A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne
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A. D. Crake >> The House of Walderne
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"And what pretext for using it?" said Ralph, drawing his sword.
"I should advise thee not to touch thy weapon, unless thy skill is
proof against an arrow. In a word, Ralph of Herstmonceux, art thou
for the king or the barons?"
"Thou knowest--the barons."
"And I for the king; no more need be said. Yield to ransom.
"I will not give my sword to thee," and Ralph flung it into a pond.
"And what right hast thou to arrest me?" said the mayor.
"Good mayor, hast thou not stirred up thy town of Hamelsham, thy
puissant butchers and bakers, to resist the good king and to send
aid to the rebellious Earl of Leicester, may the fiends rive him!
Wherefore I might, without further parley, hang thee to this beech,
which never bore a worthier acorn."
"Yes, hang him for the general amusement," said several deep
voices.
"Nay, dead men pay no ransom, and we will make his beer-swilling,
beef-eating brother burghers pay a good sum for his fat body.
"Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?"
"Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a
poor man."
They laughed immoderately.
"We have borrowed a hint from the outlaws, and unless thy brethren
pay for thee soon, we will send thy worthless body to them in
installments, first one ear, then the other, and so on."
"Our Lady help me!"
"Brother, be patient. Heaven will help us, since there is no help
in man," said Martin. "And now, Drogo, whom I knew so well of old,
and in whom I see little change, what is thy charge against me?"
"A very serious one, brother Martin, and one I grieve to bring
against such an eloquent preacher of the Gospel, but my conscience
compels me."
"Thy conscience!"
"Yes, I can afford to keep one as well as thou. Dost thou think
thou art the only creature who has a soul to be saved?"
"Go on without further blasphemies."
"Well then, I grieve to say that it is my painful duty to arrest
thee on a charge of murder."
"Of murder!" cried all three.
"Yes, of the murder of his aunt, the late lamented Lady of
Walderne."
"Good heavens!" cried the knight and mayor.
"Oh heaven and earth, this slander hear!" said Martin.
"Do not swear, it misbecomes a friar."
"Thou didst murder her thyself."
"Nay: who gave her the sleeping draught the last night? I have just
discovered that it contained poison supplied by the old witch who
lived here, and whom I have duly punished by fire. But whose hand,
administered it?"
Martin turned pale.
"I ask," continued Drogo, "who gave her the draught?"
"It was I, but who poisoned it?"
"Satan knows best, but thou hast owned it.
"I call thee to witness, most valiant knight, and thee, O Mayor of
Hamelsham, that you both hear him--confitentem mum, as Father
Edmund used to say at Kenilworth.
"Ah, I have him on the hip. Away with them to Walderne: the deepest
dungeon for the poisoner."
Chapter 22: A Medieval Tyrant.
Drogo did not venture to bring in his prisoners by the light of
day, for although he had collected together a large flock of black
sheep, yet did he not dare openly to consign a preaching friar to
those dungeons of his.
The men he had with him on the spot were certain lewd fellows of
the baser sort, distinguished even in Walderne Castle for their
wickedness; yet even they had their superstitions, and imagined it
would bring bad luck to arrest the ecclesiastic, travelling in the
garb of his order.
But Drogo's will was law, and they obeyed. They detained the
prisoners in an outlying farmhouse until dark, then thrusting a
labourer's smock over Martin's robe, led their prisoners to the
castle.
Prisoners were no novelty there, many of these free lances were
born in camp, and had the inherited habits of generations of
robbers, so that it was to them a second nature to mutilate,
imprison, and torture, and slay. They looked upon burghers and
peasants as butchers do on sheep, or rather they looked upon them
as beings made that warriors might wring their hidden hoards from
them, by torture and violence, or even in default of the gold hang
them for amusement, or the like. They had about as much sympathy
for these men of peace as the pike for the roach--they only thought
them excellent eating.
As for the knight--he was a knight, and must be treated as such,
although an enemy. As for the burgher--well, we have discussed the
case. As for the friar--they did not like to meddle with the
Church. They dreaded excommunication, men of Belial though they
were.
