And he thanked them in a "maiden" speech, so gracefully--just as you would expect of our Hubert.
"The Holy Land," said Sir Nicholas, "is a long way off, and many, as the gleemen (not without justice) have told us, leave their bones there. But we hope better things, and I trust the Lady Sybil and I may live to see his return. But should it be otherwise, acknowledge no other heir. Be true to Hubert, while he lives."
"We will, G.o.d being our helper."
"And now fill your cups, and drink to his safe journey and happy return."
It was done l.u.s.tily: if mere drinking could do it, there was no fear that Hubert would not return safely.
Then the gleemen struck up a merrier song, a sweet and tender lay of a Christian knight who fell into the power of "a Paynim sultan,"
and whom the sultan"s daughter delivered at the risk of her life--all for love. How she followed him from clime to clime, only remembering the Christian name. How she found him at last in his English home, and was united to him, after being baptized, in holy wedlock. How the issue of this marriage was no other than the sainted Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket {23}.
And Hubert cast his eyes on Alicia de Grey, the orphan ward of his aunt, and she blushed as she met his gaze. Shall we tell his secret? He loved her, and had already plighted his troth.
"No pagan beauty," he seemed to whisper, "shall ever rob me of my heart. I leave it behind in England."
And even here he had a rival.
It was Drogo. The reader may ask, where was Drogo that night? At HarenG.o.d, his mother"s demesne, where he was to remain until Hubert had set sail, after which he might from time to time visit Sir Nicholas, his father"s brother, a relationship which that good knight could never forget, unworthy though Drogo was of his love.
But the uncle was really afraid to let the youths come together, lest there should be a quarrel, perhaps not confined to words.
He had spoken his mind decidedly to Drogo about the question of inheritance. Hubert should, if he survived the pilgrimage, be Lord of Walderne, as was just, Drogo of HarenG.o.d: if either died without issue, the other should have both domains.
Of course Sir Nicholas was quite unaware that the third child of the old lord, Mabel, had left issue. Do our readers remember it?
Drogo had no real claim on Walderne, and could only succeed by disposition of Sir Nicholas, in the absence of natural heirs.
When the party in the hall broke up about midnight, one parting interview took place between the lovers in Lady Sybil"s bower, while the kind lady got as far as her notions of propriety (which were very strict) permitted, out of earshot.
Oh, those poor young lovers! She cried, and although Hubert tried hard to restrain it, it was infectious, and he couldn"t help a tear. But he must go!
"Wilt thou be true to me till death?"
the anxious lover cried.
"Ay, while this mortal form hath breath,"
Alicia replied.
"Come, go to bed," said Sir Nicholas, entering, and they went: To bed, but not to sleep.
On the morrow the sun shone brightly on the castle, on the church, on the hilltop, and on the wooded valley of Walderne. The household a.s.sembled first for a brief parting service in the castle chapel, for it was an old proverb with them, "ma.s.s and meat hinder no man,"
and then the breakfast table was duly honoured.
And then--the last parting. Oh how hard to speak the final words; how many longing, lingering looks behind; how many words, which should have been said, came to the mind of our hero as he rode through the woods, with his squire and six men-at-arms, who were to share his perils and his glory.
Sir Nicholas was by his side, for he had determined to see the last of Hubert, who had wound himself very closely round the old knight"s heart; and together they rode through Hailsham to Pevensey.
The first part of their journey was through a dense and tangled forest, which extended nearly to Hailsham. It pa.s.sed through the district infested by the outlaws, and, although they had never molested Sir Nicholas, nor he them, they were dangerous to travellers of rank in general, and few dared traverse the forest roads unattended by an escort. In the depths of these h.o.a.ry woods were iron works, which had existed since the days of the early Britons, but had of late years been completely neglected, for all the thoughts of the Norman gentlemen or the Saxon outlaws were concentrated on war or the chase.
Hailsham (or, as it was then called, Hamelsham) was the first resting place, after a ride of nearly nine miles. It was an old English settlement in the woods, which had now become the abode of a lord of Norman descent, who had built a castle, and held the town as his dependency. However, the races were no longer in deadly hostility--the knights had their liberties and rights, and so long as they paid their tribute duly, all went as well as in the olden time, before the Conquest; albeit the curfew from the old church tower each night told its solemn tale of subjection and restraint, as it does even now, when the old ideas have quite departed, and few realise what it once meant.
Over the flat marshes to Pevensey, marshes then covered at high tide--leaving on the left the high lands of Herstmonceux, where the father of "Roaring Ralph" of that ilk still resided, lord paramount. The castle was hidden in the trees. The church stood bravely out, and its bells were ringing a wedding peal in the ears of the parting knight. How tantalising!
Pevensey now reared its giant towers in front. There reigned the Queen"s uncle, Peter of Savoy, specially exempted from the sentence of exile which had fallen upon the rest of the king"s foreign kindred.
There was scant time for hospitality. The vessel lay in the dock which was to bear the crusader away; there was to be a full moon that night; wind and tide were favourable. Everything promised a quick pa.s.sage, and, after a brief refection, Hubert bade his kinsman and friends farewell, and embarked in the Rose of Pevensey.
England sank behind him. The last glimpse he had of his native land was the gleam of the sunset on Beachy Head.
My native land--Good night.
Chapter 16: Michelham Once More.
It was a summer evening, and the sun was sinking behind the hills which encompa.s.s Lewes. His declining beams gilded the towers of Michelham Priory.
Several of the brethren were walking on the terrace, which overlooked the broad moat, on the western side of the priory; for it was the recreation hour, between vespers and compline.
Across the woods came the knell of parting day, the curfew from the tower of Hamelsham: the "lowing herd wound slowly o"er the lea"
from the d.i.c.ker, when two friars came in sight, who wore the robe of Saint Francis, and approached the gateway.
"There be some of those "kittle cattle," the new brethren," said the old porter from his grated window in the gateway tower over the bridge. "If I had my will, they should spend the night on the heath."
The friars rang the bell. The porter reluctantly opened.
"Who are ye?"
"Two poor brethren of Saint Francis."
"What do you want?"
"The wayfarer"s welcome. Bed and board according to the rule of your hospitable house."
"We like not you grey friars--for we are told you are setters forth of strange doctrines, and disturb steady old church folk. But natheless the hospitium is open to you as to all, whether gentle or simple, lay folk or clerks. So enter, only if you threw those gray cloaks into the moat, you would be more welcome."
They knew that, but they were not ashamed of their colours.
"Look," said one of the monks to his fellow; "they that have turned the world upside down have come hither also."
"Whom the warder hath received."
"They will find scant welcome."
Meanwhile Martin was looking with curious eyes on the buildings which had first received him when he escaped from the outlaw life of old. But the evening meal was already prepared, and the bell rang for supper.
Many guests were there--lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and pilgrims with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on their road to the Continent from the central parts of the island, men-at-arms, Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals. And all had good fare, while a monk in nasal voice read:
A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,