And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was Prior Foville—he who built the two great western towers of the church.

"Stay without," whispered the prior to someone by his side; "joy sometimes kills."

The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had so strange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secret to tell and can hardly keep it in.

"What is it, my father? Hast thou brought joy or sorrow with thee?"

"Joy, I trust. We have reason to think thy gallant son is not dead."

The father trembled. He could hardly stand.

"I know he is alive, but where?"

"On his way home."

"Nay!"

"And in England!"

"Father, I am here."

Hubert could restrain himself no longer.

The old man gazed wildly upon him, then threw his arms around his recovered boy, and raising his eyes to heaven, murmured:

"Father I thank Thee, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found."



Chapter 25: The Battle Of Lewes.

The barons, on their side, prepared with sober earnestness for the struggle. They were not fighting for personal aggrandisement, but, as an old writer says, "they had in all things one faith and one will—love of God and their neighbour." So unanimous were they in their brotherly love, that they did not fear to die for their country.

It was the dead of night, and a horseman rode towards the village of Fletching. He was armed cap-a-pie, like one who might have to force his way against odds. His armour was dark, and he bore but one cognisance on his shield, the Cross. He was quite alone, but he knew that farther along he should find a sleeping host. The stars shone brightly above him, the country lay buried in sleep, scarcely a light twinkled throughout the expanse.

The sound of a deep bell tolling the hour of midnight reached him. It was from the priory which he had left an hour or more previously.

"Ere that hour strike again, England's fate will have been decided," he said, as if to himself, "and perhaps my account with God and man summed up before His bar. Well, I have a good cause, and a clear conscience, and I can leave it in God's hands."

And soon from the crest of a low hill he looked down upon the camp of the barons. There were many lights, and the murmur of voices arose.

Just then came the stern challenge.

"Who goes there?"

"A crusader, who as a knight received his spurs from Earl Simon, and now comes to fight by his side to the death for the liberties of England."

"The watchword?"

"I have it not—twelve hours have not passed since I landed in England after an absence of years."

"Stand while I summon the guard."

In a little while a small troop approached, their leader the young Lord Walter of Hereford, who had been present, as it chanced, when our hero was knighted. He recognised him with joy.

"The Earl of Leicester will be overjoyed to see you. He has long given you up for lost."

"He has not forgotten me?"

"Even yesternight he wished you were present to fight by his side."

Our poor Hubert felt his heart throb with joy and pride.

As they descended into the camp Hubert perceived the Bishop of Worcester, Walter de Cantilupe, riding through the ranks, and exhorting the soldiers to confess their sins, and to receive absolution and the Holy Communion; assuring them that such as fell would fall in God's cause, and suffer on behalf of the truth. Behind him his followers distributed white crosses to the soldiers, as if they were crusaders, which they attached to their breasts and backs. In this war of Englishmen against Englishmen there was need of some such mark to distinguish the rival parties.

All through the camp religious exercises were proceeding, and when at last Walter of Hereford brought our hero to the tent of Earl Simon, they found him prostrate in fervent prayer.

"Father and leader," said the young earl with deep reverence, "I have brought thee a long-lost son."

The earl rose.

"My son! Hubert! Can it be thou, risen from the dead?"

"Come to share thy fate for weal or woe, my beloved lord. From thy hands I received knighthood: at thy side will I conquer or die."

___________

The dawn was at hand. The birds began their matin songs, when the stern blast of the trumpet drowned their tiny warblings.

The army arose as one man. At first all was confusion, as when bees swarm, which was rapidly reduced into order, as the leaders went up and down with the standard bearers, and the men fell into their ranks. When all was still the earl, the great earl, came forth, armed cap-a-pie, mounted on his charger. The herald proclaimed silence. The deep, manly voice was heard:

"Beloved brethren! We are about to fight this day for the liberty of this realm, in honour of God, His blessed Mother, and all the Saints, for the defence of our Mother Church of England, and for the faith of Christ.

"Let us therefore pray to our Lord God, that since we are His, He would grant us victory in the battle, and commend ourselves to Him, body, soul, and spirit."

Then the Bishop of Worcester gave the Benediction, after which the vast multitude arose as a man, took their places, and began their onward march. Scouts of the royal army, out foraging, saw them, and bore the tidings to King Henry and Prince Edward at the priory and the castle, and the opposing forces arose in their turn.

Before the hour of prime, the earl, by whose side throughout that day rode our Hubert, descried the towers of the priory from the summit of a swelling ridge, and beheld soon after the army of the prince issuing forth from the west gate, and that of the king from the priory below. Earl Simon divided his forces into three parts: the centre he placed under the young Earl of Gloucester, whom he had that morning knighted; the right wing under his two sons, Simon and Guy; the left wing was composed of the Londoners. He himself remained at the head of the reserve behind the centre, where he could see all the field and direct operations. There was no smoke, as in a modern battlefield, to obstruct the view.

