Chapter V: Part 5

"Now fie upon thee, John de Standen," said the unseen speaker, "that thou knowest not the voice of Beatrice Mertoun."

"Beshrew me, Beatrice, if I can know thy voice, an it _be_ thou, if it come to me through these plaguy paving-stones," cried De Standen. "Moreover, why askest _thou_, hearing me speak, if I am John de Standen?"

"Marry," exclaimed Beatrice, "in the night all cats are gray. All men's voices sound the same. But mind thee, John, how oft thou hast sworn that thou wouldest know my voice anywhere."

John de Standen felt he was getting the worst of the argument. He changed the subject.

"And prithee, fair Beatrice, what art doing above us?"

"Hush! not so loud," she answered. "I have but a few moments. The guard watch closely the vault ever since that machine of thine was dragged up against the tower. I marvel much that they have not heard the noise of thy workers, and broken in upon thee. But for many days have I too watched, hoping to get a word with thee, for I have a message to send to a knight. But stay--didst not say one Sir Ralph de Beauchamp was with thee?"

"In good sooth I am here," replied Sir Ralph, both amused and puzzled by this unexpected and remarkable meeting between the king's miner and a lady who seemed an old acquaintance, if nothing nearer. "I am here, lady fair, whosoever thou art, for methinks a fair face must e'en suit so sweet a voice."

"She is the waiting-woman of the Lady Margaret de Ripariis, and a mighty comely damsel withal," explained the bold miner.

"Now a truce to fair speeches! I have somewhat to say to Sir Ralph that ill brooks delay. The Lady Aliva, who is prisoner here--

"The Lady Aliva! I know it well!" shouted Ralph, forgetful of the caution to speak softly. "But tell me quick, I pray thee, is she safe? is she well?"

"Safe as yet," replied Beatrice. "But there is mischief brewing against her. Say, did I not see thee carried away wounded from before the castle gate not many weeks since? They brought thy helmet into the castle. I showed it to the Lady Aliva, and she knew it for thine by the crest. And then darkness seized her mind, for not long after came Fulke de Breaute to her, and told her that thou wast slain!"

"The lying scoundrel!" cried Ralph hotly. "Could I but meet him, he would see I am yet alive!"

"Ere he quitted the castle he came oft to her with suit of marriage for his brother," Beatrice went on, lying down upon the stone floor above and speaking with her mouth to an open joint she had discovered between two of the paving slabs. "Canst hear me, Sir Knight? The guards approach; I must tell thee in few words, for I hear the warders relieved not many posts away. William de Breaute came himself to the lady to plead his suit. But she hates him. She told him so to his face."

"She told him so on his face!" muttered Ralph.

"But the chapel hath been prepared," continued the waiting-woman, "and that traitor priest, Bertram de Concours, was ready. They dragged the lady thither by force. Sir Fulke and William de Breaute were waiting. What might have happened I know not, but my Lady Margaret stepped forward, and shamed the shameless man into respect for a lady."

"And all this while she was faithful to me, though believing me dead!" exclaimed Ralph, half to himself.

"But Sir Fulke, ere he left for the marches of Wales, swore a great oath he would find her wedded ere he return, or else--And William de Breaute, he apeth the fine French gentleman. He maketh sweet speeches, and vows that when the king's troops be driven back, and the care of the castle be passed from him, he will return to bask once more in the sunlight of his lady's eyes! Faugh! the smooth-tongued villain! He has sung the same song to me, but not to my honour. But hist! they come!"

A sound, as of the trampling of armed men, penetrated to those below. Then the eager listeners there caught some words in a rough man's voice.

"Pardie! pretty maiden, what doest here? Must pay forfeit with a kiss ere thou depart!"

Then there was the sound of a struggle and a scream, and John de Standen shook his fist in mute rage at the floor above him.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

_*FEARS AND HOPES.*_

William de Beauchamp, the taciturn and melancholy, had not attended the council at Northampton. But he could not well absent himself when an attack was made upon the castle which once had been his; and for his own benefit, for the king had promised to reinstate him as soon as the Robber Baron should have been driven out. He had been given a command in the royal force, and found himself in the anomalous position of besieging his own castle.

But the march of events did not, as might well have been imagined, raise his drooping spirits. He was, indeed, more dismal than ever, having got a fixed idea in his head that he should never come to his own again. Though he had escaped unhurt from the two first assaults, by which the barbican and the outer bailey had been won, he was well aware that yet more serious struggles were before the besiegers ere they might hope to win the inner bailey and the keep. These assaults, he had made up his mind, he should not survive, and in his gloomiest, most funereal manner, called Ralph to him at the close of a summer's evening, when they were resting from duty in the house of Gilbert the Clothier, where they were quartered, and prepared to deliver to him what he supposed to be his last wishes and dispositions.

