Prentice Hugh
by Frances Mary Peard · English · Gutenberg #43170 · 385,457 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Prentice Hugh
Author: Frances Mary Peard
Release date: July 9, 2013 [eBook #43170]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43170
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRENTICE HUGH ***
Prentice Hugh
By FM Peard
Illustrations by FB
Published by National Society's Depository, London.
This edition dated 1887.
Prentice Hugh, by FM Peard.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
PRENTICE HUGH, BY FM PEARD.
PREFACE.
There are differences of opinion as to Bishop Bitton's share in the
transforming of Exeter Cathedral, and I have followed that expressed by
Archdeacon Freeman, who, after speaking of the prevalent idea that the
present choir was the work of Stapledon, states that, from the evidence
of the Fabric Rolls, it was done by Bitton, whose episcopate lasted from
1292 to 1307. After noticing the facts which point to this conclusion,
Archdeacon Freeman adds: "We thus establish, as I conceive, with
absolute certainty, the date of the completion of the _eastern half of
the choir_, a point entirely misconceived hitherto. To Bitton and not
to Stapledon it must be ascribed. And we shall see reason presently for
ascribing to him all the substantial features of the remainder, and the
vaulting of the whole."
With regard to the story itself, no one can be more conscious than I am
myself of the dangers inseparable from attempting to place it at so
early a date, when the author is at once plunged into a very quagmire of
possible anachronisms. I can only ask the indulgence of those who,
happening to cast their eyes upon these pages, detect there the errors
in manners and customs which I am too conscious may exist.
It may be convenient, for the unlearned, to notice that the value of
coins was about fifteen times as much as in the present day. Thus one
pound equalled fifteen pounds, and one mark (or shilling) fifteen
shillings. A groat contained four silver pennies, and there were two
hundred and forty pennies in a silver pound.
CHAPTER ONE.
AT STOURBRIDGE FAIR.
"Have at him, Peter!"
"Roll him in the mud!"
"Nay, now, 'twere rarer sport to duck the lubber in the river!"
These and a hundred other taunts were hurled with entire freedom at the
head of a sturdy boy, to judge from his round and rosy face not more
than eleven years old, by six or eight urchins, who were dancing round
him with many unfriendly demonstrations. Apparently there had already
been an exchange of hostilities. One of the half-dozen had received a
blow in the eye which had half closed that organ and another showed
signs of having suffered on the nose, much to the damage of his
clothing; these injuries had evidently enraged and excited the
sufferers. Prudence, however, was not forgotten. They egged each other
to the attack, but at the same time showed signs of hesitation, perhaps
for want of a leader who might organise a simultaneous rush.
The boy, meanwhile, though he too bore marks of the fray, for his
clothes were torn, and a streak of blood on his cheek showed where he
had been hit by a stone or a stick, kept a valiant front. He stood with
his back against a fine oak, and flourished a short stout cudgel.
"Come on, come on, all of you!" he shouted. "A broken crown the first
shall have, I promise you!"
"He's threatening thee, Jack Turner. Hit him over the pate!"
"Look at his jerkin--he's one of the Flemish hogs."
"Flemish!" cried the boy indignantly. "Better English than all of you
put together. No English that I know are cowards!"
The dreadfulness of such a charge overcame all fears of broken heads.
With a yell of rage the urchins rushed pell-mell upon their foe, and
battle, indeed, arose! He defended himself with a courage and vigour
worthy of all praise, hitting at weak points, and bestowing at least two
of his promised broken heads. But numbers will prevail over the most
determined bravery, and here were at least a dozen kicking legs and
encumbering arms. Do what he would he could not shake them off, blows
rained upon him under which he turned dizzy, and his evil case would
soon have been exchanged for a worse, if an unexpected ally had not
rushed upon the group. A splendid deer-hound crashed in upon them,
upsetting two or three of the boys, though more as if he were amusing
himself with a rough frolic than with thought of harm. The urchins,
however, did not stay to consider this, for, picking themselves up with
cries of terror, they fled as fast as their legs could carry them,
leaving sundry spoils behind them in the shape of apples and a
spice-cake, which latter the dog, doubtless considering himself entitled
to his share of the booty, gobbled up without a moment's hesitation.
The boy who had been the object of attack was the only one who showed no
sign of fear. He stood, breathless and panting, his cheeks crimson, his
clothes torn, but with so resolute a determination in his face as proved
that he was ready for another fight. Seeing, however, that the hound
had no ill intentions, he straightened and shook himself, picked up the
cap which had fallen off in the fray, and looked round to see who was
near.
He saw for the first time that two persons were watching him with some
amusement. One was a boy of about fourteen, the other an elderly man in
the grey dress of a Franciscan friar.
"Thou art a sturdy little varlet," said the friar, coming forward with a
smile, "and held thine own right well. But I doubt me how it would have
gone, had Wolf not borne in to the rescue. No shame to thee either, for
thou wast sorely overmatched. What had brought such a force of
rascaille upon thee?"
The boy had grown rather redder, if that were possible, but he spoke out
bravely.
"Holy friar, they were angry because this morning I saved a monkey out
of their hands. Its master, an Italian, had died, and they called the
poor beast a devil's imp, and were going to stone it to death."
"I would Wolf had served them worse! But why did they not fight with
thee at the time?"
"They were but three then," said the boy with a laugh.
