Two years had elapsed since the events related in our last two
chapters; and they had passed uneventfully, so far as the lives of the
page and the scholar are concerned.
Hubert had attained to the close of his pagedom, and the assumption of
the second degree in chivalry, that of squire. He ever longed for the
day when he should be able to fulfil his promise to his poor stricken
father, who, albeit somewhat relieved of his incubus, since the night
when father and son watched together, was not yet quite free from his
ghostly visitant; moderns would say “from his mania.”
And Martin was still fulfilling his vocation as a novice of the Order
of Saint Francis, and was close upon the attainment of the dignity of a
scholastic degree—preparatory (for so his late lamented friend had
advised) to a closer association with the brotherhood, who no longer
despised, as their father Francis did, the learning of the schools.
We say late lamented friend, for Adam de Maresco had passed away, full
of certain hope and full assurance of “the rest which remaineth for the
people of God.” He died during Martin’s second year at Oxford.
Meanwhile the political strife between the king and the barons had
reached its height. The latter felt themselves quite superseded by the
new nobility, introduced from Southern France. The English clergy
groaned beneath foreign prelates introduced, not to feed, but to shear
the flocks. The common people were ruined by excessive and arbitrary
taxation.
At last the barons determined upon _constitutional_ resistance, and
Earl Simon, following the dictates of his conscience, felt it his duty
to cast in his lot with them, although he was the king’s
brother-in-law. Still, his wife had suffered deeply at her brother’s
hands, and was no “dove bearing an olive branch.”
It was in Easter, 1258, and the parliament, consisting of all the
tenants _in capiti_, who hold lands directly from the crown, were
present at Westminster. The king opened his griefs to them—griefs which
only money could assuage. But he was sternly informed that money would
only be granted when pledges (and they more binding than his oft-broken
word) were given for better government, and the redress of specified
abuses; and finally, after violent recriminations between the two
parties, as we should now say the ministry and the opposition, headed
by Earl Simon, parliament was adjourned till the 11th of June, and it
was decided that it should meet again at Oxford, where that assembly
met which gained the name of the “Mad Parliament.”
On the 22nd of June this parliament decreed that all the king’s castles
which were held by foreigners should be rendered back to the Crown, and
to set the example, Earl Simon, although he had well earned the name
“Englishman,” delivered the title deeds of his castles of Kenilworth
and Odiham into the hands of the king.
But the king’s relations by marriage refused to follow this
self-denying ordinance, and they well knew that neither the old king
nor his young heir, Prince Edward, wished them to follow Earl Simon’s
example. A great storm of words followed.
“I will never give up my castles, which my brother the king, out of his
great love, has given me,” said William de Valence.
“Know this then for certain, that thou shalt either give up thy castles
or thy head,” replied Earl Simon.
The Poitevins saw they were in evil case, and that they were
outnumbered at Oxford. So they left the court, and fled all to the
Castle of Wolvesham, near Winchester, where their brother, the Bishop
Aymer, made common cause with them.
The barons acted promptly. They broke up the parliament and pursued.
Hubert was at Oxford throughout the session of the Mad Parliament, in
attendance on his lord, as “esquire of the body,” to which rank he, as
we have said, had now attained; and at Oxford he met his beloved Martin
again. Yes, Hubert was now an esquire; now he had a right to carry a
shield and emblazon it with the arms of Walderne. He was also withdrawn
from that compulsory attendance on the ladies at the castle which he
had shared with the other pages. He had no longer to wait at table
during meals. But fresh duties, much more arduous, devolved upon him.
He had to be both valet and groom to the earl, to scour his arms, to
groom his horse, to attend his bed chamber, and to sleep outside the
door in an anteroom, to do the honours of the household in his lord’s
absence, gracefully, like a true gentleman; to play with his lord, the
ladies, or the visitors at chess or draughts in the long winter
evenings; to sing, to tell romaunts or stories, to play the lute or
harp; in short, to be all things to all people in peace; and in war to
fight like a Paladin.
Now he had to learn to wear heavy armour, and thus accoutred, to spring
upon a horse, without putting foot to stirrup; to run long distances
without pause; to wield the heavy mace, axe, or sword for hours
together without tiring; to raise himself between two walls by simply
setting his back against one, his feet against the other; in short, to
practise all gymnastics which could avail in actual battles or sieges.
In warfare it became his duty to bear the helmet or shield of his lord,
to lead his war horse, to lace his helmet, to belt and buckle his
cuirass, to help him to vest in his iron panoply, with pincers and
hammer; to keep close to his side in battle, to succour him fallen, to
avenge him dead, or die with him.
