IV. HOW THE SUMMONER CAME TO THE MANOR HOUSE OF TILFORD
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.
