The House of Walderne
A Tale of the Cloister and the Forest in the Days of the Barons’
Wars
by the Reverend A. D. Crake
Contents
Preface.
Prologue.
CHAPTER 1: The Knight And Squire.
CHAPTER 2: Michelham Priory.
CHAPTER 3: Kenilworth.
CHAPTER 4: In the Greenwood.
CHAPTER 5: Martin Leaves Kenilworth.
CHAPTER 6: At Walderne Castle.
CHAPTER 7: Martin’s First Day At Oxford.
CHAPTER 8: Hubert At Lewes Priory.
CHAPTER 9: The Other Side Of The Picture.
CHAPTER 10: Foul And Fair.
CHAPTER 11: The Early Franciscans.
CHAPTER 12: How Hubert Gained His Spurs.
CHAPTER 13: How Martin Gained His Desire.
CHAPTER 14: May Day In Lewes.
CHAPTER 15: The Crusader Sets Forth.
CHAPTER 16: Michelham Once More.
CHAPTER 17: The Castle Of Fievrault.
CHAPTER 18: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.
CHAPTER 19: The Preaching Friar.
CHAPTER 20: The Old Man Of The Mountain.
CHAPTER 21: To Arms! To Arms!
CHAPTER 22: A Medieval Tyrant.
CHAPTER 23: Saved As By Fire.
CHAPTER 24: Before The Battle.
CHAPTER 25: The Battle Of Lewes.
CHAPTER 26: After The Battle.
Epilogue.
Notes.
Preface.
It is not without pleasure that the author presents this, the twelfth
of his series of historical novelettes, to his friends and readers; the
characters, real and imaginary, are very dear to him; they have formed
a part of his social circle for some two years past, and if no one else
should believe in Sir Hubert of Walderne and Brother Martin, the author
assuredly does. It was during a pleasant summer holiday that the plan
of this little work was conceived: the author was taking temporary duty
at Waldron in Sussex, during the absence of its vicar—the Walderne of
our story, formerly so called, a lovely village situated on the
southern slope of that range of low hills which extends from Hastings
to Uckfield, and which formed the backbone of the Andredsweald. In the
depths of a wood below the vicarage he found the almost forgotten site
of the old Castle of Walderne, situate in a pathless thicket, and only
approachable through the underwood. The moat was still there, although
at that time destitute of water, the space within completely occupied
by trees and bushes, where once all the bustle and life of a medieval
household was centred.
The author felt a strong interest in the spot; he searched in the
Sussex Archaeological Collections for all the facts he could gather
together about this forgotten family: he found far more information
than he had hoped to gain, especially in an article contributed by the
Reverend John Ley, a former vicar of Waldron. He also made himself
familiar with the topography of the neighbourhood, and prepared to make
the old castle the chief scene of his next story, and to revivify the
dry dust so far as he was able.
In a former story, the Andredsweald, a tale of the Norman Conquest, he
wrote of “The House of Michelham,” in the same locality, and he has
introduced one of the descendants of that earlier family, in the person
of Friar Martin, thinking it might prove a link of interest to the
readers of the earlier story.
He had intended to incorporate more of the general history of the time,
but space forbade, so he can only recommend his readers who are curious
to know more of the period to the Life of Simon de Montfort, by Canon
Creighton {1}, which will serve well to accompany the novelette. And
also those who wish to know more of the loving and saintly _Francis of
Assisi_, will find a most excellent biography by Mrs. Oliphant, in
Macmillan’s Sunday Library, to which the author also acknowledges great
obligations.
If it be objected, as it probably may, that the author’s Franciscans
are curiously like the early Wesleyans, or in some respects even like a
less respectable body of modern religionists, he can only reply “so
they were;” but there was this great difference, that they deeply
realised the sacramental system of the Church, and led people to her,
not from her; the preacher was never allowed to supersede the priest.
But, on the other hand, it may reasonably be objected that Brother
Martin only exhibits one side of the religion of his period; that there
is an unaccountable absence of the popular superstitions of the age in
his teaching; and that, more especially, he does not invoke the saints
as a friar would naturally have done again and again.
Now, the author does not for a moment deny that Martin must have shared
in the common belief of his time; but such things were not of the
essence of his teaching, only the accidental accompaniments thereof.