The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from
whence he could see:
The forest dark and gloomy,
And under poetic inspiration compose odes upon liberty. The burgher
and friar were taken downstairs to gloomy dungeons, adjacent to
each other, where they were left to solitude and silence.
Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad: to be the inmate
of a narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for
a rotten bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and
loaf of black bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle
beneath one's feet: oh, horrible!
And such was our Martin's fate.
But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the
lion's den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair. He
accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling
atmosphere and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in
the castle of his fathers.
And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very
thought that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught
was in itself sufficiently painful.
"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," and Martin left it.
The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far
more compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool
trade. He had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the
spindle and loom. He had two sons, one of twelve, one of five;
three daughters, one almost marriageable; he had six apprentices
and twelve workmen carding wool; he had the town business to
discharge; he sat upon the bench in the town hall and administered
justice to petty offenders. And here was he, torn from all this, and
consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce marauding young "noble."
To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following
day, and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.
"The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and
honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it
pleases thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy
presence."
"Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken
off, thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be
more to the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get
out of thy den."
Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and
charged fifty marks the more.
"We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}."
"Why, it is a king's ransom!"
"And thou art fit to be a king."
"And what if I cannot pay it?"
"We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the
royal justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons."
"May I send a messenger to my castle?"
"At once. I will place my household at thy disposal."
"And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their
freedom?"
"By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom."
"But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being
fighting men, under my protection."
"Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on
what errand ye were all bent?"
Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious
politeness, laughing at it in his sleeve.
"Now for the burgher," said he.
A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into
the face of his fierce young captor.
"What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?"
"I knew not they were thine, or I had perchance not intruded. Now
tell me, lord, at what price I may redeem my error, for I have a
wife and children, to say nothing of apprentices and workmen, who
long sore for me!"
"'When the cat's away the mice will play.'
"They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must
answer before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?"
The mayor hesitated.
"S'death, dost keep me waiting? We have a torture chamber close at
hand. Shall I summon the torturers? They will fit thy fat thumbs
with a handsome screw in a moment."
Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it.
"Nay, it can do no harm. We came to witness the last confession of
a dying woman, who had some crime on her soul, which she wished to
depose before fitting witnesses."
"Of what nature?"
"I was not told. I waited to learn."
"Why didst thou hesitate to say this just now?"
Poor mayor! He stammered out that he hoped he hadn't offended
therein.
"The fact is that you knew the men, your companions, came as my
enemies, and suspected that the lies that witch, whom Satan is just
now basting, meant to tell, affected me! Don't lie, or I will
thrust the lie down thy throat, together with a few spare teeth; my
gauntlet is heavy."
"It was so," said the terrified citizen of Hamelsham.
"Ha! ha! Well, it matters little to me what thou mayest say, or
what thy silly townsfolk think of me: the gudgeons probably talk
much evil of the perch, but I never heard that it hurts him much,
or spoils his digestion of those savoury little fish. But thou must
pay for it: I fix thy ransom at one hundred marks."
"Good heavens! I have not as many pence!"
"Swear not, most fat and comely burgher. The money must be raised,
or I will send the good citizens of Hamelsham their mayor bit by
bit, an ear to begin with. A man waits without, give him thy
instructions to thy people. Farewell!"
And the young bully strolled into the next cell, which was
Martin's, a keeper opening the door and shutting it upon him until
the signal was given to reopen it; for Drogo did not wish the
coming conversation to be overheard.
"So I have got thee at last?"
"Thou hast my body."
"It is a comfort that it is a body which can be made to pine, to
feel, to suffer."
"I am in God's hands, not thine."
"I advise thee not to look for help to so distant a quarter.
Martin! I have always hated thee, both at Kenilworth and Walderne.
Revenge is a morsel fit for the gods."
"What hast thou to revenge?"
"Didst thou not plot to oust me of mine inheritance, the night
before the doting old woman died up above? It cost her her life."
"For which thou must answer to God."
"Nay, thine hand, not mine, administered it. Ha! ha! ha!"
"And what dost thou seek of me now?"
"Nothing, save the joy of removing an enemy out of my path."
"I am no man's enemy."
"Yes, thou art mine, and always hast been. Didst thou not plot
against me with that old hag, Mother Madge, whom I have sent to her
master in a chariot of fire?"
