AT THE ABBEY
CALM and peaceful appeared the grey Abbey to the war-worn defenders,
as, carried in litters or supported by the men of the Constable of
Portchester's company, the nine archers passed through the great
gateway.
The vesper bell had just ceased its tuneful tolling, and in its place
rose the deep, lusty voices of the monks, who, having completed yet
another day of hard manual labour, were uniting once more in prayer
and thanksgiving.
For awhile, save for the porter, a lay brother of gigantic size and
jovial mien, the secular portions of the Abbey were deserted, but the
arrival of this host of rough soldiers and their wounded charges
contrasted ill with the pious solitude of the place.
The Cistercian Abbey, founded as the Priory of Saints Mary and Edward
in 1237, was at that time in the zenith of its prosperity. Favoured
by royal charters, the natural zeal of the monks exerted itself to
such an extent that within a few years of its birth the Abbey bade
fair to outshine its parent foundation at Beaulieu, and a large
triple-aisled church, a sumptuous Abbot's house, lofty dormitories,
architecturally perfect cloisters, a number of extensive
outbuildings, and two artificial fish-ponds testified to the work of
these pioneers of civilisation.
Awed by the solemnity of their surroundings, the soldiers clustered
in small, silent knots, looking around with open-mouthed astonishment
at the unaccustomed beauty of the delicate architecture and listening
to the distant chanting of the monks.
If an archer dared even to whisper his comrades silenced him by a
look, while, when a man-at-arms dropped his short spear on the tiled
floor, the culprit stooped, picked up the weapon guiltily, and
crossed himself for very shame.
At length the singing ceased, the doors of the church were thrown
wide open, and out came a long line of grey-gowned monks, walking two
and two with bent heads and downcast eyes, while at the rear of the
procession came the Sub-Prior and the Abbot. The former was a
comfortable-looking, well-fed personage, with a benign countenance
that neither fast nor penance could subdue, while the Abbot, a tall,
gaunt man with wan features, redeemed by a pair of glittering eyes,
looked a man whose natural sternness was increased by the strict
rigidity of a celibate.
Immediately the soldiers drew themselves up into two lines, looking
straight in front in military style, though as the Abbot passed they
bent their heads to receive his benison, even the wounded, save
Walter Bevis, standing unaided to share in the blessing.
It was a stirring and picturesque sight. The grey stones of the
arched cloisters, the green patch of grass in the cloister court, and
the still evening quiet were fitting surroundings for a procession of
monks as their sandals clattered on the tiled floor; but the white
surcoats bearing the red cross, the armour and weapons of the
soldiers, and the pallid features of the wounded bespeaking strife
and suffering, presented a strange contrast to the peacefulness of
the Abbey.
Attended by two novices, the Abbot presently returned, and, learning
the cause of the unusual visit, gave orders for the wounded men to be
taken care of in the Abbey infirmary. He had already learned of the
sack and burning of Hamble, but the deed of Redward Buckland and his
comrades moved him greatly, and he desired to speak with the
master-bowman.
Redward, his head still bound with a blood-stained bandage, was led
before the Abbot. He had removed his steel cap, and the dying
sunlight played on his thickly-cropped head and heightened the
reddish hue of his beard. The Abbot gave an involuntary start of
recognition, but, composing himself, he asked:
"How art thou, my son? I see thou art sore hurt."
"Nay, Father, it is but a scratch."
"A brave man to speak so lightly of so great a matter. And thou didst
keep the press of enemies back till help arrived?"
"'Twas also a little matter, seeing we were behind stout walls."
"And yet, by God's grace, thy valour saved us."
"Saved you, Father?"
"Yea, my son. Saved the priory of the blessed Saints Mary and Edward;
for, had ye not been there to bar the way, the Frenchmen would of a
certainty have ravaged our holy retreat."
"This knowledge is beyond my understanding, yet, the saints be
praised, I was but an instrument to that end."
