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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17012-0.txt b/17012-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f68a7f --- /dev/null +++ b/17012-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10223 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The House of Walderne, by A. D. Crake + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The House of Walderne + A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons’ Wars + +Author: A. D. Crake + +Release Date: November 5, 2005 [eBook #17012] +[Most recently updated: February 4, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Martin Robb + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE *** + + + + +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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D. Crake</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The House of Walderne<br /> + A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons’ Wars</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: A. D. Crake</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 5, 2005 [eBook #17012]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 4, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Martin Robb</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE ***</div> + +<h1>The House of Walderne</h1> + +<h3>A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons’ +Wars</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by the Reverend A. D. Crake</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"></td> +<td class="rtoc"><a href="#Preface">Preface</a>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"></td> +<td class="rtoc"><a href="#Prolog">Prologue</a>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch1">Chapter 1</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Knight And Squire.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch2">Chapter 2</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Michelham Priory.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch3">Chapter 3</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Kenilworth.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch4">Chapter 4</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">In the Greenwood.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch5">Chapter 5</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Martin Leaves Kenilworth.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch6">Chapter 6</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">At Walderne Castle.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch7">Chapter 7</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Martin’s First Day At Oxford.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch8">Chapter 8</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Hubert At Lewes Priory.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch9">Chapter 9</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Other Side Of The Picture.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch10">Chapter 10</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Foul And Fair.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch11">Chapter 11</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Early Franciscans.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch12">Chapter 12</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">How Hubert Gained His Spurs.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch13">Chapter 13</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">How Martin Gained His Desire.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch14">Chapter 14</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">May Day In Lewes.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch15">Chapter 15</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Crusader Sets Forth.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch16">Chapter 16</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Michelham Once More.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch17">Chapter 17</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Castle Of Fievrault.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch18">Chapter 18</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Retreat Of The Outlaws.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch19">Chapter 19</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Preaching Friar.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch20">Chapter 20</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Old Man Of The Mountain.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch21">Chapter 21</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">To Arms! To Arms!</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch22">Chapter 22</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">A Medieval Tyrant.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch23">Chapter 23</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Saved As By Fire.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch24">Chapter 24</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">Before The Battle.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch25">Chapter 25</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">The Battle Of Lewes.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"><a href="#Ch26">Chapter 26</a>:</td> +<td class="rtoc">After The Battle.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"></td> +<td class="rtoc"><a href="#Epilog">Epilogue</a>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td class="ltoc"></td> +<td class="rtoc"><a href="#Notes">Notes</a>.</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Preface" id="Preface">Preface</a>.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In a former story, the <b>Andredsweald</b>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <b>Life of Simon de Montfort</b>, by Canon Creighton +{<a name="Glyph1" href="#Note1">1</a>}, which will serve well to accompany the +novelette. And also those who wish to know more of the loving and saintly +<i>Francis of Assisi</i>, will find a most excellent biography by Mrs. +Oliphant, in Macmillan’s Sunday Library, to which the author also +acknowledges great obligations. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Ingoldsby Legends</i>; 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 {<a name="Glyph2" +href="#Note2">2</a>}, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Prolog" id="Prolog">Prologue</a>.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph3" +href="#Note3">3</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The space enclosed by the moat and outer walls of Walderne Castle was about 150 +feet in diameter. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Six Hundred Years Ago</i>: 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch1" id="Ch1">1</a>: The Knight And Squire.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou know, my Stephen, thy way through this desolate country? for +verily the traces of the road are but slight.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, the motives that led me forth to face the storm still press upon +me, I must reach Michelham tonight.” +</p> + +<p> +An angry hollow gust of wind almost impeded his further progress as he spoke, +and choked his utterance. +</p> + +<p> +“An inhospitable reception England affords us, after an absence of so +many years. Methinks I like Gascony the better in regard to climate.” +</p> + +<p> +“For five happy years have I followed thy banner there, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet I love England better, foreign although my blood, or I had thought +more of the French king’s offer.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a noble offer, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy noble father, my lord, adorned the latter country.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never heard the story fairly told.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we do, Stephen? I have lost every trace of the way; my poor +beast threatens to give up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know not, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the Saints be praised, there is a light close at hand. It shines +clear and distinct—now it is shut out.” +</p> + +<p> +“A door or window must have been opened and closed again.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I deem, but this is the direction,” said the knight as he +turned his horse’s head northwards. +</p> + +<p> +Let us precede knight and squire and see what awaited them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How many?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two, a knight and a squire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring them in, in God’s name; all are welcome tonight. +</p> + +<p> +“But for all that,” said he, <i>sotto voce</i>, “it may be +easier to get in than out.” +</p> + +<p> +A brief pause, the horses were stabled, the guests entered. +</p> + +<p> +“We have come to crave your hospitality,” said the knight. +</p> + +<p> +“It is free to all—sit you down, and in a few minutes the women +will serve the supper.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hast travelled far?” asked the chieftain. +</p> + +<p> +“Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we must have +wandered miles from it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Many miles,” said a low, sweet voice. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How came such folk here?” thought De Montfort. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, my lad, have not thy parents taught thee a song?” said +the knight, addressing the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Sing thy song of the Greenwood, Martin,” added the mother. +</p> + +<p> +And the boy sang, with a sweet and child-like accent, a song of the exploits of +the famous Robin Hood and Little John: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Come listen to me, ye gallants so free,<br/> +All you that love mirth for to hear;<br/> +And I will tell, of what befell,<br/> +To a bold outlaw, in Nottinghamshire.<br/> +<br/> +As Robin Hood, in the forest stood,<br/> +Beneath the shade of the greenwood tree,<br/> +He the presence did scan, of a fine young man,<br/> +As fine as ever a jay might be.<br/> +<br/> +Abroad he spread a cloak of red,<br/> +A cloak of scarlet fine and gay,<br/> +Again and again, he frisked over the plain,<br/> +And merrily chanted a roundelay. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, my Stephen, let us sleep, if our good hosts will permit.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of both were +red with weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured thee? +the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the woman they had noted at the fireside. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou art Simon de Montfort,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am; how dost thou know me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have met thee before, under other guise. Is liberty dear to +thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Without it life is worthless—but who or what threatens it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not harm me. I have eaten of their salt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it is +brought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks.” +</p> + +<p> +“In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and away; +but who will be my guide?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But canst thou part with thine own son?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust +him to thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mother!” said the boy, weeping silently. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me his name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Martin will suffice.” +</p> + +<p> +“But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that I may +bring him up according to his degree.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor woman! yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of my pages, if +he prove worthy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +One maternal kiss—it was the last. +</p> + +<p> +And the three, earl, squire, and boy, went forth into the night, the boy riding +behind the squire. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch2" id="Ch2">2</a>: Michelham Priory.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a +name="Glyph4" href="#Note4">4</a>}, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My journey is indeed delayed,” said the earl, “yet I am most +anxious to reach London and present myself to the king.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“High lineage?” said the earl, with a smile and a look of inquiry. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is the son of a brother crusader.” +</p> + +<p> +“The father is not living?” +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p> +“But let them bring young Hubert hither.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou remember me, my son?” asked the earl, as the boy knelt +on one knee, and kissed his hand gracefully. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems many years since thou didst leave me here, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! thy memory is good—hast thou been happy here? hast thou done +thy duty?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is dull for an eaglet to be brought up in a cave.” +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou the eaglet then, and this the cave? fie! Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father was a soldier of the cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My son, be not irreverent.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou shalt go with me. But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou grieve +over the loss of this sweet peace.” +</p> + +<p> +“I love not peace—it is dull.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard and +stern school for thee; there are no idlers there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not an idler, my good lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only over his books,” said the prior. +</p> + +<p> +“That is because I prefer the lance and the bow to pot hooks and hangers +on parchment.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child. Yet he had a +winning manner, which reconciled his elders to his freedom. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” said the earl, when Hubert was gone, “send for the +other lad; the waif and stray from the forest.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said he sadly, “since she told me to go; but I love +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy name is Martin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; they call me so now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is thy other name?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know not. I have no other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served Jack, +the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows. How he did +scream!” +</p> + +<p> +“What! didst thou see such a sight, a young boy like thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Martin innocently; “why shouldn’t I?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor child,” said the prior. +</p> + +<p> +“My boy, thou should say ‘my lord,’ when addressing a titled +earl.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude, my +lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of ‘my +lords.’” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not let them get me again, my lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There sounds the vesper bell. Wilt thou with me to the chapel?” +said the prior. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Except the Lord build the house,<br/> +their labour is but vain that build it.<br/> +Except the Lord keep the city,<br/> +the watchman watcheth but in vain. +</p> + +<p> +And again: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Lo, children and the fruit of the womb<br/> +are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But here was a soil ready for the good seed. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph5" href="#Note5">5</a>}, +who, although he did not agree with the politics of Simon de Montfort, could +not refuse the rites of hospitality. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch3" id="Ch3">3</a>: Kenilworth.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We have previously described this course of education in a former tale, <b>The +Rival Heirs</b>, but for the benefit of those who have not read the afore-said +story we must be pardoned a little recapitulation. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was his to learn that wondrous devotion to the ladies, which was at the +foundation of chivalry, and found at last its <i>reductio ad absurdum</i> in +the Dulcinea of <b>Don Quixote</b>; but it was not a bad thing in itself, and +softened the manners, nor suffered them to become utterly ferocious. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! how often one aspect of chivalry alone, and that the worst, was found to +exist; the ideal was too high for fallen nature. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph6" +href="#Note6">6</a>}. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>au fait</i> in his manners. