University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE ARREST.

For several days after the visit of the Lady Guendolen and
her lover to the house of the verdurer of Kentmere, rumors,
many of which had been afloat since the catastrophe on the
sands, began to increase among the dalesmen, of strangers
seen at intervals among the hills or in the scattered hamlets,
seeming to observe every thing, but themselves carefully
avoiding observation, asking many questions, but answering
none, and leaving a general impression on the minds of all
who saw them, that they were thus squandered, as it were,
through the lake country, as spies, probably of some marauding
band, but certainly with no good intent. These individuals
bore no sort of resemblance, it was said, or affinity one
to the other, nor seemed to have any league of community
between them, yet there was an unanimous sentiment, where-ever
they came and went, which they ordinarily did in succession,
that they were all acting on a common plan and with
a common purpose, however dissimilar might be their garb,
their occupation, or their immediate purpose. And widely
dissimilar these were—for one of those suspected was in appearance

a maimed beggar, displaying the scallop-shell of St.
James of Compostella, in token that he had crossed the seas
for his soul's good, and vowing that he had lost his left arm
in a sanguinary conflict with the Saracens, who were besieging
Jerusalem, in the valley of Jehoshaphat; a second was a
dashing pedler, with gay wares for the village maidens, and
costlier fabrics—lawns from Cyprus, and silks and embroideries
of Ind, for the taste of nobler wearers; another seemed a
mendicant friar, though of what order it was not by any
means so evident, since, his tonsure excepted, his apparel
gave token of very little else than raggedness and filth.

Nearly a week had passed thus, when, at a late hour in the
afternoon, word was conveyed to the castle of Sir Yvo, under
Hawkshead, by the bailiff, in person, of the little town of
Kendal, which lay about midway between Kentmere and the
bay, that a small body of horse, completely armed, having at
their head a gentleman apparently of rank, had entered the
town about mid-day, demanded quarters for the night for man
and horse, and sent out one or two unarmed riders, as if to
survey the country. In any part of England traversed by
great roads, this would have created no wonder or surmise;
for hundreds of such parties were to be seen on the great
thoroughfares every day, few persons at that period journeying
without weapons of offense and arms defensive, and gentlemen
of rank being invariably attended by bodies of armed retainers,
which were indeed rendered indispensable by the prevalence
of private feuds and personal hostilities which were
never wholly at an end between the proud barons, whose
conterminous lands were constant cause of unneighborly bickerings
and strife.

In these wild rural districts, however, it was quite different,
where the roads merely gave access and egress to the country
lying below the mountains, but opened no thoroughfare either
for trade or travel, there being no means of approach from
that side, even to Penrith or Carlisle, already towns of considerable
magnitude, lying but a few miles distant across the
vast and gloomy fells and mountains, except by the blindest
of paths, known only to shepherds and outlaws, leading
through tremendous passes, such as that terrible defile of Dunmailraise,
famous to this day for its stern and savage grandeur.
Hence it came, that, unless it were visitors to some of the few
castles or priories in the lower valleys, such as Furness Abbey,
Calder Abbey, Lannercost Priory, Gleaston Castle, the stronghold
of the Flemings, Rydal, the splendid manor of the Ratcliffes,
this fortalice of De Taillebois, at Hawkshead, and some
strong places of the Dacres and Cliffords, yet farther to the
east, not constituting in the whole a dozen within a circumference
of fifty miles, no strangers were ever seen in these secluded
valleys, without exciting wonder, and something of
consternation.

So it was in this instance; and so urgent did it appear to
Sir Yvo, that, although he was just sitting down to supper
when his officer arrived—for Kendal was his manorial town,
where he held his courts, leet and baron—that he put off the
evening meal an hour, until he should have heard his report,
and examined into all the circumstances of the case.

Then commending his bailiff for his discretion, he dismissed
him, with orders to make all speed home again, without signifying
at Kendal whither he had been, to give all heed
and courteous attention to the strangers, keeping ever a sharp

eye on their actions, and to expect himself in the burgh ere
midnight.

