A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne

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And after a few months his zealous tutor thought him prepared for
the important step in his life, and wrote to the great master of
scholastic philosophy already mentioned, Adam de Maresco, to
bespeak admission into one of the Franciscan schools or colleges
then existing at Oxford. There was no penny or other post--a
special messenger had to be sent.

The answer came in due course, and at the beginning of the Easter
term Martin was told to prepare for his journey to the University.
He was not then more than fifteen, but that was a common age for
matriculation in those days.

The morning came, so long looked for, and with a strange feeling
Martin arose with daybreak from his couch, and looked from his
casement upon the little world he was leaving. A busy hum already
ascended from beneath as our Martin put his head out of the window;
he heard the clank of the armourer's hammer on mail and weapon, he
heard the clamorous noise of the hungry hounds who were being fed,
he heard the scolding of the cooks and menials who were preparing
the breakfast in the hall, he heard the merry laughter of the boys
in the pages' chamber. But soon one sound dominated over all--boom!
boom! boom! came the great bell of the chapel, filling hill and
dale, park and field, with its echoes. Father Edmund was about to
say the daily mass, and all must go to begin the day with prayer
who were not reasonably hindered--such was the earl's command.

And soon the chaplain called, "Martin, Martin."

"I am ready, sire."

"Looking round on the home thou art leaving, thou wilt find Oxford
much fairer."

"But thou wilt not be there."

"My good friend Adam will do more for thee than ever I could."

"Nay, but for thee, sire, I had fallen into utter recklessness;
thou hast dragged me from the mire.

"Sit Deo gloria, then, not to a frail man like thyself; thou must
learn to lean on the Creator, not the creature. Come, it is time to
vest for mass. Thou shalt serve me as acolyte for the last time."

People sometimes talk of that olden rite, wherein our ancestors
showed forth the death of Christ day by day, as if it had been a
mere mechanical service. It was a dead form only to those who
brought dead hearts to it. To our Martin it was instinct with life,
and it satisfied the deep craving of his soul for communion with
the most High, while he pleaded the One Oblation for all his
present needs, just entering upon a new world.

The short service was over, and Martin was breakfasting in the
chaplain's room with him and Hubert, who had been invited to share
the meal. They were sitting after breakfast--the usual feeling of
depression which precedes a departure from home was upon them--when
a firm step was heard echoing along the corridor.

"It is the earl," said the chaplain, and they all rose as the great
man entered.

"Pardon my intrusion, father. I am come to say farewell to this
wilful boy."

They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour.

"Nay, sit down. I have not yet broken my own fast and will crack a
crust with you."

And the earl ate and drank that he might put them all at their
ease.

"So the scholar's gown and pen suit thee better than the coat of
mail and the sword, master Martin!"

"Oh, my good lord!"

"Nay, my boy, thou wast exiled from home in my cause, and I may owe
thee a life for all I can tell."

"They would not have harmed thee, not even they, had they known."

"But you see they did not know, and all was fish that came to their
nets. Martin, don't thou ever think of them."

"Hubert, thou hadst better go, and come back presently," whispered
the chaplain, who felt that there were certain circumstances of
which the boy might be better left ignorant, which nearly concerned
his companion.

"Nay," said Martin, 'there are no secrets between us. He knows
mine. I know his."

"But no one else, I trust," said the earl, who remembered a certain
prohibition.

"No, my lord, only Hubert. He already knew so much, I was forced to
tell him all."

"Then thou hast not forgotten thy kindred in the greenwood?"

"I can never forget my poor mother."

"Thou hast already told me all that thou dost know, and that thy
fathers once owned Michelham."

"So the outlaws said, the merrie men of the wood. Oh if my father
had but lived."

"He would have made thee an outlaw, too."

"It might well have been, but my poor mother would have been happy
then."

"But I think Martin has a scheme in his head," said Hubert shyly.

"What is it, my son?" said the earl.

"The chaplain knows."

"He thinks that when he has put on the cord of Saint Francis he
will go and preach the Gospel to them that are afar off in the
woods."

"But they are Christians, I hope."

"Nominally, but they know nought of the Gospel of love and peace.
Their religion is limited to a few outward observances," said the
chaplain, "which, separated from the living Spirit, only fulfil the
words: 'The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life.'"

"Ah, well, my boy, God speed thee on thy path, and preserve thee
for that day when thou shalt come as a messenger of peace to them
that sit in darkness," said the earl.

"Thine," he continued, 'is a far nobler ambition than that of the
warrior, thine the task to save, his to destroy.