Prince Edward commanded on the right of the royal troops, and was thus opposed to the Londoners, whom he hated because of their insults to his mother {34}; and Richard commanded the left wing, and was thus opposed to Simon and Guy, the sons of the great earl. The centre was commanded by Henry himself, not by virtue of his ability in the field, but of his exalted rank. The royal standard of the Dragon was raised; a token, said folk, that no quarter was to be given.

This was a sign for the attack, and it was begun by that thunderbolt of war, Prince Edward, who charged full upon the Londoners. The poor light-armed cits were ill prepared for the shock of so heavy a brigade of cavalry; and they broke and yielded like a dam before a resistless flood. No mercy was shown them. Many were driven into the Ouse on the right, and so miserably drowned; others fled in a body before the prince, who pursued them for four miles, hacking, hewing, quartering, slaughtering. Just like the Rupert of the later Civil Wars, he sacrificed the victory to the headlong impetuosity of his nature.

Now let us turn to the left. On the crest of the hill, which there rose steeply, were the tents and baggage of the barons. Over one of these floated Earl Simon's banner, and close by was a litter in which he had been carried during a recent illness, but which now only contained four unfortunate burgesses of London town who were detained as hostages because they had attempted to betray the city to King Henry.

Towards this height the foolish Richard directed his charge, fully believing that the head and front of all the mischief, Simon himself, was in that litter, and that he should crush him and the rebellion together. But such showers of stones and arrows came from the hill that his forces were disorganised, and when Earl Simon suddenly strengthened his sons by the reserve, their united forces crushed the King of the Romans and all his men. They descended with all the impetus of a charge from above, and the enemy fled.

Then the earl might have made the mistake which Prince Edward made on the opposite side, and followed the flying foe; but he was far too wise. He saw on his left the centre under the Earl of Gloucester, fighting valiantly on equal terms with the royal centre under King Henry. He fell upon its flank with all the force of his victorious array: one deadly struggle and the royal lines bent, curved, broke, then fled in disorder, the old king galloping furiously towards the priory, fleeing in great fear for dear life.

Yet more ludicrous was the fate of his brother Richard, King of the Romans, who, while Henry reached the priory wounded, had taken refuge in the windmill, where he was being baited, almost in joke, by the victorious foes, amidst cries of:

"Come out you bad miller!"

"You to turn a wretched mill master!"

"You who defied us all so proudly!"

"You, the 'ever Augustus!"

At length the poor badgered king, seeing that they were preparing to set the mill on fire and smoke him out, surrendered to a follower of the Earl of Gloucester, Sir John Bix, and came out all covered with flour, while men sang:

The King of the Romans gathered a host, And made him a castle of a mill post.

Meanwhile the camp on the hill, with the banner and the aforesaid litter, had aroused the attention of Prince Edward, just returning from harrying the Londoners.

"Up the hill, my men," he said. "There is the very devil himself in that litter."

The camp was stoutly defended, but after a while the defenders were forced to fly by superior force. Then the prince's men rushed upon the litter, Drogo of Walderne foremost. They thought they had got the great earl.

"Come out, Simon, thou devil, thou worst of traitors," they cried.

Within were only the four shrinking, timid burgesses, and Drogo and his band dragged them out, shrieking in vain that they were for the king, and cut them to pieces, poor unfortunates. But they did not find Earl Simon, and only slew their own friends; and when the confusion was over they looked down upon the battlefield, where one glance showed them that the main battle was lost, and the barons in possession of the field.

In vain Edward besought his men, now much reduced in numbers, to make another charge. They saw the enemy waiting with levelled lances to receive them, and felt that the position they were asked to assail was impregnable.

Edward was a most affectionate son, and was very anxious to learn the fate of his royal father, so he determined to force his way to the priory at all hazards, and made a circuit of the town so as to reach the sacred pile from the unassailed quarter. Night was now approaching, and the prince's party had to fight their way at every step with the victorious horsemen of the barons. Edward's giant strength and long sweeping sword made him a way over heaps of corpses strewn before him, but others were less fortunate.

Hard by the river, on the eastern side of the town, and beneath the high cliffs which rise almost precipitously to the isolated group of downs, there was a terrible charge, a hand-to-hand melee. Drogo of Walderne and Harengod, his sword red with blood, his lance couched, was confronted here by a knight in sable armour, his sole cognisance—the White Cross.

They rode at each other. Drogo's lance grazed his opponent's casque: the unknown knight drove his missile through corselet and breast, and Drogo went down crashing from his steed. The combat went sweeping on past them, the desperate foes fighting as they rode. Edward and his horsemen, less and less in number each minute, still riding for the priory, straining every nerve to reach it; the others assailing them at every turn.

