army which is about to inarch for the north."

"Better turn your lance-point nearer home, Sir Knight," the merchant replied. "There will be work enow and glory enow to be gotten for all who list in pulling down this robber Frenchman's stronghold!"

"I will to Northampton as soon as this leech who holds me in his clutches gives me leave to buckle on my armour again," Ralph added.

And so it came about that, not many days later, our hero rode over to Northampton, where he found the king in council with the bishops, abbots, barons, and justices.

The youthful Henry III. was at this time only seventeen years old, though he had been declared to be of age two years before. His trusted guardian and adviser, Hubert de Burgh, was, however, still with him, and was present at the council. The old chronicler tells how, while the monarch and his advisers were thus assembled, deliberating on the affairs of state, news was brought of the raid upon the judges, and of the capture of Henry de Braybrooke by William de Breaute.

Here was an unbearable insult to the royal supremacy. The attention of the council was instantly turned from the banks of the Tweed to those of the Ouse.

In the storm of indignation which was aroused by the Robber Baron's latest misdeed the voice of the Church made itself heard. The judges of the land were at that period mostly ecclesiastics. Could they put up with this indignity to their learned brother? Was not Fulke also a destroyer of abbeys and churches? Had he not pulled down St. Paul's Church at Bedford? and had not that impious raid upon St. Alban's Abbey been but poorly atoned for by the discipline in the chapter-house? Had any restitution been made?

Further, doubtless, the great barons called to their master's council--they whose sires had forced his father to sign Magna Charta on the field of Runnymede, and who had spilt their blood for the liberties of England--had somewhat to say against this French upstart, De Breaute, this bastard soldier of fortune, who had ensconced himself in a fortress where one of the old Norman families had been established ever since the days of the Conqueror.

Prelate and lord both agreed that the most pressing question of the day was the overthrow of this robber chief.

When Ralph rode into the ancient town of Northampton, now crowded with the magnates of the land, he had no difficulty in finding men of position and weight who were willing to introduce him, as a scion of the De Beauchamp family, to the council.

Henry and his advisers, in earnest discussion over this business of Bedford, were not sorry to find one who was well acquainted with the castle and its fortifications. Accordingly, when Ralph was presented to the council, he was received by the young king with much cordiality. Henry III., though one of the few weak-minded monarchs of the strong Plantagenet line, was still so young that his character could hardly be said to be yet formed, and any mistakes he might make were naturally set down to his youth and inexperience. This affair of Bedford Castle, however, was an undertaking in which he exhibited all the promptitude and energy of his predecessors upon the throne. He resolved to attend the siege in person, and ordered his council to suspend all other business and direct their attention solely to the means of carrying it out.

The council of war, or committee, to whom were confided the necessary preparations, took Ralph into their confidence. They were presided over by no less a personage than Hubert de Burgh himself, who summoned the young knight to appear before them in the chamber in Northampton Castle, where they held their conclave.

Ralph's feelings, as he found himself in the presence of one so renowned, formerly the governor of Dover Castle, and the custodian in Brittany of King John's luckless nephew Arthur, and the late guardian of the king, were those of some shyness. He was a plain, country-born youth, unused to courts and dignitaries, and even of late years a landless, penniless knight, one of an outcast family. But the great justiciary's manner reassured him.

"Sir Ralph," he said, "we understand that thou wast brought up in Bedford Castle, and art well acquainted with all its parts."

"Certes, noble Hugh," replied Ralph, "always excepting those portions where Fulke de Breaute may have made alterations and additions during the last few years."

"Well answered, and with a caution exceeding thy years, Sir Knight. Say on--what alterations?"

"By my faith, I can scarcely tell! But he hath pulled down and well-nigh destroyed the church of St. Paul, and the stones thereof have been used in the castle walls."

"For new work, mean you, or for the strengthening of old work?" inquired the justiciary.

"That cannot I rightly say," answered Ralph, "for since my uncle was driven forth, or rather surrendered to Fulke acting in his sovereign's name, I have not set foot within the castle walls."

But he added beneath his breath: "Would I were within at this moment!"

De Burgh overheard him, and with some surprise.

