The House of Walderne

A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons’
Wars

by the Reverend A. D. Crake


Contents

Preface.
Prologue.
CHAPTER 1:  The Knight And Squire.
CHAPTER 2:  Michelham Priory.
CHAPTER 3:  Kenilworth.
CHAPTER 4:  In the Greenwood.
CHAPTER 5:  Martin Leaves Kenilworth.
CHAPTER 6:  At Walderne Castle.
CHAPTER 7:  Martin’s First Day At Oxford.
CHAPTER 8:  Hubert At Lewes Priory.
CHAPTER 9:  The Other Side Of The Picture.
CHAPTER 10: Foul And Fair.
CHAPTER 11: The Early Franciscans.
CHAPTER 12: How Hubert Gained His Spurs.
CHAPTER 13: How Martin Gained His Desire.
CHAPTER 14: May Day In Lewes.
CHAPTER 15: The Crusader Sets Forth.
CHAPTER 16: Michelham Once More.
CHAPTER 17: The Castle Of Fievrault.
CHAPTER 18: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.
CHAPTER 19: The Preaching Friar.
CHAPTER 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.
CHAPTER 21: To Arms! To Arms!
CHAPTER 22: A Medieval Tyrant.
CHAPTER 23: Saved As By Fire.
CHAPTER 24: Before The Battle.
CHAPTER 25: The Battle Of Lewes.
CHAPTER 26: After The Battle.
Epilogue.
Notes.




Preface.


It is not without pleasure that the author presents this, the twelfth
of his series of historical novelettes, to his friends and readers; the
characters, real and imaginary, are very dear to him; they have formed
a part of his social circle for some two years past, and if no one else
should believe in Sir Hubert of Walderne and Brother Martin, the author
assuredly does. It was during a pleasant summer holiday that the plan
of this little work was conceived: the author was taking temporary duty
at Waldron in Sussex, during the absence of its vicar—the Walderne of
our story, formerly so called, a lovely village situated on the
southern slope of that range of low hills which extends from Hastings
to Uckfield, and which formed the backbone of the Andredsweald. In the
depths of a wood below the vicarage he found the almost forgotten site
of the old Castle of Walderne, situate in a pathless thicket, and only
approachable through the underwood. The moat was still there, although
at that time destitute of water, the space within completely occupied
by trees and bushes, where once all the bustle and life of a medieval
household was centred.

The author felt a strong interest in the spot; he searched in the
Sussex Archaeological Collections for all the facts he could gather
together about this forgotten family: he found far more information
than he had hoped to gain, especially in an article contributed by the
Reverend John Ley, a former vicar of Waldron. He also made himself
familiar with the topography of the neighbourhood, and prepared to make
the old castle the chief scene of his next story, and to revivify the
dry dust so far as he was able.

In a former story, the Andredsweald, a tale of the Norman Conquest, he
wrote of “The House of Michelham,” in the same locality, and he has
introduced one of the descendants of that earlier family, in the person
of Friar Martin, thinking it might prove a link of interest to the
readers of the earlier story.

He had intended to incorporate more of the general history of the time,
but space forbade, so he can only recommend his readers who are curious
to know more of the period to the Life of Simon de Montfort, by Canon
Creighton {1}, which will serve well to accompany the novelette. And
also those who wish to know more of the loving and saintly _Francis of
Assisi_, will find a most excellent biography by Mrs. Oliphant, in
Macmillan’s Sunday Library, to which the author also acknowledges great
obligations.

If it be objected, as it probably may, that the author’s Franciscans
are curiously like the early Wesleyans, or in some respects even like a
less respectable body of modern religionists, he can only reply “so
they were;” but there was this great difference, that they deeply
realised the sacramental system of the Church, and led people to her,
not from her; the preacher was never allowed to supersede the priest.

But, on the other hand, it may reasonably be objected that Brother
Martin only exhibits one side of the religion of his period; that there
is an unaccountable absence of the popular superstitions of the age in
his teaching; and that, more especially, he does not invoke the saints
as a friar would naturally have done again and again.

Now, the author does not for a moment deny that Martin must have shared
in the common belief of his time; but such things were not of the
essence of his teaching, only the accidental accompaniments thereof.
The prominent feature of the preaching of the early Franciscans was, as
was that of St. Paul, Jesus Christ and Him crucified. And in a book
intended primarily for young readers of the Church of England, it is
perhaps allowable to suppress features which would perplex youthful
minds before they have the power of discriminating between the chaff
and the wheat; while it is not thereby intended to deny that they
really existed. The objectionable side of the teaching of the medieval
Church of England has been dwelt upon with such little charity, by
certain Protestant writers, that their youthful readers might be led to
think that the religion of their forefathers was but a mass of
superstition, devoid of all spiritual life, and therefore the author
feels that it is better to dwell upon the points of agreement between
the fathers and the children, than to gloat over “corruptions.”

In writing the chapters which describe medieval Oxford, the author had
the advantage of an ancient map, and of certain interesting records of
the thirteenth century, so that the picture of scholastic life and of
the conflicts of “north and south,” etc. is not simply imaginary
portraiture. The earliest houses of education in Oxford were doubtless
the religious houses, beginning with the Priory of Saint Frideswide,
but schools appear to have speedily followed, whose alumni lodged in
such hostels as we have described in “Le Oriole.” The hall, so called
(we are not answerable for the non-elision of the vowel) was
subsequently granted by Queen Eleanor to one James de Hispania, from
whom it was purchased for the new college founded by Adam de Brom, and
took the name of Oriel College.

Two other points in this family history may invite remark. It may be
objected that the Old Man of the Mountain is too atrocious for belief.
The author can only reply that he is not original; he met the old man
and all his doings long ago, in an almost forgotten chronicle of the
crusades, especially he noted the perversion of boyish intellect to
crime and cruelty.

Lastly, in these days of incredulity, the supernatural element in the
story of Sir Roger of Walderne may appear forced or unreal. But the
incident is one of a class which has been made common property by
writers of fiction in all generations; it occurs at least thrice in the
_Ingoldsby Legends_; Sir Walter Scott gives a terrible instance in his
story of the Scotch judge haunted by the spectre of the bandit he had
sentenced to death {2}, which appears to be founded on fact; and indeed
the present narrative was suggested by one of Washington Irving’s short
stories, read by the writer when a boy at school.

Whether such appearances, of which there are so many authentic
instances, be objective or subjective—the creation of the sufferer’s
remorse—they are equally real to the victim.

But the author will no longer detain the reader from the story itself,
only dedicating it to the kind friends he met at Waldron during his
summer holiday in eighteen hundred and eighty-three.




Prologue.


It was an ancient castle, all of the olden time; down in a deep dell,
sheltered by uplands north, east, and west; looking south down the
valley to the Sussex downs, which were seen in the hazy distance
uplifting their graceful outlines to the blue sky, across a vast canopy
of treetops; beneath whose shade the wolf and the wildcat, the badger
and the fox, yet roamed at large, and preyed upon the wild deer and the
lesser game. It bore the name of Walderne, which signifies a sylvan
spot frequented by the wild beasts; the castle lay beneath; the parish
church rose on the summit of the ridge above—a simple Norman structure,
imposing in its very simplicity.

Behind, the ground rose gradually to the summit of the ridge—which
formed a sort of backbone to the Andredsweald. The ridge was then, as
now, surmounted by a windmill, belonging then to the lords of the
castle, where all his tenants and retainers were compelled to grind
their corn. It commanded a beautiful view of sea and land; a hostelry
stood near the summit, it was called the Cross in Hand, for it was once
the rendezvous of the would-be crusaders, who, from various parts of
the Weald, took the sacred badge, and started for the distant East via
Winchelsea or Pevensey.

In the deep dark wood were many settlements and clearings; Walderne was
perhaps the wildest, as its name implies; around lay Chiddinglye, once
the abode of the Saxon offspring of Chad or Chid; Hellinglye
(Ella-inga-leah), the home of the sons of Ella, of whom we have written
before; Heathfield and Framfield on opposite sides, open heaths in the
wood, covered with heather and sparsely peopled; Mayfield to the north,
once the abode of the great Saint Dunstan, and the scene of his
conflicts with Satan; Hothly to the south, where, at the date of our
tale, lived the Hodleghs, an Anglo-Norman brood.

The Lord of Walderne was Ralph, son of Sybilla de Dene (West Dean) and
Robert of Icklesham (near Winchelsea). He was blessed, or cursed, as
the case might be, with three children; Roger, Sybil, and Mabel.

The old man came of a stern fighting stock: what wonder that his son
inherited his character in this respect. He was a wilful yet
affectionate lad of strong passions, one who might be led but never
driven: unfortunately his father did not read his character aright, and
at length a crisis arose.

Roger wooed the daughter of the neighbouring Lord of Hothly, but found
a rival in a cousin, one Waleran de Dene, a favourite of his father,
and a constant visitor at Walderne Castle. In those rude days the
solution of the difficulty seemed simple—to fight the question out. The
dead man would trouble neither lad nor lass any more, the living lead
the fair bride to church; and, sooth to say, there were many misguided
maidens who were proud to be fought for, and quite willing to give
their hand to the victor.

So Roger challenged his cousin to fight when he met him returning from
a visit to Edith de Hodlegh, and the challenge being readily accepted,
the unhappy Waleran de Dene bit the dust. The old lord, grieving sore
over the death of his sister’s son, drove Roger from home and bade him
never darken his doors again, till he had made reparation by a
pilgrimage or a crusade; and Roger departed, mourned by his sisters and
all the household, and was heard of no more during his father’s
lifetime.

But more grief was in store for the stern old lord of Walderne. The
third child, Mabel, the youngest daughter, fell in love with a handsome
young hunter, a Saxon outlaw of the type of Robin Hood, who delivered
her from a wild boar which would have slain or cruelly mangled her. The
old father had inspired no confidence in his children: she met her
outlaw again and again by stealth, and eventually became the bride of
Wulfstan, last representative of the old English family who had
possessed Michelham before the Conquest {3}.

The remaining child, Sybil, alone gladdened her old father’s heart and
closed his eyes, weary of the world, in peace; after which she married
Sir Nicholas de Harengod, and became Lady of Icklesham, by the sea, and
Walderne up in the Weald.

The castle was originally one of those robber dens which were such a
terror to their vicinities in the days of King Stephen; it escaped the
general destruction of such holds under Henry Plantagenet, and became
the abode of law-abiding folk.

It had long ceased to be a source of terror to the neighbourhood when
it came into the possession of the Denes—to whom it was a convenient
hunting seat; fortified, as a matter of course, by royal permission,
which ran thus:

“Know that we have granted, on behalf of ourselves and our heirs, to
our beloved Ralph de Dene that he may hold and keep his houses of
Walderne fortified with moat and walls of stone and lime, and
crenellated, without any let or hindrance from ourselves or our heirs.”

This permission was made necessary in the time of the great
Plantagenet, in order to prevent the multiplication of fortified places
of offence as well as defence by tyrannical barons or other oppressors
of the commonwealth; for in the days of Stephen, as we have remarked
already, many, if not most, of such holds had been little better than
dens of robbers, as the piteous lament which concludes the “Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle” too well testifies.

The space enclosed by the moat and outer walls of Walderne Castle was
about 150 feet in diameter.

The old lord died in the arms of his remaining daughter Sybil, without
seeking any reconciliation with his other children—in fact Roger was
lost to sight—upon her head he concentrated the benediction which
should have been divided amongst the three.

She married Sir Nicholas of Harengod, near the sea, and was happy in
her choice. She built a chapel within the castle precincts, and her
prayer for permission to do so yet remains recorded:

“That it may be allowed me to have a chapel in my castle of Walderne,
at my own expense, to be served by the parish priest as chaplain;
without either font or bell.”

It was granted upon the condition that to avoid any appearance of
schism, she should attend the parish church in state with her whole
household thrice in the year.

_Six Hundred Years Ago_: they have all been dead and buried these six
centuries; a dense wood, within which the moat can be traced, covers
the site of Sybil’s castle and chapel, yet in these old records they
seem to live again. A sojourner for a brief summer holiday amidst their
former haunts—the same yet so changed—the writer has striven to
revivify the dry bones, and to make the family live again in the story
he now presents to his readers.




Chapter 1: The Knight And Squire.


The opening scene of our tale is a wild tract of common land,
interspersed with forest and heath, which lies northward at the foot of
the eastern range of the Sussex downs. The time is the year of grace
twelve hundred and fifty and three; the month a cold and seasonable
January. The wild heath around is crisp with frost and white with snow,
it appears a dense solitude; away to the east lies the town of
Hamelsham, or Hailsham; to the west the downs about Lewes; to the
south, at a short distance, one sees the lofty towers and monastic
buildings of a new and thriving community, surrounded by a broad and
deep moat; to the north copse wood, brake, heath, dell, and dense
forest, in various combinations and endless variety, as far as the
lodge of Cross in Hand, so called from the crusaders who took the
sacred sign in their hands, and started for the earthly Jerusalem not
so many years agone.

Across this waste, as the dark night was falling, rode a knight and his
squire. The knight was a man of some fifty years of age, but still
strong, tall, and muscular; his dark features indicated his southern
blood, and an indescribable expression and manner told of one
accustomed to command. His face bore the traces of scars, doubtless
honourably gained; seen beneath a scarlet cap, lined with steel, but
trimmed with fur. A flexible coat of mail, so cunningly wrought as to
offer no more opposition to the movements of the wearer than a
greatcoat might nowadays, was covered with a thick cloak or mantle, in
deference to the severity of the weather; the thighs were similarly
protected by linked mail, and the hose and boots defended by unworked
plates of thin steel. In his girdle was a dagger, and from the saddle
depended, on one side, a huge two-handed sword, on the other a gilded
battle axe.

It was, in short, a knight of the olden time, who thus travelled
through this dangerous country, alone with his squire, who bore his
master’s lance and carried his small triangular shield, broad at the
summit to protect the breast, but thence diminishing to a point.

“Dost thou know, my Stephen, thy way through this desolate country? for
verily the traces of the road are but slight.”

“My lord, the night grows darker, and the air seems full of snow. Had
we not better return and seek shelter within the walls of Hamelsham? I
fear we have lost the way utterly, and shall never reach Michelham
Priory tonight.”

“Nay, the motives that led me forth to face the storm still press upon
me, I must reach Michelham tonight.”

An angry hollow gust of wind almost impeded his further progress as he
spoke, and choked his utterance.

“An inhospitable reception England affords us, after an absence of so
many years. Methinks I like Gascony the better in regard to climate.”

“For five happy years have I followed thy banner there, my lord.”

“Yet I love England better, foreign although my blood, or I had thought
more of the French king’s offer.”

“It was a noble offer, my lord.”

“To be regent of an unquiet realm while my revered suzerain and friend,
Louis, went upon his crusade—mark me, Stephen, England has higher
destinies than France; this land is fated to be the mother of a race of
freemen such as once ruled the world from Rome of old. The union of the
long hostile races, Norman and English, is producing a people which
shall in time rule the world; and if I can do aught to help to lay the
foundation of such a polity as befits the union, please God, I shall
feel well repaid: in short, Leicester is a dearer name to me than
Montfort; England than France.”

“Thy noble father, my lord, adorned the latter country.”

“God grant he has not left an inheritance of judgment to his children;
the cries of the slaughtered Albigenses ever rang in my poor mother’s
ears, and ring too often in mine.”

“I have never heard the story fairly told.”

“Thou shalt now. The land where they spoke the language of Oc, thence
called Langue-d’oc, was hardly a part of France; it had its own
government, its own usages, as well as its own sweet tongue. It was
lovely as the garden of the Lord ere the serpent entered therein; the
soil was fruitful, the corn and wine and oil abundant. The people were
unlike other people; they cared little for war, they wrote books and
made love on the banks of the Rhone and Garonne.

“Well had they stopped here, and not taken liberties” (here the knight
crossed himself) “with the Church. Intercourse with Mussulmen and
Greeks—who alike came to the marts—corrupted them, and they became
unbelievers, so that even the children in their play mocked at the
Church and Sacraments. In short, it was said they were Manicheans.”

“What is that?”

“People who believe that the powers of good and evil are co-equal and
co-eternal, that both God and the devil are to be worshipped. At least
this was laid to their charge; I know not if it be all true.

“Well, the Church appealed for help to the chivalry of France; she
declared the goods and possessions of this unfortunate people
confiscate to them who should seize them, and offered heaven to those
who died in battle against them. Now these poor wretches could write
love songs and were clever at all kinds of art, but they could not
fight. My father was chosen to head the new crusade; and even he was
shocked at the murderous scenes, the massacres, the burnings, which
followed—God forbid I should ever witness the like—they were blotted
out from the earth.”

The storm which had been gathering all this time now burst in its full
violence upon our travellers. Blinding flakes of snow, borne with all
the force of the wind, seemed to overwhelm them; soon the tracks which
alone marked the way became obliterated, and the riders wandered
aimlessly for more than an hour.

“What shall we do, Stephen? I have lost every trace of the way; my poor
beast threatens to give up.”

“I know not, my lord.”

“Ah, the Saints be praised, there is a light close at hand. It shines
clear and distinct—now it is shut out.”

“A door or window must have been opened and closed again.”

“So I deem, but this is the direction,” said the knight as he turned
his horse’s head northwards.

Let us precede knight and squire and see what awaited them.

Upon a spot of firm ground, free from swamp, and clear for about the
area of a couple of acres, stood a few primitive buildings: there was a
barn, a cow shed, a few huts in which men slept but did not live, and a
central building wherein the whole community, when at home, assembled
to eat the king’s venison, and wash it down with ale, mead, and even
wine—the latter probably the proceeds of a successful forage.

Darkness is falling without and the snowflakes fall thicker and
thicker—it yet wants three hours to curfew—but the woods are quite
buried in the sombre gloom of a starless night. The central building is
evidently well lighted, for we see the firelight through many chinks in
the ill-built walls ere we enter, although they have daubed the
interstices of the logs whereof it is composed with clay and mud almost
as adhesive as mortar. Let us go in—the door opens.

A huge fire burns in the centre of the building, and the smoke ascends
in clouds through an opening in the roof, directly above, down which
the snowflakes descend and hiss as they meet their death in the ruddy
flames. Three poles are suspended over the fire, and from the point
where they unite descends an iron chain, suspending a large caldron or
pot.

Oh, what a savoury smell! the woods have been ransacked, that their
tenants, who possess succulent and juicy flesh, may contribute to
appease the hunger of the outlaws—bird and beast are there, and soon
will be beautifully cooked. Nor are edible herbs wanting, such at least
as can be gathered in the woods or grown in the small plot of
cultivated ground around the buildings; which the men leave entirely,
as do all semi-savage races, to the care of the women.

There is plenty of room to sit round this fire, and several men,
besides women and boys, are basking in its warmth—some sit on
three-legged stools, some cross-legged on the floor—and amidst them,
with a charming absence of restraint, are many huge-jawed dogs, who
slobber as they smell the fumes from the pot, or utter an impatient
whine from time to time.

Their chieftain, a man of no small importance judging from his dress
and manner, sits on the seat of honour, a species of chair, the only
one in the building, and is perhaps the most notable man of the party.
He is tall of stature, his limbs those of a giant, his fist ponderous
as a sledge hammer; a tunic of skins confined around the waist by a
belt of untanned leather, in which is stuck a hunting knife, adorns his
upper story: short breeches of skin, and leggings, with the undressed
fur of a fox outside, complete his bedecking.

A loud barking of dogs was heard, then a trampling of horses; some
looked astonished, others rose to their feet, and opening the door
looked out into the storm.

“What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?”

“Some travellers I met outside as I was returning home from the chase,
having got caught in the storm myself,” replied a gruff voice; “they
had seen our light, but were trying in vain to get into our nest.”

“How many?”

“Two, a knight and a squire.”

“Bring them in, in God’s name; all are welcome tonight.

“But for all that,” said he, _sotto voce_, “it may be easier to get in
than out.”

A brief pause, the horses were stabled, the guests entered.

“We have come to crave your hospitality,” said the knight.

“It is free to all—sit you down, and in a few minutes the women will
serve the supper.”

They seated themselves—no names were asked, a few remarks were made
upon that subject which interests all Englishmen so deeply even now—the
weather.

“Hast travelled far?” asked the chieftain.

“Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we must have
wandered miles from it.”

“Many miles,” said a low, sweet voice.

The knight then noticed the woman for the first time—he might have said
lady—who sat on the right of this grim king. Her features and bearing
were so superior to her surroundings that he started, as men do when
they spy a rich flower in a garden of herbs. By her side was a boy,
evidently her son, for he had her dark features, so unlike the general
type around.

“How came such folk here?” thought De Montfort.

The meal was at length served, the stew poured into wooden bowls; no
spoons or forks were provided. The fingers and the lips had to do their
work unaided, in that day, at least in the huts of the peasantry.
Bread, or rather baked corn cakes, were produced; herbs floated in the
soup for flavouring; vegetables, properly so called, were there none.

Many a time had our travellers partaken of rougher fare in their
campaigns, and they were well content with their food; so they ate
contentedly with good appetite. The wind howled without, the snow found
its way in through divers apertures, but the warmth of the central fire
filled the hovel. Their hosts produced a decoction of honey, called
mead, of which a little went a long way, and soon they were all quite
convivial.

“Canst thou not sing a song, Stephen, like a gallant troubadour from
the land of the sunny south, to reward our hosts for their
entertainment?”

And Stephen sang one of the touching amatory ballads which had emanated
so copiously from the unfortunate Albigenses of the land of Oc. The
sweet soft sounds charmed, although the hosts understood not their
meaning.

“And now, my lad, have not thy parents taught thee a song?” said the
knight, addressing the boy.

“Sing thy song of the Greenwood, Martin,” added the mother.

And the boy sang, with a sweet and child-like accent, a song of the
exploits of the famous Robin Hood and Little John:

Come listen to me, ye gallants so free,
All you that love mirth for to hear;
And I will tell, of what befell,
To a bold outlaw, in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood, in the forest stood,
Beneath the shade of the greenwood tree,
He the presence did scan, of a fine young man,
As fine as ever a jay might be.

Abroad he spread a cloak of red,
A cloak of scarlet fine and gay,
Again and again, he frisked over the plain,
And merrily chanted a roundelay.


The ballad went on to tell how next day Robin saw this fine bird, whose
name was Allan-a-dale, with his feathers all moultered; because his
bonnie love had been snatched from him and was about to be wed to a
wizened old knight, at a neighbouring church, against her will. And
then how Robin Hood and Little John, and twenty-four of their merrie
men, stopped the ceremony, and Little John, assuming the Bishop’s robe,
married the fair bride to Allan-a-dale, who thereupon became their man
and took to an outlaw’s life with his bonny wife.

“Well sung, my lad, but when thou shalt marry, I wish thee a better
priest than Little John; here is a guerdon for thee, a rose noble; some
day thou wilt be a famous minstrel.

“And now, my Stephen, let us sleep, if our good hosts will permit.”

“There is a hut hard by, such as we all use, which I have devoted to
your service; clean straw and thick coverlets of skins, warriors will
hardly ask more.”

“It was but an hour since I thought the heath would have been our
couch, and a snowball our pillow; we shall be well content.”

“It is wind proof, and thou mayst rest in safety till the horn summons
all to break their fast at dawn: thou mayst sleep meanwhile as securely
as in thine own castle.”

And the outlaws rose with a courtesy one would hardly have expected
from these wild sons of the forest; while Kynewulf showed the guests to
their sleeping quarters, through the still fast-falling snow.

The hut was snug as Grimbeard (for such was the chieftain’s appropriate
name) had boasted, and tolerably wind proof, although in such a storm
snow will always force its way through the tiniest crevices. It was
built of wattle work, cunningly daubed with clay, even as the early
Britons built their lodges.

And here slept the great earl, whose name was known through the
civilised world, the brother-in-law of the king, the mightiest warrior
of his time, and, amongst the laity, the most devout churchman known to
fame.


In the dead hour of the night, when the darkness is deepest and sleep
the soundest, they were both awakened by the opening of the door, and
the cold blast of wind it produced. The earl and his squire started up
and sat upright on their couches.

A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of
both were red with weeping.

“Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured
thee? the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed.”

It was the woman they had noted at the fireside.

“Thou art Simon de Montfort,” she said.

“I am; how dost thou know me?”

“I have met thee before, under other guise. Is liberty dear to thee?”

“Without it life is worthless—but who or what threatens it?”

“The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen.”

“They will not harm me. I have eaten of their salt.”

“Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it is
brought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks.”

“In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and
away; but who will be my guide?”

“My son; but thou must do me a service in return—thou must charge
thyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return here no
more.”

“But canst thou part with thine own son?”

“I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust
him to thee.”

“Oh, mother!” said the boy, weeping silently.

“Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such a
chance, now it is come—for thine own sake, my darling, the apple of
mine eye; this good earl can be trusted.”

“Earl Simon,” she said, “I know thee both great and a man who fears
God; yes, I know thee, I have long watched for such an opportunity;
take this boy, and in saving him save yourself from captivity.”

“Tell me his name.”

“Martin will suffice.”

“But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that I may
bring him up according to his degree.”

“He is of noble birth, on both sides; how fallen from such high estate
this packet—entrusted in full confidence—will tell thee. Simon de
Montfort, I give thee my life, nay, my all; let me hear from time to
time how he fareth, through the good monks of Michelham—thou leavest a
bleeding heart behind.”

“Poor woman! yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of my pages,
if he prove worthy.”

“It is all I ask: now depart ere they are stirring. It wants about
three hours to dawn, the moon shines, the snow has ceased, so that thou
wilt reach Michelham in time for early mass. I will take thee to thine
horses.”

She led them forth; the horses were quietly saddled and bridled. No
watch was kept; who could dread a foe at such a time and season? She
opened the gateway in an outer defence of osier work and ditch which
encompassed the little settlement.

One maternal kiss—it was the last.

And the three, earl, squire, and boy, went forth into the night, the
boy riding behind the squire.




Chapter 2: Michelham Priory.


At the southern verge of the mighty forest called the Andredsweald, or
Anderida Sylva, Gilbert d’Aquila, last of that name, founded the Priory
of Michelham for the good of his soul.

The forest in question was of vast extent, and stretched across Sussex
from Kent to Southampton Water; dense, impervious save where a few
roads, following mainly the routes traced by the Romans, penetrated its
recesses; the haunts of wild beasts and wilder men. It was not until
many generations had passed away that this tract of land, whereon stand
now so many pretty Sussex villages, was even inhabitable: like the
modern forests of America, it was cleared by degrees as monasteries
were built, each to become a centre of civilisation.

For, as it has been well remarked, without the influence of the Church
there would have been in the land but two classes—beasts of burden and
beasts of prey—an enslaved serfdom, a ferocious aristocracy.

And such an outpost of civilisation was the Priory of Michelham, on the
verge of the debatable land where Saxon outlaws and Norman lords
struggled for the mastery.

On the southern border of this sombre forest, close to his Park of
Pevensey, Gilbert d’Aquila, as almost the last act of his race in
England {4}, built this Priory of Michelham upon an island, which, as
we have told in a previous tale, had been the scene of a most
sanguinary contest, and sad domestic tragedy, during the troubled times
of the Norman Conquest; the eastern embankment, which enclosed the Park
of Pevensey and kept in the beasts of the chase for the use of Norman
hunters, was close at hand.

The priory buildings occupied eight acres of land, surrounded by a wide
and deep moat full forty yards across, fed by the river Cuckmere, and
abounding in fish for fast-day fare. Although it had proved (as
described in our earlier tale) incapable of a prolonged defence, yet
its situation was quite such as to protect the priory from any sudden
violence on the part of the “merrie men” or nightly marauders, and when
the drawbridge was up, the gateway closed, the good brethren slept none
the less soundly for feeling how they were protected.

Within this secure entrenchment stood their sacred and domestic
buildings, their barns and stables; therein slept their thralls, and
the teams of horses which cultivated their fields, and the cattle and
sheep on which they fed on feast days. A fine square tower (still
remaining) arose over the bridge, and alone gave access by its stately
portals to the hallowed precincts; it was three stories high, the
janitor lived and slept therein; a winding stair conducted to the
turreted roof and the several chambers.

At the time of our story Prior Roger ruled the brotherhood; a man of
varied parts and stainless life. He was not without monastic society:
fifteen miles east was the Cluniac priory of Lewes, fifteen miles west
the Benedictine abbey of Battle, three miles south under the downs the
“Alien” priory of Wilmington.

But wherever a monastery was built roads were made, marshes drained,
and the whole country rose in civilisation, while for the learning of
the nineteenth century to revile monastic lore is for the oak to revile
the acorn from which it sprang.

Here the wayfarer found a shelter; here the sick their needful
medicine; here the children an instructor; here the poor relief; and
here, above all, one weary of the incessant strife of an evil world
might find PEACE.

On the morning succeeding the arrival of the great Earl of Leicester,
that doughty guest was seated in the prior’s chamber, in company with
his host. The day was most uninviting without, but the fire blazed
cheerfully within. The snow kept falling in thick flakes, which
narrowed the vision so that our friends could hardly see across the
moat, but the fire crackled on the great hearth where five or six logs
fizzed and spluttered out their juices.

“My journey is indeed delayed,” said the earl, “yet I am most anxious
to reach London and present myself to the king.”

“The weather is in God’s hands; we may pray for a change, but meanwhile
we must be patient and thankful that we have a roof over our heads, my
lord.”

“And it gives me full time to hear particulars about the boy whom I
left in your care—a wilful, petted urchin, ten years of age he was
then.”

“The lad is docile; he has scant inclination towards the Church, but he
shows the signs of his high lineage in a hundred different ways.”

“High lineage?” said the earl, with a smile and a look of inquiry.

“We had supposed him of thy kindred; he bears every sign of noblesse
and does not disgrace it,” said the prior, himself of the kindred of
the “lords of the eagle.”

“He is the son of a brother crusader.”

“The father is not living?”

“No, he fell in Palestine, within sight of the earthly Jerusalem, and I
trust has found admittance into the Jerusalem which is above; he
committed the boy to my care—

“But let them bring young Hubert hither.”

The prior tinkled a silver bell, which lay upon the table, and a lay
brother appeared, to whom he gave the necessary order. A knock at the
door was soon heard, and a lad of some fourteen years entered in
obedience to the prior’s summons, and stood at first abashed before the
great earl.

Yet he was not a lad wanting in self confidence; he was tall and
slender, his features were regular, his hair and eyes light, his face a
shapely oval; there was a winning expression on the features, and
altogether it was a persuasive face.

“Dost thou remember me, my son?” asked the earl, as the boy knelt on
one knee, and kissed his hand gracefully.

“It seems many years since thou didst leave me here, my lord.”

“Ah! thy memory is good—hast thou been happy here? hast thou done thy
duty?”

“It is dull for an eaglet to be brought up in a cave.”

“Art thou the eaglet then, and this the cave? fie! Hubert.”

“My father was a soldier of the cross.”

“And wouldst thou be a soldier too, my boy? the paths of glory often
lead to the grave; thou art safer far as an acolyte here; thou wilt
perhaps be prior some day.”

“I covet not safety, my lord. If my father loved thee, and thou didst
love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page. There are no
chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell which booms all
day long; matins and lauds; prime, terce and sext; vespers and
compline; and masses between whiles.”

“My son, be not irreverent.”

The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.

“Thou shalt go with me. But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou
grieve over the loss of this sweet peace.”

“I love not peace—it is dull.”

“How wonderful it is that the son should inherit the father’s tastes
with his form,” said the earl to the prior. “When this lad’s sire and I
were young together he had just the same ideas, the same restless
craving for excitement, and it led him at last to a soldier’s grave.
Well, what is bred in the bone will out in the flesh.

“Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard and
stern school for thee; there are no idlers there.”

“I am not an idler, my good lord.”

“Only over his books,” said the prior.

“That is because I prefer the lance and the bow to pot hooks and
hangers on parchment.”

The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child. Yet
he had a winning manner, which reconciled his elders to his freedom.

“Now, go back to thy pot hooks and hangers, my boy, for the present,”
said the earl; “and tomorrow, perchance, I may take thee with me, if
the storm abate.

“And now,” said the earl, when Hubert was gone, “send for the other
lad; the waif and stray from the forest.”

So Hubert retired and Martin appeared. It was by no means an
uninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quite unlike
the features of Hubert—a round face, contrasting with the oval outlines
of the other—with twinkling eyes and curling hair; a face which ought
to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad for the moment. Poor boy!
he had just parted from his mother.

“Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?”

“Yes,” said he sadly, “since she told me to go; but I love her.”

“Thy name is Martin?”

“Yes; they call me so now.”

“What is thy other name?”

“I know not. I have no other.”

“Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?”

“Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served
Jack, the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans.”

“And how was that?”

“Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows. How he did
scream!”

“What! didst thou see such a sight, a young boy like thee?”

“Yes,” said Martin innocently; “why shouldn’t I?”

There was a pause.

“Poor child,” said the prior.

“My boy, thou should say ‘my lord,’ when addressing a titled earl.”

“I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude,
my lord.”

“Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of ‘my lords.’”

“You will not let them get me again, my lord?”

“They couldn’t get in here, and tomorrow, if the storm cease, I shall
take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hast for a while
lost a mother, thou hast found a father.”

The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and the earl
quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almost
unaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for the little
nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care.

Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak and
defenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of true
greatness—the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubert were
fortunate in their new lord.

“There sounds the vesper bell. Wilt thou with me to the chapel?” said
the prior.

Thither both earl and prior proceeded. It was Wednesday evening; the
psalms were then apportioned to the days of the week, not of the month,
and the first this night was the one hundred and twenty-seventh:

Except the Lord build the house,
their labour is but vain that build it.
Except the Lord keep the city,
the watchman watcheth but in vain.


And again:

Lo, children and the fruit of the womb
are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord.


The two boys whom he had so strangely adopted came to the mind of the
earl; they were not of his blood, yet they might be “an heritage and
gift of the Lord.” And as the psalms rose and fell to the rugged old
Gregorian tones—old even then—their words seemed to Simon de Montfort
as the voice of God.

Oh! how rough, yet how grand that old psalmody was! Modern ears call
its intervals harsh, its melodies crude, but it spoke to the heart with
a power which our sweet modern chants often fail to exercise over us,
as we chant the same sacred lays.


Nightfall—night hung like a pall over the island, over the moat, over
the silent heath and woods; the snow kept falling, falling; the fires
kept blazing in the huge hearths; and the bell kept tolling until
curfew time, by the prior’s order, that if any were lost in the wild
night they might be guided by its sound to shelter.

The earl slept soundly in his little monastic cell that night, and in
the morning he perceived the light of a bright dawn through the narrow
window; anon the winter’s sun rose, all glorious, and the frost and
snow sparkled like the sheen of diamonds in its beams. The bell was
just ringing for the Chapter Mass, the mass of obligation to all the
brotherhood, and the only one sung—during the day—in contradistinction
to the low, or silent, masses—which equalled the number of the brethren
in full orders, of whom there were not more than five or six.

The earl, his squire, and the two boys were there. The prior was
celebrant. The manner of Hubert showed his distraction and
indifference: it was like a daily lesson in school to him, and he gave
it neither more nor less attention. But to Martin the mysterious
soothing music of the mass, like strains from another world, so unlike
earthly tunes, came like a new sense, an inspiration from an unknown
realm, and brought the unbidden tears to his young eyes.

It must not be supposed that he was totally ignorant of the elements of
religion; even the wild inhabitants of the forest crave some form of
approach to God, and from time to time a wandering priest, an outlaw
himself of English birth, ministered to the “merrie men” at a rustic
altar, generally in the open air or in a well-known cavern. The mass in
its simplest form, divested of its gorgeous ceremonial but preserving
the general outline, was the service he rendered; and sometimes he
added a little instruction in the vernacular.

What good could such a service be to men living in the constant breach
of the eighth commandment? the Normans would ask. To which the outlaws
replied, we are at open war with you, at least as honourable a war as
you waged at Senlac.

And his mother saw that little Martin was taught the simple truths and
precepts of Christianity; more she asked not; nor at his age did he
need it.

But here was a soil ready for the good seed.


The weather continued fine, so after mass the earl and his squire
started for Lewes, taking the two boys with him, Hubert and Martin.
That night they were the guests of John, Earl of Warrenne {5}, who,
although he did not agree with the politics of Simon de Montfort, could
not refuse the rites of hospitality.

On the morrow, resuming their route, they left the towers of Lewes
behind them as they pursued the northern road. Once or twice the earl
turned and looked behind him, at the castle and the downs which
encircled the old town, with a puzzled and serious expression of face.

“Stephen,” he said to his squire; “I cannot tell what ails me, but
there is an impression on my mind which I cannot shake off.”

“My lord?”

“That yon castle and those hills, which I seem to have seen in a dream,
are associated with my future fate, for weal or woe.”




Chapter 3: Kenilworth.


The chief seat of the noble Earl of Leicester, as of a far less worthy
earl of that name, three centuries later, was the Castle of Kenilworth.
It had been erected in the time of Henry the First by one Geoffrey de
Clinton, but speedily forfeited to the Crown, by treason, real or
supposed. The present Henry, third of that name, once lived there with
his fair queen, and beautified it in every way, specially adorning the
chapel, but also strengthening the defences, until men thought the
castle impregnable.

Well they might, for our Martin and Hubert beheld on their arrival a
double row of ramparts, looking over a moat half a mile round, and
sometimes a quarter of that distance broad: and the old servitors still
told how the sad and feeble king had built a fragile bark, with silken
hangings and painted sides, wherein he and his newly-married bride oft
took the air on the moat. The buildings of the castle were most
extensive; the space within the moat contained seven acres; the great
hall could seat two hundred guests. The park extended without a break
from the walls of Coventry on the northeast to the far borders of the
park of the great Earl of Warwick on the southwest—a distance of
several miles.

And here, in the society of a score of other boys of their own age, our
Hubert and Martin were to receive their early education as pages.

Education—ah, how unlike that which falls to the lot of the schoolboy
of the nineteenth century. As a rule, the care of the mother was deemed
too tender and the paternal roof too indulgent for a boy after his
twelfth year, so he was sent, not exactly to a boarding school, but to
the castle of some eminent noble, such as the one under our
observation; and here, in the company of from ten to twenty companions
of his own age, he began his studies.

We have previously described this course of education in a former tale,
The Rival Heirs, but for the benefit of those who have not read the
afore-said story we must be pardoned a little recapitulation.

He was daily exercised in the use of all manner of weapons, beginning
with such as were of simple character; he was taught to ride, not only
in the saddle, but to sit a horse bare-backed, or under any conceivable
circumstances which might occur. He had to bend the stout yew bow and
to wield the sword, he had to couch the lance, which art he acquired
with dexterity by the practice at the quintain.

He had also to do the work of a menial, but not in a menial spirit. It
was his to wait upon his lord at table, to be a graceful cup bearer, a
clever carver, able to select the titbits for the ladies, and then to
assign the other portions according to rank.

It was his to follow the hounds, to learn the blasts of the horn, which
belonged to each detail of the field; to track the hunted animal, to
rush in upon boar or stag at bay, to break up or disembowel the
captured quarry.

It was his to learn how to thread the pathless forests, like that of
Arden; by observing the prevalent direction of the wind, as indicated
by the way in which the trees threw their thickest branches, or the
side of the trunk on which the mosses grew most densely; to know the
stars, and to thread the murky forest at midnight by an occasional
glimpse of that bright polar star, around which Charley’s Wain
revolved, as it does in these latter days.

