Chapter Two.

Valiant for the Faith.

“As labourers in Thy vineyard,
    Send us out, Christ, to be,
 Content to bear the burden
    Of weariness for Thee.

“We ask no other wages
    When Thou shalt call us Home,
But to have shared the travail
    Which makes Thy kingdom come.”

It is popularly supposed that surnames only came into existence with the reign of King John. This is not quite an accurate assertion. They existed from the Conquest, but were chiefly personal, and apart from the great feudal families, only began at that date to consolidate and crystallise into hereditary names. So far as common people were concerned, in the reign of Henry the Second, a man’s surname was usually restricted to himself. He was named either from one of his parents, as John William-son, or John Fitz-mildred; from his habitation, as John by the Brook; from his calling, as John the Tanner; from some peculiarity in his costume, as John Whitehood,—in his person, as John Fairhair,—in his mind, as John Lovegood,—in his tastes, as John Milk-sop,—or in his habits, as John Drinkdregs. If he removed from one place to another, he was likely to change his name, and to become known, say at Winchester, as John de Nottingham; or if his father were a priest who was a well-known person, he would not improbably be styled John Fiz-al-Prester. (Note 1.) It will readily be seen that the majority of these names were not likely to descend to a second generation. The son of John William-son would be Henry John-son, or Henry Alice-son; he might or might not retain the personal name, or the trade-name; but the place-name he probably would inherit. This explains the reason why so large a majority of our modern surnames are place-names, whether in respect of a town, as Nottingham, Debenham, Brentwood: or of a country locality, as Brook, Lane, Hill, etcetera. Now and then a series of Johns in regular descent would fix the name of Johnson on the family; or the son and grandson pursuing the same calling as the father, would turn the line into Tanners. All surnames have arisen in such a manner.

Our friends in Kepeharme Lane knew nothing of surnames otherwise than personal, apart from the great territorial families of Norman immigration, who brought their place-names with them. Manning Brown was so termed from his complexion; his elder son, not being specially remarkable, was known merely as Romund Fitz-Manning; but the younger, in his boyhood of a somewhat impetuous temper, had conferred on him the epithet of Haimet Escorceueille, or Burntown. The elder brother of Manning was dubbed Gilbert Cuntrevent, or Against-the-Wind; and his two sons, of whom one was the head porter, and another a watchman, at the Castle, were called Osbert le Porter and Stephen Esueillechien, or Watchdog,—the last term evidently a rendering of English into dog-French. Our forefathers were apt hands at giving nicknames. Their epithets were always direct and graphic, sometimes highly satirical, some very unpleasant, and some very picturesque. Isel, who was recognised as a woman of a complaining spirit, was commonly spoken of as Isel the Sweet; while her next neighbour, who lorded it over a very meek husband, received the pungent appellation of Franna Gillemichel. (Note 2.)

The day after the arrival of the Germans, the porter’s wife came down to see her kindred.

“What, you’ve got some of those queer folks here?” she said in a loud whisper to Isel, though Gerhardt was not present, and his wife and sister could not understand a word she spoke.

“Ay, they seem decentish folks,” was the reply, as Isel washed her eel-like lampreys for a pie—the fish which had, according to tradition, proved the death of Henry the First.

“Oh, do they so? You mind what you are after. Osbert says he makes no account of them. He believes they’re Jews, if not worse.”

“Couldn’t be worse,” said Isel sententiously. “Nothing of the sort, Anania. They say their prayers oftener than we do.”

“Ay, but what to? Just tell me that. Old Turguia has some in her house, and she says they take never a bit of notice of our Lady nor Saint Helen, that she has upstairs and down; they just kneel down and fall a-praying anywhere. What sort of work do you call that?”

“I don’t know as I wish to call it anything in particular, without you’re very anxious,” replied Isel.

“But I am anxious about it, Aunt. These folks are in your house, and if they are witches and such like, it’s you and the girls who will suffer.”

“Well, do you think it’s much matter?” asked Isel, putting aside the lampreys, and taking up a bushel basket of Kentish pearmains. “If our Lady could hear me in one corner, I reckon she could hear me in another.”

“But to turn their backs on them!” remonstrated Anania.

“Well, I turn mine on her, when I’m at work, many a time of a day.”

“Work—ay. But not when you’re at prayer, I suppose?”

“Oh, it’ll be all right at last, I hope,” said Isel a little uneasily.

“Hope’s poor fare, Aunt. But I tell you, these folks are after no good. Why, only think! five of them got taken in by those rascals of Jews—three in Benefei’s house, and two at Jurnet’s. They’d never have taken them in, depend on it, if they hadn’t known they weren’t so much better than they should be.”

Agnes and Ermine understood none of these words, though they saw readily enough that the looks Anania cast upon them were not friendly. But Derette spoke up for her friends.

“They’re much better than you, Cousin Anania!” said that downright young woman.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” replied Anania sharply.

“I’d rather have a true one,” was the child’s answer; “and I’m not sure they always go together.”

“Osbert says,” pursued Anania, ignoring Derette, “that he expects there’ll be a stir when my Lord comes to hear of them. Much if they don’t get turned out, bag and baggage. Serve ’em right, too!”

“They haven’t got any bags,” said literal Derette. “I don’t think they’ve any of them any clothes but what they wear. Only Gerard’s got a book.”

“A book! What is it about?” cried Anania. “Is he a priest?—surely not!”

Only a priest or monk, in her eyes, could have any business with a book.

“Oh no, he’s no priest; he’s a weaver.”

“Then what on earth is he doing with a book? You get hold of it, Aunt! I’ll warrant you it’s some sort of wickedness—safe to be! Black spells to turn you all into ugly toads, or some such naughty stuff—take my word for it!”

“I’d rather not, Cousin Anania, for you haven’t seen it, so your word isn’t much good,” said Derette calmly.

“It’s not like to do us much good when we do see it,” observed Isel, “because it will be in their own language, no doubt.”

“But if it’s a witch-book, it’s like to have horoscopes and all manner of things in it!” said Anania, returning to the charge.

“Then it is not, for I have seen it,” said Flemild. “It is in a foreign language; but all in it beside words is only red lines ruled round the