The Gathering of Brother Hilarius
by Michael Fairless
PART I—THE SEED
CHAPTER I—BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST
CHAPTER II—THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN
CHAPTER III—THE KING'S SONG-BIRD
PART II—THE FLOWER
CHAPTER I—THE CITY OF PURE GOLD
CHAPTER II—THE CITY THAT HILARIUS SAW
CHAPTER III—A SENDING FROM THE LORD
CHAPTER IV—BLIND EYES WHICH COULD SEE
CHAPTER V—THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED
CHAPTER VI—A DARK FINDING
CHAPTER VII—THE COMING OF HUNGER AND LOVE
PART III—THE FRUIT
CHAPTER I—HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG!
CHAPTER II—MARY'S LILIES
CHAPTER III—OPEN EYES AT THE GATE
CHAPTER IV—THE PASSING OF PRIOR STEPHEN
CHAPTER V—"GABRIEL, MAKE THIS MAN TO UNDERSTAND
THE VISION."—DAN. viii. 16.
CHAPTER VI—THE HUNGER OF DICKON THE WOODMAN
CHAPTER VII—THE VISION OF THE EVENING AND THE
MORNING
CHAPTER VIII—"BEHOLD THE FIELDS ARE WHITE"
Hilarius stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth,
well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene in the
June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a dust
cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of sumpter
mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the backs of the
good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the drug stores in the
farmery were running low; last, but not least, the Precentor had
bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costly vellum, and on these the
thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious expectation.
On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. The
Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great
trees peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches. Twice
had Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced slowly and
silently along the mossy ways, under the strong, springing pines; and
the occasions were stored in his memory with the glories of St
Benedict's Day and Our Lady's Festivals. Away to the right, within the
great enclosure, stretched the Monastery lands, fair to the eye, with
orchard and fruitful field, teeming with glad, unhurried labour.
At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the Priory
buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the place, signing
the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work of the Brethren,
itself the centre of that life, the object of that work, ever
unfinished because love knows not how to make an end. To the monks it
was a page in the history of the life of the Order, written in stone,
blazoned with beauty of the world's treasure; a page on which each
generation might spell out a word, perchance add a line, to the greater
glory of God and St Benedict. They were always at work on it,
stretching out eager hands for the rare stuffs and precious stones
devout men brought from overseas, finding a place for the best of every
ordered craft; their shame an uncouth line or graceless arch, their
glory each completed pinnacle and fretted spire; ever restoring,
enlarging, repairing, spendthrift of money and time in the service of
the House of the Lord.
The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of
insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons
circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in their
niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old, blind
monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habit lately
acquired—on his face was great peace. It rested everywhere, this
peace of prayerful service, where the clang of the blacksmith's hammer
smote the sound of the Office bell.
Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign
of the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior's lips would take a
thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue; and it was
ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept the fragrance
of Mary's lilies across to the lad; he turned his dreamy, blue eyes
from the highway to the forest. The scent of the pinewoods rushed to
meet his sudden thought. Should he, dare he, break cloister, and taste
the wondrous delight of an unwalled world? It were a sin, a grave sin,
in a newly-made novice, cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell
overpowered him; the trees beckoned with their long arms and slender
fingers; the voice of the forest called, and Hilarius, answering,
walked swiftly away, with bowed head and beating heart, between the
sunburnt pine-boles.
At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair
aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and
pillared city of mystery and wonder.
It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, and
a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius' eyes shone
as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit blue between the
great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her
gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his thirsty
soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting
colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy
replaced it—joy so great that his heart ached with it. He went on
his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes following the pine-boles,
and presently, coming out into an open glade, halted in amazement.
A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, danced in the
wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each
other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of
the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which
balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius'
eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach,
lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained
by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the
shadows, hiding the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not for
monks; above all, not for untutored novices such as Hilarius.
His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St
Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured "
Apage Sataas!"
The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind.
"O what a pretty boy!" she cried gaily. "Playing truant, I dare
wager. Come and dance!"
Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. "Woman," he said, and his
voice trembled somewhat, "art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this
devil's guise?"
The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily.
"No more devil's guise than thine own," she retorted, eyeing his
semi-monastic garb with scant favour. "Can a poor maid not practise
her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred youngster must
cry devil's guise?"
As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke
into peal on peal of joyous laughter. "Poor lad, with thy talk of
devils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?"
Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in
the eyes, and now he drops his own.
"Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice
men's souls to their undoing?"
"An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind
sir?" she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a scolded
child.
"It is wrong to deck the body," began Hilarius, softening at her
attitude, "because, because—"
Again the merry laugh rang out.
"Because, because—nay, Father" (with a mock reverence), "methinks
thy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and I will
catechise. How old art thou?" She held up her small finger
admonishingly.
"Seventeen," replied Hilarius, surprised into reply.
"Art thou a monk?"
"Nay, a novice only."
"Hast thou ever loved?"
Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went on
unconcerned—
"'Twas a foolish question; the answer's writ large for any maid to
read. But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?"
Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet.
"There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God and
the Saints and the Brethren—"
"But not the sisters?" the wicked little laugh pealed out. "Poor
sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the
Saints and the Brethren, and it is good—good—good!" She opened her
arms wide. "'Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil. Hast thou
never seen the birds mate in the springtime, nor heard the nightingale
sing?"
"It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child.
That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God and
the Saints!" quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of yesterday's
homily in the Frater.
"But how can'st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?" the dancer
persisted.
How did he know?
"How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?" he cried
triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and
anxious only to come well out of the wordy war.
But the unexpected happened.
"Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother?
I, love her?—I hate her;" and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of
weeping.
Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman's tears.
"Maid, maid," said Hilarius, in deep distress, "indeed I did not
mean to vex thee;" and he came up and laid his hand on her shoulder.
So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!
The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and
more flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up at
him through shining lashes.
"There, boy, 'tis naught. How could'st thou know? But what of
thine own mother?"
"I know not."
"Nay, what is this? And thy father?"
"He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. I came a
little child to the Monastery, and know no other place."
"Ah,"—vindictively,—"then
thy mother may have been a
light o' love."
"Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound," said Hilarius with a
smile.
The maid looked at him speechless.
"Go home, Boy," she said at last emphatically.
Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the
undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair.
"So, Gia!" he said. "We must make haste; the others wait."
"'Tis my brother," said the dancer, "and"—pointing to the bag
slung across the youth's shoulder—"I trust he hath a fine fat hen
from thy Monastery for our meal."
Hilarius broke into a cold sweat.
The Convent's hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred,
and were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in the Monasteries?
"'Tis stealing," he said feebly.
"'Tis stealing," the dancer mocked. "Hast thou another sermon
ready, Sir Preacher?"
"Empty bellies make light fingers," quoth the youth. "Did'st thou
ever hunger, master?"
"There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat," said Hilarius.
"But ever a meal certain once in the day?" queried the girl.
"Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast."
The mischievous apes laughed—how they laughed!
"So, good Preacher," said the dancer at last, rising to her feet,
"thou dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never felt hunger. Thou
dost know it is wrong to love any but God, the Saints, and thy mother;
but thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was to love.
Blind eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee these things
an thou would'st learn. Farewell, good novice, back to thy Saints and
thy nursery; for me the wide wide world; hunger and love—love—love!"
She seized her brother's hand and together they danced away like two
bright butterflies among the trees.
Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with
dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery. The
train of mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and explanation;
and in the thick of it he slipped in unseen, unquestioned; but he was
hardly conscious of this mercy vouchsafed him, for in his heart reigned
desolation and doubt, and in his ears rang the dancer's parting cry,
"Hunger and love—love—love!"
Brother Bernard, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellum
with generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his downcast
look.
"Methinks this gold is dull, Brother," said Hilarius one day,
fretfully, to his old master.
And again—
"'Tis very poor vermilion."
The Brother looked at him enquiry.
"Nay, nay, boy; 'tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails the colours."
Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilarius
was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady.
"Now may God be good to us!" he cried with uplifted hands. "Since
when did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black hair—
curly too, i' faith?"
Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and gold,
he faltered.
It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him
through chant and psalm. Did he really love the Saints—St
Benedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left him
untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the great love
between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he had had a
sister would they have loved like that?
The Saints' Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the
repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from which
tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother. "Light of
Love," the girl had called his mother; what more beautiful name could
he find for the Queen of Saints herself? So he prayed in his
simplicity:—"Great Light of Love, Mother of my mother, grant love,
love, love, to thy poor sinful son!"