"I heard her confession of that particular crime."
"So did I, through eavesdroppers. Well, thou knowest too much; and
shalt never see the sun again. It is pleasant is it not--the fresh
air of the green woods, the sheen of the sun, the songs of the
birds, the murmur of the streams, the scent of the flowers.
"Ah, ah!--thou feelest it--well, it shall never again fall to thy
lot to see, hear, and smell all these. Here shalt thou linger out
thy remaining days; thy companions the toad, the eft, the spider,
the beetle; and when thou diest of hunger and thirst, which will
eventually be thy lot, this cell shall be thy coffin. Here shalt
thou rot."
"And hence shall I rise, in that case, at the day of resurrection.
Nay, Drogo, thou canst not frighten me. I am not in thy power. Thou
canst not tame the spirit. Do thy worst, I wait God's hour."
Drogo was beside himself by rage at this language on the part of a
captive, and he would have struck him down on the spot but for
something in Martin that awed him, even as the keeper, who calls
himself the lion king, tames the lion.
"We shall see," he said, and left the cell.
"My lord, do not harm him," said the man. "If a hand be laid upon
him the men-at-arms will rebel. They fear that it will bring a
curse upon them."
"The fools, what is a friar but flesh and blood like others?"
"I would sooner hang or fry a hundred wretched burghers, or behead
a score of knights, than touch this friar."
"I see how it is. I must contrive to starve or poison him," thought
the base lord of the castle.
As he ascended the stairs he heard the sound of a trumpet, or
rather a horn. Loud cries of surprise and alarm greeted his ears.
He went out on the watch tower. The woods were alive with men: they
issued out on all sides--the "merrie men" of the woods.
Drogo saw at once that they had come to seek Martin. He took hold
of a white flag, and advanced to the tower above the central
gateway--to parley--for he feared the arrows of the marksmen of the
woods.
"Whom seek ye?"
"One whom thou hast wrongfully imprisoned. The friar Martin."
"I have not got him here."
"But thou hast, and we have come to claim him."
"Choose three of your number. They may come and confer with me in
the castle upon his disappearance. God forbid that I should lay
hands on His ministers."
"Dost thou pledge thy honour for their safety?"
"Do ye doubt my honour? Oh, well; so ye may well do, if ye think I
would have touched brother Martin."
He was so plausible that they were ashamed of their distrust, and
selected three of their foremost men, who forthwith entered.
The gates were shut behind them.
And then, oh, shame to say! They were seized from behind, their
arms bound behind their backs, and, in spite of their protests, led
out on the watch tower, where was a permanent gibbet, and, in sight
of all their comrades, hung over the battlements.
"That is how my honour bids me treat with outlaws," laughed Drogo.
A flight of arrows was the reply, which penetrated every crevice,
and made six troopers stretch their bodies on the ground.
"Keep under cover," shouted Drogo. "There will be a fine gathering
of arrows when all is done, and it will be long before these old
walls crave for mercy. Keep up your courage, men. The fools have no
means of besieging the place, and ere another sun has set, the
royal banner will appear for their dispersion and our deliverance."
For he had heard from a sure hand that the royal army had reached
Tunbridge, en route for Lewes, and would pass by Walderne,
tarrying, perchance, for the night. Hence his daring defiance of
the sons of the soil.
Chapter 23: Saved As By Fire.
And all this time the true heir of Walderne was leading the
degraded life of an unhappy and most miserable slave in the palace
of the "Old Man of the Mountain," in the far off hills of Lebanon.
The six months passed away, and still they spared our Hubert.
Others were taken away and met their most doleful fate, but the
more youthful and active slaves were spared awhile, not out of
pity, but because of their utility; and Hubert's fine constitution
enabled him still to live. But he could not have lived on had he
not still hoped. The tremendous inscription seen by the poet over
the sombre gate of hell was not yet burnt into his young heart:
All ye that enter here, leave hope behind.
Some lucky accident, perhaps an invasion of the crusaders, might
deliver him; but otherwise he would not despair while God gave him
life. Again, irreligious as some may think his former life, he had
great belief in the efficacy of the prayers of others. The thought
that his father and Martin were praying for him continually gave
him comfort.
