Chapter2: Michelham Priory.At the southern verge of the mighty forest called the Andredsweald, or Anderida Sylva, Gilbert d’Aquila, last of that name, founded the Priory of Michelham for the good of his soul.The forest in question was of vast extent, and stretched across Sussex from Kent to Southampton Water; dense, impervious save where a few roads, following mainly the routes traced by the Romans, penetrated its recesses; the haunts of wild beasts and wilder men. It was not until many generations had passed away that this tract of land, whereon stand now so many pretty Sussex villages, was even inhabitable: like the modern forests of America, it was cleared by degrees as monasteries were built, each to become a centre of civilisation.For, as it has been well remarked, without the influence of the Church there would have been in the land but two classes—beasts of burden and beasts of prey—an enslaved serfdom, a ferocious aristocracy.And such an outpost of civilisation was the Priory of Michelham, on the verge of the debatable land where Saxon outlaws and Norman lords struggled for the mastery.On the southern border of this sombre forest, close to his Park of Pevensey, Gilbert d’Aquila, as almost the last act of his race in England {4}, built this Priory of Michelham upon an island, which, as we have told in a previous tale, had been the scene of a most sanguinary contest, and sad domestic tragedy, during the troubled times of the Norman Conquest; the eastern embankment, which enclosed the Park of Pevensey and kept in the beasts of the chase for the use of Norman hunters, was close at hand.The priory buildings occupied eight acres of land, surrounded by a wide and deep moat full forty yards across, fed by the river Cuckmere, and abounding in fish for fast-day fare. Although it had proved (as described in our earlier tale) incapable of a prolonged defence, yet its situation was quite such as to protect the priory from any sudden violence on the part of the “merrie men” or nightly marauders, and when the drawbridge was up, the gateway closed, the good brethren slept none the less soundly for feeling how they were protected.Within this secure entrenchment stood their sacred and domestic buildings, their barns and stables; therein slept their thralls, and the teams of horses which cultivated their fields, and the cattle and sheep on which they fed on feast days. A fine square tower (still remaining) arose over the bridge, and alone gave access by its stately portals to the hallowed precincts; it was three stories high, the janitor lived and slept therein; a winding stair conducted to the turreted roof and the several chambers.At the time of our story Prior Roger ruled the brotherhood; a man of varied parts and stainless life. He was not without monastic society: fifteen miles east was the Cluniac priory of Lewes, fifteen miles west the Benedictine abbey of Battle, three miles south under the downs the “Alien” priory of Wilmington.But wherever a monastery was built roads were made, marshes drained, and the whole country rose in civilisation, while for the learning of the nineteenth century to revile monastic lore is for the oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.Here the wayfarer found a shelter; here the sick their needful medicine; here the children an instructor; here the poor relief; and here, above all, one weary of the incessant strife of an evil world might find PEACE.On the morning succeeding the arrival of the great Earl of Leicester, that doughty guest was seated in the prior’s chamber, in company with his host. The day was most uninviting without, but the fire blazed cheerfully within. The snow kept falling in thick flakes, which narrowed the vision so that our friends could hardly see across the moat, but the fire crackled on the great hearth where five or six logs fizzed and spluttered out their juices.“My journey is indeed delayed,” said the earl, “yet I am most anxious to reach London and present myself to the king.”“The weather is in God’s hands; we may pray for a change, but meanwhile we must be patient and thankful that we have a roof over our heads, my lord.”“And it gives me full time to hear particulars about the boy whom I left in your care—a wilful, petted urchin, ten years of age he was then.”“The lad is docile; he has scant inclination towards the Church, but he shows the signs of his high lineage in a hundred different ways.”“High lineage?” said the earl, with a smile and a look of inquiry.“We had supposed him of thy kindred; he bears every sign of noblesse and does not disgrace it,” said the prior, himself of the kindred of the “lords of the eagle.”“He is the son of a brother crusader.”“The father is not living?”“No, he fell in Palestine, within sight of the earthly Jerusalem, and I trust has found admittance into the Jerusalem which is above; he committed the boy to my care—“But let them bring young Hubert hither.”The prior tinkled a silver bell, which lay upon the table, and a lay brother appeared, to whom he gave the necessary order. A knock at the door was soon heard, and a lad of some fourteen years entered in obedience to the prior’s summons, and stood at first abashed before the great earl.Yet he was not a lad wanting in self confidence; he was tall and slender, his features were regular, his hair and eyes light, his face a shapely oval; there was a winning expression on the features, and altogether it was a persuasive face.“Dost thou remember me, my son?” asked the earl, as the boy knelt on one knee, and kissed his hand gracefully.