The memorable siege of Calais at an end, Edward, his Queen and son and
nobility generally, set sail for England, where many matters were
requiring the presence of the sovereign after an absence so prolonged.
When the others of the Prince's comrades were thronging on hoard to
accompany him homewards, Gaston and Raymond sought him to petition for
leave to remain yet longer in France, that they might revisit the home
of their youth and the kind-hearted people who had protected them during
their helpless childhood.
Leave was promptly and willingly given, though the Prince was graciously
pleased to express a hope that he should see his faithful comrades in
England again ere long.
It had begun to be whispered abroad that these two lads with their
knightly bearing, their refinement of aspect, and their fearlessness in
the field, were no common youths sprung from some lowly stock. That
there was some mystery surrounding their birth was now pretty well
admitted, and this very mystery encircled them with something of a charm
-- a charm decidedly intensified by the aspect of Raymond, who never
looked so much the creature of flesh and blood as did his brother and
the other young warriors of Edward's camp. The fact, which was well
known now, that he had walked unharmed and unchallenged through the
streets of Calais upon the day of its capitulation, but before the terms
had been agreed upon, was in itself, in the eyes of many, a proof of
some strange power not of this world which encircled the youth. And
indeed Gaston himself was secretly of the opinion that his brother was
something of a saint or spirit, and regarded him with a reverential
affection unusual between brothers of the same age.
Through the four years since he had left his childhood's home, Gaston
had felt small wish to revisit it. The excitement and exaltation of the
new life had been enough for him, and the calm quiet of the peaceful
past had lost, its charm. Now, however, that the war was for the present
over, and with it the daily round of adventure and change; now that he
had gold in his purse, a fine charger to ride, and two or three stout
men-at-arms in his train, a sudden wish to see again the familiar haunts
of his childhood had come over him, and he had willingly agreed to
Raymond's suggestion that they should go together to Sauveterre, to ask
a blessing from Father Anselm, and tell him how they had fared since
they had parted from him long ago. True, Raymond had seen him a year
before, but he had not then been in battle; he had not had much to tell
save of the cloister life he had been sharing; and of Gaston's fortunes
he had himself known nothing.
Both brothers were for the present amply provided for. They had received
rich rewards from the Prince after the Battle of Crecy, and the spoils
of Calais had been very great. They could travel in ease through the
sunny plains of France, sufficiently attended to be safe from
molestation, even if the terror of the English arms were not protection
enough for those who wore the badge of the great Edward. From Bordeaux
they could find easy means of transport to England later; and nothing
pleased them better than the thought of this long ride through the
plains of France, on the way to the old home.
They did not hurry themselves on this pleasant journey, taken just as
the trying heats of summer had passed, but before the winter's cold had
made its first approach. The woods were scarce showing their first
russet tints as the brothers found themselves in familiar country once
again, and looked about them with eager glances of recognition as they
traversed the once well-known tracks.
"Let us first to Father Anselm," said Raymond, as they neared the
village where the good priest held his cure. "He will gladly have us
pass a night beneath his roof ere we go onward to the mill; and our good
fellows will find hospitable shelter with the village folks. They have
been stanch and loyal in these parts to the cause of the Roy Outremer,
and any soldier coming from his camp will be doubly welcome, as the
bearer of news of good luck to the English arms. The coward King of
France is little loved by the bold Gascons, save where a rebel lord
thinks to forward his private ends by transferring his allegiance from
England to France."
"To the good Father's, then, with all my heart," answered Gaston
heartily; and the little troop moved onwards until, to the astonishment
of the simple villagers clustered round the little church and their
cure's house, the small but brilliant cavalcade of armed travellers drew
up before that lowly door.
The Father was within, and, as the sound of trampling feet made itself
heard, appeared at his door in some astonishment; but when the two
youths sprang from their horses and bent the knee before him, begging
his blessing, and he recognized in them the two boys who had filled so
great a portion of his life not so many years ago, a mist came before
his eyes, and his voice faltered as he gave the benediction, whilst
raising them afterwards and tenderly embracing them, he led them within
the well-known doorway, at the same time calling his servant and bidding
him see to the lodging of the men without.
The low-ceiled parlour of the priest, with its scanty plenishing and
rush-strewn floor, was well known to the boys; yet as Raymond stepped
across the threshold he uttered a cry of surprise, not at any change in
the aspect of the room itself, but at sight of a figure seated in a
high-backed chair, with the full sunlight shining upon the calm, thin
face. With an exclamation of joyful recognition the lad sped forward and
threw himself upon his knees before the erect figure, with the name of
Father Paul upon his lips.