"So shalt thou be, and that shortly, and with stout men-at-arms at thy back, an I mistake not. But for the nonce we must learn more about these walls. How sayest thou the castle lieth?"

"Along the banks of the Ouse, and on the north side of the stream."

"And its defences--what be they? All say that the keep was indeed built by thy ancestor Pain de Beauchamp, and is strong and not easily to be assaulted."

"The keep is indeed strong and well built," Ralph replied, "and round it run a high wall and a deep moat. On the west side only might an attack be made with any hope of victory, for there lie the bailey yards, the gate-house, and the barbican. Moreover, between the outer and the inner bailey there standeth a tower, which we call the old tower, the like of which, I have heard tell, is not to be found in many castles, and which commands the bridge."

As he spoke Ralph made a sort of rough drawing.

"Here," he said, "is the keep, upon a lofty mound. On this side only is an entrance possible. We must e'en break through all the outer defences, and pass on from west to east. But it will be no light emprise."

A gleam of pleasure came over the face of the veteran.

"By the bones of St. Thomas," he exclaimed, "thou showest no mean knowledge or skill, fair sir. Where hast thou learned the art of war?"

"I have oft heard my uncle tell the story of how King Stephen besieged the castle when our ancestor Milo de Beauchamp held it for the Empress Matilda, nigh upon a hundred years ago," modestly answered Ralph. "He even contended that it was so strong that no attack could prevail, and that had it been better victualled it would never have surrendered. And then, noble knight, if I may make so bold as to remind thee, there is that sad passage in the history of our house which hath been seared into the memory of my boyhood--I mean when my uncle, Sir William, surrendered to this same Fulke, who came in the name of our late king, who was indeed the enemy of our house. Ofttimes hath my uncle gone over that tale with me, and hath showed me how he might yet have held the castle had he possessed better stores and more men."

The end of this interview was that Ralph, in consideration of the valuable information he had proved himself willing and able to bestow, was admitted to all the deliberations of the council, and was listened to with attention. Neither his uncle William de Beauchamp, nor his kinsman at Eaton Socon, had come to Northampton; the latter by reason of his age, and the former on account of his sullen despair, and perhaps also hindered by a latent distrust of the house of Plantagenet, which had dealt so ill with him. Thus it happened that Ralph represented, as it were, the De Beauchamp family.

He was given plenty to do in the way of hastening preparations, moreover, and as his heart was in the work, for Aliva's sake, he was busy both night and day.

His duties brought him into frequent communications with a personage who was much to the front when any question of a siege was on hand--namely, John de Standen, the chief of the miners. Ralph soon discovered that John had considerable knowledge of Bedford Castle and its fortifications. This puzzled him not a little at the time, and it was not till later on that he solved the mystery.

When the chief of the miners and his assistants had determined what supplies of material were necessary for the siege, royal writs were issued for their production. Timber was required for the manufacture of the bombarding engines or _petraria_, which were to fling great stones at the castle, and ox or horse hides were needed for the protection of these machines. Thousands of quarrels were ordered for the cross-bows and dart-throwing engines. Iron was ordered in great quantities, to be worked up on the spot, and pickaxes and other tools were not forgotten.

Moreover, writs were issued to the sheriffs of Hertford, Oxford, Cambridge, Huntingdon, Northampton, Warwick, Leicester, Rutland, Essex, Suffolk, Norfolk, Lincoln, and Middlesex, directing them to send two men from each plough-land (the usual division of land in those days) to work the aforementioned engines. Then the feeding of these men had to be attended to. One Peter Buyam, a Burgundian merchant, was ordered to purchase one hundred and eight casks of wine at St. Botolph's fair, at forty-three shillings and four-pence a cask.

From St. Briavels in Gloucestershire, the native place of John de Standen, were brought thirty assistant miners. But carpenters, saddlers, and leather-workers, to shape the shields for the engines, were found nearer at hand by the sheriffs of the counties of Northampton and Bedford, as were also the men who were to fashion the stones to be discharged from the petraria. The whole of the midlands was astir over the siege of Bedford Castle.

