A. D. Crake - The House of Walderne

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Chapter 14: May Day In Lewes.

It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the
calendar. The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had
arrayed themselves in their brightest robe of green; the hedges
were white and fragrant with may; the anemone, the primrose, the
cowslip, and blue bell carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the
oaks and poplars were already putting on their summer garb. The
butterflies settled upon flower after flower; the bees were
rejoicing in their labour; their work glowed, and the sweet honey
was fragrant with thyme.

Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as
from village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex
poured out from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and
James; the children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred
fantastic hues, the May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of
May chosen by lot from amongst the village maidens.

Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the
villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our
tale betakes itself again--around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye,
Alfristun, Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like--not, as
now, accessible by rail and surrounded by arable lands; but
settlements in the forest, with the mighty oaks and beeches which
had perchance seen the coming of Ella and Cissa, long ere the
Norman set foot in Angleland; and with solemn glades where the wind
made music in the tree tops, and the graceful deer bounded athwart
the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled brake and inaccessible
morass.

Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough
of Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern
visitor may still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that
castle, but how different (yet how much the same) was the scene
which a young knight viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had
come up there to take his last look at the fair land of England ere
he left it for years, it might be never to return.

"It is a fair land; God keep it till I return."

The great lines of Downs stretched away--northwest to Ditchling
Beacon; southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on
the east rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount
Tabor to the fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long
line stretched away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.

"Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the
eastern range of Downs--I see it across the plain twelve miles
away. I see the windmills on the hill, and below the church towers,
and the tops of the castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon
bid them all farewell."

Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley
wherein meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its
magnificent church, well known to our readers; its towers and
pinnacles.

"And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother
professed. And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his
youth, now never leaves the convent's boundaries. But he is about
to travel to Jerusalem by proxy.

"If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I
should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once
compared us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the
other a warrior."

He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view,
but his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was
gayer guest at the noontide meal, the "nuncheon" of Earl Warrenne
of Lewes, the lord of the castle.

It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited
population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics,
frightened women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and
screams; unsavoury missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale
vegetables, were flying about; and in the midst of the open space
the figure of a Jew, who had excited the indignation of the
multitude, was the object of violent aggression which seemed likely
to endanger his life.

A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint
Michael's Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light,
which had endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see
and adore, and much was the reputation of Saint Michael's shrine
enhanced, when this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to
assert that the light was only caused by the rays of the sun
falling directly upon the figure through a window in the western
wall, narrow as the slits we see in the old castle towers, so
arranged as on this particular day to bring the rays of the setting
sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.

But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic
cries:

"Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!"

And it is very probable that he would have been "done to death" had
not an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.

Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered
the square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was
immediate. The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which
made way for them as if a superior being had commanded their
reverence, and one of the two mounted on a cart, and took for his
text, in a clear piercing voice which was heard everywhere,
"Christ, and Him crucified."

The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles
ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," said he. "He is the prisoner of
the Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and
his light be extinguished in darkness."

All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness,
but radiant with emotion, began to speak.

And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the
circumstances of the day.

"The object of the Crucifixion," he said, "had yet to be attained
amongst them."

A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one
had desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a
thousand desecrated forms before him who ought to be living
crucifixes, for were they not told to crucify the flesh with its
affections and lusts, to remain upon their voluntary crosses till
Christ said, "Come down. Well done, good and faithful servant.
Enter thou into the joy of the Lord"? And were they doing this?
Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as for instance the saints
of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done; giving heart for
heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread and ghastly
idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to be
companions of the angels--God's holy ones? Or the slaves and sport
of the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?

The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men
of the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were
scarce as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work
which the public press does now, as well as its own, and the
preacher was a power. But those medieval sermons were full of
quaint illustrations.

Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn
and love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over
one repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the
Lord afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a
ringing, when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the
Lord--one repentant sinner.

"They are waiting now," he said. "Will you keep them waiting up
there with their hands on the ropes?"

