by the date of this chronicle the ascetic sternness of the old norman castles had been humanized and refined so that the new dwellings of the nobility, if less imposing in appearance, were much more comfortable as places of residence. a gentle race had built their houses rather for peace than for war. he who compares the savage bareness of pevensey or guildford with the piled grandeur of bodmin or windsor cannot fail to understand the change in manners which they represent.
the earlier castles had a set purpose, for they were built that the invaders might hold down the country; but when the conquest was once firmly established a castle had lost its meaning save as a refuge from justice or as a center for civil strife. on the marches of wales and of scotland the castle might continue to be a bulwark to the kingdom, and there still grew and flourished; but in all other places they were rather a menace to the king's majesty, and as such were discouraged and destroyed. by the reign of the third edward the greater part of the old fighting castles had been converted into dwelling-houses or had been ruined in the civil wars, and left where their grim gray bones are still littered upon the brows of our hills. the new buildings were either great country-houses, capable of defense, but mainly residential, or they were manor-houses with no military significance at all.
such was the tilford manor-house where the last survivors of the old and magnificent house of loring still struggled hard to keep a footing and to hold off the monks and the lawyers from the few acres which were left to them. the mansion was a two-storied one, framed in heavy beams of wood, the interstices filled with rude blocks of stone. an outside staircase led up to several sleeping-rooms above. below there were only two apartments, the smaller of which was the bower of the aged lady ermyntrude. the other was the hall, a very large room, which served as the living room of the family and as the common dining-room of themselves and of their little group of servants and retainers. the dwellings of these servants, the kitchens, the offices and the stables were all represented by a row of penthouses and sheds behind the main building. here lived charles the page, peter the old falconer, red swire who had followed nigel's grandfather to the scottish wars, weathercote the broken minstrel, john the cook, and other survivors of more prosperous days, who still clung to the old house as the barnacles to some wrecked and stranded vessel.
one evening about a week after the breaking of the yellow horse, nigel and his grandmother sat on either side of the large empty fireplace in this spacious apartment. the supper had been removed, and so had the trestle tables upon which it had been served, so that the room seemed bare and empty. the stone floor was strewed with a thick layer of green rushes, which was swept out every saturday and carried with it all the dirt and debris of the week. several dogs were now crouched among these rushes, gnawing and cracking the bones which had been thrown from the table. a long wooden buffet loaded with plates and dishes filled one end of the room, but there was little other furniture save some benches against the walls, two dorseret chairs, one small table littered with chessmen, and a great iron coffer. in one corner was a high wickerwork stand, and on it two stately falcons were perched, silent and motionless, save for an occasional twinkle of their fierce yellow eyes.
but if the actual fittings of the room would have appeared scanty to one who had lived in a more luxurious age, he would have been surprised on looking up to see the multitude of objects which were suspended above his head. over the fireplace were the coats-of-arms of a number of houses allied by blood or by marriage to the lorings. the two cresset-lights which flared upon each side gleamed upon the blue lion of the percies, the red birds of de valence, the black engrailed cross of de mohun, the silver star of de vere, and the ruddy bars of fitzalan, all grouped round the famous red roses on the silver shield which the lorings had borne to glory upon many a bloody field. then from side to side the room was spanned by heavy oaken beams from which a great number of objects were hanging. there were mail-shirts of obsolete pattern, several shields, one or two rusted and battered helmets, bowstaves, lances, otter-spears, harness, fishing-rods, and other implements of war or of the chase, while higher still amid the black shadows of the peaked roof could be seen rows of hams, flitches of bacon, salted geese, and those other forms of preserved meat which played so great a part in the housekeeping of the middle ages.
dame ermyntrude loring, daughter, wife, and mother of warriors, was herself a formidable figure. tall and gaunt, with hard craggy features and intolerant dark eyes, even her snow-white hair and stooping back could not entirely remove the sense of fear which she inspired in those around her. her thoughts and memories went back to harsher times, and she looked upon the england around her as a degenerate and effeminate land which had fallen away from the old standard of knightly courtesy and valor.
the rising power of the people, the growing wealth of the church, the increasing luxury in life and manners, and the gentler tone of the age were all equally abhorrent to her, so that the dread of her fierce face, and even of the heavy oak staff with which she supported her failing limbs, was widespread through all the country round.
yet if she was feared she was also respected, for in days when books were few and readers scarce, a long memory and a ready tongue were of the more value; and where, save from dame ermyntrude, could the young unlettered squires of surrey and hampshire hear of their grandfathers and their battles, or learn that lore of heraldry and chivalry which she handed down from a ruder but a more martial age? poor as she was, there was no one in surrey whose guidance would be more readily sought upon a question of precedence or of conduct than the dame ermyntrude loring.
she sat now with bowed back by the empty fireplace, and looked across at nigel with all the harsh lines of her old ruddled face softening into love and pride. the young squire was busy cutting bird-bolts for his crossbow, and whistling softly as he worked. suddenly he looked up and caught the dark eyes which were fixed upon him. he leaned forward and patted the bony hand.
“what hath pleased you, dear dame? i read pleasure in your eyes.”
“i have heard to-day, nigel, how you came to win that great war-horse which stamps in our stable.”
“nay, dame; i had told you that the monks had given it to me.”
“you said so, fair son, but never a word more. yet the horse which you brought home was a very different horse i wot, to that which was given you. why did you not tell me?”
“i should think it shame to talk of such a thing.”
