The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a
grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two
brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading
canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred to
avoid.
Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have already
introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the left, they
entered upon a pathless wilderness. Mighty trees raised their branches
to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in some vast cathedral.
There was little underwood, and walking was very pleasant and easy.
And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse. Ginepro
related many tales of “sweet Father Francis,” and in return Martin
enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of the
natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who knew no
laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par with the
heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the neighbouring
ecclesiastics.
“All the more need of our mission,” thought both.
They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been
following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a
little stream, a stern voice called, “Stand and deliver.”
They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of
arrows on either side. They had fallen into an ambush.
Martin was quite unalarmed.
“Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who
have come hither for your good.”
“For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like cattle.”
“But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for
thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick.”
“Ah! Whom have we got here?”
“An old friend under a new guise. Lead me to your chieftain, Grimbeard,
who, I hope, is well. Or shall I show you the road?”
“Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?”
“Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?”
“Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so.”
Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly by
his side. They were such wild-looking outlaws. At last they reached a
spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a slope, and stood at
the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre, not unlike an old chalk
pit, such as men still hew from the side of the same hills.
But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in ages
long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of nature had
filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and bushes, and all
deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around the sides of the
amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of osier work, twined
around tall posts driven into the ground and cunningly daubed with
stiff clay. In the centre of the glade was a great fire, evidently
common property, for a huge caldron steamed and bubbled over it,
supported by three sticks placed cunningly so as to lend each other
their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in accordance with nature’s
own mechanics, which she teaches without the help of science {25}.
Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins, lay
the aged chieftain whom we met before. But now seven years had added
their transforming touch, _tempus edax rerum_. His tall stature was
diminished by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs and
joints were less firmly knit.
A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a silver
belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before, and over it
was a crimson sash. These were doubtless the spoils of some successful
fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the tailors who could
make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a sharp, keen hunting
knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with an eagle’s feather.
There were eagles then in “merrie Sussex.”
“Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?”
“Guests, good captain,” replied Martin, “who have come far to seek
thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of
kings.”
Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had his
deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good faith, he
could not have harmed him. So he conquered his discontent.
“Hospitality is the law of the woods. Stay and share our fare, such as
it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace.”
“Not till we have delivered our message.”
“Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil’s own children, but if you will
try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you.”
Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after
partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different footing,
said but little. But the curiosity which was excited by his knowledge
of their names and of this their summer retreat was only suspended for
a brief period.
The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on wooden
spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters. Game, collops of
venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted to eke out the
contents of the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was handed round, of
which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the meal was over
Grimbeard spoke:
“We generally rest awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal, for
our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps your tramp
through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and after the sun has
sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may deliver the message you
spoke about.”
Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did some
of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the spreading
beeches, as did our two brethren.
They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched, and
so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even this
precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.
And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to
active life.
“Call the brethren of Saint Francis,” said the chief. “Now we are
ready. Sit round, my merrie men.”
It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the wild
and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws, with
their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the grass, with
the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow rock, while Martin,
standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his message.
With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His enthusiasm
mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his face, his eyes
sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to tell, and the result
was such as was common in the early days of the Franciscan missions.
Women, yea, and men too, were moved to tears.
But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman’s voice broke
the intensity of the silence in which the preacher’s words were
received:
“My son—my own son—my dear son.”
The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned from
the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the
chieftain’s wife, or “Mad Mab,” as they flippantly called her, and only
on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the camp had
she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as she drew
nearer, and when she entered the circle—we may well say the charmed
circle—she stood entranced, until at last conviction grew into
certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher’s voice by her
cry of maternal love.
She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once been
strikingly handsome; Martin inherited her bright colour and dark eyes;
but time had set its mark upon her, and often had she felt weary of
life.
But now, after one of her monotonous rambles, like unto one distraught
in the woods, had come this glad surprise. A new life burst upon
her—something to live for, and, rushing forward, she threw her arms
around the neck of her recovered boy.
“My mother,” said he in an agitated voice. “Nay, she has been long
dead.”
But as he gazed, the same instinct awoke in him as in her, and he lost
self control. The sermon ended abruptly, the preacher was conquered by
the man. The hearers gathered in groups and discussed the event.
