The Robber Baron of Bedford Castle

"Ouse, having Olney past, as she were waxed mad, From her first staider course immediately doth gad, And in meandering gyves doth whirl herself about, That, this way, here and there, back, forward, in and out. And like a wanton girl, oft doubting in her gait, In labyrinthine turns and twinings intricate, Through those rich fields doth flow."

It is in the Ouse valley that the events of our story will chiefly be laid, for here was centred the life of the county, in those castles which once crowned with their keeps the various mounds which still exist,--

"Chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells."

It was along the banks of the Ouse, a little north of Bedford, that a young knight was riding one bright January morning in 1224. By his side hung his good sword, though he was clad only in the ordinary riding dress of the period; for these were troublous times, and the country round by no means secure. At Bedford Castle, Sir Fulke de Breaute, one of the late King John's lieutenants, sat strongly intrenched, like the robber-barons of a later day in their castles on the Rhine, spreading devastation far and wide.

Young Ralph de Beauchamp, who was making his way that winter morning along the marshy banks of the river, which were later to develop into Drayton's "rich meadows," was the son of the younger brother of the former occupant and ejected owner of Bedford Castle. For more than a hundred years the banner of the De Beauchamps had waved from Bedford keep. Their ancestor, Hugo de Beauchamp, had received the feof from the Conqueror, together with many a broad manor in the county. His son, Pain, had reared the strong keep on the lofty mound which to this day overlooks the Ouse, and from which Cuthwulf the Saxon had driven the Britons in 572, pursuing them far south into the Thames valley. Later on, the Danes, sailing up the Ouse, had burned the Saxon Burh; but the Norman keep, though it had surrendered, had never yet been taken by assault. Eight years before the time of our story, William de Beauchamp, the head of the family, and the uncle of young Ralph, had sided with the barons who were standing up for the liberties of England against King John, and had been ousted by John's ferocious lieutenant, Fulke de Breaute. This latter, as has been told, now held the castle, no longer as lieutenant for Henry, John's youthful successor, but as the leader of a band of robbers, who knew no right but might.

Thus it had come to pass that the house of De Beauchamp, once so powerful in Bedfordshire, was rather down in the world in the early part of the thirteenth century, and young Sir Ralph felt the reverses of his family. Left an orphan in childhood, he had been brought up by his uncle William, and though a penniless knight, heir neither to the estates of Bedford, nor to those of another branch of the family seated at the castle of Eaton Socon, lower down the river, he had, as it were, been rewarded by nature with more than a compensating share of the graces of face and form. He was, moreover, a proficient in those exercises of the tilt-yard which formed an important part of a knightly education, and which were as dear to young men in the thirteenth century as are their athletic pursuits to those of the present day. Nor had his mental training been entirely neglected. True, the latter would not be considered much now-a-days; but in his boyhood, in Bedford Castle, Ralph had sat many hours in the chaplain's room, when he would much rather have been bathing or fishing in the stream below the walls, learning from the venerable priest how to read, write, and speak Latin, then a most necessary part of a gentleman's education.

But neither poverty nor the misfortunes of his family appeared to weigh heavily on Sir Ralph's mind, to judge by the cheerful expression of his countenance, as he rode along humming the refrain of an old Provencal love-song, which some of De Beauchamp's retainers had brought into Bedfordshire from fair France. Neither did he seem in any dread of Fulke de Breaute's myrmidons, for the valley was clear of such as far as eye could reach, though it was then in great measure overflowed by the waters of the Ouse. As was not unusual then in winter-time, the broad river had risen above its low-lying banks, and a vast expanse of water shimmered far and wide in the sunlight. Later on, in Fuller's time, a not uncommon saying gave the Ouse the name of the "Bailiff of Bedfordshire," from the quantity of hay and other produce distrained from the low-lying lands by these frequent and extensive floods.

As Ralph approached Milton Mill, which was half submerged, and perforce inactive, he reined up his steed, who was already up to her fetlocks in the shallow flood which covered the meadows and the track, and eagerly scanned the watery waste before him, for his keen eye had caught sight of something dark being whirled down the rushing torrent. For an instant he doubted as to whether it were not some snag or tree-branch torn from the willows in the osier-bed further up. But the truth flashed upon him when he perceived a slight struggle on the part of the object, something which might be an arm raised from the water, and clutching despairingly at nothing.

"B' our Lady!" exclaimed the young knight, "there goes some poor wretch who seems like to die unshriven, unless I can give him a helping hand! 'Tis but a chance.--But come up, my lady," he added, admonishing his good gray mare with a slight prick from the heavy goads or "pryck spurs" which armed his heels; "we can but do our best!"