"God will hear them, if not me," he thought.
Yet he did really learn to pray for himself more earnestly than he
would once have thought possible.
But when a year had nearly passed away in the wearying bondage, he
was summoned to the presence of the "Old Man."
"Christian," said the latter, "hast thou not borne the heat and
burden of slavery long enough?"
"Long enough, indeed, my lord, but I cannot buy my liberty at the
expense of my faith."
"Not when the alternative is a bitter death?"
"No."
"Thy constancy will be tried. We have borne with thee full long. At
next full moon thou wilt have had a year's reprieve. Thou must
prepare to worship the true God and acknowledge His prophet, or
die."
"My choice is made."
"Thy time shall come at the close of the year. Go."
And Hubert was led away.
And now he was tempted to yield to despair, when he was sustained
by what may be called a miraculous interposition.
It was dark night and he lay in his cell, the watchmen without, the
yet more watchful dogs prowling and growling around; when all at
once he heard footsteps approaching his wretched bed chamber.
Who could it be? The dogs gave no sign; the oppressors generally
slept at that hour, and seldom disturbed a captive's nightly rest.
The door opened, and--He beheld his father!
Yes, his father: haggard and worn with grief, but with a light as
of another world over his worn features.
"Be of good cheer, my son; God permits me to come to thee thus, and
to bid thee hold firm to the end, and thou shalt find that man's
extremity is His opportunity."
"Art thou really my father?"
And while he spoke in tones of awe and wonder the vision vanished.
It was of God's appointment, that vision, given to confirm the
faith and hope of one of His children. Such was Hubert's belief
{30}.
It was afterwards ascertained that on that very night, the father
Roger dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave
condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him
as in the text.
The final night arrived, the moon was at its full, and for the last
time, as it might be, the slave gazed upon the glowing orb shining
in the deep blue sky, with a brilliancy unknown in these northern
climes. But it recalled many a happy moonlit night in the olden
times to his mind; in the chase, or on the terrace at Kenilworth;
and that night when, all alone, he faced a hundred Welshmen.
"Shall I ever see my native land again?"
It seemed impossible, but "hope springs eternal in the human
breast." All at once he became conscious of a lurid light mingling
with the milder moonbeams, then of the scent of fire, then of a
loud cry, followed almost immediately by a louder chorus, all of
alarm or anguish. Then the trampling of many feet and shouts, which
he knew enough of their language to interpret--the palace was in
flames.
"Would they come and summon the slaves to help, or let them stay
till the fire perchance reached them in their wretched cells?"
The doubt was soon solved. Hasty feet entered the courtyard
without. The doors were opened one after another--
"Come and bear water; the palace is on fire!"
The slaves, thirty in number, were led through divers passages and
courts to the very front of the burning pile--blazing pile, we
should say. There it stood before him, in all its solemn and sombre
Eastern beauty--cupolas, minarets, domes, balloon-shaped spires,
but the flames had seized a firm hold of the lower halls, and were
bursting through the windows, adding a fearful brilliancy to its
aspect.
The slaves were instantly formed in line to pass leathern buckets
from hand to hand, filled with water from the fountain. Even at
this extremity two guards with drawn scimitars walked to and fro in
front of the row, each looking and walking in the contrary
direction to the other, changing their direction at the same moment
as they went and returned, so that no slave was for a moment out of
sight of the watchmen with the keen bright weapons. And every man
knew, instinctively, that the least movement which looked
suspicious might bring the flashing blade on his devoted neck,
bearing away the trunkless head like a plaything.
Still, Hubert could use his eyes, and he gazed around. In the
centre of the brilliantly-lighted court was a small circular
erection of stone, like an inverted tub, with iron gratings around
it. The flat surface, the disc we may call it, was half composed of
iron bars like a grate, supported by the stonework, and in the
centre ran an iron post with rings stout and strong, from which an
iron girdle, unclasped, depended.
What could it be meant for?
"Ah, I see, it is the stake put in order for me tomorrow."
He looked at the courtyard. There were seats tier upon tier on
either side, with awnings over them. In front there was a low wall,
and the ground appeared to fall somewhat precipitously away from
it. Beyond the moonlight disclosed a glorious view of mountains and
hills, valleys and depths.
