by A. D. Crake
Chapter 24: Before The Battle.
The civil war had been long delayed, after men saw that it wasinevitable, but when it once begun there was no lack of activity oneither side. Two armies were moving about England, and the march ofeach was accompanied (says an ancient writer) with plunder, fire,and slaughter. In time of peace men would believe themselvesincapable of the deeds they commit in time of war: "Is thy servanta dog that he should do this thing?" as one said of old when beforethe prescient seer who foresaw in the humble suppliant the ruthlesswarrior.
The one army, the royal one, was reinforced by the forces of theScottish barons, under men whose names became afterwardshistorical, such as John Balliol and Robert Bruce. Prince Edward, amaster of the art of war, although still young, and already markedby that sternness of character which distinguished his latter days,was in chief command, and he pursued his devastating course throughthe Midlands. Nottingham and Leicester, whence his great opponentderived his title, opened their gates to him. He marched thence forLondon, but Earl Simon threw himself into the city, returning fromRochester, which he had cleverly taken by means of fire ships whichset the place in a blaze.
Edward marched vice versa, from London to Rochester, relieved thecastle, which still held out for the king after the town had beentaken. Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern borderof the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes.
It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sunshone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, uponcastle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, theCastle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridgeabove. Even then a windmill crowned that ridge. Let us take ourstand by it:
And all around the widespread scene survey.
What a glorious view as we look across the eddying, billowy treetops of the forest to the deep blue sea, sixteen miles distant,studded with the white sails of many barks which have put out fromland, lest they should be seized by the approaching host, andconfiscated for the royal service, for the sailors have mainlyespoused the popular cause, and dread the medieval press gang. Howmany familiar objects we see around--Michelham Priory, BattleAbbey, Wilmington Priory, Pevensey Castle, Lewes Castle--all inview.
There, too, opposite us, is the highest of the eastern downs, FirleBeacon. It is smoking like a volcano with the embers of the balefire, which men lit last night, to warn the natives that the kingwas coming. There is yet another volcano farther on. It isDitchling Beacon; and, yes, another still farther west;Chanctonbury Ring, with the rounded cone. And on this fair clearmorning we can indistinctly discern a thin line of smoke curling upfrom Butzer, on the very limits of Sussex, and in view of the Isleof Wight and Carisbrooke Castle.
Turn eastward. The ridge continues towards Heathfield, Burwash, andBattle, and beyond the sun glistens on Fairlight over Hastings,where another beacon has blazed all night to tell the ships thatthe royal enemy is in the forest.
Now look northward and northeast. There is the heathy ridge whichattains its greatest height at Crowborough, ere it descends intothe valley of Tunbridge, and a little eastward lies Mayfield, richin tradition. We can see the palace of the Archbishop ofCanterbury, founded by Dunstan. There a royal flag flaunts thebreeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal,and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm upthe ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleepat Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey.
The day wears away. Drogo paces the battlements of the watchtowerwith excited steps--the royal banner will soon be seen surmount ingthat ridge above the castle. Yes, there is a messenger spurringdownwards as fast as the sandy road will permit him; see, he isgalloping as for dear life--look at the cloud of dust which heraises. The "merrie men" have disappeared in the woods, and Drogodescends to meet him; just as the rider enters beneath thesuspended portcullis into the court of the castle, he reaches thefoot of the stairs.
"What news? Speak, thou varlet!"
"The king approaches. Already he is within sight from the upperwindows of the windmill."
"Throw open the gates, man the battlements, let pennon and bannerwave; here will we receive him. Get me the keys to deliver to myliege."
Then Drogo paid a visit to the kitchen to see that the men cookswere getting forward with the banquet, that the oxen and fatlings,the spoils of a successful foray upon the farmyards of hostileneighbours--the deer, the hares, and partridges of the woods--thefish of the mere, were being successfully roasted, boiled, baked,stewed, or the like, for the king's supper. Then he interviewed thebutler about the supplies of malmsey, clary, mead, ale, and thelike. Then he saw that the adornments of the great hall werecompleted, the banners, the armour, the antlers of the deer,suspended becomingly around the walls, the floor strewn with freshrushes, the tapestry arranged in comely folds.
When all this was done the trumpets from the battlements announcedthat the royal army was descending from the heights above. It was aglorious 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 fairlyglistened with lances and spears reflecting the rays of the settingsun. The green of the foliage was relieved by banners of every hue,in bright contrast against the darker verdure, the tramp of warhorses, the thunder of armed heels, the buzz of a myriad voices.And now the royal guard descends the gentle slope which rises justabove the castle to the north, and approaches the drawbridge.