This done, he returned to the hall, as calm as if nothing
had occurred to move him, though he was indeed doubly
moved, both as lord of the manor and sheriff of the country;
and, merely whispering to Aradas to have fifty lances in the
saddle within an hour, and to dispatch a messenger to have
the horse-boats ready on the lake, opposite to Bowness, took
his place at the board-head, with his fair child on his right,
and the young esquire on the left, and carved the roe venison
and moor fowl, and jested joyously, and quaffed his modicum
of the pure light wines of Gascony, as if he had nothing on
hand that night beyond a walk on the battlements, before retiring.
So soon, however, as supper was over, he bade his
page go up to his private apartment, and bidding Aradas look
sharp, for there was little time to lose, he told Guendolen,
with a smile, that he should make her chatelaine for the
night, since he must ride across the lake to Kendal.

“To-night, father!” she exclaimed, astonished, “why, it is
twenty miles; you will not be there before daybreak.”

“Oh, yes, by midnight, girl, if we spur the sharper; and it
is partly on your business that I go, too, child; for I fancy
there is something afoot, that bodes no good to your friend
Kenric; but we 'll nip it in the bud, we 'll nip it in the bud,
by St. Agatha!”

“Ah!” said the girl, turning pale, “there will be danger,
then—”

“Danger!” said the old knight, looking at her sharply,
“danger, not a whit of it! It is but that villain d'Oilly, with
a score of spears of Sherwood. I must take fifty lances with

me, for, as sheriff, I must keep peace without spear-breaking;
were it not for that, I would meet him spear to spear; and he
should reckon with me, too, for poor Sir Philip, ere we parted,
as he shall do yet, one day, although I see not how to force
him to it. So now, kiss me, silly minion, and to bed with
you while I go arm me.”

And the stout old warrior strode up to his cabinet, whence
he descended in half an hour, armed cap-a-pie in chain mail,
plate armor not having yet come into use, with his flat-topped
casque on his head, his heater-shaped shield hung about his
neck, and his huge, two-handed sword crossing his whole person,
its cross-hilt appearing above his left shoulder, and its tip
clashing against the spur on his right heel. As he entered
the court of the castle, his men were all in their saddles, sitting
firm as pillars of steel, each with his long lance secured
by its sling and the socket attached to the stirrup, bearing a
tall waxen torch in his right hand, making their mail-coats
flash and twinkle in the clear light, as if they were compact
of diamonds. Aradas was alone dismounted, holding the
stirrup for his lord until he had mounted, when he sprang,
all armed as he was, into the saddle. The banner-man at
once displayed the square banner of his lord, the trumpeter
made the old ramparts ring with the old gathering blast of
the house of De Taillebois, and, two and two, the glittering
men-at-arms, defiled through the castle gate, and wound down
the steep hill side, long to be traced from the battlements,
now seen, now lost among the woods and coppices, a line of
sinuous light, creeping, like a huge glow-worm, over the dark
champaign.

Before they reached the lake shore, however, the moon

rose, round and red, from behind the Yorkshire fells; and, extinguishing
their flambeaux, they pricked rapidly forward
through the country, which, intricate as it was, soon became
as light as at noonday.

On the other side of the lake, circumstances of a very different
nature, though arising from the same causes, were occurring.
Early in the afternoon, while Kenric was absent on
his rounds, a single rider, plainly clad, and unarmed, except
his sword, made his appearance, riding up the valley from
the direction of Kendal, and soon pulling up at the cottage,
inquired the road to Rydal. Then, on being informed that
there was no pass through the hills in that direction, and that
he ought to have turned off to the eastward, through a gap
five miles below, he asked permission to dismount and rest
himself and his horse awhile, a favor which Edith readily conceded.
Oat cakes and cheese, then, as now, the peculiar
dainties of the dalesmen, with home-brewed mead, were set
before him, his horse was fed, and every act of hospitality
which could be done to the most honored guest was extended
to him.

He observed every thing, noted every thing, especially the
crossbow which Eadwulf had brought with him on his late
inopportune arrival, learned the name and station of his
entertainer, and how he was the tenant of the Lord of Hawkshead,
Yewdale, Coniston, and Kentmere, and verdurer of the
forest in which he dwelt; and then, offering money, which
was refused, mounted his horse, and rode back toward Kendal
more rapidly then he came.