“It seems many years since thou didst leave me here, my lord.”“Ah! thy memory is good—hast thou been happy here? hast thou done thy duty?”“It is dull for an eaglet to be brought up in a cave.”“Art thou the eaglet then, and this the cave? fie! Hubert.”“My father was a soldier of the cross.”“And wouldst thou be a soldier too, my boy? the paths of glory often lead to the grave; thou art safer far as an acolyte here; thou wilt perhaps be prior some day.”“I covet not safety, my lord. If my father loved thee, and thou didst love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page. There are no chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell which booms all day long; matins and lauds; prime, terce and sext; vespers and compline; and masses between whiles.”“My son, be not irreverent.”The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.“Thou shalt go with me. But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou grieve over the loss of this sweet peace.”“I love not peace—it is dull.”“How wonderful it is that the son should inherit the father’s tastes with his form,” said the earl to the prior. “When this lad’s sire and I were young together he had just the same ideas, the same restless craving for excitement, and it led him at last to a soldier’s grave. Well, what is bred in the bone will out in the flesh.“Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard and stern school for thee; there are no idlers there.”“I am not an idler, my good lord.”“Only over his books,” said the prior.“That is because I prefer the lance and the bow to pot hooks and hangers on parchment.”The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child. Yet he had a winning manner, which reconciled his elders to his freedom.“Now, go back to thy pot hooks and hangers, my boy, for the present,” said the earl; “and tomorrow, perchance, I may take thee with me, if the storm abate.“And now,” said the earl, when Hubert was gone, “send for the other lad; the waif and stray from the forest.”So Hubert retired and Martin appeared. It was by no means an uninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quite unlike the features of Hubert—a round face, contrasting with the oval outlines of the other—with twinkling eyes and curling hair; a face which ought to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad for the moment. Poor boy! he had just parted from his mother.“Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?”“Yes,” said he sadly, “since she told me to go; but I love her.”“Thy name is Martin?”“Yes; they call me so now.”“What is thy other name?”“I know not. I have no other.”“Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?”“Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served Jack, the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans.”“And how was that?”“Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows. How he did scream!”“What! didst thou see such a sight, a young boy like thee?”“Yes,” said Martin innocently; “why shouldn’t I?”There was a pause.“Poor child,” said the prior.“My boy, thou should say ‘my lord,’ when addressing a titled earl.”“I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude, my lord.”“Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of ‘my lords.’”“You will not let them get me again, my lord?”“They couldn’t get in here, and tomorrow, if the storm cease, I shall take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hast for a while lost a mother, thou hast found a father.”The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and the earl quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almost unaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for the little nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care.Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak and defenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of true greatness—the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubert were fortunate in their new lord.“There sounds the vesper bell. Wilt thou with me to the chapel?” said the prior.Thither both earl and prior proceeded. It was Wednesday evening; the psalms were then apportioned to the days of the week, not of the month, and the first this night was the one hundred and twenty-seventh:Except the Lord build the house,their labour is but vain that build it.Except the Lord keep the city,the watchman watcheth but in vain.And again:Lo, children and the fruit of the wombare an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord.The two boys whom he had so strangely adopted came to the mind of the earl; they were not of his blood, yet they might be “an heritage and gift of the Lord.” And as the psalms rose and fell to the rugged old Gregorian tones—old even then—their words seemed to Simon de Montfort as the voice of God.Oh! how rough, yet how grand that old psalmody was! Modern ears call its intervals harsh, its melodies crude, but it spoke to the heart with a power which our sweet modern chants often fail to exercise over us, as we chant the same sacred lays.Nightfall—night hung like a pall over the island, over the moat, over the silent heath and woods; the snow kept falling, falling; the fires kept blazing in the huge hearths; and the bell kept tolling until curfew time, by the prior’s order, that if any were lost in the wild night they might be guided by its sound to shelter.The earl slept soundly in his little monastic cell that night, and in the morning he perceived the light of a bright dawn through the narrow window; anon the winter’s sun rose, all