A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne
A >>
A. D. Crake >> The House of Walderne
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17
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.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 | 11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17