Little did Raymond de Brocas think, as he stepped across the threshold
of that quiet monastic home, that the two next years of his own life
were to be spent beneath that friendly and hospitable roof. And yet so
it was, and to the training and teaching he received during his
residence there he attributed much of the strength of mind and force of
character that distinguished him in days to come.
The small community to which they had brought the persecuted victim of
the sorcerer's evil practices belonged to the order of the Cistercians,
who have been described as the Quakers of their day. At a time when many
of the older orders of monks were falling from their first rigid
simplicity -- falling into those habits of extravagance which in days to
come caused their fall and ultimate suppression -- the Cistercians still
held to their early regime of austere simplicity and plainness of life;
and though no longer absolutely secluding themselves from the sight or
sound of their fellow men, or living in complete solitude, they were
still men of austere life and self-denying habits, and retained the
reputation for sanctity of life that was being lost in other orders,
though men had hardly begun to recognize this fact as yet.
From the first moment that Raymond's eyes fell upon the wonderful face
of Father Paul, his heart was touched by one of those strange
attractions for which it is difficult to account, yet which often form a
turning point in the history of a human life. It was not the venerable
appearance of the holy man alone; it was an indescribable something that
defied analysis, yet drew out all that was best and highest in the
spirit of the youth. But after the first glance at the monk, as he came
forward and received the inanimate form of the woodman's son in his
strong arms, Raymond's attention was differently occupied; for on
looking round at his companions, he saw that John's face was as white as
death, and that he swayed in his saddle as though he would fall.
It then occurred to the boy for the first time that this long and tiring
night's ride was an undertaking for which John was little fit. He had
but recently recovered from a bout of sickness that had left him weak
and fit for little fatigue, and yet the whole night through he had been
riding hard, and had only yielded to exhaustion when the object for
which the journey had been taken had been accomplished.
The kindly monks came out and bore him into their house, and presently
he and the woodman's son lay side by side in the room especially set
apart for the sick, watched over by Father Paul, and assiduously tended
by Raymond, to whom John was by this time greatly attached.
As for Gaston, after a rest extending over two nights and days, he was
despatched to Windsor with the escort who had accompanied them on their
ride hither, to tell John's father what had befallen the travellers, and
how, John's wound having broken out afresh, he purposed to remain for
some time the guest of the holy Fathers.
Thus, for the first time in their lives, were the brothers separated;
for though Gaston had no thought but of speedy return when he set out on
his journey, they saw him no more in that quiet cloistered home, and for
two long years the brothers did not meet again. Truth to tell, the quiet
of a religious retreat had no charm for Gaston, as it had for his
brother, and the stirring doings in the great world held him altogether
in thrall. The King of England was even then engaged in active
preparations for the war with France that did not commence in real
earnest till two years later. But all men believed that the invasion of
the enemy's land was very near. Proclamations of the most warlike nature
were being issued alike by King and Parliament. Edward was again putting
forward his inconsistent and illogical claim to the crown of France.
Men's hearts were aflame for the glory and the stress of war, and Gaston
found himself drawn into the vortex, and could only send an urgent
message to his brother, bidding him quickly come to him at Windsor. He
had been taken amongst the number of the Prince's attendants. He longed
for Raymond to come and share his good fortune.
But Raymond, when that message reached him, had other things to think of
than the clash of arms and the struggle with a foreign foe; and he could
only send back a message to his brother that for the time at least their
paths in life must lie in different worlds. Doubtless the day would come
when they should meet again; but for the present his own work lay here
in this quiet place, and Gaston must win his spurs without his brother
beside him. So Gaston threw himself into the new life with all the zest
of his ardent nature, following sometimes the Prince and sometimes the
King, according as it was demanded of him, making one of those who
followed Edward into Flanders the following year, only to be thwarted of
their object through the most unexpected tragedy of the murder of Van
Artevelde.