glorious, and the frost and snow sparkled like the sheen of diamonds in its beams. The bell was just ringing for the Chapter Mass, the mass of obligation to all the brotherhood, and the only one sung—during the day—in contradistinction to the low, or silent, masses—which equalled the number of the brethren in full orders, of whom there were not more than five or six.The earl, his squire, and the two boys were there. The prior was celebrant. The manner of Hubert showed his distraction and indifference: it was like a daily lesson in school to him, and he gave it neither more nor less attention. But to Martin the mysterious soothing music of the mass, like strains from another world, so unlike earthly tunes, came like a new sense, an inspiration from an unknown realm, and brought the unbidden tears to his young eyes.It must not be supposed that he was totally ignorant of the elements of religion; even the wild inhabitants of the forest crave some form of approach to God, and from time to time a wandering priest, an outlaw himself of English birth, ministered to the “merrie men” at a rustic altar, generally in the open air or in a well-known cavern. The mass in its simplest form, divested of its gorgeous ceremonial but preserving the general outline, was the service he rendered; and sometimes he added a little instruction in the vernacular.What good could such a service be to men living in the constant breach of the eighth commandment? the Normans would ask. To which the outlaws replied, we are at open war with you, at least as honourable a war as you waged at Senlac.And his mother saw that little Martin was taught the simple truths and precepts of Christianity; more she asked not; nor at his age did he need it.But here was a soil ready for the good seed.The weather continued fine, so after mass the earl and his squire started for Lewes, taking the two boys with him, Hubert and Martin. That night they were the guests of John, Earl of Warrenne {5}, who, although he did not agree with the politics of Simon de Montfort, could not refuse the rites of hospitality.On the morrow, resuming their route, they left the towers of Lewes behind them as they pursued the northern road. Once or twice the earl turned and looked behind him, at the castle and the downs which encircled the old town, with a puzzled and serious expression of face.“Stephen,” he said to his squire; “I cannot tell what ails me, but there is an impression on my mind which I cannot shake off.”“My lord?”“That yon castle and those hills, which I seem to have seen in a dream, are associated with my future fate, for weal or woe.”
At the southern verge of the mighty forest called the Andredsweald, or Anderida Sylva, Gilbert d’Aquila, last of that name, founded the Priory of Michelham for the good of his soul.
The forest in question was of vast extent, and stretched across Sussex from Kent to Southampton Water; dense, impervious save where a few roads, following mainly the routes traced by the Romans, penetrated its recesses; the haunts of wild beasts and wilder men. It was not until many generations had passed away that this tract of land, whereon stand now so many pretty Sussex villages, was even inhabitable: like the modern forests of America, it was cleared by degrees as monasteries were built, each to become a centre of civilisation.
For, as it has been well remarked, without the influence of the Church there would have been in the land but two classes—beasts of burden and beasts of prey—an enslaved serfdom, a ferocious aristocracy.
And such an outpost of civilisation was the Priory of Michelham, on the verge of the debatable land where Saxon outlaws and Norman lords struggled for the mastery.
On the southern border of this sombre forest, close to his Park of Pevensey, Gilbert d’Aquila, as almost the last act of his race in England {4}, built this Priory of Michelham upon an island, which, as we have told in a previous tale, had been the scene of a most sanguinary contest, and sad domestic tragedy, during the troubled times of the Norman Conquest; the eastern embankment, which enclosed the Park of Pevensey and kept in the beasts of the chase for the use of Norman hunters, was close at hand.
The priory buildings occupied eight acres of land, surrounded by a wide and deep moat full forty yards across, fed by the river Cuckmere, and abounding in fish for fast-day fare. Although it had proved (as described in our earlier tale) incapable of a prolonged defence, yet its situation was quite such as to protect the priory from any sudden violence on the part of the “merrie men” or nightly marauders, and when the drawbridge was up, the gateway closed, the good brethren slept none the less soundly for feeling how they were protected.
Within this secure entrenchment stood their sacred and domestic buildings, their barns and stables; therein slept their thralls, and the teams of horses which cultivated their fields, and the cattle and sheep on which they fed on feast days. A fine square tower (still remaining) arose over the bridge, and alone gave access by its stately portals to the hallowed precincts; it was three stories high, the janitor lived and slept therein; a winding stair conducted to the turreted roof and the several chambers.
At the time of our story Prior Roger ruled the brotherhood; a man of varied parts and stainless life. He was not without monastic society: fifteen miles east was the Cluniac priory of Lewes, fifteen miles west the Benedictine abbey of Battle, three miles south under the downs the “Alien” priory of Wilmington.
