Chapter24: Before The Battle.The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire, and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves incapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: “Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?” as one said of old when before the prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless warrior.The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards historical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a master of the art of war, although still young, and already marked by that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days, was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course through the Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponent derived his title, opened their gates to him. He marched thence for London, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning from Rochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships which set the place in a blaze.Edward marchedvice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of the Andredsweald,en routefor Lewes.It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our stand by it:And all around the widespread scene survey.What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant, studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How many familiar objects we see around—Michelham Priory, Battle Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle—all in view.There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west; Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isle of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings, where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that the royal enemy is in the forest.Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower with excited steps—the royal banner will soon be seen surmounting that ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring downwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is galloping as for dear life—look at the cloud of dust which he raises. The “merrie men” have disappeared in the woods, and Drogo descends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath the suspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches the foot of the stairs.“What news? Speak, thou varlet!”“The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows of the windmill.”“Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner wave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my liege.”Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks were getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings, the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile neighbours—the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods—the fish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked, stewed, or the like, for the king’s supper. Then he interviewed the butler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the like. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall were completed, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer, suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced that the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a glorious sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part.The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly glistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting sun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue, in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war horses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices. And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises just above the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of his castle in his hand.The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired, prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly features, the greatest of the Edwards—a born king of men.“Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight.”“My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own.”“Ah, and yet so loyal!”“For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I daily heard.”“Ah, indeed,” said the king, “then shalt thou receive the honour from my own hands,” and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added, “Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne.”“Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,” muttered Prince Edward.“Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those who honour us will we honour {32}.”The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their acclamations. The multitude cried, “Largesse! Largesse!” and by Drogo’s direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freely scattered to the accompaniment of the cry:“Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne.”Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands, pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green without, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which was not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head of the board—his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the King of the Romans), Edward, afterwards “The Hammer of Scotland,” on his father’s left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and next to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king of Scotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to play the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which was honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend the king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify the favour and honour which he had received.Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of the gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of healths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring again and again? Nay, we have tired the reader’s patience with scenes of that sort enough already.But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their political sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and land holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the morrow’s journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for the multitude. In short, they acted like men of business who provide for the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he had apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by their harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.“Who are these doughty foes?”“Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor of the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a favourite page of the Earl of Leicester.”“Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to sustain such acorns?”“I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand.”“Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless make short work of them.”Night reigned without. The occasional challenge of the sentinel alone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness over the host encamped at Walderne.Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at once. The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to life and action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the woods with their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the eastern hills.Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet hastily despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind them, stood the three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and friar pale with privation and suffering. Our Martin’s health was not strong enough to enable him well to bear the horrors of a dungeon.“You are accused of rebellion,” said the stern Edward, as he faced them. “What is your answer?”Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and anger, died of fear—yet he was never intentionally unjust.Ralph spoke first—he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was the only course.“My prince,” he said, “we must indeed avow that our convictions are with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand or fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are, but we disclaim the word.”“And thou, Sir Mayor?”“I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill to choose.”“And thou, friar of orders grey?”“Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester just,” said Martin quietly.Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger ere he replied:“They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with their swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then I may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in ward.”Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the execution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to the “superstitious” scruples of his followers, and to gain this he would have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold, but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion than avarice.And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the royal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were the newly-made knight and his followers.He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons—the only chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But before starting from home he left secret instructions, which will disclose themselves ere long.As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive came into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a hard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the key of Martin’s dungeon.“Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that door—meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst.”Should he send it back?“No, no!”He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.“I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou art mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design.”Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite powers.We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast, where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports—Winchelsea and Pevensey, so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter of Savoy, the then lord of the “Eagle,” entertained them at the Norman castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sacked Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quarters at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, as became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await the approach of the barons.There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the people of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of Walderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his gallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he had once more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he would joyfully chant hisNunc Dimittis.On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw his son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance related; and when he awoke he said;“Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given the first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath provided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored.”But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith. For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him. Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the house of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was equally real to the sufferer.One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his adversary’s dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days, a man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had slain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional. It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or supposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections by a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged not to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the dread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave {33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the fatal day.It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when, lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no longer armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his features resigned and peaceful.“I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the flesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy reward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him thou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward.”And he disappeared.Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the fulfilment of the vision.It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his horse in good keeping.He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.“Art thou with us or against us?” said the warder.“I am a soldier of the Cross,” was the reply, and a few more words were whispered in the ear.The warder started back.“Verily thy father’s heart will be glad,” he exclaimed.Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had stamped his features with a softer expression.The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if he had given “the first born of his body for the sin of his soul.”And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit—the half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious, thoughtless, but loving Hubert.And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was Prior Foville—he who built the two great western towers of the church.“Stay without,” whispered the prior to someone by his side; “joy sometimes kills.”The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so strange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret to tell and can hardly keep it in.“What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?”“Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not dead.”The father trembled. He could hardly stand.“I know he is alive, but where?”“On his way home.”“Nay!”“And in England!”“Father, I am here.”Hubert could restrain himself no longer.The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:“Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.”
The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire, and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves incapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: “Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?” as one said of old when before the prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless warrior.
The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards historical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a master of the art of war, although still young, and already marked by that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days, was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course through the Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponent derived his title, opened their gates to him. He marched thence for London, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning from Rochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships which set the place in a blaze.
