Chapter18: The Retreat Of The Outlaws.The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred to avoid.Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have already introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the left, they entered upon a pathless wilderness. Mighty trees raised their branches to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in some vast cathedral. There was little underwood, and walking was very pleasant and easy.And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse. Ginepro related many tales of “sweet Father Francis,” and in return Martin enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of the natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who knew no laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par with the heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the neighbouring ecclesiastics.“All the more need of our mission,” thought both.They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a little stream, a stern voice called, “Stand and deliver.”They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of arrows on either side. They had fallen into an ambush.Martin was quite unalarmed.“Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who have come hither for your good.”“For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like cattle.”“But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick.”“Ah! Whom have we got here?”“An old friend under a new guise. Lead me to your chieftain, Grimbeard, who, I hope, is well. Or shall I show you the road?”“Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?”“Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?”“Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so.”Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly by his side. They were such wild-looking outlaws. At last they reached a spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a slope, and stood at the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre, not unlike an old chalk pit, such as men still hew from the side of the same hills.But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in ages long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of nature had filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and bushes, and all deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around the sides of the amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of osier work, twined around tall posts driven into the ground and cunningly daubed with stiff clay. In the centre of the glade was a great fire, evidently common property, for a huge caldron steamed and bubbled over it, supported by three sticks placed cunningly so as to lend each other their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in accordance with nature’s own mechanics, which she teaches without the help of science {25}.Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins, lay the aged chieftain whom we met before. But now seven years had added their transforming touch,tempus edax rerum. His tall stature was diminished by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs and joints were less firmly knit.A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a silver belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before, and over it was a crimson sash. These were doubtless the spoils of some successful fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the tailors who could make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a sharp, keen hunting knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with an eagle’s feather. There were eagles then in “merrie Sussex.”“Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?”“Guests, good captain,” replied Martin, “who have come far to seek thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of kings.”Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had his deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good faith, he could not have harmed him. So he conquered his discontent.“Hospitality is the law of the woods. Stay and share our fare, such as it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace.”“Not till we have delivered our message.”“Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil’s own children, but if you will try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you.”Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different footing, said but little. But the curiosity which was excited by his knowledge of their names and of this their summer retreat was only suspended for a brief period.The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on wooden spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters. Game, collops of venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted to eke out the contents of the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was handed round, of which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the meal was over Grimbeard spoke:“We generally rest awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal, for our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps your tramp through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and after the sun has sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may deliver the message you spoke about.”Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did some of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the spreading beeches, as did our two brethren.They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched, and so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even this precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to active life.“Call the brethren of Saint Francis,” said the chief. “Now we are ready. Sit round, my merrie men.”It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the wild and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws, with their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the grass, with the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow rock, while Martin, standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his message.With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His enthusiasm mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his face, his eyes sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to tell, and the result was such as was common in the early days of the Franciscan missions. Women, yea, and men too, were moved to tears.But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman’s voice broke the intensity of the silence in which the preacher’s words were received:“My son—my own son—my dear son.”The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned from the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the chieftain’s wife, or “Mad Mab,” as they flippantly called her, and only on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the camp had she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as she drew nearer, and when she entered the circle—we may well say the charmed circle—she stood entranced, until at last conviction grew into certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher’s voice by her cry of maternal love.She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once been strikingly handsome; Martin inherited her bright colour and dark eyes; but time had set its mark upon her, and often had she felt weary of life.But now, after one of her monotonous rambles, like unto one distraught in the woods, had come this glad surprise. A new life burst upon her—something to live for, and, rushing forward, she threw her arms around the neck of her recovered boy.