The prominent feature of the preaching of the early Franciscans was, as
was that of St. Paul, Jesus Christ and Him crucified. And in a book
intended primarily for young readers of the Church of England, it is
perhaps allowable to suppress features which would perplex youthful
minds before they have the power of discriminating between the chaff
and the wheat; while it is not thereby intended to deny that they
really existed. The objectionable side of the teaching of the medieval
Church of England has been dwelt upon with such little charity, by
certain Protestant writers, that their youthful readers might be led to
think that the religion of their forefathers was but a mass of
superstition, devoid of all spiritual life, and therefore the author
feels that it is better to dwell upon the points of agreement between
the fathers and the children, than to gloat over “corruptions.”
In writing the chapters which describe medieval Oxford, the author had
the advantage of an ancient map, and of certain interesting records of
the thirteenth century, so that the picture of scholastic life and of
the conflicts of “north and south,” etc. is not simply imaginary
portraiture. The earliest houses of education in Oxford were doubtless
the religious houses, beginning with the Priory of Saint Frideswide,
but schools appear to have speedily followed, whose alumni lodged in
such hostels as we have described in “Le Oriole.” The hall, so called
(we are not answerable for the non-elision of the vowel) was
subsequently granted by Queen Eleanor to one James de Hispania, from
whom it was purchased for the new college founded by Adam de Brom, and
took the name of Oriel College.
Two other points in this family history may invite remark. It may be
objected that the Old Man of the Mountain is too atrocious for belief.
The author can only reply that he is not original; he met the old man
and all his doings long ago, in an almost forgotten chronicle of the
crusades, especially he noted the perversion of boyish intellect to
crime and cruelty.
Lastly, in these days of incredulity, the supernatural element in the
story of Sir Roger of Walderne may appear forced or unreal. But the
incident is one of a class which has been made common property by
writers of fiction in all generations; it occurs at least thrice in the
_Ingoldsby Legends_; Sir Walter Scott gives a terrible instance in his
story of the Scotch judge haunted by the spectre of the bandit he had
sentenced to death {2}, which appears to be founded on fact; and indeed
the present narrative was suggested by one of Washington Irving’s short
stories, read by the writer when a boy at school.
Whether such appearances, of which there are so many authentic
instances, be objective or subjective—the creation of the sufferer’s
remorse—they are equally real to the victim.
But the author will no longer detain the reader from the story itself,
only dedicating it to the kind friends he met at Waldron during his
summer holiday in eighteen hundred and eighty-three.
Prologue.
It was an ancient castle, all of the olden time; down in a deep dell,
sheltered by uplands north, east, and west; looking south down the
valley to the Sussex downs, which were seen in the hazy distance
uplifting their graceful outlines to the blue sky, across a vast canopy
of treetops; beneath whose shade the wolf and the wildcat, the badger
and the fox, yet roamed at large, and preyed upon the wild deer and the
lesser game. It bore the name of Walderne, which signifies a sylvan
spot frequented by the wild beasts; the castle lay beneath; the parish
church rose on the summit of the ridge above—a simple Norman structure,
imposing in its very simplicity.
Behind, the ground rose gradually to the summit of the ridge—which
formed a sort of backbone to the Andredsweald. The ridge was then, as
now, surmounted by a windmill, belonging then to the lords of the
castle, where all his tenants and retainers were compelled to grind
their corn. It commanded a beautiful view of sea and land; a hostelry
stood near the summit, it was called the Cross in Hand, for it was once
the rendezvous of the would-be crusaders, who, from various parts of
the Weald, took the sacred badge, and started for the distant East via
Winchelsea or Pevensey.
In the deep dark wood were many settlements and clearings; Walderne was
perhaps the wildest, as its name implies; around lay Chiddinglye, once
the abode of the Saxon offspring of Chad or Chid; Hellinglye
(Ella-inga-leah), the home of the sons of Ella, of whom we have written
before; Heathfield and Framfield on opposite sides, open heaths in the
wood, covered with heather and sparsely peopled; Mayfield to the north,
once the abode of the great Saint Dunstan, and the scene of his
conflicts with Satan; Hothly to the south, where, at the date of our
tale, lived the Hodleghs, an Anglo-Norman brood.
The Lord of Walderne was Ralph, son of Sybilla de Dene (West Dean) and
Robert of Icklesham (near Winchelsea). He was blessed, or cursed, as
the case might be, with three children; Roger, Sybil, and Mabel.
The old man came of a stern fighting stock: what wonder that his son
inherited his character in this respect. He was a wilful yet
affectionate lad of strong passions, one who might be led but never
driven: unfortunately his father did not read his character aright, and
at length a crisis arose.