Of wars, adventures, and battles we shall have enough in the pages to
follow; so without farther concerning ourselves with the fortunes of
Gaston through these two years of excitement and preparation, we will
rather remain with Raymond, and describe in brief the events which
followed upon his admission within the walls of the Cistercian monks' home.
Of those first weeks within its walls Raymond always retained a vivid
remembrance, and they left upon him a mark that was never afterwards
effaced. He became aware of a new power stirring within him which he had
never hitherto dreamed of possessing.
As has before been said, Roger the woodman's son was carried into the
bare but spotlessly clean room upon the upper floor of the building
which was used for any of the sick of the community, and John was laid
in another of the narrow pallet beds, of which there were four in that
place. All this while Roger lay as if dead, in a trance that might be
one simply of exhaustion, or might be that strange sleep into which the
old sorcerer had for years been accustomed to throw him at will. Leaving
him thus passive and apparently lifeless (save that the heart's action
was distinctly perceptible), Father Paul busied himself over poor John,
who was found to be in pitiable plight; for his wound had opened with
the exertion of the long ride, and he had lost much blood before any one
knew the state he was in. For some short time his case was somewhat
critical, as the bleeding proved obstinate, and was checked with
difficulty; and but for Father Paul's accurate knowledge of surgery
(accurate for the times he lived in, at any rate), he would likely
enough have bled to death even as he lay.
Then whilst the kindly monks were bending over him, and Father Paul's
entire time and attention were given up to the case before him, so that
he dared not leave John's bedside for an instant, Roger suddenly uttered
a wild cry and sprang up in his bed, his lips parted, his eyes wide open
and fixed in a dreadful stare.
"I come! I come!" he cried, in a strange, muffled voice; and with a
rapidity and energy of which no one would have believed him capable who
had seen him lifted from the horse an hour before, he rose and strove to
push aside his father's detaining hand.
The old man uttered a bitter cry, and flung his arms about the boy.
"It has come! it has come! I knew it would. There is no hope, none! He
is theirs, body and soul. He will go back to them, and they will --"
The words were drowned in a wild cry, as the boy struggled so fiercely
that it was plain even the old man's frenzied strength would not suffice
to detain him long. Father Paul and the monk who was assisting him with
John could not move without allowing the bleeding to recommence. But
Raymond was standing by disengaged, and the keen eyes of the Father
fixed themselves upon his face. He had heard a brief sketch of the
rescue of Roger as the boy had been undressed and laid in the bed, and
now he said, in accents of quiet command,
"Take the crucifix that hangs at my girdle, and lay it upon his brow.
Bid him lie down once again -- adjure him in the name of the Holy Jesus.
It is not earthly force that will prevail here. We may save him but by
the Name that is above every name. Go!"
Again over Raymond's senses there stole that sense of mystic unreality,
or to speak more truly, the sense of the reality of the unseen over the
seen things about and around us that men call mysticism, but which may
be something widely different; and with it came that quickening of the
faculties that he had experienced before as he had knelt in the
sorcerer's unhallowed hall, the same sense of fearlessness and power. He
took the crucifix without a word, and went straight to the frenzied boy,
struggling wildly against the detaining clasp of his father's arms.
"Let him go," he said briefly; and there was that in the tone that
caused the astonished old man to loose his hold, and stand gazing in awe
and amaze at the youthful face, kindling with its strange look of
resolve and authoritative power.
It seemed as though the possessed boy felt the power himself; for though
his open eyes took in no answering impression from the scenes around
him, his arms fell suddenly to his side. The struggles ceased, he made
no attempt to move; whilst Raymond laid the crucifix against his brow,
and said in a low voice:
"In the Name of the Holy Son of God, in the Name of the Blessed Jesus, I
forbid you to go. Awake from that unhallowed sleep! Call upon the Name
of all names. He will hear you -- He will save you."
