Title: The House of Walderne - A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons' Wars
Author: Crake, A. D. (Augustine David), 1836-1890
Language: English
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THE HOUSE OF WALDERNE

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

by the Reverend A. D. Crake



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



Preface.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Prologue.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 1: The Knight And Squire.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was a noble offer, my lord."

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

"Thy noble father, my lord, adorned the latter country."

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

"I have never heard the story fairly told."

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

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

"What is that?"

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

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

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

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

"I know not, my lord."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?"

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

"How many?"

"Two, a knight and a squire."

"Bring them in, in God's name; all are welcome tonight.

"But for all that," said he, sotto voce, "it may be easier to get
in than out."

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

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

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

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

"Hast travelled far?" asked the chieftain.

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

"Many miles," said a low, sweet voice.

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

"How came such folk here?" thought De Montfort.

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

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

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

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

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

"Sing thy song of the Greenwood, Martin," added the mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ______________________________________________________________


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

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

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

It was the woman they had noted at the fireside.

"Thou art Simon de Montfort," she said.

"I am; how dost thou know me?"

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

"Without it life is worthless--but who or what threatens it?"

"The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen."

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

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

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

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

"But canst thou part with thine own son?"

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

"Oh, mother!" said the boy, weeping silently.

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

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

"Tell me his name."

"Martin will suffice."

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

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

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

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

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

One maternal kiss--it was the last.

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



Chapter 2: Michelham Priory.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He is the son of a brother crusader."

"The father is not living?"

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

"But let them bring young Hubert hither."

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

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

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

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

"Ah! thy memory is good--hast thou been happy here? hast thou done
thy duty?"

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

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

"My father was a soldier of the cross."

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

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

"My son, be not irreverent."

The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.

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

"I love not peace--it is dull."

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

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

"I am not an idler, my good lord."

"Only over his books," said the prior.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thy name is Martin?"

"Yes; they call me so now."

"What is thy other name?"

"I know not. I have no other."

"Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?"

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

"And how was that?"

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

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

"Yes," said Martin innocently; "why shouldn't I?"

There was a pause.

"Poor child," said the prior.

"My boy, thou should say 'my lord,' when addressing a titled earl."

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

"Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of 'my lords.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And again:

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

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

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

  ______________________________________________________________


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

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

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

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

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

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

But here was a soil ready for the good seed.

  ______________________________________________________________


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

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

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

"My lord?"

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



Chapter 3: Kenilworth.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And to Hubert he said one day:

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

Hubert tossed his head.

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

His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased his
influence and reputation.

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

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

Hubert hung his head.

"Obedience!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mores puerorum se detegunt inter ludendum.

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

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

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

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

"And there Black Down Hill."

"And there the spires of Coventry."

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

"And where is that castle?" said Hubert.

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

Martin looked up with strange interest.

"What! Walderne Castle yours!"

"Yes, have you heard of it?"

"And seen it."

"Seen it?"

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

"Even as a cat may look at a king's palace."

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

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

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

"What is easier said than done?" cried Drogo.

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

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

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

"Yes, but Earl Simon loves the English."

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

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

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

"This is no work for a gentleman."

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

"The youngster should learn to govern his temper."

"Nay, he did not begin it."

The last speaker was Hubert.

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

"There they go together."

"Two boys, each without a second name."

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

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

"Talking of darkness reminds one of your eyes, they are--"

"Hold your tongue."

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



Chapter 4: In the Greenwood.


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

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

"Hubert," he said at last, "I don't think I can stay here."

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

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

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

"Yes, I was born in the woods."

"Then you are not of gentle blood?"

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

"Indeed! what became of your English forbears?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Take care--what are you about!" cried Hubert.

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

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

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

Just then the voices of men came from the wood.

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

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

"They will hang thee, that's all--fly."

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

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

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

"THE EARL OF WARWICK," whispered Hubert, awe struck.

The earl looked astonished as he saw the dog.

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

But Martin did not tremble as he replied:

"I, my lord."

"And why? did the hound attack thee?"

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

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

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

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

"Then thou shalt hang for it.

"Here, Ralph, Gilbert, have you a rope between you?"

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

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

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

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

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

In his fury the earl had ignored the fact.

"Your names?"

"Martin."

"Hubert."

"'Martin,' 'Hubert,' of what? have you no 'de,' no second names?"

"We are not permitted to bear them."

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

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

The earl seemed struck by the answer.

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

"Release them, my men.

"Fare ye well till tomorrow.

"My poor Bruno!"

And the lads hastened home.

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

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

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

"Martin, we are in bad case."

"I am not afraid."

"Do own you were wrong."

"I cannot, for I do not think I was."

"Say so at all events. What is the harm?"

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

"Then you will be beaten."

"And bear it; it was all my doing."

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

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

"It was I, my lord, not Hubert."

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

"We may believe Martin."

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

"All the blame, if blame there was, my lord."

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

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

"Forced to kill!"

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

"Tell me the whole story," said the Earl of Leicester.

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

And Martin began:

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

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

"I couldn't help it."

"And what didst thou do, Hubert?"

"I tried to stop him, but I couldn't."

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

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

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

"What dost thou say, boy?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, it is all true, is it not? It is in the Flores Sancti
Francisci."

The earl smiled.

"Come, my boy, I forgive thee.

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

"And Franciscan he shall be.

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

Martin's eyes sparkled with delight.

"Oh yes, my lord.

"Thank you, my Lord of Warwick."

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

"Oh, thanks, my lord, O felix dies."

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

"Hubert, thou must go with him."

Hubert's countenance fell.

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

"Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!"

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

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

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

"Oh, Martin, I am so sorry."

But Martin was rapturous with joy.

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 5: Martin Leaves Kenilworth.


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

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

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

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

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

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

And soon the chaplain called, "Martin, Martin."

"I am ready, sire."

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

"But thou wilt not be there."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour.

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

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

"So the scholar's gown and pen suit thee better than the coat of
mail and the sword, master Martin!"

"Oh, my good lord!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then thou hast not forgotten thy kindred in the greenwood?"

"I can never forget my poor mother."

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

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

"He would have made thee an outlaw, too."

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

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

"What is it, my son?" said the earl.

"The chaplain knows."

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

"But they are Christians, I hope."

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

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

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

"What sayest thou, Hubert?"

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

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

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

The chaplain sighed.

"Oh, Hubert!" said Martin.

The earl listened and smiled a sad smile.

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

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

"I never doubted it, but I say that Martin's ambition is more
Christ-like--is it not?"

"It is indeed."

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

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

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

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

"Ah, Martin, Martin," he said, 'whither goest thou so equipped and
attended?"

"To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord."

"And after that?"

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

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

He waved his hand, and the cavalcade swept onward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Behold the spires of Oxenford!" cried the men.

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

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

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



Chapter 6: At Walderne Castle.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thy SON?"

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

"Thy son, doth he yet live?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will thou not see my husband?"

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

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

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

"Why not reveal thyself to my husband?"

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

"And what proofs shall I give if he ask them?"

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

"Sybil," cried a voice.

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

And she departed, leaving him alone in the chapel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here he paused, as if listening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 7: Martin's First Day At Oxford.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have slept well, my father."

"And hast not forgotten thy duty to God?"

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

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

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

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

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

"To learn that I may afterwards teach."

"And what dost thou desire to become?"

"One of your holy brotherhood, a brother of Saint Francis."

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

"All this I have been told."

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

"Do these temptations await me in Oxford?"

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

"Where do the brethren chiefly work for God?"

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

"Why without pillows?" asked Martin, wondering.

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

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

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

"'I am a friar,' he shrieked.

"'You lie,' they replied, 'for you go shod.'

"He awoke and threw the shoes out of the window."

"And did he catch cold afterwards?"

Another smile.

"No, my son, all these things go by habit."

"Shall I begin to leave off my shoes?"

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

"I never shall."

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

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

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

"When did the Order come to Oxford?"

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

"'We be not jugglers, we be poor brethren of our Lord and Saint
Francis.'

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

"What did they do?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It will be difficult," replied the other.

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

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

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

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

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

"Bless you, sirs, it is they who corrupt me. I don't know half the
wickedness they do."

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

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

"Down with the lubberly North men!"

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

"Down with the moss troopers!"

"Boves boreales!"

And answering cries:

"Down with the lisping, smooth-tongued Southerners!"

"Australes asini!"

"Eheu!"

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

"Down with the mincing fools who have got no r.r.r's"

"Burrrrn them, you should say."

"Frangite capita."

"Percutite porcos boreales."

"Vim inferre australibus asinis."

"Sternite omnes Gallos."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let them alone, they have had enough. 'Tis cowardly to fight a
dozen to one. Listen, the row is on in the Quatre Voies again. We
shall find more there."

The two were left alone.

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

"Art thou hurt much?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Here we are at home--come in to Saint Dymas' Hall."



Chapter 8: Hubert At Lewes Priory.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We would fain see him--here is his son."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come in," said a deep voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As thou didst also, my father."

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

There he shuddered.

"My boy, hast thou ever wished to be a warrior of the Cross--a
crusader?"

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

The monk soldier smiled.

"And how wouldst thou attempt to convert the infidel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hubert was silent.

"When thou art struck--"

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

"And He said, 'When thou art smitten on one cheek, turn the other
to the smiter.'"

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

"Who is Martin?"

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

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

"Deliver thee?"

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

"Even here, in this holy, consecrated place?"

"Even in the very church itself."

"Can any one else see it?"

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

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

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

"Or I might ride back alone tomorrow."

"The forest is dangerous; the outlaws abound."

"That for the outlaws, hujus facio;" and Hubert snapped his
fingers. It was about the only scrap of Latin he cared for.

The father smiled sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But how long wilt thou keep the boy?"

"Only till tomorrow."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.

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

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

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

"Father, I see nought."

"Not there, between those pillars?"

"What is it?"

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

"No, father, there is nothing."

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

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

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

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

"He is gone. He fled before thee. The omen is good. Thou shalt
deliver thy sire--let us pray together."

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

Domine labia mea aperies
Et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam.

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

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

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



Chapter 9: The Other Side Of The Picture.


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

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

"What place is this?" replied Martin.

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

Martin smiled.

"What is the real name?"

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

"But what do the outsiders call you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Here," said a sharp-speaking voice, coming from a precocious young
monkey in a servitor's dress.

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

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

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

"Tush, tush, didn't you hear that this is Liberty Hall?

"Shut your mouth, Magog--here is something to stop it. This young
warrior just knocked down a bos borealis, who strove to break my
head. Shall I not offer him bread and salt in return?"

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

"Come this way, this is my den. Not that way, that is spelunca
latronum, a den of robbers."

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

"Where didst thou get that, Master Ralph, roaring Ralph?"

Such sounds came from the spelunca latronum."

"At the Quatre Voies, fighting for your honour against a drove of
northern oxen."

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

"The fellow who knocked down the bos who gave it me, as deftly as
any butcher."

"Let us see him."

"What name shall I give thee?" whispered Ralph.

"Martin."

"Martin of--?"

"Martin from Kenilworth," said our bashful hero, blushing.

"Thou didst say thou wert of Sussex?"

"So I am, but I was adopted into the earl's household three years
agone."

"Then he is Northern," said a listener.

"No, he came from Sussex."

"Say where? no tricks upon gentlemen."

"Michelham Priory."

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

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

"Come up into my den.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Amo, amas, amat, see me catch a rat. Rego, regis, regit, let me
sweat a bit."

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

"Who shot it?"

"Mad Hugh and I."

"Where did you get the load of hay from?"

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

"How much did he give?"

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

"And what did you do with the cart?"

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

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

"Only he couldn't catch us. We have led him many a dance before
now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must go now."

"We will all go with you."

"Magog won't let us out."

"Yes he will, we will say we are all going to Saint Frideswide's
shrine to say our prayers."

"The dice before we go."

"Throw against me," said Hugh to our Martin.

"I cannot, I never played in my life."

"Then the sooner you begin the better.

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

"Then the sooner he begins the better.

"Come, stake a mark against me."

"He hasn't got one."

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

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

"Nay, I don't want them."

"Take them and be hanged. D'ye think I can't spare a mark?"

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

"Nay, we are all going to see thee safe home. The boves boreales
may be grazing in the streets."

"I hear them! Burr! burr! burr!"

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

"Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute."

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

"Magog! Magog! open! open!"

"Not such a noise, you'll wake the old governor above,"--alluding
to the master of the hostel.

"He won't wake, not he. It does not pay to see too much. He knows
his own interests."

"Past curfew," growled Magog. "Can't let any one out."

"That only means he wants another coin."

"Open, Magog, we are going to pray at Saint Frideswide's shrine for
thee."

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

"We are going by the king's invitation to visit the palace, and see
the ghost of fair Rosamond."

"We are going to sup with the Franciscans--six split peas and a
thimbleful of water to each man."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 10: Foul And Fair.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The earl's features were clouded.

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

"We are," said one and all.

"Does any page profess ignorance of the rule?"

No reply.

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

No one stirred.

The earl looked troubled.

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

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

"Enter then, sir forester."

The forester entered.

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

"I did."

"And you found the arrow?"

"Yes."

"Was it marked?"

"It was."

The earl held an arrow up.

"Who owns the crest of a boar's head?"

Hubert started.

"I do, my lord--but--but," and he changed colour.

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

"But, my lord, I never shot the deer."

"Thine arrow is a strong presumptive proof against thee."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saw him! Did he see you?"

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

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

"You are too young for the appeal to battle."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here stands Drogo of Harengod, who maintains that he saw Hubert
(of Nowhere) shoot the earl's deer, and will maintain the same on
the body of the said Hubert, soi-disant of Walderne."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"God hath spoken, and vindicated the innocent," said the earl.

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

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

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

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

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

Drogo looked at the man.

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

"What, without reparation?"

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

The earl stood astonished at his audacity.

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

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



Chapter 11: The Early Franciscans.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He did, indeed. He was called 'Le debonair Francois.' He loved the
Provencal songs, and indeed learned to sing his sweet melodies to
Christ after the mode of those songs of earthly love. His eyes
danced with life, he went singing about all day long, and through
the glorious Italian night. But even then he loved his neighbour.
No beggar asked of him in vain. Liberalis et hilaris was Francis."

"And did he ever fight?"

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

"When did he give up all this?"

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

"'What ails thee, Francis?' cried the rest. 'Art thinking of a
wife?'

"'Yes,' he said. 'Of one more noble, more pure, than you can
conceive, any of you.'"

"What did he mean?"

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

"'Love set my heart on fire,'

"He used afterwards to sing. It was at that moment the fire
kindled."

"I wish it would set mine on fire."

"Perhaps the fire is already kindled."

"Nay, think of last night."

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

"Shame, I suppose."

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

"You think so? Oh, you think so?"

"Indeed I do."

"Then you give me fresh hope."

"Since you ask it of a fellow worm."

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

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

"Tell it me."

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

"What had become of him?"

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

"May I visit the lepers tomorrow?"

"The disease is infectious."

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

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

"Tell me, for that is my great sin."

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

"May I do that on the steps of Oseney?"

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

"All too well!"

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

"And what else?"

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

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

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

"'Repent of your sins, and believe the Gospel!'

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

"'Brother!' he said. 'Hast thou met with Him of Nazareth? He is
seeking for thee.'

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

"Was Francis long alone?"

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

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

"'Lo,' said a voice, 'the poor man whom thou hast driven away.'

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

"'Lo, the poor man whom thou hast driven away.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now I hear the bell for terce--go forth, my son, and prove your
vocation."



Chapter 12: How Hubert Gained His Spurs.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hubert was sent for.

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

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

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

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

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

Hence Hubert's words.

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

"I am ready, my lord, and willing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thus it came.

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

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

He waited and listened.

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

But it was a risk, for the river had all the strength of a
cataract, and he who slipped would infallibly be carried down by
the strong current and dashed against the rocks and drowned.

Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly
kept in the shadow.

Soon he saw a black moving mass opposite, and then the moonlight
gleam upon a hundred spear tops. Did his heart fail him? No; the
chance he had pined for was come. It was quite possible for one
daring man to bid defiance to the hundred here, and prevent their
crossing.

See, they come, and Hubert's heart beats loudly--the first is on
the first stone, the others press behind. He, the primus, leaps on
to the second rock, and so to the third, and still his place is
taken, at every resting place he leaves, by his successor. Yes,
they mean to get over, and to have a little blood letting and fire
raising tonight, just for amusement.

And only one stout heart to prevent them. They do not see him until
the last stepping stone is attained by the first man, and but one
more leap needed to the shore, when a stern, if youthful, voice
cries:

"Back, ye dogs of Welshmen!" and the first Celt falls into the
stream, transfixed by Hubert's spear, transfixed as he made the
final leap.

A sudden pause: the second man tries to leap so as to avoid the
spear, his own similar weapon presented before him, but position
gives Hubert advantage, and the second foe goes down the waves,
dyeing them with his blood, raising his despairing hand, as he
dies, out of the foaming torrent.

The third hesitates.

And now comes the real danger for Hubert: a flight of arrows across
the stream--they rattle on his chain mail, and generally glance
harmlessly off, but one or two find weak places, and although his
vizor is down, Hubert knows that one unlucky, or, as the foe would
say "lucky," shot penetrating the eyelet might end sight and life
together. So he blows his horn, which he had scorned to do before.

He was but imperfectly clad in armour, and was soon bleeding in
divers unprotected places; but there he stood, spear in hand, and
no third person had dared to cross.

But when they heard the horn, feeling that the chance of a raid was
going, the third sprang. With one foot he attained the bank, and as
Hubert was rather dizzy from loss of blood, avoided the spear
thrust. But the young Englishman drove the dagger, which he carried
in the left hand, into his throat as he rose from the stream. The
fourth leapt. Hubert was just in time with the spear. The fifth
hesitated--the flight of arrows, intermitted for the moment, was
renewed.

Just then up came Lord Walter, the eldest son of the earl, with a
troop of lancers, and Hubert reeled to the ground from loss of
blood, while the Welsh sullenly retreated.

They bore him to the castle. A few light wounds, which had bled
profusely from the leg and arm, were all that was amiss. Hubert's
ambition was attained, for he had slain four Welshmen with his own
young hand. And those to whom "such things were a care" saw four
lifeless, ghastly corpses circling for days round and round an eddy
in the current below the castle, round and round till one got giddy
and sick in watching them, but still they gyrated, and no one
troubled to fish them out. They were a sign to friend and foe, a
monument of our Hubert's skill in slaying "wildcats."

A few days later the Lord of Hereford arrived at the castle, and
visited Hubert's sick chamber, where he brought much comfort and
joy. A fine physician was that earl; Hubert was up next day.

And what was the tonic which had given such a fillip to his system,
and hurried on his recovery? The earl purposed to confer upon him
the degree he pined for, as soon as he could bear his armour.

At first any knight could make a knight. Now, to check the too
great profusion of such flowers of chivalry, the power to confer
the accolade was commonly restricted to the greater nobles, and
later still, as now, to royalty alone.

It was the eve of Saint Michael's Day, "the prince of celestial
chivalry," as these fighting ancestors of ours used to say. It was
wild and stormy, for the summer and autumn had been so wet that the
crops were still uncarried through the country. The river below was
rushing onward in high flood; here it came tumbling, there it
rolled rumbling; here it leapt splashing, there it rushed dashing;
like the water at Lodore; and seemed to shake the rocks on which
Castle Llanystred was built.

And above, the clouds in emulous sport hurried over the skies, as
if a foe were chasing them, in the shape of a southwestern blast.
So the nightfall came on, and Hubert went with the decaying light
into the castle chapel, where he had to watch his arms all night,
with fasting and prayer, spear in hand.

What a night of storm and wind it was on which our Hubert, ere he
received knighthood, watched and kept vigil in the chapel. It
reminded him of that night in the priory at Lewes, and from time to
time weird sounds seemed to reach him in the pauses of the blast.
All but he were asleep, save the sentinels on the ramparts.

He thought of his father, and of the Frenchman, the Sieur de
Fievrault, whose place and even name he was to assume. Once he
thought he saw the figure of the slain Gaul before him, but he
breathed a prayer and it disappeared.

How he welcomed the morning light.
The sun breaks forth, the light streams in,
Hence, hence, ye shades, away!

Imagine our Hubert's joy, when, the following morning, Earl Simon
quite unexpectedly arrived at the castle, and with him the Bishop
of Hereford; come together to confer on important business of state
with the Earl of Hereford, whom they had first sought at his own
city, then followed to this outpost, where they learned from his
people he had come to confer knighthood on some valiant squire.

The reader may also imagine how Earl Simon hoped that that valiant
squire might prove to be Hubert. And lo! so it turned out.

Early in the morning our young friend was led to the bath, where he
put off forever the garb of a squire, then laved himself in token
of purification, after which he was vested in the garb and arms of
knighthood. The under dress given to him was a close jacket of
chamois leather, over which he put a mail shirt, composed of rings
deftly fitted into each other, and very flexible. A breastplate had
to be put on over this. And as each weapon or piece of armour was
given, strange parallels were found between the temporal and
spiritual warfare, which, save when knighthood was assumed with a
distinctly religious purpose, would seem almost profane.

Thus with the breastplate: "Stand--having on the breastplate of
righteousness."

And with the shield: "Take the shield of faith, wherewith thou
shalt be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked."

We will not follow the parallel farther: had all the customs of
chivalry been indeed performed in accordance with this high ideal,
how different the medieval world would have been.

Thus accoutred, but as yet without helmet, sword, or spurs, our
young friend was led to the castle chapel, between two (so-called)
godfathers--two sons of the Earl of Hereford--in solemn procession,
amidst the plaudits of the crowd. There the Earl of Leicester
awaited him, and Hubert's heart beat wildly with joy and
excitement, as he saw him in all his panoply, awaiting the ward
whom he had received ten years earlier as a little boy from the
hands of his father, then setting out for his eventful crusade.

The bishop was at the altar. The High Mass was then said; and after
the service the young knight, advancing to the sanctuary, received
from the good earl, whom he loved so dearly, as the flower of
English chivalry, the accolade or knightly embrace.

The Bishop of Hereford belted on the young knight's own sword,
which he took from the altar, and the spurs were fastened on by the
Lady Alicia, wife of Lord Walter of Hereford, and dame of the
castle.

Hubert then took the oath to be faithful to God, to the king, and
to the ladies, after which he was enjoined to war down the proud
and all who did wickedly, to spare the humble, to redress all
wrongs within his power, to succour the miserable, to avenge the
oppressed, to help the poor and fatherless unto their right, to do
this and that; in short, to do all that a good Christian warrior
ought to do.