“so would your father before you, and his father no less. they would sit silent among the knights when the wine went round and listen to every man's deeds; but if perchance there was anyone who spoke louder than the rest and seemed to be eager for honor, then afterwards your father would pluck him softly by the sleeve and whisper in his ear to learn if there was any small vow of which he could relieve him, or if he would deign to perform some noble deed of arms upon his person. and if the man were a braggart and would go no further, your father would be silent and none would know it. but if he bore himself well, your father would spread his fame far and wide, but never make mention of himself.”
nigel looked at the old woman with shining eyes. “i love to hear you speak of him,” said he. “i pray you to tell me once more of the manner of his death.”
“he died as he had lived, a very courtly gentleman. it was at the great sea-battle upon the norman coast, and your father was in command of the after-guard in the king's own ship. now the french had taken a great english ship the year before when they came over and held the narrow seas and burned the town of southampton.
“this ship was the christopher, and they placed it in the front of their battle; but the english closed upon it and stormed over its side, and slew all who were upon it.
“but your father and sir lorredan of genoa, who commanded the christopher, fought upon the high poop, so that all the fleet stopped to watch it, and the king himself cried aloud at the sight, for sir lorredan was a famous man-at-arms and bore himself very stoutly that day, and many a knight envied your father that he should have chanced upon so excellent a person. but your father bore him back and struck him such a blow with a mace that he turned the helmet half round on his head, so that he could no longer see through the eye holes, and sir lorredan threw down his sword and gave himself to ransom. but your father took him by the helmet and twisted it until he had it straight upon his head. then, when he could see once again, he handed him his sword, and prayed him that he would rest himself and then continue, for it was great profit and joy to see any gentleman carry himself so well. so they sat together and rested by the rail of the poop; but even as they raised their hands again your father was struck by a stone from a mangonel and so died.”
“and this sir lorredan,” cried nigel, “he died also, as i understand?”
“i fear that he was slain by the archers, for they loved your father, and they do not see these things with our eyes.”
“it was a pity,” said nigel; “for it is clear that he was a good knight and bore himself very bravely.”
“time was, when i was young, when commoners dared not have laid their grimy hands upon such a man. men of gentle blood and coat-armor made war upon each other, and the others, spearmen or archers, could scramble amongst themselves. but now all are of a level, and only here and there one like yourself, fair son, who reminds me of the men who are gone.”
nigel leaned forward and took her hands in his. “what i am you have made me,” said he.
“it is true, nigel. i have indeed watched over you as the gardener watches his most precious blossom, for in you alone are all the hopes of our ancient house, and soon—very soon—you will be alone.”
“nay, dear lady, say not that.”
“i am very old, nigel, and i feel the shadow closing in upon me. my heart yearns to go, for all whom i have known and loved have gone before me. and you—it will be a blessed day for you, since i have held you back from that world into which your brave spirit longs to plunge.”
“nay, nay, i have been happy here with you at tilford.”
“we are very poor, nigel. i do not know where we may find the money to fit you for the wars. yet we have good friends. there is sir john chandos, who has won such credit in the french wars and who rides ever by the king's bridle-arm. he was your father's friend and they were squires together. if i sent you to court with a message to him he would do what he could.”
nigel's fair face flushed. “nay, dame ermyntrude, i must find my own gear, even as i have found my own horse, for i had rather ride into battle in this tunic than owe my suit to another.”
“i feared that you would say so, nigel; but indeed i know not how else we may get the money,” said the old woman sadly. “it was different in the days of my father. i can remember that a suit of mail was but a small matter in those days, for in every english town such things could be made. but year by year since men have come to take more care of their bodies, there have been added a plate of proof here and a cunning joint there, and all must be from toledo or milan, so that a knight must have much metal in his purse ere he puts any on his limbs.”
nigel looked up wistfully at the old armor which was slung on the beams above him. “the ash spear is good,” said he, “and so is the oaken shield with facings of steel. sir roger fitzalan handled them and said that he had never seen better. but the armor—”
lady ermyntrude shook her old head and laughed. “you have your father's great soul, nigel, but you have not his mighty breadth of shoulder and length of limb. there was not in all the king's great host a taller or a stronger man. his harness would be little use to you. no, fair son, i rede you that when the time comes you sell this crumbling house and the few acres which are still left, and so go forth to the wars in the hope that with your own right hand you will plant the fortunes of a new house of loring.”
a shadow of anger passed over nigel's fresh young face. “i know not if we may hold off these monks and their lawyers much longer. this very day there came a man from guildford with claims from the abbey extending back before my father's death.”
“where are they, fair son?”
“they are flapping on the furze-bushes of hankley, for i sent his papers and parchments down wind as fast as ever falcon flew.”
“nay! you were mad to do that, nigel. and the man, where is he?”
“red swire and old george the archer threw him into the thursley bog.”
“alas! i fear me such things cannot be done in these days, though my father or my husband would have sent the rascal back to guildford without his ears. but the church and the law are too strong now for us who are of gentler blood. trouble will come of it, nigel, for the abbot of waverley is not one who will hold back the shield of the church from those who are her servants.”
“the abbot would not hurt us. it is that gray lean wolf of a sacrist who hungers for our land. let him do his worst. i fear him not.”
“he has such an engine at his back, nigel, that even the bravest must fear him. the ban which blasts a man's soul is in the keeping of his church, and what have we to place against it? i pray you to speak him fair, nigel.”
