While they were in sight of the other boys Martin’s pride kept him from
displaying any emotion, but when they were alone in the recesses of the
woods, and Hubert, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder bade him
“not mind them,” his bosom commenced to heave, and he had great
difficulty in repressing his tears. It was not mere grief, it was the
sense of desolation; he felt that he was not in his own sphere, and but
for the thought of the chaplain would willingly have returned to the
outlaws in the greenwood. No boy at a strange school feels as out of
place as he, and the worst was, he did not get acclimatised in the
least.
He had not found his vocation. Then again, he had been sweetly lectured
upon his temper by Father Edmund, and had promised to control it.
Still, was he to be switched by Drogo? He knew he never could bear it,
and didn’t quite feel that he ought to do so.
“Hubert,” he said at last, “I don’t think I can stay here.”
“Why, it is a very pleasant place. I love it more every day, and they
are not such bad fellows.”
“You are like them in your tastes, and I am not.”
“But tell me, Martin, how were you brought up; were you always with the
outlaws? You almost let out the secret today.”
“Yes, I was born in the woods.”
“Then you are not of gentle blood?”
“That depends upon what you mean by gentle blood. I am not of Norman
blood by my father’s side, although my mother may be, from whom I get
my dark features: my father was descended from the old English lords of
Michelham, who lived on the island for ages before the Conquest; my
mother’s family is unknown to me.”
“Indeed! what became of your English forbears?”
“Robert de Mortain contrived their ruin, but dearly did his race pay
for it in the justice of God. His ghost, or that of his son, still
haunts Pevensey: but all that is past and gone. Earl Simon sometimes
says (you heard him perhaps the other day) that the English are of as
good blood as the Normans, and that he should be proud to call himself
an Englishman.
“He is worthy of the name,” said Martin, and Hubert smiled; “but it is
not that—I want to be a scholar, and by and by a priest.”
“The very thing they wanted to make me, and I wouldn’t for the world;
what a pity we could not change places. Ah! what is that?”
A crushing of brambles and parting of bushes was heard, and lo! a deer,
with a little fawn by its side, came across the glade, looking very
frightened. The mother was restraining her own speed for the sake of
the little one, but every moment got ahead, involuntarily, then
stopped, and strove by piteous cries to urge the fawn to do its best.
What did it mean? The mystery was soon explained, the deep bay of a
hound was heard close behind.
Martin’s deep sympathies with the animal creation were aroused at once,
and he stood in the opening the deer had made, his short hunting spear
in hand.
“Take care—what are you about!” cried Hubert.
The next instant the deerhound came in sight, and in a few leaps would
have attained his prey had not Martin been in the way; but the boy
knelt on one knee, presenting his spear full at the dog, who, springing
down a bank through the opening, literally impaled itself upon it.
“Good heavens!” said Hubert, “to kill a hound, a good hound like this.”
“Didn’t you see the poor fawn and its mother? I wasn’t going to let the
brute touch them. I would have died first.”
Just then the voices of men came from the wood.
“See, they follow upon the track of the deer; let us run, we are in for
it else.”
“I am not ashamed of my deed,” said Martin, “and would sooner face it
out; if they are good men they will not blame me.”
“They will hang thee, that’s all—fly.”
“Too late; you go, leave me to pay the penalty of my own deed, if
penalty there be.”
“What, forsake a comrade in distress? Nay, I would die first, that is a
thing I would die for, but for a brute—never.”
A tall hunter, a man of most commanding appearance and stature, stood
upon the scene. Two attendants followed behind.
“THE EARL OF WARWICK,” whispered Hubert, awe struck.
The earl looked astonished as he saw the dog.
“Who has done this?” he said, in a voice of thunder.
But Martin did not tremble as he replied:
“I, my lord.”
“And why? did the hound attack thee?”
“It was to save the poor doe and her fawn; the mother would not leave
her little one, and both would have been killed together.”
The indignation of the two woodsmen was almost indecorous, but they did
not speak before their dread master.
“And didst thou have aught to do with it?” said the earl, addressing
Hubert.
“Nay, my lord, I did it all with this spear; he tried to stop me,” said
Martin.
“Then thou shalt hang for it.
“Here, Ralph, Gilbert, have you a rope between you?”
