The Knighting of the Brethren
Another month had gone by, and though Godwin was still somewhat weak
and suffered from a headache at times, the brethren had recovered from
their wounds. On the last day of November, about two o’clock in the
afternoon, a great procession might have been seen wending its way from
the old Hall at Steeple. In it rode many knights fully armed, before
whom were borne their banners. These went first. Then came old Sir
Andrew D’Arcy, also fully armed, attended by squires and retainers. He
was accompanied by his lovely daughter, the lady Rosamund, clad in
beautiful apparel under her cloak of fur, who rode at his right hand on
that same horse which had swum Death Creek. Next appeared the brethren,
modestly arrayed as simple gentlemen, followed each of them by his
squire, scions of the noble houses of Salcote and of Dengie. After them
rode yet more knights, squires, tenants of various degree, and
servants, surrounded by a great number of peasantry and villeins, who
walked and ran with their women folk and children.
Following the road through the village, the procession turned to the
left at the great arch which marked the boundary of the monk’s lands,
and headed for Stangate Abbey, some two miles away, by the path that
ran between the arable land and the Salt marshes, which are flooded at
high tide. At length they came to the stone gate of the Abbey, that
gave the place its name of Stangate. Here they were met by a company of
the Cluniac monks, who dwelt in this wild and lonely spot upon the
water’s edge, headed by their prior, John Fitz Brien. He was a
venerable, white-haired man, clad in wide-sleeved, black robes, and
preceded by a priest carrying a silver cross. Now the procession
separated, Godwin and Wulf, with certain of the knights and their
esquires, being led to the Priory, while the main body of it entered
the church, or stood about outside its door.
Arrived in the house, the two knights elect were taken to a room where
their hair was cut and their chins were shaved by a barber who awaited
them. Then, under the guidance of two old knights named Sir Anthony de
Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci, they were conducted to baths
surrounded with rich cloths. Into these, having been undressed by the
squires, they entered and bathed themselves, while Sir Anthony and Sir
Roger spoke to them through the cloths of the high duties of their
vocation, ending by pouring water over them, and signing their bare
bodies with the sign of the Cross. Next they were dressed again, and
preceded by minstrels, led to the church, at the porch of which they
and their esquires were given wine to drink.
Here, in the presence of all the company, they were clothed first in
white tunics, to signify the whiteness of their hearts; next in red
robes, symbolical of the blood they might be called upon to shed for
Christ; and lastly, in long black cloaks, emblems of the death that
must be endured by all. This done, their armour was brought in and
piled before them upon the steps of the altar, and the congregation
departed homeward, leaving them with their esquires and the priest to
spend the long winter night in orisons and prayers.
Long, indeed, it was, in that lonesome, holy place, lit only by a lamp
which swung before the altar. Wulf prayed and prayed until he could
pray no more, then fell into a half dreamful state that was haunted by
the face of Rosamund, where even her face should have been forgotten.
Godwin, his elbow resting against the tomb that hid his father’s heart,
prayed also, until even his earnestness was outworn, and he began to
wonder about many things.
That dream of his, for instance, in his sickness, when he had seemed to
be dead, and what might be the true duty of man. To be brave and
upright? Surely. To fight for the Cross of Christ against the Saracen?
Surely, if the chance came his way. What more? To abandon the world and
to spend his life muttering prayers like those priests in the darkness
behind him? Could that be needful or of service to God or man? To man,
perhaps, because such folk tended the sick and fed the poor. But to
God? Was he not sent into the world to bear his part in the world—to
live his full life? This would mean a half-life—one into which no woman
might enter, to which no child might be added, since to monks and even
to certain brotherhoods, all these things, which Nature decreed and
Heaven had sanctified, were deadly sin.
It would mean, for instance, that he must think no more of Rosamund.
Could he do this for the sake of the welfare of his soul in some future
state?
Why, at the thought of it even, in that solemn place and hour of
dedication, his spirit reeled, for then and there for the first time it
was borne in upon him that he loved this woman more than all the world
beside—more than his life, more, perhaps, than his soul. He loved her
with all his pure young heart—so much that it would be a joy to him to
die for her, not only in the heat of battle, as lately had almost
chanced on the Death Creek quay, but in cold blood, of set purpose, if
there came need. He loved her with body and with spirit, and, after
God, here to her he consecrated his body and his spirit. But what value
would she put upon the gift? What if some other man—?