The Earl of Warrenne, William of Valence, Guy of Lusignan, and Earl Bigod of Norwich, were separated from the rest of the band, and, despairing of attaining the prince again, rode across the low alluvial flats for Pevensey.

By God, who is over us, much did they sin, That let pass o'er sea the Earl of Warrene, Much hath he robbed us, by moor and by fen, Our gold and our silver he carried hath henne {35};

Sang the citizens of Lewes afterwards of black Earl John.

Let us return in the shadows of the evening, while the prince gains the priory with a few of his followers, by sheer valour, while the rest are drowned in the river, or lost in the marshes—let us return to the place where Drogo de Harengod went down before an unknown foe.

"Dost thou know me?" said the conqueror, bending over the dying man and raising his helm.

"Art thou alive, or a ghost?" says a conscience-stricken voice.

"Nay, I am Hubert of Walderne, the cousin thou hast hated and injured. But our quarrel is settled now; thou art a dying man."

"Nay, not dying. I must live to repent.

"Oh, the key! the key! Throw this key into the moat!

"Nay, he will haunt me. Tell me, am I really dying? Nay, if it cost me my soul, I will not baulk my vengeance. Besides, it is too late!

"Martin!"

A rush of blood came to his lips, and Drogo of Harengod fell back a corpse on the blood-stained grass. Hubert gazed upon him a moment, then loosed the armour to give him air, but it was all over.

"God rest his soul. Our enmity is over, but what did he mean about the key?"

He felt in the gypsire of the dead enemy. There was a key, unsightly, rusty, and heavy.

"Why, I remember this key. It is the key of the dungeon at Walderne. Whom can he have got there? Why is it here? What did he mean about Martin?"

A horrible dread seized him—he could not resist the impulse which came upon him to ride to Walderne at once. He sought Earl Simon, obtained a troop, and started immediately through the dark and gloomy forest for Walderne.



Chapter 26: After The Battle.

We trust our readers are anxious to learn the fate of Martin, whom, much against our will, we left in such grievous durance at Walderne Castle.

Drogo had only left a score of men behind him to defend the castle in case of any sudden assault; which, however, he did not expect. Before leaving he had called one of these aside, a fellow whose name was Marboeuf.

"Marboeuf," he said, 'I know thou hast the two elements which, between ourselves, ensure the greatest happiness in this world—a good digestion and a hard heart."

"You compliment me, master."

"Nay, I know thy worth, and hence I leave all things in thy hands: my honour and my vengeance."

"Thy vengeance?"

"Yes. If I live I shall expect to find all as I left it when I return hither. If I die, and thou receivest sure news of my death, slay me the three prisoners."

"What! The friar and all!"

"Is his blood redder than any other man's? It seems to me thou art afraid of the Pope's gray regiment."

"Nay, I like not to slay priests and friars. It brings a man ill luck if he meddle with those."

"Then I must appoint Thibault. He may have an easier conscience, but I had thought that bloodshed, if nothing else, had bound us together."

"Nay, it shall not be said that I forsook my lord in his need. If thou fallest in the coming battle, I will sacrifice the three to thy ghost."

"So shall I rest in peace, like the warriors of old time, over whose tomb they slew many victims and cut many throats. I believe in no creed, but the old one of our ancestors suits me best, and I hope I shall find my way to Valhalla, if Valhalla there be."

When the last stragglers of the royal army had been swallowed up in the recesses of the forest, Marboeuf began to ponder over his engagement. But presently up came the janitor of the dungeons.

"Hast thou the key of the friar's dungeon?"

"Nay. The young lord has not left it with me."

The men looked at each other.

"He locked it himself, this morning, and put the key into his gypsire."

"And he has gone off with it. Doubtless he will send it back directly he finds it there."

"I doubt it."

"Shall we send after him?"

"No!" said Marboeuf.

"He is a friar. We must not let him starve."

"Humph! It will not be our fault. I tell thee thou dost not yet know our lord, and too much zeal may only damage you in his goodwill."

The gaoler retreated, and went slowly down to the dungeons. He walked along the passage moodily. At length he heard a voice breaking the silence:

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

The man felt moved. It seemed to him as if he were near a being of another mould, and old memories of years long past were awakened in his mind—how once such a friar had found him wounded almost to death in the battlefield, and had saved the body, like the good Samaritan, and striven to save his soul. How he had vowed amendment and forgotten it, or he had not been found herding with such black sheep as Drogo and his band. And earlier thoughts, how when his mother had fallen sick of the plague, another friar had tended her dying moments, when every other earthly friend had failed her for fear of infection.