“nay, dear lady, it is both my duty and my pleasure to do what you bid me; but i would die ere i ask as a favor that which we can claim as a right. never can i cast my eyes from yonder window that i do not see the swelling down-lands and the rich meadows, glade and dingle, copse and wood, which have been ours since norman-william gave them to that loring who bore his shield at senlac. now, by trick and fraud, they have passed away from us, and many a franklin is a richer man than i; but never shall it be said that i saved the rest by bending my neck to their yoke. let them do their worst, and let me endure it or fight it as best i may.”
the old lady sighed and shook her head. “you speak as a loring should, and yet i fear that some great trouble will befall us. but let us talk no more of such matters, since we cannot mend them. where is your citole, nigel? will you not play and sing to me?”
the gentleman of those days could scarce read and write; but he spoke in two languages, played at least one musical instrument as a matter of course, and possessed a number of other accomplishments, from the imping of hawk's feathers, to the mystery of venery, with knowledge of every beast and bird, its time of grace and when it was seasonable. as far as physical feats went, to vault barebacked upon a horse, to hit a running hare with a crossbow-bolt, or to climb the angle of a castle courtyard, were feats which had come by nature to the young squire; but it was very different with music, which had called for many a weary hour of irksome work. now at last he could master the strings, but both his ear and his voice were not of the best, so that it was well perhaps that there was so small and so unprejudiced an audience to the norman-french chanson, which he sang in a high reedy voice with great earnestness of feeling, but with many a slip and quaver, waving his yellow head in cadence to the music:
a sword! a sword! ah, give me a sword!
for the world is all to win.
though the way be hard and the door be barred,
the strong man enters in.
if chance and fate still hold the gate,
give me the iron key,
and turret high my plume shall fly,
or you may weep for me!
a horse! a horse! ah, give me a horse!
to bear me out afar,
where blackest need and grimmest deed
and sweetest perils are.
hold thou my ways from glutted days
where poisoned leisure lies,
and point the path of tears and wrath
which mounts to high emprise!
a heart! a heart! ah, give me a heart
to rise to circumstance!
serene and high and bold to try
the hazard of the chance,
with strength to wait, but fixed as fate
to plan and dare and do,
the peer of all, and only thrall,
sweet lady mine, to you!
it may have been that the sentiment went for more than the music, or it may have been the nicety of her own ears had been dulled by age, but old dame ermyntrude clapped her lean hands together and cried out in shrill applause.
“weathercote has indeed had an apt pupil!” she said. “i pray you that you will sing again.”
“nay, dear dame, it is turn and turn betwixt you and me. i beg that you will recite a romance, you who know them all. for all the years that i have listened i have never yet come to the end of them, and i dare swear that there are more in your head than in all the great books which they showed me at guildford castle. i would fain hear 'doon of mayence,' or 'the song of roland,' or 'sir isumbras.'”
so the old dame broke into a long poem, slow and dull in the inception, but quickening as the interest grew, until with darting hands and glowing face she poured forth the verses which told of the emptiness of sordid life, the beauty of heroic death, the high sacredness of love and the bondage of honor. nigel, with set, still features and brooding eyes, drank in the fiery words, until at last they died upon the old woman's lips and she sank back weary in her chair.
nigel stooped over her and kissed her brow. “your words will ever be as a star upon my path,” said he. then, carrying over the small table and the chessmen, he proposed that they should play their usual game before they sought their rooms for the night.
but a sudden and rude interruption broke in upon their gentle contest. a dog pricked its ears and barked. the others ran growling to the door. and then there came a sharp clash of arms, a dull heavy blow as from a club or sword-pommel, and a deep voice from without summoned them to open in the king's name. the old dame and nigel had both sprung to their feet, their table overturned and their chessmen scattered among the rushes. nigel's hand had sought his crossbow, but the lady ermyntrude grasped his arm.
“nay, fair son! have you not heard that it is in the king's name?” said she. “down, talbot! down, bayard! open the door and let his messenger in!”
nigel undid the bolt, and the heavy wooden door swung outward upon its hinges. the light from the flaring cressets beat upon steel caps and fierce bearded faces, with the glimmer of drawn swords and the yellow gleam of bowstaves. a dozen armed archers forced their way into the room. at their head were the gaunt sacrist of waverley and a stout elderly man clad in a red velvet doublet and breeches much stained and mottled with mud and clay. he bore a great sheet of parchment with a fringe of dangling seals, which he held aloft as he entered.
“i call on nigel loring!” he cried. “i, the officer of the king's law and the lay summoner of waverley, call upon the man named nigel loring!”
“i am he.”
“yes, it is he!” cried the sacrist. “archers, do as you were ordered!”
in an instant the band threw themselves upon him like the hounds on a stag. desperately nigel strove to gain his sword which lay upon the iron coffer. with the convulsive strength which comes from the spirit rather than from the body, he bore them all in that direction, but the sacrist snatched the weapon from its place, and the rest dragged the writhing squire to the ground and swathed him in a cord.
“hold him fast, good archers! keep a stout grip on him!” cried the summoner. “i pray you, one of you, prick off these great dogs which snarl at my heels. stand off, i say, in the name of the king! watkin, come betwixt me and these creatures who have as little regard for the law as their master.”
one of the archers kicked off the faithful dogs. but there were others of the household who were equally ready to show their teeth in defense of the old house of loring. from the door which led to their quarters there emerged the pitiful muster of nigel's threadbare retainers. there was a time when ten knights, forty men-at-arms and two hundred archers would march behind the scarlet roses. now at this last rally when the young head of the house lay bound in his own hall, there mustered at his call the page charles with a cudgel, john the cook with his longest spit, red swire the aged man-at-arms with a formidable ax swung over his snowy head, and weathercote the minstrel with a boar-spear. yet this motley array was fired with the spirit of the house, and under the lead of the fierce old soldier they would certainly have flung themselves upon the ready swords of the archers, had the lady ermyntrude not swept between them:
“stand back, swire!” she cried. “back, weathercote charles, put a leash on talbot, and hold bayard back!” her black eyes blazed upon the invaders until they shrank from that baleful gaze. “who are you, you rascal robbers, who dare to misuse the king's name and to lay hands upon one whose smallest drop of blood has more worth than all your thrall and caitiff bodies?”