His eyes were fixed upon the trembling boy; his face was shining with
the light of his own implicit faith; his strong will braced itself to
the fulfilment of the task set him to do. Confident that what the Father
bid him accomplish, that he could and must fulfil, Raymond did indeed
resemble some pictured saint on painted window, engaged in conflict with
the Evil One; and when with a sudden start and cry the boy woke suddenly
to the sense of passing things, perhaps it was small wonder that he sank
at Raymond's feet, clasping him round the knees and sobbing wildly his
broken and incoherent words:
"O blessed Saint George -- blessed and glorious victor! thou hast come
to me a second time to strengthen and to save. Ah, leave me not! To thee
I give myself; help, O help me to escape out of this snare, which is
more cruel than that of death itself! I will serve thee ever, blessed
saint. I will be thine in life and death! Only fight my battle with the
devil and his host, and take me for thine own for ever and ever."
Raymond kindly lifted him up, and laid him upon the bed again.
"I am no saint," he said, a little shamefacedly; "I am but a youth like
thyself. Thou must not pray to me. But I will help thee all I may, and
perchance some day, when this yoke be broken from off thy neck, we will
ride forth into the world together, and do some service there for those
who are yet oppressed and in darkness."
"I will follow thee to the world's end, be thou who thou mayest!"
exclaimed the boy ecstatically, clasping his thin hands together, whilst
a look of infinite peace came into his weary eyes. "If thou wouldest
watch beside my bed, then might I sleep in peace. He will not dare to
come nigh me; his messengers must stand afar off, fearing to approach
when they see by whom I am guarded."
It was plainly useless to try to disabuse Roger of the impression that
his visitor was other than a supernatural one, and Raymond saw that with
the boy's mind so enfeebled and unhinged he had better let him think
what he would. He simply held the crucifix over him once again, and
said, with a calm authority that surprised even himself:
"Trust not in me, nor in any Saint however holy. In the Name of the
Blessed Jesus alone put thy faith. Speak the prayer His lips have
taught, and then sleep, and fear nothing."
With hands locked together, and a wonderful look of rest upon his face,
Roger repeated after Raymond the long-unused Paternoster which he had
never dared to speak beneath the unhallowed roof of his master at
Basildene. With the old sense of restful confidence in prayer came at
once the old untroubled sleep of the little child; and when Raymond at
last looked up from his own devotions at the bedside, it was to see that
Roger had fallen into the tranquil slumber that is the truest restorer
of health, and that Father Paul was standing on the opposite side of the
bed, regarding him with a very gentle yet a very penetrating and
authoritative gaze. He bent his head once more as if to demand a
blessing, and the Father laid a hand upon his head, and said, in grave,
full tones:
"Peace be with thee, my son."
That was all. There was no comment upon what had passed; and after
partaking of a simple meal, Raymond was advised to retire to rest
himself after his long night's ride, and glad enough was he of the sleep
that speedily came to him.
All the next day he was occupied with Gaston, who had many charges to
undertake for John; and only when his brother had gone was he free to
take up his place at John's bedside, and be once again his nurse,
companion, and fellow student.
Roger still occupied the bed in the same room where he had first been
laid. A low fever of a nature little understood had fastened upon him,
and he still fell frequently into those strange unnatural trances which
were looked upon by the brothers of the order as due to purely satanic
agency. What Father Paul thought about them none ever knew, and none
dared to ask.
Father Paul was a man who had lived in the world till past the meridian
of life. He was reported to have travelled much, to have seen many lands
and many things, and to have been in his youth a reckless and evil
liver. Some even believed him to have committed some great crime; but
none rightly knew his history, and his present sanctity and power and
holiness were never doubted. A single look into that stern, worn,
powerful face, with the coal-black eyes gleaming in their deep sockets,
was enough to convince the onlooker that the man was intensely, even
terribly in earnest. His was the leading spirit in that small and
austere community, and he began at once to exercise a strong influence
upon each of the three youths so unexpectedly thrown across his path.