"The gratitude of us all is due to you, my son, and if in any way we
can render thee a service, do but ask it. Thou'rt weary; return to thy
friends and rest well."
The master-bowman bent his head for the Abbot's blessing, then he
turned and hobbled slowly back to join his comrades.
Great was the astonishment and delight of the monks, on washing the
thick cake of dried blood, slime, and soot from the face of their
youngest patient, to find that it was none other than their late
novice, Raymond, whose wound--a deep cut in his left shoulder--had
been skilfully dressed by the monks, to whom surgery was a special
feature of their work. He was now sleeping peacefully, a draught of
cooling medicine having completely taken away all symptoms of fever.
Walter Bevis, his leg swathed in bandages, was lying on a pallet, his
eyes rolling and his hands tightly clenched as he strove to suppress
a groan. Already he was in a state of semi-delirium, and in spite of
the constant attention of two of the monks, he strove at intervals to
rise from his couch and fly at some imaginary foe.
As for the rest, with the exception of Will Lightfoot, who was busily
devouring a platter of soup, they all were sleeping off the effects
of a terrible mental strain. Submitting himself to the hands of two
of the brethren, Redward had his injuries dressed, and was cleansed
from the effects of the fire and battle; then, staggering to a couch,
he lay down and was soon lost in dreamless sleep.
The sun was high in the heavens ere Buckland awoke, feeling vastly
refreshed and filled with renewed energy. His first inquiry was for
his son and his comrades, then for the latest tidings of the raiders.
On this latter point he could not be enlightened, save that a mounted
messenger had passed the Abbey that morning without drawing rein.
Though giving no news by word of mouth, the man had shown by a
gesture that the English had been successful, though at that time the
fate of the Genoese galley had not yet been decided.
One by one the wounded archers began to awaken, till all, save
Raymond and Bevis, were up and about. For some time Redward sat by
his son's bedside, looking anxiously at his pale and pain-racked
features.
The master-bowman was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one hand
he wanted to be again on the scene of action to revenge himself on
his enemies--for the destruction of his home, and also to take steps
to safeguard his chattels that lay in the underground chamber. On the
other hand, he felt it impossible to tear himself away from his son,
in whose welfare he was so much absorbed, till he was satisfied that
there was no cause for anxiety on his account.
While deep in this mental debate Redward was summoned by a novice to
proceed to the private apartment of the Abbot.
Following closely at the heels of his guide, Buckland was ushered
into a room which, in the frigid plainness of its appearance,
differed little from the cells of the ordinary brethren, only it was
larger.
The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls were bare and
unbroken, save for two narrow lancet windows and the low,
Gothic-arched door by which the archer entered. In the centre of the
room stood a plain oaken table, on which was a small ivory crucifix,
which, together with a number of richly-bound books of illuminated
vellum--the most highly-prized objects within the monastery
walls--gave a fitting setting to the gaunt figure of the stern yet
revered Abbot. Two heavy wooden stools completed the furniture of the
apartment, one of which was for the head of the Abbey himself, the
other for the use of any visitor of equal or higher rank; otherwise,
all who were called into the presence of the Abbot were obliged to
stand, with bent head, patiently waiting to be addressed, and not
daring to speak save when spoken to.
"Well, my son," quoth the Abbot, after the customary benediction had
been given. "I have a small matter of which I would speak. Raymond,
thy son, was until recently with us as a novice."
"Yes, Father."
"But thou didst send for him?"
"I could not do without him."
"Yet he was ill spared by us a youth of much promise. Did he not ask
to be allowed to take the vows of chastity and obedience?"
"Nay, Father."
"What, then, is in thy mind with regard to his up-bringing?"
"But two days agone he did ask to go with me to the wars."
"Alas! Alack!" groaned the Abbot, speaking half to his visitor, half
to himself. "To think that one brought up in the sanctity of this
place should have a mind for the horror of war! It but shows that
men's minds are by nature inclined to strife, and that we must ever
be subduing the desires of malice and hatred, which, though dormant
for years, are too often ready to burst forth with renewed strength.