“My mother,” said he in an agitated voice. “Nay, she has been long dead.”But as he gazed, the same instinct awoke in him as in her, and he lost self control. The sermon ended abruptly, the preacher was conquered by the man. The hearers gathered in groups and discussed the event.“This explains how he knew all about us!”“It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain.”“The last of the house of Michelham!”“Turned into a preaching friar!”Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order.“Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not leave the camp.”“Mother,” said Martin, “why that cruel message of thy death? Thou hadst not otherwise lost me so long.”“It was for thy good. I would save thee from the life of an outlaw or vagabond, and foresaw that unless I renounced thee utterly, thy love would mar thy fortunes, and bring thee back to my side.”“My poor forsaken mother!”Grimbeard now approached.“Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy natural home. Dost thou remember me?”“Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me, which doubtless I deserved.”“Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take up thy abode again with us? We want a priest.”“I am no priest, only a preacher, and my mission is to the Andredsweald at large, and the scattered sheep of the Great Shepherd therein.”“Only thou knowest our whereabouts too well. We may not let thee go in and out without security, that our retreat be not made known.”“Father, I have eaten of your bread, and once more of my own free will accepted your hospitality. Even a heathen would respect your secret, still more a Christian brother. If I can persuade you to cease from your mode of life, which the Church decrees unlawful, well and good. But other weapons than those of the Gospel shall never be brought against you by me.”They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard maintained that the position of the “merrie men,” who still kept up a struggle against the Government in the various great forests of the land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply patriots maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors. Martin, on the other hand, maintained that the question was settled by Divine providence, and that the governors of alien blood were now the kings and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul, obedience was due. If two centuries did not establish prescriptive right, how long a period would?“No length of time,” replied Grimbeard.“Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from these parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants of the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes in Germany and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the principle you have laid down. What should you then say?”Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.“Thou hast me on the hip, youngster.”After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day’s walk and all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him a composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink it and go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of skins in one of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her recovered treasure—happy mother.The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding day, Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac, where he was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the sounds of real present strife had put Senlac into his head.He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:“Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!”“Out! out! ye English thieves!”“Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!”Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish.For there with arrow, spear, and knife,Men fought the desperate fight for life.Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked, gained a sloping bank, and there—That morning, a merry young knight and his train set out from Herstmonceux Castle to go “a hunting,” and in the very exuberance of his spirits, like Douglas of old, he thought fit to hunt in the woods haunted by the “merrie men,” as he in the Percy’s country.Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye.But he had not ridden far into the debatable land when the path lay between two sloping, almost precipitous banks, crowned with underwood. All at once a voice cried:“Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods which free Englishmen claim as their own?”A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young knight gazed upon his interlocutor with a comic eye.“Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the honours of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the Andredsweald without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and outlaws, such as I conceive thee to be.”“Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.“Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in our power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim.”“Bring on your merrie men.”Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may guess), that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a shower of arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short, their lives were in the power of the “merrie men,” whose arrowheads and caps they could alone see peering from behind the tree trunks, and over the bank, amidst the purple heather.What a plight!“Give soft words,” said the old huntsman, who rode on the right hand of our friend Ralph, “or we shall be stuck with quills like porcupines.”But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving, at the same time, the order:“Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin.”The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which the old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed and ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad a leader.A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared, pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony entangled road; throwing their riders in most cases, or dashing their heads against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half the Normans were soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane became a shambles, a slaughter house.Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with little hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar, who thrust himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were fighting with their axes.“Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another blow.”“Thou hast saved the old villain’s life, grey friar,” said mad Ralph, parrying a stroke of Grimbeard’s axe, but this was but a bootless boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons, but with those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but equipped for the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the outlaws were far better versed than they, for with boar spear or hunting knife they often faced the rush of wolf or boar.“Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.“Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?”“Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father will but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out.”“Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive.”Then he cried aloud:“Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp.”The fight was over. The prisoners, five in number, were blindfolded, and in that condition led into the camp of the outlaws; Martin keeping close by their side, intent upon preventing any further violence from being offered, if he could avert it.Arrived at the camp, the captives were consigned to a rough cabin of logs. Their bandages were removed; a guard was placed before the door, and they were left to their meditations.They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped. The others lay dead on the scene of the conflict.Meanwhile, Ralph was puzzling his brains as to where he had seen the grey friar before, who had so opportunely arrived at the scene of conflict. He inquired of his companions, but their wits were so discomposed by their circumstances and by apprehensions, too well founded, for their own throats, that they were in no wise able to assist his memory. Nor indeed could they have done so under any circumstances.It was but a brief suspense. The outlaws had but tended their own wounded, washed off the stains of the conflict, refreshed themselves with copious draughts of ale or mead, ere they placed a seat of judgment for Grimbeard under a great spreading beech which grew in the centre of the camp, and all the population of the place turned out to see the tragedy or comedy which was about to be enacted. Just as, in our own recollection, the mob crowded together to see an execution.Grimbeard was fond of assuming a certain state on these occasions. He dressed himself in all his rustic finery, and seated himself with the air of a king on his rude chair of honour. By his side stood Martin, pale and composed, but determined to prevent further bloodshed if it were in mortal power to do so.“Bring forth the prisoners.”They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever.“What is thy name?” asked Grimbeard.“Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux.”“And what has brought thee into my woods?”“Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt.”“And thou must pay for thy sport.”“Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high.”“Thy ransom shall be a hundred marks, and till then thou must be content with the hospitality of the woods. Now for thy followers—three weeks ago the sheriff hung two of my best men as deer slayers, and I have sworn in such cases to have life for life. If they hang, we hang too. If they are merciful, so are we. Now I am loth to slay an Englishman. Hast thou not any outlanders here?”“If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?”“Thou art worth a hundred marks, and they not a hundred pence,” laughed Grimbeard. “It is not that I respect noble blood. I have scant cause. A wandering priest who came to say mass for us told us the story of Jephthah and the Gileadites; I will try the effect of a Shibboleth, too.“So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men.”The first was evidently an Englishman.“Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?”“Bread and cheese.”“It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph’s messenger, and shall be set free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests.“Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, ‘Shibboleth.’”It was an olive-skinned rogue, fresh from Southern France, who stepped forward this time, impelled by his captors. Asked the same question, he replied:“Dis bread and dat sheese {26}.”“Hang him,” said Grimbeard, and hanged he would doubtless have been, for a dozen hands were busy at once in their cruel glee; some seizing upon the victim, some mocking his pronunciation, some preparing the rope, two or three boys climbing the tree like monkeys, to assist in drawing it over a sufficiently stout branch to bear the human weight, while the poor Gaul stood shivering below; when Martin threw his left arm around the victim, and raised his crucifix on high with the other.“Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of your redemption.”“Who forbids?” said Grimbeard.“I, the representative by birth of your ancestral leaders, and one who might now claim the allegiance you have paid to my fathers for generations. But I rest not on that,” and here he pleaded so eloquently in the name of Christ, that even Grimbeard was moved; he could not resist a certain ascendency which Martin was gaining over him.“Let them go, all of them. Blindfold them and lead them out in the road. Only they must swear not to come into our haunts again, either with hawk and hound or with deadlier weapons.“There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin. You are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay popinjay of a knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can’t afford to lose that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may want him as hostage in case this morning’s work bring a hornets’ nest about our ears.”“Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?” said Martin.“I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my poor pate against theboves boreales, as now fromlatrones austroles. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph. But art thou indeed a grey friar?”“Yes, thank God.”“And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came near us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it is a good fellow lost to the world.”“And gained to God, I hope.”“I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead here?”“Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them.”“Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou get to Oxford?”“It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou come with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to escape till thy messenger returns?”It was done, and Ralph and Martin strolled around the camp in conversation that entire evening. Martin now learned that the death of an elder brother had recalled his former acquaintance from Oxford to figure as the heir apparent of Herst de Monceux: hence the occasion of their meeting under such different auspices.
The day was fine, and in the sun the heat was oppressive, but a grateful coolness lay beneath the shades of the forest, as our two brethren, Martin and Ginepro, pursued their way under the spreading canopy of leaves in search of the outlaws, whom most men preferred to avoid.
Crossing the Dicker, a wild tract of heath land which we have already introduced to our readers, and leaving Chiddinglye to the left, they entered upon a pathless wilderness. Mighty trees raised their branches to heaven, whose trunks resembled the columns in some vast cathedral. There was little underwood, and walking was very pleasant and easy.
And as they went they indulged in much pleasant discourse. Ginepro related many tales of “sweet Father Francis,” and in return Martin enlightened his companion with regard to the manners and customs of the natives into whose territories they were penetrating; men who knew no laws but those of the greenwood, and who were but on a par with the heathen in things spiritual, at least so said the neighbouring ecclesiastics.
“All the more need of our mission,” thought both.
They were now in a very dense wood, and the track they had been following became more and more obscure when, just as they crossed a little stream, a stern voice called, “Stand and deliver.”
They looked up. There were men with bended bows and quivers full of arrows on either side. They had fallen into an ambush.
Martin was quite unalarmed.
