CHAPTER XXVIII

STYR THE ANGLO-SAXON AND HIS SON

It was August, 1215, and Oakmede, with its old house of timber and Roman brick, and its great wooden gates, and irregular pile of outbuildings, reposed in the warmth and sunshine of a bright autumn day. All was still and peaceful around the homely hall of the once mighty Icinglas; and though the country was ringing with alarms and rumours of war, the inhabitants pursued their ordinary avocations, apparently taking as little interest in the quarrel of King John and the Anglo-Norman barons as if Oakmede had been situated in the recesses of the forests of Servia.

The hinds were employed in the fields with the labours of harvest; the swineherd was in the woodlands with his grunting herd; and nobody appeared in the shape of living mortal save an old cowherd, in a garment much resembling the smock-frock still worn by English peasants, and Wolf, the son of Styr, and half-a-dozen urchins from the neighbouring hamlet, who watched the varlet with interest and admiration as he fed a couple of the dogs which were then commonly used to hunt wild boars, and ministered to the wants of two young hawks, which he had procured by a long journey and by climbing a precipice at the risk of his life.

The urchins evidently regarded Wolf as a very important personage, and even the old cowherd treated him with deference. Having embarked at a Spanish port, bound for London, with the servants and baggage of the English knights and squires who fought at Muradel, and deemed it prudent to free themselves from all incumbrances before undertaking their adventurous expedition to Flanders, Wolf had reached Oakmede many months before Oliver Icingla, and made the most of his and his master’s adventures in Castile and at the court of Burgos, telling such stories and singing such songs as he had picked up, and playing on a small musical instrument which he had brought with him, and which the inmates of Oakmede deemed very outlandish. However, he contrived to establish such a reputation for himself that, boy as he was, rivals bent before him. Even Dame Isabel’s steward could not hold his own against a varlet who had figured in yellow and scarlet at a king’s court; and the swineherd--great official as a swineherd was in a Saxon household--was fain to content himself with being deemed of inferior interest.

No sooner, therefore, did Wolf ask the urchins to bear a hand than they vied with each other in their efforts to have the pride of assisting him. At length, however, they grew weary of watching the operations going on in the stable-yard, and wandered forth to feast their eyes on the apples clustering on the trees of an unguarded orchard--to roll among the lambs that nibbled on the sunny sward--to gaze on the brindled cows reclining under the shady trees or cooling their hoofs in the pond--and to throw pebbles at the white pigeons cooing on the roofs of the brewhouses or winging their way over the stable-yard to settle and bask on the barn-tops; and Wolf--who, in default of older and more experienced functionaries, united at Oakmede the offices of falconer, huntsman, and groom in his own person--applied himself to the most congenial of all his duties--namely, attending to a young horse, iron-grey, which was own brother to Ayoub, and had lately been distinguished by the name of Muradel, in honour of King Alphonso’s famous victory over the Moors. Ayoub and Muradel were steeds of value, and had a great pedigree, being, in fact, the descendants of a Spanish horse and a mare with which Cœur-de-Lion had gifted his good knight Edric Icingla. Some enthusiasts added that the said horse was the identical Spanish charger which King Richard bestrode at Cyprus when he went forth to chastise the Emperor Isaac Angelus; but this was more than doubtful. Wolf, however, was happy in the company of these steeds: he had been familiar with Ayoub and Muradel from the day they were foaled, and was in the habit of speaking to them almost as if they had been human beings; and fierce as they were by nature, and intractable in the hands of strangers, they were in the hands of this boy quiet as lambs and patient as asses. It is true Wolf treated them with real kindness, and he was engaged combing and washing Muradel’s mane and tail, and singing to the dumb animal snatches of a Spanish ballad about the Cid, and Bavieca, the Cid’s renowned charger, when he was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps. As he turned round, his father, Styr, the Anglo-Saxon, stood before him.

“All hail, father,” said Wolf, kindly, as he resumed his operations on the mane of Muradel. “How farest thou?”

“Passing well, Wolf, boy,” answered Styr, examining the iron-grey with the eye of a judge of horseflesh; “but I have tidings that sit heavy on my heart. Knowest thou what has come of the young Hlaford?”

“Nought further than that he left the Tower of London with King John, and sent word to Dame Isabel that he had, with Holy Edward’s aid, escaped the peril that threatened him,” said Wolf, desisting from his work, and turning round to look in the old man’s face. “Wherefore askest thou, father?”