The question came in his daily life.
Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for
Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him
too; Brother John's tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard, old,
half-blind? Surely he loved Brother Richard?—sad, helpless, and
lonely, by reason of his infirmities—or was it only pity he felt for
him?
Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, the
Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words of
the witch in the forest? And yet what was it she had said? "For me
the wide world, hunger, and love—love—love!"
He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its
beauties. Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white lilies
at the farmery door. Did they love?
He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of business
and cheerful bickerings. Did they love?
She had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he
wandered staring, wide-eyed but sightless.
At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the
ship-wrecked mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene and
unhurt above the devouring waves.
The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd
question. When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his stern
blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled the firm line of his
mouth.
"My son," he said at length, "thou art in the wrong school; nursery,
was it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome to the hen. Thou art
a limner at heart—Brother Bernard tells of thy wondrous skill with
the brush—and to be limner thou must learn to hunger and to love as
the maid said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too, though alack, men gainsay
it."
"Father," said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, "did'st
thou ever love as the maid meant?"
"Ay, boy—thy mother."
There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:-
"The maid said she might be light of love; 'tis a beautiful thought."
The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:-
"What didst thou tell the maid?"
"That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight who
died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was
light of love."
"Boy," said the Prior gravely, "'tis a weary tale, and sad of
telling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned love
lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it is, but thought only of
bodily lusts. Pray for her soul"—his voice grew stern—"as for one
of those upon whom God, in His great pity, may have mercy. Thus have I
prayed these many years."
Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:-
"She was evil, wicked, my mother?"
"Ay—a light woman, that was what the maid meant."
Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped
the Prior's knees weeping and praying like a little child.
"And so, my son," said the Prior, "for a time thou shalt go out into
the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a care that
thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure shall see God,
and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set in order thy going;
and send the Chamberlain hither to me."
That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood,
and then at St Mary Maudlin's altar he did penance for his dead
mother's sin.
A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay,
is pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors of
the great world without. He had a purse for his immediate needs; a
letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would be his patron;
and another to the Prior's good friend, the Abbat of St Alban's. The
Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had
been with them from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his
filmy eyes to look his last at the young face he would never see again.
The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to the
gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy,
overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might stay
and learn some other way, however hard. The Prior shook his head.
"Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master
for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us—an thou
can'st—let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are
opened and the great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to
keep still the faithful heart of a little child."
Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his
heart-strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and
along the highway, without daring to look back, and so out into the
wide, wide world.
Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly to
himself as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with
straight black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that
smouldered in hollow cavities. He wore the King's colours, and broke a
manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast.
"Heigh-ho!" sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him,
"another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of
shoe-leather already, and not another penny piece in my pocket 'til I
win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas
to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide
England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider
instead of a king's banquet. Now but another few leagues and the cage
again. Money in my pocket, true; but a song here and a song there,
such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, not of Martin the
Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 'tis a poor bird sings at the word of a
king, and a poor enough song too, if Edward did but know it.
"Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries a
light heart from his song; and no ill voice either."
It was Hilarius, and he sang the Alma Redemptoris as he sped
along the green grass which bordered the highway.
When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up
at the sight of the vielle.
"Whence dost thou come, lad?" said Martin, eyeing him with interest.
"Many days' journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen," answered
Hilarius.
"But thou art no monk!"
"Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to
see the world. It is wondrous fair," he added sincerely.
"He who speaks thus is cloister-bred," said Martin, and as Hilarius
made sign of assent, "'tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior gave
thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter's, I doubt not; thy face is set
for Westminster."
"Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir
John Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere now
but that two days ago I met strange company. They took my purse and
hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until the late dawn.
Then they gave me my goods again, and bade me God-speed.'
"But kept thy purse?" Martin laughed.
"Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passing
strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did me
no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving me provision,
which I lacked."
"Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God's judgments for once,"
muttered Martin; then aloud, "Well, young sir, we shall do well if we
win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together since our
way is the same?"
Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of Court
and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel was wed. He
listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and sport; and heard
eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John Maltravers himself, a
man of great and good reputation, and no mean musician; "and," added
Martin, "three fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of
them all, of whom men say she would fain be a nun. Thou art a pretty
lad, I wager one or other will claim thee for page."
"I will strive to serve well," said Hilarius soberly, "but I have
never spoken but to one maid 'til yesterday, when a woman gave me
good-morrow."
Martin looked at his companion queerly.
"And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this
Prior of thine is a strange master!"
"It is but for a time," said Hilarius, "then I shall go back to the
Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I have
some small skill with the brush," he added simply.
Martin stared.
"Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now,
not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust and banquet
and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and little
reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not such as makes
a monk."
Hilarius smiled.
"Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write
for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the
Court? It seems a fine thing to be the King's Minstrel."
"Nay, lad, nay," said the other hastily, "give me the open country
and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King is
a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come back; 'tis
ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow the
Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us again."
He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as
the minstrel sang. Hilarius' eyes filled with tears, for he was still
heart-sore, and Martin's voice rose and fell like the wind in the
tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The
song itself was sad—of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away
captive to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace
in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:-
"Did'st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?"
"Ay, lad, and of my mistress." He stopped suddenly, louted low to
the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. "A
fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man
suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is
cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and tears,
then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her
buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces of
her hair across a man's face only to elude him. She holds him fast,
for she is mother of all his children; yet he must seek as though he
knew her not, or she flouts him."
Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant—the
"wide wide world, hunger and love"?
"Did'st thou ever hunger, good Martin?"
"Ay, lad," said the minstrel, surprised, "and 'tis good sauce for
the next meal"
"Did'st thou ever love?"
Martin broke into a great laugh.
"Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, here
comes one who knows little enough of hunger or love." Round the bend
of the road came a man in hermit's dress carrying a staff and a
well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become less
upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an alms from
the two travellers.
Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.
"Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than help
to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; 'tis not the first time we have
met. See here," and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit's
wallet.
This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful
of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung
the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace down the
road, while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid on with a
cudgel.
Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing
companion, who answered the unspoken question.
"A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest
of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand's turn
and yet live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good stuff in
that larder of his to make merry with."
Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head.
"I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness," he said
at last.
"It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and 'tis true enough that
godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit's robe may cover a
rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face and
tongue. See, lad," as another turn in the road brought them in sight
of Westminster, "there lies thy new world, God keep thee in it!"
He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water's edge, with
roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the western
sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold.
Hilarius gave a little cry.
"'Tis like the New Jerusalem!" he said, and Martin smiled grimly.
An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and
Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin's side. Around him
he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages,
falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies;
it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were
richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of
colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius' untutored eyes, wild
confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and conditions of
men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the day's work was done. In the
courtyard of the "Black Boar" a chained bear padded restlessly to and
fro, and Hilarius crossed himself anxiously—was the devil about to
beset him under all guises at once? He raised a fervent Ora pro me
to St Benedict as he hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the
narrow street sent folk flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and
a buxom wench, seeing the pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too
much, only the man in him stayed the indignant tears. "Martin,
Martin!" he cried; but the minstrel was on his own ground now, and was
hailed everywhere with acclamations, and news given and demanded in a
breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, his ears scourged with rough
oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by the easy manners round him,
his cheek hot from the late salute, took refuge under a low archway,
and waited with anxious heart until the minstrel should have done with
the crowd.
Martin did not forget him.
"Holà, lad!" he cried, "see how they welcome the King's bird back to
his cage! As for thee, thou hast gone straight to thy cot like a
homing pigeon; through that archway, lad, lies thy journey's end."
Then, apprehending for the first time Hilarius' white face and piteous
eyes, Martin strode across, swept him under the archway into a quiet
courtyard where a fountain rippled, and, having handed him over to Sir
John's steward, left him with a friendly slap on the back and the
promise of speedy meeting.
Hilarius delivered the Prior's letter, and followed the steward into
a rush-strewn hall where scullions and serving-men were busy with
preparations for the evening meal; and sat there, lonely and dejected,
his curiosity quenched, his heart sore, his whole being crying out for
the busied peace and silent orderliness of his cloister home. The
servants gibed at him, but he was too weary to heed; indeed he hardly
noticed when the household swept in to supper, until a page-boy tweaked
him slyly by the ear and bade him come to table. He ate and drank
thankfully, too dazed to take note of the meal; and the pages and
squires among whom he sat left him alone, abashed at his gentleness.
At last, something restored by the much-needed food, Hilarius looked
round the hall.