Ralph, the gamekeeper, unwound one from his waist. It was too often
needed, and had our Martin been a peasant lad, he would have speedily
swung from a branch of the oak above, but—Hubert came bravely forward.
“My Lord of Warwick, we knew not we were on your ground; we are pages
from Kenilworth.”
The men who had seized Martin stood motionless at this, still, however,
holding him, and awaiting further orders.
“Can this be true?” growled the Lord of the Bear and Ragged Staff.
“Yes, my lord, you see the crest of the Montforts on our caps.”
In his fury the earl had ignored the fact.
“Your names?”
“Martin.”
“Hubert.”
“‘Martin,’ ‘Hubert,’ of what? have you no ‘de,’ no second names?”
“We are not permitted to bear them.”
“Doubtless for good reason. And now, what shall prevent me from hanging
such nobodies, and burying you both beneath this oak, without anybody
being the wiser?”
“The fact that you are a gentleman,” said Hubert boldly.
The earl seemed struck by the answer.
“Boy,” said he, “thou hast answered well, and second name or not, thou
hast the right blood in thee; nor is the other lad wanting in courage.
But you must both answer for this. Tomorrow I visit Kenilworth, and
will see your lord.
“Release them, my men.
“Fare ye well till tomorrow.
“My poor Bruno!”
And the lads hastened home.
They told no one of their adventure, save Father Edmund, who not only
did not chide them, but promised to plead for them if complaint were
made to Earl Simon.
And very shortly, even the next day, the Earl of Warwick with an
attendant squire rode up the approach to the barbican gate, and was
admitted. The boys had not long to wait in suspense: they were soon
summoned from their tasks into the presence of their dread yet kind
lord, and his visitor.
As they were ushered along the passage of that mighty castle, both felt
a sinking of heart, Hubert more than Martin, for the latter had far
more moral courage than his lithesome companion.
“Martin, we are in bad case.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Do own you were wrong.”
“I cannot, for I do not think I was.”
“Say so at all events. What is the harm?”
“My tongue was given me to express my thoughts, not to conceal them.”
“Then you will be beaten.”
“And bear it; it was all my doing.”
At that moment the heavy doors swung open, and they stood in the
presence of the two mightiest earls of the Midlands. They stood as two
culprits, Hubert very sheepish, with his head cast down, Martin with a
comical mixture of resignation and apprehension.
“How is this?” said the Earl Simon. “I hear that you two killed the
good deerhound of my brother of Warwick.”
“It was I, my lord, not Hubert.”
“They were both together,” whispered the Earl of Warwick. “I saw not
who did the deed.”
“We may believe Martin.”
“So thou dost take all the blame upon thyself, Martin.”
“All the blame, if blame there was, my lord.”
“If blame there was! Surely thou art mad, boy! and thy back will verify
the force of Solomon’s proverb, a rod for the fool’s back, unless thou
change thy tone and ask pardon of my good brother.”
“My Lord of Warwick, I am very sorry that I was forced to kill your
good hound, and hope you will forgive me.”
“Forced to kill!”
“If I had not, he would have killed the poor doe and her fawn together,
and I could not have seen that, if I had to hang for it, as the noble
earl threatened I should.”
“Tell me the whole story,” said the Earl of Leicester.
“Pardon me, my good brother, I want to hear how he defends himself.”
And Martin began:
“We were in the woods, when we heard a great rustling, and saw a doe
crossing the path, very frightened, but for all that she kept stopping
and looking back, and we saw a little fawn by her side, who couldn’t
keep up; then we heard the hound baying behind, and the poor mother
trembled and started, but wouldn’t leave her little one, but bleated
piteously to the wee thing to make haste. I never saw an animal in such
distress before, and I could not bear it, so I stood in the track to
stop the dog, and he rushed upon my spear. I was very sorry for the
good hound, but I was more sorry for the doe and her fawn.”
“And thou wouldst do the same thing again, I suppose?” said the Earl of
Leicester.
“I couldn’t help it.”
“And what didst thou do, Hubert?”
“I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t.”
“Thou didst not feel the same pity, then, for the deer?”
“No, my lord, because I thought dogs were made to hunt deer, and deer
to be hunted.”