“Nay, bend not your bows. We be but poor brethren of Saint Francis, who have come hither for your good.”
“For our goods, you mean. We want no begging friars or like cattle.”
“But I have a special message for thee, Kynewulf, well named; and for thee, Forkbeard; and for thee, Nick.”
“Ah! Whom have we got here?”
“An old friend under a new guise. Lead me to your chieftain, Grimbeard, who, I hope, is well. Or shall I show you the road?”
“Yes, if you know it. Art thou a wizard?”
“Nay, only a poor friar. Am I to lead or follow?”
“Lead, by all means. Then we shall know that thou canst do so.”
Martin, nothing loth, walked forward boldly, Ginepro more timidly by his side. They were such wild-looking outlaws. At last they reached a spring, and Martin left the beaten path, ascended a slope, and stood at the entrance to a large natural amphitheatre, not unlike an old chalk pit, such as men still hew from the side of the same hills.
But if the hand of man had ever wrought this one, it had been in ages long past, of which no record remained. The soft hand of nature had filled up the gaps and seams with creeping plants and bushes, and all deformities were hidden by her magic touch. Around the sides of the amphitheatre were twenty to thirty low huts of osier work, twined around tall posts driven into the ground and cunningly daubed with stiff clay. In the centre of the glade was a great fire, evidently common property, for a huge caldron steamed and bubbled over it, supported by three sticks placed cunningly so as to lend each other their aid in resisting the heavy weight, in accordance with nature’s own mechanics, which she teaches without the help of science {25}.
Before the fire, on a sloping bank, covered with the softest skins, lay the aged chieftain whom we met before. But now seven years had added their transforming touch,tempus edax rerum. His tall stature was diminished by a visible curve in its outline. His giant limbs and joints were less firmly knit.
A light hunting shirt of green, confined around the waist by a silver belt, superseded the tunic of skins we saw him wear before, and over it was a crimson sash. These were doubtless the spoils of some successful fray or ambush, for the woods did not produce the tailors who could make such attire; and in the belt was stuck a sharp, keen hunting knife, and on his head was a low, flat cap with an eagle’s feather. There were eagles then in “merrie Sussex.”
“Whom hast thou brought, Kynewulf? What cattle are these?”
“Guests, good captain,” replied Martin, “who have come far to seek thee, and who have brought thee a special message from the King of kings.”
Grimbeard growled, but he had his own ideas of hospitality, and had his deadliest enemy come voluntarily to him, trusting to his good faith, he could not have harmed him. So he conquered his discontent.
“Hospitality is the law of the woods. Stay and share our fare, such as it is, the pot luck of the woods, then depart in peace.”
“Not till we have delivered our message.”
“Ah, well, my merrie men are the devil’s own children, but if you will try your hand at converting them I will not hinder you.”
Not a word was said before dinner, and Martin, feeling that after partaking of their hospitality they would be upon a different footing, said but little. But the curiosity which was excited by his knowledge of their names and of this their summer retreat was only suspended for a brief period.
The al-fresco entertainment was over, the dinner transferred on wooden spits from the caldron to huge wooden platters. Game, collops of venison skilfully roasted on long wooden forks, assisted to eke out the contents of the caldron. Strong ale, or mead, was handed round, of which our brethren partook but sparingly. When the meal was over Grimbeard spoke:
“We generally rest awhile and chew the cud after our midday meal, for our craft keeps us awake a great deal by night; and perhaps your tramp through the woods has made you tired also. Rest, and after the sun has sunk beneath the branches of yon pine you may deliver the message you spoke about.”
Then the hoary chieftain retired to the shade of his hut, as did some of the others to theirs, but the majority reclined under the spreading beeches, as did our two brethren.
They slept through the meridian heat. One sentinel alone watched, and so secure felt the outlaws in their deep seclusion that even this precaution was felt to be a mere matter of form.
And at length a horn was blown, and the whole settlement awoke to active life.
“Call the brethren of Saint Francis,” said the chief. “Now we are ready. Sit round, my merrie men.”
It was a picture worthy the pencil of that great student of the wild and picturesque, Salvator Rosa; the groups of brawny outlaws, with their women and children, all disposed carelessly on the grass, with the background of dark hill and wood, or of hollow rock, while Martin, standing on a conspicuous hillock, began his message.
