"For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep."
Reverend Charles Kingsley.
"Flemild!"
"Yes, Mother."
It was not a cross voice that called, but it sounded like a very tired
one. The voice which answered was much more fresh and cheerful.
"Is Romund come in yet?"
"No, Mother."
"Nor Haimet either?"
"I have not seen him, Mother."
"Oh dear, those boys! They are never in the way when they are wanted."
The speaker came forward and showed herself. She was a woman of some
forty years or more, looking older than she was, and evidently very
weary. She wore a plain untrimmed skirt of dark woollen stuff, short to
the ankles, a long linen apron, and a blue hood over her head and
shoulders. Resting her worn hands on the half-door, she looked drearily
up and down the street, as if in languid hope of catching a glimpse of
the boys who should have been there, and were not.
"Well, there's no help for it!" she said at last, "Flemild, child, you
must go for the water to-night."
"I? O Mother!" The girl's tone was one of manifest reluctance.
"It can't be helped, child. Take Derette with you, and be back as quick
as you can, before the dusk comes on. The lads should have been here to
spare you, but they only think of their own pleasure. I don't know what
the world's coming to, for my part."
"Father Dolfin says it's going to be burnt up," said a third voice--that
of a child--from the interior of the house.
"Time it was!" replied the mother bluntly. "There's nought but trouble
and sorrow in it--leastwise I've never seen much else. It's just work,
work, work, from morning to night, and often no rest to speak of from
night to morning. You get up tireder than you went to bed, and you may
just hold your tongue for all that any body cares, as the saints know.
Well, well!--Come, make haste, child, or there'll be a crowd round Saint
Martin's Well." [Note 1.]
"O Mother! mayn't I go to Plato's Well?"
"What, and carry your budget four times as far? Nonsense, Flemild!"
"But, Mother, please hear me a minute! It's a quiet enough way, when
you are once past the Bayly, and I can step into the lodge and see if
Cousin Stephen be at home. If he be, he'll go with me, I know."
"You may go your own way," said the mother, not quite pleasantly.
"Young folks are that headstrong! I can't look for my children to be
better than other folks'. If they are as good, it's as much as one need
expect in this world."
Flemild had been busily tying on a red hood while her mother spoke, and
signing to her little sister to do the same. Then the elder girl took
from a corner, where it hung on a hook, a budget or pail of boiled
leather, a material then much used for many household vessels now made
of wood or metal: and the girls went out into the narrow street.
The street was called Kepeharme Lane, and the city was Oxford. This
lane ran, in old diction, from the Little Bayly to Fish Street--in
modern language, from New Inn Hall Street to Saint Aldate's, slightly
south of what is now Queen Street, and was then known as the Great
Bayly. The girls turned their backs on Saint Aldate's, and went
westwards, taking the way towards the Castle, which in 1159 was not a
ruined fortress, but an aristocratic mansion, wherein the great De Veres
held almost royal state.
"Why don't you like Saint Martin's Well, Flemild?" demanded the child,
with childish curiosity.
"Oh, for lots of reasons," answered her sister evasively.
"Tell me one or two."
"Well, there is always a crowd there towards evening. Then, very often,
there are ragamuffins on Penniless Bench [Note 2] that one does not want
to come too near. Then--don't you see, we have to pass the Jewry?"
"What would they do to us?" asked the child.
"Don't talk about it!" returned her sister, with a shudder. "Don't you
know, Derette, the Jews are very, very wicked people? Hasn't Mother
told you so many a time? Never you go near them--now, mind!"
"Are they worse than we are?"
Flemild's conscience pricked her a little as she replied, "Of course
they are. Don't you know they crucified our Lord?"
"What, these Jews?" asked Derette with open eyes. "Old Aaron, and
Benefei at the corner, and Jurnet the fletcher, and--O Flemild, not,
surely not Countess and Regina? They look so nice and kind, I'm sure
they never could do any thing like that!"
"No, child, not these people, of course. Why, it was hundreds and
hundreds of years ago. But these are just as bad--every one of them.
They would do it again if they had the chance."