“nay, not so fast, dame, not so fast, i pray you!” cried the stout summoner, whose face had resumed its natural color, now that he had a woman to deal with. “there is a law of england, mark you, and there are those who serve and uphold it, who are the true men and the king's own lieges. such a one am i. then again, there are those who take such as me and transfer, carry or convey us into a bog or morass. such a one is this graceless old man with the ax, whom i have seen already this day. there are also those who tear, destroy or scatter the papers of the law, of which this young man is the chief. therefore, i would rede you, dame, not to rail against us, but to understand that we are the king's men on the king's own service.”
“what then is your errand in this house at this hour of the night?”
the summoner cleared his throat pompously, and turning his parchment to the light of the cressets he read out a long document in norman-french, couched in such a style and such a language that the most involved and foolish of our forms were simplicity itself compared to those by which the men of the long gown made a mystery of that which of all things on earth should be the plainest and the most simple. despair fell cold upon nigel's heart and blanched the face of the old dame as they listened to the dread catalogue of claims and suits and issues, questions of peccary and turbary, of house-bote and fire-bote, which ended by a demand for all the lands, hereditaments, tenements, messuages and curtilages, which made up their worldly all.
nigel, still bound, had been placed with his back against the iron coffer, whence he heard with dry lips and moist brow this doom of his house. now he broke in on the recital with a vehemence which made the summoner jump:
“you shall rue what you have done this night!” he cried. “poor as we are, we have our friends who will not see us wronged, and i will plead my cause before the king's own majesty at windsor, that he, who saw the father die, may know what things are done in his royal name against the son. but these matters are to be settled in course of law in the king's courts, and how will you excuse yourself for this assault upon my house and person?”
“nay, that is another matter,” said the sacrist. “the question of debt may indeed be an affair of a civil court. but it is a crime against the law and an act of the devil, which comes within the jurisdiction of the abbey court of waverley when you dare to lay hands upon the summoner or his papers.”
“indeed, he speaks truth,” cried the official. “i know no blacker sin.”
“therefore,” said the stern monk, “it is the order of the holy father abbot that you sleep this night in the abbey cell, and that to-morrow you be brought before him at the court held in the chapter-house so that you receive the fit punishment for this and the many other violent and froward deeds which you have wrought upon the servants of holy church. enough is now said, worthy master summoner. archers, remove your prisoner!”
as nigel was lifted up by four stout archers, the dame ermyntrude would have rushed to his aid, but the sacrist thrust her back.
“stand off, proud woman! let the law take its course, and learn to humble your heart before the power of holy church. has your life not taught its lesson, you, whose horn was exalted among the highest and will soon not have a roof above your gray hairs? stand back, i say, lest i lay a curse upon you!”
the old dame flamed suddenly into white wrath as she stood before the angry monk: “listen to me while i lay a curse upon you and yours!” she cried as she raised her shriveled arms and blighted him with her flashing eyes—
“as you have done to the house of loring, so may god do to you, until your power is swept from the land of england, and of your great abbey of waverley there is nothing left but a pile of gray stones in a green meadow! i see it! i see it! with my old eyes i see it! from scullion to abbot and from cellar to tower, may waverley and all within it droop and wither from this night on!”
the monk, hard as he was, quailed before the frantic figure and the bitter, burning words. already the summoner and the archers with their prisoner were clear of the house. he turned and with a clang he shut the heavy door behind him.
v. how nigel was tried by the abbot of waverley
the law of the middle ages, shrouded as it was in old norman-french dialect, and abounding in uncouth and incomprehensible terms, in deodands and heriots, in infang and outfang, was a fearsome weapon in the hands of those who knew how to use it. it was not for nothing that the first act of the rebel commoners was to hew off the head of the lord chancellor. in an age when few knew how to read or to write, these mystic phrases and intricate forms, with the parchments and seals which were their outward expression, struck cold terror into hearts which were steeled against mere physical danger.
even young nigel loring's blithe and elastic spirit was chilled as he lay that night in the penal cell of waverley and pondered over the absolute ruin which threatened his house from a source against which all his courage was of no avail. as well take up sword and shield to defend himself against the black death, as against this blight of holy church. he was powerless in the grip of the abbey. already they had shorn off a field here and a grove there, and now in one sweep they would take in the rest, and where then was the home of the lorings, and where should lady ermyntrude lay her aged head, or his old retainers, broken and spent, eke out the balance of their days? he shivered as he thought of it.
it was very well for him to threaten to carry the matter before the king, but it was years since royal edward had heard the name of loring, and nigel knew that the memory of princes was a short one. besides, the church was the ruling power in the palace as well as in the cottage, and it was only for very good cause that a king could be expected to cross the purposes of so high a prelate as the abbot of waverley, as long as they came within the scope of the law. where then was he to look for help? with the simple and practical piety of the age, he prayed for the aid of his own particular saints: of saint paul, whose adventures by land and sea had always endeared him; of saint george, who had gained much honorable advancement from the dragon; and of saint thomas, who was a gentleman of coat-armor, who would understand and help a person of gentle blood. then, much comforted by his naive orisons he enjoyed the sleep of youth and health until the entrance of the lay brother with the bread and small beer, which served as breakfast, in the morning.