"He shall not perish if I can help it, and it may be put to my account in purgatory."

"Father," he cried.

"My brother," was the reply, "what hast thou to ask?"

"What food hast thou?"

"Yet half a loaf, and a cruse nearly filled with water."

"It is all thou mayst get till my lord return. He has taken the keys. Use it sparingly."

For a moment there was silence, then a calm voice replied:

"He who fed Elijah by the ministry of the ravens will not fail me."

"But if Sir Drogo be absent many days thou mayst starve."

"Though he slay me, yet will I put my trust in him."

"I do believe he will be saved, by a miracle if needs be," muttered the man. "The saints will never let him starve, he is one of them."

The second day passed, and Martin's bread and cruse yet held out. But his gaoler was very uneasy, and wandered about the dark passages like a restless spirit. Neither could he help breathing his despair to Martin, as hours passed away and no messenger returned from Drogo with the key.

But the answer from the captive was always full of hope.

"Be of good cheer, for there has been with me an angel of God, who has assured me that the tyranny will soon be overpast. Meanwhile I feel not the pangs of hunger."

The fourth day from the departure of the royal army arrived. No one had as yet brought back the key. It was a day of awful suspense, for although no sound of artillery announced the awful strife, yet it was generally known that a battle was imminent, and was probably going on at that moment. They sent two messengers out at dawn of day, and one returned at eventide, breathless and sore from long running.

He had been on that group of downs which lies eastward of Lewes, of which Mount Caburn is the highest point, and from which Walderne Castle was visible. There they had raised a beacon fire, and he had left his comrade to fire it in case the king lost the battle. But ere he departed he had seen, as he thought, the royal array in hopeless confusion.

The afternoon brought another messenger, who confirmed the evil tidings, but was in hope that the prince, yet undefeated and then rampaging on the hill amongst the baggage, might retrieve the fortune of the day. When sunset drew nigh many of the garrison of Walderne betook themselves to the elevation on which the church is placed, whence they could see the Castle of Lewes through an opening, and watched, fearing to see the bale fire blaze, which should bid them all flee for their lives, unless they were prepared to defend the castle, to be a refuge in case their lord might survive and come to find shelter amongst them.

On this point there were diverse opinions. A waggon had gone out in the early morning to collect forage and provisions by way of blackmail—at this moment it was seen approaching the gateway below.

The sun had set, and the shades of evening were falling fast. All at once a single voice cried, "Look! the fire!" and the speaker pointed with his finger.

The eyes of all present followed his gesture, and they saw a bright spot of light arise on the summit of the downs, distant some twelve miles.

"It is the signal. All is lost! The rebels have won, and we must fly for our lives."

"They may be merciful."

"Nay, we have too black a name in the Andredsweald. We should have to answer for every peasant we have hanged or hen roost we have robbed."

"That would never do. By 'r lady, what injustice! Would they be so bad as that?"

"We will not wait to see."

All at once loud outcries arose from the castle below. They looked aghast, for it was the sound of fierce strife and dread dismay. What could it be?

They started to run to the help of their comrades, when a thousand cries, a wild war whoop, burst from the arches of the forest and in the dim twilight they saw numberless forms gliding over the short space which separated the castle from the wood.

"The merrie men!"

"The outlaws!"

"The wild men of the woods!"

The discomfited troopers paused—turned tail—fled—leaving their comrades to their fate, whatever it might be.

Let us see.

The waggon aforesaid had approached the gateway in the most innocent manner. It creaked over the drawbridge. It was already beneath the portcullis, when the driver cut the traces and thrust a long pole amidst the spokes of the wheel. At the same instant a score of men leapt out, who had been concealed beneath the loose hay.

All was alarm and confusion. The few defenders of the castle were overpowered and slain, for the gross treachery practised upon the "merrie men" a few days earlier had hardened their hearts and rendered them deaf to the call for pity or mercy. The few women who were in the castle fled shrieking to their hiding places. The men died fighting.

"To the dungeons! Show us the way to the dungeons, and we give you your life," cried their leader—Kynewulf—to an individual whose bunch of keys attached to his girdle showed his office.

"The friar is safe below, unhurt. I will take you to him. But I have no key."

"Where is it, then?"

"Sir Drogo has taken it with him."

"We will have it open.

"Friar Martin, art thou within?"

"Safe and uninjured. Is it thou, Kynewulf? Then I charge thee that thou do no hurt to any here. They have not injured me."

"Not injured thee, to place thee here! Well, we will soon have thee out. We have promised Grimbeard to bring thee to him, or forfeit our lives. He is dying."

"Dying! And I not there! What has chanced?"

"He was hit by one of those arrows the treacherous Drogo shot from the wall while the flag of truce was yet flying, when we first came to demand thee. But we must work to relieve thee."

