The Fall Of The Grand Sarrasin written by William J. Ferrar

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"Whence hast thou this? Whence came it?" he shrieked, with a rabble of
ill words; and for a moment it seemed he would have crushed me in his
great sinewy clenched hands as I stood there before him. His face was
scarlet that before was only red. Great black veins started up upon his
forehead, and his round blue eyes were straining out of the flesh in
which they were enclosed.

I stood firm before him, and humbly showed him that the second scroll
fell out of the first. Then he turned suddenly upon his heel and went
towards the window, and looking forth upon the bay below in a few
moments calmed himself, read what was writ on the first scroll, and with
an air of unconcern tossed them to a corner of the table.

"Thou knowest naught of these papers, lad?" he said at length.

"Naught, my lord, in good faith, save that I bore them hither."

"And thou didst well to do that," he said, "for here is a matter
dangerous to me, as thou sawest by mine anger. Your good abbot hath done
well to send me this letter by thee."

I answered not, since it was not for me to speak, and yet I craved to
know what could be in the second scroll to move him so.

"May I return with your grace's greeting or other message to my lord?" I
said.

"Ay, and by word of mouth," he said. "We exiled men well-nigh forget to
write, nor have much practice in the tools of the clerk. Tell the abbot
the Archbishop of Rouen thanks him for his courtesy, and that this
paper--this paper was written by some foe of other days that chooses
thus to strike the fallen. Canst thou carry that."

I said I could, but I thought that there was an ill lie behind his
words.

"Hist, good lad, what is thy name?" said he.

"Nigel de Bessin, nephew of the Vicomte of St. Sauveur," I answered.

He pondered and gazed at me curiously. "Ay, well I knew thy grandsire,
the old vicomte," said he. "And thine uncle has had of me other gifts
than shriving."

Now it came into my heart to ask him of my father, since he knew my
grandsire and my uncle; so I said boldly--

"And didst thou know my father?"

"Ay, I knew him--I knew him," said he; "but what do they tell thee of
him?"

"Nothing, in sooth, my lord," I answered; "and bid me wait till my
pupilage is over."

"Then I may tell thee naught more than thou knowest, save that we were
good friends. Thou wilt not long be bearing missives for your abbot, if
thou art like thy sires. Thou art soon for Normandy?"

I wished not to unfold my purpose to this man, so I simply bowed, and
prepared to go with due courtesy. Now, as I knelt upon one knee, he
laid his hand upon my shoulder wondrous kindly, and raised me up by the
arm, and led me to a seat so gently that for the moment I forgot that I
distrusted him. Then he spoke of studies, and brought down some great
tomes, excellently well writ and pictured in French scriptoria, and
turning from them to his table he showed me a wondrous box, which
looking through, as I held it up, I saw as it were the far off bay draw
near to mine eyes, so that I could see men walk clear where I saw but
shapes before. And with surprise I well-nigh dropped it from my hands.
He took it from me, and told me I had seen what none had seen in the
earth before but he alone.

And the thought entering into my mind that here was something more than
human, he seemed to guess it, and said with a smile that was hard and
keen--

"Nor is there wizardry therein, save the wizardry of a lonely man, that
devises new solace for his loneliness."

A pasty was ere long set before us and a flask of wine, whereof we both
partook.

"Say not," said he, "that my lord of Rouen sends his guests hungry
away."

So we ate together. And after eating, as the sun was already stealing
down the western sky, he bade me farewell, and pressed a little ring
upon my finger as I left him, bidding me not forget to see him again ere
I left for the wars, and at any time he said he would stand my friend,
with a greater air of power, it struck me, than one could show who knew
no other future than more long years of exile, such as he now lived in
our small isle.

Now, as I turned from the drawbridge at the moat-house of Blanchelande
to go homewards the remembrance came to me of those men that I guessed
were pirates digging their storehouse in mother earth in the midst of
the wood. And thinking on it, though I feared them not, I had no taste
to return to the vale that way. So, instead, I followed the path rugged
and uneven as it was, along the side of the cliff to the northward.
First along the gorge of the Bay of Saints I went by the side of the
stream that ran singing from Blanchelande, and then I cut straight up
the cliff amid the heather, and so came into sight of Moulin Huet, where
an ugly craft, that I liked not the sight of lay at anchor, right under
the nose of Jerbourg Castle, wherein our abbot had a small corps of men,
even as at the Vale. I stood a moment looking down on her riding deep in
the sky-blue water, and presently I saw a boat put out from shore with
men on board that rowed towards her. I could not tell if they were the
same I saw up by the chateau, but I guessed they were, as I saw them
climb into the bark. And then I journeyed on, clinging here and there to
the cliff or the green stuff that grew thereon, like a very cat of the
woods, past Fermain Bay, and through the little township of St. Pierre
Port, and I wondered, since the pirate bark was so near at hand, that
naught was stirring in the street or on the jetty. Now, St. Pierre Port
was a pleasant place to me. A little world of its own, for every man of
St. Pierre Port was a soldier, and could draw bow and slash with his
broadsword, and pirates meddled not much with St. Pierre Port, for its
men were tough and stern and loved their homes right well.