"Countess wouldn't, _I_ know," persisted the little one. "Why, Flemild,
only last week, she caught pussy for me, and gave her to me, and she
smiled so prettily. I liked her. If Mother hadn't said I must never
speak to any of them, I'd have had a chat with her; but of course I
couldn't, then, so I only smiled back again, and nodded for `thank
you.'"
"Derette!" There was genuine terror in the tone of the elder sister.
"Don't you know those people are all wicked witches? Regular black
witches, in league with the Devil. There isn't one of them would not
cast a spell on you as soon as look at you."
"What would it do to me?" inquired the startled child.
"What wouldn't it do? you had better ask. Make you into a horrid black
snake, or a pig, or something you would not like to be, I can tell you."
"I shouldn't quite like to be a black snake," said Derette, after a
minute's pause for reflection. "But I don't think I should much mind
being a pig. Little, tiny pigs are rather pretty things; and when they
lie and grunt, they look very comfortable."
"Silly child!--you'd have no soul to be saved!"
"Shouldn't I? But, Flemild, I don't quite see--if _I_ were the pig--
would that be me or the pig?"
"Hi, there! Where are you going?"
Flemild was not very sorry to be saved the solution of Derette's
difficult problem. She turned to the youth of some fifteen years, who
had hailed her from the corner of Castle Street.
"Where you should have gone instead, Haimet--with the budget for water.
Do go with me now."
"Where on earth are you going--to Osney?"
"No, stupid boy: to Plato's Well."
"I'm not going there. I don't mind Saint Maudlin's, if you like."
"We are out of the way to Saint Maudlin's, or else I shouldn't have
minded--"
"No, my lady, I rather think you wouldn't have minded the chance of a
dance in Horsemonger Street. However, I'm not going to Plato's Well.
If you go with me, you go to Saint Maudlin's; and if you don't, you may
find your way back by yourselves, that's all."
And laying his hands on the budget, Haimet transferred it from his
sister's keeping to his own.
Plato's Well stood in Stockwell Street, on the further side of the
Castle, and on the south of Gloucester Hall, now Worcester College.
Fortified by her brother's presence, Flemild turned after him, and they
went up Castle Street, and along North Bayly Street into Bedford Lane,
now the northern part of New Inn Hall Street. When they reached the
North Gate, they had to wait to go out, for it was just then blocked by
a drove of cattle, each of which had to pay the municipal tax of a
halfpenny, and they were followed by a cart of sea-fish, which paid
fourpence. The gate being clear, they passed through it, Flemild
casting rather longing looks down Horsemonger Street (the modern Broad
Street), where a bevy of young girls were dancing, while their elders
sat at their doors and looked on; but she did not attempt to join them.
A little further, just past the Church of Saint Mary Magdalen, they came
to a small gothic building over a well. Here, for this was Saint
Maudlin's Well, Haimet drew the water, and they set forth on the return
journey.
"Want to go after those damsels?" inquired the youth, with a nod in the
direction of the dancers, as they passed the end of the street.
"N-o," said Flemild. "Mother bade me haste back. Beside, they won't be
out many minutes longer. It isn't worth while."
"Like a woman," retorted Haimet with a satirical grin; "the real reason
always comes last."
"What do you know about it?" answered his sister, not ill-humouredly, as
they paused again at the North Gate. "O Haimet, what are those?"
A small company of about thirty--men, women, and a few children--were
coming slowly down Horsemonger Street. They were attired in rough short
tunics, warm sheepskin cloaks, heavy boots which had seen hard service,
and felt hats or woollen hoods. Each man carried a long staff, and all
looked as though they were ending a wearisome journey. Their faces had
a foreign aspect, and most of the men wore beards,--not a very common
sight in England at that date, especially with the upper classes. And
these men were no serfs, as was shown by the respectability of their
appearance, and the absence of the brazen neck-collar which marked the
slave.
The man who walked first of the little company, and had a look of
intelligence and power, addressed himself to the porter at the gate in
excellent French--almost too excellent for comprehension. For though
French was at that date the Court tongue in England, as now in Belgium,
it was Norman French, scarcely intelligible to a Parisian, and still
less so to a Provencal. The porter understood only the general scope of
the query--that the speaker wished to know if he and his companions
might find lodging in the city.