Outside they halt. Drogo kneels in front of the gateway, the keysof his castle in his hand.
The guard opens, and the king dismounts from his horse, somewhatstiffly, as if weary with riding, and receives the keys from theextended 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 aquaint expression to the face, a mild and good-tempered face, butsomewhat deficient in character, forming the strongest contrast tothat tall commanding figure on his right hand, with the stern andmanly 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 atKenilworth, and was expelled for my loyalty to my king, because Icould not restrain my indignation at the aspersions andmisrepresentations I daily heard."
"Ah, indeed," said the king, "then shalt thou receive the honourfrom my own hands," and he gave him a slight blow with the flat ofthe 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, andthose who honour us will we honour {32}."
The followers of Drogo made the place resound with theiracclamations. The multitude cried, "Largesse! Largesse!" and byDrogo's direction coins (chiefly of small value) were freelyscattered to the accompaniment of the cry:
"Long live Sir Drogo of Walderne."
Then the royal standard was displayed on the watchtower, over thebanner of Walderne, and the common soldiers, in their thousands,pitched their tents and kindled their fires on the open greenwithout, while those of gentler degree entered the castle, whichwas not large enough to accommodate the rank and file.
The banquet that night was a goodly sight. The king sat at the headof the board--his brother, King Richard, on his right hand (theKing of the Romans), Edward, afterwards "The Hammer of Scotland,"on his father's left. Next to King Richard sat John Balliol, andnext to Prince Edward, Robert Bruce, father of the future king ofScotland, and a great favourite both with prince and king.
Drogo did not sit down at his own board. He preferred, he said, toplay the page for the last time, and to wait upon his k
ing, whichwas honour enough for a young knight. On the morrow he would attendthe king to Lewes with fifty lances, where he trusted to justifythe favour and honour which he had received.
Shall we once more go over the old story, and tell of the songs ofthe gleemen, the music of the harpers, of wine and wassail, ofhealths and acclaims, which made the roof, the oaken roof, ringagain and again? Nay, we have tired the reader's patience withscenes of that sort enough already.
But while the two kings, so like each other in features, were yetfeasting, Edward, with his chief captains, held a council of war inanother chamber, and Drogo stood before them. They questioned himclosely of the state of the inhabitants of the forest: theirpolitical sympathies and the like. They inquired which barons andland holders were loyal, and which disaffected. They discussed themorrow's journey, the roads, the chances of food and forage for themultitude. In short, they acted like men of business who providefor the morrow ere they close their eyes in sleep.
Then Drogo informed them that he had three prisoners, on whom heclaimed the royal judgment: traitors, and disaffected men whom hehad apprehended in the act of travelling the country, in order bytheir harangues to stir up the peasantry to resist the royal arms.
"Who are these doughty foes?"
"Sir Ralph, son of the rebellious baron of Herstmonceux; the mayorof the disaffected town of Hamelsham; and a young friar, formerly afavourite page of the Earl of Leicester."
"Why didst thou not hang them on the first oak big enough tosustain such acorns?"
"I reserved them for the royal judgment, so close at hand."
"Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shalldoubtless make short work of them."
Night reigned without the occasional challenge of the sentinelalone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darknessover the host encamped at Walderne.
Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise atonce. The trumpets gave their shrill signal, the troops arose tolife and action, like bees when they swarm; the birds filled thewoods with their songs, as the glorious orb of day arose over theeastern hills.
Breakfast was the first consideration, which was heartily yethastily despatched. Then in the hall, their hands bound behindthem, stood the three prisoners; the knight dejected, the mayor andfriar pale with privation and suffering. Our Martin's health wasnot strong enough to enable him well to bear the horrors of adungeon.
"You are accused of rebellion," said the stern Edward, as he facedthem. "What is your answer?"
Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it isrecorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure andanger, died of fear--yet he was never intentionally unjust.
Ralph spoke first--he felt that courageous avowal of the truth wasthe only course.
"My prince," he said, "we must indeed avow that our convictions arewith the free barons of England, and that with them we must standor fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are,but we disclaim the word."
"And thou, Sir Mayor?"
"I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewillto choose."
"And thou, friar of orders grey?"
"Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicesterjust," said Martin quietly.
Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edwardrespected a man, and he stifled his rising anger era he replied:
"They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save theburgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, whilefifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like withtheir swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, thenI may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them inward."
Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness theexecution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing tothe "superstitious" scruples of his followers, and to gain this hewould have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold,but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passionthan avarice.
And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, theroyal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks werethe newly-made knight and his followers.
He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons--theonly chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. Butbefore starting from home he left secret instructions, which willdisclose themselves ere long.