"Hum. And who are the little varlets? Give me their names, and they
shall have a goodly thrashing."
The boy for the first time hung his head. The other lad, who had been
listening impatiently, broke in in French.
"Set Wolf at them in another sort of fashion. I see them still skulking
about, and peeping at us from behind the trees--the unmannerly loons!
They need to be taught a lesson."
"Gently, Edgar," said the friar, laying his hand on his young
companion's arm, "Wolf might prove a somewhat dangerous chastiser.
Come, boy, let us have their names," he added, turning to the other.
"Holy friar," said the boy eagerly, "I know the French."
The friar lifted his eyebrows.
"I thought thy tongue had a strange trick about it, but I could have
sworn it was Flemish that it resembled."
"We have just come from Flanders."
"Not English," cried Edgar angrily. "If I had known he was one of those
blood-sucking foreigners, who fasten like leeches upon our poor country,
Wolf should never have bestirred himself to the rescue."
"Peace," said the friar more sharply, but before he could say more the
younger boy broke in indignantly--
"We are English, good English! My father has but been in Flanders
perfecting himself in his trade of wood-carving."
"And 'twas there you learnt the French?"
"Ay, sir, from the monks."
"Perhaps also thou hast learnt to read?" pursued the friar, with the
smile with which in these days we might ask a ploughboy whether he knew
Hebrew.
"A little," said the boy modestly.
So unexpected was the answer, that the friar started back.
"Why this is amazing!" he said. "Edgar, dost thou hear?"
"Ay. He is training, no doubt, for the monastery," said the lad
carelessly, though looking at the other with amazement.
"Nay," said the boy sturdily; "no monk's hood for me. I would be a
soldier and fight for King Edward."
"And what knowest thou of King Edward?" inquired the friar, who
evidently found amusement in questioning.
"What all the world knows," the boy answered sturdily, "that never was a
nobler king or truer Englishman."
"Ay? Learnt you that in Flanders?" said the friar, lifting his eyebrows
in some astonishment. "Well, wherever you had it, 'tis good teaching
and true, such as men by-and-by will look back and own. And so nothing
will serve thee but hard blows? What is thy name?"
"Hugh Bassett, holy friar."
"Come to the great Stourbridge fair with thy father and mother?"
"My mother is dead. My father has brought some of his carvings here to
sell, and we lodge in the sacristan's house because 'tis too cold in the
fields."
Wolf, at a call from the young lad, had come back from an investigation
among the oaks, and was now slobbering affectionately over his young
master's hand; Hugh watching him with deepest interest.
"There is one thing thou hast all but forgotten," said the friar; "the
names of thy tormentors? See, they are still watching and peeping."
The boy again hung his head.
"What now? Hast lost thy tongue?"
"Nay, father, but--"
"But what?" Then as Hugh muttered something, "What, I am not to know?
Yet they were for serving thee badly enough!"
"I would fight them again," said the boy, looking up boldly.
"I warrant thou wouldst," said the friar, laughing heartily. "And
without a mother, who will mend thy clothes? They have suffered more
damage than thy tough head, which looks as if 'twere made to bear
blows."
Hugh glanced with some dismay at his torn jerkin. It was not the first
time that the question had presented itself, though the friar's
questions had driven it out of his head. And the elder lad now showed
symptoms of impatience.
"May we not be going back, sir?" he said to his companion. "The
jongleurs were to be at their play by now, and we are not like to see
much out in this green tangle."
"As thou wilt," said the good-tempered friar; "I will but make one more
proffer to our valiant friend. See here, Hugh, I have a fancy to know
the name of the biggest of thine enemies, the one who set the others on
thee. Will a groat buy the knowledge? There it is before thine eyes,
true English coin, and no base counterfeit pollard. Only the name, and
it is thine."
"Not I!" cried the boy. "I'll have nothing to do with getting him
flogged."
"Yet I'll answer for it thy pocket does not see many groats, and what
brave things there be to be bought at the fair! Sweets and comfits and
spices."
"They would choke me!"
The friar laughed long, with a fat, noiseless chuckle full of merriment.
"Well," he said, "I keep my groat, and thou thine honour, and I see that
Wolf hath shown himself, as ever, a dog of discretion. Shall we take
the boy back to thy father's lodgings, Edgar, and persuade Mistress
Judith to bestow some of her fair mending upon his garments?"
"So as we waste no more time here, I care not," said the lad
impatiently.
Bidding the boy follow, Friar Nicholas and his companion walked away,
leaving the wood with its undergrowth of bracken, already looking rather
brown and ragged with the past heat of the summer, and first touch of
frost sharpening the nights in the low-lying Eastern counties, as is
often the case by Michaelmas. At that time, towards the end of the
thirteenth century, it need hardly be said that the country presented a
very different appearance from that which we see now. Parts were
densely wooded, and everywhere trees made a large feature in the
landscape, which was little broken by human habitations. The chief
clearings were effected in order to provide sheep walks, wool being at
that time a large, if not the largest, export; although matters had not
as yet arrived at the condition of some fifty years later, when, after
England was devastated by the Black Death, and agricultural labour
became ruinously dear, serfs were evicted from their huts, and even
towns destroyed, in order to gain pasturage for sheep. Under Edward the
First things were tending the other way; marshes were drained, waste
land was brought into cultivation, and towns were increasing in size and
importance. Wheat was dear, animal food cheap. Some of the greater
barons lived in almost royal state, but the smaller gentry in a
simplicity which in these days would be considered absolute hardship.
