Gathering of Brother Hilarius Part 6

It is, for the most part, the moneyed man who flees from the face of Death; the poor man awaits him quietly, with patient indifference, in the field or under his own roof-tree; ay, and often flings the door wide for the guest, or hastens his coming.

Thus it came to pa.s.s 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 enc.u.mbered 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 b.l.o.o.d.y scourge wherewith to strike his fellow. At the third step they signed the sign of the Cross with their prostrate bodies on the ground; and thus in blood and penitence they went towards London.

Hilarius was familiar with the exercise but not the manner of it.

These strange, wild men filled him with horror, and he shrank back with the rest. Then a man sprang from among the watching crowd, tore off jerkin and shirt, and flung up his arms to heaven with a great sob.

"I left wife and children to perish alone," he cried, "and fled to save my miserable skin. Now may G.o.d have mercy on my soul, for I go back. Smite, and smite hard, brother!" and he stepped in front of the first flagellant.

At this there arose a cry from the folk that looked on, and many fell on their knees and confessed their sins, accusing themselves with groanings and tears; but Hilarius, seized with sudden terror, turned and fled blindly, without thought of direction, his eyes wide, the blood drumming in his ears, a great horror at his heels-- a horror that could drive a man from wife and child, that had driven brave Martin to flee against the wind, and all this folk to leave house and home to save that which most men count dearer than either.

At last, exhausted and panting, he stayed to rest, and saw, coming towards him, a blind friar. Hilarius had turned into a by-way in the hurry of his terror, and they two were alone. The friar was a small, mean-looking man, feeling his way by the aid of hand and staff; his face upturned, craving the light. He stopped when he came up with Hilarius, and turned his sightless eyes on him; a fire burnt in the dead ashes.

"Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord promised me?"

Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against his shoulder, felt Hilarius' face, not with the light and practised touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the while.

"Son, thou wilt come with me?"

"Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban's."

"Whence, my son?"

"From Westminster, good Father."

"Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monastery but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those from the pestilent cities. What would'st thou with the Abbat?"

Hilarius told him.

The friar flung up his hands.

"Laus Deo! Laus Deo!" he cried, "now I know thou art in very truth the lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all.

Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me carried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and h.e.l.l 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s, 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 h.e.l.l burnt in my eyes, and a worse anguish in my heart because of my mother's soul."

"And then, and then?" tried Hilarius breathlessly, tears of pure pity in his eyes.

"Then the Lord cared for me even as He cared for the Prophet Jonas, and sent a ship that His message might not be hindered. The shipmen were kindly folk, but we were driven out of our course by a great wind, and at last came ash.o.r.e in Lincolnshire. I have come south thus far by the aid of Christian men, but time presses; and now, lo! thou art here to guide me."

"But, my Father," said poor Hilarius, seeing yet another barrier in the way of his desires, "'tis a limner I would be; and I am from Westminster, not London, and then there is Prior Stephen's letter-- "

The friar held up his hand:

"Thou shalt be a limner, my son, the Lord hath revealed it to me.

Last night the vision came again, and a voice cried: 'Speed, for a son of Christ waits by the way to guide thy steps,' and lo! thou art here, waiting by the way, as the voice said. And now, son, an thou wilt come thou shalt take thy letter to Wymondham--'tis a cell of this Abbey--for there is Brother Andreas from overseas who hath wondrous skill with the brush; he will teach thee, for thou shalt say to him that Brother Amadeus sent thee, who is now as Bartimeus, waiting for the light of the Lord; but first thou shalt set me in that village of Bungay, where my mother dwelleth."

Hilarius listened, gazing awestruck at the withered eyes that vainly questioned his face. He had forgotten plague, death, flagellants, in this absorbing tale of the man of G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed swiftly down the road, their faces to the east.

CHAPTER V--THE WHITE WAY AND WHERE IT LED

It was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes' Eve; the snow fell heavily, caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind.

Hilarius and the Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met the full force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the darkness more complete. They struggled on, breathless, beaten, exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one hand, held the other across his bent head to shield himself from the buffets of the wind.

Suddenly he stood fast.

"I can no more, Father," he said, "the snow is as a wall; there is naught to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way."

His voice was very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support.

"I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as He opened the eyes of the prophet's servant in the besieged city; so shalt thou see a host of angels encompa.s.sing us, for we are about the Lord's business."

"Nay, my Father," said Hilarius feebly, "I see no angels, and I perish." He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caught him in his arms. A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then flung away his staff and lifted him to his shoulder.

With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a white figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once the wind dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested and comforted, spoke:-

"Is it thou, my Father?"

"It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before to guide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?"

He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars alight!

The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion's darkness, pointed to the left where lay a snow-clad village.

"A miracle, a miracle, my Father!"

"A miracle, i' faith, my son: the Lord hath given guidance to the blind as He promised. Let us go down."

They went by the white way under the stars; and Hilarius was full of awe and comfort because of the angels of G.o.d which attended on a poor friar.

At the village hostel they found rough but friendly entertainment and several guests. They dried themselves at a roaring fire, and Hilarius made a hearty meal; the Friar would eat nothing save a morsel of bread.

A messenger was there, a short stout man with stubbly beard, bright black eyes like beads, and a high colour. He was riding with despatches from the King to the Abbat at Bury, and had fearful tales to tell of the Plague; how in London they piled the dead in trenches, while many who escaped the pest died of want and cold; it was a city of the dead rather than the living. One great lord, travelling post-haste from Westminster, had been found by his servants to have the disorder, and they fled, leaving him by the wayside to perish.

Hilarius heard horror-struck.

"'Tis a grievous shame so to desert a sick master," he said.

"Nay, lad," said a chapman in the corner, "but a man loves his own skin best."

"Ay, ay," said a fat ruddy-faced miller, overtaken by the storm on his way to a neighbouring village, "a man's own skin before all.