Part 13

Up to this time the Baron had remained within his castle walls, gloomily watching the signs of the times, and only taking precautions to preserve the efficiency of his troops by constant drill, and to protect his fortress and people against possible attack. But as soon as the above-mentioned rumours became well authenticated, he bethought himself that some more active steps should be taken. If the enemy should once concentrate his forces at Reading, he would probably carry all before him, and resistance would be doubly difficult, if not impossible. {130}But if such concentration could be prevented, and the various bodies of Yorkists, who were said to be scattered over the face of the country, could be attacked and routed in detail, the tide might even yet be turned, and the drooping flag of Lancaster be once more raised as high as ever. Animated by such thoughts as these, and determined, if possible, to carry out the plan which appeared to him, and which probably was, the best under the circumstances, the Baron summoned his men, and leaving a small detachment to guard the castle, sallied forth with the intention of cutting off the advance of the Yorkists upon Reading.

It is difficult, however, for one body of men, unless greatly superior in numbers, position, and generalship, to act with success against four or five, and so it happened that before he had been many days in the field the Baron de Guerre-à-mort found that he had before him a task beyond his powers. A detachment of Yorkists was marching from Oxford, whilst at the same moment another party moved from Windsor; and from the direction of Basingstoke in one quarter, and Marlborough in another, a third and fourth body converged towards the same point. It will be easily understood that the Baron now ran no inconsiderable risk in his daring attempt. In the first place, he was by no means certain that his army was more numerous than any one of the Yorkist parties; and in the second, if he should engage and defeat one, he might have another on his flank before he was by any means ready to renew the combat. Prudence, therefore, would have seemed to dictate a retreat, unless indeed he could be sure of encountering his various enemies at the place and moment of his own choosing.

Such {131}was the state of things on one lovely day in June, when Mathilde was engaged in her usual employment, which day by day grew more irksome to her as time wore on. She was seated under a tree, shading herself from the rays of the summer sun, her pen held listlessly in her hand, her scroll and book by her side, whilst she mused on the past, made plans for the future, and forgot the present, after the custom of persons when pretty comfortably seated and rather sleepily inclined. A distant noise aroused her from her reverie after a time, and as it drew nearer and nearer she knew but too well that she heard the shouts of men engaged in battle, and that one of those struggles was taking place which at that time, alas! were but too common in unhappy England.

From the tree under which she was seated she commanded an extensive view over the plain below, and ere long she was able to discern the contending forces as they issued from a pass between the hills, one party being apparently driven before the other. In the plain they rallied, and a desperate combat appeared to be going on; then, whilst the wave of men surged to and fro, horse and foot apparently mingled in an undistinguishable mass, a third body appeared upon the scene, marching round the base of one of the hills, and joining themselves to those who had first emerged from the pass. For a time all was confusion and clamour, and, amid the dust and din, Mathilde could make out nothing as to the exact character of the combatants. Presently, however, a light breeze lifted the dust, and she had a clearer view of the sight before her eyes. The reinforcements which had just arrived had at once altered the {132}fortunes of the battle, and the party which had at first driven its opponents victoriously before it was now evidently giving way. It needed no second glance to tell which was the winning side, for the banner of the white rose floated on high, and triumphant shouts of “A York! a York!” rent the air.

Baffled and beaten, the Lancastrians vainly endeavoured to hold together; slowly but surely they gave way before the pressure of superior numbers, and it was evident that the question was now only between an orderly retreat and an utter rout. Straining her eyes to the utmost, {133}Mathilde beheld at the head of the retreating party a tall and martial figure which she recognised but too clearly. Conspicuous among the throng by his height and noble bearing, and carrying him right gallantly even when matters were going so decidedly against him, the noble old Baron little knew whose eyes were fixed upon him with eager and agonized gaze.