I stayed not to chatter with fishermen or priest to-day; but hasted on,
and at length the little tower of St. Sampson arose before me, and ere
long I was at the abbot's lodging.

The abbot paced up and down his orchard and garden of flowers.

"Thou art late, my son," said he. "Did my lord detain you?"

"My lord," I said, "was very kind and gentle, far beyond that I dreamed
possible, and kept me with good entertainment and choice converse far
into the day."

"And my lord was pleasing to thy taste?" said Abbot Michael, with a
strange smile, not like his own, that I knew not.

"How may I, holy Father," answered I, "speak aught but well of him, who
did me no ill, but good only? And, indeed, my lord spake to me out of
his store of knowledge, as to one not ignorant and young; but, indeed,
like himself in age and state. And yet, in good faith, he pleased me not
at first."

"And how was that?"

"There seemed indeed, Father, somewhat that I distrusted, and then his
passion at the opening of thy scroll was terrible to see."

"Ay, was he moved? And what said he when he perceived that inner
scroll?" inquired the abbot.

"Moved, Father! I thought he might have done some deadly deed. But he
calmed himself at length."

"And what sent he in return?"

"Nothing in writing," I answered, "but this by my mouth--that the inner
scroll was the writing of some foe of other days, who thus strikes at a
fallen man."

The abbot mused in silence at this reply, and took a pace or two beside
his lily border. Then he gazed seriously at me for a moment, and bade me
walk by his side.

"Thou hast seen to-day, son, one of the world's schemers, and thou hadst
been, as was natural, deceived by him. With ill men first impressions
are the true ones. Thou hadst been more than a stripling of the
cloister, and we had taught thee over well for thy years, had he, whose
power has lain in such arts, not made thee love him in spite of thyself.
Son, dost thou know why this Maugher lies here in exile?"

"Ay, Father, was he not like St. John of old, who said, 'Thou shalt not
have her:' to King Herod?" answered I, as I thought aptly.

"Indeed, my son, they said so, and strong were the archbishop's words
when Duke William wedded against God's law. But thou wilt learn, that
words and censures of Holy Church are too oft like daggers and knives in
the hands of evil men in high places of the Church--and such was this
censure of the marriage of Matilda in the hand of Maugher. He would have
cut his way with it--dost thou know whither, son?"

"Whither, Father?"

"My son, to the dukedom itself, Churchman though he was."

I listened in astonishment, and an air of doubt must have shone out from
my innocent eyes, that never knew to hide the thought within.

"Wouldst thou have proof of this that I say, and know how even to-day
this serpent in our island-grass bites at the heel of princely
authority?" the abbot asked.

"Indeed, Father, I would. His words to me so frank, his description of
great men so just--his----" I was about to be fervent indeed in the praise
of my new-found friend. Abbot Michael drew a scroll from his breast, and
held it before my eyes with firm fingers, watching me intently the
while. It was like the scroll I had taken to Blanchelande within the
other. It was the same scroll, or a cunning copy, for there lay two
great hasty blots upon it in one corner, and its signature ran up the
page like a ladder against a wall.

"Read here, and here," said he, "and understand how this cursed man
would incite milder men to shed Duke William's blood!"

CHAPTER IV.

Of the coming of the Sarrasins in force, and of the building of their
chateau. Of _Brother Hugo's_ confidence in God, and how I rang the
alarm-bell at _St. Pierre Port_.

Through that journey to Blanchelande I was able to give the first
warning to the abbot, and Brother Hugo, our _tete d'armee_, of the
presence of new pirates in the very midst of the isle, through the ugly
sight I had seen on my way by what men called the chateau.