Cries of "No! no!" broke from several.

"And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their
claws, hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire
are the worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of
men. Now, on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of
God, where be many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to
the rule of Saint Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the
chapel, methought it was full of devils whispering all sorts of
temptations, as they did to Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks
from their prayers and meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and
methought one devil only sat on the gate, and swayed the hearts of
all the men in the town. He had little to do. The world and the
flesh were helping him, and just now it was the devil of cruelty."

The men looked down.

"'A Jew! only a Jew!' you say; 'the wicked Jews crucified our
Lord.'

"And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so
amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians
crucify our Lord afresh."

And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His
thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept
aloud. In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted
Martin to the priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries
of joy.

"Thou hast begun well, brother Martin," said Ginepro, when they
could first speak to each other in the hospitium.

"I! No, not I. God gave me strength," and he sank on the bench
exhausted and pale.

"It is too much for thee."

"No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase."

"What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard
thee, but couldn't get near thee for the press," cried an exultant
voice.

"My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?"

"Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people
there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my
road to the Holy Land.

"But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet?
Hast thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood
by a warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin."

"You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won
your spurs."

Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are
acquainted.

Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert
could not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford
twenty times over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected
house.

They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting
was made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the
past brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which
all, monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned
through the vast pile.

Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from
the rule--where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him
with those aged eyes.

"God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be
trials and difficulties."

"I am prepared for them."

"But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled;
and my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy
duty. Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek
of the old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it
thee freely when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name.
But be sure thou dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the
place is haunted. Then thou must take the nearest route to
Jerusalem."

"But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen."

"Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they
allow pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst
a victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not
allowed as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy
Sepulchre, to deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou
mayst return."

"But will there be no fighting?"

"This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be
broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one
campaign, not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and
remember that but to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee
to all the indulgences and privileges of a crusader--Bethlehem,
Nazareth, Calvary, Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by
reason of the truce, although the infidels be very treacherous, and
thou wilt need constant vigilance."

So they talked until the midnight hour.

No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son
slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on
the floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was
absolute, and so they slept.

On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory
together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the
last farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished
his grasp of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the
purpose of many years had come at last. Martin and his brother and
companion Ginepro were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to
act as a guard of honour to the young knight in his passage through
the forest to the castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel
together as long as their different objects permitted.

"My men will be a protection," said Hubert.

The young friars laughed.

"We need no protection," said Ginepro. "If we want arms, these
bulrushes will serve for spears."

"Nay, do not jest," said Martin.

"We have other arms, my Hubert."

"What are they?"

"Only faith and prayer, but they never fail."

Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to
Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek
and carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay
it on the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till
he had dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin
told his plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to
reclaim the outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to
reunite the lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together
in one common love.

"Shall you visit Walderne Castle?" inquired Hubert.

"It may fall to my lot to do so."

"Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both."

"He may have mended."

Hubert shook his head.

A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where
their road divided--the one to the northeast, the other to the
southeast. They tried to preserve the proper self control, but it
failed them, and their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.

At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a
frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.

"They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father
Francis," said Ginepro, "which my father witnessed."

"Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way."

"Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with
their songs of gladness, whereupon he said:

"'My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung
your sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.'

"And the birds were silent."

"I can quite believe it."

"His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was
brought in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they
were just going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and
pitied it.

"'Little brother leveret,' he said. 'How didst thou let thyself be
taken?'

"The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took
refuge in the robe of the father.

"'Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught
again,' he said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go."

Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged
from the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children
playing at seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.

Instantly he cried, "Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go
and have a turn."

"Are we not too old for such sport?" said Martin.

"Not a bit. I feel quite like a child," and off he ran to join the
children amidst the laughter of a few older people.

But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the
children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless
as he related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy
Innocents, stories which came quite fresh to them in those days,
when there were few books, and fewer readers. And these little
Sussex children drank in the touching story with all their little
ears and hearts. In all Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness.
And that same evening, when the woodmen came home from work, Martin
preached to the whole village from the steps of the churchyard
cross.