Roger wooed the daughter of the neighbouring Lord of Hothly, but found
a rival in a cousin, one Waleran de Dene, a favourite of his father,
and a constant visitor at Walderne Castle. In those rude days the
solution of the difficulty seemed simple—to fight the question out. The
dead man would trouble neither lad nor lass any more, the living lead
the fair bride to church; and, sooth to say, there were many misguided
maidens who were proud to be fought for, and quite willing to give
their hand to the victor.
So Roger challenged his cousin to fight when he met him returning from
a visit to Edith de Hodlegh, and the challenge being readily accepted,
the unhappy Waleran de Dene bit the dust. The old lord, grieving sore
over the death of his sister’s son, drove Roger from home and bade him
never darken his doors again, till he had made reparation by a
pilgrimage or a crusade; and Roger departed, mourned by his sisters and
all the household, and was heard of no more during his father’s
lifetime.
But more grief was in store for the stern old lord of Walderne. The
third child, Mabel, the youngest daughter, fell in love with a handsome
young hunter, a Saxon outlaw of the type of Robin Hood, who delivered
her from a wild boar which would have slain or cruelly mangled her. The
old father had inspired no confidence in his children: she met her
outlaw again and again by stealth, and eventually became the bride of
Wulfstan, last representative of the old English family who had
possessed Michelham before the Conquest {3}.
The remaining child, Sybil, alone gladdened her old father’s heart and
closed his eyes, weary of the world, in peace; after which she married
Sir Nicholas de Harengod, and became Lady of Icklesham, by the sea, and
Walderne up in the Weald.
The castle was originally one of those robber dens which were such a
terror to their vicinities in the days of King Stephen; it escaped the
general destruction of such holds under Henry Plantagenet, and became
the abode of law-abiding folk.
It had long ceased to be a source of terror to the neighbourhood when
it came into the possession of the Denes—to whom it was a convenient
hunting seat; fortified, as a matter of course, by royal permission,
which ran thus:
“Know that we have granted, on behalf of ourselves and our heirs, to
our beloved Ralph de Dene that he may hold and keep his houses of
Walderne fortified with moat and walls of stone and lime, and
crenellated, without any let or hindrance from ourselves or our heirs.”
This permission was made necessary in the time of the great
Plantagenet, in order to prevent the multiplication of fortified places
of offence as well as defence by tyrannical barons or other oppressors
of the commonwealth; for in the days of Stephen, as we have remarked
already, many, if not most, of such holds had been little better than
dens of robbers, as the piteous lament which concludes the “Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle” too well testifies.
The space enclosed by the moat and outer walls of Walderne Castle was
about 150 feet in diameter.
The old lord died in the arms of his remaining daughter Sybil, without
seeking any reconciliation with his other children—in fact Roger was
lost to sight—upon her head he concentrated the benediction which
should have been divided amongst the three.
She married Sir Nicholas of Harengod, near the sea, and was happy in
her choice. She built a chapel within the castle precincts, and her
prayer for permission to do so yet remains recorded:
“That it may be allowed me to have a chapel in my castle of Walderne,
at my own expense, to be served by the parish priest as chaplain;
without either font or bell.”
It was granted upon the condition that to avoid any appearance of
schism, she should attend the parish church in state with her whole
household thrice in the year.
_Six Hundred Years Ago_: they have all been dead and buried these six
centuries; a dense wood, within which the moat can be traced, covers
the site of Sybil’s castle and chapel, yet in these old records they
seem to live again. A sojourner for a brief summer holiday amidst their
former haunts—the same yet so changed—the writer has striven to
revivify the dry bones, and to make the family live again in the story
he now presents to his readers.
Chapter 1: The Knight And Squire.
The opening scene of our tale is a wild tract of common land,
interspersed with forest and heath, which lies northward at the foot of
the eastern range of the Sussex downs. The time is the year of grace
twelve hundred and fifty and three; the month a cold and seasonable
January. The wild heath around is crisp with frost and white with snow,
it appears a dense solitude; away to the east lies the town of
Hamelsham, or Hailsham; to the west the downs about Lewes; to the
south, at a short distance, one sees the lofty towers and monastic
buildings of a new and thriving community, surrounded by a broad and
deep moat; to the north copse wood, brake, heath, dell, and dense
forest, in various combinations and endless variety, as far as the
lodge of Cross in Hand, so called from the crusaders who took the
sacred sign in their hands, and started for the earthly Jerusalem not
so many years agone.
