by G. A. Henty
“‘Bring him here, and we will see what we can do for him. If he is a fellow of parts and discretion, I doubt not that we can make him useful. You say he knows every inch of our side of the border, and something of the Scottish side of it, his mother’s sister being married to one of the Armstrongs. There is like to be trouble before long. You know the purpose for which I am going away; and the Scots are sure to take advantage of changes in England, and a youth who can ride, and knows the border, and can, if needs be, strike a blow in self defence, will not have to stay idle in the castle long. His father is a stout withstander of the Scots, and the earl would have given him knighthood, if he would have taken it; and maybe, in the future, the son will win that honour. He is too old for a page, and I should say too little versed in our ways for such a post; but I promise you that, when he is old enough, he shall be one of my esquires.’
“So you may soon have an opportunity of showing Hotspur what you are made of. And now, I doubt not that you are hungry. I will send down to the buttery, for a couple of tankards and a pasty. I had my supper two hours ago, but I doubt not that I can keep you company in another.”
He went to the window, and called out, “John Horn!”
The name was repeated below, and in two minutes a servant came up. The captain gave him directions, and they shortly sat down to a substantial meal.
“The first thing to do, lad, will be to get you garments more suitable to the Percys’ castle than those you have on; they are good enough to put on under armour, or when you ride in a foray; but here, one who would ride in the train of the Percys must make a brave show. It is curfew, now; but tomorrow, early, we will sally into the town, where we shall find a good choice of garments, for men of all conditions. You hold yourself well, and you have something of your mother’s softness of speech; and will, I think, make a good impression on Sir Henry, when suitably clad.
“You see, there are many sons of knights, of good repute and standing, who would be glad, indeed, that their sons should obtain a post in Hotspur’s personal following; and who might grumble, were they passed over in favour of one who, by his appearance, was of lower condition than themselves.
“John Forster is well known, on the border, as a valiant fighter, and a leading man in Coquetdale. It is known, too, that he might have been knighted, had he chosen; and doubtless there are many who, having heard that his hold is one of the strongest on the border, give him credit for having far wider possessions than that bit of moor round the hold, and grazing rights for miles beyond it. If, then, you make a brave show, none will question the choice that Hotspur may make; but were you to appear in that garb you have on, they might well deem that your father is, after all, but a moss trooper.
“He told me that you had, once, a fancy to learn to read and write. What put that idea into your head? I do not say that it was not a good one, but at least it was a strange one, for a lad brought up as you have been.”
“I think, Uncle, that it was rather my mother’s idea than my own; she thought that it might conduce to my advancement, should I ever leave the hold and go out into the world.”
“She was quite right, Oswald; and ’tis a pity that you did not go, for a couple of years, to a monastery. It is a good thing to be able to read an order, or to write one, for many of the lords and knights can do no more than make a shift to sign their names. As for books I say nothing, for I see not what manner of good they are; but father Ernulf, who is chaplain here, tells me that one who gives his mind to it can, in a year, learn enough to write down, not in a clerkly hand, but in one that can be understood, any letter or order his lord may wish sent, or to read for him any that he receives.
“In most matters, doubtless, an order by word of mouth is just as good as one writ on vellum; but there are times when a messenger could not be trusted to deliver one accurately, as he receives it; or it might have to be passed on, from hand to hand. Otherwise, a spoken message is the best; for if a messenger be killed on the way, none are the wiser as to the errand on which he is going; while, if a parchment is found on him, the first priest or monk can translate its purport.
“The chaplain has two younger priests with him; and, should you be willing, I doubt not that one of these would give you instruction, for an hour or two of a day. The Percys may not be back for another month or two, and if you apply yourself to it honestly, you might learn something by that time.”
“I should like it very much, Uncle.”
“Then, so it shall be, lad. For two or three hours a day you must practise in arms—I have some rare swordsmen among my fellows—but for the rest of the time, you will be your own master. I will speak with father Ernulf, in the morning, after we have seen to the matter of your garments.”
A straw pallet was brought up to the chamber; and, after chatting for half an hour about his visit to the Armstrongs, Oswald took off his riding boots and jerkin, the total amount of disrobing usual at that time on the border, and was soon asleep.
“I am afraid, Uncle,” he said in the morning, “that the furnishment of the purse my father gave me, at starting, will not go far towards what you may consider necessary for my outfit.”
“That need not trouble you at all, lad. I told your father I should take all charges upon myself, having no children of my own, and no way to spend my money; therefore I can afford well to do as I like towards you. Once the war begins, you will fill your purse yourself; for although the peoples of the towns and villages suffer by the Scotch incursions, we men-at-arms profit by a war. We have nought that they can take from us, but our lives, while we take our share of the booty, and have the ransom of any knights or gentlemen we may make prisoners.”
Accordingly they went into Alnwick, and Alwyn Forster bought for his nephew several suits of clothes, suitable for a young gentleman of good family; together with armour, of much more modern fashion than that to which Oswald was accustomed. When they returned to the castle, the lad was told to put on one of these suits, at once.