It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the
forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and
life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the
eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears
running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on
those of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.

Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and
without that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the
parochial flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin
at last stopped, exhausted:

"Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been
preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night."

And they willingly consented.

But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.

Chapter 15: The Crusader Sets Forth.

The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches
stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in
sconces on the tables. All the retainers of the house were present,
whether inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were
men-at-arms of Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls
(churls) of Saxon lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young
lord, and acknowledge him as their liege, ere he left them for the
treacherous and burning East to accomplish his father's vow.

The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in
those days of slow locomotion.

A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the
length of the hall. At the end another "board," raised a foot
higher, formed the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre,
just opposite the junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state,
surmounted by a canopy; on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his
left the hero of the night, our Hubert.

The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved;
and hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely
dinted; with tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those
who had borne them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There
were the horns of enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars;
war against man and beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life
then.

And the supper--shall I give the bill of fare?

First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald
(they be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench
(pike not come into England yet). And of sea fish--herrings,
mackerel, soles, salmon, porpoises--a goodly number.

Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look
upon, bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins,
herons, cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in
season didn't matter); and scores of domestic fowls--hens, geese,
pigeons, ducks, et id genus omne.

Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to
pay their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave
indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the
barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four
sheep--only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two
succulent calves.

Of the pastry--twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three
bushels of last autumn's apples were the foundation; two bushels of
flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in
England.

In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling
wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all
in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.

As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey
(Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last
two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).

All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time
afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was
satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief
harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo:

Sometimes in the night watch,
Half seen in the gloaming,
Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating
All into the darkness.

And the harps responded in deep minor chords:
All into the darkness.

We dream that we clasp them,
The forms of our dear ones.
When, lo, as we touch them,
They leave us and vanish
On wings that beat lightly
The still paths of slumber.

Very softly the harps:
The still paths of slumber.

They left in high valour
The land of their boyhood,
And sorrowful patience
Awaits their returning
While love holds expectant
Their homes in our bosoms.

Sweetly the harps:
Their homes in our bosoms.

In high hope they left us
In sorrow with weeping
Their loved ones await them.
For lo, to their greeting
Instead of our heroes
Come only their phantoms.

The harps deep and low:
Come only their phantoms.

We weep as we reckon
The deeds of their glory--
Of this one the wisdom,
Of that one the valour:
And they in their beauty
Sleep sound in their death shrouds.

The harps dismally:
Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.

"Stop! stop!" said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady's eyes.
"No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by
such boding?"

"Let the heir stay with us," cried the guests.

"Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father,
Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you
love him for his own fair face;" (Hubert blushed), "for the deed of
valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred.
But go he will and must, and there is an end of it.

"One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert,
mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his
power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in
the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as
Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us.
He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the
name of 'Radulphus,' or 'Ralph,' in memory of his grandfather.

"Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful,
and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives."

They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore
to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.

And he thanked them in a "maiden" speech, so gracefully--just as
you would expect of our Hubert.

"The Holy Land," said Sir Nicholas, "is a long way off, and many,
as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their
bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil
and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise,
acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives."

"We will, God being our helper."

"And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy
return."

It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no
fear that Hubert would not return safely.

Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay
of a Christian knight who fell into the power of "a Paynim sultan,"
and whom the sultan's daughter delivered at the risk of her
life--all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only
remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his
English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy
wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the
sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.

And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his
aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his
secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.

"No pagan beauty," he seemed to whisper, "shall ever rob me of my
heart. I leave it behind in England."

And even here he had a rival.

It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At
Harengod, his mother's demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert
had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir
Nicholas, his father's brother, a relationship which that good
knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love.
But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together,
lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.

He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of
inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord
of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without
issue, the other should have both domains.

Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of
the old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it?
Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by
disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.

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