With an absence of shops, and with markets bringing in no more than the
local produce of a few miles round, it will be easily understood how
fairs became a need of the times. They began by people flocking to some
Church festival, camping out round the church, and requiring a supply of
provisions. The town guilds, setting themselves to supply this want,
found here such an opening for trade that the yearly fairs became the
chief centres of commerce, and had a complete code of laws and
regulations. Privileges were even granted to attract comers, for at a
fair no arrest could be made for debts, saving such as were contracted
at the fair itself. And it was a fruitful source of revenue, because
upon everything bought a small toll was paid by the buyer.
Gradually these fairs increased in importance. English traders
travelled to those across the seas, to Leipsic, to Frankfort, even to
Russia. Foreigners in their turn brought their wares to England, where
the principal yearly fair was held at Stourbridge, near Cambridge,
another of scarcely less importance at Bristol, and somewhat lesser ones
at Exeter and other towns.
The scene at these fairs, when the weather was favourable, was one of
extreme gaiety and stir. As the friar and his young companion, followed
by Hugh, walked back towards the town a soft autumnal sun was shining on
the fields, where were all sorts of quaint and fantastic erections, and
where the business of the fair was at its height. Such people as could
find house-room were lodged in the town, but these only bore a moderate
proportion to the entire throng, and the less fortunate or poorer ones
were forced to be content with tents, rude sheds, and even slighter
protection. These formed the background, or were tacked on to the
booths on which the varied collection of wares were set forth, and which
with their bright colourings gave the whole that gay effect which we now
only see in the markets of the more mediaeval of foreign towns. To this
must be added a large number of motley costumes: here not only were seen
the different orders of English life--the great baron with his wife and
children, his retinue, squires, men-at-arms, pages; the abbot riding in
little less state; friars, grey, black, and white; pilgrims--but
foreigners, men of Flanders with richly dyed woollen stuffs, woven from
English wool; merchants from the Hans towns displaying costly furs;
eastern vendors of frankincense, and spices, and sugar; Lombard usurers;
even the Chinaman from Cathay, as China was then called, with his stores
of delicate porcelain--each and all calling attention to their wares,
and inviting the passers-by, whether nobles or churls, to buy.
The fair originated in a grant to the hospital of lepers at Cambridge,
bestowed by King John. It opened on the nineteenth of September,
continued for two or three weeks, and was under the control of the
master of the leper-house, no slight undertaking when the great
concourse of people is considered, for not only had they to be housed
and fed, but at a time when carriages and carts were unknown, and men
and merchandise were alike carried on horses and mules, there must
necessarily have been a vast number of beasts to keep. Protection had
to be afforded against possible attacks of robbers or outlaws, and--
almost the most difficult task of all--it was necessary to check as far
as possible quarrels which frequently arose between the haughty barons
or their retainers, as also to protect the foreigners from the rough
treatment which it was not unlikely they would receive should anything
excite the people against them. Particularly, and it must be owned
justly, was this at times the case with the usurers.
But though the nominal business of the fair consisted in trading,
money-getting, and money-lending, there were plenty of shows and
amusements to attract those who loved laughter. In one part a number of
lads were throwing the bar, in another they were playing at what seemed
a rough kind of tennis. Merry Andrews tumbled on the green, rope
dancers performed prodigies of activity; here men played at
single-stick, wrestled, or shot at a mark; at another place were the
jongleurs or conjurers, and in yet another a bespangled company of
dancing dogs, which excited the lordly contempt of Wolf.
"These fellows have rare skill," said Edgar, watching a conjurer effect
a neat multiplication of balls.
"Stay and watch them," said the friar. "Thy father will not yet have
ridden back from Cambridge, and thou art not wanted in the house. I
will go and do my best to gain Mistress Judith's good aid for this
urchin, and after that, if he will, he may show me where he lodges."
Sir Thomas de Trafford, knight of the shire, and father of the lad
Edgar, had found accommodation for his family in a house which we should
now consider very inadequate for such a purpose, though it was then held
to have made a considerable stride towards absolute luxury from being
able to boast a small parlour, or talking room. Neither glass nor
chimneys, however, were yet in use, although the latter were not
unknown, and had crept into some of the greater castles. Fires were
made in the centre of the rooms, and the pungent wood smoke made its
escape as best it could through door or windows, which in rough weather
or at night were protected by a lattice of laths.
The friar, however, went no further than the passage, where he called
for Mistress Judith, and was presently answered in person by a somewhat
crabbed-looking personage, who listened sourly to his entreaty that she
would do something towards stitching together Hugh's unfortunate jerkin.
"The poor varlet has no mother," he ended. But Mistress Judith pursed
her mouth.
"The more need he should be careful of his clothing," she was beginning,
when suddenly with a rush two little golden-haired girls of not more
than four or five came running along the passage, calling joyfully upon
Friar Nicholas, and clinging to his grey cloak.
"Thou wilt take us to the fair, wilt thou not?"
"And let us see the monkey that runs up the ladder, and the dancing
bear, and--we have some nuts for the monkey."
Mistress Judith's face relaxed.
"Nay, now, children, ye must not be troublesome. The good friar has
doubtless other business on hand--"
"I'll take them, I'll take them," said the friar, hastily, "if you will
put the boy in order by a few touches of your skilful handiwork. As
soon as I have bestowed him in safety I will return for them."
