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Thence Edward marched to Tunbridge, on the northern border of the Andredsweald, en route for Lewes. It was the ninth of May, in the year 1264, and the morning sun shone upon the fresh spring foliage of the Andredsweald, upon castle, town, and hamlet, especially upon our favourite haunt, the Castle of Walderne, and the village of Cross-in-Hand on the ridge above.
But we must return to our crusader and his fortunes. The hall of Walderne Castle was brilliantly illuminated by torches stuck in iron cressets all round, and eke by waxen tapers in sconces on the tables. All the retainers of the house were present, whether inmates of the castle or tenants of the soil. The Holy Land! That grave of warriors! How far away it seemed in those days of slow locomotion.
Hours had passed by, the inmates of the castle at Walderne all slept, still as the sleeping woods around, save only the watchman on the walls, for in those days of nightly rapine and daily violence no castle or house of any pretensions dispensed with such a guard. Save only the watcher on the walls, and a lonelier watcher in the chapel.
At this period the action of our tale recommences. Drogo was still lord of the Castle of Walderne. No news had reached England of Hubert these three long years, and hence no one disputed the title of Drogo to present possession. His steps had been taken with all the craft of a subtle fox.
I heard thee, but couldn't get near thee for the press," cried an exultant voice. "My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?" "Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to the Holy Land. "But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet?
"I sent for Sir Richard , the parish priest of Walderne, ere we left the castle, and he is doubtless on his way with the Viaticum," said Kynewulf. And while they yet spake the priest arrived, and the dying man received with simple faith the last sacraments of the Church. After this his people gathered round him.
But Hubert, careless of his religious duties as he had been, and almost afraid of appearing religious, could not do this, no more than Martin would have done. Oh, how he thought of Martin. And oh, how earnestly he prayed in those days. And here we grieve to be forced to leave our Hubert awhile. To Arms! Three years had passed away since the death of the Lady Sybil of Walderne.
The spring came on again, and on a fine March day, one of those days when we have a foretaste of the coming summer, a deep calamity befell the House of Walderne. Sir Nicholas was thrown from his horse while hunting, and only brought home to die: he never spoke again.
But would he then release his hold? Whether or not, there was no alternative, and Drogo became lord de facto of Walderne. The Father Roger was now a monk professed, and could hold no property, nor did he see any reason for disputing the will which made Drogo tenant in charge for his son Hubert. He knew nought of the change of mind in Lady Sybil only Martin knew this and Martin could not prove it.
"Let us see them ere we depart in the morning, and we shall doubtless make short work of them." Night reigned without the occasional challenge of the sentinel alone broke the hush which brooded during the hours of darkness over the host encamped at Walderne. Morning broke with roseate hues. All nature seemed to arise at once.
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