the abbey court sat in the chapter-house at the canonical hour of tierce, which was nine in the forenoon. at all times the function was a solemn one, even when the culprit might be a villain who was taken poaching on the abbey estate, or a chapman who had given false measure from his biased scales. but now, when a man of noble birth was to be tried, the whole legal and ecclesiastical ceremony was carried out with every detail, grotesque or impressive, which the full ritual prescribed. the distant roll of church music and the slow tolling of the abbey bell; the white-robed brethren, two and two, walked thrice round the hall singing the “benedicite” and the “veni, creator” before they settled in their places at the desks on either side. then in turn each high officer of the abbey from below upward, the almoner, the lector, the chaplain, the subprior and the prior, swept to their wonted places.
finally there came the grim sacrist, with demure triumph upon his downcast features, and at his heels abbot john himself, slow and dignified, with pompous walk and solemn, composed face, his iron-beaded rosary swinging from his waist, his breviary in his hand, and his lips muttering as he hurried through his office for the day. he knelt at his high prie-dieu; the brethren, at a signal from the prior, prostrated themselves upon the floor, and the low deep voices rolled in prayer, echoed back from the arched and vaulted roof like the wash of waves from an ocean cavern. finally the monks resumed their seats; there entered clerks in seemly black with pens and parchment; the red-velveted summoner appeared to tell his tale; nigel was led in with archers pressing close around him; and then, with much calling of old french and much legal incantation and mystery, the court of the abbey was open for business.
it was the sacrist who first advanced to the oaken desk reserved for the witnesses and expounded in hard, dry, mechanical fashion the many claims which the house, of waverley had against the family of loring. some generations back in return for money advanced or for spiritual favor received the loring of the day had admitted that his estate had certain feudal duties toward the abbey. the sacrist held up the crackling yellow parchment with swinging leaden seals on which the claim was based. amid the obligations was that of escuage, by which the price of a knight's fee should be paid every year. no such price had been paid, nor had any service been done. the accumulated years came now to a greater sum than the fee simple of the estate. there were other claims also. the sacrist called for his books, and with thin, eager forefinger he tracked them down: dues for this, and tailage for that, so many shillings this year, and so many marks that one. some of it occurred before nigel was born; some of it when he was but a child. the accounts had been checked and certified by the sergeant of the law.
nigel listened to the dread recital, and felt like some young stag who stands at bay with brave pose and heart of fire, but who sees himself compassed round and knows clearly that there is no escape. with his bold young face, his steady blue eyes, and the proud poise of his head, he was a worthy scion of the old house, and the sun, shining through the high oriel window, and showing up the stained and threadbare condition of his once rich doublet, seemed to illuminate the fallen fortunes of his family.
the sacrist had finished his exposition, and the sergeant-at-law was about to conclude a case which nigel could in no way controvert, when help came to him from an unexpected quarter. it may have been a certain malignity with which the sacrist urged his suit, it may have been a diplomatic dislike to driving matters to extremes, or it may have been some genuine impulse of kindliness, for abbot john was choleric but easily appeased. whatever the cause, the result was that a white plump hand, raised in the air with a gesture of authority, showed that the case was at an end.
“our brother sacrist hath done his duty in urging this suit,” said he, “for the worldly wealth of this abbey is placed in his pious keeping, and it is to him that we should look if we suffered in such ways, for we are but the trustees of those who come after us. but to my keeping has been consigned that which is more precious still, the inner spirit and high repute of those who follow the rule of saint bernard. now it has ever been our endeavor, since first our saintly founder went down into the valley of clairvaux and built himself a cell there, that we should set an example to all men in gentleness and humility. for this reason it is that we built our houses in lowly places, that we have no tower to our abbey churches, and that no finery and no metal, save only iron or lead, come within our walls. a brother shall eat from a wooden platter, drink from an iron cup, and light himself from a leaden sconce. surely it is not for such an order who await the exaltation which is promised to the humble, to judge their own case and so acquire the lands of their neighbor! if our cause be just, as indeed i believe that it is, then it were better that it be judged at the king's assizes at guildford, and so i decree that the case be now dismissed from the abbey court so that it can be heard elsewhere.”
nigel breathed a prayer to the three sturdy saints who had stood by him so manfully and well in the hour of his need. “abbot john,” said he, “i never thought that any man of my name would utter thanks to a cistercian of waverley; but by saint paul! you have spoken like a man this day, for it would indeed be to play with cogged dice if the abbey's case is to be tried in the abbey court.”
the eighty white-clad brethren looked with half resentful, half amused eyes as they listened to this frank address to one who, in their small lives, seemed to be the direct vice-regent of heaven. the archers had stood back from nigel, as though he was at liberty to go, when the loud voice of the summoner broke in upon the silence—
“if it please you, holy father abbot,” cried the voice, “this decision of yours is indeed secundum legem and intra vires so far as the civil suit is concerned which lies between this person and the abbey. that is your affair; but it is i, joseph the summoner, who have been grievously and criminally mishandled, my writs, papers and indentures destroyed, my authority flouted, and my person dragged through a bog, quagmire or morass, so that my velvet gabardine and silver badge of office were lost and are, as i verily believe, in the morass, quagmire or bog aforementioned, which is the same bog, morass—”
“enough!” cried the abbot sternly. “lay aside this foolish fashion of speech and say straitly what you desire.”
“holy father, i have been the officer of the king's law no less than the servant of holy church, and i have been let, hindered and assaulted in the performance of my lawful and proper duties, whilst my papers, drawn in the king's name, have been shended and rended and cast to the wind. therefore, i demand justice upon this man in the abbey court, the said assault having been committed within the banlieue of the abbey's jurisdiction.”
“what have you to say to this, brother sacrist?” asked the abbot in some perplexity.
