CHAPTER VI
AT THE ABBEY
CALM and peaceful appeared the grey Abbey to the war-worn defenders,as, carried in litters or supported by the men of the Constable ofPortchester's company, the nine archers passed through the greatgateway.
The vesper bell had just ceased its tuneful tolling, and in its placerose the deep, lusty voices of the monks, who, having completed yetanother day of hard manual labour, were uniting once more in prayerand thanksgiving.
For awhile, save for the porter, a lay brother of gigantic size andjovial mien, the secular portions of the Abbey were deserted, but thearrival of this host of rough soldiers and their wounded chargescontrasted ill with the pious solitude of the place.
The Cistercian Abbey, founded as the Priory of Saints Mary and Edwardin 1237, was at that time in the zenith of its prosperity. Favouredby royal charters, the natural zeal of the monks exerted itself tosuch an extent that within a few years of its birth the Abbey badefair to outshine its parent foundation at Beaulieu, and a largetriple-aisled church, a sumptuous Abbot's house, lofty dormitories,architecturally perfect cloisters, a number of extensiveoutbuildings, and two artificial fish-ponds testified to the work ofthese pioneers of civilisation.
Awed by the solemnity of their surroundings, the soldiers clusteredin small, silent knots, looking around with open-mouthed astonishmentat the unaccustomed beauty of the delicate architecture and listeningto the distant chanting of the monks.
If an archer dared even to whisper his comrades silenced him by alook, while, when a man-at-arms dropped his short spear on the tiledfloor, the culprit stooped, picked up the weapon guiltily, andcrossed himself for very shame.
At length the singing ceased, the doors of the church were thrownwide open, and out came a long line of grey-gowned monks, walking twoand two with bent heads and downcast eyes, while at the rear of theprocession came the Sub-Prior and the Abbot. The former was acomfortable-looking, well-fed personage, with a benign countenancethat neither fast nor penance could subdue, while the Abbot, a tall,gaunt man with wan features, redeemed by a pair of glittering eyes,looked a man whose natural sternness was increased by the strictrigidity of a celibate.
Immediately the soldiers drew themselves up into two lines, lookingstraight in front in military style, though as the Abbot passed theybent their heads to receive his benison, even the wounded, saveWalter Bevis, standing unaided to share in the blessing.
It was a stirring and picturesque sight. The grey stones of thearched cloisters, the green patch of grass in the cloister court, andthe still evening quiet were fitting surroundings for a procession ofmonks as their sandals clattered on the tiled floor; but the whitesurcoats bearing the red cross, the armour and weapons of thesoldiers, and the pallid features of the wounded bespeaking strifeand suffering, presented a strange contrast to the peacefulness ofthe Abbey.
Attended by two novices, the Abbot presently returned, and, learningthe cause of the unusual visit, gave orders for the wounded men to betaken care of in the Abbey infirmary. He had already learned of thesack and burning of Hamble, but the deed of Redward Buckland and hiscomrades moved him greatly, and he desired to speak with themaster-bowman.
Redward, his head still bound with a blood-stained bandage, was ledbefore the Abbot. He had removed his steel cap, and the dyingsunlight played on his thickly-cropped head and heightened thereddish hue of his beard. The Abbot gave an involuntary start ofrecognition, but, composing himself, he asked:
"How art thou, my son? I see thou art sore hurt."
"Nay, Father, it is but a scratch."
"A brave man to speak so lightly of so great a matter. And thou didstkeep the press of enemies back till help arrived?"
"'Twas also a little matter, seeing we were behind stout walls."
"And yet, by God's grace, thy valour saved us."
"Saved you, Father?"
"Yea, my son. Saved the priory of the blessed Saints Mary and Edward;for, had ye not been there to bar the way, the Frenchmen would of acertainty have ravaged our holy retreat."
"This knowledge is beyond my understanding, yet, the saints bepraised, I was but an instrument to that end."