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph7" href="#Note7">7</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Courage! little friend,” said the chaplain, “and thou wilt +do as well as the wisest here, only be not impatient or discouraged.” +</p> + +<p> +And to Hubert he said one day: +</p> + +<p> +“This hardly represents your best work, my son, you did better even +yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert tossed his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin cares only for books—I want to learn better things; he may +be a monk, I will be a soldier.” +</p> + +<p> +“And dost thou know,” said a deep voice, “what is the first +duty of a soldier?” +</p> + +<p> +It was the stern figure of the earl who stood unobserved in the doorway of the +library. +</p> + +<p> +Hubert hung his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Obedience!” +</p> + +<p> +“And know this,” added the speaker, “that learning +distinguishes the man from the brute, as religion distinguishes him from the +devil.” +</p> + +<p> +The two medieval boys, with the story of whose lives this veracious chronicle +concerns itself, were indeed singularly unlike in their tastes and +dispositions. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph8" href="#Note8">8</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +With his unchecked, unbidden joy,<br/> +His dread of books, and love of fun. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Mores puerorum se detegunt inter ludendum</i>. +</p> + +<p> +So we will draw no more pen and ink sketches, but leave our characters to show +themselves by their deeds. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What a view we have here; one can see the towers of Warwick, over the +woods.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there is the line of hills over Keinton and Radway {<a name="Glyph9" +href="#Note9">9</a>}.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there Black Down Hill.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there the spires of Coventry.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And where is that castle?” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“At Walderne; my uncle is Nicholas de Harengod, and some day the castle +will be mine.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin looked up with strange interest. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Walderne Castle yours!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, have you heard of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“And seen it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seen it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, afar off,” said the lad dreamily, for Hubert gave him a +warning look. +</p> + +<p> +“Even as a cat may look at a king’s palace.” +</p> + +<p> +“But those woods are full of outlaws,” said another lad, Louis de +Chalgrave. +</p> + +<p> +“All the better; it will be rare sport to hunt them out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Easier said than done,” muttered Martin, but not so low that his +words were unheard. +</p> + +<p> +“What is easier said than done?” cried Drogo. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“In any place but this Kenilworth they would cost a fellow his +ears.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but Earl Simon loves the English.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is no work for a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The youngster should learn to govern his temper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, he did not begin it.” +</p> + +<p> +The last speaker was Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +Martin had walked away into the wood, as if he neither expected nor asked +justice from his companions, and Hubert followed him. +</p> + +<p> +“There they go together.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two boys, each without a second name.” +</p> + +<p> +“But after all,” said Louis, “I like Hubert better for +standing up for his friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are queer friends, as unlike as light and darkness,” said +Drogo. +</p> + +<p> +“Talking of darkness reminds one of your eyes, they are—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hold your tongue.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch4" id="Ch4">4</a>: In the Greenwood.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert,” he said at last, “I don’t think I can stay +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it is a very pleasant place. I love it more every day, and they are +not such bad fellows.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are like them in your tastes, and I am not.” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me, Martin, how were you brought up; were you always with the +outlaws? You almost let out the secret today.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I was born in the woods.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are not of gentle blood?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! what became of your English forbears?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +What did it mean? The mystery was soon explained, the deep bay of a hound was +heard close behind. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Take care—what are you about!” cried Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” said Hubert, “to kill a hound, a good hound +like this.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the voices of men came from the wood. +</p> + +<p> +“See, they follow upon the track of the deer; let us run, we are in for +it else.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will hang thee, that’s all—fly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Too late; you go, leave me to pay the penalty of my own deed, if penalty +there be.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, forsake a comrade in distress? Nay, I would die first, that is a +thing I would die for, but for a brute—never.” +</p> + +<p> +A tall hunter, a man of most commanding appearance and stature, stood upon the +scene. Two attendants followed behind. +</p> + +<p> +“THE EARL OF WARWICK,” whispered Hubert, awe struck. +</p> + +<p> +The earl looked astonished as he saw the dog. +</p> + +<p> +“Who has done this?” he said, in a voice of thunder. +</p> + +<p> +But Martin did not tremble as he replied: +</p> + +<p> +“I, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why? did the hound attack thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The indignation of the two woodsmen was almost indecorous, but they did not +speak before their dread master. +</p> + +<p> +“And didst thou have aught to do with it?” said the earl, +addressing Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, my lord, I did it all with this spear; he tried to stop me,” +said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Then thou shalt hang for it. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Ralph, Gilbert, have you a rope between you?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord of Warwick, we knew not we were on your ground; we are pages +from Kenilworth.” +</p> + +<p> +The men who had seized Martin stood motionless at this, still, however, holding +him, and awaiting further orders. +</p> + +<p> +“Can this be true?” growled the Lord of the Bear and Ragged Staff. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord, you see the crest of the Montforts on our caps.” +</p> + +<p> +In his fury the earl had ignored the fact. +</p> + +<p> +“Your names?” +</p> + +<p> +“Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘Martin,’ ‘Hubert,’ of what? have you no +‘de,’ no second names?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are not permitted to bear them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“The fact that you are a gentleman,” said Hubert boldly. +</p> + +<p> +The earl seemed struck by the answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Release them, my men. +</p> + +<p> +“Fare ye well till tomorrow. +</p> + +<p> +“My poor Bruno!” +</p> + +<p> +And the lads hastened home. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin, we are in bad case.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do own you were wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot, for I do not think I was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say so at all events. What is the harm?” +</p> + +<p> +“My tongue was given me to express my thoughts, not to conceal +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will be beaten.” +</p> + +<p> +“And bear it; it was all my doing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How is this?” said the Earl Simon. “I hear that you two +killed the good deerhound of my brother of Warwick.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was I, my lord, not Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were both together,” whispered the Earl of Warwick. “I +saw not who did the deed.” +</p> + +<p> +“We may believe Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“So thou dost take all the blame upon thyself, Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“All the blame, if blame there was, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord of Warwick, I am very sorry that I was forced to kill your good +hound, and hope you will forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Forced to kill!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me the whole story,” said the Earl of Leicester. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me, my good brother, I want to hear how he defends +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +And Martin began: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou wouldst do the same thing again, I suppose?” said the +Earl of Leicester. +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t help it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what didst thou do, Hubert?” +</p> + +<p> +“I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou didst not feel the same pity, then, for the deer?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord, because I thought dogs were made to hunt deer, and deer to +be hunted.” +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p> +“What dost thou say, boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, if I have offended you, I refuse not to pay with my +back.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou believe all this, my boy?” said he of Warwick. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is all true, is it not? It is in the <i>Flores Sancti +Francisci</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +The earl smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my boy, I forgive thee. +</p> + +<p> +“My good brother of Leicester, the lad is made for a Franciscan; +don’t spoil a good friar by making him a warrior.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Franciscan he shall be. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, my boy, wouldst thou like to go to Oxford and study under my worthy +friend, Adam de Maresco?” +</p> + +<p> +Martin’s eyes sparkled with delight. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, my lord. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my Lord of Warwick.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thanks, my lord, <i>O felix dies</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“See how he takes to Latin, like a duck to the water. +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert, thou must go with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert’s countenance fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, no, my lord, I want to be a soldier like my father; please +don’t send me away. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is the stuff they make martyrs from,” muttered he of Warwick. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Hubert, you may stay and work out your own destiny, and Martin shall +go to Oxford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Martin, I am so sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +But Martin was rapturous with joy. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph10" href="#Note10">10</a>}, 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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +He prayeth best who loveth best,<br/> +All things both great and small,<br/> +For the dear God, who loveth us,<br/> +He made and loveth all. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>Corruptio optimi est +pessima</i>. 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch5" id="Ch5">5</a>: Martin Leaves Kenilworth.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And soon the chaplain called, “Martin, Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready, sire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Looking round on the home thou art leaving, thou wilt find Oxford much +fairer.” +</p> + +<p> +“But thou wilt not be there.” +</p> + +<p> +“My good friend Adam will do more for thee than ever I could.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but for thee, sire, I had fallen into utter recklessness; thou hast +dragged me from the mire.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sit Deo gloria</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the earl,” said the chaplain, and they all rose as the great +man entered. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon my intrusion, father. I am come to say farewell to this wilful +boy.” +</p> + +<p> +They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, sit down. I have not yet broken my own fast and will crack a crust +with you.” +</p> + +<p> +And the earl ate and drank that he might put them all at their ease. +</p> + +<p> +“So the scholar’s gown and pen suit thee better than the coat of +mail and the sword, master Martin!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my good lord!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, my boy, thou wast exiled from home in my cause, and I may owe thee +a life for all I can tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would not have harmed thee, not even they, had they known.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you see they did not know, and all was fish that came to their nets. +Martin, don’t thou ever think of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Martin, “there are no secrets between us. He +knows mine. I know his.” +</p> + +<p> +“But no one else, I trust,” said the earl, who remembered a certain +prohibition. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord, only Hubert. He already knew so much, I was forced to tell +him all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then thou hast not forgotten thy kindred in the greenwood?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can never forget my poor mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast already told me all that thou dost know, and that thy fathers +once owned Michelham.” +</p> + +<p> +“So the outlaws said, the merrie men of the wood. Oh if my father had but +lived.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would have made thee an outlaw, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“It might well have been, but my poor mother would have been happy +then.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think Martin has a scheme in his head,” said Hubert shyly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, my son?” said the earl. +</p> + +<p> +“The chaplain knows.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they are Christians, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thine,” he continued, “is a far nobler ambition than that of +the warrior, thine the task to save, his to destroy. +</p> + +<p> +“What sayest thou, Hubert?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would fain be a soldier of the Cross, like my father, and cut down the +Paynim.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was short and simple, my lord; I should like to convert them that way +best.” +</p> + +<p> +The chaplain sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Hubert!” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +The earl listened and smiled a sad smile. +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +“It is lawful to draw sword in a good cause, my lord,” said the +chaplain. +</p> + +<p> +“I never doubted it, but I say that Martin’s ambition is more +Christ-like—is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Martin, Martin,” he said, “whither goest thou so +equipped and attended?” +</p> + +<p> +“To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“And after that?” +</p> + +<p> +“To go forth with the cord of Saint Francis around me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He waved his hand, and the cavalcade swept onward. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was rough accommodation, but Martin’s early education had not rendered +him squeamish, neither were his attendants. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Behold the spires of Oxenford!” cried the men. +</p> + +<p> +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 +{<a name="Glyph11" href="#Note11">11</a>} 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, young master. We must hurry on, or we may not get in before +nightfall, and there may be highwaymen lurking about the suburbs.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch6" id="Ch6">6</a>: At Walderne Castle.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>gunna</i> or gown, and the <i>couvrechef</i> (whence our word kerchief) on +the head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Trodden by those blessed feet<br/> +Which for our salvation were<br/> +Nailed unto the holy rood. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +When they had been left alone together for some minutes, and all was still save +the wind which howled without she rose and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me who thou art, O mysterious man: thy voice reminds me of one long +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy SON?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy son, doth he yet live?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“So I sailed thence to Sicily—in deep dejection, repenting, all too +late, my ungovernable spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>sans peur et sans reproche</i>. Then I may lay me down +in peace and take my rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will thou not see my husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And must thou leave thy ancestral halls, and bury thyself again, my +brother?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not reveal thyself to my husband?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot—at least not in this house; but in the morn, after I have +parted for Lewes, tell him all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what proofs shall I give if he ask them?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sybil,” cried a voice. +</p> + +<p> +“It is my husband. I must go. Farewell, dearly loved, unhappy +brother.” +</p> + +<p> +And she departed, leaving him alone in the chapel. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, he appears, as oft before, and stands before me as when I +transfixed him on the quay at Malta. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Here he paused, as if listening. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we shall see! But can I send him to that distant land? He may +suffer as I. +</p> + +<p> +“No! no! Son of my love! It may not be. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, thou departest. It is well. Avaunt thee, poor ghost! Avaunt +thee.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Much more conversation passed between the knight and the earl, but we shall +have occasion to develop its results as our narrative proceeds. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch7" id="Ch7">7</a>: Martin’s First Day At +Oxford.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This magnificent abbey had been endowed by Robert D’Oyley, nephew of the +Norman Conqueror, mentioned in another of our Chronicles {<a name="Glyph12" +href="#Note12">12</a>}. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph13" href="#Note13">13</a>}, 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 <i>Quatre Voies</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Prie-Dieu</i> beneath a +crucifix, and under the fald stool a skull, with the words “<i>memento +mori</i>,” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Martin bowed reverently before him, and gave him the chaplain’s letter. +</p> + +<p> +“I had heard of thy arrival, my son. I trust thou hast found comfortable +lodgings at the hostel I recommended?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have slept well, my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“And hast not forgotten thy duty to God?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should do discredit to my teacher at Kenilworth if I did. I have been +to the abbey church.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, my son, what dost thou come to Oxford for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To learn that I may afterwards teach.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what dost thou desire to become?” +</p> + +<p> +“One of your holy brotherhood, a brother of Saint Francis.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“All this I have been told.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Do these temptations await me in Oxford?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where do the brethren chiefly work for God?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why without pillows?” asked Martin, wondering. +</p> + +<p> +“We need no little mountains to lift our heads to heaven. None but the +sick go shod.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it not dangerous to health to go without shoes in the winter?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am a friar,’ he shrieked. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You lie,’ they replied, ‘for you go shod.’ +</p> + +<p> +“He awoke and threw the shoes out of the window.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he catch cold afterwards?” +</p> + +<p> +Another smile. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my son, all these things go by habit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I begin to leave off my shoes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet, your vocation is not settled. You may yet choose the +world.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never shall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor boy, you are young and cannot tell. Perhaps before nightfall a +different light may be thrown upon your good resolutions.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause ensued. At length Martin went on, “At least you have books. I +love books.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did the Order come to Oxford?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘We be not jugglers, we be poor brethren of our Lord and Saint +Francis.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did they do?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As he stood by the door, three or four grave-looking men came along. +</p> + +<p> +“We must get them all home, or there will be bloodshed tonight,” +Martin heard one say. +</p> + +<p> +“It will be difficult,” replied the other. +</p> + +<p> +Into the tavern they turned, and the noise suddenly subsided. +</p> + +<p> +“What do ye here, ye reprobates, that ye stand drinking, dicing, +quarrelling? To your hostels, every one of you,” said the first. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I help it?” he said. “They be too many for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you cannot keep order, seek another trade,” was the stern +response. “We cannot have the morals of our scholars corrupted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you, sirs, it is they who corrupt me. I don’t know half the +wickedness they do.” +</p> + +<p> +Our readers need not believe him, the proctors did not. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>Quatre Voies</i>” (Carfax) Conduit. +</p> + +<p> +“Down with the lubberly North men!” +</p> + +<p> +“Split their skulls, though they be like those of the bullocks their +sires drive!” +</p> + +<p> +“Down with the moss troopers!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Boves boreales</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +And answering cries: +</p> + +<p> +“Down with the lisping, smooth-tongued Southerners!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Australes asini</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Eheu</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +“Slay me every one with a burr in his mouth.” (An allusion to the +Northumbrian accent.) +</p> + +<p> +“Down with the mincing fools who have got no r.r.r’s” +</p> + +<p> +“Burrrrn them, you should say.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Frangite capita</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Percutite porcos boreales</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Vim inferre australibus asinis</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Sternite omnes Gallos</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +So they shouted imprecations in Latin and English, and eke in French, for there +were many Gauls about. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Let them alone, they have had enough. ’Tis cowardly to fight a +dozen to one. Listen, the row is on in the <i>Quatre Voies</i> again. We shall +find more there.” +</p> + +<p> +The two were left alone. +</p> + +<p> +Martin raised his wounded companion, whose head was bleeding profusely. +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou hurt much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so very much, only dazed. I shall soon be better. I am close +home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me support you. Lean on me, I will see you safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“From the woods of merry Sussex, and later on, the tilt yard of +Kenilworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you are a true Southerner, then. So am I, the second son of Waleran +de Monceux of Herst, in the Andredsweald. +</p> + +<p> +“Here we are at home—come in to Saint Dymas’ Hall.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch8" id="Ch8">8</a>: Hubert At Lewes Priory.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph14" +href="#Note14">14</a>}, 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 {<a name="Glyph15" +href="#Note15">15</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>Jesu dulcis memoria</i>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Canst thou tell us whether the brother of Saint John, Roger erst of +Walderne, is tarrying within?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We would fain see him—here is his son.” +</p> + +<p> +“By our lady, not to mention Saint Pancras, a well-favoured stripling. +And thou?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Sir Nicholas of Walderne,” said he of that query, with some +importance, which was quite lost upon the janitor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” said a deep voice. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is then my Hubert. Ah, how like thy short-lived mother! She lives +again in thee, my boy.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my father, I trust thy courage and valour have descended to me +also. They do not call me girlish at Kenilworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +For a few moments there was silence, during which Roger seemed struggling to +overcome an emotion which overpowered him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“So thou desirest to go forth into the world, my son?” +</p> + +<p> +“As thou didst also, my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +There he shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +“My boy, hast thou ever wished to be a warrior of the Cross—a +crusader?” +</p> + +<p> +“Often, oh how often. In that way I would fain serve God.” +</p> + +<p> +The monk soldier smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“And how wouldst thou attempt to convert the infidel?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the first blasphemy he uttered I would cut him down, cleave him to +the chine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one wants to see them in heaven, I should think. Let them go to their +own place.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The father bent his knee—the son did the same. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“When thou art struck—” +</p> + +<p> +“No one ever struck me without getting it back, at least no boy of my own +age,” interrupted Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“And He said, ‘When thou art smitten on one cheek, turn the other +to the smiter.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is Martin?” +</p> + +<p> +“The best boy I know, but I have seen him fight.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Deliver thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Even here, in this holy, consecrated place?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even in the very church itself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can any one else see it?” +</p> + +<p> +“They have never done so. Perhaps as thou art of my blood, it might be +permitted thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will try. Let me stay this night with thee, and watch by thy side in +the church.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou shalt be blessed in the deed. I will ask Sir Nicholas to tarry the +night if he can do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or I might ride back alone tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“The forest is dangerous; the outlaws abound.” +</p> + +<p> +“That for the outlaws, <i>hujus facio</i>;” and Hubert snapped his +fingers. It was about the only scrap of Latin he cared for. +</p> + +<p> +The father smiled sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“We must be off at once, brother, Hubert and I. The woods are not over +safe after nightfall.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must ask thee to spare me my son a while. I would fain make his +further acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come back with us to Walderne, then. The lad would soon die of the gloom +of a monastery.” +</p> + +<p> +“I spent four years in one, and the earl found me alive at the +end,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, my brother, I may not leave the priory now.” +</p> + +<p> +“But how long wilt thou keep the boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only till tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Who propped the Virgin in her faint,<br/> +The loved Apostle John. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sans peur et sans reproche</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Just then Hubert caught his father’s glance, and it made each separate +hair erect itself: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” cried the boy, “what art thou gazing at? what +aileth thee? I see nought amiss.” +</p> + +<p> +Words came from the father’s lips, not in reply to his son, but as if to +some object unseen by all besides. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father, I see nought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not there, between those pillars?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“A dead man, with a sword wound in his open breast, which he displays. +His eyes live, yea, and the wound lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, father, there is nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then go and stand between those pillars, and prove it to me to be +void.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert hesitated. He would sooner have fought a hundred boyish battles with +fist, quarterstaff, or even deadly weapons—but this— +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, thou darest not. Nay, I blame thee not, yet thou didst say there was +nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He is gone. He fled before thee. The omen is good. Thou shalt deliver +thy sire—let us pray together.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Domine labia mea aperies<br/> +Et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The sombre-robed monks were in the choir, the organ rolling out its deep notes +in accompaniment to the plain song of the <i>Venite exultemus</i>, which then, +as now, preceded the psalms for the day. Then came the hymn: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Lo night and clouds and darkness wrap<br/> +The world in dark array;<br/> +The morning dawns, the sun breaks in,<br/> +Hence, hence, ye shades—away {<a name="Glyph16" href="#Note16">16</a>}! +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Hubert, dear son, worthy of thy sainted mother. We will praise +Him, too, for He has lifted the darkness from my heart.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch9" id="Ch9">9</a>: The Other Side Of The Picture.</h2> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest news +from dear old Sussex.” +</p> + +<p> +“What place is this?” replied Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the real name?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what do the outsiders call you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Saint Dymas’ Halt, since we never pay our debts. But the world +calls it Le Oriole {<a name="Glyph17" href="#Note17">17</a>} Hostel. A better +name just now is ‘Liberty Hall,’ for we all do just as we like. +There is no king in Israel.” +</p> + +<p> +So speaking, he lifted the latch, and saluted a gigantic porter: +</p> + +<p> +“Holloa, Magog! hast thou digested the Woodstock deer yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw, he that is born to die in his bed can never be hanged. Where is +Spitfire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said a sharp-speaking voice, coming from a precocious young +monkey in a servitor’s dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Get me a flagon of canary, and we will wash down the remains of the +pasty.” +</p> + +<p> +“But strangers are not admitted after curfew,” said the porter. +</p> + +<p> +“And I must be getting to my lodgings,” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Tush, tush, didn’t you hear that this is <i>Liberty Hall</i>? +</p> + +<p> +“Shut your mouth, Magog—here is something to stop it. This young +warrior just knocked down a <i>bos borealis</i>, who strove to break my head. +Shall I not offer him bread and salt in return?” +</p> + +<p> +The porter offered no further opposition, for the speaker slipped a coin into +his palm as he continued: +</p> + +<p> +“Come this way, this is my den. Not that way, that is <i>spelunca +latronum</i>, a den of robbers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Holloa! here is Ralph de Monceux, and with a broken head, as usual. +</p> + +<p> +“Where didst thou get that, Master Ralph, roaring Ralph?” +</p> + +<p> +Such sounds came from the <i>spelunca latronum</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“At the <i>Quatre Voies</i>, fighting for your honour against a drove of +northern oxen.” +</p> + +<p> +“And whom hast thou brought with thee to help thee mend it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The fellow who knocked down the <i>bos</i> who gave it me, as deftly as +any butcher.