And, indeed, all looked grave at my account, and Hugo shook his head,
and he and the abbot and Martin and Richard had long and anxious
converse in the Castle, and already we were bid to move very many of our
holy things that bedecked the Church, or were used in God's service,
within the Castle wall, and the builders had set up among the ramparts
long sheds of wood, wherein began to be stored all manner of com,
brought in from all the granaries around.

For the abbot had received from St. Michael's Mount and other places on
the Breton coast most portentous accounts of a gathering together of the
pirates of the sea and marauders of the land, and that some devil's
bond had been forged between them, and that the wildest and most daring
of these villains of every race and land had elected as their chief
captain one whom they named "the Grand Sarrasin," one born of that black
race, the deadliest enemy of Christendom. Others called him "Le Grand
Geoffroy" as though they would save him at least from the black stamp of
Paynim birth; but for us he was ever the Grand Sarrasin, and still the
Grand Sarrasin, cursed a hundred times a day by every tongue in our
cloister and island.

Now, as I saw Brother Hugo on the ramparts and knew, though full of
matters now, he grudged not a word to us lads whom he loved full well, I
spake to him thus--

"What news to-day, brother, of 'Le Grand Sarrasin'?" I spake half in
jest indeed, for long ere this, this very brother had made great sport
of pirates and their dark deeds, and especially, ere this name I spake
had risen to such a sound of evil omen, had he delighted to tease the
children of the cloister therewith. As on some dangerous path he would
whisper, "Go not that way for fear of Le Grand Sarrasin!" or out in the
fishing-smack, he would point to some cosy, full-bottomed trading ship
with a "Hist, lads, the great Geoffroy there astern!" But now Brother
Hugo liked not the jest, but looked sternly at me from beneath his great
brows.

"Le Grand Sarrasin!" said he, "if so thou lovest to call the vilest
foam of filth on these Norman seas, this day last week rode into St.
Brieuc by night with eighteen ships, climbed into the fort, none letting
him, slit the throat of a sentinel and warder, barred the garrison into
its own quarters, and poured like a midnight pestilence through the
streets, bidding his Paynim hounds of slaughter, without pity and
without fear, enter where they listed, and that they did. And there by
night in St. Brieuc, good men and good wives, who never harmed man or
beast were knifed as they lay, the young maids led captive, and the
babes flung like useless baggage through windows into the gutter, and
that is the last I have heard of Le Grand Sarrasin!" said Brother Hugo,
sadly enough.

I stood beside him silently, and the salt tears burst painfully under my
eyelids as I heard the fate of that poor town by the Breton coast.

"Ay, weep, lad, weep!" he said. "And God give strength to our arms to
show him better than tears, if he come our way, this fiend that fears
not God nor man."

"But the monks, brother, are they not safe? The worst pirates ofttimes
fear to touch holy men and holy places," I interposed.

"The monks of St Brieuc," he said solemnly and sadly, "holy men and
servants of the poor, lie cold and still in their dormitories, brother
by brother, saint by saint. And the sun looks in on them and sees their
faces agonized in death, and the blind eyes staring with horror at the
fate that woke them but for death. In such wise the Sarrasin's devils
fear holy men and holy places."

I saw Brother Hugo as he looked far out to sea in his turn dash the
drops of salt from his eyes, and strive to master his sorrow.

"Should they come our way?" I asked, in bitter questioning.

"Surely, ere long!" he answered, "and we shall be prepared. I pray to
God, and--smile not at it, lad--some sort of vision in a dream has come
to me that the downfall of 'the Grand Sarrasin' shall be through us,
brethren of the Vale, and perhaps through me."

A kind of holy look floated into his face as he said this and looked
seaward; an upward look as of seraphs close to God, not seraphs frail
and delicate, but full of lusty strength and goodly spirit of war, such
as went forth with Michael, when there was war in Heaven.

"Be strong, and of good courage!" he murmured to himself; and, pausing
awhile, strode with me across the fort, showing me this or that, that
was fresh provided for safety, and the goodly stores of food, and the
watchmen even now out on the towers, and the alarms all ready to call in
the defenceless. Indeed all was there that a great captain could devise
for safety in time of border warfare.

"Thou knowest," he said presently, pointing towards the chateau, "that
it is forbid to travel thither. Nigel, it is a very castle they are
building, and beside it this fortress of ours is weak and small."

"It will be then," I said, "maybe a strife of castle with castle," said
I.

"Ay, so it will," he said, "and that ere long."

"Then, Brother Hugo, I need not voyage to Normandy to taste battle under
Duke William."

