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The White Company by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
CHAPTER I. HOW THE BLACK SHEEP CAME FORTH FROM THE FOLD.
The great bell of Beaulieu was ringing. Far away through the forest
might be heard its musical clangor and swell. Peat-cutters on Blackdown
and fishers upon the Exe heard the distant throbbing rising and falling
upon the sultry summer air. It was a common sound in those parts—as
common as the chatter of the jays and the booming of the bittern. Yet
the fishers and the peasants raised their heads and looked questions at
each other, for the angelus had already gone and vespers was still far
off. Why should the great bell of Beaulieu toll when the shadows were
neither short nor long?
All round the Abbey the monks were trooping in. Under the long
green-paved avenues of gnarled oaks and of lichened beeches the
white-robed brothers gathered to the sound. From the vine-yard and
the vine-press, from the bouvary or ox-farm, from the marl-pits and
salterns, even from the distant iron-works of Sowley and the outlying
grange of St. Leonard's, they had all turned their steps homewards. It
had been no sudden call. A swift messenger had the night before sped
round to the outlying dependencies of the Abbey, and had left the
summons for every monk to be back in the cloisters by the third hour
after noontide. So urgent a message had not been issued within the
memory of old lay-brother Athanasius, who had cleaned the Abbey knocker
since the year after the Battle of Bannockburn.
A stranger who knew nothing either of the Abbey or of its immense
resources might have gathered from the appearance of the brothers some
conception of the varied duties which they were called upon to perform,
and of the busy, wide-spread life which centred in the old monastery.
As they swept gravely in by twos and by threes, with bended heads and
muttering lips there were few who did not bear upon them some signs of
their daily toil. Here were two with wrists and sleeves all spotted
with the ruddy grape juice. There again was a bearded brother with
a broad-headed axe and a bundle of faggots upon his shoulders, while
beside him walked another with the shears under his arm and the white
wool still clinging to his whiter gown. A long, straggling troop bore
spades and mattocks while the two rearmost of all staggered along under
a huge basket o' fresh-caught carp, for the morrow was Friday, and there
were fifty platters to be filled and as many sturdy trenchermen behind
them. Of all the throng there was scarce one who was not labor-stained
and weary, for Abbot Berghersh was a hard man to himself and to others.
Meanwhile, in the broad and lofty chamber set apart for occasions of
import, the Abbot himself was pacing impatiently backwards and forwards,
with his long white nervous hands clasped in front of him. His thin,
thought-worn features and sunken, haggard cheeks bespoke one who had
indeed beaten down that inner foe whom every man must face, but had none
the less suffered sorely in the contest. In crushing his passions he had
well-nigh crushed himself. Yet, frail as was his person there gleamed
out ever and anon from under his drooping brows a flash of fierce
energy, which recalled to men's minds that he came of a fighting stock,
and that even now his twin-brother, Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, was one
of the most famous of those stern warriors who had planted the Cross of
St. George before the gates of Paris. With lips compressed and clouded
brow, he strode up and down the oaken floor, the very genius and
impersonation of asceticism, while the great bell still thundered and
clanged above his head. At last the uproar died away in three last,
measured throbs, and ere their echo had ceased the Abbot struck a small
gong which summoned a lay-brother to his presence.
"Have the brethren come?" he asked, in the Anglo-French dialect used in
religious houses.
"They are here," the other answered, with his eyes cast down and his
hands crossed upon his chest.
"All?"
"Two and thirty of the seniors and fifteen of the novices, most holy
father. Brother Mark of the Spicarium is sore smitten with a fever and
could not come. He said that—"
"It boots not what he said. Fever or no, he should have come at my call.
His spirit must be chastened, as must that of many more in this Abbey.
You yourself, brother Francis, have twice raised your voice, so it hath
come to my ears, when the reader in the refectory hath been dealing with
the lives of God's most blessed saints. What hast thou to say?"
The lay-brother stood meek and silent, with his arms still crossed in
front of him.
"One thousand Aves and as many Credos, said standing with arms
outstretched before the shrine of the ***, may help thee to remember
that the Creator hath given us two ears and but one mouth, as a token
that there is twice the work for the one as for the other. Where is the
master of the novices?"
"He is without, most holy father."
"Send him hither."
The sandalled feet clattered over the wooden floor, and the iron-bound
door creaked upon its hinges. In a few moments it opened again to admit
a short square monk with a heavy, composed face and an authoritative
manner.
"You have sent for me, holy father?"
"Yes, brother Jerome, I wish that this matter be disposed of with as
little scandal as may be, and yet it is needful that the example should
be a public one." The Abbot spoke in Latin now, as a language which was
more fitted by its age and solemnity to convey the thoughts of two high
dignitaries of the order.
"It would, perchance, be best that the novices be not admitted,"
suggested the master. "This mention of a woman may turn their minds from
their pious meditations to worldly and evil thoughts."
"Woman! woman!" groaned the Abbot. "Well has the holy Chrysostom termed
them _radix malorum_. From Eve downwards, what good hath come from any
of them? Who brings the plaint?"
"It is brother Ambrose."
"A holy and devout young man."
"A light and a pattern to every novice."
"Let the matter be brought to an issue then according to our old-time
monastic habit. Bid the chancellor and the sub-chancellor lead in the
brothers according to age, together with brother John, the accused, and
brother Ambrose, the accuser."
"And the novices?"
"Let them bide in the north alley of the cloisters. Stay! Bid the
sub-chancellor send out to them Thomas the lector to read unto them
from the 'Gesta beati Benedicti.' It may save them from foolish and
pernicious babbling."
The Abbot was left to himself once more, and bent his thin gray face
over his illuminated breviary. So he remained while the senior monks
filed slowly and sedately into the chamber seating themselves upon the
long oaken benches which lined the wall on either side. At the further
end, in two high chairs as large as that of the Abbot, though hardly as
elaborately carved, sat the master of the novices and the chancellor,
the latter a broad and portly priest, with dark mirthful eyes and a
thick outgrowth of crisp black hair all round his tonsured head. Between
them stood a lean, white-faced brother who appeared to be ill at ease,
shifting his feet from side to side and tapping his chin nervously with
the long parchment roll which he held in his hand. The Abbot, from his
point of vantage, looked down on the two long lines of faces, placid and
sun-browned for the most part, with the large bovine eyes and unlined
features which told of their easy, unchanging existence. Then he turned
his eager fiery gaze upon the pale-faced monk who faced him.
"This plaint is thine, as I learn, brother Ambrose," said he. "May the
holy Benedict, patron of our house, be present this day and aid us in
our findings! How many counts are there?"
"Three, most holy father," the brother answered in a low and quavering
voice.
"Have you set them forth according to rule?"
"They are here set down, most holy father, upon a cantle of sheep-skin."
"Let the sheep-skin be handed to the chancellor. Bring in brother John,
and let him hear the plaints which have been urged against him."
At this order a lay-brother swung open the door, and two other
lay-brothers entered leading between them a young novice of the order.
