He prayeth best who loveth best,
All things both great and small,
For the dear God, who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
And wondrous was his power over the rudest men and the most savage animals in consequence. All things loved Francis--the most timid animals, the most shy birds, all alike flocked around him when he appeared.
The brotherhood he had founded was unlike the monastic orders; its members were not to retire from the world, but to live in it, and devote themselves entirely to the good of mankind; they were to renounce all worldly wealth, and embrace chastity, poverty, and obedience--theirs was not to be the joy of family life, theirs no settled abode. Wandering from place to place they were to live solely on the alms of those to whom they preached the gospel of peace.
Established only at the beginning of the century of our tale, it had already extended its energies throughout Europe. They came to England in 1224, only four clergy and five laymen. Already they numbered more than twelve hundred brethren in England alone; and they were found where they were most needed, in the back slums of the undrained and crowded towns, amongst the hovels of the serfs where plague was raging, where leprosy lingered--there were the Franciscans in this the heroic age of their order, before they had fallen from their first love, and verified the proverb--Corruptio optimi est pessima. Under their teaching a new school of theology had arisen at Oxford; the great Bishop of Lincoln, Robert Grosseteste, was its first lecturer, the most enlightened prelate of the day; and now Adam de Maresco, a warm friend of Earl Simon, was at its head. To his care the earl determined to commend young Martin.
Chapter 5: Martin Leaves Kenilworth.
Martin was henceforth relieved of his customary exercises in the tilt yard and elsewhere, which had become distasteful to him in proportion as the longing for a better life had grown upon his imagination. Of course the other boys treated him with huge contempt; and sent him metaphorically "to Coventry," the actual spires of which august medieval city, far more beautiful then than now, rose beyond the trees in the park.
But the chaplain saw this, and with the earl's permission lodged the neophyte in a chamber adjacent to his own "cell," where he gave himself up to his beloved books, only varying the monotony by an occasional stroll with his friend Hubert, who never turned his back upon his former friend, and endured much chaffing and teasing in consequence.
Most rapidly Martin's facile brain acquired the learning of the day--Latin became as his mother tongue, for it was then taught conversationally, and the chaplain seldom or never spoke to him in any other language.
And after a few months his zealous tutor thought him prepared for the important step in his life, and wrote to the great master of scholastic philosophy already mentioned, Adam de Maresco, to bespeak admission into one of the Franciscan schools or colleges then existing at Oxford. There was no penny or other post--a special messenger had to be sent.
The answer came in due course, and at the beginning of the Easter term Martin was told to prepare for his journey to the University. He was not then more than fifteen, but that was a common age for matriculation in those days.
The morning came, so long looked for, and with a strange feeling Martin arose with daybreak from his couch, and looked from his casement upon the little world he was leaving. A busy hum already ascended from beneath as our Martin put his head out of the window; he heard the clank of the armourer's hammer on mail and weapon, he heard the clamorous noise of the hungry hounds who were being fed, he heard the scolding of the cooks and menials who were preparing the breakfast in the hall, he heard the merry laughter of the boys in the pages' chamber. But soon one sound dominated over all--boom! boom! boom! came the great bell of the chapel, filling hill and dale, park and field, with its echoes. Father Edmund was about to say the daily mass, and all must go to begin the day with prayer who were not reasonably hindered--such was the earl's command.
And soon the chaplain called, "Martin, Martin."
"I am ready, sire."
"Looking round on the home thou art leaving, thou wilt find Oxford much fairer."
"But thou wilt not be there."
"My good friend Adam will do more for thee than ever I could."
"Nay, but for thee, sire, I had fallen into utter recklessness; thou hast dragged me from the mire.
"Sit Deo gloria, then, not to a frail man like thyself; thou must learn to lean on the Creator, not the creature. Come, it is time to vest for mass. Thou shalt serve me as acolyte for the last time."
People sometimes talk of that olden rite, wherein our ancestors showed forth the death of Christ day by day, as if it had been a mere mechanical service. It was a dead form only to those who brought dead hearts to it. To our Martin it was instinct with life, and it satisfied the deep craving of his soul for communion with the most High, while he pleaded the One Oblation for all his present needs, just entering upon a new world.
The short service was over, and Martin was breakfasting in the chaplain's room with him and Hubert, who had been invited to share the meal. They were sitting after breakfast--the usual feeling of depression which precedes a departure from home was upon them--when a firm step was heard echoing along the corridor.
"It is the earl," said the chaplain, and they all rose as the great man entered.
"Pardon my intrusion, father. I am come to say farewell to this wilful boy."
They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour.
"Nay, sit down. I have not yet broken my own fast and will crack a crust with you."
And the earl ate and drank that he might put them all at their ease.
"So the scholar's gown and pen suit thee better than the coat of mail and the sword, master Martin!"
"Oh, my good lord!"
"Nay, my boy, thou wast exiled from home in my cause, and I may owe thee a life for all I can tell."
"They would not have harmed thee, not even they, had they known."
"But you see they did not know, and all was fish that came to their nets. Martin, don't thou ever think of them."
"Hubert, thou hadst better go, and come back presently," whispered the chaplain, who felt that there were certain circumstances of which the boy might be better left ignorant, which nearly concerned his companion.
"Nay," said Martin, 'there are no secrets between us. He knows mine. I know his."
"But no one else, I trust," said the earl, who remembered a certain prohibition.
"No, my lord, only Hubert. He already knew so much, I was forced to tell him all."
"Then thou hast not forgotten thy kindred in the greenwood?"
"I can never forget my poor mother."
"Thou hast already told me all that thou dost know, and that thy fathers once owned Michelham."
"So the outlaws said, the merrie men of the wood. Oh if my father had but lived."
"He would have made thee an outlaw, too."
"It might well have been, but my poor mother would have been happy then."
"But I think Martin has a scheme in his head," said Hubert shyly.
"What is it, my son?" said the earl.
"The chaplain knows."
"He thinks that when he has put on the cord of Saint Francis he will go and preach the Gospel to them that are afar off in the woods."