"Nephew Ralph," he began, in his most lugubrious tones, "thou hast been as a son to me, since my only son was cut off in early childhood."

"True, uncle much revered by me," replied Ralph, puzzled at this solemn address. "I know not quite if I have been a good son to thee, but thou hast, in good sooth, given me all the father's care I have ever known."

"And now, Nephew Ralph," William de Beauchamp continued, "I am about to confide to thee a very precious and holy message. Thou hast heard tell of the Lady Margaret de Ripariis?"

"Ay, certes," replied Ralph.

"And now that my time is at hand, and that the sands of my life are--"

"Thy time is at hand! By my faith, uncle, what mean these words?"

"Thou wottest that ere long we attack the old tower and the inner bailey," the uncle proceeded, in a tragic manner.

"I have but just come from the old tower, where John de Standen hath showed me how nigh is its overthrow."

"Hark ye, nephew. I shall fall then; I know it of a certainty. I have seen in a dream that I shall not survive the assault. I shall ne'er again set eyes on the Lady Margaret, now for many years the unhappy wife of Fulke de Breaute. Once, when we were young and she was fair, we plighted our troth, and I have never forgotten it, though a cruel fate tore us asunder. My wife, who was ne'er to me as the first love of my youth the Lady Margaret, hath been dead these many years; and had the time come for the end of the miserable Fulke, I would fain have offered myself again to my once affianced bride. But I die before him. I feel it. For us there is no hope."

Ralph began to perceive the gloomy forebodings that had seized his uncle, and tried, but in vain, to reassure him, pointing out how much danger he had already escaped, and bidding him hope for the best.

"For eight long years thou hast pined an exile from the halls of thine ancestors, uncle. But to-day our star is again in the ascendant, and fortune smiles once more upon the De Beauchamps."

William shook his head sadly.

"It may not be, nephew. But bear thou to the Lady Margaret my last words of unalterable affection for the love of my youth."

"Nay, uncle, thou shalt bear them thyself, when Fulke shall have gone to the perdition reserved for him! But cease these dark meditations, and list awhile to a sprightly wooing I overheard 'twixt one of those within the castle, and no less a person than the king's miner, in the old tower, this very noontide."

And to turn his uncle's thoughts, Ralph proceeded to relate the strange meeting between John de Standen and Beatrice.

But at the very hour these two talked thus together in Master Gilbert's guest-chamber, the subject of their conversation, the Lady Margaret, sat with her waiting-woman in the deep window of the lady's bower.

The latter was brimming over with eagerness to impart to Aliva the good news she had just ascertained as to Ralph's safety, but deemed it prudent to confide it first to her mistress.

"By'r Lady, mistress mine, I vow I heard him, though I cannot say I saw him, and he is whole and in good heart."

"The saints be praised!" ejaculated Lady Margaret. "It hath grieved me sore that this sweet maiden should be thus held prisoner by my evil-disposed brother, and yet sadder am I to think that she should have been told her knight was slain."

"And such a knight, lady! Fair spoken, and of good courage. I heard it in the ring of his voice, as he hasted to ask after her welfare, how much he loveth her."

"Thou knewest that he was the Lady Aliva's knight, then, Beatrice?"

"Ever since the affair of the helmet, lady. My Lady Aliva could not contain herself then, when she knew him wounded, and told me all. She is as true to him as the pole-star to the north, or as I to--"

"I know it, Beatrice, and it would be a deadly sin, and one I will stand out against as long as I draw breath, were she to be forced to wed William. The lying wretch! he will stick at naught to gain his end. To tell Aliva Sir Ralph was dead! Alas, alas! But peace, Beatrice; here she comes. I will tell her the news."

Inwardly chafing at being deprived of the pleasure of imparting such delightful information, Beatrice retreated behind the chair of her mistress as Aliva entered.

The weary weeks the latter had spent as a prisoner since that fatal morning when she was hurried into the castle, and the intense mental anguish she had endured since the helmet of the wounded knight had been handed to her on the ramparts that same evening, had left their traces on Aliva's pale cheek. The listless attitude in which she sank upon a stone seat, and gazed with mournful eyes out into the fast-falling summer twilight, contrasted strangely with the natural vigour and vivacity of the brave horsewoman who had led William de Breaute such a chase over the Ouse marshes. Something akin to despair had crushed her soul since Sir Fulke had brought her the news of Sir Ralph's death.