"The gratitude of us all is due to you, my son, and if in any way wecan render thee a service, do but ask it. Thou'rt weary; return to thyfriends and rest well."
The master-bowman bent his head for the Abbot's blessing, then heturned and hobbled slowly back to join his comrades.
Great was the astonishment and delight of the monks, on washing thethick cake of dried blood, slime, and soot from the face of theiryoungest patient, to find that it was none other than their latenovice, Raymond, whose wound--a deep cut in his left shoulder--hadbeen skilfully dressed by the monks, to whom surgery was a specialfeature of their work. He was now sleeping peacefully, a draught ofcooling medicine having completely taken away all symptoms of fever.
Walter Bevis, his leg swathed in bandages, was lying on a pallet, hiseyes rolling and his hands tightly clenched as he strove to suppressa groan. Already he was in a state of semi-delirium, and in spite ofthe constant attention of two of the monks, he strove at intervals torise from his couch and fly at some imaginary foe.
As for the rest, with the exception of Will Lightfoot, who was busilydevouring a platter of soup, they all were sleeping off the effectsof a terrible mental strain. Submitting himself to the hands of twoof the brethren, Redward had his injuries dressed, and was cleansedfrom the effects of the fire and battle; then, staggering to a couch,he lay down and was soon lost in dreamless sleep.
The sun was high in the heavens ere Buckland awoke, feeling vastlyrefreshed and filled with renewed energy. His first inquiry was forhis son and his comrades, then for the latest tidings of the raiders.
On this latter point he could not be enlightened, save that a mountedmessenger had passed the Abbey that morning without drawing rein.Though giving no news by word of mouth, the man had shown by agesture that the English had been successful, though at that time thefate of the Genoese galley had not yet been decided.
One by one the wounded archers began to awaken, till all, saveRaymond and Bevis, were up and about. For some time Redward sat byhis son's bedside, looking anxiously at his pale and pain-rackedfeatures.
The master-bowman was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one handhe wanted to be again on the scene of action to revenge himself onhis enemies--for the destruction of his home, and also to take stepsto safeguard his chattels that lay in the underground chamber. On theother hand, he felt it impossible to tear himself away from his son,in whose welfare he was so much absorbed, till he was satisfied thatthere was no cause for anxiety on his account.
While deep in this mental debate Redward was summoned by a novice toproceed to the private apartment of the Abbot.
Following closely at the heels of his guide, Buckland was usheredinto a room which, in the frigid plainness of its appearance,differed little from the cells of the ordinary brethren, only it waslarger.
The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls were bare andunbroken, save for two narrow lancet windows and the low,Gothic-arched door by which the archer entered. In the centre of theroom stood a plain oaken table, on which was a small ivory crucifix,which, together with a number of richly-bound books of illuminatedvellum--the most highly-prized objects within the monasterywalls--gave a fitting setting to the gaunt figure of the stern yetrevered Abbot. Two heavy wooden stools completed the furniture of theapartment, one of which was for the head of the Abbey himself, theother for the use of any visitor of equal or higher rank; otherwise,all who were called into the presence of the Abbot were obliged tostand, with bent head, patiently waiting to be addressed, and notdaring to speak save when spoken to.
"Well, my son," quoth the Abbot, after the customary benediction hadbeen given. "I have a small matter of which I would speak. Raymond,thy son, was until recently with us as a novice."
"Yes, Father."
"But thou didst send for him?"
"I could no
t do without him."
"Yet he was ill spared by us a youth of much promise. Did he not askto be allowed to take the vows of chastity and obedience?"
"Nay, Father."
"What, then, is in thy mind with regard to his up-bringing?"
"But two days agone he did ask to go with me to the wars."