Such being a squire’s duties, what a blessing to Hubert to be a squire
to such a Christian warrior as the earl, a privilege he shared with
some half dozen of his former fellow pages—turn and turn about.
In this capacity he attended his lord during the pursuit of the foreign
favourites to Wolvesham Castle, where they had taken refuge with Aymer
de Valence, whom the king, by the Pope’s grace, had made titular bishop
of that place. We say titular, for Englishmen would not permit him to
enjoy his see; he spoke no word of English.
At Wolvesham the foreign lords were forced to surrender, and accepted
or appeared to accept their sentence of exile. But ere starting they
invited the confederate barons to a supper, wherein they mingled poison
with the food.
This nefarious plot Hubert discovered, happening to overhear a brief
conversation on the subject between the bishop’s chamberlain and the
Jew who supplied the poison, and whom Hubert secured, forcing him to
supply the antidote which in all probability saved the lives of the
four Earls of Leicester, Gloucester, Hereford, and Norfolk. The brother
of the Earl of Gloucester did die—the Abbot of Westminster—the others
with difficulty recovered.
Hubert had now a great claim not only on the friendship of his lord,
which he had earned before, but on that of these other mighty earls,
and they held a consultation together, to decide how they could best
reward him for the essential service he had rendered. The earl told the
whole story of his birth and education, as our readers know it.
“He has, it is true, rendered us a great service, but that does not
justify us in advancing him in chivalry. He must earn that by some deed
of valour, or knighthood would be a mere farce.”
“Exactly so,” said he of Hereford. “Now I have a proposition: not a
week passes but my retainers are in skirmish with those wildcats, the
Welsh. Let the boy go and serve under my son, Lord Walter. He will put
him in the way of earning his spurs.”
“The very thing,” said Earl Simon. “Only I trust he will not get
killed, which is very likely under the circumstances, in which case I
really fear the poor old father would go down with sorrow to the grave.
Still, what is glory without risk? Were he my own son, I should say,
‘let him go.’ Only, brother earl, caution thy noble son and heir, that
the youngster is very much more likely to fail in discretion than in
valour. He is one of those excitable, impulsive creatures who will, as
I expect, fight like a wildcat, and show as little wisdom.”
Hubert was sent for.
“Art thou willing to leave my service?” said the earl.
“My lord,” said poor Hubert, all in a tremble, “leave thee?”
“Yes; dost thou not wish to go to the Holy Land?”
“Oh, if it is to go there. But must I not wait for knighthood?”
The reader must remember that knighthood alone would give Hubert a
claim upon the assistance and hospitality of other knights and nobles,
and that once a knight, he was the equal in social station of kings and
princes, and could find admittance into all society. As a squire, he
could only go to the Holy Land in attendance upon some one else, nor
could he carry the sword and belt of the dead man whom he was to
represent. A knight must personate a knight.
Hence Hubert’s words.
“It is for that purpose we have sent for thee,” replied the earl. “Thou
must win thy spurs, and there is no likelihood of opportunity arising
in this peaceful land (how little the earl thought what was in the near
future), so thou must even go where blows are going.”
“I am ready, my lord, and willing.”
“The Earl of Hereford is about to return home, and will take thee with
him to fight against the Welsh under his banner. Now what dost thou say
to that?”
Hubert bent the knee to the new lord, with all that grace which he
inherited from his Provencal blood. And sooth, my young readers, if you
could have seen that eager face with that winning smile, and those
brave bright eyes, you would have loved him, too, as the earl did; but
for all that I do not think he had the sterling qualities of his friend
Martin, who is rather my hero: but then I am not young now, or I might
think differently.
We have not space again to describe this portion of Hubert’s life, upon
which we now enter, in any detail. Suffice it to say he went to
Hereford Castle with the earl, and was soon transferred to an outpost
on the upper Wye, where he was at once engaged in deadly warfare with
the fiercest of savages. For the Welsh, once the cultivated Britons,
had degenerated into savagery. Bloodshed and fire raising amongst the
hated “Saxons” (as they called all the English alike) were the
amusement and the business of their lives, until Edward the First, of
dire necessity, conquered and tamed them in the very next generation.
Until then, the Welsh borders were a hundred times more insecure than
the Cheviots. No treaties could bind the mountaineers. They took oaths
of allegiance, and cheerfully broke them. “No faith with Saxons” was
their motto.
These fields, these meadows once were ours,
And sooth by heaven and all its powers,
Think you we will not issue forth,
To spoil the spoiler as we may,
And from the robber rend the prey.