But wherever a monastery was built roads were made, marshes drained, and the whole country rose in civilisation, while for the learning of the nineteenth century to revile monastic lore is for the oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.
Here the wayfarer found a shelter; here the sick their needful medicine; here the children an instructor; here the poor relief; and here, above all, one weary of the incessant strife of an evil world might find PEACE.
On the morning succeeding the arrival of the great Earl of Leicester, that doughty guest was seated in the prior’s chamber, in company with his host. The day was most uninviting without, but the fire blazed cheerfully within. The snow kept falling in thick flakes, which narrowed the vision so that our friends could hardly see across the moat, but the fire crackled on the great hearth where five or six logs fizzed and spluttered out their juices.
“My journey is indeed delayed,” said the earl, “yet I am most anxious to reach London and present myself to the king.”
“The weather is in God’s hands; we may pray for a change, but meanwhile we must be patient and thankful that we have a roof over our heads, my lord.”
“And it gives me full time to hear particulars about the boy whom I left in your care—a wilful, petted urchin, ten years of age he was then.”
“The lad is docile; he has scant inclination towards the Church, but he shows the signs of his high lineage in a hundred different ways.”
“High lineage?” said the earl, with a smile and a look of inquiry.
“We had supposed him of thy kindred; he bears every sign of noblesse and does not disgrace it,” said the prior, himself of the kindred of the “lords of the eagle.”
“He is the son of a brother crusader.”
“The father is not living?”
“No, he fell in Palestine, within sight of the earthly Jerusalem, and I trust has found admittance into the Jerusalem which is above; he committed the boy to my care—
“But let them bring young Hubert hither.”
The prior tinkled a silver bell, which lay upon the table, and a lay brother appeared, to whom he gave the necessary order. A knock at the door was soon heard, and a lad of some fourteen years entered in obedience to the prior’s summons, and stood at first abashed before the great earl.
Yet he was not a lad wanting in self confidence; he was tall and slender, his features were regular, his hair and eyes light, his face a shapely oval; there was a winning expression on the features, and altogether it was a persuasive face.
“Dost thou remember me, my son?” asked the earl, as the boy knelt on one knee, and kissed his hand gracefully.
“It seems many years since thou didst leave me here, my lord.”
“Ah! thy memory is good—hast thou been happy here? hast thou done thy duty?”
“It is dull for an eaglet to be brought up in a cave.”
“Art thou the eaglet then, and this the cave? fie! Hubert.”
“My father was a soldier of the cross.”
“And wouldst thou be a soldier too, my boy? the paths of glory often lead to the grave; thou art safer far as an acolyte here; thou wilt perhaps be prior some day.”
“I covet not safety, my lord. If my father loved thee, and thou didst love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page. There are no chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell which booms all day long; matins and lauds; prime, terce and sext; vespers and compline; and masses between whiles.”
“My son, be not irreverent.”
The boy lowered his eyes at the reproof.
“Thou shalt go with me. But, my boy, blame me not if some day thou grieve over the loss of this sweet peace.”
“I love not peace—it is dull.”
“How wonderful it is that the son should inherit the father’s tastes with his form,” said the earl to the prior. “When this lad’s sire and I were young together he had just the same ideas, the same restless craving for excitement, and it led him at last to a soldier’s grave. Well, what is bred in the bone will out in the flesh.
“Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hard and stern school for thee; there are no idlers there.”
“I am not an idler, my good lord.”
“Only over his books,” said the prior.
“That is because I prefer the lance and the bow to pot hooks and hangers on parchment.”
The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child. Yet he had a winning manner, which reconciled his elders to his freedom.
“Now, go back to thy pot hooks and hangers, my boy, for the present,” said the earl; “and tomorrow, perchance, I may take thee with me, if the storm abate.
“And now,” said the earl, when Hubert was gone, “send for the other lad; the waif and stray from the forest.”
So Hubert retired and Martin appeared. It was by no means an uninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quite unlike the features of Hubert—a round face, contrasting with the oval outlines of the other—with twinkling eyes and curling hair; a face which ought to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad for the moment. Poor boy! he had just parted from his mother.
“Art thou willing to go away with me, my child?”
“Yes,” said he sadly, “since she told me to go; but I love her.”
“Thy name is Martin?”
“Yes; they call me so now.”
“What is thy other name?”
“I know not. I have no other.”