By his side, his elbows resting on the altar rails, his eyes fixed upon
the beaming armour that he would wear in battle, knelt Wulf, his
brother—a mighty man, a knight of knights, fearless, noble,
open-hearted; such a one as any woman might well love. And he also
loved Rosamund. Of this Godwin was sure. And, oh! did not Rosamund love
Wulf? Bitter jealousy seized upon his vitals. Yes; even then and there,
black envy got hold of Godwin, and rent him so sore that, cold as was
the place, the sweat poured from his brow and body.
Should he abandon hope? Should he fly the battle for fear that he might
be defeated? Nay; he would fight on in all honesty and honour, and if
he were overcome, would meet his fate as a brave knight should—without
bitterness, but without shame. Let destiny direct the matter. It was in
the hands of destiny, and stretching out his arm, he threw it around
the neck of his brother, who knelt beside him, and let it rest there,
until the head of the weary Wulf sank sleepily upon his shoulder, like
the head of an infant upon its mother’s breast.
“Oh Jesu,” Godwin moaned in his poor heart, “give me strength to fight
against this sinful passion that would lead me to hate the brother whom
I love. Oh Jesu, give me strength to bear it if he should be preferred
before me. Make me a perfect knight—strong to suffer and endure, and,
if need be, to rejoice even in the joy of my supplanter.”
At length the grey dawn broke, and the sunlight, passing through the
eastern window, like a golden spear, pierced the dusk of the long
church, which was built to the shape of a cross, so that only its
transepts remained in shadow. Then came a sound of chanting, and at the
western door entered the Prior, wearing all his robes, attended by the
monks and acolytes, who swung censers. In the centre of the nave he
halted and passed to the confessional, calling on Godwin to follow. So
he went and knelt before the holy man, and there poured out all his
heart. He confessed his sins. They were but few. He told him of the
vision of his sickness, on which the Prior pondered long; of his deep
love, his hopes, his fears, and his desire to be a warrior who once, as
a lad, had wished to be a monk, not that he might shed blood, but to
fight for the Cross of Christ against the Paynim, ending with a cry of—
“Give me counsel, O my father. Give me counsel.”
“Your own heart is your best counsellor,” was the priest’s answer. “Go
as it guides you, knowing that, through it, it is God who guides. Nor
fear that you will fail. But if love and the joys of life should leave
you, then come back, and we will talk again. Go on, pure knight of
Christ, fearing nothing and sure of the reward, and take with you the
blessing of Christ and of his Church.”
“What penance must I bear, father?”
“Such souls as yours inflict their own penance. The saints forbid that
I should add to it,” was the gentle answer.
Then with a lightened heart Godwin returned to the altar rails, while
his brother Wulf was summoned to take his place in the confessional. Of
the sins that he had to tell we need not speak. They were such as are
common to young men, and none of them very grievous. Still, before he
gave him absolution, the good Prior admonished him to think less of his
body and more of his spirit; less of the glory of feats of arms and
more of the true ends to which he should enter on them. He bade him,
moreover, to take his brother Godwin as an earthly guide and example,
since there lived no better or wiser man of his years, and finally
dismissed him, prophesying that if he would heed these counsels, he
would come to great glory on earth and in heaven.
“Father, I will do my best,” answered Wulf humbly; “but there cannot be
two Godwins; and, father, sometimes I fear me that our paths will
cross, since two men cannot win one woman.”
“I know the trouble,” answered the Prior anxiously, “and with less
noble-natured men it might be grave. But if it should come to this,
then must the lady judge according to the wishes of her own heart, and
he who loses her must be loyal in sorrow as in joy. Be sure that you
take no base advantage of your brother in the hour of temptation, and
bear him no bitterness should he win the bride.”
“I think I can be sure of that,” said Wulf; “also that we, who have
loved each other from birth, would die before we betrayed each other.”
“I think so also,” answered the Prior; “but Satan is very strong.”