“i would say, father, that it is within our power to deal gently and charitably with all that concerns ourselves, but that where a the king's officer is concerned we are wanting in our duty if we give him less than the protection that he demands. i would remind you also, holy father, that this is not the first of this man's violence, but that he has before now beaten our servants, defied our authority, and put pike in the abbot's own fish-pond.”
the prelate's heavy cheeks flushed with anger as this old grievance came fresh into his mind. his eyes hardened as he looked at the prisoner. “tell me, squire nigel, did you indeed put pike in the pond?”
the young man drew himself proudly up. “ere i answer such a question, father abbot, do you answer one from me, and tell me what the monks of waverley have ever done for me that i should hold my hand when i could injure them?”
a low murmur ran round the room, partly wonder at his frankness, and partly anger at his boldness.
the abbot settled down in his seat as one who has made up his mind. “let the case of the summoner be laid before me,” said he. “justice shall be done, and the offender shall be punished, be he noble or simple. let the plaint be brought before the court.”
the tale of the summoner, though rambling and filled with endless legal reiteration, was only too clear in its essence. red swire, with his angry face framed in white bristles, was led in, and confessed to his ill treatment of the official. a second culprit, a little wiry nut-brown archer from churt, had aided and abetted in the deed. both of them were ready to declare that young squire nigel loring knew nothing of the matter. but then there was the awkward incident of the tearing of the writs. nigel, to whom a lie was an impossibility, had to admit that with his own hands he had shredded those august documents. as to an excuse or an explanation, he was too proud to advance any. a cloud gathered over the brow of the abbot, and the sacrist gazed with an ironical smile at the prisoner, while a solemn hush fell over the chapter-house as the case ended and only, judgment remained.
“squire nigel,” said the abbot, “it was for you, who are, as all men know, of ancient lineage in this land, to give a fair example by which others should set their conduct. instead of this, your manor house has ever been a center for the stirring up of strife, and now not content with your harsh showing toward us, the cistercian monks of waverley, you have even marked your contempt for the king's law, and through your servants have mishandled the person of his messenger. for such offenses it is in my power to call the spiritual terrors of the church upon your head, and yet i would not be harsh with you, seeing that you are young, and that even last week you saved the life of a servant of the abbey when in peril. therefore, it is by temporal and carnal means that i will use my power to tame your overbold spirit, and to chasten that headstrong and violent humor which has caused such scandal in your dealings with our abbey. bread and water for six weeks from now to the feast of saint benedict, with a daily exhortation from our chaplain, the pious father ambrose, may still avail to bend the stiff neck and to soften the hard heart.”
at this ignominious sentence by which the proud heir of the house of loring would share the fate of the meanest village poacher, the hot blood of nigel rushed to his face, and his eye glanced round him with a gleam which said more plainly than words that there could be no tame acceptance of such a doom. twice he tried to speak, and twice his anger and his shame held the words in his throat.
“i am no subject of yours, proud abbot!” he cried at last. “my house has ever been vavasor to the king. i deny the power of you and your court to lay sentence upon me. punish these your own monks, who whimper at your frown, but do not dare to lay your hand upon him who fears you not, for he is a free man, and the peer of any save only the king himself.”
the abbot seemed for an instant taken aback by these bold words, and by the high and strenuous voice in which they were uttered. but the sterner sacrist came as ever to stiffen his will. he held up the old parchment in his hand.
“the lorings were indeed vavasors to the king,” said he; “but here is the very seal of eustace loring which shows that he made himself vassal to the abbey and held his land from it.”
“because he was gentle,” cried nigel, “because he had no thought of trick or guile.”
“nay!” said the summoner. “if my voice may be heard, father abbot, upon a point of the law, it is of no weight what the causes may have been why a deed is subscribed, signed or confirmed, but a court is concerned only with the terms, articles, covenants and contracts of the said deed.”
“besides,” said the sacrist, “sentence is passed by the abbey court, and there is an end of its honor and good name if it be not upheld.”
“brother sacrist,” said the abbot angrily, “methinks you show overmuch zeal in this case, and certes, we are well able to uphold the dignity and honor of the abbey court without any rede of thine. as to you, worthy summoner, you will give your opinion when we crave for it, and not before, or you may yourself get some touch of the power of our tribunal. but your case hath been tried, squire loring, and judgment given. i have no more to say.”
he motioned with his hand, and an archer laid his grip upon the shoulder of the prisoner. but that rough plebeian touch woke every passion of revolt in nigel's spirit. of all his high line of ancestors, was there one who had been subjected to such ignominy as this? would they not have preferred death? and should he be the first to lower their spirit or their traditions? with a quick, lithe movement, he slipped under the arm of the archer, and plucked the short, straight sword from the soldier's side as he did so. the next instant he had wedged himself into the recess of one of the narrow windows, and there were his pale set face, his burning eyes, and his ready blade turned upon the assembly.
“by saint paul!” said he, “i never thought to find honorable advancement under the roof of an abbey, but perchance there may, be some room for it ere you hale me to your prison.”
the chapter-house was in an uproar. never in the long and decorous history of the abbey had such a scene been witnessed within its walls. the monks themselves seemed for an instant to be infected by this spirit of daring revolt. their own lifelong fetters hung more loosely as they viewed this unheard-of defiance of authority. they broke from their seats on either side and huddled half-scared, half-fascinated, in a large half-circle round the defiant captive, chattering, pointing, grimacing, a scandal for all time. scourges should fall and penance be done for many a long week before the shadow of that day should pass from waverley. but meanwhile there was no effort to bring them back to their rule. everything was chaos and disorder. the abbot had left his seat of justice and hurried angrily forward, to be engulfed and hustled in the crowd of his own monks like a sheep-dog who finds himself entangled amid a flock.
only the sacrist stood clear. he had taken shelter behind the half-dozen archers, who looked with some approval and a good deal of indecision at this bold fugitive from justice.