It was his to learn that wondrous devotion to the ladies, which was at
the foundation of chivalry, and found at last its _reductio ad
absurdum_ in the Dulcinea of Don Quixote; but it was not a bad thing in
itself, and softened the manners, nor suffered them to become utterly
ferocious.

He was taught to abhor all the meaner vices, such as cowardice or
lying—no gentleman could live under such an imputation and retain his
claim to the name. But it must be admitted that there were higher
duties practised wheresoever the obligations of chivalry were fully
carried out: the duty of succouring the distressed or redressing wrong,
of devotion to God and His Church, and hatred of the devil and his
works.

Alas! how often one aspect of chivalry alone, and that the worst, was
found to exist; the ideal was too high for fallen nature.

To Hubert the new life which opened before him was full of promise and
delight; he seemed to have found a paradise far more after his own
heart than Eden could ever have been: but it was otherwise with Martin.

They had not been unkindly received by their companions, although, as
the other pages were nearly all the sons of nobles, there was a marked
restraint in the way in which they condescended to boys who had only
one name {6}. Still, the earl’s will was law, and since he had willed
that the newcomers should share the privileges of the others, no
protest could be made.

And as for Hubert there was no difficulty; he was one of nature’s own
gentlemen, and there was something in his brave winning ways, in which
there was neither shyness nor presumption, which at once found him
friends; besides, his speech was Norman French, and he was _au fait_ in
his manners.

But poor little Martin—the lad from the greenwood— surely it was a
great mistake to expose him to the jeers and sarcasms of the lads of
his own age, but of another culture; every time he opened his mouth he
betrayed the Englishman, and it was not until the following reign that
Edward the First, by himself adopting that designation as the proudest
he could claim, redeemed it from being, as it had been since the
Conquest, a term of opprobrium and reproach.

The day always began at Kenilworth Castle with an early mass in the
chapel at sunrise; then, unless it were a hunting morning, the whole
bevy of pages was handed over to the chaplain for a few brief hours of
study, for the earl was himself a literary man, and would fain have all
under him instructed in the rudiments of learning {7}.

Hubert did not show to advantage, for he regarded all such studies as a
degrading remnant of his life at Michelham, yet none could read and
write so well as he amongst the pages, and he had his Latin declensions
and conjugations well by heart, while he could read and interpret in
good Norman French, or indifferent English, the Gospels in the large
illuminated Missal; but the silly lad was actually ashamed of this, and
would have bartered it all for the emptiest success in the tilt yard.

On the contrary, little Martin, who could not yet read a line, was
throwing the whole deep earnestness of an active intellect into the
work.

“Courage! little friend,” said the chaplain, “and thou wilt do as well
as the wisest here, only be not impatient or discouraged.”

And to Hubert he said one day:

“This hardly represents your best work, my son, you did better even
yesterday.”

Hubert tossed his head.

“Martin cares only for books—I want to learn better things; he may be a
monk, I will be a soldier.”

“And dost thou know,” said a deep voice, “what is the first duty of a
soldier?”

It was the stern figure of the earl who stood unobserved in the doorway
of the library.

Hubert hung his head.

“Obedience!”

“And know this,” added the speaker, “that learning distinguishes the
man from the brute, as religion distinguishes him from the devil.”

The two medieval boys, with the story of whose lives this veracious
chronicle concerns itself, were indeed singularly unlike in their
tastes and dispositions.

Martin seemed destined by nature for the life of the cloister, the home
of learning and contemplation in those days, wherein alone were
libraries to be found, and peaceful hours to devote to their perusal.
He learned his lessons with such avidity as to surprise and delight his
teacher, his leisure hours were spent in the library of the castle—for
Kenilworth had a library of manuscripts under Simon de Montfort—a long
low room on an upper floor, one end of which was boarded off as a
chamber for the chaplain, who was of course also librarian. And again,
he evinced a joy in the services of the castle chapel which
sufficiently marked his vocation. The earl was both devout and musical,
and the solemn tones of the Gregorian Church Modes were rendered with
peculiar force by the deep voices of the men, for which they seemed
chiefly designed. As Martin listened, he became aware of sensations and
ideas which he could not express—he wept for joy, or trembled with
emotion like Saint Augustine of old {8}.

Then again, Sunday by Sunday, the chaplain was like a living oracle to
him, as to many others. The ascetic face became beautiful with a beauty
not of this earth—“his pallor,” said they, “became of a fair shining
red” when he spoke of Christ or holy things, while anon his thunder
tones awoke an echo in the heart of many as he testified against
cruelty and wrong, of which there was no lack in those days.

Under his influence Martin was becoming moulded like pliant wax, the
boy of the greenwood was losing all his rusticity, and yet, retaining
his keen love of nature, was learning to look beyond nature to nature’s
God. At times Martin was very weary of Kenilworth, and almost wished
himself back in the greenwood again, so little was he in sympathy with
the companions whom he had found.

But one day the earl called him aside, and with a tenderness one could
not have expected from that great statesman and mighty warrior, broke
the sad tidings to the poor boy of the death of his ill-fated mother.
It had arrived from Michelham; an outlaw had brought the news to the
priory, with the request that the monks would send the tidings on to
young Martin, wherever he might be. The death of his poor mother at
last severed the ties which bound Martin to the greenwood; he longed
after it no more; save that he often had daydreams wherein, as a
brother of Saint Francis, he preached the glad tidings of the grace of
God to his kindred after the flesh in the green glades of the Sussex
woods.

One thing he had yet to subdue—his temper; like that of most people of
excitable temperament it would some times flash forth like fire; his
companions soon found this out, and the elder pages liked to amuse
themselves in arousing it—a sport not quite so safe for those of his
own age.

Altogether of a different mould was the bright joyous son of an
ill-fated father; Hubert, son of Roger of Icklesham and Walderne. A
boy, a typical boy, a brave free-hearted noble one:

With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books, and love of fun.


He was rapidly acquiring ease and dexterity in all the sports of the
tilt yard; the quintain had now no terrors for him, and he was quite at
home on horseback already. Naturally he was rising fast in favour with
his fellows, the only lad who seemed to stand aloof from him being
Drogo de Harengod.

Drogo was about a year older than Hubert, tall and dark, of a haughty
and intolerant disposition, and very “masterful,” but, as the old saw
says:

_Mores puerorum se detegunt inter ludendum_.


So we will draw no more pen and ink sketches, but leave our characters
to show themselves by their deeds.

It was a pleasant evening in early autumn, and the scene was the park
of Kenilworth, some few months after the arrival of our two pages at
the castle. Half a dozen of the youthful aspirants to chivalry, amongst
whom were Drogo, Hubert, and Martin, gathered under an oak occupying an
elevated site in the park: they had evidently just left the forest, for
hares and rabbits were lying on the ground, the result of a little
foray into the cover.

“What a view we have here; one can see the towers of Warwick, over the
woods.”

“And there is the line of hills over Keinton and Radway {9}.”

“And there Black Down Hill.”

“And there the spires of Coventry.”

“Yes,” said Drogo, “but it is not like the view from my uncle’s castle
in the Andredsweald, over a far wilder forest than this of Arden, with
the great billowy downs for a southern bulwark. There be wolves, yea,
boars, and for lesser beasts of prey wildcats, badgers, and polecats;
while the deer are as plentiful as sheep.”

“And where is that castle?” said Hubert.

“At Walderne; my uncle is Nicholas de Harengod, and some day the castle
will be mine.”

Martin looked up with strange interest.

“What! Walderne Castle yours!”

“Yes, have you heard of it?”

“And seen it.”

“Seen it?”

“Yes, afar off,” said the lad dreamily, for Hubert gave him a warning
look.

“Even as a cat may look at a king’s palace.”

“But those woods are full of outlaws,” said another lad, Louis de
Chalgrave.

“All the better; it will be rare sport to hunt them out.”

“Easier said than done,” muttered Martin, but not so low that his words
were unheard.

“What is easier said than done?” cried Drogo.

“I mean the hunting out those outlaws. Ever since you Normans came, in
the days of the usurper you call the Conqueror, it has been talked
about but never done.”

“Usurper we call the Conqueror, pretty words these for the park of
Kenilworth,” said several voices. “They suit the descendants of the men
who let themselves be beaten at Hastings.”

“In any place but this Kenilworth they would cost a fellow his ears.”

“Yes, but Earl Simon loves the English.”

“Or he wouldn’t degrade us by bringing louts from the greenwood amongst
us—boys whom our fathers would have disdained to set to mind their
swine,” said Drogo.

“Probably your ancestor himself was a swineherd in Normandy, while mine
were Thanes in England, and their courteous manners have descended to
you,” retorted Martin; whereupon Drogo laid his bowstring about his
daring junior.

Forgetting all disparity of age, the youngster flew at him, and struck
him full between the eyes with his clenched fist; the other boys,
instead of interfering, laughed heartily at the scene, and watched its
development with interest, thinking Martin would get a good switching.
But they forgot one thing, or rather did not know it. Boxing was not a
knightly exercise, not taught in the tilt yard, and Drogo could only
use his natural weapons as a French boy uses his now. But in the
greenwood it was different, and young Martin had been left again and
again, as a part of a sound education, to “hold his own” against his
equals in age and size, by aid of the noble art of fisticuffs; what
wonder then that Drogo’s eyes were speedily several shades darker than
nature had designed them to be, of which there was no obvious need, and
that victory would probably have decked the brows of the younger
combatant had not the elders interfered.

“This is no work for a gentleman.”

“If fight you must, run a course against each other with blunted
spears, since they won’t grant us sharp ones, more’s the pity.”

“The youngster should learn to govern his temper.”

“Nay, he did not begin it.”

The last speaker was Hubert.

Martin had walked away into the wood, as if he neither expected nor
asked justice from his companions, and Hubert followed him.

“There they go together.”

“Two boys, each without a second name.”

“But after all,” said Louis, “I like Hubert better for standing up for
his friend.”

“They are queer friends, as unlike as light and darkness,” said Drogo.

“Talking of darkness reminds one of your eyes, they are—”

“Hold your tongue.”

And a new quarrel commenced, which we will not stop to behold, but
follow the two into the woods; “older, deeper, grayer,” with oaks that
the Druids might have worshipped beneath.




Chapter 4: In the Greenwood.


While they were in sight of the other boys Martin’s pride kept him from
displaying any emotion, but when they were alone in the recesses of the
woods, and Hubert, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder bade him
“not mind them,” his bosom commenced to heave, and he had great
difficulty in repressing his tears. It was not mere grief, it was the
sense of desolation; he felt that he was not in his own sphere, and but
for the thought of the chaplain would willingly have returned to the
outlaws in the greenwood. No boy at a strange school feels as out of
place as he, and the worst was, he did not get acclimatised in the
least.

He had not found his vocation. Then again, he had been sweetly lectured
upon his temper by Father Edmund, and had promised to control it.
Still, was he to be switched by Drogo? He knew he never could bear it,
and didn’t quite feel that he ought to do so.

“Hubert,” he said at last, “I don’t think I can stay here.”

“Why, it is a very pleasant place. I love it more every day, and they
are not such bad fellows.”

“You are like them in your tastes, and I am not.”

“But tell me, Martin, how were you brought up; were you always with the
outlaws? You almost let out the secret today.”

“Yes, I was born in the woods.”

“Then you are not of gentle blood?”

“That depends upon what you mean by gentle blood. I am not of Norman
blood by my father’s side, although my mother may be, from whom I get
my dark features: my father was descended from the old English lords of
Michelham, who lived on the island for ages before the Conquest; my
mother’s family is unknown to me.”

“Indeed! what became of your English forbears?”

“Robert de Mortain contrived their ruin, but dearly did his race pay
for it in the justice of God. His ghost, or that of his son, still
haunts Pevensey: but all that is past and gone. Earl Simon sometimes
says (you heard him perhaps the other day) that the English are of as
good blood as the Normans, and that he should be proud to call himself
an Englishman.

“He is worthy of the name,” said Martin, and Hubert smiled; “but it is
not that—I want to be a scholar, and by and by a priest.”

“The very thing they wanted to make me, and I wouldn’t for the world;
what a pity we could not change places. Ah! what is that?”

A crushing of brambles and parting of bushes was heard, and lo! a deer,
with a little fawn by its side, came across the glade, looking very
frightened. The mother was restraining her own speed for the sake of
the little one, but every moment got ahead, involuntarily, then
stopped, and strove by piteous cries to urge the fawn to do its best.

What did it mean? The mystery was soon explained, the deep bay of a
hound was heard close behind.

Martin’s deep sympathies with the animal creation were aroused at once,
and he stood in the opening the deer had made, his short hunting spear
in hand.

“Take care—what are you about!” cried Hubert.

The next instant the deerhound came in sight, and in a few leaps would
have attained his prey had not Martin been in the way; but the boy
knelt on one knee, presenting his spear full at the dog, who, springing
down a bank through the opening, literally impaled itself upon it.

“Good heavens!” said Hubert, “to kill a hound, a good hound like this.”

“Didn’t you see the poor fawn and its mother? I wasn’t going to let the
brute touch them. I would have died first.”

Just then the voices of men came from the wood.

“See, they follow upon the track of the deer; let us run, we are in for
it else.”

“I am not ashamed of my deed,” said Martin, “and would sooner face it
out; if they are good men they will not blame me.”

“They will hang thee, that’s all—fly.”

“Too late; you go, leave me to pay the penalty of my own deed, if
penalty there be.”

“What, forsake a comrade in distress? Nay, I would die first, that is a
thing I would die for, but for a brute—never.”

A tall hunter, a man of most commanding appearance and stature, stood
upon the scene. Two attendants followed behind.

“THE EARL OF WARWICK,” whispered Hubert, awe struck.

The earl looked astonished as he saw the dog.

“Who has done this?” he said, in a voice of thunder.

But Martin did not tremble as he replied:

“I, my lord.”

“And why? did the hound attack thee?”

“It was to save the poor doe and her fawn; the mother would not leave
her little one, and both would have been killed together.”

The indignation of the two woodsmen was almost indecorous, but they did
not speak before their dread master.

“And didst thou have aught to do with it?” said the earl, addressing
Hubert.

“Nay, my lord, I did it all with this spear; he tried to stop me,” said
Martin.

“Then thou shalt hang for it.

“Here, Ralph, Gilbert, have you a rope between you?”

Ralph, the gamekeeper, unwound one from his waist. It was too often
needed, and had our Martin been a peasant lad, he would have speedily
swung from a branch of the oak above, but—Hubert came bravely forward.

“My Lord of Warwick, we knew not we were on your ground; we are pages
from Kenilworth.”

The men who had seized Martin stood motionless at this, still, however,
holding him, and awaiting further orders.

“Can this be true?” growled the Lord of the Bear and Ragged Staff.

“Yes, my lord, you see the crest of the Montforts on our caps.”

In his fury the earl had ignored the fact.

“Your names?”

“Martin.”

“Hubert.”

“‘Martin,’ ‘Hubert,’ of what? have you no ‘de,’ no second names?”

“We are not permitted to bear them.”

“Doubtless for good reason. And now, what shall prevent me from hanging
such nobodies, and burying you both beneath this oak, without anybody
being the wiser?”

“The fact that you are a gentleman,” said Hubert boldly.

The earl seemed struck by the answer.

“Boy,” said he, “thou hast answered well, and second name or not, thou
hast the right blood in thee; nor is the other lad wanting in courage.
But you must both answer for this. Tomorrow I visit Kenilworth, and
will see your lord.

“Release them, my men.

“Fare ye well till tomorrow.

“My poor Bruno!”

And the lads hastened home.

They told no one of their adventure, save Father Edmund, who not only
did not chide them, but promised to plead for them if complaint were
made to Earl Simon.

And very shortly, even the next day, the Earl of Warwick with an
attendant squire rode up the approach to the barbican gate, and was
admitted. The boys had not long to wait in suspense: they were soon
summoned from their tasks into the presence of their dread yet kind
lord, and his visitor.

As they were ushered along the passage of that mighty castle, both felt
a sinking of heart, Hubert more than Martin, for the latter had far
more moral courage than his lithesome companion.

“Martin, we are in bad case.”

“I am not afraid.”

“Do own you were wrong.”

“I cannot, for I do not think I was.”

“Say so at all events. What is the harm?”

“My tongue was given me to express my thoughts, not to conceal them.”

“Then you will be beaten.”

“And bear it; it was all my doing.”

At that moment the heavy doors swung open, and they stood in the
presence of the two mightiest earls of the Midlands. They stood as two
culprits, Hubert very sheepish, with his head cast down, Martin with a
comical mixture of resignation and apprehension.

“How is this?” said the Earl Simon. “I hear that you two killed the
good deerhound of my brother of Warwick.”

“It was I, my lord, not Hubert.”

“They were both together,” whispered the Earl of Warwick. “I saw not
who did the deed.”

“We may believe Martin.”

“So thou dost take all the blame upon thyself, Martin.”

“All the blame, if blame there was, my lord.”

“If blame there was! Surely thou art mad, boy! and thy back will verify
the force of Solomon’s proverb, a rod for the fool’s back, unless thou
change thy tone and ask pardon of my good brother.”

“My Lord of Warwick, I am very sorry that I was forced to kill your
good hound, and hope you will forgive me.”

“Forced to kill!”

“If I had not, he would have killed the poor doe and her fawn together,
and I could not have seen that, if I had to hang for it, as the noble
earl threatened I should.”

“Tell me the whole story,” said the Earl of Leicester.

“Pardon me, my good brother, I want to hear how he defends himself.”

And Martin began:

“We were in the woods, when we heard a great rustling, and saw a doe
crossing the path, very frightened, but for all that she kept stopping
and looking back, and we saw a little fawn by her side, who couldn’t
keep up; then we heard the hound baying behind, and the poor mother
trembled and started, but wouldn’t leave her little one, but bleated
piteously to the wee thing to make haste. I never saw an animal in such
distress before, and I could not bear it, so I stood in the track to
stop the dog, and he rushed upon my spear. I was very sorry for the
good hound, but I was more sorry for the doe and her fawn.”

“And thou wouldst do the same thing again, I suppose?” said the Earl of
Leicester.

“I couldn’t help it.”

“And what didst thou do, Hubert?”

“I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t.”

“Thou didst not feel the same pity, then, for the deer?”

“No, my lord, because I thought dogs were made to hunt deer, and deer
to be hunted.”

“Thou art quite right, my lad,” said he of Warwick, “and the other lad
is a simpleton—I was going to say a chicken-hearted simpleton, but he
was brave enough when his own neck seemed in danger, nor does he fear
much for his back now—

“What dost thou say, boy?”

“My lord, if I have offended you, I refuse not to pay with my back.”

“Get ready for the scourge, then,” said the earl his lord, half
smiling, and evidently trying his courage, “unless thou wilt say thou
art sorry for thy deed.”

“I am ready, my lord. I would say anything I could say without lying,
rather than offend thee, but what am I to do? Let me bear what I have
to bear.”

“Nay,” said the earl, “it may not be. My brother of Warwick, canst thou
not forgive him? I will send thee two good hounds in the place of poor
Bruno. Dost thou not see the lad has sat in the school of Saint
Francis, who pitied and loved everything, great and small, as Adam de
Maresco, my good friend at Oxford, tells me, and so all God’s creatures
loved him, and came at his call—the birds, nay, the fishes?”

“Dost thou believe all this, my boy?” said he of Warwick.

“Yes, it is all true, is it not? It is in the _Flores Sancti
Francisci_.”

The earl smiled.

“Come, my boy, I forgive thee.

“My good brother of Leicester, the lad is made for a Franciscan; don’t
spoil a good friar by making him a warrior.”

“And Franciscan he shall be.

“Say, my boy, wouldst thou like to go to Oxford and study under my
worthy friend, Adam de Maresco?”

Martin’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“Oh yes, my lord.

“Thank you, my Lord of Warwick.”

“Thy punishment shall then be exile from the castle; thou may’st cease
from the sports of the tilt yard, which thou hast never loved, and
Father Edmund shall take thee seriously in hand.”

“Oh, thanks, my lord, _O felix dies_.”

“See how he takes to Latin, like a duck to the water.

“Hubert, thou must go with him.”

Hubert’s countenance fell.

“Oh no, no, my lord, I want to be a soldier like my father; please
don’t send me away.

“Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!”

“Fool! fie! for shame! thou forgettest in whose company thou art. Each
to his own liking; thou to make food for the sword, Martin perhaps to
suffer martyrdom on a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence, amongst the
heathen.”

“He is the stuff they make martyrs from,” muttered he of Warwick.

“No, Hubert, you may stay and work out your own destiny, and Martin
shall go to Oxford.”

“Oh, Martin, I am so sorry.”

But Martin was rapturous with joy.

And so, more soberly, was another person joyful—even the chaplain, for
he saw the making of a valiant friar of Saint Francis in Martin. That
wondrous saint, Francis of Assisi {10}, whose mission it was to restore
to the depraved Christianity of the day an element it seemed losing
altogether, that of brotherly love, was an embodiment of the sentiment
of a later poet:

He prayeth best who loveth best,
All things both great and small,
For the dear God, who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.


And wondrous was his power over the rudest men and the most savage
animals in consequence. All things loved Francis—the most timid
animals, the most shy birds, all alike flocked around him when he
appeared.

The brotherhood he had founded was unlike the monastic orders; its
members were not to retire from the world, but to live in it, and
devote themselves entirely to the good of mankind; they were to
renounce all worldly wealth, and embrace chastity, poverty, and
obedience—theirs was not to be the joy of family life, theirs no
settled abode. Wandering from place to place they were to live solely
on the alms of those to whom they preached the gospel of peace.

Established only at the beginning of the century of our tale, it had
already extended its energies throughout Europe. They came to England
in 1224, only four clergy and five laymen. Already they numbered more
than twelve hundred brethren in England alone; and they were found
where they were most needed, in the back slums of the undrained and
crowded towns, amongst the hovels of the serfs where plague was raging,
where leprosy lingered—there were the Franciscans in this the heroic
age of their order, before they had fallen from their first love, and
verified the proverb—_Corruptio optimi est pessima_. Under their
teaching a new school of theology had arisen at Oxford; the great
Bishop of Lincoln, Robert Grosseteste, was its first lecturer, the most
enlightened prelate of the day; and now Adam de Maresco, a warm friend
of Earl Simon, was at its head. To his care the earl determined to
commend young Martin.




Chapter 5: Martin Leaves Kenilworth.


Martin was henceforth relieved of his customary exercises in the tilt
yard and elsewhere, which had become distasteful to him in proportion
as the longing for a better life had grown upon his imagination. Of
course the other boys treated him with huge contempt; and sent him
metaphorically “to Coventry,” the actual spires of which august
medieval city, far more beautiful then than now, rose beyond the trees
in the park.

But the chaplain saw this, and with the earl’s permission lodged the
neophyte in a chamber adjacent to his own “cell,” where he gave himself
up to his beloved books, only varying the monotony by an occasional
stroll with his friend Hubert, who never turned his back upon his
former friend, and endured much chaffing and teasing in consequence.

Most rapidly Martin’s facile brain acquired the learning of the
day—Latin became as his mother tongue, for it was then taught
conversationally, and the chaplain seldom or never spoke to him in any
other language.

And after a few months his zealous tutor thought him prepared for the
important step in his life, and wrote to the great master of scholastic
philosophy already mentioned, Adam de Maresco, to bespeak admission
into one of the Franciscan schools or colleges then existing at Oxford.
There was no penny or other post—a special messenger had to be sent.

The answer came in due course, and at the beginning of the Easter term
Martin was told to prepare for his journey to the University. He was
not then more than fifteen, but that was a common age for matriculation
in those days.

The morning came, so long looked for, and with a strange feeling Martin
arose with daybreak from his couch, and looked from his casement upon
the little world he was leaving. A busy hum already ascended from
beneath as our Martin put his head out of the window; he heard the
clank of the armourer’s hammer on mail and weapon, he heard the
clamorous noise of the hungry hounds who were being fed, he heard the
scolding of the cooks and menials who were preparing the breakfast in
the hall, he heard the merry laughter of the boys in the pages’
chamber. But soon one sound dominated over all—boom! boom! boom! came
the great bell of the chapel, filling hill and dale, park and field,
with its echoes. Father Edmund was about to say the daily mass, and all
must go to begin the day with prayer who were not reasonably
hindered—such was the earl’s command.

And soon the chaplain called, “Martin, Martin.”

“I am ready, sire.”

“Looking round on the home thou art leaving, thou wilt find Oxford much
fairer.”

“But thou wilt not be there.”

“My good friend Adam will do more for thee than ever I could.”

“Nay, but for thee, sire, I had fallen into utter recklessness; thou
hast dragged me from the mire.”

“_Sit Deo gloria_, then, not to a frail man like thyself; thou must
learn to lean on the Creator, not the creature. Come, it is time to
vest for mass. Thou shalt serve me as acolyte for the last time.”

People sometimes talk of that olden rite, wherein our ancestors showed
forth the death of Christ day by day, as if it had been a mere
mechanical service. It was a dead form only to those who brought dead
hearts to it. To our Martin it was instinct with life, and it satisfied
the deep craving of his soul for communion with the most High, while he
pleaded the One Oblation for all his present needs, just entering upon
a new world.

The short service was over, and Martin was breakfasting in the
chaplain’s room with him and Hubert, who had been invited to share the
meal. They were sitting after breakfast—the usual feeling of depression
which precedes a departure from home was upon them—when a firm step was
heard echoing along the corridor.

“It is the earl,” said the chaplain, and they all rose as the great man
entered.

“Pardon my intrusion, father. I am come to say farewell to this wilful
boy.”

They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour.

“Nay, sit down. I have not yet broken my own fast and will crack a
crust with you.”

And the earl ate and drank that he might put them all at their ease.

“So the scholar’s gown and pen suit thee better than the coat of mail
and the sword, master Martin!”

“Oh, my good lord!”

“Nay, my boy, thou wast exiled from home in my cause, and I may owe
thee a life for all I can tell.”

“They would not have harmed thee, not even they, had they known.”

“But you see they did not know, and all was fish that came to their
nets. Martin, don’t thou ever think of them.”

“Hubert, thou hadst better go, and come back presently,” whispered the
chaplain, who felt that there were certain circumstances of which the
boy might be better left ignorant, which nearly concerned his
companion.

“Nay,” said Martin, “there are no secrets between us. He knows mine. I
know his.”

“But no one else, I trust,” said the earl, who remembered a certain
prohibition.

“No, my lord, only Hubert. He already knew so much, I was forced to
tell him all.”

“Then thou hast not forgotten thy kindred in the greenwood?”

“I can never forget my poor mother.”

“Thou hast already told me all that thou dost know, and that thy
fathers once owned Michelham.”

“So the outlaws said, the merrie men of the wood. Oh if my father had
but lived.”

“He would have made thee an outlaw, too.”

“It might well have been, but my poor mother would have been happy
then.”

“But I think Martin has a scheme in his head,” said Hubert shyly.

“What is it, my son?” said the earl.

“The chaplain knows.”

“He thinks that when he has put on the cord of Saint Francis he will go
and preach the Gospel to them that are afar off in the woods.”

“But they are Christians, I hope.”

“Nominally, but they know nought of the Gospel of love and peace. Their
religion is limited to a few outward observances,” said the chaplain,
“which, separated from the living Spirit, only fulfil the words: ‘The
letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life.’”

“Ah, well, my boy, God speed thee on thy path, and preserve thee for
that day when thou shalt come as a messenger of peace to them that sit
in darkness,” said the earl.

“Thine,” he continued, “is a far nobler ambition than that of the
warrior, thine the task to save, his to destroy.

“What sayest thou, Hubert?”

“I would fain be a soldier of the Cross, like my father, and cut down
the Paynim.”

“Like a godly knight I once knew, who, called upon to convert a
Saracen, said the Creed and told him he was to believe it. The Saracen,
as one might have expected, uttered some words of scorn, and the good
knight straight-way clove him to the chine.”

“It was short and simple, my lord; I should like to convert them that
way best.”

The chaplain sighed.

“Oh, Hubert!” said Martin.

The earl listened and smiled a sad smile.

“Well, there is work for you both. Mine is not yet done in the busy
fighting world; rivers of blood have I seen shed, nay, helped to shed,
and I must answer to God for the way in which I have played my part;
yet I thank Him that He did not disdain to call one whose career lay in
like bloody paths ‘the man after His own heart.’”

“It is lawful to draw sword in a good cause, my lord,” said the
chaplain.

“I never doubted it, but I say that Martin’s ambition is more
Christ-like—is it not?”

“It is indeed.”

“Yet should I be called to lay down my life in some bloody field, if it
be my duty, the path to heaven may not be more difficult than from the
convent cell.”

These last words he said as if to himself, but years afterwards, on an
occasion yet to be related, they came back to the mind of our Martin.

Upon a horse, which he had learned at length to manage well; with two
attendants in the earl’s livery by his side, Martin set forth; his last
farewells said. Yet he looked back with more or less sadness to the
kind friends he was leaving, to tread all alone the paths of an unknown
city, and associate with strangers.

As they passed through Warwick, the gates of the castle opened, and the
earl of that town came forth with a gallant hunting suite; he
recognised our young friend.

“Ah, Martin, Martin,” he said, “whither goest thou so equipped and
attended?”

“To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord.”

“And after that?”

“To go forth with the cord of Saint Francis around me.”

“Ah, it was he who taught thee to kill my deerhound. Well, fare thee
well, lad, and when thou art a priest say a mass for me, for I sorely
need it.”

He waved his hand, and the cavalcade swept onward.

They rode through a wild tract of heath land. Cultivated fields there
were few, tracts of furze—spinneys, as men then called small patches of
wood—in plenty. The very road was a mere track over the grass, and it
seemed like what we should now call riding across country.

At length they drew near the old town of Southam, where they made their
noontide halt and refreshed themselves at the hostelry of the “Bear and
Ragged Staff,” for the people were dependants of the mighty Lord of
Warwick.

Then through a dreary country, almost uninhabited, save by the beasts
of the chase, they rode for Banbury. Twice or thrice indeed they passed
knots of wild uncouth men, in twos or threes, who might have been
dangerous to the unattended traveller, but saw no prospect of aught but
good sound blows should they attack these retainers of Leicester.

And now they reached the “town of cakes” (I know not whether they made
the luscious compound we call Banbury cakes then), and passed the time
at the chief hostelry of the town, sharing the supper with twenty or
thirty other wayfarers, and sleeping with some of them in a great loft
above the common room on trusses of hay and straw.

It was rough accommodation, but Martin’s early education had not
rendered him squeamish, neither were his attendants.

The following day they rode through Adderbury, where not long before an
unhappy miscreant, who counterfeited the Saviour and deluded a number
of people, had been actually crucified by being nailed to a tree on the
green. Then, an hour later, they left Teddington Castle, another
stronghold of the Earl of Warwick, on their right: they were roughly
accosted by the men-at-arms, but the livery of Leicester protected
them.

Soon after they approached the important town of Woodstock, with its
ancient palace, where a century earlier Henry II had wiled away his
time with Fair Rosamond. The park and chase were most extensive and
deeply wooded; emerging from its umbrageous recesses, they saw a group
of spires and towers.

“Behold the spires of Oxenford!” cried the men.

Martin’s heart beat with ill-suppressed emotion—here was the object of
his long desire, the city which he had seen again and again in his
dreams. Headington Hill arose on the left, and the heights about Cumnor
on the right. Between them rose the great square tower of Oxford
Castle, and the huge mound {11} thrown up by the royal daughter of
Alfred hard by; while all around arose the towers and spires of the
learned city, then second only in importance to London.

The first view of the Eternal City (Rome)—what volumes have been
written upon the sensations which attend it. So was the first view of
Oxford to our eager aspirant for monastic learning and ecclesiastical
sanctity. Long he stood drinking in the sight, while his heart swelled
within him and tears stood in his eyes; but the trance was roughly
broken by his attendants.

“Come, young master. We must hurry on, or we may not get in before
nightfall, and there may be highwaymen lurking about the suburbs.”




Chapter 6: At Walderne Castle.


The watcher on the walls of Walderne Castle sees the sun sink beneath
the distant downs, flooding Mount Caburn and his kindred giants with
crimson light. In the great hall supper is preparing. See them all
trooping in—retainers, fighting men, serving men, all taking their
places at the boards placed at right angles to the high table, where
the seats of Sir Nicholas de Harengod and his lady are to be seen.

He enters: a bluff stern warrior, in his undress, that is, without his
panoply of armour and arms, in the long flowing robe affected by his
Norman kindred at the festal board. She, with the comely robe which had
superseded the _gunna_ or gown, and the _couvrechef_ (whence our word
kerchief) on the head.

The chaplain, who served the little chapel within the castle, says
grace, and the company fall upon the food with little ceremony. We have
so often described their manners, or rather absence of manners, that we
will not repeat how the joints were carved in the absence of forks, nor
how necessary the finger glasses were after meals, although they only
graced the higher board.

Wine, hippocras, mead, ale—there was plenty to eat and drink, and when
the hunger was satisfied a palmer or pilgrim, who had but recently
arrived from the Holy Land, sang a touching ballad about his adventures
and sufferings in that Holy Land:

Trodden by those blessed feet
Which for our salvation were
Nailed unto the holy rood.


He sang of the captivity of Jerusalem under her Saracen rulers; of the
Holy Places, nay, of the Sepulchre itself, in the hands of the heathen.
That song, and kindred songs, had already caused rivers of blood to be
shed; men were now getting hardened to the tale, albeit the Lady Sybil
shed tears.

For she thought of her brother Roger, who had taken the Cross at that
gathering at Cross-in-Hand when labouring under his sire’s dire
displeasure, and who had fallen yet more deeply under the ban, owing to
events with which our readers are but partially acquainted.

And now, where Roger sat, she saw her own husband—well beloved—yet had
he not effaced the memory of her brother. And she longed to see that
brother’s son, of whom she had heard, recognised as the heir of
Walderne.

The palmer sang, and his song told of one, a father stern, who bade his
son wash off the guilt of some grievous sin in the blood of the
unbeliever—how that son went forth, full of zeal—but went forth to find
his efforts blasted by a haunting, malignant fiend he had himself armed
with power to blast; how at length, conquering all opposition, he had
reached the holy shore, and embarked on every desperate enterprise,
until he was laid out for dead, when—

At this moment the chapel bell rang for the evening prayers, which were
never later than curfew, for as men then rose with the sun it was well
to go to bed with him, so they all flocked to the chapel. The office
commonly called Compline was said, and the little sanctuary was left
again vacant and dark save where the solitary lamp twinkled before the
altar.

But the Lady Sybil did not seek her couch. She remained kneeling in
devotion before the altar, which her wealth and piety had founded. Nor
was she alone. The palmer yet knelt on the floor of the sanctuary.

When they had been left alone together for some minutes, and all was
still save the wind which howled without she rose and said:

“Tell me who thou art, O mysterious man: thy voice reminds me of one
long dead.”

“Dead to the world, yet living in the flesh. Sybil, I am thy brother
Roger, at least what remains of him; thou hast not forgotten me.”

“But why hast thou been silent so long? Thy brother in arms, the great
Earl of Leicester, himself said he saw thee fall fighting gloriously
against the fell Paynim.”

“And he spake sooth, but he did not see me rise again. I was carried
off the field for interment by the good brethren of Saint John, when,
just as they were about to lower me with the dead warriors into one
common grave, they perceived that there was life in me. They raised me,
and restored the spirit which had all but fled, and when at last it
returned, reason did not return with it. For a full year I was bereft
of my senses. They kept me in the hospital at Acre, but they knew
nought, and could learn nought of my kindred, until at length I
recovered my reason. Then I told them I was dead to the world, and
besought them to keep me, but they bade me wander, and stir up others
to the rescue of the Holy Land ere I took my rest. And then, too, there
was my son—”

“Thy SON?”

“Yes. I see I had better unfold all to thee in detail, from the
beginning of my wanderings. After I had fled from my father’s wrath, I
first went to sunny Provence, where I found friends in the great family
of the Montforts, and won the friendship of a man who has since become
famous, the Earl of Leicester. A distant kinswoman of theirs, a cousin
many times removed, effaced from my heart the fickle damsel who had
been the cause of my disgrace in England. Poor Eveline! Never was there
sweeter face or sunnier disposition! Had she lived all had been well. I
had not then gone forth, abandoned to my own sinful self. But she died
in giving birth to my Hubert.”

“Thy son, doth he yet live?”

“I left him in the care of Simon de Montfort, and went forward to the
rendezvous of the crusaders, the Isle of Malta, where, being grievously
insulted by a Frenchman—during a truce of God, which had been
proclaimed to the whole army—forgot all but my hot blood, struck him,
thereby provoked a combat, and slew him, for which I was expelled the
host, and forbidden to share in the holy war.

“So I sailed thence to Sicily—in deep dejection, repenting, all too
late, my ungovernable spirit.

“It was in the Isle of Sicily that an awful judgment befell me, which
has pursued me ever since, until it has blanched my locks with gray,
and hollowed out these wrinkles on my brow.

“I had taken up my quarters at an inn, and was striving in vain to
drown my remorse in utter recklessness, in wine and mirth, when one
night, as I lay half unconscious in bed, I heard the door open. I
started up and laid my hand on my sword, but melted into a sweat of
fear as I saw the ghost of him I had slain, standing as if in life, his
hand upon the wound my blade had made.

“‘Nay,’ said he, ‘mortal weapons harm me not now, but see that thou
fulfil for me the vow I have made. Carry my sword in person or by proxy
to Jerusalem, and lay it on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre. Then I
forgive thee my death.’

“The vision disappeared, but left me impressed with a sense that it was
real and no dream. Hence I dared to return to Malta, and telling my
story begged, but begged in vain, to be allowed to carry the sword of
the man I had slain through the campaign.

“I could not even obtain the sword. It had been sent back to hang by
the side of the rusty weapons his ancestors had once borne, in the hall
of their distant Chateau de Fievrault.

“I returned to Provence, revisited the tomb of my Eveline, saw my boy,
sought absolution, made many prayers, but could not shake off the
phantom. It was on a Friday I slew my foe, and on each Friday night he
appeared. The young Simon de Montfort was about to form another band of
crusaders, and he allowed me to accompany him, with the result I have
described. During my stay in the monastery at Acre the phantom troubled
me not, and as I have already said, I would fain have remained there,
but when they heard my tale they bade me return and fulfil my duties to
my kindred, and stir up others to come to the aid of the Holy Land,
since I was physically incapable of ever bearing arms again.

“But I shall even yet fulfil my vow, and the vow of the man I slew,
through my boy, when he has gained his spurs. My sinful steps are not
permitted to press that soil, once trodden by those blessed feet,
nailed for our salvation to the holy rood. Hubert will live and bear
the sword of the slain Sieur de Fievrault, _sans peur et sans
reproche_. Then I may lay me down in peace and take my rest.”

“Will thou not see my husband?”

“I cannot reveal myself here in this castle to any one but thee, and as
my tormentor pays his visits again, I will betake me to the Priory of
Lewes.”

“And must thou leave thy ancestral halls, and bury thyself again, my
brother?”

“I must. My task is done. I came but to feast my eyes with the sight of
thee, and to tell thee that thy nephew, the true heir of Walderne,
lives, satisfied that thou wilt not now allow him to be defrauded of
his rights.”

“Why not reveal thyself to my husband?”