Neither was the Church inactive. To show their horror at the outrages of the wicked Fulke, the assembled prelates and abbots forthwith granted the king a subsidy of half a mark for each of their plough-lands, and also sent, for each hide of land held by them, two men to work the engines, taking care, however, to obtain an acknowledgment from the king that this was a special grant. The priory of Newenham, which had been founded by the De Beauchamps, furnished the stones for the bombardment, and the abbey of St. Alban's naturally took a deep interest in the proceedings, which are fully chronicled in the records of the house.

No sooner, however, was it known that a Bedfordshire maiden, the Lady Aliva de Pateshulle, was a prisoner of the foreign interloper, than all the men of the county rose to assist in the undertaking. Even our stalwart friend the Benedictine lay-brother, as soon as--thanks to the care of Lady Mabel--he had recovered at Eaton Socon from the dastardly wound inflicted by Bertram de Concours, found his way to the headquarters of preparations.

Martin de Pateshulle, also, as one of those justices whose writs had been so rudely repudiated by Fulke, was summoned to the council. This worthy ecclesiastic, who was none the worse for his overthrow by William de Breaute's horsemen, was much concerned over the fate of his niece.

In him Ralph, tortured by anxiety which he was striving to drown in work, found a friend and ready sympathizer.

"My son," said the archdeacon one day at the close of a long sitting of the council of war, "thou toilest in this business both as a servant of Holy Church and as a gallant knight for the rescue of fair lady."

Ralph sighed.

"Indeed, venerable father, it is only when my whole heart is busy with my work that it finds peace. I am torn with doubts and fears concerning her whom I love. Could I but have one word, one token from her! Could I but hear something of her, were it even ill news! But this silence, it ofttimes is more than I can bear."

John de Standen, still busy at the table over a rough sketch, looked up at these words.

"Sir Knight," he said, "thou meanest what thou sayest? Hast a stout heart? Canst bear ill news?"

Ralph sprang from his seat, and gripped the king's miner by the arm till he winced.

"Speak, man, I conjure thee! Thou hast heard aught?"

"Speech is just what is forbidden to me," replied John. "My lips are sealed. All the message I have for thee is: 'Haste, or it may be too late!' Ask me no more."

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

_*HEARD UNDERGROUND.*_

On the twenty-second of June 1224, the king arrived at Bedford, and the siege of the castle commenced almost immediately. Outside the town, on the Northampton road, pavilions were pitched for himself, for Hubert de Burgh the justiciary, and other great officers, while the troops and their officers, Ralph de Beauchamp among them, were quartered in rude shelters near the castle, or billeted upon the townsfolk, that they might be ready to repel any sortie which the besieged might make with a view of burning the engines of war. Close to these latter were encamped the men who worked them, together with the miners, carpenters, and other artificers ready for their respective turn of duty.

Before any hostile movement was commenced, however, the king, in due form, summoned the castle to surrender. An ecclesiastic was detailed for the purpose; for priests in those days often performed strange functions.

It was but an empty form, for no one expected that the king's command would be obeyed. Moreover, Sir Fulke de Breaute himself was not in the castle. With the astute craftiness which pervaded all his actions, he had gone away some little while before, leaving his brother in command. He took himself off into Wales, where he joined the Earl of Chester, who, though siding for some time with the king, had left him, in conjunction with some other barons, under somewhat suspicious circumstances.

As was to be expected, William de Breaute made answer to the archdeacon--for such was the office of the king's messenger--that he had received no orders from his brother to surrender the castle, and that he certainly should not do so without authority from him. So the siege was begun without delay.

The method of taking a castle in those days was much the same as that which continued in vogue till, long afterwards, stone walls gave place to earthworks. The walls were first battered by stones thrown from the petraria, and when a breach had been made a storming-party rushed in. The only change consequent upon the introduction of gunpowder was that cannon then took the place of the stone-throwing engines.

The machines were placed one or two on each side of the castle, and they must have been of considerable size and strength, as one of them projected stones right across the river. The men who worked them were protected against the quarrels, arrows, and other missiles directed at them from the walls, by screens made of ox and horse hides. Two lofty erections, which towered far above the fortifications of the castle, were manned by slingers and cross-bowmen, who thence shot down upon the garrison on the walls and in the baileys below them.

