The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was
inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on
either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of
each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire, and
slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves incapable of
the deeds they commit in time of war: “Is thy servant a dog that he
should do this thing?” as one said of old when before the prescient
seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless warrior.
The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the
Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards historical,
such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a master of the
art of war, although still young, and already marked by that sternness
of character which distinguished his latter days, was in chief command,
and he pursued his devastating course through the Midlands. Nottingham
and Leicester, whence his great opponent derived his title, opened
their gates to him. He marched thence for London, but Earl Simon threw
himself into the city, returning from Rochester, which he had cleverly
taken by means of fire ships which set the place in a blaze.
Edward marched _vice versa_, from London to Rochester, relieved the
castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been
taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of
the Andredsweald, _en route_ for Lewes.
It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone
upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town,
and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of
Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above. Even
then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our stand by it:
And all around the widespread scene survey.
What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree tops
of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant, studded with
the white sails of many barks which have put out from land, lest they
should be seized by the approaching host, and confiscated for the royal
service, for the sailors have mainly espoused the popular cause, and
dread the medieval press gang. How many familiar objects we see
around—Michelham Priory, Battle Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey
Castle, Lewes Castle—all in view.
There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle
Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale fire,
which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king was coming.
There is yet another volcano farther on. It is Ditchling Beacon; and,
yes, another still farther west; Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded
cone. And on this fair clear morning we can indistinctly discern a thin
line of smoke curling up from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and
in view of the Isle of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.
Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and
Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings, where
another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that the royal
enemy is in the forest.
Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which
attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into the
valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich in
tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury,
founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the
king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands
who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point
where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on
their road to Pevensey.
The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower with
excited steps—the royal banner will soon be seen surmounting that ridge
above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring downwards as fast
as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is galloping as for dear
life—look at the cloud of dust which he raises. The “merrie men” have
disappeared in the woods, and Drogo descends to meet him; just as the
rider enters beneath the suspended portcullis into the court of the
castle, he reaches the foot of the stairs.
“What news? Speak, thou varlet!”
“The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows
of the windmill.”
“Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner wave;
here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my liege.”
Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks were
getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings, the
spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile
neighbours—the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods—the fish of
the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked, stewed, or
the like, for the king’s supper. Then he interviewed the butler about
the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the like. Then he saw
that the adornments of the great hall were completed, the banners, the
armour, the antlers of the deer, suspended becomingly around the walls,
the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely
folds.
When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced that
the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a glorious
sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:
On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part.
The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly glistened
with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting sun. The
green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue, in bright
contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war horses, the
thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices. And now the royal
guard descends the gentle slope which rises just above the castle to
the north, and approaches the drawbridge.
Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of
his castle in his hand.
The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat
stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the
extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.
Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired,
prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a
quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but
somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that
tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly
features, the greatest of the Edwards—a born king of men.
“Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight.”
“My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own.”
“Ah, and yet so loyal!”
“For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth,
and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not
restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I
daily heard.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the king, “then shalt thou receive the honour from
my own hands,” and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the
sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added,
“Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne.”
“Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,”
muttered Prince Edward.
“Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those
who honour us will we honour {32}.”
The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their acclamations.
The multitude cried, “Largesse! Largesse!” and by Drogo’s direction
coins (chiefly of small value) were freely scattered to the
accompaniment of the cry:
“Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne.”
Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the
banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands,
pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green without,
while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which was not large
enough to accommodate the rank and file.
The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head of
the board—his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the King of the
Romans), Edward, afterwards “The Hammer of Scotland,” on his father’s
left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and next to Prince Edward,
Robert Bruce, father of the future king of Scotland, and a great
favourite both with prince and king.
Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to play
the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which was honour
enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend the king to
Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify the favour and
honour which he had received.
Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of the
gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of healths and
acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring again and again?
Nay, we have tired the reader’s patience with scenes of that sort
enough already.
But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet
feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in
another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him
closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their political
sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and land holders
were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the morrow’s journey,
the roads, the chances of food and forage for the multitude. In short,
they acted like men of business who provide for the morrow ere they
close their eyes in sleep.
Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he
claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he had
apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by their
harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.
“Who are these doughty foes?”
“Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor of
the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a
favourite page of the Earl of Leicester.”
“Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to sustain
such acorns?”
“I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand.”
“Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless
make short work of them.”
Night reigned without. The occasional challenge of the sentinel alone
broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness over the host
encamped at Walderne.
Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at once.
The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to life and
action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the woods with
their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the eastern hills.
Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet hastily
despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind them, stood the
three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and friar pale with
privation and suffering. Our Martin’s health was not strong enough to
enable him well to bear the horrors of a dungeon.
“You are accused of rebellion,” said the stern Edward, as he faced
them. “What is your answer?”
Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is
recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and
anger, died of fear—yet he was never intentionally unjust.
Ralph spoke first—he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was the
only course.
“My prince,” he said, “we must indeed avow that our convictions are
with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand or
fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are, but we
disclaim the word.”
“And thou, Sir Mayor?”
“I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill to
choose.”
“And thou, friar of orders grey?”
“Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester just,”
said Martin quietly.
Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward
respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger ere he replied:
“They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the
burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while
fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with their
swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then I may
deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in ward.”
Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the execution of
Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to the
“superstitious” scruples of his followers, and to gain this he would
have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold, but loved
revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion than avarice.
And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the royal
army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were the
newly-made knight and his followers.
He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons—the only
chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But before
starting from home he left secret instructions, which will disclose
themselves ere long.
As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive came
into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a hard object
in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the key of Martin’s
dungeon.
“Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that
door—meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst.”
Should he send it back?
“No, no!”
He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.
“I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou art
mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design.”
Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite
powers.
We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast,
where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports—Winchelsea and
Pevensey, so as to keep open their communications with the continent.
How Peter of Savoy, the then lord of the “Eagle,” entertained them at
the Norman castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they
sacked Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their
quarters at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the
prince, as became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne;
to await the approach of the barons.
There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the people
of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of Walderne, spent
his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his gallant son, and
felt assured that he should not die until he had once more clasped him
to his paternal breast, when he would joyfully chant his _Nunc
Dimittis_.
On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his
cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw his
son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance related; and
when he awoke he said;
“Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given the
first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath provided a
better offering, and Isaac shall be restored.”
But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith. For a
long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him. Its
appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the house
of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will see in
the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily form, but even
if only the creature of the imagination, it was equally real to the
sufferer.
One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal day
when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that day
passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his
adversary’s dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days, a
man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had slain
many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional. It had
been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or supposed
insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections by a blow.
And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged not to engage
in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the dread penalty; under
such an one many a man has sunk to the grave {33}. Therefore, as we
have said, he dreaded the advent of the fatal day.
It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when, lo! in
the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no longer armed
with his terrors. His face was changed, his features resigned and
peaceful.
“I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the flesh.
Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the altar of
the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy reward and my
forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him thou shalt yet
see in the flesh, as thy reward.”
And he disappeared.
Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but
certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the fulfilment of
the vision.
It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with more
than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in person, who
was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all their train; and
special prayers had been added, suitable to the crisis, to the God of
armies and Lord of battles.
So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great gates
of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and the gates
were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just arrived, as he said,
from over sea, and had but tarried to put his horse in good keeping.
He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.
“Art thou with us or against us?” said the warder.
“I am a soldier of the Cross,” was the reply, and a few more words were
whispered in the ear.
The warder started back.
“Verily thy father’s heart will be glad,” he exclaimed.
Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little changed;
but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had once given his
face a haggard and weird look, resignation had stamped his features
with a softer expression.
The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been
removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but the
old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had purchased this
remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if he had given “the
first born of his body for the sin of his soul.”
And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit—the
half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the
thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on the
morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious, thoughtless,
but loving Hubert.
And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was
Prior Foville—he who built the two great western towers of the church.
“Stay without,” whispered the prior to someone by his side; “joy
sometimes kills.”
The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so strange
an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret to tell and
can hardly keep it in.
“What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?”
“Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not dead.”
The father trembled. He could hardly stand.
“I know he is alive, but where?”
“On his way home.”
“Nay!”
“And in England!”
“Father, I am here.”
Hubert could restrain himself no longer.
The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his
recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:
“Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was
lost, and is found.”