“I cannot—at least not in this house; but in the morn, after I have
parted for Lewes, tell him all.”

“And what proofs shall I give if he ask them?”

“Let him seek me at Lewes or, better still, refer to Simon de Montfort,
who is the guardian of the boy, and has him in safe keeping at
Kenilworth.”

“Sybil,” cried a voice.

“It is my husband. I must go. Farewell, dearly loved, unhappy brother.”

And she departed, leaving him alone in the chapel.

Hours had passed by, the inmates of the castle at Walderne all slept,
still as the sleeping woods around, save only the watchman on the
walls, for in those days of nightly rapine and daily violence no castle
or house of any pretensions dispensed with such a guard.

Save only the watcher on the walls, and a lonelier watcher in the
chapel. For there, in the sanctuary his sister had erected, knelt the
returned prodigal, unknown to all save that sister. His heart was full
of deep emotion, as well it might be. And thus he mused:

“This chapel was not here in my father’s time. There were few lessons
to be learnt then, save those of strife and violence. What wonder that
when he set me the example, my young blood ran too hotly in my veins,
and that I finished my career of violence and riot by slaying the rival
who stood in my path? Yet was it done, not in cold blood but in fair
fight. Still, he was my cousin, a favourite of my sire, who never
forgave me, but drove me from home to make reparation in the holy wars.
Then on the way to the land of expiation I must needs again stain my
sword with Christian blood, and that on a day when it was sacrilege to
draw sword.

“But I repent, I repent. O Lord, let the Blood which flowed on that
very day down the Holy Rood blot out my sins, atone for my
transgressions.

“Nay, he appears, as oft before, and stands before me as when I
transfixed him on the quay at Malta.

“Avaunt, unquiet spirit. My feet have pressed the soil hallowed by the
Sacred Blood. Avaunt, for I appeal from thy malice to God. Was it not
thou who didst provoke, and wouldst fain have slain me? What was my act
but one of self defence, defence first of honour, then of life?”

Here he paused, as if listening.

“What dost thou say? I give thee rest. Let my son take the sword from
thy ancestral hall, and wield it in the holy war in thy name. Then thy
vow will be fulfilled, and thou wilt cumber earth no longer.

“Well, we shall see! But can I send him to that distant land? He may
suffer as I.

“No! no! Son of my love! It may not be.

“Ah, thou departest. It is well. Avaunt thee, poor ghost! Avaunt thee.”

So the night sped away, and when the gates of the castle opened at
sunrise, the palmer passed through them and took the road for Lewes.

We need hardly say that, in the course of the day after the ill-fated
Roger had departed for Lewes, to bury his sorrows and his sins within
the hallowed walls of the Priory of Saint Pancras, the Lady Sybil made
a full revelation of all the circumstances of his visit to her husband,
Sir Nicholas Harengod.

There was not a moment’s doubt in the mind of that worthy knight as to
the proper course to be pursued. Roger must be left to carry out his
own decision—as the most convenient to all parties concerned—and the
son must at once be brought home and acknowledged as the true heir of
Walderne, cum Icklesham, cum Dene, and I wot not what else. As for poor
Drogo, he must be content with the patrimony of Sir Nicholas—the manor
of Harengod.

So Sir Nicholas first sought an interview with his brother-in-law,
Roger, at the priory. He found him on the point of being admitted to
the novitiate, and then started post haste across the country—northward
for Kenilworth—where he arrived in due course, and was soon closeted
with the mighty earl, to whom he revealed the whole story of the
resurrection of Sir Roger of Walderne.

It was indeed a resurrection. At first the earl hardly credited its
possibility; but anon with joy received it, and gave his full consent
for Sir Nicholas to take Hubert away for a time, that he might make
acquaintance with the home of his ancestors, and seek his father at
Lewes.

Much more conversation passed between the knight and the earl, but we
shall have occasion to develop its results as our narrative proceeds.

So we shall leave our readers to picture the delight and wonder of
Hubert, the jealousy of Drogo, and much besides, while we go to Oxford
to see Martin.




Chapter 7: Martin’s First Day At Oxford.


It was a lovely morning in the Eastertide of 1256 when young Martin
looked forth from the window of his hostel at Oxford on the quaint
streets, the stately towers of the semi-monastic city. He was bound, of
course, as a dutiful son of Mother Church, to attend the early service
at one of the thirteen churches, after which, still at a very early
hour, he was invited to break his fast with the great Franciscan, Adam
de Maresco, to whom his friend the chaplain had strongly commended him.
So he put on his scholar’s gown, and went to the finest church then
existing in Oxford, the Abbey Church of Oseney.

This magnificent abbey had been endowed by Robert D’Oyley, nephew of
the Norman Conqueror, mentioned in another of our Chronicles {12}. It
was situated on an island, formed by various branches of the Isis, in
the western suburbs of the city, and extended as far as from the
present Oseney Mill to St. Thomas’ Church. The abbey church, long since
destroyed, was lofty and magnificent, containing twenty-four altars, a
central tower of great height, and a western tower. Here King Henry III
passed a Christmas with “reverent mirth.”

There was a large gathering of monks, friars, and students; the quiet
sober side of Oxford predominated in the early dawn, and Martin thought
he had never seen so orderly a city. He was destined to change his
ideas, or at least modify them, before he laid his head on his pillow
that night.

Before leaving the church Martin ascended to the summit of the abbey
tower, the wicket gate of which stood invitingly open, in order to
survey the city and country, and gain a general idea of his future
home. Below him, in the sweet freshness of the early morn, the branches
of the Isis surrounded the abbey precincts, the river being well
guarded by stone work and terraces, so that it could not at flood time
encroach upon the abbey. Neither before the days of locks could or did
such floods occur as we have now, the water got away more readily, and
the students could not sail upon “Port Meadow” as upon a lake, in the
winter and spring, as they do at the present day.

Beyond the abbey rose the church and college of “Saint George in the
Castle,” that is within the precincts of the fortress, and the great
mound thrown up by Queen Ethelflaed, a sister of Alfred, now called the
Jew’s Mount {13}, and the two towers of the Norman Castle seemed to
make one group with church and college. The town church of Saint Martin
rose from a thickly-built group of houses, at a spot called _Quatre
Voies_, where the principal streets crossed, which name we corrupt into
Carfax. He counted the towers of thirteen churches, including the
historic shrine of Saint Frideswide, which afterwards developed into
the College of Christchurch, and later still furnished the Cathedral of
the diocese.

Around lay a wild land of heath and forest, with cultivated fields very
infrequently interspersed; the moors of Cowley, the woods of Shotover
and Bagley; and farther still, the forests of Nuneham, inhabited even
then by the Harcourts, who still hold the ancestral demesne.
Descending, he made his way to Greyfriars, as the Franciscan house was
called, encountering many groups who were already wending their way to
lecture room, or, like Martin, returning to break their fast after
morning chapel, which then meant early mass at one of the many
churches, for only in three or four instances had corporate bodies
chapels of their own.

These groups were very unlike modern undergraduates; as a rule they
were much younger people, of the same ages as the upper forms in our
public schools, from fourteen or fifteen years upwards; mere boys,
living in crowded hostels, fighting and quarrelling with all the sweet
“abandon” of early youth, sometimes begging masterfully, for licenses
to beg were granted to poor students, living, it might be, in the
greatest poverty, but still devoted to learning.

At length Martin arrived at the house of the Franciscans, where he was
eventually to lodge, but they had no room for him at this moment, hence
he had been sent to a hostelry, licensed to take lodgers; much to the
regret of Adam de Maresco. But he could not show partiality. Each
newcomer must take his turn, according to the date of the entry of his
name. The friary was on the marshy ground between the walls and the
Isis, on land bestowed upon them in charity, amongst the huts of the
poor whom they loved. At first huts of mud and timber, as rough and
rude as those around, arose within the fence and ditch which they drew
and dug around their habitations, but the necessities of the climate
had driven them to build in stone, for the damp climate, the mists and
fogs from the Isis, soon rotted away their woodwork. And so Martin
found a very simple, but very substantial building in the Norman
architecture of the period. The first “Provincial” of the Greyfriars
had persuaded Robert Grosseteste, afterwards the great Bishop of
Lincoln, to lecture at the school they founded in their Oxford house,
and all his powerful influence was exercised to gain them a sound
footing in the University. They deserved it, for their schools attained
a reputation throughout Christendom, so nobly was the work, which
Grosseteste began, carried on by his scholar and successor, Adam de
Maresco.

And they had helped to make Oxford, as it was then, the second city of
importance in England, and only second to Paris amongst the learned
cities of the world.

Martin was shown along a cloister looking through the most sombre of
Norman arches, upon a greensward. The doors of many cells opened upon
it. He was told to knock at one of them, and a deep voice replied,
“Enter in the name of the Lord.”

It was a large, plain room, with a vaulted ceiling lighted by lancet
windows and scantily furnished; rough oaken benches, a plain heavy
table, covered with parchments and manuscripts: in one recess a
_Prie-Dieu_ beneath a crucifix, and under the fald stool a skull, with
the words “_memento mori_,” three or four chairs with painfully
straight backs, a cupboard for books (manuscripts) and parchments,
another for vestments ecclesiastical or collegiate. This was all which
cumbered the bare floor. At the corner of the room a spiral stone
staircase led to the bed chamber.

Before the table stood an aged and venerable man, in the gray clothing
of the Franciscans, sweet in face, pleasant in manner, dignified in
hearing, in reputation without a stain, in learning unsurpassed.

Martin bowed reverently before him, and gave him the chaplain’s letter.

“I had heard of thy arrival, my son. I trust thou hast found
comfortable lodgings at the hostel I recommended?”

“I have slept well, my father.”

“And hast not forgotten thy duty to God?”

“I should do discredit to my teacher at Kenilworth if I did. I have
been to the abbey church.”

“He is a man of God, and I doubt not thou art worthy of his love, for
he writes of thee as a father might of a much-loved son. But now, my
son, we must break our fast. Come to the refectorium with me.”

Passing into the cloister they came to the dining hall or
“refectorium.” Three long tables, a fourth where the elders and
professors sat, on a raised platform at right angles to the others. A
hundred men and boys had already assembled, and after a Latin grace,
breakfast began. It was not a fast day, so the fare was substantial,
although quite plain—porridge, pease soup, bread, meat, cheese, and
ale. The most sober youth of the university were there, men who meant
eventually to assume the gray habit, and carry the Gospel over
wilderness and forest, in the slums of towns, or amongst the heathen,
counting peril as nought. There was no buzz of conversation, only from
a stone pulpit the reader read a chapter from the Gospels.

After this was done, grace after meat was said, and the elders first
departed, the great master taking Martin back with him into his cell.

“And now, my son, what dost thou come to Oxford for?”

“To learn that I may afterwards teach.”

“And what dost thou desire to become?”

“One of your holy brotherhood, a brother of Saint Francis.”

“Dost thou know what that means, my son? Scanty clothing, hard fare,
the absence of all that men most value, the welcoming of perils and
hardships as thy daily companions, that thou mayst take thy life in thy
hand, and find the sheep of Christ amongst the wolves.”

“All this I have been told.”

“Well, my son, thou art yet new to the world. At Oxford thou will see
it, and will make thy choice better when thou knowest both what thou
rejectest and what thou seekest. Meanwhile, guard thy youthful steps;
avoid quarrelling, fighting, drinking, dicing; mortify thine own
flesh—”

“Do these temptations await me in Oxford?”

“The air has been full of them, since Henry brought the thousand
students from the gay university of Paris hither. Thou wilt soon see,
and gauge thy power of resisting temptation. I would not say, stay
indoors. The virtue which has never been tested is nought.”

“Where do the brethren chiefly work for God?”

“In the noisome lazar houses, amongst the lepers, in the shambles of
Newgate, here on the swamps between the walls and the Thames, where men
live and suffer. We do not enter the brotherhood to build grand
buildings. We sleep on bare pallets without pillows.”

“Why without pillows?” asked Martin, wondering.

“We need no little mountains to lift our heads to heaven. None but the
sick go shod.”

“Is it not dangerous to health to go without shoes in the winter?”

“God protects us,” said the master, smiling sweetly. “One of our friars
found a pair of shoes last winter on a frosty morning, and wore them to
matins. At night he had a dream. He dreamt that he was travelling on
the work of God, and that at a dangerous pass in the forest of the
Cotswolds, robbers leapt out upon him, crying, ‘Kill, kill.’

“‘I am a friar,’ he shrieked.

“‘You lie,’ they replied, ‘for you go shod.’

“He awoke and threw the shoes out of the window.”

“And did he catch cold afterwards?”

Another smile.

“No, my son, all these things go by habit.”

“Shall I begin to leave off my shoes?”

“Not yet, your vocation is not settled. You may yet choose the world.”

“I never shall.”

“Poor boy, you are young and cannot tell. Perhaps before nightfall a
different light may be thrown upon your good resolutions.”

A pause ensued. At length Martin went on, “At least you have books. I
love books.”

“At first we had not even them, but later on the Holy Father thought
that those who contend with the unbelieving learned should be learned
themselves. They who pour forth must suck in.”

“When did the Order come to Oxford?”

“Thirty years agone. When we first landed at Dover we made our way to
London, the home of commerce, and Oxford, the home of learning. The two
first gray brethren lost their way in the woods of Nuneham, on their
road to the city, and afraid of the floods, which were out, and of the
dark night, which made it difficult to avoid the water, took refuge in
a grange, which belonged to the Abbey of Abingdon, where dwelt a small
branch of the great Benedictine Brotherhood. Their clothes were ragged
and torn with thorns, and they only spoke broken English, so the monks
took them for the travelling jugglers of the day, and welcomed them
with great hospitality. But after supper they all assembled in the
common room, and bade the supposed jugglers show their craft.

“‘We be not jugglers, we be poor brethren of our Lord and Saint
Francis.’

“Now the monks were very jealous of the new Order, so unlike
themselves, in its renunciation of ease and luxury, and in very spite
they called them knaves and impostors, and kicked them out of doors.”

“What did they do?”

“They slept under a tree, and the angels comforted them. The next day
they got to Oxford and began their work. The plague had been raging in
the poorer quarters of the city, and they brought the joy of the Gospel
to those miserable people. At length their numbers increased, and they
built this house wherein we dwell.”

In such conversation as this Martin passed a happy hour, then went to
the first lecture he attended, in the schools attached to the friary,
where the great works of Augustine and Aquinas formed the text books;
no Creek as yet. He passed from Latin to Logic, as the handmaid of
theology. The great thinker Aristotle supplied the method, not the
language or matter, and became the ally of Christianity, under the
rendering of a learned brother.

Then followed the noontide meal, a stroll with some younger companions
of his own age, to whom he had been specially introduced, which led
them so far afield that they only returned in time for the vesper
service, at the friary.

After the service Martin should have returned to his lodgings at once,
but, tempted by the novelty of all he saw about him, he lingered in the
streets, and saw cause to alter his opinion of the extreme propriety of
the students. Some of them were playing at pitch and toss in the
thievish corners. At least half a dozen pairs of antagonists were
settling their quarrels with their fists or with quarterstaves, in
various secluded nooks. Songs, gay rather than grave, not to say a
trifle licentious, resounded; while once or twice he was asked: “Are
you North or South?”—a query to which he hardly knew how to reply,
Kenilworth being north and Sussex south of Oxford.

But the penalty of not answering was a rude jostling, which tried his
temper sadly, and awoke the old Adam within him, which our readers
remember only slumbered. He looked through the open door of a tavern.
It was full of the young reprobates, and the noise and turmoil was
deafening.

As he stood by the door, three or four grave-looking men came along.

“We must get them all home, or there will be bloodshed tonight,” Martin
heard one say.

“It will be difficult,” replied the other.

Into the tavern they turned, and the noise suddenly subsided.

“What do ye here, ye reprobates, that ye stand drinking, dicing,
quarrelling? To your hostels, every one of you,” said the first.

Martin expected scornful resistance, and was surprised to see that
instead, all the rapscallions evacuated the place, and the “proctors,”
as we should now call them, remained to remonstrate with the host,
whose license they threatened to withdraw.

“How can I help it?” he said. “They be too many for me.”

“If you cannot keep order, seek another trade,” was the stern response.
“We cannot have the morals of our scholars corrupted.”

“Bless you, sirs, it is they who corrupt me. I don’t know half the
wickedness they do.”

Our readers need not believe him, the proctors did not.

But Martin took the warning, and was bent on getting home, only he lost
his way, and could not find it again. It was not for want of asking;
but the young scholars he met preferred lies to truth, in the mere
frolic of puzzling a newcomer, and sent him first to Frideswide’s,
thence to the East Gate, near Saint Clement’s Chapel, and he was making
his way back with difficulty along the High Street when he heard an
awful confusion and uproar about the “_Quatre Voies_” (Carfax) Conduit.

“Down with the lubberly North men!”

“Split their skulls, though they be like those of the bullocks their
sires drive!”

“Down with the moss troopers!”

“_Boves boreales_!”

And answering cries:

“Down with the lisping, smooth-tongued Southerners!”

“_Australes asini_!”

“_Eheu_!”

“Slay me every one with a burr in his mouth.” (An allusion to the
Northumbrian accent.)

“Down with the mincing fools who have got no r.r.r’s”

“Burrrrn them, you should say.”

“_Frangite capita_.”

“_Percutite porcos boreales_.”

“_Vim inferre australibus asinis_.”

“_Sternite omnes Gallos_.”

So they shouted imprecations in Latin and English, and eke in French,
for there were many Gauls about.

What chance of getting through the fighting, drunken, riotous mobs?
Quarterstaves were rising and falling upon heads and shoulders. No
deadlier weapons were used, but showers of missiles from time to time
descended, unsavoury or otherwise.

At length the superior force of the Northern men prevailed, and Martin,
whose blood was strangely stirred, saw a slim and delicate youth
fighting so bravely with a huge Northern ox (“bos borealis,” he called
him) that for a time he stayed the rush, until the whole Southern line
gave way and Martin, entangled with the rout, got driven down Saint
Mary’s Lane, opposite the church of that name, an earlier building on
the site of the present University church.

At an angle of the street, where another lane entered in, the young
Southerner before mentioned turned to bay, and with three or four more
of his countryfolk kept the narrow way against scores of pursuers.

Martin could not restrain himself any longer. He saw three or four men
pressed by dozens, and rushed with all the fire of his generous and
impetuous nature to their aid, in time to intercept a blow aimed at the
young leader.

Well could he brandish such weapons, and he stood side by side and
settled many a “bos borealis,” or northern bullock, with as much zest
as ever a southern butcher. But at length his leader fell, and Martin
stood diverting the strokes aimed at his fallen companion, who was
stunned for the moment, until a rough hearty voice cried out:

“Let them alone, they have had enough. ’Tis cowardly to fight a dozen
to one. Listen, the row is on in the _Quatre Voies_ again. We shall
find more there.”

The two were left alone.

Martin raised his wounded companion, whose head was bleeding profusely.

“Art thou hurt much?”

“Not so very much, only dazed. I shall soon be better. I am close
home.”

“Let me support you. Lean on me, I will see you safe.”

“You came just in time. Where did you come from? I never saw you
before—and where did you learn to handle the cudgel so well?”

“From the woods of merry Sussex, and later on, the tilt yard of
Kenilworth.”

“Oh, you are a true Southerner, then. So am I, the second son of
Waleran de Monceux of Herst, in the Andredsweald.

“Here we are at home—come in to Saint Dymas’ Hall.”




Chapter 8: Hubert At Lewes Priory.


William de Warrenne and Gundrada his wife, the daughter of the mighty
Conqueror, were travelling on the Continent and made a pilgrimage to
the famous Abbey of Clairvaux, presided over by the great abbot, poet,
and preacher of the age, Saint Bernard. So much did they admire all
they saw and heard, so sweet was the contrast of monastic peace to
their life of ceaseless turmoil, that they determined to found such a
house of God on their newly-acquired domains in Sussex, after the
fashion of Clairvaux.

Already they had superseded the wooden Saxon church of Saint Pancras,
the boy martyr of ancient Rome, which they found at Lewes, by a stone
building, and now upon its site they began to erect a mightier edifice
by far, upon proportions which would entail the labour of generations.

A wondrous and beautiful priory arose; it covered forty acres, its
church was as big as a cathedral, a magnificent cruciform pile—one
hundred and fifty feet long, sixty-five feet in height from pavement to
roof; there were twenty-four massive pillars in the nave {14}, each
thirty feet in circumference; but it was not until the time of their
grandson, the third earl, that it was dedicated. Nor indeed were its
comely proportions enhanced by the two western towers until the very
date of our tale, nearly two centuries later. Then it lived on in its
beauty, a joy to successive generations, until the vandals of Thomas
Cromwell, trained to devastation, so completely destroyed it in a few
brief weeks that the next generation had almost forgotten its site
{15}.

The first monks were foreigners, by the advice of Lanfranc, and, as a
great favour, Saint Bernard sent three of his own brethren from
Clairvaux, who taught the good people of Lewes to sing “_Jesu dulcis
memoria_.” Loth though we are to confess it, there can be little doubt
that the foreigners were a great advance in learning and piety upon the
monks before the Conquest; the first prior, Lanzo, was conspicuous for
his many virtues and sweet ascetic disposition.

There the bones of the founders were laid to rest beneath the gorgeous
fabric they had founded, and there they had hoped to await the day of
doom and righteous retribution. But alas! poor Normans! in the
sixteenth century old Harry pulled the grand church down above their
heads; in the nineteenth the navvies, making the railroad, disinterred
their bones. But they respected the dead, the names William and
Gundrada were upon the coffins which their profane mattocks unearthed,
and the reader may see them at Southover Church.

In the freshness of a May morning Hubert and his new uncle, Sir
Nicholas Harengod, dismounted at the gate of the priory, having left
their train at the hostelry up in the town.

“Canst thou tell us whether the brother of Saint John, Roger erst of
Walderne, is tarrying within?”

“Certes he is, but just now he heareth the Chapter Mass—few services or
offices doth he miss, and like Saint James of old, his knees are worn
as hard as the knees of camels.”

“We would fain see him—here is his son.”

“By our lady, not to mention Saint Pancras, a well-favoured stripling.
And thou?”

“I am Sir Nicholas of Walderne,” said he of that query, with some
importance, which was quite lost upon the janitor.

“Walderne! Some place in the woods may be. Well, get you, worshipful
sirs, to the hospitium, where we feed all hungry folk at the hour of
noon, and I will strive to find the good brother.”

The splendid group of buildings, of which only a few half-demolished
walls remain, rose before them, on each side of the great quadrangle
which they now entered; the chapter house, where the brethren met for
counsel; the refectory, where they fed; the dormitory, where they
slept; the scriptory, where they copied those beautiful manuscripts
which antiquarians love to obtain; the infirmary, where the sick were
tended; and lastly, the hospitium or guest house, where all travellers
and pilgrims were welcome.

They entered the hospitium, where the noontide meal was about to be
served. It was plain but ample; solid joints, huge loaves, ale, and
even wine in moderation. Some twenty sat down to the hospitable board.

During the “noon meat” a homily was read. When the meal was over a lay
brother came and beckoned Sir Nicholas and Hubert to follow him. He led
them to the cloisters and knocked at the door of a cell.

“Come in,” said a deep voice.

Could this be the father Hubert had so longed to know, clad in a long
dark dress, with haggard and worn features, which, however, still
preserved their native nobility?

At the sight of his visitors he showed an emotion he vainly endeavoured
to repress, under an affectation of self control. He greeted Sir
Nicholas kindly, but embraced his fair son, while tears he could not
repress streamed down his worn cheeks.

“This is then my Hubert. Ah, how like thy short-lived mother! She lives
again in thee, my boy.”

“But, my father, I trust thy courage and valour have descended to me
also. They do not call me girlish at Kenilworth.”

“Such as I have to bequeath is, I trust, thine. Thy mother came of a
race more addicted to lute and harp than sword or spear. It was the
worse for them in their dire need, when the stern father of him who
shelters thee harried their land with fire and sword.

“But we waste time. Sit down and let the eyes of the father, weary of
the world, gaze upon the boy in whom he lives again.”

For a few moments there was silence, during which Roger seemed
struggling to overcome an emotion which overpowered him.

“I was thinking of the sunny land of Provence, and was there again with
one dearly loved, who was only spared to me a few short months. She
died in giving thee birth, my Hubert; had she lived, I had not become
the wreck I am.

“So thou desirest to go forth into the world, my son?”

“As thou didst also, my father.”

“But I trust under other auspices. Tell me not of my giddy youth.
Dearly did I pay the price of youthful folly and unseemly strife. Thou,
too, my boy, must buy experience; God grant more cheaply than I bought
mine.”

There he shuddered.

“My boy, hast thou ever wished to be a warrior of the Cross—a
crusader?”

“Often, oh how often. In that way I would fain serve God.”

The monk soldier smiled.

“And how wouldst thou attempt to convert the infidel?”

“At the first blasphemy he uttered I would cut him down, cleave him to
the chine.”

“Such our knights generally hold to be the better way, for their arms
were readier than their tongues, but I never heard that they saved the
souls of the heathen thereby.”

“No one wants to see them in heaven, I should think. Let them go to
their own place.”

“It is wrong, I know it is. It must be. There is a better way—come with
me, boy, I would fain show thee something.”

He led the wondering boy into the garden of the monastery. There in the
centre arose an artificial mount, and upon it stood a cross—the figure
of the Redeemer, bending, as in death, from the rood. It was called
“The Calvary,” and men came there to pray.

The father bent his knee—the son did the same.

“Now, my boy, whom did He die for but His enemies? Even for His
murderers He cried, ‘Father, forgive them!’ And you would fain slay
them.”

Hubert was silent.

“When thou art struck—”

“No one ever struck me without getting it back, at least no boy of my
own age,” interrupted Hubert.

“And He said, ‘When thou art smitten on one cheek, turn the other to
the smiter.’”

“But, my father, must we all be like that? I am sure I couldn’t be that
sort of Christian; even the good earl Simon is not, nor Martin either.
Perhaps the chaplain is—do you think so?”

“Who is Martin?”

“The best boy I know, but I have seen him fight.”

“Well, and thou may’st fight nay, must, as the world goes, in a good
cause, and there is a sword which thou must bear unsullied through the
conflict. But if thou avengest thine own private wrongs, as I did, or
bearest rancour against thy personal foes, never wilt thou deliver me.”

“Deliver thee?”

“Yes, my child. I am under a curse, because on the very day of the
great sacrifice on the Cross, on a Friday, I slew a man who had
insulted me. He died unhouselled, unanointed, unannealed, and his ghost
ever haunts my midnight hour.”

“Even here, in this holy, consecrated place?”

“Even in the very church itself.”

“Can any one else see it?”

“They have never done so. Perhaps as thou art of my blood, it might be
permitted thee.”

“I will try. Let me stay this night with thee, and watch by thy side in
the church.”

“Thou shalt be blessed in the deed. I will ask Sir Nicholas to tarry
the night if he can do so.”

“Or I might ride back alone tomorrow.”

“The forest is dangerous; the outlaws abound.”

“That for the outlaws, _hujus facio_;” and Hubert snapped his fingers.
It was about the only scrap of Latin he cared for.

The father smiled sadly.

“Come, we are keeping Sir Nicholas waiting;” and they returned to the
great quadrangle, where they found that worthy striding up and down
with some impatience.

“We must be off at once, brother, Hubert and I. The woods are not over
safe after nightfall.”

“I must ask thee to spare me my son a while. I would fain make his
further acquaintance.”

“Come back with us to Walderne, then. The lad would soon die of the
gloom of a monastery.”

“I spent four years in one, and the earl found me alive at the end,”
said Hubert.

“Nay, my brother, I may not leave the priory now.”

“But how long wilt thou keep the boy?”

“Only till tomorrow.”

“Well, I may tarry till tomorrow, but not at the monastery. My old
crony, the De Warrenne up at the castle, will lodge me, and I will
return for the lad after the Chapter Mass, at nine.”

Of all forms of architecture the Norman appears to the writer the most
awe inspiring. Its massive round pillars, its bold, but simple arch,
have an effect upon the mind more imposing and solemnising, if we may
coin the word, than the more florid architecture of the decorated
period, which may aptly be described as “Gothic run to seed.” Such a
stern and simple structure was the earlier priory church of Lewes, in
the days of which we write.

A little before midnight two forms entered the south transept by a
little wicket door. There was a black darkness over the heavens that
night, and a high wind moaned and shrieked about the upper turrets of
the stately fane. Oh, how solemn was the inner aspect at that dread
hour, lighted only by the seven lamps, which, typical of the Seven
Spirits of God, burned in the choir, pendent from the roof.

One timorous glance Hubert gave into the dark recesses of the aisles
and transept, into the dim space overhead, as if he almost expected to
hear the flapping of ghostly pinions in the portentous gloom. A sense
of mystery daunted his spirit as he followed his sire by the light of a
feeble lamp, carried in the hand, amidst the tall columns which rose
like tree trunks around, each shaft appearing to rise farther than the
sight could penetrate, ere it gave birth to the arch from its summit.
Dead crusaders lay around in stone, and strove with grim visage to draw
the sword and smite the worshippers of Mohammed, as if in the very act
they had been petrified by a new Gorgon’s head. The steps of the
intruders seemed sacrilegious, breaking the solemn stillness of the
night as the father led the son into the chapel of the patron saint of
his order:

Who propped the Virgin in her faint,
The loved Apostle John.


There the horror-stricken Hubert heard the dismal tale which we have
already related, and that his unhappy father believed himself yet
visited each night by the ghost of the man he had slain. And also that
it was fixed in his poor diseased brain that the apparition would not
rest until the crusade, vowed by the Sieur de Fievrault, but cut short
by his fall, should be made by proxy, and that the proxy must be one
_sans peur et sans reproche_. And that this reparation made, the poor
spirit, according to the belief of the age, released from purgatorial
fires, might enter Paradise and reappear no more between the hours of
midnight and cock crowing to trouble the living.

“What an absurd story,” the sceptic may say. No doubt it is to us, but
a man must live in his own age, and there was nought absurd or
improbable to young Hubert in it all.

And when the weird tale was finished, and the hour of midnight tolled
boom! boom! boom! from the tower above, every stroke sent a thrill
through the heart of the youth. That dread hour, when, as men thought,
the powers of darkness had the world to themselves, when a thousand
ghosts shrieked on the hollow wind, when midnight hags swept through
the tainted air, and goblins gibbered in sepulchres.

Just then Hubert caught his father’s glance, and it made each separate
hair erect itself:

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.


“Father,” cried the boy, “what art thou gazing at? what aileth thee? I
see nought amiss.”

Words came from the father’s lips, not in reply to his son, but as if
to some object unseen by all besides.

“Yes, unhappy ghost, I may dare thy livid terrors now. My son, thy
proxy, is by my side, pure and shameless, brave and trustworthy. He
shall carry thy sword to the holy soil and dye it ‘deep in Paynim
blood.’ Then thou and I may rest in peace.”

“Father, I see nought.”

“Not there, between those pillars?”

“What is it?”

“A dead man, with a sword wound in his open breast, which he displays.
His eyes live, yea, and the wound lives.”

“No, father, there is nothing.”

“Then go and stand between those pillars, and prove it to me to be
void.”

Hubert hesitated. He would sooner have fought a hundred boyish battles
with fist, quarterstaff, or even deadly weapons—but this—

“Ah, thou darest not. Nay, I blame thee not, yet thou didst say there
was nothing.”

Hubert could not resist that pleading tone in which the sire seemed to
ask release from his own delusion. He went with determined step, and
stood on the indicated spot.

“He is gone. He fled before thee. The omen is good. Thou shalt deliver
thy sire—let us pray together.”

Sire and son knelt until the first note of the matin song just before
daybreak (it was the month of May) broke the utterance of the father
and, we fear we must own it, the sleep of the son.

_Domine labia mea aperies
Et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam_.


The sombre-robed monks were in the choir, the organ rolling out its
deep notes in accompaniment to the plain song of the _Venite
exultemus_, which then, as now, preceded the psalms for the day. Then
came the hymn:

Lo night and clouds and darkness wrap
The world in dark array;
The morning dawns, the sun breaks in,
Hence, hence, ye shades—away {16}!


“Come, Hubert, dear son, worthy of thy sainted mother. We will praise
Him, too, for He has lifted the darkness from my heart.”




Chapter 9: The Other Side Of The Picture.


The young scion of the house of Herstmonceux led Martin a few steps
down the lane opposite Saint Mary’s Church, until they came to the
vaulted doorway of a house of some pretensions. Its walls were thick,
its windows deep set and narrow. Dull in external appearance, it did
not seem to be so within, for sounds of riotous mirth proceeded from
many a window left open for admittance of air. The great door was shut,
but a little wicket was on the latch, and Ralph de Monceux opened it,
saying:

“Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest
news from dear old Sussex.”

“What place is this?” replied Martin.

“Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume.”

Martin smiled.

“What is the real name?”

“It should be ‘Ape Hall,’ for here we ape men of learning, whereas
little is done but drinking, dicing, and fighting. But you will find
our neighbours in the next street have monopolised that title, with yet
stronger claims.”

“But what do the outsiders call you?”

“Saint Dymas’ Halt, since we never pay our debts. But the world calls
it Le Oriole {17} Hostel. A better name just now is ‘Liberty Hall,’ for
we all do just as we like. There is no king in Israel.”

So speaking, he lifted the latch, and saluted a gigantic porter:

“Holloa, Magog! hast thou digested the Woodstock deer yet?”

“Not so loud, my young sir. We may be heard.” He paused, but put his
hand knowingly to the neck just under the left ear.

“Pshaw, he that is born to die in his bed can never be hanged. Where is
Spitfire?”

“Here,” said a sharp-speaking voice, coming from a precocious young
monkey in a servitor’s dress.

“Get me a flagon of canary, and we will wash down the remains of the
pasty.”

“But strangers are not admitted after curfew,” said the porter.

“And I must be getting to my lodgings,” said Martin.

“Tush, tush, didn’t you hear that this is _Liberty Hall_?

“Shut your mouth, Magog—here is something to stop it. This young
warrior just knocked down a _bos borealis_, who strove to break my
head. Shall I not offer him bread and salt in return?”

The porter offered no further opposition, for the speaker slipped a
coin into his palm as he continued:

“Come this way, this is my den. Not that way, that is _spelunca
latronum_, a den of robbers.”

“Holloa! here is Ralph de Monceux, and with a broken head, as usual.

“Where didst thou get that, Master Ralph, roaring Ralph?”

Such sounds came from the _spelunca latronum_.

“At the _Quatre Voies_, fighting for your honour against a drove of
northern oxen.”

“And whom hast thou brought with thee to help thee mend it?”

“The fellow who knocked down the _bos_ who gave it me, as deftly as any
butcher.”

“Let us see him.”

“What name shall I give thee?” whispered Ralph.

“Martin.”

“Martin of—?”

“Martin from Kenilworth,” said our bashful hero, blushing.

“Thou didst say thou wert of Sussex?”

“So I am, but I was adopted into the earl’s household three years
agone.”

“Then he is Northern,” said a listener.

“No, he came from Sussex.”

“Say where? no tricks upon gentlemen.”

“Michelham Priory.”

“Michelham Priory. Ah! an acolyte! Tapers, incense, and albs.”

“Acolyte be hanged. He does not fight like one at all events.”

“Come up into my den.

“Come, Hugh, Percy, Aylmer, Richard, Roger, and we will discuss the
matter deftly over a flagon of canary with eke a flask or two of sack,
in honour of our new acquaintance.”

“Nay,” said Martin, “now I have seen you safe home, I must go. It is
past curfew. I am a stranger, and should be at my lodgings.”

“We will see thee safely home, and improve the occasion by cracking a
few more bovine skulls if we meet them, the northern burring brutes.
Their lingo sickens me, but here we are.”

So speaking, he opened the door of the vaulted chamber he called his
“den.” It was sparingly furnished, and bore no likeness to the sort of
smoking divan an undergrad of the tone of Ralph would affect now in
Oxford. Plain stove, floor strewn with rushes, rude tapestry around the
walls, with those uncouth faces and figures worked thereon which give
antiquarians a low idea of the personal appearance of the people of the
day, a solid table, upon which a bear might dance without breaking it,
two or three stools, a carved cabinet, a rude hearth and chimney piece,
a rough basin and ewer of red ware in deal setting, a pallet bed in a
recess.

And the students, the undergraduates of the period, were worth
studying. One had a black eye, another a plastered head, a third an arm
in a sling, a fourth a broken nose. Martin stared at them in amazement.

“We had a tremendous fight here last night. The Northerners besieged us
in our hostel. We made a sally and levelled a few of the burring brutes
before the town guard came up and spoiled the fun. What a pity we can’t
fight like gentlemen with swords and battle axes!”

“Why not, if you must fight at all?” said Martin, who had been taught
at Kenilworth to regard fists and cudgels as the weapons of clowns.

“Because, young greenhorn,” said Hugh, “he who should bring a sword or
other lethal weapon into the University would shortly be expelled by
_alma mater_ from her nursery, according to the statutes for that case
made and provided.”

“But why do you come here, if you love fighting better than learning?
There is plenty of fighting in the world.”

“Some come because they are made to come, others from a vocation for
the church, like thyself perhaps, others from an inexplicable love of
books; you should hear us when our professor Asinus Asinorum takes us
in class.

“_Amo, amas, amat_, see me catch a rat. _Rego, regis, regit_, let me
sweat a bit.”

“_Tace_, no more Latin till tomorrow. Here is a venison pasty from a
Woodstock deer, smuggled into the town beneath a load of hay, under the
very noses of the watch.”

“Who shot it?”

“Mad Hugh and I.”

“Where did you get the load of hay from?”

“Oh, a farmer’s boy was driving it into town. We knocked him down, then
tied him to a tree. It didn’t hurt him much, and we left him a walnut
for his supper. Then Hugh put on his smock and other ragtags, and
hiding the deer under the hay, drove it straight to the door, and
Magog, who loves the smell of venison, took it in, but we made him buy
the bulk of the carcase.”

“How much did he give?”

“A rose noble, and a good pie out of the animal into the bargain.”

“And what did you do with the cart?”

“Hugh put on the smock again, and drove it outside the northern gate,
past ‘Perilous Hall,’ then gave the horse a cut or two of the whip, and
left it to find its way home to Woodstock if it could.”

“A good thing you are here with your necks only their natural length.
The king’s forester would have hung you all three.”

“Only he couldn’t catch us. We have led him many a dance before now.”

When the reader considers that killing the king’s deer was a hanging
matter in those days, he will not think these young Oxonians behind
their modern successors in daring, or, as he may call it,
foolhardiness.

Martin was hungry, the smell of the pasty was very appetising, and
neither he nor any one else said any more until the pie had been
divided upon six wooden platters, and all had eaten heartily, washing
it down with repeated draughts from a huge silver flagon of canary, one
of the heirlooms of Herstmonceux; and afterwards they cleansed their
fingers, which they had used instead of forks, in a large central
finger glass—nay, bowl of earthenware.

“More drink, I have a jorum of splendid sack in you cupboard,” cried
their host when the flagon was empty.

“Now a song, every one must give a song.

“Hugh, you begin.”

I love to lurk in the gloom of the wood
Where the lithesome stags are roaming,
And to send a sly shaft just to tickle their ribs
Ere I smuggle them home in the gloaming.


“Just the case with this one we have been eating. But that measure is
slow, let me give you one,” said Ralph.