Then he was led forth from the church, amidst the cheers and
acclamations of all the population of the district, with whom the
action which hastened his knighthood had won him popularity. Alms
to the poor, largesse to the harpers and minstrels: all had to be
given; and the reader may guess whose liberality supplied the
gifts.

Then--the banquet was spread in the castle hall.



Chapter 13: How Martin Gained His Desire.


While one of the two friends was thus hewing his way to knighthood
by deeds of "dering do," the other was no less steadily persevering
in the path which led to the object of his desire. The less
ambitious object, as the world would say.

He was ever indefatigable in his work of love amidst the poor and
sick, and gained the approbation of his superiors most thoroughly,
although in the stern coldness which they thought an essential part
of true discipline, they were scant of their encomiums. Men ought
to work, they said, simply from a sense of duty to God, and earthly
praise was the "dead fly which makes the apothecary's ointment to
stink." So they allowed their younger brethren to toil on without
any such mundane reward, only they cheered them by their brotherly
love, shown in a hundred different ways.

One long-remembered day in the summer of the year 1259, Martin
strolled down the river's banks, to indulge in meditation and
prayer. But the banks were too crowded for him that day. He marked
the boats as they came up from Abingdon, drawn by horses, laden
with commodities; or shot down the swift stream without such
adventitious aid. Pleasure wherries darted about impelled by the
young scholars of Oxford, as in these modern days. Fishermen plied
their trade or sport. The river was the great highway; no, there
was no solitude there.

So into the forest which lay between Oxford and Abingdon, now only
surviving in Bagley Wood, plunged our novice. As the poet says:

Into the forest, darker, deeper, grayer,
His lips moving as if in prayer,
Walked the monk Martin, all alone:
Around him the tops of the forest trees
Waving, made the sign of the Cross
And muttered their benedicites.

The woods were God's first temples; and even now where does one
feel so alone with one's Maker? How sweet the solemn silence! where
the freed spirit, freed from external influences, can hold
communion with its heavenly Father. So felt Martin. The very birds
seemed to him to be singing carols; and the insects to join, with
their hum, the universal hymn of praise.

Oh how the serpent lurks in Eden--beneath earthly beauty lies the
mystery of pain and suffering.

A wail struck on Martin's ears--the voice of a little child, and
soon he brushed aside the branches in the direction of the cry,
until he struck upon a faintly trodden path, which led to the
cottage of one of the foresters, or as we should say "keepers."

At the gate of the little enclosure, which surrounded the patch of
cultivated ground attached to the house, a young child stood
weeping. When she saw Martin her eyes lighted up with joy.

"Oh, God has sent thee, good brother. Come and help my poor mother.
She is so ill," and she tripped back towards the house; "and father
can't help her, nor brother either. Father lies cold and still, and
brother frightens me."

What did it mean?

Martin saw it at once--the plague! That terrible oriental disease,
probably a malignant form of typhus, bred of foul drainage, and
cultivated as if in some satanic hot bed, until it had reached the
perfection of its deadly growth, by its transmission from bodily
frame to frame. It was terribly infectious, but what then? It had
to be faced, and if one died of it, one died doing God's
work--thought Martin.

So as Hubert faced his Welshmen, did Martin face his foe--"typhus"
or plague, call it which we please.

Which required the greater courage, my younger readers? But there
was no more faltering in Martin's step than in Hubert's, as he went
to that pallet in an inner room, where a human being tossed in all
the heat of fever, and the incessant cry, "I thirst," pierced the
heart.

"So did HE thirst on the Cross," thought Martin, "and He thirsts
again in the suffering members of His mystical body--for in all
their affliction He is afflicted."

There was no water close by in the chamber, but Martin had noticed
a clear spring outside, and taking a cup he went to the fount and
filled it. He administered it sparingly to the parched lips,
fearing its effect in larger quantities, but oh! the eagerness with
which the sufferer received it--those blanched lips, that dry
parched palate.

"Canst thou hear me, art thou conscious?"

"An angel of God?"

"No, a sinner like thyself."

"Go, thou wilt catch the plague."

"I am in God's hands. HE has sent me to thee. Tell me sister--hast
thou thrown thyself upon His mercy, and united thy sufferings with
those of the Slain, the Crucified, who thirsted for thee?"

And Martin spoke of the life of love, and the death of shame, as an
angel might have done, his features lighted up with love and faith.
And the living word was blessed by the Giver of Life.

Then he felt the poor child pulling him gently to another room,
whence faint moans were now heard. There lay the brother, a fine
lad of some fourteen summers, in the death agony, the face black
already; and on another pallet the dead body of the forester, the
father of the family.

Martin could not leave them. The night came on. He kindled a fire,
both for warmth and to purify the air. He found some cakes and very
soon roasted a morsel for the poor girl, the only one yet
untouched, partaking of it sparingly himself. He went from sufferer
to sufferer; moistening the lips, assuaging the agony of the body,
and striving to save the soul.

The poor boy passed into unconsciousness and died while Martin
prayed by his side. The widow lingered till the morning light, when
she, too, passed away into peace, her last hours soothed by the
message of the Gospel.

Then Martin took the child and led her towards the city, meditating
sadly on the strange mystery of death and pain. The woods were as
beautiful as before, but not in the eyes of one whose mind was full
of the remembrance of the ravages of the fell destroyer.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the good sisters of Saint Clare, who will take care of thee for
Christ's sake."

So he strove to wipe away the tears from the orphan's eyes.

He reached Oxford, gave up his charge to the charitable sisterhood,
then reported himself to his academical and ecclesiastical
superiors, who were pleased to express their approval of all that
he had done. But as a measure of precaution they bade him change
and destroy his infected raiment, to take a certain electuary
supposed to render a person less disposed to infection, and to
retire early to his couch.

All this he did; but after his first sleep he woke up with an
aching head and intolerable sense of heat--feverish heat. He
understood it all too well, and lost no time in commending himself
to his heavenly Father, for he felt that he might soon lose
consciousness and be unable to do so.

A purer spirit never commended itself to its Maker and Redeemer.
But it was not in this he put his trust. It was in Him of whom
Saint Francis sang so sweetly:

To Him my heart He drew
While hanging on the tree,
From whence He said to me
I am the Shepherd true;
Love sets my heart on fire--
Love of the Crucified.

And ere his delirium set in, Martin made a full resignation of his
will to God. He had hoped to do much for love of his Lord, to carry
the message of the Gospel into the Andredsweald, where the kindred
of his mother yet lived, and the thought that he should never see
their forest glades again was painful. And the blankness of
unconsciousness, the fearful nature of the black death, was in
itself repulsive; but it had all been ordered and settled by
Infinite Love before ever he was born, probably before the worlds
were framed, and Martin said with all his heart the words breathed
by the Incarnate God, when groaning beneath the olive tree in
mysterious agony:

"Not my will, but thine, be done."

And then he lapsed into delirium.

The next sensation of which he was conscious, and which he
afterwards remembered, for we have not done with our Martin yet,
was one of a singular character. A glorious light, but intensely
painful, seemed before his eyes. It burnt, it dazzled, it
confounded him; yet he admired and adored it, for it seemed to him
the glory of God thus fashioning itself before him. And on that
brilliant orb, glowing like a sun, was a black spot which seemed to
Martin to be himself, a blot on God's glory, and he cried, "Oh, let
me perish, if but Thy glory be unstained," when a voice seemed to
reply, "My glory shall be shown in thy redemption, not in thy
destruction."

Probably this took place at the crisis of the disease, and the
physical and spiritual sensations were in union throughout the
illness. For now Martin was delirious with joy--sweet strains of
music were ever about him. The angels gathered in his cell and sang
carols, songs of love to the Crucified. One stormy night, when
gentle but heavy rain descended, patter, patter, on the roof above
his head, he thought Gabriel and all the angelic choir were there,
singing the Gloria in Excelsis, poising themselves on wings without
the window, and the strain:

Pax in terra hominibus bonoe voluntatis,

Was so ineffably sweet that the tears rolled down his cheeks in
streams.

This was the end of the imaginary music. The next morning he woke
up conscious--himself again. His first return to consciousness was
an impression of a voice:

"Dearest brother, thou art better, art thou not?"

"I am quite free from pain, only a hungered."

"What food dost thou desire to enter thy lips first?"

"The Bread of Life."

"But not as the Viaticum {20}, thank God. Wait awhile, I go to
fetch it from the altar."

And the successor of Adam de Maresco, the new head of the Oxford
House, left the youth and went into their plainly-furnished chapel,
where, in a silver dove, the only silver about the church, the
reserved sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ was always kept
for the sick in case of need. It hung from the beams of the
chancel, before the high altar.

First the prior knelt and thanked God for having preserved the life
of the youth they all loved.

"Thou hast yet great things for him to do on earth ere it come to
his turn to rest," he murmured. "To Thee be all the glory."

Then he returned and gave the young novice his communion. Martin
received it, and said, "I have found Him whom my soul loveth. I
will hold Him and will not let Him go."

From that time the patient was able to take solid nourishment, and
grew rapidly better, until at last he could leave his room and sit
in the sunny cloisters:

Restored to life, and power, and thought.

And one day he sat there, dreamily watching old Father Thames, as
he murmured and bubbled along, outside the stone boundary.

"Onward till he lose himself in the ocean, so do flow our lives
till they merge into eternity," said the prior. "Now with impetuous
flow, now in gentler ripple, but ever onward as God hath ordained;
so may our souls, when the work of life is accomplished, lose
themselves in God."

Martin moved his lips in silent acquiescence.

It was intense, the enjoyment of that sweet spring day, a day when
all the birds seemed singing songs of gladness, and the air was
balmy beyond description. Life seemed worth living.

"My son, when thou art better thou must travel for change of air."

"Whither?" said Martin.

"Where wouldst thou like to go?"

"Oh, may I go to my kindred and teach them the holy truths of the
Gospel?"

"Thou shalt. Brother Ginepro shall go with thee, and ere thou
startest thou shalt be admitted to the privileges and duties of the
second order, and be Brother Martin."

"And when shall I be ordained?"

"That may not be, yet. Thou art not twenty years of age. Thou mayst
win many souls to Christ while a lay brother, as did Francis
himself, our great master. He did not seek the priesthood also, too
great a burden for a humble soul like his, and certes, if men
understood what a priest is and what he should be, there would be
fewer but perchance holier priests than there are now."

The reader must remember that nearly all the friars were laymen;
lay preachers, as we would say; preaching was not then considered a
special clerical function.

Martin could not speak for joy, but soon tears were seen to start
down his cheeks.

"I was thinking of my poor mother. Oh, that she had lived to see
this day," he exclaimed, as he saw the prior observe his emotion.

The reader will remember that news of her death had reached Martin
soon after his arrival at Kenilworth, without which he could not
have remained all these years away from the Andredsweald. Her death
had partially (only partially) snapped the link which bound him to
his kindred, the love of whom now began to revive in the breast of
the convalescent.



Chapter 14: May Day In Lewes.


It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the
calendar. The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had
arrayed themselves in their brightest robe of green; the hedges
were white and fragrant with may; the anemone, the primrose, the
cowslip, and blue bell carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the
oaks and poplars were already putting on their summer garb. The
butterflies settled upon flower after flower; the bees were
rejoicing in their labour; their work glowed, and the sweet honey
was fragrant with thyme.

Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as
from village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex
poured out from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and
James; the children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred
fantastic hues, the May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of
May chosen by lot from amongst the village maidens.

Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the
villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our
tale betakes itself again--around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye,
Alfristun, Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like--not, as
now, accessible by rail and surrounded by arable lands; but
settlements in the forest, with the mighty oaks and beeches which
had perchance seen the coming of Ella and Cissa, long ere the
Norman set foot in Angleland; and with solemn glades where the wind
made music in the tree tops, and the graceful deer bounded athwart
the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled brake and inaccessible
morass.

Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough
of Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern
visitor may still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that
castle, but how different (yet how much the same) was the scene
which a young knight viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had
come up there to take his last look at the fair land of England ere
he left it for years, it might be never to return.

"It is a fair land; God keep it till I return."

The great lines of Downs stretched away--northwest to Ditchling
Beacon; southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on
the east rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount
Tabor to the fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long
line stretched away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.

"Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the
eastern range of Downs--I see it across the plain twelve miles
away. I see the windmills on the hill, and below the church towers,
and the tops of the castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon
bid them all farewell."

Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley
wherein meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its
magnificent church, well known to our readers; its towers and
pinnacles.

"And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother
professed. And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his
youth, now never leaves the convent's boundaries. But he is about
to travel to Jerusalem by proxy.

"If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I
should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once
compared us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the
other a warrior."

He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view,
but his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was
gayer guest at the noontide meal, the "nuncheon" of Earl Warrenne
of Lewes, the lord of the castle.

It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited
population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics,
frightened women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and
screams; unsavoury missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale
vegetables, were flying about; and in the midst of the open space
the figure of a Jew, who had excited the indignation of the
multitude, was the object of violent aggression which seemed likely
to endanger his life.

A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint
Michael's Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light,
which had endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see
and adore, and much was the reputation of Saint Michael's shrine
enhanced, when this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to
assert that the light was only caused by the rays of the sun
falling directly upon the figure through a window in the western
wall, narrow as the slits we see in the old castle towers, so
arranged as on this particular day to bring the rays of the setting
sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.

But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic
cries:

"Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!"

And it is very probable that he would have been "done to death" had
not an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.

Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered
the square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was
immediate. The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which
made way for them as if a superior being had commanded their
reverence, and one of the two mounted on a cart, and took for his
text, in a clear piercing voice which was heard everywhere,
"Christ, and Him crucified."

The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles
ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," said he. "He is the prisoner of
the Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and
his light be extinguished in darkness."

All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness,
but radiant with emotion, began to speak.

And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the
circumstances of the day.

"The object of the Crucifixion," he said, "had yet to be attained
amongst them."

A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one
had desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a
thousand desecrated forms before him who ought to be living
crucifixes, for were they not told to crucify the flesh with its
affections and lusts, to remain upon their voluntary crosses till
Christ said, "Come down. Well done, good and faithful servant.
Enter thou into the joy of the Lord"? And were they doing this?
Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as for instance the saints
of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done; giving heart for
heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread and ghastly
idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to be
companions of the angels--God's holy ones? Or the slaves and sport
of the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?

The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men
of the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were
scarce as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work
which the public press does now, as well as its own, and the
preacher was a power. But those medieval sermons were full of
quaint illustrations.

Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn
and love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over
one repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the
Lord afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a
ringing, when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the
Lord--one repentant sinner.

"They are waiting now," he said. "Will you keep them waiting up
there with their hands on the ropes?"

Cries of "No! no!" broke from several.

"And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their
claws, hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire
are the worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of
men. Now, on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of
God, where be many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to
the rule of Saint Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the
chapel, methought it was full of devils whispering all sorts of
temptations, as they did to Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks
from their prayers and meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and
methought one devil only sat on the gate, and swayed the hearts of
all the men in the town. He had little to do. The world and the
flesh were helping him, and just now it was the devil of cruelty."

The men looked down.

"'A Jew! only a Jew!' you say; 'the wicked Jews crucified our
Lord.'

"And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so
amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians
crucify our Lord afresh."

And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His
thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept
aloud. In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted
Martin to the priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries
of joy.

"Thou hast begun well, brother Martin," said Ginepro, when they
could first speak to each other in the hospitium.

"I! No, not I. God gave me strength," and he sank on the bench
exhausted and pale.

"It is too much for thee."

"No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase."

"What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard
thee, but couldn't get near thee for the press," cried an exultant
voice.

"My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?"

"Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people
there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my
road to the Holy Land.

"But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet?
Hast thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood
by a warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin."

"You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won
your spurs."

Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are
acquainted.

Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert
could not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford
twenty times over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected
house.

They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting
was made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the
past brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which
all, monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned
through the vast pile.

Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from
the rule--where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him
with those aged eyes.

"God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be
trials and difficulties."

"I am prepared for them."

"But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled;
and my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy
duty. Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek
of the old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it
thee freely when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name.
But be sure thou dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the
place is haunted. Then thou must take the nearest route to
Jerusalem."

"But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen."

"Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they
allow pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst
a victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not
allowed as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy
Sepulchre, to deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou
mayst return."

"But will there be no fighting?"

"This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be
broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one
campaign, not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and
remember that but to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee
to all the indulgences and privileges of a crusader--Bethlehem,
Nazareth, Calvary, Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by
reason of the truce, although the infidels be very treacherous, and
thou wilt need constant vigilance."

So they talked until the midnight hour.

No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son
slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on
the floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was
absolute, and so they slept.

On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory
together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the
last farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished
his grasp of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the
purpose of many years had come at last. Martin and his brother and
companion Ginepro were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to
act as a guard of honour to the young knight in his passage through
the forest to the castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel
together as long as their different objects permitted.

"My men will be a protection," said Hubert.

The young friars laughed.

"We need no protection," said Ginepro. "If we want arms, these
bulrushes will serve for spears."

"Nay, do not jest," said Martin.

"We have other arms, my Hubert."

"What are they?"

"Only faith and prayer, but they never fail."

Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to
Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek
and carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay
it on the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till
he had dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin
told his plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to
reclaim the outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to
reunite the lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together
in one common love.

"Shall you visit Walderne Castle?" inquired Hubert.

"It may fall to my lot to do so."

"Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both."

"He may have mended."

Hubert shook his head.

A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where
their road divided--the one to the northeast, the other to the
southeast. They tried to preserve the proper self control, but it
failed them, and their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.

At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a
frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.

"They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father
Francis," said Ginepro, "which my father witnessed."

"Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way."

"Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with
their songs of gladness, whereupon he said:

"'My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung
your sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.'

"And the birds were silent."

"I can quite believe it."

"His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was
brought in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they
were just going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and
pitied it.

"'Little brother leveret,' he said. 'How didst thou let thyself be
taken?'

"The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took
refuge in the robe of the father.

"'Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught
again,' he said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go."

Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged
from the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children
playing at seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.

Instantly he cried, "Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go
and have a turn."

"Are we not too old for such sport?" said Martin.

"Not a bit. I feel quite like a child," and off he ran to join the
children amidst the laughter of a few older people.

But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the
children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless
as he related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy
Innocents, stories which came quite fresh to them in those days,
when there were few books, and fewer readers. And these little
Sussex children drank in the touching story with all their little
ears and hearts. In all Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness.
And that same evening, when the woodmen came home from work, Martin
preached to the whole village from the steps of the churchyard
cross.

It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the
forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and
life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the
eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears
running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on
those of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.

Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and
without that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the
parochial flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin
at last stopped, exhausted:

"Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been
preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night."

And they willingly consented.

But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.



Chapter 15: The Crusader Sets Forth.


The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches
stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in
sconces on the tables. All the retainers of the house were present,
whether inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were
men-at-arms of Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls
(churls) of Saxon lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young
lord, and acknowledge him as their liege, ere he left them for the
treacherous and burning East to accomplish his father's vow.

The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in
those days of slow locomotion.

A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the
length of the hall. At the end another "board," raised a foot
higher, formed the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre,
just opposite the junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state,
surmounted by a canopy; on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his
left the hero of the night, our Hubert.

The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved;
and hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely
dinted; with tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those
who had borne them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There
were the horns of enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars;
war against man and beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life
then.

And the supper--shall I give the bill of fare?

First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald
(they be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench
(pike not come into England yet). And of sea fish--herrings,
mackerel, soles, salmon, porpoises--a goodly number.

Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look
upon, bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins,
herons, cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in
season didn't matter); and scores of domestic fowls--hens, geese,
pigeons, ducks, et id genus omne.

Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to
pay their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave
indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the
barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four
sheep--only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two
succulent calves.

Of the pastry--twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three
bushels of last autumn's apples were the foundation; two bushels of
flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in
England.

In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling
wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all
in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.

As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey
(Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last
two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).

All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time
afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was
satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief
harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo:

Sometimes in the night watch,
Half seen in the gloaming,
Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating
All into the darkness.

And the harps responded in deep minor chords:
All into the darkness.

We dream that we clasp them,
The forms of our dear ones.
When, lo, as we touch them,
They leave us and vanish
On wings that beat lightly
The still paths of slumber.

Very softly the harps:
The still paths of slumber.

They left in high valour
The land of their boyhood,
And sorrowful patience
Awaits their returning
While love holds expectant
Their homes in our bosoms.

Sweetly the harps:
Their homes in our bosoms.

In high hope they left us
In sorrow with weeping
Their loved ones await them.
For lo, to their greeting
Instead of our heroes
Come only their phantoms.

The harps deep and low:
Come only their phantoms.

We weep as we reckon
The deeds of their glory--
Of this one the wisdom,
Of that one the valour:
And they in their beauty
Sleep sound in their death shrouds.

The harps dismally:
Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.

"Stop! stop!" said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady's eyes.
"No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by
such boding?"

"Let the heir stay with us," cried the guests.

"Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father,
Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you
love him for his own fair face;" (Hubert blushed), "for the deed of
valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred.
But go he will and must, and there is an end of it.

"One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert,
mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his
power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in
the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as
Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us.
He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the
name of 'Radulphus,' or 'Ralph,' in memory of his grandfather.

"Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful,
and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives."

They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore
to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.

And he thanked them in a "maiden" speech, so gracefully--just as
you would expect of our Hubert.

"The Holy Land," said Sir Nicholas, "is a long way off, and many,
as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their
bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil
and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise,
acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives."

"We will, God being our helper."

"And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy
return."

It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no
fear that Hubert would not return safely.

Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay
of a Christian knight who fell into the power of "a Paynim sultan,"
and whom the sultan's daughter delivered at the risk of her
life--all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only
remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his
English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy
wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the
sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.

And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his
aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his
secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.

"No pagan beauty," he seemed to whisper, "shall ever rob me of my
heart. I leave it behind in England."

And even here he had a rival.

It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At
Harengod, his mother's demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert
had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir
Nicholas, his father's brother, a relationship which that good
knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love.
But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together,
lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.

He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of
inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord
of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without
issue, the other should have both domains.

Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of
the old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it?
Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by
disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.

When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting
interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil's bower,
while the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which
were very strict) permitted, out of earshot.

Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried
hard to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn't help a
tear. But he must go!