With wondrous skill he told the tale of Redeeming Love. His enthusiasm mounting as he spoke. The bright colour reddening his face, his eyes sparkling with animation, is beyond our power to tell, and the result was such as was common in the early days of the Franciscan missions. Women, yea, and men too, were moved to tears.
But in the most solemn appeal of all, suddenly a woman’s voice broke the intensity of the silence in which the preacher’s words were received:
“My son—my own son—my dear son.”
The speaker had not been at the dinner, and had only just returned from the woods, wherein she often wandered. For this was Mabel, the chieftain’s wife, or “Mad Mab,” as they flippantly called her, and only on hearing from afar the unwonted sound of preaching in the camp had she been drawn in. The voice thrilled upon her memory as she drew nearer, and when she entered the circle—we may well say the charmed circle—she stood entranced, until at last conviction grew into certainty, and she woke the enchantment of the preacher’s voice by her cry of maternal love.
She was not far beyond the prime of life. Her face had once been strikingly handsome; Martin inherited her bright colour and dark eyes; but time had set its mark upon her, and often had she felt weary of life.
But now, after one of her monotonous rambles, like unto one distraught in the woods, had come this glad surprise. A new life burst upon her—something to live for, and, rushing forward, she threw her arms around the neck of her recovered boy.
“My mother,” said he in an agitated voice. “Nay, she has been long dead.”
But as he gazed, the same instinct awoke in him as in her, and he lost self control. The sermon ended abruptly, the preacher was conquered by the man. The hearers gathered in groups and discussed the event.
“This explains how he knew all about us!”
“It is Martin, little Martin, who should have been our chieftain.”
“The last of the house of Michelham!”
“Turned into a preaching friar!”
Grimbeard mused in silence. At last he gave a whispered order.
“Treat them both well, to the best of our power. But they must not leave the camp.”
“Mother,” said Martin, “why that cruel message of thy death? Thou hadst not otherwise lost me so long.”
“It was for thy good. I would save thee from the life of an outlaw or vagabond, and foresaw that unless I renounced thee utterly, thy love would mar thy fortunes, and bring thee back to my side.”
“My poor forsaken mother!”
Grimbeard now approached.
“Well, young runaway, thou hast come back in strange guise to thy natural home. Dost thou remember me?”
“Well, step father, many a sound switching hast thou given me, which doubtless I deserved.”
“Or thou hadst not had them. Well said, boy, and now wilt thou take up thy abode again with us? We want a priest.”
“I am no priest, only a preacher, and my mission is to the Andredsweald at large, and the scattered sheep of the Great Shepherd therein.”
“Only thou knowest our whereabouts too well. We may not let thee go in and out without security, that our retreat be not made known.”
“Father, I have eaten of your bread, and once more of my own free will accepted your hospitality. Even a heathen would respect your secret, still more a Christian brother. If I can persuade you to cease from your mode of life, which the Church decrees unlawful, well and good. But other weapons than those of the Gospel shall never be brought against you by me.”
They had a long conversation that afternoon, wherein Grimbeard maintained that the position of the “merrie men,” who still kept up a struggle against the Government in the various great forests of the land, such as green Sherwood and the Andredsweald, were simply patriots maintaining a lawful struggle against foreign oppressors. Martin, on the other hand, maintained that the question was settled by Divine providence, and that the governors of alien blood were now the kings and magistrates to whom, according to Saint Paul, obedience was due. If two centuries did not establish prescriptive right, how long a period would?
“No length of time,” replied Grimbeard.
“Ah well, then, step father, suppose the poor Welsh, who once lived here, and whom my own remote forefathers destroyed or drove from these parts, were to send to say they would thank the descendants of the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes to go back to their ancient homes in Germany and Denmark, and leave the land to them according to the principle you have laid down. What should you then say?”
Grimbeard was fairly puzzled.
“Thou hast me on the hip, youngster.”
After this conversation Martin was so fatigued by the day’s walk and all the subsequent excitement, that his mother prepared for him a composing draught from the herbs of the wood, and made him drink it and go to bed; a sweet bed of fragrant leaves and coverlets of skins in one of the huts, where she lodged her dear boy, her recovered treasure—happy mother.
The following morning, overcome by the emotions of the preceding day, Martin slept long. He was dreaming of the battle of Senlac, where he was heading a charge, when he awoke to find that the sounds of real present strife had put Senlac into his head.