It reminded him of the Refectory at home, save that it was far
loftier and heavily timbered. The twilight stealing in through high
lancet windows served but to emphasize the upper gloom, which the
morrow's sun would dissipate into cunningly carved woodwork—a man's
thought in every quaintly wrought boss and panel, grotesque beast and
guarding saint. A raised table stood at the upper end of the hall, and
here gaily dressed pages waited on the master of the house and his
honoured guests. Hilarius rightly guessed the tall, careworn man of
distinguished presence to be no other than Sir John himself, and he
liked him well; but his eyes wandered carelessly over the rest of the
company until they were caught and held by a woman's face. It was
Eleanor, the fairest of the knight's three fair daughters; and when
Hilarius saw her he felt as a weary traveller feels who meets a fellow
citizen in a far-off land.
"Even such a face must the Blessed Agnes have had," he thought, his
mind reverting to his favourite Saint; "she is like the lilies in the
garth at home."
It was a strange comparison, for the girl was extravagantly dressed
in costly materials and brilliant colours, her hair coifed in the
foolish French fashion of the day; and yet, despite it all, she looked
a nun. Her face was pale, her brows set straight; her eyes, save when
she was much moved, were like grey shadows veiling an unknown soul; her
mouth, delicately curved, was scarcely reddened; her head drooped
slightly on her long, slender neck, a gesture instinct with gracious
humility. She was like a pictured saint: Hilarius' gaze clung to her,
followed her as she left the hall, and saw her still as he sat apart
while the serving men cleared the lower tables and brought in the
sleeping gear for the night. He lay down with the rest, and through
the high, lancet windows the moonlight kissed his white and weary face
as it was wont to do on bright nights in the cloister dormitory.
Around him men lay sleeping soundly after the day's toils; there was
none to heed, and he sobbed like a little homesick child, until his
tired youth triumphed, and he fell asleep, to dream of Martin and the
Prior, the lady at the raised table, and the pale, sweet lilies in the
cloister garth.
"Blind eyes, blind eyes!" sang the dancer.
Hilarius woke with a start. He had fallen asleep on a bench in the
sunny courtyard and his dream had carried him back to the forest. He
sat rubbing his eyes and only half-awake, the sun kissing his hair into
a halo against the old grey wall. A falcon near fretted restlessly on
her perch, and a hound asleep by the fountain rose, and, slowly
stretching its great limbs, came towards him.
It was four o'clock on a warm day in September; the courtyard was
deserted save for a few busied serving men, and the knight and his
household, were at a tilting in the Outer Bailey, all but the Lady
Eleanor, Hilarius' mistress, for, as Martin had foreseen, Sir John had
so appointed it.
It was now two months since Hilarius had come to the city which had
seemed to him in the distance as the New Jerusalem full of promise; but
he had found no angels at the gates, nor were the streets full of the
righteous; nay, the place seemed nearer of kin to the Babylon of
Blessed John's Vision—with a few holy ones who would surely be caught
up ere judgment fell, amongst them Sir John and Lady Eleanor.
A good knight and a God-fearing man was Sir John, tender to his
children, gentle with his people, a faithful servant to God and King
Edward; shrewd withal, and an apt reader of men. Therefore, and
because of the love he bore to Prior Stephen, he set Hilarius to attend
his eldest daughter, who seemed to belong as little to this world as
the lad himself; and felt that in so doing he had achieved the best
possible for his old friend, according to his asking.
Hilarius for his part served the Lady Eleanor as an acolyte tends
the chapel of a saint, only she was further removed from him than a
saint, by reason of her pale humanity. He soon perceived, as he
watched her at banquet, tourney, or pageant, that she went to a revel
as to the Sacrament, and sat at a mummers' show with eyes fixed on the
Unseen. She moved through the gay vivid world of Court gallants and
joyous maidens like a shadow, and the rout grew graver at her coming.
It was much the same with her lover, Guy de Steyning—brother of
that Hugh de Steyning men wot of as Brother Ambrosius—a gentle knight
with mild blue eyes, a peaked red beard, and great fervour for heavenly
things. The pair liked one another well; but their time was taken up
with preparation for Paradise rather than with earthly business, and
their speech lent itself more readily to devout phrases than to lovers'
vows. It was small wonder, therefore, that another year saw them both
by glad consent in the cloister, he at Oxford, and Eleanor in the
Benedictine House of which her aunt was Prioress.
Hilarius had written of his saintly mistress to Prior Stephen just
as he had written of the wondrous beauty of St Peter's Abbey: "With all
its straight, slender, upstanding pillars, methinks 'tis like the
forest at home" (forgetting that his more intimate knowledge of the
forest partook of the nature of sin). "The Lady Eleanor, my honoured
mistress," he wrote, "is a most saintly and devout maiden, full of
heavenly lore, and caring nought for the things of this world;" and he
added, "'tis beautiful to see such devotion where for the most part are
sinful and light-minded persons."
The Prior laid the script aside with a smile and a sigh; and when
Brother Bernard asked news of the lad, answered a little sadly, "Nay,
Brother, he still sleeps;" and indeed there seemed no waking him to a
world of men—living, striving, sorely-tried men.
He dwelt in a land of his own making—a land of colour and light
and shadow in which much that he saw played a part; only the gorgeous
pageants turned to hosts of triumphant saints heralded by angels; while
the knights at a tourney in their brave armour pictured St George, St
Michael, or St Martin in his dreams.
It was a limner he longed to be, far away from the stir and stress,
not a page attending a great lady to the Court functions. He yearned
ever after the Scriptorium, with its busied monks and stores of colour
and gold. It lay but a stone's throw away behind the jealous Monastery
walls, but it was no part of Prior Stephen's plan that the lad should
go straight from one cloister to another.
To Hilarius sitting on the bench in the sun, came one of Eleanor's
tirewomen to bid him wait on her mistress. He rose at once and
followed her through the hall and up the winding stair, along a gallery
hung with wondrous story-telling tapestry, to the bower where Eleanor
sat with two of her women busied with their needle.
Hilarius found his mistress, her hands idle on her knee. He louted
low, and she bade him bring a stool and sit beside her.
"I am weary," she said; "this life is weariness. Tell me of the
Monastery and the forest—stay, tell me rather of the New Jerusalem
that Brother Ambrose saw and limned.'
Hilarius, nothing loth, settled himself at her feet, elbow on knee,
and chin on his open hands, his dreamy blue eyes gazing away out of the
window at the cloud-flecked sky above the Abbey pinnacles.
"The Brother Ambrose," he began, "was ever a saintly man, approved
of God and beloved by the Brethren; ay, and a crafty limner, save that
of late his eyesight failed him. To him one night, as he lay a-bed in
the dormitory, came the word of the Lord, saying: "Come, and I will
show thee the Bride, the Lamb's wife." And Brother Ambrose arose and
was carried to a great and high mountain, even as in the Vision of
Blessed John. 'Twas a still night of many stars, and Brother Ambrose,
looking up, saw a radiant path in the heavens; and lo! the stars
gathered themselves together on either side until they stood as walls
of light, and the four winds lapped him about as in a mantle and bore
him towards the wondrous gleaming roadway. Then between the stars came
the Holy City with roof and pinnacle aflame, and walls aglow with such
colours as no earthly limner dreams of, and much gold. Brother Ambrose
beheld the Gates of Pearl, and by every gate an angel, with wings of
snow and fire, and a face no man dare look on, because of its exceeding
radiance.
"Then as Brother Ambrose stretched out his arms because of his great
longing, a little grey cloud came out of the north and hung between the
walls of light, so that he no longer beheld the Vision, but heard only
a sound as of a great multitude crying, 'Alleluia'; and suddenly the
winds came about him again, and lo! he found himself in bed in the
dormitory, and it was midnight, for the bell was ringing to Matins; and
he rose and went down with the rest; but when the Brethren left the
choir, Brother Ambrose stayed fast in his place, hearing and seeing
nothing because of the Vision of God; and at Lauds they found him and
told the Prior.
"He questioned Brother Ambrose of the matter, and when he heard the
Vision, bade him limn the Holy City even as he had seen it; and the
Precentor gave him uterine vellum and much fine gold and what colours
he asked for the work. Then Brother Ambrose limned a wondrous fair
city of gold with turrets and spires; and he inlaid blue for the
sapphire, and green for the emerald, and vermilion where the city
seemed aflame with the glory of God; but the angels he could not limn,
nor could he set the rest of the colours as he saw them, nor the wall
of stars on either hand; and Brother Ambrose fell sick because of the
exceeding great longing he had to limn the Holy City, and was very sad;
but our Prior bade him thank God and remember the infirmity of the
flesh, which, like the little grey cloud, veiled Jerusalem to his
sight."
