All was well now.
"Thou must perforce fulfil thy pilgrimage, although thou hast lost the sword which was to have been taken to the Holy Sepulchre."
"My brother," said the prior then present, "dost thou remember that a party of pilgrims arrived here a year since, who said that, in the gorges of Lebanon, they had come upon the scene of a recent conflict, and found a broken sword, which they brought with them and left here?"
"Bring it hither, Raymond," said Sir Hugh to a sprightly page.
It was brought, and to his joy Hubert recognised the sword of the Sieur de Fievrault, which he had broken on a Moslem"s skull in the desperate fight wherein he was taken prisoner. With what joy did he receive it! He could now discharge his father"s delegated duty.
"Rest here awhile, and when thy strength is fully restored, start with better omens on thy journey to Jerusalem."
Oh, the rest of the next few days in that glorious hospital, with its deep shady cloisters, with its ma.s.sive walls and its beauteous chapel, wherein, on the following day, which was Sunday, as Hubert was told, for he had long since lost count of time, he returned thanks to G.o.d for his preservation, and took part once more in the worship of a Christian congregation, and knelt before a Christian altar. The walls of that chapel were of almost as many precious stones as Saint John enumerates in describing the New Jerusalem.
Its rich colouring, its dim religious light, its devout psalmody; oh, how soothing to the wearied spirit.
And then he reclined that afternoon in a delicious Eastern garden, rich with the perfume of many flowers, shaded by spreading trees, vocal with the sound of many fountains; and there, at the request of the fraternity, he related his wondrous adventures to the men who had erst heard his father"s tale.
The time of his arrival was between the sixth and the seventh, or last, crusade; during which period Acre, situated about seventy miles from Jerusalem, had become the metropolis of the Christians {31} in Palestine, after the loss of the Holy City. It was adorned with n.o.ble buildings, aqueducts, artificial harbour, and strong fortifications. From hence such pilgrims as dared venture made their hazardous visits to Jerusalem, which they could only enter as a favour, granted in return for much expenditure of treasure and submission to many humiliations; and thus Hubert was forced to accomplish his father"s vow, setting forth so soon as his strength was restored.
Chapter 24: Before The Battle.
The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it was inevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity on either side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march of each was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire, and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselves incapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" as one said of old when before the prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthless warrior.
The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of the Scottish barons, under men whose names became afterwards historical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, a master of the art of war, although still young, and already marked by that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days, was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course through the Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponent derived his t.i.tle, opened their gates to him. He marched thence for London, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning from Rochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships which set the place in a blaze.
Edward marched vice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved the castle, which still held out for the king after the town had been taken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes.
It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take our stand by it:
And all around the widespread scene survey.
What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy tree tops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant, studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out from land, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, and confiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainly espoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. How many familiar objects we see around--Michelham Priory, Battle Abbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle--all in view.
There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, Firle Beacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the bale fire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the king was coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It is Ditchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west; Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clear morning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling up from Butzer, on the very limits of Suss.e.x, and in view of the Isle of Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.
Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, and Battle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings, where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships that the royal enemy is in the forest.
Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge which attains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends into the valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, rich in tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.
The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtower with excited steps--the royal banner will soon be seen surmount ing that ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurring downwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he is galloping as for dear life--look at the cloud of dust which he raises. The "merrie men" have disappeared in the woods, and Drogo descends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath the suspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches the foot of the stairs.
"What news? Speak, thou varlet!"
"The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upper windows of the windmill."
"Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and banner wave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to my liege."
Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cooks were getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings, the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostile neighbours--the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods--the fish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked, stewed, or the like, for the king"s supper. Then he interviewed the butler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and the like. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall were completed, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer, suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with fresh rushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.
When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announced that the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was a glorious sight that the gazer looked upon from the battlements:
On lance, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part.
The boast of chivalry! The pomp of power! The woods fairly glistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the setting sun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue, in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of war horses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices.
And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises just above the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.
Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keys of his castle in his hand.
The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhat stiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from the extended hand with a sweet smile and a few kind words.
Let us gaze on the features of that king of old; gray haired, prematurely gray; the eyebrows unlike in their curvature, giving a quaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, but somewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast to that tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern and manly features, the greatest of the Edwards--a born king of men.
"Rise up, Sir Drogo, thou worthy knight."
"My liege, the honour of knighthood is not yet mine own."
"Ah, and yet so loyal!"
"For that reason, sire, not yet a knight; I was a page at Kenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because I could not restrain my indignation at the aspersions and misrepresentations I daily heard."
"Ah, indeed," said the king, "then shalt thou receive the honour from my own hands," and he gave him a slight blow with the flat of the sword, which he then laid upon the reverently inclined head, and added, "Rise up, Sir Drogo of Walderne."
"Methinks knighthood is too sacred to be thus hastily bestowed,"
muttered Prince Edward.
"Nay, my son, we have few loyal servants in the Andredsweald, and those who honour us will we honour {32}."
The followers of Drogo made the place resound with their acclamations. The mult.i.tude cried, "Largesse! Largesse!" and by Drogo"s direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freely scattered to the accompaniment of the cry:
"Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne."
Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over the banner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands, pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open green without, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, which was not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.
The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the head of the board--his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (the King of the Romans), Edward, afterwards "The Hammer of Scotland,"
on his father"s left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, and next to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king of Scotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.
Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, to play the page for the last time, and to wait upon his king, which was honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attend the king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justify the favour and honour which he had received.
Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs of the gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wa.s.sail, of healths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ring again and again? Nay, we have tired the reader"s patience with scenes of that sort enough already.
But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yet feasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war in another chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned him closely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: their political sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons and land holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed the morrow"s journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for the mult.i.tude. In short, they acted like men of business who provide for the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.
Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom he claimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom he had apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order by their harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.
"Who are these doughty foes?"