It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills which
encompass Lewes. His declining beams gilded the towers of Michelham
Priory.
Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which overlooked
the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for it was the
recreation hour, between vespers and compline.
Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the
tower of Hamelsham: the “lowing herd wound slowly o’er the lea” from
the Dicker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe of Saint
Francis, and approached the gateway.
“There be some of those ‘kittle cattle,’ the new brethren,” said the
old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the bridge.
“If I had my will, they should spend the night on the heath.”
The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened.
“Who are ye?”
“Two poor brethren of Saint Francis.”
“What do you want?”
“The wayfarer’s welcome. Bed and board according to the rule of your
hospitable house.”
“We like not you grey friars—for we are told you are setters forth of
strange doctrines, and disturb steady old church folk. But natheless
the hospitium is open to you as to all, whether gentle or simple, lay
folk or clerks. So enter, only if you threw those gray cloaks into the
moat, you would be more welcome.”
They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours.
“Look,” said one of the monks to his fellow; “they that have turned the
world upside down have come hither also.”
“Whom the warder hath received.”
“They will find scant welcome.”
Meanwhile Martin was looking with curious eyes on the buildings which
had first received him when he escaped from the outlaw life of old. But
the evening meal was already prepared, and the bell rang for supper.
Many guests were there—lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and pilgrims
with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on their road to
the Continent from the central parts of the island, men-at-arms,
Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals. And all had good fare, while
a monk in nasal voice read:
A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,
Above the clatter of knives and dishes.
Now this Saint Guthlac was an abbot of Croyland, and many conflicts did
he have with the devils of the fen country, whose presence could
generally be ascertained by the hissing which took place when they
settled with their fiery hoofs and claws on the wet swamps and moist
sedges.
“And my brethren, certes we poor monks of Saint Benedict may learn much
from these fiends; and first, from their hot and fiery tempers and
bodies, we may be taught to say with Saint Ambrose:”
Quench thou the fires of hate and strife
The wasting fevers of the heart.
At this moment a calf’s head was brought in, very tender and succulent,
and the rest of the quotation was drowned in the clatter of plates and
dishes. At last the voice emerged from the tumult:
“Which I have seen in these fens, whither Satan and his imps do often
resort to cool themselves in these stagnant waters. And first there be
the misshapen, goggle-eyed goblins, with faces like the full moon, only
never saw I the moon so hideous; these be the demons of sensuality,
gluttony and sloth—_libera nos Domine_, and then there be . . .”
The wine was handed round, wine of Gascony, where the friars of
Michelham had vineyards; full drinking, rich-bodied red wine, brought
in huge jugs of earthenware, and poured generally into wooden mugs.
Only the prior and subprior had silver goblets: glass there was none.
Again the voice rose above the din:
“Affect the fat soils of our marsh land, and there, maybe, find
convenient prey amongst the idle and inebriate brethren who forget
their vows, or the sottish loony who from the plough tail seek the ale
house. And moreover there be your fiends, long and slim, and comely in
garb, with tails of graceful curve, and horns like a comely heifer.
Natheless their teeth be sharp and their claws fierce. But they hide
them, for they would fain appear like angels of light, yet be they the
demons of pride and cruelty, first-born of Lucifer, son of the morning
. . .”
Here the sweets and pastries came in, fruits of the abbey gardens,
skilfully preserved, and cunning devices of the baker: there was a
church built of pie crust; a monk, baked brown and crisp, with raisins
for his eyes, which, withal, filled his paunch, and, cannibal like, the
good brethren ate him. Finally, that they, the brethren, might not be
without a _memento mori_, was a sepulchre or altar tomb, likewise in
crust, and when the top was broken, a goodly number of pigeons lurked
beneath, lying in state:
“Which mop and mow, and chatter like starlings, but all, either naught
in sense or naughty in meaning, oh these chattering goblins. Be not
like them, my brethren—_libera nos Domine_.”
Here to those who sat at the upper board were next presented, by the
serving brethren, dainty cups of hippocras, medicated against the damps
and chills of the low grounds, or perchance the crudities of the
stomach, or the cruel pinches of _podagra dolorosa_—
“Ah! will you say that agues, rheumatics, and all the other afflictions
which do befall the brethren be simply bred of stagnant water and foul
drinking? Nay, I say these hobgoblins give us them, and that even as
Satan was permitted to afflict holy Job, so they afflict you. But we
have not the patience of Job; would we had! Oh my brethren, slay me the
little foxes which eat the tender grapes; your pride, anger, envy,
hatred, gluttony, lust, and sloth, and bring forth worthy fruits of
penance; then may you all laugh at Satan and his misshapen offspring
until in very shame they fly these fens—_libera nos Domine_.”
Here the leader sang:
“_Tu autem Domine, miserere nobis_.”
And the whole brotherhood replied:
“_Deo gratias_.”
The supper was ended, and the chapel bell began to ring for the final
service of the day. The period of silence throughout the dormitories
and passages now began, and only stealthy footfalls broke the stillness
of the summer night.
But the prior rang a silver bell: “tinkle, tinkle.”
“Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with the
twinkling black eyes and roundish face.”
And Martin was brought to him.
“Sit down, my young brother,” said Prior Roger, “and tell me where I
have seen thy face before. I have gazed upon thee all through the
frugal meal of which we have just partaken, for thy face is like a face
I have seen in a dream. Not that I doubt that thou art here in flesh
and blood, unlike the fiends of Croyland, of whom we have just heard.”
Martin smiled, and replied:
“My father, seven years agone, a noble earl found shelter here from the
outlaws, from whom he was delivered by the self sacrifice of a woman,
and the guidance of her son, an imp of some thirteen years.”
