The chief seat of the noble Earl of Leicester, as of a far less worthy
earl of that name, three centuries later, was the Castle of Kenilworth.
It had been erected in the time of Henry the First by one Geoffrey de
Clinton, but speedily forfeited to the Crown, by treason, real or
supposed. The present Henry, third of that name, once lived there with
his fair queen, and beautified it in every way, specially adorning the
chapel, but also strengthening the defences, until men thought the
castle impregnable.
Well they might, for our Martin and Hubert beheld on their arrival a
double row of ramparts, looking over a moat half a mile round, and
sometimes a quarter of that distance broad: and the old servitors still
told how the sad and feeble king had built a fragile bark, with silken
hangings and painted sides, wherein he and his newly-married bride oft
took the air on the moat. The buildings of the castle were most
extensive; the space within the moat contained seven acres; the great
hall could seat two hundred guests. The park extended without a break
from the walls of Coventry on the northeast to the far borders of the
park of the great Earl of Warwick on the southwest—a distance of
several miles.
And here, in the society of a score of other boys of their own age, our
Hubert and Martin were to receive their early education as pages.
Education—ah, how unlike that which falls to the lot of the schoolboy
of the nineteenth century. As a rule, the care of the mother was deemed
too tender and the paternal roof too indulgent for a boy after his
twelfth year, so he was sent, not exactly to a boarding school, but to
the castle of some eminent noble, such as the one under our
observation; and here, in the company of from ten to twenty companions
of his own age, he began his studies.
We have previously described this course of education in a former tale,
The Rival Heirs, but for the benefit of those who have not read the
afore-said story we must be pardoned a little recapitulation.
He was daily exercised in the use of all manner of weapons, beginning
with such as were of simple character; he was taught to ride, not only
in the saddle, but to sit a horse bare-backed, or under any conceivable
circumstances which might occur. He had to bend the stout yew bow and
to wield the sword, he had to couch the lance, which art he acquired
with dexterity by the practice at the quintain.
He had also to do the work of a menial, but not in a menial spirit. It
was his to wait upon his lord at table, to be a graceful cup bearer, a
clever carver, able to select the titbits for the ladies, and then to
assign the other portions according to rank.
It was his to follow the hounds, to learn the blasts of the horn, which
belonged to each detail of the field; to track the hunted animal, to
rush in upon boar or stag at bay, to break up or disembowel the
captured quarry.
It was his to learn how to thread the pathless forests, like that of
Arden; by observing the prevalent direction of the wind, as indicated
by the way in which the trees threw their thickest branches, or the
side of the trunk on which the mosses grew most densely; to know the
stars, and to thread the murky forest at midnight by an occasional
glimpse of that bright polar star, around which Charley’s Wain
revolved, as it does in these latter days.
It was his to learn that wondrous devotion to the ladies, which was at
the foundation of chivalry, and found at last its _reductio ad
absurdum_ in the Dulcinea of Don Quixote; but it was not a bad thing in
itself, and softened the manners, nor suffered them to become utterly
ferocious.
He was taught to abhor all the meaner vices, such as cowardice or
lying—no gentleman could live under such an imputation and retain his
claim to the name. But it must be admitted that there were higher
duties practised wheresoever the obligations of chivalry were fully
carried out: the duty of succouring the distressed or redressing wrong,
of devotion to God and His Church, and hatred of the devil and his
works.
Alas! how often one aspect of chivalry alone, and that the worst, was
found to exist; the ideal was too high for fallen nature.
To Hubert the new life which opened before him was full of promise and
delight; he seemed to have found a paradise far more after his own
heart than Eden could ever have been: but it was otherwise with Martin.
They had not been unkindly received by their companions, although, as
the other pages were nearly all the sons of nobles, there was a marked
restraint in the way in which they condescended to boys who had only
one name {6}. Still, the earl’s will was law, and since he had willed
that the newcomers should share the privileges of the others, no
protest could be made.
And as for Hubert there was no difficulty; he was one of nature’s own
gentlemen, and there was something in his brave winning ways, in which
there was neither shyness nor presumption, which at once found him
friends; besides, his speech was Norman French, and he was _au fait_ in
his manners.
But poor little Martin—the lad from the greenwood— surely it was a
great mistake to expose him to the jeers and sarcasms of the lads of
his own age, but of another culture; every time he opened his mouth he
betrayed the Englishman, and it was not until the following reign that
Edward the First, by himself adopting that designation as the proudest
he could claim, redeemed it from being, as it had been since the
Conquest, a term of opprobrium and reproach.