The keen, austere face did not soften as Father Anselm's had done. The
Cistercian monk, true to the severity of his order, permitted nothing of
pleasure to appear in his face as he looked at the youth whose character
he had done so much to form. He did not even raise his hand at once in
the customary salutation or blessing, but fixed his eyes upon Raymond's
face, now lifted to his in questioning surprise; and not until he had
studied that face with great intentness for many long minutes did he lay
his hand upon the lad's head and say, in a low, deep voice, "Peace be
with thee, my son."
This second and most unexpected meeting was almost a greater pleasure to
Raymond than the one with Father Anselm. Whilst Gaston engrossed his old
friend's time and thought, sitting next him at the board, and pacing at
his side afterwards in the little garden in which he loved to spend his
leisure moments, Raymond remained seated at the feet of Father Paul,
listening with breathless interest to his history of the voyage he had
taken to the far East (as it then seemed), and to the strange and
terrible sights he had witnessed in some of those far-off lands.
Raymond had vaguely heard before of the plague, but had regarded it as a
scourge confined exclusively to the fervid heat of far-off countries --
a thing that would never come to the more temperate latitudes of the
north; but when he spoke these words to the monk, Father Paul shook his
head, and a sudden sombre light leaped into his eyes.
"My son, the plague is the scourge of God. It is not confined to one
land or another. It visits all alike, if it be God's will to send it in
punishment for the many and grievous sins of its inhabitants. True, in
the lands of the East, where the paynim holds his court, and everywhere
is blasphemy and abomination, the scourge returns time after time, and
never altogether ceases from amongst the blinded people. But of late it
has spread farther and farther westward -- nearer and nearer to our own
shores. God is looking down upon the lands whose people call themselves
after His name, and what does he see there but corruption in high
places, greed, lust, the covetousness that is idolatry, the slothful
ease that is the curse of the Church?"
The monk's eyes flashed beneath their heavily-fringed lids; the fire
that glowed in them was of a strange and sombre kind. Raymond turned his
pure young face, full of passionate admiration and reverence, towards
the fine but terribly stern countenance of the ecclesiastic. A painter
would have given much to have caught the expression upon those two faces
at that moment. The group was a very striking one, outlined against the
luminous saffron of the western sky behind.
"Father, tell me more!" pleaded Raymond. "I am so young, so ignorant;
and many of the things the world praises and calls deeds of good turn my
heart sick and my spirit faint within me. I would fain know how I may
safely tread the difficult path of life. I would fain choose the good
and leave the evil. But there be times when I know not how to act, when
it seems as though naught in this world were wholly pure. Is it only
those who yield themselves up to the life of the cloister who may choose
aright and see with open eyes? Must I give up my sword and turn monk ere
I may call myself a son of Heaven?"
The boy's eyes were full of an eager, questioning light. His hands were
clasped together, and his face was turned full upon his companion. The
Father's eyes rested on the pure, ethereal face with a softer look than
they had worn before, and then a deep sadness came into them.
"My son," he answered, very gravely, "I am about to say a thing to thee
which I would not say to many young and untried as thou art. There have
been times in my life when I should have triumphed openly had men spoken
to me the words that I shall speak to thee -- times when I had gladly
said that all which men call holiness was but a mask for corruption and
deceit, and should have rejoiced that the very monks themselves were
forced to own to their own wanton disregard of their vows. My son, I see
the shrinking and astonishment in thine eyes; but yet I would for a
moment that thou couldst see with mine. I spoke awhile ago of the
judgment of an angry God. Wherefore, thinkest thou, is it that His anger
is so hotly burning against those lands that call themselves by His name
-- that call day by day upon His name, and make their boast that they
hold the faith whole and undefiled?"
Raymond shook his head. He had no words with which to answer. He was
beginning slowly yet surely to feel his eyes opened to the evil of the
world -- even that world of piety and chivalry of which such bright
dreams had been dreamed. His fair ideals were being gradually dashed and
effaced. Something of sickness of heart had penetrated his being, and he
had said in the unconscious fashion of pure-hearted youth, "Vanity of
vanities! is all around but vanity?" and he had found no answer to his
own pathetic question.
As an almost necessary consequence of all this had his thoughts turned
towards the holy, dedicated life of the sons of the Church; and though
it was with a strong sense of personal shrinking, with a sense that the
sacrifice would be well-nigh bitterer than the bitterness of death, he
had asked himself if it might not be that God had called him, and that
if he would be faithful to the love he had ever professed to hold, he
ought to rise up without farther delay and offer himself to the
dedicated service of the Church.