Ah me! And I did think Raymond was a brand plucked from the burning.
Thinkst thou that 'tis not too late to turn him from his purpose and
bring him into the brotherhood?"
"Father," replied the master-bowman earnestly, "many a time have I
pondered the matter over in my heart, for he is very dear to me. In
my wanderings I knew him to be in safe keeping in this peaceful
place, yet I look to my son as a tried companion of my old age, for I
have no other kith or kin in the world. To the wars he would go, yet
Heaven forfend that ill should happen to him."
"But if he wish to stay?"
"Then he may do so, though as a monk he will be as far from me as
ever."
"Then he shall be asked, my son. Should he remain with us the Order
profiteth; should he go Franceward, then the saints be with him and
bring him safely home again. But, I ask," he added, fixing his dark
eyes intently on the archer, "when Raymond left us didst thou fetch
him away?"
"Nay, Father, I----"
"Then where have I met thee before?"
For a moment a pallor, quickly succeeded by a deep flush, overspread
the tanned features of the master-bowman, and his mind travelled back
for nigh two score years. Then in quick, short sentences he replied,
telling the story of the tragedy which had darkened his life.
"Ah! I thought my memory played me not false," returned the Abbot.
"But of that enough! I knew it! And, for an archer, thou art
certainly apt in speech. Canst read?"
"Yea, Father."
"And write?"
"Yea, Father. Many a time have I acted as scrivener to Sir John
Hacket, the Constable of the Castle of Portchester."
"'Tis well; and rest assured, my son, that, by my holy calling, no
word of thy past shall fall from my lips."
"And there is another small matter of which I would speak," said
Redward.
The Abbot frowned, for the archer had taken the initiative, but,
nevertheless, he signed for Redward to continue.
"When we are gone to the wars," quoth the archer, "'twill be
necessary for me to leave my small belongings in safe keeping, and no
better place can I think of than this Abbey."
"Think not to turn this holy place into a house of merchandise, my
son!"
"Nay, Father, not merchandise, but treasure."
"Treasure?" interrupted the Abbot, his interest kindling. "How say
you?"
"Ay, a trifle saved from the wreck of my past, together with a little
I have amassed during some twenty years of wandering. Of a surety I
would offer the Abbey a good percentum for the care thereof, together
with the right to retain all profits from its use."
"My son, thou art generous to Holy Mother Church."
"Nay, but I go farther. Should aught amiss happen to Raymond or me,
the whole of my worldly goods I leave to the Abbey, without
condition."
"Then, my son, I accept, in the name of the Order, the charge
confided to us. I will see to it this instant that Brother Aloysius,
our scribe, will draft the agreement thereunto." And going to the
door, the Abbot, his eyes shining at the thought of adding to the
treasury, rang a bell that brought one of the lay servitors hastening
to his presence.
"Bring Brother Aloysius hither."
With little loss of time the scrivener arrived, and the agreement was
drawn up and signed. This done, the Abbot dismissed Redward, and,
once more alone, leaned back in his chair with intense satisfaction.
Keep Raymond within the Abbey, let him take the oaths of the Order,
and all would be well. The Abbey would benefit considerably, for,
once a monk, Raymond would be heirless. On the other hand, should
father and son go to the wars--well, there were chances that they
might not return, and then----. The Abbot sighed, for, in spite of
his pious greed, he chid himself for his momentary satisfaction at
the thought of harm happening to the young man, of whose presence as
a novice he had many pleasing recollections.
On Redward's return to his son's bedside he found, to his great
delight, that Raymond was awake.
"How fares it with thee, Raymond?" he asked, taking the lad's limp
hand in his great palm and gently patting it.
"I feel much better, father, and hope soon to be abroad again."
"I trust so; but I have something to tell thee. Even now the Abbot has
asked me to let thee stay with him. He himself will ask thee anon."