Come, drink until you drop, my boys,
And if a headache follow,
Why, go to bed and sleep it off,
And drink again tomorrow.


Martin began to fear that the wine was suffocating his conscience in
its fumes—and said:

“I must go now.”

“We will all go with you.”

“Magog won’t let us out.”

“Yes he will, we will say we are all going to Saint Frideswide’s shrine
to say our prayers.”

“The dice before we go.”

“Throw against me,” said Hugh to our Martin.

“I cannot, I never played in my life.”

“Then the sooner you begin the better.

“Here, roaring Ralph, this innocent young acolyte says he has never
touched the dice.”

“Then the sooner he begins the better.

“Come, stake a mark against me.”

“He hasn’t got one.”

Shame, false shame, conquered Martin’s repugnance. He threw one of his
few coins down, and Ralph did the same.

“You throw first—six and four—ten. Here goes—I have only two threes,
the marks are yours.”

“Nay, I don’t want them.”

“Take them and be hanged. D’ye think I can’t spare a mark?”

“Fighting, dicing, drinking,” and then came to Martin’s mind the words
of Adam de Maresco, uttered that very morning, and now he determined to
go at once at any cost, and turned to the door.

“Nay, we are all going to see thee safe home. The _boves boreales_ may
be grazing in the streets.”

“I hear them! Burr! burr! burr!”

Down the stairs they all staggered. Martin felt so overcome as he
emerged into the air that he did not know at first how to walk
straight, yet he had not drunk half so much as the rest.

“_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_.”

But happily (to ease the mind of our readers we will say at once) he
was not to take many steps on this road.

“Magog! Magog! open! open!”

“Not such a noise, you’ll wake the old governor above,” —alluding to
the master of the hostel.

“He won’t wake, not he. It does not pay to see too much. He knows his
own interests.”

“Past curfew,” growled Magog. “Can’t let any one out.”

“That only means he wants another coin.”

“Open, Magog, we are going to pray at Saint Frideswide’s shrine for
thee.”

“We are going to get another deer for thee at Woodstock.”

“We are going by the king’s invitation to visit the palace, and see the
ghost of fair Rosamond.”

“We are going to sup with the Franciscans—six split peas and a
thimbleful of water to each man.”

Even the venal porter hesitated to let such a crew into the streets,
but he gave way under the pressure of another coin. Cudgel in hand they
went forth, and as they passed the hostel they called “Ape Hall” they
sang aloud:

Come forth, ye apes, and scratch your polls,
Your learning is in question,
And while ye scratch, eat what ye catch,
To quicken your digestion.


Two or three “apes” looked out of the window much disgusted, as well
they might be, and were driven back by a shower of stones.
Onward—shouting, roaring, singing, but they met no one. All the world
was in bed. The moon alone looked down upon them as she waded through
the clouds, casting brilliant light here, leaving black shadows there.

All at once a light, the light of a torch, turned the corner. The
tinkling of a small bell was heard. It was close upon them. A priest
bore the last Sacrament to the dying—the _Viaticum_, or Holy Communion,
so called when given in the hour of death.

“Down,” cried Ralph, and they all knelt as it passed, for such was the
universal habit. Even vicious sinners thought they atoned for their
vice by their ready compliance with the forms of the Church. Many a man
in that day would have thought it a less sin to cut a throat than to
omit such an act of devotion.

But Martin recognised the priest. It was Adam de Maresco in his gray
Franciscan robes, and he thought the father recognised him. He turned
crimson with shame at being found in such company.

At last they reached home, and sick at heart he knocked at the door. It
was long before he was admitted, and then not without sharp words of
reproof, at which his companions laughed, as they turned and went back
to Le Oriole.

Martin bathed his head in water to drive away the racking headache.
Fire seemed coursing through his veins as he lay down on the hard
pallet of straw in his little cell.

He was awoke by a hideous purring; there, as he thought, upon his
cast-off garments, sat the enemy of mankind: he had drawn the mark
gained at the dice out of the gypsire, and was feasting on it with his
eyes, ever and anon licking it with great gusto, and meanwhile purr,
purr, purring like a huge cat.

Martin, now awake, dashed from his couch—no fiend was there—he tore his
gypsire open, took out the coin, opened his casement, and threw it like
an accursed thing into the street. Then he got in bed again and sobbed
like a child.




Chapter 10: Foul And Fair.


The rivalry between Drogo and Hubert became the more intense that both
lads were bound to suppress it; and after the return of the latter from
Sussex, it found vent in many acts of hostility and spite on the part
of the former, who was the older and bigger boy. Yet he could not bully
Hubert to any extent. The indomitable pluck and courage of the
youngster prevented it. He would not take a blow or an insult without
the most desperate resistance in the former case, and the most
sarcastic retorts in the latter, and he had both a prompt hand and a
cutting tongue. So Drogo had to swallow his hatred as best he could,
but it led to many black dark thoughts, and to a determination to rid
himself of his rival should the opportunity ever be afforded, by fair
means or foul.

“I mean yet to be Lord of Walderne,” he said to himself again and
again.

And first of all he longed to get Hubert expelled from Kenilworth, and
to deprive him of the favour and protection of the earl; and one day
the devil, who often aids and abets those who seek his help, threw a
chance in his way.

The earl had found it necessary to put a check upon the constant
slaughter of the deer in his large domains, which bade fair to
depopulate the forests. Therefore he had especially forbidden the pages
to shoot a stag or fawn, under any pretext, and as his orders had been
once or twice transgressed, he had caused it to be intimated that the
next offence, on the part of a page, would be punished by expulsion: a
very light penalty, when on many domains, notably in the royal parks,
it was death to a peasant or any common person to kill the red deer.

All the young candidates for knighthood at Kenilworth had their arrows
marked, for an arrow was too expensive a thing to be wasted, and
therefore the young archers regained their shafts when they had done
their work at the target. Such marks were useful also in preventing
disputes.

One day, out in the woods, letting fly these shafts at lesser game,
such as they were permitted to kill, Hubert lost one of his arrows. A
few days afterwards the chief forester came up to the castle to see the
earl, who had just returned after a prolonged absence, and his
communication caused no little stir.

The next day, after chapel, the earl ordered all the pages, some
twenty-five in number, to assemble in their common room, where they
received such lessons in the “humanities” from the chaplain as their
lord compelled them to accept, often against their taste and
inclination, for they thought nothing worth learning save fighting and
hunting.

When they had assembled, the earl, attended by the chaplain, appeared.
They all stood in humble respect, and he looked with a keen eye down
their ranks, as they were ranged about twelve on each side of the hall.
A handsome, athletic set they were, dressed in what we should call the
Montfort livery—a garb which set off their natural good looks
abundantly—the dark features of Drogo; the light eyes and flaxen hair
of the son of a Provencal maiden, our Hubert; were fair types of the
varieties of appearance to be met amongst the groups.

The earl’s features were clouded.

“You are all aware, my boys, of the order that no one below knightly
rank should shoot deer in my forests?”

“We are,” said one and all.

“Does any page profess ignorance of the rule?”

No reply.

“Then I have another question to put, and first of all, let me beg most
earnestly to press upon the guilty one the necessity of truth and
honour, which, although it may not justify me in remitting the penalty,
may yet retain him my friendship. A deer has been slain in the woods,
and by one of you. Let the guilty boy avow his fault.”

No one stirred.

The earl looked troubled.

“This grieves me deeply,” he said, “far more than the mere offence. It
becomes a matter of honour—he who stirs not, declares himself innocent,
called by lawful authority to avow the truth as he now is.”

Once or twice the earl looked sadly at Hubert, but the face of the fair
boy was unclouded. If he had looked on the other side, he might have
seen anxiety, if not apprehension, on one face.

“Enter then, sir forester.”

The forester entered.

“You found a deer shot by an arrow in the West Woods?”

“I did.”

“And you found the arrow?”

“Yes.”

“Was it marked?”

“It was.”

The earl held an arrow up.

“Who owns the crest of a boar’s head?”

Hubert started.

“I do, my lord—but—but,” and he changed colour.

Do not let the reader wonder at this. Innocence suddenly arraigned is
oft as confused as guilt.

“But, my lord, I never shot the deer.”

“Thine arrow is a strong presumptive proof against thee.”

“I cannot tell, my lord, who can have used one of my arrows for such a
purpose—I did not.”

Here spoke up another page, a Percy of the Northumbrian breed of
warriors.

“My lord, I was out the other day with Hubert in the woods, and he lost
an arrow which he shot at a hare. We often lose our arrows in the
woods.”

“Does any other page know aught of the matter? Speak to clear the
innocent or convict the guilty. As you look forward to knighthood, I
adjure you all on your honour.”

Then Drogo, who thought that things were going too well for Hubert,
spoke.

“My lord, is it a duty to tell all we know, even if it is against a
companion?”

“It is under such circumstances, when the innocent may be suspected.”

“Then, my lord, I saw Hubert shoot that deer, as I was in the West
Woods.”

“Saw him! Did he see you?”

“It is a lie, my lord,” cried Hubert indignantly. “I cast the lie in
his teeth, and challenge him to prove his words by combat in the lists,
when I will thrust the slander down his perjured throat.”

The earl had his own doubts as to this new piece of evidence, for he
was aware of Drogo’s feelings towards Hubert, and therefore he welcomed
the indignant denial of the younger boy. Still, he could not permit
mortal combat at their age. They were not entitled to claim it while
below the rank of knighthood.

“You are too young for the appeal to battle.”

“My lord,” whispered one of his knights, “a similar case occurred at
Warkworth Castle when I was there: a page gave another the direct lie
as this one has done, and the earl permitted them to run a course with
blunted lances and fight it out; adjudging the dismounted page to be in
the wrong, as indeed he afterwards proved to be.”

“Let it be so,” said Earl Simon, who had a devout belief in the ordeal,
as manifesting the judgment of the Unerring One. “We allow the appeal,
and it shall be decided this afternoon in the tilt yard.”

Blunted lances! Not very dangerous, our readers may think at first
thought. But the shock and the violent fall from the horse was really
the more dangerous part of the tournament. The point of the lance
seldom penetrated the armour of proof in which combatants were encased.

The pages separated in great excitement. Most of them held with
Hubert—for Drogo’s arrogant manners had not gained him many friends.
Much advice was given to the younger boy how to “go in and win,” and
the poor lad was eager for the fight whereby his honour was to be
vindicated, as though victory and reputation were quite secured, as
indeed in his belief they were.

The ordeal! it seems full of superstition to us, unaccustomed to
believe in, or to realise, God’s direct dealing with the world. But men
then thought that God must show the innocence of the accused who thus
appealed to Him, whether by battle or by the earlier forms of ordeal
{18}.

But was not the casting of lots in the Old Testament akin to the idea,
and are there not passages in the Levitical books prescribing similar
usages with the object of detecting innocence or guilt?

At all events, the ordeal was allowed to be decisive, and if it were a
capital charge, the headsman was at hand to behead the convicted
offender—convicted by the test to which he had appealed.

A peculiarly solemn order and ritual was observed in such appeals, when
the fight was to the death. The combatants confessed, and received,
what to one was probably his last Communion; and thus avowing in the
most solemn way their innocence before God and man, they came to the
lists. In cases where one of the party must of necessity be perjured,
the sin of thus profaning the Sacraments of the Church was supposed to
ensure his downfall the more certainly, for would not God the rather be
moved to avenge Himself?

But in the case of these pages, both under the degree of knighthood,
such solemn sanction was not invoked, yet the affair was sufficiently
impressive. The tilt yard was a wide and level sward, bordered on one
side by the moat, surrounded by a low hedge, within which was erected a
covered pavilion, not much unlike the stands on race courses in general
design, only glittering with cloth of gold or silver, with flags and
pennons fair.

In the foremost rank of seats sat the earl and his countess, with other
guests of rank then residing in the castle, behind were other
privileged members of the household, and around the course were grouped
such of the retainers and garrison of the castle as the piquant passage
of arms between two boys had enticed from their ordinary posts or
duties. But perhaps it was only the same general appetite for
excitement which gathers the whole mass of boys in our public schools
(or did gather in rougher days), to witness a “mill.”

But one essential ceremonial was not omitted. The two combatants being
admitted to the lists, each stood in turn before the earl, seated in
the pavilion, and thus cried:

“Here stands Drogo of Harengod, who maintains that he saw Hubert (of
Nowhere) shoot the earl’s deer, and will maintain the same on the body
of the said Hubert, _soi-disant_ of Walderne.”

These additions to Hubert’s name were insults, and made the earl frown,
while it spoke volumes as to the true cause of the animosity. Then
Hubert stood up and spoke.

“Here stands Hubert of Walderne, who avows that Drogo of Harengod lies,
and will maintain his own innocence on the body of the said Drogo, so
help him God.”

Then both knelt, and the chaplain prayed that God, who alone knew the
hearts and the hidden actions of men, would reveal the truth, by the
events of the struggle.

Then each of the combatants went to his own end of the lists, where a
horse and headless lance were awaiting him, under the care of two
friends—_fratres consociati_. Percy, and Alois from Blois, were the
friends of Hubert. The chronicler has forgotten who befriended or
seconded Drogo, and hopes he found it hard to find any one to do so.

The earl rose up in the pavilion, and bade the herald sound the charge.
The two combatants galloped against each other at full speed, and met
with a dull heavy shock. Drogo’s lance had, whether providentially or
otherwise, just grazed the helmet of his opponent and glanced off.
Hubert’s came so full on the crest of his enemy that he went down,
horse and all.

Had this been a mortal combat, Hubert would at once have been expected
to dismount, and with his sword to compel a confession from his fallen
foe, on the pain of instant death in the case of refusal. But this
combat was limited to the tourney—and a loud acclaim hailed Hubert as
Victor.

Drogo was stunned by his fall, and borne by the earl’s command to his
chamber.

“God hath spoken, and vindicated the innocent,” said the earl.

“Rise, my son,” he added to Hubert, who knelt before him. “We believe
in thy truth, and will abide by the event of the ordeal; but as thou
art saved from expulsion, it is fitting that Drogo should pay the
penalty he strove to inflict upon another.”

Hubert was not generous enough to pray for the pardon of his foe (as in
any book about good boys he would have done). He felt too deeply
injured by the lie.

But his innocence was not left to the simple test of the trial by
combat, in which case many modern unbelievers might feel inward doubts.
That night the forester sought the earl again, and brought with him a
verdurer or under keeper. This man had seen the whole affair, had seen
Drogo pick up Hubert’s arrow after the latter was gone, and stand as if
musing over it, when a deer came that way, and Drogo let fly the shaft
at once. Then he discovered the spectator, and bribed him with all the
money he had about him to keep silence, which the fellow did, until he
heard of the trial by combat and the accusation of the innocent,
whereupon his conscience gave him no rest until he had owned his fault,
and bringing the bribe to his chief, the forester, had made full
reparation.

There was another gathering of the pages in the great hall on the
following day. The earl and chaplain were there, the chief forester and
his subordinate. Drogo, still suffering from his fall, and by no means
improved in appearance, was brought before them.

“Drogo de Harengod,” said the earl, “I should have doubted of God’s
justice, had the ordeal to which thou didst appeal gone otherwise. But
since yesterday the right has been made yet more clear. Dost thou know
yon verdurer?”

Drogo looked at the man.

“My lord,” he said. “I accept the decision of the combat. Let me go
from Kenilworth.”

“What, without reparation?”

“I have my punishment to bear in expulsion from this place”—(“if
punishment it be,” he muttered)—“as for my _soi-disant_ cousin, it will
be an evil day for him when he crosses my path elsewhere.”

The earl stood astonished at his audacity.

“Thou perjured wretch!” he said. “Thou perverter by bribes! thou liar
and false accuser! GO, amidst the contempt and scorn of all who know
thee.”

And, amidst the hisses of his late companions, Drogo left Kenilworth
for ever—expelled.




Chapter 11: The Early Franciscans.


We are afraid that some of our youthful readers will wonder what cause
Martin had for such extreme self reproach, and why he should make such
a serious matter of a little dissipation—such as we described in our
former chapter.

But Martin had received a higher call, and although the old Adam within
him would have its way, at times, yet his whole heart was set on
serving God. To Hubert this dissipation would have seemed a small
thing; to Martin such drinking, dicing, and brawling was simply selling
his birthright for a mess of pottage.

So, with the early dawn, he went to mass at the Franciscan house, and
wept all through the service, devoutly offering at the same time the
renewed oblation of his heart to God, and praying that through the
great sacrifice there commemorated and mystically renewed, the oblation
of self might be sanctified.

Then he sought the good prior, Adam de Maresco, and obtaining an
audience after the _dejeuner_ or breakfast, poured out all his sorrows
and sin.

The good prior almost smiled at the earnestness of the self rebuke. He
was not at all shocked. It was just what he had expected; he was only
too delighted to find that the young prodigal loathed so speedily the
husks which the swine do eat.

“Ah, my son, did I not bid thee not to trust too much to thyself? and
now my words have been verified by thy own experience, as it was
perhaps well they should be.”

“Well! that I should become a drunkard, dicer, and brawler.”

“Well that thou shouldst so early hate drinking, dicing, and brawling.
To many such hatred only comes after years have brought satiety; to
thee, my dear child, one night seems to have brought it.”

“Yes, now I am clothed, and in my right mind, like the lunatic who had
been cutting himself with stones. But, my father, take me in, I cannot
trust myself out of the shelter of the priory.”

“Then thou art not fit to enter it, for we want men whom we may send
out into the world without fear. No! the first vacant cell shall be
thine, but I will not hasten the time by a day. Thou must prove thy
vocation, and then thou mayst join the brotherhood of sweet Saint
Francis.”

“Tell me, my father, how old was the saint when he renounced the world?
Did Francis ever love it?”

“He did, indeed. He was called ‘_Le debonair Francois_.’ He loved the
Provencal songs, and indeed learned to sing his sweet melodies to
Christ after the mode of those songs of earthly love. His eyes danced
with life, he went singing about all day long, and through the glorious
Italian night. But even then he loved his neighbour. No beggar asked of
him in vain. _Liberalis et hilaris_ was Francis.”

“And did he ever fight?”

“Yes. When a mere lad, he lay a year in prison at Perugia, having been
taken captive in fighting for his own city Assisi. But even then he was
the joy of his fellow captives, from his bright disposition.”

“When did he give up all this?”

“Not till he was ten years older than thou art. One night he was made
king of the feast, at a drinking bout, and went forth, at the head of
his companions, to pour forth their songs into the sweet Italian
moonlight. A sudden hush fell upon him.

“‘What ails thee, Francis?’ cried the rest. ‘Art thinking of a wife?’

“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of one more noble, more pure, than you can conceive,
any of you.’”

“What did he mean?”

“The yearning for the life which is hid with Christ in God had seized
him. It was the last of his revels.

“‘Love set my heart on fire,’


“—He used afterwards to sing. It was at that moment the fire kindled.”

“I wish it would set mine on fire.”

“Perhaps the fire is already kindled.”

“Nay, think of last night.”

“And what makes thee loathe last night? Other young men do not loathe
such follies.”

“Shame, I suppose.”

“And what gives thee that divine shame? It is not thine own sinful
nature. There is something in thee which is not of self.”

“You think so? Oh, you think so?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Then you give me fresh hope.”

“Since you ask it of a fellow worm.”

“But what can I do? I want to be up and doing.”

“Keep out of temptation. Avoid the causeway after vespers. Meanwhile I
will enrol thy name as an associate of the Order, and thou shalt go
forth as Francis did, while not yet quite separated from the world. Do
you know the story of the leper?”

“Tell it me.”

“One day the saint, not yet a saint, only trying to be one, met one of
these wretched beings. At first he shuddered. Then, remembering that he
who would serve Christ must conquer self, he dismounted from his horse,
kissed the leper’s hand, and filled it with money. Then he went on his
road, but looked back to see what had become of the leper, and lo! he
had disappeared, although the country was quite plain, without any
means of concealment.”

“What had become of him?”

“That I cannot tell thee. Francis thought afterwards it was an angel,
if not the Blessed Lord Himself.”

“May I visit the lepers tomorrow?”

“The disease is infectious.”

“What of that?” said Martin, unconsciously imitating his friend Hubert.

“Well, we will see. Again Francis once gave way to pride. How do you
think he conquered it?”

“Tell me, for that is my great sin.”

“He exchanged his gay clothes with a wretched beggar, and begged all
day on the steps of Saint Peter’s at Rome.”

“May I do that on the steps of Oseney?”

“It would not be a bad way to subdue the pride of the flesh! But then
there are other things to subdue. Dost thou love to eat the fat and
drink the sweet?”

“All too well!”

“So did Francis. He had a very sweet tooth, so he lived for a week on
such scraps as he could beg in beggar’s plight from door to door; all
this in the first flush of his devotion.”

“And what else?”

“Ah! that without which all else is nought, the root from which it all
sprang: he lived as one who felt the words, ‘I live, yet not I, but
Christ which liveth in me.’ He would spend hours in rapt devotion
before the crucifix, with no mortal near, until his very face was
transformed, and the love of the Crucified set his heart on fire.”

“And when did he go forth to found his mighty Order?”

“Not until the eighth year of this century, and the twenty-sixth of his
age. One feast of bright Saint Barnaby, he was at mass, and heard the
words of the Gospel wherein is described how our Lord sent forth His
apostles to preach two by two; without purse, without change of
raiment, without staff or shoes {19}. Out he went, threw off his
ordinary clothing, donned a gray robe, like this we wear, tied a rope
round for a girdle, and went forth crying:

“‘Repent of your sins, and believe the Gospel!’

“I was travelling in Italy then, and once met him on his road. Methinks
I see him now—his oval face, his full forehead, his clear, bright,
limpid eyes, his flowing hair, his long hands and thin delicate
fingers, and his commanding presence.

“‘Brother!’ he said. ‘Hast thou met with Him of Nazareth? He is seeking
for thee.’

“You will hardly believe that I did not understand him at first, so
unfamiliar in my giddy youth were the simplest facts of the Gospel. But
the words sank as if by miraculous force into my heart, and from that
hour I knew no rest till I found Him, or He found me.”

“Was Francis long alone?”

“No. Brother after brother joined him. First Bernard, then Peter, then
Giles; they went singing sweet carols along the road, which Francis had
composed out of his ready mind. They were the first hymns in the
vernacular, and the people stopped to hear about God’s dear Son. Then,
collecting a crowd, they preached in the marketplace. Such preaching!
Francis’ first sermon in his native town set every one crying. They
said the Passion of Jesus had never been so wept over in the memory of
man.

“The brotherhood increased rapidly, and they went on pilgrimage to
Rome, to gain the approbation of the Pope. They went on foot, carrying
neither purses nor food, but He who careth for the ravens cared for
them, and soon they reached the Holy City. The Pope, Innocent the
Third, was walking in the Lateran, when up came a poor man in a gray
shepherd’s smock, and addressed him. The Pope, indignant at being
disturbed in his meditations by this intrusion, bade the intruder leave
the palace, and turned away. But the same night he had two dreams: he
thought a palm tree grew out of the ground by his side, and rose till
it filled the sky.

“‘Lo,’ said a voice, ‘the poor man whom thou hast driven away.’

“Then he thought he saw the church falling, and a figure in a gray robe
rushed forth and propped it up—

“‘Lo, the poor man whom thou hast driven away.’

“He sent for the stranger, and Francis opened his heart to the mighty
Pontiff.

“‘Go,’ said the Pope, ‘in the name of the Lord, and preach repentance
to all; and when God has multiplied you in numbers and grace, I will
give you yet greater privileges.’

“Then he commanded that they should receive the tonsure, and, although
not ordained, be considered clerks.

“Imagine their joy! They visited the tombs of the Holy Apostles; and,
bare footed, penniless as they came, went home, singing and preaching
all the way. And thus they sang:”

Love sets my heart on fire,
Love of my Bridegroom new,
The Slain: the Crucified!
To Him my heart He drew
When hanging on the Tree,
From whence He said to me
I am the Shepherd true;
Love sets my heart on fire.

I die of sweetest love,
Nor wonder at my fate,
The sword which deals the blow
Is love immaculate.
Love sets my heart on fire (_etc_).


“So singing, and now and then discoursing on heavenly joys, the little
band reached home. And from thence it has grown, until it has attained
vast numbers. We are all over Europe. The sweet songs of Francis have
set Italy on fire. And now wherever there are sinners to be saved, or
sick in body or soul to be tended, you find the Franciscan.

“Now I hear the bell for _terce_—go forth, my son, and prove your
vocation.”




Chapter 12: How Hubert Gained His Spurs.


Two years had elapsed since the events related in our last two
chapters; and they had passed uneventfully, so far as the lives of the
page and the scholar are concerned.

Hubert had attained to the close of his pagedom, and the assumption of
the second degree in chivalry, that of squire. He ever longed for the
day when he should be able to fulfil his promise to his poor stricken
father, who, albeit somewhat relieved of his incubus, since the night
when father and son watched together, was not yet quite free from his
ghostly visitant; moderns would say “from his mania.”

And Martin was still fulfilling his vocation as a novice of the Order
of Saint Francis, and was close upon the attainment of the dignity of a
scholastic degree—preparatory (for so his late lamented friend had
advised) to a closer association with the brotherhood, who no longer
despised, as their father Francis did, the learning of the schools.

We say late lamented friend, for Adam de Maresco had passed away, full
of certain hope and full assurance of “the rest which remaineth for the
people of God.” He died during Martin’s second year at Oxford.

Meanwhile the political strife between the king and the barons had
reached its height. The latter felt themselves quite superseded by the
new nobility, introduced from Southern France. The English clergy
groaned beneath foreign prelates introduced, not to feed, but to shear
the flocks. The common people were ruined by excessive and arbitrary
taxation.

At last the barons determined upon _constitutional_ resistance, and
Earl Simon, following the dictates of his conscience, felt it his duty
to cast in his lot with them, although he was the king’s
brother-in-law. Still, his wife had suffered deeply at her brother’s
hands, and was no “dove bearing an olive branch.”

It was in Easter, 1258, and the parliament, consisting of all the
tenants _in capiti_, who hold lands directly from the crown, were
present at Westminster. The king opened his griefs to them—griefs which
only money could assuage. But he was sternly informed that money would
only be granted when pledges (and they more binding than his oft-broken
word) were given for better government, and the redress of specified
abuses; and finally, after violent recriminations between the two
parties, as we should now say the ministry and the opposition, headed
by Earl Simon, parliament was adjourned till the 11th of June, and it
was decided that it should meet again at Oxford, where that assembly
met which gained the name of the “Mad Parliament.”

On the 22nd of June this parliament decreed that all the king’s castles
which were held by foreigners should be rendered back to the Crown, and
to set the example, Earl Simon, although he had well earned the name
“Englishman,” delivered the title deeds of his castles of Kenilworth
and Odiham into the hands of the king.

But the king’s relations by marriage refused to follow this
self-denying ordinance, and they well knew that neither the old king
nor his young heir, Prince Edward, wished them to follow Earl Simon’s
example. A great storm of words followed.

“I will never give up my castles, which my brother the king, out of his
great love, has given me,” said William de Valence.

“Know this then for certain, that thou shalt either give up thy castles
or thy head,” replied Earl Simon.

The Poitevins saw they were in evil case, and that they were
outnumbered at Oxford. So they left the court, and fled all to the
Castle of Wolvesham, near Winchester, where their brother, the Bishop
Aymer, made common cause with them.

The barons acted promptly. They broke up the parliament and pursued.

Hubert was at Oxford throughout the session of the Mad Parliament, in
attendance on his lord, as “esquire of the body,” to which rank he, as
we have said, had now attained; and at Oxford he met his beloved Martin
again. Yes, Hubert was now an esquire; now he had a right to carry a
shield and emblazon it with the arms of Walderne. He was also withdrawn
from that compulsory attendance on the ladies at the castle which he
had shared with the other pages. He had no longer to wait at table
during meals. But fresh duties, much more arduous, devolved upon him.
He had to be both valet and groom to the earl, to scour his arms, to
groom his horse, to attend his bed chamber, and to sleep outside the
door in an anteroom, to do the honours of the household in his lord’s
absence, gracefully, like a true gentleman; to play with his lord, the
ladies, or the visitors at chess or draughts in the long winter
evenings; to sing, to tell romaunts or stories, to play the lute or
harp; in short, to be all things to all people in peace; and in war to
fight like a Paladin.

Now he had to learn to wear heavy armour, and thus accoutred, to spring
upon a horse, without putting foot to stirrup; to run long distances
without pause; to wield the heavy mace, axe, or sword for hours
together without tiring; to raise himself between two walls by simply
setting his back against one, his feet against the other; in short, to
practise all gymnastics which could avail in actual battles or sieges.

In warfare it became his duty to bear the helmet or shield of his lord,
to lead his war horse, to lace his helmet, to belt and buckle his
cuirass, to help him to vest in his iron panoply, with pincers and
hammer; to keep close to his side in battle, to succour him fallen, to
avenge him dead, or die with him.

Such being a squire’s duties, what a blessing to Hubert to be a squire
to such a Christian warrior as the earl, a privilege he shared with
some half dozen of his former fellow pages—turn and turn about.

In this capacity he attended his lord during the pursuit of the foreign
favourites to Wolvesham Castle, where they had taken refuge with Aymer
de Valence, whom the king, by the Pope’s grace, had made titular bishop
of that place. We say titular, for Englishmen would not permit him to
enjoy his see; he spoke no word of English.

At Wolvesham the foreign lords were forced to surrender, and accepted
or appeared to accept their sentence of exile. But ere starting they
invited the confederate barons to a supper, wherein they mingled poison
with the food.

This nefarious plot Hubert discovered, happening to overhear a brief
conversation on the subject between the bishop’s chamberlain and the
Jew who supplied the poison, and whom Hubert secured, forcing him to
supply the antidote which in all probability saved the lives of the
four Earls of Leicester, Gloucester, Hereford, and Norfolk. The brother
of the Earl of Gloucester did die—the Abbot of Westminster—the others
with difficulty recovered.

Hubert had now a great claim not only on the friendship of his lord,
which he had earned before, but on that of these other mighty earls,
and they held a consultation together, to decide how they could best
reward him for the essential service he had rendered. The earl told the
whole story of his birth and education, as our readers know it.

“He has, it is true, rendered us a great service, but that does not
justify us in advancing him in chivalry. He must earn that by some deed
of valour, or knighthood would be a mere farce.”

“Exactly so,” said he of Hereford. “Now I have a proposition: not a
week passes but my retainers are in skirmish with those wildcats, the
Welsh. Let the boy go and serve under my son, Lord Walter. He will put
him in the way of earning his spurs.”

“The very thing,” said Earl Simon. “Only I trust he will not get
killed, which is very likely under the circumstances, in which case I
really fear the poor old father would go down with sorrow to the grave.
Still, what is glory without risk? Were he my own son, I should say,
‘let him go.’ Only, brother earl, caution thy noble son and heir, that
the youngster is very much more likely to fail in discretion than in
valour. He is one of those excitable, impulsive creatures who will, as
I expect, fight like a wildcat, and show as little wisdom.”

Hubert was sent for.

“Art thou willing to leave my service?” said the earl.

“My lord,” said poor Hubert, all in a tremble, “leave thee?”

“Yes; dost thou not wish to go to the Holy Land?”

“Oh, if it is to go there. But must I not wait for knighthood?”

The reader must remember that knighthood alone would give Hubert a
claim upon the assistance and hospitality of other knights and nobles,
and that once a knight, he was the equal in social station of kings and
princes, and could find admittance into all society. As a squire, he
could only go to the Holy Land in attendance upon some one else, nor
could he carry the sword and belt of the dead man whom he was to
represent. A knight must personate a knight.

Hence Hubert’s words.

“It is for that purpose we have sent for thee,” replied the earl. “Thou
must win thy spurs, and there is no likelihood of opportunity arising
in this peaceful land (how little the earl thought what was in the near
future), so thou must even go where blows are going.”

“I am ready, my lord, and willing.”

“The Earl of Hereford is about to return home, and will take thee with
him to fight against the Welsh under his banner. Now what dost thou say
to that?”

Hubert bent the knee to the new lord, with all that grace which he
inherited from his Provencal blood. And sooth, my young readers, if you
could have seen that eager face with that winning smile, and those
brave bright eyes, you would have loved him, too, as the earl did; but
for all that I do not think he had the sterling qualities of his friend
Martin, who is rather my hero: but then I am not young now, or I might
think differently.

We have not space again to describe this portion of Hubert’s life, upon
which we now enter, in any detail. Suffice it to say he went to
Hereford Castle with the earl, and was soon transferred to an outpost
on the upper Wye, where he was at once engaged in deadly warfare with
the fiercest of savages. For the Welsh, once the cultivated Britons,
had degenerated into savagery. Bloodshed and fire raising amongst the
hated “Saxons” (as they called all the English alike) were the
amusement and the business of their lives, until Edward the First, of
dire necessity, conquered and tamed them in the very next generation.
Until then, the Welsh borders were a hundred times more insecure than
the Cheviots. No treaties could bind the mountaineers. They took oaths
of allegiance, and cheerfully broke them. “No faith with Saxons” was
their motto.

These fields, these meadows once were ours,
And sooth by heaven and all its powers,
Think you we will not issue forth,
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey.


Even the payment of blackmail, so effectual with the Highlanders, did
not secure the border counties from these flippant fighters, and in
sooth Normans were much too proud for any such evasion of a warrior’s
duty.

There, then, our Hubert fleshed his maiden sword, within a week after
his arrival at Llanystred Castle; and that in a fierce skirmish,
wherein the fighting was all hand to hand, he slew his man.

But in these fights, where every one was brave, there was small
opportunity for Hubert to gain personal distinction. A coward was very
rare; as well expect a deer to be born amongst a race of tigers. There
were, it is true, degrees of self devotion, and for a chance of
distinguishing himself by self sacrifice Hubert longed.

And thus it came.

He had been sent from the castle on the Wye, which might well be
called, like one in Sir Walter’s tales, “Castle Dangerous,” upon an
errand to an outpost, and was returning by moonlight along the banks of
the stream, there a rushing mountain torrent. It was a weird scene, the
peaks of the Black Mountains rose up into the calm pellucid air of
night, the solemn woods lined the further bank of the river, and
extended to the bases of the hills. It was just the time and the hour
when the wild, unconquered Celts were likely to make their foray upon
the dwellers on the English side of the stream, if they could find a
spot where they could cross.

About half a mile from Llanystred Castle, amidst the splash and dash of
the water, Hubert distinguished some peculiar and unaccustomed sounds,
like the murmur of many voices, in some barbarous tongue, all ll’s and
consonants.

He waited and listened.

Just below him roared and foamed the stream, and it so happened that a
series of black rocks raised their heads above the swollen waters like
still porpoises, at such distances as to afford lithesome people the
chance of crossing, dry shod, when the water was low.

But it was a risk, for the river had all the strength of a cataract,
and he who slipped would infallibly be carried down by the strong
current and dashed against the rocks and drowned.

Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly kept
in the shadow.

Soon he saw a black moving mass opposite, and then the moonlight gleam
upon a hundred spear tops. Did his heart fail him? No; the chance he
had pined for was come. It was quite possible for one daring man to bid
defiance to the hundred here, and prevent their crossing.

See, they come, and Hubert’s heart beats loudly—the first is on the
first stone, the others press behind. He, the primus, leaps on to the
second rock, and so to the third, and still his place is taken, at
every resting place he leaves, by his successor. Yes, they mean to get
over, and to have a little blood letting and fire raising tonight, just
for amusement.

And only one stout heart to prevent them. They do not see him until the
last stepping stone is attained by the first man, and but one more leap
needed to the shore, when a stern, if youthful, voice cries:

“Back, ye dogs of Welshmen!” and the first Celt falls into the stream,
transfixed by Hubert’s spear, transfixed as he made the final leap.

A sudden pause: the second man tries to leap so as to avoid the spear,
his own similar weapon presented before him, but position gives Hubert
advantage, and the second foe goes down the waves, dyeing them with his
blood, raising his despairing hand, as he dies, out of the foaming
torrent.

The third hesitates.

And now comes the real danger for Hubert: a flight of arrows across the
stream—they rattle on his chain mail, and generally glance harmlessly
off, but one or two find weak places, and although his vizor is down,
Hubert knows that one unlucky, or, as the foe would say “lucky,” shot
penetrating the eyelet might end sight and life together. So he blows
his horn, which he had scorned to do before.

He was but imperfectly clad in armour, and was soon bleeding in divers
unprotected places; but there he stood, spear in hand, and no third
person had dared to cross.

But when they heard the horn, feeling that the chance of a raid was
going, the third sprang. With one foot he attained the bank, and as
Hubert was rather dizzy from loss of blood, avoided the spear thrust.
But the young Englishman drove the dagger, which he carried in the left
hand, into his throat as he rose from the stream. The fourth leapt.
Hubert was just in time with the spear. The fifth hesitated—the flight
of arrows, intermitted for the moment, was renewed.

Just then up came Lord Walter, the eldest son of the earl, with a troop
of lancers, and Hubert reeled to the ground from loss of blood, while
the Welsh sullenly retreated.

They bore him to the castle. A few light wounds, which had bled
profusely from the leg and arm, were all that was amiss. Hubert’s
ambition was attained, for he had slain four Welshmen with his own
young hand. And those to whom “such things were a care” saw four
lifeless, ghastly corpses circling for days round and round an eddy in
the current below the castle, round and round till one got giddy and
sick in watching them, but still they gyrated, and no one troubled to
fish them out. They were a sign to friend and foe, a monument of our
Hubert’s skill in slaying “wildcats.”

A few days later the Lord of Hereford arrived at the castle, and
visited Hubert’s sick chamber, where he brought much comfort and joy. A
fine physician was that earl; Hubert was up next day.

And what was the tonic which had given such a fillip to his system, and
hurried on his recovery? The earl purposed to confer upon him the
degree he pined for, as soon as he could bear his armour.

At first any knight could make a knight. Now, to check the too great
profusion of such flowers of chivalry, the power to confer the accolade
was commonly restricted to the greater nobles, and later still, as now,
to royalty alone.

It was the eve of Saint Michael’s Day, “the prince of celestial
chivalry,” as these fighting ancestors of ours used to say. It was wild
and stormy, for the summer and autumn had been so wet that the crops
were still uncarried through the country. The river below was rushing
onward in high flood; here it came tumbling, there it rolled rumbling;
here it leapt splashing, there it rushed dashing; like the water at
Lodore; and seemed to shake the rocks on which Castle Llanystred was
built.

And above, the clouds in emulous sport hurried over the skies, as if a
foe were chasing them, in the shape of a southwestern blast. So the
nightfall came on, and Hubert went with the decaying light into the
castle chapel, where he had to watch his arms all night, with fasting
and prayer, spear in hand.

What a night of storm and wind it was on which our Hubert, ere he
received knighthood, watched and kept vigil in the chapel. It reminded
him of that night in the priory at Lewes, and from time to time weird
sounds seemed to reach him in the pauses of the blast. All but he were
asleep, save the sentinels on the ramparts.

He thought of his father, and of the Frenchman, the Sieur de Fievrault,
whose place and even name he was to assume. Once he thought he saw the
figure of the slain Gaul before him, but he breathed a prayer and it
disappeared.

How he welcomed the morning light.

The sun breaks forth, the light streams in,
Hence, hence, ye shades, away!