At that moment I doubt whether Mathilde had a thought even for the lover for whose sake she had suffered so much; her father, the fond parent who had nurtured her from earliest infancy, upon whose knees she had sat and prattled, whose eyes had never lighted on her save with glances of tender love, whose conduct towards her had been one continued indulgence from the first hour of her recollection,--the father, moreover, whom she had selfishly left to live alone and bear his solitary lot in the world without his idolised child--that father was now in peril of his life, and probably about to perish before the very eyes of his ungrateful daughter. There she saw him, the brave old man, sitting upon his charger as if he were part of the animal, dealing blows right and left with the strength and vigour of a far younger man, parrying strokes aimed with right good will at his devoted head, and ever and anon shielding from attack some wounded follower, and covering the retreat of some retiring friends. And whilst the battle raged furiously around him, ever and anon the old man raised his war-cry aloud, “A Guerre-à-mort! a Guerre-à-mort!” and at each cry it seemed as if a new spirit animated his yielding troops, and with fresh energy they rallied and made head against the superior forces of their opponents. But the fight was too unequal to last. {134}That had happened which might have been anticipated. The Baron had attacked and partially routed a Yorkist band, when another party, directed by the shouts of battle, had hastened from their line of march and arrived in time to take part in the fray, and to throw a great preponderance of numbers on the side of the cause for which they fought.

The Baron strove in vain to perform an impossibility, and to convert defeat into victory. His men fell fast by his side, and he was soon left almost alone, surrounded by the triumphant enemy. Mathilde could bear the sight no longer, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a flood of tears. But even thus the suspense was too terrible to bear. Presently, she lifted her eyes, and beheld the Lancastrians scattering in headlong flight, pursued by the triumphant partisans of the House of York. But where, oh! where was her father? She had not far to look. The old horse she knew so well lay dead upon the plain, but around him were clustered a group of men, evidently still engaged in some fierce conflict. In another moment they fell back, and she perceived a figure recumbent upon the ground, whilst a second figure stood over it, not to destroy, but to guard it from the blows of others. Could she--was it possible that she could--be mistaken? No: it was as she thought and hoped--her own Horace standing over the prostrate body of her father, was guarding his hereditary enemy from the destroying Yorkists.

Aye, so it was indeed, Brother Rhine, nor was this the first nor the last instance where love has proved stronger than hate in this curious world, and where chivalrous and valiant men have respected in others the bravery {135}which they so well knew how to practise themselves. St. Aunay was the commander of the Yorkist party who had turned the tide of that day’s battle. Recognising his ancient foe, he would no doubt have sought him out with every intention of then and there taking his revenge for the past, had it not been for the special reasons which induced him to adopt a contrary course of proceeding. He watched, with an admiration which it was impossible to withhold, the gallant behaviour of the old nobleman when fighting against fearful odds. He refrained from interference whilst it could do no good; but when he saw the Baron’s horse slain by the thrust of a pike, and its rider thrown upon the ground, he rushed forward to protect the fallen leader from those who would otherwise very speedily have disposed of him after a ruthless fashion. It was no easy or pleasant task; for the soldiery were excited by the stubborn resistance of the old Baron, and St. Aunay had to strike, strongly and fiercely, before he could rescue his foe from his own friends. He succeeded, however, and, in a few moments, the Baron, who had been partially stunned, as well by his fall, as by several blows by no means of a light character, which he had received in spite of St. Aunay’s efforts for his preservation, rose from the ground without having sustained any such vital injury as had recently appeared to be almost inevitable. Bitter, however, were his feelings when he discovered to whom it was that he owed his life; for so deeply had the family feud become engraven upon his heart, that it is almost doubtful whether he would not have preferred death, to escape therefrom by means of the aid of a St. Aunay.

There {136}was no time, however, for much to be said on either side. The Yorkists were pursuing their flying foes, and but few were left around the two noblemen, when from the hill-side, but a short distance off, they beheld a female figure hurrying towards them with eager gestures and evident excitement. Both recognised her at the same moment--both hastened to meet her--and in a brief space of time Mathilde was once more folded to her father’s heart. Horace de St. Aunay could have wished that another breast had been the resting-place, but could hardly have expected it under the peculiar circumstances. He waited patiently, therefore (having no other reasonable alternative), until the father and daughter had indulged their natural affection for each other, and had entered upon certain mutual explanations, which appeared upon the whole to be satisfactory. Then the Baron turned to him, and for some time was unable to utter a word. The struggle was severe in his heart between his natural affection for his child and his cherished hatred for the foe of his house. But, luckily for all parties, the former prevailed.

