A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne

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And when the other dogs arrived at the spot, which was deluged in
gore, after the wont of their race they would follow the scent no
farther.

Meanwhile our little party of five rescued captives went joyfully
forward with renewed hope, until midday, when they found a cool
spot by the side of the streams leading to the waters of Merom--the
head waters of the Jordan. And there, under a date tree which
afforded them food, they watched in turn until the sun was low;
after which they renewed their journey.

Soon they left the smaller lake behind, and followed the waters of
the Upper Jordan to the Sea of Galilee, skirting its western shore,
so rich in sacred memories, with the ruins of Capernaum, Chorazin,
Bethsaida, Magdala, and other cities, long ago trodden:
By those sacred feet once nailed,
For our salvation, to the bitter rood.

In the evening they rested amidst the ruins of Enon, near Salim;
and on the morrow resumed their course, avoiding the great towns;
begging bread in the villages--a boon readily granted. And in the
evening they saw the promontory of Carmel, and reached the Hospital
of Saint John of Acre, where Hubert's father, Sir Roger, had been
restored to health and life.

Sir Hugh de Revel, Grand Master of the Order of Saint John, heard
of the arrival of five Christian fugitives, escaped from the palace
of the "Old Man of the Mountain," and naturally curiosity led him
to interrogate them. To his astonishment he found one of them a
knight like himself, and, to his further surprise, recognised the
son of an old acquaintance, Sir Roger of Walderne.

All was well now.

"Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost
the sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre."

"My brother," said the prior then present, "dost thou remember that
a party of pilgrims arrived here a year since, who said that, in
the gorges of Lebanon, they had come upon the scene of a recent
conflict, and found a broken sword, which they brought with them
and left here?"

"Bring it hither, Raymond," said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page.

It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the
Sieur de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem's skull in the
desperate fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he
receive it! He could now discharge his father's delegated duty.

"Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start
with better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem."

Oh, the rest of the next few days in that glorious hospital, with
its deep shady cloisters, with its massive walls and its beauteous
chapel, wherein, on the following day, which was Sunday, as Hubert
was told, for he had long since lost count of time, he returned
thanks to God for his preservation, and took part once more in the
worship of a Christian congregation, and knelt before a Christian
altar. The walls of that chapel were of almost as many precious
stones as Saint John enumerates in describing the New Jerusalem.
Its rich colouring, its dim religious light, its devout psalmody;
oh, how soothing to the wearied spirit.

And then he reclined that afternoon in a delicious Eastern garden,
rich with the perfume of many flowers, shaded by spreading trees,
vocal with the sound of many fountains; and there, at the request
of the fraternity, he related his wondrous adventures to the men
who had erst heard his father's tale.

The time of his arrival was between the sixth and the seventh, or
last, crusade; during which period Acre, situated about seventy
miles from Jerusalem, had become the metropolis of the Christians
{31} in Palestine, after the loss of the Holy City. It was
adorned with noble buildings, aqueducts, artificial harbour, and
strong fortifications. From hence such pilgrims as dared venture
made their hazardous visits to Jerusalem, which they could only
enter as a favour, granted in return for much expenditure of
treasure and submission to many humiliations; and thus Hubert was
forced to accomplish his father's vow, setting forth so soon as his
strength was restored.

Chapter 24: Before The Battle.

The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was
inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on
either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of
each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire,
and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves
incapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: "Is thy servant
a dog that he should do this thing?" as one said of old when before
the prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless
warrior.

The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the
Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards
historical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a
master of the art of war, although still young, and already marked
by that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days,
was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course through
the Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponent
derived his title, opened their gates to him. He marched thence for
London, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning from
Rochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships which
set the place in a blaze.

Edward marched vice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the
castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been
taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border
of the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes.

It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun
shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon
castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the
Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge
above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our
stand by it:

And all around the widespread scene survey.

What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree
tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant,
studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from
land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and
confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly
espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How
many familiar objects we see around--Michelham Priory, Battle
Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle--all in
view.

There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle
Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale
fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king
was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is
Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west;
Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear
morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up
from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isle
of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.

Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and
Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings,
where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that
the royal enemy is in the forest.

Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which
attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into
the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich
in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the
breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal,
and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up
the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep
at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.

The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower
with excited steps--the royal banner will soon be seen surmount ing
that ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring
downwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is
galloping as for dear life--look at the cloud of dust which he
raises. The "merrie men" have disappeared in the woods, and Drogo
descends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath the
suspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches the
foot of the stairs.

"What news? Speak, thou varlet!"

"The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper
windows of the windmill."

"Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner
wave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my
liege."

Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks
were getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings,
the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile
neighbours--the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods--the
fish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked,
stewed, or the like, for the king's supper. Then he interviewed the
butler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the
like. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall were
completed, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer,
suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with fresh
rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.

When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced
that the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a
glorious sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:

On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part.

The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly
glistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting
sun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue,
in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war
horses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices.
And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises just
above the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.

Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys
of his castle in his hand.

The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat
stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the
extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.

Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired,
prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a
quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but
somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to
that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and
manly features, the greatest of the Edwards--a born king of men.

"Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight."

"My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own."

"Ah, and yet so loyal!"

"For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at
Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I
could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and
misrepresentations I daily heard."

"Ah, indeed," said the king, "then shalt thou receive the honour
from my own hands," and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of
the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head,
and added, "Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne."

"Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,"
muttered Prince Edward.

"Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and
those who honour us will we honour {32}."

The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their
acclamations. The multitude cried, "Largesse! Largesse!" and by
Drogo's direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freely
scattered to the accompaniment of the cry:

"Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne."

Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the
banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands,
pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green
without, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which
was not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.

The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head
of the board--his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the
King of the Romans), Edward, afterwards "The Hammer of Scotland,"
on his father's left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and
next to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king of
Scotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.

Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to
play the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which
was honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend
the king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify
the favour and honour which he had received.

Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of
the gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of
healths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring
again and again? Nay, we have tired the reader's patience with
scenes of that sort enough already.

But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet
feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in
another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him
closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their
political sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and
land holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the
morrow's journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for the
multitude. In short, they acted like men of business who provide
for the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.

Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he
claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he
had apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by
their harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.

"Who are these doughty foes?"

"Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor
of the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a
favourite page of the Earl of Leicester."

"Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to
sustain such acorns?"

"I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand."

"Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall
doubtless make short work of them."

Night reigned without the occasional challenge of the sentinel
alone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness
over the host encamped at Walderne.

Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at
once. The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to
life and action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the
woods with their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the
eastern hills.

Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet
hastily despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind
them, stood the three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and
friar pale with privation and suffering. Our Martin's health was
not strong enough to enable him well to bear the horrors of a
dungeon.

"You are accused of rebellion," said the stern Edward, as he faced
them. "What is your answer?"

Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is
recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and
anger, died of fear--yet he was never intentionally unjust.

Ralph spoke first--he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was
the only course.

"My prince," he said, "we must indeed avow that our convictions are
with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand
or fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are,
but we disclaim the word."

"And thou, Sir Mayor?"

"I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill
to choose."

"And thou, friar of orders grey?"

"Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester
just," said Martin quietly.

Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward
respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger era he replied:

"They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the
burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while
fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with
their swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then
I may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in
ward."

Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the
execution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to
the "superstitious" scruples of his followers, and to gain this he
would have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold,
but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion
than avarice.

And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the
royal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were
the newly-made knight and his followers.

He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons--the
only chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But
before starting from home he left secret instructions, which will
disclose themselves ere long.

As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive
came into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a
hard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the
key of Martin's dungeon.

"Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that
door--meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst."

Should he send it back?

"No, no!"

He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.

"I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou
art mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design."

Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite
powers.

We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast,
where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports--Winchelsea and Pevensey,
so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter of
Savoy, the then lord of the "Eagle," entertained them at the Norman
castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sacked
Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quarters
at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, as
became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await the
approach of the barons.

______________________________________________________________

There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the
people of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of
Walderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his
gallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he had
once more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he would
joyfully chant his Nunc Dimittis.

On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his
cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw
his son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance
related; and when he awoke he said;

"Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given
the first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath
provided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored."

But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith.
For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him.
Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the
house of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will
see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily
form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was
equally real to the sufferer.

One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal
day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that
day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his
adversary's dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days,
a man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had
slain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional.
It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or
supposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections
by a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged
not to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the
dread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave
{33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the
fatal day.

It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when,
lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no
longer armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his features
resigned and peaceful.

"I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the
flesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the
altar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy
reward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him
thou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward."

And he disappeared.

Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but
certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the
fulfilment of the vision.

______________________________________________________________

It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with
more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in
person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all
their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the
crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.

So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great
gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and
the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just
arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his
horse in good keeping.

He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.

"Art thou with us or against us?" said the warder.

"I am a soldier of the Cross," was the reply, and a few more words
were whispered in the ear.

The warder started back.

"Verily thy father's heart will be glad," he exclaimed.

Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little
changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had
once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had
stamped his features with a softer expression.

The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been
removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but
the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had
purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if
he had given "the first born of his body for the sin of his soul."

And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit--the
half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the
thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on
the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious,
thoughtless, but loving Hubert.

And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was
Prior Foville--he who built the two great western towers of the
church.

"Stay without," whispered the prior to someone by his side; "joy
sometimes kills."

The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so
strange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret
to tell and can hardly keep it in.

"What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?"

"Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not
dead."

The father trembled. He could hardly stand.

"I know he is alive, but where?"

"On his way home."

"Nay!"

"And in England!"

"Father, I am here."

Hubert could restrain himself no longer.

The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his
recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:

"Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again;
was lost, and is found."

Chapter 25: The Battle Of Lewes.

The barons, on their side, prepared with sober earnestness for the
struggle. They were not fighting for personal aggrandisement, but,
as an old writer says, "they had in all things one faith and one
will--love of God and their neighbour." So unanimous were they in
their brotherly love, that they did not fear to die for their
country.

It was the dead of night, and a horseman rode towards the village
of Fletching. He was armed cap-a-pie, like one who might have to
force his way against odds. His armour was dark, and he bore but
one cognisance on his shield, the Cross. He was quite alone, but he
knew that farther along he should find a sleeping host. The stars
shone brightly above him, the country lay buried in sleep, scarcely
a light twinkled throughout the expanse.

The sound of a deep bell tolling the hour of midnight reached him.
It was from the priory which he had left an hour or more
previously.

"Ere that hour strike again, England's fate will have been
decided," he said, as if to himself, "and perhaps my account with
God and man summed up before His bar. Well, I have a good cause,
and a clear conscience, and I can leave it in God's hands."

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