"All Itchen's valley lay,
Saint Catherine's breezy side and the woodlands far away,
The huge Cathedral sleeping in venerable gloom,
The modest College tower, and the bedesmen's Norman home."
Lord Selborne.
Very early in the morning, even according to the habits of the time,
were Stephen and Ambrose Birkenholt astir. They were full of ardour to
enter on the new and unknown world beyond the Forest, and much as they
loved it, any change that kept them still to their altered life would
have been distasteful.
Nurse Joan, asking no questions, folded up their fardels on their backs,
and packed the wallets for their day's journey with ample provision.
She charged them to be good lads, to say their Pater, Credo, and Ave
daily, and never omit Mass on a Sunday. They kissed her like their
mother and promised heartily--and Stephen took his crossbow. They had
had some hope of setting forth so early as to avoid all other _human_
farewells, except that Ambrose wished to begin by going to Beaulieu to
take leave of the Father who had been his kind master, and get his
blessing and counsel. But Beaulieu was three miles out of their way,
and Stephen had not the same desire, being less attached to his
schoolmaster and more afraid of hindrances being thrown in their way.
Moreover, contrary to their expectation, their elder brother came forth,
and declared his intention of setting them forth on their way, bestowing
a great amount of good advice, to the same purport as that of nurse
Joan, namely, that they should let their uncle Richard Birkenholt find
them some employment at Winchester, where they, or at least Ambrose,
might even obtain admission into the famous college of Saint Mary.
In fact, this excellent elder brother persuaded himself that it would be
doing them an absolute wrong to keep such promising youths hidden in the
Forest.
The purpose of his going thus far with them made itself evident. It was
to see them past the turning to Beaulieu. No doubt he wished to tell
the story in his own way, and that they should not present themselves
there as orphans expelled from their father's house. It would sound
much better that he had sent them to ask counsel of their uncle at
Winchester, the fit person to take charge of them. And as he
represented that to go to Beaulieu would lengthen their day's journey so
much that they might hardly reach Winchester that night, while all
Stephen's wishes were to go forward, Ambrose could only send his
greetings. There was another debate over Spring, who had followed his
master as usual. John uttered an exclamation of vexation at perceiving
it, and bade Stephen drive the dog back. "Or give me the leash to drag
him. He will never follow me."
"He goes with us," said Stephen.
"He! Thou'lt never have the folly! The old hound is half blind and
past use. No man will take thee in with him after thee."
"Then they shall not take me in," said Stephen. "I'll not leave him to
be hanged by thee."
"Who spoke of hanging him!"
"Thy wife will soon, if she hath not already."
"Thou wilt be for hanging him thyself ere thou have made a day's journey
with him on the king's highway, which is not like these forest paths, I
would have thee to know. Why, he limps already."
"Then I'll carry him," said Stephen, doggedly.
"What hast thou to say to that device, Ambrose?" asked John, appealing
to the elder and wiser.
But Ambrose only answered "I'll help," and as John had no particular
desire to retain the superannuated hound, and preferred on the whole to
be spared sentencing him, no more was said on the subject as they went
along, until all John's stock of good counsel had been lavished on his
brothers' impatient ears. He bade them farewell, and turned back to the
lodge, and they struck away along the woodland pathway which they had
been told led to Winchester, though they had never been thither, nor
seen any town save Southampton and Romsey at long intervals. On they
went, sometimes through beech and oak woods of noble, almost primeval,
trees, but more often across tracts of holly underwood, illuminated here
and there with the snowy garlands of the wild cherry, and beneath with
wide spaces covered with young green bracken, whose soft irregular
masses on the undulating ground had somewhat the effect of the waves of
the sea. These alternated with stretches of yellow gorse and brown
heather, sheets of cotton-grass, and pools of white crowfoot, and all
the vegetation of a mountain side, only that the mountain was not there.
The brothers looked with eyes untaught to care for beauty, but with a
certain love of the home scenes, tempered by youth's impatience for
something new. The nightingales sang, the thrushes flew out before
them, the wild duck and moorhen glanced on the pools. Here and there
they came on the furrows left by the snout of the wild swine, and in the
open tracts rose the graceful heads of the deer, but of inhabitants or
travellers they scarce saw any, save when they halted at the little
hamlet of Minestead, where a small alehouse was kept by one Will
Purkiss, who claimed descent from the charcoal-burner who had carried
William Rufus's corpse to burial at Winchester--the one fact in history
known to all New Foresters, though perhaps Ambrose and John were the
only persons beyond the walls of Beaulieu who did not suppose the affair
to have taken place in the last generation.