“on him!” cried the sacrist. “shall he defy the authority of the court, or shall one man hold six of you at bay? close in upon him and seize him. you, baddlesmere, why do you hold back?”
the man in question, a tall bushy-bearded fellow, clad like the others in green jerkin and breeches with high brown boots, advanced slowly, sword in hand, against nigel. his heart was not in the business, for these clerical courts were not popular, and everyone had a tender heart for the fallen fortunes of the house of loring and wished well to its young heir.
“come, young sir, you have caused scathe enough,” said he. “stand forth and give yourself up!”
“come and fetch me, good fellow,” said nigel, with a dangerous smile.
the archer ran in. there was a rasp of steel, a blade flickered like a swift dart of flame, and the man staggered back, with blood running down his forearm and dripping from his fingers. he wrung them and growled a saxon oath.
“by the black rood of bromeholm!” he cried, “i had as soon put my hand down a fox's earth to drag up a vixen from her cubs.”
“standoff!” said nigel curtly. “i would not hurt you; but by saint paul! i will not be handled, or some one will be hurt in the handling.”
so fierce was his eye and so menacing his blade as he crouched in the narrow bay of the window that the little knot of archers were at a loss what to do. the abbot had forced his way through the crowd and stood, purple with outraged dignity, at their side.
“he is outside the law,” said he. “he hath shed blood in a court of justice, and for such a sin there is no forgiveness. i will not have my court so flouted and set at naught. he who draws the sword, by the sword also let him perish. forester hugh lay a shaft to your bow!”
the man, who was one of the abbey's lay servants, put his weight upon his long bow and slipped the loose end of the string into the upper notch. then, drawing one of the terrible three-foot arrows, steel-tipped and gaudily winged, from his waist, he laid it to the string.
“now draw your bow and hold it ready!” cried the furious abbot. “squire nigel, it is not for holy church to shed blood, but there is naught but violence which will prevail against the violent, and on your head be the sin. cast down the sword which you hold in your hand!”
“will you give me freedom to leave your abbey?”
“when you have abided your sentence and purged your sin.”
“then i had rather die where i stand than give up my sword.”
a dangerous flame lit in the abbot's eyes. he came of a fighting norman stock, like so many of those fierce prelates who, bearing a mace lest they should be guilty of effusion of blood, led their troops into battle, ever remembering that it was one of their own cloth and dignity who, crosier in hand, had turned the long-drawn bloody day of hastings. the soft accent of the churchman was gone and it was the hard voice of a soldier which said—
“one minute i give you, and no more. then when i cry 'loose!' drive me an arrow through his body.”
the shaft was fitted, the bow was bent, and the stern eyes of the woodman were fixed on his mark. slowly the minute passed, while nigel breathed a prayer to his three soldier saints, not that they should save his body in this life, but that they should have a kindly care for his soul in the next. some thought of a fierce wildcat sally crossed his mind, but once out of his corner he was lost indeed. yet at the last he would have rushed among his enemies, and his body was bent for the spring, when with a deep sonorous hum, like a breaking harp-string, the cord of the bow was cloven in twain, and the arrow tinkled upon the tiled floor. at the same moment a young curly-headed bowman, whose broad shoulders and deep chest told of immense strength, as clearly as his frank, laughing face and honest hazel eyes did of good humor and courage, sprang forward sword in hand and took his place by nigel's side.
“nay, comrades!” said he. “samkin aylward cannot stand by and see a gallant man shot down like a bull at the end of a baiting. five against one is long odds; but two against four is better, and by my finger-bones! squire nigel and i leave this room together, be it on our feet or no.”
the formidable appearance of this ally and his high reputation among his fellows gave a further chill to the lukewarm ardor of the attack. aylward's left arm was passed through his strung bow, and he was known from woolmer forest to the weald as the quickest, surest archer that ever dropped a running deer at tenscore paces.
“nay, baddlesmere, hold your fingers from your string-case, or i may chance to give your drawing hand a two months' rest,” said aylward. “swords, if you will, comrades, but no man strings his bow till i have loosed mine.”
yet the angry hearts of both abbot and sacrist rose higher with a fresh obstacle.
“this is an ill day for your father, franklin aylward, who holds the tenancy of crooksbury,” said the sacrist. “he will rue it that ever he begot a son who will lose him his acres and his steading.”
“my father is a bold yeoman, and would rue it evermore that ever his son should stand by while foul work was afoot,” said aylward stoutly. “fall on, comrades! we are waiting.”
encouraged by promises of reward if they should fall in the service of the abbey, and by threats of penalties if they should hold back, the four archers were about to close, when a singular interruption gave an entirely new turn to the proceedings.
at the door of the chapter-house, while these fiery doings had been afoot, there had assembled a mixed crowd of lay brothers, servants and varlets who had watched the development of the drama with the interest and delight with which men hail a sudden break in a dull routine. suddenly there was an agitation at the back of this group, then a swirl in the center, and finally the front rank was violently thrust aside, and through the gap there emerged a strange and whimsical figure, who from the instant of his appearance dominated both chapter-house and abbey, monks, prelates and archers, as if he were their owner and their master.
he was a man somewhat above middle age, with thin lemon-colored hair, a curling mustache, a tufted chin of the same hue, and a high craggy face, all running to a great hook of the nose, like the beak of an eagle. his skin was tanned a brown-red by much exposure to the wind and sun. in height he was tall, and his figure was thin and loose-jointed, but stringy and hard-bitten. one eye was entirely covered by its lid, which lay flat over an empty socket, but the other danced and sparkled with a most roguish light, darting here and there with a twinkle of humor and criticism and intelligence, the whole fire of his soul bursting through that one narrow cranny.
