THE SANCTUARY
The heavily-laden boat ascended the stream with its load of rescued
captives, redeemed from their living death in the dungeons of Brian's
stronghold.
The night continued intensely dark, a drizzling rain fell; but all this
was in favour of the escape. Upon a moonlight night this large boat must
have been seen by the sentinels, and followed.
There was of course no "lock" at Bensington in those days, consequently
the stream was much swifter than now; and it was soon found that the
load they bore in their barge was beyond the strength of the rowers. But
this was easily remedied: a towing rope was produced, and half a dozen
of Thorold's band drew the bark up stream, while another half-dozen
remained on board, steered or rowed, or attended to the rope at the head
of the boat, as needed.
Osric was with them: he intended to go to Dorchester and see his father,
and obtain his approbation of the course he was pursuing and direction
for the future.
All that night the boat glided up stream; their progress was, of
necessity, slow. The groans of the poor sufferers, most of whom had
endured recent torture, broke the silence of the night, otherwise
undisturbed, save by the rippling of the water against the prow of the
boat.
That night ever remained fixed in the memory of Osric,--the slow ascent
of the stream; the dark banks gliding by; the occasional cry of the men
on the shore, or the man at the prow, as the rope encountered
difficulties in its course; the joy of the rescued, tempered with
apprehension lest they should be pursued and recaptured, for they were,
most of them, quite unable to walk, for every one was more or less
crippled; the splash of the rain; the moan of the wind; the occasional
dash of a fish,--all these details seemed to fix themselves, trifles as
they were, on the retina of the mind.
Osric meditated much upon his change of life, but he did not now wish to
recall the step he had taken. His better feelings were aroused by the
misery of those dungeons, and by the approbation of his better self, in
the contemplation of the deliverance he had wrought.
While he thus pondered a soft hand touched his; it was that of the boy,
the son of Thorold, who had been chained to the wall by means of the
thumbscrew locked upon his poor thumbs.[27]
"Do your thumbs pain you now?" asked Osric.
"Not so much; but the place where the bar crossed them yet burns--the
pain was maddening."
"Dip this linen in the stream, and bind it round them; they will soon be
well. Meanwhile you have the satisfaction that your brave endurance has
proved your faithfulness: not many lads had borne as much."
"I knew it was life or death to my father; how then could I give way to
the accursed Norman?"
"Pain is sometimes a powerful reasoner. How did they catch you?"
"I was sent on an errand by my father, and a hunting party saw and
chased me; they questioned me about the outlaws, till they convinced
themselves I was one, and brought me to the castle, where they put on
the thumbscrew, and told me there it should remain till I told them all
the secrets of the band--especially their hiding-places. I moaned with
the pain, but did not utter a word; and they left me, saying I should
soon confess or go mad; then God sent you."
"Yes, God had sent him." Osric longed no more for the fleshpots of
Egypt.
Just as the autumnal dawn was breaking they arrived at the junction of
Tame and Isis, and the Synodune Hills rose above them. They ascended the
former stream, and followed its winding course with some difficulty, as
the willows on the bank interfered with the proper management of the
boat, until they came to the abbey-wharf. They landed; entered the
precincts, bearing those who could neither walk nor limp, and supporting
those who limped, to the hospitium.
They were in sanctuary.
In the city of refuge, and safe while they remained there. Whatever
people may think of monasteries now, they thanked God for them then. It
is quite true that in those dreadful days even sanctuary was violated
from time to time, but it was not likely to be so in this instance.
Brian Fitz-Count respected the forms and opinions of the Church,
outwardly at least; although he hated them in his inward heart,
especially when they came between him and his prey.
The good monks of Dorchester were just emerging from the service of
Lauds, and great was their surprise to see the arrival of this multitude
of impotent folk. However, they enacted their customary part of good
Samaritans at once, under the direction of the infirmarer--Father
Alphege himself--who displayed unwonted sympathy and activity when he
learned that they were refugees from Wallingford dungeons; and promised
that all due care should be taken of the poor sufferers.