"The battle," said Hugo, "will be hot enough before these very walls.
Therefore thou shalt be my esquire and learn to taste blood under my
command."

Indeed I had no higher desire than this, and so I said.

* * * * *

Now, it was not many days after these words, one afternoon about
evensong, a summons came to Hugo from the watchman on the wall at Vale
Castle. He called me to go with him. We swiftly reached the rampart, the
watchman saying nothing, simply pointed to the northward, and then we
saw a very fleet of ships--pirate ships, we felt sure--bearing steadily
towards Grand Havre. And one that seemed longer and heavier than the
rest ran far ahead.

"They are making for their anchorage in Moulin Huet," said Hugo, "and it
were well for our islanders to be prepared this night. Light the beacon,
honest Bertrand, let it carry its bright word from Vale to Ivy Castle,
from Ivy to St. Pierre, from St. Pierre to Jerbourg, though they lie at
anchor below, to Torteval and far Lihou, and thou, son, shalt take a
kindly message to the men of St. Pierre."

In a few moments the bright flame burst out on the rampart tower, like a
red tongue of fire telling forth a deadly message. And lo! I saw, as I
went, other tongues leap forth along the coast from tower and castle,
all singing out in direful glee the same word "War."

And once within the market-place I ran as I was bid to the Church of St.
Pierre, and great man I felt myself, as I pushed open the church door
and took the bell-rope in my hand. "Ding-dong!" rang out the alarm bell
from the tower hasty and quick, and ere twenty pulls at the rope, the
townsmen were all around, and I was drawn into the market-place, and
there at the head of the Rue des Vaches I sang out lustily--

"Good men, good citizens and sons of St Pierre, make fast your defences,
and man your walls this night; the fleet of Le Grand Sarrasin is
anchored in Moulin Huet."

CHAPTER V.

Of what befell the abbot's envoys to _Duke William_, our liege lord, and
more particularly _Brother Ralf_, and how we were hemmed in by our foes.

There was no attack of the pirates upon St. Pierre that night, and no
assault on our castles or cloister. And those who had taken refuge
within our walls, ladies and children for the most part, whose lords
were at the wars, spake as though they would return home having nought
to fear. But this our abbot did prevent, except the very nearest living
souls. Others from afar, as Dame Maude de Torteval, and the Lady Marie
de la Mahie with those that they brought with them he sternly bade to
stay in their safe haven.

Now, the pirates touched nor harmed naught in Guernsey through those
first days, save some few beasts they drave up to their chateau with its
high bastions amidst the trees, and its great flagstaff bearing a green
flag with a white curve like a sickle moon broidered on it.

And it would seem that the fleet that lay in Moulin Huet had chiefly
come to disencumber itself of all manner of goods for the furnishing
and defence of the castle up yonder. For some four days the train of
rough-bearded men in long seamen's boots toiled to and fro from bay to
castle, from castle to bay, with horse and ass, waggon and cart, till
men said all the spoil of Brittany and Spain, with all manner of
treasures of Moorish lands were stored in the deep caverns under the
chateau. And it was even said that since Le Grand Sarrasin would be lord
of Guernsey, he would treat well and justly them that dwelt therein, and
that if the islanders touched not him he would smite not them, and so
forth. But we of the cloister knew our abbot was no man to close his
eyes, when ill was afoot around him, and that though the pirate-swarm
had none other hand thrust into their comb, his at least would go there,
or send others that were mightier.

And messengers to Normandy had been sent week by week, but none had of
late returned. Day by day our hearts grew more anxious as we saw the
number of Moorish ships in our waters, and we began to fear that they
and their letters had fallen into those evil hands.

And then our worst fears were realized. It was late one evening, I stood
at the cloister gate, and on the white road that led to the chateau I
saw a figure I seemed to know; but kind heavens, what a figure I It was
good Brother Ralf indeed! But his white skirts were slit in rags, his
ankles bleeding with sore wounds; he stooped and tottered as he walked,
and, horror! that women's sons should do such deeds, his ears had been
hacked and hewn away, and his head hung bloody on his breast whereon a
strip of parchment said--

The envoy of Michael to William returns from Geoffroy to Michael.
More such will follow, and Geoffroy himself ere long cometh to do
unto Michael likewise for his courtesies. Salut.

In a horror I summoned up the brothers, as they trooped out from
compline-prayer, and two of the stoutest bore Ralf gently to the
refectory. There, drugs and good care brought the life back to his eyes,
and he smiled on us as though half in fear that we were foes.