"Daughter," began Lady Margaret, tenderly drawing the fair head which leaned so wearily upon the thin hand down upon her knee, "I have somewhat to say to thee. This suit of my husband's brother--methinks Sir Fulke knew, as well as thou and I, how vain it was to urge it while thy true knight yet lived--"

"It were ever vain, lady, were Ralph alive or dead. Death would be sweeter to me than marriage with William de Breaute," replied Aliva mournfully.

"He hath used treachery once to gain his end; what if he hath also used deceit of words?" Lady Margaret went on. "Other De Beauchamps than thy knight bear the crest thou sawest on the casque."

"Ah, lady," moaned Aliva, "beguile me not with vain hopes. Did not Beatrice here see him fall?"

"In good sooth! But, lady, I saw him not die."

"Mind you how the townsfolk bore him off with much care? Perchance Hubert of Provence aimed not o'er true with his quarrel--"

"He is but a sorry wight in many things, lady," put in Beatrice scornfully.

"And the leeches are possessed of marvellous skill, as thou well knowest, and Sir Ralph is young and strong--"

"_Was_ young and strong, you mean, lady. O prithee, peace! Open not thus afresh a wound which bleeds, ay, and will bleed for ever!"

"My lady means what she says, and naught else," interrupted Beatrice, unable to restrain herself any longer. "He is young and strong, or beshrew me for a deaf old crone, for I trow his voice was strong enough this noontide!"

"His voice!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself eagerly, and a faint colour overspreading her pallid cheek. "O Beatrice, mock me not!"

"Thou mockest thyself, daughter," said Lady Margaret, smiling. "Take heart o' grace. Beatrice speaks true; she hath heard him not many hours since."

And Beatrice, coming forward and falling at her lady's knees, poured forth her wonderful tale in a torrent of words.

When she paused for lack of breath, Aliva rose, like one waking from a dream, and clutched Beatrice's arm.

"Beatrice, an thou lovest me, take me to this chink in the vault of the old tower. Haste thee, haste thee! Let me hear him speak again."

"Alas, lady! but this very evening William de Breaute hath ordered that all women keep within the keep, as the enemy presseth us round so close."

A merry laugh as of old, the first which had rung from her since she had been a prisoner, and the first to which the lady's bower had re-echoed for many a day, burst from Aliva's lips. With the violent revulsion of feeling born of her youth and high mettle, she waved her hand scornfully and laughed again.

"William de Breaute! Oh, he may command and order, in good sooth, if it please him. What for him now, or for his commands! Methinks his time comes apace, and Ralph de Beauchamp will be master here. My Ralph--to think they had dared to tell me that he was slain!"

And then she fell to bidding Beatrice tell her story all over again.

"Pretty Beatrice, an could I, I would give thee a lapful of gold nobles for this news thou hast brought. It is to me worth a king's ransom. I feel like one risen from the dead. But I trow, Mistress Beatrice," she added archly, "that thou hast had thy reward, in that the bold miner was also below. But tell me once more the very words Sir Ralph spake."

"Nay, nay, maidens," put in Lady Margaret; "it is already night, and joy oft wearies as much as grief. Let us now to rest while we may. The strife will begin again at dawn."

"Lady," cried Aliva, embracing the elder woman with tenderness, "go thou and rest if thou canst. I could not close my eyes for very joy.--Go, Beatrice, and leave me here a while alone, that I may think it all o'er again. Go to thy dreams of mines and miners!"

Left to herself, Aliva sat down in the deep window-seat where Lady Margaret had sat when Sir Fulke related to her a less pleasant vision of the night than that which probably haunted the couch of Beatrice--a dream which now seemed in fair way of coming true. The short July darkness had fallen. Across the river the petraria were at rest, and in the silence of the night Aliva only

"Heard the sound, and could almost tell
The sullen words of the sentinel,
As his measured step on the stone below
Clanked as he paced it to and fro."

Aliva gazed out into the beautiful balmy night, and a peace to which she had long been a stranger stole in upon her heart. The world was at rest, and it seemed sad to think that in a few short hours, when the darkness should be over, man would be once more at his cruel work of war. But the stars, shining deep in the purple overhead and reflected in the placid stream below, seemed to her stars of hope.

"It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word,
And gentle winds and waters near
Make music to the lonely ear."

As she gazed she thought she heard her name called softly from out of the gloom below.

