River Legends; Or, Father Thames and Father Rhine
whether imp or mortal, unkindness and malice always recoil upon those
who practise the one and are influenced by the other.”
“Certainly,” remarked Father Thames, “your words are true. But what
became of the Baroness? Did she outlive the Baron, and was he cured of
his laziness as well as she of her bad temper?”
“Brother,” said his companion in an expostulating tone, “you really ask
more than I can recollect. There are very many castles in the vicinity
of my river, and to remember the details of the family history of all
their inhabitants {103}is more than even I, as a river monarch, can
venture to ‘undertake. I may, however, safely say that the Baroness died
before the Baron, for I happen to be able to recall the circumstances of
her death. She was inordinately fond of dried cherries, and would insist
upon swallowing the stones. For some time this had no effect, but at
last she was taken ill and died of a disease so mysterious that they
determined to have her body opened, when no less than two hundred and
forty-six cherry-stones were found inside her.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Father Thames in great surprise. “But now
tell me what happened to the Baron.”
“I must positively decline,” answered the other. “A legend is a legend,
and I have told you mine. It is now your turn, and I hope you will lose
no time, for I expect the Rhone, the Danube, and the Seine upon a matter
of business to-morrow, and shall be late for my appointment if we waste
our time in unnecessary talking.”
“All right, brother,” shouted Father Thames, and, clearing his throat,
began without further delay the story of--
THE FAMILY FEUD
The Baron Simon de Guerre-à-mort (whose name, considerably transformed
by his Saxon neighbours, was familiarly rendered as “Old Grammar”) was
an individual who, not to belie the said name, was of a somewhat warlike
disposition. His ancestors had come over to these peaceful shores with
“Billy the Norman, that very great war-man,” as the old song calls him,
and very {104}great war-men had _they_ been also from the time of their
first arrival. They warred against the Saxons as long as the latter
showed fight; then they warred with their brother barons; then they went
to the crusades; afterwards they joined Simon de Montfort in his gallant
struggle for English liberties; they had a turn at the Welsh at one
time, and took their share in the Scotch wars at another; in short,
wherever and whenever opportunity for fighting offered itself, the
Guerre-à-mort family or its representative eagerly seized it and rushed
into the thickest of the battle as cheerfully as a duck into water. Nor
was the Baron Simon one whit behind his ancestors in this respect.
On the contrary, he was as ready for war as any of them, and fully
maintained the character and traditions of his house.
In the days of which I write it was very much the fashion for great
families to indulge in the luxury of hereditary foes, and a feud of long
standing between this and that ancient house was such a customary thing
that a nobleman who lived peaceably with all his neighbours was regarded
as a slow kind of fellow, whose acquaintance was hardly worth having.
There were generally wars of greater or less magnitude going on either
within England herself or with some foreign enemy, which, one would have
imagined, might have furnished sufficient employment to the fighting
nobility of the day. This, however, was by no means the case; and though
private feuds were sometimes left in abeyance for a time, when something
more attractive in the way of battle and bloodshed happened to
offer, yet they were never allowed to slumber too {105}long, and were
invariably revived as soon as more peaceful times permitted their
proprietors to indulge their private feelings and natural love of
quarrelling.
The hereditary enemy of Simon de Guerre-à-mort was the house of St.
Aunay, which, like his own, had been first known in England after the
Battle of Hastings had flooded the country with Norman nobility, and
which was at the moment of which we speak represented by Count Horace as
the head of its race. It is difficult to say why or wherefore these
two families should have been at variance, since there was no apparent
reason for such a state of things. Their castles were upon opposite
sides of my dear old river, at no great distance, though neither of
them within sight of it. Their lands stretched down to my waters, which
formed a reasonable and proper boundary, and there was consequently none
of that intermingling of field with field or farm with farm which has in
all ages proved a fertile source of unpleasantness between neighbouring
landed proprietors. Moreover, the two noblemen had never brushed against
each other or differed materially upon any public matters. In fact there
was no probability of their doing so; for Baron Simon was at this time
the wrong side of sixty by several years, whilst Count Horace had not
lived half the years which constitute that respectable age. No: it was a
good, respectable old family feud, and I verily believe that it was
more from family feeling than for any other reason that it was still
cherished by both houses.
It was, according to my firm belief, entirely in consequence of their
private differences that, when the wars {106}of the Roses broke out,
the two Norman noblemen took different sides, the Count of St. Aunay
standing forward boldly for the House of York, whilst the Lord of
Guerre-à-mort was Lancastrian to the backbone. As the latter was
a leader of great repute, and could muster around his standard no
inconsiderable number of retainers, he might probably have rendered
great service to the cause he had espoused if he had acted with those
well-known men who led its armies and managed its councils. But the
Baron greatly preferred going his own way and fighting for his own
hand and as soon as the country was well into the war, and everybody
was harassing and worrying everybody else as much as they could, he
determined that by far the best thing he could do to aid Henry of
Lancaster was to cross the river and demolish the Castle of St. Aunay.