Even the payment of blackmail, so effectual with the Highlanders, did
not secure the border counties from these flippant fighters, and in
sooth Normans were much too proud for any such evasion of a warrior’s
duty.
There, then, our Hubert fleshed his maiden sword, within a week after
his arrival at Llanystred Castle; and that in a fierce skirmish,
wherein the fighting was all hand to hand, he slew his man.
But in these fights, where every one was brave, there was small
opportunity for Hubert to gain personal distinction. A coward was very
rare; as well expect a deer to be born amongst a race of tigers. There
were, it is true, degrees of self devotion, and for a chance of
distinguishing himself by self sacrifice Hubert longed.
And thus it came.
He had been sent from the castle on the Wye, which might well be
called, like one in Sir Walter’s tales, “Castle Dangerous,” upon an
errand to an outpost, and was returning by moonlight along the banks of
the stream, there a rushing mountain torrent. It was a weird scene, the
peaks of the Black Mountains rose up into the calm pellucid air of
night, the solemn woods lined the further bank of the river, and
extended to the bases of the hills. It was just the time and the hour
when the wild, unconquered Celts were likely to make their foray upon
the dwellers on the English side of the stream, if they could find a
spot where they could cross.
About half a mile from Llanystred Castle, amidst the splash and dash of
the water, Hubert distinguished some peculiar and unaccustomed sounds,
like the murmur of many voices, in some barbarous tongue, all ll’s and
consonants.
He waited and listened.
Just below him roared and foamed the stream, and it so happened that a
series of black rocks raised their heads above the swollen waters like
still porpoises, at such distances as to afford lithesome people the
chance of crossing, dry shod, when the water was low.
But it was a risk, for the river had all the strength of a cataract,
and he who slipped would infallibly be carried down by the strong
current and dashed against the rocks and drowned.
Here Hubert watched, clad in light mail was he, and he cunningly kept
in the shadow.
Soon he saw a black moving mass opposite, and then the moonlight gleam
upon a hundred spear tops. Did his heart fail him? No; the chance he
had pined for was come. It was quite possible for one daring man to bid
defiance to the hundred here, and prevent their crossing.
See, they come, and Hubert’s heart beats loudly—the first is on the
first stone, the others press behind. He, the primus, leaps on to the
second rock, and so to the third, and still his place is taken, at
every resting place he leaves, by his successor. Yes, they mean to get
over, and to have a little blood letting and fire raising tonight, just
for amusement.
And only one stout heart to prevent them. They do not see him until the
last stepping stone is attained by the first man, and but one more leap
needed to the shore, when a stern, if youthful, voice cries:
“Back, ye dogs of Welshmen!” and the first Celt falls into the stream,
transfixed by Hubert’s spear, transfixed as he made the final leap.
A sudden pause: the second man tries to leap so as to avoid the spear,
his own similar weapon presented before him, but position gives Hubert
advantage, and the second foe goes down the waves, dyeing them with his
blood, raising his despairing hand, as he dies, out of the foaming
torrent.
The third hesitates.
And now comes the real danger for Hubert: a flight of arrows across the
stream—they rattle on his chain mail, and generally glance harmlessly
off, but one or two find weak places, and although his vizor is down,
Hubert knows that one unlucky, or, as the foe would say “lucky,” shot
penetrating the eyelet might end sight and life together. So he blows
his horn, which he had scorned to do before.
He was but imperfectly clad in armour, and was soon bleeding in divers
unprotected places; but there he stood, spear in hand, and no third
person had dared to cross.
But when they heard the horn, feeling that the chance of a raid was
going, the third sprang. With one foot he attained the bank, and as
Hubert was rather dizzy from loss of blood, avoided the spear thrust.
But the young Englishman drove the dagger, which he carried in the left
hand, into his throat as he rose from the stream. The fourth leapt.
Hubert was just in time with the spear. The fifth hesitated—the flight
of arrows, intermitted for the moment, was renewed.
Just then up came Lord Walter, the eldest son of the earl, with a troop
of lancers, and Hubert reeled to the ground from loss of blood, while
the Welsh sullenly retreated.
They bore him to the castle. A few light wounds, which had bled
profusely from the leg and arm, were all that was amiss. Hubert’s
ambition was attained, for he had slain four Welshmen with his own
young hand. And those to whom “such things were a care” saw four
lifeless, ghastly corpses circling for days round and round an eddy in
the current below the castle, round and round till one got giddy and
sick in watching them, but still they gyrated, and no one troubled to
fish them out. They were a sign to friend and foe, a monument of our
Hubert’s skill in slaying “wildcats.”
