A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne

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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.

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