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“What name shall I give thee?” whispered Ralph. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Martin of—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Martin from Kenilworth,” said our bashful hero, blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou didst say thou wert of Sussex?” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am, but I was adopted into the earl’s household three years +agone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he is Northern,” said a listener. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he came from Sussex.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say where? no tricks upon gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Michelham Priory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Michelham Priory. Ah! an acolyte! Tapers, incense, and albs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Acolyte be hanged. He does not fight like one at all events.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come up into my den. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Because, young greenhorn,” said Hugh, “he who should bring a +sword or other lethal weapon into the University would shortly be expelled by +<i>alma mater</i> from her nursery, according to the statutes for that case +made and provided.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why do you come here, if you love fighting better than learning? +There is plenty of fighting in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Amo, amas, amat</i>, see me catch a rat. <i>Rego, regis, regit</i>, +let me sweat a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tace</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who shot it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mad Hugh and I.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you get the load of hay from?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much did he give?” +</p> + +<p> +“A rose noble, and a good pie out of the animal into the bargain.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did you do with the cart?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good thing you are here with your necks only their natural length. The +king’s forester would have hung you all three.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only he couldn’t catch us. We have led him many a dance before +now.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“More drink, I have a jorum of splendid sack in you cupboard,” +cried their host when the flagon was empty. +</p> + +<p> +“Now a song, every one must give a song. +</p> + +<p> +“Hugh, you begin.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +I love to lurk in the gloom of the wood<br/> +Where the lithesome stags are roaming,<br/> +And to send a sly shaft just to tickle their ribs<br/> +Ere I smuggle them home in the gloaming. +</p> + +<p> +“Just the case with this one we have been eating. But that measure is +slow, let me give you one,” said Ralph. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Come, drink until you drop, my boys,<br/> +And if a headache follow,<br/> +Why, go to bed and sleep it off,<br/> +And drink again tomorrow. +</p> + +<p> +Martin began to fear that the wine was suffocating his conscience in its +fumes—and said: +</p> + +<p> +“I must go now.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will all go with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Magog won’t let us out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes he will, we will say we are all going to Saint Frideswide’s +shrine to say our prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +“The dice before we go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Throw against me,” said Hugh to our Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot, I never played in my life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the sooner you begin the better. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, roaring Ralph, this innocent young acolyte says he has never +touched the dice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the sooner he begins the better. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, stake a mark against me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He hasn’t got one.” +</p> + +<p> +Shame, false shame, conquered Martin’s repugnance. He threw one of his +few coins down, and Ralph did the same. +</p> + +<p> +“You throw first—six and four—ten. Here goes—I have +only two threes, the marks are yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I don’t want them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Take them and be hanged. D’ye think I can’t spare a +mark?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, we are all going to see thee safe home. The <i>boves boreales</i> +may be grazing in the streets.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear them! Burr! burr! burr!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +But happily (to ease the mind of our readers we will say at once) he was not to +take many steps on this road. +</p> + +<p> +“Magog! Magog! open! open!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not such a noise, you’ll wake the old governor above,” +—alluding to the master of the hostel. +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t wake, not he. It does not pay to see too much. He knows +his own interests.” +</p> + +<p> +“Past curfew,” growled Magog. “Can’t let any one +out.” +</p> + +<p> +“That only means he wants another coin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Open, Magog, we are going to pray at Saint Frideswide’s shrine for +thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to get another deer for thee at Woodstock.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are going by the king’s invitation to visit the palace, and see +the ghost of fair Rosamond.” +</p> + +<p> +“We are going to sup with the Franciscans—six split peas and a +thimbleful of water to each man.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Come forth, ye apes, and scratch your polls,<br/> +Your learning is in question,<br/> +And while ye scratch, eat what ye catch,<br/> +To quicken your digestion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Viaticum</i>, or Holy Communion, so called when given +in the hour of death. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch10" id="Ch10">10</a>: Foul And Fair.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean yet to be Lord of Walderne,” he said to himself again and +again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The earl’s features were clouded. +</p> + +<p> +“You are all aware, my boys, of the order that no one below knightly rank +should shoot deer in my forests?” +</p> + +<p> +“We are,” said one and all. +</p> + +<p> +“Does any page profess ignorance of the rule?” +</p> + +<p> +No reply. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +No one stirred. +</p> + +<p> +The earl looked troubled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Enter then, sir forester.” +</p> + +<p> +The forester entered. +</p> + +<p> +“You found a deer shot by an arrow in the West Woods?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you found the arrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was it marked?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was.” +</p> + +<p> +The earl held an arrow up. +</p> + +<p> +“Who owns the crest of a boar’s head?” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert started. +</p> + +<p> +“I do, my lord—but—but,” and he changed colour. +</p> + +<p> +Do not let the reader wonder at this. Innocence suddenly arraigned is oft as +confused as guilt. +</p> + +<p> +“But, my lord, I never shot the deer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thine arrow is a strong presumptive proof against thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell, my lord, who can have used one of my arrows for such a +purpose—I did not.” +</p> + +<p> +Here spoke up another page, a Percy of the Northumbrian breed of warriors. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Then Drogo, who thought that things were going too well for Hubert, spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, is it a duty to tell all we know, even if it is against a +companion?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is under such circumstances, when the innocent may be +suspected.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my lord, I saw Hubert shoot that deer, as I was in the West +Woods.” +</p> + +<p> +“Saw him! Did he see you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are too young for the appeal to battle.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph18" +href="#Note18">18</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>soi-disant</i> of Walderne.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>fratres consociati</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Drogo was stunned by his fall, and borne by the earl’s command to his +chamber. +</p> + +<p> +“God hath spoken, and vindicated the innocent,” said the earl. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Drogo looked at the man. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” he said. “I accept the decision of the combat. Let +me go from Kenilworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, without reparation?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have my punishment to bear in expulsion from this +place”—(“if punishment it be,” he +muttered)—“as for my <i>soi-disant</i> cousin, it will be an evil +day for him when he crosses my path elsewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +The earl stood astonished at his audacity. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And, amidst the hisses of his late companions, Drogo left Kenilworth for +ever—expelled. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch11" id="Ch11">11</a>: The Early Franciscans.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then he sought the good prior, Adam de Maresco, and obtaining an audience after +the <i>dejeuner</i> or breakfast, poured out all his sorrows and sin. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! that I should become a drunkard, dicer, and brawler.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, my father, how old was the saint when he renounced the world? +Did Francis ever love it?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did, indeed. He was called ‘<i>Le debonair Francois</i>.’ +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. +<i>Liberalis et hilaris</i> was Francis.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he ever fight?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did he give up all this?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What ails thee, Francis?’ cried the rest. ‘Art +thinking of a wife?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of one more noble, more pure, than +you can conceive, any of you.’” +</p> + +<p> +“What did he mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“The yearning for the life which is hid with Christ in God had seized +him. It was the last of his revels. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Love set my heart on fire,’ +</p> + +<p> +“—He used afterwards to sing. It was at that moment the fire +kindled.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish it would set mine on fire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps the fire is already kindled.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, think of last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what makes thee loathe last night? Other young men do not loathe +such follies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shame, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what gives thee that divine shame? It is not thine own sinful +nature. There is something in thee which is not of self.” +</p> + +<p> +“You think so? Oh, you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you give me fresh hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since you ask it of a fellow worm.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what can I do? I want to be up and doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell it me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What had become of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“That I cannot tell thee. Francis thought afterwards it was an angel, if +not the Blessed Lord Himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I visit the lepers tomorrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“The disease is infectious.” +</p> + +<p> +“What of that?” said Martin, unconsciously imitating his friend +Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we will see. Again Francis once gave way to pride. How do you +think he conquered it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, for that is my great sin.” +</p> + +<p> +“He exchanged his gay clothes with a wretched beggar, and begged all day +on the steps of Saint Peter’s at Rome.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I do that on the steps of Oseney?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“All too well!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what else?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when did he go forth to found his mighty Order?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +{<a name="Glyph19" href="#Note19">19</a>}. 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: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Repent of your sins, and believe the Gospel!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Brother!’ he said. ‘Hast thou met with Him of +Nazareth? He is seeking for thee.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was Francis long alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Lo,’ said a voice, ‘the poor man whom thou hast +driven away.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then he thought he saw the church falling, and a figure in a gray robe +rushed forth and propped it up— +</p> + +<p> +“‘Lo, the poor man whom thou hast driven away.’ +</p> + +<p> +“He sent for the stranger, and Francis opened his heart to the mighty +Pontiff. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then he commanded that they should receive the tonsure, and, although +not ordained, be considered clerks. +</p> + +<p> +“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:” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Love sets my heart on fire,<br/> +Love of my Bridegroom new,<br/> +The Slain: the Crucified!<br/> +To Him my heart He drew<br/> +When hanging on the Tree,<br/> +From whence He said to me<br/> +I am the Shepherd true;<br/> +Love sets my heart on fire.<br/> +<br/> +I die of sweetest love,<br/> +Nor wonder at my fate,<br/> +The sword which deals the blow<br/> +Is love immaculate.<br/> +Love sets my heart on fire (<i>etc</i>). +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I hear the bell for <i>terce</i>—go forth, my son, and prove +your vocation.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch12" id="Ch12">12</a>: How Hubert Gained His Spurs.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last the barons determined upon <i>constitutional</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +It was in Easter, 1258, and the parliament, consisting of all the tenants <i>in +capiti</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never give up my castles, which my brother the king, out of his +great love, has given me,” said William de Valence. +</p> + +<p> +“Know this then for certain, that thou shalt either give up thy castles +or thy head,” replied Earl Simon. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The barons acted promptly. They broke up the parliament and pursued. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert was sent for. +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou willing to leave my service?” said the earl. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” said poor Hubert, all in a tremble, “leave +thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; dost thou not wish to go to the Holy Land?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if it is to go there. But must I not wait for knighthood?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Hence Hubert’s words. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am ready, my lord, and willing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +These fields, these meadows once were ours,<br/> +And sooth by heaven and all its powers,<br/> +Think you we will not issue forth,<br/> +To spoil the spoiler as we may,<br/> +And from the robber rend the prey. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And thus it came. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He waited and listened. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly kept in the +shadow. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The third hesitates. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +How he welcomed the morning light. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The sun breaks forth, the light streams in,<br/> +Hence, hence, ye shades, away! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The reader may also imagine how Earl Simon hoped that that valiant squire might +prove to be Hubert. And lo! so it turned out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Thus with the breastplate: “Stand—having on the breastplate of +righteousness.” +</p> + +<p> +And with the shield: “Take the shield of faith, wherewith thou shalt be +able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then—the banquet was spread in the castle hall. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch13" id="Ch13">13</a>: How Martin Gained His Desire.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So into the forest which lay between Oxford and Abingdon, now only surviving in +Bagley Wood, plunged our novice. As the poet says: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Into the forest, darker, deeper, grayer,<br/> +His lips moving as if in prayer,<br/> +Walked the monk Martin, all alone:<br/> +Around him the tops of the forest trees<br/> +Waving, made the sign of the Cross<br/> +And muttered their benedicites. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Oh how the serpent lurks in Eden—beneath earthly beauty lies the mystery +of pain and suffering. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +What did it mean? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So as Hubert faced his Welshmen, did Martin face his +foe—“typhus” or plague, call it which we please. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Canst thou hear me, art thou conscious?” +</p> + +<p> +“An angel of God?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, a sinner like thyself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go, thou wilt catch the plague.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are you taking me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To the good sisters of Saint Clare, who will take care of thee for +Christ’s sake.” +</p> + +<p> +So he strove to wipe away the tears from the orphan’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +To Him my heart He drew<br/> +While hanging on the tree,<br/> +From whence He said to me<br/> +I am the Shepherd true;<br/> +Love sets my heart on fire—<br/> +Love of the Crucified. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Not my will, but thine, be done.” +</p> + +<p> +And then he lapsed into delirium. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Gloria in Excelsis</i>, poising themselves on wings without the +window, and the strain: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Pax in terra hominibus bonoe voluntatis,</i> +</p> + +<p> +Was so ineffably sweet that the tears rolled down his cheeks in streams. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest brother, thou art better, art thou not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am quite free from pain, only a hungered.” +</p> + +<p> +“What food dost thou desire to enter thy lips first?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Bread of Life.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not as the <i>Viaticum</i> {<a name="Glyph20" +href="#Note20">20</a>}, thank God. Wait awhile, I go to fetch it from the +altar.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +First the prior knelt and thanked God for having preserved the life of the +youth they all loved. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Restored to life, and power, and thought. +</p> + +<p> +And one day he sat there, dreamily watching old Father Thames, as he murmured +and bubbled along, outside the stone boundary. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin moved his lips in silent acquiescence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My son, when thou art better thou must travel for change of air.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whither?” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Where wouldst thou like to go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, may I go to my kindred and teach them the holy truths of the +Gospel?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when shall I be ordained?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Martin could not speak for joy, but soon tears were seen to start down his +cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch14" id="Ch14">14</a>: May Day In Lewes.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a fair land; God keep it till I return.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph21" href="#Note21">21</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic cries: +</p> + +<p> +“Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!” +</p> + +<p> +And it is very probable that he would have been “done to death” had +not an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles ceased. The +other brother had reached the Jew. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness, but radiant +with emotion, began to speak. +</p> + +<p> +And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the circumstances of the +day. +</p> + +<p> +“The object of the Crucifixion,” he said, “had yet to be +attained amongst them.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are waiting now,” he said. “Will you keep them waiting +up there with their hands on the ropes?” +</p> + +<p> +Cries of “No! no!” broke from several. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The men looked down. +</p> + +<p> +“‘A Jew! only a Jew!’ you say; ‘the wicked Jews +crucified our Lord.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast begun well, brother Martin,” said Ginepro, when they +could first speak to each other in the hospitium. +</p> + +<p> +“I! No, not I. God gave me strength,” and he sank on the bench +exhausted and pale. +</p> + +<p> +“It is too much for thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your +spurs.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are acquainted. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be trials +and difficulties.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am prepared for them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But will there be no fighting?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +So they talked until the midnight hour. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My men will be a protection,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +The young friars laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“We need no protection,” said Ginepro. “If we want arms, +these bulrushes will serve for spears.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, do not jest,” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“We have other arms, my Hubert.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only faith and prayer, but they never fail.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall you visit Walderne Castle?” inquired Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“It may fall to my lot to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both.” +</p> + +<p> +“He may have mended.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a frugal +meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs. +</p> + +<p> +“They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father +Francis,” said Ginepro, “which my father witnessed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their +songs of gladness, whereupon he said: +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“And the birds were silent.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can quite believe it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Little brother leveret,’ he said. ‘How didst thou let +thyself be taken?’ +</p> + +<p> +“The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took refuge +in the robe of the father. +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Instantly he cried, “Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go and +have a turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are we not too old for such sport?” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been preaching +to my little ones, and be my guests this night.” +</p> + +<p> +And they willingly consented. +</p> + +<p> +But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch15" id="Ch15">15</a>: The Crusader Sets Forth.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those days of +slow locomotion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And the supper—shall I give the bill of fare? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>et id genus +omne</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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). +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Sometimes in the night watch,<br/> +Half seen in the gloaming,<br/> +Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating<br/> +All into the darkness. +</p> + +<p> +And the harps responded in deep minor chords: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +All into the darkness.<br/> +We dream that we clasp them,<br/> +The forms of our dear ones.<br/> +When, lo, as we touch them,<br/> +They leave us and vanish<br/> +On wings that beat lightly<br/> +The still paths of slumber. +</p> + +<p> +Very softly the harps: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The still paths of slumber.<br/> +They left in high valour<br/> +The land of their boyhood,<br/> +And sorrowful patience<br/> +Awaits their returning<br/> +While love holds expectant<br/> +Their homes in our bosoms. +</p> + +<p> +Sweetly the harps: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Their homes in our bosoms.<br/> +In high hope they left us<br/> +In sorrow with weeping<br/> +Their loved ones await them.<br/> +For lo, to their greeting<br/> +Instead of our heroes<br/> +Come only their phantoms. +</p> + +<p> +The harps deep and low: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Come only their phantoms.<br/> +We weep as we reckon<br/> +The deeds of their glory—<br/> +Of this one the wisdom,<br/> +Of that one the valour:<br/> +And they in their beauty<br/> +Sleep sound in their death shrouds. +</p> + +<p> +The harps dismally: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Sleep sound in their death shrouds {<a name="Glyph22" href="#Note22">22</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let the heir stay with us,” cried the guests. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to +acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived. +</p> + +<p> +And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—just +as you would expect of our Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will, God being our helper.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy +return.” +</p> + +<p> +It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that +Hubert would not return safely. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a +name="Glyph23" href="#Note23">23</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me +of my heart. I leave it behind in England.” +</p> + +<p> +And even here he had a rival. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Wilt thou be true to me till death?”<br/> +the anxious lover cried.<br/> +“Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,”<br/> +Alicia replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, go to bed,” said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +To bed, but not to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Rose of Pevensey</i>. +</p> + +<p> +England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was the +gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +My native land—Good night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch16" id="Ch16">16</a>: Michelham Once More.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Two poor brethren of Saint Francis.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“The wayfarer’s welcome. Bed and board according to the rule of +your hospitable house.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours. +</p> + +<p> +“Look,” said one of the monks to his fellow; “they that have +turned the world upside down have come hither also.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whom the warder hath received.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will find scant welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,<br/> +</p> + +<p> +Above the clatter of knives and dishes. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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:” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Quench thou the fires of hate and strife<br/> +The wasting fevers of the heart. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>libera nos Domine</i>, and then there be . . .” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Again the voice rose above the din: +</p> + +<p> +“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 . . .” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>memento mori</i>, 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: +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>libera nos Domine</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>podagra dolorosa</i>— +</p> + +<p> +“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—<i>libera nos Domine</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Here the leader sang: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +And the whole brotherhood replied: +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Deo gratias</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But the prior rang a silver bell: “tinkle, tinkle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with the +twinkling black eyes and roundish face.” +</p> + +<p> +And Martin was brought to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin smiled, and replied: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember Earl Simon’s visit. Art thou that boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am, my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah well! ah me! how time passes! But there is another remembrance which +thy face awakens, of a death bed confession. <i>Sub sigillo</i>, perhaps I am +wrong in putting the two things together. <i>Sancte Benedicte ora pro me</i>. +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Martin was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“And hast thou the gift of preaching? I do not mean of talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“My superiors thought so, but they are fallible.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin was silent, out of respect to the age of the speaker. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou art a modest boy; come, tell me, who was thy father?” +</p> + +<p> +“An outlaw, long since dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thy mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did thy mother marry again?” +</p> + +<p> +“She was compelled to accept one Grimbeard, a chief amongst the +‘merrie men’ who succeeded my father as their leader.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Art thou a priest, portly father?’ they said irreverently. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Good lack,’ said I, ‘I am, but little of worldly +goods have I. Thou wilt not plunder God’s ambassadors of their little +all?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nay! But thou must come with us, and thy retinue must tarry here +till we bring thee back.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +“They laughed, and one said: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nay, father, we swear by Him that died that we will bring thee +safe here again ere sundown.’ +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 {<a +name="Glyph24" href="#Note24">24</a>}. He was very like thee—he stands +before me again in thee. Didst thou never hear of thy descent before?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor lad! What has brought thee here again?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hast thou heard of thy mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“That she was dead. The message came through Michelham.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know not.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, father.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a sad story.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me hear it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet. Go forth tomorrow. Seek thy kindred, and if thou livest thou +shalt know. Tell me, what is thine age?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen twenty years.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I find the outlaws easily?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does Grimbeard yet live?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father, I start on my search tomorrow; give me thy blessing and pray for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>Andredsweald</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch17" id="Ch17">17</a>: The Castle Of Fievrault.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was added that the place was haunted, and that they would do well to return +before nightfall. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are not those the towers?” said the young squire, pointing to some +extinguisher-like turrets which just then came in sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Verily they be, and if we make haste we may reach them by +noontide.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Blow thine horn, Almeric.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the bridge, and +thou mayst enter.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?” said +Almeric in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have no food,” said the old man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot say you nay.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert smiled approval. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said the old withered retainer of the house of Fievrault; +“bethink thee, my lord, of what befell thy own father.