The day always began at Kenilworth Castle with an early mass in the
chapel at sunrise; then, unless it were a hunting morning, the whole
bevy of pages was handed over to the chaplain for a few brief hours of
study, for the earl was himself a literary man, and would fain have all
under him instructed in the rudiments of learning {7}.
Hubert did not show to advantage, for he regarded all such studies as a
degrading remnant of his life at Michelham, yet none could read and
write so well as he amongst the pages, and he had his Latin declensions
and conjugations well by heart, while he could read and interpret in
good Norman French, or indifferent English, the Gospels in the large
illuminated Missal; but the silly lad was actually ashamed of this, and
would have bartered it all for the emptiest success in the tilt yard.
On the contrary, little Martin, who could not yet read a line, was
throwing the whole deep earnestness of an active intellect into the
work.
“Courage! little friend,” said the chaplain, “and thou wilt do as well
as the wisest here, only be not impatient or discouraged.”
And to Hubert he said one day:
“This hardly represents your best work, my son, you did better even
yesterday.”
Hubert tossed his head.
“Martin cares only for books—I want to learn better things; he may be a
monk, I will be a soldier.”
“And dost thou know,” said a deep voice, “what is the first duty of a
soldier?”
It was the stern figure of the earl who stood unobserved in the doorway
of the library.
Hubert hung his head.
“Obedience!”
“And know this,” added the speaker, “that learning distinguishes the
man from the brute, as religion distinguishes him from the devil.”
The two medieval boys, with the story of whose lives this veracious
chronicle concerns itself, were indeed singularly unlike in their
tastes and dispositions.
Martin seemed destined by nature for the life of the cloister, the home
of learning and contemplation in those days, wherein alone were
libraries to be found, and peaceful hours to devote to their perusal.
He learned his lessons with such avidity as to surprise and delight his
teacher, his leisure hours were spent in the library of the castle—for
Kenilworth had a library of manuscripts under Simon de Montfort—a long
low room on an upper floor, one end of which was boarded off as a
chamber for the chaplain, who was of course also librarian. And again,
he evinced a joy in the services of the castle chapel which
sufficiently marked his vocation. The earl was both devout and musical,
and the solemn tones of the Gregorian Church Modes were rendered with
peculiar force by the deep voices of the men, for which they seemed
chiefly designed. As Martin listened, he became aware of sensations and
ideas which he could not express—he wept for joy, or trembled with
emotion like Saint Augustine of old {8}.
Then again, Sunday by Sunday, the chaplain was like a living oracle to
him, as to many others. The ascetic face became beautiful with a beauty
not of this earth—“his pallor,” said they, “became of a fair shining
red” when he spoke of Christ or holy things, while anon his thunder
tones awoke an echo in the heart of many as he testified against
cruelty and wrong, of which there was no lack in those days.
Under his influence Martin was becoming moulded like pliant wax, the
boy of the greenwood was losing all his rusticity, and yet, retaining
his keen love of nature, was learning to look beyond nature to nature’s
God. At times Martin was very weary of Kenilworth, and almost wished
himself back in the greenwood again, so little was he in sympathy with
the companions whom he had found.
But one day the earl called him aside, and with a tenderness one could
not have expected from that great statesman and mighty warrior, broke
the sad tidings to the poor boy of the death of his ill-fated mother.
It had arrived from Michelham; an outlaw had brought the news to the
priory, with the request that the monks would send the tidings on to
young Martin, wherever he might be. The death of his poor mother at
last severed the ties which bound Martin to the greenwood; he longed
after it no more; save that he often had daydreams wherein, as a
brother of Saint Francis, he preached the glad tidings of the grace of
God to his kindred after the flesh in the green glades of the Sussex
woods.
One thing he had yet to subdue—his temper; like that of most people of
excitable temperament it would some times flash forth like fire; his
companions soon found this out, and the elder pages liked to amuse
themselves in arousing it—a sport not quite so safe for those of his
own age.
Altogether of a different mould was the bright joyous son of an
ill-fated father; Hubert, son of Roger of Icklesham and Walderne. A
boy, a typical boy, a brave free-hearted noble one:
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books, and love of fun.