So soon as Kenric returned from his rounds, he was informed
of all that had passed, when, simply observing, “Ha!

it has come already, has it? I scarce expected it so soon,”
he bade one of the boys get the pony ready, and prepare himself
to go round the lake to the castle, and then sat down
with his wife to the evening meal, which she had prepared
for him.

When they were alone, “Now, Edith, my dear,” he said,
“the time has come for which we have been so long waiting.
I know for certain that Sir Foulke d'Oilly is in Kendal, and
our good lord will know it likewise before this time. Therefore
there is no danger that will not be prevented almost
before it is begun. That I shall be taken, either by violence
or by legal arrest, this night, is certain—though I think probably
by violence, since no true caption may be made after
sunset.”

“Then, why not escape at once?” asked his fair wife,
opening her great blue eyes wider than their wont. “Why
not go straight to the castle, and place yourself in my lord's
safeguard?”

“For two reasons, wife of mine, each in itself sufficient.
First, this is my post, and I must hold it, until removed or
forced from it. Second, my lord deems it best I should be
taken now, and the matter ended. But this applies not to you
or my mother. The Normans must find neither of you here;
no woman, young or old, is safe where Foulke d'Oilly's men are
about. You must wrap the old woman as warm as you may,
and have her off on the pony to Ambleside as quickly as may
be. Ralph shall go with you. I am on thorns and nettles
until you are gone.”

“I will never leave you, Kenric. It is useless to speak of
it—never!”

“Oh! yes, you will, Edith,” he answered, quietly. “Oh! yes,
you will, for half a dozen reasons; though one is enough, for that
matter. First, you will not see my mother dead through your
obstinacy. Second, you will not stay to be outraged yourself,
before my very eyes, without my having power to aid you—”

“Kenric!”

“It is mere truth, Edith. Thirdly, it is your duty to go;
and last, it is my will that you go, and I never knew you refuse
that.”

“Nor ever will, Kenric; though it break my heart to
do it.”

“Tush! tush! girl; hearts are tough things, and do not
break so easily; and when you kiss me to-morrow at the
castle, you 'll think of this no more. See, here 's the boy with
the pony and the pillion. Now, hurry, and coax my mother
out, and get on your cloak and wimple, that 's a good lass. I
would not have you here when Foulke d'Oilly's riders come,
no! not to be the Lord of Kentmere. Hurry! hurry!”

Many minutes had not passed, before, after a long embrace,
and a flood of tears on the part of Edith, the two women
mounted on the sturdy pony, the wife in the saddle, and the
aged mother seated on a sort of high-backed pillion—made
like the seat of an arm-chair—and secured by a broad belt
to the waist of her daughter, took their way across the
wooded hills toward Ambleside, the boy Ralph leading the
animal by the head, and two brace of noble alans, his master's
property, which Kenric did not choose to expose to the
cupidity of his expected captors, gamboling in front, or following
gravely at heel, according to their various qualities of
age and temper.

The son and husband gazed after them wistfully, so long as
they remained in sight; and when, as they crossed the last
ridge of the low intermediate hills which divide the narrow
glen of the upper Kent from the broader dale of Windermere,
standing out in bold relief against the strong light of the
western sky, Edith waved her kerchief, he drew his hard
hand across his brow, turned into his desolate dwelling, and,
sitting down by the hearth, was soon lost in gloomy meditation.

Darkness soon fell over lake and meadow, mountain and
upland. Hundreds of stars were twinkling in the clear sky,
to which a touch of frost, not unusual at this early season
among those hill regions, had lent an uncommon brilliance,
but the moon had not yet risen.

Kenric was now becoming restless and impatient, and, as is
frequently the case when we are awaiting even the most painful
things, which we know to be inevitable, he soon found
himself wishing that the time would come, that he might
know the worst, and feeling that the suspense was worse than
almost any reality.

Several times he went to the door, and stood gazing down
the valley, over the brown woods and gray, glimmering
waters, to look and listen, if he might discover any signs of
the coming danger. But his eyes could penetrate but a
little way into the darkness, and no sounds came to his ears,
but the deep sough of the west wind among the pine boughs
of the mountain top, the hoarse ripple of the brook brawling
against the boulders which lay scattered in its bed, and the
hooting of the brown owls, answering each other from every
ivy-bush and holly-brake on the wooded hill-sides.