"Aliva!" said a voice, "Aliva!"

*CHAPTER XX.*

_*LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS.*_

When the interview with his uncle had ended and Ralph's endeavours to cheer the latter's gloom had in a measure succeeded, the young knight went off to make his report upon John de Standen's operations to his superiors. Evening was falling fast ere he found himself free, and then it suddenly came into his mind to pay a kind of unofficial visit to the sentries on the south side of the river, and see if they were on the alert. Perhaps, also, he was impelled by an uncontrollable desire to gaze from as close a point as was possible on that stern keep, where he had that noontide learned from Beatrice Mertoun that his lady-love lingered in much doubt and distress.

He crossed the bridge and walked along the river-bank, giving the required password to each post, and adding a few syllables of caution. In so doing, he told himself he was but fulfilling the object of his nocturnal ramble. Ere long he found himself facing the huge keep, rising on the opposite shore of the river black against the northern sky.

Ralph knew every window of the southern face of the keep, and well-nigh every stone. He perceived a light in one of the large openings of the upper story. He knew that window well. It was that of the lady's bower, which had been his cousin's apartment in the old days, and was probably now occupied by the Lady Margaret.

Dark though the night was, the young man's eyesight was keen, and as he gazed at that window, a crowd of tender thoughts flooding his heart, he saw in the opening two figures in dark profile against the light behind them.

Seized by an uncontrollable impulse, Ralph hastily doffed his armour, and, clad only in the soft leathern dress which knights wore beneath their harness, dropped into the stream so quietly as to be unperceived by the nearest sentry on the river-bank.

Starting from a well-known old pollard willow, Ralph breasted the stream manfully, making, as nearly as the sweep of the current and the darkness of the night would allow him, for certain iron stanchions which he remembered he had fixed, when a boy, into the castle wall.

To his great joy he found they had not been removed. He caught hold of the lowest, which was near the water's edge, and quickly scaled the wall. When he reached the top he looked eagerly down and around.

No one was near. William de Breaute, whose garrison was but scanty, had judged that no attack would be made upon the river side of the castle, except by boat, and accordingly had contented himself with posting sentries at each end of the long river-wall, concentrating his principal strength on the landward side of the castle.

Ralph slid down the other side of the wall, and cautiously crossed the open space which separated him from the huge mound on which stood the keep. He was still unperceived; so, climbing the steep side of the mound, he crouched down against the lofty wall, immediately beneath the lighted window.

Were those two figures still there?

Twice he softly called Aliva by name, and then, to his intense rapture, sweet as an angel's voice from heaven to him, came the words from above,--

"Ralph! Ralph! can it be thou?"

"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage."

Love laughs at locksmiths. In this case it made light, too, of some forty perpendicular feet of massive stone wall. After five weary months of uncertainty, all doubts, mistrusts, and tortures of anxiety were swept away in a breath, as these two heard, each one once more, the loved voice neither had expected ever to hear again; and old Father Ouse, rippling sluggishly on between the willows through the dark summer night, had never listened to warmer raptures, to more passionate protestations of love.

But some one else was listening too.

In the thickness of the wall, at the south-east corner of the keep, on the same floor as the great hall, was the small chapel of the castle. It was a tiny apartment, affording room for but few worshipping besides those attending on the ministrations of the priest. Behind a round arched arcading in a stone gallery were accommodated the ladies and the household of the lord's family; but the bulk of the congregation would have to stand in a sort of antechapel opening out of the great hall, and join in the mass from that position.

Up and down the narrow space in front of the altar--freshly repaired and cleaned for the bridal of Aliva and De Breaute--paced restlessly at midnight Bertram de Concours. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. The freshly-appointed chaplain of Bedford Castle had conceived that his new position would be one which would lead him to power and authority, and probably give him an opportunity to triumph over those whom he considered his enemies, the ecclesiastical superiors who had dishonoured and disowned him. But now, instead of rising to power with the De Breaute family, he found his new patrons in sore distress. He was well aware that the two assaults which had already been made on the castle had been completely successful, and that all the outer defences had been taken. He gleaned, from the talk of De Breaute and his under-officers, that if the walls were really undermined, and a fresh attack should be made with the same vigour, nothing could avert the fall of the castle.

For the fate of De Breaute and his men Bertram de Concours cared nothing, but in the event of his own capture he clearly foresaw for himself condemnation in the ecclesiastical court. The sentence would be perpetual imprisonment in the cell of some stringent order, where offending priests were subjected to even more severe discipline than that voluntarily assumed by the most austere monks themselves.