Edward marchedvice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of the Andredsweald,en routefor Lewes.
It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our stand by it:
And all around the widespread scene survey.
What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant, studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How many familiar objects we see around—Michelham Priory, Battle Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle—all in view.
There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west; Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up from Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isle of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.
Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings, where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that the royal enemy is in the forest.
Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.
The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower with excited steps—the royal banner will soon be seen surmounting that ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring downwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is galloping as for dear life—look at the cloud of dust which he raises. The “merrie men” have disappeared in the woods, and Drogo descends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath the suspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches the foot of the stairs.
“What news? Speak, thou varlet!”
“The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows of the windmill.”
“Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner wave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my liege.”
Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks were getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings, the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile neighbours—the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods—the fish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked, stewed, or the like, for the king’s supper. Then he interviewed the butler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the like. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall were completed, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer, suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.
When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced that the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a glorious sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:
On lance, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part.
The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly glistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting sun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue, in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war horses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices. And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises just above the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.
Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of his castle in his hand.
The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.
Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired, prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly features, the greatest of the Edwards—a born king of men.
“Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight.”
“My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own.”
“Ah, and yet so loyal!”
“For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I daily heard.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the king, “then shalt thou receive the honour from my own hands,” and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added, “Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne.”
“Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,” muttered Prince Edward.
“Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those who honour us will we honour {32}.”
The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their acclamations. The multitude cried, “Largesse! Largesse!” and by Drogo’s direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freely scattered to the accompaniment of the cry:
“Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne.”
Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands, pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green without, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which was not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.
The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head of the board—his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the King of the Romans), Edward, afterwards “The Hammer of Scotland,” on his father’s left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and next to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king of Scotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.
Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to play the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which was honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend the king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify the favour and honour which he had received.
Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of the gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, of healths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring again and again? Nay, we have tired the reader’s patience with scenes of that sort enough already.
But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their political sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and land holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the morrow’s journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for the multitude. In short, they acted like men of business who provide for the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.
Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he had apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by their harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.
“Who are these doughty foes?”
“Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayor of the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly a favourite page of the Earl of Leicester.”
“Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough to sustain such acorns?”
“I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand.”
“Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless make short work of them.”
Night reigned without. The occasional challenge of the sentinel alone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness over the host encamped at Walderne.
Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at once. The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose to life and action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled the woods with their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over the eastern hills.
Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yet hastily despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behind them, stood the three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor and friar pale with privation and suffering. Our Martin’s health was not strong enough to enable him well to bear the horrors of a dungeon.
“You are accused of rebellion,” said the stern Edward, as he faced them. “What is your answer?”
Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and anger, died of fear—yet he was never intentionally unjust.
Ralph spoke first—he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was the only course.
“My prince,” he said, “we must indeed avow that our convictions are with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand or fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are, but we disclaim the word.”
“And thou, Sir Mayor?”
“I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill to choose.”
“And thou, friar of orders grey?”
“Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester just,” said Martin quietly.
Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger ere he replied:
“They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with their swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then I may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in ward.”
Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the execution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to the “superstitious” scruples of his followers, and to gain this he would have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold, but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion than avarice.
And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the royal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were the newly-made knight and his followers.
He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons—the only chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But before starting from home he left secret instructions, which will disclose themselves ere long.
As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive came into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a hard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the key of Martin’s dungeon.
“Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that door—meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst.”
Should he send it back?
“No, no!”
He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.
“I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thou art mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design.”
Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the opposite powers.
We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast, where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports—Winchelsea and Pevensey, so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter of Savoy, the then lord of the “Eagle,” entertained them at the Norman castle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sacked Hamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quarters at Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, as became his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await the approach of the barons.
There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth the people of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger of Walderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about his gallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he had once more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he would joyfully chant hisNunc Dimittis.
On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to his cell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he saw his son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurance related; and when he awoke he said;
“Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had given the first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hath provided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored.”
But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith. For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him. Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in the house of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic will see in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodily form, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it was equally real to the sufferer.
One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatal day when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had that day passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record his adversary’s dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days, a man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger had slain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional. It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real or supposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objections by a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledged not to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and the dread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave {33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of the fatal day.
It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when, lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but no longer armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his features resigned and peaceful.
“I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in the flesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on the altar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thy reward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more! Him thou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward.”
And he disappeared.
Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope but certainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently the fulfilment of the vision.
It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung with more than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry in person, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and all their train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to the crisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.
So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the great gates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, and the gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but just arrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put his horse in good keeping.
He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.
“Art thou with us or against us?” said the warder.
“I am a soldier of the Cross,” was the reply, and a few more words were whispered in the ear.
The warder started back.
“Verily thy father’s heart will be glad,” he exclaimed.
Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had stamped his features with a softer expression.
The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if he had given “the first born of his body for the sin of his soul.”
And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit—the half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious, thoughtless, but loving Hubert.
And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was Prior Foville—he who built the two great western towers of the church.
“Stay without,” whispered the prior to someone by his side; “joy sometimes kills.”
The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so strange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret to tell and can hardly keep it in.
“What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?”
“Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not dead.”
The father trembled. He could hardly stand.
“I know he is alive, but where?”
“On his way home.”
“Nay!”
“And in England!”
“Father, I am here.”
Hubert could restrain himself no longer.
The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:
“Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.”