There was silence. Lady Eleanor clasped her shadowy blue-veined
hands under her chin, and in her eyes too was a great longing.
"It seemeth to me small wonder that Brother Ambrose fell sick," she
said, at length.
Hilarius nodded:
"He had ever a patient, wistful look as of one from home; and often
he would sit musing in the cloister and scarce give heed to the Office
bell."
"Methinks, Hilarius, it will be passing sweet to dwell in that Holy
City."
"Nay, lady," said her page tenderly, "surely thou hast had a vision
even as Brother Ambrose, for thine eyes wait always, like unto his."
Eleanor shook her head, and two tears crept slowly from the shadow
of her eyes.
"Nay, not to such as I am is the vision vouchsafed; though my desire
is great, 'tis ever clogged by sin; and for this same reason I would
get me to a cloister where I might fast and pray unhindered."
Hilarius looked at her with great compassion.
"Sweet lady, the Lord fulfil all thy desires; yet, methinks, thou
art already as one of His saints."
"Nay, but a poor sinner in an evil world," she answered. "Sing to
me, Hilarius."
And he sang her the Salve Regina, and when it was ended she
bade him go, for she would fain spend some time in prayer upon her
primer.
"Our Lady and all Saints be with thee, sweet mistress!" he said, and
left her to sob out once more the sins and sorrows of her tender
childlike heart.
Hilarius went back to the courtyard, his soul full of trouble. He
leant against the fountain, playing with the cool water which fell with
monotonous rhythm into the shallow timeworn basin. The cloudless sky
smiled back at him from the broken mirror into which he gazed, and the
glory of its untroubled blue thrilled him strangely. He too had a
vision which he longed to limn; but it was of earth, not Heaven, like
that vouchsafed to Brother Ambrose; and yet none the less precious, for
was it not the Monastery at home which so haunted him, the grey,
familiar walls with their girdle of sunlit pasture, and the mantling
forest which bowed and swayed at the will of the whispering wind?
"As well seek Heaven's gate in yon fair reflection as learn to love
in this light-minded, deceitful city," Hilarius said to himself a
little bitterly. He deemed that he had plumbed its hollowness and
learnt the full measure of its vanity. Already he shunned the company
and diversions of his fellow pages, though he was ever ready to serve
them. A prentice lad's homely brawl set him shivering; a woman's jest
painted his cheeks 'til they rivalled a young maid's at her first
wooing. He plucked aside his skirts and walked in judgment; only
wherever mountebank or juggler held the crowd enthralled, there
Hilarius, half-ashamed, would push his way, in the unacknowledged hope
of seeing again the maid whose mother, like his own, was light o' love:
a strange link truly to bind Hilarius in his blindness to the rest of
poor sinful humanity.
Suddenly there broke on his musing the clatter of horse-hoofs, and a
gay young page came spurring with bent head under the low archway. He
reined up by Hilarius:
"Dear lad, kind lad, wilt thou do me a service?"
"That will I, Hal, an it be in my power."
"Take this purse, then, to the Cock Tavern and give it mine host.
'Tis Luke Langland's reckoning; he left it with me yesternight, but my
head was full of feast and tourney, and 'tis yet undelivered. Mine
host will not let the serving men and the two horses go 'til he hath
seen Luke's money, and I cannot stay, for my lord will need me."
Hilarius took the purse; and his fellow page, blessing him for a
good comrade, clattered back through the gateway.
The streets were full of life and colour; serving men in the livery
of Abbat and Knight, King and Cardinal, lounged at the tavern doors
dicing, gaming, and drinking. Hilarius walked delicately and strove to
shut eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of sin. He delivered the
purse, only to hear mine host curse roundly because it was lighter than
the reckoning; and after being hustled and jeered at for a milk-faced
varlet by the men who stood drinking, he sought with scarlet cheeks for
a less frequented way.
The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and
suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a
city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and,
keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two
windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about
the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the
street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the
foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city
without seemed very far from this dismal sordid place.
Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-
"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?"
He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an
ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.
"Sanctuary," stammered Hilarius, "nay, good sir, I—"
The other laughed.
"Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could'st stray into these
precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man
may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of
treason, seditious talk, or slander—a strange place in which to see
such a face as thine."
"I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning," said
Hilarius; "in sooth, 'tis a fearful place."
"Ay, boy, 'tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety—
even the King's arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: but
from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I
say 'tis a place of darkness and despair."
The unspoken question shone in Hilarius' eyes, and the other
answered it.
"Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. 'Twas good advice I
gave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the wisdom
of fools and the foolishness of wisdom."
"Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelter
of Holy Church?" asked Hilarius, perplexed.
"Most surely he knows; but what would'st thou have? It hath ever
been the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lest they
repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; but should
he set foot in the city without, he is the law's, and no man may
gainsay it."
"Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance," said Hilarius.
"Ay, ay, true eno'," rejoined the other cheerfully, "but then 'tis
not for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man's law may fail to
reach, but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner."
Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place with
the North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty.
"It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloody
hands."
"Nay," said the old man hastily, "many of them are kindly folk, and
many have slain in anger without thought. 'Tis a sad place, though,
and thy young face is like a sunbeam on a winter's day. Come, I will
show thee thy road."
He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on
the edge of the city's stir and hum.
"I can no further," he said. "Farewell, young sir, and God keep
thee! An old man's blessing ne'er harmed any one."
Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets
crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rang out
above the shouts and din.
"'Tis an evil, evil world," quoth young Hilarius.
October and November came and sped, and Hilarius' longing to be a
limner waxed with the waning year. One day by the waterside he met
Martin, of whom he saw now much, now little, for the Minstrel followed
the Court.
"The cage grows too small for me, lad," he said, as he stood with
Hilarius watching the sun sink below the Surrey uplands; "ay, and I
love one woman, which is ill for a man of my trade. I must be away to
my mistress, winter or no winter, else my song will die and my heart
break."
"'Tis even so with me, good Martin," said Hilarius sadly; "I too
would fain go forth and serve my mistress; but the cage door is barred,
and I may not open it from within."
Martin whistled and smote the lad friendly on the shoulder.
"Patience, lad, patience, thou art young yet. Eighteen this
Martinmas, say you? In truth 'tis a great age, but still leaves time
and to spare. 'All things come to a waiting man,' saith the
proverb."
A week later he chanced on Hilarius sitting on a bench under the
south wall of the farmery cloister. It was a mild, melancholy day, and
suited the Minstrel's mood.
He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius
had once more cried his longing, he said gravely:-
"One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad—
and yet earn no welcome."
Hilarius looked at him questioningly.
"Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?"
"Nay, good Martin."
"It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw the
Plague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out
with a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed in
the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know
Death ere the winter is out, and such as God keep thee from."
Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, and
turned to speak of other things.
Martin looked at him gloomily.
"Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad."
"Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter for
the Abbat of St Alban's, and would hasten thither if Sir John would set
me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar," went on poor Hilarius
ruefully, "for I have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks
there are few folk to love in this wicked city."
Martin laughed and then grew grave again.
"Maybe he comes who will teach thee both, and yet I would fain find
thee a kinder master. Well, well, lad, get thee to St Alban's an it be
possible; thou art best in a cloister, methinks, for all thy wise Prior
Stephen may say."
And he went off singing—
"Three felons hung from a roadside tree,
One black and one white and one grey;
And the ravens plucked their eyes away
From one and two and three,
That honest men might see
And thievish knaves should pay;
Lest these might be
As blind as they.
Ah, well-a-day, well-a-day!
One—two—three! On the gallows-tree hung they."
Hilarius listened with a smile until the last notes of Martin's
voice had died away, and then fell a-musing of hunger and love, the
dancer and the Prior.
Suddenly, as if his thought had taken speech, he heard a voice say:
"I hunger, I hunger, feed me most sweet Manna, for I hunger—I
hunger, and I love."
He sprang to his feet, but there was no one in sight. Again the
shrill quavering voice called:
"Love of God, I hunger, Love of God, I die. Blessed Peter, pray for
me! Blessed Michael, defend me!"