Then Wulf also returned to the altar rails, and the full Mass was sung,
and the Sacrament received by the two neophytes, and the offerings made
all in their appointed order. Next they were led back to the Priory to
rest and eat a little after their long night’s vigil in the cold
church, and here they abode awhile, thinking their own thoughts, seated
alone in the Prior’s chamber. At length Wulf, who seemed to be ill at
ease, rose and laid his hand upon his brother’s shoulder, saying:
“I can be silent no more; it was ever thus: that which is in my mind
must out of it. I have words to say to you.”
“Speak on, Wulf,” said Godwin.
Wulf sat himself down again upon his stool, and for a while stared hard
at nothing, for he did not seem to find it easy to begin this talk. Now
Godwin could read his brother’s mind like a book, but Wulf could not
always read Godwin’s, although, being twins who had been together from
birth, their hearts were for the most part open to each other without
the need of words.
“It is of our cousin Rosamund, is it not?” asked Godwin presently.
“Ay. Who else?”
“And you would tell me that you love her, and that now you are a
knight—almost—and hard on five-and twenty years of age, you would ask
her to become your affianced wife?”
“Yes, Godwin; it came into my heart when she rode the grey horse into
the water, there upon the pier, and I thought that I should never see
her any more. I tell you it came into my heart that life was not worth
living nor death worth dying without her.”
“Then, Wulf,” answered Godwin slowly, “what more is there to say? Ask
on, and prosper. Why not? We have some lands, if not many, and Rosamund
will not lack for them. Nor do I think that our uncle would forbid you,
if she wills it, seeing that you are the properest man and the bravest
in all this country side.”
“Except my brother Godwin, who is all these things, and good and
learned to boot, which I am not,” replied Wulf musingly. Then there was
silence for a while, which he broke.
“Godwin, our ill-luck is that you love her also, and that you thought
the same thoughts which I did yonder on the quay-head.”
Godwin flushed a little, and his long fingers tightened their grip upon
his knee.
“It is so,” he said quietly. “To my grief it is so. But Rosamund knows
nothing of this, and should never know it if you will keep a watch upon
your tongue. Moreover, you need not be jealous of me, before marriage
or after.”
“What, then, would you have me do?” asked Wulf hotly. “Seek her heart,
and perchance—though this I doubt—let her yield it to me, she thinking
that you care naught for her?”
“Why not?” asked Godwin again, with a sigh; “it might save her some
pain and you some doubt, and make my own path clearer. Marriage is more
to you than to me, Wulf, who think sometimes that my sword should be my
spouse and duty my only aim.”
“Who think, having a heart of gold, that even in such a thing as this
you will not bar the path of the brother whom you love. Nay, Godwin, as
I am a sinful man, and as I desire her above all things on earth, I
will play no such coward’s game, nor conquer one who will not lift his
sword lest he should hurt me. Sooner would I bid you all farewell, and
go to seek fortune or death in the wars without word spoken.”
“Leaving Rosamund to pine, perchance. Oh, could we be sure that she had
no mind toward either of us, that would be best—to begone together.
But, Wulf, we cannot be sure, since at times, to be honest, I have
thought she loves you.”
“And at times, to be honest, Godwin, I have been sure that she loves
you, although I should like to try my luck and hear it from her lips,
which on such terms I will not do.”
“What, then, is your plan, Wulf?”
“My plan is that if our uncle gives us leave, we should both speak to
her—you first, as the elder, setting out your case as best you can, and
asking her to think of it and give you your answer within a day. Then,
before that day is done I also should speak, so that she may know all
the story, and play her part in it with opened eyes, not deeming, as
otherwise she might, that we know each other’s minds, and that you ask
because I have no will that way.”
“It is very fair,” replied Godwin; “and worthy of you, who are the most
honest of men. Yet, Wulf, I am troubled. See you, my brother, have ever
brethren loved each other as we do? And now must the shadow of a woman
fall upon and blight that love which is so fair and precious?”
“Why so?” asked Wulf. “Come, Godwin, let us make a pact that it shall
not be thus, and keep it by the help of heaven. Let us show the world
that two men can love one woman and still love each other, not knowing
as yet which of them she will choose—if, indeed, she chooses either.