“This explains how he knew all about us!”
“It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain.”
“The last of the house of Michelham!”
“Turned into a preaching friar!”
Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order.
“Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not
leave the camp.”
“Mother,” said Martin, “why that cruel message of thy death? Thou hadst
not otherwise lost me so long.”
“It was for thy good. I would save thee from the life of an outlaw or
vagabond, and foresaw that unless I renounced thee utterly, thy love
would mar thy fortunes, and bring thee back to my side.”
“My poor forsaken mother!”
Grimbeard now approached.
“Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy
natural home. Dost thou remember me?”
“Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me, which
doubtless I deserved.”
“Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take up
thy abode again with us? We want a priest.”
“I am no priest, only a preacher, and my mission is to the Andredsweald
at large, and the scattered sheep of the Great Shepherd therein.”
“Only thou knowest our whereabouts too well. We may not let thee go in
and out without security, that our retreat be not made known.”
“Father, I have eaten of your bread, and once more of my own free will
accepted your hospitality. Even a heathen would respect your secret,
still more a Christian brother. If I can persuade you to cease from
your mode of life, which the Church decrees unlawful, well and good.
But other weapons than those of the Gospel shall never be brought
against you by me.”
They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard
maintained that the position of the “merrie men,” who still kept up a
struggle against the Government in the various great forests of the
land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply patriots
maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors. Martin, on
the other hand, maintained that the question was settled by Divine
providence, and that the governors of alien blood were now the kings
and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul, obedience was due. If
two centuries did not establish prescriptive right, how long a period
would?
“No length of time,” replied Grimbeard.
“Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived
here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from these
parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants of the
Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes in Germany
and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the principle you
have laid down. What should you then say?”
Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.
“Thou hast me on the hip, youngster.”
After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day’s walk and
all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him a
composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink it and
go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of skins in one
of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her recovered
treasure—happy mother.
The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding day,
Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac, where he
was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the sounds of real
present strife had put Senlac into his head.
He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still
lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the
actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:
“Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!”
“Out! out! ye English thieves!”
“Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!”
Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish.
For there with arrow, spear, and knife,
Men fought the desperate fight for life.
Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked, gained
a sloping bank, and there—
That morning, a merry young knight and his train set out from
Herstmonceux Castle to go “a hunting,” and in the very exuberance of
his spirits, like Douglas of old, he thought fit to hunt in the woods
haunted by the “merrie men,” as he in the Percy’s country.
Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye.
But he had not ridden far into the debatable land when the path lay
between two sloping, almost precipitous banks, crowned with underwood.
All at once a voice cried:
“Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods which
free Englishmen claim as their own?”
A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young
knight gazed upon his interlocutor with a comic eye.
“Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the honours
of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the Andredsweald
without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and outlaws, such as
I conceive thee to be.”
“Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.
“Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in our
power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim.”
“Bring on your merrie men.”
Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem
strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may guess),
that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a shower of
arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short, their lives were
in the power of the “merrie men,” whose arrowheads and caps they could
alone see peering from behind the tree trunks, and over the bank,
amidst the purple heather.
What a plight!
“Give soft words,” said the old huntsman, who rode on the right hand of
our friend Ralph, “or we shall be stuck with quills like porcupines.”
But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving,
at the same time, the order:
“Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin.”
The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which the
old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed and
ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad a
leader.
A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared,
pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony entangled
road; throwing their riders in most cases, or dashing their heads
against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half the Normans were
soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane became a shambles, a
slaughter house.
Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with little
hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar, who thrust
himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were fighting with their
axes.
“Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another blow.”
“Thou hast saved the old villain’s life, grey friar,” said mad Ralph,
parrying a stroke of Grimbeard’s axe, but this was but a bootless
boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons, but with
those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but equipped for
the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the outlaws were far
better versed than they, for with boar spear or hunting knife they
often faced the rush of wolf or boar.
“Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.
“Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?”
“Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father will
but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out.”
“Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might
gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive.”
Then he cried aloud:
“Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp.”
The fight was over. The prisoners, five in number, were blindfolded,
and in that condition led into the camp of the outlaws; Martin keeping
close by their side, intent upon preventing any further violence from
being offered, if he could avert it.