As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captivecame into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with ahard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was thekey of Martin's dungeon.
"Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force thatdoor--meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thirst."
Should he send it back?
"No, no!"
He clutched that key with joy. He kissed it, he hugged it.
"I may perish in the battlefield, but he dies with me. Martin, thouart mine. Thy doom is sealed, and all without design."
Thanks to the saints, if any there be, or rather to the oppositepowers.
We will not follow the royal army on its onward march to the seacoast,where they hoped to secure the two Cinque Ports--Winchelsea and Pevensey,so as to keep open their communications with the continent. How Peter ofSavoy, the then lord of the "Eagle," entertained them at the Normancastle, which had arisen on the ruins of Anderida; how they sackedHamelsham and ravaged Herstmonceux. Then, finally, took up their quartersat Lewes; the king, as became his piety, at the priory; the prince, asbecame his youth, at the castle with John, Earl de Warrenne; to await theapproach of the barons.
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There, in that priory, anticipating the rest which awaiteth thepeople of God, the once fiery and headlong prodigal, Roger ofWalderne, spent his peaceful old age. He was quite happy about hisgallant son, and felt assured that he should not die until he hadonce more clasped him to his paternal breast, when he wouldjoyfully chant his Nunc Dimittis.
On that very night when Hubert thought that his father came to hiscell, with assurance of hope, the father too dreamed that he sawhis son in that cell, and gave him the comforting assurancerelated; and when he awoke he said;
"Hubert my son is yet alive. I shall see him ere I die. I had giventhe first born of my body for the sin of my soul, but God hathprovided a better offering, and Isaac shall be restored."
But yet another strange occurrence confirmed his hope and faith.For a long time the ghostly apparition had ceased to trouble him.Its appearances had been but occasional since he took refuge in thehouse of God, but still it did sometimes reappear. The sceptic willsee in the spectre but the pangs of conscience taking a bodilyform, but even if only the creature of the imagination, it wasequally real to the sufferer.
One day he especially dreaded. It was the anniversary of the fatalday when he had slain Sir Casper de Fievrault, for never had thatday passed unmarked, never did his conscience fail to record hisadversary's dying day. It was strange that, in those fighting days,a man should feel the death of a foe so keenly, and Sir Roger hadslain many in fair fight. But this particular case was exceptional.It had been on a day of solemn truce that, maddened by a real orsupposed insult, he had forced his foe to fight, and met objectionsby a blow. And they were both sworn soldiers of the Cross, pledgednot to engage in a less holy warfare. Thence the remorse and thedread penalty; under such an one many a man has sunk to the grave{33}. Therefore, as we have said, he dreaded the advent of thefatal day.
It came, and Sir Roger faced the ordeal alone in his cell, when,lo! in the dead hour of the night, his tormentor appeared, but nolonger armed with his terrors. His face was changed, his featuresresigned and peaceful.
"I come but to bid thee farewell, for so long as thou art in theflesh. Thy son has fulfilled thy vow. He has placed my sword on thealtar of the Holy Sepulchre, and I am released. Thou hast thyreward and my forgiveness. May we meet where strife is no more!
Himthou shalt yet see in the flesh, as thy reward."
And he disappeared.
Was it a dream? Well, if so, it gave the father not merely hope butcertainty. He was happy at last, and waited patiently thefulfilment of the vision.
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It was the night before the battle. Evensong had been sung withmore than usual solemnity. It had been attended by King Henry inperson, who was very devout, and by his son and brother, and alltheir train; and special prayers had been added, suitable to thecrisis, to the God of armies and Lord of battles.
So soon as the service began it was customary to shut the greatgates of the priory. Just as the boom of the bell had ceased, andthe gates were closing, a knight strode up, who had but justarrived, as he said, from over sea, and had but tarried to put hishorse in good keeping.
He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.
"Art thou with us or against us?" said the warder.
"I am a soldier of the Cross," was the reply, and a few more wordswere whispered in the ear.
The warder started back.
"Verily thy father's heart will be glad," he exclaimed.
Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was littlechanged; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which hadonce given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation hadstamped his features with a softer expression.
The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had beenremoved. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; butthe old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he hadpurchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as ifhe had given "the first born of his body for the sin of his soul."
And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit--thehalf-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it thethought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself onthe morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious,thoughtless, but loving Hubert.
And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It wasPrior Foville--he who built the two great western towers of thechurch.
"Stay without," whispered the prior to someone by his side; "joysometimes kills."
The old monk gazed upon the prior with wonder, his face had sostrange an expression. It was like the face of one who has a secretto 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 notdead."
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 hisrecovered 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."