The House of Walderne

by A. D. Crake

  Chapter 2: Michelham Priory.

  At the southern verge of the mighty forest called the Andredsweald,or Anderida Sylva, Gilbert d'Aquila, last of that name, founded thePriory of Michelham for the good of his soul.

  The forest in question was of vast extent, and stretched acrossSussex from Kent to Southampton Water; dense, impervious save wherea 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 tractof land, whereon stand now so many pretty Sussex villages, was eveninhabitable: like the modern forests of America, it was cleared bydegrees as monasteries were built, each to become a centre ofcivilisation.

  For, as it has been well remarked, without the influence of theChurch there would have been in the land but two classes--beasts ofburden and beasts of prey--an enslaved serfdom, a ferociousaristocracy.

  And such an outpost of civilisation was the Priory of Michelham, onthe verge of the debatable land where Saxon outlaws and Normanlords struggled for the mastery.

  On the southern border of this sombre forest, close to his Park ofPevensey, Gilbert d'Aquila, as almost the last act of his race inEngland {4}, built this Priory of Michelham upon an island,which, as we have told in a previous tale, had been the scene of amost sanguinary contest, and sad domestic tragedy, during thetroubled times of the Norman Conquest; the eastern embankment,which enclosed the Park of Pevensey and kept in the beasts of thechase for the use of Norman hunters, was close at hand.

  The priory buildings occupied eight acres of land, surrounded by awide and deep moat full forty yards across, fed by the riverCuckmere, and abounding in fish for fast-day fare. Although it hadproved (as described in our earlier tale) incapable of a prolongeddefence, yet its situation was quite such as to protect the prioryfrom any sudden violence on the part of the "merrie men" or nightlymarauders, and when the drawbridge was up, the gateway closed, thegood brethren slept none the less soundly for feeling how they wereprotected.

  Within this secure entrenchment stood their sacred and domesticbuildings, their barns and stables; therein slept their thralls,and the teams of horses which cultivated their fields, and thecattle and sheep on which they fed on feast days. A fine squaretower (still remaining) arose over the bridge, and alone gaveaccess by its stately portals to the hallowed precincts; it wasthree stories high, the janitor lived and slept therein; a windingstair conducted to the turreted roof and the several chambers.

  At the time of our story Prior Roger ruled the brotherhood; a manof varied parts and stainless life. He was not without monasticsociety: fifteen miles east was the Cluniac priory of Lewes,fifteen miles west the Benedictine abbey of Battle, three milessouth under the downs the "Alien" priory of Wilmington.

  But wherever a monastery was built roads were made, marshesdrained, and the whole country rose in civilisation, while for thelearning of the nineteenth century to revile monastic lore is forthe oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.

  Here the wayfarer found a shelter; here the sick their needfulmedicine; here the children an instructor; here the poor relief;and here, above all, one weary of the incessant strife of an evilworld might find PEACE.

  On the morning succeeding the arrival of the great Earl ofLeicester, that doughty guest was seated in the prior's chamber, incompany with his host. The day was most uninviting without, but thefire blazed cheerfully within. The snow kept falling in thickflakes, which narrowed the vision so that our friends could hardlysee across the moat, but the fire crackled on the great hearthwhere five or six logs fizzed and spluttered out their juices.

  "My journey is indeed delayed," said the earl, "yet I am mostanxious to reach London and present myself to the king."

  "The weather is in God's hands; we may pray for a change, butmeanwhile we must be patient and thankful that we have a roof overour heads, my lord."

  "And it gives me full time to hear particulars about the boy whom Ileft in your care--a wilful, petted urchin, ten years of age he wasthen."

  "The lad is docile; he has scant inclination towards the Church,but he shows the signs of his high lineage in a hundred differentways."

  "High lineage?" said the earl, with a smile and a look of inquiry.

  "We had supposed him of thy kindred; he bears every sign ofnoblesse and does not disgrace it," said the prior, himself of thekindred 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 alay brother appeared, to whom he gave the necessary order. A knockat the door was soon heard, and a lad of some fourteen yearsentered in obedience to the prior's summons, and stood at firstabashed before the great earl.

  Yet he was not a lad wanting in self confidence; he was tall andslender, his features were regular, his hair and eyes light, hisface a shapely oval; there was a winning expression on thefeatures, and altogether it was a persuasive face.