“Make your old ones up in a bundle,” his uncle said. “There may be occasions when you may find such clothes useful; though here, assuredly, they are out of place. Now, I will go with you to Father Ernulf.”
The priest’s abode was in what was called the Abbots’ Tower, which was the one nearest to the large monastery, outside the walls.
“I told you, father,” the captain said, “that belike my nephew would join me here, as I was going to present him to Sir Henry Percy. The good knight will not be back again, mayhap, for some weeks; and the lad has a fancy to learn to read and write, and I thought you might put him in the way of his attaining such knowledge.”
“He looks as if the sword will suit his hand better than the pen,” the priest said, with a smile, as his eye glanced over the lad’s active figure. “But surely, if he is so inclined, I shall be glad to further his wishes. There is a monk at the monastery who, although a good scholar, is fitted rather for the army than the Church. He was one of our teachers, but in sooth had but little patience with the blunders of the children; but I am sure that he would gladly give his aid to a lad like this, and would bear with him, if he really did his best. I have nought to do at present, and will go down with him, at once, and talk to Friar Roger.
“If the latter would rather have nought to do with it, one of my juniors shall undertake the task; but I am sure that the friar would make a better instructor, if he would take it in hand.
“He is a stout man-at-arms—for, as you know, when the Scots cross the border, the abbot always sends a party of his stoutest monks to fight in Percy’s ranks; as is but right, seeing that the Scots plunder a monastery as readily as a village. Friar Roger was the senior in command, under the sub-prior, of the monks who fought at Otterburn, and all say that none fought more stoutly, and the monks were the last to fall back on that unfortunate day. They say that he incurred many penances for his unchurchly language, during the fight; but that the abbot remitted them, on account of the valour that he had shown.”
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br /> Accordingly, the priest went off with Oswald to the monastery, while Alwyn Forster remained, to attend to his duties as captain of the men-at-arms. On his saying that he wished to see the friar Roger, the priest was shown into a waiting room, where the monk soon joined them.
He was a tall, powerful man, standing much over six feet in height, and of proportionate width of shoulders. He carried his head erect, and looked more like a man-at-arms, in disguise, than a monk. He bent his head to the priest, and then said in a hearty tone:
“Well, Father Ernulf, what would you with me, today? You have no news of the Scots having crossed the border, and I fear that there is no chance, at present, of my donning a cuirass over my gown?”
“None at present, brother, though it may well be so, before long. I hope that we shall soon have the earl and his son back again, for the Scots are sure to take advantage of their absence, now that the truce is expired.
“No, I want you on other business. This young gentleman is the nephew of Alwyn Forster, whom you know.”
“Right well, Father; a good fellow, and a stout fighter.”
“He is about to enter Sir Henry’s household,” the priest went on; “but, seeing that the knight is still away, and may be absent for some weeks yet, the young man is anxious to learn to read and write—
“Not from any idea of entering the Church,” he broke off, with a smile, at the expression of surprise on the monk’s face; “but that it may be useful to him in procuring advancement.
“I have, therefore, brought him to you; thinking that you would make a far better teacher, for a lad like him, than your brothers in the school. I thought perhaps that, if I spoke to the abbot, he might release you from your attendance at some of the services, for such a purpose.”
“That is a consideration,” the monk laughed.
“Well, young sir, I tell you fairly that among my gifts is not that of patience with fools. If you are disposed to work right heartily, as I suppose you must be, or you would not make such a request, I on my part will do my best to teach you; but you must not mind if, sometimes, you get a rough buffet to assist your memory.”
“I should doubt whether a buffet, from you, would not be more likely to confuse my memory than to assist it,” Oswald said, with a smile; “but at any rate, I am ready to take my chance, and can promise to do my best to avoid taxing your patience, to that point.”
“That will do, Father,” the monk said. “He is a lad of spirit, and it is a pleasure to train one of that kind. As to the puny boys they send to be made monks because, forsooth, they are likely to grow up too weak for any other calling, I have no patience with them; and I get into sore disgrace, with the abbot, for my shortness of temper.”
“I am afraid, from what I hear,” the priest said, shaking his head, but unable to repress a smile, “that you are often in disgrace, Brother Roger.”
“I fear that it is so, and were it not that I am useful, in teaching the lay brothers and the younger monks the use of the carnal weapons, I know that, before this, I should have been bundled out, neck and crop. ’Tis hard, Father, for a man of my inches to be shut up, here, when there is so much fighting to be done, abroad.”
“There is good work to be done, everywhere,” the priest said gravely. “Many of us may have made a mistake in choosing our vocations; but, if so, we must make the best we can of what is before us.”
“What time will you come?” the monk asked Oswald.
“My uncle said that he would suit my hours to yours; but that, if it was all the same to you, I should practise in arms from six o’clock till eight, and again for an hour or two in the evening; so that I could come to you either in the morning or afternoon.”
“Come at both, if you will,” the monk said. “If the good father can get me off the services, from eight till six, you can be with me all that time, save at the dinner hour. You have but a short time to learn in, and must give yourself heartily to it.