Close up against the face of the wall itself was pushed a movable screen, called the "cat," the object of which was to protect John de Standen and his men as they carried on their work of undermining the walls.

Ralph was ordered by his superior officer, a grim old baron who had been one of those assembled at Runnymede when John signed the charter, but who now supported his son, to pay special attention to the mining operations. To Ralph and John de Standen attached himself one who could hardly be called a soldier, though he exhibited all the courage and zeal which are the necessary qualities of a man of war. This was the young lay-brother from St. Alban's. He was received as a sort of volunteer, and was granted permission to serve in the mining work, for his religious vows, he said, forbade him to carry sword or spear. This young man proved, however, a valuable assistant.

A kind of friendly rivalry went on between the two branches of warfare into which the besiegers were divided. Those who had charge of the engines favoured the notion of pounding the walls till they battered them down. The sappers and miners, however, built their hopes of reducing the fortress upon their methods of burrowing underneath it. But before these latter were able to push on far with their works, the besiegers above ground gained two important advantages. They carried by assault the barbican or outer defence of the gate, and with but a loss of four or five men. By this means they were able to rush the gate itself, and in a second assault forced their way into the outer bailey or yard, the first one on the west side.

Here were the store-houses, and here also were kept the horses and live stock which the besieged took care to have always within the castle walls. Forage, grain, and such like bulky articles as could not be removed into the keep were likewise stored in the yard. All these fell into the hands of the besiegers, who removed the arms, the horses, and the pigs, and burned the buildings which contained the corn and hay. The besieged retreated within the inner wall, which defended the lesser bailey.

But between the upper and lower bailey there stood--a rather unusual feature in a Norman castle--a strong building known by the name of the "old tower." It had probably something to do with fortifications which at an earlier date protected the bridge across the Ouse, before the castle precincts were prolonged westwards. Here the besieged gathered in strength and made an obstinate stand.

The assistance of John de Standen and his men was now necessary. The other defences, the barbican and the wall of the outer bailey, had been carried by assault, the soldiers climbing the walls and forcing their way within. But the wall which separated the two baileys, protected as it was by the old tower, proved a more formidable obstacle. The king's troops intrenched themselves in the outer bailey, and the cat was wheeled into position ready for the operations of the miners.

These latter worked with a will. Ere long they were able to report to Ralph de Beauchamp, as their superior officer, that the foundations of the old tower were undermined, and that the building would fall directly the stays and struts with which they had propped it up should be removed.

So Ralph went down into the mine with John de Standen, that he in his turn might report to his superiors that the underground work was indeed finished, and that the soldiers might be held in readiness to storm the inner bailey.

With some professional pride the king's miner conducted the knight through the dark passages he had burrowed, explaining as he went the manner in which the supports should be removed directly he received the signal to do so.

They were just beneath the old tower, and John de Standen was enlarging on the excellent arrangements which he had made for the overthrow of the building, when, to their intense astonishment, a woman's voice was heard speaking in the vault overhead.

"By my faith," cried John de Standen, "but I wot not that we had dug so close to the lower vault of the tower. Methinks I must be out of my reckoning, Sir Knight, or mayhap your recollection of the place plays you false."

"In good sooth we are close beneath the tower," replied Ralph. "How thinkest thou, good John? Has the enemy countermined, or are they about to break in upon our works?"

Before John de Standen could vouchsafe an opinion, the voice again was heard from above.

"Ho, royal miners, are ye below?"

"We be miners sure enow," called John de Standen in reply. "But who be ye above there?--They cannot be for Sir Fulke," he added in a lower tone to Ralph, "or they would not let us hear them. Methinks, too, the voice is that of a woman or a boy."

"I am for the king and his miners," spoke the voice again. "But tell me, prithee, is your master, John de Standen, with thee?"

"I, John de Standen, myself am here, and speak; and with me is no one save Sir Ralph de Beauchamp," replied the miner. "But speak; who art thou? Woman or boy; no man, I trow?"