Nothing could be more calm or peaceful than the scene,
nothing less indicative of man's presence, much more of his
violence and angry passions. Not even the baying of a
solitary house-dog awoke the echoes, though oftentimes the
wild, yelping bark of the fox came sharp from the moorland,
and once the long-drawn howl of a wolf, that most hideous
and unmistakable of savage cries, wailed down the pass like
the voice of a spirit, ominous of evil.

The hunter's spirit was aroused in the watcher by the
familiar sound. He listened intently, but it was heard no
more, and, shaking his head, he muttered to himself, “He is
up in the dark corrie under Norton pike; I noted the wool
and bones of lambs, and the spoil of hares there, when I was
last through it, but I laid the scathe to the foxes. I knew
not we had a wolf so nigh us. Well, if they trap not me to-night,
I 'll see and trap that other thief to-morrow. And
thinking of that, since they come not, I trow there is no
courtesy compels me to sit up for them, and there 's some
thing in my head now that chimes a later hour than vespers.
I 'll take a night-cap, and lay me down on the settle. Gilbert,
happy dog, has been asleep there on the hearth these
two hours;” and, suiting the action to the word, he drew a
mighty flagon of mead, quaffed it to the dregs, and, throwing
a heavy wooden bar across the door, wrapped his cloak about
him, and, casting himself on a settle in the chimney corner,
was soon buried in deep slumber.

When he woke again, which he did with a sudden start,
the moon was shining brightly through the latticed casements,
and there were sounds on the air which he easily
recognized as the clash of mail coats and the tramp of horses,

coming up at a trot over the stony road. Looking out from a
loop beside the door, he perceived at once that the moment
he expected had arrived. Ten men, heavily armed, but wearing
dark-colored surcoats over their mail, and having their
helmets cased with felt, to prevent their being discovered by
the glimmering of the steel in the moonlight, had ridden up
to the foot of the little knoll on which the cottage stood, and
were now concerting their future movements.

While he gazed, nine of the men dismounted, linking their
horses, and leaving them in charge of the tenth. Four then
filed off to keep watch, and prevent escape from the rear, or
either end of the building; and then, at a given signal, the
others marched up to the door, and the leader struck heavily
on the pannel with the haft of a heavy battle-ax, crying,
“Open! on pain of death! open!”

“To whom? What seek you?” asked Kenric, whose hand
was on the bar.

“To me, Foulke d'Oilly. I seek my fugitive villeyn, Eadwulf
the Red. We have traced him hither. Open, on your
peril, or take the consequence.”

“The man is not here; natheless, I open,” replied Kenric;
and, with the word, he threw open the door; and the men-at-arms
rushed in, brandishing their axes, as if they expected
resistance. But the Saxon stood firm, tranquil, and impassive,
on his hearthstone, and gave no pretext for violence.

“And who may you be, sirrah,” cried the leader, checking
the rudeness of his vassals for the moment, “who brave us
thus?”

“Far be it from me,” said he, “to brave a nobleman. I
am a free Saxon man, Kenric, the son of Werewulf, tenant in

fee to my Lord of Taillebois, and his verdurer and forester for
this his manor of Kentmere.”

“Thou liest,” said one of the men-at-arms. “Thou art
Eadwulf the Red, born thrall of Sir Philip de Morville, on his
manor of Waltheofstow, and now of Sir Foulke d'Oilly, who
has succeeded to the same.”

“Thou liest!” replied Kenric, stoutly. “And I will prove
it on thy body, with permission of Sir Foulke d'Oilly, with
quarterstaff or gisarme, battleax or broadsword.”

“Art sure this is he, Damian? Canst swear to the man?
Is there any other here, who knows the features of the fellow
Eadwulf, to witness them on oath? Light yonder cresset
from the embers on the hearth; advance it to his face! Now,
can you swear to him?”

The torch was thrust so rudely and so closely into his face,
that it actually singed his beard; yet he started not, nor
flinched a hair's breadth.