This influence was the greatest at first over Raymond, in whom he
appeared to take an almost paternal interest; and the strange warfare
that they waged together over the mental malady of the unhappy Roger
drew them still closer together.
Certainly for many long weeks it seemed as though the boy were labouring
under some demoniacal possession, and Raymond fully believed that such
was indeed the case. Often it seemed as though no power could restrain
him from at least the attempt to return to the tyrant whom he believed
to be summoning him back. Possibly much of the strange malady from which
he was suffering might be due to physical causes -- overstrained nerves,
and even an unconscious and morbid craving after that very hypnotic
condition (as it would now be termed) which had really reduced him to
his present pitiable state; but to Raymond it appeared to proceed
entirely from some spiritual possession, and in helping the unhappy boy
to resist and conquer the voice of the tempter, his own faith and
strength of spirit were marvellously strengthened; whilst Roger
continued to regard him in the light of a guardian angel, and followed
him about like a veritable shadow.
Father Paul watched the two youths with a keen and observant interest.
It was by his command that Raymond was always summoned or roused from
sleep whenever the access of nervous terror fell upon Roger and he
strove to obey the summoning voice. He would watch with quiet intensity
the struggle between the wills of the two lads, and mark, with a faint
smile upon his thin lips, the triumph invariably attained by Raymond,
and his growing and increasing faith in the power of the Name he invoked
in his aid. Seldom indeed had he himself to come to the aid of the boy.
He never did so unless Roger's paroxysm lasted long enough to try
Raymond's strength to the verge of exhaustion, and this was very seldom.
The calm smile in the Father's eyes, and his quiet words of
commendation, "Well done, my son!" were reward sufficient for Raymond
even when his strength had been most severely tasked; and as little by
little he and his charge came to know the monk better, and to receive
from him from time to time words of teaching, admonition, or
encouragement, they found themselves growing more and more dominated by
his strong will and personality, more eager day by day to please him,
more anxious to win the rare smile that occasionally flashed across the
austere face and illuminated it like a gleam of sunshine.
John felt almost the same sense of fascination as Raymond, and was by no
means impatient of the tardy convalescence that kept him so long a
prisoner beneath the walls of the small religious house. He would indeed
have fain tarried longer yet, but that his father sent a retinue of
servants at length to bring him home again.
But Raymond did not go with him. His work for Roger was not yet done,
and warmly attached as he was to John, his heart was still more centred
upon Father Paul. Besides, no mention was made of him in the letter that
accompanied the summons home. His brother was he knew not where, and his
duty lay with Roger, who looked to him as to a saviour and protector.
There was no thought of Roger's leaving the retreat he had found in his
hour of need. He scarce dared put foot outside the quiet cloistered
quadrangle behind whose gates and walls he alone felt safe. Besides, his
father lay slowly dying in the hospital hard by. It seemed as though the
very joy of having his son restored to him had been too much for his
enfeebled frame after the long strain of grief that had gone before. The
process of decay might be slow, but it was sure, and all knew that the
old man would ere long die. He had no desire for life, if only his boy
were safe; and to Raymond he presented a pathetic petition that he would
guard and cherish him, and save him from that terrible possession which
had well-nigh been his ruin body and soul.
To Raymond it seemed indeed as if this soul had been given him, and he
passed his word with a solemnity that brought great comfort to the dying
man.
An incident which had occurred shortly before had added to Raymond's
sense of responsibility with regard to Roger, and had shown him likewise
that a new peril menaced his own path in life, though of personal danger
the courageous boy thought little.
One day, some six weeks after his admission to the Monastery, and
shortly before John's departure thence, Roger had been strangely uneasy
and depressed for many hours. It was no return of the trance-like state
in which he was not master of his own words and actions. Those attacks
had almost ceased, and he had been rapidly gaining in strength in
consequence. This depression and restless uneasiness was something new
and strange. Raymond did not know what it might forebode, but he tried
to dissipate it by cheerful talk, and Roger did his best to fight
against it, though without much success.