“Wouldst thou fear to return to the green wood?”
“Yes, for they might call me a traitor, and serve me as they served Jack, the shoe smith, when he betrayed their plans.”
“And how was that?”
“Tied him to a tree and shot him to death with arrows. How he did scream!”
“What! didst thou see such a sight, a young boy like thee?”
“Yes,” said Martin innocently; “why shouldn’t I?”
There was a pause.
“Poor child,” said the prior.
“My boy, thou should say ‘my lord,’ when addressing a titled earl.”
“I did not know, my lord. I beg pardon, my lord, if I have been rude, my lord.”
“Nay, thou hast already made up the tale of ‘my lords.’”
“You will not let them get me again, my lord?”
“They couldn’t get in here, and tomorrow, if the storm cease, I shall take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hast for a while lost a mother, thou hast found a father.”
The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and the earl quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almost unaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for the little nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care.
Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak and defenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of true greatness—the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubert were fortunate in their new lord.
“There sounds the vesper bell. Wilt thou with me to the chapel?” said the prior.
Thither both earl and prior proceeded. It was Wednesday evening; the psalms were then apportioned to the days of the week, not of the month, and the first this night was the one hundred and twenty-seventh:
Except the Lord build the house,their labour is but vain that build it.Except the Lord keep the city,the watchman watcheth but in vain.
And again:
Lo, children and the fruit of the wombare an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord.
The two boys whom he had so strangely adopted came to the mind of the earl; they were not of his blood, yet they might be “an heritage and gift of the Lord.” And as the psalms rose and fell to the rugged old Gregorian tones—old even then—their words seemed to Simon de Montfort as the voice of God.
Oh! how rough, yet how grand that old psalmody was! Modern ears call its intervals harsh, its melodies crude, but it spoke to the heart with a power which our sweet modern chants often fail to exercise over us, as we chant the same sacred lays.
Nightfall—night hung like a pall over the island, over the moat, over the silent heath and woods; the snow kept falling, falling; the fires kept blazing in the huge hearths; and the bell kept tolling until curfew time, by the prior’s order, that if any were lost in the wild night they might be guided by its sound to shelter.
The earl slept soundly in his little monastic cell that night, and in the morning he perceived the light of a bright dawn through the narrow window; anon the winter’s sun rose, all glorious, and the frost and snow sparkled like the sheen of diamonds in its beams. The bell was just ringing for the Chapter Mass, the mass of obligation to all the brotherhood, and the only one sung—during the day—in contradistinction to the low, or silent, masses—which equalled the number of the brethren in full orders, of whom there were not more than five or six.
The earl, his squire, and the two boys were there. The prior was celebrant. The manner of Hubert showed his distraction and indifference: it was like a daily lesson in school to him, and he gave it neither more nor less attention. But to Martin the mysterious soothing music of the mass, like strains from another world, so unlike earthly tunes, came like a new sense, an inspiration from an unknown realm, and brought the unbidden tears to his young eyes.
It must not be supposed that he was totally ignorant of the elements of religion; even the wild inhabitants of the forest crave some form of approach to God, and from time to time a wandering priest, an outlaw himself of English birth, ministered to the “merrie men” at a rustic altar, generally in the open air or in a well-known cavern. The mass in its simplest form, divested of its gorgeous ceremonial but preserving the general outline, was the service he rendered; and sometimes he added a little instruction in the vernacular.
What good could such a service be to men living in the constant breach of the eighth commandment? the Normans would ask. To which the outlaws replied, we are at open war with you, at least as honourable a war as you waged at Senlac.
And his mother saw that little Martin was taught the simple truths and precepts of Christianity; more she asked not; nor at his age did he need it.
But here was a soil ready for the good seed.
The weather continued fine, so after mass the earl and his squire started for Lewes, taking the two boys with him, Hubert and Martin. That night they were the guests of John, Earl of Warrenne {5}, who, although he did not agree with the politics of Simon de Montfort, could not refuse the rites of hospitality.
On the morrow, resuming their route, they left the towers of Lewes behind them as they pursued the northern road. Once or twice the earl turned and looked behind him, at the castle and the downs which encircled the old town, with a puzzled and serious expression of face.
“Stephen,” he said to his squire; “I cannot tell what ails me, but there is an impression on my mind which I cannot shake off.”
“My lord?”
“That yon castle and those hills, which I seem to have seen in a dream, are associated with my future fate, for weal or woe.”