There had been one or two Jews amongst the captives, but they had not
entered the precincts, seeking refuge with a rabbi in the town.
When they had seen their convoy safe, the outlaws returned to their
haunts in the forest, taking Ulric, son of Thorold, with them, but
leaving poor Herwald in the hands of Father Alphege, secure of his
receiving the very best attention. Poor wretch! his sufferings had been
so great and so prolonged in that accursed den, or rather chest, that
his reason was shaken, his hair prematurely gray, his whole gait and
bearing that of a broken-down old man, trembling at the least thing that
could startle him, anon with piteous cries beseeching to be let out, as
if still in his "crucet-box."
"Thou art out, my poor brother, never to return," said Alphege. "Surely,
my Herwald, thou knowest me! thou hast ridden by my side in war and
slept beside me in peace many and many a time."
Herwald listened to the tones of his voice as if some chord were struck,
but shook his head.
"He will be better anon," said the Father; "rest and good food will do
much."
While thus engaged the great bell rang for the Chapter Mass, which was
always solemnly sung, being the choral Mass of the day; and the brethren
and such guests as were able entered the hallowed pile. Osric was
amongst them. He had not gone with the outlaws; he had done his duty by
them; he now claimed to be at his father's disposal.
For the first time in a long period he felt all the old associations of
his childhood revive--all the influences of religion, never really
abjured, kindle again. He could hardly attend to the service. He did not
consciously listen to the music or observe the rites, but he felt it all
in his inmost soul; and as he knelt all the blackness of his sinful
participation in deeds of cruelty and murder--for it was little
else--all the baseness of his ingratitude in allowing, nay, nurturing,
unbelief in his soul, in trying, happily very successfully, _not_ to
believe in God, came upon him.
He had come to consult his natural father, as he thought, and to offer
himself to his direction as an obedient son: he now rather sought the
priest, and reconciliation as a prodigal to his Heavenly Father as the
first step necessary, for in those days penitence always found vent in
such confession.
But both father and priest were united in Alphege; and after the Chapter
Mass he sought the good infirmarer, and craved of his charity to make
his confession.
Will it be believed? his father did not know him. It was indeed years
since they had met, and it was perhaps difficult to recognise the child
in this young warrior, now come to man's estate--at least to man's
height and stature.
Alphege marked the tear-bedewed cheek, the choking voice; he knew the
signs of penitence; he hesitated not for a moment.
"My son, I am not the _pænitentiarius_ who ordinarily receives strangers
to Confession."
"But I wish to come to thee. Oh, father, I have fought against it, and
almost did Satan conquer in me: refuse me not."
"Nay, my son; I cannot refuse thee."
And they entered the church.
Father Alphege had composed himself in the usual way for the monotonous
recitation of human sin--all too familiar to his ears--but as he heard
he became agitated in himself. The revelation was clear, none could
doubt it: he recognised the penitent.
"My son," he said at the close, "thy sin has been great, very great.
Thou hast joined in ill-treating men made in the image of God; thou art
stained with blood; thy sin needs a heavy penance."
"Name it, let it be ever so heavy."
"Go thou to the Holy Land, take the Cross, and employ thy talents for
war in the cause of the Lord."
"I could desire nothing better, father."
"On that condition I absolve thee;" and the customary formula was
pronounced.
A hard "condition" indeed! a meet penance! Osric might still gratify his
taste for fighting, without sin.
They left the church--Osric as happy as he could be. A great weight was
lifted off his mind. It was only in such an age that a youth, loving
war, might still enjoy his propensity as a religious penance. _Similia
similibus curantur_, says the old proverb.
The two walked in the cloisters.
"My father--for thou knowest thy son now--I am wholly in thy hands.
Hadst thou bidden me, I had joined the outlaws, and fought for my
country. Now thou must direct me."