For, Godwin, we are not the only gentlemen whose eyes have turned, or
yet may turn, towards the high-born, rich, and lovely lady Rosamund. Is
it your will that we should make such a pact?”
Godwin thought a little, then answered:
“Yes; but if so, it must be one so strong that for her sake and for
both our sakes we cannot break it and live with honour.”
“So be it,” said Wulf; “this is man’s work, not child’s make-believe.”
Then Godwin rose, and going to the door, bade his squire, who watched
without, pray the Prior John to come to them as they sought his counsel
in a matter. So he came, and, standing before him with downcast head,
Godwin told him all the tale, which, indeed, he who knew so much
already, was quick to understand, and of their purpose also; while at a
question from the prior, Wulf answered that it was well and truly said,
nothing having been kept back. Then they asked him if it was lawful
that they should take such an oath, to which he replied that he thought
it not only lawful, but very good.
So in the end, kneeling together hand in hand before the Rood that
stood in the chamber, they repeated this oath after him, both of them
together.
“We brethren, Godwin and Wulf D’Arcy, do swear by the holy Cross of
Christ, and by the patron saint of this place, St. Mary Magdalene, and
our own patron saints, St. Peter and St. Chad, standing in the presence
of God, of our guardian angels, and of you, John, that being both of us
enamoured of our cousin, Rosamund D’Arcy, we will ask her to wife in
the manner we have agreed, and no other. That we will abide by her
decision, should she choose either of us, nor seek to alter it by
tempting her from her troth, or in any fashion overt or covert. That he
of us whom she refuses will thenceforth be a brother to her and no
more, however Satan may tempt his heart otherwise. That so far as may
be possible to us, who are but sinful men, we will suffer neither
bitterness nor jealousy to come between our love because of this woman,
and that in war or peace we will remain faithful comrades and brethren.
Thus we swear with a true heart and purpose, and in token thereof,
knowing that he who breaks this oath will be a knight dishonoured and a
vessel fit for the wrath of God, we kiss this Rood and one another.”
This, then, these brethren said and did, and with light minds and
joyful faces received the blessing of the Prior, who had christened
them in infancy, and went down to meet the great company that had
ridden forth to lead them back to Steeple, where their knighting should
be done.
So to Steeple, preceded by the squires, who rode before them
bareheaded, carrying their swords by the scabbarded points, with their
gold spurs hanging from the hilts, they came at last. Here the hall was
set for a great feast, a space having been left between the tables and
the dais, to which the brethren were conducted. Then came forward Sir
Anthony de Mandeville and Sir Roger de Merci in full armour, and
presented to Sir Andrew D’Arcy, their uncle, who stood upon the edge of
the dais, also in his armour, their swords and spurs, of which he gave
back to them two of the latter, bidding them affix these upon the
candidates’ right heels. This done, the Prior John blessed the swords,
after which Sir Andrew girded them about the waists of his nephews,
saying:
“Take ye back the swords that you have used so well.”
Next, he drew his own silver-hilted blade that had been his father’s
and his grandfather’s, and whilst they knelt before him, smote each of
them three blows upon the right shoulder, crying with a loud voice: “In
the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George, I knight ye. Be ye good
knights.”
Thereafter came forward Rosamund as their nearest kinswoman, and,
helped by other ladies, clad upon them their hauberks, or coats of
mail, their helms of steel, and their kite-shaped shields, emblazoned
with a skull, the cognizance of their race. This done, with the
musicians marching before them, they walked to Steeple church—a
distance of two hundred paces from the Hall, where they laid their
swords upon the altar and took them up again, swearing to be good
servants of Christ and defenders of the Church. As they left its doors,
who should meet them but the cook, carrying his chopper in his hand and
claiming as his fee the value of the spurs they wore, crying aloud at
the same time:
“If either of you young knights should do aught in despite of your
honour and of the oaths that you have sworn—from which may God and his
saints prevent you!—then with my chopper will I hack these spurs from
off your heels.”
Thus at last the long ceremony was ended, and after it came a very
great feast, for at the high table were entertained many noble knights
and ladies, and below, in the hall their squires, and other gentlemen,
and outside all the yeomanry and villagers, whilst the children and the
aged had food and drink given to them in the nave of the church itself.
