Chapter15: The Crusader Sets Forth.The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in sconces on the tables. All the retainers of the house were present, whether inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were men-at-arms of Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls (churls) of Saxon lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young lord, and acknowledge him as their liege, ere he left them for the treacherous and burning East to accomplish his father’s vow.The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those days of slow locomotion.A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the length of the hall. At the end another “board,” raised a foot higher, formed the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre, just opposite the junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state, surmounted by a canopy; on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his left the hero of the night, our Hubert.The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved; and hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely dinted; with tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those who had borne them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There were the horns of enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars; war against man and beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life then.And the supper—shall I give the bill of fare?First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald (they be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench (pike not come into England yet). And of sea fish—herrings, mackerel, soles, salmon, porpoises—a goodly number.Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look upon, bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins, herons, cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in season didn’t matter); and scores of domestic fowls—hens, geese, pigeons, ducks,et id genus omne.Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to pay their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four sheep—only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two succulent calves.Of the pastry—twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three bushels of last autumn’s apples were the foundation; two bushels of flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in England.In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey (Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo:Sometimes in the night watch,Half seen in the gloaming,Come visions advancing, advancing, retreatingAll into the darkness.And the harps responded in deep minor chords:All into the darkness.We dream that we clasp them,The forms of our dear ones.When, lo, as we touch them,They leave us and vanishOn wings that beat lightlyThe still paths of slumber.Very softly the harps:The still paths of slumber.They left in high valourThe land of their boyhood,And sorrowful patienceAwaits their returningWhile love holds expectantTheir homes in our bosoms.Sweetly the harps:Their homes in our bosoms.In high hope they left usIn sorrow with weepingTheir loved ones await them.For lo, to their greetingInstead of our heroesCome only their phantoms.The harps deep and low:Come only their phantoms.We weep as we reckonThe deeds of their glory—Of this one the wisdom,Of that one the valour:And they in their beautySleep sound in their death shrouds.The harps dismally:Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.“Stop! stop!” said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady’s eyes. “No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by such boding?”“Let the heir stay with us,” cried the guests.“Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father, Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you love him for his own fair face;” (Hubert blushed), “for the deed of valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred. But go he will and must, and there is an end of it.“One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert, mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us. He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the name of ‘Radulphus,’ or ‘Ralph,’ in memory of his grandfather.“Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful, and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives.”They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—just as you would expect of our Hubert.“The Holy Land,” said Sir Nicholas, “is a long way off, and many, as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives.”“We will, God being our helper.”“And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy return.”It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that Hubert would not return safely.Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a Christian knight who fell into the power of “a Paynim sultan,” and whom the sultan’s daughter delivered at the risk of her life—all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.“No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me of my heart. I leave it behind in England.”And even here he had a rival.It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At Harengod, his mother’s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas, his father’s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love. But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without issue, the other should have both domains.Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it? Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil’s bower, while the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very strict) permitted, out of earshot.Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried hard to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn’t help a tear. But he must go!“Wilt thou be true to me till death?”the anxious lover cried.“Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,”Alicia replied.“Come, go to bed,” said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went:To bed, but not to sleep.On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church, on the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household assembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel, for it was an old proverb with them, “mass and meat hinder no man,” and then the breakfast table was duly honoured.And then—the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words; how many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which should have been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode through the woods, with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to share his perils and his glory.Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last of Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old knight’s heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to Pevensey.The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled forest, which extended nearly to Hailsham. It passed through the district infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never molested Sir Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to travellers of rank in general, and few dared traverse the forest roads unattended by an escort. In the depths of these hoary woods were iron works, which had existed since the days of the early Britons, but had of late years been completely neglected, for all the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or the Saxon outlaws were concentrated on war or the chase.Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first resting place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old English settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of a lord of Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town as his dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly hostility—the knights had their liberties and rights, and so long as they paid their tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden time, before the Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church tower each night told its solemn tale of subjection and restraint, as it does even now, when the old ideas have quite departed, and few realise what it once meant.Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high tide—leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the father of “Roaring Ralph” of that ilk still resided, lord paramount. The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood bravely out, and its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears of the parting knight. How tantalising!Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the Queen’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king’s foreign kindred.There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night; wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick passage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in theRose of Pevensey.England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.My native land—Good night.
The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in sconces on the tables. All the retainers of the house were present, whether inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. There were men-at-arms of Norman or Poitevin blood, franklins and ceorls (churls) of Saxon lineage; all to gaze upon the face of their young lord, and acknowledge him as their liege, ere he left them for the treacherous and burning East to accomplish his father’s vow.
The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those days of slow locomotion.
A rude oak table of enormous strength extended two-thirds of the length of the hall. At the end another “board,” raised a foot higher, formed the letter T with the lower one; and in its centre, just opposite the junction, sat Sir Nicholas in a chair of state, surmounted by a canopy; on his right hand the Lady Sybil, on his left the hero of the night, our Hubert.
The walls of the hall were wainscoted with dark oak, richly carved; and hung round with suits of antique and modern armour, rudely dinted; with tattered banners, stained with the life blood of those who had borne them in many a bloody field at home and abroad. There were the horns of enormous deer, the tusks of patriarchal boars; war against man and beast was ever the burden of the chorus of life then.
And the supper—shall I give the bill of fare?
First, the fish. Everything that swam in the rivers of the Weald (they be coarse and small) was there; perch, roach, carp, tench (pike not come into England yet). And of sea fish—herrings, mackerel, soles, salmon, porpoises—a goodly number.