"Fool that I was," he muttered to himself, "to have thrown in my lot with these French upstarts! Why did I not see this maiden safe to her father's house, and so have won me the eternal gratitude of this love-sick knight, and what is more, the favour of his family?"

As he moved restlessly to and fro, he paused, and opening the rude shutter which closed the narrow window on the south, looked out into the silent summer night. The calm freshness seemed to mock the consuming uneasiness in his mind.

But as he gazed he heard voices. He leaned out and listened intently.

Yes, he was not mistaken: a voice there was above him--a woman's--answering to a man's below in the darkness.

"Escape, my Ralph, ere dawn break! There are watchers at each end of the long wall, and they will certes espy thee if thou lingerest till it grows light. How it came that thou crossedst the glacis, and scaledst the keep mound unseen, I cannot tell. May the saints bear thee safe across the river!"

And then another female voice went on,--

"And take my message to thy revered uncle, bold young Sir Knight. Tell him that Margaret de Ripariis has but lived these long years in sorrow and mourning for the false step into which she was both forced and betrayed, and that she hath ever held his memory dear."

Then a man's voice answered from below,--

"Fare thee well, my heart's darling, Aliva!--My Lady Margaret, I salute thee. Forget not the signal. When the last assault comes--as come full soon it must--and we attack this mighty keep, hang your scarves from the windows of the chamber to which ye retreat, and I will come and convey ye both away in safety."

Then Bertram heard the speaker cautiously feeling his way among the loose stones which lay at the foot of the keep.

He drew a short, sharp breath, and clinched his teeth.

"By the mass," he exclaimed, "though naught can undo my folly in the past, yet I will have vengeance now! Ho, warder, ho!" he cried, hurrying from the chapel into the hall, and shouting to the sentry on duty at the entrance; "ho! quick to the window, and take thy aim at yon figure hastening down to the river wall. 'Tis the young knight De Beauchamp. It grows light enow for thee to see thy mark."

At that moment William de Breaute entered the hall from the turret staircase in the corner. He had been taking a few hours' sleep in one of the upper chambers, and was now about to sally out on his early morning rounds, fearing an attack when his guards were weary and drowsy.

"How sayest thou, Sir Chaplain?" he exclaimed; "Ralph de Beauchamp here--beneath the castle wall! 'Tis not possible!"

"Nay, Sir William, not so impossible," replied the priest. "I trow he hath been drawn across the Ouse by a lodestar within these walls. From the chapel window I heard him e'en now hold converse with the Lady Aliva at a window above."

With a furious volley of French oaths William de Breaute rushed wildly out of the hall, calling upon all the sentries near to stop or kill Sir Ralph.

It was a maddening race. From the upper window the girl watched it in agony. The cross-bow bolts flew thick and fast around Ralph as he hurried to the wall. Some shattered themselves against the stones as he scaled it.

For a brief moment he stood out clearly upon the summit against the gray dawn, an easy mark for the archers. Then, without waiting to descend by the iron stanchions, he took a desperate plunge into the stream.

Aliva saw him rise to the surface, and watched him swimming with all his might to the opposite bank.

But as he leaped from the top of the wall she saw another figure reach it, and she recognized the pursuer to be William de Breaute.

He held in his hand a ready-strung cross-bow which he had snatched from one of the warders.

Aliva saw him take aim and loose the shaft.

The figure of the swimmer half rose in the water, and then disappeared from view beneath its surface.

With a faint cry Aliva fell back swooning into the arms of Lady Margaret.

*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 Breaute!" 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 Breaute 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 Breaute 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 Breaute 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 Breaute!" 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 Breaute'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 Breaute 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 Breaute and his men were led away down the steep stairs to the gloomy cells beneath the keep, they felt that their doom was sealed.

*CHAPTER XXII.*

_*RALPH TO THE RESCUE.*_

As William de Breaute was being marched to his fate, Ralph hurried up the winding turret stair, half choked by the blinding smoke which poured from the burning wood-work, and much impeded in his impetuous course by the chain of soldiers engaged in passing up water to extinguish the conflagration.

Even in the heat and din of the final assault his keen lover's eye had found time to look for and to note the signal promised by Aliva. High up from one of the windows hung her scarf. But when Ralph and his men had toiled thither they found the room empty.

Ralph experienced a painful tightening of the heart. Whither had the bird flown?

But it was the smoke which had driven the ladies from their apartment, and Ralph, exploring higher still, up a rude stone stair, found them collected on the flat wooden roof covering the inner space between the lofty parapets and the four corner turrets.