When the eating at length was done, the centre of the hall was cleared,
and while men drank, the minstrels made music. All were very merry with
wine and strong ale, and talk arose among them as to which of these
brethren—Sir Godwin or Sir Wulf—was the more brave, the more handsome,
and the more learned and courteous.
Now a knight—it was Sir Surin de Salcote—seeing that the argument grew
hot and might lead to blows, rose and declared that this should be
decided by beauty alone, and that none could be more fitted to judge
than the fair lady whom the two of them had saved from woman-thieves at
the Death Creek quay. They all called, “Ay, let her settle it,” and it
was agreed that she would give the kerchief from her neck to the
bravest, a beaker of wine to the handsomest, and a Book of Hours to the
most learned.
So, seeing no help for it, since except her father, the brethren, the
most of the other ladies and herself, who drank but water, gentle and
simple alike, had begun to grow heated with wine, and were very urgent,
Rosamund took the silk kerchief from her neck. Then coming to the edge
of the dais, where they were seated in the sight of all, she stood
before her cousins, not knowing, poor maid, to which of them she should
offer it. But Godwin whispered a word to Wulf, and both of them
stretching out their right hands, snatched an end of the kerchief which
she held towards them, and rending it, twisted the severed halves round
their sword hilts. The company laughed at their wit, and cried:
“The wine for the more handsome. They cannot serve that thus.”
Rosamund thought a moment; then she lifted a great silver beaker, the
largest on the board, and having filled it full of wine, once more came
forward and held it before them as though pondering. Thereon the
brethren, as though by a single movement, bent forward and each of them
touched the beaker with his lips. Again a great laugh went up, and even
Rosamund smiled.
“The book! the book!” cried the guests. “They dare not rend the holy
book!”
So for the third time Rosamund advanced, bearing the missal.
“Knights,” she said, “you have torn my kerchief and drunk my wine. Now
I offer this hallowed writing—to him who can read it best.”
“Give it to Godwin,” said Wulf. “I am a swordsman, not a clerk.”
“Well said! well said!” roared the company. “The sword for us—not the
pen!” But Rosamund turned on them and answered:
“He who wields sword is brave, and he who wields pen is wise, but
better is he who can handle both sword and pen—like my cousin Godwin,
the brave and learned.”
“Hear her! hear her!” cried the revellers, knocking their horns upon
the board, while in the silence that followed a woman’s voice said,
“Sir Godwin’s luck is great, but give me Sir Wulf’s strong arms.”
Then the drinking began again, and Rosamund and the ladies slipped
away, as well they might—for the times were rough and coarse.
On the morrow, after most of the guests were gone, many of them with
aching heads, Godwin and Wulf sought their uncle, Sir Andrew, in the
solar where he sat alone, for they knew Rosamund had walked to the
church hard by with two of the serving women to make it ready for the
Friday’s mass, after the feast of the peasants that had been held in
the nave. Coming to his oaken chair by the open hearth which had a
chimney to it—no common thing in those days—they knelt before him.
“What is it now, my nephews?” asked the old man, smiling. “Do you wish
that I should knight you afresh?”
“No, sir,” answered Godwin; “we seek a greater boon.”
“Then you seek in vain, for there is none.”
“Another sort of boon,” broke in Wulf.
Sir Andrew pulled his beard, and looked at them. Perhaps the Prior John
had spoken a word to him, and he guessed what was coming.
“Speak,” he said to Godwin. “The gift is great that I would not give to
either of you if it be within my power.”
“Sir,” said Godwin, “we seek the leave to ask your daughter’s hand in
marriage.”
“What! the two of you?”
“Yes, sir; the two of us.”
Then Sir Andrew, who seldom laughed, laughed outright.
“Truly,” he said, “of all the strange things I have known, this is the
strangest—that two knights should ask one wife between them.”
“It seems strange, sir; but when you have heard our tale you will
understand.”
So he listened while they told him all that had passed between them and
of the solemn oath which they had sworn.