"Go in," said he bluntly. "As to lodgings, the saints know where you
will get them. There are dog-holes somewhere, I dare say."
The leader turned, and said a few words to his friends in an unknown
tongue, when they at once followed him through the gate. As he passed
close by the girls, they noticed that a book hung down from his girdle--
a very rare sight to their eyes. While they were watching the
foreigners defile past them, the leader stopped and turned to Haimet,
who was a little in advance of his sisters.
"My master," he said, "would you for the love of God tell us strangers
where we can find lodging? We seek any honest shelter, and ask no
delicate fare. We would offend no man, and would gladly help with any
household work."
Haimet hesitated, and gnawed his under lip in doubtful fashion. Flemild
pressed forward.
"Master," she said, "if in truth you are content with plain fare and
lodging, I think my mother would be willing to give room to one or two
of the women among you, if they would pay her by aid in household work:
and methinks our next neighbour would maybe do as much. Thinkest thou
not so, Haimet?--Will you follow us and see?"
"Most gladly, maiden," was the answer.
"My word, Flemild, you are in for it!" whispered Haimet. "Mother will
be right grateful to you for bringing a whole army of strangers upon
her, who may be witches for all you know."
"Mother will be glad enough of a woman's arms to help her, and let her
rest her own," replied Flemild decidedly; "and I am sure they look quite
respectable."
"Well, look out for storms!" said Haimet.
Flemild, who had acted on an impulse of compassionate interest, was
herself a little doubtful how her action would be received at home,
though she did not choose to confess it. They passed down North Gate
Street (now the Corn-market), and crossing High Street, went a few yards
further before they readied their own street. On their right hand stood
the cooks' shops, and afterwards the vintners', while all along on their
left ran the dreaded Jewry, which reached from High Street to what is
_now_ the chief entrance of Christ Church. The fletchers' and cutlers'
stalls stood along this side of the street. Eastwards the Jewry
stretched to Oriel Street, and on the south came very near the Cathedral
Church of Saint Frideswide. The (now destroyed) Church of Saint Edward
stood in the midst of it.
As our friends turned into their own street, they passed a girl of some
seventeen years of age--a very handsome girl, with raven hair and dark
brilliant eyes.
She smiled at Derette as she passed, and the child returned the silent
salutation, taking care to turn her head so that her sister should not
see her. A moment later they came to their own door, over which hung a
panel painted with a doubtful object, which charity might accept as the
walnut tree for which it was intended. Just as this point was reached,
their mother came to the door, carrying a tin basin, from which she
threw some dirty water where every body then threw it, into the gutter.
"Saint Benedict be merciful to us!" she cried, nearly dropping the
basin. "What on earth is all this ado? And the children here in the
midst of it! Holy Virgin, help us! There is nothing but trouble for a
poor woman in this world. And me as good as a widow, and worse, too.
Haimet! Flemild! whatever are you about?"
"Mother," said Flemild in politic wise, "I have brought you some help.
These good women here seek lodging for the night--any decent kind will
serve them--and they offer to pay for it in work. It will be such a
rest for you, Mother, if you will take in one or two; and don't you
think Franna would do the same, and old Turguia be glad of the chance?"
Isel stood with the basin in her hand, and a look half vexed, half
amused, upon her face.
"Well! what is to be will be," she said at last. "I suppose you've
arranged it all. It'll be grand rest to have every thing smashed in the
house. Come in, friends, as many of you as like. Those that can't find
straw to lie on can sit on a budget. Blessed saints, the shiftlessness
of girls!"
And with a tone of voice which seemed to be the deeper depth below
despair itself, Isel led the way into the house.
Derette had fallen a little back, entranced by a sight which always
attracted her. She loved any thing that she could pet, whether a baby
or a kitten; and had once, to the horror of her mother's housekeeping
soul, been discovered offering friendly advances to a whole family of
mice. In the arms of the woman who immediately followed the leader, lay
what seemed to Derette's eyes a particularly fascinating baby. She now
edged her way to her mother's side, with an imploring whisper of
"There's a baby, Mother!"
