Of what befell the abbot's envoys to _Duke William_, our liege lord, and
more particularly _Brother Ralf_, and how we were hemmed in by our foes.
There was no attack of the pirates upon St. Pierre that night, and no
assault on our castles or cloister. And those who had taken refuge
within our walls, ladies and children for the most part, whose lords
were at the wars, spake as though they would return home having nought
to fear. But this our abbot did prevent, except the very nearest living
souls. Others from afar, as Dame Maude de Torteval, and the Lady Marie
de la Mahie with those that they brought with them he sternly bade to
stay in their safe haven.
Now, the pirates touched nor harmed naught in Guernsey through those
first days, save some few beasts they drave up to their château with its
high bastions amidst the trees, and its great flagstaff bearing a green
flag with a white curve like a sickle moon broidered on it.
And it would seem that the fleet that lay in Moulin Huet had chiefly
come to disencumber itself of all manner of goods for the furnishing
and defence of the castle up yonder. For some four days the train of
rough-bearded men in long seamen's boots toiled to and fro from bay to
castle, from castle to bay, with horse and ass, waggon and cart, till
men said all the spoil of Brittany and Spain, with all manner of
treasures of Moorish lands were stored in the deep caverns under the
château. And it was even said that since Le Grand Sarrasin would be lord
of Guernsey, he would treat well and justly them that dwelt therein, and
that if the islanders touched not him he would smite not them, and so
forth. But we of the cloister knew our abbot was no man to close his
eyes, when ill was afoot around him, and that though the pirate-swarm
had none other hand thrust into their comb, his at least would go there,
or send others that were mightier.
And messengers to Normandy had been sent week by week, but none had of
late returned. Day by day our hearts grew more anxious as we saw the
number of Moorish ships in our waters, and we began to fear that they
and their letters had fallen into those evil hands.
And then our worst fears were realized. It was late one evening, I stood
at the cloister gate, and on the white road that led to the château I
saw a figure I seemed to know; but kind heavens, what a figure I It was
good Brother Ralf indeed! But his white skirts were slit in rags, his
ankles bleeding with sore wounds; he stooped and tottered as he walked,
and, horror! that women's sons should do such deeds, his ears had been
hacked and hewn away, and his head hung bloody on his breast whereon a
strip of parchment said--
The envoy of Michael to William returns from Geoffroy to Michael.
More such will follow, and Geoffroy himself ere long cometh to do
unto Michael likewise for his courtesies. Salut.
In a horror I summoned up the brothers, as they trooped out from
compline-prayer, and two of the stoutest bore Ralf gently to the
refectory. There, drugs and good care brought the life back to his eyes,
and he smiled on us as though half in fear that we were foes.
We would have had him speak; but he spake not. And the abbot came, calm
and unmoved yet, but a glitter of keen light kept glancing
lightning-like from his eyes, and he said, as he stood by the settle
whereon he lay--
"Speak, dear son--speak to us thy brethren."
Ralf struggled, and raised his heavy hand, and but babbled without
meaning.
A quick burst of colour rushed into the abbot's face. Calm, stately,
still, with a very blaze of anger hidden in his eyes, that we trembled
again, he stood with that red glow in his cheeks.
"He speaks not--for he is distraught," he said. "What shall God do to
men that rob their brothers of His noblest gift--the gift of reason?"
For a moment he stood in prayer, and then raised his shapely hand and
blessed him thrice, and then bid us bear him to the sick-house, where
sisters nursed him tenderly to life, and won him back much of strength
and health--but never the gift, the abbot called God's noblest gift--for
he had left that for ever behind in the château on the hill.
Now, this Brother Ralf had set out three weeks before in a trader's bark
that sailed for Granville Harbour in Normandy. And he had borne most
urgent missives from our abbot to Duke William. In them was writ how
that a castle of ill-fame was already built, in them that the arch-foe
himself, that so harried St. Brieuc with a very fleet of ships, either
lay in the harbour, or in the new château.
But thus three things we knew. First, that as yet Duke William had had
no word of the evil presumption of this foul settler in the isle, and
could therefore send none to destroy him, and that therefore we had for
the time naught but our own hands and walls to succour us. And next, we
understood, that there was indeed between Le Grand Geoffroy and
ourselves war that none could stay with prayer or supplication to men or
to God. For whereas he knew we had sent to the duke, the sternest
sweeper from land or sea of robber and marauder, to deliver us--so we
knew, as we thought of Ralf, that life and life's joy would have for us
neither sweetness nor endurance, if he went free, who had been to our
brother without mercy and without pity. And, lastly, it was clear that
Geoffroy's Moors were yet more deadly than we thought, and more
numerous. They were stationed, we dreaded to believe, off every point,
at all four quarters. They ringed the Norman Sea with their cursed
hulks. They lay like a moving line of forts 'twixt us and William.
I longed in my heart to break through that encircling line and reach
Duke William; but how could I go? The attack might at any hour come, the
brethren were armed beneath their robes, all goodly things were already
stored in the Castle, and we were ready to pass thither when commanded.
Hugo had his watchmen on the seaward wall, and had enrolled in martial
wise all the lay brethren, many gentlemen, and sundry stout herdmen,
shepherds, and merchants of the island. None slept, though some lay down
to sleep; two days passed without attack, but at the dawning of the
third day we saw some twenty ships sweep from St. Martin's northward,
and as the wind permitted, draw nearer, until they were as close as they
dared come, and we saw the boats trailing astern of every ship.
Then we knew we were surrounded both on land and by sea. Yet that sheer
cliff was hard to mount, running straight up to our wall from the very
sea. So in God and our own walls we had confidence still, and the
prayers of men in danger went up from the Abbey choir. No prayers were
said in those walls, after that day for ever. The day after, church,
cloister, hall, refectory, guesthouse and abbot's dwelling were flaming
up to heaven, or charred and ruined amid their fallen roofs and stones.