A draught of ale and a short rest were welcome as the heat of the day
came on, making the old dog plod wearily on with his tongue out, so that
Stephen began to consider whether he should indeed have to be his
bearer--a serious matter, for the creature at full length measured
nearly as much as he did. They met hardly any one, and they and Spring
were alike too well known and trained, for difficulties to arise as to
leading a dog through the Forest. Should they ever come to the term of
the Forest? It was not easy to tell when they were really beyond it,
for the ground was much of the same kind. Only the smooth, treeless
hills, where they had always been told Winchester lay, seemed more
defined, and they saw no more deer, but here and there were inclosures
where wheat and barley were growing, and black timbered farmhouses began
to show themselves at intervals. Herd boys, as rough and unkempt as
their charges, could be seen looking after little tawny cows, black-
faced sheep, or spotted pigs, with curs which barked fiercely at poor
weary Spring, even as their masters were more disposed to throw stones
than to answer questions.
By and by, on the further side of a green valley, could be seen
buildings with an encircling wall of flint and mortar faced with ruddy
brick, the dark red-tiled roofs rising among walnut-trees, and an
orchard in full bloom spreading into a long green field.
"Winchester must be nigh. The sun is getting low," said Stephen.
"We will ask. The good folk will at least give us an answer," said
Ambrose wearily.
As they reached the gate, a team of plough horses was passing in led by
a peasant lad, while a lay brother, with his gown tucked up, rode
sideways on one, whistling. An Augustinian monk, ruddy, burly, and
sunburnt, stood in the farm-yard, to receive an account of the day's
work, and doffing his cap, Ambrose asked whether Winchester were near.
"Three mile or thereaway, my good lad," said the monk; "thou'lt see the
towers an ye mount the hill. Whence art thou?" he added, looking at the
two young strangers. "Scholars? The College elects not yet a while."
"We be from the Forest, so please your reverence, and are bound for Hyde
Abbey, where our uncle, Master Richard Birkenholt, dwells."
"And oh, sir," added Stephen, "may we crave a drop of water for our
dog?"
The monk smiled as he looked at Spring, who had flung himself down to
take advantage of the halt, hanging out his tongue, and panting
spasmodically. "A noble beast," he said, "of the Windsor breed, is't
not?" Then laying his hand on the graceful head, "Poor old hound, thou
art o'er travelled. He is aged for such a Journey, if you came from the
Forest since morn. Twelve years at the least, I should say, by his
muzzle."
"Your reverence is right," said Stephen, "he is twelve years old. He is
two years younger than I am, and my father gave him to me when he was a
little whelp."
"So thou must needs take him to seek thy fortune with thee," said the
good-natured Augustinian, not knowing how truly he spoke. "Come in, my
lads, here's a drink for him. What said you was your uncle's name?" and
as Ambrose repeated it, "Birkenholt! Living on a corrody at Hyde! Ay!
ay! My lads, I have a call to Winchester to-morrow, you'd best tarry
the night here at Silkstede Grange, and fare forward with me."
The tired boys were heartily glad to accept the invitation, more
especially as Spring, happy as he was with the trough of water before
him, seemed almost too tired to stand over it, and after the first,
tried to lap, lying down. Silkstede was not a regular convent, only a
grange or farmhouse, presided over by one of the monks, with three or
four lay brethren under him, and a little colony of hinds, in the
surrounding cottages, to cultivate the farm, and tend a few cattle and
numerous sheep, the special care of the Augustinians.
Father Shoveller, as the good-natured monk who had received the
travellers was called, took them into the spacious but homely chamber
which served as refectory, kitchen, and hall. He called to the lay
brother who was busy over the open hearth to fry a few more rashers of
bacon; and after they had washed away the dust of their Journey at the
trough where Spring had slaked his thirst, they sat down with him to a
hearty supper, which smacked more of the grange than of the monastery,
spread on a large solid oak table, and washed down with good ale. The
repast was shared by the lay brethren and farm servants, and also by two
or three big sheep-dogs, who had to be taught their manners towards
Spring.