He was a man of huge stature, dark-eyed and red-headed, with a peculiar
half-humorous, half-defiant expression upon his bold, well-marked
features. His cowl was thrown back upon his shoulders, and his gown,
unfastened at the top, disclosed a round, sinewy neck, ruddy and corded
like the bark of the fir. Thick, muscular arms, covered with a reddish
down, protruded from the wide sleeves of his habit, while his white
shirt, looped up upon one side, gave a glimpse of a huge knotty leg,
scarred and torn with the scratches of brambles. With a bow to the
Abbot, which had in it perhaps more pleasantry than reverence, the
novice strode across to the carved prie-dieu which had been set apart
for him, and stood silent and erect with his hand upon the gold bell
which was used in the private orisons of the Abbot's own household. His
dark eyes glanced rapidly over the assembly, and finally settled with a
grim and menacing twinkle upon the face of his accuser.
The chancellor rose, and having slowly unrolled the parchment-scroll,
proceeded to read it out in a thick and pompous voice, while a subdued
rustle and movement among the brothers bespoke the interest with which
they followed the proceedings.
"Charges brought upon the second Thursday after the Feast of the
Assumption, in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and sixty-six,
against brother John, formerly known as Hordle John, or John of Hordle,
but now a novice in the holy monastic order of the Cistercians. Read
upon the same day at the Abbey of Beaulieu in the presence of the most
reverend Abbot Berghersh and of the assembled order.
"The charges against the said brother John are the following, namely, to
wit:
"First, that on the above-mentioned Feast of the Assumption, small beer
having been served to the novices in the proportion of one quart to
each four, the said brother John did drain the pot at one draught to
the detriment of brother Paul, brother Porphyry and brother Ambrose,
who could scarce eat their none-meat of salted stock-fish on account of
their exceeding dryness."
At this solemn indictment the novice raised his hand and twitched his
lip, while even the placid senior brothers glanced across at each other
and coughed to cover their amusement. The Abbot alone sat gray and
immutable, with a drawn face and a brooding eye.
"Item, that having been told by the master of the novices that he should
restrict his food for two days to a single three-pound loaf of bran and
beans, for the greater honoring and glorifying of St. Monica, mother of
the holy Augustine, he was heard by brother Ambrose and others to say
that he wished twenty thousand devils would fly away with the said
Monica, mother of the holy Augustine, or any other saint who came
between a man and his meat. Item, that upon brother Ambrose reproving
him for this blasphemous wish, he did hold the said brother face
downwards over the piscatorium or fish-pond for a space during which
the said brother was able to repeat a pater and four aves for the better
fortifying of his soul against impending death."
There was a buzz and murmur among the white-frocked brethren at this
grave charge; but the Abbot held up his long quivering hand. "What
then?" said he.
"Item, that between nones and vespers on the feast of James the Less the
said brother John was observed upon the Brockenhurst road, near the spot
which is known as Hatchett's Pond in converse with a person of the other
sex, being a maiden of the name of Mary Sowley, the daughter of the
King's verderer. Item, that after sundry japes and jokes the said
brother John did lift up the said Mary Sowley and did take, carry, and
convey her across a stream, to the infinite relish of the devil and the
exceeding detriment of his own soul, which scandalous and wilful falling
away was witnessed by three members of our order."
A dead silence throughout the room, with a rolling of heads and
upturning of eyes, bespoke the pious horror of the community.
The Abbot drew his gray brows low over his fiercely questioning eyes.
"Who can vouch for this thing?" he asked.
"That can I," answered the accuser. "So too can brother Porphyry, who
was with me, and brother Mark of the Spicarium, who hath been so much
stirred and inwardly troubled by the sight that he now lies in a fever
through it."
"And the woman?" asked the Abbot. "Did she not break into lamentation
and woe that a brother should so demean himself?"
"Nay, she smiled sweetly upon him and thanked him. I can vouch it and so
can brother Porphyry."
"Canst thou?" cried the Abbot, in a high, tempestuous tone. "Canst thou
so? Hast forgotten that the five-and-thirtieth rule of the order is that
in the presence of a woman the face should be ever averted and the eyes
cast down? Hast forgot it, I say? If your eyes were upon your sandals,
how came ye to see this smile of which ye prate? A week in your cells,
false brethren, a week of rye-bread and lentils, with double lauds and
double matins, may help ye to remembrance of the laws under which ye
live."
At this sudden outflame of wrath the two witnesses sank their faces on
to their chests, and sat as men crushed. The Abbot turned his angry eyes
away from them and bent them upon the accused, who met his searching
gaze with a firm and composed face.
"What hast thou to say, brother John, upon these weighty things which
are urged against you?"
"Little enough, good father, little enough," said the novice, speaking
English with a broad West Saxon drawl. The brothers, who were English
to a man, pricked up their ears at the sound of the homely and yet
unfamiliar speech; but the Abbot flushed red with anger, and struck his
hand upon the oaken arm of his chair.
"What talk is this?" he cried. "Is this a tongue to be used within the
walls of an old and well-famed monastery? But grace and learning have
ever gone hand in hand, and when one is lost it is needless to look for
the other."
"I know not about that," said brother John. "I know only that the words
come kindly to my mouth, for it was the speech of my fathers before me.
Under your favor, I shall either use it now or hold my peace."
The Abbot patted his foot and nodded his head, as one who passes a point
but does not forget it.
"For the matter of the ale," continued brother John, "I had come in hot
from the fields and had scarce got the taste of the thing before
mine eye lit upon the bottom of the pot. It may be, too, that I spoke
somewhat shortly concerning the bran and the beans, the same being poor
provender and unfitted for a man of my inches. It is true also that I
did lay my hands upon this jack-fool of a brother Ambrose, though, as
you can see, I did him little scathe. As regards the maid, too, it is
true that I did heft her over the stream, she having on her hosen and
shoon, whilst I had but my wooden sandals, which could take no hurt from
the water. I should have thought shame upon my manhood, as well as my
monkhood, if I had held back my hand from her." He glanced around as
he spoke with the half-amused look which he had worn during the whole
proceedings.
"There is no need to go further," said the Abbot. "He has confessed to
all. It only remains for me to portion out the punishment which is due
to his evil conduct."
He rose, and the two long lines of brothers followed his example,
looking sideways with scared faces at the angry prelate.
"John of Hordle," he thundered, "you have shown yourself during the two
months of your novitiate to be a recreant monk, and one who is unworthy
to wear the white garb which is the outer symbol of the spotless spirit.
That dress shall therefore be stripped from thee, and thou shalt be cast
into the outer world without benefit of clerkship, and without lot or
part in the graces and blessings of those who dwell under the care of
the Blessed Benedict. Thou shalt come back neither to Beaulieu nor to
any of the granges of Beaulieu, and thy name shall be struck off the
scrolls of the order."
The sentence appeared a terrible one to the older monks, who had become
so used to the safe and regular life of the Abbey that they would have
been as helpless as children in the outer world. From their pious
oasis they looked dreamily out at the desert of life, a place full of
stormings and strivings—comfortless, restless, and overshadowed by
evil. The young novice, however, appeared to have other thoughts, for
his eyes sparkled and his smile broadened. It needed but that to add
fresh fuel to the fiery mood of the prelate.
