Dunmow Priory.
| The old tree, the old tree, Has fallen long ago; But I shall tell of thee, old tree, As if thou wert standing now. How thy ample branches spread, In the days of ruthless John; How they waved o’er the silent dead, When the last dread deed was done.—M. R. |
Dancing lights and shadows are playing on the tomb of Lady Marian.[32] They are cast by the old tree whose waving branches, seen through the lofty window, with its tracery and mullions, grey and time-worn, recall to my mind the day in which it stood with its brotherhood beside the little church of Dunmow, when bold Robinhood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, passed and repassed with his lady and their archers through the green recesses of Sherwood forest. The contiguous priory was standing then, but this memorial of the olden time, the present church of Dunmow, formed merely the south aisle of a magnificent collegiate church, and of a religious house founded many years before the days of Robinhood, by the sister of Raef Baynard, who held the manor in the time of Domesday survey. Far and near extended a wild forest with its glens and dingles, but farmhouses are standing now where the wolf used to range, and a public road passes within sight of the ancient building, from which it is divided by a corn-field, and burying-ground, with head-stones worn and lichen-dotted, and crumbling from long exposure to the weather. How still and solemn is this place! Here knees have bent in prayer for successive generations, and here successive generations have been laid to rest; the poor beside the church—a few of noble birth within the walls. Sir Walter Bohun is one of these. His plate armour and leathern shirt indicate that his days were passed in warlike deeds, and beside him rests his lady, dame Matilda, who wears the insignia of her courtly rank; her tiara and lace, her earrings and her necklace. Their heads repose on cushions, and their hands are raised in the attitude of prayer. The effigies of both have suffered; the legs of Sir Walter are broken at the knees, and the delicate fret-work of the lace which adorns his lady has been rudely handled. Other steps than those which used to tread softly, as befits a house of prayer, were heard here when this deed was done. Men, with peaked beards and round hats, halted beneath the Oak of Dunmow, and they thought they did good service to their Maker when they despoiled the old effigies; they, too, have passed from among the living, and though their sojourn occasioned great distress and terror in the neighbourhood, no trace of them remains at Dunmow, excepting in the mischief which they did. Sir James Hallet rests here also, and a few mural monuments remain upon the walls, but the one tomb, which of all others is most dear, upon which the quivering lights and shadows play, and sunbeams shed a softened radiance, is that of the Lady Marian. Shielded by a beautiful screen of dark old oak, coeval with the building, and which separates the nave from the chancel; it stands forth in bold relief, a relic of the olden time, which the convulsions of ages—foreign wars and civil feuds, have yet spared. The head is covered with a woollen coif, the neck encircled with a collar, and a string of pendants falls upon an embroidered cape; a rich girdle and long robe, with sleeves close to the wrists, and hands covered with rings further indicate her rank. Angels were stationed beside the head, and a dog crouched on either side her feet. But rough hands marred this tomb also, the angels, who seemed to watch over the sleeping effigy, were rudely broken, though the effigy itself was spared. Perhaps the lady who lay within the tomb was associated with the fondest recollections of the rebel leader. It may be, that he had gathered nuts amid the open spaces of the forest where she dwelt; before years of crime and peril had hardened his young heart, or, perhaps, when sick and restless upon his bed, his mother might have told him concerning the Lady Marian’s woes and wanderings; how she fled from her father’s castle, when that castle was in flames, and how bold Robinhood and Little John shielded her from harm.
More than six hundred years have passed away since a company of monks from the adjacent priory brought hither the corpse of Lady Marian to inter it within the church; since the boughs of the old tree, waving in the cold night air, cast their uncertain shadows on the long train of veiled nuns, as they entered by torch-light the low arched door-way of the church.
Marian had passed her young days in Baynard castle, on the borders of Sherwood Forest. Her father, Richard Fitz Walter, gave a tournament when his daughter attained her eighteenth year; knights and squires assembled from all parts; ladies came attired in robes of costly silk; and during three whole days, jousts and sports continued without intermission; but on the fourth, a stranger, clad in burnished mail, entered the lists and vanquished the bravest of his competitors. No one knew whence he came, but his gallant bearing and handsome countenance, won the heart of the young queen of that high festival, and she trembled when she hung the golden chain around his neck. It was said, too, by those who looked on, that the mysterious victor was observed to turn pale; but he departed as he entered, suddenly and in haste, and the tramp of his stately steed was heard afar in the still forest.
Prince John was at the banquet, yet he liked not the noble owner of the castle; he had no thoughts in common with those of a true and loyal knight, and having been reproved for some evil expressions he went away in anger, and vowed revenge. A few short months and the brother of Fitz Walter departed for the Holy Land, taking with him a considerable number of his brother’s men-at-arms, when John, watching his opportunity, led on an armed band against the castle, and slew its owner. Marian fled to the green forest, where she wandered all the day, and concealed herself at night among the underwood. The next day, she met the stranger knight, whom she had crowned a short time before, when Baynard castle was in all its pride, and her father presided there. His burnished coat of mail was laid aside, and a simple suit of Lincoln green betokened his mode of life. Soothly did he greet the lady, and told her not to fear, for though he was Robinhood, the outlawed Earl of Huntingdon, at the mention of whose name stern warriors trembled in their halls, and ecclesiastics turned pale, his good men should shield her well.
Lady Marian laid aside her whimple and her veil, and the better to conceal herself, put on a light kind of armour, such as young men wore on days of festival, for she had not strength to bear the heavy casque and buckler. In this garb she encountered King John, who called upon her to surrender; but he who stood before her was the murderer of her father, and what will not the recollection of such a deed produce in even the gentlest bosom; in one, too, who, perhaps, had not been taught the blessed precept which teaches to forgive. “Yield,” said the prince, for he knew not the damsel in her strange attire; he thought, most probably, that the youth before him was in the service of the outlaw, and that his command would be sufficient to enforce obedience. The stranger was not thus to be subdued, and so firmly did she maintain her assumed character, that the prince was obliged to withdraw. John heard that his antagonist was no other than the young flower of Baynard castle, Marian, whose father he had slain, and he resolved to be avenged on her also.