"Wilt thou be true to me till death?"
the anxious lover cried.
"Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,"
Alicia replied.

"Come, go to bed," said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went:
To bed, but not to sleep.

On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church,
on the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household
assembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel,
for it was an old proverb with them, "mass and meat hinder no man,"
and then the breakfast table was duly honoured.

And then--the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words;
how many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which
should have been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode
through the woods, with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to
share his perils and his glory.

Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last
of Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old
knight's heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to
Pevensey.

The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled
forest, which extended nearly to Hailsham. It passed through the
district infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never
molested Sir Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to
travellers of rank in general, and few dared traverse the forest
roads unattended by an escort. In the depths of these hoary woods
were iron works, which had existed since the days of the early
Britons, but had of late years been completely neglected, for all
the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or the Saxon outlaws were
concentrated on war or the chase.

Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first
resting place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old
English settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of
a lord of Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town
as his dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly
hostility--the knights had their liberties and rights, and so long
as they paid their tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden
time, before the Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church
tower each night told its solemn tale of subjection and restraint,
as it does even now, when the old ideas have quite departed, and
few realise what it once meant.

Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high
tide--leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the
father of "Roaring Ralph" of that ilk still resided, lord
paramount. The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood
bravely out, and its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears
of the parting knight. How tantalising!

Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the
Queen's uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence
of exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king's foreign
kindred.

There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock
which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon
that night; wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a
quick passage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his
kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in the Rose of Pevensey.

England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land
was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.

My native land--Good night.



Chapter 16: Michelham Once More.


It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills
which encompass Lewes. His declining beams gilded the towers of
Michelham Priory.

Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which
overlooked the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for
it was the recreation hour, between vespers and compline.

Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the
tower of Hamelsham: the "lowing herd wound slowly o'er the lea"
from the Dicker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe
of Saint Francis, and approached the gateway.

"There be some of those 'kittle cattle,' the new brethren," said
the old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the
bridge. "If I had my will, they should spend the night on the
heath."

The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened.

"Who are ye?"

"Two poor brethren of Saint Francis."

"What do you want?"

"The wayfarer's welcome. Bed and board according to the rule of
your hospitable house."

"We like not you grey friars--for we are told you are setters forth
of strange doctrines, and disturb steady old church folk. But
natheless the hospitium is open to you as to all, whether gentle or
simple, lay folk or clerks. So enter, only if you threw those gray
cloaks into the moat, you would be more welcome."

They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours.

"Look," said one of the monks to his fellow; "they that have turned
the world upside down have come hither also."

"Whom the warder hath received."

"They will find scant welcome."

Meanwhile Martin was looking with curious eyes on the buildings
which had first received him when he escaped from the outlaw life
of old. But the evening meal was already prepared, and the bell
rang for supper.

Many guests were there--lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and
pilgrims with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on
their road to the Continent from the central parts of the island,
men-at-arms, Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals. And all had
good fare, while a monk in nasal voice read:

A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,

Above the clatter of knives and dishes.

Now this Saint Guthlac was an abbot of Croyland, and many conflicts
did he have with the devils of the fen country, whose presence
could generally be ascertained by the hissing which took place when
they settled with their fiery hoofs and claws on the wet swamps and
moist sedges.

"And my brethren, certes we poor monks of Saint Benedict may learn
much from these fiends; and first, from their hot and fiery tempers
and bodies, we may be taught to say with Saint Ambrose:"

Quench thou the fires of hate and strife
The wasting fevers of the heart.

At this moment a calf's head was brought in, very tender and
succulent, and the rest of the quotation was drowned in the clatter
of plates and dishes. At last the voice emerged from the tumult:

"Which I have seen in these fens, whither Satan and his imps do
often resort to cool themselves in these stagnant waters. And first
there be the misshapen, goggle-eyed goblins, with faces like the
full moon, only never saw I the moon so hideous; these be the
demons of sensuality, gluttony and sloth--libera nos Domine, and
then there be . . ."

The wine was handed round, wine of Gascony, where the friars of
Michelham had vineyards; full drinking, rich-bodied red wine,
brought in huge jugs of earthenware, and poured generally into
wooden mugs. Only the prior and subprior had silver goblets: glass
there was none.

Again the voice rose above the din:

"Affect the fat soils of our marsh land, and there, maybe, find
convenient prey amongst the idle and inebriate brethren who forget
their vows, or the sottish loony who from the plough tail seek the
ale house. And moreover there be your fiends, long and slim, and
comely in garb, with tails of graceful curve, and horns like a
comely heifer. Natheless their teeth be sharp and their claws
fierce. But they hide them, for they would fain appear like angels
of light, yet be they the demons of pride and cruelty, first-born
of Lucifer, son of the morning . . ."

Here the sweets and pastries came in, fruits of the abbey gardens,
skilfully preserved, and cunning devices of the baker: there was a
church built of pie crust; a monk, baked brown and crisp, with
raisins for his eyes, which, withal, filled his paunch, and,
cannibal like, the good brethren ate him. Finally, that they, the
brethren, might not be without a memento mori, was a sepulchre or
altar tomb, likewise in crust, and when the top was broken, a
goodly number of pigeons lurked beneath, lying in state:

"Which mop and mow, and chatter like starlings, but all, either
naught in sense or naughty in meaning, oh these chattering goblins.
Be not like them, my brethren--libera nos Domine."

Here to those who sat at the upper board were next presented, by
the serving brethren, dainty cups of hippocras, medicated against
the damps and chills of the low grounds, or perchance the crudities
of the stomach, or the cruel pinches of podagra dolorosa--

"Ah! will you say that agues, rheumatics, and all the other
afflictions which do befall the brethren be simply bred of stagnant
water and foul drinking? Nay, I say these hobgoblins give us them,
and that even as Satan was permitted to afflict holy Job, so they
afflict you. But we have not the patience of Job; would we had! Oh
my brethren, slay me the little foxes which eat the tender grapes;
your pride, anger, envy, hatred, gluttony, lust, and sloth, and
bring forth worthy fruits of penance; then may you all laugh at
Satan and his misshapen offspring until in very shame they fly
these fens--libera nos Domine."

Here the leader sang:

"Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis."

And the whole brotherhood replied:

"Deo gratias."

The supper was ended, and the chapel bell began to ring for the
final service of the day. The period of silence throughout the
dormitories and passages now began, and only stealthy footfalls
broke the stillness of the summer night.

But the prior rang a silver bell: "tinkle, tinkle."

"Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with
the twinkling black eyes and roundish face."

And Martin was brought to him.

"Sit down, my young brother," said Prior Roger, "and tell me where
I have seen thy face before. I have gazed upon thee all through the
frugal meal of which we have just partaken, for thy face is like a
face I have seen in a dream. Not that I doubt that thou art here in
flesh and blood, unlike the fiends of Croyland, of whom we have
just heard."

Martin smiled, and replied:

"My father, seven years agone, a noble earl found shelter here from
the outlaws, from whom he was delivered by the self sacrifice of a
woman, and the guidance of her son, an imp of some thirteen years."

"I remember Earl Simon's visit. Art thou that boy?"

"I am, my father."

"Ah well! ah me! how time passes! But there is another remembrance
which thy face awakens, of a death bed confession. Sub sigillo,
perhaps I am wrong in putting the two things together. Sancte
Benedicte ora pro me. So thou hast taken the habit of Saint
Francis. Why didst not come to us, if thou wishedst to renounce the
world and mortify the flesh?"

Martin was silent.

"And hast thou the gift of preaching? I do not mean of talking."

"My superiors thought so, but they are fallible."

"I should think so, very, but that is nought. I hope I have better
sense than to send for thee, poor boy, to teach thee to rebel
against thy superiors, and perhaps after all we Augustinians are
too hard upon Franciscans and friars of low degree--only we want to
get to heaven our own way, with our steady jog trot, and you go
frisking, caracolling, curvetting, gambolling along. Well, I hope
Saint Peter will let us all in at the last."

Martin was silent, out of respect to the age of the speaker.

"Thou art a modest boy; come, tell me, who was thy father?"

"An outlaw, long since dead."

"And thy mother?"

"His bride--but I know not of what parentage. There is a secret
never disclosed to me, and which I shall never learn now, only I am
assured that I was born in holy wedlock, and that a priest blessed
the union."

"Did thy mother marry again?"

"She was compelled to accept one Grimbeard, a chief amongst the
'merrie men' who succeeded my father as their leader."

"Now, my son, I know why I looked at thee--I knew thy father. Nay,
I administered the last rites of Holy Church to him. I was
travelling through the woods and following a short route to the
great abbey of Battle, when a band of the outlaws burst forth from
an ambush.

"'Art thou a priest, portly father?' they said irreverently.

"'Good lack,' said I, 'I am, but little of worldly goods have I.
Thou wilt not plunder God's ambassadors of their little all?'

"'Nay! But thou must come with us, and thy retinue must tarry here
till we bring thee back.'

"'You will not harm me?' said I, fearing for my throat. 'It is as
thou hearest a hoarse one, and often sore, but it is my only one.'

"They laughed, and one said:

"'Nay, father, we swear by Him that died that we will bring thee
safe here again ere sundown.'

"So they led me away, and anon they blindfolded me, and led my
horse. What a mercy poor Whitefoot was sure footed, and did not
stumble, for the way was parlous difficult.

"And at last they took the bandage from off mine eyes, and I saw I
was in their encampment, in the innermost recesses of a swampy
tangled wood. There, in a sort of better-most cabin, lay a young
man, dying--wounded, as I afterwards learned, in an attack upon the
Lord of Herst de Monceux.

"A goodly man of some thirty years was he, and a goodly end he
made. He told me his story, and as the lips of dying men speak the
truth, I believed him. He was the last representative of that
English family which before the Conquest owned this very island and
its adjacent woods and fields {24}. He was very like thee--he
stands before me again in thee. Didst thou never hear of thy
descent before?"

"That he was of the blood of the old English thanes I knew, but
fallen from their once high estate. Had he lived he might have
possessed me with the like feelings which prompted him: hatred of
the foreigner, rebellion to God's dispensation, which gave the land
to others. Even now as I speak, Christian though I am, I feel that
such things might be, but I count them now as dross, and seek a
goodlier heritage than Michelham."

"Poor lad! What has brought thee here again?"

"The desire to do my Master's will, and to preach the gospel to my
kindred. For if Christ shall make them free, then shall they be
free indeed."

"Hast thou heard of thy mother?"

"That she was dead. The message came through Michelham."

"I remember an outlaw came here one day and sought me. He bade me
send word to the boy we had (he said) stolen from them, that his
mother was no more. We did so; but who was thy mother by birth?"

"I know not."

"But I know."

"Tell me, father."

"It is a sad story."

"Let me hear it."

"Not yet. Go forth tomorrow. Seek thy kindred, and if thou livest
thou shalt know. Tell me, what is thine age?"

"I have seen twenty years."

"When thou hast attained thy twenty-first birthday, I may reveal
this secret--not before. Until then my lips are sealed; such was
the will of thy father."

"Shall I find the outlaws easily?"

"I know not; they have been much reduced both in numbers and in
power, and give small trouble now to the nobles and men of high
degree. Many have been hanged."

"Does Grimbeard yet live?"

"I know not."

"Father, I start on my search tomorrow; give me thy blessing and
pray for me."

Martin could not sleep. He stood long at the window of his cell in
a dreamy reverie. The story of the last Thane of Michelham, as
related in the Andredsweald, had often been told around the camp
fires, and although he was only in his thirteenth year when he left
them, it was all distinctly imprinted in his memory. Oh! how
strange it seemed to him to be there on the spot, which but for the
conquest of two centuries agone would perhaps have still been the
home of his race! But he did not indulge in sentimental sorrow. He
believed in the Fatherhood of God, and that all things work for
good to them that love Him.

What a dawn it was! A reddening of the eastern sky; a low band of
crimson; then rays like an aurora shooting upwards into the mid
heavens; then such tints of transparent opal and heavenly azure
overspread the skies all around, that Martin drank in the beauty
with all his soul, and almost wept for joy, as he thought it a
foretaste of the new heavens and the new earth, wherein he hoped to
dwell, and whereon his heart was already surely fixed. And as he
gazed upon the distant woods, wherein dwelt the kindred he came to
seek, he prayed in the words of an old antiphon:

"O Day Spring, brightness of the Eternal Light and Sun of
Righteousness, come and lighten those that sit in darkness, and in
the shadow of death."



Chapter 17: The Castle Of Fievrault.


It was the province of Auvergne in France. Through the forest, deep
and gloomy, rode our Hubert and his squire, with the six
men-at-arms, a few days after their departure from England. They
had gained the soil of France, and had found the town in Auvergne
which bore the name of the De Fievrault family, and early in the
following morning they started for the old chateau, which they were
forewarned they would find in ruins, to seek the fated sword.

It was added that the place was haunted, and that they would do
well to return before nightfall.

The road which led thither was evidently but seldom trodden. It
abounded in sunken ruts, wherein lurked the adder. It led by sullen
pools, where the bittern boomed and the pike swam, his silver side
glittering like a streak of light beneath the dark surface, as he
sought his finny prey. Now it was marshy and muddy, now it was
tangled with thorns, now impeded by fallen trees. So thick was the
verdure that the sky could not often be seen.

"I should be sorry, Almeric," said the young knight to his squire,
"to traverse this route by night. Yet unless we make better use of
our legs it will happen to us to have the choice either of
encountering the wolves of the forest or the phantoms of the
castle."

"Are not those the towers?" said the young squire, pointing to some
extinguisher-like turrets which just then came in sight.

"Verily they be, and if we make haste we may reach them by
noontide."

But between them and the object of their journey lay a deep fosse
or moat, and the rusty drawbridge was suspended by its chains to
the walls of the towers.

"Blow thine horn, Almeric."

It was long blown in vain, but at length an old man in squalid
attire, with long dishevelled gray locks and matted beard, appeared
at the window of the watch tower above.

"Whom seek ye here, in the haunted Castle of Fievrault?"

"The sword of its last lord, that I may bear it to the Holy Land in
his name, and lay it on the Holy Sepulchre of our Lord."

"Thou art the man the fates foretell. Lo, I will let down the
bridge, and thou mayst enter."

"What a squalid old man! Can he be the sole inhabitant?" said
Almeric in a whisper.

The rusty machinery creaked, the bridge sank into its appointed
place, and at the same moment the portcullis was heard to wind up
with a grating sound. The little troop entered the courtyard
through the gateway in the tower.

A ruined castle! the dismantled towers rose around them with the
great hall, the windows broken, the casement shattered. Ivy grew
around the fragments, and embracing them, veiled their squalidness
with its green robe, making that picturesque which anon was
hideous. But company gives confidence, and our little troop rode,
laughing and talking, into the haunted Castle of Fievrault.

"I have no food," said the old man.

"We need none; we have brought both meat and wine. Wilt thou share
it? Thou look'st as if a good meal might do thee good."

"I have eaten my frugal meal already, and desire none of your cates
and dainties. Lo, I am ready to conduct you to the hall where hangs
the sword of the man whom thy father slew one Friday long ago, and
it will be well for thee but to tarry while thou takest it and then
depart."

"We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall."

"I cannot say you nay."

He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the
portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and
conspicuous amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his
loathly lady; the painter had not flattered them.

There hung several swords, rusty with age and disuse, two-handed
weapons which it required a giant strength to wield; huge
battle-axes, maces, clubs tipped with iron spikes, ancient suits of
armour, rusty and unsightly, as old clothing of that sort is apt to
become after the lapse of years. There was no vacant hook now, for
at the end of the row hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de
Fievrault, the last of his grim race.

The Englishmen gazed upon the portraits, which they regarded with
insular irreverence (what were French knights and dames to them?),
then without awe spread the contents of their wallets on the board,
and feasted in serenity and ease.

When it was over the wine produced its usual exhilarating effect.
Song and romaunt were sung until the shadows began to turn towards
the east and the hues of approaching evening to suffuse the shades
of the adjacent wilderness. Then the old servitor came up to
Hubert:

"It is time, my lord, to take the sword thou hast come to seek, and
to go, unless thou wishest to be benighted in the forest."

"My lord," said Almeric, "we have come abroad in quest of
adventures, and as yet found none to relate around the winter
fireside when we get home again; and it is the humble petition of
your poor squire and men-at-arms that we may remain in the castle
this night and see what stuff the phantoms are made of, if phantoms
there be."

Hubert smiled approval.

"My Almeric," he said, 'I have ever been of opinion that ghostly
apparitions are delusions, and always thought that I should like to
put the matter to a test. Wherefore I welcome your proposal with
joy, for I doubted whether any of you would willingly stay with me.
We will remain here tonight."

"Nay," said the old withered retainer of the house of Fievrault;
"bethink thee, my lord, of what befell thy own father."

"And for that very reason his son would fain avenge him," said
Hubert flippantly, "and flout the ghosts, if such things there be.
And if men--Frenchmen or the like--see fit to attire themselves in
masquerade, no coward fear will blunt the edge of our swords."

"Wilful must have his way," said the old servitor with a sigh.
"What is to be will be, only remember, all of you, the old man has
warned you, and only permits you to remain because he has no power
to send you forth."

"Nay, be not so inhospitable."

"A churl will be a churl," said Almeric.

The old man shook his head sadly, and went about his business,
whatever that may have been.

The party now broke up to examine the castle, and to make sure that
all was as it seemed, and that no earthly inmates were there to
play pranks in the night. They ascended the ruined towers, and
gazed upon a wilderness of leaves, as far as the eye could reach,
save where a wild fantastic range of mountains upreared its riven
peaks in the dim distance, the Puy de Dome, the highest point. Then
they descended the steps and explored the vaults and dungeons:
dismal habitations dug by the hands of cruel men in the solid rock
upon which the castle was built. In one they shuddered to behold a
human skeleton, from which the rats had long since eaten the flesh,
chained by steel manacles around its wrists and ankles to the wall,
and hence still retaining its upright position: and in each of
these dark chambers they found sufficient evidence of the fell
character of the house of Fievrault.

In one large cell, which had evidently been the torture chamber,
they found the rusty implements of cruelty--curious arrangements of
ropes and pulleys; a rack which had fallen to pieces with age; a
brazier with rusty pincers, which had once been heated red hot
therein, to tear the quivering flesh from some victim, who had long
since carried his plaint to the bar of God, where the oppressors
had also long since followed him.

Hubert and his followers shuddered; but they were a little more
hardened to the sight of such things, which were not unknown in
those times even in "merry England," than we should be.

"Where does that trap door lead to?" said Almeric, pointing to an
arrangement of two folding doors in front of a rude image.

"It looks firm."

"Nay, trust it not. Here is a rude stump, once used as a seat. Roll
it upon the trap doors."

The round, short log was rolled on the trap, which gave way at
once. Down went the log, and, after what seemed minutes to those
above, came a hollow boom. It had reached the bottom. The
oubliette--Almeric shuddered, and the colour faded from his face.

"What if I had tried the strength with my own weight!" thought he.

They returned to the upper air. The sun had set, and the shades of
night were gathering around the hoary pile, and, with deepening
shades, every soul present felt a sense of gloom and depression
creep over him; a sort of apprehension which had no visible cause,
and could not easily be explained, but which led one to start at
shadows, and look round at each unexpected footfall.

For over all there came a sense of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said as plain as whisper in the ear--
"This place is haunted."

"Bring wood. Kindle a fire on the hearth here. Set torches in those
cressets. Bring out the remains of our dinner. There is yet plenty
of the vin de pays; let us eat drink, and be merry."

Wood was plentiful, pine torches easily procured in such a
locality, and soon the hall was bright with the firelight and vocal
with the sound of voices in melody. So the hours sped on until it
was quite dark. It was a very still night, but the clouds were
thick, and there were no stars abroad.

At length they had burned all the wood which had been brought in.

"Go, Tristam, and bring more wood from the great pile in the
courtyard," said Hubert.

Tristam, a grizzled man-at-arms, went out.

All at once a cry of horror was heard. All started to their feet,
but before they could run to Tristam's aid the door was dashed
open, and he ran in, his hair erect with horror, and his eyes
starting from their sockets.

"It is after me!" he shrieked, as he slammed the door behind him.

"What was it?" said Hubert, while the sight of the man's infectious
terror sent a thrill through all of them.

But he couldn't tell; he only stood and gibbered and shuddered, as
if he had lost his senses, then crept to the innermost corner of
the large fireplace, where they made room for him, and moaned like
some wounded animal.

"The wood must be brought," said Hubert. "We are not going to let
the fire go out, nor to be frightened at shadows.

"Almeric, you will come with me and fetch it."

"Yes, master," said Almeric, not without a shudder, which did not
promise well.

"Say a Pater and an Ave, Almeric. Sign thyself with the Cross.
Now!"

And they went forth.

The night was, as we have said, intensely dark, and they each
carried a fat, resinous pine torch, which diffused a lurid light
around. The stones of the courtyard were slimy from long neglect;
and the light, drizzly rain which was falling churned the dust and
slime into thin mud. As they drew near the wood pile, Hubert going
boldly first, they both fancied a presence--a presence which caused
a sickening dread--between them and the pile.

"Look, master," said Almeric, in tones half choked with horror.

Hubert followed the direction of Almeric's glance, and saw that a
footmark impressed itself in the slime before their own advancing
tread, just as if some invisible being were walking before them. So
sickening a dread, yet quite an inexplicable one, a dread of the
vague unknown, came upon them that, brave men as they were, they
could not proceed to the wood pile, and, like Tristam, returned
empty handed.

"Where is the wood?" was the general cry.

"Let no one go out for wood tonight," said Hubert. "We must break
up the forms, the floors, nay, our dining board, to sustain the
fire--for fire we must have. Now, remember we are warriors of the
Cross, pledged to a holy cause, and that no demon can hurt us if we
are true to ourselves. Join me in the holy psalms of the night
watch, then spread our cloaks and sleep here."

They said the well-known compline psalms, familiar then in England
from their nightly use. Then, replenishing the fire at the expense
of some rude oaken benches, and barring the door, they all strove
to sleep. A watch seemed needless. The fear was that they would all
be found watching when they should be sleeping.

But yet whether from extreme fatigue or any other cause, they did
all fall asleep.

In the dead hour of the night Hubert alone awoke, with the
consciousness that someone was gazing upon him. He looked up. There
was the figure which had so often tormented his poor father, the
slain Frenchman, the last Sieur de Fievrault, pale and gory, his
hand on the wound in his side.