There was none of the formality that Ambrose was accustomed to at
Beaulieu in the great refectory, where no one spoke, but one of the
brethren read aloud some theological book from a stone pulpit in the
wall. Here Brother Shoveller conversed without stint, chiefly with the
brother who seemed to be a kind of bailiff, with whom he discussed the
sheep that were to be taken into market the next day, and the prices to
be given for them by either the college, the castle, or the butchers of
Boucher Row. He however found time to talk to the two guests, and being
sprung from a family in the immediate neighbourhood, he knew the
verdurer's name, and ere he was a monk, had joined in the chase in the
Forest.
There was a little oratory attached to the hall, where he and the lay
brethren kept the hours, to a certain degree, putting two or three
services into one, on a liberal interpretation of _laborare est orare_.
Ambrose's responses made their host observe as they went out, "Thou hast
thy Latin pat, my son, there's the making of a scholar in thee."
Then they took their first night's rest away from home, in a small
guest-chamber, with a good bed, though bare in all other respects.
Brother Shoveller likewise had a cell to himself but the lay brethren
slept promiscuously among their sheep-dogs on the floor of the
refectory.
All were afoot in the early morning, and Stephen and Ambrose were
awakened by the tumultuous bleatings of the flock of sheep that were
being driven from their fold to meet their fate at Winchester market.
They heard Brother Shoveller shouting his orders to the shepherds in
tones a great deal more like those of a farmer than of a monk, and they
made haste to dress themselves and join him as he was muttering a
morning abbreviation of his obligatory devotions in the oratory,
observing that they might be in time to hear mass at one of the city
churches, but the sheep might delay them, and they had best break their
fast ere starting.
It was Wednesday, a day usually kept as a moderate fast, so the
breakfast was of oatmeal porridge, flavoured with honey, and washed down
with mead, after which Brother Shoveller mounted his mule, a sleek
creature, whose long ears had an air of great contentment, and rode off,
accommodating his pace to that of his young companions up a stony cart-
track which soon led them to the top of a chalk down, whence, as in a
map, they could see Winchester, surrounded by its walls, lying in a
hollow between the smooth green hills. At one end rose the castle, its
fortifications covering its own hill, beneath, in the valley, the long,
low massive Cathedral, the college buildings and tower with its
pinnacles, and nearer at hand, among the trees, the Almshouse of Noble
Poverty at Saint Cross, beneath the round hill of Saint Catherine.
Churches and monastic buildings stood thickly in the town, and indeed,
Brother Shoveller said, shaking his head, that there were well-nigh as
many churches as folk to go to them; the place was decayed since the
time he remembered when Prince Arthur was born there. Hyde Abbey he
could not show them, from where they stood, as it lay further off by the
river side, having been removed from the neighbourhood of the Minster,
because the brethren of Saint Grimbald could not agree with those of
Saint Swithun's belonging to the Minster, as indeed their buildings were
so close together that it was hardly possible to pass between them, and
their bells jangled in each other's ears.
Brother Shoveller did not seem to entertain a very high opinion of the
monks of Saint Grimbald, and he asked the boys whether they were
expected there. "No," they said; "tidings of their father's death had
been sent by one of the woodmen, and the only answer that had been
returned was that Master Richard Birkenholt was ill at ease, but would
have masses said for his brother's soul."
"Hem?" said the Augustinian ominously; but at that moment they came up
with the sheep, and his attention was wholly absorbed by them, as he
joined the lay brothers in directing the shepherds who were driving them
across the downs, steering them over the high ground towards the arched
West Gate close to the royal castle. The street sloped rapidly down,
and Brother Shoveller conducted his young companions between the
overhanging houses, with stalls between serving as shops, till they
reached the open space round the Market Cross, on the steps of which
women sat with baskets of eggs, butter, and poultry, raised above the
motley throng of cattle and sheep, with their dogs and drivers, the
various cries of man and beast forming an incongruous accompaniment to
the bells of the churches that surrounded the market-place.
Citizens' wives in hood and wimple were there, shrilly bargaining for
provision for their households, squires and grooms in quest of hay for
their masters' stables, purveyors seeking food for the garrison, lay
brethren and sisters for their convents, and withal, the usual margin of
begging friars, wandering gleemen, jugglers and pedlars, though in no
great numbers, as this was only a Wednesday market-day, not a fair.