Imagine our Hubert’s joy, when, the following morning, Earl Simon quite
unexpectedly arrived at the castle, and with him the Bishop of
Hereford; come together to confer on important business of state with
the Earl of Hereford, whom they had first sought at his own city, then
followed to this outpost, where they learned from his people he had
come to confer knighthood on some valiant squire.

The reader may also imagine how Earl Simon hoped that that valiant
squire might prove to be Hubert. And lo! so it turned out.

Early in the morning our young friend was led to the bath, where he put
off forever the garb of a squire, then laved himself in token of
purification, after which he was vested in the garb and arms of
knighthood. The under dress given to him was a close jacket of chamois
leather, over which he put a mail shirt, composed of rings deftly
fitted into each other, and very flexible. A breastplate had to be put
on over this. And as each weapon or piece of armour was given, strange
parallels were found between the temporal and spiritual warfare, which,
save when knighthood was assumed with a distinctly religious purpose,
would seem almost profane.

Thus with the breastplate: “Stand—having on the breastplate of
righteousness.”

And with the shield: “Take the shield of faith, wherewith thou shalt be
able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.”

We will not follow the parallel farther: had all the customs of
chivalry been indeed performed in accordance with this high ideal, how
different the medieval world would have been.

Thus accoutred, but as yet without helmet, sword, or spurs, our young
friend was led to the castle chapel, between two (so-called)
godfathers—two sons of the Earl of Hereford—in solemn procession,
amidst the plaudits of the crowd. There the Earl of Leicester awaited
him, and Hubert’s heart beat wildly with joy and excitement, as he saw
him in all his panoply, awaiting the ward whom he had received ten
years earlier as a little boy from the hands of his father, then
setting out for his eventful crusade.

The bishop was at the altar. The High Mass was then said; and after the
service the young knight, advancing to the sanctuary, received from the
good earl, whom he loved so dearly, as the flower of English chivalry,
the accolade or knightly embrace.

The Bishop of Hereford belted on the young knight’s own sword, which he
took from the altar, and the spurs were fastened on by the Lady Alicia,
wife of Lord Walter of Hereford, and dame of the castle.

Hubert then took the oath to be faithful to God, to the king, and to
the ladies, after which he was enjoined to war down the proud and all
who did wickedly, to spare the humble, to redress all wrongs within his
power, to succour the miserable, to avenge the oppressed, to help the
poor and fatherless unto their right, to do this and that; in short, to
do all that a good Christian warrior ought to do.

Then he was led forth from the church, amidst the cheers and
acclamations of all the population of the district, with whom the
action which hastened his knighthood had won him popularity. Alms to
the poor, largesse to the harpers and minstrels: all had to be given;
and the reader may guess whose liberality supplied the gifts.

Then—the banquet was spread in the castle hall.




Chapter 13: How Martin Gained His Desire.


While one of the two friends was thus hewing his way to knighthood by
deeds of “dering do,” the other was no less steadily persevering in the
path which led to the object of his desire. The less ambitious object,
as the world would say.

He was ever indefatigable in his work of love amidst the poor and sick,
and gained the approbation of his superiors most thoroughly, although
in the stern coldness which they thought an essential part of true
discipline, they were scant of their encomiums. Men ought to work, they
said, simply from a sense of duty to God, and earthly praise was the
“dead fly which makes the apothecary’s ointment to stink.” So they
allowed their younger brethren to toil on without any such mundane
reward, only they cheered them by their brotherly love, shown in a
hundred different ways.

One long-remembered day in the summer of the year 1259, Martin strolled
down the river’s banks, to indulge in meditation and prayer. But the
banks were too crowded for him that day. He marked the boats as they
came up from Abingdon, drawn by horses, laden with commodities; or shot
down the swift stream without such adventitious aid. Pleasure wherries
darted about impelled by the young scholars of Oxford, as in these
modern days. Fishermen plied their trade or sport. The river was the
great highway; no, there was no solitude there.

So into the forest which lay between Oxford and Abingdon, now only
surviving in Bagley Wood, plunged our novice. As the poet says:

Into the forest, darker, deeper, grayer,
His lips moving as if in prayer,
Walked the monk Martin, all alone:
Around him the tops of the forest trees
Waving, made the sign of the Cross
And muttered their benedicites.


The woods were God’s first temples; and even now where does one feel so
alone with one’s Maker? How sweet the solemn silence! where the freed
spirit, freed from external influences, can hold communion with its
heavenly Father. So felt Martin. The very birds seemed to him to be
singing carols; and the insects to join, with their hum, the universal
hymn of praise.

Oh how the serpent lurks in Eden—beneath earthly beauty lies the
mystery of pain and suffering.

A wail struck on Martin’s ears—the voice of a little child, and soon he
brushed aside the branches in the direction of the cry, until he struck
upon a faintly trodden path, which led to the cottage of one of the
foresters, or as we should say “keepers.”

At the gate of the little enclosure, which surrounded the patch of
cultivated ground attached to the house, a young child stood weeping.
When she saw Martin her eyes lighted up with joy.

“Oh, God has sent thee, good brother. Come and help my poor mother. She
is so ill,” and she tripped back towards the house; “and father can’t
help her, nor brother either. Father lies cold and still, and brother
frightens me.”

What did it mean?

Martin saw it at once—the plague! That terrible oriental disease,
probably a malignant form of typhus, bred of foul drainage, and
cultivated as if in some satanic hot bed, until it had reached the
perfection of its deadly growth, by its transmission from bodily frame
to frame. It was terribly infectious, but what then? It had to be
faced, and if one died of it, one died doing God’s work—thought Martin.

So as Hubert faced his Welshmen, did Martin face his foe—“typhus” or
plague, call it which we please.

Which required the greater courage, my younger readers? But there was
no more faltering in Martin’s step than in Hubert’s, as he went to that
pallet in an inner room, where a human being tossed in all the heat of
fever, and the incessant cry, “I thirst,” pierced the heart.

“So did HE thirst on the Cross,” thought Martin, “and He thirsts again
in the suffering members of His mystical body—for in all their
affliction He is afflicted.”

There was no water close by in the chamber, but Martin had noticed a
clear spring outside, and taking a cup he went to the fount and filled
it. He administered it sparingly to the parched lips, fearing its
effect in larger quantities, but oh! the eagerness with which the
sufferer received it—those blanched lips, that dry parched palate.

“Canst thou hear me, art thou conscious?”

“An angel of God?”

“No, a sinner like thyself.”

“Go, thou wilt catch the plague.”

“I am in God’s hands. HE has sent me to thee. Tell me sister—hast thou
thrown thyself upon His mercy, and united thy sufferings with those of
the Slain, the Crucified, who thirsted for thee?”

And Martin spoke of the life of love, and the death of shame, as an
angel might have done, his features lighted up with love and faith. And
the living word was blessed by the Giver of Life.

Then he felt the poor child pulling him gently to another room, whence
faint moans were now heard. There lay the brother, a fine lad of some
fourteen summers, in the death agony, the face black already; and on
another pallet the dead body of the forester, the father of the family.

Martin could not leave them. The night came on. He kindled a fire, both
for warmth and to purify the air. He found some cakes and very soon
roasted a morsel for the poor girl, the only one yet untouched,
partaking of it sparingly himself. He went from sufferer to sufferer;
moistening the lips, assuaging the agony of the body, and striving to
save the soul.

The poor boy passed into unconsciousness and died while Martin prayed
by his side. The widow lingered till the morning light, when she, too,
passed away into peace, her last hours soothed by the message of the
Gospel.

Then Martin took the child and led her towards the city, meditating
sadly on the strange mystery of death and pain. The woods were as
beautiful as before, but not in the eyes of one whose mind was full of
the remembrance of the ravages of the fell destroyer.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the good sisters of Saint Clare, who will take care of thee for
Christ’s sake.”

So he strove to wipe away the tears from the orphan’s eyes.

He reached Oxford, gave up his charge to the charitable sisterhood,
then reported himself to his academical and ecclesiastical superiors,
who were pleased to express their approval of all that he had done. But
as a measure of precaution they bade him change and destroy his
infected raiment, to take a certain electuary supposed to render a
person less disposed to infection, and to retire early to his couch.

All this he did; but after his first sleep he woke up with an aching
head and intolerable sense of heat—feverish heat. He understood it all
too well, and lost no time in commending himself to his heavenly
Father, for he felt that he might soon lose consciousness and be unable
to do so.

A purer spirit never commended itself to its Maker and Redeemer. But it
was not in this he put his trust. It was in Him of whom Saint Francis
sang so sweetly:

To Him my heart He drew
While hanging on the tree,
From whence He said to me
I am the Shepherd true;
Love sets my heart on fire—
Love of the Crucified.


And ere his delirium set in, Martin made a full resignation of his will
to God. He had hoped to do much for love of his Lord, to carry the
message of the Gospel into the Andredsweald, where the kindred of his
mother yet lived, and the thought that he should never see their forest
glades again was painful. And the blankness of unconsciousness, the
fearful nature of the black death, was in itself repulsive; but it had
all been ordered and settled by Infinite Love before ever he was born,
probably before the worlds were framed, and Martin said with all his
heart the words breathed by the Incarnate God, when groaning beneath
the olive tree in mysterious agony:

“Not my will, but thine, be done.”


And then he lapsed into delirium.

The next sensation of which he was conscious, and which he afterwards
remembered, for we have not done with our Martin yet, was one of a
singular character. A glorious light, but intensely painful, seemed
before his eyes. It burnt, it dazzled, it confounded him; yet he
admired and adored it, for it seemed to him the glory of God thus
fashioning itself before him. And on that brilliant orb, glowing like a
sun, was a black spot which seemed to Martin to be himself, a blot on
God’s glory, and he cried, “Oh, let me perish, if but Thy glory be
unstained,” when a voice seemed to reply, “My glory shall be shown in
thy redemption, not in thy destruction.”

Probably this took place at the crisis of the disease, and the physical
and spiritual sensations were in union throughout the illness. For now
Martin was delirious with joy—sweet strains of music were ever about
him. The angels gathered in his cell and sang carols, songs of love to
the Crucified. One stormy night, when gentle but heavy rain descended,
patter, patter, on the roof above his head, he thought Gabriel and all
the angelic choir were there, singing the _Gloria in Excelsis_, poising
themselves on wings without the window, and the strain:

_Pax in terra hominibus bonoe voluntatis,_


Was so ineffably sweet that the tears rolled down his cheeks in
streams.

This was the end of the imaginary music. The next morning he woke up
conscious—himself again. His first return to consciousness was an
impression of a voice:

“Dearest brother, thou art better, art thou not?”

“I am quite free from pain, only a hungered.”

“What food dost thou desire to enter thy lips first?”

“The Bread of Life.”

“But not as the _Viaticum_ {20}, thank God. Wait awhile, I go to fetch
it from the altar.”

And the successor of Adam de Maresco, the new head of the Oxford House,
left the youth and went into their plainly-furnished chapel, where, in
a silver dove, the only silver about the church, the reserved sacrament
of the Body and Blood of Christ was always kept for the sick in case of
need. It hung from the beams of the chancel, before the high altar.

First the prior knelt and thanked God for having preserved the life of
the youth they all loved.

“Thou hast yet great things for him to do on earth ere it come to his
turn to rest,” he murmured. “To Thee be all the glory.”

Then he returned and gave the young novice his communion. Martin
received it, and said, “I have found Him whom my soul loveth. I will
hold Him and will not let Him go.”

From that time the patient was able to take solid nourishment, and grew
rapidly better, until at last he could leave his room and sit in the
sunny cloisters:

Restored to life, and power, and thought.


And one day he sat there, dreamily watching old Father Thames, as he
murmured and bubbled along, outside the stone boundary.

“Onward till he lose himself in the ocean, so do flow our lives till
they merge into eternity,” said the prior. “Now with impetuous flow,
now in gentler ripple, but ever onward as God hath ordained; so may our
souls, when the work of life is accomplished, lose themselves in God.”

Martin moved his lips in silent acquiescence.

It was intense, the enjoyment of that sweet spring day, a day when all
the birds seemed singing songs of gladness, and the air was balmy
beyond description. Life seemed worth living.

“My son, when thou art better thou must travel for change of air.”

“Whither?” said Martin.

“Where wouldst thou like to go?”

“Oh, may I go to my kindred and teach them the holy truths of the
Gospel?”

“Thou shalt. Brother Ginepro shall go with thee, and ere thou startest
thou shalt be admitted to the privileges and duties of the second
order, and be Brother Martin.”

“And when shall I be ordained?”

“That may not be, yet. Thou art not twenty years of age. Thou mayst win
many souls to Christ while a lay brother, as did Francis himself, our
great master. He did not seek the priesthood also, too great a burden
for a humble soul like his, and certes, if men understood what a priest
is and what he should be, there would be fewer but perchance holier
priests than there are now.”

The reader must remember that nearly all the friars were laymen; lay
preachers, as we would say; preaching was not then considered a special
clerical function.

Martin could not speak for joy, but soon tears were seen to start down
his cheeks.

“I was thinking of my poor mother. Oh, that she had lived to see this
day,” he exclaimed, as he saw the prior observe his emotion.

The reader will remember that news of her death had reached Martin soon
after his arrival at Kenilworth, without which he could not have
remained all these years away from the Andredsweald. Her death had
partially (only partially) snapped the link which bound him to his
kindred, the love of whom now began to revive in the breast of the
convalescent.




Chapter 14: May Day In Lewes.


It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the calendar.
The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had arrayed themselves
in their brightest robe of green; the hedges were white and fragrant
with may; the anemone, the primrose, the cowslip, and blue bell
carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the oaks and poplars were
already putting on their summer garb. The butterflies settled upon
flower after flower; the bees were rejoicing in their labour; their
work glowed, and the sweet honey was fragrant with thyme.

Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as from
village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex poured out
from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and James; the
children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred fantastic hues, the
May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of May chosen by lot from
amongst the village maidens.

Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the
villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our
tale betakes itself again—around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye, Alfristun,
Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like—not, as now, accessible by
rail and surrounded by arable lands; but settlements in the forest,
with the mighty oaks and beeches which had perchance seen the coming of
Ella and Cissa, long ere the Norman set foot in Angleland; and with
solemn glades where the wind made music in the tree tops, and the
graceful deer bounded athwart the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled
brake and inaccessible morass.

Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough of
Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern visitor may
still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that castle, but how
different (yet how much the same) was the scene which a young knight
viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had come up there to take his
last look at the fair land of England ere he left it for years, it
might be never to return.

“It is a fair land; God keep it till I return.”

The great lines of Downs stretched away—northwest to Ditchling Beacon;
southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on the east
rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount Tabor to the
fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long line stretched
away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.

“Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the eastern
range of Downs—I see it across the plain twelve miles away. I see the
windmills on the hill, and below the church towers, and the tops of the
castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon bid them all farewell.”

Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley wherein
meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its magnificent church,
well known to our readers; its towers and pinnacles.

“And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother professed.
And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his youth, now never
leaves the convent’s boundaries. But he is about to travel to Jerusalem
by proxy.

“If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I
should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once compared
us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the other a
warrior.”

He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view, but
his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was gayer
guest at the noontide meal, the “nuncheon” of Earl Warrenne of Lewes,
the lord of the castle.

It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited
population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics, frightened
women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and screams; unsavoury
missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale vegetables, were flying about;
and in the midst of the open space the figure of a Jew, who had excited
the indignation of the multitude, was the object of violent aggression
which seemed likely to endanger his life.

A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint Michael’s
Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light, which had
endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see and adore,
and much was the reputation of Saint Michael’s shrine enhanced, when
this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to assert that the light
was only caused by the rays of the sun falling directly upon the figure
through a window in the western wall, narrow as the slits we see in the
old castle towers, so arranged as on this particular day to bring the
rays of the setting sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.

But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic cries:

“Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!”

And it is very probable that he would have been “done to death” had not
an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.

Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered the
square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was immediate.
The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which made way for
them as if a superior being had commanded their reverence, and one of
the two mounted on a cart, and took for his text, in a clear piercing
voice which was heard everywhere, “Christ, and Him crucified.”

The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles
ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” said he. “He is the prisoner of the
Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and his
light be extinguished in darkness.”

All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness, but
radiant with emotion, began to speak.

And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the circumstances of
the day.

“The object of the Crucifixion,” he said, “had yet to be attained
amongst them.”

A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one had
desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a thousand
desecrated forms before him who ought to be living crucifixes, for were
they not told to crucify the flesh with its affections and lusts, to
remain upon their voluntary crosses till Christ said, “Come down. Well
done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord”?
And were they doing this? Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as
for instance the saints of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done;
giving heart for heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread
and ghastly idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to
be companions of the angels—God’s holy ones? Or the slaves and sport of
the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?

The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men of
the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were scarce
as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work which the
public press does now, as well as its own, and the preacher was a
power. But those medieval sermons were full of quaint illustrations.

Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn and
love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over one
repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the Lord
afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a ringing,
when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the Lord—one
repentant sinner.

“They are waiting now,” he said. “Will you keep them waiting up there
with their hands on the ropes?”

Cries of “No! no!” broke from several.

“And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their claws,
hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire are the
worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of men. Now,
on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of God, where be
many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to the rule of Saint
Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the chapel, methought it was
full of devils whispering all sorts of temptations, as they did to
Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks from their prayers and
meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and methought one devil only sat
on the gate, and swayed the hearts of all the men in the town. He had
little to do. The world and the flesh were helping him, and just now it
was the devil of cruelty.”

The men looked down.

“‘A Jew! only a Jew!’ you say; ‘the wicked Jews crucified our Lord.’

“And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so
amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians
crucify our Lord afresh.”

And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His
thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept aloud.
In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted Martin to the
priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries of joy.

“Thou hast begun well, brother Martin,” said Ginepro, when they could
first speak to each other in the hospitium.

“I! No, not I. God gave me strength,” and he sank on the bench
exhausted and pale.

“It is too much for thee.”

“No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase.”

“What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard thee,
but couldn’t get near thee for the press,” cried an exultant voice.

“My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?”

“Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there,
and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to
the Holy Land.

“But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet? Hast
thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood by a
warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin.”

“You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your
spurs.”

Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are
acquainted.

Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert could
not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford twenty times
over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected house.

They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting was
made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the past
brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which all,
monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned through
the vast pile.

Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from the
rule—where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him with those
aged eyes.

“God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be
trials and difficulties.”

“I am prepared for them.”

“But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled; and
my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy duty.
Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek of the
old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it thee freely
when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name. But be sure thou
dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the place is haunted. Then
thou must take the nearest route to Jerusalem.”

“But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen.”

“Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they allow
pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst a
victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not allowed
as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy Sepulchre, to
deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou mayst return.”

“But will there be no fighting?”

“This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be
broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one campaign,
not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and remember that but
to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee to all the
indulgences and privileges of a crusader—Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary,
Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by reason of the truce,
although the infidels be very treacherous, and thou wilt need constant
vigilance.”

So they talked until the midnight hour.

No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son
slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on the
floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was
absolute, and so they slept.

On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory
together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the last
farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished his grasp
of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the purpose of many
years had come at last. Martin and his brother and companion Ginepro
were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to act as a guard of
honour to the young knight in his passage through the forest to the
castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel together as long as
their different objects permitted.

“My men will be a protection,” said Hubert.

The young friars laughed.

“We need no protection,” said Ginepro. “If we want arms, these
bulrushes will serve for spears.”

“Nay, do not jest,” said Martin.

“We have other arms, my Hubert.”

“What are they?”

“Only faith and prayer, but they never fail.”

Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to
Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek and
carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay it on
the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till he had
dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin told his
plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to reclaim the
outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to reunite the
lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together in one common
love.

“Shall you visit Walderne Castle?” inquired Hubert.

“It may fall to my lot to do so.”

“Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both.”

“He may have mended.”

Hubert shook his head.

A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where their
road divided—the one to the northeast, the other to the southeast. They
tried to preserve the proper self control, but it failed them, and
their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.

At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a
frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.

“They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father Francis,”
said Ginepro, “which my father witnessed.”

“Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way.”

“Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their
songs of gladness, whereupon he said:

“‘My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung your
sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.’

“And the birds were silent.”

“I can quite believe it.”

“His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was brought
in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they were just
going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and pitied it.

“‘Little brother leveret,’ he said. ‘How didst thou let thyself be
taken?’

“The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took
refuge in the robe of the father.

“‘Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught again,’ he
said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go.”

Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged from
the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children playing at
seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.

Instantly he cried, “Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go and
have a turn.”

“Are we not too old for such sport?” said Martin.

“Not a bit. I feel quite like a child,” and off he ran to join the
children amidst the laughter of a few older people.

But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the
children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless as he
related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy Innocents,
stories which came quite fresh to them in those days, when there were
few books, and fewer readers. And these little Sussex children drank in
the touching story with all their little ears and hearts. In all
Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness. And that same evening, when
the woodmen came home from work, Martin preached to the whole village
from the steps of the churchyard cross.

It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the
forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and
life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the
eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears
running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on those
of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.

Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and without
that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the parochial
flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin at last
stopped, exhausted:

“Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been
preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night.”

And they willingly consented.

But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.




Chapter 15: The Crusader Sets Forth.


The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches
stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in sconces on
the tables. All the retainers of the house were present, whether
inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were men-at-arms of
Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls (churls) of Saxon
lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young lord, and acknowledge
him as their liege, ere he left them for the treacherous and burning
East to accomplish his father’s vow.

The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those
days of slow locomotion.

A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the length
of the hall. At the end another “board,” raised a foot higher, formed
the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre, just opposite the
junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state, surmounted by a canopy;
on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his left the hero of the night,
our Hubert.

The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved; and
hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely dinted; with
tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those who had borne
them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There were the horns of
enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars; war against man and
beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life then.

And the supper—shall I give the bill of fare?

First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald (they
be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench (pike not
come into England yet). And of sea fish—herrings, mackerel, soles,
salmon, porpoises—a goodly number.

Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look upon,
bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins, herons,
cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in season
didn’t matter); and scores of domestic fowls—hens, geese, pigeons,
ducks, _et id genus omne_.

Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to pay
their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave indigestion,
perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the barnyard, ten little
porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four sheep—only the best joints of
these, the rest given away; and two succulent calves.

Of the pastry—twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three bushels
of last autumn’s apples were the foundation; two bushels of flour;
almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in England.

In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling wine,
cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all in one
grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.

As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey (Rhenish),
and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last two); and for
liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).

All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time
afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was satisfied,
the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief harper, with hoary
beard, sang his solo:

Sometimes in the night watch,
Half seen in the gloaming,
Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating
All into the darkness.


And the harps responded in deep minor chords:

All into the darkness.
We dream that we clasp them,
The forms of our dear ones.
When, lo, as we touch them,
They leave us and vanish
On wings that beat lightly
The still paths of slumber.


Very softly the harps:

The still paths of slumber.
They left in high valour
The land of their boyhood,
And sorrowful patience
Awaits their returning
While love holds expectant
Their homes in our bosoms.


Sweetly the harps:

Their homes in our bosoms.
In high hope they left us
In sorrow with weeping
Their loved ones await them.
For lo, to their greeting
Instead of our heroes
Come only their phantoms.


The harps deep and low:

Come only their phantoms.
We weep as we reckon
The deeds of their glory—
Of this one the wisdom,
Of that one the valour:
And they in their beauty
Sleep sound in their death shrouds.


The harps dismally:

Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.


“Stop! stop!” said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady’s eyes. “No
more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by such
boding?”

“Let the heir stay with us,” cried the guests.

“Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father, Sir
Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you love him
for his own fair face;” (Hubert blushed), “for the deed of valour by
which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred. But go he will
and must, and there is an end of it.

“One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert,
mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his power. He
bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in the Priory of
Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as Brother Roger; and
that his son should be formally adopted by us. He is so in our hearts
already, and should bear from henceforth the name of ‘Radulphus,’ or
‘Ralph,’ in memory of his grandfather.

“Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful, and
acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives.”

They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to
acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.

And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—just as you
would expect of our Hubert.

“The Holy Land,” said Sir Nicholas, “is a long way off, and many, as
the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones
there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may
live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no
other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives.”

“We will, God being our helper.”

“And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy
return.”

It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear
that Hubert would not return safely.

Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a
Christian knight who fell into the power of “a Paynim sultan,” and whom
the sultan’s daughter delivered at the risk of her life—all for love.
How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the
Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was
united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of
this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury,
Thomas a Becket {23}.

And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his
aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He
loved her, and had already plighted his troth.

“No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me of my
heart. I leave it behind in England.”

And even here he had a rival.

It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At
Harengod, his mother’s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had
set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas,
his father’s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never
forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love. But the uncle was really
afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel,
perhaps not confined to words.

He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of
inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of
Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without issue,
the other should have both domains.

Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the
old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it? Drogo had
no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir
Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.

When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting
interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil’s bower, while
the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very
strict) permitted, out of earshot.

Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried hard
to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn’t help a tear. But he
must go!

“Wilt thou be true to me till death?”
the anxious lover cried.
“Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,”
Alicia replied.


“Come, go to bed,” said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went:

To bed, but not to sleep.


On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church, on
the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household
assembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel, for
it was an old proverb with them, “mass and meat hinder no man,” and
then the breakfast table was duly honoured.

And then—the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words; how
many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which should have
been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode through the woods,
with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to share his perils and
his glory.

Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last of
Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old knight’s
heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to Pevensey.

The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled forest,
which extended nearly to Hailsham. It passed through the district
infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never molested Sir
Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to travellers of rank in
general, and few dared traverse the forest roads unattended by an
escort. In the depths of these hoary woods were iron works, which had
existed since the days of the early Britons, but had of late years been
completely neglected, for all the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or
the Saxon outlaws were concentrated on war or the chase.

Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first resting
place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old English
settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of a lord of
Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town as his
dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly hostility—the
knights had their liberties and rights, and so long as they paid their
tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden time, before the
Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church tower each night told
its solemn tale of subjection and restraint, as it does even now, when
the old ideas have quite departed, and few realise what it once meant.

Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high
tide—leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the
father of “Roaring Ralph” of that ilk still resided, lord paramount.
The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood bravely out, and
its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears of the parting
knight. How tantalising!

Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the
Queen’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of
exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king’s foreign kindred.

There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which
was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night;
wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick passage,
and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends
farewell, and embarked in the _Rose of Pevensey_.

England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was
the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.

My native land—Good night.




Chapter 16: Michelham Once More.


It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills which
encompass Lewes. His declining beams gilded the towers of Michelham
Priory.

Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which overlooked
the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for it was the
recreation hour, between vespers and compline.

Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the
tower of Hamelsham: the “lowing herd wound slowly o’er the lea” from
the Dicker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe of Saint
Francis, and approached the gateway.

“There be some of those ‘kittle cattle,’ the new brethren,” said the
old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the bridge.
“If I had my will, they should spend the night on the heath.”

The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened.

“Who are ye?”

“Two poor brethren of Saint Francis.”

“What do you want?”

“The wayfarer’s welcome. Bed and board according to the rule of your
hospitable house.”

“We like not you grey friars—for we are told you are setters forth of
strange doctrines, and disturb steady old church folk. But natheless
the hospitium is open to you as to all, whether gentle or simple, lay
folk or clerks. So enter, only if you threw those gray cloaks into the
moat, you would be more welcome.”

They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours.

“Look,” said one of the monks to his fellow; “they that have turned the
world upside down have come hither also.”

“Whom the warder hath received.”

“They will find scant welcome.”

Meanwhile Martin was looking with curious eyes on the buildings which
had first received him when he escaped from the outlaw life of old. But
the evening meal was already prepared, and the bell rang for supper.

Many guests were there—lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and pilgrims
with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on their road to
the Continent from the central parts of the island, men-at-arms,
Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals. And all had good fare, while
a monk in nasal voice read:

A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,


Above the clatter of knives and dishes.

Now this Saint Guthlac was an abbot of Croyland, and many conflicts did
he have with the devils of the fen country, whose presence could
generally be ascertained by the hissing which took place when they
settled with their fiery hoofs and claws on the wet swamps and moist
sedges.

“And my brethren, certes we poor monks of Saint Benedict may learn much
from these fiends; and first, from their hot and fiery tempers and
bodies, we may be taught to say with Saint Ambrose:”

Quench thou the fires of hate and strife
The wasting fevers of the heart.


At this moment a calf’s head was brought in, very tender and succulent,
and the rest of the quotation was drowned in the clatter of plates and
dishes. At last the voice emerged from the tumult:

“Which I have seen in these fens, whither Satan and his imps do often
resort to cool themselves in these stagnant waters. And first there be
the misshapen, goggle-eyed goblins, with faces like the full moon, only
never saw I the moon so hideous; these be the demons of sensuality,
gluttony and sloth—_libera nos Domine_, and then there be . . .”

The wine was handed round, wine of Gascony, where the friars of
Michelham had vineyards; full drinking, rich-bodied red wine, brought
in huge jugs of earthenware, and poured generally into wooden mugs.
Only the prior and subprior had silver goblets: glass there was none.

Again the voice rose above the din:

“Affect the fat soils of our marsh land, and there, maybe, find
convenient prey amongst the idle and inebriate brethren who forget
their vows, or the sottish loony who from the plough tail seek the ale
house. And moreover there be your fiends, long and slim, and comely in
garb, with tails of graceful curve, and horns like a comely heifer.
Natheless their teeth be sharp and their claws fierce. But they hide
them, for they would fain appear like angels of light, yet be they the
demons of pride and cruelty, first-born of Lucifer, son of the morning
. . .”

Here the sweets and pastries came in, fruits of the abbey gardens,
skilfully preserved, and cunning devices of the baker: there was a
church built of pie crust; a monk, baked brown and crisp, with raisins
for his eyes, which, withal, filled his paunch, and, cannibal like, the
good brethren ate him. Finally, that they, the brethren, might not be
without a _memento mori_, was a sepulchre or altar tomb, likewise in
crust, and when the top was broken, a goodly number of pigeons lurked
beneath, lying in state:

“Which mop and mow, and chatter like starlings, but all, either naught
in sense or naughty in meaning, oh these chattering goblins. Be not
like them, my brethren—_libera nos Domine_.”

Here to those who sat at the upper board were next presented, by the
serving brethren, dainty cups of hippocras, medicated against the damps
and chills of the low grounds, or perchance the crudities of the
stomach, or the cruel pinches of _podagra dolorosa_—

“Ah! will you say that agues, rheumatics, and all the other afflictions
which do befall the brethren be simply bred of stagnant water and foul
drinking? Nay, I say these hobgoblins give us them, and that even as
Satan was permitted to afflict holy Job, so they afflict you. But we
have not the patience of Job; would we had! Oh my brethren, slay me the
little foxes which eat the tender grapes; your pride, anger, envy,
hatred, gluttony, lust, and sloth, and bring forth worthy fruits of
penance; then may you all laugh at Satan and his misshapen offspring
until in very shame they fly these fens—_libera nos Domine_.”

Here the leader sang:

“_Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis_.”

And the whole brotherhood replied:

“_Deo gratias_.”

The supper was ended, and the chapel bell began to ring for the final
service of the day. The period of silence throughout the dormitories
and passages now began, and only stealthy footfalls broke the stillness
of the summer night.

But the prior rang a silver bell: “tinkle, tinkle.”

“Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with the
twinkling black eyes and roundish face.”

And Martin was brought to him.

“Sit down, my young brother,” said Prior Roger, “and tell me where I
have seen thy face before. I have gazed upon thee all through the
frugal meal of which we have just partaken, for thy face is like a face
I have seen in a dream. Not that I doubt that thou art here in flesh
and blood, unlike the fiends of Croyland, of whom we have just heard.”

Martin smiled, and replied:

“My father, seven years agone, a noble earl found shelter here from the
outlaws, from whom he was delivered by the self sacrifice of a woman,
and the guidance of her son, an imp of some thirteen years.”

“I remember Earl Simon’s visit. Art thou that boy?”

“I am, my father.”

“Ah well! ah me! how time passes! But there is another remembrance
which thy face awakens, of a death bed confession. _Sub sigillo_,
perhaps I am wrong in putting the two things together. _Sancte
Benedicte ora pro me_. So thou hast taken the habit of Saint Francis.
Why didst not come to us, if thou wishedst to renounce the world and
mortify the flesh?”

Martin was silent.

“And hast thou the gift of preaching? I do not mean of talking.”

“My superiors thought so, but they are fallible.”

“I should think so, very, but that is nought. I hope I have better
sense than to send for thee, poor boy, to teach thee to rebel against
thy superiors, and perhaps after all we Augustinians are too hard upon
Franciscans and friars of low degree—only we want to get to heaven our
own way, with our steady jog trot, and you go frisking, caracolling,
curvetting, gambolling along. Well, I hope Saint Peter will let us all
in at the last.”

Martin was silent, out of respect to the age of the speaker.

“Thou art a modest boy; come, tell me, who was thy father?”

“An outlaw, long since dead.”

“And thy mother?”

“His bride—but I know not of what parentage. There is a secret never
disclosed to me, and which I shall never learn now, only I am assured
that I was born in holy wedlock, and that a priest blessed the union.”

“Did thy mother marry again?”

“She was compelled to accept one Grimbeard, a chief amongst the ‘merrie
men’ who succeeded my father as their leader.”

“Now, my son, I know why I looked at thee—I knew thy father. Nay, I
administered the last rites of Holy Church to him. I was travelling
through the woods and following a short route to the great abbey of
Battle, when a band of the outlaws burst forth from an ambush.

“‘Art thou a priest, portly father?’ they said irreverently.

“‘Good lack,’ said I, ‘I am, but little of worldly goods have I. Thou
wilt not plunder God’s ambassadors of their little all?’

“‘Nay! But thou must come with us, and thy retinue must tarry here till
we bring thee back.’

“‘You will not harm me?’ said I, fearing for my throat. ‘It is as thou
hearest a hoarse one, and often sore, but it is my only one.’

“They laughed, and one said:

“‘Nay, father, we swear by Him that died that we will bring thee safe
here again ere sundown.’

“So they led me away, and anon they blindfolded me, and led my horse.
What a mercy poor Whitefoot was sure footed, and did not stumble, for
the way was parlous difficult.

“And at last they took the bandage from off mine eyes, and I saw I was
in their encampment, in the innermost recesses of a swampy tangled
wood. There, in a sort of better-most cabin, lay a young man,
dying—wounded, as I afterwards learned, in an attack upon the Lord of
Herst de Monceux.

“A goodly man of some thirty years was he, and a goodly end he made. He
told me his story, and as the lips of dying men speak the truth, I
believed him. He was the last representative of that English family
which before the Conquest owned this very island and its adjacent woods
and fields {24}. He was very like thee—he stands before me again in
thee. Didst thou never hear of thy descent before?”

“That he was of the blood of the old English thanes I knew, but fallen
from their once high estate. Had he lived he might have possessed me
with the like feelings which prompted him: hatred of the foreigner,
rebellion to God’s dispensation, which gave the land to others. Even
now as I speak, Christian though I am, I feel that such things might
be, but I count them now as dross, and seek a goodlier heritage than
Michelham.”

“Poor lad! What has brought thee here again?”

“The desire to do my Master’s will, and to preach the gospel to my
kindred. For if Christ shall make them free, then shall they be free
indeed.”

“Hast thou heard of thy mother?”

“That she was dead. The message came through Michelham.”

“I remember an outlaw came here one day and sought me. He bade me send
word to the boy we had (he said) stolen from them, that his mother was
no more. We did so; but who was thy mother by birth?”

“I know not.”

“But I know.”

“Tell me, father.”

“It is a sad story.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Not yet. Go forth tomorrow. Seek thy kindred, and if thou livest thou
shalt know. Tell me, what is thine age?”

“I have seen twenty years.”

“When thou hast attained thy twenty-first birthday, I may reveal this
secret—not before. Until then my lips are sealed; such was the will of
thy father.”

“Shall I find the outlaws easily?”

“I know not; they have been much reduced both in numbers and in power,
and give small trouble now to the nobles and men of high degree. Many
have been hanged.”

“Does Grimbeard yet live?”

“I know not.”

“Father, I start on my search tomorrow; give me thy blessing and pray
for me.”

Martin could not sleep. He stood long at the window of his cell in a
dreamy reverie. The story of the last Thane of Michelham, as related in
the _Andredsweald_, had often been told around the camp fires, and
although he was only in his thirteenth year when he left them, it was
all distinctly imprinted in his memory. Oh! how strange it seemed to
him to be there on the spot, which but for the conquest of two
centuries agone would perhaps have still been the home of his race! But
he did not indulge in sentimental sorrow. He believed in the Fatherhood
of God, and that all things work for good to them that love Him.

What a dawn it was! A reddening of the eastern sky; a low band of
crimson; then rays like an aurora shooting upwards into the mid
heavens; then such tints of transparent opal and heavenly azure
overspread the skies all around, that Martin drank in the beauty with
all his soul, and almost wept for joy, as he thought it a foretaste of
the new heavens and the new earth, wherein he hoped to dwell, and
whereon his heart was already surely fixed. And as he gazed upon the
distant woods, wherein dwelt the kindred he came to seek, he prayed in
the words of an old antiphon:

“O Day Spring, brightness of the Eternal Light and Sun of
Righteousness, come and lighten those that sit in darkness, and in the
shadow of death.”




Chapter 17: The Castle Of Fievrault.


It was the province of Auvergne in France. Through the forest, deep and
gloomy, rode our Hubert and his squire, with the six men-at-arms, a few
days after their departure from England. They had gained the soil of
France, and had found the town in Auvergne which bore the name of the
De Fievrault family, and early in the following morning they started
for the old chateau, which they were forewarned they would find in
ruins, to seek the fated sword.

It was added that the place was haunted, and that they would do well to
return before nightfall.

The road which led thither was evidently but seldom trodden. It
abounded in sunken ruts, wherein lurked the adder. It led by sullen
pools, where the bittern boomed and the pike swam, his silver side
glittering like a streak of light beneath the dark surface, as he
sought his finny prey. Now it was marshy and muddy, now it was tangled
with thorns, now impeded by fallen trees. So thick was the verdure that
the sky could not often be seen.

“I should be sorry, Almeric,” said the young knight to his squire, “to
traverse this route by night. Yet unless we make better use of our legs
it will happen to us to have the choice either of encountering the
wolves of the forest or the phantoms of the castle.”

“Are not those the towers?” said the young squire, pointing to some
extinguisher-like turrets which just then came in sight.

“Verily they be, and if we make haste we may reach them by noontide.”

But between them and the object of their journey lay a deep fosse or
moat, and the rusty drawbridge was suspended by its chains to the walls
of the towers.

“Blow thine horn, Almeric.”

It was long blown in vain, but at length an old man in squalid attire,
with long dishevelled gray locks and matted beard, appeared at the
window of the watch tower above.

“Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?”

“The sword of its last lord, that I may bear it to the Holy Land in his
name, and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord.”

“Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the bridge,
and thou mayst enter.”

“What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?” said Almeric
in a whisper.

The rusty machinery creaked, the bridge sank into its appointed place,
and at the same moment the portcullis was heard to wind up with a
grating sound. The little troop entered the courtyard through the
gateway in the tower.

A ruined castle! the dismantled towers rose around them with the great
hall, the windows broken, the casement shattered. Ivy grew around the
fragments, and embracing them, veiled their squalidness with its green
robe, making that picturesque which anon was hideous. But company gives
confidence, and our little troop rode, laughing and talking, into the
haunted Castle of Fievrault.

“I have no food,” said the old man.