"Speak, dread phantom! What dost thou want with me? I go to do thy
bidding, to fulfil thy vow."

"Thank God! Thou hast spoken, and I may speak, too. Thou goest to
do my bidding in love for thy father, to fulfil my vow. Alas, many
trials await thee. Canst thou face them?"

"I can do all man can do."

"So I imagine from thy bold bearing in this haunted castle of my
ancestors. It is well. Only go forward, whatever happens. Thou
shalt not perish. Thou shalt deliver thy father and me, condemned
as yet to walk this lower earth, till the vow my own misconduct
made me unworthy to fulfil is fulfilled by thee. Fare thee well,
and fear not."

And the figure disappeared.

Hubert felt a sense of blessed relief, under which he fell asleep
again, and did not awake until aroused by a cry of terror. He
started up. Almeric and all the men were on their feet, like
frenzied beings, gazing into the darkness which enveloped the end
of the hall. Then they rushed with a wild cry at the door, which
they unbarred with eager hands, and issued into the darkness. He
heard a heavy fall, as if one, perhaps two, had missed the steps
and gone headlong into the courtyard.

Terror is contagious, but Hubert saw nothing as yet to fear.

"Come back, ye cowards! Shame on ye!" he cried, but cried in
vain--he was alone in the haunted hall.

The fact was that Hubert felt as if he personally had made his
peace with the mysterious haunters of the castle, and had nothing
to fear. So he did not stir, but was even able to sleep again until
aroused by the aged janitor, just as the blessed light of dawn was
pouring through the oriel window.

"I warned you, my lord," he said.

"You did. The fault, and the punishment, too, is ours. But where
are my men?"

"Here is one," said the janitor, leading Hubert to the cell over
the gateway which he occupied himself, where on a couch lay poor
Almeric with a broken arm; broken in falling down the steps.

"And where are the rest?" said Hubert after expressing his sympathy
to the wounded squire.

"In the forest; they were raving like madmen in the courtyard, and
I opened the gates and let them out to cool their brains. They will
doubtless be here anon."

"What didst thou see, Almeric, that frightened thee out of thy
reason?"

"Ask me not! I may tell thee anon, but let us leave this evil
place," said Almeric.

"We must wait for our men--I will go out and blow my horn without
the barbican."

He blew a mighty blast, and after awhile first one and then another
responded to the appeal, looking thoroughly ashamed of themselves;
till four were in presence. But the fifth never arrived; doubtless
he had met some mishap in the forest.

"The wolves have got him," said the old man. "There is an old she
wolf with a litter of cubs not far off, and I heard a mighty
howling there-a-way after the gates were opened. If he staggered in
her way in the darkness she would be sure to tear him to pieces."

They sought for him in vain, but could not risk having to pass
another night in the place. Almeric was able to sit his horse with
difficulty, Hubert taking the reins and riding at his side and
supporting him from time to time with his arm. The sprightly lad
was quite changed.

"I know not what it was," he said, "but it was something in that
darkness, an awful face, a giant form, a deathly thing of horror,
and we lost our presence of mind and sought absence of body. That
is all I can say. It was something borne upon our wills and we
could not resist. I shall never want to try such experiments
again."

Even our Hubert, brave as he had been, was changed. He understood
his father's affliction better, nor was he ever quite so light
hearted and frivolous again. The joy of youth was dimmed. Yet he
often thought that the apparition of the slain Frenchman might have
been but a dream sent from heaven, to encourage him in his
undertaking on his father's behalf.



Chapter 18: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.


The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a
grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two
brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading
canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred
to avoid.

Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have
already introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the
left, they entered upon a pathless wilderness. Mighty trees raised
their branches to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in
some vast cathedral. There was little underwood, and walking was
very pleasant and easy.

And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse. Ginepro
related many tales of "sweet Father Francis," and in return Martin
enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of
the natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who
knew no laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par
with the heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the
neighbouring ecclesiastics.

"All the more need of our mission," thought both.

They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been
following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a
little stream, a stern voice called, "Stand and deliver."

They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of
arrows on either side. They had fallen into an ambush.

Martin was quite unalarmed.

"Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis,
who have come hither for your good."

"For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like
cattle."

"But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and
for thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick."

"Ah! Whom have we got here?"

"An old friend under a new guise. Lead me to your chieftain,
Grimbeard, who, I hope, is well. Or shall I show you the road?"

"Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?"

"Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?"

"Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so."

Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly
by his side. They were such wild-looking outlaws. At last they
reached a spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a
slope, and stood at the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre,
not unlike an old chalk pit, such as men still hew from the side of
the same hills.

But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in
ages long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of
nature had filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and
bushes, and all deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around
the sides of the amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of
osier work, twined around tall posts driven into the ground and
cunningly daubed with stiff clay. In the centre of the glade was a
great fire, evidently common property, for a huge caldron steamed
and bubbled over it, supported by three sticks placed cunningly so
as to lend each other their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in
accordance with nature's own mechanics, which she teaches without
the help of science {25}.

Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins,
lay the aged chieftain whom we met before. But now seven years had
added their transforming touch, tempus edax rerum. His tall stature
was diminished by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs
and joints were less firmly knit.

A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a
silver belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before,
and over it was a crimson sash. These were doubtless the spoils of
some successful fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the
tailors who could make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a
sharp, keen hunting knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with
an eagle's feather. There were eagles then in "merrie Sussex."

"Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?"

"Guests, good captain," replied Martin, "who have come far to seek
thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of
kings."

Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had
his deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good
faith, he could not have harmed him. So he conquered his
discontent.

"Hospitality is the law of the woods. Stay and share our fare, such
as it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace."

"Not till we have delivered our message."

"Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil's own children, but if you
will try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you."

Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after
partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different
footing, said but little. But the curiosity which was excited by
his knowledge of their names and of this their summer retreat was
only suspended for a brief period.

The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on
wooden spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters. Game,
collops of venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted
to eke out the contents of the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was
handed round, of which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the
meal was over Grimbeard spoke:

"We generally Test awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal,
for our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps
your tramp through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and
after the sun has sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may
deliver the message you spoke about."

Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did
some of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the
spreading beeches, as did our two brethren.

They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched,
and so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even
this precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.

And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to
active life.

"Call the brethren of Saint Francis," said the chief. "Now we are
ready. Sit round, my merrie men."

It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the
wild and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws,
with their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the
grass, with the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow
rock, while Martin, standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his
message.

With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His
enthusiasm mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his
face, his eyes sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to
tell, and the result was such as was common in the early days of
the Franciscan missions. Women, yea, and men too, were moved to
tears.

But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman's voice
broke the intensity of the silence in which the preacher's words
were received:

"My son--my own son--my dear son."

The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned
from the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the
chieftain's wife, or "Mad Mab," as they flippantly called her, and
only on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the
camp had she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as
she drew nearer, and when she entered the circle--we may well say
the charmed circle--she stood entranced, until at last conviction
grew into certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher's
voice by her cry of maternal love.

She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once been
strikingly handsome; Martin inherited her bright colour and dark
eyes; but time had set its mark upon her, and often had she felt
weary of life.

But now, after one of her monotonous rambles, like unto one
distraught in the woods, had come this glad surprise. A new life
burst upon her--something to live for, and, rushing forward, she
threw her arms around the neck of her recovered boy.

"My mother," said he in an agitated voice. "Nay, she has been long
dead."

But as he gazed, the same instinct awoke in him as in her, and he
lost self control. The sermon ended abruptly, the preacher was
conquered by the man. The hearers gathered in groups and discussed
the event.

"This explains how he knew all about us!"

"It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain."

"The last of the house of Michelham!"

"Turned into a preaching friar!"

Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order.

"Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not
leave the camp."

"Mother," said Martin, "why that cruel message of thy death? Thou
hadst not otherwise lost me so long."

"It was for thy good. I would save thee from the life of an outlaw
or vagabond, and foresaw that unless I renounced thee utterly, thy
love would mar thy fortunes, and bring thee back to my side."

"My poor forsaken mother!"

  ______________________________________________________________


Grimbeard now approached.

"Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy
natural home. Dost thou remember me?"

"Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me,
which doubtless I deserved."

"Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take
up thy abode again with us? We want a priest."

"I am no priest, only a preacher, and my mission is to the
Andredsweald at large, and the scattered sheep of the Great
Shepherd therein."

"Only thou knowest our whereabouts too well. We may not let thee go
in and out without security, that our retreat be not made known."

"Father, I have eaten of your bread, and once more of my own free
will accepted your hospitality. Even a heathen would respect your
secret, still more a Christian brother. If I can persuade you to
cease from your mode of life, which the Church decrees unlawful,
well and good. But other weapons than those of the Gospel shall
never be brought against you by me."

  ______________________________________________________________


They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard
maintained that the position of the "merrie men," who still kept up
a struggle against the Government in the various great forests of
the land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply
patriots maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors.
Martin, on the other hand, maintained that the question was settled
by Divine providence, and that the governors of alien blood were
now the kings and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul,
obedience was due. If two centuries did not establish prescriptive
right, how long a period would?

"No length of time," replied Grimbeard.

"Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived
here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from
these parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants
of the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes
in Germany and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the
principle you have laid down. What should you then say?"

Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.

"Thou hast me on the hip, youngster."

After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day's walk
and all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him
a composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink
it and go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of
skins in one of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her
recovered treasure--happy mother.

The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding
day, Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac,
where he was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the
sounds of real present strife had put Senlac into his head.

He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still
lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the
actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:

"Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!"

"Out! out! ye English thieves!"

"Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!"

Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish.

For there with arrow, spear, and knife,
Men fought the desperate fight for life.

Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked,
gained a sloping bank, and there--

That morning, a merry young knight and his train set out from
Herstmonceux Castle to go "a hunting," and in the very exuberance
of his spirits, like Douglas of old, he thought fit to hunt in the
woods haunted by the "merrie men," as he in the Percy's country.
Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye.

But he had not ridden far into the debatable land when the path lay
between two sloping, almost precipitous banks, crowned with
underwood. All at once a voice cried:

"Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods
which free Englishmen claim as their own?"

A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young
knight gazed upon his interlocutor with a comic eye.

"Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the
honours of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the
Andredsweald without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and
outlaws, such as I conceive thee to be."

"Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.

"Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in
our power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim."

"Bring on your merrie men."

Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem
strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may
guess), that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a
shower of arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short,
their lives were in the power of the "merrie men," whose arrowheads
and caps they could alone see peering from behind the tree trunks,
and over the bank, amidst the purple heather.

What a plight!

"Give soft words," said the old huntsman, who rode on the right
hand of our friend Ralph, "or we shall be stuck with quills like
porcupines."

But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw,
giving, at the same time, the order:

"Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin."

The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which
the old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed
and ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad
a leader.

A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared,
pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony
entangled road; throwing their riders in most eases, or dashing
their heads against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half
the Normans were soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane
became a shambles, a slaughter house.

Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with
little hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar,
who thrust himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were
fighting with their axes.

"Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another
blow."

"Thou hast saved the old villain's life, grey friar," said mad
Ralph, parrying a stroke of Grimbeard's axe, but this was but a
bootless boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons,
but with those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but
equipped for the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the
outlaws were far better versed than they, for with boar spear or
hunting knife they often faced the rush of wolf or boar.

"Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.

"Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?"

"Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father
will but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out."

"Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might
gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive."

Then he cried aloud:

"Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp."

The fight was over. The prisoners, five in number, were
blindfolded, and in that condition led into the camp of the
outlaws; Martin keeping close by their side, intent upon preventing
any further violence from being offered, if he could avert it.

Arrived at the camp, the captives were consigned to a rough cabin
of logs. Their bandages were removed; a guard was placed before the
door, and they were left to their meditations.

They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped.
The others lay dead on the scene of the conflict.

Meanwhile, Ralph was puzzling his brains as to where he had seen
the grey friar before, who had so opportunely arrived at the scene
of conflict. He inquired of his companions, but their wits were so
discomposed by their circumstances and by apprehensions, too well
founded, for their own throats, that they were in no wise able to
assist his memory. Nor indeed could they have done so under any
circumstances.

It was but a brief suspense. The outlaws had but tended their own
wounded, washed off the stains of the conflict, refreshed
themselves with copious draughts of ale or mead, ere they placed a
seat of judgment for Grimbeard under a great spreading beech which
grew in the centre of the camp, and all the population of the place
turned out to see the tragedy or comedy which was about to be
enacted. Just as, in our own recollection, the mob crowded together
to see an execution.

Grimbeard was fond of assuming a certain state on these occasions.
He dressed himself in all his rustic finery, and seated himself
with the air of a king on his rude chair of honour. By his side
stood Martin, pale and composed, but determined to prevent further
bloodshed if it were in mortal power to do so.

"Bring forth the prisoners."

They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever.

"What is thy name?" asked Grimbeard.

"Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux."

"And what has brought thee into my woods?"

"Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt."

"And thou must pay for thy sport."

"Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high."

"Thy ransom shall be a hundred marks, and till then thou must be content
with the hospitality of the woods. Now for thy followers--three weeks
ago the sheriff hung two of my best men as deer slayers, and I have
sworn in such cases to have life for life.  If they hang, we hang too.
If they are merciful, so are we. Now I am loth to slay an Englishman.
Hast thou not any outlanders here?"

"If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?"

"Thou art worth a hundred marks, and they not a hundred pence,"
laughed Grimbeard. "It is not that I respect noble blood. I have
scant cause. A wandering priest who came to say mass for us told us
the story of Jephthah and the Gileadites; I will try the effect of
a Shibboleth, too.

"So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men."

The first was evidently an Englishman.

"Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?"

"Bread and cheese."

"It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph's messenger, and shall be set
free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests.

"Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, 'Shibboleth."'

It was an olive-skinned rogue, fresh from Southern France, who
stepped forward this time, impelled by his captors. Asked the same
question, he replied:

"Dis bread and dat sheese {26}."

"Hang him," said Grimbeard, and hanged he would doubtless have
been, for a dozen hands were busy at once in their cruel glee; some
seizing upon the victim, some mocking his pronunciation, some
preparing the rope, two or three boys climbing the tree like
monkeys, to assist in drawing it over a sufficiently stout branch
to bear the human weight, while the poor Gaul stood shivering
below; when Martin threw his left arm around the victim, and raised
his crucifix on high with the other.

"Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of
your redemption."

"Who forbids?" said Grimbeard.

"I, the representative by birth of your ancestral leaders, and one
who might now claim the allegiance you have paid to my fathers for
generations. But I rest not on that," and here he pleaded so
eloquently in the name of Christ, that even Grimbeard was moved; he
could not resist a certain ascendency which Martin was gaining over
him.

"Let them go, all of them. Blindfold them and lead them out in the
road. Only they must swear not to come into our haunts again,
either with hawk and hound or with deadlier weapons.

"There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin.
You are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay
popinjay of a knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can't
afford to lose that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may
want him as hostage in case this morning's work bring a hornets'
nest about our ears."

"Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?" said Martin.

"I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended
my poor pate against the boves boreales, as now from latrones
austroles. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated
Ralph. But art thou indeed a grey friar?"

"Yes, thank God."

"And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came
near us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it
is a good fellow lost to the world."

"And gained to God, I hope."

"I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to
lead here?"

"Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of
the camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them."

"Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst
thou get to Oxford?"

"It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou
come with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to
escape till thy messenger returns?"

It was done, and Ralph and Martin strolled around the camp in
conversation that entire evening. Martin now learned that the death
of an elder brother had recalled his former acquaintance from
Oxford to figure as the heir apparent of Herst de Monceux: hence
the occasion of their meeting under such different auspices.



Chapter 19: The Preaching Friar.


The system of the early Franciscans bore a very remarkable likeness
to that devised by John Wesley for his itinerant preachers, if
indeed the former did not suggest the latter. They were not to
supersede the parochial system, only to supplement it. They were
not to administer the sacraments, only to send people to their
ordinary parish priest for them, save in the rare cases of friars
in full orders, who might exercise their offices, but so as not to
interfere with the ordinary jurisdiction. The consent of the bishop
of the diocese was at first required, and ordinarily that of the
parish priest; but in the not infrequent cases where a slothful
vicar would not allow any intrusion on his sinecure, his objections
were disregarded. When the parish priest gave consent, the church
was used if conveniently situated; otherwise the nearest barn or
glade in the woods was utilised for the sermons. Like certain
modern religionists, they were free and easy in their modes,
frequently addressing passers by with personal questions, and often
resorting to eccentric means of attracting attention. But unlike
their modern imitators, they acted on very strict subordination to
Church authority, and all their influence was used on behalf of the
Church; although they strove as their one great aim to infuse
personal religion into the dry bones of the existing system, which
they fully accepted, while teaching that "the letter without the
spirit killeth."

In short, their system was thoroughly evangelical at the outset,
although it grievously degenerated in after days.

  ______________________________________________________________


Martin's health was still far from strong. He yet felt the effects
of the terrible attack of the black fever or plague the preceding
spring; and now he was once more prostrated by a comparatively
slight return of the feverish symptoms, the after effects of his
illness.

But he had found his nurse now. What a delight it was to his mother
to take his head, "that dear head," upon her knee, and to fondle it
once more, as if he were a child again. Now she had her reward for
all her loving self denial in sending him away and feigning herself
dead.

In the summer time, especially if the weather were warm and genial,
the greenwood was not a bad place for an invalid, and Martin was as
well attended as if he had been in the infirmary at Michelham, and
with far more loving care. But under such care he rapidly gathered
strength, and as he did so used it all in his master's service. The
impression he produced on the followers of his forefathers was
profound, but he traversed every corner of the forest, and not an
outlying hamlet or village church escaped his ministrations, so
that shortly his fame was spread through all the country side.

  ______________________________________________________________


We must now pay a brief visit to Walderne.

The first few months after the departure of Hubert brought little
change in the dull routine of daily life there. Drogo speedily
returned after the departure of his rival, and his whole energies
were spent in making himself acceptable to his uncle, Sir Nicholas.
He attended him in the hunt. He assisted him in the management of
the estate. He looked after the men-at-arms, the servants, and the
general retinue of a medieval castle. The days had passed indeed
when war and violence were the natural occupation of a baron, and
when the men-at-arms were never left idle long together, but they
were almost within memory of living men and might return again. So
the defences of the castle were never neglected, and the arts of
warfare ceased not to be objects of daily study in the Middle Ages.

The Lady Sybil never trusted Drogo thoroughly. She had strong
predispositions against him: and quite accepted Hubert's version of
the quarrel at Kenilworth which, under Drogo's manipulation,
assumed a much more innocent aspect than the one in which it was
presented to our readers.

Sir Nicholas was at last won over to believe that the youth was not
so bad after all, the more so as Drogo disavowed all further
designs or claims upon the inheritance of Walderne, now that the
proper heir was so happily discovered. Harengod would content him,
and when the clouds had blown over, he trusted that there would
always be peace between Harengod and Walderne.

So the months of summer sped by. News arrived of Hubert's visit to
Fievrault, and of the dread portents described in a former chapter,
whereat was much marvel. Nought was said of the prophecy, for
Hubert did not wish to put such forebodings in the minds of his
relations. He had rather they should look hopefully to his return.
Poor Hubert!

Then they heard, a month later, of his departure from Marseilles.
The news was brought by a pilgrim who had just returned from the
Holy Land, and met Hubert and his party about to embark, purposing
to sail to Acre, in a vessel called the Fleur de Lys, near which
spot lay a house of the brethren of Saint John, to which order his
father owed so much. The reader may imagine how this good pilgrim,
who had achieved his task, and come home crowned with honour and
glory, was welcomed.

He himself, "by the blessing of our Lady," had escaped all dangers,
had worshipped at all the Holy Places, paying the usual tribute
demanded by the Paynim. It was a time of truce, and if only Hubert
were as fortunate as he, they might hope to see him within another
twelve months.

But the months passed on. Autumn deepened into winter. The leaves
put on their gayest and rarest garb of russet and gold to die, like
vain things, clothed in their best. Winter, far more severe than in
these days, bound the earth in its icy grasp. And still he came
not.

The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those
days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity
befell the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his
horse while hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke
again.

The reader may imagine the desolation of the Lady Sybil, thus
deprived of the helpmeet on whom she had leaned so long and loved
so well. They buried him in the vaults of the Castle Chapel, which
his lady had founded. There his friends and retainers followed him,
with tears, to the grave.

And now the very site of that chapel is hidden in a deep wood. It
lies in the dell beneath Walderne Church, and may be traced by
those who do not fear being scratched by brambles. There is no
pathway to it. Sic transit.

Not long after the death of Sir Nicholas, a palmer arrived at the
castle who had more to tell than usual, but not of a reassuring
character--he had been at Saint Jean d'Acre.

Here the voice of the Lady Sybil was heard, and there was instant
silence.

"How long ago was it that he had left Acre?"

"It might be six months."

"Had he heard of a young English knight, for whom all their hearts
were very sore: Sir Hubert of Walderne?"

"No, and yet if the knight had arrived at Acre he must have heard
of it, for all travellers sought the hospitality of the brethren of
Saint John, with whom he lived for six months as a serving brother,
waiting upon their guests."

Dead silence. After a while the lady spoke.

"And had he not heard of the arrival of a vessel from Marseilles,
called the Fleur de Lys?"

"Lady," he replied, "the name brings a sad remembrance of my voyage
homeward to my mind. Off the coast of Sicily is a mighty whirlpool,
which men call Charybdis, where Aeneas of old narrowly escaped
shipwreck. When the tide goes down the whirlpool belches forth the
fragments of ships which have been sucked down, and when it returns
the abyss again absorbs them.

"Here, then, I stood one day, for we had landed at Syracuse, on the
rocks which commanded the swelling main, and at high tide I saw the
hideous wreckage flow forth from the dark prison. One portion, a
figurehead, came near me in its gyrations. It was the carved figure
of the Fleur de Lys."

"And you know no more?"

"Only that the natives said a French vessel of that name had been
vainly striving, on a stormy day, to pass safely through the
straits, and evade the power of the Charybdis; that she was drawn
in, and that every soul perished."

A sudden tumult: Lady Sybil had fainted, and was conveyed to her
chamber.

From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank
into a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers;
she was not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she
possess the elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by
religion. She heard mass daily, and went through all the formal
routine the customs of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the
shrine of Saint Dunstan at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells,
notably that one in the glen near Hastings, well known to modern
holiday makers. But while she was thus striving to work out her own
salvation she knew little of the vital power of religion. It was
the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not the spontaneous offering of
love; and her burdened and anxious spirit never found rest.

Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half
of her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him,
she had never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well,
like those of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before
God and brought a Peter.

About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she
oft resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their
summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by
purple heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that
its waters looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a
mirror, and was indeed called "The mirror pond;" the upper sky, the
branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who
had a fancy for standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool,
might have easily believed his posture was correct, and that he
looked up into the azure void.

At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a
rustic seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large
crucifix, life size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to
meditation.

Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one
beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have
now arrived--twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon
her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the
secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of
suffering Love Incarnate.

All at once she heard a voice singing:

Love sets my heart on fire,
Love of the Crucified:
To Him my heart He drew,
Whilst hanging on the tree,
From whence He said to me,
I am thy Shepherd true;
I am thy Bridegroom new.

The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she
listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of
Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.

She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and
approached the arbour wherein she sat.

"Sister," said the foremost one, "hast thou met Him of Nazareth?
for I know He has been seeking thee!"

What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such
surprise? Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known,
and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before,
and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien
of the stranger? She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course
knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the "brother" of
whom Hubert had spoken.

"I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,"
she said sadly.

"Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?"

Quam bonus es petentibus
Sed quid invenientibus {27}!

"How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not
there, and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all
about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!"

And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with
Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the
heart of another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady
added:

"Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend
Martin?"

"I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother
Hubert?"

"Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering
palmer brought us," and she told him the story of Charybdis.

"Lady," he said, 'I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his
race is not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the
flesh; weaned by much affliction from some earthly dross which yet
encrusts his loving nature."

"What reason hast thou to give?"

"Only a conviction borne upon me."

"Wilt thou not return with me?"

"I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound."

"But thou wilt come soon?"

"On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle."

Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for
the time.

  ______________________________________________________________


It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year.

Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.

The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning
service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o'clock, the hour
hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost.
The chaplain said mass. After the creed Martin preached, and his
discourse was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth
Sunday after Trinity.

"Ah," he said, "this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in
Eden. It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very
air; yet beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.

"Gaze forth from the height, beside the mill at Cross-in-Hand, upon
God's beauteous world. See the graceful downs beyond the forest,
stretching away as far as eye can reach, like a fairy scene. How
lovely it all is; but let us penetrate beneath the canopy of leaves
and the cottage roof. Ah, what suffering of man or beast they hide,
where on the one hand the wolf, the fox, the wild cat, the hawk,
the stoat, and all the birds and beasts of prey tear their victims,
and nature's hand is like a claw, red with blood--and on the other,
beneath the cottage roofs, many a bed-ridden sufferer lies groaning
with painful disease, many children mourn their sires, many widows
and orphans feel that the light is withdrawn from the world, so far
as they are concerned.

"And yet is not God good? Doth He not love man and beast? Ah, yes;
but sin hath brought death and pain into the world, and the whole
creation groaneth and travaileth in bondage until now.

"But meanwhile He hath made suffering the path to glory, and our
light affliction, which is but for a moment, shall be rewarded with
an eternity of joy, if we but put our whole trust in Him who was
made perfect by sufferings, and but calls His weary servants to
tread the road He trod before them."

And so, with an eloquence unsurpassed in the experience of his
hearers, he drew all hearts to the Incarnate Love who wept, bled,
died for them, and bade them see that Passion pictured in the Holy
Mysteries, which were about to be celebrated before them, and to
give Him their hearts' oblation in union with the sacrifice.

After the service the noon meat was spread in the castle hall, and
afterwards Martin was invited to a private conference with the Lady
Sybil. She received her nephew, as she already suspected him to be,
in a little chamber of the tower long since pulled down. The scent
of honeysuckle was borne in on the summer night air, and the rays
of a full moon shone brightly through an open casement. At first
the conversation was confined to the topic of Martin's discourse,
which we here omit, but afterwards the dame said:

"My child, for thou art but a child in years to me, tell me why it
is thy voice seems so familiar, and even the lineaments of thy
countenance?"

Martin was embarrassed and silent. He did not wish just now to
reveal the secret of his relationship.

"Tell me," said she, "doth thy mother yet live?"

"She doth."

"And proud must she be of her son."

He was still silent.

"Brother Martin," said she, "I had a sister once, a wilful
capricious girl, but of a loving heart. We lost her early. She did
not die, but yet died to her family. She ran away and married an
outlaw chieftain. Our father said, leave her to the life she has
chosen, and forbade all communication: but often has my heart
yearned for my only sister."

She continued after a long pause:

"I heard that her husband, for whom she left us, died of wounds
received in a foray, and that she actually married his successor, a
man of low degree. That by her first husband, who was said to be of
noble English blood, she had one child, a son."

Again a long pause:

"And since I have been told that that son has reappeared, a brother
of Saint Francis. The report has spread all through these parts.
Tell me, is it true?"

Martin saw that all was known, and concealed himself no longer.

"It is true, aunt," he said.

She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord
of Walderne."

"I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of
Hubert's return."

"I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the
nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne."

"Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case
ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return."

"What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep."

"Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and
others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the
true heir."

"It is wisely thought, and shall be done," she replied. "And now,
my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be
regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?"

"I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife's
first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought
to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in
trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will
be well."

What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear
glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their
conversation from the adjoining closet.

What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but
the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what
she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon
be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.

It was a dismal dell--no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses,
overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with
nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women
supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous
peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they
were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their
beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in
poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir
Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she
owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the
intercession of the Lady Sybil.

And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a
young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a
long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his
pouch. She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried
something he had left behind.

The reader must imagine the rest.

It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time
before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And
in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference.
She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things
in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear
lord, Sir Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow
to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would
take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for
Hubert in the event of his return. She would also see the old
Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some
plan.

At length the old dame said:

"Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from
the hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The
butler places it nightly on the sideboard."

Let us precede Martin by only one minute.

Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that
pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is
behind him and casts the shadow--The thing vanishes as Martin turns
the corner. The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo
for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the
lark.

Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed
that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one.

"Martin," she said, "hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I
have said?"

"I have repeated your kind words."

"And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return
hither? which may God grant."

"I have."

"And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my
will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne."

Alas! man proposes but God disposes. On the following morning the
Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her
wont, appear at the morning mass in her chapel. At length, alarmed
by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to
arouse her. She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they
approached. They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy
cold. Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin,
Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them. She slept
that sleep:

Which men call death.

Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All
the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb.
Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved
to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself.

Blessed are they which die in the Lord,
for they rest from their labours.

He said a few touching words from this text to those that stood
around, as they mourned and wept, and comforting them was comforted
himself.

But what of her plans for the future? They died with her. None
living could gainsay the existing will, and the well-known
intentions of Sir Nicholas and his widow, that Drogo should hold
all till Hubert returned--in trust for him.

But would he then release his hold?

Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord de
facto of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and
could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the
will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew
nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil--only Martin knew
this--and Martin could not prove it. Therefore he let things take
their course, and hoped for the best. But he determined to watch
narrowly over his friend Hubert's interests, for he still believed
that he lived, and would return home again.

"We are friends, Drogo?" said Martin, as he left Walderne to go to
the greenwood.

"Friends," said Drogo. "We were friends at Kenilworth, were we not?
Ah, yes, friends certainly: but I fear I may not often invite you
to spend your Sundays here. I am not fond of sermons--keep to the
greenwood and I will keep to the castle. But if the earthen pot
come into collision with the brazen one, the chances are that the
weaker vessel will be broken."



Chapter 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.


Ah, where was our Hubert?

No magic mirror have we, wherein you may see him; yet we may lift
the veil, after the fashion of storytellers.

It is a scorching day in summer, the heat is all but unbearable to
Europeans as the rays fall upon that Eastern garden, on the slopes
of Lebanon, where a score of Christian slaves toil in fetters,
beneath the watchful eyes of their taskmasters, who, clothed in
loose white robes and folded turbans, are oblivious of the power of
the sun to scorch. There is a young man who toils amidst those
vines and melons--yet already he bears the scars of desperate
combats, and trouble and adversity have wrought wrinkles on his
brow, and added lines of care to a comely face.

A slave toiling in an Eastern garden--taskmasters set over him with
loaded whips--alas! can this be our Hubert?

Indeed it is.

The story told by the pilgrim was partly true. The Fleur de Lys had
been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, but Hubert and two or three
others escaped in an open boat. They were a night and day on the
deep, when a vessel bound for Antioch hove in sight, and made out
their signals of distress. They were taken on board, and arrived at
Antioch duly, whence Hubert despatched a letter to his friends at
Walderne (which never arrived); and then in the exquisite beauty of
the Eastern summer--"when the flowers appear on the earth, the time
of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is
heard in the land; when the fig tree putteth forth her green figs,
and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell"--in all
this beauty Hubert de Walderne and the three surviving members of
his party set out to traverse the mountainous districts of Lebanon
on their way to Jerusalem.

They engaged a guide, who feigned himself a Christian, and, in
company with other pilgrims, all of course armed, travelled through
the wondrous country beneath "The hill of Hermon" on their road
southward. Near the sources of the Jordan, while yet amongst the
cedars of Lebanon, their guide led them into an ambush; and after a
desperate but unavailing resistance, they were all either slain or
taken prisoners. Hubert, his sword broken in the struggle, was made
captive, after doing all that valour could do, and bound. He saw
his faithful squire lying dead on the field, and the other two
survivors of the party which had set out in such high hope from
Walderne, captives like himself.

Resistance was impossible. Their captors would have released them
for ransom; but who was near to redeem them? So they were taken to
Damascus, and, in the absence of such ransom, were exposed in the
slave market. Oh, what degradation for the young knight! Hubert
prayed for death, but it never came. Death flies the miserable, and
seeks the happy who cling to life.

An old man with a flowing beard, and of great austerity of manner,
had come to inspect the slaves. He selected only the young and
comely, and Hubert had the misfortune to be one so distinguished.
All men bowed before the potentate, whoever he was, and Hubert saw
that he had become the property of "a prince among his people."

Hubert was taken away, leaving his two fellow countrymen behind
him--taken away, joined to a gang of slaves like himself: and at
eventide, under the care of drivers, they formed a caravan, and set
out westward, making for the distant heights of Lebanon. He was the
only Englishman in the party, but close by was a young Poitevin,
whose downcast manner and frequent tears aroused the pitying
contempt of our Hubert, who thus at last was moved to address him:

"Cheer up, brother. While there is life there is hope."

"Not for those who become the slaves of the Old Man of the
Mountain."

Hubert started: the "Old Man of the Mountain"--he had often heard
of him, but had thought him only a "bogy," invented by the
credulous amongst the crusaders and pilgrims. He was said to be a
Mohammedan prince of intense bigotry, who collected together all
the promising boys he could find, whom from early years he trained
in habits of self devotion, and, alas! of cruelty; eradicating in
them all respect for human life, or sympathy for human suffering.
His palace was on the slopes of Lebanon, and was well supplied with
Christian slaves from the various markets; and it was said that
those who continued obstinate in their faith were, sooner or later,
put cruelly to death for the sport of the amiable pupils, to
familiarise them with such scenes, and render them callous to
suffering.

And when his education was finished, the "Old Man" presented each
pupil with a dagger, telling him that it was for the heart of such
or such a Christian warrior or statesman, and sent him forth. The
deeds of his pupils are but too well recorded in the pages of
history {28}.

Into the hands of this worthy man our Hubert had fallen, and even
his hopeful temperament--always buoyant under misfortune--could not
prevent him from sharing the despondency he had so pitied, and a
little despised.

In the evening, they arrived at a caravansary, and there the slaves
were told to rest, chained two and two together, and, furthermore,
huge bloodhounds stalked about the courtyard, within and without,
and if a slave but moved, their watchful growl showed what little
chance there was of escape.

Little? Rather, none.

In the morning, up again, and away for the west, until the slopes
of the mountains were attained on the third day, and the palace of
the "Old Man" soon appeared in sight.

A grand Eastern palace--cupolas, minarets gleaming in the setting
sun--terraces, fountains, cloistered arcades, cool and refreshing--gardens
wherein grew the vine, the fig, the pomegranate, the melon, the orange,
the lemon, and all the fruits of the East--wherein toiled wretched slaves
under the watchful eyes of cruel overseers and savage dogs.

When they arrived they were all put to sleep in cells opening upon
a courtyard with a tank in the centre. They were supplied with mats
for beds, and chained, each one by the ankle, to a staple in the
wall. And without the dogs prowled and growled all night.

Poor Hubert!

In the morning the "Old Man" appeared, and the slaves were all
assembled to hear his words:

"Come, ye Christians, and hearken unto me, for ye shall hear my
words--sweet to the wise, but as goads to the foolish. Ye are my
property, bought with my money, and is it not lawful for me to do
what I will with mine own? But there is one God, and Mohammed is
His prophet; and to please them is more to me than diamonds of
Golconda or rubies of Shiraz.

"Therefore, I make proclamation, that every slave who will embrace
the true faith of Islam shall be free, only tarrying here until we
be assured of his knowledge of the Koran and steadfastness of
purpose, when he shall go forth to the world, his own master, the
slave of none but God and His prophet.

"But if there be senseless Jews, or unbelieving Nazarenes, who will
not accept the blessing offered them, for six months shall they
groan beneath the taskmaster, toiling in the sun; and then, if yet
obstinate, they shall die, for the edification and warning of
others, and the manner of their death shall be in fit proportion to
their deserts.

"Hasty judgment beseemeth not a man. Ere the morrow's sun arise,
let your decision be made."

The day was given to work in the burning sun, doubtless as a
foretaste of what awaited the obstinate Christian. During the day
troops of lithe, active boys of all ages from ten to twenty, had
pranced about the garden--bright in face, lively and versatile in
disposition; but with a certain cruel look about their black eyes
and swarthy features which was the result of their system of
education.

And they had not been sparing of their remarks about the slaves:

"Fresh food for the stake--fresh work for the torturers."

"Pooh! They will give way and become good Mussulmen. Bah! Bah! Most
of them do, and deprive us of the fun."

That night Hubert and the young Alphonse of Poitou lay chained side
by side.

"What shall you do in the morning, Sir Englishman?" said young
Alphonse, after many a sigh.

"God helping us, our course is clear enough--we may not deny our
faith."

"Perhaps you have one to deny," said the other, with another sigh.
"For me, I have never been religious."

"Nor have I," said Hubert. "I always laughed at a dear companion
who chose the religious life, even while I admired him in my heart.
But when it comes to denying one's faith, and accepting the
religion of Mohammed, it seems to me there is no more to be said. I
have got at least as much religion as may keep me from that,
although I am not a saint."

"I wish I had; but it is fearful: the toil in the sun, the chains,
the silence, the starvation, and then the impalement, the scourging
to death, the stake--or whatever else awaits us--at the end of the
six months; while all these scoffing youngsters, whose savage mirth
we have heard ringing about the place, are taught to exult in one's
sufferings--the bloodthirsty tyrant. But might we not in so hard a
case pretend to become Mussulmen, and, as soon as we can escape,
seek absolution and reconciliation to the Church?"

"He has said, 'Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I
deny.' I never read much Scripture, but I remember that the
chaplain at Kenilworth, where I once lived as a page, impressed so
much as this upon my mind. No; I shall stand firm, and take my
chance, God helping me."

So they awaited the morning. And when it came, they were all
marshalled into the presence of the "Old Man of the Mountain."

"Yesterday you heard the terms, today the choice remains--liberty
and the faith of the prophet; slavery and death if you remain
obstinate. Those who choose the former, file off to my right hand;
those who select the latter, to my left."

There were some thirty slaves. A moment's hesitation. Then, at the
signal from the guards, about twenty, amongst whom was Alphonse,
stalked off to the right. Ten, amongst whom was Hubert, passed to
the left.

"Your selection is made. Every moon the same choice will be
repeated, until the end of the sixth, when no further grace will be
granted; and the death he has chosen awaits the unbeliever."

From this time the situation of the few who remained faithful
became unbearable. They slept in the cells we have described, as
best they could, rose at the dawn, and laboured under the
guardianship of ferocious dogs and crueler men till the sun set,
and darkness put an end to their unremitting toil. Only the
briefest intervals were allowed for meals, and the food was barely
sufficient to maintain life. Conversation was utterly forbidden,
and at night, if the slaves were heard talking, they were visited
with stripes.

The cells in which they now slept were single ones. Once only in
many days Hubert was able to ask a fellow sufferer:

"What happens in the end?"

"We are impaled on a stake, I believe, after the fashion of the
Turcomans; or perhaps burnt alive; or the two may be combined. God
help us. Although He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

"God bless you for those words," replied Hubert.

The merry laughter of boys filled the place at times, between their
hours of instruction, for the youngsters had all the European
languages to study amongst them, for the ends the founder of this
"orphan asylum" had in view. But nothing was done to make them
tired of their work, or unfaithful in their attachment to the
principles they were to maintain with cup and dagger.

Once or twice slaves disappeared, generally weak and worn-out men.

"Their time is come," said the others in a terrified whisper.

And on such occasions a few shrieks would sometimes break the
silence of a summer day, followed by the derisive laughter of
youthful voices. Yet these martyrs might have saved themselves by
apostasy at any moment--save, perhaps, at the last, when the
appetite of the cruel Mussulmen had been whetted for blood, and
must be satiated--yet they would not deny their Lord. Their
behaviour was very unlike the conduct of an English officer in the
Indian Mutiny, who saved his life readily by becoming a Mussulman,
with the intention, of course, of throwing his new creed aside as
soon as he was restored to society, and laughed at the folly of
those who accepted his profession thereof.

But Hubert, careless of his religious duties as he had been, and
almost afraid of appearing religious, could not do this, no more
than Martin would have done.

Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in
those days.

And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile.



Chapter 21: To Arms! To Arms!


Three years had passed away since the death of the Lady Sybil of
Walderne.

A great change had passed over the scene. War--civil war--the
fiercest of all strife--had fairly begun in the land. Lest my
readers should marvel, like little Peterkin, "what it was all
about," let me briefly explain that the royal party desired
absolute personal rule, on the part of the king, unfettered by law
or counsellors. The barons desired that his counsellors should be
held responsible for his acts, and that his power should be
modified by the House of Lords or Barons, if not by the Commons as
well; the latter idea was but dawning. In short, they desired a
constitutional government, a limited monarchy, such as we now
enjoy.

The Pope had been called upon to mediate, and had decided in favour
of the King, and absolved him from his oath and obligations to his
subjects, especially those "Provisions of Oxford." Louis IX, King
of France (afterwards known as Saint Louis), had been appealed to,
but, though a very holy man, he was a staunch believer in the
divine right of kings; and he, too, decided against the barons.

What were they to do? Most of the barons were in submission, but
Earl Simon said:

"Though all should leave me, I and my four sons will uphold the
cause of justice, as I have sworn to do, for the honour of the
Church and the good of the realm of England."

They changed their standing point, and, to meet the condemnation
which both Pope and King of France had awarded to the "Provisions
of Oxford," took their stand upon Magna Carta instead.

But here they fared no better. In March 1264 a parliament had been
summoned to meet at Oxford by the king, that he might there undo
what the barons had done in 1258. At this period the action of our
tale recommences.

Drogo was still lord of the Castle of Walderne. No news had reached
England of Hubert these three long years, and hence no one disputed
the title of Drogo to present possession. His steps had been taken
with all the craft of a subtle fox. One by one he had removed all
the old dwellers in the castle, and, so far as was possible, the
outside tenantry also, and substituted creatures of his own--men
who would do his bidding, whatsoever it were, and who had no local
interests or attachment to the former family.

And, little by little, his rule had been growing as hard and cruel
as that of a medieval tyrant could be. The dungeons were reopened
which had long been closed; the torture chamber, long disused, was
refitted, as it had been in the dreadful days of King Stephen; the
defences had been looked to, the weapons furbished, for, as a war
horse sniffs battle afar off, so did Drogo.

Need I tell my readers which side Drogo took? He had never, since
the day he was expelled from Kenilworth, ceased to hate Earl Simon,
and now he declared boldly for the king, and prepared to fight like
a wildcat for the royal cause.

But Waleran, Lord of Herstmonceux, the father of our Ralph,
espoused the popular side warmly, as did all the English men of
Saxon race--the "merrie men" of the woods, and the like.

But the great Earl de Warrenne of Lewes was a fierce royalist. So
was the Lord of Pevensey.

Already the woods were full of strife. Whensoever a party met a
party of opposite principles, there was instant bloodshed. The
barons' men from Herstmonceux pillaged the lands of Walderne or
Pevensey. The burghers of Hailsham declared for the earl, as did
most burghers throughout the land; and Lewes, Pevensey, and
Walderne threatened to unite, harry their lands, and burn their
town. The monks of Battle preached for the king, as did those of
Wilmington and Michelham. The Franciscans everywhere used all their
powers for the barons, for was not Simon de Montfort one of them in
heart in their reforms?

So all was strife and confusion--the first big drops of rain before
the thunderstorm.

Drogo was at the height of his ambition. He had added Walderne to
his patrimony of Harengod. He had humbled the neighbouring
franklins, who refused to pay him blackmail. He had filled his
castle with free lances, whose very presence forced him to a life
of brigandage, for they must be paid, and work must be found them,
or--he could not hold them in hand. The vassals who cultivated the
land around enjoyed security of life with more or less suffering
from his tyranny; but the independent franklin, the headmen of the
villages, the burgesses of the towns (outside their walls), the
outlaws of the woods, when he could get at them all, these were his
natural sport and prey.

He had a squire after his own heart, named Raoul of Blois, who had
come to England in the train of one of the king's foreign
favourites, and escaped the general sentence of expulsion passed at
Oxford in 1258.

One eventide--the work of the day was over, and Drogo and this
squire were taking counsel in the chamber of the former; once the
boudoir of Lady Sybil in better days.

"Raoul," said his master, "have you heard aught yet of the Lady
Alicia of Possingworth?"

"Yes, my lord, but not good news."

"Tell them without more grimace."

"She has placed herself under the protection of the Earl of
Leicester."

Drogo swore a deep oath.

"We were too weak, my lord, to interrupt the party, and we did not
know in time what they were about. But one thing I heard the
demoiselle said, which you should hear, although it may not be
pleasant."

"Well!"

"Although my first love be dead, I will never marry a man who
poisoned his aunt.'"

"They have to prove it--let them."

"My lord, the old hag who sold you the phial, as she says, yet
lives, and I fear prates."

