A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne
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A. D. Crake >> The House of Walderne
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17 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.
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