Gathering of Brother Hilarius Part 7

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. G.o.d 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 Ma.s.s, thou shalt smart for it."

Mine host shook his head fearfully, and his fat cheeks trembled; he moved slowly and unwillingly to the door and took down the stout wooden bar. As it swung back the door flew open, and a man burst in, at sight of whom mine host turned yet paler.

"Food and drink," said the new-comer sharply, flinging himself on a bench by the fire.

Hilarius thought he had never seen so strange a fellow. His hair was close cropped; ay, and his ears also. His eyes were very small and near together; his nose a shapeless lump; his lip drawn up showed two rat-like teeth. Silence fell on the company, and the chapman who had been searching amongst his goods for something wherewith to pay his hospitality, was hastily putting them back, when the man, looking up, caught sight of a bundle of oaten pipes among the miscellaneous wares. He plucked one to him, and in a moment the air was full of tender liquid notes--a thrush's roundelay. Then a blackbird called and his mate answered; a cuckoo cried the spring-song; a linnet mourned with lifting cadence; a nightingale poured forth her deathless love.

Mine host came in with a dish piled high and a stoop of mead; the man threw the pipe from him with a rough oath and fell to ravenously on the victuals. He held his head low and ate brutishly amid dead silence; then he looked up and cursed at them for their sorry mood.

"What! Hugh pipes and never a word of thanks nor a jest? d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d. I cried thee d.a.m.ned in my own name once, when thou did'st take my little sister to shame and death; now I cry thee thrice d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.d 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 d.a.m.ned, thrice d.a.m.ned; thy speech shall go from thee, thy sight fail thee, thy mind be darkened; thou art given over to the Evil One, and he shall torment thee with remembrance."

There was dead silence; then with a long shrill howl the man tore open the door, dashed from the house, and fled, a black blotch upon the whiteness of the night.

The guests huddled together aghast, and no man moved, until Hilarius, full of pride at his Friar's powers, stepped forward to close the door. He was too late; it swung to with a loud crash like the sound of doom. The Friar sank back composedly on the bench, and the company began in silence to make preparation for the night. When all was ordered, Hilarius bade the Friar come, and he rose at the lad's voice and touch. Then he crossed to where the others stood apart eyeing him fearfully.

He laid his hand on the miller's breast and said in a clear, low voice: "Thou wilt die, brother."

He laid his hand on the messenger's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."

He laid his hand on the chapman's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."

He laid his hand on mine host's breast: "Thou wilt die, brother."

Then he came to the other Friar who stood at a little distance, his face dark with anger and fear, and laid his hand on his breast: "Thou wilt live, my brother--and repent."

CHAPTER VI--A DARK FINDING

It is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay--which village of the good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant--and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar were long on the road, for January's turbulent mood had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved little kinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men; but, for the most part, coa.r.s.e 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 rest.i.tution, 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.

"Hola, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y wounds.

Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, The poor knight--Ah! cold was he.

The maiden sat her down to die (Cold, cold earth on her lover's breast), And the little birds rang mournfully, And the moonshine kissed her tenderly, And the stars looked down right pityingly On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight.

Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!"

This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and the company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught sight of the seditious friar making short work of the Convent's victuals, and marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given so evil a name.