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, be not so inhospitable.” +</p> + +<p> +“A churl will be a churl,” said Almeric. +</p> + +<p> +The old man shook his head sadly, and went about his business, whatever that +may have been. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where does that trap door lead to?” said Almeric, pointing to an +arrangement of two folding doors in front of a rude image. +</p> + +<p> +“It looks firm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, trust it not. Here is a rude stump, once used as a seat. Roll it +upon the trap doors.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What if I had tried the strength with my own weight!” thought he. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For over all there came a sense of fear,<br/> +A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,<br/> +And said as plain as whisper in the ear—<br/> +“This place is haunted.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>vin de pays</i>; let us eat drink, and be merry.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At length they had burned all the wood which had been brought in. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, Tristam, and bring more wood from the great pile in the +courtyard,” said Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +Tristam, a grizzled man-at-arms, went out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is after me!” he shrieked, as he slammed the door behind him. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it?” said Hubert, while the sight of the man’s +infectious terror sent a thrill through all of them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The wood must be brought,” said Hubert. “We are not going to +let the fire go out, nor to be frightened at shadows. +</p> + +<p> +“Almeric, you will come with me and fetch it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, master,” said Almeric, not without a shudder, which did not +promise well. +</p> + +<p> +“Say a Pater and an Ave, Almeric. Sign thyself with the Cross. +Now!” +</p> + +<p> +And they went forth. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, master,” said Almeric, in tones half choked with horror. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the wood?” was the general cry. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But yet whether from extreme fatigue or any other cause, they did all fall +asleep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak, dread phantom! What dost thou want with me? I go to do thy +bidding, to fulfil thy vow.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can do all man can do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the figure disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Terror is contagious, but Hubert saw nothing as yet to fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Come back, ye cowards! Shame on ye!” he cried, but cried in +vain—he was alone in the haunted hall. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I warned you, my lord,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You did. The fault, and the punishment, too, is ours. But where are my +men?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And where are the rest?” said Hubert after expressing his sympathy +to the wounded squire. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What didst thou see, Almeric, that frightened thee out of thy +reason?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ask me not! I may tell thee anon, but let us leave this evil +place,” said Almeric. +</p> + +<p> +“We must wait for our men—I will go out and blow my horn without +the barbican.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch18" id="Ch18">18</a>: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“All the more need of our mission,” thought both. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of arrows on +either side. They had fallen into an ambush. +</p> + +<p> +Martin was quite unalarmed. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who +have come hither for your good.” +</p> + +<p> +“For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like +cattle.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for +thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Whom have we got here?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph25" +href="#Note25">25</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>tempus edax rerum</i>. His tall stature was diminished +by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs and joints were less firmly +knit. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not till we have delivered our message.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to active life. +</p> + +<p> +“Call the brethren of Saint Francis,” said the chief. “Now we +are ready. Sit round, my merrie men.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“My son—my own son—my dear son.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“My mother,” said he in an agitated voice. “Nay, she has been +long dead.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This explains how he knew all about us!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain.” +</p> + +<p> +“The last of the house of Michelham!” +</p> + +<p> +“Turned into a preaching friar!” +</p> + +<p> +Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order. +</p> + +<p> +“Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not leave +the camp.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” said Martin, “why that cruel message of thy death? +Thou hadst not otherwise lost me so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor forsaken mother!” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Grimbeard now approached. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy natural +home. Dost thou remember me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me, which +doubtless I deserved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take up +thy abode again with us? We want a priest.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“No length of time,” replied Grimbeard. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Grimbeard was fairly puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast me on the hip, youngster.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!” +</p> + +<p> +“Out! out! ye English thieves!” +</p> + +<p> +“Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!” +</p> + +<p> +Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +For there with arrow, spear, and knife,<br/> +Men fought the desperate fight for life. +</p> + +<p> +Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked, gained a +sloping bank, and there— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods which +free Englishmen claim as their own?” +</p> + +<p> +A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young knight gazed +upon his interlocutor with a comic eye. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring on your merrie men.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +What a plight! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving, at the +same time, the order: +</p> + +<p> +“Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another +blow.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop. +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might gratify +thee. As it is I prefer thee alive.” +</p> + +<p> +Then he cried aloud: +</p> + +<p> +“Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped. The others +lay dead on the scene of the conflict. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring forth the prisoners.” +</p> + +<p> +They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“What is thy name?” asked Grimbeard. +</p> + +<p> +“Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what has brought thee into my woods?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou must pay for thy sport.” +</p> + +<p> +“Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men.” +</p> + +<p> +The first was evidently an Englishman. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bread and cheese.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph’s messenger, and shall be set +free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests. +</p> + +<p> +“Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, +‘Shibboleth.’” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Dis bread and dat sheese {<a name="Glyph26" href="#Note26">26</a>}.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of your +redemption.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who forbids?” said Grimbeard. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my poor +pate against the <i>boves boreales</i>, as now from <i>latrones austroles</i>. +Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph. But art thou indeed +a grey friar?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, thank God.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And gained to God, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the +camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou get +to Oxford?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch19" id="Ch19">19</a>: The Preaching Friar.</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +In short, their system was thoroughly evangelical at the outset, although it +grievously degenerated in after days. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +We must now pay a brief visit to Walderne. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Fleur de Lys</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Sic transit</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant silence. +</p> + +<p> +“How long ago was it that he had left Acre?” +</p> + +<p> +“It might be six months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts were +very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles, called +the Fleur de Lys?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you know no more?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her chamber. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +All at once she heard a voice singing: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Love sets my heart on fire,<br/> +Love of the Crucified:<br/> +To Him my heart He drew,<br/> +Whilst hanging on the tree,<br/> +From whence He said to me,<br/> +I am thy Shepherd true;<br/> +I am thy Bridegroom new. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and approached +the arbour wherein she sat. +</p> + +<p> +“Sister,” said the foremost one, “hast thou met Him of +Nazareth? for I know He has been seeking thee!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking +Him,” she said sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who +find?” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>Quam bonus es petentibus<br/> +Sed quid invenientibus</i> {<a name="Glyph27" href="#Note27">27</a>}! +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend +Martin?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother +Hubert?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer +brought us,” and she told him the story of Charybdis. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What reason hast thou to give?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only a conviction borne upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wilt thou not return with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound.” +</p> + +<p> +“But thou wilt come soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle.” +</p> + +<p> +Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the time. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright,<br/> +The bridal of the earth and sky. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to reveal the +secret of his relationship. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” said she, “doth thy mother yet live?” +</p> + +<p> +“She doth.” +</p> + +<p> +“And proud must she be of her son.” +</p> + +<p> +He was still silent. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She continued after a long pause: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Again a long pause: +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is true, aunt,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord of +Walderne.” +</p> + +<p> +“I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of +Hubert’s return.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case ought +happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return.” +</p> + +<p> +“What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and others, +and ask their advice how to secure the property for the true heir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The reader must imagine the rest. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At length the old dame said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Let us precede Martin by only one minute. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that it had +an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin,” she said, “hast told my sister, thy mother, all +that I have said?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have repeated your kind words.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return +hither? which may God grant.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Which men call death. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Blessed are they which die in the Lord,<br/> +for they rest from their labours. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But would he then release his hold? +</p> + +<p> +Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord <i>de facto</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We are friends, Drogo?” said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to +the greenwood. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch20" id="Ch20">20</a>: The Old Man Of The Mountain.</h2> + +<p> +Ah, where was our Hubert? +</p> + +<p> +No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift the veil, +after the fashion of storytellers. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +A slave toiling in an Eastern garden—taskmasters set over him with loaded +whips—alas! can this be our Hubert? +</p> + +<p> +Indeed it is. +</p> + +<p> +The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The <i>Fleur de Lys</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the +Mountain.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph28" +href="#Note28">28</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Little? Rather, none. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Hubert! +</p> + +<p> +In the morning the “Old Man” appeared, and the slaves were all +assembled to hear his words: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hasty judgment beseemeth not a man. Ere the morrow’s sun arise, +let your decision be made.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And they had not been sparing of their remarks about the slaves: +</p> + +<p> +“Fresh food for the stake—fresh work for the torturers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! They will give way and become good Mussulmen. Bah! Bah! Most of +them do, and deprive us of the fun.” +</p> + +<p> +That night Hubert and the young Alphonse of Poitou lay chained side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“What shall you do in the morning, Sir Englishman?” said young +Alphonse, after many a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“God helping us, our course is clear enough—we may not deny our +faith.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you have one to deny,” said the other, with another sigh. +“For me, I have never been religious.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +So they awaited the morning. And when it came, they were all marshalled into +the presence of the “Old Man of the Mountain.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The cells in which they now slept were single ones. Once only in many days +Hubert was able to ask a fellow sufferer: +</p> + +<p> +“What happens in the end?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you for those words,” replied Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Once or twice slaves disappeared, generally weak and worn-out men. +</p> + +<p> +“Their time is come,” said the others in a terrified whisper. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in those days. +</p> + +<p> +And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch21" id="Ch21">21</a>: To Arms! To Arms!</h2> + +<p> +Three years had passed away since the death of the Lady Sybil of Walderne. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +What were they to do? Most of the barons were in submission, but Earl Simon +said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But the great Earl de Warrenne of Lewes was a fierce royalist. So was the Lord +of Pevensey. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +So all was strife and confusion—the first big drops of rain before the +thunderstorm. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Raoul,” said his master, “have you heard aught yet of the +Lady Alicia of Possingworth?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord, but not good news.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell them without more grimace.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has placed herself under the protection of the Earl of +Leicester.” +</p> + +<p> +Drogo swore a deep oath. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well!” +</p> + +<p> +“Although my first love be dead, I will never marry a man who poisoned +his aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“They have to prove it—let them.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord, the old hag who sold you the phial, as she says, yet lives, and +I fear prates.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Would that he might come again,” she says. “I would fain +hear more of Him who can save, as he said, even me.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Which way is the wind?” whispers the leader. +</p> + +<p> +“In the east.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fire the house on that side.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>un mauvais quart +d’heure</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The cottage lies here away,” said the first. “We shall see +the roof when we turn the end of the avenue of beeches.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not smell an odour unusual to the forest?” +</p> + +<p> +“The scent of something burnt or burning?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have perceived it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Drogo’s doing,” said Ralph of Herstmonceux. +</p> + +<p> +“Could he have heard of our intentions?” said the mayor. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but—he might have learned that poor Madge was a penitent, and +then—” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, our work is done, and as the country is not over safe so near the +lion’s den—” +</p> + +<p> +(“Wolf’s den, you mean,” interrupted Ralph—) +</p> + +<p> +“And we have come unattended, the sooner we retire the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Too late!” said a stern voice: and Drogo stood before them. +</p> + +<p> +“My Lord of Walderne, this is ill pleasantry,” said Ralph. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Pleasantry,’ you call it, well. So it is for those who +win.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +He whistled shrill, And quick was answered from the hill;<br/> +That whistle garrisoned the glen,<br/> +With twice a hundred armed men. +</p> + +<p> +In short, the three travellers were surrounded on all sides. Their errand had +been betrayed by one of Drogo’s outlying scouts. +</p> + +<p> +“What is thy purpose, Drogo?” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Do ye yield yourselves prisoners?” +</p> + +<p> +“On what compulsion?” +</p> + +<p> +“Force, the right that rules the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what pretext for using it?” said Ralph, drawing his sword. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou knowest—the barons.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I for the king; no more need be said. Yield to ransom.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not give my sword to thee,” and Ralph flung it into a pond. +</p> + +<p> +“And what right hast thou to arrest me?” said the mayor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, hang him for the general amusement,” said several deep +voices. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a poor +man.” +</p> + +<p> +They laughed immoderately. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our Lady help me!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy conscience!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on without further blasphemies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, I grieve to say that it is my painful duty to arrest thee on +a charge of murder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of murder!” cried all three. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of the murder of his aunt, the late lamented Lady of +Walderne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” cried the knight and mayor. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh heaven and earth, this slander hear!” said Martin. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not swear, it misbecomes a friar.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou didst murder her thyself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Martin turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +“I ask,” continued Drogo, “who gave her the draught?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was I, but who poisoned it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Satan knows best, but thou hast owned it. +</p> + +<p> +“I call thee to witness, most valiant knight, and thee, O Mayor of +Hamelsham, that you both hear him—<i>confitentem mum</i>, as Father +Edmund used to say at Kenilworth. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I have him on the hip. Away with them to Walderne: the deepest +dungeon for the poisoner.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch22" id="Ch22">22</a>: A Medieval Tyrant.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from whence he could +see: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The forest dark and gloomy, +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +And such was our Martin’s fate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” and Martin left it. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following day, and bowed +low before Ralph of Herstmonceux. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and charged +fifty marks the more. +</p> + +<p> +“We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {<a name="Glyph29" href="#Note29">29</a>}.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it is a king’s ransom!” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou art fit to be a king.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what if I cannot pay it?” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the royal +justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I send a messenger to my castle?” +</p> + +<p> +“At once. I will place my household at thy disposal.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their +freedom?” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being fighting +men, under my protection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on what +errand ye were all bent?” +</p> + +<p> +Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious politeness, +laughing at it in his sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Now for the burgher,” said he. +</p> + +<p> +A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into the face of +his fierce young captor. +</p> + +<p> +“What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“‘When the cat’s away the mice will play.’ +</p> + +<p> +“They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must answer +before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?” +</p> + +<p> +The mayor hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what nature?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was not told. I waited to learn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didst thou hesitate to say this just now?” +</p> + +<p> +Poor mayor! He stammered out that he hoped he hadn’t offended therein. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was so,” said the terrified citizen of Hamelsham. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens! I have not as many pence!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So I have got thee at last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thou hast my body.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a comfort that it is a body which can be made to pine, to feel, to +suffer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am in God’s hands, not thine.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What hast thou to revenge?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“For which thou must answer to God.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, thine hand, not mine, administered it. Ha! ha! ha!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what dost thou seek of me now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, save the joy of removing an enemy out of my path.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am no man’s enemy.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I heard her confession of that particular crime.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see,” he said, and left the cell. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The fools, what is a friar but flesh and blood like others?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would sooner hang or fry a hundred wretched burghers, or behead a +score of knights, than touch this friar.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see how it is. I must contrive to starve or poison him,” thought +the base lord of the castle. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Whom seek ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“One whom thou hast wrongfully imprisoned. The friar Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not got him here.” +</p> + +<p> +“But thou hast, and we have come to claim him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou pledge thy honour for their safety?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do ye doubt my honour? Oh, well; so ye may well do, if ye think I would +have touched brother Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +He was so plausible that they were ashamed of their distrust, and selected +three of their foremost men, who forthwith entered. +</p> + +<p> +The gates were shut behind them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That is how my honour bids me treat with outlaws,” laughed Drogo. +</p> + +<p> +A flight of arrows was the reply, which penetrated every crevice, and made six +troopers stretch their bodies on the ground. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch23" id="Ch23">23</a>: Saved As By Fire.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +All ye that enter here, leave hope behind. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God will hear them, if not me,” he thought. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he did really learn to pray for himself more earnestly than he would once +have thought possible. +</p> + +<p> +But when a year had nearly passed away in the wearying bondage, he was summoned +to the presence of the “Old Man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Christian,” said the latter, “hast thou not borne the heat +and burden of slavery long enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“Long enough, indeed, my lord, but I cannot buy my liberty at the expense +of my faith.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not when the alternative is a bitter death?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My choice is made.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy time shall come at the close of the year. Go.” +</p> + +<p> +And Hubert was led away. +</p> + +<p> +And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained by what may +be called a miraculous interposition. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as of another +world over his worn features. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou really my father?” +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph30" +href="#Note30">30</a>}. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I ever see my native land again?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay till the +fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?” +</p> + +<p> +The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard without. The doors +were opened one after another— +</p> + +<p> +“Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!” +</p> + +<p> +The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and courts to +the very front of the burning pile—<i>blazing</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +What could it be meant for? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>auto da fe</i>, as an interesting spectacle. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!” +</p> + +<p> +And Hubert leapt over the wall. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do any of my brethren know the country?” +</p> + +<p> +At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke diffidently: +</p> + +<p> +“If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters of +Merom.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What bell is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“But they can find no trace.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What shall we do?” asked the helpless men. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Follow me,” he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a +veritable <i>mauvais pas</i>. At the height of some two hundred feet it struck +inward through a wild region. +</p> + +<p> +“Here we must make a stand at this summit,” said Hubert, “and +meet the dogs. I will give a good account of them.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +By those sacred feet once nailed,<br/> +For our salvation, to the bitter rood. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +All was well now. +</p> + +<p> +“Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost the +sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bring it hither, Raymond,” said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start with +better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph31" +href="#Note31">31</a>} 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch24" id="Ch24">24</a>: Before The Battle.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Edward marched <i>vice versa</i>, 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, <i>en +route</i> for Lewes. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +And all around the widespread scene survey. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What news? Speak, thou varlet!” +</p> + +<p> +“The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows +of the windmill.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,<br/> +That well had borne their part. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of his castle +in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight.” +</p> + +<p> +“My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, and yet so loyal!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,” +muttered Prince Edward. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those +who honour us will we honour {<a name="Glyph32" href="#Note32">32</a>}.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are these doughty foes?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to sustain such +acorns?” +</p> + +<p> +“I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless +make short work of them.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You are accused of rebellion,” said the stern Edward, as he faced +them. “What is your answer?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Ralph spoke first—he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was the +only course. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou, Sir Mayor?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill to +choose.” +</p> + +<p> +“And thou, friar of orders grey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester +just,” said Martin quietly. +</p> + +<p> +Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward respected a +man, and he stifled his rising anger ere he replied: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that +door—meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst.” +</p> + +<p> +Should he send it back? +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it. +</p> + +<p> +“I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou art +mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design.” +</p> + +<p> +Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite powers. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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 <i>Nunc Dimittis</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a name="Glyph33" href="#Note33">33</a>}. +Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the fatal day. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And he disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny. +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou with us or against us?” said the warder. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a soldier of the Cross,” was the reply, and a few more words +were whispered in the ear. +</p> + +<p> +The warder started back. +</p> + +<p> +“Verily thy father’s heart will be glad,” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay without,” whispered the prior to someone by his side; +“joy sometimes kills.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +The father trembled. He could hardly stand. +</p> + +<p> +“I know he is alive, but where?” +</p> + +<p> +“On his way home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay!” +</p> + +<p> +“And in England!” +</p> + +<p> +“Father, I am here.” +</p> + +<p> +Hubert could restrain himself no longer. +</p> + +<p> +The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his recovered +boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured: +</p> + +<p> +“Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was +lost, and is found.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch25" id="Ch25">25</a>: The Battle Of Lewes.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Just then came the stern challenge. +</p> + +<p> +“Who goes there?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The watchword?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have it not—twelve hours have not passed since I landed in +England after an absence of years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stand while I summon the guard.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The Earl of Leicester will be overjoyed to see you. He has long given +you up for lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has not forgotten me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Even yesternight he wished you were present to fight by his side.” +</p> + +<p> +Our poor Hubert felt his heart throb with joy and pride. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Father and leader,” said the young earl with deep reverence, +“I have brought thee a long-lost son.” +</p> + +<p> +The earl rose. +</p> + +<p> +“My son! Hubert! Can it be thou, risen from the dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The dawn was at hand. The birds began their matin songs, when the stern blast +of the trumpet drowned their tiny warblings. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a +name="Glyph34" href="#Note34">34</a>}; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Come out you bad miller!” +</p> + +<p> +“You to turn a wretched mill master!” +</p> + +<p> +“You who defied us all so proudly!” +</p> + +<p> +“You, the ever Augustus!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The King of the Romans gathered a host,<br/> +And made him a castle of a mill post. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Up the hill, my men,” he said. “There is the very devil +himself in that litter.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come out, Simon, thou devil, thou worst of traitors,” they cried. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +By God, who is over us, much did they sin,<br/> +That let pass o’er sea the Earl of Warrene,<br/> +Much hath he robbed us, by moor and by fen,<br/> +Our gold and our silver he carried hath henne {<a name="Glyph35" href="#Note35">35</a>}; +</p> + +<p> +Sang the citizens of Lewes afterwards of black Earl John. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou know me?” said the conqueror, bending over the dying man +and raising his helm. +</p> + +<p> +“Art thou alive, or a ghost?” says a conscience-stricken voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I am Hubert of Walderne, the cousin thou hast hated and injured. +But our quarrel is settled now; thou art a dying man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, not dying. I must live to repent. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the key! the key! Throw this key into the moat! +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“Martin!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“God rest his soul. Our enmity is over, but what did he mean about the +key?” +</p> + +<p> +He felt in the gypsire of the dead enemy. There was a key, unsightly, rusty, +and heavy. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Chapter <a name="Ch26" id="Ch26">26</a>: After The Battle.</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You compliment me, master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I know thy worth, and hence I leave all things in thy hands: my +honour and my vengeance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thy vengeance?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! The friar and all!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is his blood redder than any other man’s? It seems to me thou art +afraid of the Pope’s gray regiment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I like not to slay priests and friars. It brings a man ill luck if +he meddle with those.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I must appoint Thibault. He may have an easier conscience, but I +had thought that bloodshed, if nothing else, had bound us together.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hast thou the key of the friar’s dungeon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay. The young lord has not left it with me.” +</p> + +<p> +The men looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“He locked it himself, this morning, and put the key into his +gypsire.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he has gone off with it. Doubtless he will send it back directly he +finds it there.” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we send after him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” said Marboeuf. +</p> + +<p> +“He is a friar. We must not let him starve.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Yea, though I walk<br/> +through the valley of the shadow of death,<br/> +I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;<br/> +Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“He shall not perish if I can help it, and it may be put to my account in +purgatory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“My brother,” was the reply, “what hast thou to ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“What food hast thou?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet half a loaf, and a cruse nearly filled with water.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all thou mayst get till my lord return. He has taken the keys. Use +it sparingly.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment there was silence, then a calm voice replied: +</p> + +<p> +“He who fed Elijah by the ministry of the ravens will not fail me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if Sir Drogo be absent many days thou mayst starve.” +</p> + +<p> +“Though he slay me, yet will I put my trust in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But the answer from the captive was always full of hope. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the signal. All is lost! The rebels have won, and we must fly for +our lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“They may be merciful.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would never do. By ’r lady, what injustice! Would they be so +bad as that?” +</p> + +<p> +“We will not wait to see.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The merrie men!” +</p> + +<p> +“The outlaws!” +</p> + +<p> +“The wild men of the woods!” +</p> + +<p> +The discomfited troopers paused—turned tail—fled— leaving +their comrades to their fate, whatever it might be. +</p> + +<p> +Let us see. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“The friar is safe below, unhurt. I will take you to him. But I have no +key.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is it, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Drogo has taken it with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will have it open. +</p> + +<p> +“Friar Martin, art thou within?” +</p> + +<p> +“Safe and uninjured. Is it thou, Kynewulf? Then I charge thee that thou +do no hurt to any here. They have not injured me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dying! And I not there! What has chanced?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And toil they did, but all in vain. They had no tools to force that iron door. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The “merrie men” knew their bold captive. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! How is this? What ox hast thou felled?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>quid pro quo</i>, as we strewed the shambles with <i>boves +boreales</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“It may be treachery. Look to your arms ere you ride in,” cried +Hubert. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What means this outrage,” cried Hubert aloud, “upon the heir +of Walderne as he enters his own castle?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who art thou, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother +Martin—Friar Martin—whom you all must know.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin is below,” they said. “Have you smiths who can force +a door?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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). +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will. God bless Sir Hubert of Walderne.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless brother Martin.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How does my poor mother bear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Like a true wife and good Englishwoman.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The wound he had received had been thought slight, and neglected. Hence it had +become serious, and since Kynewulf departed mortification had set in. +</p> + +<p> +The mother rose and embraced her “sweet son.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God!” she said, and led him to his stepfather’s side. +</p> + +<p> +Grimbeard raised himself with difficulty, and looked Martin in the face. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin is here,” he said. “Let my dying eyes gaze upon him +again. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin, I have longed for thee. Tell me more about Him thou lovest so +deeply.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dost thou forgive the wretch who shut thee up, my gentle boy, in that +dungeon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, verily, and pray to God to pardon him, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And now, my son, art thou not a priest yet? I would fain make confession +of my sins.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I sent for Sir Richard {<a name="Glyph36" href="#Note36">36</a>}, the +parish priest of Walderne, ere we left the castle, and he is doubtless on his +way with the Viaticum,” said Kynewulf. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 ‘<i>Thy will be +done</i>.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Martin,” she said, “thou alone art left to me.” +</p> + +<p> +And she fell on his neck and wept. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The good prior, Foville, performed the ceremony and celebrated the mass <i>Pro +sponso et sponsa</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then Earl Simon to his onerous duties, and the happy pair to keep their +honeymoon at Walderne. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Epilog" id="Epilog">Epilogue</a>.</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<b>Chronicles</b> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 {<a +name="Glyph37" href="#Note37">37</a>}, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +We know that we have passed from death to life,<br/> +because we love the brethren.<br/> +—<i>Vale Beatissime</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The boast of chivalry, the pomp of power,<br/> +And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave,<br/> +Await alike the inevitable hour,<br/> +The paths of glory lead but to the grave. +</p> + +<p> +THE END. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="Notes" id="Notes">Notes</a>.</h2> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph1" name="Note1" id="Note1">[1]</a> +Rivingtons’ <b>Historical Biographies</b>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph2" name="Note2" id="Note2">[2]</a> +<b>Demonology and Witchcraft</b>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph3" name="Note3" id="Note3">[3]</a> +See the <b>Andredsweald</b>, a tale of the Norman Conquest, by the same +author. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph4" name="Note4" id="Note4">[4]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph5" name="Note5" id="Note5">[5]</a> +Lord of Lewes Castle from 1242-1304, a local tyrant. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph6" name="Note6" id="Note6">[6]</a> +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 <b>Pictorial History</b>, volume 2, page 643. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph7" name="Note7" id="Note7">[7]</a> +His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased his influence and +reputation. Knight’s <b>Pictorial History</b>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph8" name="Note8" id="Note8">[8]</a> +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 <b>Confessions</b> +volume 9 page 6. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph9" name="Note9" id="Note9">[9]</a> +Afterwards the site of the battle of Edgehill. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph10" name="Note10" id="Note10">[10]</a> +See his biography in Macmillan’s <b>Sunday Library</b>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph11" name="Note11" id="Note11">[11]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph12" name="Note12" id="Note12">[12]</a> +<b>The Rival Heirs, or the Third Chronicle of Aescendune</b>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph13" name="Note13" id="Note13">[13]</a> +Because in later times some poor Jews were burnt there. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph14" name="Note14" id="Note14">[14]</a> +Like those still seen at Tewkesbury Abbey, of similar proportions. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph15" name="Note15" id="Note15">[15]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph16" name="Note16" id="Note16">[16]</a> +The old hymn for Wednesday morning, according to Sarum use. I am indebted +to the <b>Hymnary</b> for the translation. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph17" name="Note17" id="Note17">[17]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph18" name="Note18" id="Note18">[18]</a> +See <b>Alfgar the Dane</b>, chapter 24. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph19" name="Note19" id="Note19">[19]</a> +It was the Gospel for the day in Italy--not in England. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph20" name="Note20" id="Note20">[20]</a> +The Viaticum was the <i>Last</i> Communion, given in preparation for death, +as the provision for the way. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph21" name="Note21" id="Note21">[21]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph22" name="Note22" id="Note22">[22]</a> +Adapted from a translation of a chorus in the <b>Agamemnon</b> by my +lamented friend, the late Reverend Gerard Moultrie. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph23" name="Note23" id="Note23">[23]</a> +A mere tradition of the time, not historical. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph24" name="Note24" id="Note24">[24]</a> +See the <b>Andredsweald</b>, by the same author. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph25" name="Note25" id="Note25">[25]</a> +This is the same spot mentioned in the <b>Andredsweald</b>, chapter 9 part +2, as a retreat of the English after Senlac. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph26" name="Note26" id="Note26">[26]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph27" name="Note27" id="Note27">[27]</a><br/> +How good to those who seek Thou art,<br/> +But what to those who find!<br/> +--Saint Bernard. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph28" name="Note28" id="Note28">[28]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph29" name="Note29" id="Note29">[29]</a> +Sixty-six pounds, 13 shillings, four pence; a large sum in those days. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph30" name="Note30" id="Note30">[30]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph31" name="Note31" id="Note31">[31]</a> +Acre was stormed by the Moslems, AD 1291, and the Holy Land was lost with +it. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph32" name="Note32" id="Note32">[32]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph33" name="Note33" id="Note33">[33]</a> +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 <b>Demonology and Witchcraft</b>. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph34" name="Note34" id="Note34">[34]</a> +Whom they had pelted with mud as she passed under London Bridge, calling +her a witch. <b>Life of Simon de Montfort</b>, page 126. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph35" name="Note35" id="Note35">[35]</a> +Old English for hence. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph36" name="Note36" id="Note36">[36]</a> +Parish priests were frequently styled <i>Sir</i> in those days. Father +meant a monk or regular, as opposed to the secular, clergy. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a href="#Glyph37" name="Note37" id="Note37">[37]</a> +His descent from noble families of either race--Michelham, the house of +Ella, through his father; <i>Walderne</i>, of ancient Norman blood, through his +mother, rendered him acceptable to both parties. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cfee0f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #17012 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17012) diff --git a/old/17012.txt b/old/17012.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..535f9ba --- /dev/null +++ b/old/17012.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10557 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Walderne, by A. D. Crake + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The House of Walderne + A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons' Wars + +Author: A. D. Crake + +Release Date: November 5, 2005 [EBook #17012] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE *** + + + + +Produced by Martin Robb + + + + + +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 + + + +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." + +His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased his +influence and reputation. + +"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 bast 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 Test 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 eases, 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 surmount ing +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 era 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 caste 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. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House of Walderne, by A. D. 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