All this he saw, and his mind was made up either to escape or die
on the spot by the flashing scimitar, far easier to bear than the
fiery death designed for him on the morrow.
And while he thought, a loud cry drew all eyes elsewhere. At a
window, right above the flaming hall, appeared the agonised faces
of some of the hopeful pupils of the "Old Man," forgotten and left,
when the rest were aroused: and so far as human wit could judge,
the same death awaited them which they were to have gazed upon with
pitiless eyes, as inflicted upon a helpless slave, on the morrow.
They had probably been looking forward to the occasion, as a
Spaniard to his auto da fe, as an interesting spectacle.
Oh, how different the feelings of the spectators and the victims on
such occasions; when humanity sinks to its lowest depths, and
cruelty becomes a delight. God preserve us from such possibilities,
which make us ashamed of our nature, whether exhibited in the
Mussulman, the Spaniard, or the Red Indian. But we must not
moralise here.
All eyes were drawn to the spot. The "Old Man" himself, now first
heard, cried for ladders: it was too late, the building was
tottering; it bent inward, an awful crash, and--
At that moment the eyes of both guards were averted, drawn to the
terrible spectacle; and Hubert sprang upon the nearest from behind.
In a moment he had mastered the scimitar, and the next moment a
head, not Hubert's, rolled on the blood-stained pavement. He
lingered not an instant, but with the rush of a wild beast flew on
the other sentinel, a moment's clashing of blades, the skill of the
knight prevailed, and the Moslem was cleft to the chin.
"Away, slaves! one bold rush! liberty or death!"
And Hubert leapt over the wall.
He rolled down a declivity, not quite a precipice. Fortunately for
him his course was arrested by some bushes, and he was able to
guide himself to the bottom, where he descended into a deep valley,
through which a cold brook, fed from the snows of Hermon, trickled
merrily along.
He was not alone. Two or three other escaped fugitives came
crashing through the bushes, and stood by his side; but Hubert was
the only man armed. He had been able to retain the scimitar so
boldly won.
Above them the palace still blazed, and cast a lurid light, which
was reflected from the cold snowy peak of Hermon, and steeped in
ruddy glare many an inaccessible crag and precipice.
"Do any of my brethren know the country?"
At first no one answered. Each looked at the other. Then one spoke
diffidently:
"If we follow this stream we shall eventually arrive at the waters
of Merom."
"But remember that meanwhile men and dogs alike will hunt us, and
that only one is armed, although the arm that freed us might
sustain a host," said another.
"We must efface our track and then hide. Let each one walk in the
brawling bed of the torrent; it leaves no scent for the dogs to
follow," said Hubert.
They descended slowly and painfully amidst loose rocks and
boulders, avoiding many a pitfall, many a black depth, until the
dawn was at hand. Just then they heard a deep sound, like a
cathedral bell, booming down the valley.
"What bell is that?"
"No bell, it is the deep bay of the bloodhounds."
"But they can find no trace."
"They are on the track we left, far above, before we entered the
stream. If they cannot scent us in the water, they will have the
sense to follow us downstream, keeping a dog on each bank in ease
we leave it."
"What shall we do?" asked the helpless men.
Above them the rocks rose wild and horrent, apparently
inaccessible, but the keen eye of our Hubert detected one path, a
mere goat path, used perhaps also by shepherds.
"Follow me," he said, and leaving the stream ascended the path, a
veritable mauvais pas. At the height of some two hundred feet it
struck inward through a wild region.
"Here we must make a stand at this summit," said Hubert, "and meet
the dogs. I will give a good account of them."
He descended a little way to a point where the dogs could only
ascend by a very narrow cleft in the rocks, and there he waited for
the first dog. Soon a hideous black hound appeared, and with
flashing eyes and gaping jaws sprang at our hero. He was received
with a sweep of the scimitar, which cleft his diabolical head in
twain, and he rolled down the deep declivity, all mangled and
bleeding, to the foot, missing the path and falling from rock to
rock, so that when he was found by the party who followed they
could not tell by what means he had received his first wound.
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