He sat upright, a confused dream of fighting and struggling still lingering in his distracted mind. No, it was no dream; he heard the actual cry of those who strove for mastery: the exulting yell:
“Englishmen, on! down, ye French tyrants!”
“Out! out! ye English thieves!”
“Saint Denys! on, on! Saint Michael, shield us!”
Then came the sound of fiercer strife, the cry of deadlier anguish.
For there with arrow, spear, and knife,Men fought the desperate fight for life.
Martin slipped on his garb, and hurried to the scene. He looked, gained a sloping bank, and there—
That morning, a merry young knight and his train set out from Herstmonceux Castle to go “a hunting,” and in the very exuberance of his spirits, like Douglas of old, he thought fit to hunt in the woods haunted by the “merrie men,” as he in the Percy’s country.
Such a merry young knight, such a roguish eye.
But he had not ridden far into the debatable land when the path lay between two sloping, almost precipitous banks, crowned with underwood. All at once a voice cried:
“Stand! Who are ye? Whence come ye? What do ye here in the woods which free Englishmen claim as their own?”
A shaggy form, a bull-like individual, stood above them. The young knight gazed upon his interlocutor with a comic eye.
“Why, I am Ralph of Herstmonceux, an unworthy aspirant to the honours of chivalry, and conceive I have full right to hunt in the Andredsweald without asking leave of any king of the vagabonds and outlaws, such as I conceive thee to be.”
“Cease thy foolery, thou Norman magpie.
“Throw down your arms, all of you. Our bows are bent; you are in our power. You are covered, one and all, by our aim.”
“Bring on your merrie men.”
Not one of the waylaid party had put arrow to bow. This may seem strange, but they had sense enough to know (as the reader may guess), that the first demonstration of hostility would bring a shower of arrows from an unseen foe upon them. That, in short, their lives were in the power of the “merrie men,” whose arrowheads and caps they could alone see peering from behind the tree trunks, and over the bank, amidst the purple heather.
What a plight!
“Give soft words,” said the old huntsman, who rode on the right hand of our friend Ralph, “or we shall be stuck with quills like porcupines.”
But Ralph was hot headed, and threw a lance at the old outlaw, giving, at the same time, the order:
“Charge up the banks, and clear the woods of the vermin.”
The dart missed Grimbeard, and immediately the deadly shower which the old man had so keenly apprehended descended upon the exposed and ill-fated group, who, for their sins, were commanded by so mad a leader.
A terrific scene ensued. The horses, stung by the arrows, reared, pranced, and rushed away in headlong flight down the stony entangled road; throwing their riders in most cases, or dashing their heads against the low overhanging branches of the oaks. Half the Normans were soon on the ground. The outlaws charged: the lane became a shambles, a slaughter house.
Ralph and two or three more still fought desperately, but with little hope, when there appeared the sudden vision of a grey friar, who thrust himself between the knight and Grimbeard, who were fighting with their axes.
“Hold, for the love of God! Accursed be he who strikes another blow.”
“Thou hast saved the old villain’s life, grey friar,” said mad Ralph, parrying a stroke of Grimbeard’s axe, but this was but a bootless boast, for the conflict was not one with knightly weapons, but with those of the forest. The train of Herstmonceux were but equipped for the hunt and in such weapons as they possessed the outlaws were far better versed than they, for with boar spear or hunting knife they often faced the rush of wolf or boar.
“Martin! Boy, thou hast saved the young fop.
“Dost thou yield, Norman, to ransom?”
“Yea, for I can do no better, but if this reverend young father will but stand by and see fair play, I would sooner fight it out.”
“Dead men pay no ransom, and they are not good to eat, or I might gratify thee. As it is I prefer thee alive.”
Then he cried aloud:
“Secure the prisoners. Blindfold them, then take them to the camp.”
The fight was over. The prisoners, five in number, were blindfolded, and in that condition led into the camp of the outlaws; Martin keeping close by their side, intent upon preventing any further violence from being offered, if he could avert it.
Arrived at the camp, the captives were consigned to a rough cabin of logs. Their bandages were removed; a guard was placed before the door, and they were left to their meditations.
They were only, as we have said, five in number. Six had escaped. The others lay dead on the scene of the conflict.
