The House of Walderne | Page 8

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