  "Dost thou remember me, my son?" asked the earl, as the boy knelton 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 donethy 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 gloryoften 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 thoudidst love him, take me to thy castle and let me be thy page. Thereare no chivalrous exercises here, no tilt yard, only the bell whichbooms 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 thougrieve 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'stastes with his form," said the earl to the prior. "When this lad'ssire and I were young together he had just the same ideas, the samerestless craving for excitement, and it led him at last to asoldier's grave. Well, what is bred in the bone will out in theflesh.

  "Hubert, thou shalt go with me to Kenilworth, but it will be a hardand 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 andhangers on parchment."

  The boy spoke out fearlessly, almost pertly, like a spoiled child.Yet he had a winning manner, which reconciled his elders to hisfreedom.

  "Now, go back to thy pot hooks and hangers, my boy, for thepresent," said the earl; "and tomorrow, perchance, I may take theewith me, if the storm abate.

  "And now," said the earl, when Hubert was gone, "send for the otherlad; the waif and stray from the forest."

  So Hubert retired and Martin appeared. It was by no means anuninteresting face, that which the earl now scanned, but quiteunlike the features of Hubert--a round face, contrasting with theoval outlines of the other--with twinkling eyes and curling hair; aface which ought to be lit up with smiles, but which was sad forthe 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."

&nb
sp; "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 servedJack, 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 didscream!"

  "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 beenrude, 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, Ishall take thee away with me. Fear not, my poor boy. If thou hastfor a while lost a mother, thou hast found a father."

  The boy sighed. Affection is not so easily transferred; and theearl quite comprehended that sigh; as a strange interest, almostunaccountable, he thought, sprang up in his manly breast for thelittle nestling, thrown so strangely upon his protection and care.

  Brave as a lion with the proud, gentle as a lamb with the weak anddefenceless, such was Simon de Montfort, an embodiment of truegreatness--the union of strength with love. Both Martin and Hubertwere 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 ofthe month, and the first this night was the one hundred andtwenty-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 ofthe earl; they were not of his blood, yet they might be "anheritage and gift of the Lord." And as the psalms rose and fell tothe rugged old Gregorian tones--old even then--their words seemedto Simon de Montfort as the voice of God.

  Oh! how rough, yet how grand that old psalmody was! Modern earscall its intervals harsh, its melodies crude, but it spoke to theheart with a power which our sweet modern chants often fail toexercise over us, as we chant the same sacred lays.

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  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 kepttolling until curfew time, by the prior's order, that if any werelost in the wild night they might be guided by its sound toshelter.

  The earl slept soundly in his little monastic cell that night, andin the morning he perceived the light of a bright dawn through thenarrow window; anon the winter's sun rose, all glorious, and thefrost and snow sparkled like the sheen of diamonds in its beams.The bell was just ringing for the Chapter Mass, the mass ofobligation to all the brotherhood, and the only one sung--duringthe day--in contradistinction to the low, or silent, masses--whichequalled the number of the brethren in full orders, of whom therewere not more than five or six.

  The earl, his squire, and the two boys were there. The prior wascelebrant. The manner of Hubert showed his distraction andindifference: it was like a daily lesson in school to him, and hegave it neither more nor less attention. But to Martin themysterious soothing music of the mass, like strains from anotherworld, so unlike earthly tunes, came like a new sense, aninspiration from an unknown realm, and brought the unbidden tearsto his young eyes.

  It must not be supposed that he was totally ignorant of theelements of religion; even the wild inhabitants of the forest cravesome form of approach to God, and from time to time a wanderingpriest, an outlaw himself of English birth, ministered to the"merrie men" at a rustic altar, generally in the open air or in awell-known cavern. The mass in its simplest form, divested of itsgorgeous ceremonial but preserving the general outline, was theservice he rendered; and sometimes he added a little instruction inthe vernacular.

  What good could such a service be to men living in the constantbreach of the eighth commandment? the Normans would ask. To whichthe outlaws replied, we are at open war with you, at least ashonourable a war as you waged at Senlac.

  And his mother saw that little Martin was taught the simple truthsand precepts of Christianity; more she asked not; nor at his agedid he need it.

  But here was a soil ready for the good seed.

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  The weather continued fine, so after mass the earl and his squirestarted 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 deMontfort, could not refuse the rites of hospitality.

  On the morrow, resuming their route, they left the towers of Lewesbehind them as they pursued the northern road. Once or twice theearl turned and looked behind him, at the castle and the downswhich encircled the old town, with a puzzled and serious expressionof face.

  "Stephen," he said to his squire; "I cannot tell what ails me, butthere 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 adream, are associated with my future fate, for weal or woe."