“We need none; we have brought both meat and wine. Wilt thou share it?
Thou look’st as if a good meal might do thee good.”

“I have eaten my frugal meal already, and desire none of your cates and
dainties. Lo, I am ready to conduct you to the hall where hangs the
sword of the man whom thy father slew one Friday long ago, and it will
be well for thee but to tarry while thou takest it and then depart.”

“We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall.”

“I cannot say you nay.”

He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the
portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and conspicuous
amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his loathly lady;
the painter had not flattered them.

There hung several swords, rusty with age and disuse, two-handed
weapons which it required a giant strength to wield; huge battle-axes,
maces, clubs tipped with iron spikes, ancient suits of armour, rusty
and unsightly, as old clothing of that sort is apt to become after the
lapse of years. There was no vacant hook now, for at the end of the row
hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de Fievrault, the last of his
grim race.

The Englishmen gazed upon the portraits, which they regarded with
insular irreverence (what were French knights and dames to them?), then
without awe spread the contents of their wallets on the board, and
feasted in serenity and ease.

When it was over the wine produced its usual exhilarating effect. Song
and romaunt were sung until the shadows began to turn towards the east
and the hues of approaching evening to suffuse the shades of the
adjacent wilderness. Then the old servitor came up to Hubert:

“It is time, my lord, to take the sword thou hast come to seek, and to
go, unless thou wishest to be benighted in the forest.”

“My lord,” said Almeric, “we have come abroad in quest of adventures,
and as yet found none to relate around the winter fireside when we get
home again; and it is the humble petition of your poor squire and
men-at-arms that we may remain in the castle this night and see what
stuff the phantoms are made of, if phantoms there be.”

Hubert smiled approval.

“My Almeric,” he said, “I have ever been of opinion that ghostly
apparitions are delusions, and always thought that I should like to put
the matter to a test. Wherefore I welcome your proposal with joy, for I
doubted whether any of you would willingly stay with me. We will remain
here tonight.”

“Nay,” said the old withered retainer of the house of Fievrault;
“bethink thee, my lord, of what befell thy own father.”

“And for that very reason his son would fain avenge him,” said Hubert
flippantly, “and flout the ghosts, if such things there be. And if
men—Frenchmen or the like—see fit to attire themselves in masquerade,
no coward fear will blunt the edge of our swords.”

“Wilful must have his way,” said the old servitor with a sigh. “What is
to be will be, only remember, all of you, the old man has warned you,
and only permits you to remain because he has no power to send you
forth.”

“Nay, be not so inhospitable.”

“A churl will be a churl,” said Almeric.

The old man shook his head sadly, and went about his business, whatever
that may have been.

The party now broke up to examine the castle, and to make sure that all
was as it seemed, and that no earthly inmates were there to play pranks
in the night. They ascended the ruined towers, and gazed upon a
wilderness of leaves, as far as the eye could reach, save where a wild
fantastic range of mountains upreared its riven peaks in the dim
distance, the Puy de Dome, the highest point. Then they descended the
steps and explored the vaults and dungeons: dismal habitations dug by
the hands of cruel men in the solid rock upon which the castle was
built. In one they shuddered to behold a human skeleton, from which the
rats had long since eaten the flesh, chained by steel manacles around
its wrists and ankles to the wall, and hence still retaining its
upright position: and in each of these dark chambers they found
sufficient evidence of the fell character of the house of Fievrault.

In one large cell, which had evidently been the torture chamber, they
found the rusty implements of cruelty—curious arrangements of ropes and
pulleys; a rack which had fallen to pieces with age; a brazier with
rusty pincers, which had once been heated red hot therein, to tear the
quivering flesh from some victim, who had long since carried his plaint
to the bar of God, where the oppressors had also long since followed
him.

Hubert and his followers shuddered; but they were a little more
hardened to the sight of such things, which were not unknown in those
times even in “merry England,” than we should be.

“Where does that trap door lead to?” said Almeric, pointing to an
arrangement of two folding doors in front of a rude image.

“It looks firm.”

“Nay, trust it not. Here is a rude stump, once used as a seat. Roll it
upon the trap doors.”

The round, short log was rolled on the trap, which gave way at once.
Down went the log, and, after what seemed minutes to those above, came
a hollow boom. It had reached the bottom. The oubliette—Almeric
shuddered, and the colour faded from his face.

“What if I had tried the strength with my own weight!” thought he.

They returned to the upper air. The sun had set, and the shades of
night were gathering around the hoary pile, and, with deepening shades,
every soul present felt a sense of gloom and depression creep over him;
a sort of apprehension which had no visible cause, and could not easily
be explained, but which led one to start at shadows, and look round at
each unexpected footfall.

For over all there came a sense of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said as plain as whisper in the ear—
“This place is haunted.”


“Bring wood. Kindle a fire on the hearth here. Set torches in those
cressets. Bring out the remains of our dinner. There is yet plenty of
the _vin de pays_; let us eat drink, and be merry.”

Wood was plentiful, pine torches easily procured in such a locality,
and soon the hall was bright with the firelight and vocal with the
sound of voices in melody. So the hours sped on until it was quite
dark. It was a very still night, but the clouds were thick, and there
were no stars abroad.

At length they had burned all the wood which had been brought in.

“Go, Tristam, and bring more wood from the great pile in the
courtyard,” said Hubert.

Tristam, a grizzled man-at-arms, went out.

All at once a cry of horror was heard. All started to their feet, but
before they could run to Tristam’s aid the door was dashed open, and he
ran in, his hair erect with horror, and his eyes starting from their
sockets.

“It is after me!” he shrieked, as he slammed the door behind him.

“What was it?” said Hubert, while the sight of the man’s infectious
terror sent a thrill through all of them.

But he couldn’t tell; he only stood and gibbered and shuddered, as if
he had lost his senses, then crept to the innermost corner of the large
fireplace, where they made room for him, and moaned like some wounded
animal.

“The wood must be brought,” said Hubert. “We are not going to let the
fire go out, nor to be frightened at shadows.

“Almeric, you will come with me and fetch it.”

“Yes, master,” said Almeric, not without a shudder, which did not
promise well.

“Say a Pater and an Ave, Almeric. Sign thyself with the Cross. Now!”

And they went forth.

The night was, as we have said, intensely dark, and they each carried a
fat, resinous pine torch, which diffused a lurid light around. The
stones of the courtyard were slimy from long neglect; and the light,
drizzly rain which was falling churned the dust and slime into thin
mud. As they drew near the wood pile, Hubert going boldly first, they
both fancied a presence—a presence which caused a sickening
dread—between them and the pile.

“Look, master,” said Almeric, in tones half choked with horror.

Hubert followed the direction of Almeric’s glance, and saw that a
footmark impressed itself in the slime before their own advancing
tread, just as if some invisible being were walking before them. So
sickening a dread, yet quite an inexplicable one, a dread of the vague
unknown, came upon them that, brave men as they were, they could not
proceed to the wood pile, and, like Tristam, returned empty handed.

“Where is the wood?” was the general cry.

“Let no one go out for wood tonight,” said Hubert. “We must break up
the forms, the floors, nay, our dining board, to sustain the fire—for
fire we must have. Now, remember we are warriors of the Cross, pledged
to a holy cause, and that no demon can hurt us if we are true to
ourselves. Join me in the holy psalms of the night watch, then spread
our cloaks and sleep here.”

They said the well-known compline psalms, familiar then in England from
their nightly use. Then, replenishing the fire at the expense of some
rude oaken benches, and barring the door, they all strove to sleep. A
watch seemed needless. The fear was that they would all be found
watching when they should be sleeping.

But yet whether from extreme fatigue or any other cause, they did all
fall asleep.

In the dead hour of the night Hubert alone awoke, with the
consciousness that someone was gazing upon him. He looked up. There was
the figure which had so often tormented his poor father, the slain
Frenchman, the last Sieur de Fievrault, pale and gory, his hand on the
wound in his side.

“Speak, dread phantom! What dost thou want with me? I go to do thy
bidding, to fulfil thy vow.”

“Thank God! Thou hast spoken, and I may speak, too. Thou goest to do my
bidding in love for thy father, to fulfil my vow. Alas, many trials
await thee. Canst thou face them?”

“I can do all man can do.”

“So I imagine from thy bold bearing in this haunted castle of my
ancestors. It is well. Only go forward, whatever happens. Thou shalt
not perish. Thou shalt deliver thy father and me, condemned as yet to
walk this lower earth, till the vow my own misconduct made me unworthy
to fulfil is fulfilled by thee. Fare thee well, and fear not.”

And the figure disappeared.

Hubert felt a sense of blessed relief, under which he fell asleep
again, and did not awake until aroused by a cry of terror. He started
up. Almeric and all the men were on their feet, like frenzied beings,
gazing into the darkness which enveloped the end of the hall. Then they
rushed with a wild cry at the door, which they unbarred with eager
hands, and issued into the darkness. He heard a heavy fall, as if one,
perhaps two, had missed the steps and gone headlong into the courtyard.

Terror is contagious, but Hubert saw nothing as yet to fear.

“Come back, ye cowards! Shame on ye!” he cried, but cried in vain—he
was alone in the haunted hall.

The fact was that Hubert felt as if he personally had made his peace
with the mysterious haunters of the castle, and had nothing to fear. So
he did not stir, but was even able to sleep again until aroused by the
aged janitor, just as the blessed light of dawn was pouring through the
oriel window.

“I warned you, my lord,” he said.

“You did. The fault, and the punishment, too, is ours. But where are my
men?”

“Here is one,” said the janitor, leading Hubert to the cell over the
gateway which he occupied himself, where on a couch lay poor Almeric
with a broken arm; broken in falling down the steps.

“And where are the rest?” said Hubert after expressing his sympathy to
the wounded squire.

“In the forest; they were raving like madmen in the courtyard, and I
opened the gates and let them out to cool their brains. They will
doubtless be here anon.”

“What didst thou see, Almeric, that frightened thee out of thy reason?”

“Ask me not! I may tell thee anon, but let us leave this evil place,”
said Almeric.

“We must wait for our men—I will go out and blow my horn without the
barbican.”

He blew a mighty blast, and after awhile first one and then another
responded to the appeal, looking thoroughly ashamed of themselves; till
four were in presence. But the fifth never arrived; doubtless he had
met some mishap in the forest.

“The wolves have got him,” said the old man. “There is an old she wolf
with a litter of cubs not far off, and I heard a mighty howling
there-a-way after the gates were opened. If he staggered in her way in
the darkness she would be sure to tear him to pieces.”

They sought for him in vain, but could not risk having to pass another
night in the place. Almeric was able to sit his horse with difficulty,
Hubert taking the reins and riding at his side and supporting him from
time to time with his arm. The sprightly lad was quite changed.

“I know not what it was,” he said, “but it was something in that
darkness, an awful face, a giant form, a deathly thing of horror, and
we lost our presence of mind and sought absence of body. That is all I
can say. It was something borne upon our wills and we could not resist.
I shall never want to try such experiments again.”

Even our Hubert, brave as he had been, was changed. He understood his
father’s affliction better, nor was he ever quite so light hearted and
frivolous again. The joy of youth was dimmed. Yet he often thought that
the apparition of the slain Frenchman might have been but a dream sent
from heaven, to encourage him in his undertaking on his father’s
behalf.




Chapter 18: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.


The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a
grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two
brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading
canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred to
avoid.

Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have already
introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the left, they
entered upon a pathless wilderness. Mighty trees raised their branches
to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in some vast cathedral.
There was little underwood, and walking was very pleasant and easy.

And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse. Ginepro
related many tales of “sweet Father Francis,” and in return Martin
enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of the
natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who knew no
laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par with the
heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the neighbouring
ecclesiastics.

“All the more need of our mission,” thought both.

They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been
following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a
little stream, a stern voice called, “Stand and deliver.”

They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of
arrows on either side. They had fallen into an ambush.

Martin was quite unalarmed.

“Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who
have come hither for your good.”

“For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like cattle.”

“But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for
thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick.”

“Ah! Whom have we got here?”

“An old friend under a new guise. Lead me to your chieftain, Grimbeard,
who, I hope, is well. Or shall I show you the road?”

“Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?”

“Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?”

“Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so.”

Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly by
his side. They were such wild-looking outlaws. At last they reached a
spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a slope, and stood at
the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre, not unlike an old chalk
pit, such as men still hew from the side of the same hills.

But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in ages
long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of nature had
filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and bushes, and all
deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around the sides of the
amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of osier work, twined
around tall posts driven into the ground and cunningly daubed with
stiff clay. In the centre of the glade was a great fire, evidently
common property, for a huge caldron steamed and bubbled over it,
supported by three sticks placed cunningly so as to lend each other
their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in accordance with nature’s
own mechanics, which she teaches without the help of science {25}.

Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins, lay
the aged chieftain whom we met before. But now seven years had added
their transforming touch, _tempus edax rerum_. His tall stature was
diminished by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs and
joints were less firmly knit.

A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a silver
belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before, and over it
was a crimson sash. These were doubtless the spoils of some successful
fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the tailors who could
make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a sharp, keen hunting
knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with an eagle’s feather.
There were eagles then in “merrie Sussex.”

“Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?”

“Guests, good captain,” replied Martin, “who have come far to seek
thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of
kings.”

Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had his
deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good faith, he
could not have harmed him. So he conquered his discontent.

“Hospitality is the law of the woods. Stay and share our fare, such as
it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace.”

“Not till we have delivered our message.”

“Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil’s own children, but if you will
try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you.”

Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after
partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different footing,
said but little. But the curiosity which was excited by his knowledge
of their names and of this their summer retreat was only suspended for
a brief period.

The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on wooden
spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters. Game, collops of
venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted to eke out the
contents of the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was handed round, of
which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the meal was over
Grimbeard spoke:

“We generally rest awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal, for
our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps your tramp
through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and after the sun has
sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may deliver the message you
spoke about.”

Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did some
of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the spreading
beeches, as did our two brethren.

They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched, and
so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even this
precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.

And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to
active life.

“Call the brethren of Saint Francis,” said the chief. “Now we are
ready. Sit round, my merrie men.”

It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the wild
and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws, with
their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the grass, with
the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow rock, while Martin,
standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his message.

With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His enthusiasm
mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his face, his eyes
sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to tell, and the result
was such as was common in the early days of the Franciscan missions.
Women, yea, and men too, were moved to tears.

But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman’s voice broke
the intensity of the silence in which the preacher’s words were
received:

“My son—my own son—my dear son.”

The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned from
the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the
chieftain’s wife, or “Mad Mab,” as they flippantly called her, and only
on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the camp had
she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as she drew
nearer, and when she entered the circle—we may well say the charmed
circle—she stood entranced, until at last conviction grew into
certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher’s voice by her
cry of maternal love.

She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once been
strikingly handsome; Martin inherited her bright colour and dark eyes;
but time had set its mark upon her, and often had she felt weary of
life.

But now, after one of her monotonous rambles, like unto one distraught
in the woods, had come this glad surprise. A new life burst upon
her—something to live for, and, rushing forward, she threw her arms
around the neck of her recovered boy.

“My mother,” said he in an agitated voice. “Nay, she has been long
dead.”

But as he gazed, the same instinct awoke in him as in her, and he lost
self control. The sermon ended abruptly, the preacher was conquered by
the man. The hearers gathered in groups and discussed the event.

“This explains how he knew all about us!”

“It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain.”

“The last of the house of Michelham!”

“Turned into a preaching friar!”

Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order.

“Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not
leave the camp.”

“Mother,” said Martin, “why that cruel message of thy death? Thou hadst
not otherwise lost me so long.”

“It was for thy good. I would save thee from the life of an outlaw or
vagabond, and foresaw that unless I renounced thee utterly, thy love
would mar thy fortunes, and bring thee back to my side.”

“My poor forsaken mother!”


Grimbeard now approached.

“Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy
natural home. Dost thou remember me?”

“Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me, which
doubtless I deserved.”

“Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take up
thy abode again with us? We want a priest.”

“I am no priest, only a preacher, and my mission is to the Andredsweald
at large, and the scattered sheep of the Great Shepherd therein.”

“Only thou knowest our whereabouts too well. We may not let thee go in
and out without security, that our retreat be not made known.”

“Father, I have eaten of your bread, and once more of my own free will
accepted your hospitality. Even a heathen would respect your secret,
still more a Christian brother. If I can persuade you to cease from
your mode of life, which the Church decrees unlawful, well and good.
But other weapons than those of the Gospel shall never be brought
against you by me.”


They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard
maintained that the position of the “merrie men,” who still kept up a
struggle against the Government in the various great forests of the
land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply patriots
maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors. Martin, on
the other hand, maintained that the question was settled by Divine
providence, and that the governors of alien blood were now the kings
and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul, obedience was due. If
two centuries did not establish prescriptive right, how long a period
would?

“No length of time,” replied Grimbeard.

“Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived
here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from these
parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants of the
Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes in Germany
and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the principle you
have laid down. What should you then say?”

Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.

“Thou hast me on the hip, youngster.”

After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day’s walk and
all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him a
composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink it and
go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of skins in one
of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her recovered
treasure—happy mother.

The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding day,
Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac, where he
was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the sounds of real
present strife had put Senlac into his head.

He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still
lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the
actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:

“Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!”

“Out! out! ye English thieves!”

“Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!”

Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish.

For there with arrow, spear, and knife,
Men fought the desperate fight for life.


Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked, gained
a sloping bank, and there—

That morning, a merry young knight and his train set out from
Herstmonceux Castle to go “a hunting,” and in the very exuberance of
his spirits, like Douglas of old, he thought fit to hunt in the woods
haunted by the “merrie men,” as he in the Percy’s country.

Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye.


But he had not ridden far into the debatable land when the path lay
between two sloping, almost precipitous banks, crowned with underwood.
All at once a voice cried:

“Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods which
free Englishmen claim as their own?”

A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young
knight gazed upon his interlocutor with a comic eye.

“Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the honours
of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the Andredsweald
without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and outlaws, such as
I conceive thee to be.”

“Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.

“Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in our
power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim.”

“Bring on your merrie men.”

Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem
strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may guess),
that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a shower of
arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short, their lives were
in the power of the “merrie men,” whose arrowheads and caps they could
alone see peering from behind the tree trunks, and over the bank,
amidst the purple heather.

What a plight!

“Give soft words,” said the old huntsman, who rode on the right hand of
our friend Ralph, “or we shall be stuck with quills like porcupines.”

But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving,
at the same time, the order:

“Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin.”

The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which the
old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed and
ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad a
leader.

A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared,
pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony entangled
road; throwing their riders in most cases, or dashing their heads
against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half the Normans were
soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane became a shambles, a
slaughter house.

Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with little
hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar, who thrust
himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were fighting with their
axes.

“Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another blow.”

“Thou hast saved the old villain’s life, grey friar,” said mad Ralph,
parrying a stroke of Grimbeard’s axe, but this was but a bootless
boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons, but with
those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but equipped for
the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the outlaws were far
better versed than they, for with boar spear or hunting knife they
often faced the rush of wolf or boar.

“Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.

“Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?”

“Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father will
but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out.”

“Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might
gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive.”

Then he cried aloud:

“Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp.”

The fight was over. The prisoners, five in number, were blindfolded,
and in that condition led into the camp of the outlaws; Martin keeping
close by their side, intent upon preventing any further violence from
being offered, if he could avert it.

Arrived at the camp, the captives were consigned to a rough cabin of
logs. Their bandages were removed; a guard was placed before the door,
and they were left to their meditations.

They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped. The
others lay dead on the scene of the conflict.

Meanwhile, Ralph was puzzling his brains as to where he had seen the
grey friar before, who had so opportunely arrived at the scene of
conflict. He inquired of his companions, but their wits were so
discomposed by their circumstances and by apprehensions, too well
founded, for their own throats, that they were in no wise able to
assist his memory. Nor indeed could they have done so under any
circumstances.

It was but a brief suspense. The outlaws had but tended their own
wounded, washed off the stains of the conflict, refreshed themselves
with copious draughts of ale or mead, ere they placed a seat of
judgment for Grimbeard under a great spreading beech which grew in the
centre of the camp, and all the population of the place turned out to
see the tragedy or comedy which was about to be enacted. Just as, in
our own recollection, the mob crowded together to see an execution.

Grimbeard was fond of assuming a certain state on these occasions. He
dressed himself in all his rustic finery, and seated himself with the
air of a king on his rude chair of honour. By his side stood Martin,
pale and composed, but determined to prevent further bloodshed if it
were in mortal power to do so.

“Bring forth the prisoners.”

They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever.

“What is thy name?” asked Grimbeard.

“Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux.”

“And what has brought thee into my woods?”

“Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt.”

“And thou must pay for thy sport.”

“Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high.”

“Thy ransom shall be a hundred marks, and till then thou must be
content with the hospitality of the woods. Now for thy followers—three
weeks ago the sheriff hung two of my best men as deer slayers, and I
have sworn in such cases to have life for life. If they hang, we hang
too. If they are merciful, so are we. Now I am loth to slay an
Englishman. Hast thou not any outlanders here?”

“If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?”

“Thou art worth a hundred marks, and they not a hundred pence,” laughed
Grimbeard. “It is not that I respect noble blood. I have scant cause. A
wandering priest who came to say mass for us told us the story of
Jephthah and the Gileadites; I will try the effect of a Shibboleth,
too.

“So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men.”

The first was evidently an Englishman.

“Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?”

“Bread and cheese.”

“It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph’s messenger, and shall be set
free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests.

“Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, ‘Shibboleth.’”

It was an olive-skinned rogue, fresh from Southern France, who stepped
forward this time, impelled by his captors. Asked the same question, he
replied:

“Dis bread and dat sheese {26}.”


“Hang him,” said Grimbeard, and hanged he would doubtless have been,
for a dozen hands were busy at once in their cruel glee; some seizing
upon the victim, some mocking his pronunciation, some preparing the
rope, two or three boys climbing the tree like monkeys, to assist in
drawing it over a sufficiently stout branch to bear the human weight,
while the poor Gaul stood shivering below; when Martin threw his left
arm around the victim, and raised his crucifix on high with the other.

“Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of your
redemption.”

“Who forbids?” said Grimbeard.

“I, the representative by birth of your ancestral leaders, and one who
might now claim the allegiance you have paid to my fathers for
generations. But I rest not on that,” and here he pleaded so eloquently
in the name of Christ, that even Grimbeard was moved; he could not
resist a certain ascendency which Martin was gaining over him.

“Let them go, all of them. Blindfold them and lead them out in the
road. Only they must swear not to come into our haunts again, either
with hawk and hound or with deadlier weapons.

“There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin. You
are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay popinjay of a
knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can’t afford to lose
that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may want him as hostage
in case this morning’s work bring a hornets’ nest about our ears.”

“Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?” said Martin.

“I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my
poor pate against the _boves boreales_, as now from _latrones
austroles_. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph.
But art thou indeed a grey friar?”

“Yes, thank God.”

“And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came near
us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it is a good
fellow lost to the world.”

“And gained to God, I hope.”

“I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead
here?”

“Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the
camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them.”

“Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou
get to Oxford?”

“It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou come
with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to escape till
thy messenger returns?”

It was done, and Ralph and Martin strolled around the camp in
conversation that entire evening. Martin now learned that the death of
an elder brother had recalled his former acquaintance from Oxford to
figure as the heir apparent of Herst de Monceux: hence the occasion of
their meeting under such different auspices.




Chapter 19: The Preaching Friar.


The system of the early Franciscans bore a very remarkable likeness to
that devised by John Wesley for his itinerant preachers, if indeed the
former did not suggest the latter. They were not to supersede the
parochial system, only to supplement it. They were not to administer
the sacraments, only to send people to their ordinary parish priest for
them, save in the rare cases of friars in full orders, who might
exercise their offices, but so as not to interfere with the ordinary
jurisdiction. The consent of the bishop of the diocese was at first
required, and ordinarily that of the parish priest; but in the not
infrequent cases where a slothful vicar would not allow any intrusion
on his sinecure, his objections were disregarded. When the parish
priest gave consent, the church was used if conveniently situated;
otherwise the nearest barn or glade in the woods was utilised for the
sermons. Like certain modern religionists, they were free and easy in
their modes, frequently addressing passers by with personal questions,
and often resorting to eccentric means of attracting attention. But
unlike their modern imitators, they acted on very strict subordination
to Church authority, and all their influence was used on behalf of the
Church; although they strove as their one great aim to infuse personal
religion into the dry bones of the existing system, which they fully
accepted, while teaching that “the letter without the spirit killeth.”

In short, their system was thoroughly evangelical at the outset,
although it grievously degenerated in after days.


Martin’s health was still far from strong. He yet felt the effects of
the terrible attack of the black fever or plague the preceding spring;
and now he was once more prostrated by a comparatively slight return of
the feverish symptoms, the after effects of his illness.

But he had found his nurse now. What a delight it was to his mother to
take his head, “that dear head,” upon her knee, and to fondle it once
more, as if he were a child again. Now she had her reward for all her
loving self denial in sending him away and feigning herself dead.

In the summer time, especially if the weather were warm and genial, the
greenwood was not a bad place for an invalid, and Martin was as well
attended as if he had been in the infirmary at Michelham, and with far
more loving care. But under such care he rapidly gathered strength, and
as he did so used it all in his master’s service. The impression he
produced on the followers of his forefathers was profound, but he
traversed every corner of the forest, and not an outlying hamlet or
village church escaped his ministrations, so that shortly his fame was
spread through all the country side.


We must now pay a brief visit to Walderne.

The first few months after the departure of Hubert brought little
change in the dull routine of daily life there. Drogo speedily returned
after the departure of his rival, and his whole energies were spent in
making himself acceptable to his uncle, Sir Nicholas. He attended him
in the hunt. He assisted him in the management of the estate. He looked
after the men-at-arms, the servants, and the general retinue of a
medieval castle. The days had passed indeed when war and violence were
the natural occupation of a baron, and when the men-at-arms were never
left idle long together, but they were almost within memory of living
men and might return again. So the defences of the castle were never
neglected, and the arts of warfare ceased not to be objects of daily
study in the Middle Ages.

The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly. She had strong
predispositions against him: and quite accepted Hubert’s version of the
quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo’s manipulation, assumed a much
more innocent aspect than the one in which it was presented to our
readers.

Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not so
bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further designs or
claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the proper heir was
so happily discovered. Harengod would content him, and when the clouds
had blown over, he trusted that there would always be peace between
Harengod and Walderne.

So the months of summer sped by. News arrived of Hubert’s visit to
Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter,
whereat was much marvel. Nought was said of the prophecy, for Hubert
did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his relations. He
had rather they should look hopefully to his return. Poor Hubert!

Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles. The
news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the Holy Land,
and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing to sail to
Acre, in a vessel called the _Fleur de Lys_, near which spot lay a
house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his father owed so
much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim, who had achieved
his task, and come home crowned with honour and glory, was welcomed.

He himself, “by the blessing of our Lady,” had escaped all dangers, had
worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute demanded by
the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert were as
fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another twelve
months.

But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves put
on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like vain
things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in these
days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came not.

The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those days
when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity befell
the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his horse while
hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke again.

The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus deprived
of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved so well. They
buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which his lady had
founded. There his friends and retainers followed him, with tears, to
the grave.

And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood. It lies
in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by those who do
not fear being scratched by brambles. There is no pathway to it. _Sic
transit_.

Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the
castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring
character—he had been at Saint Jean d’Acre.

Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant
silence.

“How long ago was it that he had left Acre?”

“It might be six months.”

“Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts were
very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?”

“No, and yet if the knight had arrived at Acre he must have heard of
it, for all travellers sought the hospitality of the brethren of Saint
John, with whom he lived for six months as a serving brother, waiting
upon their guests.”

Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke.

“And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles,
called the Fleur de Lys?”

“Lady,” he replied, “the name brings a sad remembrance of my voyage
homeward to my mind. Off the coast of Sicily is a mighty whirlpool,
which men call Charybdis, where Aeneas of old narrowly escaped
shipwreck. When the tide goes down the whirlpool belches forth the
fragments of ships which have been sucked down, and when it returns the
abyss again absorbs them.

“Here, then, I stood one day, for we had landed at Syracuse, on the
rocks which commanded the swelling main, and at high tide I saw the
hideous wreckage flow forth from the dark prison. One portion, a
figurehead, came near me in its gyrations. It was the carved figure of
the Fleur de Lys.”

“And you know no more?”

“Only that the natives said a French vessel of that name had been
vainly striving, on a stormy day, to pass safely through the straits,
and evade the power of the Charybdis; that she was drawn in, and that
every soul perished.”

A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her
chamber.

From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank into
a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers; she was
not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she possess the
elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by religion. She
heard mass daily, and went through all the formal routine the customs
of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the shrine of Saint Dunstan
at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells, notably that one in the glen
near Hastings, well known to modern holiday makers. But while she was
thus striving to work out her own salvation she knew little of the
vital power of religion. It was the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not
the spontaneous offering of love; and her burdened and anxious spirit
never found rest.

Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half of
her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him, she had
never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well, like those
of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before God and brought a
Peter.

About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she oft
resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their summit
behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by purple
heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that its waters
looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a mirror, and was
indeed called “The mirror pond;” the upper sky, the branches of the
trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who had a fancy for
standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool, might have easily
believed his posture was correct, and that he looked up into the azure
void.

At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a rustic
seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large crucifix, life
size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to meditation.

Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one
beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now
arrived—twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon her dead
husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true
resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love
Incarnate.

All at once she heard a voice singing:

Love sets my heart on fire,
Love of the Crucified:
To Him my heart He drew,
Whilst hanging on the tree,
From whence He said to me,
I am thy Shepherd true;
I am thy Bridegroom new.


The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she
listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint
Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.

She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and
approached the arbour wherein she sat.

“Sister,” said the foremost one, “hast thou met Him of Nazareth? for I
know He has been seeking thee!”

What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise?
Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance
much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck
by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger?
She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only
she wondered whether this were the “brother” of whom Hubert had spoken.

“I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,”
she said sadly.

“Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?”

_Quam bonus es petentibus
Sed quid invenientibus_ {27}!


“How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there,
and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all about Him,
and how I may find rest in that Love!”

And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine
Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of
another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added:

“Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend Martin?”

“I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother
Hubert?”

“Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer
brought us,” and she told him the story of Charybdis.

“Lady,” he said, “I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his race is
not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the flesh; weaned by
much affliction from some earthly dross which yet encrusts his loving
nature.”

“What reason hast thou to give?”

“Only a conviction borne upon me.”

“Wilt thou not return with me?”

“I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound.”

“But thou wilt come soon?”

“On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle.”

Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the
time.


It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year.

Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.


The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning
service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o’clock, the hour
hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost. The
chaplain said mass. After the creed Martin preached, and his discourse
was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth Sunday after
Trinity.

“Ah,” he said, “this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in Eden.
It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very air; yet
beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.

“Gaze forth from the height, beside the mill at Cross-in-Hand, upon
God’s beauteous world. See the graceful downs beyond the forest,
stretching away as far as eye can reach, like a fairy scene. How lovely
it all is; but let us penetrate beneath the canopy of leaves and the
cottage roof. Ah, what suffering of man or beast they hide, where on
the one hand the wolf, the fox, the wild cat, the hawk, the stoat, and
all the birds and beasts of prey tear their victims, and nature’s hand
is like a claw, red with blood—and on the other, beneath the cottage
roofs, many a bed-ridden sufferer lies groaning with painful disease,
many children mourn their sires, many widows and orphans feel that the
light is withdrawn from the world, so far as they are concerned.

“And yet is not God good? Doth He not love man and beast? Ah, yes; but
sin hath brought death and pain into the world, and the whole creation
groaneth and travaileth in bondage until now.

“But meanwhile He hath made suffering the path to glory, and our light
affliction, which is but for a moment, shall be rewarded with an
eternity of joy, if we but put our whole trust in Him who was made
perfect by sufferings, and but calls His weary servants to tread the
road He trod before them.”

And so, with an eloquence unsurpassed in the experience of his hearers,
he drew all hearts to the Incarnate Love who wept, bled, died for them,
and bade them see that Passion pictured in the Holy Mysteries, which
were about to be celebrated before them, and to give Him their hearts’
oblation in union with the sacrifice.

After the service the noon meat was spread in the castle hall, and
afterwards Martin was invited to a private conference with the Lady
Sybil. She received her nephew, as she already suspected him to be, in
a little chamber of the tower long since pulled down. The scent of
honeysuckle was borne in on the summer night air, and the rays of a
full moon shone brightly through an open casement. At first the
conversation was confined to the topic of Martin’s discourse, which we
here omit, but afterwards the dame said:

“My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it is
thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy
countenance?”

Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal
the secret of his relationship.

“Tell me,” said she, “doth thy mother yet live?”

“She doth.”

“And proud must she be of her son.”

He was still silent.

“Brother Martin,” said she, “I had a sister once, a wilful capricious
girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did not die, but
yet died to her family. She ran away and married an outlaw chieftain.
Our father said, leave her to the life she has chosen, and forbade all
communication: but often has my heart yearned for my only sister.”

She continued after a long pause:

“I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds
received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a man
of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of noble
English blood, she had one child, a son.”

Again a long pause:

“And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother of
Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts. Tell me,
is it true?”

Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer.

“It is true, aunt,” he said.

She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of
Walderne.”

“I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of Hubert’s
return.”

“I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the
nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of
Walderne.”

“Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case
ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return.”

“What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep.”

“Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and
others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true
heir.”

“It is wisely thought, and shall be done,” she replied. “And now, my
dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be regained
to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?”

“I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife’s
first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought to
submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in trust over
this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will be well.”

What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear glued
to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their
conversation from the adjoining closet.

What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but the
lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what she said
in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon be reported
in his ear, and stimulate him to action.

It was a dismal dell—no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses,
overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with
nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women supposed
to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous peasantry, and
whose natural death was the stake. But often they were spared a long
time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their beds. Love charms,
philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in poisons, but the fact was
never brought home to her, or Sir Nicholas would have hanged, if not
have burned her. As it was she owed a longer spell of time, wherein to
work evil, to the intercession of the Lady Sybil.

And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a young
man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a long
conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch. She dug
a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had
left behind.

The reader must imagine the rest.

It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time
before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And in
the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference. She
told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order,
in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir
Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to
see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how
to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of
his return. She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and
together they would shape out some plan.

At length the old dame said:

“Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the
hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The butler
places it nightly on the sideboard.”

Let us precede Martin by only one minute.

Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that pours
the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is behind him and
casts the shadow—The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner. The
sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress,
ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark.

Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that
it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.

“Martin,” she said, “hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have
said?”

“I have repeated your kind words.”

“And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return
hither? which may God grant.”

“I have.”

“And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will,
which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne.”

Alas! man proposes but God disposes. On the following morning the Lady
Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont,
appear at the morning mass in her chapel. At length, alarmed by the
continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her.
She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached.
They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold. Then their
loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and
the truth forced itself upon them. She slept that sleep:

Which men call death.


Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All the
retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb. Martin
stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort
others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.

Blessed are they which die in the Lord,
for they rest from their labours.


He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood around,
as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted himself.

But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None living
could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known intentions of Sir
Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold all till Hubert
returned—in trust for him.

But would he then release his hold?

Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord _de
facto_ of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and
could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the
will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew
nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil—only Martin knew this—and
Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take their course,
and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch narrowly over his
friend Hubert’s interests, for he still believed that he lived, and
would return home again.

“We are friends, Drogo?” said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to the
greenwood.

“Friends,” said Drogo. “We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not? Ah,
yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you to spend
your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons—keep to the greenwood and I
will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot come into collision
with the brazen one, the chances are that the weaker vessel will be
broken.”




Chapter 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.


Ah, where was our Hubert?

No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the
veil, after the fashion of storytellers.

It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to
Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes of
Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters, beneath the
watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in loose white robes
and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of the sun to scorch.
There is a young man who toils amidst those vines and melons—yet
already he bears the scars of desperate combats, and trouble and
adversity have wrought wrinkles on his brow, and added lines of care to
a comely face.

A slave toiling in an Eastern garden—taskmasters set over him with
loaded whips—alas! can this be our Hubert?

Indeed it is.

The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The _Fleur de Lys_ had
been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three others
escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the deep, when a
vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out their signals of
distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at Antioch duly, whence
Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at Walderne (which never
arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of the Eastern summer—“when
the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds has
come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land; when the fig
tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grapes
give a good smell”—in all this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three
surviving members of his party set out to traverse the mountainous
districts of Lebanon on their way to Jerusalem.

They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in company
with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through the
wondrous country beneath “The hill of Hermon” on their road southward.
Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the cedars of
Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a desperate but
unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or taken prisoners.
Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made captive, after doing
all that valour could do, and bound. He saw his faithful squire lying
dead on the field, and the other two survivors of the party which had
set out in such high hope from Walderne, captives like himself.

Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them for
ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to
Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the slave
market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert prayed for
death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and seeks the
happy who cling to life.

An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner, had
come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and comely, and
Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished. All men bowed
before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw that he had become
the property of “a prince among his people.”

Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind
him—taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at
eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set out
westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the only
Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin, whose
downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying contempt of our
Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him:

“Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope.”

“Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain.”

Hubert started: the “Old Man of the Mountain”—he had often heard of
him, but had thought him only a “bogy,” invented by the credulous
amongst the crusaders and pilgrims. He was said to be a Mohammedan
prince of intense bigotry, who collected together all the promising
boys he could find, whom from early years he trained in habits of self
devotion, and, alas! of cruelty; eradicating in them all respect for
human life, or sympathy for human suffering. His palace was on the
slopes of Lebanon, and was well supplied with Christian slaves from the
various markets; and it was said that those who continued obstinate in
their faith were, sooner or later, put cruelly to death for the sport
of the amiable pupils, to familiarise them with such scenes, and render
them callous to suffering.

And when his education was finished, the “Old Man” presented each pupil
with a dagger, telling him that it was for the heart of such or such a
Christian warrior or statesman, and sent him forth. The deeds of his
pupils are but too well recorded in the pages of history {28}.

Into the hands of this worthy man our Hubert had fallen, and even his
hopeful temperament—always buoyant under misfortune—could not prevent
him from sharing the despondency he had so pitied, and a little
despised.

In the evening, they arrived at a caravansary, and there the slaves
were told to rest, chained two and two together, and, furthermore, huge
bloodhounds stalked about the courtyard, within and without, and if a
slave but moved, their watchful growl showed what little chance there
was of escape.

Little? Rather, none.

In the morning, up again, and away for the west, until the slopes of
the mountains were attained on the third day, and the palace of the
“Old Man” soon appeared in sight.

A grand Eastern palace—cupolas, minarets gleaming in the setting
sun—terraces, fountains, cloistered arcades, cool and
refreshing—gardens wherein grew the vine, the fig, the pomegranate, the
melon, the orange, the lemon, and all the fruits of the East—wherein
toiled wretched slaves under the watchful eyes of cruel overseers and
savage dogs.

When they arrived they were all put to sleep in cells opening upon a
courtyard with a tank in the centre. They were supplied with mats for
beds, and chained, each one by the ankle, to a staple in the wall. And
without the dogs prowled and growled all night.

Poor Hubert!

In the morning the “Old Man” appeared, and the slaves were all
assembled to hear his words:

“Come, ye Christians, and hearken unto me, for ye shall hear my
words—sweet to the wise, but as goads to the foolish. Ye are my
property, bought with my money, and is it not lawful for me to do what
I will with mine own? But there is one God, and Mohammed is His
prophet; and to please them is more to me than diamonds of Golconda or
rubies of Shiraz.

