Chief amongst these Sussex towns and villages was the old borough of Lewes, distinguished alike by castle and priory. The modern visitor may still ascend to the summit of the highest tower of that castle, but how different (yet how much the same) was the scene which a young knight viewed thence on this May Day of 1259. He had come up there to take his last look at the fair land of England ere he left it for years, it might be never to return.
“It is a fair land; God keep it till I return.”
The great lines of Downs stretched away—northwest to Ditchling Beacon; southwest to Brighthelmston, a hamlet then little known; on the east rose Mount Caburn, graceful in outline (recalling Mount Tabor to the fond remembrance of the crusaders); southeast the long line stretched away by Firle Beacon to Beachy Head.
“Ah, there is Walderne, away far off, just to the left of the eastern range of Downs—I see it across the plain twelve miles away. I see the windmills on the hill, and below the church towers, and the tops of the castle towers in the vale beneath. I shall soon bid them all farewell.”
Then the young knight turned and looked on the fertile valley wherein meandered the Ouse. The grand priory lay below: its magnificent church, well known to our readers; its towers and pinnacles.
“And there my poor father wears out his days, now a brother professed. And he, for whom Europe was not large enough in his youth, now never leaves the convent’s boundaries. But he is about to travel to Jerusalem by proxy.
“If only I could see Martin again. I cannot think why Martin and I should be like Damon and Pythias, to whom the chaplain once compared us. But we are, although one will fain be a friar and the other a warrior.”
He descended the tower after one more lingering glance at the view, but his light nature soon threw off the impression, and none was gayer guest at the noontide meal, the “nuncheon” of Earl Warrenne of Lewes, the lord of the castle.
It was eventide, and the marketplace was filled with an excited population. There were ruffling men-at-arms, stolid rustics, frightened women and children, overturned stalls, shouts and screams; unsavoury missiles, such as rotten eggs and stale vegetables, were flying about; and in the midst of the open space the figure of a Jew, who had excited the indignation of the multitude, was the object of violent aggression which seemed likely to endanger his life.
A miracle had occurred. The crucifix over the rood at Saint Michael’s Church had suddenly blazed out with a supernatural light, which had endured for many minutes: the multitude flocked in to see and adore, and much was the reputation of Saint Michael’s shrine enhanced, when this unbelieving Jew actually had the temerity to assert that the light was only caused by the rays of the sun falling directly upon the figure through a window in the western wall, narrow as the slits we see in the old castle towers, so arranged as on this particular day to bring the rays of the setting sun full upon the gilding of the cross {[21]}.