"So much for thy spiritual punishment," he cried. "But it is to thy
grosser feelings that we must turn in such natures as thine, and as
thou art no longer under the shield of holy church there is the less
difficulty. Ho there! lay-brothers—Francis, Naomi, Joseph—seize him
and bind his arms! Drag him forth, and let the foresters and the porters
scourge him from the precincts!"
As these three brothers advanced towards him to carry out the Abbot's
direction, the smile faded from the novice's face, and he glanced right
and left with his fierce brown eyes, like a bull at a baiting. Then,
with a sudden deep-chested shout, he tore up the heavy oaken prie-dieu
and poised it to strike, taking two steps backward the while, that none
might take him at a vantage.
"By the black rood of Waltham!" he roared, "if any knave among you lays
a finger-end upon the edge of my gown, I will crush his skull like a
filbert!" With his thick knotted arms, his thundering voice, and his
bristle of red hair, there was something so repellent in the man that
the three brothers flew back at the very glare of him; and the two rows
of white monks strained away from him like poplars in a tempest. The
Abbot only sprang forward with shining eyes; but the chancellor and the
master hung upon either arm and wrested him back out of danger's way.
"He is possessed of a devil!" they shouted. "Run, brother Ambrose,
brother Joachim! Call Hugh of the Mill, and Woodman Wat, and Raoul with
his arbalest and bolts. Tell them that we are in fear of our lives! Run,
run! for the love of the ***!"
But the novice was a strategist as well as a man of action. Springing
forward, he hurled his unwieldy weapon at brother Ambrose, and, as desk
and monk clattered on to the floor together, he sprang through the open
door and down the winding stair. Sleepy old brother Athanasius, at
the porter's cell, had a fleeting vision of twinkling feet and flying
skirts; but before he had time to rub his eyes the recreant had passed
the lodge, and was speeding as fast as his sandals could patter along
the Lyndhurst Road.
End of Chapter I
CHAPTER II. HOW ALLEYNE EDRICSON CAME OUT INTO THE WORLD.
Never had the peaceful atmosphere of the old Cistercian house been so
rudely ruffled. Never had there been insurrection so sudden, so short,
and so successful. Yet the Abbot Berghersh was a man of too firm a grain
to allow one bold outbreak to imperil the settled order of his great
household. In a few hot and bitter words, he compared their false
brother's exit to the expulsion of our first parents from the garden,
and more than hinted that unless a reformation occurred some others of
the community might find themselves in the same evil and perilous case.
Having thus pointed the moral and reduced his flock to a fitting state
of docility, he dismissed them once more to their labors and withdrew
himself to his own private chamber, there to seek spiritual aid in the
discharge of the duties of his high office.
The Abbot was still on his knees, when a gentle tapping at the door of
his cell broke in upon his orisons.
Rising in no very good humor at the interruption, he gave the word to
enter; but his look of impatience softened down into a pleasant and
paternal smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.
He was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middle size,
comely and well shapen, with straight, lithe figure and eager, boyish
features. His clear, pensive gray eyes, and quick, delicate expression,
spoke of a nature which had unfolded far from the boisterous joys and
sorrows of the world. Yet there was a set of the mouth and a prominence
of the chin which relieved him of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive
he might be, enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and
adaptive in his disposition; but an observer of nature's tokens would
have confidently pledged himself that there was native firmness and
strength underlying his gentle, monk-bred ways.
The youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire, though his
jerkin, cloak and hose were all of a sombre hue, as befitted one who
dwelt in sacred precincts. A broad leather strap hanging from his
shoulder supported a scrip or satchel such as travellers were wont to
carry. In one hand he grasped a thick staff pointed and shod with metal,
while in the other he held his coif or bonnet, which bore in its front a
broad pewter medal stamped with the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour.
"Art ready, then, fair son?" said the Abbot. "This is indeed a day of
comings and of goings. It is strange that in one twelve hours the Abbey
should have cast off its foulest weed and should now lose what we are
fain to look upon as our choicest blossom."
"You speak too kindly, father," the youth answered. "If I had my will I
should never go forth, but should end my days here in Beaulieu. It hath
been my home as far back as my mind can carry me, and it is a sore thing
for me to have to leave it."
"Life brings many a cross," said the Abbot gently. "Who is without them?
Your going forth is a grief to us as well as to yourself. But there
is no help. I had given my foreword and sacred promise to your father,
Edric the Franklin, that at the age of twenty you should be sent out
into the world to see for yourself how you liked the savor of it. Seat
thee upon the settle, Alleyne, for you may need rest ere long."
The youth sat down as directed, but reluctantly and with diffidence.
The Abbot stood by the narrow window, and his long black shadow fell
slantwise across the rush-strewn floor.
"Twenty years ago," he said, "your father, the Franklin of Minstead,
died, leaving to the Abbey three hides of rich land in the hundred of
Malwood, and leaving to us also his infant son on condition that we
should rear him until he came to man's estate. This he did partly
because your mother was dead, and partly because your elder brother,
now Socman of Minstead, had already given sign of that fierce and rude
nature which would make him no fit companion for you. It was his desire
and request, however, that you should not remain in the cloisters, but
should at a ripe age return into the world."
"But, father," interrupted the young man "it is surely true that I am
already advanced several degrees in clerkship?"
"Yes, fair son, but not so far as to bar you from the garb you now wear
or the life which you must now lead. You have been porter?"
"Yes, father."
"Exorcist?"
"Yes, father."
"Reader?"
"Yes, father."
"Acolyte?"
"Yes, father."
"But have sworn no vow of constancy or chastity?"
"No, father."
"Then you are free to follow a worldly life. But let me hear, ere you
start, what gifts you take away with you from Beaulieu? Some I already
know. There is the playing of the citole and the rebeck. Our choir will
be dumb without you. You carve too?"
The youth's pale face flushed with the pride of the skilled workman.
"Yes, holy father," he answered. "Thanks to good brother Bartholomew, I
carve in wood and in ivory, and can do something also in silver and
in bronze. From brother Francis I have learned to paint on vellum, on
glass, and on metal, with a knowledge of those pigments and essences
which can preserve the color against damp or a biting air. Brother
Luke hath given me some skill in damask work, and in the enamelling of
shrines, tabernacles, diptychs and triptychs. For the rest, I know a
little of the making of covers, the cutting of precious stones, and the
fashioning of instruments."
"A goodly list, truly," cried the superior with a smile. "What clerk of
Cambrig or of Oxenford could say as much? But of thy reading—hast not
so much to show there, I fear?"
"No, father, it hath been slight enough. Yet, thanks to our good
chancellor, I am not wholly unlettered. I have read Ockham, Bradwardine,
and other of the schoolmen, together with the learned Duns Scotus and
the book of the holy Aquinas."
"But of the things of this world, what have you gathered from your
reading? From this high window you may catch a glimpse over the wooden
point and the smoke of Bucklershard of the mouth of the Exe, and the
shining sea. Now, I pray you Alleyne, if a man were to take a ship and
spread sail across yonder waters, where might he hope to arrive?"
The youth pondered, and drew a plan amongst the rushes with the point
of his staff. "Holy father," said he, "he would come upon those parts
of France which are held by the King's Majesty. But if he trended to the
south he might reach Spain and the Barbary States. To his north would be
Flanders and the country of the Eastlanders and of the Muscovites."