“I remember Earl Simon’s visit. Art thou that boy?”
“I am, my father.”
“Ah well! ah me! how time passes! But there is another remembrance
which thy face awakens, of a death bed confession. _Sub sigillo_,
perhaps I am wrong in putting the two things together. _Sancte
Benedicte ora pro me_. So thou hast taken the habit of Saint Francis.
Why didst not come to us, if thou wishedst to renounce the world and
mortify the flesh?”
Martin was silent.
“And hast thou the gift of preaching? I do not mean of talking.”
“My superiors thought so, but they are fallible.”
“I should think so, very, but that is nought. I hope I have better
sense than to send for thee, poor boy, to teach thee to rebel against
thy superiors, and perhaps after all we Augustinians are too hard upon
Franciscans and friars of low degree—only we want to get to heaven our
own way, with our steady jog trot, and you go frisking, caracolling,
curvetting, gambolling along. Well, I hope Saint Peter will let us all
in at the last.”
Martin was silent, out of respect to the age of the speaker.
“Thou art a modest boy; come, tell me, who was thy father?”
“An outlaw, long since dead.”
“And thy mother?”
“His bride—but I know not of what parentage. There is a secret never
disclosed to me, and which I shall never learn now, only I am assured
that I was born in holy wedlock, and that a priest blessed the union.”
“Did thy mother marry again?”
“She was compelled to accept one Grimbeard, a chief amongst the ‘merrie
men’ who succeeded my father as their leader.”
“Now, my son, I know why I looked at thee—I knew thy father. Nay, I
administered the last rites of Holy Church to him. I was travelling
through the woods and following a short route to the great abbey of
Battle, when a band of the outlaws burst forth from an ambush.
“‘Art thou a priest, portly father?’ they said irreverently.
“‘Good lack,’ said I, ‘I am, but little of worldly goods have I. Thou
wilt not plunder God’s ambassadors of their little all?’
“‘Nay! But thou must come with us, and thy retinue must tarry here till
we bring thee back.’
“‘You will not harm me?’ said I, fearing for my throat. ‘It is as thou
hearest a hoarse one, and often sore, but it is my only one.’
“They laughed, and one said:
“‘Nay, father, we swear by Him that died that we will bring thee safe
here again ere sundown.’
“So they led me away, and anon they blindfolded me, and led my horse.
What a mercy poor Whitefoot was sure footed, and did not stumble, for
the way was parlous difficult.
“And at last they took the bandage from off mine eyes, and I saw I was
in their encampment, in the innermost recesses of a swampy tangled
wood. There, in a sort of better-most cabin, lay a young man,
dying—wounded, as I afterwards learned, in an attack upon the Lord of
Herst de Monceux.
“A goodly man of some thirty years was he, and a goodly end he made. He
told me his story, and as the lips of dying men speak the truth, I
believed him. He was the last representative of that English family
which before the Conquest owned this very island and its adjacent woods
and fields {24}. He was very like thee—he stands before me again in
thee. Didst thou never hear of thy descent before?”
“That he was of the blood of the old English thanes I knew, but fallen
from their once high estate. Had he lived he might have possessed me
with the like feelings which prompted him: hatred of the foreigner,
rebellion to God’s dispensation, which gave the land to others. Even
now as I speak, Christian though I am, I feel that such things might
be, but I count them now as dross, and seek a goodlier heritage than
Michelham.”
“Poor lad! What has brought thee here again?”
“The desire to do my Master’s will, and to preach the gospel to my
kindred. For if Christ shall make them free, then shall they be free
indeed.”
“Hast thou heard of thy mother?”
“That she was dead. The message came through Michelham.”
“I remember an outlaw came here one day and sought me. He bade me send
word to the boy we had (he said) stolen from them, that his mother was
no more. We did so; but who was thy mother by birth?”
“I know not.”
“But I know.”
“Tell me, father.”
“It is a sad story.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Not yet. Go forth tomorrow. Seek thy kindred, and if thou livest thou
shalt know. Tell me, what is thine age?”
“I have seen twenty years.”
“When thou hast attained thy twenty-first birthday, I may reveal this
secret—not before. Until then my lips are sealed; such was the will of
thy father.”
“Shall I find the outlaws easily?”
“I know not; they have been much reduced both in numbers and in power,
and give small trouble now to the nobles and men of high degree. Many
have been hanged.”
“Does Grimbeard yet live?”
“I know not.”
“Father, I start on my search tomorrow; give me thy blessing and pray
for me.”
Martin could not sleep. He stood long at the window of his cell in a
dreamy reverie. The story of the last Thane of Michelham, as related in
the _Andredsweald_, had often been told around the camp fires, and
although he was only in his thirteenth year when he left them, it was
all distinctly imprinted in his memory. Oh! how strange it seemed to
him to be there on the spot, which but for the conquest of two
centuries agone would perhaps have still been the home of his race! But
he did not indulge in sentimental sorrow. He believed in the Fatherhood
of God, and that all things work for good to them that love Him.
What a dawn it was! A reddening of the eastern sky; a low band of
crimson; then rays like an aurora shooting upwards into the mid
heavens; then such tints of transparent opal and heavenly azure
overspread the skies all around, that Martin drank in the beauty with
all his soul, and almost wept for joy, as he thought it a foretaste of
the new heavens and the new earth, wherein he hoped to dwell, and
whereon his heart was already surely fixed. And as he gazed upon the
distant woods, wherein dwelt the kindred he came to seek, he prayed in
the words of an old antiphon:
“O Day Spring, brightness of the Eternal Light and Sun of
Righteousness, come and lighten those that sit in darkness, and in the
shadow of death.”