He was rapidly acquiring ease and dexterity in all the sports of the
tilt yard; the quintain had now no terrors for him, and he was quite at
home on horseback already. Naturally he was rising fast in favour with
his fellows, the only lad who seemed to stand aloof from him being
Drogo de Harengod.
Drogo was about a year older than Hubert, tall and dark, of a haughty
and intolerant disposition, and very “masterful,” but, as the old saw
says:
_Mores puerorum se detegunt inter ludendum_.
So we will draw no more pen and ink sketches, but leave our characters
to show themselves by their deeds.
It was a pleasant evening in early autumn, and the scene was the park
of Kenilworth, some few months after the arrival of our two pages at
the castle. Half a dozen of the youthful aspirants to chivalry, amongst
whom were Drogo, Hubert, and Martin, gathered under an oak occupying an
elevated site in the park: they had evidently just left the forest, for
hares and rabbits were lying on the ground, the result of a little
foray into the cover.
“What a view we have here; one can see the towers of Warwick, over the
woods.”
“And there is the line of hills over Keinton and Radway {9}.”
“And there Black Down Hill.”
“And there the spires of Coventry.”
“Yes,” said Drogo, “but it is not like the view from my uncle’s castle
in the Andredsweald, over a far wilder forest than this of Arden, with
the great billowy downs for a southern bulwark. There be wolves, yea,
boars, and for lesser beasts of prey wildcats, badgers, and polecats;
while the deer are as plentiful as sheep.”
“And where is that castle?” said Hubert.
“At Walderne; my uncle is Nicholas de Harengod, and some day the castle
will be mine.”
Martin looked up with strange interest.
“What! Walderne Castle yours!”
“Yes, have you heard of it?”
“And seen it.”
“Seen it?”
“Yes, afar off,” said the lad dreamily, for Hubert gave him a warning
look.
“Even as a cat may look at a king’s palace.”
“But those woods are full of outlaws,” said another lad, Louis de
Chalgrave.
“All the better; it will be rare sport to hunt them out.”
“Easier said than done,” muttered Martin, but not so low that his words
were unheard.
“What is easier said than done?” cried Drogo.
“I mean the hunting out those outlaws. Ever since you Normans came, in
the days of the usurper you call the Conqueror, it has been talked
about but never done.”
“Usurper we call the Conqueror, pretty words these for the park of
Kenilworth,” said several voices. “They suit the descendants of the men
who let themselves be beaten at Hastings.”
“In any place but this Kenilworth they would cost a fellow his ears.”
“Yes, but Earl Simon loves the English.”
“Or he wouldn’t degrade us by bringing louts from the greenwood amongst
us—boys whom our fathers would have disdained to set to mind their
swine,” said Drogo.
“Probably your ancestor himself was a swineherd in Normandy, while mine
were Thanes in England, and their courteous manners have descended to
you,” retorted Martin; whereupon Drogo laid his bowstring about his
daring junior.
Forgetting all disparity of age, the youngster flew at him, and struck
him full between the eyes with his clenched fist; the other boys,
instead of interfering, laughed heartily at the scene, and watched its
development with interest, thinking Martin would get a good switching.
But they forgot one thing, or rather did not know it. Boxing was not a
knightly exercise, not taught in the tilt yard, and Drogo could only
use his natural weapons as a French boy uses his now. But in the
greenwood it was different, and young Martin had been left again and
again, as a part of a sound education, to “hold his own” against his
equals in age and size, by aid of the noble art of fisticuffs; what
wonder then that Drogo’s eyes were speedily several shades darker than
nature had designed them to be, of which there was no obvious need, and
that victory would probably have decked the brows of the younger
combatant had not the elders interfered.
“This is no work for a gentleman.”
“If fight you must, run a course against each other with blunted
spears, since they won’t grant us sharp ones, more’s the pity.”
“The youngster should learn to govern his temper.”
“Nay, he did not begin it.”
The last speaker was Hubert.
Martin had walked away into the wood, as if he neither expected nor
asked justice from his companions, and Hubert followed him.
“There they go together.”
“Two boys, each without a second name.”
“But after all,” said Louis, “I like Hubert better for standing up for
his friend.”
“They are queer friends, as unlike as light and darkness,” said Drogo.
“Talking of darkness reminds one of your eyes, they are—”
“Hold your tongue.”
And a new quarrel commenced, which we will not stop to behold, but
follow the two into the woods; “older, deeper, grayer,” with oaks that
the Druids might have worshipped beneath.