by A. D. Crake
Chapter 1: The Knight And Squire.
The opening scene of our tale is a wild tract of common land,interspersed with forest and heath, which lies northward at thefoot of the eastern range of the Sussex downs. The time is the yearof grace twelve hundred and fifty and three; the month a cold andseasonable January. The wild heath around is crisp with frost andwhite with snow, it appears a dense solitude; away to the east liesthe town of Hamelsham, or Hailsham; to the west the downs aboutLewes; to the south, at a short distance, one sees the lofty towersand monastic buildings of a new and thriving community, surroundedby a broad and deep moat; to the north copse wood, brake, heath,dell, and dense forest, in various combinations and endlessvariety, as far as the lodge of Cross in Hand, so called from thecrusaders who took the sacred sign in their hands, and started forthe earthly Jerusalem not so many years agone.
Across this waste, as the dark night was falling, rode a knight andhis squire. The knight was a man of some fifty years of age, butstill strong, tall, and muscular; his dark features indicated hissouthern blood, and an indescribable expression and manner told ofone accustomed to command. His face bore the traces of scars,doubtless honourably gained; seen beneath a scarlet cap, lined withsteel, but trimmed with fur. A flexible coat of mail, so cunninglywrought as to offer no more opposition to the movements of thewearer than a greatcoat might nowadays, was covered with a thickcloak or mantle, in deference to the severity of the weather; thethighs were similarly protected by linked mail, and the hose andboots defended by unworked plates of thin steel. In his girdle wasa dagger, and from the saddle depended, on one side, a hugetwo-handed sword, on the other a gilded battle axe.
It was, in short, a knight of the olden time, who thus travelledthrough this dangerous country, alone with his squire, who bore hismaster's lance and carried his small triangular shield, broad atthe summit to protect the breast, but thence diminishing to apoint.
"Dost thou know, my Stephen, thy way through this desolate country?for verily the traces of the road are but slight."
"My lord, the night grows darker, and the air seems full of snow.Had we not better return and seek shelter within the walls ofHamelsham? I fear we have lost the way utterly, and shall neverreach Michelham Priory tonight."
"Nay, the motives that led me forth to face the storm still pressupon me, I must reach Michelham tonight."
An angry hollow gust of wind almost impeded his further progress ashe spoke, and choked his utterance.
"An inhospitable reception England affords us, after an absence ofso many years. Methinks I like Gascony the better in regard toclimate."
"For five happy years have I followed thy banner there, my lord."
"Yet I love England better, foreign although my blood, or I hadthought more of the French king's offer."
"It was a noble offer, my lord."
"To be regent of an unquiet realm while my revered suzerain andfriend, Louis, went upon his crusade--mark me, Stephen, England hashigher destinies than France; this land is fated to be the motherof a race of freemen such as once ruled the world from Rome of old.The union of the long hostile races, Norman and English, isproducing a people which shall in time rule the world; and if I cando aught to help to lay the foundation of such a polity as befitsthe union, please God, I shall feel well repaid: in short,Leicester is a dearer name to me than Montfort; England thanFrance."
"Thy noble father, my lord, adorned the latter country."
"God grant he has not left an inheritance of judgment to hischildren; the cries of the slaughtered Albigenses ever rang in mypoor mother's ears, and ring too often in mine."
"I have never heard the story fairly told."
"Thou shalt now. The land where they spoke the language of Oc,thence called Langue-d'oc, was hardly a part of France; it had itsown government, its own usages, as well as its own sweet tongue. Itwas lovely as the garden of the Lord ere the serpent enteredtherein; the soil was fruitful, the corn and wine and oil abundant.The people were unlike other people; they cared little for war,they wrote books and made love on the banks of the Rhone andGaronne.
"Well had they stopped here, and not taken liberties" (here theknight crossed himself) "with the Church. Intercourse withMussulmen and Greeks--who alike came to the marts--corrupted them,and they became unbelievers, so that even the children in theirplay mocked at the Church and Sacraments. In short, it was saidthey were Manicheans."
"What is that?"
"People who believe that the powers of good and evil are co-equaland co-eternal, that both God and the devil are to be worshipped.At least this was laid to their charge; I know not if it be alltrue.
"Well, the Church appealed for help to the chivalry of France; shedeclared the goods and possessions of this unfortunate peopleconfiscate to them who should seize them, and offered heaven tothose who died in battle against them. Now these poor wretchescould write love songs and were clever at all kinds of art, butthey could not fight. My father was chosen to head the new crusade;and even he was shocked at the murderous scenes, the massacres, theburnings, which followed--God forbid I should ever witness thelike--they were blotted out from the earth."