"What sayest thou, Hubert?"

"I would fain be a soldier of the Cross, like my father, and cut
down the Paynim."

"Like a godly knight I once knew, who, called upon to convert a
Saracen, said the Creed and told him he was to believe it. The
Saracen, as one might have expected, uttered some words of scorn,
and the good knight straight-way clove him to the chine."

"It was short and simple, my lord; I should like to convert them
that way best."

The chaplain sighed.

"Oh, Hubert!" said Martin.

The earl listened and smiled a sad smile.

"Well, there is work for you both. Mine is not yet done in the busy
fighting world; rivers of blood have I seen shed, nay, helped to
shed, and I must answer to God for the way in which I have played
my part; yet I thank Him that He did not disdain to call one whose
career lay in like bloody paths 'the man after His own heart.'"

"It is lawful to draw sword in a good cause, my lord," said the
chaplain.

"I never doubted it, but I say that Martin's ambition is more
Christ-like--is it not?"

"It is indeed."

"Yet should I be called to lay down my life in some bloody field,
if it be my duty, the path to heaven may not be more difficult than
from the convent cell."

These last words he said as if to himself, but years afterwards, on
an occasion yet to be related, they came back to the mind of our
Martin.

Upon a horse, which he had learned at length to manage well; with
two attendants in the earl's livery by his side, Martin set forth;
his last farewells said. Yet he looked back with more or less
sadness to the kind friends he was leaving, to tread all alone the
paths of an unknown city, and associate with strangers.

As they passed through Warwick, the gates of the castle opened, and
the earl of that town came forth with a gallant hunting suite; he
recognised our young friend.

"Ah, Martin, Martin," he said, 'whither goest thou so equipped and
attended?"

"To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord."

"And after that?"

"To go forth with the cord of Saint Francis around me."

"Ah, it was he who taught thee to kill my deerhound. Well, fare
thee well, lad, and when thou art a priest say a mass for me, for I
sorely need it."

He waved his hand, and the cavalcade swept onward.

They rode through a wild tract of heath land. Cultivated fields
there were few, tracts of furze--spinneys, as men then called small
patches of wood--in plenty. The very road was a mere track over the
grass, and it seemed like what we should now call riding across
country.

At length they drew near the old town of Southam, where they made
their noontide halt and refreshed themselves at the hostelry of the
"Bear and Ragged Staff," for the people were dependants of the
mighty Lord of Warwick.

Then through a dreary country, almost uninhabited, save by the
beasts of the chase, they rode for Banbury. Twice or thrice indeed
they passed knots of wild uncouth men, in twos or threes, who might
have been dangerous to the unattended traveller, but saw no
prospect of aught but good sound blows should they attack these
retainers of Leicester.

And now they reached the "town of cakes" (I know not whether they
made the luscious compound we call Banbury cakes then), and passed
the time at the chief hostelry of the town, sharing the supper with
twenty or thirty other wayfarers, and sleeping with some of them in
a great loft above the common room on trusses of hay and straw.

It was rough accommodation, but Martin's early education had not
rendered him squeamish, neither were his attendants.

The following day they rode through Adderbury, where not long
before an unhappy miscreant, who counterfeited the Saviour and
deluded a number of people, had been actually crucified by being
nailed to a tree on the green. Then, an hour later, they left
Teddington Castle, another stronghold of the Earl of Warwick, on
their right: they were roughly accosted by the men-at-arms, but the
livery of Leicester protected them.

Soon after they approached the important town of Woodstock, with
its ancient palace, where a century earlier Henry II had wiled away
his time with Fair Rosamond. The park and chase were most extensive
and deeply wooded; emerging from its umbrageous recesses, they saw
a group of spires and towers.

"Behold the spires of Oxenford!" cried the men.

Martin's heart beat with ill-suppressed emotion--here was the
object of his long desire, the city which he had seen again and
again in his dreams. Headington Hill arose on the left, and the
heights about Cumnor on the right. Between them rose the great
square tower of Oxford Castle, and the huge mound {11} thrown
up by the royal daughter of Alfred hard by; while all around arose
the towers and spires of the learned city, then second only in
importance to London.

The first view of the Eternal City (Rome)--what volumes have been
written upon the sensations which attend it. So was the first view
of Oxford to our eager aspirant for monastic learning and
ecclesiastical sanctity. Long he stood drinking in the sight, while
his heart swelled within him and tears stood in his eyes; but the
trance was roughly broken by his attendants.