And toil they did, but all in vain. They had no tools to force that iron door.

Meanwhile a sound of scuffling drew other members of the band to a chamber in the tower, where the good knight Ralph de Monceux was confined, and as they approached they heard a heavy fall and found Marboeuf lying dead on the floor, his skull cleft asunder, whilst over him stood Ralph, axe in hand.

The "merrie men" knew their bold captive.

"Ah! How is this? What ox hast thou felled?"

"Only a butcher who came in to slay me, but I avoided the blow, flew suddenly at his wrist and mastered the weapon, when I gave him what at Oxford we called quid pro quo, as we strewed the shambles with boves boreales."

They did not understand his Latin, but they knew Marboeuf, who, as the reader will comprehend, seeing all was lost, had striven to perform his vow, and happily had begun first with this dexterous young knight. Hence they found the poor mayor of Hamelsham safe and sound, only a little less afraid of the "merrie men" than of Drogo; for often had they rifled the castle and robbed the hen roosts of his town.

But all their efforts failed to open Martin's door, and they were at their wits' end what to do. They heard a rumour that the battle was lost, so they set men to watch, and prepared an ambush in his own caste yard for Drogo, in case he should survive the fight and come to hide, with especial instructions to take him alive, as they intended to hang him from his own tower.

Meanwhile, through the dewy night, amidst the thousand odours of the woods, rode Hubert and his fifty horsemen. They stayed not for brake, and they slacked not for ford. All the loving heart of Hubert went before him to the rescue of the friend of his boyish days; suffering, he doubted not, cruel wrong and unmerited imprisonment in a noisome dungeon. And ere the midnight hour he arrived amidst the familiar scenes, and saw at length the towers rise before him in the faint light of a new moon.

The sound of his horses must have been heard, but no challenge of warder awaited them. When the party arrived they found the drawbridge down, the gates open. What could it mean?

"It may be treachery. Look to your arms ere you ride in," cried Hubert.

They entered the court through the gateway in the Barbican tower. Instantly the gates slammed behind them, the portcullis fell, and, as by magic, the windows and courtyard were crowded with men in green jerkins with bended bows.

"What means this outrage," cried Hubert aloud, "upon the heir of Walderne as he enters his own castle?"

"That you are in the power of the merrie men of the greenwood. If you be Drogo of Walderne, surrender, and spare bloodshed: all who have never harmed us to go free."

"Then are we all free. My men are from Kenilworth, and can never have harmed you in word or deed. As for Drogo, he fell by my hand this day in fair combat."

"Who art thou, then?"

"Hubert, son of Roger of Walderne, and I seek my brother Martin—Friar Martin—whom you all must know."

Instantly every hostile demonstration ceased. The doors were thrown open, and the men who, a moment before, were about to fly at each other's throats, mingled freely as friends.

"Martin is below," they said. "Have you smiths who can force a door?"

"Lead me to him. HERE IS THE KEY."

Down the steps they flew, almost tumbling over each other in their eagerness. The key was applied, the rusty bolt flew back, and Hubert was clasped in Martin's arms.

___________

For a long while the spectators of this joyful meeting waited in the courtyard of the castle, which was thronged by men who had only been restrained by a merciful Providence from bending their deadly weapons against each other. Now their thoughts were thoughts of peace, yet they hardly understood why and wherefore.

But after a while there was a commotion in the great hall, and soon Martin stood on the summit of the steps, worn and pale, leaning on the stout shoulders of Hubert. Their eyes were both swimming in tears—but tears of joy. Cheers and acclamations rent the air, and it was a long while ere silence was restored for the voice of the late prisoner to be heard.

"Men and brethren, I thank you for your great love to me, and for the desire wherewith ye have desired my freedom, and jeopardised your own precious lives in its cause. And now, if I am welcome"—(loud cheers)—"so must be my dear brother Hubert, Lord of Walderne by the will of the Lady Sybil, a true knight, a warrior of the Cross, and a friend of the poor." (Loud cheers again). "Many of you will remember the night when he parted from you, when Sir Nicholas, who is gone, introduced him to you as his undoubted heir, and many have grieved over him, and said, 'Full forty fathom deep he lies.' But here he is in flesh and blood!" (Renewed cheers).

"And now, O men of the greenwood, whom I love so dearly, let me, a child of the greenwood, speak yet a few words about myself. For I am not only the last represent alive of the old English house of Michelham, but also a son of the house of Walderne; Mabel, my mother, being the sister, as many know, of the Lady Sybil. Ah, well. I seek a more continuing city than either Walderne or Michelham, and I want no earthly dignities. Wherever God gives me souls to tend is my home; and He has given it me, O men of the Andredsweald, amongst my countrymen and my kindred, and to Hubert I leave the castle right gladly. Now let there be peace, and let men turn their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks, and hasten the glorious day when the kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdoms of God and His Christ."