The Baron was no fool, and probably felt that if Mathilde had run away once to look for her lover, it was exceedingly likely that she might do it again. Moreover, the Lancastrian cause was now in that condition that those who still upheld it would ere long have nothing else to uphold, and, whatever might become of himself, the old Baron had no desire to see his beloved daughter dispossessed of her patrimony, and possibly driven from house and home, or reduced to that employment as a necessity which she had recently adopted as a temporary--though most uncongenial--occupation.

So, {137}like a sensible man, he allowed his reason and common sense to overcome his prejudice, and gave his consent to his daughter’s marriage with the Count of St. Aunay. He could not have done a wiser thing. The Count’s influence with the winning party in the state was naturally considerable, and was efficiently exercised in favour of his father-in-law, who was allowed to retain his castle and property, when others, less fortunate in their daughters’ marriages, lost both on account of their political opinions.

Horace and Mathilde were speedily united, and, as old story-books usually say, “they lived very happily all the rest of their lives.” It will also be doubtless satisfactory to you to know that none of the convent authorities ever discovered that the old washerwoman had had anything whatever to do with the disappearance of the young Baroness; that the farmer and his wife were liberally rewarded for their kindness to the latter; and that the followers and believers in the Witch of Salt Hill had a higher opinion than ever of her supernatural powers, since it had so plainly been proved that it was, as she had said, on account of a lover that the Baron’s daughter had left the convent. And this is the way that there came a happy termination to “The Family Feud.”

Father Thames here paused, and took a deep draught of ale; whilst he was engaged with which, his brother of the Rhine calmly and gravely put to him the singular question: “And what became of the pigs, Brother Thames?”

The potentate of our English river hastily put down his {138}glass, choked violently as he did so, and then answered with a laugh, “Confound your jokes, Brother Rhine, you made my liquor go the wrong way, which is a very unpleasant thing, let me tell you. But, after all, the rebuke was deserved, for my cross-questioning you so closely after your last legend. I own that legends are things which should be received with much faith and no questions, or the beauty of them is lost at once.”

“I quite agree with you,” responded he of the Rhine, “and it was with the object of bringing you to express your concurrence in this view that I asked the remarkably stupid question about the pigs. There are some people who always want to know a great deal more than is good for them, and who insist upon asking what became of each and every character of whom mention has been made in a legend. This is simply ridiculous, and very disagreeable to the teller of the story, who is obliged to introduce many minor characters into his tale, in order to fill up gaps, and illustrate the position of the principal personages, but who cannot be expected to know the final history and eventual fate of them all. Since, then, you agree with me, Brother Thames, I shall ask you to be good enough to listen to my next legend with a sincere determination to believe it if you can, and in any case to demand no explanation of circumstances which may seem strange, or with regard to persons who may appear to be unusual in name or character, or in both the two together.”

“I promise to do as you wish,” replied Father Thames to this request, upon which the other commenced at once as follows:--

THE GIANT BRAMBLE-BUFFER

“There {139}was once a Daddyroarer--”

“What the deuce is a Daddyroarer?” hastily interposed Father Thames.

The monarch of the Rhine gave him an indignant glance. “Is this the way you keep your promise?” he inquired, in a tone of some severity. “Another such interruption and I shall decline to continue the amusement of legend-telling. I have no objection, however, to inform you that the word Daddyroarer signifies a giant, though whence its derivation I am unable to tell you with any degree of certainty. It probably comes from two Teutonic words, but I should be sorry to attempt to give them in the original. There is something about the name, however, which conveys the idea of a giant. ‘Daddy,’ indeed, being the familiar appellation by which children occasionally designate their male parent, points, not so much to the paternal relationship of a giant with mankind, as to his size and proportions, which are as much larger than those of man as are the proportions and size of a father to those of his young children. I presume that the term ‘roarer’ is not intended to convey, as in the case of a horse, the notion of broken wind, but has rather reference to the gruff and deep-toned voice which usually characterizes the giant.