"To see the monkey," persisted little Eleanor.
"Ay, if thou wilt--" He was interrupted by a pull of the sleeve from
Hugh.
"So please you, holy friar," said the boy shyly, "the monkey is at our
lodging."
"What, is that the poor beast which those young villains would have
stoned? Nay, then, hearken, little maidens. The monkey has been in
evil case, and was like to be in worse but for this boy, Hugh Bassett.
And the cruel varlets who would have killed it set upon him for
delivering it, and though he fought right sturdily he would have been in
evil case but for Wolf."
"Our Wolf?"
"Even so. What say you now?"
"He is a good boy," said the little Anne gravely. Eleanor went nearer,
and looked steadfastly at Hugh.
"Is the poor monkey at your house?"
"Ay, little mistress."
"Shall we come and see him?"
Hugh looked uncertainly at the friar, and the friar at Mistress Judith.
Mistress Judith threaded her needle afresh.
"If my lady--" began the friar.
"My lady does not permit my young mistresses to run about the fair like
churls' children," interrupted the nurse sourly. "Marry, come up! I
marvel your reverence should have thought of such a thing."
She was interrupted in her turn. Eleanor had clambered on a chair and
flung her arms round her neck, laying hold of her chin and turning it so
as to look in her face, and press her rosy lips to her cheek.
"Nay, nay, mother said we should see the monkey! Thou wilt come with
us, and Friar Nicholas, and this good boy. Say yea, say yea, good
nurse!"
Mistress Judith, rock with all others, was but soft clay in the hands of
her nurslings. She remonstrated feebly, it is true, but Eleanor had her
way, and it was not long before the little party set forth, the children
indulging in many skips and jumps, and chattering freely in their
graceful _langue de Provence_.
There was so much to see, and so many remarks to be made on many things,
such wonderful and undreamt of crowds, such enchanting goods, such
popinjays, such booths of cakes, such possibilities of spending a silver
penny, that it seemed as if the sacristan's house would never be
reached, and 'twas easy to see it cost the children something to turn
from the fair towards the church. Perhaps Anne would have consented to
put their object aside and remain in this busy scene of enchantment.
But nothing to Eleanor could balance her desire to see the monkey, and
they went their way with no further misadventure than arose from the bag
of nuts slipping from her little fingers, and the nuts scattering in all
directions.
The sacristan's house consisted of but one room, with the fire as usual
in the centre. The sacristan himself was in the church; over the fire
sat a thin pale-faced man, engaged in putting the last strokes to a
carved oaken box of most delicate workmanship. The monkey, which had
been sitting with him, directly the little party appeared, uttered a cry
of fear, sprang on the high back of a bench, and from thence to the
uncovered rafters of the roof, where it sat jabbering indignantly, and
glancing at the visitors with its bright eyes.
The man, who was Stephen Bassett, Hugh's father, rose and greeted them
respectfully, though with some amazement at seeing his boy in unknown
company.
"Welcome, holy friar," he said. "If you seek John the sacristan, Hugh
shall run and fetch him from the church."
"Nay," said the friar, with his easy smile, "I fear me we are on a
lighter quest. These little maidens had a longing to behold the monkey,
and thy boy offered to bring them here for that purpose." Mistress
Judith looked unutterable disgust at the poor room and her surroundings,
though she condescended to sit down on a rough stool, from which she
first blew the dust. The friar entered into conversation with Stephen
Bassett, and the little golden-haired girls pressed up to Hugh.
"Make him come down," said Eleanor pointing.
"He is frightened--I know not," said Hugh, shaking his head. He was,
however, almost as anxious as the other children could be to show off
his new possession, and, thanks either to an offered nut, or to the
trust which the monkey instinctively felt towards his deliverer, the
little creature came swiftly down, hanging by hand and tail from the
rafters, to intensest delight of both Anne and Eleanor, and finally
leaping upon Hugh's shoulder, where it cracked its nut with all the
confidence possible. It was small and rather pretty, and it wore much
such a little coat as monkeys wear now. Eleanor could not contain her
delight. She wanted to have it in her own arms, but her first attempt
to remove it from its perch brought such a storm of angry chattering
that Anne in terror plucked her sister's little gown and implored her to
come away. Eleanor drew back unwillingly.
"Why doesn't he like me?" she demanded. "I love him. What is his
name?"
"Agrippa."
"Agrippa! And can he do tricks? Yesterday he did tricks."
"He knows me not yet, mistress," explained Hugh. "His master died
suddenly, and he had no other friend."
"But thou wilt be his friend," said Eleanor, looking earnestly at the
boy, "and so will I. I will leave him all these nuts. Anne, I would my
father would give us a monkey!"
"I like him not," said Anne, fearfully withdrawing yet closer to
Mistress Judith. Eleanor knew no fear. She would have taken the little
creature in her arms, regardless of its sharp teeth, or of the waiting
woman's remonstrances, but that Hugh would not suffer her to make the
attempt. He looked at the two little girls with an eager pride and
admiration, felt as if he were responsible for all that happened, and
had he been twice his age could not have treated them with more careful
respect.
CHAPTER TWO.
STOLEN AWAY.
