Amongst the singers--men of many songs--those of wealth and rank occasionally took turn; but there was no brighter voice or sweeter song than that of Louis de Marmontier, the third of our trio of pages. He had distinguished himself that day in the lists, following closely in the steps of Etienne, and now he seemed likely to win the prize for minstrelsy, as he sang the song of Rollo, accompanying himself with thrilling chords on the harp, whose strings had never uttered sweeter notes.

All at once, just when the attention of every one was fixed on the singer, a startling interruption occurred, and the strings ceased to vibrate.

A man, whose head was streaming with blood, whose features were pale and ghastly, and who seemed scarcely able to support his fainting limbs, was approaching the high dais, upon which reclined his lord.

The song ceased--the cry was heard--"Help! my lord; they are burning Yew Tree Farm, and I only am escaped to tell thee."

Suddenly he trembled, staggered, and fell. They raised him up, but he was gone, his tale half untold. An arrow had pierced his breast, and he had spent his dying strength in a desperate attempt to reach his lord.

What had happened?

The horn was at this moment heard from the battlements, and its burden was "FIRE."

Hugo turned pale, in spite of his prowess, then cried out--"To horse! to horse!"

So crying, he rushed from the table, mounted his favourite steed, and, followed by such as could keep pace with him--there were not many--rode in the direction of the blaze, which was illuminating the northern sky.

Onward! onward! ride the Normans! Onward through bush or brake, or copse, or quagmire. Onward, till the clearing is reached, where the English Lords of Aescendune built Yew Farm.

When they arrived at the spot, Hugo and his Normans paused in astonishment.

For there, in the midst of the clearing, the farm buildings, one and all, stood enveloped in flames. It was plain, at first sight, that they must have been set on fire in many places at once, for in no other way could the flames have taken such complete and uniform hold.

But where were the inhabitants?

Not a living soul appeared, and the intense heat of the flames forbade closer observation.

And as they stood and gazed helplessly upon the conflagration, the remembrance of the burning of the Monastery came to many minds, and they wondered at the similarity of the circ.u.mstances.

"Was this the hand of G.o.d?"

At length roof after roof fell in with hideous din. The Normans waited about the spot and explored the neighbourhood, hoping to find, lighted by the lurid flame of the fire, that Roger and his labourers had found shelter somewhere. They searched in vain--they found no one.

Slowly and sadly the party returned homewards to attend to their duties but early next morning the baron and a chosen band rode to the scene again.

Thick clouds of smoke ascended to the skies; a pungent smell overpowered all the sweet odours of the forest; blackened beams and stones, cracked and shivered by the heat, lay all around.

What had caused the fire? Could it have been accidental?

They soon decided that it could not.

Two things seemed conclusive on this point--the first, the simultaneous outbreak in all parts of the buildings; the second, the fact that no one had escaped, save the man who bore the news, and died, his story but half told.

But what had been the fate of the rest? Had they been shut in the buildings, and so left to die as the flames reached them?

The terrible conviction that such had been the case became general; but at the same time the similarity of the circ.u.mstances with those under which the Monastery had been burnt would necessitate a like conclusion in that case also; and if so, who had then been the incendiary?

There were those amongst the retainers of Baron Hugo who could have answered this question, but they were all puzzled concerning the latter conflagration, for they knew of no gathering of their conquered foes, and they imagined they were acquainted with every nook of the forest, save the impenetrable mora.s.s in its centre.

On the morrow there was to have been a great hunt; but instead of the chase of beasts, the more exciting one of men was now subst.i.tuted--the "murderers" should be hunted out, cost what it might--"The vermin should be extirpated."

The majority of the guests had departed the previous night, but many yet remained, the guests of Hugo, and with some of the wisest and most valiant of these he was taking counsel the following morning how best to track the outlaws, who had dared to commit this insolent deed, when Etienne appeared to announce that several of their people had not returned home from the fire, and amongst them his own fellow page, the minstrel of the previous night, Louis de Marmontier.

"We will find them; perchance they yet linger there. Bid a troop of horse be ready."

They mounted, rode, arrived on the scene, and found no one there.

Then they separated in all directions, two or three in each group, to find their missing comrades.

Etienne and Pierre, with a dozen men at arms--for the baron would not let them go forth less strongly attended--were eager in the search, for they loved their companion, and were very anxious about his safety.

Midway between the castle and the burnt farm, slightly out of the track, was a huge oak, and around it a slight s.p.a.ce clear of undergrowth. A brook ran close by--a stream of sweet sparkling water--and Etienne rode thither to give the horses drink, when, as he approached, he saw the form of a youth leaning down, as if drinking, and thought he knew the dress.

He approached eagerly. Yes, it was Louis; but he did not stir.

Etienne dismounted and discovered the fact he had already antic.i.p.ated: his young companion was dead: an arrow, evidently shot close at hand, had pierced his chest. The poor lad had but slight defensive armour--a light cuira.s.s thrown on at the first alarm.

He had fallen and been left for dead, but had evidently afterwards dragged himself to the brook, in the agony of thirst, and had died while attempting to drink.

They placed the body reverently on the moss at the foot of the tree, and for a time were silent. The remembrance of his activity and gaiety on the previous day, and of his sweet minstrelsy on the very eve of his voice being hushed for ever, came sadly to their minds. At length Etienne broke the silence.

"Draw forth the arrow," he said.

They drew it forth and gave it him, bloodstained as it was: he looked closely upon it.

"This is an arrow from the same quiver as that which killed Gislebert; it is of English make, such as those clumsy louts use."

It was indeed a heavy, broad shaft, quite unlike the slender, tapering arrows of Norman workmanship, adapted for a long flight, in days when a furlong was considered a boy's distance.

"Our own serfs turn upon us. Well, they will rue it ere long; a short shrift and a long rope will be their portion."

"Ah! I remember noticing such in the quiver of the young thrall Eadwin," said Pierre--"he whose hand you sought to cut off for poaching."

They said no more on that occasion, but pursued in silence the train of thought suggested.

It was a strange gathering that night at the castle; for corpse after corpse was borne in from the woods to receive Christian burial at the priory, all killed by arrows, and those arrows--which the slayers had not troubled to remove, as if they disdained reprisals--all of the clumsy sort used by the "aborigines"

CHAPTER IX. A HUNT IN THE WOODS.

The winter of the year 1068 was setting in with great severity, sharp winds from the north and east had already stripped the faded leaves from the trees of the forest, and the heavens were frequently veiled by dark ma.s.ses of cloud, from whence fast-falling snow ever and anon descended.

The winter opened drearily for the inhabitants of Aescendune, for the "mystery of the forest" was yet unsolved; none knew whence those incendiaries had issued who had given Yew Farm, with all its inmates, to the vengeful flames; but that this latter conflagration was in some way connected with the earlier destruction of St.

Wilfred's Priory seemed not unlikely to most men.

Hugo de Malville c.u.m Aescendune was not the man to sit calmly on the battlements of his newly-built towers and survey the destruction of his property, although he was not free from a terrible dread that his sins were finding him out, at which times he was like a haunted man who sees spectres, invisible to the world around.

Well did he surmise from whom the deadly provocation came, the loss of his farm, the death of a n.o.ble lad committed to his care; not to mention the loss of some common men, who could easily be replaced: for there were ever fresh swarms of Normans, French, and Bretons pouring into poor old England, as though it were some newly discovered and uninhabited land.