“Therefore, I make proclamation, that every slave who will embrace the
true faith of Islam shall be free, only tarrying here until we be
assured of his knowledge of the Koran and steadfastness of purpose,
when he shall go forth to the world, his own master, the slave of none
but God and His prophet.

“But if there be senseless Jews, or unbelieving Nazarenes, who will not
accept the blessing offered them, for six months shall they groan
beneath the taskmaster, toiling in the sun; and then, if yet obstinate,
they shall die, for the edification and warning of others, and the
manner of their death shall be in fit proportion to their deserts.

“Hasty judgment beseemeth not a man. Ere the morrow’s sun arise, let
your decision be made.”

The day was given to work in the burning sun, doubtless as a foretaste
of what awaited the obstinate Christian. During the day troops of
lithe, active boys of all ages from ten to twenty, had pranced about
the garden—bright in face, lively and versatile in disposition; but
with a certain cruel look about their black eyes and swarthy features
which was the result of their system of education.

And they had not been sparing of their remarks about the slaves:

“Fresh food for the stake—fresh work for the torturers.”

“Pooh! They will give way and become good Mussulmen. Bah! Bah! Most of
them do, and deprive us of the fun.”

That night Hubert and the young Alphonse of Poitou lay chained side by
side.

“What shall you do in the morning, Sir Englishman?” said young
Alphonse, after many a sigh.

“God helping us, our course is clear enough—we may not deny our faith.”

“Perhaps you have one to deny,” said the other, with another sigh. “For
me, I have never been religious.”

“Nor have I,” said Hubert. “I always laughed at a dear companion who
chose the religious life, even while I admired him in my heart. But
when it comes to denying one’s faith, and accepting the religion of
Mohammed, it seems to me there is no more to be said. I have got at
least as much religion as may keep me from that, although I am not a
saint.”

“I wish I had; but it is fearful: the toil in the sun, the chains, the
silence, the starvation, and then the impalement, the scourging to
death, the stake—or whatever else awaits us—at the end of the six
months; while all these scoffing youngsters, whose savage mirth we have
heard ringing about the place, are taught to exult in one’s
sufferings—the bloodthirsty tyrant. But might we not in so hard a case
pretend to become Mussulmen, and, as soon as we can escape, seek
absolution and reconciliation to the Church?”

“He has said, ‘Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I deny.’ I
never read much Scripture, but I remember that the chaplain at
Kenilworth, where I once lived as a page, impressed so much as this
upon my mind. No; I shall stand firm, and take my chance, God helping
me.”

So they awaited the morning. And when it came, they were all marshalled
into the presence of the “Old Man of the Mountain.”

“Yesterday you heard the terms, today the choice remains—liberty and
the faith of the prophet; slavery and death if you remain obstinate.
Those who choose the former, file off to my right hand; those who
select the latter, to my left.”

There were some thirty slaves. A moment’s hesitation. Then, at the
signal from the guards, about twenty, amongst whom was Alphonse,
stalked off to the right. Ten, amongst whom was Hubert, passed to the
left.

“Your selection is made. Every moon the same choice will be repeated,
until the end of the sixth, when no further grace will be granted; and
the death he has chosen awaits the unbeliever.”

From this time the situation of the few who remained faithful became
unbearable. They slept in the cells we have described, as best they
could, rose at the dawn, and laboured under the guardianship of
ferocious dogs and crueler men till the sun set, and darkness put an
end to their unremitting toil. Only the briefest intervals were allowed
for meals, and the food was barely sufficient to maintain life.
Conversation was utterly forbidden, and at night, if the slaves were
heard talking, they were visited with stripes.

The cells in which they now slept were single ones. Once only in many
days Hubert was able to ask a fellow sufferer:

“What happens in the end?”

“We are impaled on a stake, I believe, after the fashion of the
Turcomans; or perhaps burnt alive; or the two may be combined. God help
us. Although He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

“God bless you for those words,” replied Hubert.

The merry laughter of boys filled the place at times, between their
hours of instruction, for the youngsters had all the European languages
to study amongst them, for the ends the founder of this “orphan asylum”
had in view. But nothing was done to make them tired of their work, or
unfaithful in their attachment to the principles they were to maintain
with cup and dagger.

Once or twice slaves disappeared, generally weak and worn-out men.

“Their time is come,” said the others in a terrified whisper.

And on such occasions a few shrieks would sometimes break the silence
of a summer day, followed by the derisive laughter of youthful voices.
Yet these martyrs might have saved themselves by apostasy at any
moment—save, perhaps, at the last, when the appetite of the cruel
Mussulmen had been whetted for blood, and must be satiated—yet they
would not deny their Lord. Their behaviour was very unlike the conduct
of an English officer in the Indian Mutiny, who saved his life readily
by becoming a Mussulman, with the intention, of course, of throwing his
new creed aside as soon as he was restored to society, and laughed at
the folly of those who accepted his profession thereof.

But Hubert, careless of his religious duties as he had been, and almost
afraid of appearing religious, could not do this, no more than Martin
would have done.

Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in those
days.

And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile.




Chapter 21: To Arms! To Arms!


Three years had passed away since the death of the Lady Sybil of
Walderne.

A great change had passed over the scene. War—civil war—the fiercest of
all strife—had fairly begun in the land. Lest my readers should marvel,
like little Peterkin, “what it was all about,” let me briefly explain
that the royal party desired absolute personal rule, on the part of the
king, unfettered by law or counsellors. The barons desired that his
counsellors should be held responsible for his acts, and that his power
should be modified by the House of Lords or Barons, if not by the
Commons as well; the latter idea was but dawning. In short, they
desired a constitutional government, a limited monarchy, such as we now
enjoy.

The Pope had been called upon to mediate, and had decided in favour of
the King, and absolved him from his oath and obligations to his
subjects, especially those “Provisions of Oxford.” Louis IX, King of
France (afterwards known as Saint Louis), had been appealed to, but,
though a very holy man, he was a staunch believer in the divine right
of kings; and he, too, decided against the barons.

What were they to do? Most of the barons were in submission, but Earl
Simon said:

“Though all should leave me, I and my four sons will uphold the cause
of justice, as I have sworn to do, for the honour of the Church and the
good of the realm of England.”

They changed their standing point, and, to meet the condemnation which
both Pope and King of France had awarded to the “Provisions of Oxford,”
took their stand upon Magna Carta instead.

But here they fared no better. In March 1264 a parliament had been
summoned to meet at Oxford by the king, that he might there undo what
the barons had done in 1258. At this period the action of our tale
recommences.

Drogo was still lord of the Castle of Walderne. No news had reached
England of Hubert these three long years, and hence no one disputed the
title of Drogo to present possession. His steps had been taken with all
the craft of a subtle fox. One by one he had removed all the old
dwellers in the castle, and, so far as was possible, the outside
tenantry also, and substituted creatures of his own—men who would do
his bidding, whatsoever it were, and who had no local interests or
attachment to the former family.

And, little by little, his rule had been growing as hard and cruel as
that of a medieval tyrant could be. The dungeons were reopened which
had long been closed; the torture chamber, long disused, was refitted,
as it had been in the dreadful days of King Stephen; the defences had
been looked to, the weapons furbished, for, as a war horse sniffs
battle afar off, so did Drogo.

Need I tell my readers which side Drogo took? He had never, since the
day he was expelled from Kenilworth, ceased to hate Earl Simon, and now
he declared boldly for the king, and prepared to fight like a wildcat
for the royal cause.

But Waleran, Lord of Herstmonceux, the father of our Ralph, espoused
the popular side warmly, as did all the English men of Saxon race—the
“merrie men” of the woods, and the like.

But the great Earl de Warrenne of Lewes was a fierce royalist. So was
the Lord of Pevensey.

Already the woods were full of strife. Whensoever a party met a party
of opposite principles, there was instant bloodshed. The barons’ men
from Herstmonceux pillaged the lands of Walderne or Pevensey. The
burghers of Hailsham declared for the earl, as did most burghers
throughout the land; and Lewes, Pevensey, and Walderne threatened to
unite, harry their lands, and burn their town. The monks of Battle
preached for the king, as did those of Wilmington and Michelham. The
Franciscans everywhere used all their powers for the barons, for was
not Simon de Montfort one of them in heart in their reforms?

So all was strife and confusion—the first big drops of rain before the
thunderstorm.

Drogo was at the height of his ambition. He had added Walderne to his
patrimony of Harengod. He had humbled the neighbouring franklins, who
refused to pay him blackmail. He had filled his castle with free
lances, whose very presence forced him to a life of brigandage, for
they must be paid, and work must be found them, or—he could not hold
them in hand. The vassals who cultivated the land around enjoyed
security of life with more or less suffering from his tyranny; but the
independent franklin, the headmen of the villages, the burgesses of the
towns (outside their walls), the outlaws of the woods, when he could
get at them all, these were his natural sport and prey.

He had a squire after his own heart, named Raoul of Blois, who had come
to England in the train of one of the king’s foreign favourites, and
escaped the general sentence of expulsion passed at Oxford in 1258.

One eventide—the work of the day was over, and Drogo and this squire
were taking counsel in the chamber of the former; once the boudoir of
Lady Sybil in better days.

“Raoul,” said his master, “have you heard aught yet of the Lady Alicia
of Possingworth?”

“Yes, my lord, but not good news.”

“Tell them without more grimace.”

“She has placed herself under the protection of the Earl of Leicester.”

Drogo swore a deep oath.

“We were too weak, my lord, to interrupt the party, and we did not know
in time what they were about. But one thing I heard the demoiselle
said, which you should hear, although it may not be pleasant.”

“Well!”

“Although my first love be dead, I will never marry a man who poisoned
his aunt.”

“They have to prove it—let them.”

“My lord, the old hag who sold you the phial, as she says, yet lives,
and I fear prates.”

“She shall do so no longer. Get a party of half a dozen of your
tenderest lambs ready for secret service. We will start two hours
before dawn, when all the world is fast asleep. See that you are all
ready and call me.”

All lonely stood the hut—in the tangled brake—where dwelt a sinful but
repentant woman. For one had broken in upon her life, and had awakened
a conscience which seemed almost non-existent until he came—our Martin.
And this night she tosses on her bed uneasily.

“Would that he might come again,” she says. “I would fain hear more of
Him who can save, as he said, even me.”

She mutters no longer spells, but prayers. The stone seems removed from
the door of that sepulchre, her heart. Towards morning sleep, long
wooed in vain, comes over her—and she dozes.

It wants but an hour to dawn, but the night is at its darkest. The
stars still drift over the western sky, but in the east it is cloudy,
and no morning watch from his tower could spy the dawning day.

Eight men emerge from the deep shade of the tangled wood. In silence
they approach the hut, and first they tie the door outside, so that the
inmate cannot open it.

“Which way is the wind?” whispers the leader.

“In the east.”

“Fire the house on that side.”

They have with them a dark lantern, from which a torch is fired and
applied to the roof of light reeds on the windward side. We draw a veil
over the quarter of an hour which followed. It was what the French call
_un mauvais quart d’heure_.

The sun had arisen for some hours when the solitude of the forest was
broken by the tread of three strangers—travellers, who trod one of its
most verdant glades. The one was a brother preacher of the order of
Saint Francis. The second, a knight clad in hunting attire. The third,
the mayor, the headman of the borough of Hamelsham.

“The cottage lies here away,” said the first. “We shall see the roof
when we turn the end of the avenue of beeches.”

“Do you not smell an odour unusual to the forest?”

“The scent of something burnt or burning?”

“I have perceived it.”

“Ah, here it is,” and the three stopped short. They had just turned the
corner to which they had alluded. A thin smoke still arose from the
spot where the cottage had stood.

They all paused; then, without a word, hurried on ward by a common
impulse. They only found the smoking embers of the dwelling they had
come to seek.

“This is Drogo’s doing,” said Ralph of Herstmonceux.

“Could he have heard of our intentions?” said the mayor.

“No, but—he might have learned that poor Madge was a penitent, and
then—” said Martin.

“Well, our work is done, and as the country is not over safe so near
the lion’s den—”

(“Wolf’s den, you mean,” interrupted Ralph—)

“And we have come unattended, the sooner we retire the better.”

“Too late!” said a stern voice: and Drogo stood before them.

“My Lord of Walderne, this is ill pleasantry,” said Ralph.

“‘Pleasantry,’ you call it, well. So it is for those who win.”

He whistled shrill, And quick was answered from the hill;
That whistle garrisoned the glen,
With twice a hundred armed men.


In short, the three travellers were surrounded on all sides. Their
errand had been betrayed by one of Drogo’s outlying scouts.

“What is thy purpose, Drogo?” said Martin.

“Do ye yield yourselves prisoners?”

“On what compulsion?”

“Force, the right that rules the world.”

“And what pretext for using it?” said Ralph, drawing his sword.

“I should advise thee not to touch thy weapon, unless thy skill is
proof against an arrow. In a word, Ralph of Herstmonceux, art thou for
the king or the barons?”

“Thou knowest—the barons.”

“And I for the king; no more need be said. Yield to ransom.”

“I will not give my sword to thee,” and Ralph flung it into a pond.

“And what right hast thou to arrest me?” said the mayor.

“Good mayor, hast thou not stirred up thy town of Hamelsham, thy
puissant butchers and bakers, to resist the good king and to send aid
to the rebellious Earl of Leicester, may the fiends rive him! Wherefore
I might, without further parley, hang thee to this beech, which never
bore a worthier acorn.”

“Yes, hang him for the general amusement,” said several deep voices.

“Nay, dead men pay no ransom, and we will make his beer-swilling,
beef-eating brother burghers pay a good sum for his fat body.

“Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?”

“Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a poor
man.”

They laughed immoderately.

“We have borrowed a hint from the outlaws, and unless thy brethren pay
for thee soon, we will send thy worthless body to them in installments,
first one ear, then the other, and so on.”

“Our Lady help me!”

“Brother, be patient. Heaven will help us, since there is no help in
man,” said Martin. “And now, Drogo, whom I knew so well of old, and in
whom I see little change, what is thy charge against me?”

“A very serious one, brother Martin, and one I grieve to bring against
such an eloquent preacher of the Gospel, but my conscience compels me.”

“Thy conscience!”

“Yes, I can afford to keep one as well as thou. Dost thou think thou
art the only creature who has a soul to be saved?”

“Go on without further blasphemies.”

“Well then, I grieve to say that it is my painful duty to arrest thee
on a charge of murder.”

“Of murder!” cried all three.

“Yes, of the murder of his aunt, the late lamented Lady of Walderne.”

“Good heavens!” cried the knight and mayor.

“Oh heaven and earth, this slander hear!” said Martin.

“Do not swear, it misbecomes a friar.”

“Thou didst murder her thyself.”

“Nay: who gave her the sleeping draught the last night? I have just
discovered that it contained poison supplied by the old witch who lived
here, and whom I have duly punished by fire. But whose hand,
administered it?”

Martin turned pale.

“I ask,” continued Drogo, “who gave her the draught?”

“It was I, but who poisoned it?”

“Satan knows best, but thou hast owned it.

“I call thee to witness, most valiant knight, and thee, O Mayor of
Hamelsham, that you both hear him—_confitentem mum_, as Father Edmund
used to say at Kenilworth.

“Ah, I have him on the hip. Away with them to Walderne: the deepest
dungeon for the poisoner.”




Chapter 22: A Medieval Tyrant.


Drogo did not venture to bring in his prisoners by the light of day,
for although he had collected together a large flock of black sheep,
yet did he not dare openly to consign a preaching friar to those
dungeons of his.

The men he had with him on the spot were certain lewd fellows of the
baser sort, distinguished even in Walderne Castle for their wickedness;
yet even they had their superstitions, and imagined it would bring bad
luck to arrest the ecclesiastic, travelling in the garb of his order.

But Drogo’s will was law, and they obeyed. They detained the prisoners
in an outlying farmhouse until dark, then thrusting a labourer’s smock
over Martin’s robe, led their prisoners to the castle.

Prisoners were no novelty there, many of these free lances were born in
camp, and had the inherited habits of generations of robbers, so that
it was to them a second nature to mutilate, imprison, and torture, and
slay. They looked upon burghers and peasants as butchers do on sheep,
or rather they looked upon them as beings made that warriors might
wring their hidden hoards from them, by torture and violence, or even
in default of the gold hang them for amusement, or the like. They had
about as much sympathy for these men of peace as the pike for the
roach—they only thought them excellent eating.

As for the knight—he was a knight, and must be treated as such,
although an enemy. As for the burgher—well, we have discussed the case.
As for the friar—they did not like to meddle with the Church. They
dreaded excommunication, men of Belial though they were.

The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from whence
he could see:

The forest dark and gloomy,


And under poetic inspiration compose odes upon liberty. The burgher and
friar were taken downstairs to gloomy dungeons, adjacent to each other,
where they were left to solitude and silence.

Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad: to be the inmate of a
narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for a rotten
bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and loaf of black
bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle beneath one’s
feet: oh, horrible!

And such was our Martin’s fate.

But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the
lion’s den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair. He
accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling atmosphere
and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in the castle of his
fathers.

And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very thought
that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught was in itself
sufficiently painful.

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” and Martin left it.

The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far more
compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool trade. He
had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the spindle and loom. He
had two sons, one of twelve, one of five; three daughters, one almost
marriageable; he had six apprentices and twelve workmen carding wool;
he had the town business to discharge; he sat upon the bench in the
town hall and administered justice to petty offenders. And here was he,
torn from all this, and consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce
marauding young “noble.”

To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following day,
and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.

“The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and
honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it pleases
thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy presence.”

“Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken off,
thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be more to
the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get out of thy
den.”

Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and
charged fifty marks the more.

“We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}.”

“Why, it is a king’s ransom!”

“And thou art fit to be a king.”

“And what if I cannot pay it?”

“We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the royal
justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons.”

“May I send a messenger to my castle?”

“At once. I will place my household at thy disposal.”

“And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their freedom?”

“By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom.”

“But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being fighting
men, under my protection.”

“Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on what
errand ye were all bent?”

Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious
politeness, laughing at it in his sleeve.

“Now for the burgher,” said he.

A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into the
face of his fierce young captor.

“What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?”

“I knew not they were thine, or I had perchance not intruded. Now tell
me, lord, at what price I may redeem my error, for I have a wife and
children, to say nothing of apprentices and workmen, who long sore for
me!”

“‘When the cat’s away the mice will play.’

“They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must answer
before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?”

The mayor hesitated.

“S’death, dost keep me waiting? We have a torture chamber close at
hand. Shall I summon the torturers? They will fit thy fat thumbs with a
handsome screw in a moment.”

Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it.

“Nay, it can do no harm. We came to witness the last confession of a
dying woman, who had some crime on her soul, which she wished to depose
before fitting witnesses.”

“Of what nature?”

“I was not told. I waited to learn.”

“Why didst thou hesitate to say this just now?”

Poor mayor! He stammered out that he hoped he hadn’t offended therein.

“The fact is that you knew the men, your companions, came as my
enemies, and suspected that the lies that witch, whom Satan is just now
basting, meant to tell, affected me! Don’t lie, or I will thrust the
lie down thy throat, together with a few spare teeth; my gauntlet is
heavy.”

“It was so,” said the terrified citizen of Hamelsham.

“Ha! ha! Well, it matters little to me what thou mayest say, or what
thy silly townsfolk think of me: the gudgeons probably talk much evil
of the perch, but I never heard that it hurts him much, or spoils his
digestion of those savoury little fish. But thou must pay for it: I fix
thy ransom at one hundred marks.”

“Good heavens! I have not as many pence!”

“Swear not, most fat and comely burgher. The money must be raised, or I
will send the good citizens of Hamelsham their mayor bit by bit, an ear
to begin with. A man waits without, give him thy instructions to thy
people. Farewell!”

And the young bully strolled into the next cell, which was Martin’s, a
keeper opening the door and shutting it upon him until the signal was
given to reopen it; for Drogo did not wish the coming conversation to
be overheard.

“So I have got thee at last?”

“Thou hast my body.”

“It is a comfort that it is a body which can be made to pine, to feel,
to suffer.”

“I am in God’s hands, not thine.”

“I advise thee not to look for help to so distant a quarter. Martin! I
have always hated thee, both at Kenilworth and Walderne. Revenge is a
morsel fit for the gods.”

“What hast thou to revenge?”

“Didst thou not plot to oust me of mine inheritance, the night before
the doting old woman died up above? It cost her her life.”

“For which thou must answer to God.”

“Nay, thine hand, not mine, administered it. Ha! ha! ha!”

“And what dost thou seek of me now?”

“Nothing, save the joy of removing an enemy out of my path.”

“I am no man’s enemy.”

“Yes, thou art mine, and always hast been. Didst thou not plot against
me with that old hag, Mother Madge, whom I have sent to her master in a
chariot of fire?”

“I heard her confession of that particular crime.”

“So did I, through eavesdroppers. Well, thou knowest too much; and
shalt never see the sun again. It is pleasant is it not—the fresh air
of the green woods, the sheen of the sun, the songs of the birds, the
murmur of the streams, the scent of the flowers.

“Ah, ah!—thou feelest it—well, it shall never again fall to thy lot to
see, hear, and smell all these. Here shalt thou linger out thy
remaining days; thy companions the toad, the eft, the spider, the
beetle; and when thou diest of hunger and thirst, which will eventually
be thy lot, this cell shall be thy coffin. Here shalt thou rot.”

“And hence shall I rise, in that case, at the day of resurrection. Nay,
Drogo, thou canst not frighten me. I am not in thy power. Thou canst
not tame the spirit. Do thy worst, I wait God’s hour.”

Drogo was beside himself by rage at this language on the part of a
captive, and he would have struck him down on the spot but for
something in Martin that awed him, even as the keeper, who calls
himself the lion king, tames the lion.

“We shall see,” he said, and left the cell.

“My lord, do not harm him,” said the man. “If a hand be laid upon him
the men-at-arms will rebel. They fear that it will bring a curse upon
them.”

“The fools, what is a friar but flesh and blood like others?”

“I would sooner hang or fry a hundred wretched burghers, or behead a
score of knights, than touch this friar.”

“I see how it is. I must contrive to starve or poison him,” thought the
base lord of the castle.

As he ascended the stairs he heard the sound of a trumpet, or rather a
horn. Loud cries of surprise and alarm greeted his ears.

He went out on the watch tower. The woods were alive with men: they
issued out on all sides—the “merrie men” of the woods.

Drogo saw at once that they had come to seek Martin. He took hold of a
white flag, and advanced to the tower above the central gateway—to
parley—for he feared the arrows of the marksmen of the woods.

“Whom seek ye?”

“One whom thou hast wrongfully imprisoned. The friar Martin.”

“I have not got him here.”

“But thou hast, and we have come to claim him.”

“Choose three of your number. They may come and confer with me in the
castle upon his disappearance. God forbid that I should lay hands on
His ministers.”

“Dost thou pledge thy honour for their safety?”

“Do ye doubt my honour? Oh, well; so ye may well do, if ye think I
would have touched brother Martin.”

He was so plausible that they were ashamed of their distrust, and
selected three of their foremost men, who forthwith entered.

The gates were shut behind them.

And then, oh, shame to say! They were seized from behind, their arms
bound behind their backs, and, in spite of their protests, led out on
the watch tower, where was a permanent gibbet, and, in sight of all
their comrades, hung over the battlements.

“That is how my honour bids me treat with outlaws,” laughed Drogo.

A flight of arrows was the reply, which penetrated every crevice, and
made six troopers stretch their bodies on the ground.

“Keep under cover,” shouted Drogo. “There will be a fine gathering of
arrows when all is done, and it will be long before these old walls
crave for mercy. Keep up your courage, men. The fools have no means of
besieging the place, and ere another sun has set, the royal banner will
appear for their dispersion and our deliverance.”

For he had heard from a sure hand that the royal army had reached
Tunbridge, en route for Lewes, and would pass by Walderne, tarrying,
perchance, for the night. Hence his daring defiance of the sons of the
soil.




Chapter 23: Saved As By Fire.


And all this time the true heir of Walderne was leading the degraded
life of an unhappy and most miserable slave in the palace of the “Old
Man of the Mountain,” in the far off hills of Lebanon.

The six months passed away, and still they spared our Hubert. Others
were taken away and met their most doleful fate, but the more youthful
and active slaves were spared awhile, not out of pity, but because of
their utility; and Hubert’s fine constitution enabled him still to
live. But he could not have lived on had he not still hoped. The
tremendous inscription seen by the poet over the sombre gate of hell
was not yet burnt into his young heart:

All ye that enter here, leave hope behind.


Some lucky accident, perhaps an invasion of the crusaders, might
deliver him; but otherwise he would not despair while God gave him
life. Again, irreligious as some may think his former life, he had
great belief in the efficacy of the prayers of others. The thought that
his father and Martin were praying for him continually gave him
comfort.

“God will hear them, if not me,” he thought.

Yet he did really learn to pray for himself more earnestly than he
would once have thought possible.

But when a year had nearly passed away in the wearying bondage, he was
summoned to the presence of the “Old Man.”

“Christian,” said the latter, “hast thou not borne the heat and burden
of slavery long enough?”

“Long enough, indeed, my lord, but I cannot buy my liberty at the
expense of my faith.”

“Not when the alternative is a bitter death?”

“No.”

“Thy constancy will be tried. We have borne with thee full long. At
next full moon thou wilt have had a year’s reprieve. Thou must prepare
to worship the true God and acknowledge His prophet, or die.”

“My choice is made.”

“Thy time shall come at the close of the year. Go.”

And Hubert was led away.

And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained by
what may be called a miraculous interposition.

It was dark night and he lay in his cell, the watchmen without, the yet
more watchful dogs prowling and growling around; when all at once he
heard footsteps approaching his wretched bed chamber.

Who could it be? The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally slept
at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive’s nightly rest. The door
opened, and—He beheld his father!

Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as of
another world over his worn features.

“Be of good cheer, my son; God permits me to come to thee thus, and to
bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man’s extremity
is His opportunity.”

“Art thou really my father?”

And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished. It
was of God’s appointment, that vision, given to confirm the faith and
hope of one of His children. Such was Hubert’s belief {30}.

It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father Roger
dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned to
apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.

The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last
time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining in
the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern climes.
But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden times to his
mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth; and that night
when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.

“Shall I ever see my native land again?”

It seemed impossible, but “hope springs eternal in the human breast.”
All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling with the
milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a loud cry,
followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of alarm or
anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which he knew
enough of their language to interpret—the palace was in flames.

“Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay till
the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?”

The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard without.
The doors were opened one after another—

“Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!”

The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and
courts to the very front of the burning pile—_blazing_ pile, we should
say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre Eastern
beauty—cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires, but the flames
had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were bursting through
the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its aspect.

The slaves were instantly formed in line to pass leathern buckets from
hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at this
extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in front of
the row, each looking and walking in the contrary direction to the
other, changing their direction at the same moment as they went and
returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of sight of the
watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man knew,
instinctively, that the least movement which looked suspicious might
bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck, bearing away the
trunkless head like a plaything.

Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the centre of
the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular erection of stone,
like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around it. The flat surface,
the disc we may call it, was half composed of iron bars like a grate,
supported by the stonework, and in the centre ran an iron post with
rings stout and strong, from which an iron girdle, unclasped, depended.

What could it be meant for?

“Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow.”

He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on either
side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall, and the
ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from it. Beyond the
moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and hills, valleys and
depths.

All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die on
the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the fiery
death designed for him on the morrow.

And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a window,
right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces of some of
the hopeful pupils of the “Old Man,” forgotten and left, when the rest
were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge, the same death
awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with pitiless eyes, as
inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow. They had probably been
looking forward to the occasion, as a Spaniard to his _auto da fe_, as
an interesting spectacle.

Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on
such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and cruelty
becomes a delight. God preserve us from such possibilities, which make
us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the Mussulman, the
Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not moralise here.

All eyes were drawn to the spot. The “Old Man” himself, now first
heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was tottering;
it bent inward, an awful crash, and—

At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the
terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind. In
a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a head, not
Hubert’s, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He lingered not an
instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on the other sentinel,
a moment’s clashing of blades, the skill of the knight prevailed, and
the Moslem was cleft to the chin.

“Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!”

And Hubert leapt over the wall.

He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for him
his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to guide
himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley, through
which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled merrily
along.

He was not alone. Two or three other escaped fugitives came crashing
through the bushes, and stood by his side; but Hubert was the only man
armed. He had been able to retain the scimitar so boldly won.

Above them the palace still blazed, and cast a lurid light, which was
reflected from the cold snowy peak of Hermon, and steeped in ruddy
glare many an inaccessible crag and precipice.

“Do any of my brethren know the country?”

At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke
diffidently:

“If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters of
Merom.”

“But remember that meanwhile men and dogs alike will hunt us, and that
only one is armed, although the arm that freed us might sustain a
host,” said another.

“We must efface our track and then hide. Let each one walk in the
brawling bed of the torrent; it leaves no scent for the dogs to
follow,” said Hubert.

They descended slowly and painfully amidst loose rocks and boulders,
avoiding many a pitfall, many a black depth, until the dawn was at
hand. Just then they heard a deep sound, like a cathedral bell, booming
down the valley.

“What bell is that?”

“No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds.”

“But they can find no trace.”

“They are on the track we left, far above, before we entered the
stream. If they cannot scent us in the water, they will have the sense
to follow us downstream, keeping a dog on each bank in ease we leave
it.”

“What shall we do?” asked the helpless men.

Above them the rocks rose wild and horrent, apparently inaccessible,
but the keen eye of our Hubert detected one path, a mere goat path,
used perhaps also by shepherds.

“Follow me,” he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a
veritable _mauvais pas_. At the height of some two hundred feet it
struck inward through a wild region.

“Here we must make a stand at this summit,” said Hubert, “and meet the
dogs. I will give a good account of them.”

He descended a little way to a point where the dogs could only ascend
by a very narrow cleft in the rocks, and there he waited for the first
dog. Soon a hideous black hound appeared, and with flashing eyes and
gaping jaws sprang at our hero. He was received with a sweep of the
scimitar, which cleft his diabolical head in twain, and he rolled down
the deep declivity, all mangled and bleeding, to the foot, missing the
path and falling from rock to rock, so that when he was found by the
party who followed they could not tell by what means he had received
his first wound.

And when the other dogs arrived at the spot, which was deluged in gore,
after the wont of their race they would follow the scent no farther.

Meanwhile our little party of five rescued captives went joyfully
forward with renewed hope, until midday, when they found a cool spot by
the side of the streams leading to the waters of Merom—the head waters
of the Jordan. And there, under a date tree which afforded them food,
they watched in turn until the sun was low; after which they renewed
their journey.

Soon they left the smaller lake behind, and followed the waters of the
Upper Jordan to the Sea of Galilee, skirting its western shore, so rich
in sacred memories, with the ruins of Capernaum, Chorazin, Bethsaida,
Magdala, and other cities, long ago trodden:

By those sacred feet once nailed,
For our salvation, to the bitter rood.


In the evening they rested amidst the ruins of Enon, near Salim; and on
the morrow resumed their course, avoiding the great towns; begging
bread in the villages—a boon readily granted. And in the evening they
saw the promontory of Carmel, and reached the Hospital of Saint John of
Acre, where Hubert’s father, Sir Roger, had been restored to health and
life.

Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, heard of
the arrival of five Christian fugitives, escaped from the palace of the
“Old Man of the Mountain,” and naturally curiosity led him to
interrogate them. To his astonishment he found one of them a knight
like himself, and, to his further surprise, recognised the son of an
old acquaintance, Sir Roger of Walderne.

All was well now.

“Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost the
sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre.”

“My brother,” said the prior then present, “dost thou remember that a
party of pilgrims arrived here a year since, who said that, in the
gorges of Lebanon, they had come upon the scene of a recent conflict,
and found a broken sword, which they brought with them and left here?”

“Bring it hither, Raymond,” said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page.

It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the Sieur
de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem’s skull in the desperate
fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he receive it!
He could now discharge his father’s delegated duty.

“Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start with
better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem.”

Oh, the rest of the next few days in that glorious hospital, with its
deep shady cloisters, with its massive walls and its beauteous chapel,
wherein, on the following day, which was Sunday, as Hubert was told,
for he had long since lost count of time, he returned thanks to God for
his preservation, and took part once more in the worship of a Christian
congregation, and knelt before a Christian altar. The walls of that
chapel were of almost as many precious stones as Saint John enumerates
in describing the New Jerusalem. Its rich colouring, its dim religious
light, its devout psalmody; oh, how soothing to the wearied spirit.

And then he reclined that afternoon in a delicious Eastern garden, rich
with the perfume of many flowers, shaded by spreading trees, vocal with
the sound of many fountains; and there, at the request of the
fraternity, he related his wondrous adventures to the men who had erst
heard his father’s tale.

The time of his arrival was between the sixth and the seventh, or last,
crusade; during which period Acre, situated about seventy miles from
Jerusalem, had become the metropolis of the Christians {31} in
Palestine, after the loss of the Holy City. It was adorned with noble
buildings, aqueducts, artificial harbour, and strong fortifications.
From hence such pilgrims as dared venture made their hazardous visits
to Jerusalem, which they could only enter as a favour, granted in
return for much expenditure of treasure and submission to many
humiliations; and thus Hubert was forced to accomplish his father’s
vow, setting forth so soon as his strength was restored.




Chapter 24: Before The Battle.


The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was
inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on
either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of
each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire, and
slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves incapable of
the deeds they commit in time of war: “Is thy servant a dog that he
should do this thing?” as one said of old when before the prescient
seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless warrior.

The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the
Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards historical,
such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a master of the
art of war, although still young, and already marked by that sternness
of character which distinguished his latter days, was in chief command,
and he pursued his devastating course through the Midlands. Nottingham
and Leicester, whence his great opponent derived his title, opened
their gates to him. He marched thence for London, but Earl Simon threw
himself into the city, returning from Rochester, which he had cleverly
taken by means of fire ships which set the place in a blaze.

Edward marched _vice versa_, from London to Rochester, relieved the
castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been
taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of
the Andredsweald, _en route_ for Lewes.

It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone
upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town,
and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of
Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above. Even
then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our stand by it:

And all around the widespread scene survey.


What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree tops
of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant, studded with
the white sails of many barks which have put out from land, lest they
should be seized by the approaching host, and confiscated for the royal
service, for the sailors have mainly espoused the popular cause, and
dread the medieval press gang. How many familiar objects we see
around—Michelham Priory, Battle Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey
Castle, Lewes Castle—all in view.

There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle
Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale fire,
which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king was coming.
There is yet another volcano farther on. It is Ditchling Beacon; and,
yes, another still farther west; Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded
cone. And on this fair clear morning we can indistinctly discern a thin
line of smoke curling up from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and
in view of the Isle of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.

Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and
Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings, where
another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that the royal
enemy is in the forest.

Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which
attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into the
valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich in
tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury,
founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the
king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands
who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point
where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on
their road to Pevensey.

The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower with
excited steps—the royal banner will soon be seen surmounting that ridge
above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring downwards as fast
as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is galloping as for dear
life—look at the cloud of dust which he raises. The “merrie men” have
disappeared in the woods, and Drogo descends to meet him; just as the
rider enters beneath the suspended portcullis into the court of the
castle, he reaches the foot of the stairs.

“What news? Speak, thou varlet!”

“The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows
of the windmill.”

“Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner wave;
here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my liege.”

Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks were
getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings, the
spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile
neighbours—the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods—the fish of
the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked, stewed, or
the like, for the king’s supper. Then he interviewed the butler about
the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the like. Then he saw
that the adornments of the great hall were completed, the banners, the
armour, the antlers of the deer, suspended becomingly around the walls,
the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely
folds.

When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced that
the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a glorious
sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:

On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part.


The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly glistened
with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting sun. The
green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue, in bright
contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war horses, the
thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices. And now the royal
guard descends the gentle slope which rises just above the castle to
the north, and approaches the drawbridge.

Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of
his castle in his hand.

The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat
stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the
extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.

Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired,
prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a
quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but
somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that
tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly
features, the greatest of the Edwards—a born king of men.

“Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight.”

“My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own.”

“Ah, and yet so loyal!”

“For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth,
and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not
restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I
daily heard.”

“Ah, indeed,” said the king, “then shalt thou receive the honour from
my own hands,” and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the
sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added,
“Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne.”

“Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,”
muttered Prince Edward.

“Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those
who honour us will we honour {32}.”

The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their acclamations.
The multitude cried, “Largesse! Largesse!” and by Drogo’s direction
coins (chiefly of small value) were freely scattered to the
accompaniment of the cry:

“Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne.”

Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the
banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands,
pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green without,
while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which was not large
enough to accommodate the rank and file.

The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head of
the board—his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the King of the
Romans), Edward, afterwards “The Hammer of Scotland,” on his father’s
left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and next to Prince Edward,
Robert Bruce, father of the future king of Scotland, and a great
favourite both with prince and king.

Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to play
the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which was honour
enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend the king to
Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify the favour and
honour which he had received.

Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of the
gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of healths and
acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring again and again?
Nay, we have tired the reader’s patience with scenes of that sort
enough already.

But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet
feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in
another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him
closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their political
sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and land holders
were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the morrow’s journey,
the roads, the chances of food and forage for the multitude. In short,
they acted like men of business who provide for the morrow ere they
close their eyes in sleep.

Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he
claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he had
apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by their
harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.

“Who are these doughty foes?”

“Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor of
the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a
favourite page of the Earl of Leicester.”

“Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to sustain
such acorns?”

“I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand.”

“Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless
make short work of them.”

Night reigned without. The occasional challenge of the sentinel alone
broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness over the host
encamped at Walderne.

Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at once.
The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to life and
action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the woods with
their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the eastern hills.

Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet hastily
despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind them, stood the
three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and friar pale with
privation and suffering. Our Martin’s health was not strong enough to
enable him well to bear the horrors of a dungeon.

“You are accused of rebellion,” said the stern Edward, as he faced
them. “What is your answer?”

Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is
recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and
anger, died of fear—yet he was never intentionally unjust.

Ralph spoke first—he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was the
only course.

“My prince,” he said, “we must indeed avow that our convictions are
with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand or
fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are, but we
disclaim the word.”

“And thou, Sir Mayor?”

“I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill to
choose.”

“And thou, friar of orders grey?”

“Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester just,”
said Martin quietly.

Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward
respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger ere he replied:

“They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the
burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while
fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with their
swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then I may
deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in ward.”

Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the execution of
Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to the
“superstitious” scruples of his followers, and to gain this he would
have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold, but loved
revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion than avarice.

And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the royal
army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were the
newly-made knight and his followers.

He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons—the only
chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But before
starting from home he left secret instructions, which will disclose
themselves ere long.

As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive came
into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a hard object
in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the key of Martin’s
dungeon.

“Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that
door—meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst.”

Should he send it back?

“No, no!”

He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.

“I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou art
mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design.”

Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite
powers.

We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast,
where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports—Winchelsea and
Pevensey, so as to keep open their communications with the continent.
How Peter of Savoy, the then lord of the “Eagle,” entertained them at
the Norman castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they
sacked Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their
quarters at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the
prince, as became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne;
to await the approach of the barons.