Secondly, the birds. A peacock at the high board, goodly to look upon, bitter to eat; two swans (oh, how tough); vultures, puffins, herons, cranes, curlews, pheasants, partridges (out of season or in season didn’t matter); and scores of domestic fowls—hens, geese, pigeons, ducks,et id genus omne.
Thirdly, the beasts. Two deer, five boars from the forest, come to pay their last respects to the young crusader; and to leave indigestion, perhaps, as a reminder of their fealty. From the barnyard, ten little porkers, roasted whole; one ox, four sheep—only the best joints of these, the rest given away; and two succulent calves.
Of the pastry—twelve gallons cream, twenty gallons curds, three bushels of last autumn’s apples were the foundation; two bushels of flour; almonds and raisins. Yes, they had already got them in England.
In point of variety, they a little overdid it; sometimes mingling wine, cheese, honey, raisins, olives, eggs, yea, and vinegar, all in one grand dish. It sets the teeth on edge to think of it.
As for the wines, there were Bordeaux (Gascon), and Malmsey (Rhenish), and Romeneye, Bastard and Osey (very sweet the last two); and for liquors hippocras and clary (not claret).
All was profusion, not to say waste, but the poor had a good time afterwards. And when the desire of eating and drinking was satisfied, the harpers and gleemen began; and first the chief harper, with hoary beard, sang his solo:
Sometimes in the night watch,Half seen in the gloaming,Come visions advancing, advancing, retreatingAll into the darkness.
And the harps responded in deep minor chords:
All into the darkness.We dream that we clasp them,The forms of our dear ones.When, lo, as we touch them,They leave us and vanishOn wings that beat lightlyThe still paths of slumber.
Very softly the harps:
The still paths of slumber.They left in high valourThe land of their boyhood,And sorrowful patienceAwaits their returningWhile love holds expectantTheir homes in our bosoms.
Sweetly the harps:
Their homes in our bosoms.In high hope they left usIn sorrow with weepingTheir loved ones await them.For lo, to their greetingInstead of our heroesCome only their phantoms.
The harps deep and low:
Come only their phantoms.We weep as we reckonThe deeds of their glory—Of this one the wisdom,Of that one the valour:And they in their beautySleep sound in their death shrouds.
The harps dismally:
Sleep sound in their death shrouds {22}.
“Stop! stop!” said Sir Nicholas, for tears rose to his lady’s eyes. “No more of this. Strike up some more hopeful lay. What mean you by such boding?”
“Let the heir stay with us,” cried the guests.
“Nay; I have striven in vain that so it might be, but his father, Sir Roger, wills otherwise, and the son can but obey. I see you love him for his own fair face;” (Hubert blushed), “for the deed of valour by which he won his spurs; and for his blood and kindred. But go he will and must, and there is an end of it.
“One more announcement I have to make. The father of our Hubert, mindful of the past, wishes to make what reparation is in his power. He bids me announce that he intends to take the life vows in the Priory of Saint Pancras, and to be known from henceforth as Brother Roger; and that his son should be formally adopted by us. He is so in our hearts already, and should bear from henceforth the name of ‘Radulphus,’ or ‘Ralph,’ in memory of his grandfather.
“Now I have said all. Render him your homage, swear to be faithful, and acknowledge no other lord when I am gone and while he lives.”
They all rose to their feet, and with the greatest enthusiasm swore to acknowledge none but Hubert as Lord of Walderne while he lived.
And he thanked them in a “maiden” speech, so gracefully—just as you would expect of our Hubert.
“The Holy Land,” said Sir Nicholas, “is a long way off, and many, as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives.”
“We will, God being our helper.”
“And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy return.”
It was done lustily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that Hubert would not return safely.
Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a Christian knight who fell into the power of “a Paynim sultan,” and whom the sultan’s daughter delivered at the risk of her life—all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.
And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.
“No pagan beauty,” he seemed to whisper, “shall ever rob me of my heart. I leave it behind in England.”
And even here he had a rival.
It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At Harengod, his mother’s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas, his father’s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love. But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.
He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of Harengod: if either died without issue, the other should have both domains.
Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it? Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.
When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil’s bower, while the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very strict) permitted, out of earshot.
Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried hard to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn’t help a tear. But he must go!
“Wilt thou be true to me till death?”the anxious lover cried.“Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,”Alicia replied.
“Come, go to bed,” said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went:
To bed, but not to sleep.
On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church, on the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household assembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel, for it was an old proverb with them, “mass and meat hinder no man,” and then the breakfast table was duly honoured.
And then—the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words; how many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which should have been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode through the woods, with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to share his perils and his glory.
Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last of Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old knight’s heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to Pevensey.
The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled forest, which extended nearly to Hailsham. It passed through the district infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never molested Sir Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to travellers of rank in general, and few dared traverse the forest roads unattended by an escort. In the depths of these hoary woods were iron works, which had existed since the days of the early Britons, but had of late years been completely neglected, for all the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or the Saxon outlaws were concentrated on war or the chase.
Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first resting place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old English settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of a lord of Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town as his dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly hostility—the knights had their liberties and rights, and so long as they paid their tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden time, before the Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church tower each night told its solemn tale of subjection and restraint, as it does even now, when the old ideas have quite departed, and few realise what it once meant.
Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high tide—leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the father of “Roaring Ralph” of that ilk still resided, lord paramount. The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood bravely out, and its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears of the parting knight. How tantalising!
Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the Queen’s uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king’s foreign kindred.
There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night; wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick passage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in theRose of Pevensey.
England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.
My native land—Good night.