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Updated: June 6, 2025
"Canst thou tell us whether the brother of Saint John, Roger erst of Walderne, is tarrying within?" "We would fain see him here is his son." "By our lady, not to mention Saint Pancras, a well-favoured stripling. And thou?" "I am Sir Nicholas of Walderne," said he of that query, with some importance, which was quite lost upon the janitor. "Walderne! Some place in the woods may be.
Then the prince's men rushed upon the litter, Drogo of Walderne foremost. They thought they had got the great earl. "Come out, Simon, thou devil, thou worst of traitors," they cried. Within were only the four shrinking, timid burgesses, and Drogo and his band dragged them out, shrieking in vain that they were for the king, and cut them to pieces, poor unfortunates.
Roger wooed the daughter of the neighbouring Lord of Hothly, but found a rival in a cousin, one Waleran de Dene, a favourite of his father, and a constant visitor at Walderne Castle. In those rude days the solution of the difficulty seemed simple to fight the question out.
There a royal flag flaunts the breeze: yes, the king is taking his luncheon, his noontide meal, and soon the thousands who encamp around the old pile will swarm up the ridge to the point where we are standing, for they will sleep at Walderne tonight, on their road to Pevensey. The day wears away.
We trust our readers are anxious to learn the fate of Martin, whom, much against our will, we left in such grievous durance at Walderne Castle. Drogo had only left a score of men behind him to defend the castle in case of any sudden assault; which, however, he did not expect. Before leaving he had called one of these aside, a fellow whose name was Marboeuf.
The space enclosed by the moat and outer walls of Walderne Castle was about 150 feet in diameter. The old lord died in the arms of his remaining daughter Sybil, without seeking any reconciliation with his other children in fact Roger was lost to sight upon her head he concentrated the benediction which should have been divided amongst the three.
It is not without pleasure that the author presents this, the twelfth of his series of historical novelettes, to his friends and readers; the characters, real and imaginary, are very dear to him; they have formed a part of his social circle for some two years past, and if no one else should believe in Sir Hubert of Walderne and Brother Martin, the author assuredly does.
The Franciscans everywhere used all their powers for the barons, for was not Simon de Montfort one of them in heart in their reforms? So all was strife and confusion the first big drops of rain before the thunderstorm. Drogo was at the height of his ambition. He had added Walderne to his patrimony of Harengod. He had humbled the neighbouring franklins, who refused to pay him blackmail.
And she longed to see that brother's son, of whom she had heard, recognised as the heir of Walderne.
"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.
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