Accordingly, he collected his forces, summoned his vassals and friends
from all quarters and prepared for the expedition.
I remember, as well as if it were but yesterday, when the Baron’s army
was halted along my banks preparatory to their crossing the river early
on the following morning. The old chieftain himself, mounted on his
powerful black charger, from whose eyes and nostrils the fire of war
seemed to stream forth as he impatiently pawed the ground, rode out upon
a hill above his troops, and gazed upon the scene before him. The moon
was rising behind the distant hills, the evening was calm and still;
but the heavens were cloudy, and strange lights from time to time darted
across the sky, as if presaging the days of war and bloodshed which were
about to come upon unhappy England. The old Baron was {107}completely
armed, and his long, straggling beard fell down upon his horse’s mane
before him as he sat erect in his saddle. I saw him elevate his mighty
sword and shield, raising each arm on high as he looked with flashing
eye and threatening gesture upon the country upon the other side of the
river, and then and there he vowed a solemn vow that before he recrossed
the Thames the Castle of St. Aunay should be sacked, his pride lowered,
and his banner trailed in the dust. On high he shook his weapon as he
took the oath, and full well I knew that the proud Norman would not
fail to keep it, unless his foeman (who was probably taking an oath of
a similar character about the same time) should have strength or cunning
enough to prevent its accomplishment.
But before I proceed any further with my story I am bound to introduce
you to a person who, as you will soon perceive, is the main cause and
reason why I have any story at all to tell. The Baron de Guerre-à-mort
had an only daughter. As, from the beginning of time, it has been the
constant habit of maidens similarly circumstanced to fall in love with
the person most objectionable to their respected father, Mathilde de
Guerre-à-mort formed no exception to this most natural and reasonable
rule. As a matter of course, she was desperately attached to Horace de
St. Aunay, who, for his part, having fallen head over ears in love
with her at their first interview, remained in the same condition with
unwearied resolution. How they first came to meet I cannot say. One
would have supposed that there would have been difficulties, considering
the hostility, existing between the two families; but the young lady’s
mother having {108}been dead for many years, she enjoyed more liberty
than was common to females of her rank and age in those days, and
probably met the Count in some of her country rambles after birds’
nests, violets, or blackberries--three things which all young people who
have lived much in the country find more or less attractive at certain
seasons of the year. However this may be, it is certain that these two
individuals met, took a mutual fancy to each other, and would, in all
human probability, have been thought by their friends to have been
exactly suited, had it not been for the highly respectable feud of which
I have already spoken.
The Baron, who had not the remotest idea of the state of the case,
grieved and afflicted his daughter beyond measure by the manner in which
he abused her lover upon every possible occasion. Mathilde, poor
girl, bore it all with exemplary fortitude, although she invariably
endeavoured to turn the conversation into more pleasant channels. But
when the matter went beyond words, and her father actually commenced to
make preparations to invade his enemy’s country and destroy his castle,
the agony of the poor young lady can be more easily imagined than
described. She came down each morning with eyes red from crying all
through the night; she grew daily paler and paler; lost her appetite;
could scarcely take her five o’clock tea; sat with her hands before her,
doing nothing; and burst out into hysterical fits of sobbing upon the
slightest provocation. This sad condition of his daughter troubled the
worthy baron not a little, and, naturally attributing it to any and
every cause but the right one, he determined to try what change of air
would do for her, and accordingly sent her to stay with {109}his sister,
who was the superior of a convent in Reading. Here it was his hope that
the society of the nuns would cheer the sweet damsel and restore her
spirits, whilst the change of air and scenery might benefit her health.
There were those, indeed, including her faithful old Saxon nurse
Elfreda, who declared that the conversation of nuns was, as a rule,
anything but enlivening, and Reading by no means particularly healthy or
reinvigorating; but as nobody dared question the Baron’s superior wisdom
upon every subject, nothing was said against his plan, and Mathilde de
Guerre-à-mort was safely transmitted to and domesticated in the convent
just before the expedition against her lover’s castle was undertaken by
her respected parent.
Horace de St. Aunay, although he received warning of the coming attack,
was by no means in a condition to offer such resistance as he could
have wished. The Lancastrians were by far the stronger party in his
neighbourhood, and the Baron’s forces greatly outnumbered his own. I
need not dwell upon the particulars of the events which followed. The
Guerre-à-mort army crossed the river, defeated the levies of St. Aunay
in a skirmish on the plain, and drove them in every direction before
their victorious advance. Horace de St. Aunay, wounded by an arrow, was
reported killed, and it was impossible to rally his people under another