"There's three, child. I counted them," was the grim reply.
"But, Mother, there's one particular baby--"
"Then you'd better go and fetch it, before you lose it," said Isel in
the same tone.
Derette, who took the suggestion literally, ran out, and with many
smiles and encouraging nods, led in the baby and its mother, with a
young girl of about eighteen years, who came after them, and seemed to
belong to them.
"I suppose I shall have to go with you, at any rate through this
street," said Haimet, returning after he had set down the bucket. "Our
folks here won't understand much of that lingo of yours. Come along."
The tone was less rough than the words--it usually was with Haimet,--and
the little company followed him down the street, very ready to accept
the least attempt at kindness.
Isel and Flemild were somewhat dismayed to discover that their chosen
guests could not understand a word they said, and were quite as
unintelligible to them. Derette's mute offer to hold the baby was
quickly comprehended; and when Isel, taking the woman and girl up the
ladder, showed them a heap of clean straw, on which two thick rough rugs
lay folded, they quite understood that their sleeping-place for the
night was to be there. Isel led the way down again, placed a bowl of
apples before the girl, laid a knife beside it, and beginning to pare
one of the apples, soon made known to her what she required. In a
similar manner she seated the woman in the chimney-corner, and put into
her hands a petticoat which she was making for Derette. Both the
strangers smiled and nodded, and went to work with a will, while Isel
set on some of the fresh water just brought, and began to prepare
supper.
"Well, this is a queer fix as ever I saw!" muttered Isel, as she cleaned
her fish ready for boiling. "It's true enough what my grandmother used
to say--you never know, when you first open your eyes of a morning, what
they'll light on afore you shut them at night. If one could talk to
these outlandish folks, there'd be more sense in it. Flemild, I wonder
if they've come across your father."
"O Mother, couldn't we ask them?"
"How, child? If I say, `Have you seen aught of an Englishman called
Manning Brown?' as like as not they'll think I'm saying, `Come and eat
this pie.'"
Flemild laughed. "That first man talks," she said.
"Ay, and he's gone with the lot. Just my luck!--always was. My father
was sure to be killed in the wars, and my husband was safe to take it
into his head to go and fight the Saracens, instead of stopping at home
like a decent fellow to help his wife and bring up his children the way
they should go. Well!--it can't be helped, I suppose."
"Why did Father go to fight the Saracens?" demanded Derette, looking up
from the baby.
"Don't you know, Derette? It is to rescue our Lord's sepulchre," said
Flemild.
"Does He want it?" replied Derette.
Flemild did not know how to answer. "It is a holy place, and ought not
to be left in the hands of wicked people."
"Are Saracens wicked people?"
"Yes, of course--as bad as Jews. They are a sort of Jews, I believe; at
any rate, they worship idols, and weave wicked spells." [Note 3.]
"Is all the world full of wicked people?"
"Pretty nigh, child!" said her mother, with a sigh. "The saints know
that well enough."
"I wonder if the saints do know," answered Derette meditatively, rocking
the baby in her arms. "I should have thought they'd come and mend
things, if they did. Why don't they, Mother?"
"Bless you, child! The saints know their own business best. Come here
and watch this pan whilst I make the sauce."
The supper was ready, and was just about to be dished up, when Haimet
entered, accompanied by the leader of the foreigners, to the evident
delight of the guests.
"Only just in time," murmured Isel. "However, it is as well you've
brought somebody to speak to. Where's all the rest of them folks?"
"Got them all housed at last," said Haimet, flinging his hat into a
corner. "Most in the town granary, but several down this street. Old
Turguia took two women, and Franna a man and wife: and what think you?--
if old Benefei did not come forth and offer to take in some."
"Did they go with him?"
"As easy in their minds, so far as looks went, as if it had been my Lord
himself. Didn't seem to care half a straw."
"Sweet Saint Frideswide! I do hope they aren't witches themselves,"
whispered Isel in some perturbation.