"True. And how if, after reaching the King's possessions, he still
journeyed on to the eastward?"
"He would then come upon that part of France which is still in dispute,
and he might hope to reach the famous city of Avignon, where dwells our
blessed father, the prop of Christendom."
"And then?"
"Then he would pass through the land of the Almains and the great Roman
Empire, and so to the country of the Huns and of the Lithuanian pagans,
beyond which lies the great city of Constantine and the kingdom of the
unclean followers of Mahmoud."
"And beyond that, fair son?"
"Beyond that is Jerusalem and the Holy Land, and the great river which
hath its source in the Garden of Eden."
"And then?"
"Nay, good father, I cannot tell. Methinks the end of the world is not
far from there."
"Then we can still find something to teach thee, Alleyne," said the
Abbot complaisantly. "Know that many strange nations lie betwixt there
and the end of the world. There is the country of the Amazons, and the
country of the dwarfs, and the country of the fair but evil women who
slay with beholding, like the basilisk. Beyond that again is the kingdom
of Prester John and of the great Cham. These things I know for very
sooth, for I had them from that pious Christian and valiant knight, Sir
John de Mandeville, who stopped twice at Beaulieu on his way to and from
Southampton, and discoursed to us concerning what he had seen from the
reader's desk in the refectory, until there was many a good brother who
got neither bit nor sup, so stricken were they by his strange tales."
"I would fain know, father," asked the young man, "what there may be at
the end of the world?"
"There are some things," replied the Abbot gravely, "into which it was
never intended that we should inquire. But you have a long road before
you. Whither will you first turn?"
"To my brother's at Minstead. If he be indeed an ungodly and violent
man, there is the more need that I should seek him out and see whether I
cannot turn him to better ways."
The Abbot shook his head. "The Socman of Minstead hath earned an evil
name over the country side," he said. "If you must go to him, see at
least that he doth not turn you from the narrow path upon which you have
learned to tread. But you are in God's keeping, and Godward should you
ever look in danger and in trouble. Above all, shun the snares of women,
for they are ever set for the foolish feet of the young. Kneel down, my
child, and take an old man's blessing."
Alleyne Edricson bent his head while the Abbot poured out his heartfelt
supplication that Heaven would watch over this young soul, now going
forth into the darkness and danger of the world. It was no mere form for
either of them. To them the outside life of mankind did indeed seem to
be one of violence and of sin, beset with physical and still more with
spiritual danger. Heaven, too, was very near to them in those days.
God's direct agency was to be seen in the thunder and the rainbow,
the whirlwind and the lightning. To the believer, clouds of angels and
confessors, and martyrs, armies of the sainted and the saved, were
ever stooping over their struggling brethren upon earth, raising,
encouraging, and supporting them. It was then with a lighter heart and
a stouter courage that the young man turned from the Abbot's room, while
the latter, following him to the stair-head, finally commended him to
the protection of the holy Julian, patron of travellers.
Underneath, in the porch of the Abbey, the monks had gathered to give
him a last God-speed. Many had brought some parting token by which he
should remember them. There was brother Bartholomew with a crucifix of
rare carved ivory, and brother Luke with a white-backed psalter
adorned with golden bees, and brother Francis with the "Slaying of the
Innocents" most daintily set forth upon vellum. All these were
duly packed away deep in the traveller's scrip, and above them old
pippin-faced brother Athanasius had placed a parcel of simnel bread and
rammel cheese, with a small flask of the famous blue-sealed Abbey wine.
So, amid hand-shakings and laughings and blessings, Alleyne Edricson
turned his back upon Beaulieu.
At the turn of the road he stopped and gazed back. There was the
wide-spread building which he knew so well, the Abbot's house, the long
church, the cloisters with their line of arches, all bathed and mellowed
in the evening sun. There too was the broad sweep of the river Exe, the
old stone well, the canopied niche of the ***, and in the centre of
all the cluster of white-robed figures who waved their hands to him. A
sudden mist swam up before the young man's eyes, and he turned away upon
his journey with a heavy heart and a choking throat.
End of Chapter II
CHAPTER III. HOW HORDLE JOHN COZENED THE FULLER OF LYMINGTON.
It is not, however, in the nature of things that a lad of twenty, with
young life glowing in his veins and all the wide world before him,
should spend his first hours of freedom in mourning for what he had
left. Long ere Alleyne was out of sound of the Beaulieu bells he was
striding sturdily along, swinging his staff and whistling as merrily as
the birds in the thicket. It was an evening to raise a man's heart. The
sun shining slantwise through the trees threw delicate traceries across
the road, with bars of golden light between. Away in the distance
before and behind, the green boughs, now turning in places to a coppery
redness, shot their broad arches across the track. The still summer air
was heavy with the resinous smell of the great forest. Here and there a
tawny brook prattled out from among the underwood and lost itself again
in the ferns and brambles upon the further side. Save the dull piping of
insects and the sough of the leaves, there was silence everywhere—the
sweet restful silence of nature.
And yet there was no want of life—the whole wide wood was full of it.
Now it was a lithe, furtive stoat which shot across the path upon some
fell errand of its own; then it was a wild cat which squatted upon the
outlying branch of an oak and peeped at the traveller with a yellow and
dubious eye. Once it was a wild sow which scuttled out of the bracken,
with two young sounders at her heels, and once a lordly red staggard
walked daintily out from among the tree trunks, and looked around
him with the fearless gaze of one who lived under the King's own high
protection. Alleyne gave his staff a merry flourish, however, and the
red deer bethought him that the King was far off, so streaked away from
whence he came.
The youth had now journeyed considerably beyond the furthest domains of
the Abbey. He was the more surprised therefore when, on coming round a
turn in the path, he perceived a man clad in the familiar garb of the
order, and seated in a clump of heather by the roadside. Alleyne had
known every brother well, but this was a face which was new to him—a
face which was very red and puffed, working this way and that, as
though the man were sore perplexed in his mind. Once he shook both hands
furiously in the air, and twice he sprang from his seat and hurried down
the road. When he rose, however, Alleyne observed that his robe was much
too long and loose for him in every direction, trailing upon the ground
and bagging about his ankles, so that even with trussed-up skirts he
could make little progress. He ran once, but the long gown clogged him
so that he slowed down into a shambling walk, and finally plumped into
the heather once more.
"Young friend," said he, when Alleyne was abreast of him, "I fear from
thy garb that thou canst know little of the Abbey of Beaulieu."
"Then you are in error, friend," the clerk answered, "for I have spent
all my days within its walls."
"Hast so indeed?" cried he. "Then perhaps canst tell me the name of
a great loathly lump of a brother wi' freckled face an' a hand like a
spade. His eyes were black an' his hair was red an' his voice like
the parish bull. I trow that there cannot be two alike in the same
cloisters."
"That surely can be no other than brother John," said Alleyne. "I trust
he has done you no wrong, that you should be so hot against him."
"Wrong, quotha?" cried the other, jumping out of the heather. "Wrong!
why he hath stolen every plack of clothing off my back, if that be a
wrong, and hath left me here in this sorry frock of white falding, so
that I have shame to go back to my wife, lest she think that I have
donned her old kirtle. Harrow and alas that ever I should have met him!"
