Martin was henceforth relieved of his customary exercises in the tilt
yard and elsewhere, which had become distasteful to him in proportion
as the longing for a better life had grown upon his imagination. Of
course the other boys treated him with huge contempt; and sent him
metaphorically “to Coventry,” the actual spires of which august
medieval city, far more beautiful then than now, rose beyond the trees
in the park.
But the chaplain saw this, and with the earl’s permission lodged the
neophyte in a chamber adjacent to his own “cell,” where he gave himself
up to his beloved books, only varying the monotony by an occasional
stroll with his friend Hubert, who never turned his back upon his
former friend, and endured much chaffing and teasing in consequence.
Most rapidly Martin’s facile brain acquired the learning of the
day—Latin became as his mother tongue, for it was then taught
conversationally, and the chaplain seldom or never spoke to him in any
other language.
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.”