To open one's house for the reception of passing strangers was not an
unusual thing in that day; but the danger of befriending--and yet more
of offending--those who were in league with the Evil One, was an
ever-present fear to the minds of men and women in the twelfth century.
The leader overheard the whisper.
"Good friends," he said, addressing Isel, "suffer me to set your minds
at rest with a word of explanation. We are strangers, mostly of
Teutonic race, that have come over to this land on a mission of good and
mercy. Indeed we are not witches, Jews, Saracens, nor any evil thing:
only poor harmless peasants that will work for our bread and molest no
man, if we may be suffered to abide in your good country for this
purpose. This is my wife--" he laid his hand on the shoulder of the
baby's mother--"her name is Agnes, and she will soon learn your tongue.
This is my young sister, whose name is Ermine; and my infant son is
called Rudolph. Mine own name is Gerhardt, at your service. I am a
weaver by trade, and shall be pleased to exercise my craft in your
behalf, thus to return the kindness you have shown us."
"Well, I want some new clothes ill enough, the saints know," said Isel
in answer; "and if you behave decent, and work well, and that, I don't
say as I might be altogether sorry for having taken you in. It's right,
I suppose, to help folks in trouble--though it's little enough help I
ever get that way, saints knows!--and I hope them that's above 'll bear
it in mind when things come to be reckoned up like."
That was Isel's religion. It is the practical religion of a sadly large
number of people in this professedly Christian land.
Agnes turned and spoke a few words in a low voice to her husband, who
smiled in answer.
"My wife wishes me to thank you," he said, "in her name and that of my
sister, for your goodness in taking us strangers so generously into your
home. She says that she can work hard, and will gladly do so, if, until
she can speak your tongue, you will call her attention, and do for a
moment what you wish her to do. Ermine says the same."
"Well, that's fair-spoken enough, I can't deny," responded Isel; "and
I'm not like to say I shan't be glad of a rest. There's nought but hard
work in this world, without it's hard words: and which is the uglier of
them I can't say. It'll be done one of these days, I reckon."
"And then, friend?" asked Gerhardt quietly.
"Well, if you know the answer to that, you know more than I do," said
Isel, dishing up her salt fish. "Dear saints, where ever is that boy
Romund? Draw up the form, Haimet, and let us have our supper. Say
grace, boy."
Haimet obeyed, by the short and easy process of making a large cross
over the table, and muttering a few unintelligible words, which should
have been a Latin formula. The first surprise received from the foreign
guests came now. Instead of sitting down to supper, the trio knelt and
prayed in silence for some minutes, ere they rose and joined their hosts
at the table. Then Gerhardt spoke aloud.
"God, who blessed the five barley loaves and the two fishes before His
disciples in the wilderness, bless this table and that which is set on
it, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
"Oh, you do say your prayers!" remarked Isel in a tone of satisfaction,
as the guests began their supper. "But I confess I'd sooner say mine
while the fish isn't getting cold."
"We do, indeed," answered Gerhardt gravely.
"Oh, by the way, tell me if you've ever come across an English traveller
called Manning Brown? My husband took the cross, getting on for three
years now, and I've never heard another word about him since. Thought
you might have chanced on him somewhere or other."
"Whither went he, and which way did he take?"
"Bless you, I don't know! He went to foreign parts: and foreign parts
are all one to me."
Gerhardt looked rather amused.
"We come from Almayne," he said; "some of us in past years dwelt in
Provence, Toulouse, and Gascony."
"Don't tell me!" said Isel, holding up her hands. "It's all so much
gibberish. Have you met with my man?--that's all I want to know."
"I have not," replied Gerhardt. "I will ask my friends, and see if any
of them have done so."
Supper over, a second surprise followed. Again Gerhardt offered his
special blessing--"God, who has given us bodily food, grant us His
spiritual life; and may God be with us, and we always with Him!" Then
they once more knelt and silently prayed. Gerhardt drew his wife and
sister into a corner of the house, and opening his book, read a short
portion, after which they engaged in low-toned conversation.
Derette, with the baby in her arms, had drawn near the group. She was
not at all bashful.
"I wish I could understand you," she said. "What are you talking
about?"