"But how came this?" asked the young clerk, who could scarce keep from
laughter at the sight of the hot little man so swathed in the great
white cloak.
"It came in this way," he said, sitting down once more: "I was passing
this way, hoping to reach Lymington ere nightfall when I came on this
red-headed knave seated even where we are sitting now. I uncovered and
louted as I passed thinking that he might be a holy man at his orisons,
but he called to me and asked me if I had heard speak of the new
indulgence in favor of the Cistercians. 'Not I,' I answered. 'Then the
worse for thy soul!' said he; and with that he broke into a long tale
how that on account of the virtues of the Abbot Berghersh it had been
decreed by the Pope that whoever should wear the habit of a monk of
Beaulieu for as long as he might say the seven psalms of David should be
assured of the kingdom of Heaven. When I heard this I prayed him on
my knees that he would give me the use of his gown, which after many
contentions he at last agreed to do, on my paying him three marks
towards the regilding of the image of Laurence the martyr. Having
stripped his robe, I had no choice but to let him have the wearing of my
good leathern jerkin and hose, for, as he said, it was chilling to
the blood and unseemly to the eye to stand frockless whilst I made my
orisons. He had scarce got them on, and it was a sore labor, seeing that
my inches will scarce match my girth—he had scarce got them on, I say,
and I not yet at the end of the second psalm, when he bade me do honor
to my new dress, and with that set off down the road as fast as feet
would carry him. For myself, I could no more run than if I had been sown
in a sack; so here I sit, and here I am like to sit, before I set eyes
upon my clothes again."
"Nay, friend, take it not so sadly," said Alleyne, clapping the
disconsolate one upon the shoulder. "Canst change thy robe for a jerkin
once more at the Abbey, unless perchance you have a friend near at
hand."
"That have I," he answered, "and close; but I care not to go nigh him in
this plight, for his wife hath a gibing tongue, and will spread the
tale until I could not show my face in any market from Fordingbridge
to Southampton. But if you, fair sir, out of your kind charity would be
pleased to go a matter of two bow-shots out of your way, you would do me
such a service as I could scarce repay."
"With all my heart," said Alleyne readily.
"Then take this pathway on the left, I pray thee, and then the
deer-track which passes on the right. You will then see under a great
beech-tree the hut of a charcoal-burner. Give him my name, good sir,
the name of Peter the fuller, of Lymington, and ask him for a change of
raiment, that I may pursue my journey without delay. There are reasons
why he would be loth to refuse me."
Alleyne started off along the path indicated, and soon found the log-hut
where the burner dwelt. He was away ***-cutting in the forest, but
his wife, a ruddy bustling dame, found the needful garments and tied
them into a bundle. While she busied herself in finding and folding
them, Alleyne Edricson stood by the open door looking in at her with
much interest and some distrust, for he had never been so nigh to a
woman before. She had round red arms, a dress of some sober woollen
stuff, and a brass brooch the size of a cheese-cake stuck in the front
of it.
"Peter the fuller!" she kept repeating. "Marry come up! if I were Peter
the fuller's wife I would teach him better than to give his clothes to
the first knave who asks for them. But he was always a poor, fond, silly
creature, was Peter, though we are beholden to him for helping to bury
our second son Wat, who was a 'prentice to him at Lymington in the year
of the Black Death. But who are you, young sir?"
"I am a clerk on my road from Beaulieu to Minstead."
"Aye, indeed! Hast been brought up at the Abbey then. I could read it
from thy reddened cheek and downcast eye. Hast learned from the monks, I
trow, to fear a woman as thou wouldst a lazar-house. Out upon them! that
they should dishonor their own mothers by such teaching. A pretty world
it would be with all the women out of it."
"Heaven forfend that such a thing should come to pass!" said Alleyne.
"Amen and amen! But thou art a pretty lad, and the prettier for thy
modest ways. It is easy to see from thy cheek that thou hast not spent
thy days in the rain and the heat and the wind, as my poor Wat hath been
forced to do."
"I have indeed seen little of life, good dame."
"Wilt find nothing in it to pay for the loss of thy own freshness. Here
are the clothes, and Peter can leave them when next he comes this way.
Holy ***! see the dust upon thy doublet! It were easy to see that
there is no woman to tend to thee. So!—that is better. Now buss me,
boy."
Alleyne stooped and kissed her, for the kiss was the common salutation
of the age, and, as Erasmus long afterwards remarked, more used in
England than in any other country. Yet it sent the blood to his temples
again, and he wondered, as he turned away, what the Abbot Berghersh
would have answered to so frank an invitation. He was still tingling
from this new experience when he came out upon the high-road and saw a
sight which drove all other thoughts from his mind.
Some way down from where he had left him the unfortunate Peter was
stamping and raving tenfold worse than before. Now, however, instead of
the great white cloak, he had no clothes on at all, save a short woollen
shirt and a pair of leather shoes. Far down the road a long-legged
figure was running, with a bundle under one arm and the other hand to
his side, like a man who laughs until he is sore.
"See him!" yelled Peter. "Look to him! You shall be my witness. He shall
see Winchester jail for this. See where he goes with my cloak under his
arm!"
"Who then?" cried Alleyne.
"Who but that cursed brother John. He hath not left me clothes enough to
make a gallybagger. The double thief hath cozened me out of my gown."
"Stay though, my friend, it was his gown," objected Alleyne.
"It boots not. He hath them all—gown, jerkin, hosen and all. Gramercy
to him that he left me the shirt and the shoon. I doubt not that he will
be back for them anon."
"But how came this?" asked Alleyne, open-eyed with astonishment.
"Are those the clothes? For dear charity's sake give them to me. Not the
Pope himself shall have these from me, though he sent the whole college
of cardinals to ask it. How came it? Why, you had scarce gone ere this
loathly John came running back again, and, when I oped mouth to reproach
him, he asked me whether it was indeed likely that a man of prayer would
leave his own godly raiment in order to take a layman's jerkin. He
had, he said, but gone for a while that I might be the freer for my
devotions. On this I plucked off the gown, and he with much show of
haste did begin to undo his points; but when I threw his frock down
he clipped it up and ran off all untrussed, leaving me in this sorry
plight. He laughed so the while, like a great croaking frog, that I
might have caught him had my breath not been as short as his legs were
long."
The young man listened to this tale of wrong with all the seriousness
that he could maintain; but at the sight of the pursy red-faced man and
the dignity with which he bore him, the laughter came so thick upon him
that he had to lean up against a tree-trunk. The fuller looked sadly and
gravely at him; but finding that he still laughed, he bowed with much
mock politeness and stalked onwards in his borrowed clothes. Alleyne
watched him until he was small in the distance, and then, wiping the
tears from his eyes, he set off briskly once more upon his journey.
End of Chapter III
CHAPTER IV. HOW THE BAILIFF OF SOUTHAMPTON SLEW THE TWO MASTERLESS MEN.