"We will. God bless Sir Hubert of Walderne."

"God bless brother Martin."

Drogo was forgotten, as though he had never lived, forgiven and forgotten. And the multitude dispersed, each man to his own home or haunt in the forest, leaving Sir Hubert in possession of the castle of his ancestors, and Martin his guest.

___________

Martin's first wish after his release was, as our readers will imagine, to visit his mother, and assure her of his safety in person. Kynewulf was in waiting to escort him. He had caused a litter to be constructed of the branches of trees, knowing that the severe strain Martin had undergone must have rendered him too weak for so long a journey; and the "merrie men" were only too eager to relieve each other in bearing so precious a burden.

"You will find our chieftain very far from well," said Kynewulf, as he walked by Martin's side. "He was wounded by one of the arrows from the castle when we came to demand your liberation of Drogo, and the wound has taken a bad turn."

"How does my poor mother bear it?"

"Like a true wife and good Englishwoman."

No more was said. Martin lapsed into deep thought until the retreat of the outlaws was attained. There, on a couch strewn with skins and soft herbage, lay the redoubtable Grimbeard; and by his side, nursing him tenderly, Mabel of Walderne. But for this she had been with Martin's rescuers at the castle, but she could not leave her dying lord, who clung fondly to her now, and would take food from no other hand.

The wound he had received had been thought slight, and neglected. Hence it had become serious, and since Kynewulf departed mortification had set in.

The mother rose and embraced her "sweet son."

"Thank God!" she said, and led him to his stepfather's side.

Grimbeard raised himself with difficulty, and looked Martin in the face.

"Martin is here," he said. "Let my dying eyes gaze upon him again.

"Martin, I have longed for thee. Tell me more about Him thou lovest so deeply."

"My father, He is waiting to receive and to bless thee. Cast thyself wholly on the Incarnate Love which embraced thee on the Tree. Say, for His sake, canst thou forgive all, even these Normans thou hast so hated?"

"Dost thou forgive the wretch who shut thee up, my gentle boy, in that dungeon?"

"Yes, verily, and pray to God to pardon him, too."

"Then I may pardon my foes, although my life has been spent in fighting against them for England's freedom. But I see we must submit, as thou hast often said, to God's will; and if the past may be forgiven, my merrie men will be well content to make peace, and to turn their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; especially now Drogo has met his just doom, as they tell me, and thy friend is about to rule at Walderne. Thou must be the mediator between them and him.

"But oh! my son, it has been hard to submit to all this. All those I loved when young carried on the fight, and my own father bequeathed it to me as a sacred heritage. We hoped to see England governed by Englishmen, and the alien cast out; and now I give it up. The problem is too hard for me. God will make it clear."

"My father," said Martin, "I, too, am the descendant of a long line of warriors, who have never before me submitted to the foreign yoke. But I see that the two peoples are becoming one: that the sons of the Norman learn our English tongue, and that the day is at hand when they will be proud of the name 'Englishmen.' Norman and Saxon all alike, one people, even as in heaven there is no distinction of race, but all are alike before the throne."

"And now, my son, art thou not a priest yet? I would fain make confession of my sins."

"God will accept the will for the deed. He is not limited to earthly means; and if thou truly repent of thy sins for the love of the Crucified, and believest in Him, all will be well."

For Martin feared that there would be no time to fetch a priest, or he would not have questioned the universal precept of the church of his day; while his own faith led him to see clearly that God's mercy was not limited by the accidental omission of the outward ordinance.

"I sent for Sir Richard {36}, the parish priest of Walderne, ere we left the castle, and he is doubtless on his way with the Viaticum," said Kynewulf.

And while they yet spake the priest arrived, and the dying man received with simple faith the last sacraments of the Church. After this his people gathered round him.

"Tell them," he said, in stammering tones, for the speech was failing, "what I have said. With thy friend in the castle, and thou in the greenwood, there will be peace."

Martin turned to the silent outlaws who stood by, and repeated his words. They listened in silence. The prospect was not new to them, for Martin's long labours had not been in vain; but while Drogo was at Walderne, and the royal party triumphant, it seemed useless to hope for its realisation. Now things had changed, and there was hope that the breach would be healed.

"His last prayer was for peace," said Grimbeard. "Should not mine be the same? Oh, God, save my country, grant it the blessing of peace, and forgive a poor erring man, who sees, too late, that he has been fighting against Thy dispensation, for he can now say 'Thy will be done.'"

These were his last words, and although we have related them as if spoken connectedly, they were really only uttered in broken gasps. The end came; the widow turned aside from the bed after closing the eyes.