Meanwhile, Ralph was puzzling his brains as to where he had seen the grey friar before, who had so opportunely arrived at the scene of conflict. He inquired of his companions, but their wits were so discomposed by their circumstances and by apprehensions, too well founded, for their own throats, that they were in no wise able to assist his memory. Nor indeed could they have done so under any circumstances.
It was but a brief suspense. The outlaws had but tended their own wounded, washed off the stains of the conflict, refreshed themselves with copious draughts of ale or mead, ere they placed a seat of judgment for Grimbeard under a great spreading beech which grew in the centre of the camp, and all the population of the place turned out to see the tragedy or comedy which was about to be enacted. Just as, in our own recollection, the mob crowded together to see an execution.
Grimbeard was fond of assuming a certain state on these occasions. He dressed himself in all his rustic finery, and seated himself with the air of a king on his rude chair of honour. By his side stood Martin, pale and composed, but determined to prevent further bloodshed if it were in mortal power to do so.
“Bring forth the prisoners.”
They were led forth; Ralph looking as saucy and careless as ever.
“What is thy name?” asked Grimbeard.
“Ralph, son of Waleran de Monceux.”
“And what has brought thee into my woods?”
“Thy woods, are they? Well, thou couldst see I came to hunt.”
“And thou must pay for thy sport.”
“Willingly, since I must. Only do not fix the price too high.”
“Thy ransom shall be a hundred marks, and till then thou must be content with the hospitality of the woods. Now for thy followers—three weeks ago the sheriff hung two of my best men as deer slayers, and I have sworn in such cases to have life for life. If they hang, we hang too. If they are merciful, so are we. Now I am loth to slay an Englishman. Hast thou not any outlanders here?”
“If I had, dost think I should tell thee? Why not take me for one?”
“Thou art worth a hundred marks, and they not a hundred pence,” laughed Grimbeard. “It is not that I respect noble blood. I have scant cause. A wandering priest who came to say mass for us told us the story of Jephthah and the Gileadites; I will try the effect of a Shibboleth, too.
“So bring the prisoners forward, one by one, my merrie men.”
The first was evidently an Englishman.
“Say, what food dost thou see on that table yonder?”
“Bread and cheese.”
“It is well; thou shalt be Sir Ralph’s messenger, and shall be set free, upon a solemn promise to do our behests.
“Now set forth the next in order, and let him say, ‘Shibboleth.’”
It was an olive-skinned rogue, fresh from Southern France, who stepped forward this time, impelled by his captors. Asked the same question, he replied:
“Dis bread and dat sheese {26}.”
“Hang him,” said Grimbeard, and hanged he would doubtless have been, for a dozen hands were busy at once in their cruel glee; some seizing upon the victim, some mocking his pronunciation, some preparing the rope, two or three boys climbing the tree like monkeys, to assist in drawing it over a sufficiently stout branch to bear the human weight, while the poor Gaul stood shivering below; when Martin threw his left arm around the victim, and raised his crucifix on high with the other.
“Ye shall not harm him, unless ye trample under foot the sign of your redemption.”
“Who forbids?” said Grimbeard.
“I, the representative by birth of your ancestral leaders, and one who might now claim the allegiance you have paid to my fathers for generations. But I rest not on that,” and here he pleaded so eloquently in the name of Christ, that even Grimbeard was moved; he could not resist a certain ascendency which Martin was gaining over him.
“Let them go, all of them. Blindfold them and lead them out in the road. Only they must swear not to come into our haunts again, either with hawk and hound or with deadlier weapons.
“There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin. You are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay popinjay of a knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can’t afford to lose that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may want him as hostage in case this morning’s work bring a hornets’ nest about our ears.”
“Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?” said Martin.
“I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my poor pate against theboves boreales, as now fromlatrones austroles. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph. But art thou indeed a grey friar?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came near us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it is a good fellow lost to the world.”
“And gained to God, I hope.”
“I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead here?”
“Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them.”
“Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou get to Oxford?”
“It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou come with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to escape till thy messenger returns?”
It was done, and Ralph and Martin strolled around the camp in conversation that entire evening. Martin now learned that the death of an elder brother had recalled his former acquaintance from Oxford to figure as the heir apparent of Herst de Monceux: hence the occasion of their meeting under such different auspices.