Hilarius knew now; it was the Ankret, that holy man who for sixty
years had fasted and prayed in his living tomb at the corner of the
cloister. He was held a saint above all the ankrets before him, and
wondrous wise; the King himself had sought his counsel, and the Convent
held him in high esteem.
Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window of
the cell—it was too high above him. An overpowering desire came upon
him to ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he caught at the
window's upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the
sun behind him, gazing into the cell.
On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted
locks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his girdle.
The skin of his face was like grey parchment, and his deep-set eyes
glowed strangely in their hollow cavities.
Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him.
The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with its
aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands.
"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!" he
cried, gaining strength from the vision.
"What would'st thou, Father!" said Hilarius, afraid.
"Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet—" the old
man's voice grew weaker—"the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in
peace."
He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was sore
perplexed.
"Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?"
The Ankret looked troubled.
"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!" he murmured entreatingly.
Hilarius' hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man saw
some wondrous vision, and 'twas no gain time to speech of him.
"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!" quavered the old, tired voice.
Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fast and
braced himself against the wall
"Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!"—The appeal in the half-dead
face was awful.
Hilarius' grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore from
the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained no
counsel from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man—ay, even when
he was visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring
a blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came to him. There
was no one in sight, no sound but the failing cry from the tired old
saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again and his fresh young voice rose
clear and sweet through the thin still air:-
"Iesu, dulcis memoria,
Dans vera cordis gaudia;
Sed super mel et omnia
Dulcis ejus praesentia."
At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear the
Ankret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softly
like a little child.
Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of
what had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the
Sub-Prior gave him the last sacraments.
Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holy man
before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had brought his
message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to think that the
Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept his own counsel.
He told Lady Eleanor of Martin's words.
"God save the King!" she said, and went into her oratory to pray:
and there was need of prayer, for the Minstrel's foreboding was no idle
one. Ere London knew it the Plague was at her gates; yet the King,
undeterred, came to spend Christmas at Westminster; but Martin was not
in his train. Men's mirth waxed hot by reason of the terror they would
not recognise. Banquet and revel, allegory and miracle play; pageant
of beautiful women and brave men; junketing, ay, and rioting—thus
they flung a defiance at the enemy; and then fled: for across the clash
of the feast bells sounded the mournful note of funeral dirge and
requiem.
Eleanor, knowing Hilarius' ardent longing for school and master,
prayed her father to set him on the way to St Alban's instead of
keeping him with them to follow a fugitive Court. The good knight,
feeling one page more or less mattered little when Death was so ready
to serve, and anxious for the lad's safety and well-being, assented
gladly enough. So it came to pass that on the Feast of the Three Kings
Hilarius found himself on the Watling Street Way, a well-filled purse
in his pocket, but a fearful heart under his jerkin; for the Death he
had never seen loomed large, a great king, and by all accounts a most
mighty hunter.
It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the face of
Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient indifference, in
the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and often flings the door
wide for the guest, or hastens his coming. Thus it came to pass that
while the stricken poor agonised in the grip of unknown horror, bishop
and merchant, prince and chapman, fine ladies in gorgeous litters,
abbesses with their train of nuns, and many more, fled north, east, and
west, from the pestilent cities, and encumbered the roads with much
traffic. One procession, and one only, did Hilarius meet making its
way to London.
It was a keen frosty day; there had been little previous rain or
snow, and the roads were dry; the trees in the hedgerows, bare and
stricken skeletons, stood out sharp and black against a cold grey sky.
Suddenly the sound of a mournful chant smote upon the still air, music
and words alike strange. The singers came slowly up the roadway, men
of foreign aspect walking with bent heads, their dark, matted locks
almost hiding their wild, fixed eyes and thin, haggard faces. They
were stripped to the waist, their backs torn and bleeding, and carried
each a bloody scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. At the third
step they signed the sign of the Cross with their prostrate bodies on
the ground; and thus in blood and penitence they went towards London.
Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it.
These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank back with
the rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore off
jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a great sob.
"I left wife and children to perish alone," he cried, "and fled to
save my miserable skin. Now may God have mercy on my soul, for I go
back. Smite, and smite hard, brother!" and he stepped in front of the
first flagellant.
At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many
fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves with
groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned
and fled blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes wide, the
blood drumming in his ears, a great horror at his heels—a horror that
could drive a man from wife and child, that had driven brave Martin to
flee against the wind, and all this folk to leave house and home to
save that which most men count dearer than either.
At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, coming
towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way in the
hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar was a small,
mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand and staff; his
face upturned, craving the light. He stopped when he came up with
Hilarius, and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fire burnt in the
dead ashes.
"Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord
promised me?"
Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar
laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against
his shoulder, felt Hilarius' face, not with the light and practised
touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the while.
"Son, thou wilt come with me?"
"Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban's."
"Whence, my son?"
"From Westminster, good Father."
"Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monastery
but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those from
the pestilent cities. What would'st thou with the Abbat?"
Hilarius told him.
The friar flung up his hands.
"Laus Deo! Laus Deo!" he cried, "now I know thou art in very
truth the lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all.
Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me carried
away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and Hell is near
at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many hideous devils; yet the
place is little Bungay, where my mother hath a cot by the river. When
first the dream came I lay at Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh
quaked and my hair stood up by reason of the awfulness of the vision;
then as I mused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I
might wrestle with Satan for my mother's soul, for she was ever
inclined to evil arts and spells, and thought little of aught save gain.
"Forthwith I suffered no man to stay me, and set off, the Plague at
my heels; but ever out-stripping it, I was careful to preach its coming
in every place, that men might turn and repent. Then as I tarried on
the seaboard for a ship the Plague came; and because I had preached its
coming, the people rose in wrath, and, falling upon me, roughly handled
me. They beat me full sore in the market-place; then, piercing my
eyeballs, set me adrift in a small boat.
"Two days and two nights I lay at the mercy of the sea, darkness and
light alike to me, and with no thought of time; for the flames of hell
burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart because of my
mother's soul."
"And then, and then?" tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears of pure
pity in his eyes.
"Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet Jonas,
and sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. The shipmen
were kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by a great wind,
and at last came ashore in Lincolnshire. I have come south thus far by
the aid of Christian men, but time presses; and now, lo! thou art here
to guide me."
"But, my Father," said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another barrier in
the way of his desires, "'tis a limner I would be; and I am from
Westminster, not London, and then there is Prior Stephen's letter—"
The friar held up his hand:
"Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it to me.
Last night the vision came again, and a voice cried: 'Speed, for a son
of Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps,' and lo! thou art here,
waiting by the way, as the voice said. And now, son, an thou wilt come
thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham—'tis a cell of this Abbey—
for there is Brother Andreas from overseas who hath wondrous skill with
the brush; he will teach thee, for thou shalt say to him that Brother
Amadeus sent thee, who is now as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of
the Lord; but first thou shalt set me in that village of Bungay, where
my mother dwelleth."
Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that vainly
questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, flagellants, in
this absorbing tale of the man of God, who was even as one of the
blessed martyrs. Brother Andreas! A skilled limner! How should he,
Hilarius, gainsay one with a vision from the Lord?
"I obey, my Father," he cried joyously, taking the friar's hand; and
they two passed swiftly down the road, their faces to the east.
It was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes' Eve; the snow fell
heavily, caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius
and the Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met
the full force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the
darkness more complete. They struggled on, breathless, beaten,
exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one hand, held the
other across his bent head to shield himself from the buffets of the
wind.
Suddenly he stood fast.
"I can no more, Father," he said, "the snow is as a wall; there is
naught to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way." His
voice was very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support.
"I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as He
opened the eyes of the prophet's servant in the besieged city; so shalt
thou see a host of angels encompassing us, for we are about the Lord's
business."
"Nay, my Father," said Hilarius feebly, "I see no angels, and I
perish." He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caught him
in his arms. A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then
flung away his staff and lifted him to his shoulder.
With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a
white figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once the
wind dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested and
comforted, spoke:-
"Is it thou, my Father?"
"It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before to
guide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?"
He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars
alight!
The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion's darkness, pointed
to the left where lay a snow-clad village.
"A miracle, a miracle, my Father!"
"A miracle, i' faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance to the
blind as He promised. Let us go down."
They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was full of
awe and comfort because of the angels of God which attended on a poor
friar.
At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainment
and several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, and
Hilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save a morsel
of bread.
A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, bright
black eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding with
despatches from the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearful tales to
tell of the Plague; how in London they piled the dead in trenches,
while many who escaped the pest died of want and cold; it was a city of
the dead rather than the living. One great lord, travelling post-haste
from Westminster, had been found by his servants to have the disorder,
and they fled, leaving him by the wayside to perish.
