"Canst thou tell us whether the brother of Saint John, Roger erst of Walderne, is tarrying within?"
"Certes he is, but just now he heareth the Chapter Ma.s.s--few services or offices doth he miss, and like Saint James of old, his knees are worn as hard as the knees of camels."
"We would fain see him--here is his son."
"By our lady, not to mention Saint Pancras, a well-favoured stripling. And thou?"
"I am Sir Nicholas of Walderne," said he of that query, with some importance, which was quite lost upon the janitor.
"Walderne! Some place in the woods may be. Well, get you, worshipful sirs, to the hospitium, where we feed all hungry folk at the hour of noon, and I will strive to find the good brother."
The splendid group of buildings, of which only a few half-demolished walls remain, rose before them, on each side of the great quadrangle which they now entered; the chapter house, where the brethren met for counsel; the refectory, where they fed; the dormitory, where they slept; the scriptory, where they copied those beautiful ma.n.u.scripts which antiquarians love to obtain; the infirmary, where the sick were tended; and lastly, the hospitium or guest house, where all travellers and pilgrims were welcome.
They entered the hospitium, where the noontide meal was about to be served. It was plain but ample; solid joints, huge loaves, ale, and even wine in moderation. Some twenty sat down to the hospitable board.
During the "noon meat" a homily was read. When the meal was over a lay brother came and beckoned Sir Nicholas and Hubert to follow him. He led them to the cloisters and knocked at the door of a cell.
"Come in," said a deep voice.
Could this be the father Hubert had so longed to know, clad in a long dark dress, with haggard and worn features, which, however, still preserved their native n.o.bility?
At the sight of his visitors he showed an emotion he vainly endeavoured to repress, under an affectation of self control. He greeted Sir Nicholas kindly, but embraced his fair son, while tears he could not repress streamed down his worn cheeks.
"This is then my Hubert. Ah, how like thy short-lived mother! She lives again in thee, my boy."
"But, my father, I trust thy courage and valour have descended to me also. They do not call me girlish at Kenilworth."
"Such as I have to bequeath is, I trust, thine. Thy mother came of a race more addicted to lute and harp than sword or spear. It was the worse for them in their dire need, when the stern father of him who shelters thee harried their land with fire and sword.
"But we waste time. Sit down and let the eyes of the father, weary of the world, gaze upon the boy in whom he lives again."
For a few moments there was silence, during which Roger seemed struggling to overcome an emotion which overpowered him.
"I was thinking of the sunny land of Provence, and was there again with one dearly loved, who was only spared to me a few short months. She died in giving thee birth, my Hubert; had she lived, I had not become the wreck I am.
"So thou desirest to go forth into the world, my son?"
"As thou didst also, my father."
"But I trust under other auspices. Tell me not of my giddy youth.
Dearly did I pay the price of youthful folly and unseemly strife.
Thou, too, my boy, must buy experience; G.o.d grant more cheaply than I bought mine."
There he shuddered.
"My boy, hast thou ever wished to be a warrior of the Cross--a crusader?"
"Often, oh how often. In that way I would fain serve G.o.d."
The monk soldier smiled.
"And how wouldst thou attempt to convert the infidel?"
"At the first blasphemy he uttered I would cut him down, cleave him to the chine."
"Such our knights generally hold to be the better way, for their arms were readier than their tongues, but I never heard that they saved the souls of the heathen thereby."
"No one wants to see them in heaven, I should think. Let them go to their own place."
"It is wrong, I know it is. It must be. There is a better way--come with me, boy, I would fain show thee something."
He led the wondering boy into the garden of the monastery. There in the centre arose an artificial mount, and upon it stood a cross--the figure of the Redeemer, bending, as in death, from the rood. It was called "The Calvary," and men came there to pray.
The father bent his knee--the son did the same.
"Now, my boy, whom did He die for but His enemies? Even for His murderers He cried, "Father, forgive them!" And you would fain slay them."
Hubert was silent.
"When thou art struck--"
"No one ever struck me without getting it back, at least no boy of my own age," interrupted Hubert.
"And He said, "When thou art smitten on one cheek, turn the other to the smiter.""
"But, my father, must we all be like that? I am sure I couldn"t be that sort of Christian; even the good earl Simon is not, nor Martin either. Perhaps the chaplain is--do you think so?"
"Who is Martin?"
"The best boy I know, but I have seen him fight."
"Well, and thou may"st fight nay, must, as the world goes, in a good cause, and there is a sword which thou must bear unsullied through the conflict. But if thou avengest thine own private wrongs, as I did, or bearest rancour against thy personal foes, never wilt thou deliver me."
"Deliver thee?"
"Yes, my child. I am under a curse, because on the very day of the great sacrifice on the Cross, on a Friday, I slew a man who had insulted me. He died unhouselled, unanointed, unannealed, and his ghost ever haunts my midnight hour."
"Even here, in this holy, consecrated place?"
"Even in the very church itself."
"Can any one else see it?"
"They have never done so. Perhaps as thou art of my blood, it might be permitted thee."
"I will try. Let me stay this night with thee, and watch by thy side in the church."
"Thou shalt be blessed in the deed. I will ask Sir Nicholas to tarry the night if he can do so."