The road along which he travelled was scarce as populous as most other
roads in the kingdom, and far less so than those which lie between the
larger towns. Yet from time to time Alleyne met other wayfarers, and
more than once was overtaken by strings of pack mules and horsemen
journeying in the same direction as himself. Once a begging friar came
limping along in a brown habit, imploring in a most dolorous voice to
give him a single groat to buy bread wherewith to save himself from
impending death. Alleyne passed him swiftly by, for he had learned from
the monks to have no love for the wandering friars, and, besides, there
was a great half-gnawed mutton bone sticking out of his pouch to prove
him a liar. Swiftly as he went, however, he could not escape the curse
of the four blessed evangelists which the mendicant howled behind him.
So dreadful are his execrations that the frightened lad thrust his
fingers into his ear-holes, and ran until the fellow was but a brown
smirch upon the yellow road.
Further on, at the edge of the woodland, he came upon a chapman and his
wife, who sat upon a fallen tree. He had put his pack down as a table,
and the two of them were devouring a great pasty, and washing it down
with some drink from a stone jar. The chapman broke a rough jest as he
passed, and the woman called shrilly to Alleyne to come and join them,
on which the man, turning suddenly from mirth to wrath, began to belabor
her with his cudgel. Alleyne hastened on, lest he make more mischief,
and his heart was heavy as lead within him. Look where he would, he
seemed to see nothing but injustice and violence and the hardness of man
to man.
But even as he brooded sadly over it and pined for the sweet peace of
the Abbey, he came on an open space dotted with holly bushes, where was
the strangest sight that he had yet chanced upon. Near to the pathway
lay a long clump of greenery, and from behind this there stuck straight
up into the air four human legs clad in parti-colored hosen, yellow and
black. Strangest of all was when a brisk tune struck suddenly up and
the four legs began to kick and twitter in time to the music. Walking on
tiptoe round the bushes, he stood in amazement to see two men bounding
about on their heads, while they played, the one a viol and the other
a pipe, as merrily and as truly as though they were seated in a choir.
Alleyne crossed himself as he gazed at this unnatural sight, and
could scarce hold his ground with a steady face, when the two dancers,
catching sight of him, came bouncing in his direction. A spear's length
from him, they each threw a somersault into the air, and came down upon
their feet with smirking faces and their hands over their hearts.
"A guerdon—a guerdon, my knight of the staring eyes!" cried one.
"A gift, my prince!" shouted the other. "Any trifle will serve—a purse
of gold, or even a jewelled goblet."
Alleyne thought of what he had read of demoniac possession—the
jumpings, the twitchings, the wild talk. It was in his mind to repeat
over the exorcism proper to such attacks; but the two burst out
a-laughing at his scared face, and turning on to their heads once more,
clapped their heels in derision.
"Hast never seen tumblers before?" asked the elder, a black-browed,
swarthy man, as brown and supple as a hazel twig. "Why shrink from us,
then, as though we were the spawn of the Evil One?"
"Why shrink, my honey-bird? Why so afeard, my sweet cinnamon?" exclaimed
the other, a loose-jointed lanky youth with a dancing, roguish eye.
"Truly, sirs, it is a new sight to me," the clerk answered. "When I saw
your four legs above the bush I could scarce credit my own eyes. Why is
it that you do this thing?"
"A dry question to answer," cried the younger, coming back on to
his feet. "A most husky question, my fair bird! But how? A flask, a
flask!—by all that is wonderful!" He shot out his hand as he spoke, and
plucking Alleyne's bottle out of his scrip, he deftly knocked the neck
off, and poured the half of it down his throat. The rest he handed to
his comrade, who drank the wine, and then, to the clerk's increasing
amazement, made a show of swallowing the bottle, with such skill
that Alleyne seemed to see it vanish down his throat. A moment later,
however, he flung it over his head, and caught it bottom downwards upon
the calf of his left leg.
"We thank you for the wine, kind sir," said he, "and for the ready
courtesy wherewith you offered it. Touching your question, we may tell
you that we are strollers and jugglers, who, having performed with much
applause at Winchester fair, are now on our way to the great Michaelmas
market at Ringwood. As our art is a very fine and delicate one, however,
we cannot let a day go by without exercising ourselves in it, to which
end we choose some quiet and sheltered spot where we may break our
journey. Here you find us; and we cannot wonder that you, who are new to
tumbling, should be astounded, since many great barons, earls, marshals
and knight, who have wandered as far as the Holy Land, are of one
mind in saying that they have never seen a more noble or gracious
performance. If you will be pleased to sit upon that stump, we will now
continue our exercise."
Alleyne sat down willingly as directed with two great bundles on
either side of him which contained the strollers' dresses—doublets of
flame-colored silk and girdles of leather, spangled with brass and tin.
The jugglers were on their heads once more, bounding about with rigid
necks, playing the while in perfect time and tune. It chanced that out
of one of the bundles there stuck the end of what the clerk saw to be
a cittern, so drawing it forth, he tuned it up and twanged a harmony to
the merry lilt which the dancers played. On that they dropped their own
instruments, and putting their hands to the ground they hopped about
faster and faster, ever shouting to him to play more briskly, until at
last for very weariness all three had to stop.
"Well played, sweet poppet!" cried the younger. "Hast a rare touch on
the strings."
"How knew you the tune?" asked the other.
"I knew it not. I did but follow the notes I heard."
Both opened their eyes at this, and stared at Alleyne with as much
amazement as he had shown at them.
"You have a fine trick of ear then," said one. "We have long wished to
meet such a man. Wilt join us and jog on to Ringwood? Thy duties shall
be light, and thou shalt have two-pence a day and meat for supper every
night."
"With as much beer as you can put away," said the other "and a flask of
Gascon wine on Sabbaths."
"Nay, it may not be. I have other work to do. I have tarried with you
over long," quoth Alleyne, and resolutely set forth upon his journey
once more. They ran behind him some little way, offering him first
fourpence and then sixpence a day, but he only smiled and shook his
head, until at last they fell away from him. Looking back, he saw that
the smaller had mounted on the younger's shoulders, and that they stood
so, some ten feet high, waving their adieus to him. He waved back to
them, and then hastened on, the lighter of heart for having fallen in
with these strange men of pleasure.
Alleyne had gone no great distance for all the many small passages that
had befallen him. Yet to him, used as he was to a life of such quiet
that the failure of a brewing or the altering of an anthem had seemed
to be of the deepest import, the quick changing play of the lights and
shadows of life was strangely startling and interesting. A gulf seemed
to divide this brisk uncertain existence from the old steady round of
work and of prayer which he had left behind him. The few hours that had
passed since he saw the Abbey tower stretched out in his memory until
they outgrew whole months of the stagnant life of the cloister. As he
walked and munched the soft bread from his scrip, it seemed strange to
him to feel that it was still warm from the ovens of Beaulieu.
When he passed Penerley, where were three cottages and a barn, he
reached the edge of the tree country, and found the great barren heath
of Blackdown stretching in front of him, all pink with heather and
bronzed with the fading ferns. On the left the woods were still thick,
but the road edged away from them and wound over the open. The sun lay
low in the west upon a purple cloud, whence it threw a mild, chastening
light over the wild moorland and glittered on the fringe of forest
turning the withered leaves into flakes of dead gold, the brighter for
the black depths behind them. To the seeing eye decay is as fair as
growth, and death as life. The thought stole into Alleyne's heart as he
looked upon the autumnal country side and marvelled at its beauty. He
had little time to dwell upon it however, for there were still six good
miles between him and the nearest inn. He sat down by the roadside
to partake of his bread and cheese, and then with a lighter scrip he
hastened upon his way.