We would have had him speak; but he spake not. And the abbot came, calm
and unmoved yet, but a glitter of keen light kept glancing
lightning-like from his eyes, and he said, as he stood by the settle
whereon he lay--

"Speak, dear son--speak to us thy brethren."

Ralf struggled, and raised his heavy hand, and but babbled without
meaning.

A quick burst of colour rushed into the abbot's face. Calm, stately,
still, with a very blaze of anger hidden in his eyes, that we trembled
again, he stood with that red glow in his cheeks.

"He speaks not--for he is distraught," he said. "What shall God do to
men that rob their brothers of His noblest gift--the gift of reason?"

For a moment he stood in prayer, and then raised his shapely hand and
blessed him thrice, and then bid us bear him to the sick-house, where
sisters nursed him tenderly to life, and won him back much of strength
and health--but never the gift, the abbot called God's noblest gift--for
he had left that for ever behind in the chateau on the hill.

Now, this Brother Ralf had set out three weeks before in a trader's bark
that sailed for Granville Harbour in Normandy. And he had borne most
urgent missives from our abbot to Duke William. In them was writ how
that a castle of ill-fame was already built, in them that the arch-foe
himself, that so harried St. Brieuc with a very fleet of ships, either
lay in the harbour, or in the new chateau.

But thus three things we knew. First, that as yet Duke William had had
no word of the evil presumption of this foul settler in the isle, and
could therefore send none to destroy him, and that therefore we had for
the time naught but our own hands and walls to succour us. And next, we
understood, that there was indeed between Le Grand Geoffroy and
ourselves war that none could stay with prayer or supplication to men or
to God. For whereas he knew we had sent to the duke, the sternest
sweeper from land or sea of robber and marauder, to deliver us--so we
knew, as we thought of Ralf, that life and life's joy would have for us
neither sweetness nor endurance, if he went free, who had been to our
brother without mercy and without pity. And, lastly, it was clear that
Geoffroy's Moors were yet more deadly than we thought, and more
numerous. They were stationed, we dreaded to believe, off every point,
at all four quarters. They ringed the Norman Sea with their cursed
hulks. They lay like a moving line of forts 'twixt us and William.

I longed in my heart to break through that encircling line and reach
Duke William; but how could I go? The attack might at any hour come, the
brethren were armed beneath their robes, all goodly things were already
stored in the Castle, and we were ready to pass thither when commanded.
Hugo had his watchmen on the seaward wall, and had enrolled in martial
wise all the lay brethren, many gentlemen, and sundry stout herdmen,
shepherds, and merchants of the island. None slept, though some lay down
to sleep; two days passed without attack, but at the dawning of the
third day we saw some twenty ships sweep from St. Martin's northward,
and as the wind permitted, draw nearer, until they were as close as they
dared come, and we saw the boats trailing astern of every ship.

Then we knew we were surrounded both on land and by sea. Yet that sheer
cliff was hard to mount, running straight up to our wall from the very
sea. So in God and our own walls we had confidence still, and the
prayers of men in danger went up from the Abbey choir. No prayers were
said in those walls, after that day for ever. The day after, church,
cloister, hall, refectory, guesthouse and abbot's dwelling were flaming
up to heaven, or charred and ruined amid their fallen roofs and stones.

CHAPTER VI.

Of our passing from cloister to castle, and of the burning of the _Vale
Abbey_. Of their siege of the castle, and the exploits of _Brother
Hugo_.

Now, on the next day it was close upon the hour of Lauds, when the
scouts that were set in sight of the chateau among the thick brushwood
and gorse, came with great haste and told us that the Moors were even
now on their way to us, hoping to catch us unsuspecting at our prayers.
Now we had our orders of Brother Hugo in such a case, and we simply did
what we had done already at his bidding, many times for practice of
safety in an hour of danger. First the great heavy doors of the
monastery were closed, and the bolts drawn, and the bars of iron swung
into place to stay their passage. Then we swiftly gathered up whatever
still was left that was precious or useful--books, vestments, relics,
and sacred vessels had gone already--and by the ringing of a little bell
gathering together all that were now housed with us--a goodly company
indeed it was of old and young--with all due confidence of heart and
mind we proceeded in long line to the Church, which lay from east to
west, forming with high thick walls the northern defence of our
cloister. And as we passed two and two up the choir that morning, the
monks raised with slow and solemn voice their last Miserere in that holy
place, the home of many of them from their boyhood.

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