“But, be this as it may, I repeat the fact that there was once a certain Daddyroarer, or giant, who lived among the mountains near a certain part of my beautiful river. For many years, indeed, in the old, old times, the men of Rhineland were grievously troubled with giants {140}of different sorts and sizes. Tradition tells us that they all sprang from the mighty giant Senoj, who, as is well known, was born, nobody knows how or where, among the loftiest peaks of the Alps, and is down to this day popularly known in Rhineland as the father of all giants.

“Certain it is that his descendants, if such they were, proved exceedingly troublesome to mankind in general, and Rhenish mankind in particular. These creatures were, indeed, a plague and a pest to the country. They ate voraciously, and were not particular as to the food with which they satisfied their appetites. I am not prepared to say whether or no they were actually cannibals, and will therefore give them the benefit of the doubt; nevertheless, they were exceedingly unpleasant neighbours. The quantity of food which they required was alone sufficient to have placed this fact beyond question, for if you recollect the feats performed in the way of swallowing by your own old giant--

‘Robin-a-bobbin-a-Bilberry Ben, Who ate more victuals than three-score men,’

and consider what would have been the effect upon your country of half-a-dozen Robins, you will have no trouble in understanding the difficulty which Rhineland experienced in supporting these worthies.

“What made it much worse, too, was the exceedingly loose notions which these beings entertained upon the subject of the rights of property. They apparently laboured under the delusion that the world was made for giants, and for giants alone--a theory exceedingly convenient for those who happened to be giants, but the reverse {141}of agreeable to those who did not come within that somewhat limited category. These excellent individuals took exactly what they pleased from its owner, without so much as ‘by your leave’ or ‘with your leave,’ and never for a moment dreamed of paying the value of the article in question. This was not a comfortable state of things for the people of the land, who saw their sheep and oxen, pigs and poultry, and other possessions which they prized, taken away by the great bullies against whom they dared not lift a voice nor wag a finger.

“But this was not all. It is bad enough to be robbed by another person, and not pleasant to be assaulted, but I am not sure whether to be utterly ignored and despised is not worse than either, especially when accompanied by such aggravating circumstances as those to which I am now going to allude. These huge creatures used to go walking about just as if there were no such things as men and women in the world. They would kick over a cottage for fun, sit down upon a barn or outhouse and crush its roof with their weight, out of mere ignorance or wanton folly; and even now and then set their foot on a human being and crush him into the earth, as if he were a snake, taking no account whatever of his prayers and struggles. In fact, they got into the habit of treating people as if they were merely an inferior part of creation placed upon the earth to cultivate and make it more useful for giants, and intended to be robbed, maltreated, trodden under foot, and put out of the way, just when and how it suited their imperious masters, for whom, and for whose sake alone, the universe had been created.

“You {142}may well imagine, Brother Thames, that this state of affairs was pre-eminently unsatisfactory to my poor people. No man’s life or property was secure, and all improvement was entirely prevented. Indeed, what was the use of building a house which was liable to be knocked down or kicked over by a giant at any moment? Of what avail would it have been to plant a field with wheat, oats, or barley, when at any and every period of the year all might be trodden down by the ruthless foot of the same monster, and the reapers possibly be stamped into the ground, together with the crops which they were gathering? Who would rear sheep and oxen of which he was sure to be robbed? and who would spend time, labour, and money upon anything when all was so insecure and uncertain? So it came about that the population diminished, no houses were built, few fields were sown, lands went out of cultivation, and it seemed as if, in a little time longer, the country would be neither more nor less than a dreary wilderness. Indeed, the whole face of the country was changed by the strange freaks of the Daddyroarers.

“Sometimes they would amuse themselves by lifting huge masses of rock, and therewith building a mountain; at another time they would fling enormous stones at each other in sport, which was pastime anything but delightful to their neighbours, whose lives and property were thereby grievously imperilled. And not the least part of the mischief they did was when they took a fancy to snowball each other, which the survivors of them still practise, especially in some parts of Switzerland, where the avalanche, which occasionally overwhelms the unhappy traveller, although mistakenly attributed to natural {143}causes, is in reality nothing more than the fall of a larger snowball than usual, hurled by the mighty arm of one of those mountain giants.