Gerhardt lifted his cap before answering.
"About our blessed Lord Christ, my maiden," he said.
Derette nodded, with an air of satisfaction at the wide extent of her
knowledge. "I know. He's holy Mary's Son."
"Ay, and He is our Saviour," added Flemild.
"Is He thy Saviour, little one?" asked Gerhardt.
"I don't know what you mean," was the answer.
"O Derette! you know well enough that our Lord is called the Saviour!"
corrected her sister in rather a shocked tone.
"I know that, but I don't know what it means," persisted the child
sturdily.
"Come, be quiet!" said her mother. "I never did see such a child for
wanting to get to the bottom of things.--Well, Romund! Folks that want
supper should come in time for it. All's done and put by now."
"I have had my supper at the Lodge," responded a tall young man of
twenty-two, who had just entered. "Who are those people?"
His mother gave the required explanation. Romund looked rather
doubtfully at the guests. Gerhardt, seeing that this was the master of
the house, at least under present circumstances, rose, and respectfully
raising his cap, apologised for their presence.
"What can you do?" inquired Romund shortly.
"My trade is weaving," replied Gerhardt, "but I can stack wood or cut
it, put up shelves, milk cows, or attend to a garden. I shall be glad
to do any thing in my power."
"You may nail up the vine over the back door," said Romund, "and I dare
say my mother can find you some shelves and hooks to put up. The women
can cook and sew. You may stay for a few days, at any rate."
Gerhardt expressed his thanks, and Romund, disappearing outside the back
door, returned with some pieces of wood and tools, which he laid down on
the form. He was trying to carve a wooden box with a pattern of oak
leaves, but he had not progressed far, and his attempts were not of the
first order. Haimet noticed Gerhardt's interested glance cast on his
brother's work.
"Is that any thing in your line?" he asked with a smile.
"I have done a little in that way," replied Gerhardt modestly. "May I
examine it?" he asked of Romund.
The young carver nodded, and Gerhardt took up the box.
"This is an easy pattern," he said.
"Easy, do you call it?" replied Romund. "It is the hardest I have done
yet. Those little round inside bits are so difficult to manage."
"May I try?" asked Gerhardt.
It was not very willingly that Romund gave permission, for he almost
expected the spoiling of his work: but the carving-tool had not made
more than a few cuts in the German's fingers, before Romund saw that his
guest was a master in the art. The work so laborious and difficult to
him seemed to do itself when Gerhardt took hold of it.
"Why, you are a first-class hand at it!" he cried.
Gerhardt smiled. "I have done the like before, in my own country," he
said.
"Will you teach me your way of working?" asked Romund eagerly. "I never
had any body to teach me. I should be as glad as could be to learn of
one that really knew."
"Gladly," said Gerhardt. "It will give me pleasure to do any thing for
the friends who have been so kind to me."
"Derette, it is your bedtime," came from the other corner--not by any
means to Derette's gratification. "Give the baby to its mother, and be
off."
Very unwillingly Derette obeyed: but Gerhardt, looking up, requested
Isel's permission for his wife and sister to retire with the child.
They had had a long journey that day, and were quite worn out. Isel
readily assented, and Derette with great satisfaction saw them accompany
her up the ladder.
The houses of the common people at that time were extremely poor. This
family were small gentlefolks after a fashion, and looked down upon the
tradesmen by whom they were surrounded as greatly their inferiors: yet
they dwelt in two rooms, one above the other, with a ladder as the only
means of communication. Their best bed, on which Isel and Flemild
slept, was a rough wooden box filled with straw, on the top of which
were a bed and a mattress, covered by coarse quilts and a rug of
rabbit-skin. Derette and the boys lay on sacks filled with chaff, with
woollen rugs over them.
The baby was already asleep, and Agnes laid it gently on one of the
woollen rugs, while she and Ermine, to Derette's amazement, knelt and
prayed for some time. Derette herself took scarcely five minutes to her
prayers. Why should she require more, when her notion of prayer was not
to make request for what she wanted to One who could give it to her, but
to gabble over one Creed, six Paternosters, and the doxology, with as
much rapidity as she could persuade her lips to utter the words? Then,
in another five minutes, after a few rapid motions, Derette drew the
woollen rug over her, and very quickly knew nothing more, for that night
at least.