Meanwhile the friar and Stephen Bassett conversed together, seated on a
rude bench at the other side of the dimly-lit room. The friar was a man
of kindly curiosity, who let his interests run freely after his
neighbours' affairs, and, attracted by the boy, whose education had far
overpast that of the knight's son, Edgar, he made searching inquiries,
which Stephen answered frankly, relating more fully than Hugh how in
Flanders, where he had travelled in order to perfect himself in an art
not yet brought to a high pitch of excellence in England, his wife had
died, and he having been left with the boy on his hands, the child had
excited the interest of the monks, who, finding him teachable, had
instructed him in the then rare accomplishments of reading and writing.
"He is like to forget them, though," he added with a sigh, "unless in
our wanderings we fall upon other brothers as good as those, which is
scarce likely."
"Have you thought of his taking the habit?"
"Nay, his bent lies not that way," said Bassett, smiling. The other
smiled also.
"Truly, it seemed not so by the lusty manner in which he laid about him
but now. And I mind me he spoke of his wish to be a soldier."
"That I will not consent to," Bassett replied hastily; "he shall follow
my trade. It would break my heart if I thought that all my labours died
with me." He was interrupted by a fit of coughing.
"And where," inquired the Franciscan, "where dost thou purpose going
when the fair is ended?"
"In good sooth, holy friar, that is what troubles me. I had thought of
London, but I wot not--"
The other leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in
the palm of his hand.
"I wot not either," he said at last, "but in these days there is much
noble work akin to thine going on in the great churches and minsters of
the kingdom. There is St Peter's at Exeter, now. One of our order was
telling me but lately how gloriously the bishop of that see is bringing
it to perfection. The air in those western shires is soft and healing,
better for thy cough than London, which has many fens giving out their
vapours, to say nothing of the smoke arising from that vile coal the
citizens are now trying to burn, and which pours out its choking fumes
upon the poor air. Were I thee I would not bestow myself in London."
"Exeter," said Bassett reflectively; "I thank thee for the suggestion.
My wife came from those shires, and a bishop with a zeal for decoration
might well give me employment."
"The journey is long," put in the friar, with a desire that prudence
should have her share in this advice of his which the wood-carver seemed
so ready to adopt.
"We are used to journeys and I dread them not."
"Nor fear robbers?"
"I am too poor to tempt them. Besides, our great king has done much for
the security of the country, by what I hear. Is it not so, holy friar?"
"Truly it is. But Scotland has taken more of his thought lately, and
when the lion is in combat, the smaller beasts slink out to fall on
their prey. But if you make your way to Exeter and would go first
through London, our house in Newgate Street will give you hospitable
lodging.--How now, Mistress Eleanor?"
"It is the monkey, Friar Nicholas--might he not bring it for madam, our
mother, to see? He says that Wolf would eat him."
"And in good sooth that were not unlikely. Better be content to come
here again and see the little pagan beast, if Mistress Judith does not
mislike it. Fare thee well, Master Bassett. I will meet thee again,
and hear whether Exeter still has attraction."
Mistress Judith rose and shook her skirts before folding them round her,
an operation which the monkey, happening to be close to her on Hugh's
shoulder, resented greatly, chattering at and scolding her with all his
might. Eleanor screamed with delight, while Anne hid her face; and
Hugh, somewhat abashed at Mistress Judith's displeasure, retired with
Agrippa to the back of the room, while his father escorted his guests a
few paces beyond the door.
He came back and found Hugh enthusiastic over his new friends.
"The dog, father, a noble beast! I would you had seen him! I warrant
me Peter the smith's son has had enough of fighting to last him a while.
He ran like a deer!"
"And how fell it out?"
Thus questioned a long story had to be told of the ill deeds of Peter,
who had been the chief offender; and the damage to Hugh's garments,
which Mistress Judith had but hastily caught together, was ruefully
exhibited. Stephen shook his head.
"Another time keep thy fighting till a woman is near to back up thy
prowess with her needle. Yet--I'll not blame thee. 'Twould have been a
cowardly deed to have suffered that poor beast to be stoned. And at
least I can mother thee for these bruises and scratches."
He fetched some water as he spoke, took out a few dried herbs from a
bag, set them in the water on the fire, and as soon as the decoction was
ready bathed the boy's many hurts with a hand as gentle indeed as his
mother's could have been. While this was going on he talked to the
child with a freedom which showed them to be more than usually
companions in the fullest sense of the word.
"What thinkest thou the good friar hit upon? He thought I might find
work at one of the great churches which are rising to perfection in the
land. And, Hugh, thou hast heard thy mother speak of Exeter? At Exeter
there is much of this going on, and if we could get there, I might
obtain the freedom of one of the craft guilds, and apprentice thee."
"Ay"--doubtfully.
"Well, why that doleful tone?"
"I would be a soldier, father."
"Serve thy 'prenticeship first and talk of fighting afterwards. Dost
thou think King Edward takes little varlets of eleven years old to make
his army? Besides--speak not of it, Hugh. My heart is set upon thy
carrying on my work. Life has not been sweet for me, and 'tis likely to
be short; let me see some fruit before I die."
The boy flung his arms round Bassett's neck.
"Father, talk not like that! I will be what thou wilt!"
"Thou wilt? Promise me, then," said his father eagerly.
"I promise."
Stephen Bassett's breath came short and fast.
