Great Britain -- History -- Stephen, 1135-1154 -- Fiction
Et interim, Eustace, the son of Stephen, being nearly of the same age as
the son of Matilda, had become a very worthy soldier, and our young Lord
of Caversham had grown up with him, and improved under him. They had
miscarried in the siege of Wallingford Castle, because that house of the
devil was so exceeding strong, and because they were called off to
another more urgent enterprise; but in other quarters they had been more
successful, beating divers of the castle-builders in the field, or
taking them in their dens. Every castle that they took was burned and
destroyed, like Sir Ingelric's castellum at Speen. They brought many
offerings to our shrines, for they were much in our part of the country,
to keep in check the Angevin party to the westward; and whenever he was
not engaged in these duties of war, the young Lord Arthur came to his
home. The winter season allowed him the longest repose, and thus it
befel that the Ladie Alfgiva and that little maiden which I and Philip,
the lay-brother, did first convey to Caversham, became sad instead of
gay at the advance of spring. But Alice was no longer the little maiden
that could lie perdue in a basket, and there had already been many
discourses and conjectures as to the day when she and the young Lord
Arthur would be made one by holy church; for the great love that had
been between them from the days of their childhood was known to all the
country side. Strange it was, but still most true, that Sir Ingelric of
Huntercombe never had made any attempt to recover his fair and good
daughter. Great endeavours he made to get back that dark ladie of the
castle, his wicked and impenitent second wife, and he had at last, by
means, it was said, of the Archbishop of Canterbury, obtained her
release from the nunnery on the eastern coast; but he had never set on
foot any treaty, nor, as far as could be learned, had ever made any
inquiry touching the gentle Alice, who in her heart could not think
without trembling and turning pale of her dark, stern step-mother, and
the days she had passed with her in that foul donjon at Speen.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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