"Come, young master. We must hurry on, or we may not get in before
nightfall, and there may be highwaymen lurking about the suburbs."

Chapter 6: At Walderne Castle.

The watcher on the walls of Walderne Castle sees the sun sink
beneath the distant downs, flooding Mount Caburn and his kindred
giants with crimson light. In the great hall supper is preparing.
See them all trooping in--retainers, fighting men, serving men, all
taking their places at the boards placed at right angles to the
high table, where the seats of Sir Nicholas de Harengod and his
lady are to be seen.

He enters: a bluff stern warrior, in his undress, that is, without
his panoply of armour and arms, in the long flowing robe affected
by his Norman kindred at the festal board. She, with the comely
robe which had superseded the gunna or gown, and the couvrechef
(whence our word kerchief) on the head.

The chaplain, who served the little chapel within the castle, says
grace, and the company fall upon the food with little ceremony. We
have so often described their manners, or rather absence of
manners, that we will not repeat how the joints were carved in the
absence of forks, nor how necessary the finger glasses were after
meals, although they only graced the higher board.

Wine, hippocras, mead, ale--there was plenty to eat and drink, and
when the hunger was satisfied a palmer or pilgrim, who had but
recently arrived from the Holy Land, sang a touching ballad about
his adventures and sufferings in that Holy Land:

Trodden by those blessed feet
Which for our salvation were
Nailed unto the holy rood.

He sang of the captivity of Jerusalem under her Saracen rulers; of
the Holy Places, nay, of the Sepulchre itself, in the hands of the
heathen. That song, and kindred songs, had already caused rivers of
blood to be shed; men were now getting hardened to the tale, albeit
the Lady Sybil shed tears.

For she thought of her brother Roger, who had taken the Cross at
that gathering at Cross-in-Hand when labouring under his sire's
dire displeasure, and who had fallen yet more deeply under the ban,
owing to events with which our readers are but partially
acquainted.

And now, where Roger sat, she saw her own husband--well
beloved--yet had he not effaced the memory of her brother. And she
longed to see that brother's son, of whom she had heard, recognised
as the heir of Walderne.

The palmer sang, and his song told of one, a father stern, who bade
his son wash off the guilt of some grievous sin in the blood of the
unbeliever--how that son went forth, full of zeal--but went forth
to find his efforts blasted by a haunting, malignant fiend he had
himself armed with power to blast; how at length, conquering all
opposition, he had reached the holy shore, and embarked on every
desperate enterprise, until he was laid out for dead, when--

At this moment the chapel bell rang for the evening prayers, which
were never later than curfew, for as men then rose with the sun it
was well to go to bed with him, so they all flocked to the chapel.
The office commonly called Compline was said, and the little
sanctuary was left again vacant and dark save where the solitary
lamp twinkled before the altar.

But the Lady Sybil did not seek her couch. She remained kneeling in
devotion before the altar, which her wealth and piety had founded.
Nor was she alone. The palmer yet knelt on the floor of the
sanctuary.

When they had been left alone together for some minutes, and all
was still save the wind which howled without she rose and said:

"Tell me who thou art, O mysterious man: thy voice reminds me of
one long dead."

"Dead to the world, yet living in the flesh. Sybil, I am thy
brother Roger, at least what remains of him; thou hast not
forgotten me."

"But why hast thou been silent so long? Thy brother in arms, the
great Earl of Leicester, himself said he saw thee fall fighting
gloriously against the fell Paynim."

"And he spake sooth, but he did not see me rise again. I was
carried off the field for interment by the good brethren of Saint
John, when, just as they were about to lower me with the dead
warriors into one common grave, they perceived that there was life
in me. They raised me, and restored the spirit which had all but
fled, and when at last it returned, reason did not return with it.
For a full year I was bereft of my senses. They kept me in the
hospital at Acre, but they knew nought, and could learn nought of
my kindred, until at length I recovered my reason. Then I told them
I was dead to the world, and besought them to keep me, but they
bade me wander, and stir up others to the rescue of the Holy Land
ere I took my rest. And then, too, there was my son--"

"Thy SON?"

"Yes. I see I had better unfold all to thee in detail, from the
beginning of my wanderings. After I had fled from my father's
wrath, I first went to sunny Provence, where I found friends in the
great family of the Montforts, and won the friendship of a man who
has since become famous, the Earl of Leicester. A distant kinswoman
of theirs, a cousin many times removed, effaced from my heart the
fickle damsel who had been the cause of my disgrace in England.
Poor Eveline! Never was there sweeter face or sunnier disposition!
Had she lived all had been well. I had not then gone forth,
abandoned to my own sinful self. But she died in giving birth to my
Hubert."