"See here, Hugh. Thou art young in years but quick of understanding,
and hast been my close companion of late. Thou art ready to engage, as
far as thou canst--I would not bind thee too closely," he added,
reluctantly--"to renounce those blood-letting dreams of thine, and
follow my trade, and, as I well believe thou wilt, make our name
famous?"
"Ay," said the little lad gravely, "that will I do. Only--"
"What?"
"If I must needs be cutting something, I would sooner 'twere stone than
wood."
"Sayest thou so?" said the carver, rising and walking backwards and
forwards in the room. He was evidently disappointed, and was undergoing
a struggle with himself. But at last he stopped, and laid his hand
kindly upon the boy's shoulder. "As thou wilt, Hugh," he said; "I would
not be unreasonable; and truly I believe thy hand finds more delight in
that cold unfriendly surface than in the fine responsive grain of the
wood. So thou art a carver, choose thine own material. Stone and wood
are both needed in the churches. We will go to Exeter. I mind me thy
mother had cousins there. We will but wait for the end of the fair, and
there will be folk going to London with whom we may journey safely."
The man's sanguine nature as usual overleapt all difficulties. His
cough and his breathing were so bad, that others might have well dreaded
the effects of a long and toilsome journey, but he would hear of no
possible drawbacks, and Hugh was too young to be alarmed, and took the
over-bright eyes and occasional flush of the cheek as glad signs that
his father was getting well again.
Thanks to Hugh's new friends, moreover, Bassett sold his work, and sold
it well. Dame Edith de Trafford sent for him, desiring he would bring
his boy and some specimens of his carving. Hugh begged sore to be
allowed to take Agrippa, for the joy it would give to the little
Eleanor, but his father would not have it. The monkey, though it had
attached itself devotedly to Hugh, was capricious with others, variable
in temper, and at times a very imp of mischief, and Stephen feared its
pranks might offend their new patroness.
Agrippa was, therefore, consigned to the rafters, where he chattered
with displeasure at seeing his master go out without him.
"If he is to journey with us, we must get him a cord," said Bassett.
"As it is, we shall pass for a party of mountebanks. See that the door
is safely closed, for John the sacristan will not be back yet awhile."
The night had been wet, and the gaiety of the fair much bedraggled in
consequence. Under foot, indeed, the mud and mire of the trampled grass
made so sticky a compound that it was difficult for one foot to follow
the other. The poor folk who had been obliged--as numbers were--to
sleep on rough boards, raised on four legs from the ground, and but
slightly protected from the weather, were in sad plight. Happily the
sun had come out, and though there was not much heat in his rays, they
served to lessen some of the discomfort, and to bring back a touch of
cheerfulness. Peter the smith's son, with one or two others, pointed
and grimaced at Hugh as he passed on, without venturing to approach
nearer. The goldsmiths were hanging up costly chains and sets of pearls
with which to tempt the noble ladies who approached, while a Hans trader
called attention to the fact that winter was coming and his furs would
protect from cramps and rheumatism. Presently down through the booths
rode a party of knights and javelin men, none other than the high
sheriff with the four coroners and others, on their way to the shire
court, which was to be held that day under the shire-oak a few miles
distant. A number of countrymen had already gone off to this meeting,
and in a few minutes Hugh saw Wolf bounding along by the side of a
smaller group of knights; Edgar was behind with a younger party, and
evidently Sir Thomas de Trafford as one of the knights of the shire was
proceeding to join the assembly. Many remarks were made by the
bystanders, to which Bassett, who had been long out of England, listened
attentively. He found that much satisfaction was in general expressed,
though one or two malcontents declared that each assembly was but the
herald for a demand for money.
"Parliament or no parliament, 'tis ever the same," grumbled one small
cobbler, drest in the usual coarse garment reaching just below the
knees, and headed by a square cape, too large for his shrunk shoulders:
"wars to be waged, and money to be squeezed from our bodies."
"Thine would not furnish the realm with the weight of a silver penny,"
said a burly countryman, glancing with much contempt at the cobbler.
"And when does the king ask for aid except in case of need? If thou
hadst, as I friends in Cumberland, I reckon you would be the first to
cry out that a stop should be put to these Scotch outlaws harrying the
borders."
"And hast thou friends in Gascony, too, Dick-o'-the-Hill?" demanded the
little cobbler spitefully.
"Nay, it's been a scurvy trick of the French king, that getting hold of
Gascony," put in a baker who had joined the group; "I'm all for fighting
for Gascony."
"Well, I'll warrant that our burgesses, Master Dennis and Master Small,
will speak their minds against any wicked waste," persisted the cobbler.
"'Tis time the king were checked."
"And who has given you burgesses to speak for you, ay, and passed laws
putting the ay and the nay into your own hands?" broke in Stephen
Bassett indignantly. "I have been out of England for many a long year,
but I mind the time, my masters, if you have forgotten, when the
parliament was called, not to vote whether or no the money should be
raised, but to raise it. Few laws had you in old days, and little voice
in them!"
"He speaks the truth," said a grave franklin standing by.
"When, since the days of Alfred, has there been an English king like our
King Edward?" added Dick-o'-the-Hill.
"One that ever keeps his word."
"And makes laws for the poor."
"I say that none speak against him except traitors and false loons,"
said the baker, squaring up towards the cobbler in a threatening manner.