"Some evil presence is near!" he exclaimed suddenly; "I know it -- I
feel it! I ever felt this sick shuddering when those wicked men
approached me. Methinks that one of them must even now be nigh at hand.
Can they take me hence? Do I indeed belong to them? O save me -- help
me! Give me not up to their power!"
His agitation became so violent, that it was a relief to Raymond that
Father Paul at this moment appeared; and as this phase in Roger's state
was something new, and did not partake of the nature of any spiritual
possession, he dismissed Raymond with a smile, bidding him go out for
one of the brief wanderings in the woods that were at once pleasant and
necessary for him, whilst he himself remained beside Roger, soothing his
nameless terrors and assuring him that no power in the land, not even
that of the King himself, would be strong enough to force from the
keeping of the Church any person who had sought Sanctuary beneath her
shadow.
Meantime Raymond went forth, as he was wont to do, into the beech wood
that lay behind the home of the monks. It was a very beautiful place at
all times; never more so than when the first tender green of coming
summer was clothing the giant trees, and the primroses and wood sorrel
were carpeting the ground, which was yet brown with the fallen leaves of
the past autumn. The slanting sunbeams were quivering through the
gnarled tree trunks, and the birds were singing rapturously overhead, as
Raymond bent his steps along the trodden path which led to the nearest
village; but he suddenly stopped short with a start of surprise on
encountering the intent gaze of a pair of fierce black eyes, and finding
himself face to face with a stranger he had never seen in his life before.
Never seen? No; and yet he knew the man perfectly, and felt that he
changed colour as he stood gazing upon the handsome malevolent face that
was singularly repulsive despite its regular features and bold beauty.
In a moment he recollected where he had seen those very lineaments
portrayed with vivid accuracy, even to the sinister smile and the gleam
in the coal-black eyes.
Roger possessed a gift of face drawing that would in these days make the
fortune of any portrait painter. He had many times drawn with a piece of
rough charcoal pictures of the monks as he saw them in the refectory,
the refined and hollow face of John, and the keen and powerful
countenance of Father Paul. So had he also portrayed for Raymond the
features of the two Sanghursts, father and son. The youth knew perfectly
the faces of both; and as he stopped short, gazing at this stranger with
wide-open eyes, he knew in a moment that Roger's malevolent foe was nigh
at hand, and that the sensitive and morbidly acute faculties of the boy
had warned him of the fact, when he could by no possibility have known
it by any other means.
Sanghurst stood looking intently at this bright-faced boy, a smile on
his lips, a frown in his eyes.
"Methinks thou comest from the Monastery hard by?" he questioned
smoothly. "Canst tell me if there be shelter there for a weary traveller
this night?"
"For a poor and weary traveller perchance there might be," answered the
boy, with a gleam in his eye not lost upon his interlocutor; "but it is
no house of entertainment for the rich and prosperous. Those are sent
onwards to the Benedictine Brothers, some two miles south from this.
Father Paul opens not his gates save to the sick, the sorrowful, the
needy. Shall I put you in the way of the other house, Sir? Methinks it
would suit you better than any place which calls Father Paul its head."
The gaze bent upon the boy was searching and distinctly hostile. As the
dialogue proceeded, the look of malevolence gradually deepened upon the
face of the stranger, till it might have made a timid heart quail.
"How then came John de Brocas to tarry there so long? For aught I know
he may be there yet. By what right is he a guest beneath this so
hospitable roof?"
