Читать книгу The House of Walderne - A. D. Crake - Страница 5

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The opening scene of our tale is a wild tract of common land, interspersed with forest and heath, which lies northward at the foot of the eastern range of the Sussex downs. The time is the year of grace twelve hundred and fifty and three; the month a cold and seasonable January. The wild heath around is crisp with frost and white with snow, it appears a dense solitude; away to the east lies the town of Hamelsham, or Hailsham; to the west the downs about Lewes; to the south, at a short distance, one sees the lofty towers and monastic buildings of a new and thriving community, surrounded by a broad and deep moat; to the north copse wood, brake, heath, dell, and dense forest, in various combinations and endless variety, as far as the lodge of Cross in Hand, so called from the crusaders who took the sacred sign in their hands, and started for the earthly Jerusalem not so many years agone.

Across this waste, as the dark night was falling, rode a knight and his squire. The knight was a man of some fifty years of age, but still strong, tall, and muscular; his dark features indicated his southern blood, and an indescribable expression and manner told of one accustomed to command. His face bore the traces of scars, doubtless honourably gained; seen beneath a scarlet cap, lined with steel, but trimmed with fur. A flexible coat of mail, so cunningly wrought as to offer no more opposition to the movements of the wearer than a greatcoat might nowadays, was covered with a thick cloak or mantle, in deference to the severity of the weather; the thighs were similarly protected by linked mail, and the hose and boots defended by unworked plates of thin steel. In his girdle was a dagger, and from the saddle depended, on one side, a huge two-handed sword, on the other a gilded battle axe.

It was, in short, a knight of the olden time, who thus travelled through this dangerous country, alone with his squire, who bore his master's lance and carried his small triangular shield, broad at the summit to protect the breast, but thence diminishing to a point.

"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 of Hamelsham? I fear we have lost the way utterly, and shall never reach Michelham Priory tonight."

"Nay, the motives that led me forth to face the storm still press upon me, I must reach Michelham tonight."

An angry hollow gust of wind almost impeded his further progress as he spoke, and choked his utterance.

"An inhospitable reception England affords us, after an absence of so many years. Methinks I like Gascony the better in regard to climate."

"For five happy years have I followed thy banner there, my lord."

"Yet I love England better, foreign although my blood, or I had thought 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 and friend, Louis, went upon his crusade--mark me, Stephen, England has higher destinies than France; this land is fated to be the mother of a race of freemen such as once ruled the world from Rome of old. The union of the long hostile races, Norman and English, is producing a people which shall in time rule the world; and if I can do aught to help to lay the foundation of such a polity as befits the union, please God, I shall feel well repaid: in short, Leicester is a dearer name to me than Montfort; England than France."

"Thy noble father, my lord, adorned the latter country."

"God grant he has not left an inheritance of judgment to his children; the cries of the slaughtered Albigenses ever rang in my poor 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 its own government, its own usages, as well as its own sweet tongue. It was lovely as the garden of the Lord ere the serpent entered therein; 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 and Garonne.

"Well had they stopped here, and not taken liberties" (here the knight crossed himself) "with the Church. Intercourse with Mussulmen and Greeks--who alike came to the marts--corrupted them, and they became unbelievers, so that even the children in their play mocked at the Church and Sacraments. In short, it was said they were Manicheans."

"What is that?"

"People who believe that the powers of good and evil are co-equal and 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 all true.

"Well, the Church appealed for help to the chivalry of France; she declared the goods and possessions of this unfortunate people confiscate to them who should seize them, and offered heaven to those who died in battle against them. Now these poor wretches could write love songs and were clever at all kinds of art, but they could not fight. My father was chosen to head the new crusade; and even he was shocked at the murderous scenes, the massacres, the burnings, which followed--God forbid I should ever witness the like--they were blotted out from the earth."

The storm which had been gathering all this time now burst in its full violence upon our travellers. Blinding flakes of snow, borne with all the force of the wind, seemed to overwhelm them; soon the tracks which alone marked the way became obliterated, and the riders wandered aimlessly for more than an hour.

"What shall we do, Stephen? I have lost every trace of the way; my poor beast threatens to give up."

"I know not, my lord."

"Ah, the Saints be praised, there is a light close at hand. It shines 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 he turned 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 about the 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 did not live, and a central building wherein the whole community, when at home, assembled to eat the king's venison, and wash it down with ale, mead, and even wine--the latter probably the proceeds of a successful forage.

Darkness is falling without and the snowflakes fall thicker and thicker--it yet wants three hours to curfew--but the woods are quite buried in the sombre gloom of a starless night. The central building is evidently well lighted, for we see the firelight through many chinks in the ill-built walls ere we enter, although they have daubed the interstices of the logs whereof it is composed with clay and mud almost as adhesive as mortar. Let us go in--the door opens.

A huge fire burns in the centre of the building, and the smoke ascends in clouds through an opening in the roof, directly above, down which the snowflakes descend and hiss as they meet their death in the ruddy flames. Three poles are suspended over the fire, and from the point where they unite descends an iron chain, suspending a large caldron or pot.