"Nay, my masters, I meant no harm," urged the cobbler, alarmed. "The
saints forbid that I should say a word against King Edward! Doubtless,
we shall pay our twelfth, such of us as can--and be as much better as we
are like to be."
He added these words under his breath, but Stephen Bassett caught them.
"Ay," he said, "so long as we are saved from sinking into a nation of
curs such as thee."
The cobbler cast an infuriated look at him as he walked on, the flush
which Hugh loved to see on his cheek.
"That was an evil man, father," said the boy. Bassett was silent for a
space.
"There are many such discontented knaves," he returned at last, "eating
like a canker into the very heart of our nation. Self, self, that is
the limit to which their thoughts rise. And they measure all others by
their own petty standard--even the king. It makes one sick at heart to
think what he has done for his country, and how--to hear some of these
mean-spirited loons talk--it is turned against him, and besmirched, till
fairest deeds are made to look black, and nothing is left to him but his
faults."
If Hugh could not understand all, he took in much, and remembered it
afterwards. But the delights of the fair drove all else out of his head
for the moment, and he could scarce be torn away from the dancing bear.
"Hearken," said his father at last with a laugh, "whatever happens, I'll
have none of the bear! His masters may die, and he be baited by all the
dogs in the town, but he shall never be my travelling fellow. Come,
'tis time we were at the lady's."
This time they were passed through the passage to the talking room,
where Dame Edith was sitting on a bench or low settle. The walls were
unplastered, its rough floor uncarpeted, its windows unglazed, to modern
notions it would have seemed little better than a cell, but Dame Edith
herself created about her an air of refinement and delicacy. After the
new fashion, instead of the plaits which had been worn, her fair hair
was turned up and enclosed in a network caul of gold thread, over which
was placed a veil. She wore a kirtle of pale blue silk, and a
fawn-coloured velvet mantle, with an extravagantly long train
embroidered in blue. She looked too young to be the mother of Edgar,
and indeed was Sir Thomas's second wife, and the very darling of his
heart. The twins, especially Anne, strongly resembled her; Eleanor had
more of her father's and her step-brother's eager impetuosity, but Anne
bade fair to be as sweet-mannered and dainty as her mother. Bassett and
his son had hardly made their greeting, before the little maidens were
in the room, Eleanor so brimming over with questions about the monkey
that she could scarce keep her tongue in check.
Dame Edith smiled very kindly on the boy.
"I have heard all the tale from Friar Nicholas," she said, "and of how
discreetly Wolf came to the rescue. And so thou wouldst be a soldier?"
Hugh coloured, and his father broke in--
"Nay, lady, he hath laid by that foolish fancy. He will be a carver,
like myself."
She lifted her pretty eyebrows.
"In good sooth? Now we had settled matters quite otherwise. I had won
my good husband to consenting that he should be taken into our meine,
and there he might have risen. Is the subject quite decided?"
"Quite, lady," Bassett said firmly. "I thank you very humbly for your
goodness, but Hugh and I must hold together while I live, and I have set
my heart upon his carving a name for himself with a lowlier but a more
lasting weapon than the sword."
His cough shook him again as he spoke, and Dame Edith, though unused to
opposition, was too kindly natured to show displeasure. She asked to
see what he had brought, and was soon wrapt in admiration at the free
and delicate work which was displayed. Meanwhile, Eleanor could whisper
to Hugh--
"Hath Agrippa eaten all the nuts? Doth he like spice-bread or figs?
I'll give thee some. But oh, I wish, I wish thou hadst brought him!
Wolf is gone to the shire-oak. And see now, bend down thy head, and
hearken to a secret. Madam, our mother, has a silken cord for thee to
hold him with. When may we come again and see him? I should like it to
be to-day."
Dame Edith was a liberal purchaser. Her last choice was a beautiful
little reliquary box, minutely carved, yet with a freedom of design
which enchanted her. She would scarcely allow them to leave her, and
the afternoon had advanced before father and son found themselves on
their way back to the sacristan's house. He met them at the door--a
little, withered old man--in an indignant temper.
"Folk should shut the door behind them, and not leave the house to be
pillaged," he said, crossly. "Here I come back and find all in
disorder, and the door wide open to invite all the ill loons in the
place to come in and work their will."
"We left the door safely shut," said Bassett, in surprise.
"Father--Agrippa!" cried Hugh, bolting into the house.
His fears were too true. No Agrippa chattered his welcome to them from
the rafters, and as he always remained in that place of refuge during
their absence, and was too timid to come down to any stranger, it was
evident that some dire abduction had taken place. Hugh, who had grown
very fond of the monkey, was like one distracted. John, the sacristan,
who loved it less, was disposed to be philosophical.
"Well, well, well," he said, "if the varlets have taken nought else I
wish them joy of their bargain, and 'tis well it's no worse. By 'r
Lady, 'tis a foul thing to break into a man's house, and we shall see
what the Master of the College will say to the watch."
"I'll find the poor beast, if he be still alive," said Hugh, with a
choke in his voice, "wherever they've bestowed him. 'Tis Peter's work!"
He was rushing out when Bassett checked him.
"Softly, softly," he said, "prudence may do more than valour in this
case. Let us ask a few questions to begin with. Master John, at what
time came you back?"
"At four o' the clock, and found the door open--thus, and the tankard of
ale I had left emptied. The scurvy knaves! But there's no virtue left
in the watch since Master Simpkins got the upper hand, and hath upset
all the ancient customs."
