CHAPTER X THE NEW NOVICE
It was the day of St. Calixtus, the day on which, seventy-three years earlier in the history of England, the Normans had stormed the heights of Senlac, and the brave Harold had bitten the dust in the agonies of death with the despairing cry, "Alas for England."
Of course it was ever a high day with the conquering race, that fourteenth of October, and the reader will not be surprised that it was observed with due observance at Dorchester Abbey, and that special thanksgiving for the victory was offered at the chapter Mass, which took place at nine of the clock.
Abbot Alured had just divested himself of the gorgeous vestments, in which he had officiated at the high altar, when the infirmarer craved an audience—it was granted.
"The wounded guest has partially recovered, his fever has abated, his senses have returned, and he seems anxious to see thee."
"Why does he wish to see me particularly?"
"Because he has some secret to communicate."
"And why not to thee?"
"I know not, save that he knows that thou art our father."
"Dost think he will ever fight again?"
"He will lay lance in rest no more in this world."
"Nor in the next either, I presume, brother. I will arise and see him."
Passing through the cloister—which was full of the hum of boys, like busy bees, learning their tasks—and ascending a flight of steps to the "dorture," the Abbot followed the infirmarer to a pleasant and airy cell, full of the morning sunlight, which streamed through the panes of thin membrane—such as frequently took the place of glass.
There on a couch lay extended the form of the victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count, his giant limbs composed beneath the coverlet, his face seamed with many a wrinkle and furrow, and marked with deep lines of care, his eyes restless and wandering.
"Thou hast craved to speak with me, my son," said Abbot Alured.
"Alone," was the reply, in a deep hoarse voice.
"My brother, leave us till I touch the bell," said the Abbot, pointing to a small handbell which stood on the table.
The infirmarer departed.
"And now, my son, what hast thou to tell me? First, who art thou? and whence?"
"I am in sanctuary here, and none can drag me hence; is it not so?"
"It is, my son, unless thou hast committed such crime as sacrilege, which God forbid."
"Such crime can none lay to my charge. Tell me, father, dost thou think it wrong for a man to slay those who have deprived him of his loved ones, of all that made life worth living?"
"'Vengeance is Mine,' saith God."
"Well, I took mine into my own hand, and now my task is ended. I am assured that I am a cripple, never to strike a fair blow again."
"The more time for repentance, the better for thy soul. Thou hast not yet told me thy name and home?"
"I tell it thee in confidence, for thou wilt not betray me to mine enemy."
"Not unless justice should demand it."
"Well, I will tell thee my tale first. I was a husband and a father, and a happy one, living in a home on the downs. In consequence of some paltry dispute about black-mail or feudal dues, Brian Fitz-Count sent men who burnt my house in my absence, and my wife and children perished in the flames."
"All!"
"Yes, I found not one alive, so I took to the life of a hunted wolf, rending and destroying, and slew many foreigners, for I am Wulfnoth of Compton; now I have told thee all."
"God's mercy is infinite, thy provocation was indeed great. I judge thee not, poor man. I never had wife or child, but I can guess how they feel who have had and lost them. My brother, thine has been a sad life, thy misery perhaps justified, at least, excused thy life as a leader of outlaws; I, who am a man in whose veins flows the blood of both races, can feel for thee, and pardon thy errors."
"Errors! to avenge her and them."
"The Saviour forgave His murderers, and left us an example that we should follow His steps. Listen, my brother, thou must live for repentance, and to learn submission to God's will; tell thy secret to no man, lest thy foe seek thee even here, and trouble our poor house."
"But I hoped to have seen him bite the dust."
"And God has denied thee the boon; he is a man of strife and blood, and no well-wisher to Holy Church; he seldom hears a Mass, never is shriven, at least, so I have been told in confidence, for in this neighbourhood men speak with bated breath of Brian Fitz-Count, at least within sight of the tall tower of his keep. We will leave him to God. He is a most unhappy man; his children are lepers."
"No, at least not one."
"So I have heard; they are in the great Leper House at Byfield, poor boys; my cousin is the Chaplain there."
"And now, father, I will tell thee more. Thou knowest I have been delirious, yet my senses have been awake to other scenes than these. Methought my dear wife came to me in my delirium, came to my bedside, sat in that seat, bathed my fevered brow, nay, it was no dream, her blest spirit was allowed to resume the semblance of throbbing flesh, and there she sat, where thou sittest now."
The Abbot of course saw in this only a phase of delirium, but he said nought; it was at least better than visions of imps and goblins.
"Alas, dear one," continued he, as in a soliloquy, "hadst thou lived, I had not made this life one savage hunting scene, caring only to rush in, knock down, and drag out the prey, and now I am unfit to be where thou art, and may never meet thee again."
"My brother," said the sympathising Alured, "thou believest her to be in Paradise?"
"I do, indeed; I know they are there."
"And thou wouldst fain meet them?"
