THE NEW NOVICE
It was the day of St. Calixtus, the day on which, seventy-three years
earlier in the history of England, the Normans had stormed the heights
of Senlac, and the brave Harold had bitten the dust in the agonies of
death with the despairing cry, "Alas for England."
Of course it was ever a high day with the conquering race, that
fourteenth of October, and the reader will not be surprised that it was
observed with due observance at Dorchester Abbey, and that special
thanksgiving for the victory was offered at the chapter Mass, which took
place at nine of the clock.
Abbot Alured had just divested himself of the gorgeous vestments, in
which he had officiated at the high altar, when the infirmarer craved an
audience--it was granted.
"The wounded guest has partially recovered, his fever has abated, his
senses have returned, and he seems anxious to see thee."
"Why does he wish to see me particularly?"
"Because he has some secret to communicate."
"And why not to thee?"
"I know not, save that he knows that thou art our father."
"Dost think he will ever fight again?"
"He will lay lance in rest no more in this world."
"Nor in the next either, I presume, brother. I will arise and see him."
Passing through the cloister--which was full of the hum of boys, like
busy bees, learning their tasks--and ascending a flight of steps to the
"_dorture_," the Abbot followed the infirmarer to a pleasant and airy
cell, full of the morning sunlight, which streamed through the panes of
thin membrane--such as frequently took the place of glass.
There on a couch lay extended the form of the victim of the prowess of
Brian Fitz-Count, his giant limbs composed beneath the coverlet, his
face seamed with many a wrinkle and furrow, and marked with deep lines
of care, his eyes restless and wandering.
"Thou hast craved to speak with me, my son," said Abbot Alured.
"Alone," was the reply, in a deep hoarse voice.
"My brother, leave us till I touch the bell," said the Abbot, pointing
to a small handbell which stood on the table.
The infirmarer departed.
"And now, my son, what hast thou to tell me? First, who art thou? and
whence?"
"I am in sanctuary here, and none can drag me hence; is it not so?"
"It is, my son, unless thou hast committed such crime as sacrilege,
which God forbid."
"Such crime can none lay to my charge. Tell me, father, dost thou think
it wrong for a man to slay those who have deprived him of his loved
ones, of all that made life worth living?"
"'Vengeance is Mine,' saith God."
"Well, I took mine into my own hand, and now my task is ended. I am
assured that I am a cripple, never to strike a fair blow again."
"The more time for repentance, the better for thy soul. Thou hast not
yet told me thy name and home?"
"I tell it thee in confidence, for thou wilt not betray me to mine
enemy."
"Not unless justice should demand it."
"Well, I will tell thee my tale first. I was a husband and a father,
and a happy one, living in a home on the downs. In consequence of some
paltry dispute about black-mail or feudal dues, Brian Fitz-Count sent
men who burnt my house in my absence, and my wife and children perished
in the flames."
"All!"
"Yes, I found not one alive, so I took to the life of a hunted wolf,
rending and destroying, and slew many foreigners, for I am Wulfnoth of
Compton; now I have told thee all."
"God's mercy is infinite, thy provocation was indeed great. I judge thee
not, poor man. I never had wife or child, but I can guess how they feel
who have had and lost them. My brother, thine has been a sad life, thy
misery perhaps justified, at least, excused thy life as a leader of
outlaws; I, who am a man in whose veins flows the blood of both races,
can feel for thee, and pardon thy errors."
"Errors! to avenge her and them."
"The Saviour forgave His murderers, and left us an example that we
should follow His steps. Listen, my brother, thou must live for
repentance, and to learn submission to God's will; tell thy secret to no
man, lest thy foe seek thee even here, and trouble our poor house."
"But I hoped to have seen him bite the dust."
"And God has denied thee the boon; he is a man of strife and blood, and
no well-wisher to Holy Church; he seldom hears a Mass, never is shriven,
at least, so I have been told in confidence, for in this neighbourhood
men speak with bated breath of Brian Fitz-Count, at least within sight
of the tall tower of his keep. We will leave him to God. He is a most
unhappy man; his children are lepers."
"No, at least not _one_."
"So I have heard; they are in the great Leper House at Byfield, poor
boys; my cousin is the Chaplain there."
"And now, father, I will tell thee more. Thou knowest I have been
delirious, yet my senses have been awake to other scenes than these.
Methought my dear wife came to me in my delirium, came to my bedside,
sat in that seat, bathed my fevered brow, nay, it was no dream, her
blest spirit was allowed to resume the semblance of throbbing flesh, and
there she sat, where thou sittest now."
The Abbot of course saw in this only a phase of delirium, but he said
nought; it was at least better than visions of imps and goblins.
"Alas, dear one," continued he, as in a soliloquy, "hadst thou lived, I
had not made this life one savage hunting scene, caring only to rush in,
knock down, and drag out the prey, and now I am unfit to be where thou
art, and may never meet thee again."
"My brother," said the sympathising Alured, "thou believest her to be in
Paradise?"
"I do, indeed; I know they are there."
"And thou wouldst fain meet them?"