“Noble in this as in other things,” commented Sir Andrew when they had
done; “but I fear that one of you may find that vow hard to keep. By
all the saints, nephews, you were right when you said that you asked a
great boon. Do you know, although I have told you nothing of it, that,
not to speak of the knave Lozelle, already two of the greatest men in
this land have sought my daughter Rosamund in marriage?”
“It may well be so,” said Wulf.
“It is so, and now I will tell you why one or other of the pair is not
her husband, which in some ways I would he were. A simple reason. I
asked her, and she had no mind to either, and as her mother married
where her heart was, so I have sworn that the daughter should do, or
not at all—for better a nunnery than a loveless bridal.
“Now let us see what you have to give. You are of good blood—that of
Uluin by your mother, and mine, also on one side her own. As squires to
your sponsors of yesterday, the knights Sir Anthony de Mandeville and
Sir Roger de Merci, you bore yourselves bravely in the Scottish War;
indeed, your liege king Henry remembered it, and that is why he granted
my prayer so readily. Since then, although you loved the life little,
because I asked it of you, you have rested here at home with me, and
done no feats of arms, save that great one of two months gone which
made you knights, and, in truth, gives you some claim on Rosamund.
“For the rest, your father being the younger son, your lands are small,
and you have no other gear. Outside the borders of this shire you are
unknown men, with all your deeds to do—for I will not count those
Scottish battles when you were but boys. And she whom you ask is one of
the fairest and noblest and most learned ladies in this land, for I,
who have some skill in such things, have taught her myself from
childhood. Moreover, as I have no other heir, she will be wealthy.
Well, what more have you to offer for all this?”
“Ourselves,” answered Wulf boldly. “We are true knights of whom you
know the best and worst, and we love her. We learned it for once and
for all on Death Creek quay, for till then she was our sister and no
more.”
“Ay,” added Godwin, “when she swore herself to us and blessed us, then
light broke on both.”
“Stand up,” said Sir Andrew, “and let me look at you.”
So they stood side by side in the full light of the blazing fire, for
little other came through those narrow windows.
“Proper men; proper men,” said the old knight; “and as like to one
another as two grains of wheat from the same sample. Six feet high,
each of you, and broad chested, though Wulf is larger made and the
stronger of the two. Brown and waving-haired both, save for that line
of white where the sword hit yours, Godwin—Godwin with grey eyes that
dream and Wulf with the blue eyes that shine like swords. Ah! your
grandsire had eyes like that, Wulf; and I have been told that when he
leapt from the tower to the wall at the taking of Jerusalem, the
Saracens did not love the light which shone in them—nor, in faith, did
I, his son, when he was angry. Proper men, the pair of you; but Sir
Wulf most warriorlike, and Sir Godwin most courtly. Now which do you
think would please a woman most?”
“That, sir, depends upon the woman,” answered Godwin, and straightway
his eyes began to dream.
“That, sir, we seek to learn before the day is out, if you give us
leave,” added Wulf; “though, if you would know, I think my chance a
poor one.”
“Ah, well; it is a very pretty riddle. But I do not envy her who has
its answering, for it might well trouble a maid’s mind, neither is it
certain when all is done that she will guess best for her own peace.
Would it not be wiser, then, that I should forbid them to ask this
riddle?” he added as though to himself and fell to thinking while they
trembled, seeing that he was minded to refuse their suit.
At length he looked up again and said: “Nay, let it go as God wills Who
holds the future in His hand. Nephews, because you are good knights and
true, either of whom would ward her well—and she may need
warding—because you are my only brother’s sons, whom I have promised
him to care for; and most of all because I love you both with an equal
love, have your wish, and go try your fortunes at the hands of my
daughter Rosamund in the fashion you have agreed. Godwin, the elder,
first, as is his right; then Wulf. Nay, no thanks; but go swiftly, for
I whose hours are short wish to learn the answer to this riddle.”
So they bowed and went, walking side by side. At the door of the hall,
Wulf stopped and said:
“Rosamund is in the church. Seek her there, and—oh! I would that I
could wish you good fortune; but, Godwin, I cannot. I fear me that this
may be the edge of that shadow of woman’s love whereof you spoke,
falling cold upon my heart.”
“There is no shadow; there is light, now and always, as we have sworn
that it should be,” answered Godwin.