"Martin," she said, "thou alone art left to me."

And she fell on his neck and wept.

___________

From the grave to the gay, from a death to a wedding, such is life. The same bell which tolls dolorously at a burial clangs in company with its fellows at a marriage on the next day. So the world goes on.

The scene was the priory of Saint Pancras at Lewes, where so lately the feeble old king had held his court. Now with his brave son he had gone into honourable captivity, for it was little better, and the followers of Earl Simon filled the place.

Before the high altar stood a youthful pair; Hubert of Walderne, now to be known as Radulphus, or Ralph; and Alicia de Grey, who had been sheltered from ill and Drogo as one of the handmaidens of the Countess Eleanor, in keeping for her true love.

The good prior, Foville, performed the ceremony and celebrated the mass Pro sponso et sponsa. The father, the happy and glad father, stood by, now fully delivered from his ghostly tormentor, his fondest wish on earth achieved. Earl Simon gave the bride away, while Martin stood by, so happy.

It was over, and the aisle was strewn with the gay flowers of early summer, as our Hubert and his bride left the sacred pile. But one adieu to the father, who would not leave his monastery even then, but who fell upon Hubert's neck and wept while he cried, "My son, my dear son, God bless thee;" and the bridal train rode off to the castle above, where the marriage feast was spread.

Then Earl Simon to his onerous duties, and the happy pair to keep their honeymoon at Walderne.

Oh, the joy of that leafy month of June, in the wild woods, all loosed from care. Hubert seemed to have found true happiness, if it could be found on earth. And Martin, he too was happy, in his work of love and reconciliation.

It was an oasis in life's pilgrimage, when man might well fancy he had found an Eden upon earth again. And there we would fain leave our two friends and cousins.

Epilogue.

A few words respecting the fate of our chief characters must close our story. We need not tell our readers the future of the great earl—it is written on the pages of history. But his work did not die on the fatal field of Evesham. It lived in the royal nephew, through whose warlike skill he was overthrown, and who speedily arrived at the conclusion that most of the reforms of his uncle were founded upon the eternal principles of truth and justice. Hence that legislation which gained for Edward, the greatest of the Plantagenets, and the first truly English king since Harold, the title of the "English Justinian."

Hubert was not with his lord when he fell. He had been selected to be of the household of Simon's beloved Countess Eleanor, and he was with her at Dover when the fatal news of Evesham arrived. He could only cry, "Would God I had died for him," while the countess abandoned herself to her grief.

Edward soon sought a reconciliation with the countess, who, it will be remembered, was his father's sister; which being effected, she passed over to France with her only daughter, to join her sons already there; and King Louis received her with great kindness, while Hubert and his companions of her guard were received into the favour of Edward, and exempted from the sweeping sentence of confiscation passed in the first intoxication of triumph upon all the adherents of the Montforts.

Brother Roger died in peace at a great age, at the Priory of Lewes, growing in grace as he grew in years, until at last he passed away, "awaiting," as he said, "the manifestation of the sons of God," amongst whom, sinner though he had been, he hoped to stand in his lot in the latter days.

Ralph of Herstmonceux, who had been happily preserved from death at the battle of Evesham, followed his father to Dover, where they joined the countess in the defence of that fortress, and shared the forgiveness extended to her followers. So completely did Edward forgive the family, that we read in the Chronicles how King Edward, long afterwards, honoured Herstmonceux with a royal visit on his road to make a pious retreat at the Abbey of Battle. Ralph succeeded his father, and we may be sure lived on good terms with Hubert.

Hubert followed the banner of Edward Longshanks both in Wales and Scotland ere he came home to his wife and children, satiated at last with war, and spent the rest of his days at Walderne. He died at a good old age, and was buried as a crusader in Lewes Priory, with crossed legs and half-drawn sword, where his tomb could be seen until the sacrilegious hands of the minions of Thomas Cromwell destroyed that noble edifice.

Mabel of Walderne retired, at her son's persuasion, to a convent at Mayfield, where she ended her days in all the "odour of sanctity," and Martin closed her eyes.

And lastly we have to tell of our Martin. He remained in the Andredsweald until he had completely succeeded in reconciling the outlaws to the authorities {37}, and he had seen them, his "merrie men," settle down as peaceful tillers of the soil, or enter the service of the knights and abbots as gamekeepers, woodsmen, huntsmen, and the like; at his strong recommendation and assurance that he would be surety for their good behaviour—an assurance they did their best to justify.

And how shall we describe his labour of love—his work as the bondsman of Christ? But after the death of his mother, his superiors recalled him to Oxford, as a more important sphere, and better suited to his talents; where the peculiar sweetness of his disposition gave him a great influence over the younger students. In short he became a power in the university, and died head of the Franciscan house, loved and lamented, in full assurance of a glorious immortality. And they put over his tomb these words:

We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love the brethren. —Vale Beatissime.