"I would."
"Repent then, confess, thou shall be loosed from thy sins; and since
thou art unfitted for the active walks of life, take upon thee the vows
of religion."
"May I? what order would admit me?"
"We will; and thus strive to restore thee to thy dear ones again."
"And Brian Fitz-Count will escape?"
"Leave him to God."
"Well, I will; doubtless he will die and be damned, and we shall never
see him; Heaven would not be Heaven if he were there."
The Abbot sighed.
"Ah, brother, thou hast much yet to learn ere thou becomest a true
follower of Him, Who at the moment of His supremest agony prayed for His
murderers."
But the patient could bear no more, hot tears were streaming down his
cheeks.
"Brother, peace be with thee, from the Lord of peace, all good Saints
aid thee; say nought of this to any one but me and thou wilt be safe."
He touched the bell, the infirmarer came in.
"God hath touched his heart, he will join our order; as soon as possible
he shall take the vows of a novice and assume our garb, then neither
Brian Fitz-Count nor any other potentate, not the king himself, can drag
him forth."
The last words were uttered in a sort of soliloquy, the infirmarer, for
whom they were not meant, did not catch them.
* * * * *
And so the days sped on towards the Feast of All Saints, darkening days
and long nights too, often reddened by the light of distant
conflagrations, for that terrible period of civil strife--nay, of worse
than civil strife--was approaching, when, instead of there being only
two parties in the land, each castle was to become its own centre of
strife--declaring war upon all its neighbours; when men should fear to
till the land for others to reap; when every man's hand should be
against every man; when men should fill their strongholds with human
devils, and torture for torture sake, when there was no longer wealth to
exact; when men should say that God and His Saints were asleep--to such
foul misery and distress did the usurpation of Stephen bring the land.
But those days were only beginning, as yet the tidings reached
Dorchester slowly that the Empress was the guest of her mother-in-law,
the Queen-Dowager, the widow of Henry the First, at Arundel Castle, in
Sussex, under the protection of only a hundred and forty horsemen; then,
that Robert, Earl of Gloucester, leaving his sister in comparative
safety, had proceeded through the hostile country to Bristol with only
twelve horsemen, until he was joined midway on his journey by Brian
Fitz-Count and his troop from Wallingford Castle; next, that Henry,
Bishop of Winchester, and brother of the king, had declared for her,
and brought her in triumph to Bristol. Lastly, that she had been
conducted by her old friend, Milo, Sheriff of Gloucester, in triumph to
that city, and there received the allegiance of the citizens.
Meanwhile, the storm of fire and sword had begun; wicked men took
advantage at once of the divided state of the realm, and the eclipse of
the royal authority.
They heard at Dorchester that Robert Fitz-Hubert, a savage baron, or
rather barbarian, had clandestinely entered the city of Malmesbury and
burnt it to the ground, so that divers of the wretched inhabitants
perished in the flames, of which the barbarian boasted as though he had
obtained a great triumph, declaring himself on the side of the Empress
Queen; and, further, that King Stephen, hearing of the deed, had come
after him, put him to flight, and retaken Malmesbury Castle.
So affairs progressed up to the end of October.
----
It was All Saints' Day, and they held high service at Dorchester Abbey;
the Chant of William of Fescamp was introduced, without any of the dire
consequences which followed it at Glastonbury.
It was a day never to be forgotten by our reclaimed outlaw, Wulfnoth of
Compton, he was that day admitted to the novitiate, and received the
tonsure; dire had been the conflict in his mind; again and again the old
Adam waxed strong within him, and he longed to take advantage, like
others, of the political disturbances, in the hope of avenging his own
personal wrongs; then the sweet teachings of the Gospel softened his
heart, and again and again his dear ones seemed in his dreams to visit
him, and bid him prepare for that haven of peace into which they had
entered.
"God hath done all things well," the sweet visitants of his dreams
seemed to say; "let the past be the past, and let not its black shadow
darken the glorious future--the parting was terrible, the meeting shall
be the sweeter."
The ceremony was over, Wulfnoth of Compton had become the Novice
Alphege of Dorchester, for, in accordance with custom, he had changed
his name on taking the vows.
After the long ceremony was over, he sat long in the church undisturbed,
a sensation of sweet peace came upon him, of rest at last found, the
throbbing heart seemed quiet, the stormy passions stilled.
And now, too, he no longer needed the protection of carnal weapons, he
was safe in the immunities of the church, none could drag him from the
cloister--he belonged to God.
What a refuge the monastic life afforded then! Without it men would have
been divided between beasts of burden and beasts of prey.
And when at last he took possession of his cell, through the narrow
window he could see Synodune rising over the Thames; it was a glorious
day, the last kiss of summer, when the "winter wind was as yet
suspended, although the fading foliage hung resigned."
Peace ineffable filled his mind.
The hills of Synodune for one moment caught his gaze, they had been
familiar landmarks in his days of war, rapine, and vengeance, the past
rose to his mind, but he longed not after it now.
But was the old Adam dead or only slumbering? We shall see.