The storm which had been gathering all this time now burst in itsfull violence upon our travellers. Blinding flakes of snow, bornewith all the force of the wind, seemed to overwhelm them; soon thetracks which alone marked the way became obliterated, and theriders wandered aimlessly for more than an hour.
"What shall we do, Stephen? I have lost every trace of the way; mypoor beast threatens to give up."
"I know not, my lord."
"Ah, the Saints be praised, there is a light close at hand. Itshines clear and distinct--now it is shut out."
"A door or window must have been opened and closed again."
"So I deem, but this is the direction," said the knight as heturned his horse's head northwards.
Let us precede knight and squire and see what awaited them.
Upon a spot of firm ground, free from swamp, and clear for aboutthe area of a couple of acres, stood a few primitive buildings:there was a barn, a cow shed, a few huts in which men slept but didnot live, and a central building wherein the whole community, whenat home, assembled to eat the king's venison, and wash it down withale, mead, and even wine--the latter probably the proceeds of asuccessful forage.
Darkness is falling without and the snowflakes fall thicker andthicker--it yet wants three hours to curfew--but the woods arequite buried in the sombre gloom of a starless night. The centralbuilding is evidently well lighted, for we see the firelightthrough many chinks in the ill-built walls ere we enter, althoughthey have daubed the interstices of the logs whereof it is composedwith clay and mud almost as adhesive as mortar. Let us go in--thedoor opens.
A huge fire burns in the centre of the building, and the smokeascends in clouds through an opening in the roof, directly above,down which the snowflakes descend and hiss as they meet their deathin the ruddy flames. Three poles are suspended over the fire, andfrom the point where they unite descends an iron chain, suspendinga large caldron or pot.
Oh, what a savoury smell! the woods have been ransacked, that theirtenants, who possess succulent and juicy flesh, may contribute toappease the hunger of the outlaws--bird and beast are there, andsoon will be beautifully cooked. Nor are edible herbs wanting, suchat least as can be gathered in the woods or grown in the small plotof cultivated ground around the buildings; which the men leaveentirely, as do all semi-savage races, to the care of the women.
There is plenty of room to sit round this fire, and several men,besides women and boys, are basking in its warmth--some sit onthree-legged stools, some cross-legged on the floor--and amidstthem, with a charming absence of restraint, are many huge-jaweddogs, who slobber as they smell the fumes from the pot, or utter animpatient whine from time to time.
Their chieftain, a man of no small importance judging from hisdress and manner, sits on the seat of honour, a species of chair,the only one in the building, and is perhaps the most notable man
of the party. He is tall of stature, his limbs those of a giant,his fist ponderous as a sledge hammer; a tunic of skins confinedaround the waist by a belt of untanned leather, in which is stuck ahunting knife, adorns his upper story: short breeches of skin, andleggings, with the undressed fur of a fox outside, complete hisbedecking.
A loud barking of dogs was heard, then a trampling of horses; somelooked astonished, others rose to their feet, and opening the doorlooked out into the storm.
"What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?"
"Some travellers I met outside as I was returning home from thechase, having got caught in the storm myself," replied a gruffvoice; "they had seen our light, but were trying in vain to getinto our nest."
"How many?"
"Two, a knight and a squire."
"Bring them in, in God's name; all are welcome tonight.
"But for all that," said he, sotto voce, "it may be easier to getin than out."
A brief pause, the horses were stabled, the guests entered.
"We have come to crave your hospitality," said the knight.
"It is free to all--sit you down, and in a few minutes the womenwill serve the supper."
They seated themselves--no names were asked, a few remarks weremade upon that subject which interests all Englishmen so deeplyeven now--the weather.
"Hast travelled far?" asked the chieftain.
"Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we musthave wandered miles from it."
"Many miles," said a low, sweet voice.
The knight then noticed the woman for the first time--he might havesaid lady--who sat on the right of this grim king. Her features andbearing were so superior to her surroundings that he started, asmen do when they spy a rich flower in a garden of herbs. By herside was a boy, evidently her son, for he had her dark features, sounlike the general type around.
"How came such folk here?" thought De Montfort.
The meal was at length served, the stew poured into wooden bowls;no spoons or forks were provided. The fingers and the lips had todo their work unaided, in that day, at least in the huts of thepeasantry. Bread, or rather baked corn cakes, were produced; herbsfloated in the soup for flavouring; vegetables, properly so called,were there none.
Many a time had our travellers partaken of rougher fare in theircampaigns, and they were well content with their food; so they atecontentedly with good appetite. The wind howled without, the snowfound its way in through divers apertures, but the warmth of thecentral fire filled the hovel. Their hosts produced a decoction ofhoney, called mead, of which a little went a long way, and soonthey were all quite convivial.
"Canst thou not sing a song, Stephen, like a gallant troubadourfrom the land of the sunny south, to reward our hosts for theirentertainment?"