And now Father Paul, who had always seemed to read the very secrets of
his heart, appeared about to answer this unspoken question. Greatly had
Raymond longed of late to speak with him again. Father Anselm was a good
and a saintly man, but he knew nothing of the life of the world. To him
the Church was the ark of refuge from all human ills, and gladly would
he have welcomed within its fold any weary or world-worn soul. But with
Father Paul it was different. He had lived in the world; he had sinned
(if men spoke truth), and had suffered bitterly. One look in his face
was enough to tell that; and having lived and sinned, repented and
suffered, he was far more able to offer counsel to one tempted and
sometimes suffering, though perhaps in a very different fashion.
The Father's eyes were bent upon the faint glow in the sky, seen through
the open casement. His words were spoken quietly, yet with an
earnestness that was almost terrible.
"My son," he said, "I have come back but recently from lands where it
seems that holiness should abound -- that righteousness should flow
forth as from a perpetual fountain, where the Lord should be seen
walking almost visibly in the midst of His people. And what have I seen
instead? Luxury, corruption, unspeakable abominations -- abominations
such as I may not dare to speak in thy pure ears, such as I would not
have believed had not mine own eyes seen, mine own ears heard. Where is
the poverty, the lowliness, the meekness, the chastity of the sons of
the Church? Ah, God in Heaven only knows; and let it be our solemn
rejoicing that He does know where His own faithful children are to be
found, for assuredly man would miserably fail if he were sent forth to
find and to gather them. Leaving those lands which thou, my son, hast
never seen, and coming hither to France and England, what do we find?
Those who have vowed themselves to the service of the Church walking
gaily in the dress of soldiers, engaged in carnal matters, letting their
hair hang down their shoulders curled and powdered, and thinking scorn
of the tonsure, which is the mark of the Kingdom of Heaven. And does not
God see? Will He not recompense to His people their sins? Yea, verily He
will; and in an hour when they little think it, the wrath of God shall
fall upon them. It is even now upon its way. I have seen it; I have
marked its progress. Ere another year has passed, if men repent not of
their sins, it will be stalking amongst us. And thou, my son, when that
day comes, fear not. Think not of the cloister; keep thy good sword at
thy side, but keep it bright in the cause of right, of mercy, of truth,
and keep thy shield stainless and unspotted. Then when the hour of
judgment falls upon this land, and men in wild terror begin to call upon
the God they have forgotten and abused, then go thou forth in the power
of that purity of heart which He in His mercy has vouchsafed to thee.
Fear not the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor the sickness that
destroyeth at noonday. A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten
thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. With thine
eyes shalt thou behold the destruction of thine enemies; but the angels
of God shall encamp around thy path, and guard thee in all thy ways.
Only be true, be fearless, be steadfast. Thou shalt be a knight of the
Lord; thou shalt fight His battle; and from Him, and from no earthly
sovereign, shalt thou reap thy reward at last!"
As the Father continued speaking, it seemed as if something of prophetic
fire had lighted his eyes. Raymond held his breath in awe as he heard
this strange warning, benediction, and promise. But not for a moment did
he doubt that what the Father spoke would come to pass. He sank upon his
knees, and his heart went up in prayer that when the hour of trial came
he might be found faithful at his post; and at once and for ever was
laid to rest that restless questioning as to the life of the Church. He
knew from that moment forward that it was in the world and not out of it
that his work for his Lord was to be done.
No more of a personal nature passed between him and Father Paul that
night, and upon the morrow the brothers proceeded to the mill, and the
Father upon his journey to England.
"We shall meet again ere long," was Father Paul's parting word to
Raymond, and he knew that it would be so.
It was a pretty sight to witness the delighted pride with which honest
Jean and Margot welcomed back their boys again after the long
separation. Raymond hardly seemed a stranger after his visit of the
previous year, but of Gaston they knew not how to make enough. His tall
handsome figure and martial air struck them dumb with admiration. They
never tired of listening to his tales of flood and field; and the
adventures he had met with, though nothing very marvellous in
themselves, seemed to the simple souls, who had lived so quiet a life,
to raise him at once to the position of some wonderful and almost
mythical being.
On their own side, they had a long story to tell of the disturbed state
of the country, and the constant fighting which had taken place until
the English King's victory at Crecy had caused Philip to disband his
army, and had restored a certain amount of quiet to the country.
The quiet was by no means assured or very satisfactory. Though the army
had been disbanded, there was a great deal of brigandage in the remoter
districts. So near as the mill was to Sauveterre, it had escaped without
molestation, and the people in the immediate vicinity had not suffered
to any extent; but there was a restless and uneasy feeling pervading the
country, and it had been a source of considerable disappointment to the
well-disposed that the Roy Outremer had not paid a visit to Gascony in
person, to restore a greater amount of order, before returning to his
own kingdom.