"But I do not wish to, father. My one desire is to follow the banner
of the Constable."
"I like thy pluck, Raymond, seeing what thou hast been through. 'Twas
an ill start for a soldier's life."
"Yet we came out with honour," replied the boy, his eyes glistening
at the thought of the unequal encounter. "When thinkest thou that we
shall be able to leave this place?"
"A matter of a few days. For my part, I must hasten back to Hamble to
gather together the remains of my goods and chattels, and also to
ease the dead Frenchman of his harness, for 'tis, a goodly suit of
armour. Also, there is a fair portion of plate and money which I am
leaving in the care of the Abbot. Some day 'twill be thine, Raymond,
but of that matter I'll speak more anon."
Towards eventide the peacefulness of the Abbey was disturbed by the
tramp of armed men--the victorious troops returning to their camp at
Southampton; and by the Abbot's leave most of the wounded men, with
their escort of archers, passed out of the gate and lined the dusty
road to welcome their rescuers and comrades. Even the monks, carried
away by their feelings, crowded round the gateway to catch a glimpse
of the gallant companies. News of the capture of one galley and the
destruction of the other had already reached them, and enthusiasm ran
high as the bronzed and dust-covered soldiers tramped homewards.
Redward Buckland knew most of the banners of the various companies,
and imparted his knowledge to his companions, while the archers who
formed their escort cheered lustily as their fellow-soldiers turned
to throw out words of pleasant banter.
At length the master-bowman gave a loud shout. "Look, comrades, the
company of the Constable of Portchester! See the crescent _or_ on a
field _azure!_"
Marching four abreast, their white surcoats soiled with mud, water,
and dust, came the Portchester garrison. For, save a few who remained
to hold the castle and the adjacent town of Portsmouth, the whole of
Sir John Hacket's men were with the army now encamped at Woolston, on
the outskirts of Southampton.
At their head rode the fiery knight, attended by his squires, while
at his bridle-arm, mounted on a white jennet, was Walter de
Brakkeleye, the Bailiff of Southampton, whose men had already passed
by. The two leaders were engaged in animated conversation, all traces
of their bickering on the question of precedence having completely
vanished.
Suddenly the knight caught sight of the little knot of men outside
the Abbey gate.
"By the Rood, 'tis my old master-bowman and his party of villagers
who held the Frenchmen at bay!" he exclaimed. "When I sent them to
the Abbey I little thought to see any of them out and about so soon."
In obedience to an order, the company halted and faced about. Sir
John rode up to the little band, who respectfully saluted him,
following Redward's example in military etiquette.
"By St. George," said the knight, "'tis hard to do justice to your
bravery; for I have only now had time to ponder over your deeds. But
this I know--had ye not held the rascals in check the countryside
would have been laid bare far more than it is."
"But," he went on reflectively, "ye are, for the most part, homeless
men; why not serve under my banner? Francewards riches and honour
await you. I'll warrant ye will gain more in one campaign than in a
lifetime in England. Buckland, I have heard, will rejoin my company.
He will be, as before, one of my sub-officers, and if ye come with
him, in his division ye'll be placed. I am loth to lose any of you.
So who's for an archer's life?"
With one accord Redward's companions signified their eagerness to
follow the yellow crescent, and Sir John's face beamed with delight
at their decision. "Then get ye back to the Abbey till ye be
thoroughly healed of your wounds," he said, "and join the camp as
soon as possible. I thought aright that the taste of fighting would
but whet your appetites."
"And you, Hubert," he added, addressing one of his squires, "take
this purse and present to the Abbot as a token of my esteem for the
kindly treatment of these men. Also make excuses for me, as the night
draws on apace."
Then, commanding the archers who had conveyed Redward's party to the
Abbey to fall in with the rest of his company, Sir John gave the
order to march. The column moved onwards, leaving behind it the new
recruits to the banner of the Constable of the King's Castle of
Portchester.