So saying, Ralph hastily turned his steed to the left, and rode quickly through the slush, down the half-submerged bank, and into the stream. There was not a moment to lose. Judging his distance carefully, he forced the mare into the river a little below the struggling figure, which seemed to be encumbered with heavy clothing. The current, turgid and lead-coloured, swirled violently round the stout steed, who had enough to do to keep on her feet against it, weighted as she was with her stalwart rider. Further and further Ralph forced her with voice and spur, though she backed and stumbled, bewildered by the novel situation, and battling against the current. Already the swiftly-eddying water had reached her shoulders, when, by her head thrown back, her distended nostrils and starting eye, Ralph saw she could do no more.

So, bending low down over his saddle-bow, and reaching out his right arm as far as he was able to stretch, he awaited the critical moment when the drowning man should be swept down towards him. Then, quick as thought, he gripped with an iron grasp at the black frock in which the figure was clothed, and turned his horse sharply round. The good steed fought her way bravely out of the stream, her rider dragging the drowning man behind him.

The moment he found himself on dry land once more, Ralph leaped off to breathe his horse, and to look at the half-unconscious man he had rescued, and who was clad in the lay or serving brother's habit of the Benedictines.

Kneeling by his side, the knight chafed his wet face and hands, and presently his eyes opened, and he sat up.

"Thanks to Our Lady and St. Benedict!" he muttered, "and to you, Sir Knight! But I thought it was all over with me."

"And, in good sooth, I thought so too, my good fellow!" exclaimed Sir Ralph, stamping to shake the water off his leathern hose and jerkin and woollen surcoat. "But how came you to venture alone, and without a guide, across the ford at flood time?" he added, much relieved to see the lay-brother, who was young and robust, rise to his feet and begin to wring his habit.

"I was bred and born in these parts, Sir Knight," replied the latter, "and I could find my way across Milton Ford blindfold. Nay, I have even crossed it in worse seasons than this. But that was before I took upon me this habit, and I trow our holy founder did not contemplate that his followers should have to swim for their lives in it. Moreover, I have travelled far and swiftly, and I am weary."

"And have you much further to go yet?" inquired the knight.

"But as far as Bletsoe," replied the lay-brother.

"Then get you up behind me on my horse," answered Ralph, "and together we will take our road, for my journey also ends at Bletsoe."

"Nay, Sir Knight," replied the lay-brother, glancing at Ralph's gilt spur of knighthood; "that would be far from seemly. This is not the first time by any means that the Ouse has tried to knock the breath out of my body, for I was brought up on his banks. My father is one of the retainers of my Lord de Pateshulle, and lives just between my lord's house and the river. Moreover, it will be best for me to trudge along on foot, and maybe my clothes will be dry before I have finished my journey. Not that I can ever forget your kind help, sir, or my merciful deliverance, thanks be to God," he added, devoutly crossing himself.

Accordingly Ralph, the mare having recovered herself from her gallant struggle in the water, remounted, and the lay-brother stepped out bravely by his side.

"And prithee, my good fellow," asked the knight, "how came you to be struggling in the Ouse this morning in your Benedictine dress?"

"Alas, sir!" replied the lay-brother, "I am one of the humblest servants of the holy Abbey of St. Albans, and I am but just now escaped from greater danger than that which you beheld befall me in the Ouse, for at dusk yesterday came that enemy of God, Sir Fulke de Breaute--"

"Ay!" interrupted Ralph, "that disgrace to knighthood--the treacherous robber who hath seized my uncle's castle!"

The lay-brother looked up at the handsome face turned down upon him, and then at the arms embroidered on his surcoat. Bowing his head in obeisance to his companion when he recognized that he was in the presence of one of the family of De Beauchamp, he proceeded to relate a terrible tale of murder and outrage committed at St. Albans but the day before by the Robber Baron of Bedford Castle.

"We had but just finished the office of nones in our beautiful abbey church, Sir Knight," he continued, "when we heard a terrible noise of fighting and confusion at the very gate of the abbey itself. The porter's man came rushing in to tell us that De Breaute (whom the saints send to perdition!), with a large band of his Bedford robbers, was in possession of the town, ill-treating the townsfolk in every way, binding many of them fast as prisoners, and demanding admission into our own sacred precincts. I and some others ran to the gate-house, and looking forth from the upper windows, beheld a terrible sight. In front of the gate the soldiers and men-at-arms had formed a half-circle, and in the midst were a great crowd of townsfolk--men, women, and children--all with their arms bound behind their backs, buffeted, kicked, and mocked by the villains who guarded them. And against the gate there was a huge fire kindled, in order that the gate itself might, if possible, be destroyed. And by the fire stood that arch-fiend Fulke himself, calling to our reverend father abbot to come and speak with him. Then, as we looked, we saw certain soldiers drag forward one of the townsmen, and by the light of the blaze--for it was already dark--I saw that it was no other than his worship the bailiff of the town who was thus treated. And then (O merciful God, show thy vengeance upon Fulke and his crew!) they cast him, bound as he was, into the midst of the fire! O sir, the shrieks of this man, dying in torture, as the soldiers thrust him down with their spears!"