A few days later the Lord of Hereford arrived at the castle, and
visited Hubert’s sick chamber, where he brought much comfort and joy. A
fine physician was that earl; Hubert was up next day.
And what was the tonic which had given such a fillip to his system, and
hurried on his recovery? The earl purposed to confer upon him the
degree he pined for, as soon as he could bear his armour.
At first any knight could make a knight. Now, to check the too great
profusion of such flowers of chivalry, the power to confer the accolade
was commonly restricted to the greater nobles, and later still, as now,
to royalty alone.
It was the eve of Saint Michael’s Day, “the prince of celestial
chivalry,” as these fighting ancestors of ours used to say. It was wild
and stormy, for the summer and autumn had been so wet that the crops
were still uncarried through the country. The river below was rushing
onward in high flood; here it came tumbling, there it rolled rumbling;
here it leapt splashing, there it rushed dashing; like the water at
Lodore; and seemed to shake the rocks on which Castle Llanystred was
built.
And above, the clouds in emulous sport hurried over the skies, as if a
foe were chasing them, in the shape of a southwestern blast. So the
nightfall came on, and Hubert went with the decaying light into the
castle chapel, where he had to watch his arms all night, with fasting
and prayer, spear in hand.
What a night of storm and wind it was on which our Hubert, ere he
received knighthood, watched and kept vigil in the chapel. It reminded
him of that night in the priory at Lewes, and from time to time weird
sounds seemed to reach him in the pauses of the blast. All but he were
asleep, save the sentinels on the ramparts.
He thought of his father, and of the Frenchman, the Sieur de Fievrault,
whose place and even name he was to assume. Once he thought he saw the
figure of the slain Gaul before him, but he breathed a prayer and it
disappeared.
How he welcomed the morning light.
The sun breaks forth, the light streams in,
Hence, hence, ye shades, away!
Imagine our Hubert’s joy, when, the following morning, Earl Simon quite
unexpectedly arrived at the castle, and with him the Bishop of
Hereford; come together to confer on important business of state with
the Earl of Hereford, whom they had first sought at his own city, then
followed to this outpost, where they learned from his people he had
come to confer knighthood on some valiant squire.
The reader may also imagine how Earl Simon hoped that that valiant
squire might prove to be Hubert. And lo! so it turned out.
Early in the morning our young friend was led to the bath, where he put
off forever the garb of a squire, then laved himself in token of
purification, after which he was vested in the garb and arms of
knighthood. The under dress given to him was a close jacket of chamois
leather, over which he put a mail shirt, composed of rings deftly
fitted into each other, and very flexible. A breastplate had to be put
on over this. And as each weapon or piece of armour was given, strange
parallels were found between the temporal and spiritual warfare, which,
save when knighthood was assumed with a distinctly religious purpose,
would seem almost profane.
Thus with the breastplate: “Stand—having on the breastplate of
righteousness.”
And with the shield: “Take the shield of faith, wherewith thou shalt be
able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.”
We will not follow the parallel farther: had all the customs of
chivalry been indeed performed in accordance with this high ideal, how
different the medieval world would have been.
Thus accoutred, but as yet without helmet, sword, or spurs, our young
friend was led to the castle chapel, between two (so-called)
godfathers—two sons of the Earl of Hereford—in solemn procession,
amidst the plaudits of the crowd. There the Earl of Leicester awaited
him, and Hubert’s heart beat wildly with joy and excitement, as he saw
him in all his panoply, awaiting the ward whom he had received ten
years earlier as a little boy from the hands of his father, then
setting out for his eventful crusade.
The bishop was at the altar. The High Mass was then said; and after the
service the young knight, advancing to the sanctuary, received from the
good earl, whom he loved so dearly, as the flower of English chivalry,
the accolade or knightly embrace.
The Bishop of Hereford belted on the young knight’s own sword, which he
took from the altar, and the spurs were fastened on by the Lady Alicia,
wife of Lord Walter of Hereford, and dame of the castle.
Hubert then took the oath to be faithful to God, to the king, and to
the ladies, after which he was enjoined to war down the proud and all
who did wickedly, to spare the humble, to redress all wrongs within his
power, to succour the miserable, to avenge the oppressed, to help the
poor and fatherless unto their right, to do this and that; in short, to
do all that a good Christian warrior ought to do.
Then he was led forth from the church, amidst the cheers and
acclamations of all the population of the district, with whom the
action which hastened his knighthood had won him popularity. Alms to
the poor, largesse to the harpers and minstrels: all had to be given;
and the reader may guess whose liberality supplied the gifts.
Then—the banquet was spread in the castle hall.