And Stephen sang one of the touching amatory ballads which hademanated so copiously from the unfortunate Albigenses of the landof Oc. The sweet soft sounds charmed, although the hosts understoodnot their meaning.
"And now, my lad, have not thy parents taught thee a song?" saidthe knight, addressing the boy.
"Sing thy song of the Greenwood, Martin," added the mother.
And the boy sang, with a sweet and child-like accent, a song of theexploits of the famous Robin Hood and Little John:
Come listen to me, ye gallants so free,All you that love mirth for to hear;And I will tell, of what befell,To a bold outlaw, in Nottinghamshire.
As Robin Hood, in the forest stood,Beneath the shade of the greenwood tree,He the presence did scan, of a fine young man,As fine as ever a jay might be.
Abroad he spread a cloak of red,A cloak of scarlet fine and gay,Again and again, he frisked over the plain,And merrily chanted a roundelay.
The ballad went on to tell how next day Robin saw this fine bird,whose name was Allan-a-dale, with his feathers all moultered;because his bonnie love had been snatched from him and was about tobe wed to a wizened old knight, at a neighbouring church, againsther will. And then how Robin Hood and Little John, and twenty-fourof their merrie men, stopped the ceremony, and Little John,assuming the Bishop's robe, married the fair bride to Allan-a-dale,who thereupon became their man and took to an outlaw's life withhis bonny wife.
"Well sung, my lad, but when thou shalt marry, I wish thee a betterpriest than Little John; here is a guerdon for thee, a rose noble;some day thou wilt be a famous minstrel.
"And now, my Stephen, let us sleep, if our good hosts will permit."
"There is a hut hard by, such as we all use, which I have devotedto your service; clean straw and thick coverlets of skins, warriorswill hardly ask more."
"It was but an hour since I thought the heath would have been ourcouch, and a snowball our pillow; we shall be well content."
"It is wind proof, and thou mayst rest in safety till the hornsummons all to break their fast at dawn: thou mayst sleep meanwhileas securely as in thine own castle."
And the outlaws rose with a courtesy one would hardly have expectedfrom these wild sons of the forest; while Kynewulf showed theguests to their sleeping quarters, through the still fast-fallingsnow.
The hut was snug as Grimbeard (for such was the chieftain'sappropriate name) had boasted, and tolerably wind proof, althoughin such a storm snow will always force its way through the tiniestcrevices. It was built of wattle work, cunningly daubed with clay,even as the early Britons built their lodges.
And here slept the great earl, whose name was known through thecivilised world, the brother-in-law of the king, the mightiestwarrior of his time, and, amongst the laity, the most devoutchurchman known to fame.
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In the dead hour of the night, when the darkness is deepest andsleep the soundest, they were both awakened by the opening of thedoor, and the cold blast of wind it produced. The earl and hissquire started up and sat upright on their couches.
A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyesof both were red with weeping.
"Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injuredthee? the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed."
It was the woman they had noted at the fireside.
"Thou art Simon de Montfort," she said.
"I am; how dost thou know me?"
"I have met thee before, under other guise. Is liberty dear tothee?"
"Without it life is worthless--but who or what threatens it?"
"The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen."
"They will not harm me. I have eaten of their salt."
"Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it isbrought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks."
"In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up andaway; but who will be my guide?"
"My son; but thou must do me a service in return--thou must chargethyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return hereno more."
"But canst thou part with thine own son?"
"I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I cantrust him to thee."
"Oh, mother!" said the boy, weeping silently.
"Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such achance, now it is come--for thine own sake, my darling, the appleof mine eye; this good earl can be trusted."
"Earl Simon," she said, 'I know thee both great and a man who fearsGod; yes, I know thee, I have long watched for such an opportunity;take this boy, and in saving him save yourself from captivity."
"Tell me his name."
"Martin will suffice."
"But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that Imay bring him up according to his degree."
"He is of noble birth, on both sides; how fallen from such highestate this packet--entrusted in full confidence--will tell thee.Simon de Montfort, I give thee my life, nay, my all; let me hearfrom time to time how he fareth, through the good monks ofMichelham--thou leavest a bleeding heart behind."
"Poor woman!
yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of mypages, if he prove worthy."
"It is all I ask: now depart ere they are stirring. It wants aboutthree hours to dawn, the moon shines, the snow has ceased, so thatthou wilt reach Michelham in time for early mass. I will take theeto thine horses."
She led them forth; the horses were quietly saddled and bridled. Nowatch was kept; who could dread a foe at such a time and season?She opened the gateway in an outer defence of osier work and ditchwhich encompassed the little settlement.
One maternal kiss--it was the last.
And the three, earl, squire, and boy, went forth into the night,the boy riding behind the squire.
