"Or I might ride back alone tomorrow."
"The forest is dangerous; the outlaws abound."
"That for the outlaws, hujus facio;" and Hubert snapped his fingers. It was about the only sc.r.a.p of Latin he cared for.
The father smiled sadly.
"Come, we are keeping Sir Nicholas waiting;" and they returned to the great quadrangle, where they found that worthy striding up and down with some impatience.
"We must be off at once, brother, Hubert and I. The woods are not over safe after nightfall."
"I must ask thee to spare me my son a while. I would fain make his further acquaintance."
"Come back with us to Walderne, then. The lad would soon die of the gloom of a monastery."
"I spent four years in one, and the earl found me alive at the end," said Hubert.
"Nay, my brother, I may not leave the priory now."
"But how long wilt thou keep the boy?"
"Only till tomorrow."
"Well, I may tarry till tomorrow, but not at the monastery. My old crony, the De Warrenne up at the castle, will lodge me, and I will return for the lad after the Chapter Ma.s.s, at nine."
Of all forms of architecture the Norman appears to the writer the most awe inspiring. Its ma.s.sive round pillars, its bold, but simple arch, have an effect upon the mind more imposing and solemnising, if we may coin the word, than the more florid architecture of the decorated period, which may aptly be described as "Gothic run to seed." Such a stern and simple structure was the earlier priory church of Lewes, in the days of which we write.
A little before midnight two forms entered the south transept by a little wicket door. There was a black darkness over the heavens that night, and a high wind moaned and shrieked about the upper turrets of the stately fane. Oh, how solemn was the inner aspect at that dread hour, lighted only by the seven lamps, which, typical of the Seven Spirits of G.o.d, burned in the choir, pendent from the roof.
One timorous glance Hubert gave into the dark recesses of the aisles and transept, into the dim s.p.a.ce overhead, as if he almost expected to hear the flapping of ghostly pinions in the portentous gloom. A sense of mystery daunted his spirit as he followed his sire by the light of a feeble lamp, carried in the hand, amidst the tall columns which rose like tree trunks around, each shaft appearing to rise farther than the sight could penetrate, ere it gave birth to the arch from its summit. Dead crusaders lay around in stone, and strove with grim visage to draw the sword and smite the worshippers of Mohammed, as if in the very act they had been petrified by a new Gorgon"s head. The steps of the intruders seemed sacrilegious, breaking the solemn stillness of the night as the father led the son into the chapel of the patron saint of his order:
Who propped the Virgin in her faint, The loved Apostle John.
There the horror-stricken Hubert heard the dismal tale which we have already related, and that his unhappy father believed himself yet visited each night by the ghost of the man he had slain. And also that it was fixed in his poor diseased brain that the apparition would not rest until the crusade, vowed by the Sieur de Fievrault, but cut short by his fall, should be made by proxy, and that the proxy must be one sans peur et sans reproche. And that this reparation made, the poor spirit, according to the belief of the age, released from purgatorial fires, might enter Paradise and reappear no more between the hours of midnight and c.o.c.k crowing to trouble the living.
"What an absurd story," the sceptic may say. No doubt it is to us, but a man must live in his own age, and there was nought absurd or improbable to young Hubert in it all.
And when the weird tale was finished, and the hour of midnight tolled boom! boom! boom! from the tower above, every stroke sent a thrill through the heart of the youth. That dread hour, when, as men thought, the powers of darkness had the world to themselves, when a thousand ghosts shrieked on the hollow wind, when midnight hags swept through the tainted air, and goblins gibbered in sepulchres.
Just then Hubert caught his father"s glance, and it made each separate hair erect itself:
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
"Father," cried the boy, "what art thou gazing at? what aileth thee? I see nought amiss."
Words came from the father"s lips, not in reply to his son, but as if to some object unseen by all besides.
"Yes, unhappy ghost, I may dare thy livid terrors now. My son, thy proxy, is by my side, pure and shameless, brave and trustworthy. He shall carry thy sword to the holy soil and dye it "deep in Paynim blood." Then thou and I may rest in peace."
"Father, I see nought."
"Not there, between those pillars?"
"What is it?"
"A dead man, with a sword wound in his open breast, which he displays. His eyes live, yea, and the wound lives."
"No, father, there is nothing."
"Then go and stand between those pillars, and prove it to me to be void."
Hubert hesitated. He would sooner have fought a hundred boyish battles with fist, quarterstaff, or even deadly weapons--but this--
"Ah, thou darest not. Nay, I blame thee not, yet thou didst say there was nothing."
Hubert could not resist that pleading tone in which the sire seemed to ask release from his own delusion. He went with determined step, and stood on the indicated spot.
"He is gone. He fled before thee. The omen is good. Thou shalt deliver thy sire--let us pray together."
Sire and son knelt until the first note of the matin song just before daybreak (it was the month of May) broke the utterance of the father and, we fear we must own it, the sleep of the son.
Domine l.a.b.i.a mea aperies Et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam.
The sombre-robed monks were in the choir, the organ rolling out its deep notes in accompaniment to the plain song of the Venite exultemus, which then, as now, preceded the psalms for the day.
Then came the hymn:
Lo night and clouds and darkness wrap The world in dark array; The morning dawns, the sun breaks in, Hence, hence, ye shades--away {16}!
"Come, Hubert, dear son, worthy of thy sainted mother. We will praise Him, too, for He has lifted the darkness from my heart."
Chapter 9: The Other Side Of The Picture.
The young scion of the house of Herstmonceux led Martin a few steps down the lane opposite Saint Mary"s Church, until they came to the vaulted doorway of a house of some pretensions. Its walls were thick, its windows deep set and narrow. Dull in external appearance, it did not seem to be so within, for sounds of riotous mirth proceeded from many a window left open for admittance of air.
The great door was shut, but a little wicket was on the latch, and Ralph de Monceux opened it, saying:
"Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest news from dear old Suss.e.x."
"What place is this?" replied Martin.
"Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume."
Martin smiled.
"What is the real name?"
"It should be "Ape Hall," for here we ape men of learning, whereas little is done but drinking, dicing, and fighting. But you will find our neighbours in the next street have monopolised that t.i.tle, with yet stronger claims."