“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 omniaDulcis ejus praesentia.”
“Iesu,dulcis memoria,Dans vera cordis gaudia;Sed super mel et omniaDulcis 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 beforehis 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’sinstead 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. Thusit 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 theirprostrate 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 wifeand 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 asHe 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 hathwondrous 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.
Itwas 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 Heopen 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 hiscompanion’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 thanthe 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 chapmanwho 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 artgiven 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.”
Itis 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, lightwomen 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 pityinglyOn the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight.Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!”
“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 pityinglyOn 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; thenhe 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 andHilarius 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 andstraining 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 layon 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 whowere 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 thesetting 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 hovelof 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 chargedhimself 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.
Hilariusfared 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 walkedwarily, 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 smallhamlet. 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 hesought; 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 thatpace?” 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 breadand 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 underthe 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, andthe 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 gainedthe 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 camea 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 satalone 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 hermouth 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 was standing by the wayside alone. The waggon passed on carrying him with it; and the dancer looked but once on his face and asked no question.
TheMonastery by the forest pursued an even existence, with no great event to trouble its serenity, for it lay too far west for the Plague to be more than a terrible name.
True, there had been dissension when Prior Stephen, summoned to Cluny by the Abbat, had perforce left the dominion to the Sub-Prior. For lo! the Sub-Prior, a mild and most amiable man in his own estate, had proved harsh and overbearing in government. Ay, and in an irate mood he had fallen upon Brother William, the Sacrist, in the Frater, plucked out his hair and beaten him sore; whereat the Convent was no little scandalized, and counselled Brother William to resign hisoffice. He flouted the Chamberlain also, and Brother Roger the Hospitaller, and so affronted the Brethren that when he began to sing theVerba meaon leaving the chapter, the Convent—yea, even the novices—were silent, to show their displeasure.
When Prior Stephen returned he was exceeding wroth, but said little; only he took from the Sub-Prior his office, and all that appertained thereto, and made him as one of the other monks; and Brother William, who was a gentle and devout servant of God, he made Sub-Prior in his stead; and the Convent was at peace.
Brother Ambrose, he to whom the vision was vouchsafed, had slipped through the grey veil which once hid Jerusalem from his longing gaze; Brother Richard was now in the land where the blind receive their sight; and Brother Thomas the Cellarer—but of him let us say little and think with charity; for ’tis to be feared that he greatly abused his office and is come to judgment.
Two of the older monks, Brother Anselm and Brother Paul, who had spent fifty years in the sheltered peace of the Monastery walls, sat warming their tired old limbs in the south cloister, for the summer sunshine was very pleasant to them.
“Since Brother Thomas died—” began Brother Paul.
“The Lord have mercy on his soul!” ejaculated Brother Anselm.
“Since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Paul again—a little impatiently, though he crossed himself piously enough—“methinks the provisions have oft been scanty and far from tempting, Brother.”
“Ay, and the wine,” said Brother Anselm. “Methinks our Cellarer draws the half of it from the Convent’s well.”
They shook their heads sadly.
“No doubt,” said Brother Anselm after a short silence, “our Cellarer is most worthy, strict, and honest in the performance of his office—while Brother Thomas, alack—”
“Methinks Brother Edmund is somewhat remiss also in his duties,” said Brother Paul. “The Prior, holy man, perceives nothing of these things. On Sunday’s feast one served him with a most unsavoury mess in the refectory, the dish thereof being black and broken; yet he ate the meat in great content, and seemingly with appetite.”
“He is but young, he is but young—sixty come Michaelmas—sixty, and twenty-two years Prior—’tis a long term,” and Brother Anselm nodded his head.
“Ay, he is still young, and of sound teeth,” said Brother Paul, “whereas thou and I, Brother, are as babes needing pap-meat. Brother Thomas—God rest his soul!—was wont to give savoury mess easy of eating to the elder Brethren.”
“Ay, he was a kind man with all his faults,” said Brother Anselm, fingering his toothless gums. “Think you ’twould be well to speak of this matter to the Prior?”
“Nay, nay,” said the other, “he is ever against any store being set on the things ofthis world—‘’tis well for the greater discipline of the flesh,’ so saith he ever. Still he hath forbidden the blood-letting to us elder Brethren.”
“Methinks there is little to let, since Brother Thomas died,” said Brother Anselm ruefully.
“Nay, then, let us seek out the Cellarer and admonish him—maybe he will hear a word in season,” and the two old monks moved slowly away to the Cellarer’s office as Prior Stephen came down the cloister walk.
He looked little older, his carriage was upright as ever, but government sat heavy upon him; the keen, ascetic face was weary, and the line of the lips showed care. His thoughts were busy with Hilarius. It was now full six years that the lad had left the Monastery, and since the Christmas after his going no news had come of him, save that he never reached St Alban’s. Had the Plague gathered him as it gathered many another well-beloved son? Or had the awakening proved too sudden for the lad set blind-eyed without the gate?
He passed from the cloister into the garth where bloomed the lilies that Hilarius had loved so well. He looked at the row of nameless graves with the great Rood for their common memorial; last but one lay the resting-place of Brother Richard, and the blind monk’s dying speech had been of the lad whose face he had strained his eyes to see.
Prior Stephen stood by the farmery door, and the scent of Mary’s flowers came to him as it had come to Hilarius at the gate. He stretched out his hands with the strange pathetic gesture of a strong man helpless. It was all passing fair: the fields of pale young corn trembling in the gentle breeze; the orchards and vineyards with fast maturing fruit; the meadows where the sleek kine browsed languidly in the warm summer sunshine. Peace and prosperity everywhere; the old Church springing into new beauty as the spire rose slowly skywards; peace and prosperity, new glories for the House of the Lord; and yet, and yet, his heart ached for his own helplessness, and for the exceedinglonging that he had for the boy whose mother once held that heart in the hollow of her little hand.
Ah well, blessed be God who had called him from the things of this world to the service of Christ and the Church! Once again he offered himself in the flame of his desires: he would fast and pray and wait.
The Office bell sounded sharp and clear across the still summer air calling to Vespers, and the Prior hasted to his place.
“Qui seminant in lachrymis in exultatione metent,” chanted the deep voices of the monks, and Prior Stephen’s voice trembled as he joined in the Psalmody.
“Euntes ibant et flebant mittentes semina sua.Venientes autem venient cum exultatione portantes manipulos suos.”
He had sown in tears, ay, and was weary of the sowing; but the harvesting was not yet.
Itcame to pass upon a certain day scarce a se’nnight later, that Prior Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which came to him.
It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after the noon repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song of the bees busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, the warm, still air overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard a voice calling—a voice he knew in every fibre of his being and yet could set no name to, for it was the voice of God. He arose in haste and went out into the garth, and lo! under the lilies Hilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great wonder, his heart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little piece of grass that lay between the cloister and the farmery door.
As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, and marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it was a grave scandal that a woman should set foot within the Monastery precincts. He strove to cry, but his voice died on his lips, and his feet were as lead.
The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to arouse him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was as the calling of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius gave no heed. Then, in great impatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay; and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred and cried out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior Stephen was as one set free. He strode to the woman’s side: there was but one lily left. He laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was still far from him: and shefell back from the one remaining blossom with a cry of fear—and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he was sore troubled.
“Maybe,” said he, “evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew his mother, on whom God have mercy!” And sighing heavily he took his way to the great Rood and made supplication for his son.