Hilarius heard horror-struck.
"'Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master," he said.
"Nay, lad," said a chapman in the corner, "but a man loves his own
skin best."
"Ay, ay," said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by the storm on
his way to a neighbouring village, "a man's own skin before all. Fill
your belly first and your neighbour's afterwards. Live and let live."
"Ay, let live," chimed in mine host, bustling in with a stoop of
cider for the chapman, "but, by the Rood, 'tis cruel work when two lone
women are murdered for a bit of mouldy bacon and a lump of bread; for
I'se warrant 'tis a long day sin' they had more than that at best."
The chapman took his cider.
"Where was this work done?" he said.
"Nay, where but here on the bruary! The women were found Wednesday
se'n-night by the herd as he went folding. They lay on the floor in
their blood."
Hilarius turned sick. In Westminster, by some miracle, he had been
spared the sight of violent death—ay, or of death in any form—and
had seen nothing worse than a rogue in the stocks, for which sight he
had thanked Heaven piously.
"'Tis the fault of the rich," said a voice, and Hilarius saw, to his
surprise, that there was a second friar in the room; a tall,
bullet-headed man, with a heavy, obstinate jaw ornamented with a scanty
fringe of black hair.
"The rich grow fat, and the poor starve," he went on, "'tis hunger
makes a man kill his brother for a mouthful of mouldy bacon."
"Nay," said the miller, "there was no need to kill, Father. A man
could have taken the meat from two lone women and left them their
lives."
"Why take from folk as poor as themselves?" said mine host. "Let
them rob the rich an they must rob."
"Ay," said the friar, "rob the rich, say you, take their own, say
I. God did not make this world that one man should be over full and
another go empty; nor is it religion that the monks' should live on the
fat o' the land and grind the faces of the poor. How many manors,
think you, has the Abbat of St Edmund's, and how many on his land lack
bread?"
Hilarius listened, scarlet with indignation, a flood of wrathful
defence pent at his lips, for the blind friar laid a restraining hand
on his sleeve.
Mine host scratched his head doubtfully. The teaching was
seditious, and made a man liable to stocks and pillory; but it tickled
the ears of the common folk and 'twas ill to quarrel with the
Mendicants. Help came to him in his perplexity: a loud knocking on the
barred door made the guests within start.
"'Tis eight o' the clock," said the miller, affrighted, for he had a
heavy purse on him.
"Let them knock and cool their hot heads," said the seditious friar
composedly.
The rest nodded approval.
Then a man's voice threatened without.
"What ho! unbar the door. Is this a night to keep a man without?
Open, open, or, by the Mass, thou shalt smart for it."
Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; he
moved slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stout wooden
bar. As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burst in, at sight
of whom mine host turned yet paler.
"Food and drink," said the new-comer sharply, flinging himself on a
bench by the fire.
Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His hair
was close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very small and
near together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn up showed two
rat-like teeth. Silence fell on the company, and the chapman who had
been searching amongst his goods for something wherewith to pay his
hospitality, was hastily putting them back, when the man, looking up,
caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous wares.
He plucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full of tender
liquid notes—a thrush's roundelay. Then a blackbird called and his
mate answered; a cuckoo cried the spring-song; a linnet mourned with
lifting cadence; a nightingale poured forth her deathless love.
Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; the
man threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to ravenously on
the victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishly amid dead
silence; then he looked up and cursed at them for their sorry mood.
"What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? Damn you
all for dull dogs!"
The blind friar rose and fixed his withered eyes on the man's
dreadful face.
"Piping Hugh of Mildenhall," he said, and at his voice the man leapt
to his feet and thrust his arm out as if for protection. "Piping Hugh
of Mildenhall," said the Friar again, "I have a message for thee from
the Lord God. I cried thee damned in my own name once, when thou
did'st take my little sister to shame and death; now I cry thee thrice
damned in the name of the Lord, for the cup of thine iniquity is full
and thy hands red with blood. Man hath branded thee; now God will set
His mark on thee and all men shall see it. The Plague will come and
come swiftly, but it shall not touch thee; many shall die in their
sins; thou shalt live on with thine. A brute thou art, and with brutes
thou shalt herd; thou shalt howl as a ravening wolf, and as such men
shall hunt thee from their doors. Thou shalt seek death, even as Cain
sought and found it not, because of the mark of the Lord. Thou art
damned, thrice damned; thy speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail
thee, thy mind be darkened; thou art given over to the Evil One, and he
shall torment thee with remembrance."
There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore
open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon the
whiteness of the night.
The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until
Hilarius, full of pride at his Friar's powers, stepped forward to close
the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like the
sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, and the
company began in silence to make preparation for the night. When all
was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad's
voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the others stood apart
eyeing him fearfully.
He laid his hand on the miller's breast and said in a clear, low
voice: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on the messenger's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on the chapman's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
He laid his hand on mine host's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."
Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his
face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: "Thou
wilt live, my brother—and repent."
It is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay—which village of the
good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant—
and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar
were long on the road, for January's turbulent mood had imprisoned them
many days, and early February had proved little kinder. They had
companied with folk, light women and brutal men; but, for the most
part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed in the presence of the
blind friar and the lad with the wondering eyes. In every village the
Friar preached and called on men to repent and be saved, for Death's
shadow was already upon them. Folk wondered and gaped—the Plague was
still only a name ten leagues east of London—but many repented and
confessed and made restitution, though some heard with idle ears,
remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert who had come with the same
message half a man's lifetime before, and that no evil had followed his
preaching.
At last St Matthias' Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund's
Abbey. There were many guests for the Convent's hospitality that
night, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house—a brother
had charged himself with the care of the Friar—he heard the sound of
the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English against
the fashion of the day.
"Martin, Martin!" he cried.
The vielle was instantly silent.
"Holà, lad!" cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught
Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily.
"Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the
Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed
farther afield." Then seeing the injured faces round him for that the
song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him and took
up his vielle. "Be still now, lad, 'til I have finished my ditty for
this worshipful company; then, an't please thee to tell it, I will hear
thy tale."
The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption,
unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his
song:-
"The fair maid came to the old oak tree
(Sun and wind and a bird on the bough),
The throstle he sang merrily—merrily—merrily,
But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she,
Her sweet knight—Oh! where was he?
He lay dead in the cold, cold ground
(Moon and stars and rain on the hill),
In his side and breast were bloody wounds.
Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he,
The poor knight—Ah! cold was he.
The maiden sat her down to die
(Cold, cold earth on her lover's breast),
And the little birds rang mournfully,
And the moonshine kissed her tenderly,
And the stars looked down right pityingly
On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight.
Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!"
This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and
the company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught sight
of the seditious friar making short work of the Convent's victuals, and
marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given so evil a name.
Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently to
his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar he
companied with preached in each village that men should repent ere the
scourge of God fell upon them; "but there is naught of it as yet," said
the lad.
"Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and
then the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard a bruit
of London that it was but a heap of graves—nay, one grave rather, for
they flung the bodies into a great trench; there was no time to do
otherwise: Black Death is swift with his stroke."
Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar's death-words to the
guests.
Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh.
"Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse on
Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a black
deed to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yet
there was never a bird that would not come at his call, and I never
heard tell that he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?"
When he had heard the story of the Friar's twice-repeated vision and
quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and head sunk
on his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly.
"Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungay
with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company. Also
I like not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end of it."
That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried:
"Haste, haste, ere it be too late." And so Hilarius and Martin came to
Bungay, the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own. None of the
three ever saw St Edmund's Abbey again, for in one short month the
minster with its sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, while
the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting to summon to their ghastly
company the living that sought to make them a bed.
Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low
vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar
strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin and
Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken face on his
companions.
"What is that?" he said shrilly.
A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself
fearfully.
"Let us make haste," cried the Friar when they told him; and so at
full pace they came to Bungay town.
The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the
roar and hum of an angry crowd.
"The people are abroad," said Martin, and his face was very grave,
"no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the
common. Prithee, where is thy mother's dwelling, good Father, and I
will go and ask news of her?"
"'Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate;
Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for."
Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar
followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood
fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining to
make his ears do a double service.
Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar's business
as the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was
full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd,
saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the
Friar. Then he fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too
far off to catch what was said.