Across this waste, as the dark night was falling, rode a knight and his
squire. The knight was a man of some fifty years of age, but still
strong, tall, and muscular; his dark features indicated his southern
blood, and an indescribable expression and manner told of one
accustomed to command. His face bore the traces of scars, doubtless
honourably gained; seen beneath a scarlet cap, lined with steel, but
trimmed with fur. A flexible coat of mail, so cunningly wrought as to
offer no more opposition to the movements of the wearer than a
greatcoat might nowadays, was covered with a thick cloak or mantle, in
deference to the severity of the weather; the thighs were similarly
protected by linked mail, and the hose and boots defended by unworked
plates of thin steel. In his girdle was a dagger, and from the saddle
depended, on one side, a huge two-handed sword, on the other a gilded
battle axe.
It was, in short, a knight of the olden time, who thus travelled
through this dangerous country, alone with his squire, who bore his
master’s lance and carried his small triangular shield, broad at the
summit to protect the breast, but thence diminishing to a point.
“Dost thou know, my Stephen, thy way through this desolate country? for
verily the traces of the road are but slight.”
“My lord, the night grows darker, and the air seems full of snow. Had
we not better return and seek shelter within the walls of Hamelsham? I
fear we have lost the way utterly, and shall never reach Michelham
Priory tonight.”
“Nay, the motives that led me forth to face the storm still press upon
me, I must reach Michelham tonight.”
An angry hollow gust of wind almost impeded his further progress as he
spoke, and choked his utterance.
“An inhospitable reception England affords us, after an absence of so
many years. Methinks I like Gascony the better in regard to climate.”
“For five happy years have I followed thy banner there, my lord.”
“Yet I love England better, foreign although my blood, or I had thought
more of the French king’s offer.”
“It was a noble offer, my lord.”
“To be regent of an unquiet realm while my revered suzerain and friend,
Louis, went upon his crusade—mark me, Stephen, England has higher
destinies than France; this land is fated to be the mother of a race of
freemen such as once ruled the world from Rome of old. The union of the
long hostile races, Norman and English, is producing a people which
shall in time rule the world; and if I can do aught to help to lay the
foundation of such a polity as befits the union, please God, I shall
feel well repaid: in short, Leicester is a dearer name to me than
Montfort; England than France.”
“Thy noble father, my lord, adorned the latter country.”
“God grant he has not left an inheritance of judgment to his children;
the cries of the slaughtered Albigenses ever rang in my poor mother’s
ears, and ring too often in mine.”
“I have never heard the story fairly told.”
“Thou shalt now. The land where they spoke the language of Oc, thence
called Langue-d’oc, was hardly a part of France; it had its own
government, its own usages, as well as its own sweet tongue. It was
lovely as the garden of the Lord ere the serpent entered therein; the
soil was fruitful, the corn and wine and oil abundant. The people were
unlike other people; they cared little for war, they wrote books and
made love on the banks of the Rhone and Garonne.
“Well had they stopped here, and not taken liberties” (here the knight
crossed himself) “with the Church. Intercourse with Mussulmen and
Greeks—who alike came to the marts—corrupted them, and they became
unbelievers, so that even the children in their play mocked at the
Church and Sacraments. In short, it was said they were Manicheans.”
“What is that?”
“People who believe that the powers of good and evil are co-equal and
co-eternal, that both God and the devil are to be worshipped. At least
this was laid to their charge; I know not if it be all true.
“Well, the Church appealed for help to the chivalry of France; she
declared the goods and possessions of this unfortunate people
confiscate to them who should seize them, and offered heaven to those
who died in battle against them. Now these poor wretches could write
love songs and were clever at all kinds of art, but they could not
fight. My father was chosen to head the new crusade; and even he was
shocked at the murderous scenes, the massacres, the burnings, which
followed—God forbid I should ever witness the like—they were blotted
out from the earth.”
The storm which had been gathering all this time now burst in its full
violence upon our travellers. Blinding flakes of snow, borne with all
the force of the wind, seemed to overwhelm them; soon the tracks which
alone marked the way became obliterated, and the riders wandered
aimlessly for more than an hour.
“What shall we do, Stephen? I have lost every trace of the way; my poor
beast threatens to give up.”
“I know not, my lord.”
“Ah, the Saints be praised, there is a light close at hand. It shines
clear and distinct—now it is shut out.”
“A door or window must have been opened and closed again.”
“So I deem, but this is the direction,” said the knight as he turned
his horse’s head northwards.
Let us precede knight and squire and see what awaited them.
