It was the May Day of 1259, one of the brightest days of the calendar.
The season was well forward, the elms and bushes had arrayed themselves
in their brightest robe of green; the hedges were white and fragrant
with may; the anemone, the primrose, the cowslip, and blue bell
carpeted the sward of the Andredsweald; the oaks and poplars were
already putting on their summer garb. The butterflies settled upon
flower after flower; the bees were rejoicing in their labour; their
work glowed, and the sweet honey was fragrant with thyme.
Oh how lovely were the works of God upon that bright May Day, as from
village church and forest sanctuary the population of Sussex poured out
from the portals, after the mass of Saints Philip and James; the
children bearing garlands and dressed in a hundred fantastic hues, the
May-poles set up on every green, the Queen of May chosen by lot from
amongst the village maidens.
Never were sweeter nooks, wherein to spend Maytide, than around the
villages and hamlets of the Andredsweald, whither the action of our
tale betakes itself again—around Chiddinglye, Hellinglye, Alfristun,
Selmestun, Heathfeld, Mayfeld, and the like—not, as now, accessible by
rail and surrounded by arable lands; but settlements in the forest,
with the mighty oaks and beeches which had perchance seen the coming of
Ella and Cissa, long ere the Norman set foot in Angleland; and with
solemn glades where the wind made music in the tree tops, and the
graceful deer bounded athwart the avenue, to seek refuge in tangled
brake and inaccessible morass.
Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough of
Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern visitor may
still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that castle, but how
different (yet how much the same) was the scene which a young knight
viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had come up there to take his
last look at the fair land of England ere he left it for years, it
might be never to return.
“It is a fair land; God keep it till I return.”
The great lines of Downs stretched away—northwest to Ditchling Beacon;
southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on the east
rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount Tabor to the
fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long line stretched
away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.
“Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the eastern
range of Downs—I see it across the plain twelve miles away. I see the
windmills on the hill, and below the church towers, and the tops of the
castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon bid them all farewell.”
Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley wherein
meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its magnificent church,
well known to our readers; its towers and pinnacles.
“And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother professed.
And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his youth, now never
leaves the convent’s boundaries. But he is about to travel to Jerusalem
by proxy.
“If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I
should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once compared
us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the other a
warrior.”
He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view, but
his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was gayer
guest at the noontide meal, the “nuncheon” of Earl Warrenne of Lewes,
the lord of the castle.
It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited
population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics, frightened
women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and screams; unsavoury
missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale vegetables, were flying about;
and in the midst of the open space the figure of a Jew, who had excited
the indignation of the multitude, was the object of violent aggression
which seemed likely to endanger his life.
A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint Michael’s
Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light, which had
endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see and adore,
and much was the reputation of Saint Michael’s shrine enhanced, when
this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to assert that the light
was only caused by the rays of the sun falling directly upon the figure
through a window in the western wall, narrow as the slits we see in the
old castle towers, so arranged as on this particular day to bring the
rays of the setting sun full upon the gilding of the cross {21}.
But the explanation, probably true, was the signal for frantic cries:
“Out on the blasphemer! The accursed Jew! Let him die the death!”
And it is very probable that he would have been “done to death” had not
an interruption, characteristic of the age, occurred.
Two friars, clad in the garb of Saint Francis, just then entered the
square and learned the cause of the tumult. Their action was immediate.
The brethren stalked into the midst of the crowd, which made way for
them as if a superior being had commanded their reverence, and one of
the two mounted on a cart, and took for his text, in a clear piercing
voice which was heard everywhere, “Christ, and Him crucified.”
The swords were hastily thrust into their scabbards, the missiles
ceased. The other brother had reached the Jew.
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” said he. “He is the prisoner of the
Lord; accursed be he who touches him; may his hand rot off, and his
light be extinguished in darkness.”
All was now silence as the first brother, pale with recent illness, but
radiant with emotion, began to speak.
And Martin preached, taking his illustrations from the circumstances of
the day.
“The object of the Crucifixion,” he said, “had yet to be attained
amongst them.”
A crucifix had, as he heard, shone with a mysterious light, and one had
desecrated it with his tongue. But, worse than that, he saw a thousand
desecrated forms before him who ought to be living crucifixes, for were
they not told to crucify the flesh with its affections and lusts, to
remain upon their voluntary crosses till Christ said, “Come down. Well
done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of the Lord”?
