The House of Walderne

by A. D. Crake

  Chapter 5: Martin Leaves Kenilworth.

  Martin was henceforth relieved of his customary exercises in thetilt yard and elsewhere, which had become distasteful to him inproportion as the longing for a better life had grown upon hisimagination. Of course the other boys treated him with hugecontempt; and sent him metaphorically "to Coventry," the actualspires of which august medieval city, far more beautiful then thannow, rose beyond the trees in the park.

  But the chaplain saw this, and with the earl's permission lodgedthe neophyte in a chamber adjacent to his own "cell," where he gavehimself up to his beloved books, only varying the monotony by anoccasional stroll with his friend Hubert, who never turned his backupon his former friend, and endured much chaffing and teasing inconsequence.

  Most rapidly Martin's facile brain acquired the learning of theday--Latin became as his mother tongue, for it was then taughtconversationally, and the chaplain seldom or never spoke to him inany other language.

  And after a few months his zealous tutor thought him prepared forthe important step in his life, and wrote to the great master ofscholastic philosophy already mentioned, Adam de Maresco, tobespeak admission into one of the Franciscan schools or collegesthen existing at Oxford. There was no penny or other post--aspecial messenger had to be sent.

  The answer came in due course, and at the beginning of the Easterterm Martin was told to prepare for his journey to the University.He was not then more than fifteen, but that was a common age formatriculation in those days.

  The morning came, so long looked for, and with a strange feelingMartin arose with daybreak from his couch, and looked from hiscasement upon the little world he was leaving. A busy hum alreadyascended from beneath as our Martin put his head out of the window;he heard the clank of the armourer's hammer on mail and weapon, heheard the clamorous noise of the hungry hounds who were being fed,he heard the scolding of the cooks and menials who were preparingthe breakfast in the hall, he heard the merry laughter of the boysin the pages' chamber. But soon one sound dominated over all--boom!boom! boom! came the great bell of the chapel, filling hill anddale, park and field, with its echoes. Father Edmund was about tosay the daily mass, and all must go to begin the day with prayerwho were not reasonably hindered--such was the earl's command.

  And soon the chaplain called, "Martin, Martin."

  "I am ready, sire."

  "Looking round on the home thou art leaving, thou wilt find Oxfordmuch fairer."

  "But thou wilt not be there."

  "My good friend Adam will do more for thee than ever I could."

  "Nay, but for thee, sire, I had fallen into utter recklessness;thou hast dragged me from the mire.

  "Sit Deo gloria, then, not to a frail man like thyself; thou mustlearn to lean on the Creator, not the creature. Come, it is time tovest for mass. Thou shalt serve me as acolyte for the last time."

  People sometimes talk of that olden rite, wherein our ancestorsshowed forth the death of Christ day by day, as if it had been amere mechanical service. It was a dead form only to those whobrought dead hearts to it. To our Martin it was instinct with life,and it satisfied the deep craving of his soul for communion withthe most High, while he pleaded the One Oblation for all hispresent needs, just entering upon a new world.

  The short service was over, and Martin was breakfasting in thechaplain's room with him and Hubert, who had been invited to sharethe meal. They were sitting after breakfast--the usual feeling ofdepression which precedes a departure from home was upon them--whena firm step was heard echoing along the corridor.

  "It is the earl," said the chaplain, and they all rose as the greatman entered.

  "Pardon my intrusion, father. I am come to say farewell to thiswilful boy."

  They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour.

  "Nay, sit down. I have not yet broken my own fast and will crack acrust with you."

  And the earl ate and drank that he might put them all at theirease.

  "So the scholar's gown and pen suit thee better than the coat ofmail and the sword, master Martin!"

  "Oh, my good lord!"

  "Nay, my boy, thou wast exiled from home in my cause, and I may owethee a life for all I can tell."

  "They would not have harmed thee, not even they, had they known."

  "But you see they did not know, and all was fish that came to theirnets. Martin, don't thou ever think of them."

  "Hubert, thou hadst better go, and come back presently," whisperedthe chaplain, who felt that there were certain circumstances ofwhich the boy might be better left ignorant, which nearly concernedhis companion.

  "Nay," said Martin, 'there are no secrets between us. He knowsmine. I know his."

  "But no one else, I trust," said the earl, who remembered a certainprohibition.

  "No, my lord, only Hubert. He already knew so much, I was forced totell him all."

  "Then thou hast not forgotten thy kindred in the greenwood?"

  "I can never forget my poor mother."

  "Thou hast already told me all that thou dost know, and that thyfathers once owned Michelham."

  "So the outlaws said, the merrie men of the wood. Oh if my fatherhad but lived."

  "He would have made thee an outlaw, too."

  "It might well have been, but my poor mother would have been happythen."

  "But I think Martin has a scheme in his head," said Hubert shyly.

  "What is it, my son?" said the earl.

  "The chaplain knows."

  "He thinks that when he has put on the cord of Saint Francis hewill go and preach the Gospel to them that are afar off in thewoods."

  "But they are Christians, I hope."