"I would."
"Repent then, confess, thou shall be loosed from thy sins; and since thou art unfitted for the active walks of life, take upon thee the vows of religion."
"May I? what order would admit me?"
"We will; and thus strive to restore thee to thy dear ones again."
"And Brian Fitz-Count will escape?"
"Leave him to God."
"Well, I will; doubtless he will die and be damned, and we shall never see him; Heaven would not be Heaven if he were there."
The Abbot sighed.
"Ah, brother, thou hast much yet to learn ere thou becomest a true follower of Him, Who at the moment of His supremest agony prayed for His murderers."
But the patient could bear no more, hot tears were streaming down his cheeks.
"Brother, peace be with thee, from the Lord of peace, all good Saints aid thee; say nought of this to any one but me and thou wilt be safe."
He touched the bell, the infirmarer came in.
"God hath touched his heart, he will join our order; as soon as possible he shall take the vows of a novice and assume our garb, then neither Brian Fitz-Count nor any other potentate, not the king himself, can drag him forth."
The last words were uttered in a sort of soliloquy, the infirmarer, for whom they were not meant, did not catch them.
* * * * *
And so the days sped on towards the Feast of All Saints, darkening days and long nights too, often reddened by the light of distant conflagrations, for that terrible period of civil strife—nay, of worse than civil strife—was approaching, when, instead of there being only two parties in the land, each castle was to become its own centre of strife—declaring war upon all its neighbours; when men should fear to till the land for others to reap; when every man's hand should be against every man; when men should fill their strongholds with human devils, and torture for torture sake, when there was no longer wealth to exact; when men should say that God and His Saints were asleep—to such foul misery and distress did the usurpation of Stephen bring the land.
But those days were only beginning, as yet the tidings reached Dorchester slowly that the Empress was the guest of her mother-in-law, the Queen-Dowager, the widow of Henry the First, at Arundel Castle, in Sussex, under the protection of only a hundred and forty horsemen; then, that Robert, Earl of Gloucester, leaving his sister in comparative safety, had proceeded through the hostile country to Bristol with only twelve horsemen, until he was joined midway on his journey by Brian Fitz-Count and his troop from Wallingford Castle; next, that Henry, Bishop of Winchester, and brother of the king, had declared for her, and brought her in triumph to Bristol. Lastly, that she had been conducted by her old friend, Milo, Sheriff of Gloucester, in triumph to that city, and there received the allegiance of the citizens.
Meanwhile, the storm of fire and sword had begun; wicked men took advantage at once of the divided state of the realm, and the eclipse of the royal authority.
They heard at Dorchester that Robert Fitz-Hubert, a savage baron, or rather barbarian, had clandestinely entered the city of Malmesbury and burnt it to the ground, so that divers of the wretched inhabitants perished in the flames, of which the barbarian boasted as though he had obtained a great triumph, declaring himself on the side of the Empress Queen; and, further, that King Stephen, hearing of the deed, had come after him, put him to flight, and retaken Malmesbury Castle.
So affairs progressed up to the end of October.
It was All Saints' Day, and they held high service at Dorchester Abbey; the Chant of William of Fescamp was introduced, without any of the dire consequences which followed it at Glastonbury.
It was a day never to be forgotten by our reclaimed outlaw, Wulfnoth of Compton, he was that day admitted to the novitiate, and received the tonsure; dire had been the conflict in his mind; again and again the old Adam waxed strong within him, and he longed to take advantage, like others, of the political disturbances, in the hope of avenging his own personal wrongs; then the sweet teachings of the Gospel softened his heart, and again and again his dear ones seemed in his dreams to visit him, and bid him prepare for that haven of peace into which they had entered.
"God hath done all things well," the sweet visitants of his dreams seemed to say; "let the past be the past, and let not its black shadow darken the glorious future—the parting was terrible, the meeting shall be the sweeter."
The ceremony was over, Wulfnoth of Compton had become the Novice Alphege of Dorchester, for, in accordance with custom, he had changed his name on taking the vows.
After the long ceremony was over, he sat long in the church undisturbed, a sensation of sweet peace came upon him, of rest at last found, the throbbing heart seemed quiet, the stormy passions stilled.
And now, too, he no longer needed the protection of carnal weapons, he was safe in the immunities of the church, none could drag him from the cloister—he belonged to God.
What a refuge the monastic life afforded then! Without it men would have been divided between beasts of burden and beasts of prey.
And when at last he took possession of his cell, through the narrow window he could see Synodune rising over the Thames; it was a glorious day, the last kiss of summer, when the "winter wind was as yet suspended, although the fading foliage hung resigned."
Peace ineffable filled his mind.
The hills of Synodune for one moment caught his gaze, they had been familiar landmarks in his days of war, rapine, and vengeance, the past rose to his mind, but he longed not after it now.
But was the old Adam dead or only slumbering? We shall see.