The city of Oxford, as then inhabited, was considerably smaller than it
is now. The walls ran, roughly speaking, on the north, from the Castle
to Holywell Street, on the east a little lower than the end of Merton
Street, thence on the south to the other side of the Castle. Beyond the
walls the houses extended northwards somewhat further than to Beaumont
Street, and southwards about half-way to Friar Bacon's Tower. The
oldest church in the city is Saint Peter's in the East, which was
originally built in the reign of Alfred; the University sermons used to
be delivered in the stone pulpit of this church.
There was a royal palace in Oxford, built by Henry First, who styled it
le Beau Mont; it stood in Stockwell Street, nearly on the site of the
present workhouse. It had not been visited by royalty since 1157, when
a baby was born in it, destined to become a mighty man of valour, and to
be known to all ages as King Richard Coeur-de-Lion. In 1317 King Edward
Second bestowed it on the White Friars, and all that now remains of it
is a small portion of the wall built into the workhouse.
The really great man of the city was the Earl of Oxford, at that time
Aubrey de Vere, the first holder of the title. He had been married to a
lady who was a near relative of King Stephen, but his second and present
Countess, though of good family, came from a lower grade.
Modern ideas of a castle are often inaccurate. It was not always a
single fortified mansion, but consisted quite as frequently of an
embattled wall surrounding several houses, and usually including a
church. The Castle of Oxford was of the latter type, the Church of
Saint George being on its western side. The keep of a castle was
occupied by the garrison, though it generally contained two or three
special chambers for the use of the owner, should necessity oblige him
and his family to take refuge there in a last extremity. The entrance
was dexterously contrived, particularly when the fortress consisted of a
single house, to present as much difficulty as possible to a besieger.
It was always at some height in the wall, and was reached by a winding,
or rather rambling, stairway leading from the drawbridge, and often
running round a considerable part of the wall. One or more gates in the
course of this stair could be closed at pleasure. A large and imposing
portal admitted the visitor to a small tower occupied by the guards,
through which the real entrance was approached. This stood in the
thickness of the outer wall, and was protected by another pair of gates
and a portcullis, just inside which was the porter's lodge. On the
ground-floor the soldiers were lodged; on the midmost were the state and
family apartments, while the uppermost accommodated the household
servants and attendants. A special tower was usually reserved for the
ladies of the family, and was often accompanied by a tiny garden. In
the partition wall a well was dug, which could be reached on every
floor; and below the vestibule was a dungeon. The great banqueting-hall
was the general sitting-room to which every one in the castle had
access; and here it was common for family, servants, and guard to take
together their two principal meals--dinner at nine a.m., supper at four
or five o'clock. The only distinction observed was that the board and
trestles for the family and guests were set up on the dais, for the
household and garrison below. The tables were arranged in the form of a
horse-shoe, the diners sitting on the outer or larger side, while the
servants waited on the inner. The ladies had, beside this, their own
private sitting-room, always attached to the bedchamber, and known as
the "bower," to which strangers were rarely admitted. Here they sat and
sang, gossiped, and worked their endless embroidery. The days were
scarcely yet over when English needlework bore the palm in Europe and
even in the East, while the first illuminators were the monks of
Ireland. Ladies were the spinners, weavers, surgeons, and readers of
the day; they were great at interpreting dreams, and dearly loved
flowers. The gentlemen looked upon reading as an occupation quite as
effeminate as sewing, war and hunting being the two main employments of
the lords of creation, and gambling the chief amusement. Priests and
monks were the exceptions to this rule, until Henry First introduced a
taste for somewhat more liberal education. Even more respectful to
letters was his grandson Henry Second, who had a fancy for resembling
his grandfather in every thing; yet he allowed the education of his sons
to be thoroughly neglected.