“Wherefore do I ask?” said Styr, repeating his son’s words. “Marry, because he is missing, and his friends know not what has befallen him.”

Wolf gave a long, low whistle, and then shrugged his shoulders, and drew a long face.

“Wolf, boy,” said Styr, after a pause, during which the expression of his countenance became very serious, “I wish he may not have come to grief. St. Dunstan forbid that it should so prove; but my fear is that he has fallen into the hands of the Lord Hugh de Moreville, who is a cruel man, and heir, as thou mayst have heard, of the Moreville who imbrued his hands in the blood of St. Thomas of Canterbury; albeit the world, in consideration of the son’s ill-gotten wealth and power, forget his father’s crime. If so, peradventure the young Hlaford may lose his life as well as his liberty; for as my departed master--may his soul have gotten grace!--told King Richard the Lion-hearted, Hugh de Moreville is a man who would not spare his own child, if his own child stood in the way of his ambition. But say nought of all this to the Hleafdian, for it might bring her down with sorrow to the grave.”

“But how came this to thine ear, father?” asked Wolf, after a brief silence.

“In truth,” answered Styr, somewhat confused, “it was made known to me by him whom men call Will with the Club.”

“But methought Forest Will had saved the king’s life while hunting by taking a bull by the horns, and been received into favour, and turned out to be a great lord.”

“True; but matters did not go with him as he would fain have had them go, and he has again taken to the greenwood.”

Wolf whistled, and, meditating the whilst, combed Muradel’s tail, then laid aside the comb, took off his light cap, smoothed his long yellow hair, and looked long up to the rafters of the stable, and then spoke.

“And hast thou any notion where the young Hlaford may be, father?” asked he, suddenly.

“Certes, boy, I wot not where he is,” replied Styr; “but I deem it most like that, if he has fallen into Hugh de Moreville’s hands, he has been carried either to Chas-Chateil, or to Mount Moreville on the Scottish marches.” “If,” added the Saxon, “there was any means of gaining access to De Moreville’s castle, and learning whether such a prisoner is there, all might be amended.”

Wolf cast his eyes on the ground, reflected long and earnestly, and then looked up with the exultation of one who has solved a difficult problem.

“Father,” said he, “I have it; leave the business to me. It is, I own, parlous ugly; yet, with the blessing of St. Edward, who is known to favour the Icinglas and such as serve them, I will hazard limb and life in the adventure.”

Styr the Saxon winced, and his paternal affection got the better of his hereditary devotion, as before his mind’s eye rose a vision of his son--so young, so comely, and so slight of frame--at the mercy of Hugh de Moreville, and in the clutches of De Moreville’s myrmidons.

“Wolf, boy,” said he, tenderly, “this may not be. Hugh de Moreville is a man whom it is not chancy to meddle with.”

“Hout, father!” exclaimed Wolf, who was waxing very valiant under the influence of his imagination. “What more dangerous is the Lord Hugh than any other lord? Perchance, after all, his bark is worse than his bite.”

“But thou art young, Wolf, being as yet a boy, with years to grow; thy form is too slight and thy strength all-insufficient to fight with so stormy a sea as that on which thou wouldst venture.”

“Fear not for me, father,” interrupted Wolf, half offended; “nor deem that because I am not so big of body as Forest Will, my peril will, therefore, be the greater. Bulk is not craft, or the fox would be less cunning than the ass; nor is size courage, or the sheep would not run before the dog; nor is stature swiftness, otherwise a cow could out-race a hare. Anyhow, I will go, and time will try whether I have mettle enough in me or not, as frost tries the strange plants in the physic garden of the monks of St. Alban’s. But speak on, father, that I may be instructed by thy words, for does not the proverb tell us that as the old cock crows the young one learns?”

Styr the Saxon, however, was not listening to his son’s remarks, for a great struggle was taking place in his breast, and when Wolf turned round for a reply his father’s chin was resting on his bosom, and his eye directed to the ground.

“Wolf,” said he, at length raising his head, with a sigh, “this is not an adventure to be undertaken lightly, nor without asking leave of the mother who bore thee. But pass through the woodland to thy home at eventide, and I will then tell thee more fully what I think concerning it.”

“As thou wiliest, father,” said Wolf, with filial reverence; “but fail not to consider what our grief would be, if, through our neglect, or aught of cowardice on our parts, evil befel the young Hlaford--the son, father, of him who is away.”

The eyes of Styr the Saxon filled with tears, and he did not attempt to speak; but, abruptly leaving the stable, he strode away from Oakmede, and made his way through the forest.