"He was sick nigh to the death when he craved admittance," answered
Raymond briefly. "He --"
"He had aided and abetted the flight from his true masters of a servant
boy bound over to them lawfully and fast. If he thinks to deceive Peter
Sanghurst or if you do either, boy that you are, though with the
hardihood of a man and the recklessness of a fool -- you little know
with whom you have to deal. It was you -- you who broke into our house
-- I know not how, but some day I shall know -- and stole away with one
you fondly hope to hold against my power. Boy, I warn you fairly: none
ever makes of Peter Sanghurst an enemy but he bitterly, bitterly rues
the day. I give you one chance of averting the doom which else will fall
upon you. Give back the boy. Lure him out hither some day when I am
waiting to seize him. Place him once again in my hands, and your rash
act shall be forgiven. You have the power to do this. Be advised, and
accept my terms. The Sanghursts never forgive. Refuse, and the day will
come when you will so long to have done my bidding now, that you would
even sell your soul to undo the deed which has brought my enmity upon
you. Now choose. Will you deliver up the boy, or --"
"Never!" answered Raymond, with flashing eyes, not even waiting to hear
the alternative. "I fear you not. I know you, and I defy you. I will
this moment to Father Paul, to warn him of your approach. The gates will
be closed, and you will be denied all entrance. You may strive as you
will, but your victim has taken Sanctuary, and not all the powers of the
world or the devil you serve can prevail against the walls of that haven
of refuge. Go back whence you came, or stay and do your worst. We fear
you not. The Holy Saints and the Blessed Jesus are our protectors and
defenders. You have tried in vain your foul spells. You have seen what
their power is against that which is from above. Go, and repent your
evil ways ere it be too late. You threaten me with your vengeance; have
you ever thought of that vengeance of God which awaits those who defy
His laws and invoke the powers of darkness? My trust is in Him;
wherefore I fear you not. Do then your worst. Magnify yourself as you
will. Your fate will be like that of the blaspheming giant of Gath who
defied the power of the living God and fell before the sling and the
stone of the shepherd boy."
And without waiting to hear the answer which was hurled at him with all
the fury of an execration, Raymond turned and sped back to the
Monastery, not in any physical fear of the present vengeance of his foe,
but anxious to warn the keeper of the gate of the close proximity of one
who was so deadly a foe to Father Paul's protege.
Not a word of this adventure ever reached Roger's ears, and indeed
Raymond thought little of it after the next few weeks had passed without
farther molestation from the foe. The old woodman died. Roger, though
sincerely mourning his father, was too happy in returning health and
strength to be over-much cast down. His mind and body were alike growing
stronger. He was never permitted to speak of the past, nor of the
abominations of his prison house. Father Paul had from the first bidden
the boy to forget, or at least to strive to forget, all that had passed
there, and never let his thoughts or his words dwell upon it. Raymond,
despite an occasional access of boyish curiosity, ever kept this warning
in mind, and never sought to discover what Roger had done or had
suffered beneath the roof of Basildene. And so soon as the boy had
recovered some measure of health, both he and Raymond were regularly
instructed by Father Paul in such branches of learning as were likely to
be of most service to them in days to come.
Whether or not he hoped that they would embrace the religious life they
never knew. He never dropped a hint as to his desires on that point, and
they never asked him. They were happy in their quiet home. All the
brothers were kind to them, and the Father was an object of loving
veneration which bordered on adoration.
Two years slipped thus away so fast that it seemed scarce possible to
believe how time had fled by. Save that they had grown much both in body
and mind, the boys would have thought it had been months, not years,
they had spent in that peaceful retreat.
The break to that quiet life came with a mission which was entrusted by
His Holiness himself to Father Paul, and which involved a journey to
Rome. With the thought of travel there came to Raymond's mind a longing
after his own home and the familiar faces of his childhood. The Father
was going to take the route across the sea to Bordeaux, for he had a
mission to fulfil there first. Why might not he go with him and see his
foster-mother and Father Anselm again? He spoke his wish timidly, but it
was kindly and favourably heard; and before the spring green had begun
to clothe the trees, Father Paul, together with Raymond and his shadow
Roger, had set foot once more upon the soil of France.