Aliva, standing out tall and slim against the August twilight, was assisting Beatrice Mertoun to support the Lady Margaret, who was quite overcome with all that was taking place.

Ralph fell on his knee before Aliva, and kissed her hand with a rapture too deep for words. But Aliva bent over him, and throwing up his visor, kissed his face.

A voice sounded behind them. "Tut, children! this is neither time nor place to tarry to make love.--Ladies, haste you, and get you gone to a place of safety. We have conquered our enemies, but not yet subdued the fire.--Lady Margaret, permit that I assist thee down these stairs.--Nephew Ralph, bring the Lady Aliva."

And the whole party, guided by De Beauchamp, hurried down into the hall, and thence into the _debris_ and confusion which reigned in the bailey yards. The fast-falling darkness added to the weirdness of the scene--the ruins, the dead and dying, the shouts and cries of the victors, the crackling of the flames, and the crash of the charred beams as they fell.

Somehow or other in the tumult Ralph and Aliva got separated from the rest, and found themselves, when once clear of the fortifications, obliged for a few moments to stand aside on the river-bank to let a company of men-at-arms pass by with wounded and prisoners.

Suddenly, from behind some dark corner, a figure rushed at them in the gloom, and fell on his knees before Aliva. She started violently, and Ralph drew his sword.

"Misericorde, misericorde! for the love of Heaven and our Lady!" whined a familiar voice, that of Bertram de Concours. "Fair lady, as you hope for mercy, show some to me, and mind you how I succoured you in the chapel, when De Breaute and his men might have--ah!"

He never finished. A trampling of armed feet was heard behind, and he turned his head to see a guard advancing upon him.

"Better a watery grave than a living tomb!" he shrieked, and, before Ralph could stop him, plunged into the stream.

"Plague take the traitor priest! We have lost him," growled the veteran man-at-arms in command.

"Old Ouse will have naught of such foul spawn, I trow," corrected Ralph. "There are but two feet of water 'neath this bank at harvest-time. Fish him out; he sticketh in the mud, and is set fast.--But come, sweet Aliva," he added, turning to the maiden at his side; "let us hasten. The Lady Margaret hath without doubt ere now gained the house of good Master Gilbert the Clothier, who bade me offer thee his hospitality."

Aliva moved on, clinging to her lover's arm. Behind them, into the darkness, the guard marched off the bedraggled priest. As regards the latter's ultimate fate the chronicler is silent, beyond relating the fact that he was committed for trial in the court of the archbishop, and doubtless the ambitious Bertram de Concours fretted away the remainder of his days a prisoner in the cell of some austere order. But the little episode had awakened another memory in Aliva's breast.

"My Ralph," she exclaimed, "and what of the other, the Benedictine lay-brother, the Bletsoe youth, who did in all truth and fidelity succour me and strive to bring me aid?"

Sir Ralph looked down on the fair face resting on his arm, and then up to the purple sky of the summer night--

"The azure gloom,
When the deep skies assume
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven."

"God rest his soul!" he answered, in a low voice. "I owe it to his strong arm and ready wit, as he parried with his mace the blow De Breaute aimed at me, that I am here to-night with thee."

Ralph only waited to see the ladies safely bestowed in the worthy burgess's abode ere he hurried back again to the castle. There was no rest for him that night. Not the least onerous part of a commander's duty in those rough times was to restore order and discipline among his men after the capture of a fortress which had held out against them. It was a melancholy sight to the young knight this sacking and firing of his ancestral castle, the home of his boyhood. It stood there with ruined walls and a huge rift in the side of the great keep like a lightning-stricken oak.

And morning light brought more work. Hubert de Burgh, the king's justiciary, opened a court of justice in his sovereign's name, and before it were brought William de Breaute and eighty of his men.

Late in the afternoon Beatrice Mertoun, devoured with curiosity as to what was happening, and chafing at her restraint in Master Gilbert's house, persuaded one of Lady Margaret's women to come with her towards the castle, intending, under cover of the twilight, to secure such of their possessions as the fire and the plunderers should have spared. But they returned quicker than they went, and empty-handed, driven back by horror; for in the bailey yard they came suddenly upon a rude gallows on which, grim and stark in the dim twilight, hung William de Breaute and seventy-three of his men.

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

_*A TETE-A-TETE 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 Breaute as a reward for his services, more especially in turning out the De Beauchamps. But now that De Breaute 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 Breaute'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 _tete-a-tete_ 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."