  "Nominally, but they know nought of the Gospel of love and peace.Their religion is limited to a few outward observances," said thechaplain, "which, separated from the living Spirit, only fulfil thewords: 'The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life.'"

  "Ah, well, my boy, God speed thee on thy path, and preserve theefor that day when thou shalt come as a messenger of peace to themthat sit in darkness," said the earl.

  "Thine," he continued, 'is a far nobler ambition than that of thewarrior, thine the task to save, his to destroy.

  "What sayest thou, Hubert?"

  "I would fain be a soldier of the Cross, like my father, and cutdown the Paynim."

  "Like a godly knight I once knew, who, called upon to convert aSaracen, said the Creed and told him he was to believe it. TheSaracen, as one might have expected, uttered some words of scorn,and the good knight straight-way clove him to the chine."

  "It was short and simple, my lord; I should like to convert themthat way best."

  The chaplain sighed.

  "Oh, Hubert!" said Martin.

  The earl listened and smiled a sad smile.

  "Well, there is work for you both. Mine is not yet done in the busyfighting world; rivers of blood have I seen shed, nay, helped toshed, and I must answer to God for the way in which I have playedmy part; yet I thank Him that He did not disdain to call one whosecareer lay in like bloody paths 'the man after His own heart.'"

  "It is lawful to draw sword in a good cause, my lord," said thechaplain.

  "I never doubted it, but I say that Martin's ambition is moreChrist-like--is it not?"

  "It is indeed."

  "Yet should I be called to lay down my life in some bloody field,if it be my duty, the path to heaven may not be more difficult thanfrom the convent cell."

  These last words he said as if to himself, but years afterwards, onan occasion yet to be related, they came back to the mind of ourMartin.

  Upon a horse, which he had learned at length to manage well; withtwo attendants in the earl's livery by his side, Martin set forth;his last farewells said. Yet he looked back with more or lesssadness to the kind friends he was leaving, to tread all alone thepaths of an unknown city, and associate with strangers.

  As they passed through Warwick, the gates of the castle opened, andthe earl of that town came forth with a gallant huntin
g suite; herecognised our young friend.

  "Ah, Martin, Martin," he said, 'whither goest thou so equipped andattended?"

  "To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord."

  "And after that?"

  "To go forth with the cord of Saint Francis around me."

  "Ah, it was he who taught thee to kill my deerhound. Well, farethee well, lad, and when thou art a priest say a mass for me, for Isorely need it."

  He waved his hand, and the cavalcade swept onward.

  They rode through a wild tract of heath land. Cultivated fieldsthere were few, tracts of furze--spinneys, as men then called smallpatches of wood--in plenty. The very road was a mere track over thegrass, and it seemed like what we should now call riding acrosscountry.

  At length they drew near the old town of Southam, where they madetheir noontide halt and refreshed themselves at the hostelry of the"Bear and Ragged Staff," for the people were dependants of themighty Lord of Warwick.

  Then through a dreary country, almost uninhabited, save by thebeasts of the chase, they rode for Banbury. Twice or thrice indeedthey passed knots of wild uncouth men, in twos or threes, who mighthave been dangerous to the unattended traveller, but saw noprospect of aught but good sound blows should they attack theseretainers of Leicester.

  And now they reached the "town of cakes" (I know not whether theymade the luscious compound we call Banbury cakes then), and passedthe time at the chief hostelry of the town, sharing the supper withtwenty or thirty other wayfarers, and sleeping with some of them ina great loft above the common room on trusses of hay and straw.

  It was rough accommodation, but Martin's early education had notrendered him squeamish, neither were his attendants.

  The following day they rode through Adderbury, where not longbefore an unhappy miscreant, who counterfeited the Saviour anddeluded a number of people, had been actually crucified by beingnailed to a tree on the green. Then, an hour later, they leftTeddington Castle, another stronghold of the Earl of Warwick, ontheir right: they were roughly accosted by the men-at-arms, but thelivery of Leicester protected them.

  Soon after they approached the important town of Woodstock, withits ancient palace, where a century earlier Henry II had wiled awayhis time with Fair Rosamond. The park and chase were most extensiveand deeply wooded; emerging from its umbrageous recesses, they sawa group of spires and towers.

  "Behold the spires of Oxenford!" cried the men.

  Martin's heart beat with ill-suppressed emotion--here was theobject of his long desire, the city which he had seen again andagain in his dreams. Headington Hill arose on the left, and theheights about Cumnor on the right. Between them rose the greatsquare tower of Oxford Castle, and the huge mound {11} thrownup by the royal daughter of Alfred hard by; while all around arosethe towers and spires of the learned city, then second only inimportance to London.

  The first view of the Eternal City (Rome)--what volumes have beenwritten upon the sensations which attend it. So was the first viewof Oxford to our eager aspirant for monastic learning andecclesiastical sanctity. Long he stood drinking in the sight, whilehis heart swelled within him and tears stood in his eyes; but thetrance was roughly broken by his attendants.

  "Come, young master. We must hurry on, or we may not get in beforenightfall, and there may be highwaymen lurking about the suburbs."