"See there, 'tis her son," Martin was saying vehemently; "yon holy
friar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it
otherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle with
the Evil One for his mother's soul—and now, and now—"
The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old woman
lay on the ground by the river's edge; a bundle of filthy water-logged
rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair smeared with
filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless huddle; her right
thumb tied to her left toe and so across: there was a rope about her
middle, but in their hot haste they had not stayed to strip her.
Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful
crowd:
"By Christ's Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought," he said.
"Nay," said one of the bystanders, "but it was fair judgment,
Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in this
place, ay, and cattle have perished and women gone barren through her
means. Near two days agone a child was lost and seen last near her
door, ay, and never seen again. When we came to question her she
cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and
spit, and swear she knew naught of the misbegotten brat."
"Maybe 'twas true eno'," said Martin. "I hate these rough-cast
witch-findings—'tis not a matter for man's judgment, unless 'tis
sworn and proven in court before the Justiciary."
"Nay," joined in an old man, "what need of a Justice when God
speaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink or
swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her;
and seeing that, we drew her under—ay, and see her now as she lies,
and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on his own?"
Martin wrung his hands.
"For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no
word of this to yon holy man."
Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied
themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and
bore her to her wretched bed.
The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of
the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor
place and its dead dishonoured mistress.
Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius
and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common.
March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds
rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the
Friar started nervously when Martin spoke.
"Friar," he said, "God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art
too late to speed thy mother's soul; she passed to-day, and lies even
now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands."
The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with a
look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads
abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his
blessing.
They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin.
"Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people
feared her?"
"Ay, she died alone," answered Martin, and muttered, "now God
forgive me!" under his breath.
As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through
the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It lighted
each vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless face,
and betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged with horrid fear.
Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death?
The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him.
"Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didst
read in thy dream."
The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was
heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten earth
floor. The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw the
Friar look up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the dank, muddy
hair; then he knew all, and fell on his face with an exceeding bitter
cry. It was answered by another cry—the glad cry of a lost child
that is found.
The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to the
cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in the
down-trodden grass and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned his
blind, anguished face to the setting sun.
"Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counsel
but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come upon
them; Death shall overtake them; their place shall know them no more.
Let them bare their backs to the scourge, let them confess and repent
ere I visit them as I visited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain.
"O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judged
falsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even according to
your measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh swiftly and maketh no
long tarrying. It shall come; it shall snatch men's souls away, even
as ye have torn away my mother's soul, leaving no space for repentance."
He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the
little town.
"Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of heaps.
Ye shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding none; for
the arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of the wickedness of
the earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient and gainsaying people! Woe,
woe, woe, a people hating righteousness and loving iniquity! The Lord
shall straightway destroy them from off the face of the earth."
He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and then
another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, snarling,
growling, but afraid.
Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretched
den; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by the else
unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed beside him.
Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer; for
what availed it to pray for an unassoilzied witch who had met her due,
damned alike by God and man?
Martin came up to him.
"She was his mother," he said, as if making excuse.
Hilarius stared in bewilderment. His mother? Ay, but an evil
liver; and the people of Bungay had wrought a good work in sending her
to her own place. He crossed himself piously at the thought of the
near neighbourhood of devils busied with a thrice-damned soul.
Martin led them out of Bungay by the Earsham road, and the Friar
clung to him like a little child, for the strength of his vision was
spent. They lay that night with a friendly shepherd; but only one
slept, and that one Hilarius. He lay on a truss of sweet-smelling hay,
and dreamt of Wymondham and Brother Andreas; of gold, vermilion and
blue; of wondrous pictures, and a great name: and the scent of the pine
forest at home swept across his quiet sleep.
On the morrow came the parting of the ways, for Hilarius was all
aglow for Wymondham, and Martin had charged himself with the Friar at
least as far as Norwich.
"As well lead a blind friar as sing blindly at another's bidding,"
he said whimsically, and so they bade one another farewell never to
meet again in this world: for Martin and the Friar went to Yarmouth,
not Norwich, and there they perished among the first when the east wind
swept the Plague thither in a boat-load of sickened shipmen. And
Hilarius—once again the Angel of the Lord stood in the path of his
desires.
Hilarius fared but slowly; it was ill travelling on a high-road in
good weather, but on a cross-road in the spring!—that was a time to
commend oneself body and soul to the Saints. He walked warily, picking
his way in and out of the bog between fence and ditch, which was all
that remained to show where the piety of the past once kept a road.
The low land to his left was submerged, a desolate tract giving back a
sullen grey sky, lifeless, barren, save where a gaunt poplar like the
mast of a sunken ship broke the waste of waters.
The sight brought Hilarius' thoughts sharply back to the events of
the evening before. Wonderful indeed were the judgments of God! A
witch—plainly proved to be such—had been struck dead in the midst
of her sins; and London, that light-minded, reprobate city, was a heap
of graves. Now he, Hilarius, having seen much evil and the justice of
the Almighty, would get him in peace to Wymondham, there to learn to be
a cunning limner; and having so learnt would joyfully hie him back to
Prior Stephen and his own monastery.
Presently the way led somewhat uphill, and he saw to his right a
small hamlet. It lay some distance off his road, but he was sharp-set,
for the shepherd's fare had been meagre; and so turned aside in the
hope of an ale-house. There was no side road visible, and he struck
across the dank, marshy fields until he lighted on a rude track which
led to the group of cottages. The place struck him as strangely quiet;
no smoke rose from the chimneys; no dogs rushed out barking furiously
at a stranger's advent. The first hovel he passed was empty, the open
door showed a fireless hearth. At the second he knocked and heard a
sound of scuffling within. As no one answered his repeated summons he
pushed the door open; the low room was desolate, but two bright eyes
peered at him from a corner,—'twas a rat. Hilarius turned away,
sudden fear at his heart, and passed on, finding in each hovel only
empty silence.
Apart from the rest, standing alone in a field, was a somewhat
larger cottage; a bush swung from the projecting pole above the door:
it was the ale-house that he sought; here, at least, he would find some
one. As he came up he heard a child crying, and lo! on the doorstep
sat a dirty little maid of some four summers, sobbing away for dear
life.
Hilarius approached diffidently, and stooped down to wipe away the
grimy tears.
The child regarded him, round eyes, open mouth; then with a shrill
cry of joy, she held out her thin arms.
At the sound of her cry the door opened; on the threshold stood a
woman still young but haggard and weary-eyed; at her breast was a
little babe. She stared at Hilarius, and then pulling the child to her
in the doorway, waved him away.
"Stand off, fool!—'tis the Plague."
Hilarius shrank back.
"And thy neighbours?" he asked.
"Nay, they were light-footed eno' when they saw what was to do, and
left us three to die like rats in a hole." Then eagerly: "Hast thou
any bread?"
He shook his head.
"Nay, I came here seeking some. Art thou hungry?"
She threw out her hands.
"'Tis two days sin' I had bite or sup."
"Where lies the nearest village? and how far?"
"A matter of an hour, over yonder."
"See, goodwife," said Hilarius, "I will go buy thee food and come
again."
She looked at him doubtfully.
"So said another, and he never came back."
"Nay, but perchance some evil befell him," said gentle Hilarius.
"Well, I will trust thee." She went in and returned with a few
small coins. "'Tis all I have. Tell no man whence thou art, else they
will hunt thee from their doors."
Hilarius nodded, took the money, and ran as fast as he could go in
the direction of the village.
The woman watched him.
"Is it fear or love that lends him that pace?" she muttered, as she
sat down to wait.
It was love.
Hilarius entered the village discreetly, and adding the little money
he had to the woman's scanty store, bought bread, a flask of wine,
flour and beans, and a jug of milk.
"'Tis for a sick child," he said when he asked for it, and the woman
pushed back the money, bidding him God-speed.
The return journey was accomplished much more slowly, because of his
precious burden; and as he crossed a field, there, dead in a snare, lay
a fine coney.
"Now hath Our Lady herself had thought for the poor mother!" cried
Hilarius joyously, and added it to his store.
When he reached the cottage, and the woman saw the food, she broke
into loud weeping, for her need had been great; then, as if giving up
the struggle to another and a stronger, she sank on the bed with her
fast-failing babe in her arms.
Hilarius fed her carefully with bread and wine—not for nothing had
he served the Infirmarian when blood-letting had proved too severe for
some weak Brother—and then turned his attention to the little maid
who sat patient, eyeing the food.
For her, bread and milk. He sat down on a low stool, and taking the
child on his knee slowly supplied the gaping, bird-like mouth. At last
the little maid heaved a sigh of content, leant her flaxen head against
her nurse's shoulder, and fell fast asleep.