"Alas! Alack!" groaned the Abbot, speaking half to his visitor, halfto himself. "To think that one brought up in the sanctity of thisplace should have a mind for the horror of war! It but shows thatmen's minds are by nature inclined to strife, and that we must everbe subduing the desires of malice and hatred, which, though dormantfor years, are too often ready to burst forth with renewed strength.Ah me! And I did think Raymond was a brand plucked from the burning.Thinkst thou that 'tis not too late to turn him from his purpose andbring him into the brotherhood?"
"Father," replied the master-bowman earnestly, "many a time have Ipondered the matter over in my heart, for he is very dear to me. Inmy wanderings I knew him to be in safe keeping in this peacefulplace, yet I look to my son as a tried companion of my old age, for Ihave no other kith or kin in the world. To the wars he would go, yetHeaven forfend that ill should happen to him."
"But if he wish to stay?"
"Then he may do so, though as a monk he will be as far from me asever."
"Then he shall be asked, my son. Should he remain with us the Orderprofiteth; should he go Franceward, then the saints be with him andbring him safely home again. But, I ask," he added, fixing his darkeyes intently on the archer, "when Raymond left us didst thou fetchhim away?"
"Nay, Father, I----"
"Then where have I met thee before?"
For a moment a pallor, quickly succeeded by a deep flush, overspreadthe tanned features of the master-bowman, and his mind travelled backfor nigh two score years. Then in quick, short sentences he replied,telling the story of the tragedy which had darkened his life.
"Ah! I thought my memory played me not false," returned the Abbot."But of that enough! I knew it! And, for an archer, thou artcertainly apt in speech. Canst read?"
"Yea, Father."
"And write?"
"Yea, Father. Many a time have I acted as scrivener to Sir JohnHacket, the Constable of the Castle of Portchester."
"'Tis well; and rest assured, my son, that, by my holy calling, noword of thy past shall fall from my lips."
"And there is another small matter of which I would speak," saidRedward.
The Abbot frowned, for the archer had taken the initiative, but,nevertheless, he signed for Redward to continue.
"When we are gone to the wars," quoth the archer, "'twill benecessary for me to leave my small belongings in safe keeping, and nobetter place can I think of than this Abbey."
"Think not to turn this holy place into a house of merchandise, myson!"
"Nay, Father, not merchandise, but treasure."
"Treasure?" interrupted the Abbot, his interest kindling. "How sayyou?"
"Ay, a trifle saved from the wreck of my past, together with a littleI have amassed during some twenty years of wandering. Of a surety Iwould offer the Abbey a good percentum for the care thereof, togetherwith the right to retain all profits from its use."
"My son, thou art generous to Holy Mother Church."
"Nay, but I go farther. Should aught amiss happen to Raymond or me,the whole of my worldly goods I leave to the Abbey, withoutcondition."
"Then, my son, I accept, in the name of the Order, the chargeconfided to us. I will see to it this instant that Brother Aloysius,our scribe, will draft the agreement thereunto." And going to thedoor, the Abbot, his eyes shining at the thought of adding to thetreasury, rang a bell that brought one of the lay servitors hasteningto his presence.
"Bring Brother Aloysius hither."
With little loss of time the scrivener arrived, and the agreement wasdrawn up and signed. This done, the Abbot dismissed Redward, and,once more alone, leaned back in his chair with intense satisfaction.
Keep Raymond within the Abbey, let him take the oaths of the Order,and all would be well. The Abbey would benefit considerably, for,once a monk, Raymond would be heirless. On the other hand, shouldfather and son go to the wars--well, there were chances that theymight not return, and then----. The Abbot sighed, for, in spite ofhis pious greed, he chid himself for his momentary satisfaction atthe thought of harm happening to the young man, of whose presence asa novice he had many pleasing recollections.
On Redward's return to his son's bedside he found, to his greatdelight, that Raymond was awake.
"How fares it with thee, Raymond?" he asked, taking the lad's limphand in his great palm and gently patting it.
"I feel much better, father, and hope soon to be abroad again."
"I trust so; but I have something to tell thee. Even now the Abbot hasasked me to let thee stay with him. He himself will ask thee anon."
