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