his dress was as noteworthy as his person. a rich purple doublet and cloak was marked on the lapels with a strange scarlet device shaped like a wedge. costly lace hung round his shoulders, and amid its soft folds there smoldered the dull red of a heavy golden chain. a knight's belt at his waist and a knight's golden spurs twinkling from his doeskin riding-boots proclaimed his rank, and on the wrist of his left gauntlet there sat a demure little hooded falcon of a breed which in itself was a mark of the dignity of the owner. of weapons he had none, but a mandolin was slung by a black silken band over his back, and the high brown end projected above his shoulder. such was the man, quaint, critical, masterful, with a touch of what is formidable behind it, who now surveyed the opposing groups of armed men and angry monks with an eye which commanded their attention.
“excusez!” said he, in a lisping french. “excusez, mes amis! i had thought to arouse from prayer or meditation, but never have i seen such a holy exercise as this under an abbey's roof, with swords for breviaries and archers for acolytes. i fear that i have come amiss, and yet i ride on an errand from one who permits no delay.”
the abbot, and possibly the sacrist also, had begun to realize that events had gone a great deal farther than they had intended, and that without an extreme scandal it was no easy matter for them to save their dignity and the good name of waverley. therefore, in spite of the debonair, not to say disrespectful, bearing of the newcomer, they rejoiced at his appearance and intervention.
“i am the abbot of waverley, fair son,” said the prelate. “if your message deal with a public matter it may be fitly repeated in the chapter-house; if not i will give you audience in my own chamber; for it is clear to me that you are a gentle man of blood and coat-armor who would not lightly break in upon the business of our court—a business which, as you have remarked, is little welcome to men of peace like myself and the brethren of the rule of saint bernard.”
“pardieu! father abbot,” said the stranger. “one had but to glance at you and your men to see that the business was indeed little to your taste, and it may be even less so when i say that rather than see this young person in the window, who hath a noble bearing, further molested by these archers, i will myself adventure my person on his behalf.”
the abbot's smile turned to a frown at these frank words. “it would become you better, sir, to deliver the message of which you say that you are the bearer, than to uphold a prisoner against the rightful judgment of a court.”
the stranger swept the court with his questioning eye. “the message is not for you, good father abbot. it is for one whom i know not. i have been to his house, and they have sent me hither. the name is nigel loring.”
“it is for me, fair sir.”
“i had thought as much. i knew your father, eustace loring, and though he would have made two of you, yet he has left his stamp plain enough upon your face.”
“you know not the truth of this matter,” said the abbot. “if you are a loyal man, you will stand aside, for this young man hath grievously offended against the law, and it is for the king's lieges to give us their support.”
“and you have haled him up for judgment,” cried the stranger with much amusement. “it is as though a rookery sat in judgment upon a falcon. i warrant that you have found it easier to judge than to punish. let me tell you, father abbot, that this standeth not aright. when powers such as these were given to the like of you, they were given that you might check a brawling underling or correct a drunken woodman, and not that you might drag the best blood in england to your bar and set your archers on him if he questioned your findings.”
the abbot was little used to hear such words of reproof uttered in so stern a voice under his own abbey roof and before his listening monks. “you may perchance find that an abbey court has more powers than you wot of, sir knight,” said he, “if knight indeed you be who are so uncourteous and short in your speech. ere we go further, i would ask your name and style?”
the stranger laughed. “it is easy to see that you are indeed men of peace,” said he proudly. “had i shown this sign,” and he touched the token upon his lapels, “whether on shield or pennon, in the marches of france or scotland, there is not a cavalier but would have known the red pile of chandos.”
chandos, john chandos, the flower of english chivalry, the pink of knight-errantry, the hero already of fifty desperate enterprises, a man known and honored from end to end of europe! nigel gazed at him as one who sees a vision. the archers stood back abashed, while the monks crowded closer to stare at the famous soldier of the french wars. the abbot abated his tone, and a smile came to his angry face.
“we are indeed men of peace, sir john, and little skilled in warlike blazonry,” said he; “yet stout as are our abbey walls, they are not so thick that the fame of your exploits has not passed through them and reached our ears. if it be your pleasure to take an interest in this young and misguided squire, it is not for us to thwart your kind intention or to withhold such grace as you request. i am glad indeed that he hath one who can set him so fair an example for a friend.”
“i thank you for your courtesy, good father abbot,” said chandos carelessly. “this young squire has, however, a better friend than myself, one who is kinder to those he loves and more terrible to those he hates. it is from him i bear a message.”
“i pray you, fair and honored sir,” said nigel, “that you will tell me what is the message that you bear.”
“the message, mon ami, is that your friend comes into these parts and would have a night's lodging at the manor house of tilford for the love and respect that he bears your family.”
“nay, he is most welcome,” said nigel, “and yet i hope that he is one who can relish a soldier's fare and sleep under a humble roof, for indeed we can but give our best, poor as it is.”
“he is indeed a soldier and a good one,” chandos answered, laughing, “and i warrant he has slept in rougher quarters than tilford manor-house.”
“i have few friends, fair sir,” said nigel, with a puzzled face. “i pray you give me this gentleman's name.”
“his name is edward.”
“sir edward mortimer of kent, perchance, or is it sir edward brocas of whom the lady ermyntrude talks?”
“nay, he is known as edward only, and if you ask a second name it is plantagenet, for he who comes to seek the shelter of your roof is your liege lord and mine, the king's high majesty, edward of england.”