The popular idea that the University of Oxford is older than King Alfred
is scarcely borne out by modern research. That there was some kind of
school there in Alfred's day is certain: but nothing like a university
arose before the time of Henry First, and the impetus which founded it
came from outside. A Frenchman with a Scotch education, and a Jewish
Rabbi, are the two men to whom more than any others must be traced the
existence of the University of Oxford.
Theodore d'Etampes, a secular priest, and apparently a chaplain of Queen
Margaret of Scotland, arrived at Oxford about the year 1116, where he
taught classes of scholars from sixty to a hundred in number. But every
thing which we call science came there with the Jews, who settled under
the shadow of Saint Frideswide shortly after the Conquest. Hebrew,
astronomy, astrology, geometry, and mathematics, were taught by them, at
their hostels of Lombard Hall, Moses Hall, and Jacob Hall; while law,
theology, and the "humanities," engaged the attention of the Christian
lecturers. Cardinal Pullus, Robert de Cricklade, and the Lombard jurist
Vacario, each in his turn made Oxford famous, until King Stephen closed
the mouth of "the Master" of civil law, and burned at once the law-books
and the Jews. Henry Second revived and protected the schools, in the
churchyard outside the west door of Saint Mary's Church; the scriveners,
binders, illuminators, and parchmenters, occupying Schools Street, which
ran thence towards the city wall.
The special glory of Oxford, at that time, was not the University, but
the shrine of Saint Frideswide. This had existed from the eighth
century, when the royal maiden whom it celebrated, after declining to
fulfil a contract of matrimony which her father had made for her (as she
was much too holy to be married), had added insult to injury by
miraculously inflicting blindness on her disappointed lover when he
attempted to pursue her. She had, however, the grace to restore his
sight on due apologies being made. Becoming Prioress of the convent
which she founded, she died therein on October 14th, 740, which day was
afterwards held as a gaudy day. Possibly because her indignant lover
was a king, it was held ominous for any monarch to enter the Chapel of
Saint Frideswide in her convent church. King John, who was as
superstitious on some points as he was profane on others, never dared to
pass the threshold.
His father, being gifted with more common sense, was present at the
translation of the saint in 1180. The bones of Saint Frideswide still
sleep in Christ Church; but at the Reformation they were purposely
mingled with those of Katherine Vermilia, wife of Peter Martyr, and on
the grave where the two were interred was carved the inscription, "Here
lieth Religion with Superstition." Of course the object of this was to
prevent any further worship of the relics, as it would be impossible to
discern the bones of the saint from those of the heretic. It is not
improbable that both were good women according to their light; but the
saint was assuredly far the less enlightened. To common sense, apart
from tradition and sentiment, it is difficult to understand why a
certain group of persons, who lived in an age when education was very
limited, superstition and prejudice very rife, spirituality almost
dormant, and a taste for childish follies and useless hair-splitting the
commonest things in literature, should be singled out for special
reverence as "saints," or under the honourable name of "the Fathers," be
deemed higher authorities in respect to the interpretation of Holy Writ
than the far more intelligent and often far more spiritual writers of
later date. If this curious hero-worship were confined to the
generation immediately following the Apostles, it would be a little more
intelligible; as such men might possibly have derived some of their
ideas from apostolic oral teaching. But to those who know the history
of the early ages of Christianity, and are not blinded by prejudice, it
is simply amazing that the authority of such men as Basil, Cyprian, and
Jerome, should be held to override that of the spiritual giants of the
Puritan era, and of those who have deeply and reverently studied
Scripture in our own times. To appeal to the views held by such men as
decisive of the burning questions of the day, is like referring matters
of grave import to the judgment of little children, instead of
consulting men of ripe experience. We know what followed a similar
blunder on the part of King Rehoboam. Yet how often is it repeated! It
would seem that not only is "no prophet accepted in his own country,"
but also in his own day.
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Note 1. Saint Martin's Well stood in the junction of the "four-ways"
from which Carfax takes its name.
Note 2. Penniless Bench, which ran along the east end of Carfax Church,
was the original of all "penniless benches." It was not always occupied
by idle vagrants, for sometimes the scholars of the University used to
congregate there, as well as the Corporation of the city.
Note 3. All Christians believed this at that date.