Arrived at the camp, the captives were consigned to a rough cabin of
logs. Their bandages were removed; a guard was placed before the door,
and they were left to their meditations.
They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped. The
others lay dead on the scene of the conflict.
Meanwhile, Ralph was puzzling his brains as to where he had seen the
grey friar before, who had so opportunely arrived at the scene of
conflict. He inquired of his companions, but their wits were so
discomposed by their circumstances and by apprehensions, too well
founded, for their own throats, that they were in no wise able to
assist his memory. Nor indeed could they have done so under any
circumstances.
It was but a brief suspense. The outlaws had but tended their own
wounded, washed off the stains of the conflict, refreshed themselves
with copious draughts of ale or mead, ere they placed a seat of
judgment for Grimbeard under a great spreading beech which grew in the
centre of the camp, and all the population of the place turned out to
see the tragedy or comedy which was about to be enacted. Just as, in
our own recollection, the mob crowded together to see an execution.
Grimbeard was fond of assuming a certain state on these occasions. He
dressed himself in all his rustic finery, and seated himself with the
air of a king on his rude chair of honour. By his side stood Martin,
pale and composed, but determined to prevent further bloodshed if it
were in mortal power to do so.
“Bring forth the prisoners.”
They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever.
“What is thy name?” asked Grimbeard.
“Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux.”
“And what has brought thee into my woods?”
“Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt.”
“And thou must pay for thy sport.”
“Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high.”
“Thy ransom shall be a hundred marks, and till then thou must be
content with the hospitality of the woods. Now for thy followers—three
weeks ago the sheriff hung two of my best men as deer slayers, and I
have sworn in such cases to have life for life. If they hang, we hang
too. If they are merciful, so are we. Now I am loth to slay an
Englishman. Hast thou not any outlanders here?”
“If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?”
“Thou art worth a hundred marks, and they not a hundred pence,” laughed
Grimbeard. “It is not that I respect noble blood. I have scant cause. A
wandering priest who came to say mass for us told us the story of
Jephthah and the Gileadites; I will try the effect of a Shibboleth,
too.
“So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men.”
The first was evidently an Englishman.
“Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?”
“Bread and cheese.”
“It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph’s messenger, and shall be set
free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests.
“Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, ‘Shibboleth.’”
It was an olive-skinned rogue, fresh from Southern France, who stepped
forward this time, impelled by his captors. Asked the same question, he
replied:
“Dis bread and dat sheese {26}.”
“Hang him,” said Grimbeard, and hanged he would doubtless have been,
for a dozen hands were busy at once in their cruel glee; some seizing
upon the victim, some mocking his pronunciation, some preparing the
rope, two or three boys climbing the tree like monkeys, to assist in
drawing it over a sufficiently stout branch to bear the human weight,
while the poor Gaul stood shivering below; when Martin threw his left
arm around the victim, and raised his crucifix on high with the other.
“Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of your
redemption.”
“Who forbids?” said Grimbeard.
“I, the representative by birth of your ancestral leaders, and one who
might now claim the allegiance you have paid to my fathers for
generations. But I rest not on that,” and here he pleaded so eloquently
in the name of Christ, that even Grimbeard was moved; he could not
resist a certain ascendency which Martin was gaining over him.
“Let them go, all of them. Blindfold them and lead them out in the
road. Only they must swear not to come into our haunts again, either
with hawk and hound or with deadlier weapons.
“There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin. You
are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay popinjay of a
knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can’t afford to lose
that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may want him as hostage
in case this morning’s work bring a hornets’ nest about our ears.”
“Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?” said Martin.
“I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my
poor pate against the _boves boreales_, as now from _latrones
austroles_. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph.
But art thou indeed a grey friar?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came near
us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it is a good
fellow lost to the world.”
“And gained to God, I hope.”
“I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead
here?”
“Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the
camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them.”
“Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou
get to Oxford?”
“It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou come
with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to escape till
thy messenger returns?”
It was done, and Ralph and Martin strolled around the camp in
conversation that entire evening. Martin now learned that the death of
an elder brother had recalled his former acquaintance from Oxford to
figure as the heir apparent of Herst de Monceux: hence the occasion of
their meeting under such different auspices.