"But I do not wish to, father. My one desire is to follow the bannerof the Constable."
"I like thy pluck, Raymond, seeing what thou hast been through. 'Twasan ill start for a soldier's life."
"Yet we came out with honour," replied the boy, his eyes glisteningat the thought of the unequal encounter. "When thinkest thou that weshall be able to leave this place?"
"A matter of a few days. For my part, I must hasten back to Hamble togather together the remains of my goods and chattels, and also toease the dead Frenchman of his harness, for 'tis, a goodly suit ofarmour. Also, there is a fair portion of plate and money which I amleaving in the care of the Abbot. Some day 'twill be thine, Raymond,but of that matter I'll speak more anon."
Towards eventide the peacefulness of the Abbey was disturbed by thetramp of armed men--the victorious troops returning to their camp atSouthampton; and by the Abbot's leave most of the wounded men, withtheir escort of archers, passed out of the gate and lined the dustyroad to welcome their rescuers and comrades. Even the monks, carriedaway by their feelings, crowded round the gateway to catch a glimpseof the gallant companies. News of the capture of one galley and thedestruction of the other had already reached them, and enthusiasm ranhigh as the bronzed and dust-covered soldiers tramped homewards.
Redward Buckland knew most of the banners of the various companies,and imparted his knowledge to his companions, while the archers whoformed their escort cheered lustily as their fellow-soldiers turnedto throw out words of pleasant banter.
At length the master-bowman gave a loud shout. "Look, comrades, thecompany of the Constable of Portchester! See the crescent _or_ on afield _azure!_"
Marching four abreast, their white surcoats soiled with mud, water,and dust, came the Portchester garrison. For, save a few who remainedto hold the castle and the adjacent town of Portsmouth, the whole ofSir John Hacket's men were with the army now encamped at Woolston, onthe outskirts of Southampton.
At their head rode the fiery knight, attended by his squires, whileat his bridle-arm, mounted on a white jennet, was Walter deBrakkeleye, the Bailiff of Southampton, whose men had already passedby. The two leaders were engaged in animated conversation, all tracesof their bickering on the question of precedence having completelyvanished.
Suddenly the knight caught sight of the little knot of men outsidethe Abbey gate.
"By the Rood, 'tis my old master-bowman and his party of villagerswho held the Frenchmen at bay!" he exclaimed. "When I sent them tothe Abbey I little thought to see any of them out and about so soon."
In obedience to an order, the company halted and faced about. SirJohn rode up to the little band, who respectfully saluted him,following Redward's example in military etiquette.
"By St. George," said the knight, "'tis hard to do justice to yourbravery; for I have only now had time to ponder over your deeds. Butthis I know--had ye not held the rascals in check the countrysidewould have been laid bare far more than it is."
"But," he went on reflectively, "ye are, for the most part, homelessmen; why not serve under my banner? Francewards riches and honourawait you. I'll warrant
ye will gain more in one campaign than in alifetime in England. Buckland, I have heard, will rejoin my company.He will be, as before, one of my sub-officers, and if ye come withhim, in his division ye'll be placed. I am loth to lose any of you.So who's for an archer's life?"
With one accord Redward's companions signified their eagerness tofollow the yellow crescent, and Sir John's face beamed with delightat their decision. "Then get ye back to the Abbey till ye bethoroughly healed of your wounds," he said, "and join the camp assoon as possible. I thought aright that the taste of fighting wouldbut whet your appetites."
"And you, Hubert," he added, addressing one of his squires, "takethis purse and present to the Abbot as a token of my esteem for thekindly treatment of these men. Also make excuses for me, as the nightdraws on apace."
Then, commanding the archers who had conveyed Redward's party to theAbbey to fall in with the rest of his company, Sir John gave theorder to march. The column moved onwards, leaving behind it the newrecruits to the banner of the Constable of the King's Castle ofPortchester.
The Winning of the Golden Spurs Page 7