"Were there even a _chance_ of successful resistance, my son, I would
bid thee stay and fight the Lord's battle here; but it is hopeless. What
can such desultory warfare do? No, our true hope lies now in the son of
the Empress--the descendant of our old English kings, for such he is by
his mother's side--Henry Plantagenet. He will bridle these robbers, and
destroy their dens of tyranny."
"But Brian is fighting on that side."
"And when the victory is gained, as it will be, it will cut short such
license as the Lord of Wallingford now exercises,--destroy these robber
castles, the main of them, put those that remain under proper control,
drive these 'free lances' out of England, and restore the reign of
peace."
"May I not then assist the coming of that day?"
"How couldst thou? Thou canst never return to Wallingford, or take part
in the horrible warfare, which, nevertheless, is slowly working out
God's Will. No; go abroad, as thou art now _bound_ to do, and never
return to England until thou canst do so with honour."
"Thou biddest me go at once?"
"Without wasting a day."
"What steps must I take?"
"Dost thou know a moated grange called Lollingdune, in the parish of
Chelseye?"
"Well."
"It is an infirmary for Reading Abbey, and the Abbot is expected
to-morrow; thou must go, furnished with credentials from our Abbot
Alured. The Abbot of Reading is a mitred abbot, and has power to accept
thy vows and make thee a knight of the Cross. I doubt if even Brian
would dare touch thee then; but keep out of his way till that time; go
not by way of Wallingford."
"That were madness. I will make across country."
"And now, dear son, come to noon-meat; I hear the refectory bell."
----
To the south-west of the village of Cholsey (Chelseye) the Berkshire
downs sink into the level plain of the valley of the Thames. Here,
therefore, there was that broken ground which always accompanies the
transition from a higher to a lower level, and several spurs of the
higher ranges stretch out into the plain like peninsulas; while in other
places solitary hills, like islands, which indeed they once were, stand
apart from the mainland of hills.
One of these hill islands was thickly clothed with wood in those days,
as indeed it is now. And to the north-west there lay a "moated grange."
A deep moat, fed by streams which arose hard by, enclosed half an acre
or less of ground. This had been laid out as a "pleasaunce," and in the
centre was placed a substantial house of stone, of ecclesiastical
design. It was a country residence of the monks of Reading Abbey, where
they sent sick brethren who needed change of air, to breathe the
refreshing breezes which blow off the downs.
Such a general sense of insecurity, however, was felt all over the
country by clericals and laics alike, that they dug this deep moat, and
every night drew up their drawbridge, leaving the enclosure under the
protection of huge and faithful mastiffs, who had been taught to
reverence a monk's cassock at night, but to distrust all parties wearing
lay attire, whether of mail or otherwise.
A level plain, between outlying spurs of the downs, lay to the west,
partly grazing land, partly filled with the primeval forest, and boggy
and dangerous in places. Here the cows of the abbey grazed, which
supplied the convalescents with the milk so necessary in their cases;
but every night each member of the "milky herd" was carefully housed
inside the moat.
There was great preparation going on at the grange of Lollingdune, so
called from its peculiar position at the foot of the hill. The Abbot of
Reading, as we have elsewhere learned, was expected on the morrow. He
was a mighty potentate; thrice honoured; had a seat in the great council
of the kingdom; wore a mitre; was as great and grand as a bishop, and so
was reverenced by all the lesser fry.
So the cooks were busy. The fatted calf was slain, several fowls had to
pay the debt of nature, carp were in stew; various wines were
broached--Malmsey, Osey, Sack, and such like; devices in pastry
executed, notably a pigeon-pie, with a superincumbent mitre in
pie-crust; and many kinds of sweets were curiously and wonderfully made.