Upon a spot of firm ground, free from swamp, and clear for about the
area of a couple of acres, stood a few primitive buildings: there was a
barn, a cow shed, a few huts in which men slept but did not live, and a
central building wherein the whole community, when at home, assembled
to eat the king’s venison, and wash it down with ale, mead, and even
wine—the latter probably the proceeds of a successful forage.
Darkness is falling without and the snowflakes fall thicker and
thicker—it yet wants three hours to curfew—but the woods are quite
buried in the sombre gloom of a starless night. The central building is
evidently well lighted, for we see the firelight through many chinks in
the ill-built walls ere we enter, although they have daubed the
interstices of the logs whereof it is composed with clay and mud almost
as adhesive as mortar. Let us go in—the door opens.
A huge fire burns in the centre of the building, and the smoke ascends
in clouds through an opening in the roof, directly above, down which
the snowflakes descend and hiss as they meet their death in the ruddy
flames. Three poles are suspended over the fire, and from the point
where they unite descends an iron chain, suspending a large caldron or
pot.
Oh, what a savoury smell! the woods have been ransacked, that their
tenants, who possess succulent and juicy flesh, may contribute to
appease the hunger of the outlaws—bird and beast are there, and soon
will be beautifully cooked. Nor are edible herbs wanting, such at least
as can be gathered in the woods or grown in the small plot of
cultivated ground around the buildings; which the men leave entirely,
as do all semi-savage races, to the care of the women.
There is plenty of room to sit round this fire, and several men,
besides women and boys, are basking in its warmth—some sit on
three-legged stools, some cross-legged on the floor—and amidst them,
with a charming absence of restraint, are many huge-jawed dogs, who
slobber as they smell the fumes from the pot, or utter an impatient
whine from time to time.
Their chieftain, a man of no small importance judging from his dress
and manner, sits on the seat of honour, a species of chair, the only
one in the building, and is perhaps the most notable man of the party.
He is tall of stature, his limbs those of a giant, his fist ponderous
as a sledge hammer; a tunic of skins confined around the waist by a
belt of untanned leather, in which is stuck a hunting knife, adorns his
upper story: short breeches of skin, and leggings, with the undressed
fur of a fox outside, complete his bedecking.
A loud barking of dogs was heard, then a trampling of horses; some
looked astonished, others rose to their feet, and opening the door
looked out into the storm.
“What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?”
“Some travellers I met outside as I was returning home from the chase,
having got caught in the storm myself,” replied a gruff voice; “they
had seen our light, but were trying in vain to get into our nest.”
“How many?”
“Two, a knight and a squire.”
“Bring them in, in God’s name; all are welcome tonight.
“But for all that,” said he, _sotto voce_, “it may be easier to get in
than out.”
A brief pause, the horses were stabled, the guests entered.
“We have come to crave your hospitality,” said the knight.
“It is free to all—sit you down, and in a few minutes the women will
serve the supper.”
They seated themselves—no names were asked, a few remarks were made
upon that subject which interests all Englishmen so deeply even now—the
weather.
“Hast travelled far?” asked the chieftain.
“Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we must have
wandered miles from it.”
“Many miles,” said a low, sweet voice.
The knight then noticed the woman for the first time—he might have said
lady—who sat on the right of this grim king. Her features and bearing
were so superior to her surroundings that he started, as men do when
they spy a rich flower in a garden of herbs. By her side was a boy,
evidently her son, for he had her dark features, so unlike the general
type around.
“How came such folk here?” thought De Montfort.
The meal was at length served, the stew poured into wooden bowls; no
spoons or forks were provided. The fingers and the lips had to do their
work unaided, in that day, at least in the huts of the peasantry.
Bread, or rather baked corn cakes, were produced; herbs floated in the
soup for flavouring; vegetables, properly so called, were there none.
Many a time had our travellers partaken of rougher fare in their
campaigns, and they were well content with their food; so they ate
contentedly with good appetite. The wind howled without, the snow found
its way in through divers apertures, but the warmth of the central fire
filled the hovel. Their hosts produced a decoction of honey, called
mead, of which a little went a long way, and soon they were all quite
convivial.
“Canst thou not sing a song, Stephen, like a gallant troubadour from
the land of the sunny south, to reward our hosts for their
entertainment?”
And Stephen sang one of the touching amatory ballads which had emanated
so copiously from the unfortunate Albigenses of the land of Oc. The
sweet soft sounds charmed, although the hosts understood not their
meaning.
“And now, my lad, have not thy parents taught thee a song?” said the
knight, addressing the boy.
