A woman stood in the doorway, who held a boy by the hand; the eyes of both were red with weeping.
"Lady, thou lookest sad; hath aught grieved thee or any one injured thee? the vow of knighthood compels my aid to the distressed."
It was the woman they had noted at the fireside.
"Thou art Simon de Montfort," she said.
"I am; how dost thou know me?"
"I have met thee before, under other guise. Is liberty dear to thee?"
"Without it life is worthless--but who or what threatens it?"
"The outlaws, amongst whom thou hast fallen."
"They will not harm me. I have eaten of their salt."
"Nay, but they will hold thee to ransom, and detain thee till it is brought: I heard them amerce thee at a thousand marks."
"In that case, as I do not wish to winter here, I had better up and away; but who will be my guide?"
"My son; but thou must do me a service in return--thou must charge thyself with his welfare, for after guiding thee he can return here no more."
"But canst thou part with thine own son?"
"I would save him from a life of penury and even crime, and I can trust him to thee."
"Oh, mother!" said the boy, weeping silently.
"Nay, Martin, we have often talked of this and longed for such a chance, now it is come--for thine own sake, my darling, the apple of mine eye; this good earl can be trusted."
"Earl Simon," she said, 'I know thee both great and a man who fears God; yes, I know thee, I have long watched for such an opportunity; take this boy, and in saving him save yourself from captivity."
"Tell me his name."
"Martin will suffice."
"But ere I undertake charge of him I would fain learn more, that I may bring him up according to his degree."
"He is of noble birth, on both sides; how fallen from such high estate this packet--entrusted in full confidence--will tell thee. Simon de Montfort, I give thee my life, nay, my all; let me hear from time to time how he fareth, through the good monks of Michelham--thou leavest a bleeding heart behind."
"Poor woman! yet it is well for the boy; he shall be one of my pages, if he prove worthy."
"It is all I ask: now depart ere they are stirring. It wants about three hours to dawn, the moon shines, the snow has ceased, so that thou wilt reach Michelham in time for early mass. I will take thee to thine horses."
She led them forth; the horses were quietly saddled and bridled. No watch was kept; who could dread a foe at such a time and season? She opened the gateway in an outer defence of osier work and ditch which encompassed the little settlement.
One maternal kiss--it was the last.
And the three, earl, squire, and boy, went forth into the night, the boy riding behind the squire.
Chapter 2: Michelham Priory.
At the southern verge of the mighty forest called the Andredsweald, or Anderida Sylva, Gilbert d'Aquila, last of that name, founded the Priory of Michelham for the good of his soul.
The forest in question was of vast extent, and stretched across Sussex from Kent to Southampton Water; dense, impervious save where a few roads, following mainly the routes traced by the Romans, penetrated its recesses; the haunts of wild beasts and wilder men. It was not until many generations had passed away that this tract of land, whereon stand now so many pretty Sussex villages, was even inhabitable: like the modern forests of America, it was cleared by degrees as monasteries were built, each to become a centre of civilisation.
For, as it has been well remarked, without the influence of the Church there would have been in the land but two classes--beasts of burden and beasts of prey--an enslaved serfdom, a ferocious aristocracy.
And such an outpost of civilisation was the Priory of Michelham, on the verge of the debatable land where Saxon outlaws and Norman lords struggled for the mastery.
On the southern border of this sombre forest, close to his Park of Pevensey, Gilbert d'Aquila, as almost the last act of his race in England {4}, built this Priory of Michelham upon an island, which, as we have told in a previous tale, had been the scene of a most sanguinary contest, and sad domestic tragedy, during the troubled times of the Norman Conquest; the eastern embankment, which enclosed the Park of Pevensey and kept in the beasts of the chase for the use of Norman hunters, was close at hand.
The priory buildings occupied eight acres of land, surrounded by a wide and deep moat full forty yards across, fed by the river Cuckmere, and abounding in fish for fast-day fare. Although it had proved (as described in our earlier tale) incapable of a prolonged defence, yet its situation was quite such as to protect the priory from any sudden violence on the part of the "merrie men" or nightly marauders, and when the drawbridge was up, the gateway closed, the good brethren slept none the less soundly for feeling how they were protected.
Within this secure entrenchment stood their sacred and domestic buildings, their barns and stables; therein slept their thralls, and the teams of horses which cultivated their fields, and the cattle and sheep on which they fed on feast days. A fine square tower (still remaining) arose over the bridge, and alone gave access by its stately portals to the hallowed precincts; it was three stories high, the janitor lived and slept therein; a winding stair conducted to the turreted roof and the several chambers.
At the time of our story Prior Roger ruled the brotherhood; a man of varied parts and stainless life. He was not without monastic society: fifteen miles east was the Cluniac priory of Lewes, fifteen miles west the Benedictine abbey of Battle, three miles south under the downs the "Alien" priory of Wilmington.
But wherever a monastery was built roads were made, marshes drained, and the whole country rose in civilisation, while for the learning of the nineteenth century to revile monastic lore is for the oak to revile the acorn from which it sprang.
Here the wayfarer found a shelter; here the sick their needful medicine; here the children an instructor; here the poor relief; and here, above all, one weary of the incessant strife of an evil world might find PEACE.
On the morning succeeding the arrival of the great Earl of Leicester, that doughty guest was seated in the prior's chamber, in company with his host. The day was most uninviting without, but the fire blazed cheerfully within. The snow kept falling in thick flakes, which narrowed the vision so that our friends could hardly see across the moat, but the fire crackled on the great hearth where five or six logs fizzed and spluttered out their juices.
"My journey is indeed delayed," said the earl, "yet I am most anxious to reach London and present myself to the king."
"The weather is in God's hands; we may pray for a change, but meanwhile we must be patient and thankful that we have a roof over our heads, my lord."
"And it gives me full time to hear particulars about the boy whom I left in your care--a wilful, petted urchin, ten years of age he was then."
"The lad is docile; he has scant inclination towards the Church, but he shows the signs of his high lineage in a hundred different ways."
"High lineage?" said the earl, with a smile and a look of inquiry.
"We had supposed him of thy kindred; he bears every sign of noblesse and does not disgrace it," said the prior, himself of the kindred of the "lords of the eagle."
"He is the son of a brother crusader."
"The father is not living?"
"No, he fell in Palestine, within