Oh, what a savoury smell! the woods have been ransacked, that their tenants, who possess succulent and juicy flesh, may contribute to appease the hunger of the outlaws--bird and beast are there, and soon will be beautifully cooked. Nor are edible herbs wanting, such at least as can be gathered in the woods or grown in the small plot of cultivated ground around the buildings; which the men leave entirely, 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 on three-legged stools, some cross-legged on the floor--and amidst them, with a charming absence of restraint, are many huge-jawed dogs, who slobber as they smell the fumes from the pot, or utter an impatient whine from time to time.

Their chieftain, a man of no small importance judging from his dress 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 confined around the waist by a belt of untanned leather, in which is stuck a hunting knife, adorns his upper story: short breeches of skin, and leggings, with the undressed fur of a fox outside, complete his bedecking.

A loud barking of dogs was heard, then a trampling of horses; some looked astonished, others rose to their feet, and opening the door looked out into the storm.

"What folk hast thou got there, Kynewulf?"

"Some travellers I met outside as I was returning home from the chase, having got caught in the storm myself," replied a gruff voice; "they had seen our light, but were trying in vain to get into 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 get in 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 women will serve the supper."

They seated themselves--no names were asked, a few remarks were made upon that subject which interests all Englishmen so deeply even now--the weather.

"Hast travelled far?" asked the chieftain.

"Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we must have wandered miles from it."

"Many miles," said a low, sweet voice.

The knight then noticed the woman for the first time--he might have said lady--who sat on the right of this grim king. Her features and bearing were so superior to her surroundings that he started, as men do when they spy a rich flower in a garden of herbs. By her side was a boy, evidently her son, for he had her dark features, so unlike 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 to do their work unaided, in that day, at least in the huts of the peasantry. Bread, or rather baked corn cakes, were produced; herbs floated in the soup for flavouring; vegetables, properly so called, were there none.

Many a time had our travellers partaken of rougher fare in their campaigns, and they were well content with their food; so they ate contentedly with good appetite. The wind howled without, the snow found its way in through divers apertures, but the warmth of the central fire filled the hovel. Their hosts produced a decoction of honey, called mead, of which a little went a long way, and soon they were all quite convivial.

"Canst thou not sing a song, Stephen, like a gallant troubadour from the land of the sunny south, to reward our hosts for their entertainment?"

And Stephen sang one of the touching amatory ballads which had emanated so copiously from the unfortunate Albigenses of the land of Oc. The sweet soft sounds charmed, although the hosts understood not their meaning.

"And now, my lad, have not thy parents taught thee a song?" said the 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 the exploits 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 to be wed to a wizened old knight, at a neighbouring church, against her will. And then how Robin Hood and Little John, and twenty-four of 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 with his bonny wife.

"Well sung, my lad, but when thou shalt marry, I wish thee a better priest 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 devoted to your service; clean straw and thick coverlets of skins, warriors will hardly ask more."

"It was but an hour since I thought the heath would have been our couch, and a snowball our pillow; we shall be well content."

"It is wind proof, and thou mayst rest in safety till the horn summons all to break their fast at dawn: thou mayst sleep meanwhile as securely as in thine own castle."

And the outlaws rose with a courtesy one would hardly have expected from these wild sons of the forest; while Kynewulf showed the guests to their sleeping quarters, through the still fast-falling snow.

The hut was snug as Grimbeard (for such was the chieftain's appropriate name) had boasted, and tolerably wind proof, although in such a storm snow will always force its way through the tiniest crevices. 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 the civilised world, the brother-in-law of the king, the mightiest warrior of his time, and, amongst the laity, the most devout churchman known to fame.

In the dead hour of the night, when the darkness is deepest and sleep the soundest, they were both awakened by the opening of the door, and the cold blast of wind it produced. The earl and his squire started up and sat upright on their couches.

A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of both were red with weeping.

"Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured thee? 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 to thee?"

"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 is brought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks."

"In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and away; but who will be my guide?"

"My son; but thou must do me a service in return--thou must charge thyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return here no more."

"But canst thou part with thine own son?"

"I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust him to thee."

"Oh, mother!" said the boy, weeping silently.

"Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such a chance, now it is come--for thine own sake, my darling, the apple of mine eye; this good earl can be trusted."

"Earl Simon," she said, 'I know thee both great and a man who fears God; 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 I may bring him up according to his degree."

"He is of noble birth, on both sides; how fallen from such high estate this packet--entrusted in full confidence--will tell thee. Simon de Montfort, I give thee my life, nay, my all; let me hear from time to time how he fareth, through the good monks of Michelham--thou leavest a bleeding heart behind."

"Poor woman! yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of my pages, if he prove worthy."

"It is all I ask: now depart ere they are stirring. It wants about three hours to dawn, the moon shines, the snow has ceased, so that thou wilt reach Michelham in time for early mass. I will take thee to thine horses."

She led them forth; the horses were quietly saddled and bridled. No watch 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 ditch which 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.