“There is the chapel bell ringing, now, and I must be off. The abbot will not be present at this service, Father; and if you will, you can see him now. I doubt not that he will grant your request, for I know that I anger him, every time I am in chapel. I am fond of music, and I have a voice like a bull; and, do what I will, it will come out in spite of me; and he says that my roaring destroys the effect of the whole choir.”
So saying, he strode away.
“Do you wait outside the gates, my son,” the priest said. “I shall be only a few minutes with the abbot; who, as Friar Roger says, will, I doubt not, be glad enough to grant him leave to abstain from attendance at the services.”
In a short time, indeed, he rejoined Oswald at the gate.
“That matter was managed, easily enough,” he said. “The abbot has, himself, a somewhat warlike disposition, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that he comes from a family ever ready to draw the sword; and he has, therefore, a liking for Friar Roger, in spite of his contumacies, breaches of regulations, and quarrels with the other monks. He is obliged to continually punish him, with sentences of seclusion, penance, and fasting; but methinks it goes against the grain. He said, at once, that he was delighted to hear that he had voluntarily undertaken some work that would keep him out of trouble, and that he willingly, and indeed gladly, absolved him from attendance in chapel, during the hours that he was occupied with you.
“‘He is not without his uses,’ he said. ‘He is in special charge of the garden, and looks after the lay brothers employed in it. I will put someone else in charge, while he is busy, though I doubt if any will get as much work out of the lay brothers as he does; and indeed, he himself labours harder than any of them. With any other, I should say that tucking his gown round his waist, and labouring with might and main was unseemly; but as it works off some of his superabundant energy, I do not interfere with him.’”
“How ever did he become a monk, Father?”
“It seems that he was a somewhat sickly child, and his father sent him to the monastery to be taught, with a view to entering the Church. He was quick and bright in his parts, but as his health improved he grew restless, and at fifteen refused to follow the vocation marked out for him, and returned home; where, as I have heard, he took part in various daring forays across the border. When he was five-and-twenty, he was wounded well-nigh to death in one of these, and he took it as a judgment upon him, for deserting the Church; so he returned here, and became a lay brother. He was a very long time, before he recovered his full strength, and before he did so he became a monk, and I believe has bitterly regretted the fact, ever since.
“Some day, I am afraid, he will break the bounds altogether, throw away his gown, assume a breast plate and steel cap, and become an unfrocked monk. I believe he fights hard against his inclinations, but they are too strong for him. If war breaks out I fear that, some day, he will be missing.
“He will, of course, go down south, where he will be unknown; and where, when the hair on his tonsure has grown, he can well pass as a man-at-arms, and take service with some warlike lord. I trust that it may not be so, but he will assuredly make a far better man-at-arms than he will ever make a good monk.”
The next morning, after practising for two hours with sword and pike, Oswald went down, at eight o’clock, to the monastery, and was conducted to friar Roger’s cell. The latter at once began his instruction, handing him a piece of blackened board, and a bit of chalk.
“Now,” he said, “you must learn to read and write, together. There are twenty-six letters, and of each there is a big one and a little one. The big ones are only used at the beginning of a sentence—that is where, if you were talking, you would stop to take breath and begin afresh—and also at the first letter of the names of people, and places.
“The first letter is ‘A’. There it is, in that horn book, you see. It looks like two men, or two trees, leaning against each other for support; with a line, which might be their hands, in the middle.
“Now, make a letter like that, on yo
ur board. The little ‘a’ is a small circle with an upright, with a tail to it; you might fancy it a fish, with its tail turned up.
“Now, write each of those, twelve times.”
So he continued with the first six letters.
“That will be as much as you will remember, at first,” he said. “Now we will begin spelling with those letters, and you will see how they are used. You see, it is a mixture of the sounds of the two: ‘b a’ makes ba, and ‘b e’ be, ‘c a’ ca, ‘da’ da, ‘d e’ de, and so on. Now, we will work it out.”
Oswald was intelligent, and anxious to learn. He had been accustomed, when riding, to notice every irregularity of ground, every rock and bush that might serve as a guide, if lost in a fog, and he very quickly took in the instruction given him; and, by the time the convent bell rung to dinner, he had made a considerable progress with the variations that could be formed with the six letters that he had learned; and the friar expressed himself as highly satisfied with him.
“You have learned as much, in one morning, as many of the boys who attend schools would learn in a month,” he said. “If you go on like this, I will warrant that, if Percy delays his return for two months, you will know as much as many who have been two years at the work. I have always said that it is a mistake to teach children young; their minds do not take in what you say to them. You may beat it into them, but they only get it by rote; and painfully, because they don’t understand how one thing leads to another, and it is their memory only, and not their minds, that are at work.”
The next day came news that the Scotch had crossed the border, and there was great excitement in the castle; but it was soon learned that the invasion was not on a great scale, neither the Douglases nor the Earl of March having taken part in it.
“There is no fear of our being attacked, here,” Alwyn Forster said to Oswald. “The sheriffs of the county will call out their levies, and will soon make head against them. At the same time, we shall make preparations against any chance of their coming hither.”