There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the people
of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of Walderne, spent
his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his gallant son, and
felt assured that he should not die until he had once more clasped him
to his paternal breast, when he would joyfully chant his _Nunc
Dimittis_.

On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his
cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw his
son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance related; and
when he awoke he said;

“Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given the
first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath provided a
better offering, and Isaac shall be restored.”

But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith. For a
long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him. Its
appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the house
of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will see in
the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily form, but even
if only the creature of the imagination, it was equally real to the
sufferer.

One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal day
when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that day
passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his
adversary’s dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days, a
man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had slain
many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional. It had
been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or supposed
insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections by a blow.
And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged not to engage
in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the dread penalty; under
such an one many a man has sunk to the grave {33}. Therefore, as we
have said, he dreaded the advent of the fatal day.

It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when, lo! in
the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no longer armed
with his terrors. His face was changed, his features resigned and
peaceful.

“I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the flesh.
Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the altar of
the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy reward and my
forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him thou shalt yet
see in the flesh, as thy reward.”

And he disappeared.

Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but
certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the fulfilment of
the vision.


It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with more
than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in person, who
was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all their train; and
special prayers had been added, suitable to the crisis, to the God of
armies and Lord of battles.

So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great gates
of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and the gates
were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just arrived, as he said,
from over sea, and had but tarried to put his horse in good keeping.

He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.

“Art thou with us or against us?” said the warder.

“I am a soldier of the Cross,” was the reply, and a few more words were
whispered in the ear.

The warder started back.

“Verily thy father’s heart will be glad,” he exclaimed.

Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little changed;
but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had once given his
face a haggard and weird look, resignation had stamped his features
with a softer expression.

The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been
removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but the
old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had purchased this
remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if he had given “the
first born of his body for the sin of his soul.”

And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit—the
half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the
thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on the
morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious, thoughtless,
but loving Hubert.

And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was
Prior Foville—he who built the two great western towers of the church.

“Stay without,” whispered the prior to someone by his side; “joy
sometimes kills.”

The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so strange
an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret to tell and
can hardly keep it in.

“What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?”

“Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not dead.”

The father trembled. He could hardly stand.

“I know he is alive, but where?”

“On his way home.”

“Nay!”

“And in England!”

“Father, I am here.”

Hubert could restrain himself no longer.

The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his
recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:

“Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was
lost, and is found.”




Chapter 25: The Battle Of Lewes.


The barons, on their side, prepared with sober earnestness for the
struggle. They were not fighting for personal aggrandisement, but, as
an old writer says, “they had in all things one faith and one will—love
of God and their neighbour.” So unanimous were they in their brotherly
love, that they did not fear to die for their country.

It was the dead of night, and a horseman rode towards the village of
Fletching. He was armed cap-a-pie, like one who might have to force his
way against odds. His armour was dark, and he bore but one cognisance
on his shield, the Cross. He was quite alone, but he knew that farther
along he should find a sleeping host. The stars shone brightly above
him, the country lay buried in sleep, scarcely a light twinkled
throughout the expanse.

The sound of a deep bell tolling the hour of midnight reached him. It
was from the priory which he had left an hour or more previously.

“Ere that hour strike again, England’s fate will have been decided,” he
said, as if to himself, “and perhaps my account with God and man summed
up before His bar. Well, I have a good cause, and a clear conscience,
and I can leave it in God’s hands.”

And soon from the crest of a low hill he looked down upon the camp of
the barons. There were many lights, and the murmur of voices arose.

Just then came the stern challenge.

“Who goes there?”

“A crusader, who as a knight received his spurs from Earl Simon, and
now comes to fight by his side to the death for the liberties of
England.”

“The watchword?”

“I have it not—twelve hours have not passed since I landed in England
after an absence of years.”

“Stand while I summon the guard.”

In a little while a small troop approached, their leader the young Lord
Walter of Hereford, who had been present, as it chanced, when our hero
was knighted. He recognised him with joy.

“The Earl of Leicester will be overjoyed to see you. He has long given
you up for lost.”

“He has not forgotten me?”

“Even yesternight he wished you were present to fight by his side.”

Our poor Hubert felt his heart throb with joy and pride.

As they descended into the camp Hubert perceived the Bishop of
Worcester, Walter de Cantilupe, riding through the ranks, and exhorting
the soldiers to confess their sins, and to receive absolution and the
Holy Communion; assuring them that such as fell would fall in God’s
cause, and suffer on behalf of the truth. Behind him his followers
distributed white crosses to the soldiers, as if they were crusaders,
which they attached to their breasts and backs. In this war of
Englishmen against Englishmen there was need of some such mark to
distinguish the rival parties.

All through the camp religious exercises were proceeding, and when at
last Walter of Hereford brought our hero to the tent of Earl Simon,
they found him prostrate in fervent prayer.

“Father and leader,” said the young earl with deep reverence, “I have
brought thee a long-lost son.”

The earl rose.

“My son! Hubert! Can it be thou, risen from the dead?”

“Come to share thy fate for weal or woe, my beloved lord. From thy
hands I received knighthood: at thy side will I conquer or die.”


The dawn was at hand. The birds began their matin songs, when the stern
blast of the trumpet drowned their tiny warblings.

The army arose as one man. At first all was confusion, as when bees
swarm, which was rapidly reduced into order, as the leaders went up and
down with the standard bearers, and the men fell into their ranks. When
all was still the earl, the great earl, came forth, armed cap-a-pie,
mounted on his charger. The herald proclaimed silence. The deep, manly
voice was heard:

“Beloved brethren! We are about to fight this day for the liberty of
this realm, in honour of God, His blessed Mother, and all the Saints,
for the defence of our Mother Church of England, and for the faith of
Christ.

“Let us therefore pray to our Lord God, that since we are His, He would
grant us victory in the battle, and commend ourselves to Him, body,
soul, and spirit.”

Then the Bishop of Worcester gave the Benediction, after which the vast
multitude arose as a man, took their places, and began their onward
march. Scouts of the royal army, out foraging, saw them, and bore the
tidings to King Henry and Prince Edward at the priory and the castle,
and the opposing forces arose in their turn.

Before the hour of prime, the earl, by whose side throughout that day
rode our Hubert, descried the towers of the priory from the summit of a
swelling ridge, and beheld soon after the army of the prince issuing
forth from the west gate, and that of the king from the priory below.
Earl Simon divided his forces into three parts: the centre he placed
under the young Earl of Gloucester, whom he had that morning knighted;
the right wing under his two sons, Simon and Guy; the left wing was
composed of the Londoners. He himself remained at the head of the
reserve behind the centre, where he could see all the field and direct
operations. There was no smoke, as in a modern battlefield, to obstruct
the view.

Prince Edward commanded on the right of the royal troops, and was thus
opposed to the Londoners, whom he hated because of their insults to his
mother {34}; and Richard commanded the left wing, and was thus opposed
to Simon and Guy, the sons of the great earl. The centre was commanded
by Henry himself, not by virtue of his ability in the field, but of his
exalted rank. The royal standard of the Dragon was raised; a token,
said folk, that no quarter was to be given.

This was a sign for the attack, and it was begun by that thunderbolt of
war, Prince Edward, who charged full upon the Londoners. The poor
light-armed cits were ill prepared for the shock of so heavy a brigade
of cavalry; and they broke and yielded like a dam before a resistless
flood. No mercy was shown them. Many were driven into the Ouse on the
right, and so miserably drowned; others fled in a body before the
prince, who pursued them for four miles, hacking, hewing, quartering,
slaughtering. Just like the Rupert of the later Civil Wars, he
sacrificed the victory to the headlong impetuosity of his nature.

Now let us turn to the left. On the crest of the hill, which there rose
steeply, were the tents and baggage of the barons. Over one of these
floated Earl Simon’s banner, and close by was a litter in which he had
been carried during a recent illness, but which now only contained four
unfortunate burgesses of London town who were detained as hostages
because they had attempted to betray the city to King Henry.

Towards this height the foolish Richard directed his charge, fully
believing that the head and front of all the mischief, Simon himself,
was in that litter, and that he should crush him and the rebellion
together. But such showers of stones and arrows came from the hill that
his forces were disorganised, and when Earl Simon suddenly strengthened
his sons by the reserve, their united forces crushed the King of the
Romans and all his men. They descended with all the impetus of a charge
from above, and the enemy fled.

Then the earl might have made the mistake which Prince Edward made on
the opposite side, and followed the flying foe; but he was far too
wise. He saw on his left the centre under the Earl of Gloucester,
fighting valiantly on equal terms with the royal centre under King
Henry. He fell upon its flank with all the force of his victorious
array: one deadly struggle and the royal lines bent, curved, broke,
then fled in disorder, the old king galloping furiously towards the
priory, fleeing in great fear for dear life.

Yet more ludicrous was the fate of his brother Richard, King of the
Romans, who, while Henry reached the priory wounded, had taken refuge
in the windmill, where he was being baited, almost in joke, by the
victorious foes, amidst cries of:

“Come out you bad miller!”

“You to turn a wretched mill master!”

“You who defied us all so proudly!”

“You, the ever Augustus!”

At length the poor badgered king, seeing that they were preparing to
set the mill on fire and smoke him out, surrendered to a follower of
the Earl of Gloucester, Sir John Bix, and came out all covered with
flour, while men sang:

The King of the Romans gathered a host,
And made him a castle of a mill post.


Meanwhile the camp on the hill, with the banner and the aforesaid
litter, had aroused the attention of Prince Edward, just returning from
harrying the Londoners.

“Up the hill, my men,” he said. “There is the very devil himself in
that litter.”

The camp was stoutly defended, but after a while the defenders were
forced to fly by superior force. Then the prince’s men rushed upon the
litter, Drogo of Walderne foremost. They thought they had got the great
earl.

“Come out, Simon, thou devil, thou worst of traitors,” they cried.

Within were only the four shrinking, timid burgesses, and Drogo and his
band dragged them out, shrieking in vain that they were for the king,
and cut them to pieces, poor unfortunates. But they did not find Earl
Simon, and only slew their own friends; and when the confusion was over
they looked down upon the battlefield, where one glance showed them
that the main battle was lost, and the barons in possession of the
field.

In vain Edward besought his men, now much reduced in numbers, to make
another charge. They saw the enemy waiting with levelled lances to
receive them, and felt that the position they were asked to assail was
impregnable.

Edward was a most affectionate son, and was very anxious to learn the
fate of his royal father, so he determined to force his way to the
priory at all hazards, and made a circuit of the town so as to reach
the sacred pile from the unassailed quarter. Night was now approaching,
and the prince’s party had to fight their way at every step with the
victorious horsemen of the barons. Edward’s giant strength and long
sweeping sword made him a way over heaps of corpses strewn before him,
but others were less fortunate.

Hard by the river, on the eastern side of the town, and beneath the
high cliffs which rise almost precipitously to the isolated group of
downs, there was a terrible charge, a hand-to-hand melee. Drogo of
Walderne and Harengod, his sword red with blood, his lance couched, was
confronted here by a knight in sable armour, his sole cognisance—the
White Cross.

They rode at each other. Drogo’s lance grazed his opponent’s casque:
the unknown knight drove his missile through corselet and breast, and
Drogo went down crashing from his steed. The combat went sweeping on
past them, the desperate foes fighting as they rode. Edward and his
horsemen, less and less in number each minute, still riding for the
priory, straining every nerve to reach it; the others assailing them at
every turn.

The Earl of Warrenne, William of Valence, Guy of Lusignan, and Earl
Bigod of Norwich, were separated from the rest of the band, and,
despairing of attaining the prince again, rode across the low alluvial
flats for Pevensey.

By God, who is over us, much did they sin,
That let pass o’er sea the Earl of Warrene,
Much hath he robbed us, by moor and by fen,
Our gold and our silver he carried hath henne {35};


Sang the citizens of Lewes afterwards of black Earl John.

Let us return in the shadows of the evening, while the prince gains the
priory with a few of his followers, by sheer valour, while the rest are
drowned in the river, or lost in the marshes—let us return to the place
where Drogo de Harengod went down before an unknown foe.

“Dost thou know me?” said the conqueror, bending over the dying man and
raising his helm.

“Art thou alive, or a ghost?” says a conscience-stricken voice.

“Nay, I am Hubert of Walderne, the cousin thou hast hated and injured.
But our quarrel is settled now; thou art a dying man.”

“Nay, not dying. I must live to repent.

“Oh, the key! the key! Throw this key into the moat!

“Nay, he will haunt me. Tell me, am I really dying? Nay, if it cost me
my soul, I will not baulk my vengeance. Besides, it is too late!

“Martin!”

A rush of blood came to his lips, and Drogo of Harengod fell back a
corpse on the blood-stained grass. Hubert gazed upon him a moment, then
loosed the armour to give him air, but it was all over.

“God rest his soul. Our enmity is over, but what did he mean about the
key?”

He felt in the gypsire of the dead enemy. There was a key, unsightly,
rusty, and heavy.

“Why, I remember this key. It is the key of the dungeon at Walderne.
Whom can he have got there? Why is it here? What did he mean about
Martin?”

A horrible dread seized him—he could not resist the impulse which came
upon him to ride to Walderne at once. He sought Earl Simon, obtained a
troop, and started immediately through the dark and gloomy forest for
Walderne.




Chapter 26: After The Battle.


We trust our readers are anxious to learn the fate of Martin, whom,
much against our will, we left in such grievous durance at Walderne
Castle.

Drogo had only left a score of men behind him to defend the castle in
case of any sudden assault; which, however, he did not expect. Before
leaving he had called one of these aside, a fellow whose name was
Marboeuf.

“Marboeuf,” he said, “I know thou hast the two elements which, between
ourselves, ensure the greatest happiness in this world—a good digestion
and a hard heart.”

“You compliment me, master.”

“Nay, I know thy worth, and hence I leave all things in thy hands: my
honour and my vengeance.”

“Thy vengeance?”

“Yes. If I live I shall expect to find all as I left it when I return
hither. If I die, and thou receivest sure news of my death, slay me the
three prisoners.”

“What! The friar and all!”

“Is his blood redder than any other man’s? It seems to me thou art
afraid of the Pope’s gray regiment.”

“Nay, I like not to slay priests and friars. It brings a man ill luck
if he meddle with those.”

“Then I must appoint Thibault. He may have an easier conscience, but I
had thought that bloodshed, if nothing else, had bound us together.”

“Nay, it shall not be said that I forsook my lord in his need. If thou
fallest in the coming battle, I will sacrifice the three to thy ghost.”

“So shall I rest in peace, like the warriors of old time, over whose
tomb they slew many victims and cut many throats. I believe in no
creed, but the old one of our ancestors suits me best, and I hope I
shall find my way to Valhalla, if Valhalla there be.”

When the last stragglers of the royal army had been swallowed up in the
recesses of the forest, Marboeuf began to ponder over his engagement.
But presently up came the janitor of the dungeons.

“Hast thou the key of the friar’s dungeon?”

“Nay. The young lord has not left it with me.”

The men looked at each other.

“He locked it himself, this morning, and put the key into his gypsire.”

“And he has gone off with it. Doubtless he will send it back directly
he finds it there.”

“I doubt it.”

“Shall we send after him?”

“No!” said Marboeuf.

“He is a friar. We must not let him starve.”

“Humph! It will not be our fault. I tell thee thou dost not yet know
our lord, and too much zeal may only damage you in his goodwill.”

The gaoler retreated, and went slowly down to the dungeons. He walked
along the passage moodily. At length he heard a voice breaking the
silence:

Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.


The man felt moved. It seemed to him as if he were near a being of
another mould, and old memories of years long past were awakened in his
mind—how once such a friar had found him wounded almost to death in the
battlefield, and had saved the body, like the good Samaritan, and
striven to save his soul. How he had vowed amendment and forgotten it,
or he had not been found herding with such black sheep as Drogo and his
band. And earlier thoughts, how when his mother had fallen sick of the
plague, another friar had tended her dying moments, when every other
earthly friend had failed her for fear of infection.

“He shall not perish if I can help it, and it may be put to my account
in purgatory.”

“Father,” he cried.

“My brother,” was the reply, “what hast thou to ask?”

“What food hast thou?”

“Yet half a loaf, and a cruse nearly filled with water.”

“It is all thou mayst get till my lord return. He has taken the keys.
Use it sparingly.”

For a moment there was silence, then a calm voice replied:

“He who fed Elijah by the ministry of the ravens will not fail me.”

“But if Sir Drogo be absent many days thou mayst starve.”

“Though he slay me, yet will I put my trust in him.”

“I do believe he will be saved, by a miracle if needs be,” muttered the
man. “The saints will never let him starve, he is one of them.”

The second day passed, and Martin’s bread and cruse yet held out. But
his gaoler was very uneasy, and wandered about the dark passages like a
restless spirit. Neither could he help breathing his despair to Martin,
as hours passed away and no messenger returned from Drogo with the key.

But the answer from the captive was always full of hope.

“Be of good cheer, for there has been with me an angel of God, who has
assured me that the tyranny will soon be overpast. Meanwhile I feel not
the pangs of hunger.”

The fourth day from the departure of the royal army arrived. No one had
as yet brought back the key. It was a day of awful suspense, for
although no sound of artillery announced the awful strife, yet it was
generally known that a battle was imminent, and was probably going on
at that moment. They sent two messengers out at dawn of day, and one
returned at eventide, breathless and sore from long running.

He had been on that group of downs which lies eastward of Lewes, of
which Mount Caburn is the highest point, and from which Walderne Castle
was visible. There they had raised a beacon fire, and he had left his
comrade to fire it in case the king lost the battle. But ere he
departed he had seen, as he thought, the royal array in hopeless
confusion.

The afternoon brought another messenger, who confirmed the evil
tidings, but was in hope that the prince, yet undefeated and then
rampaging on the hill amongst the baggage, might retrieve the fortune
of the day. When sunset drew nigh many of the garrison of Walderne
betook themselves to the elevation on which the church is placed,
whence they could see the Castle of Lewes through an opening, and
watched, fearing to see the bale fire blaze, which should bid them all
flee for their lives, unless they were prepared to defend the castle,
to be a refuge in case their lord might survive and come to find
shelter amongst them.

On this point there were diverse opinions. A waggon had gone out in the
early morning to collect forage and provisions by way of blackmail—at
this moment it was seen approaching the gateway below.

The sun had set, and the shades of evening were falling fast. All at
once a single voice cried, “Look! the fire!” and the speaker pointed
with his finger.

The eyes of all present followed his gesture, and they saw a bright
spot of light arise on the summit of the downs, distant some twelve
miles.

“It is the signal. All is lost! The rebels have won, and we must fly
for our lives.”

“They may be merciful.”

“Nay, we have too black a name in the Andredsweald. We should have to
answer for every peasant we have hanged or hen roost we have robbed.”

“That would never do. By ’r lady, what injustice! Would they be so bad
as that?”

“We will not wait to see.”

All at once loud outcries arose from the castle below. They looked
aghast, for it was the sound of fierce strife and dread dismay. What
could it be?

They started to run to the help of their comrades, when a thousand
cries, a wild war whoop, burst from the arches of the forest and in the
dim twilight they saw numberless forms gliding over the short space
which separated the castle from the wood.

“The merrie men!”

“The outlaws!”

“The wild men of the woods!”

The discomfited troopers paused—turned tail—fled— leaving their
comrades to their fate, whatever it might be.

Let us see.

The waggon aforesaid had approached the gateway in the most innocent
manner. It creaked over the drawbridge. It was already beneath the
portcullis, when the driver cut the traces and thrust a long pole
amidst the spokes of the wheel. At the same instant a score of men
leapt out, who had been concealed beneath the loose hay.

All was alarm and confusion. The few defenders of the castle were
overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the
“merrie men” a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and rendered
them deaf to the call for pity or mercy. The few women who were in the
castle fled shrieking to their hiding places. The men died fighting.

“To the dungeons! Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you your
life,” cried their leader—Kynewulf—to an individual whose bunch of keys
attached to his girdle showed his office.

“The friar is safe below, unhurt. I will take you to him. But I have no
key.”

“Where is it, then?”

“Sir Drogo has taken it with him.”

“We will have it open.

“Friar Martin, art thou within?”

“Safe and uninjured. Is it thou, Kynewulf? Then I charge thee that thou
do no hurt to any here. They have not injured me.”

“Not injured thee, to place thee here! Well, we will soon have thee
out. We have promised Grimbeard to bring thee to him, or forfeit our
lives. He is dying.”

“Dying! And I not there! What has chanced?”

“He was hit by one of those arrows the treacherous Drogo shot from the
wall while the flag of truce was yet flying, when we first came to
demand thee. But we must work to relieve thee.”

And toil they did, but all in vain. They had no tools to force that
iron door.

Meanwhile a sound of scuffling drew other members of the band to a
chamber in the tower, where the good knight Ralph de Monceux was
confined, and as they approached they heard a heavy fall and found
Marboeuf lying dead on the floor, his skull cleft asunder, whilst over
him stood Ralph, axe in hand.

The “merrie men” knew their bold captive.

“Ah! How is this? What ox hast thou felled?”

“Only a butcher who came in to slay me, but I avoided the blow, flew
suddenly at his wrist and mastered the weapon, when I gave him what at
Oxford we called _quid pro quo_, as we strewed the shambles with _boves
boreales_.”

They did not understand his Latin, but they knew Marboeuf, who, as the
reader will comprehend, seeing all was lost, had striven to perform his
vow, and happily had begun first with this dexterous young knight.
Hence they found the poor mayor of Hamelsham safe and sound, only a
little less afraid of the “merrie men” than of Drogo; for often had
they rifled the castle and robbed the hen roosts of his town.

But all their efforts failed to open Martin’s door, and they were at
their wits’ end what to do. They heard a rumour that the battle was
lost, so they set men to watch, and prepared an ambush in his own
castle yard for Drogo, in case he should survive the fight and come to
hide, with especial instructions to take him alive, as they intended to
hang him from his own tower.

Meanwhile, through the dewy night, amidst the thousand odours of the
woods, rode Hubert and his fifty horsemen. They stayed not for brake,
and they slacked not for ford. All the loving heart of Hubert went
before him to the rescue of the friend of his boyish days; suffering,
he doubted not, cruel wrong and unmerited imprisonment in a noisome
dungeon. And ere the midnight hour he arrived amidst the familiar
scenes, and saw at length the towers rise before him in the faint light
of a new moon.

The sound of his horses must have been heard, but no challenge of
warder awaited them. When the party arrived they found the drawbridge
down, the gates open. What could it mean?

“It may be treachery. Look to your arms ere you ride in,” cried Hubert.

They entered the court through the gateway in the Barbican tower.
Instantly the gates slammed behind them, the portcullis fell, and, as
by magic, the windows and courtyard were crowded with men in green
jerkins with bended bows.

“What means this outrage,” cried Hubert aloud, “upon the heir of
Walderne as he enters his own castle?”

“That you are in the power of the merrie men of the greenwood. If you
be Drogo of Walderne, surrender, and spare bloodshed: all who have
never harmed us to go free.”

“Then are we all free. My men are from Kenilworth, and can never have
harmed you in word or deed. As for Drogo, he fell by my hand this day
in fair combat.”

“Who art thou, then?”

“Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother Martin—Friar
Martin—whom you all must know.”

Instantly every hostile demonstration ceased. The doors were thrown
open, and the men who, a moment before, were about to fly at each
other’s throats, mingled freely as friends.

“Martin is below,” they said. “Have you smiths who can force a door?”

“Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY.”

Down the steps they flew, almost tumbling over each other in their
eagerness. The key was applied, the rusty bolt flew back, and Hubert
was clasped in Martin’s arms.


For a long while the spectators of this joyful meeting waited in the
courtyard of the castle, which was thronged by men who had only been
restrained by a merciful Providence from bending their deadly weapons
against each other. Now their thoughts were thoughts of peace, yet they
hardly understood why and wherefore.

But after a while there was a commotion in the great hall, and soon
Martin stood on the summit of the steps, worn and pale, leaning on the
stout shoulders of Hubert. Their eyes were both swimming in tears—but
tears of joy. Cheers and acclamations rent the air, and it was a long
while ere silence was restored for the voice of the late prisoner to be
heard.

“Men and brethren, I thank you for your great love to me, and for the
desire wherewith ye have desired my freedom, and jeopardised your own
precious lives in its cause. And now, if I am welcome”—(loud
cheers)—“so must be my dear brother Hubert, Lord of Walderne by the
will of the Lady Sybil, a true knight, a warrior of the Cross, and a
friend of the poor.” (Loud cheers again). “Many of you will remember
the night when he parted from you, when Sir Nicholas, who is gone,
introduced him to you as his undoubted heir, and many have grieved over
him, and said, ‘Full forty fathom deep he lies.’ But here he is in
flesh and blood!” (Renewed cheers).

“And now, O men of the greenwood, whom I love so dearly, let me, a
child of the greenwood, speak yet a few words about myself. For I am
not only the last represent alive of the old English house of
Michelham, but also a son of the house of Walderne; Mabel, my mother,
being the sister, as many know, of the Lady Sybil. Ah, well. I seek a
more continuing city than either Walderne or Michelham, and I want no
earthly dignities. Wherever God gives me souls to tend is my home; and
He has given it me, O men of the Andredsweald, amongst my countrymen
and my kindred, and to Hubert I leave the castle right gladly. Now let
there be peace, and let men turn their swords into ploughshares and
their spears into pruning hooks, and hasten the glorious day when the
kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms of God and His
Christ.”

“We will. God bless Sir Hubert of Walderne.”

“God bless brother Martin.”

Drogo was forgotten, as though he had never lived, forgiven and
forgotten. And the multitude dispersed, each man to his own home or
haunt in the forest, leaving Sir Hubert in possession of the castle of
his ancestors, and Martin his guest.


Martin’s first wish after his release was, as our readers will imagine,
to visit his mother, and assure her of his safety in person. Kynewulf
was in waiting to escort him. He had caused a litter to be constructed
of the branches of trees, knowing that the severe strain Martin had
undergone must have rendered him too weak for so long a journey; and
the “merrie men” were only too eager to relieve each other in bearing
so precious a burden.

“You will find our chieftain very far from well,” said Kynewulf, as he
walked by Martin’s side. “He was wounded by one of the arrows from the
castle when we came to demand your liberation of Drogo, and the wound
has taken a bad turn.”

“How does my poor mother bear it?”

“Like a true wife and good Englishwoman.”

No more was said. Martin lapsed into deep thought until the retreat of
the outlaws was attained. There, on a couch strewn with skins and soft
herbage, lay the redoubtable Grimbeard; and by his side, nursing him
tenderly, Mabel of Walderne. But for this she had been with Martin’s
rescuers at the castle, but she could not leave her dying lord, who
clung fondly to her now, and would take food from no other hand.

The wound he had received had been thought slight, and neglected. Hence
it had become serious, and since Kynewulf departed mortification had
set in.

The mother rose and embraced her “sweet son.”

“Thank God!” she said, and led him to his stepfather’s side.

Grimbeard raised himself with difficulty, and looked Martin in the
face.

“Martin is here,” he said. “Let my dying eyes gaze upon him again.

“Martin, I have longed for thee. Tell me more about Him thou lovest so
deeply.”

“My father, He is waiting to receive and to bless thee. Cast thyself
wholly on the Incarnate Love which embraced thee on the Tree. Say, for
His sake, canst thou forgive all, even these Normans thou hast so
hated?”

“Dost thou forgive the wretch who shut thee up, my gentle boy, in that
dungeon?”

“Yes, verily, and pray to God to pardon him, too.”

“Then I may pardon my foes, although my life has been spent in fighting
against them for England’s freedom. But I see we must submit, as thou
hast often said, to God’s will; and if the past may be forgiven, my
merrie men will be well content to make peace, and to turn their swords
into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; especially now
Drogo has met his just doom, as they tell me, and thy friend is about
to rule at Walderne. Thou must be the mediator between them and him.

“But oh! my son, it has been hard to submit to all this. All those I
loved when young carried on the fight, and my own father bequeathed it
to me as a sacred heritage. We hoped to see England governed by
Englishmen, and the alien cast out; and now I give it up. The problem
is too hard for me. God will make it clear.”

“My father,” said Martin, “I, too, am the descendant of a long line of
warriors, who have never before me submitted to the foreign yoke. But I
see that the two peoples are becoming one: that the sons of the Norman
learn our English tongue, and that the day is at hand when they will be
proud of the name ‘Englishmen.’ Norman and Saxon all alike, one people,
even as in heaven there is no distinction of race, but all are alike
before the throne.”

“And now, my son, art thou not a priest yet? I would fain make
confession of my sins.”

“God will accept the will for the deed. He is not limited to earthly
means; and if thou truly repent of thy sins for the love of the
Crucified, and believest in Him, all will be well.”

For Martin feared that there would be no time to fetch a priest, or he
would not have questioned the universal precept of the church of his
day; while his own faith led him to see clearly that God’s mercy was
not limited by the accidental omission of the outward ordinance.

“I sent for Sir Richard {36}, the parish priest of Walderne, ere we
left the castle, and he is doubtless on his way with the Viaticum,”
said Kynewulf.

And while they yet spake the priest arrived, and the dying man received
with simple faith the last sacraments of the Church. After this his
people gathered round him.

“Tell them,” he said, in stammering tones, for the speech was failing,
“what I have said. With thy friend in the castle, and thou in the
greenwood, there will be peace.”

Martin turned to the silent outlaws who stood by, and repeated his
words. They listened in silence. The prospect was not new to them, for
Martin’s long labours had not been in vain; but while Drogo was at
Walderne, and the royal party triumphant, it seemed useless to hope for
its realisation. Now things had changed, and there was hope that the
breach would be healed.

“His last prayer was for peace,” said Grimbeard. “Should not mine be
the same? Oh, God, save my country, grant it the blessing of peace, and
forgive a poor erring man, who sees, too late, that he has been
fighting against Thy dispensation, for he can now say ‘_Thy will be
done_.’”

These were his last words, and although we have related them as if
spoken connectedly, they were really only uttered in broken gasps. The
end came; the widow turned aside from the bed after closing the eyes.

“Martin,” she said, “thou alone art left to me.”

And she fell on his neck and wept.


From the grave to the gay, from a death to a wedding, such is life. The
same bell which tolls dolorously at a burial clangs in company with its
fellows at a marriage on the next day. So the world goes on.

The scene was the priory of Saint Pancras at Lewes, where so lately the
feeble old king had held his court. Now with his brave son he had gone
into honourable captivity, for it was little better, and the followers
of Earl Simon filled the place.

Before the high altar stood a youthful pair; Hubert of Walderne, now to
be known as Radulphus, or Ralph; and Alicia de Grey, who had been
sheltered from ill and Drogo as one of the handmaidens of the Countess
Eleanor, in keeping for her true love.

The good prior, Foville, performed the ceremony and celebrated the mass
_Pro sponso et sponsa_. The father, the happy and glad father, stood
by, now fully delivered from his ghostly tormentor, his fondest wish on
earth achieved. Earl Simon gave the bride away, while Martin stood by,
so happy.

It was over, and the aisle was strewn with the gay flowers of early
summer, as our Hubert and his bride left the sacred pile. But one adieu
to the father, who would not leave his monastery even then, but who
fell upon Hubert’s neck and wept while he cried, “My son, my dear son,
God bless thee;” and the bridal train rode off to the castle above,
where the marriage feast was spread.

Then Earl Simon to his onerous duties, and the happy pair to keep their
honeymoon at Walderne.

Oh, the joy of that leafy month of June, in the wild woods, all loosed
from care. Hubert seemed to have found true happiness, if it could be
found on earth. And Martin, he too was happy, in his work of love and
reconciliation.

It was an oasis in life’s pilgrimage, when man might well fancy he had
found an Eden upon earth again. And there we would fain leave our two
friends and cousins.




Epilogue.


A few words respecting the fate of our chief characters must close our
story. We need not tell our readers the future of the great earl—it is
written on the pages of history. But his work did not die on the fatal
field of Evesham. It lived in the royal nephew, through whose warlike
skill he was overthrown, and who speedily arrived at the conclusion
that most of the reforms of his uncle were founded upon the eternal
principles of truth and justice. Hence that legislation which gained
for Edward, the greatest of the Plantagenets, and the first truly
English king since Harold, the title of the “English Justinian.”

Hubert was not with his lord when he fell. He had been selected to be
of the household of Simon’s beloved Countess Eleanor, and he was with
her at Dover when the fatal news of Evesham arrived. He could only cry,
“Would God I had died for him,” while the countess abandoned herself to
her grief.

Edward soon sought a reconciliation with the countess, who, it will be
remembered, was his father’s sister; which being effected, she passed
over to France with her only daughter, to join her sons already there;
and King Louis received her with great kindness, while Hubert and his
companions of her guard were received into the favour of Edward, and
exempted from the sweeping sentence of confiscation passed in the first
intoxication of triumph upon all the adherents of the Montforts.

Brother Roger died in peace at a great age, at the Priory of Lewes,
growing in grace as he grew in years, until at last he passed away,
“awaiting,” as he said, “the manifestation of the sons of God,” amongst
whom, sinner though he had been, he hoped to stand in his lot in the
latter days.

Ralph of Herstmonceux, who had been happily preserved from death at the
battle of Evesham, followed his father to Dover, where they joined the
countess in the defence of that fortress, and shared the forgiveness
extended to her followers. So completely did Edward forgive the family,
that we read in the Chronicles how King Edward, long afterwards,
honoured Herstmonceux with a royal visit on his road to make a pious
retreat at the Abbey of Battle. Ralph succeeded his father, and we may
be sure lived on good terms with Hubert.

Hubert followed the banner of Edward Longshanks both in Wales and
Scotland ere he came home to his wife and children, satiated at last
with war, and spent the rest of his days at Walderne. He died at a good
old age, and was buried as a crusader in Lewes Priory, with crossed
legs and half-drawn sword, where his tomb could be seen until the
sacrilegious hands of the minions of Thomas Cromwell destroyed that
noble edifice.

Mabel of Walderne retired, at her son’s persuasion, to a convent at
Mayfield, where she ended her days in all the “odour of sanctity,” and
Martin closed her eyes.

And lastly we have to tell of our Martin. He remained in the
Andredsweald until he had completely succeeded in reconciling the
outlaws to the authorities {37}, and he had seen them, his “merrie
men,” settle down as peaceful tillers of the soil, or enter the service
of the knights and abbots as gamekeepers, woodsmen, huntsmen, and the
like; at his strong recommendation and assurance that he would be
surety for their good behaviour—an assurance they did their best to
justify.

And how shall we describe his labour of love—his work as the bondsman
of Christ? But after the death of his mother, his superiors recalled
him to Oxford, as a more important sphere, and better suited to his
talents; where the peculiar sweetness of his disposition gave him a
great influence over the younger students. In short he became a power
in the university, and died head of the Franciscan house, loved and
lamented, in full assurance of a glorious immortality. And they put
over his tomb these words:

We know that we have passed from death to life,
because we love the brethren.
—_Vale Beatissime_.


From the south wall of Walderne Church project or projected two iron
brackets with lances, whereon hung for many a generation the banners of
Sir Ralph (alias Hubert) and his son Laurence.

The boast of chivalry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.


THE END.




Notes.


[1] Rivingtons’ Historical Biographies.

[2] Demonology and Witchcraft.

[3] See the Andredsweald, a tale of the Norman Conquest, by the same
author.

[4] He was the last lord of Pevensey of his race, all his land and
honours being forfeited in 1235 for passing over into Normandy without
King Henry the Third’s license.

[5] Lord of Lewes Castle from 1242-1304, a local tyrant.

[6] There were then no family names, properly so called; the English
generally took one descriptive of trade or profession, hence the
multitude of Smiths; the Normans generally then name of their estate or
birthplace, with the affix De. Knight’s Pictorial History, volume 2,
page 643.

[7] His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased his
influence and reputation. Knight’s Pictorial History.

[8] How did I weep in Thy Hymns and Canticles, touched to the quick by
the voices of Thy sweet-attuned Church, the voices flowed into my ears
and the truth distilled into my heart. Saint Augustine’s Confessions
volume 9 page 6.

[9] Afterwards the site of the battle of Edgehill.

[10] See his biography in Macmillan’s Sunday Library.

[11] Ethelflaed, Lady or Queen of the Mercians (under her brother
Edward, son of Alfred), threw up certain huge mounds and certain stone
castles, to defend her realm and serve as refuges in troublous times.
One site was Oxford, and it is the first authentic event recorded in
the history of the city--the foundation of the university by Alfred
being abandoned by scholars, as an interpolation in Asser, the king’s
biographer.

[12] The Rival Heirs, or the Third Chronicle of Aescendune.

[13] Because in later times some poor Jews were burnt there.

[14] Like those still seen at Tewkesbury Abbey, of similar proportions.

[15] The date of the surrender was November 16, 1537. It was granted to
Thomas Cromwell, February 16, 1538. It was at once destroyed by skilled
agents of destruction, and the materials sold. Cromwell did not enjoy
it long; he perished at Tower Hill by the axe, July 28, 1540.

[16] The old hymn for Wednesday morning, according to Sarum use. I am
indebted to the Hymnary for the translation.

[17] The supposed name of the penitent thief. The author is not
answerable for the non-elision of the vowel--the name is authentic; it
stood on the site of the present Oriel College. See preface.

[18] See Alfgar the Dane, chapter 24.

[19] It was the Gospel for the day in Italy--not in England.

[20] The Viaticum was the _Last_ Communion, given in preparation for
death, as the provision for the way.

[21] Such an arrangement was made in the Egyptian Temple at On; at one
particular moment on one day in the year, the rays admitted through a
concealed aperture gilded the shrine, and the crowd thought it
miraculous.

[22] Adapted from a translation of a chorus in the Agamemnon by my
lamented friend, the late Reverend Gerard Moultrie.

[23] A mere tradition of the time, not historical.

[24] See the Andredsweald, by the same author.

[25] This is the same spot mentioned in the Andredsweald, chapter 9
part 2, as a retreat of the English after Senlac.

[26] A proclamation had just been put forth by the barons, that all
foreigners should be expelled and lose their property; and much
violence ensued throughout England, the victims being often detected by
their pronunciation, as in our story.

[27]
How good to those who seek Thou art,
But what to those who find!
--Saint Bernard.

[28] It was one of them who first stabbed Edward the First, when his
queen saved him by sucking the poison from the wound, according to a
Spanish historian.

[29] Sixty-six pounds, 13 shillings, four pence; a large sum in those
days.

[30] It was afterwards ascertained that on the very night, the father,
Roger, dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned
to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.

[31] Acre was stormed by the Moslems, AD 1291, and the Holy Land was
lost with it.

[32] How unlike the ceremonial of Hubert’s knighthood! But the approach
of a battle justified the omission of the usual rites in the opinion of
the many.

[33] Witness the case of the Scotch judge--pursued under divers forms
by the supposed apparition of a man he had hanged, until he died of
fright--as recorded by Sir Walter Scott in Demonology and Witchcraft.

[34] Whom they had pelted with mud as she passed under London Bridge,
calling her a witch. Life of Simon de Montfort, page 126.

[35] Old English for hence.

[36] Parish priests were frequently styled _Sir_ in those days. Father
meant a monk or regular, as opposed to the secular, clergy.

[37] His descent from noble families of either race--Michelham, the
house of Ella, through his father; _Walderne_, of ancient Norman blood,
through his mother, rendered him acceptable to both parties.