"Thy son, doth he yet live?"

"I left him in the care of Simon de Montfort, and went forward to
the rendezvous of the crusaders, the Isle of Malta, where, being
grievously insulted by a Frenchman--during a truce of God, which
had been proclaimed to the whole army--forgot all but my hot blood,
struck him, thereby provoked a combat, and slew him, for which I
was expelled the host, and forbidden to share in the holy war.

"So I sailed thence to Sicily--in deep dejection, repenting, all
too late, my ungovernable spirit.

"It was in the Isle of Sicily that an awful judgment befell me,
which has pursued me ever since, until it has blanched my locks
with gray, and hollowed out these wrinkles on my brow.

"I had taken up my quarters at an inn, and was striving in vain to
drown my remorse in utter recklessness, in wine and mirth, when one
night, as I lay half unconscious in bed, I heard the door open. I
started up and laid my hand on my sword, but melted into a sweat of
fear as I saw the ghost of him I had slain, standing as if in life,
his hand upon the wound my blade had made.

"'Nay,' said he, 'mortal weapons harm me not now, but see that thou
fulfil for me the vow I have made. Carry my sword in person or by
proxy to Jerusalem, and lay it on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre.
Then I forgive thee my death.'

"The vision disappeared, but left me impressed with a sense that it
was real and no dream. Hence I dared to return to Malta, and
telling my story begged, but begged in vain, to be allowed to carry
the sword of the man I had slain through the campaign.

"I could not even obtain the sword. It had been sent back to hang
by the side of the rusty weapons his ancestors had once borne, in
the hall of their distant Chateau de Fievrault.

"I returned to Provence, revisited the tomb of my Eveline, saw my
boy, sought absolution, made many prayers, but could not shake off
the phantom. It was on a Friday I slew my foe, and on each Friday
night he appeared. The young Simon de Montfort was about to form
another band of crusaders, and he allowed me to accompany him, with
the result I have described. During my stay in the monastery at
Acre the phantom troubled me not, and as I have already said, I
would fain have remained there, but when they heard my tale they
bade me return and fulfil my duties to my kindred, and stir up
others to come to the aid of the Holy Land, since I was physically
incapable of ever bearing arms again.

"But I shall even yet fulfil my vow, and the vow of the man I slew,
through my boy, when he has gained his spurs. My sinful steps are
not permitted to press that soil, once trodden by those blessed
feet, nailed for our salvation to the holy rood. Hubert will live
and bear the sword of the slain Sieur de Fievrault, sans peur et
sans reproche. Then I may lay me down in peace and take my rest."

"Will thou not see my husband?"

"I cannot reveal myself here in this castle to any one but thee,
and as my tormentor pays his visits again, I will betake me to the
Priory of Lewes."

"And must thou leave thy ancestral halls, and bury thyself again,
my brother?"

"I must. My task is done. I came but to feast my eyes with the
sight of thee, and to tell thee that thy nephew, the true heir of
Walderne, lives, satisfied that thou wilt not now allow him to be
defrauded of his rights."

"Why not reveal thyself to my husband?"

"I cannot--at least not in this house; but in the morn, after I
have parted for Lewes. tell him all."

"And what proofs shall I give if he ask them?"

"Let him seek me at Lewes or, better still, refer to Simon de
Montfort, who is the guardian of the boy, and has him in safe
keeping at Kenilworth."

"Sybil," cried a voice.

"It is my husband. I must go. Farewell, dearly loved, unhappy
brother."

And she departed, leaving him alone in the chapel.

Hours had passed by, the inmates of the castle at Walderne all
slept, still as the sleeping woods around, save only the watchman
on the walls, for in those days of nightly rapine and daily
violence no castle or house of any pretensions dispensed with such
a guard.

Save only the watcher on the walls, and a lonelier watcher in the
chapel. For there, in the sanctuary his sister had erected, knelt
the returned prodigal, unknown to all save that sister. His heart
was full of deep emotion, as well it might be. And thus he mused:

"This chapel was not here in my father's time. There were few
lessons to be learnt then, save those of strife and violence. What
wonder that when he set me the example, my young blood ran too
hotly in my veins, and that I finished my career of violence and
riot by slaying the rival who stood in my path? Yet was it done,
not in cold blood but in fair fight. Still, he was my cousin, a
favourite of my sire, who never forgave me, but drove me from home
to make reparation in the holy wars. Then on the way to the land of
expiation I must needs again stain my sword with Christian blood,
and that on a day when it was sacrilege to draw sword.