"She shall do so no longer. Get a party of half a dozen of your
tenderest lambs ready for secret service. We will start two hours
before dawn, when all the world is fast asleep. See that you are
all ready and call me."

All lonely stood the hut--in the tangled brake--where dwelt a
sinful but repentant woman. For one had broken in upon her life,
and had awakened a conscience which seemed almost non-existent
until he came--our Martin. And this night she tosses on her bed
uneasily.

"Would that he might come again," she says. "I would fain hear more
of Him who can save, as he said, even me."

She mutters no longer spells, but prayers. The stone seems removed
from the door of that sepulchre, her heart. Towards morning sleep,
long wooed in vain, comes over her--and she dozes.

It wants but an hour to dawn, but the night is at its darkest. The
stars still drift over the western sky, but in the east it is
cloudy, and no morning watch from his tower could spy the dawning
day.

Eight men emerge from the deep shade of the tangled wood. In
silence they approach the hut, and first they tie the door outside,
so that the inmate cannot open it.

"Which way is the wind?" whispers the leader.

"In the east."

"Fire the house on that side."

They have with them a dark lantern, from which a torch is fired and
applied to the roof of light reeds on the windward side. We draw a
veil over the quarter of an hour which followed. It was what the
French call un mauvais quart d'heure.

The sun had arisen for some hours when the solitude of the forest
was broken by the tread of three strangers--travellers, who trod
one of its most verdant glades. The one was a brother preacher of
the order of Saint Francis. The second, a knight clad in hunting
attire. The third, the mayor, the headman of the borough of
Hamelsham.

"The cottage lies here away," said the first. "We shall see the
roof when we turn the end of the avenue of beeches."

"Do you not smell an odour unusual to the forest?"

"The scent of something burnt or burning?"

"I have perceived it."

"Ah, here it is," and the three stopped short. They had just turned
the corner to which they had alluded. A thin smoke still arose from
the spot where the cottage had stood.

They all paused; then, without a word, hurried on ward by a common
impulse. They only found the smoking embers of the dwelling they
had come to seek.

"This is Drogo's doing," said Ralph of Herstmonceux.

"Could he have heard of our intentions?" said the mayor.

"No, but--he might have learned that poor Madge was a penitent, and
then--" said Martin.

"Well, our work is done, and as the country is not over safe so
near the lion's den--"

("Wolf's den, you mean," interrupted Ralph--)

"And we have come unattended, the sooner we retire the better."

"Too late!" said a stern voice: and Drogo stood before them.

"My Lord of Walderne, this is ill pleasantry," said Ralph.

"'Pleasantry,' you call it, well. So it is for those who win."

He whistled shrill,
And quick was answered from the hill;
That whistle garrisoned the glen,
With twice a hundred armed men.

In short, the three travellers were surrounded on all sides. Their
errand had been betrayed by one of Drogo's outlying scouts.

"What is thy purpose, Drogo?" said Martin.

"Do ye yield yourselves prisoners?"

"On what compulsion?"

"Force, the right that rules the world."

"And what pretext for using it?" said Ralph, drawing his sword.

"I should advise thee not to touch thy weapon, unless thy skill is
proof against an arrow. In a word, Ralph of Herstmonceux, art thou
for the king or the barons?"

"Thou knowest--the barons."

"And I for the king; no more need be said. Yield to ransom.

"I will not give my sword to thee," and Ralph flung it into a pond.

"And what right hast thou to arrest me?" said the mayor.

"Good mayor, hast thou not stirred up thy town of Hamelsham, thy
puissant butchers and bakers, to resist the good king and to send
aid to the rebellious Earl of Leicester, may the fiends rive him!
Wherefore I might, without further parley, hang thee to this beech,
which never bore a worthier acorn."

"Yes, hang him for the general amusement," said several deep
voices.

"Nay, dead men pay no ransom, and we will make his beer-swilling,
beef-eating brother burghers pay a good sum for his fat body.

"Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?"

"Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a
poor man."

They laughed immoderately.

"We have borrowed a hint from the outlaws, and unless thy brethren
pay for thee soon, we will send thy worthless body to them in
installments, first one ear, then the other, and so on."

"Our Lady help me!"

"Brother, be patient. Heaven will help us, since there is no help
in man," said Martin. "And now, Drogo, whom I knew so well of old,
and in whom I see little change, what is thy charge against me?"

"A very serious one, brother Martin, and one I grieve to bring
against such an eloquent preacher of the Gospel, but my conscience
compels me."

"Thy conscience!"

"Yes, I can afford to keep one as well as thou. Dost thou think
thou art the only creature who has a soul to be saved?"

"Go on without further blasphemies."

"Well then, I grieve to say that it is my painful duty to arrest
thee on a charge of murder."

"Of murder!" cried all three.

"Yes, of the murder of his aunt, the late lamented Lady of
Walderne."

"Good heavens!" cried the knight and mayor.

"Oh heaven and earth, this slander hear!" said Martin.

"Do not swear, it misbecomes a friar."

"Thou didst murder her thyself."

"Nay: who gave her the sleeping draught the last night? I have just
discovered that it contained poison supplied by the old witch who
lived here, and whom I have duly punished by fire. But whose hand,
administered it?"

Martin turned pale.

"I ask," continued Drogo, "who gave her the draught?"

"It was I, but who poisoned it?"

"Satan knows best, but thou hast owned it.

"I call thee to witness, most valiant knight, and thee, O Mayor of
Hamelsham, that you both hear him--confitentem mum, as Father
Edmund used to say at Kenilworth.

"Ah, I have him on the hip. Away with them to Walderne: the deepest
dungeon for the poisoner."



Chapter 22: A Medieval Tyrant.


Drogo did not venture to bring in his prisoners by the light of
day, for although he had collected together a large flock of black
sheep, yet did he not dare openly to consign a preaching friar to
those dungeons of his.

The men he had with him on the spot were certain lewd fellows of
the baser sort, distinguished even in Walderne Castle for their
wickedness; yet even they had their superstitions, and imagined it
would bring bad luck to arrest the ecclesiastic, travelling in the
garb of his order.

But Drogo's will was law, and they obeyed. They detained the
prisoners in an outlying farmhouse until dark, then thrusting a
labourer's smock over Martin's robe, led their prisoners to the
castle.

Prisoners were no novelty there, many of these free lances were
born in camp, and had the inherited habits of generations of
robbers, so that it was to them a second nature to mutilate,
imprison, and torture, and slay. They looked upon burghers and
peasants as butchers do on sheep, or rather they looked upon them
as beings made that warriors might wring their hidden hoards from
them, by torture and violence, or even in default of the gold hang
them for amusement, or the like. They had about as much sympathy
for these men of peace as the pike for the roach--they only thought
them excellent eating.

As for the knight--he was a knight, and must be treated as such,
although an enemy. As for the burgher--well, we have discussed the
case. As for the friar--they did not like to meddle with the
Church. They dreaded excommunication, men of Belial though they
were.

The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from
whence he could see:

The forest dark and gloomy,

And under poetic inspiration compose odes upon liberty. The burgher
and friar were taken downstairs to gloomy dungeons, adjacent to
each other, where they were left to solitude and silence.

Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad: to be the inmate
of a narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for
a rotten bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and
loaf of black bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle
beneath one's feet: oh, horrible!

And such was our Martin's fate.

But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the
lion's den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair. He
accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling
atmosphere and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in
the castle of his fathers.

And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very
thought that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught
was in itself sufficiently painful.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," and Martin left it.

The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far
more compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool
trade. He had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the
spindle and loom. He had two sons, one of twelve, one of five;
three daughters, one almost marriageable; he had six apprentices
and twelve workmen carding wool; he had the town business to
discharge; he sat upon the bench in the town hall and administered
justice to petty offenders. And here was he, torn from all this, and
consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce marauding young "noble."

To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following
day, and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.

"The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and
honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it
pleases thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy
presence."

"Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken
off, thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be
more to the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get
out of thy den."

Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and
charged fifty marks the more.

"We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}."

"Why, it is a king's ransom!"

"And thou art fit to be a king."

"And what if I cannot pay it?"

"We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the
royal justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons."

"May I send a messenger to my castle?"

"At once. I will place my household at thy disposal."

"And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their
freedom?"

"By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom."

"But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being
fighting men, under my protection."

"Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on
what errand ye were all bent?"

Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious
politeness, laughing at it in his sleeve.

"Now for the burgher," said he.

A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into
the face of his fierce young captor.

"What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?"

"I knew not they were thine, or I had perchance not intruded. Now
tell me, lord, at what price I may redeem my error, for I have a
wife and children, to say nothing of apprentices and workmen, who
long sore for me!"

"'When the cat's away the mice will play.'

"They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must
answer before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?"

The mayor hesitated.

"S'death, dost keep me waiting? We have a torture chamber close at
hand. Shall I summon the torturers? They will fit thy fat thumbs
with a handsome screw in a moment."

Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it.

"Nay, it can do no harm. We came to witness the last confession of
a dying woman, who had some crime on her soul, which she wished to
depose before fitting witnesses."

"Of what nature?"

"I was not told. I waited to learn."

"Why didst thou hesitate to say this just now?"

Poor mayor! He stammered out that he hoped he hadn't offended
therein.

"The fact is that you knew the men, your companions, came as my
enemies, and suspected that the lies that witch, whom Satan is just
now basting, meant to tell, affected me! Don't lie, or I will
thrust the lie down thy throat, together with a few spare teeth; my
gauntlet is heavy."

"It was so," said the terrified citizen of Hamelsham.

"Ha! ha! Well, it matters little to me what thou mayest say, or
what thy silly townsfolk think of me: the gudgeons probably talk
much evil of the perch, but I never heard that it hurts him much,
or spoils his digestion of those savoury little fish. But thou must
pay for it: I fix thy ransom at one hundred marks."

"Good heavens! I have not as many pence!"

"Swear not, most fat and comely burgher. The money must be raised,
or I will send the good citizens of Hamelsham their mayor bit by
bit, an ear to begin with. A man waits without, give him thy
instructions to thy people. Farewell!"

And the young bully strolled into the next cell, which was
Martin's, a keeper opening the door and shutting it upon him until
the signal was given to reopen it; for Drogo did not wish the
coming conversation to be overheard.

"So I have got thee at last?"

"Thou hast my body."

"It is a comfort that it is a body which can be made to pine, to
feel, to suffer."

"I am in God's hands, not thine."

"I advise thee not to look for help to so distant a quarter.
Martin! I have always hated thee, both at Kenilworth and Walderne.
Revenge is a morsel fit for the gods."

"What hast thou to revenge?"

"Didst thou not plot to oust me of mine inheritance, the night
before the doting old woman died up above? It cost her her life."

"For which thou must answer to God."

"Nay, thine hand, not mine, administered it. Ha! ha! ha!"

"And what dost thou seek of me now?"

"Nothing, save the joy of removing an enemy out of my path."

"I am no man's enemy."

"Yes, thou art mine, and always hast been. Didst thou not plot
against me with that old hag, Mother Madge, whom I have sent to her
master in a chariot of fire?"

"I heard her confession of that particular crime."

"So did I, through eavesdroppers. Well, thou knowest too much; and
shalt never see the sun again. It is pleasant is it not--the fresh
air of the green woods, the sheen of the sun, the songs of the
birds, the murmur of the streams, the scent of the flowers.

"Ah, ah!--thou feelest it--well, it shall never again fall to thy
lot to see, hear, and smell all these. Here shalt thou linger out
thy remaining days; thy companions the toad, the eft, the spider,
the beetle; and when thou diest of hunger and thirst, which will
eventually be thy lot, this cell shall be thy coffin. Here shalt
thou rot."

"And hence shall I rise, in that case, at the day of resurrection.
Nay, Drogo, thou canst not frighten me. I am not in thy power. Thou
canst not tame the spirit. Do thy worst, I wait God's hour."

Drogo was beside himself by rage at this language on the part of a
captive, and he would have struck him down on the spot but for
something in Martin that awed him, even as the keeper, who calls
himself the lion king, tames the lion.

"We shall see," he said, and left the cell.

"My lord, do not harm him," said the man. "If a hand be laid upon
him the men-at-arms will rebel. They fear that it will bring a
curse upon them."

"The fools, what is a friar but flesh and blood like others?"

"I would sooner hang or fry a hundred wretched burghers, or behead
a score of knights, than touch this friar."

"I see how it is. I must contrive to starve or poison him," thought
the base lord of the castle.

As he ascended the stairs he heard the sound of a trumpet, or
rather a horn. Loud cries of surprise and alarm greeted his ears.

He went out on the watch tower. The woods were alive with men: they
issued out on all sides--the "merrie men" of the woods.

Drogo saw at once that they had come to seek Martin. He took hold
of a white flag, and advanced to the tower above the central
gateway--to parley--for he feared the arrows of the marksmen of the
woods.

"Whom seek ye?"

"One whom thou hast wrongfully imprisoned. The friar Martin."

"I have not got him here."

"But thou hast, and we have come to claim him."

"Choose three of your number. They may come and confer with me in
the castle upon his disappearance. God forbid that I should lay
hands on His ministers."

"Dost thou pledge thy honour for their safety?"

"Do ye doubt my honour? Oh, well; so ye may well do, if ye think I
would have touched brother Martin."

He was so plausible that they were ashamed of their distrust, and
selected three of their foremost men, who forthwith entered.

The gates were shut behind them.

And then, oh, shame to say! They were seized from behind, their
arms bound behind their backs, and, in spite of their protests, led
out on the watch tower, where was a permanent gibbet, and, in sight
of all their comrades, hung over the battlements.

"That is how my honour bids me treat with outlaws," laughed Drogo.

A flight of arrows was the reply, which penetrated every crevice,
and made six troopers stretch their bodies on the ground.

"Keep under cover," shouted Drogo. "There will be a fine gathering
of arrows when all is done, and it will be long before these old
walls crave for mercy. Keep up your courage, men. The fools have no
means of besieging the place, and ere another sun has set, the
royal banner will appear for their dispersion and our deliverance."

For he had heard from a sure hand that the royal army had reached
Tunbridge, en route for Lewes, and would pass by Walderne,
tarrying, perchance, for the night. Hence his daring defiance of
the sons of the soil.



Chapter 23: Saved As By Fire.


And all this time the true heir of Walderne was leading the
degraded life of an unhappy and most miserable slave in the palace
of the "Old Man of the Mountain," in the far off hills of Lebanon.

The six months passed away, and still they spared our Hubert.
Others were taken away and met their most doleful fate, but the
more youthful and active slaves were spared awhile, not out of
pity, but because of their utility; and Hubert's fine constitution
enabled him still to live. But he could not have lived on had he
not still hoped. The tremendous inscription seen by the poet over
the sombre gate of hell was not yet burnt into his young heart:
All ye that enter here, leave hope behind.

Some lucky accident, perhaps an invasion of the crusaders, might
deliver him; but otherwise he would not despair while God gave him
life. Again, irreligious as some may think his former life, he had
great belief in the efficacy of the prayers of others. The thought
that his father and Martin were praying for him continually gave
him comfort.

"God will hear them, if not me," he thought.

Yet he did really learn to pray for himself more earnestly than he
would once have thought possible.

But when a year had nearly passed away in the wearying bondage, he
was summoned to the presence of the "Old Man."

"Christian," said the latter, "hast thou not borne the heat and
burden of slavery long enough?"

"Long enough, indeed, my lord, but I cannot buy my liberty at the
expense of my faith."

"Not when the alternative is a bitter death?"

"No."

"Thy constancy will be tried. We have borne with thee full long. At
next full moon thou wilt have had a year's reprieve. Thou must
prepare to worship the true God and acknowledge His prophet, or
die."

"My choice is made."

"Thy time shall come at the close of the year. Go."

And Hubert was led away.

And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained
by what may be called a miraculous interposition.

It was dark night and he lay in his cell, the watchmen without, the
yet more watchful dogs prowling and growling around; when all at
once he heard footsteps approaching his wretched bed chamber.

Who could it be? The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally
slept at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive's nightly rest.
The door opened, and--He beheld his father!

Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as
of another world over his worn features.

"Be of good cheer, my son; God permits me to come to thee thus, and
to bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man's
extremity is His opportunity."

"Art thou really my father?"

And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished.
It was of God's appointment, that vision, given to confirm the
faith and hope of one of His children. Such was Hubert's belief
{30}.

It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father
Roger dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave
condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him
as in the text.

The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last
time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining
in the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern
climes. But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden
times to his mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth;
and that night when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.

"Shall I ever see my native land again?"

It seemed impossible, but "hope springs eternal in the human
breast." All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling
with the milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a
loud cry, followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of
alarm or anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which
he knew enough of their language to interpret--the palace was in
flames.

"Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay
till the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?"

The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard
without. The doors were opened one after another--

"Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!"

The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and
courts to the very front of the burning pile--blazing pile, we
should say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre
Eastern beauty--cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires,
but the flames had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were
bursting through the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its
aspect.

The slaves were instantly formed in line to pass leathern buckets
from hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at
this extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in
front of the row, each looking and walking in the contrary
direction to the other, changing their direction at the same moment
as they went and returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of
sight of the watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man
knew, instinctively, that the least movement which looked
suspicious might bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck,
bearing away the trunkless head like a plaything.

Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the
centre of the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular
erection of stone, like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around
it. The flat surface, the disc we may call it, was half composed of
iron bars like a grate, supported by the stonework, and in the
centre ran an iron post with rings stout and strong, from which an
iron girdle, unclasped, depended.

What could it be meant for?

"Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow."

He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on
either side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall,
and the ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from
it. Beyond the moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and
hills, valleys and depths.

All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die
on the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the
fiery death designed for him on the morrow.

And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a
window, right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces
of some of the hopeful pupils of the "Old Man," forgotten and left,
when the rest were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge,
the same death awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with
pitiless eyes, as inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow.
They had probably been looking forward to the occasion, as a
Spaniard to his auto da fe, as an interesting spectacle.

Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on
such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and
cruelty becomes a delight. God preserve us from such possibilities,
which make us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the
Mussulman, the Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not
moralise here.

All eyes were drawn to the spot. The "Old Man" himself, now first
heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was
tottering; it bent inward, an awful crash, and--

At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the
terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind.
In a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a
head, not Hubert's, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He
lingered not an instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on
the other sentinel, a moment's clashing of blades, the skill of the
knight prevailed, and the Moslem was cleft to the chin.

"Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!"

And Hubert leapt over the wall.

He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for
him his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to
guide himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley,
through which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled
merrily along.

He was not alone. Two or three other escaped fugitives came
crashing through the bushes, and stood by his side; but Hubert was
the only man armed. He had been able to retain the scimitar so
boldly won.

Above them the palace still blazed, and cast a lurid light, which
was reflected from the cold snowy peak of Hermon, and steeped in
ruddy glare many an inaccessible crag and precipice.

"Do any of my brethren know the country?"

At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke
diffidently:

"If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters
of Merom."

"But remember that meanwhile men and dogs alike will hunt us, and
that only one is armed, although the arm that freed us might
sustain a host," said another.

"We must efface our track and then hide. Let each one walk in the
brawling bed of the torrent; it leaves no scent for the dogs to
follow," said Hubert.

They descended slowly and painfully amidst loose rocks and
boulders, avoiding many a pitfall, many a black depth, until the
dawn was at hand. Just then they heard a deep sound, like a
cathedral bell, booming down the valley.

"What bell is that?"

"No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds."

"But they can find no trace."

"They are on the track we left, far above, before we entered the
stream. If they cannot scent us in the water, they will have the
sense to follow us downstream, keeping a dog on each bank in ease
we leave it."

"What shall we do?" asked the helpless men.

Above them the rocks rose wild and horrent, apparently
inaccessible, but the keen eye of our Hubert detected one path, a
mere goat path, used perhaps also by shepherds.

"Follow me," he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a
veritable mauvais pas. At the height of some two hundred feet it
struck inward through a wild region.

"Here we must make a stand at this summit," said Hubert, "and meet
the dogs. I will give a good account of them."

He descended a little way to a point where the dogs could only
ascend by a very narrow cleft in the rocks, and there he waited for
the first dog. Soon a hideous black hound appeared, and with
flashing eyes and gaping jaws sprang at our hero. He was received
with a sweep of the scimitar, which cleft his diabolical head in
twain, and he rolled down the deep declivity, all mangled and
bleeding, to the foot, missing the path and falling from rock to
rock, so that when he was found by the party who followed they
could not tell by what means he had received his first wound.

And when the other dogs arrived at the spot, which was deluged in
gore, after the wont of their race they would follow the scent no
farther.

Meanwhile our little party of five rescued captives went joyfully
forward with renewed hope, until midday, when they found a cool
spot by the side of the streams leading to the waters of Merom--the
head waters of the Jordan. And there, under a date tree which
afforded them food, they watched in turn until the sun was low;
after which they renewed their journey.

Soon they left the smaller lake behind, and followed the waters of
the Upper Jordan to the Sea of Galilee, skirting its western shore,
so rich in sacred memories, with the ruins of Capernaum, Chorazin,
Bethsaida, Magdala, and other cities, long ago trodden:
By those sacred feet once nailed,
For our salvation, to the bitter rood.

In the evening they rested amidst the ruins of Enon, near Salim;
and on the morrow resumed their course, avoiding the great towns;
begging bread in the villages--a boon readily granted. And in the
evening they saw the promontory of Carmel, and reached the Hospital
of Saint John of Acre, where Hubert's father, Sir Roger, had been
restored to health and life.

Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, heard
of the arrival of five Christian fugitives, escaped from the palace
of the "Old Man of the Mountain," and naturally curiosity led him
to interrogate them. To his astonishment he found one of them a
knight like himself, and, to his further surprise, recognised the
son of an old acquaintance, Sir Roger of Walderne.

All was well now.

"Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost
the sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre."

"My brother," said the prior then present, "dost thou remember that
a party of pilgrims arrived here a year since, who said that, in
the gorges of Lebanon, they had come upon the scene of a recent
conflict, and found a broken sword, which they brought with them
and left here?"

"Bring it hither, Raymond," said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page.

It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the
Sieur de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem's skull in the
desperate fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he
receive it! He could now discharge his father's delegated duty.

"Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start
with better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem."