There appeared to be more wayfarers on the down than in the forest.
First he passed two Dominicans in their long black dresses, who swept by
him with downcast looks and pattering lips, without so much as a glance
at him. Then there came a gray friar, or minorite, with a good paunch
upon him, walking slowly and looking about him with the air of a man who
was at peace with himself and with all men. He stopped Alleyne to ask
him whether it was not true that there was a hostel somewhere in those
parts which was especially famous for the stewing of eels. The clerk
having made answer that he had heard the eels of Sowley well spoken of,
the friar sucked in his lips and hurried forward. Close at his heels
came three laborers walking abreast, with spade and mattock over their
shoulders. They sang some rude chorus right tunefully as they walked,
but their English was so coarse and rough that to the ears of a
cloister-bred man it sounded like a foreign and barbarous tongue. One
of them carried a young bittern which they had caught upon the moor, and
they offered it to Alleyne for a silver groat. Very glad he was to get
safely past them, for, with their bristling red beards and their fierce
blue eyes, they were uneasy men to bargain with upon a lonely moor.
Yet it is not always the burliest and the wildest who are the most to
be dreaded. The workers looked hungrily at him, and then jogged onwards
upon their way in slow, lumbering Saxon style. A worse man to deal with
was a wooden-legged cripple who came hobbling down the path, so weak and
so old to all appearance that a child need not stand in fear of him.
Yet when Alleyne had passed him, of a sudden, out of pure devilment, he
screamed out a curse at him, and sent a jagged flint stone hurtling past
his ear. So horrid was the causeless rage of the crooked creature, that
the clerk came over a cold thrill, and took to his heels until he was
out of shot from stone or word. It seemed to him that in this country
of England there was no protection for a man save that which lay in the
strength of his own arm and the speed of his own foot. In the cloisters
he had heard vague talk of the law—the mighty law which was higher than
prelate or baron, yet no sign could he see of it. What was the benefit
of a law written fair upon parchment, he wondered, if there were no
officers to enforce it. As it fell out, however, he had that very
evening, ere the sun had set, a chance of seeing how stern was the grip
of the English law when it did happen to seize the offender.
A mile or so out upon the moor the road takes a very sudden dip into a
hollow, with a peat-colored stream running swiftly down the centre
of it. To the right of this stood, and stands to this day, an ancient
barrow, or burying mound, covered deeply in a bristle of heather and
bracken. Alleyne was plodding down the slope upon one side, when he saw
an old dame coming towards him upon the other, limping with weariness
and leaning heavily upon a stick. When she reached the edge of the
stream she stood helpless, looking to right and to left for some ford.
Where the path ran down a great stone had been fixed in the centre of
the brook, but it was too far from the bank for her aged and uncertain
feet. Twice she thrust forward at it, and twice she drew back, until at
last, giving up in despair, she sat herself down by the brink and
wrung her hands wearily. There she still sat when Alleyne reached the
crossing.
"Come, mother," quoth he, "it is not so very perilous a passage."
"Alas! good youth," she answered, "I have a humor in the eyes, and
though I can see that there is a stone there I can by no means be sure
as to where it lies."
"That is easily amended," said he cheerily, and picking her lightly up,
for she was much worn with time, he passed across with her. He could
not but observe, however, that as he placed her down her knees seemed to
fail her, and she could scarcely prop herself up with her staff.
"You are weak, mother," said he. "Hast journeyed far, I wot."
"From Wiltshire, friend," said she, in a quavering voice; "three days
have I been on the road. I go to my son, who is one of the King's
regarders at Brockenhurst. He has ever said that he would care for me in
mine old age."
"And rightly too, mother, since you cared for him in his youth. But when
have you broken fast?"
"At Lyndenhurst; but alas! my money is at an end, and I could but get a
dish of bran-porridge from the nunnery. Yet I trust that I may be able
to reach Brockenhurst to-night, where I may have all that heart can
desire; for oh! sir, but my son is a fine man, with a kindly heart of
his own, and it is as good as food to me to think that he should have a
doublet of Lincoln green to his back and be the King's own paid man."
"It is a long road yet to Brockenhurst," said Alleyne; "but here is such
bread and cheese as I have left, and here, too, is a penny which may
help you to supper. May God be with you!"
"May God be with you, young man!" she cried. "May He make your heart as
glad as you have made mine!" She turned away, still mumbling blessings,
and Alleyne saw her short figure and her long shadow stumbling slowly up
the slope.
He was moving away himself, when his eyes lit upon a strange sight, and
one which sent a tingling through his skin. Out of the tangled scrub on
the old overgrown barrow two human faces were looking out at him; the
sinking sun glimmered full upon them, showing up every line and feature.
The one was an oldish man with a thin beard, a crooked nose, and a broad
red smudge from a birth-mark over his temple; the other was a ***, a
thing rarely met in England at that day, and rarer still in the quiet
southland parts. Alleyne had read of such folk, but had never seen one
before, and could scarce take his eyes from the fellow's broad pouting
lip and shining teeth. Even as he gazed, however, the two came writhing
out from among the heather, and came down towards him with such a
guilty, slinking carriage, that the clerk felt that there was no good in
them, and hastened onwards upon his way.
He had not gained the crown of the slope, when he heard a sudden scuffle
behind him and a feeble voice bleating for help. Looking round, there
was the old dame down upon the roadway, with her red whimple flying on
the breeze, while the two rogues, black and white, stooped over her,
wresting away from her the penny and such other poor trifles as were
worth the taking. At the sight of her thin limbs struggling in weak
resistance, such a glow of fierce anger passed over Alleyne as set his
head in a whirl. Dropping his scrip, he bounded over the stream once
more, and made for the two villains, with his staff whirled over his
shoulder and his gray eyes blazing with fury.
The robbers, however, were not disposed to leave their victim until they
had worked their wicked will upon her. The black man, with the woman's
crimson scarf tied round his swarthy head, stood forward in the centre
of the path, with a long dull-colored knife in his hand, while the
other, waving a ragged cudgel, cursed at Alleyne and dared him to
come on. His blood was fairly aflame, however, and he needed no such
challenge. Dashing at the black man, he smote at him with such good will
that the other let his knife *** into the roadway, and hopped howling
to a safer distance. The second rogue, however, made of sterner stuff,
rushed in upon the clerk, and clipped him round the waist with a grip
like a bear, shouting the while to his comrade to come round and stab
him in the back. At this the *** took heart of grace, and picking up
his dagger again he came stealing with prowling step and murderous eye,
while the two swayed backwards and forwards, staggering this way and
that. In the very midst of the scuffle, however, whilst Alleyne braced
himself to feel the cold blade between his shoulders, there came a
sudden scurry of hoofs, and the black man yelled with terror and ran
for his life through the heather. The man with the birth-mark, too,
struggled to break away, and Alleyne heard his teeth chatter and felt
his limbs grow limp to his hand. At this sign of coming aid the clerk
held on the tighter, and at last was able to pin his man down and
glanced behind him to see where all the noise was coming from.
