Drogo did not venture to bring in his prisoners by the light of day,
for although he had collected together a large flock of black sheep,
yet did he not dare openly to consign a preaching friar to those
dungeons of his.
The men he had with him on the spot were certain lewd fellows of the
baser sort, distinguished even in Walderne Castle for their wickedness;
yet even they had their superstitions, and imagined it would bring bad
luck to arrest the ecclesiastic, travelling in the garb of his order.
But Drogo’s will was law, and they obeyed. They detained the prisoners
in an outlying farmhouse until dark, then thrusting a labourer’s smock
over Martin’s robe, led their prisoners to the castle.
Prisoners were no novelty there, many of these free lances were born in
camp, and had the inherited habits of generations of robbers, so that
it was to them a second nature to mutilate, imprison, and torture, and
slay. They looked upon burghers and peasants as butchers do on sheep,
or rather they looked upon them as beings made that warriors might
wring their hidden hoards from them, by torture and violence, or even
in default of the gold hang them for amusement, or the like. They had
about as much sympathy for these men of peace as the pike for the
roach—they only thought them excellent eating.
As for the knight—he was a knight, and must be treated as such,
although an enemy. As for the burgher—well, we have discussed the case.
As for the friar—they did not like to meddle with the Church. They
dreaded excommunication, men of Belial though they were.
The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from whence
he could see:
The forest dark and gloomy,
And under poetic inspiration compose odes upon liberty. The burgher and
friar were taken downstairs to gloomy dungeons, adjacent to each other,
where they were left to solitude and silence.
Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad: to be the inmate of a
narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for a rotten
bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and loaf of black
bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle beneath one’s
feet: oh, horrible!
And such was our Martin’s fate.
But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the
lion’s den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair. He
accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling atmosphere
and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in the castle of his
fathers.
And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very thought
that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught was in itself
sufficiently painful.
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” and Martin left it.
The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far more
compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool trade. He
had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the spindle and loom. He
had two sons, one of twelve, one of five; three daughters, one almost
marriageable; he had six apprentices and twelve workmen carding wool;
he had the town business to discharge; he sat upon the bench in the
town hall and administered justice to petty offenders. And here was he,
torn from all this, and consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce
marauding young “noble.”
To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following day,
and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.
“The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and
honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it pleases
thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy presence.”
“Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken off,
thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be more to
the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get out of thy
den.”
Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and
charged fifty marks the more.
“We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}.”
“Why, it is a king’s ransom!”
“And thou art fit to be a king.”
“And what if I cannot pay it?”
“We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the royal
justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons.”
“May I send a messenger to my castle?”
“At once. I will place my household at thy disposal.”
“And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their freedom?”
“By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom.”
“But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being fighting
men, under my protection.”
“Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on what
errand ye were all bent?”
Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious
politeness, laughing at it in his sleeve.
“Now for the burgher,” said he.
A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into the
face of his fierce young captor.
“What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?”
“I knew not they were thine, or I had perchance not intruded. Now tell
me, lord, at what price I may redeem my error, for I have a wife and
children, to say nothing of apprentices and workmen, who long sore for
me!”
“‘When the cat’s away the mice will play.’
“They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must answer
before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?”
The mayor hesitated.
“S’death, dost keep me waiting? We have a torture chamber close at
hand. Shall I summon the torturers? They will fit thy fat thumbs with a
handsome screw in a moment.”
Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it.
“Nay, it can do no harm. We came to witness the last confession of a
dying woman, who had some crime on her soul, which she wished to depose
before fitting witnesses.”
“Of what nature?”
“I was not told. I waited to learn.”
“Why didst thou hesitate to say this just now?”
Poor mayor! He stammered out that he hoped he hadn’t offended therein.
“The fact is that you knew the men, your companions, came as my
enemies, and suspected that the lies that witch, whom Satan is just now
basting, meant to tell, affected me! Don’t lie, or I will thrust the
lie down thy throat, together with a few spare teeth; my gauntlet is
heavy.”
“It was so,” said the terrified citizen of Hamelsham.
“Ha! ha! Well, it matters little to me what thou mayest say, or what
thy silly townsfolk think of me: the gudgeons probably talk much evil
of the perch, but I never heard that it hurts him much, or spoils his
digestion of those savoury little fish. But thou must pay for it: I fix
thy ransom at one hundred marks.”
“Good heavens! I have not as many pence!”