"But I repent, I repent. O Lord, let the Blood which flowed on that
very day down the Holy Rood blot out my sins, atone for my
transgressions.

"Nay, he appears, as oft before, and stands before me as when I
transfixed him on the quay at Malta.

"Avaunt, unquiet spirit. My feet have pressed the soil hallowed by
the Sacred Blood. Avaunt, for I appeal from thy malice to God. Was
it not thou who didst provoke, and wouldst fain have slain me? What
was my act but one of self defence, defence first of honour, then
of life?"

Here he paused, as if listening.

"What dost thou say? I give thee rest. Let my son take the sword
from thy ancestral hall, and wield it in the holy war in thy name.
Then thy vow will be fulfilled, and thou wilt cumber earth no
longer.

"Well, we shall see! But can I send him to that distant land? He
may suffer as I.

"No! no! Son of my love! It may not be.

"Ah, thou departest. It is well. Avaunt thee, poor ghost! Avaunt
thee."

So the night sped away, and when the gates of the castle opened at
sunrise, the palmer passed through them and took the road for
Lewes.

We need hardly say that, in the course of the day after the
ill-fated Roger had departed for Lewes, to bury his sorrows and his
sins within the hallowed walls of the Priory of Saint Pancras, the
Lady Sybil made a full revelation of all the circumstances of his
visit to her husband, Sir Nicholas Harengod.

There was not a moment's doubt in the mind of that worthy knight as
to the proper course to be pursued. Roger must be left to carry out
his own decision--as the most convenient to all parties
concerned--and the son must at once be brought home and
acknowledged as the true heir of Walderne, cum Icklesham, cum Dene,
and I wot not what else. As for poor Drogo, he must be content with
the patrimony of Sir Nicholas--the manor of Harengod.

So Sir Nicholas first sought an interview with his brother-in-law,
Roger, at the priory. He found him on the point of being admitted
to the novitiate, and then started post haste across the
country--northward for Kenilworth--where he arrived in due course,
and was soon closeted with the mighty earl, to whom he revealed the
whole story of the resurrection of Sir Roger of Walderne.

It was indeed a resurrection. At first the earl hardly credited its
possibility; but anon with joy received it, and gave his full
consent for Sir Nicholas to take Hubert away for a time, that he
might make acquaintance with the home of his ancestors, and seek
his father at Lewes.

Much more conversation passed between the knight and the earl, but
we shall have occasion to develop its results as our narrative
proceeds.

So we shall leave our readers to picture the delight and wonder of
Hubert, the jealousy of Drogo, and much besides, while we go to
Oxford to see Martin.

Chapter 7: Martin's First Day At Oxford.

It was a lovely morning in the Eastertide of 1256 when young Martin
looked forth from the window of his hostel at Oxford on the quaint
streets, the stately towers of the semi-monastic city. He was
bound, of course, as a dutiful son of Mother Church, to attend the
early service at one of the thirteen churches, after which, still
at a very early hour, he was invited to break his fast with the
great Franciscan, Adam de Maresco, to whom his friend the chaplain
had strongly commended him. So he put on his scholar's gown, and
went to the finest church then existing in Oxford, the Abbey Church
of Oseney.

This magnificent abbey had been endowed by Robert D'Oyley, nephew
of the Norman Conqueror, mentioned in another of our Chronicles
{12}. It was situated on an island, formed by various branches
of the Isis, in the western suburbs of the city, and extended as
far as from the present Oseney Mill to St. Thomas' Church. The
abbey church, long since destroyed, was lofty and magnificent,
containing twenty-four altars, a central tower of great height, and
a western tower. Here King Henry III passed a Christmas with
"reverent mirth."

There was a large gathering of monks, friars, and students; the
quiet sober side of Oxford predominated in the early dawn, and
Martin thought he had never seen so orderly a city. He was destined
to change his ideas, or at least modify them, before he laid his
head on his pillow that night.

Before leaving the church Martin ascended to the summit of the
abbey tower, the wicket gate of which stood invitingly open, in
order to survey the city and country, and gain a general idea of
his future home. Below him, in the sweet freshness of the early
morn, the branches of the Isis surrounded the abbey precincts, the
river being well guarded by stone work and terraces, so that it
could not at flood time encroach upon the abbey. Neither before the
days of locks could or did such floods occur as we have now, the
water got away more readily, and the students could not sail upon
"Port Meadow" as upon a lake, in the winter and spring, as they do
at the present day.

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