“I can,” said the man who had first spoken, stubbornly.
“That is Eadwulf the Red. I have seen him fifty times in
the late Sir Philip's lifetime; and last, the day before he fled
and slew your bailiff of Waltheofstow in the forest between
Thurgoland and Bolterstone, in September. I will swear to
him, as I live by bread, and hope to see Paradise.”

“And I,” exclaimed another of the men, after examining
his features, whether deceived by the real similitude between
them and his brother, which did amount to a strong family
likeness, though the color of the hair and the expression of
the two men were wholly dissimilar, or only desirous of gratifying
his leader. “I know him as well as I do my own
brother. I will swear to him any where.”

“You would both swear falsely,” said Kenric, coolly.
“Eadwulf is my brother, son of Werewulf, son of Beowulf,
once henchman to Waltheof, of Waltheofstow, and a free
Saxon man before the Conquest.”

“I will swear to him, also,” cried a third man, who had
snatched down the fatal crossbow and bolts from above the
chimney. “Kenric and Eadwulf are but two names for one
man; and here is the proof. This crossbow, with the name
Kenric burned into the stock, is that which Eadwulf carried
on the day when he fled; and these quarrels tally, point for
point, with those which were found in the carcass of the deer
he slew, and in the body of the bailiff he murdered!”

“Ha! What say you to that, sirrah?”

“That it is my crowwbow; that my name is Kenric, by-named
the Dark; that I am, as I said before, a free Saxon,
and have dwelt here on Kentmere since the last days of July;
so that I could have slain neither deer nor bailiff, between
Thurgoland and Bolterstone, in September. That is all I have
to say, Sir Foulke.”

“And that is nothing,” he replied. “So thou must go
along with us. Wilt go peaceably, too, if thou art wise, and
cravest no broken bones.”

“Have you a writ of Neifty[1] for me, Sir Foulke?” asked
Kenric, respectfully, having been instructed by Sir Yvo.

“Tush! dog, what knowest thou of Neifty? No, sirrah,
I seize mine villeyn, of mine own right, with mine own hand.
What sayst to that?”

“That you must seize me, to seize justly, by the sheriff;
and I deny the villeynage, and claim trial.”

“And I send you, and your denial, and your Neifty, to the
fiend who hatched them. You are my slave, my born slave;
and in my dungeons of Waltheofstow will I prove it to you.
Hugo, Raoul, Damian, seize him, handcuff his wrists behind
him, drag him along if he resist.”

“I resist not,” said Kenric. “I yield to force, as I hold
you all to witness; you above all, Gilbert,” addressing the
boy who stood staring, half-awake, while they were manacling
his hands. “But I pray you, Sir Foulke, to take notice that
in this you do great wrong to my good lord, Sir Yvo de Taillebois,
both that he is the Lord of Hawkshead, Coniston, and
Yewdale, and of this manor of Kentmere on which you now
trespass, and that he is the sheriff of these counties of Lancaster
and Westmoreland, where you wrongfully seize jurisdiction.
And this I notify you, that he will seek the right at
your hands, and that speedily.”

“Dog! Saxon! slave! dirt of the earth! do you dare
threaten me?” cried the fierce baron, purposely lashing himself
into fury; and he strode up to the helpless man, whose
arms were secured behind his back, and smote him in the
mouth with his gauntleted-hand, that the blood gushed from
his lips, and streamed over all the front of his leathern hunting-shirt.

“That, to teach thee manners. Now, then, bring him
along, men; set him on the black gelding, chain his legs fast
under the brute's belly, ride one of you at each side, and dash
his brains out with your axes if he look like escaping. Away!
away! I would be at Kendal before they ring the prime,[2]

and at Lonsdale before matins.[3] So shall we be well among
the Yorkshire fells before daybreak.”

His words were obeyed without demur or delay, and within
five minutes the Saxon was chained on the back of a vicious,
ill-conditioned brute, with a savage ruffian on either side,
glaring at him through the bars of their visors, as if they desired
no better than a chance to brain him, in obedience with
orders; and the whole party, their horses being quite fresh,
were thundering down the dale at a pace that would bring
them to Kendal long enough before midnight.