without difficulty, a brook covered with ice slippery as glass, descried lights in the distance, and, riding down a glade that served as an avenue, approached Oakmede. Lights glimmered from the outhouses and the orchard, and an alarm-bell was ringing; for the hinds, as was their custom on that night, were wassailing the fruit-trees with cyder, and wishing them health in the coming year, and the bell was rung to scare away the demons while the process was going on.
Oakmede, notwithstanding the changes that for a century and a half had been taking place in the architecture and domestic life of England, stood in very much the same condition as it had done at the time of the Conquest, and said little for the taste or the ambition of its owners. It was a rude structure, partly of timber, partly of brick, with several outbuildings and a large courtyard, to which there was access by strong wooden gates – the whole being surrounded with a deep ditch or fosse, fortified with palisades. But such as the place was, the Icinglas had ever been proud to call it their own; and with a degree of satisfaction which he might not have felt if it had been the haughtiest and strongest of feudal castles, like Lewes, or Warwick, or Kenilworth, Oliver halted and wound his horn. After a little delay the drawbridge was lowered, and he rode through the great wooden gate into the courtyard, and dismounted at the door. As he did so he was met by a boy of sixteen, whose dress of scarlet, striped with yellow, was such as to make the squire stare with surprise, and then laugh merrily.
“Wolf, son of Styr,” exclaimed he at length, “what frenzy has prompted thee to don such garments at sober and homely Oakmede? Bear in mind, varlet, that we are not now capering gaily at the court of King Alphonso. Beshrew me, Wolf, if men will not think that you are going on a masquerade when they see you thus attired in our peaceful hall.”
“Patience, my young master,” replied the varlet, with a glance full of significance; “we have guests.”
“Guests at Oakmede!” said Oliver, with some surprise.
“Ay, guests,” repeated the varlet, “and one guest of quality especially, who, an’ I err not, will be freer than welcome.”
“Varlet,” said Oliver, drawing himself up haughtily, “your tongue outruns your discretion. Guests of quality will ever be welcome at Oakmede, so long as they demean themselves with courtesy; and woe betide the guest, however high his rank or sounding his name, who shall venture to demean himself otherwise than courteously under the roof of the Icinglas, while the honour of their name is in my keeping! But of whom speak you?”
“Of the Lord Hugh de Moreville, who has been here for hours.”
Oliver’s countenance fell; he breathed hard, and his manner was uneasy. Recovering himself, however, he said, with a sigh —
“What! Hugh de Moreville at Oakmede? A prodigy, by my faith! But, in the quality of guest, even my kinsman must be made welcome; wherefore, Wolf, see that the knaves lose no time in placing the supper on the board. Let not this Norman lord have cause to impeach our hospitality.”
Without wasting more time in words, Oliver Icingla hastened to his chamber, rapidly made such changes in his dress as he deemed necessary for the occasion, hastily spoke a few words of comfort to his mother, who, after a brief interview, had left the presence of her kinsman with grief at her heart and tears in her eyes, and then repaired to the hall, where the tables were ready spread for the evening meal of the household and the guests. At the lower end, several men-at-arms, who had formed Hugh de Moreville’s train, lay on the benches, and lounged around the ample fire of wood that blazed and crackled up the huge chimney, and threw its light over the smoke-begrimed hall. On the daïs, or elevated part, sat the Norman baron, with a countenance which denoted some impatience and much ill humour.
Hugh de Moreville was a feudal magnate living in an age when feudal magnates deemed themselves born to do whatever their inclination dictated; and he had the aspect and manner of a man who believed himself entitled to act without restraint, and to make others bend to his will, no matter through what sacrifice of their own feelings or interests. Nor was he often baffled in the objects on which he set his heart. Few, indeed, who knew him as he now was at the age of forty-two, with an iron frame and an iron will, could think, without tremor, of opposing that man, with his haughty bearing, his aquiline features, his proud eye, his elevated eyebrows, his nostrils breathing anger, and his hand so ready to shed blood. But Oliver Icingla, in the home of his fathers, was sustained by more than feudal pride; and it was without the least indication of doubt or dismay, or a consciousness of inferiority in any respect, that he walked to the daïs, and held out his hand to the Norman baron.
“My lord and kinsman,” said he, “you are welcome to our poor house.”
“By St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, with a flashing eye, “I cannot but think that it would have been more to the purpose had you been here to welcome me on my arrival.”
“In truth, my lord,” replied Oliver, calmly and earnestly, “I deeply grieve that I should have been absent on such an occasion. But I did not dream that our humble dwelling was to be honoured with such a guest, otherwise I should not have failed you. However, as the proverb says, ‘Better late than never.’ Wherefore, I pray you, accept my excuses in the spirit in which they are offered, and let the heartiness of my welcome atone for any delay in giving it. Ho, there, knaves! place the supper on the board, that our noble guest may taste of such good cheer as the house affords.”
“Kinsman,” said Hugh de Moreville, apparently somewhat surprised at Oliver’s bearing, “nothing less than a weighty matter could have brought me hither at this season, and I have come at no small inconvenience. Now I was careful to give you timely advertisement that any day you might be required to go to the king’s court; and I entreat you to tell me, for I am curious to know, what weighty business could have taken you to London at a time when I had signified that at any hour you might receive a summons to repair to the king’s palace as a hostage?”
Oliver bent his brows sternly, and his cheek reddened; but he made an effort to be calm, and succeeded.
“My lord,” said he, “I will deal plainly with you, and answer as frankly as you could desire. I did understand that I was to be delivered over as a hostage to the king for your good faith, and, albeit at the time I would much liefer, had my own inclinations been consulted, have remained a free man; yet, after much pondering the business, I deemed it better not to kick against the pricks; wherefore I am ready to go to King John whenever you wish. But, meanwhile, desiring to speak with my Lord of Salisbury, under whose banner I have ridden, I deemed that there was no indiscretion in going to London with that intent; nor do I now consider that I have erred therein. As ill luck would have it, I found that the earl had left the king’s court to keep the festival of Christmas in his own Castle of Salisbury, and I returned hither to await your summons, which, I repeat, I am ready to obey. My lord, I have said.”
“Youth!” exclaimed De Moreville, regarding his young kinsman not without astonishment at his audacity, “you speak boldly – too boldly, methinks, for one of your years; and I warn you, for your own sake, to be more discreet. But enough of this for the present: to-morrow you depart hence. Meanwhile, I have that to say which is for your ear alone; and, seeing that supper is on the board, I will not delay your eventide meal.”
Occupying two chairs of carved oak, Oliver and De Moreville took their places on the daïs; and the persons of inferior rank having ranged themselves at the lower end, above and below the salt, supper began. But it was a dull meal. Dame Isabel, who, now that her son’s departure for the court was imminent, indulged her grief and gave way to forebodings, did not appear, and the young host and his baronial guest ate their supper almost in silence. Some faint attempts Oliver did make at conversation, but refrained on perceiving that De Moreville, whose temper had been severely tried by their previous interchange of sentiments, answered sullenly and in monosyllables. Oliver could not but ask himself how all this was to terminate.
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