The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches
stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in sconces on
the tables. All the retainers of the house were present, whether
inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were men-at-arms of
Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls (churls) of Saxon
lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young lord, and acknowledge
him as their liege, ere he left them for the treacherous and burning
East to accomplish his father’s vow.
The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those
days of slow locomotion.
A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the length
of the hall. At the end another “board,” raised a foot higher, formed
the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre, just opposite the
junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state, surmounted by a canopy;
on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his left the hero of the night,
our Hubert.
The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved; and
hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely dinted; with
tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those who had borne
them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There were the horns of
enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars; war against man and
beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life then.
And the supper—shall I give the bill of fare?
First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald (they
be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench (pike not
come into England yet). And of sea fish—herrings, mackerel, soles,
salmon, porpoises—a goodly number.
Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look upon,
bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins, herons,
cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in season
didn’t matter); and scores of domestic fowls—hens, geese, pigeons,
ducks, _et id genus omne_.
Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to pay
their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave indigestion,
perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the barnyard, ten little
porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four sheep—only the best joints of
these, the rest given away; and two succulent calves.
Of the pastry—twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three bushels
of last autumn’s apples were the foundation; two bushels of flour;
almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in England.
In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling wine,
cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all in one
grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.
As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey (Rhenish),
and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last two); and for
liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).
All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time
afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was satisfied,
the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief harper, with hoary
beard, sang his solo:
Sometimes in the night watch,
Half seen in the gloaming,
Come visions advancing, advancing, retreating
All into the darkness.
And the harps responded in deep minor chords:
All into the darkness.
We dream that we clasp them,
The forms of our dear ones.
When, lo, as we touch them,
They leave us and vanish
On wings that beat lightly
The still paths of slumber.
Very softly the harps:
The still paths of slumber.
They left in high valour
The land of their boyhood,
And sorrowful patience
Awaits their returning
While love holds expectant
Their homes in our bosoms.
Sweetly the harps:
Their homes in our bosoms.
In high hope they left us
In sorrow with weeping
Their loved ones await them.
For lo, to their greeting
Instead of our heroes
Come only their phantoms.
The harps deep and low:
Come only their phantoms.
We weep as we reckon
The deeds of their glory—
Of this one the wisdom,
Of that one the valour:
And they in their beauty
Sleep sound in their death shrouds.
The harps dismally:
Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.
“Stop! stop!” said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady’s eyes. “No
more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by such
boding?”
“Let the heir stay with us,” cried the guests.
“Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father, Sir
Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you love him
for his own fair face;” (Hubert blushed), “for the deed of valour by
which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred. But go he will
and must, and there is an end of it.
“One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert,
mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his power. He
bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in the Priory of
Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as Brother Roger; and
that his son should be formally adopted by us. He is so in our hearts
already, and should bear from henceforth the name of ‘Radulphus,’ or
‘Ralph,’ in memory of his grandfather.
“Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful, and
acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives.”
They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to
acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.
And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—just as you
would expect of our Hubert.
“The Holy Land,” said Sir Nicholas, “is a long way off, and many, as
the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones
there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may
live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no
other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives.”
“We will, God being our helper.”
“And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy
return.”
It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear
that Hubert would not return safely.
Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a
Christian knight who fell into the power of “a Paynim sultan,” and whom
the sultan’s daughter delivered at the risk of her life—all for love.
How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the
Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was
united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of
this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury,
Thomas a Becket {23}.
And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his
aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He
loved her, and had already plighted his troth.
“No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me of my
heart. I leave it behind in England.”
And even here he had a rival.
It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At
Harengod, his mother’s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had
set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas,
his father’s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never
forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love. But the uncle was really
afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel,
perhaps not confined to words.
He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of
inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of
Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without issue,
the other should have both domains.
Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the
old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it? Drogo had
no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir
Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.
When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting
interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil’s bower, while
the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very
strict) permitted, out of earshot.
Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried hard
to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn’t help a tear. But he
must go!
“Wilt thou be true to me till death?”
the anxious lover cried.
“Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,”
Alicia replied.
“Come, go to bed,” said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went:
To bed, but not to sleep.
On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church, on
the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household
assembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel, for
it was an old proverb with them, “mass and meat hinder no man,” and
then the breakfast table was duly honoured.
And then—the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words; how
many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which should have
been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode through the woods,
with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to share his perils and
his glory.
Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last of
Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old knight’s
heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to Pevensey.
The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled forest,
which extended nearly to Hailsham. It passed through the district
infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never molested Sir
Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to travellers of rank in
general, and few dared traverse the forest roads unattended by an
escort. In the depths of these hoary woods were iron works, which had
existed since the days of the early Britons, but had of late years been
completely neglected, for all the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or
the Saxon outlaws were concentrated on war or the chase.
Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first resting
place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old English
settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of a lord of
Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town as his
dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly hostility—the
knights had their liberties and rights, and so long as they paid their
tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden time, before the
Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church tower each night told
its solemn tale of subjection and restraint, as it does even now, when
the old ideas have quite departed, and few realise what it once meant.
Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high
tide—leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the
father of “Roaring Ralph” of that ilk still resided, lord paramount.
The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood bravely out, and
its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears of the parting
knight. How tantalising!
Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the
Queen’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of
exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king’s foreign kindred.
There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which
was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night;
wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick passage,
and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends
farewell, and embarked in the _Rose of Pevensey_.
England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was
the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.
My native land—Good night.