"My lord of Normandy," he said, "by birth I owe thee no allegiance, and I cannot acknowledge that thy masterful and b.l.o.o.d.y conquest of an unoffending people has given thee any right to demand it. I cannot betray the cause for which my father bled and died, or ally myself to my mother's murderers. You have acquitted me of deeper guilt. I can now die for my country without shame."

The Conqueror heard him patiently to the end.

"Thou knowest, then, thine inevitable fate?"

"I accept it. Ye have robbed me of all which made life worth living."

"Thou must die, then: but we spare thee torture or mutilation.

Prepare to meet the headsman within the castle yard, at the third sun-rising after this day--

"and, my lord of Coutances, since you have taken so much interest in this young English rebel, we charge thee with the welfare of his soul."

And the court broke up.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE CASTLE OF OXFORD.

"It is the crime and not the scaffold makes The headsman's death a shame."

Wilfred sat alone in an upper chamber of the donjon tower the Conqueror had erected at Oxford, hard by the mound thrown up by Ethelfleda, lady of the Mercians and daughter of Alfred. For thither the king had caused him to be removed, unwilling to stain the holy precincts of Abingdon with a deed of blood, and confiding fully in Robert d'Oyly, the governor of his new castle.

The pa.s.sage up the river had occupied two full hours, under the care of trusty and able rowers; for the stream was swift in those days, before locks checked its course, as we have stated elsewhere.

Under the woods of Newenham, past the old Anglo-Saxon churches of Sandford and Iffley, up the right-hand channel of the stream just below the city, and so to the landing place beneath the old tower {xxv}.

William had given orders to treat our Wilfred with all possible consideration, and to allow him every indulgence, which did not militate against his safe keeping, for he admired, even while he felt it necessary to slay. So he was not thrust into a dungeon, but confined in an upper chamber, where a grated window, at a great height, afforded him a fair view of that world he was about to leave for ever.

"Ah! if I were but in those woods," sighed the prisoner to himself, "I would give these Normans some trouble to catch me again; but the poor bird can only beat himself against the cruel bars of his cage."

He counted the hours. It was the evening of his condemnation; two whole days, followed by a feverish night, and then when that next sun arose--

Strange thoughts began to arise--what sort of axe would they use?--who would be there?--would they bind his eyes?--would he have to kneel on the stones?--what kind of block would they use?

Little trifling details like these forced themselves upon him, even as an artist represents each humble detail in a finished picture.

Did he repent that he had refused life and Aescendune? No, he hated the Normans with too profound a hatred.

Was he prepared to die? We are sorry to record that he shook off every thought of the future. G.o.d had delivered the English into the hands of the Normans--his father and mother had been good religious people, and what had they got by it? If there was a G.o.d, why were such cruelties allowed to exist unavenged? He and His saints must be asleep. Such were the wicked thoughts which arose, as we grieve to record, in poor Wilfred's mind.

But now heavy steps were heard ascending the stairs, and soon Lanfranc, conducted by the Norman governor, entered the cell.

Against him Wilfred could not, in reason, feel the enmity he bore to all others of Norman race; it was owing to his exertions, and to those of Geoffrey of Coutances, that he was about to die as a patriot, and not as a sacrilegious incendiary.

It was the object of this worthy prelate to save the soul, where he had failed to save the body, and to direct the thoughts of the condemned one to Him, who Himself hung like a criminal between earth and heaven, that He might save all who would put their trust in Him.

The great obstacle in Wilfred's mind was his inability to forgive.

This his visitor soon perceived, and by the example of those dying words, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do," he gently impressed upon the penitent the duty of forgiving those who had wronged him--however deeply.

"But how can I forgive the murderers of my mother?"

"Thou believest that mother is in Paradise?"

"Indeed I do."

"Dost thou not wish to be with her at last?"

"As the hart desireth the water brooks."

"Then ask thyself what she would have thee do. Canst thou hope for the pardon of thine own grievous sins, unless thou dost first forgive all who have offended thee?"

"I will try. See me again tomorrow, father."

"I will do so: I remain at St. Frideswide's for--a day or two."

Wilfred understood the hesitation.

A different scene transpired simultaneously in the dungeons below, which, with their accustomed ruthless policy, the Normans had hollowed out of the soil.

The Jew, Abraham of Toledo, was resting uneasily, full of fears--which experience too well justified--as to his personal safety in this den of lions, when he also heard steps, this time descending the stairs, and Geoffrey of Coutances was ushered in.

"Leave the cell," said the bishop to the gaoler, "but remain in the pa.s.sage. Close the door; I would speak with this penitent, as I trust he will prove, in private."

"Never fear, your holiness," said the gaoler with somewhat undue familiarity; "I care little for a Jew's patter, and this fellow will need a long shrift before they make a roast of him--for that, I suppose, will be the end of it."

The door slammed.

It was a miserable cell, composed of rough stones, lately put together, oozing with the moisture from the damp soil around, for the river was close by and the dungeon beneath its level.

"Art thou prepared to meet thy fitting end?"

"What crime have I committed to deserve death?"

"Thou hast knowingly and wilfully abetted, not one but many poisoners, and the stake is the fitting doom for thee and them."

"Oh! not the stake, G.o.d of Abraham. If ye must slay, at least spare the agonising flames; but what mercy can we hope for, we faithful children of Abraham, from Nazarenes?"

"What price art thou willing to pay for thy forfeit life, if thy sentence is commuted to exile from this land?"

"Price? Canst thou mean it? I will fill thy chambers with gold."

"I seek it not--albeit," added the worthy bishop, "some were fitly bestowed on the poor--but that thou, whose former crime hast brought a worthy youth to the block, shouldst undo the mischief as far as thou art able."

"But what can I do? who would heed me?"

"Dost thou not know of a drug, which shall throw the drinker thereof into a trance, so like death that all shall believe him dead?"