From the south wall of Walderne Church project or projected two iron brackets with lances, whereon hung for many a generation the banners of Sir Ralph (alias Hubert) and his son Laurence.

The boast of chivalry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, Await alike the inevitable hour, The paths of glory lead but to the grave.



THE END.



Notes.

1 Rivingtons' Historical Biographies.

2 Demonology and Witchcraft.

3 See the Andredsweald, a tale of the Norman Conquest, by the same author.

4 He was the last lord of Pevensey of his race, all his land and honours being forfeited in 1235 for passing over into Normandy without King Henry the Third's license.

5 Lord of Lewes Castle from 1242-1304, a local tyrant.

6 There were then no family names, properly so called; the English generally took one descriptive of trade or profession, hence the multitude of Smiths; the Normans generally then name of their estate or birthplace, with the affix De. Knight's Pictorial History, volume 2, page 643.

7 His literary acquirements, unusual in the time, increased his influence and reputation. Knight's Pictorial History.

8 How did I weep in Thy Hymns and Canticles, touched to the quick by the voices of Thy sweet-attuned Church, the voices flowed into my ears and the truth distilled into my heart. Saint Augustine's Confessions volume 9 page 6.

9 Afterwards the site of the battle of Edgehill.

10 See his biography in Macmillan's Sunday Library.

11 Ethelflaed, Lady or Queen of the Mercians (under her brother Edward, son of Alfred), threw up certain huge mounds and certain stone castles, to defend her realm and serve as refuges in troublous times. One site was Oxford, and it is the first authentic event recorded in the history of the city—the foundation of the university by Alfred being abandoned by scholars, as an interpolation in Asser, the king's biographer.

12 The Rival Heirs, or the Third Chronicle of Aescendune.

13 Because in later times some poor Jews were burnt there.

14 Like those still seen at Tewkesbury Abbey, of similar proportions.

15 The date of the surrender was November 16, 1537. It was granted to Thomas Cromwell, February 16, 1538. It was at once destroyed by skilled agents of destruction, and the materials sold. Cromwell did not enjoy it long; he perished at Tower Hill by the axe, July 28, 1540.

16 The old hymn for Wednesday morning, according to Sarum use. I am indebted to the Hymnary for the translation.

17 The supposed name of the penitent thief. The author is not answerable for the non-elision of the vowel—the name is authentic; it stood on the site of the present Oriel College. See preface.

18 See Alfgar the Dane, chapter 24.

19 It was the Gospel for the day in Italy—not in England.

20 The Viaticum was the Last Communion, given in preparation for death, as the provision for the way.

21 Such an arrangement was made in the Egyptian Temple at On; at one particular moment on one day in the year, the rays admitted through a concealed aperture gilded the shrine, and the crowd thought it miraculous.

22 Adapted from a translation of a chorus in the Agamemnon by my lamented friend, the late Reverend Gerard Moultrie.

23 A mere tradition of the time, not historical.

24 See the Andredsweald, by the same author.

25 This is the same spot mentioned in the Andredsweald, chapter 9 part 2, as a retreat of the English after Senlac.

26 A proclamation had just been put forth by the barons, that all foreigners should be expelled and lose their property; and much violence ensued throughout England, the victims being often detected by their pronunciation, as in our story.

27 How good to those who seek Thou art, But what to those who find! —Saint Bernard.

28 It was one of them who first stabbed Edward the First, when his queen saved him by sucking the poison from the wound, according to a Spanish historian.

29 Sixty-six pounds, 13 shillings, four pence; a large sum in those days.

30 It was afterwards ascertained that on the very night, the father, Roger, dreamt that he saw his son in a gloomy cell, a slave condemned to apparently hopeless toil or death, and addressed him as in the text.

31 Acre was stormed by the Moslems, AD 1291, and the Holy Land was lost with it.

32 How unlike the ceremonial of Hubert's knighthood! But the approach of a battle justified the omission of the usual rites in the opinion of the many.

33 Witness the case of the Scotch judge—pursued under divers forms by the supposed apparition of a man he had hanged, until he died of fright—as recorded by Sir Walter Scott in Demonology and Witchcraft.

34 Whom they had pelted with mud as she passed under London Bridge, calling her a witch. Life of Simon de Montfort, page 126.

35 Old English for hence.

36 Parish priests were frequently styled Sir in those days. Father meant a monk or regular, as opposed to the secular, clergy.

37 His descent from noble families of either race—Michelham, the house of Ella, through his father; Walderne, of ancient Norman blood, through his mother, rendered him acceptable to both parties.

THE END