“Swear not, most fat and comely burgher. The money must be raised, or I
will send the good citizens of Hamelsham their mayor bit by bit, an ear
to begin with. A man waits without, give him thy instructions to thy
people. Farewell!”
And the young bully strolled into the next cell, which was Martin’s, a
keeper opening the door and shutting it upon him until the signal was
given to reopen it; for Drogo did not wish the coming conversation to
be overheard.
“So I have got thee at last?”
“Thou hast my body.”
“It is a comfort that it is a body which can be made to pine, to feel,
to suffer.”
“I am in God’s hands, not thine.”
“I advise thee not to look for help to so distant a quarter. Martin! I
have always hated thee, both at Kenilworth and Walderne. Revenge is a
morsel fit for the gods.”
“What hast thou to revenge?”
“Didst thou not plot to oust me of mine inheritance, the night before
the doting old woman died up above? It cost her her life.”
“For which thou must answer to God.”
“Nay, thine hand, not mine, administered it. Ha! ha! ha!”
“And what dost thou seek of me now?”
“Nothing, save the joy of removing an enemy out of my path.”
“I am no man’s enemy.”
“Yes, thou art mine, and always hast been. Didst thou not plot against
me with that old hag, Mother Madge, whom I have sent to her master in a
chariot of fire?”
“I heard her confession of that particular crime.”
“So did I, through eavesdroppers. Well, thou knowest too much; and
shalt never see the sun again. It is pleasant is it not—the fresh air
of the green woods, the sheen of the sun, the songs of the birds, the
murmur of the streams, the scent of the flowers.
“Ah, ah!—thou feelest it—well, it shall never again fall to thy lot to
see, hear, and smell all these. Here shalt thou linger out thy
remaining days; thy companions the toad, the eft, the spider, the
beetle; and when thou diest of hunger and thirst, which will eventually
be thy lot, this cell shall be thy coffin. Here shalt thou rot.”
“And hence shall I rise, in that case, at the day of resurrection. Nay,
Drogo, thou canst not frighten me. I am not in thy power. Thou canst
not tame the spirit. Do thy worst, I wait God’s hour.”
Drogo was beside himself by rage at this language on the part of a
captive, and he would have struck him down on the spot but for
something in Martin that awed him, even as the keeper, who calls
himself the lion king, tames the lion.
“We shall see,” he said, and left the cell.
“My lord, do not harm him,” said the man. “If a hand be laid upon him
the men-at-arms will rebel. They fear that it will bring a curse upon
them.”
“The fools, what is a friar but flesh and blood like others?”
“I would sooner hang or fry a hundred wretched burghers, or behead a
score of knights, than touch this friar.”
“I see how it is. I must contrive to starve or poison him,” thought the
base lord of the castle.
As he ascended the stairs he heard the sound of a trumpet, or rather a
horn. Loud cries of surprise and alarm greeted his ears.
He went out on the watch tower. The woods were alive with men: they
issued out on all sides—the “merrie men” of the woods.
Drogo saw at once that they had come to seek Martin. He took hold of a
white flag, and advanced to the tower above the central gateway—to
parley—for he feared the arrows of the marksmen of the woods.
“Whom seek ye?”
“One whom thou hast wrongfully imprisoned. The friar Martin.”
“I have not got him here.”
“But thou hast, and we have come to claim him.”
“Choose three of your number. They may come and confer with me in the
castle upon his disappearance. God forbid that I should lay hands on
His ministers.”
“Dost thou pledge thy honour for their safety?”
“Do ye doubt my honour? Oh, well; so ye may well do, if ye think I
would have touched brother Martin.”
He was so plausible that they were ashamed of their distrust, and
selected three of their foremost men, who forthwith entered.
The gates were shut behind them.
And then, oh, shame to say! They were seized from behind, their arms
bound behind their backs, and, in spite of their protests, led out on
the watch tower, where was a permanent gibbet, and, in sight of all
their comrades, hung over the battlements.
“That is how my honour bids me treat with outlaws,” laughed Drogo.
A flight of arrows was the reply, which penetrated every crevice, and
made six troopers stretch their bodies on the ground.
“Keep under cover,” shouted Drogo. “There will be a fine gathering of
arrows when all is done, and it will be long before these old walls
crave for mercy. Keep up your courage, men. The fools have no means of
besieging the place, and ere another sun has set, the royal banner will
appear for their dispersion and our deliverance.”
For he had heard from a sure hand that the royal army had reached
Tunbridge, en route for Lewes, and would pass by Walderne, tarrying,
perchance, for the night. Hence his daring defiance of the sons of the
soil.