Hilarius, cradling her carefully in gentle arms, crooned softly to
her, thrilling with tenderness. She was his own, his little sister,
the child he had found and saved. Surely Our Lady had guided him to
her, and her great Mother-love would shield this little one from a foul
and horrid death. In that dirty, neglected room, the child warm
against his breast, Hilarius lived the happiest moments of his life.
Presently he rose, for there was much to be done, kissed the little
pale cheek, noted fearfully the violet shadows under the closed eyes,
and laid his new-found treasure on the bed by her mother.
The woman was half-asleep, but started awake.
"Art thou going?" she said, and despair gazed at him from her eyes.
"Nay, nay, surely not until we all go together," he said
soothingly. "I would but kindle a fire, for the cold is bitter."
Wood was plentiful, and soon a bright fire blazed on the hearth.
The poor woman, heartened by her meal, rose and came to sit by it, and
stretching out her thin hands to the grateful warmth, told her tale.
"'Twas Gammer Harden's son who first heard tell of a strange new
sickness at Caxton's; and then Jocell had speech with a herd from those
parts, who was fleeing to a free town, because of some ill he had
done. Next day Jocell fell sick with vomitings, and bleeding, and
breaking out of boils, and in three days he lay dead; and Gammer Harden
fell sick and died likewise. Then one cried 'twas the Plague, and the
wrath of God; and they fled—the women to the nuns at Bungay, and the
men to seek work or shelter on the Manor; but us they left, for I was
with child."
"And thy husband?' said Hilarius.
"Nay, he was not my husband, but these are his children, his and
mine. Some hold 'tis a sin to live thus, and perhaps because of it
this evil hath fallen upon me."
She looked at the babe lying on her lap, its waxen face drawn and
shrunk with the stress of its short life.
Hilarius spoke gently:-
"It is indeed a grievous sin against God and His Church to live
together out of holy wedlock, and perchance 'tis true that for this
very thing thou hast been afflicted, even as David the great King. But
since thou didst sin ignorantly the Lord in His mercy sent me to serve
thee in thy sore need; ay, and in very truth, Our Lady herself showed
me where the coney lay snared. Let us pray God by His dear Mother to
forgive us our sins and to have mercy on these little ones."
And kneeling there in the firelight he besought the great Father for
his new-found family.
Five days passed, and despite extreme care victuals were short.
Hilarius dug up roots from the hedgerows, and went hungry, but at last
the pinch came; the woman was too weak and ill to walk, the babe scarce
in life—there could be no thought of flight—and the little maid
grew white, and wan and silent. Then it came to Hilarius that he would
once again beg food in the village where he had sought help before.
He went slowly, for he had eaten little that his maid might be the
better fed, and he was very sad. When he reached the village he found
his errand like to be vain. News of the Plague was coming from many
parts, and each man feared for his own skin. At every house they
questioned him: "Art thou from a hamlet where the Plague hath been?"
and when he answered "Yea," the door was shut.
Very soon men, angry and afraid, came to drive him from the place.
He gained the village cross, and prayed them for love of the Saviour
and His holy Rood to give him bread for his little maid and her
mother. Let them set it in the street, he would take it and cross no
man's threshold. Surely they could not; for shame, let a little child
die of want?
"Nay, 'tis better they die, so are we safe," cried a voice; then
they fell upon him and beat him, and drove him from the village with
blows and curses.
Bruised and panting, he ran from them, and at last the chase ceased;
breathless and exhausted he flung himself under a hedge.
A hawk swooped, struck near him, and rose again with its prey.
Hilarius shuddered; but perhaps the hawk had nestlings waiting
open-mouthed for food? His little maid! His eyes filled with tears as
he thought of those who awaited him. He picked up a stone, and watched
if perchance a coney might show itself. He had never killed, but were
not his nestlings agape?
Nothing stirred, but along the road came a waggon of strange shape
and gaily painted.
He rose to his feet, praying the great Mother to send him help in
his awful need.
The waggon drew near; the driver sat asleep upon the shaft, the
horse took his own pace. It passed him before he could pluck up heart
to ask an alms, and from the back dangled a small sack and a hen. If
he begged and was refused his little maid must die. A minute later the
sack and the hen had changed owners—but not unobserved; a clear voice
called a halt; the waggon stood fast; two figures sprang out, a girl
and a boy: and Hilarius stood before them on the white highway—a
thief.
"Seize the knave!" cried the girl sharply.
Hilarius stared at her and she at him. It was his dancer, and she
knew him, ay, despite the change of dress and scene, she knew him.
"What! The worthy novice turned worldling and thief! Nay, 'tis a
rare jest. What of thy fine sermons now, good preacher?"
But Hilarius answered never a word; overcome by shame, grief, and
hunger, sudden darkness fell upon him.
When he came to himself he was sitting propped against the hedge;
the waggon was drawn up by the roadside, and the dancer and her brother
stood watching him.
"Fetch bread and wine," said the girl, and to Hilarius who tried to
speak, "Peace, 'til thou hast eaten."
Hilarius ate eagerly, and when he had made an end the dancer said:-
"Now tell thy tale. Prithee, since when didst thou leave thy Saints
and thy nursery for such an ill trade as this?"
Hilarius told her all, and when he had finished he wept because of
his little maid, and his were not the only tears.
The dancer went to the waggon and came back with much food taken
from her store, to which she added the hen; the sack held but fodder.
"But, Gia," grumbled her brother, "there will be naught for us
to-night."
"Thou canst eat bread, or else go hungry," she retorted, and filled
a small sack with the victuals.
Hilarius watched her, hardly daring to hope. She held it out to
him: "Now up and off to thy little maid."
Hilarius took the sack, but only to lay it down again. Kneeling, he
took both her little brown hands, and his tears fell fast as he kissed
them.
"Maid, maid, canst forgive my theft, ay, and my hard words in the
forest? God help me for a poor, blind fool!"
"Nay," she answered, "there is naught to forgive; and see, thou hast
learnt to hunger and to love! Farewell, little brother, we pass here
again a fortnight hence, and I would fain have word of thy little
maid. Ay, and shouldst thou need a home for her, bring her to us; my
old grandam is in the other waggon and she will care for her."
Hilarius ran across the fields, full of sorrow for his sin, and yet
greatly glad because of the wonderful goodness of God.
When he got back his little maid sat alone by the fire. He hastened
to make food ready, but the child was far spent and would scarcely
eat. Then he went out to find the woman.
He saw her standing in the doorway of an empty hovel, and she cried
to him to keep back.
"My babe is dead, and I feel the sickness on me. I went to the
houses seeking meal, even to Gammer Harden's; and I must die. As for
thee, thou shalt not come near me, but bide with the child; so maybe
God will spare the innocent."
Hilarius besought her long that she would at least suffer him to
bring her food, but she would not.
"Nay, I could not eat, the fever burns in my bones; let me alone
that I may die the sooner."
Hilarius went back with a heavy heart, and lay that night with the
little maid in his arms on the settle by the hearth. Despite his fear
he slept heavily and late: when he rose the sun was high and the child
awake.
He fed her, and, bidding her bide within, went out to gain tidings
of the poor mother. He called, but no one answered; and the door of
the hovel in which she had taken shelter stood wide. Then, as he
searched the fields, fearing the fever had driven her abroad, he saw
the flutter of garments in a ditch; and lo! there lay the woman, dead,
with her dead babe on her breast. She had lain down to die alone with
God in the silence, that haply the living might escape; and on her face
was peace.
Later, Hilarius laid green boughs tenderly over mother and babe, and
covered them with earth, saying many prayers. Then he went back to his
fatherless, motherless maid.
She ailed naught that he could see, and there was food and to spare;
but each day saw her paler and thinner, until at last she could not
even sit, but lay white and silent in Hilarius' tender arms; and he
fought with death for his little maid.
Then on a day she would take no food, and when Hilarius put tiny
morsels in her mouth she could not swallow; and so he sat through the
long hours, his little maid in his arms, with no thought beside. The
darkness came, and he waited wide-eyed, praying for the dawn. When the
new day broke and the east was pale with light he carried the child out
that he might see her, for a dreadful fear possessed him. And it came
to pass that when the light kissed her little white face she opened her
eyes and smiled at Hilarius, and so smiling, died.
The dancer, true to her promise, scanned the road as the waggon drew
near the place of Hilarius' first and last theft: he