Ambrose recognised one or two who made part of the crowd at Beaulieu
only two days previously, when he had "seen through tears the juggler
leap," and the jingling tune one of them was playing on a rebeck brought
back associations of almost unbearable pain. Happily, Father Shoveller,
having seen his sheep safely bestowed in a pen, bethought him of bidding
the lay brother in attendance show the young gentlemen the way to Hyde
Abbey, and turning up a street at right angles to the principal one,
they were soon out of the throng.
It was a lonely place, with a decayed uninhabited appearance, and
Brother Peter told them it had been the Jewry, whence good King Edward
had banished all the unbelieving dogs of Jews, and where no one chose to
dwell after them.
Soon they came in sight of a large extent of monastic buildings, partly
of stone, but the more domestic offices of flint and brick or mortar.
Large meadows stretched away to the banks of the Itchen, with cattle
grazing in them, but in one was a set of figures to whom the lay brother
pointed with a laugh of exulting censure.
"Long bows!" exclaimed Stephen. "Who be they?"
"Brethren of Saint Grimbald, sir. Such rule doth my Lord of Hyde keep,
mitred abbot though he be. They say the good bishop hath called him to
order, but what recks he of bishops? Good-day, Brother Bulpett, here be
two young kinsmen of Master Birkenholt to visit him; and so
_benedicite_, fair sirs. Saint Austin's grace be with you!"
Through a gate between two little red octagonal towers, Brother Bulpett
led the two visitors, and called to another of the monks, "_Benedicite_,
Father Segrim, here be two striplings wanting speech of old Birkenholt."
"Looking after dead men's shoes, I trow," muttered Father Segrim, with a
sour look at the lads, as he led them through the outer court, where
some fine horses were being groomed, and then across a second court
surrounded with a beautiful cloister, with flower beds in front of it.
Here, on a stone bench, in the sun, clad in a gown furred with rabbit
skin, sat a decrepit old man, both his hands clasped over his staff.
Into his deaf ears their guide shouted, "These boys say they are your
kindred, Master Birkenholt."
"Anan?" said the old man, trembling with palsy. The lads knew him to be
older than their father, but they were taken by surprise at such
feebleness, and the monk did not aid them, only saying roughly, "There
he is. Tell your errand."
"How fares it with you, uncle?" ventured Ambrose.
"Who be ye? I know none of you," muttered the old man, shaking his head
still more.
"We are Ambrose and Stephen from the Forest," shouted Ambrose.
"Ah Steve! poor Stevie! The accursed boar has rent his goodly face so
as I would never have known him. Poor Steve! Rest his soul!"
The old man began to weep, while his nephews recollected that they had
heard that another uncle had been slain by the tusk of a wild boar in
early manhood. Then to their surprise, his eyes fell on Spring, and
calling the hound by name, he caressed the creature's head--"Spring,
poor Spring! Stevie's faithful old dog. Hast lost thy master? Wilt
follow me now?"
He was thinking of a Spring as well as of a Stevie of sixty years ago,
and he babbled on of how many fawns were in the Queen's Bower this
summer, and who had best shot at the butts at Lyndhurst, as if he were
excited by the breath of his native Forest, but there was no making him
understand that he was speaking with his nephews. The name of his
brother John only set him repeating that John loved the greenwood, and
would be content to take poor Stevie's place and dwell in the verdurer's
lodge; but that he himself ought to be abroad, he had seen brave Lord
Talbot's ships ready at Southampton, John might stay at home, but he
would win fame and honour in Gascony.
And while he thus wandered, and the boys stood by perplexed and
distressed, Brother Segrim came back, and said, "So, young sirs, have
you seen enough of your doting kinsman? The sub-prior bids me say that
we harbour no strange, idling, lubber lads nor strange dogs here. 'Tis
enough for us to be saddled with dissolute old men-at-arms without all
their idle kin making an excuse to come and pay their devoirs. These
corrodies are a heavy charge and a weighty abuse, and if there be the
visitation the king's majesty speaks of they will be one of the first
matters to be amended."
Wherewith Stephen and Ambrose found themselves walked out of the
cloister of Saint Grimbald, and the gates shut behind them.