Oh, the rest of the next few days in that glorious hospital, with
its deep shady cloisters, with its massive walls and its beauteous
chapel, wherein, on the following day, which was Sunday, as Hubert
was told, for he had long since lost count of time, he returned
thanks to God for his preservation, and took part once more in the
worship of a Christian congregation, and knelt before a Christian
altar. The walls of that chapel were of almost as many precious
stones as Saint John enumerates in describing the New Jerusalem.
Its rich colouring, its dim religious light, its devout psalmody;
oh, how soothing to the wearied spirit.

And then he reclined that afternoon in a delicious Eastern garden,
rich with the perfume of many flowers, shaded by spreading trees,
vocal with the sound of many fountains; and there, at the request
of the fraternity, he related his wondrous adventures to the men
who had erst heard his father's tale.

The time of his arrival was between the sixth and the seventh, or
last, crusade; during which period Acre, situated about seventy
miles from Jerusalem, had become the metropolis of the Christians
{31} in Palestine, after the loss of the Holy City. It was
adorned with noble buildings, aqueducts, artificial harbour, and
strong fortifications. From hence such pilgrims as dared venture
made their hazardous visits to Jerusalem, which they could only
enter as a favour, granted in return for much expenditure of
treasure and submission to many humiliations; and thus Hubert was
forced to accomplish his father's vow, setting forth so soon as his
strength was restored.



Chapter 24: Before The Battle.


The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was
inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on
either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of
each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire,
and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves
incapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: "Is thy servant
a dog that he should do this thing?" as one said of old when before
the prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless
warrior.

The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the
Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards
historical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a
master of the art of war, although still young, and already marked
by that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days,
was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course through
the Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponent
derived his title, opened their gates to him. He marched thence for
London, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning from
Rochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships which
set the place in a blaze.

Edward marched vice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the
castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been
taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border
of the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes.

It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun
shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon
castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the
Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge
above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our
stand by it:

And all around the widespread scene survey.

What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree
tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant,
studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from
land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and
confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly
espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How
many familiar objects we see around--Michelham Priory, Battle
Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle--all in
view.

There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle
Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale
fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king
was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is
Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west;
Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear
morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up
from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isle
of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.

Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and
Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings,
where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that
the royal enemy is in the forest.

Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which
attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into
the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich
in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the
breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal,
and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up
the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep
at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.

The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower
with excited steps--the royal banner will soon be seen surmount ing
that ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring
downwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is
galloping as for dear life--look at the cloud of dust which he
raises. The "merrie men" have disappeared in the woods, and Drogo
descends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath the
suspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches the
foot of the stairs.

"What news? Speak, thou varlet!"

"The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper
windows of the windmill."

"Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner
wave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my
liege."

Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks
were getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings,
the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile
neighbours--the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods--the
fish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked,
stewed, or the like, for the king's supper. Then he interviewed the
butler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the
like. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall were
completed, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer,
suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with fresh
rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.

When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced
that the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a
glorious sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:

On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part.

The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly
glistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting
sun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue,
in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war
horses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices.
And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises just
above the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.

Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys
of his castle in his hand.

The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat
stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the
extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.

Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired,
prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a
quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but
somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to
that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and
manly features, the greatest of the Edwards--a born king of men.

"Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight."

"My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own."

"Ah, and yet so loyal!"

"For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at
Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I
could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and
misrepresentations I daily heard."

"Ah, indeed," said the king, "then shalt thou receive the honour
from my own hands," and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of
the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head,
and added, "Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne."

"Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,"
muttered Prince Edward.

"Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and
those who honour us will we honour {32}."

The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their
acclamations. The multitude cried, "Largesse! Largesse!" and by
Drogo's direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freely
scattered to the accompaniment of the cry:

"Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne."

Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the
banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands,
pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green
without, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which
was not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.

The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head
of the board--his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the
King of the Romans), Edward, afterwards "The Hammer of Scotland,"
on his father's left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and
next to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king of
Scotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.

Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to
play the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which
was honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend
the king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify
the favour and honour which he had received.

Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of
the gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of
healths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring
again and again? Nay, we have tired the reader's patience with
scenes of that sort enough already.

But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet
feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in
another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him
closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their
political sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and
land holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the
morrow's journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for the
multitude. In short, they acted like men of business who provide
for the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.

Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he
claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he
had apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by
their harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.

"Who are these doughty foes?"

"Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor
of the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a
favourite page of the Earl of Leicester."

"Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to
sustain such acorns?"

"I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand."

"Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall
doubtless make short work of them."

Night reigned without the occasional challenge of the sentinel
alone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness
over the host encamped at Walderne.

Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at
once. The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to
life and action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the
woods with their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the
eastern hills.

Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet
hastily despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind
them, stood the three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and
friar pale with privation and suffering. Our Martin's health was
not strong enough to enable him well to bear the horrors of a
dungeon.

"You are accused of rebellion," said the stern Edward, as he faced
them. "What is your answer?"

Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is
recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and
anger, died of fear--yet he was never intentionally unjust.

Ralph spoke first--he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was
the only course.

"My prince," he said, "we must indeed avow that our convictions are
with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand
or fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are,
but we disclaim the word."

"And thou, Sir Mayor?"

"I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill
to choose."

"And thou, friar of orders grey?"

"Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester
just," said Martin quietly.

Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward
respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger era he replied:

"They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the
burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while
fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with
their swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then
I may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in
ward."

Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the
execution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to
the "superstitious" scruples of his followers, and to gain this he
would have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold,
but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion
than avarice.

And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the
royal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were
the newly-made knight and his followers.

He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons--the
only chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But
before starting from home he left secret instructions, which will
disclose themselves ere long.

As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive
came into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a
hard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the
key of Martin's dungeon.

"Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that
door--meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst."

Should he send it back?

"No, no!"

He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.

"I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou
art mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design."

Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite
powers.

We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast,
where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports--Winchelsea and Pevensey,
so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter of
Savoy, the then lord of the "Eagle," entertained them at the Norman
castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sacked
Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quarters
at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, as
became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await the
approach of the barons.

  ______________________________________________________________


There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the
people of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of
Walderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his
gallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he had
once more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he would
joyfully chant his Nunc Dimittis.

On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his
cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw
his son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance
related; and when he awoke he said;

"Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given
the first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath
provided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored."

But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith.
For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him.
Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the
house of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will
see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily
form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was
equally real to the sufferer.

One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal
day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that
day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his
adversary's dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days,
a man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had
slain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional.
It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or
supposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections
by a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged
not to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the
dread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave
{33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the
fatal day.

It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when,
lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no
longer armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his features
resigned and peaceful.

"I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the
flesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the
altar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy
reward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him
thou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward."

And he disappeared.

Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but
certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the
fulfilment of the vision.

  ______________________________________________________________


It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with
more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in
person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all
their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the
crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.

So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great
gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and
the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just
arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his
horse in good keeping.

He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.

"Art thou with us or against us?" said the warder.

"I am a soldier of the Cross," was the reply, and a few more words
were whispered in the ear.

The warder started back.

"Verily thy father's heart will be glad," he exclaimed.

Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little
changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had
once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had
stamped his features with a softer expression.

The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been
removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but
the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had
purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if
he had given "the first born of his body for the sin of his soul."

And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit--the
half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the
thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on
the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious,
thoughtless, but loving Hubert.

And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was
Prior Foville--he who built the two great western towers of the
church.

"Stay without," whispered the prior to someone by his side; "joy
sometimes kills."

The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so
strange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret
to tell and can hardly keep it in.

"What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?"

"Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not
dead."

The father trembled. He could hardly stand.

"I know he is alive, but where?"

"On his way home."

"Nay!"

"And in England!"

"Father, I am here."

Hubert could restrain himself no longer.

The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his
recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:

"Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again;
was lost, and is found."



Chapter 25: The Battle Of Lewes.


The barons, on their side, prepared with sober earnestness for the
struggle. They were not fighting for personal aggrandisement, but,
as an old writer says, "they had in all things one faith and one
will--love of God and their neighbour." So unanimous were they in
their brotherly love, that they did not fear to die for their
country.

It was the dead of night, and a horseman rode towards the village
of Fletching. He was armed cap-a-pie, like one who might have to
force his way against odds. His armour was dark, and he bore but
one cognisance on his shield, the Cross. He was quite alone, but he
knew that farther along he should find a sleeping host. The stars
shone brightly above him, the country lay buried in sleep, scarcely
a light twinkled throughout the expanse.

The sound of a deep bell tolling the hour of midnight reached him.
It was from the priory which he had left an hour or more
previously.

"Ere that hour strike again, England's fate will have been
decided," he said, as if to himself, "and perhaps my account with
God and man summed up before His bar. Well, I have a good cause,
and a clear conscience, and I can leave it in God's hands."

And soon from the crest of a low hill he looked down upon the camp
of the barons. There were many lights, and the murmur of voices
arose.

Just then came the stern challenge.

"Who goes there?"

"A crusader, who as a knight received his spurs from Earl Simon,
and now comes to fight by his side to the death for the liberties
of England."

"The watchword?"

"I have it not--twelve hours have not passed since I landed in
England after an absence of years."

"Stand while I summon the guard."

In a little while a small troop approached, their leader the young
Lord Walter of Hereford, who had been present, as it chanced, when
our hero was knighted. He recognised him with joy.

"The Earl of Leicester will be overjoyed to see you. He has long
given you up for lost."

"He has not forgotten me?"

"Even yesternight he wished you were present to fight by his side."

Our poor Hubert felt his heart throb with joy and pride.

As they descended into the camp Hubert perceived the Bishop of
Worcester, Walter de Cantilupe, riding through the ranks, and
exhorting the soldiers to confess their sins, and to receive
absolution and the Holy Communion; assuring them that such as fell
would fall in God's cause, and suffer on behalf of the truth.
Behind him his followers distributed white crosses to the soldiers,
as if they were crusaders, which they attached to their breasts and
backs. In this war of Englishmen against Englishmen there was need
of some such mark to distinguish the rival parties.

All through the camp religious exercises were proceeding, and when
at last Walter of Hereford brought our hero to the tent of Earl
Simon, they found him prostrate in fervent prayer.

"Father and leader," said the young earl with deep reverence, "I
have brought thee a long-lost son."

The earl rose.

"My son! Hubert! Can it be thou, risen from the dead?"

"Come to share thy fate for weal or woe, my beloved lord. From thy
hands I received knighthood: at thy side will I conquer or die."

  ______________________________________________________________


The dawn was at hand. The birds began their matin songs, when the
stern blast of the trumpet drowned their tiny warblings.

The army arose as one man. At first all was confusion, as when bees
swarm, which was rapidly reduced into order, as the leaders went up
and down with the standard bearers, and the men fell into their
ranks. When all was still the earl, the great earl, came forth,
armed cap-a-pie, mounted on his charger. The herald proclaimed
silence. The deep, manly voice was heard:

"Beloved brethren! We are about to fight this day for the liberty
of this realm, in honour of God, His blessed Mother, and all the
Saints, for the defence of our Mother Church of England, and for
the faith of Christ.

"Let us therefore pray to our Lord God, that since we are His, He
would grant us victory in the battle, and commend ourselves to Him,
body, soul, and spirit."

Then the Bishop of Worcester gave the Benediction, after which the
vast multitude arose as a man, took their places, and began their
onward march. Scouts of the royal army, out foraging, saw them, and
bore the tidings to King Henry and Prince Edward at the priory and
the castle, and the opposing forces arose in their turn.

Before the hour of prime, the earl, by whose side throughout that
day rode our Hubert, descried the towers of the priory from the
summit of a swelling ridge, and beheld soon after the army of the
prince issuing forth from the west gate, and that of the king from
the priory below. Earl Simon divided his forces into three parts:
the centre he placed under the young Earl of Gloucester, whom he
had that morning knighted; the right wing under his two sons, Simon
and Guy; the left wing was composed of the Londoners. He himself
remained at the head of the reserve behind the centre, where he
could see all the field and direct operations. There was no smoke,
as in a modern battlefield, to obstruct the view.

Prince Edward commanded on the right of the royal troops, and was
thus opposed to the Londoners, whom he hated because of their
insults to his mother {34}; and Richard commanded the left
wing, and was thus opposed to Simon and Guy, the sons of the great
earl. The centre was commanded by Henry himself, not by virtue of
his ability in the field, but of his exalted rank. The royal
standard of the Dragon was raised; a token, said folk, that no
quarter was to be given.

This was a sign for the attack, and it was begun by that
thunderbolt of war, Prince Edward, who charged full upon the
Londoners. The poor light-armed cits were ill prepared for the
shock of so heavy a brigade of cavalry; and they broke and yielded
like a dam before a resistless flood. No mercy was shown them. Many
were driven into the Ouse on the right, and so miserably drowned;
others fled in a body before the prince, who pursued them for four
miles, hacking, hewing, quartering, slaughtering. Just like the
Rupert of the later Civil Wars, he sacrificed the victory to the
headlong impetuosity of his nature.

Now let us turn to the left. On the crest of the hill, which there
rose steeply, were the tents and baggage of the barons. Over one of
these floated Earl Simon's banner, and close by was a litter in
which he had been carried during a recent illness, but which now
only contained four unfortunate burgesses of London town who were
detained as hostages because they had attempted to betray the city
to King Henry.

Towards this height the foolish Richard directed his charge, fully
believing that the head and front of all the mischief, Simon
himself, was in that litter, and that he should crush him and the
rebellion together. But such showers of stones and arrows came from
the hill that his forces were disorganised, and when Earl Simon
suddenly strengthened his sons by the reserve, their united forces
crushed the King of the Romans and all his men. They descended with
all the impetus of a charge from above, and the enemy fled.

Then the earl might have made the mistake which Prince Edward made
on the opposite side, and followed the flying foe; but he was far
too wise. He saw on his left the centre under the Earl of
Gloucester, fighting valiantly on equal terms with the royal centre
under King Henry. He fell upon its flank with all the force of his
victorious array: one deadly struggle and the royal lines bent,
curved, broke, then fled in disorder, the old king galloping
furiously towards the priory, fleeing in great fear for dear life.

Yet more ludicrous was the fate of his brother Richard, King of the
Romans, who, while Henry reached the priory wounded, had taken
refuge in the windmill, where he was being baited, almost in joke,
by the victorious foes, amidst cries of:

"Come out you bad miller!"

"You to turn a wretched mill master!"

"You who defied us all so proudly!"

"You, the 'ever Augustus!"

At length the poor badgered king, seeing that they were preparing
to set the mill on fire and smoke him out, surrendered to a
follower of the Earl of Gloucester, Sir John Bix, and came out all
covered with flour, while men sang:

The King of the Romans gathered a host,
And made him a castle of a mill post.

Meanwhile the camp on the hill, with the banner and the aforesaid
litter, had aroused the attention of Prince Edward, just returning
from harrying the Londoners.

"Up the hill, my men," he said. "There is the very devil himself in
that litter."

The camp was stoutly defended, but after a while the defenders were
forced to fly by superior force. Then the prince's men rushed upon
the litter, Drogo of Walderne foremost. They thought they had got
the great earl.

"Come out, Simon, thou devil, thou worst of traitors," they cried.

Within were only the four shrinking, timid burgesses, and Drogo and
his band dragged them out, shrieking in vain that they were for the
king, and cut them to pieces, poor unfortunates. But they did not
find Earl Simon, and only slew their own friends; and when the
confusion was over they looked down upon the battlefield, where one
glance showed them that the main battle was lost, and the barons in
possession of the field.

In vain Edward besought his men, now much reduced in numbers, to
make another charge. They saw the enemy waiting with levelled
lances to receive them, and felt that the position they were asked
to assail was impregnable.

Edward was a most affectionate son, and was very anxious to learn
the fate of his royal father, so he determined to force his way to
the priory at all hazards, and made a circuit of the town so as to
reach the sacred pile from the unassailed quarter. Night was now
approaching, and the prince's party had to fight their way at every
step with the victorious horsemen of the barons. Edward's giant
strength and long sweeping sword made him a way over heaps of
corpses strewn before him, but others were less fortunate.

Hard by the river, on the eastern side of the town, and beneath the
high cliffs which rise almost precipitously to the isolated group
of downs, there was a terrible charge, a hand-to-hand melee. Drogo
of Walderne and Harengod, his sword red with blood, his lance
couched, was confronted here by a knight in sable armour, his sole
cognisance--the White Cross.

They rode at each other. Drogo's lance grazed his opponent's
casque: the unknown knight drove his missile through corselet and
breast, and Drogo went down crashing from his steed. The combat
went sweeping on past them, the desperate foes fighting as they
rode. Edward and his horsemen, less and less in number each minute,
still riding for the priory, straining every nerve to reach it; the
others assailing them at every turn.

The Earl of Warrenne, William of Valence, Guy of Lusignan, and Earl
Bigod of Norwich, were separated from the rest of the band, and,
despairing of attaining the prince again, rode across the low
alluvial flats for Pevensey.

By God, who is over us, much did they sin,
That let pass o'er sea the Earl of Warrene,
Much hath he robbed us, by moor and by fen,
Our gold and our silver he carried hath henne {35};

Sang the citizens of Lewes afterwards of black Earl John.

Let us return in the shadows of the evening, while the prince gains
the priory with a few of his followers, by sheer valour, while the
rest are drowned in the river, or lost in the marshes--let us
return to the place where Drogo de Harengod went down before an
unknown foe.

"Dost thou know me?" said the conqueror, bending over the dying man
and raising his helm.

"Art thou alive, or a ghost?" says a conscience-stricken voice.

"Nay, I am Hubert of Walderne, the cousin thou hast hated and
injured. But our quarrel is settled now; thou art a dying man."

"Nay, not dying. I must live to repent.

"Oh, the key! the key! Throw this key into the moat!

"Nay, he will haunt me. Tell me, am I really dying? Nay, if it cost
me my soul, I will not baulk my vengeance. Besides, it is too late!

"Martin!"

A rush of blood came to his lips, and Drogo of Harengod fell back a
corpse on the blood-stained grass. Hubert gazed upon him a moment,
then loosed the armour to give him air, but it was all over.

"God rest his soul. Our enmity is over, but what did he mean about
the key?"

He felt in the gypsire of the dead enemy. There was a key,
unsightly, rusty, and heavy.

"Why, I remember this key. It is the key of the dungeon at
Walderne. Whom can he have got there? Why is it here? What did he
mean about Martin?"

A horrible dread seized him--he could not resist the impulse which
came upon him to ride to Walderne at once. He sought Earl Simon,
obtained a troop, and started immediately through the dark and
gloomy forest for Walderne.



Chapter 26: After The Battle.


We trust our readers are anxious to learn the fate of Martin, whom,
much against our will, we left in such grievous durance at Walderne
Castle.

Drogo had only left a score of men behind him to defend the castle
in case of any sudden assault; which, however, he did not expect.
Before leaving he had called one of these aside, a fellow whose
name was Marboeuf.

"Marboeuf," he said, 'I know thou hast the two elements which,
between ourselves, ensure the greatest happiness in this world--a
good digestion and a hard heart."

"You compliment me, master."

"Nay, I know thy worth, and hence I leave all things in thy hands:
my honour and my vengeance."

"Thy vengeance?"

"Yes. If I live I shall expect to find all as I left it when I
return hither. If I die, and thou receivest sure news of my death,
slay me the three prisoners."

"What! The friar and all!"

"Is his blood redder than any other man's? It seems to me thou art
afraid of the Pope's gray regiment."

"Nay, I like not to slay priests and friars. It brings a man ill
luck if he meddle with those."

"Then I must appoint Thibault. He may have an easier conscience,
but I had thought that bloodshed, if nothing else, had bound us
together."

"Nay, it shall not be said that I forsook my lord in his need. If
thou fallest in the coming battle, I will sacrifice the three to
thy ghost."

"So shall I rest in peace, like the warriors of old time, over
whose tomb they slew many victims and cut many throats. I believe
in no creed, but the old one of our ancestors suits me best, and I
hope I shall find my way to Valhalla, if Valhalla there be."

When the last stragglers of the royal army had been swallowed up in
the recesses of the forest, Marboeuf began to ponder over his
engagement. But presently up came the janitor of the dungeons.

"Hast thou the key of the friar's dungeon?"

"Nay. The young lord has not left it with me."

The men looked at each other.

"He locked it himself, this morning, and put the key into his
gypsire."

"And he has gone off with it. Doubtless he will send it back
directly he finds it there."

"I doubt it."

"Shall we send after him?"

"No!" said Marboeuf.

"He is a friar. We must not let him starve."

"Humph! It will not be our fault. I tell thee thou dost not yet
know our lord, and too much zeal may only damage you in his
goodwill."

The gaoler retreated, and went slowly down to the dungeons. He
walked along the passage moodily. At length he heard a voice
breaking the silence:

Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

The man felt moved. It seemed to him as if he were near a being of
another mould, and old memories of years long past were awakened in
his mind--how once such a friar had found him wounded almost to
death in the battlefield, and had saved the body, like the good
Samaritan, and striven to save his soul. How he had vowed amendment
and forgotten it, or he had not been found herding with such black
sheep as Drogo and his band. And earlier thoughts, how when his
mother had fallen sick of the plague, another friar had tended her
dying moments, when every other earthly friend had failed her for
fear of infection.

"He shall not perish if I can help it, and it may be put to my
account in purgatory."

"Father," he cried.

"My brother," was the reply, "what hast thou to ask?"

"What food hast thou?"

"Yet half a loaf, and a cruse nearly filled with water."

"It is all thou mayst get till my lord return. He has taken the
keys. Use it sparingly."

For a moment there was silence, then a calm voice replied:

"He who fed Elijah by the ministry of the ravens will not fail me."

"But if Sir Drogo be absent many days thou mayst starve."

"Though he slay me, yet will I put my trust in him."

"I do believe he will be saved, by a miracle if needs be," muttered
the man. "The saints will never let him starve, he is one of them."

The second day passed, and Martin's bread and cruse yet held out.
But his gaoler was very uneasy, and wandered about the dark
passages like a restless spirit. Neither could he help breathing
his despair to Martin, as hours passed away and no messenger
returned from Drogo with the key.

But the answer from the captive was always full of hope.

"Be of good cheer, for there has been with me an angel of God, who
has assured me that the tyranny will soon be overpast. Meanwhile I
feel not the pangs of hunger."

The fourth day from the departure of the royal army arrived. No one
had as yet brought back the key. It was a day of awful suspense,
for although no sound of artillery announced the awful strife, yet
it was generally known that a battle was imminent, and was probably
going on at that moment. They sent two messengers out at dawn of
day, and one returned at eventide, breathless and sore from long
running.

