Wager of Battle: A Tale of Saxon Slavery in Sherwood ForestHerbert, Henry William
History
Wager of Battle: A Tale of Saxon Slavery in Sherwood Forest
Herbert, Henry William
Anglo-Saxons -- Fiction; Great Britain -- History -- Norman period, 1066-1154 -- Fiction; Sherwood Forest (England) -- Fiction
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 panel 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, battle-ax 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."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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