“Thou art quite right, my lad,” said he of Warwick, “and the other lad
is a simpleton—I was going to say a chicken-hearted simpleton, but he
was brave enough when his own neck seemed in danger, nor does he fear
much for his back now—
“What dost thou say, boy?”
“My lord, if I have offended you, I refuse not to pay with my back.”
“Get ready for the scourge, then,” said the earl his lord, half
smiling, and evidently trying his courage, “unless thou wilt say thou
art sorry for thy deed.”
“I am ready, my lord. I would say anything I could say without lying,
rather than offend thee, but what am I to do? Let me bear what I have
to bear.”
“Nay,” said the earl, “it may not be. My brother of Warwick, canst thou
not forgive him? I will send thee two good hounds in the place of poor
Bruno. Dost thou not see the lad has sat in the school of Saint
Francis, who pitied and loved everything, great and small, as Adam de
Maresco, my good friend at Oxford, tells me, and so all God’s creatures
loved him, and came at his call—the birds, nay, the fishes?”
“Dost thou believe all this, my boy?” said he of Warwick.
“Yes, it is all true, is it not? It is in the _Flores Sancti
Francisci_.”
The earl smiled.
“Come, my boy, I forgive thee.
“My good brother of Leicester, the lad is made for a Franciscan; don’t
spoil a good friar by making him a warrior.”
“And Franciscan he shall be.
“Say, my boy, wouldst thou like to go to Oxford and study under my
worthy friend, Adam de Maresco?”
Martin’s eyes sparkled with delight.
“Oh yes, my lord.
“Thank you, my Lord of Warwick.”
“Thy punishment shall then be exile from the castle; thou may’st cease
from the sports of the tilt yard, which thou hast never loved, and
Father Edmund shall take thee seriously in hand.”
“Oh, thanks, my lord, _O felix dies_.”
“See how he takes to Latin, like a duck to the water.
“Hubert, thou must go with him.”
Hubert’s countenance fell.
“Oh no, no, my lord, I want to be a soldier like my father; please
don’t send me away.
“Oh, Martin, what a fool thou art!”
“Fool! fie! for shame! thou forgettest in whose company thou art. Each
to his own liking; thou to make food for the sword, Martin perhaps to
suffer martyrdom on a gridiron, like Saint Lawrence, amongst the
heathen.”
“He is the stuff they make martyrs from,” muttered he of Warwick.
“No, Hubert, you may stay and work out your own destiny, and Martin
shall go to Oxford.”
“Oh, Martin, I am so sorry.”
But Martin was rapturous with joy.
And so, more soberly, was another person joyful—even the chaplain, for
he saw the making of a valiant friar of Saint Francis in Martin. That
wondrous saint, Francis of Assisi {10}, whose mission it was to restore
to the depraved Christianity of the day an element it seemed losing
altogether, that of brotherly love, was an embodiment of the sentiment
of a later poet:
He prayeth best who loveth best,
All things both great and small,
For the dear God, who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
And wondrous was his power over the rudest men and the most savage
animals in consequence. All things loved Francis—the most timid
animals, the most shy birds, all alike flocked around him when he
appeared.
The brotherhood he had founded was unlike the monastic orders; its
members were not to retire from the world, but to live in it, and
devote themselves entirely to the good of mankind; they were to
renounce all worldly wealth, and embrace chastity, poverty, and
obedience—theirs was not to be the joy of family life, theirs no
settled abode. Wandering from place to place they were to live solely
on the alms of those to whom they preached the gospel of peace.
Established only at the beginning of the century of our tale, it had
already extended its energies throughout Europe. They came to England
in 1224, only four clergy and five laymen. Already they numbered more
than twelve hundred brethren in England alone; and they were found
where they were most needed, in the back slums of the undrained and
crowded towns, amongst the hovels of the serfs where plague was raging,
where leprosy lingered—there were the Franciscans in this the heroic
age of their order, before they had fallen from their first love, and
verified the proverb—_Corruptio optimi est pessima_. Under their
teaching a new school of theology had arisen at Oxford; the great
Bishop of Lincoln, Robert Grosseteste, was its first lecturer, the most
enlightened prelate of the day; and now Adam de Maresco, a warm friend
of Earl Simon, was at its head. To his care the earl determined to
commend young Martin.