And were they doing this? Were they repaying the love of Calvary, as
for instance the saints of that day, Saints Philip and James, had done;
giving heart for heart, love for love; or were they worshipping dread
and ghastly idols, their own lusts and passions? In short, were they to
be companions of the angels—God’s holy ones? Or the slaves and sport of
the cruel and fiery fiends for evermore?
The power of an orator, and Martin was a born orator, over the men of
the middle ages was marvellous. Few could read, and books were scarce
as jewels. The tongue, the living voice, had to do the work which the
public press does now, as well as its own, and the preacher was a
power. But those medieval sermons were full of quaint illustrations.
Martin described the angels as weeping because men would not turn and
love the Lord who had died for them. He described the joy over one
repentant sinner, the horror over the sins which crucified the Lord
afresh. They were waiting now to set the bells of heaven a ringing,
when the news came of one soul converted and turned to the Lord—one
repentant sinner.
“They are waiting now,” he said. “Will you keep them waiting up there
with their hands on the ropes?”
Cries of “No! no!” broke from several.
“And there be the cruel, rampant, remorseless devils with their claws,
hoofs, and horns. They be terrible, but their hearts of fire are the
worst, those evil hearts burning with hatred to the sons of men. Now,
on my way I saw a vision: we rested at a holy house of God, where be
many brethren who strive to glorify Him, according to the rule of Saint
Benedict. And as we were all at prayers in the chapel, methought it was
full of devils whispering all sorts of temptations, as they did to
Saint Antony, trying to keep the monks from their prayers and
meditations. And lo, I came to Lewes, and methought one devil only sat
on the gate, and swayed the hearts of all the men in the town. He had
little to do. The world and the flesh were helping him, and just now it
was the devil of cruelty.”
The men looked down.
“‘A Jew! only a Jew!’ you say; ‘the wicked Jews crucified our Lord.’
“And ye, what do ye do? Why, ye crucify Him daily. Nay, look not so
amazed. Saint Paul says it, not I. He says the sins of Christians
crucify our Lord afresh.”
And here he spoke so piteously of the Passion of the Lord and His
thirst for the souls of men, that women, yea and many men, wept aloud.
In short, when the sermon was over, the crowd escorted Martin to the
priory, where he was to lodge, with tears and cries of joy.
“Thou hast begun well, brother Martin,” said Ginepro, when they could
first speak to each other in the hospitium.
“I! No, not I. God gave me strength,” and he sank on the bench
exhausted and pale.
“It is too much for thee.”
“No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase.”
“What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard thee,
but couldn’t get near thee for the press,” cried an exultant voice.
“My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?”
“Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there,
and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to
the Holy Land.
“But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet? Hast
thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood by a
warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin.”
“You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your
spurs.”
Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are
acquainted.
Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert could
not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford twenty times
over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected house.
They were very happy in their mutual love, and this last meeting was
made the most of. Old remembrances were recalled, scenes of the past
brought to recollection; until the compline hour, after which all,
monks and guests alike, retired to rest, and silence reigned through
the vast pile.
Save in one narrow cell, where the sire and son were dispensed from the
rule—where the old father rejoiced in his boy, devouring him with those
aged eyes.
“God will preserve thee, Hubert. I know He will, but there will be
trials and difficulties.”
“I am prepared for them.”
“But God will bring thee back to thy old father, the vow fulfilled; and
my freed spirit shall rejoice in thee again. Thou knowest thy duty.
Thou must first visit the Castle of Fievrault, and there seek of the
old seneschal the sword of the man I slew. He will give it thee freely
when thou tellest thy story and disclosest thy name. But be sure thou
dost not tarry there, no, not one night, for the place is haunted. Then
thou must take the nearest route to Jerusalem.”
“But it is now in the hands of the Mussulmen.”
“Upon certain conditions, and the payment of a heavy fine, they allow
pilgrims to approach. Would that thou couldst enter it amidst a
victorious host, but that day, in penalty for our sins, is not allowed
as yet to dawn. Thou hast but to pray before the Holy Sepulchre, to
deposit the sword to be blessed thereon, and thou mayst return.”
“But will there be no fighting?”
“This I cannot tell at present; a temporary truce exists. It may be
broken at any moment, and if it be, thou mayst tarry for one campaign,
not longer. My eyes will ache to see thee again, and remember that but
to have visited the Holy Places will entitle thee to all the
indulgences and privileges of a crusader—Bethlehem, Nazareth, Calvary,
Gethsemane, Olivet. The task is easier now, by reason of the truce,
although the infidels be very treacherous, and thou wilt need constant
vigilance.”