Down the slanting road there was riding a big, burly man, clad in a
tunic of purple velvet and driving a great black horse as hard as
it could gallop. He leaned well over its neck as he rode, and made a
heaving with his shoulders at every bound as though he were lifting the
steed instead of it carrying him. In the rapid glance Alleyne saw that
he had white doeskin gloves, a curling white feather in his flat velvet
cap, and a broad gold, embroidered baldric across his ***. Behind him
rode six others, two and two, clad in sober brown jerkins, with the
long yellow staves of their bows thrusting out from behind their right
shoulders. Down the hill they thundered, over the brook and up to the
scene of the contest.
"Here is one!" said the leader, springing down from his reeking horse,
and seizing the white rogue by the edge of his jerkin. "This is one of
them. I know him by that devil's touch upon his brow. Where are your
cords, Peterkin? So! Bind him hand and foot. His last hour has come. And
you, young man, who may you be?"
"I am a clerk, sir, travelling from Beaulieu."
"A clerk!" cried the other. "Art from Oxenford or from Cambridge? Hast
thou a letter from the chancellor of thy college giving thee a permit
to beg? Let me see thy letter." He had a stern, square face, with bushy
side whiskers and a very questioning eye.
"I am from Beaulieu Abbey, and I have no need to beg," said Alleyne, who
was all of a tremble now that the ruffle was over.
"The better for thee," the other answered. "Dost know who I am?"
"No, sir, I do not."
"I am the law!"—nodding his head solemnly. "I am the law of England
and the mouthpiece of his most gracious and royal majesty, Edward the
Third."
Alleyne louted low to the King's representative. "Truly you came in good
time, honored sir," said he. "A moment later and they would have slain
me."
"But there should be another one," cried the man in the purple coat.
"There should be a black man. A shipman with St. Anthony's fire, and a
black man who had served him as cook—those are the pair that we are in
chase of."
"The black man fled over to that side," said Alleyne, pointing towards
the barrow.
"He could not have gone far, sir bailiff," cried one of the archers,
unslinging his bow. "He is in hiding somewhere, for he knew well, black
paynim as he is, that our horses' four legs could outstrip his two."
"Then we shall have him," said the other. "It shall never be said,
whilst I am bailiff of Southampton, that any waster, riever, draw-latch
or murtherer came scathless away from me and my posse. Leave that rogue
lying. Now stretch out in line, my merry ones, with arrow on string, and
I shall show you such sport as only the King can give. You on the left,
Howett, and Thomas of Redbridge upon the right. So! Beat high and low
among the heather, and a pot of wine to the lucky marksman."
As it chanced, however, the searchers had not far to seek. The *** had
burrowed down into his hiding-place upon the barrow, where he might have
lain snug enough, had it not been for the red gear upon his head. As
he raised himself to look over the bracken at his enemies, the staring
color caught the eye of the bailiff, who broke into a long screeching
whoop and spurred forward sword in hand. Seeing himself discovered,
the man rushed out from his hiding-place, and bounded at the top of
his speed down the line of archers, keeping a good hundred paces to the
front of them. The two who were on either side of Alleyne bent their
bows as calmly as though they were shooting at the popinjay at the
village fair.
"Seven yards windage, Hal," said one, whose hair was streaked with gray.
"Five," replied the other, letting loose his string. Alleyne gave a gulp
in his throat, for the yellow streak seemed to pass through the man; but
he still ran forward.
"Seven, you jack-fool," growled the first speaker, and his bow twanged
like a harp-string. The black man sprang high up into the air, and
shot out both his arms and his legs, coming down all a-sprawl among
the heather. "Right under the blade bone!" quoth the archer, sauntering
forward for his arrow.
"The old hound is the best when all is said," quoth the bailiff of
Southampton, as they made back for the roadway. "That means a quart of
the best malmsey in Southampton this very night, Matthew Atwood. Art
sure that he is dead?"
"Dead as Pontius Pilate, worshipful sir."
"It is well. Now, as to the other knave. There are trees and to spare
over yonder, but we have scarce leisure to make for them. Draw thy
sword, Thomas of Redbridge, and hew me his head from his shoulders."
"A boon, gracious sir, a boon!" cried the condemned man.
"What then?" asked the bailiff.
"I will confess to my crime. It was indeed I and the black cook, both
from the ship 'La Rose de Gloire,' of Southampton, who did set upon the
Flanders merchant and rob him of his spicery and his mercery, for which,
as we well know, you hold a warrant against us."
"There is little merit in this confession," quoth the bailiff sternly.
"Thou hast done evil within my bailiwick, and must die."
"But, sir," urged Alleyne, who was white to the lips at these bloody
doings, "he hath not yet come to trial."
"Young clerk," said the bailiff, "you speak of that of which you know
nothing. It is true that he hath not come to trial, but the trial hath
come to him. He hath fled the law and is beyond its pale. Touch not that
which is no concern of thine. But what is this boon, rogue, which you
would crave?"
"I have in my shoe, most worshipful sir, a strip of wood which belonged
once to the bark wherein the blessed Paul was dashed up against the
island of Melita. I bought it for two rose nobles from a shipman who
came from the Levant. The boon I crave is that you will place it in my
hands and let me die still grasping it. In this manner, not only shall
my own eternal salvation be secured, but thine also, for I shall never
cease to intercede for thee."
At the command of the bailiff they plucked off the fellow's shoe, and
there sure enough at the side of the instep, wrapped in a piece of fine
sendall, lay a long, dark splinter of wood. The archers doffed caps at
the sight of it, and the bailiff crossed himself devoutly as he handed
it to the robber.
"If it should chance," he said, "that through the surpassing merits of
the blessed Paul your sin-stained soul should gain a way into paradise,
I trust that you will not forget that intercession which you have
promised. Bear in mind too, that it is Herward the bailiff for whom you
pray, and not Herward the sheriff, who is my uncle's son. Now, Thomas, I
pray you dispatch, for we have a long ride before us and sun has already
set."
Alleyne gazed upon the scene—the portly velvet-clad official, the knot
of hard-faced archers with their hands to the bridles of their horses,
the thief with his arms trussed back and his doublet turned down upon
his shoulders. By the side of the track the old dame was standing,
fastening her red whimple once more round her head. Even as he looked
one of the archers drew his sword with a sharp whirr of steel and stept
up to the lost man. The clerk hurried away in horror; but, ere he
had gone many paces, he heard a sudden, sullen thump, with a choking,
whistling sound at the end of it. A minute later the bailiff and four
of his men rode past him on their journey back to Southampton, the other
two having been chosen as grave-diggers. As they passed Alleyne saw that
one of the men was wiping his sword-blade upon the mane of his horse.
A deadly sickness came over him at the sight, and sitting down by the
wayside he burst out weeping, with his nerves all in a jangle. It was a
terrible world thought he, and it was hard to know which were the most
to be dreaded, the knaves or the men of the law.
End of Chapter IV �