At the close of the day sweet tinkling bells announced the approach of
the cavalcade over the ridge of the hill to the eastward; and soon a
dozen portly monks, mounted on sleek mules, with silver bells on their
trappings, for they did not affect the warlike horse, and accompanied
meetly by lay attendants, laden with furniture and provisions for the
Abbot's comfort, approached by the "under-down" road, which led from the
gorge of the Thames at Streatley. The whole community turned out to meet
them, and there was such an assembly of dark robes that the bailiff of
the farm jocosely called it "Rook-Fair."
"_Pax vobiscum fratres omnes, clerici atque laici._ I have come to
repose my weary limbs amongst you, but by St. Martin the air of these
downs is fresh, and will make us relish the venison pasty, or other
humble fare we may receive for the sustenance of our flesh. How are all
the invalids?"
"They be doing well," said Father Hieronymus, the senior of the monks at
Lollingdune; "and say that the sight of their Abbot will be a most
salutary medicament."
The Abbot smiled; he liked to think himself loved.
"But who is this youth in lay attire?" and he smiled sweetly, for he
liked to see a handsome youth.
"It is one Osric, who has brought letters commendatory from the Abbot of
Dorchester."
"Our brother Alured--is he well?"
"He is well, my lord," replied Osric, as he bent the knee.
"And what dost thou seek, sweet son? dost wish to become a novice of our
poor house of St. Benedict?"
"Nay, my good lord, it is in another vocation I wish to serve God."
"And that,--ah, I guess thou wishest to take the Cross and go to the
Holy Land."
"I do with all my heart."
"And this letter assures me that thou art a fitting person, and skilled
in the use of carnal weapons."
"I trust I am."
"Then thou shalt share our humble fare this night, and then thou shalt
on the morrow take the vow and receive the Cross from my own hands,
after the Mass which follows Terce."
Osric bowed in joyful assent. And that night he dined at the monastic
table of Lollingdune Grange. The humble fare was the most sumptuous he
had ever known; for at Wallingford Castle they paid small attention to
the culinary art--quantity, not quality, was their motto; they ate of
meat half raw, thinking it increased their ferocity; and "drank the red
wine through the helmet barred."
But it was not so here; the weakness of the monastic orders, if it was a
weakness, was good cooking.
"Why should we waste or spoil the good things God has given us?" they
asked.
We wish our space permitted us to relate the conversation which had
place at that table. The Abbot of Reading was devoted more or less to
King Stephen, for Maude, in one of her progresses, had spoiled the abbey
and irritated the brethren by exacting heavy tribute. So they told many
stories of the misdeeds of the party of the Empress, and many more of
the cruelties of Brian Fitz-Count, whose lordly towers were visible in
the distance.
Osric sat at table next to the lord Abbot, which was meant for a great
distinction.
"In what school, my son, hast thou studied the warlike art and the
science of chivalry?" asked the Abbot.
"In the Castle of Wallingford, my lord."
"I could have wished thee a better school, but doubtless thou art
leaving them in disgust with their evil deeds of which we hear daily; in
fact, we are told that the townspeople cannot sleep for the shrieks of
the captives in the towers."
"It is in order to atone for ever having shared in their deeds that I
have left them, and the very penance laid on me is to fight for the
Cross of Christ in atonement for my error."
"And what will Brian think of it?"
"I must not let him get hold of me."
"Then tarry here till I return to Reading, and assuming the palmer's
dress, travel in our train out of his country; he will not dare to
assail us."
It was wise counsel.
On the morrow Mass was said in the chapel, which occupied the upper
story of the house, over the dormitories, under a high arched roof,
which was the general arrangement in such country houses of the
monks;[28] and at the offertory Osric offered himself to God as a
Crusader, took the vow, and the Abbot bound the red cross on his arm.
FOOTNOTES:
[27] This cruelly ingenious contrivance of thumbscrew, lock, and steel
chain may be seen at the house of John Knox, at Edinburgh, amongst other
similar curiosities.
[28] The author has twice seen the remains of such chapels in the upper
stories of farmhouses--once monastic granges.