He had been on that group of downs which lies eastward of Lewes, of
which Mount Caburn is the highest point, and from which Walderne
Castle was visible. There they had raised a beacon fire, and he had
left his comrade to fire it in case the king lost the battle. But
ere he departed he had seen, as he thought, the royal array in
hopeless confusion.

The afternoon brought another messenger, who confirmed the evil
tidings, but was in hope that the prince, yet undefeated and then
rampaging on the hill amongst the baggage, might retrieve the
fortune of the day. When sunset drew nigh many of the garrison of
Walderne betook themselves to the elevation on which the church is
placed, whence they could see the Castle of Lewes through an
opening, and watched, fearing to see the bale fire blaze, which
should bid them all flee for their lives, unless they were prepared
to defend the castle, to be a refuge in case their lord might
survive and come to find shelter amongst them.

On this point there were diverse opinions. A waggon had gone out in
the early morning to collect forage and provisions by way of
blackmail--at this moment it was seen approaching the gateway
below.

The sun had set, and the shades of evening were falling fast. All
at once a single voice cried, "Look! the fire!" and the speaker
pointed with his finger.

The eyes of all present followed his gesture, and they saw a bright
spot of light arise on the summit of the downs, distant some twelve
miles.

"It is the signal. All is lost! The rebels have won, and we must
fly for our lives."

"They may be merciful."

"Nay, we have too black a name in the Andredsweald. We should have
to answer for every peasant we have hanged or hen roost we have
robbed."

"That would never do. By 'r lady, what injustice! Would they be so
bad as that?"

"We will not wait to see."

All at once loud outcries arose from the castle below. They looked
aghast, for it was the sound of fierce strife and dread dismay.
What could it be?

They started to run to the help of their comrades, when a thousand
cries, a wild war whoop, burst from the arches of the forest and in
the dim twilight they saw numberless forms gliding over the short
space which separated the castle from the wood.

"The merrie men!"

"The outlaws!"

"The wild men of the woods!"

The discomfited troopers paused--turned tail--fled--leaving their
comrades to their fate, whatever it might be.

Let us see.

The waggon aforesaid had approached the gateway in the most
innocent manner. It creaked over the drawbridge. It was already
beneath the portcullis, when the driver cut the traces and thrust a
long pole amidst the spokes of the wheel. At the same instant a
score of men leapt out, who had been concealed beneath the loose
hay.

All was alarm and confusion. The few defenders of the castle were
overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the
"merrie men" a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and
rendered them deaf to the call for pity or mercy. The few women who
were in the castle fled shrieking to their hiding places. The men
died fighting.

"To the dungeons! Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you
your life," cried their leader--Kynewulf--to an individual whose
bunch of keys attached to his girdle showed his office.

"The friar is safe below, unhurt. I will take you to him. But I
have no key."

"Where is it, then?"

"Sir Drogo has taken it with him."

"We will have it open.

"Friar Martin, art thou within?"

"Safe and uninjured. Is it thou, Kynewulf? Then I charge thee that
thou do no hurt to any here. They have not injured me."

"Not injured thee, to place thee here! Well, we will soon have thee
out. We have promised Grimbeard to bring thee to him, or forfeit
our lives. He is dying."

"Dying! And I not there! What has chanced?"

"He was hit by one of those arrows the treacherous Drogo shot from
the wall while the flag of truce was yet flying, when we first came
to demand thee. But we must work to relieve thee."

And toil they did, but all in vain. They had no tools to force that
iron door.

Meanwhile a sound of scuffling drew other members of the band to a
chamber in the tower, where the good knight Ralph de Monceux was
confined, and as they approached they heard a heavy fall and found
Marboeuf lying dead on the floor, his skull cleft asunder, whilst
over him stood Ralph, axe in hand.

The "merrie men" knew their bold captive.

"Ah! How is this? What ox hast thou felled?"

"Only a butcher who came in to slay me, but I avoided the blow,
flew suddenly at his wrist and mastered the weapon, when I gave him
what at Oxford we called quid pro quo, as we strewed the shambles
with boves boreales."

They did not understand his Latin, but they knew Marboeuf, who, as
the reader will comprehend, seeing all was lost, had striven to
perform his vow, and happily had begun first with this dexterous
young knight. Hence they found the poor mayor of Hamelsham safe and
sound, only a little less afraid of the "merrie men" than of Drogo;
for often had they rifled the castle and robbed the hen roosts of
his town.

But all their efforts failed to open Martin's door, and they were
at their wits' end what to do. They heard a rumour that the battle
was lost, so they set men to watch, and prepared an ambush in his
own caste yard for Drogo, in case he should survive the fight and
come to hide, with especial instructions to take him alive, as they
intended to hang him from his own tower.

Meanwhile, through the dewy night, amidst the thousand odours of
the woods, rode Hubert and his fifty horsemen. They stayed not for
brake, and they slacked not for ford. All the loving heart of
Hubert went before him to the rescue of the friend of his boyish
days; suffering, he doubted not, cruel wrong and unmerited
imprisonment in a noisome dungeon. And ere the midnight hour he
arrived amidst the familiar scenes, and saw at length the towers
rise before him in the faint light of a new moon.

The sound of his horses must have been heard, but no challenge of
warder awaited them. When the party arrived they found the
drawbridge down, the gates open. What could it mean?

"It may be treachery. Look to your arms ere you ride in," cried
Hubert.

They entered the court through the gateway in the Barbican tower.
Instantly the gates slammed behind them, the portcullis fell, and,
as by magic, the windows and courtyard were crowded with men in
green jerkins with bended bows.

"What means this outrage," cried Hubert aloud, "upon the heir of
Walderne as he enters his own castle?"

"That you are in the power of the merrie men of the greenwood. If
you be Drogo of Walderne, surrender, and spare bloodshed: all who
have never harmed us to go free."

"Then are we all free. My men are from Kenilworth, and can never
have harmed you in word or deed. As for Drogo, he fell by my hand
this day in fair combat."

"Who art thou, then?"

"Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother
Martin--Friar Martin--whom you all must know."

Instantly every hostile demonstration ceased. The doors were thrown
open, and the men who, a moment before, were about to fly at each
other's throats, mingled freely as friends.

"Martin is below," they said. "Have you smiths who can force a
door?"

"Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY."

Down the steps they flew, almost tumbling over each other in their
eagerness. The key was applied, the rusty bolt flew back, and
Hubert was clasped in Martin's arms.

  ______________________________________________________________


For a long while the spectators of this joyful meeting waited in
the courtyard of the castle, which was thronged by men who had only
been restrained by a merciful Providence from bending their deadly
weapons against each other. Now their thoughts were thoughts of
peace, yet they hardly understood why and wherefore.

But after a while there was a commotion in the great hall, and soon
Martin stood on the summit of the steps, worn and pale, leaning on
the stout shoulders of Hubert. Their eyes were both swimming in
tears--but tears of joy. Cheers and acclamations rent the air, and
it was a long while ere silence was restored for the voice of the
late prisoner to be heard.

"Men and brethren, I thank you for your great love to me, and for the
desire wherewith ye have desired my freedom, and jeopardised your own
precious lives in its cause. And now, if I am welcome"--(loud
cheers)--"so must be my dear brother Hubert, Lord of Walderne by the
will of the Lady Sybil, a true knight, a warrior of the Cross, and a
friend of the poor." (Loud cheers again). "Many of you will remember
the night when he parted from you, when Sir Nicholas, who is gone,
introduced him to you as his undoubted heir, and many have grieved
over him, and said, 'Full forty fathom deep he lies.' But here he is
in flesh and blood!" (Renewed cheers).

"And now, O men of the greenwood, whom I love so dearly, let me, a
child of the greenwood, speak yet a few words about myself. For I
am not only the last represent alive of the old English house of
Michelham, but also a son of the house of Walderne; Mabel, my
mother, being the sister, as many know, of the Lady Sybil. Ah,
well. I seek a more continuing city than either Walderne or
Michelham, and I want no earthly dignities. Wherever God gives me
souls to tend is my home; and He has given it me, O men of the
Andredsweald, amongst my countrymen and my kindred, and to Hubert I
leave the castle right gladly. Now let there be peace, and let men
turn their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning
hooks, and hasten the glorious day when the kingdoms of this world
shall become the kingdoms of God and His Christ."

"We will. God bless Sir Hubert of Walderne."

"God bless brother Martin."

Drogo was forgotten, as though he had never lived, forgiven and
forgotten. And the multitude dispersed, each man to his own home or
haunt in the forest, leaving Sir Hubert in possession of the castle
of his ancestors, and Martin his guest.

  ______________________________________________________________


Martin's first wish after his release was, as our readers will
imagine, to visit his mother, and assure her of his safety in
person. Kynewulf was in waiting to escort him. He had caused a
litter to be constructed of the branches of trees, knowing that the
severe strain Martin had undergone must have rendered him too weak
for so long a journey; and the "merrie men" were only too eager to
relieve each other in bearing so precious a burden.

"You will find our chieftain very far from well," said Kynewulf, as
he walked by Martin's side. "He was wounded by one of the arrows
from the castle when we came to demand your liberation of Drogo,
and the wound has taken a bad turn."

"How does my poor mother bear it?"

"Like a true wife and good Englishwoman."

No more was said. Martin lapsed into deep thought until the retreat
of the outlaws was attained. There, on a couch strewn with skins
and soft herbage, lay the redoubtable Grimbeard; and by his side,
nursing him tenderly, Mabel of Walderne. But for this she had been
with Martin's rescuers at the castle, but she could not leave her
dying lord, who clung fondly to her now, and would take food from
no other hand.

The wound he had received had been thought slight, and neglected.
Hence it had become serious, and since Kynewulf departed
mortification had set in.

The mother rose and embraced her "sweet son."

"Thank God!" she said, and led him to his stepfather's side.

Grimbeard raised himself with difficulty, and looked Martin in the
face.

"Martin is here," he said. "Let my dying eyes gaze upon him again.

"Martin, I have longed for thee. Tell me more about Him thou lovest
so deeply."

"My father, He is waiting to receive and to bless thee. Cast
thyself wholly on the Incarnate Love which embraced thee on the
Tree. Say, for His sake, canst thou forgive all, even these Normans
thou hast so hated?"

"Dost thou forgive the wretch who shut thee up, my gentle boy, in
that dungeon?"

"Yes, verily, and pray to God to pardon him, too."

"Then I may pardon my foes, although my life has been spent in
fighting against them for England's freedom. But I see we must
submit, as thou hast often said, to God's will; and if the past may
be forgiven, my merrie men will be well content to make peace, and
to turn their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into
pruning hooks; especially now Drogo has met his just doom, as they
tell me, and thy friend is about to rule at Walderne. Thou must be
the mediator between them and him.

"But oh! my son, it has been hard to submit to all this. All those
I loved when young carried on the fight, and my own father
bequeathed it to me as a sacred heritage. We hoped to see England
governed by Englishmen, and the alien cast out; and now I give it
up. The problem is too hard for me. God will make it clear."

"My father," said Martin, "I, too, am the descendant of a long line
of warriors, who have never before me submitted to the foreign
yoke. But I see that the two peoples are becoming one: that the
sons of the Norman learn our English tongue, and that the day is at
hand when they will be proud of the name 'Englishmen.' Norman and
Saxon all alike, one people, even as in heaven there is no
distinction of race, but all are alike before the throne."

"And now, my son, art thou not a priest yet? I would fain make
confession of my sins."

"God will accept the will for the deed. He is not limited to
earthly means; and if thou truly repent of thy sins for the love of
the Crucified, and believest in Him, all will be well."

For Martin feared that there would be no time to fetch a priest, or
he would not have questioned the universal precept of the church of
his day; while his own faith led him to see clearly that God's
mercy was not limited by the accidental omission of the outward
ordinance.

"I sent for Sir Richard {36}, the parish priest of Walderne,
ere we left the castle, and he is doubtless on his way with the
Viaticum," said Kynewulf.

And while they yet spake the priest arrived, and the dying man
received with simple faith the last sacraments of the Church. After
this his people gathered round him.

"Tell them," he said, in stammering tones, for the speech was
failing, "what I have said. With thy friend in the castle, and thou
in the greenwood, there will be peace."

Martin turned to the silent outlaws who stood by, and repeated his
words. They listened in silence. The prospect was not new to them,
for Martin's long labours had not been in vain; but while Drogo was
at Walderne, and the royal party triumphant, it seemed useless to
hope for its realisation. Now things had changed, and there was
hope that the breach would be healed.

"His last prayer was for peace," said Grimbeard. "Should not mine
be the same? Oh, God, save my country, grant it the blessing of
peace, and forgive a poor erring man, who sees, too late, that he
has been fighting against Thy dispensation, for he can now say 'Thy
will be done.'"

These were his last words, and although we have related them as if
spoken connectedly, they were really only uttered in broken gasps.
The end came; the widow turned aside from the bed after closing the
eyes.

"Martin," she said, "thou alone art left to me."

And she fell on his neck and wept.

  ______________________________________________________________


From the grave to the gay, from a death to a wedding, such is life.
The same bell which tolls dolorously at a burial clangs in company
with its fellows at a marriage on the next day. So the world goes
on.

The scene was the priory of Saint Pancras at Lewes, where so lately
the feeble old king had held his court. Now with his brave son he
had gone into honourable captivity, for it was little better, and
the followers of Earl Simon filled the place.

Before the high altar stood a youthful pair; Hubert of Walderne,
now to be known as Radulphus, or Ralph; and Alicia de Grey, who had
been sheltered from ill and Drogo as one of the handmaidens of the
Countess Eleanor, in keeping for her true love.

The good prior, Foville, performed the ceremony and celebrated the
mass Pro sponso et sponsa. The father, the happy and glad father,
stood by, now fully delivered from his ghostly tormentor, his
fondest wish on earth achieved. Earl Simon gave the bride away,
while Martin stood by, so happy.

It was over, and the aisle was strewn with the gay flowers of early
summer, as our Hubert and his bride left the sacred pile. But one
adieu to the father, who would not leave his monastery even then,
but who fell upon Hubert's neck and wept while he cried, "My son,
my dear son, God bless thee;" and the bridal train rode off to the
castle above, where the marriage feast was spread.

Then Earl Simon to his onerous duties, and the happy pair to keep
their honeymoon at Walderne.

Oh, the joy of that leafy month of June, in the wild woods, all
loosed from care. Hubert seemed to have found true happiness, if it
could be found on earth. And Martin, he too was happy, in his work
of love and reconciliation.

It was an oasis in life's pilgrimage, when man might well fancy he
had found an Eden upon earth again. And there we would fain leave
our two friends and cousins.

Epilogue.

A few words respecting the fate of our chief characters must close
our story. We need not tell our readers the future of the great
earl--it is written on the pages of history. But his work did not
die on the fatal field of Evesham. It lived in the royal nephew,
through whose warlike skill he was overthrown, and who speedily
arrived at the conclusion that most of the reforms of his uncle
were founded upon the eternal principles of truth and justice.
Hence that legislation which gained for Edward, the greatest of the
Plantagenets, and the first truly English king since Harold, the
title of the "English Justinian."

Hubert was not with his lord when he fell. He had been selected to
be of the household of Simon's beloved Countess Eleanor, and he was
with her at Dover when the fatal news of Evesham arrived. He could
only cry, "Would God I had died for him," while the countess
abandoned herself to her grief.

Edward soon sought a reconciliation with the countess, who, it will
be remembered, was his father's sister; which being effected, she
passed over to France with her only daughter, to join her sons
already there; and King Louis received her with great kindness,
while Hubert and his companions of her guard were received into the
favour of Edward, and exempted from the sweeping sentence of
confiscation passed in the first intoxication of triumph upon all
the adherents of the Montforts.

Brother Roger died in peace at a great age, at the Priory of Lewes,
growing in grace as he grew in years, until at last he passed away,
"awaiting," as he said, "the manifestation of the sons of God,"
amongst whom, sinner though he had been, he hoped to stand in his
lot in the latter days.

Ralph of Herstmonceux, who had been happily preserved from death at
the battle of Evesham, followed his father to Dover, where they
joined the countess in the defence of that fortress, and shared the
forgiveness extended to her followers. So completely did Edward
forgive the family, that we read in the Chronicles how King Edward,
long afterwards, honoured Herstmonceux with a royal visit on his
road to make a pious retreat at the Abbey of Battle. Ralph
succeeded his father, and we may be sure lived on good terms with
Hubert.

Hubert followed the banner of Edward Longshanks both in Wales and
Scotland ere he came home to his wife and children, satiated at
last with war, and spent the rest of his days at Walderne. He died
at a good old age, and was buried as a crusader in Lewes Priory,
with crossed legs and half-drawn sword, where his tomb could be
seen until the sacrilegious hands of the minions of Thomas Cromwell
destroyed that noble edifice.

Mabel of Walderne retired, at her son's persuasion, to a convent at
Mayfield, where she ended her days in all the "odour of sanctity,"
and Martin closed her eyes.

And lastly we have to tell of our Martin. He remained in the
Andredsweald until he had completely succeeded in reconciling the
outlaws to the authorities {37}, and he had seen them, his
"merrie men," settle down as peaceful tillers of the soil, or enter
the service of the knights and abbots as gamekeepers, woodsmen,
huntsmen, and the like; at his strong recommendation and assurance
that he would be surety for their good behaviour--an assurance they
did their best to justify.

And how shall we describe his labour of love--his work as the
bondsman of Christ? But after the death of his mother, his
superiors recalled him to Oxford, as a more important sphere, and
better suited to his talents; where the peculiar sweetness of his
disposition gave him a great influence over the younger students.
In short he became a power in the university, and died head of the
Franciscan house, loved and lamented, in full assurance of a
glorious immortality. And they put over his tomb these words:

We know that we have passed from death to life,
because we love the brethren.
--Vale Beatissime.

From the south wall of Walderne Church project or projected two
iron brackets with lances, whereon hung for many a generation the
banners of Sir Ralph (alias Hubert) and his son Laurence.

The boast of chivalry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.



THE END.



Notes.


1
       Rivingtons' Historical Biographies.

2
       Demonology and Witchcraft.

3
       See the Andredsweald, a tale of the Norman Conquest, by the
       same author.

4
       He was the last lord of Pevensey of his race, all his land
       and honours being forfeited in 1235 for passing over into
       Normandy without King Henry the Third's license.

5
       Lord of Lewes Castle from 1242-1304, a local tyrant.

6
       There were then no family names, properly so called; the
       English generally took one descriptive of trade or
       profession, hence the multitude of Smiths; the Normans
       generally then name of their estate or birthplace, with the
       affix De. Knight's Pictorial History, volume 2, page 643.

7
       His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased
       his influence and reputation. Knight's Pictorial History.

8
       How did I weep in Thy Hymns and Canticles, touched to the
       quick by the voices of Thy sweet-attuned Church, the voices
       flowed into my ears and the truth distilled into my heart.
       Saint Augustine's Confessions volume 9 page 6.

9
       Afterwards the site of the battle of Edgehill.

10
       See his biography in Macmillan's Sunday Library.

11
       Ethelflaed, Lady or Queen of the Mercians (under her brother
       Edward, son of Alfred), threw up certain huge mounds and
       certain stone castles, to defend her realm and serve as
       refuges in troublous times. One site was Oxford, and it is
       the first authentic event recorded in the history of the
       city--the foundation of the university by Alfred being
       abandoned by scholars, as an interpolation in Asser, the
       king's biographer.

12
       The Rival Heirs, or the Third Chronicle of Aescendune.

13
       Because in later times some poor Jews were burnt there.

14
       Like those still seen at Tewkesbury Abbey, of similar
       proportions.

15
       The date of the surrender was November 16, 1537. It was
       granted to Thomas Cromwell, February 16, 1538. It was at
       once destroyed by skilled agents of destruction, and the
       materials sold. Cromwell did not enjoy it long; he perished
       at Tower Hill by the axe, July 28, 1540.

16
       The old hymn for Wednesday morning, according to Sarum use.
       I am indebted to the Hymnary for the translation.

17
       The supposed name of the penitent thief. The author is not
       answerable for the non-elision of the vowel--the name is
       authentic; it stood on the site of the present Oriel
       College. See preface.

18
       See Alfgar the Dane, chapter 24.

19
       It was the Gospel for the day in Italy--not in England.

20
       The Viaticum was the Last Communion, given in preparation
       for death, as the provision for the way.

21
       Such an arrangement was made in the Egyptian Temple at On;
       at one particular moment on one day in the year, the rays
       admitted through a concealed aperture gilded the shrine, and
       the crowd thought it miraculous.

22
       Adapted from a translation of a chorus in the Agamemnon by
       my lamented friend, the late Reverend Gerard Moultrie.

23
       A mere tradition of the time, not historical.

24
       See the Andredsweald, by the same author.

25
       This is the same spot mentioned in the Andredsweald, chapter
       9 part 2, as a retreat of the English after Senlac.

26
       A proclamation had just been put forth by the barons, that
       all foreigners should be expelled and lose their property;
       and much violence ensued throughout England, the victims
       being often detected by their pronunciation, as in our
       story.

27
       How good to those who seek Thou art,
       But what to those who find!
       --Saint Bernard.

28
       It was one of them who first stabbed Edward the First, when
       his queen saved him by sucking the poison from the wound,
       according to a Spanish historian.

29
       Sixty-six pounds, 13 shillings, four pence; a large sum in
       those days.

30
       It was afterwards ascertained that on the very night, the
       father, Roger, dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell,
       a slave condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and
       addressed him as in the text.

31
       Acre was stormed by the Moslems, AD 1291, and the Holy Land
       was lost with it.

32
       How unlike the ceremonial of Hubert's knighthood! But the
       approach of a battle justified the omission of the usual
       rites in the opinion of the many.

33
       Witness the case of the Scotch judge--pursued under divers
       forms by the supposed apparition of a man he had hanged,
       until he died of fright--as recorded by Sir Walter Scott in
       Demonology and Witchcraft.

34
       Whom they had pelted with mud as she passed under London
       Bridge, calling her a witch. Life of Simon de Montfort, page
       126.

35
       Old English for hence.

36
       Parish priests were frequently styled Sir in those days.
       Father meant a monk or regular, as opposed to the secular,
       clergy.

37
       His descent from noble families of either race--Michelham,
       the house of Ella, through his father; Walderne, of ancient
       Norman blood, through his mother, rendered him acceptable to
       both parties.





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