So they talked until the midnight hour.
No ghostly visitant appeared to mar its joy, and the sire and son
slept. The old man made the youth lie on his couch, while he lay on the
floor. Hubert resisted the arrangement in vain; the father was
absolute, and so they slept.
On the morrow the travellers (of both parties) left the priory
together, after the chapter mass at nine. Hubert had bidden the last
farewell to his old father, who with difficulty relinquished his grasp
of his adored boy, now that the hour for fulfilling the purpose of many
years had come at last. Martin and his brother and companion Ginepro
were there, and the six men-at-arms who were to act as a guard of
honour to the young knight in his passage through the forest to the
castle of his ancestors. They purposed to travel together as long as
their different objects permitted.
“My men will be a protection,” said Hubert.
The young friars laughed.
“We need no protection,” said Ginepro. “If we want arms, these
bulrushes will serve for spears.”
“Nay, do not jest,” said Martin.
“We have other arms, my Hubert.”
“What are they?”
“Only faith and prayer, but they never fail.”
Then they talked of the future. Hubert disclosed all his plans to
Martin; how he must visit the castle at Fievrault; how he must seek and
carry the sword of the knight whom his father had slain and lay it on
the Holy Sepulchre; how then he hoped to return, but not till he had
dyed the sword in the blood of the Paynim, etc. And Martin told his
plans for a mission in the Andredsweald; of his hope to reclaim the
outlaws to Christianity, and to pacify the forests; to reunite the
lords of Norman descent and the Saxon peasants together in one common
love.
“Shall you visit Walderne Castle?” inquired Hubert.
“It may fall to my lot to do so.”
“Avoid Drogo; at least do not trust him. He hates us both.”
“He may have mended.”
Hubert shook his head.
A few warm, affectionate words, and they came to the spot where their
road divided—the one to the northeast, the other to the southeast. They
tried to preserve the proper self control, but it failed them, and
their eyes were very limpid. So they parted.
At midday the two friars rested in a sweet glade, and slept after a
frugal meal, till the birds awoke them with their songs.
“They remind me of an incident in the life of our dear father Francis,”
said Ginepro, “which my father witnessed.”
“Tell it as we go. Sweet converse shortens the toil of the way.”
“Once, when he was preaching, the birds drowned his voice with their
songs of gladness, whereupon he said:
“‘My sisters, the birds, it is now my turn to speak. You have sung your
sweet songs to God. Now let me tell men how good He is.’
“And the birds were silent.”
“I can quite believe it.”
“His power over animals was wonderful. Once a little hare was brought
in, all alive, for the food of the brotherhood, and they were just
going to kill the wee thing, when Francis came in and pitied it.
“‘Little brother leveret,’ he said. ‘How didst thou let thyself be
taken?’
“The poor hare rushed from the hands of him who held it, and took
refuge in the robe of the father.
“‘Nay, go back to thy home, and do not let thyself be caught again,’ he
said, and they took it back to the woods and let it go.”
Just at this point they reached Chiddinglye, and as they emerged from
the forest on the green, Ginepro spied a number of children playing at
seesaw in a timber yard, laughing and shouting merrily.
Instantly he cried, “Oh, there they are; I love seesaw; I must go and
have a turn.”
“Are we not too old for such sport?” said Martin.
“Not a bit. I feel quite like a child,” and off he ran to join the
children amidst the laughter of a few older people.
But the young brother did not simply play at seesaw. He got the
children around him, after a while, and soon held them breathless as he
related the story of the Child of Bethlehem and the Holy Innocents,
stories which came quite fresh to them in those days, when there were
few books, and fewer readers. And these little Sussex children drank in
the touching story with all their little ears and hearts. In all
Ginepro did there was a wondrous freshness. And that same evening, when
the woodmen came home from work, Martin preached to the whole village
from the steps of the churchyard cross.
It was a strangely impressive scene. The mighty background of the
forest; the friar in his gray dress, his features all animation and
life; the multitude listening as if they were carried away by the
eloquence of one whose like they had never seen before; the tears
running down furrows on their grimy cheeks, specially visible on those
of the iron smelters, of whom there were many in old Sussex.
Close by stood the parish priest, listening with delight and without
that jealousy which too often moved the shepherds of the parochial
flocks to resent the advent of the friar. And when Martin at last
stopped, exhausted:
“Ye will both come with me, you and your brother, who has been
preaching to my little ones, and be my guests this night.”
And they willingly consented.
But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes.