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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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