The Sieur de Navailles had made himself more unpopular than ever by his
adhesion to the French cause when all the world had believed that
Philip, with his two huge armies, would sweep the English out of the
country. Of late, in the light of recent events, he had tried to annul
his disloyalty, and put another face upon his proceedings; but only his
obscurity, and the remoteness of his possessions in the far south, would
protect him from Edward's wrath when the affairs of the rebel Gascons
came to be inquired into in detail.
Gaston listened eagerly, and treasured it all carefully up, feeling sure
he could place his rival and the usurper of the De Brocas lands in a
very unenviable position with the royal Edward at any time when he
wished to make good his own claim.
The visit of the De Brocas brothers (as they were known in these parts)
was not made by stealth. All the world might know it now for all they
cared, protected as they were by their stout men-at-arms, and surrounded
by the glamour of the English King's royal favour. Gaston and Raymond
ranged the woods and visited their old haunts with the zest of youth and
affectionate memories, and Gaston often hunted there alone whilst his
brother paid a visit to Father Anselm, to read with him or talk of
Father Paul.
It was after a day spent thus apart that Gaston came in looking as
though some unwonted thing had befallen him, and when he and his brother
were alone in their room together, he began to speak with eager rapidity.
"Raymond, methinks I have this day lost my heart to a woodland nymph or
fairy. Such a strange encounter had I in the forest today! and with it a
warning almost as strange as the being who offered it."
"A warning, Gaston? what sort of warning?"
"Why, against our old, old enemy the Navailles, who, it seems, knows of
our visit here, and, if he dared, would gladly make an end of us both.
So at least the fairy creature told me, imploring me, with sweetest
solicitude, to be quickly gone, and to adventure myself in the woods
alone no more. I told her that our visit was well-nigh at an end, and
that we purposed to reach England ere the autumn gales blew shrill. At
that she seemed mightily pleased, and yet she sighed when we said adieu.
Raymond, she was the loveliest maiden my eyes have ever beheld: her hair
like silk, and of the deepest golden hue; her eyes of the colour of
violets nestling beneath brown winter leaves. Her voice was like the
rippling of a summer's brook, and her form scarce of this earth, so
light, so airy, so full of sylvan grace. She was like the angelic being
of a dream. I have never seen a daughter of earth so fair. Tell me,
thinkest thou it was some dream? Yet it is not my wont to slumber at my
sport, and the little hand I held in mine throbbed with the warmth of life."
"Asked you not her name and station?"
"Yea verily, but she would tell me naught; only the soft colour crept
into her cheeks, and she turned her eyes for a moment away. Raymond, I
have heard men speak of love, but till that moment I knew not what they
meant. Now methinks I have a better understanding, for if yon sweet
maiden had looked long into my eyes, my very soul would sure have gone
out to her, and I should have straightway forgot all else in the world
but herself. Wherefore I wondered if she could be in truth a real and
living being, or whether some woodland siren sent to lure man to death
and destruction."
Raymond smiled at the gravity of Gaston's words. Mystic as he was in
many matters, he had outgrown that belief in woodland nymphs and sirens
which had woven itself into their life whilst the spell of the forests
remained upon them in their boyhood. That evil and good spirits did
hover about the path of humanity, Raymond sincerely believed; but he was
equally certain that they took no tangible form, and that the vision
Gaston had seen in the wood was no phantom form of spirit.
"Sure she came to try to warn and save," he answered; "that should be
answer enough. Gaston, methinks we will take that warning. We are still
but striplings and our men are few, though brave and true. The land is
disturbed as in our memory it never was, and men are wild and lawless,
none being strong enough to put down disorder. Wherefore we had best be
gone. It is no true bravery to court danger, and our errand here is
done. When the King comes, as one day he will, to punish rebels and
reward faithful loyalty, then we will come with him, and thou shalt seek
out thy woodland nymph once more, and thank her for her good counsel.
Now wilt thou thank her best -- seeing she came express to warn thee of
coming peril -- by taking her at her word. Honest Jean and Margot will
not seek to stay us longer. They have a secret fear of the Sieur de
Navailles. We will not tell them all, but we will tell them something,
and that will be enough. Tomorrow will we take to horse again; and we
will tell in the ears of the King how restless and oppressed by
lawlessness and strife are his fair lands of Gascony."
Raymond's advice was followed. Gaston had had enough of quiet and
repose, and only the desire to see again the face of the woodland sprite
could have detained him. Not knowing where to seek her, he was willing
enough to set his face for Bordeaux; and soon the brothers had landed
once again upon the shores of England.