“Sing thy song of the Greenwood, Martin,” added the mother.
And the boy sang, with a sweet and child-like accent, a song of the
exploits of the famous Robin Hood and Little John:
Come listen to me, ye gallants so free,
All you that love mirth for to hear;
And I will tell, of what befell,
To a bold outlaw, in Nottinghamshire.
As Robin Hood, in the forest stood,
Beneath the shade of the greenwood tree,
He the presence did scan, of a fine young man,
As fine as ever a jay might be.
Abroad he spread a cloak of red,
A cloak of scarlet fine and gay,
Again and again, he frisked over the plain,
And merrily chanted a roundelay.
The ballad went on to tell how next day Robin saw this fine bird, whose
name was Allan-a-dale, with his feathers all moultered; because his
bonnie love had been snatched from him and was about to be wed to a
wizened old knight, at a neighbouring church, against her will. And
then how Robin Hood and Little John, and twenty-four of their merrie
men, stopped the ceremony, and Little John, assuming the Bishop’s robe,
married the fair bride to Allan-a-dale, who thereupon became their man
and took to an outlaw’s life with his bonny wife.
“Well sung, my lad, but when thou shalt marry, I wish thee a better
priest than Little John; here is a guerdon for thee, a rose noble; some
day thou wilt be a famous minstrel.
“And now, my Stephen, let us sleep, if our good hosts will permit.”
“There is a hut hard by, such as we all use, which I have devoted to
your service; clean straw and thick coverlets of skins, warriors will
hardly ask more.”
“It was but an hour since I thought the heath would have been our
couch, and a snowball our pillow; we shall be well content.”
“It is wind proof, and thou mayst rest in safety till the horn summons
all to break their fast at dawn: thou mayst sleep meanwhile as securely
as in thine own castle.”
And the outlaws rose with a courtesy one would hardly have expected
from these wild sons of the forest; while Kynewulf showed the guests to
their sleeping quarters, through the still fast-falling snow.
The hut was snug as Grimbeard (for such was the chieftain’s appropriate
name) had boasted, and tolerably wind proof, although in such a storm
snow will always force its way through the tiniest crevices. It was
built of wattle work, cunningly daubed with clay, even as the early
Britons built their lodges.
And here slept the great earl, whose name was known through the
civilised world, the brother-in-law of the king, the mightiest warrior
of his time, and, amongst the laity, the most devout churchman known to
fame.
In the dead hour of the night, when the darkness is deepest and sleep
the soundest, they were both awakened by the opening of the door, and
the cold blast of wind it produced. The earl and his squire started up
and sat upright on their couches.
A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of
both were red with weeping.
“Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured
thee? the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed.”
It was the woman they had noted at the fireside.
“Thou art Simon de Montfort,” she said.
“I am; how dost thou know me?”
“I have met thee before, under other guise. Is liberty dear to thee?”
“Without it life is worthless—but who or what threatens it?”
“The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen.”
“They will not harm me. I have eaten of their salt.”
“Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it is
brought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks.”
“In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and
away; but who will be my guide?”
“My son; but thou must do me a service in return—thou must charge
thyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return here no
more.”
“But canst thou part with thine own son?”
“I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust
him to thee.”
“Oh, mother!” said the boy, weeping silently.
“Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such a
chance, now it is come—for thine own sake, my darling, the apple of
mine eye; this good earl can be trusted.”
“Earl Simon,” she said, “I know thee both great and a man who fears
God; yes, I know thee, I have long watched for such an opportunity;
take this boy, and in saving him save yourself from captivity.”
“Tell me his name.”
“Martin will suffice.”
“But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that I may
bring him up according to his degree.”
“He is of noble birth, on both sides; how fallen from such high estate
this packet—entrusted in full confidence—will tell thee. Simon de
Montfort, I give thee my life, nay, my all; let me hear from time to
time how he fareth, through the good monks of Michelham—thou leavest a
bleeding heart behind.”
“Poor woman! yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of my pages,
if he prove worthy.”
“It is all I ask: now depart ere they are stirring. It wants about
three hours to dawn, the moon shines, the snow has ceased, so that thou
wilt reach Michelham in time for early mass. I will take thee to thine
horses.”
She led them forth; the horses were quietly saddled and bridled. No
watch was kept; who could dread a foe at such a time and season? She
opened the gateway in an outer defence of osier work and ditch which
encompassed the little settlement.
One maternal kiss—it was the last.
And the three, earl, squire, and boy, went forth into the night, the
boy riding behind the squire.