Scarce restraining Hugh's impatience, his father made inquiries at some
of the houses round, and ended at last in gaining information. Goody
Jones was sick of a fever, and her little grandchild, playing at
bob-apple before the door with another, had seen Peter, the smith's son,
and two other boys, whom she named, go into the sacristan's house.
Pressed to say whether she saw them come out again, she said nay. Her
grandam had called her, and she had run in.
Link the first was therefore established.
Hugh was for rushing at once to Peter, and forcing the rest out of him,
but Bassett counselled more wary walking.
"'Tis a deep-laid plot," he said, "and it were best to meet craft by
craft. Besides, if they are accused, they may kill the poor beast to
save themselves and spite thee. Let us go out to the fair, and maybe we
shall pick up some tidings."
It was dreadful to Hugh to behold Peter in the distance, and to be
restrained from falling upon him, and the fair had quite lost its charm,
though the noise and stir had increased. Costard-mongers were bawling
apples--red, white, and grey costards--at the top of their voices;
pig-women inviting the passers-by to partake of the roast pig which
smoked on their tables; tooth-drawers and barbers, each proclaiming his
calling more loudly than the other. The abbot of a neighbouring
monastery had his palfrey surrounded by a group of clothiers, while a
fool in motley was the centre of another group. Among these the
wood-carver spied a sturdy yeoman, the same Dick-o'-the-Hill who had
opposed the cobbler earlier in the day. It struck him that here was a
man for his purpose, and he managed to extract him from the others, and
to tell him what they were seeking. Honest Dick-o'-the-Hill scratched
his head.
"If you knew where they had disposed the beast," he said, "and breaking
of heads could do it, I'm your man. But as for finding where 'tis hid,
my wife would tell you I was the veriest numskull!" The next moment he
brightened. "I have it! There's my cousin before us, carrying that
fardel of hay. He's the wisest head for miles round, and I'll warrant
he'll clap some sense on the matter. Hi, Mat! Ancient Mat!"
Thus adjured, a small, dried-up, pippin-faced man paused on his way, and
waited till his cousin overtook him and explained what was amiss. He
listened testily, showing profound contempt for honest Dick's
straightforward, though somewhat heavy-handed, suggestions, but more
deference towards Stephen Bassett.
"More likely that the knaves have sold than harmed the creature," he
pronounced at the end of the story.
"Find out where it is, and I'll do what cracking of crowns is needed,"
said Dick.
"Mend thine own, which is cracked past recovery," growled the other.
"Hearken, master,"--to Bassett--"who is likely to buy such a beast?"
"Some noble household."
"Rather some puppet-show or party of mountebanks; those who have dancing
dogs or a bear."
"Right!" cried Stephen, joyfully. "What a fool was I not to think of
it!"
"I said he had the best head in the shire," said Dick, with triumph.
"And," continued Matthew, unheeding, "thou wottest that the licence to
all foreigners expires to-day, and that they must leave the fair? See
there, those Flemish traders are putting their wares together, and the
abbot has made a good bargain for his silken hangings. My counsel is to
go to the watch, and, when the bear and his masters are on the march,
search for the monkey. If I mistake not they will not be able to hide
him."
"Well thought of, friend," said Bassett, heartily. "No need of the
watch, though," put in Dick-o'-the-Hill; "I'll bring a stout fellow or
two who'll do what is necessary."
"Ay, and get us trounced up as the trailbastons the king hates,
numskull," said his cousin. "But 'tis nothing to me. Go thine own way
for an obstinate loggerhead!"
Dick, who seemed to regard Mat's railing as something rather honourable
than otherwise entered into the proposal with extreme zest. He produced
a quarterstaff, which he flourished with formidable ease, declaring
himself ready with its aid to encounter the bear himself. Stephen
Bassett hoped to carry the matter through peaceably, but he felt that
his efforts might go more smoothly backed up by a display of force, and
welcomed Dick's assistance, as well as that of a neighbour whom he
offered to fetch. There was not much time to lose, and they agreed to
meet at a certain spot within half an hour, a time which to Hugh's
impatience seemed interminable. His father had enough to do in keeping
him quiet, and in finding out where the watch, whose business it was to
keep order at the fair, were bestowed. Matthew, having disposed of his
hay, rejoined Bassett, really desirous to know whether his surmises
turned out to be correct; but, as he declared, solely that he might help
to check his cousin Dick's ignorant zeal.
Four of them, therefore, to say nothing of Hugh, took up their position
in the field just on the outskirts of the fair, and waited patiently or
impatiently, after their natures, for the event.
Soon a motley crowd began to emerge from the booths. The most
picturesque features of the show, indeed, were departing, for foreigners
were not allowed to compete with the English traders beyond a certain
number of days; and Flemish, Italians, Chinese, streamed forth, to find
a night's lodging as best they might beyond the forbidden limits. This
expulsion was accompanied by a good deal of coarse jesting and railing
from the other sellers, who rejoiced at the departure.
It was not long before the bear appeared, led by two men.
"Father, father!" cried Hugh, in a tumult of excitement.
"Speak the word, master, when thou desirest an appeal to my
quarterstaff," put in Dick-o'-the-Hill, "or even give me a nod, and I'll
warrant I'll not be backward. I'll answer for the bear."
"Ay, I verily believe thy head to be as thick as its own," said Matthew.
"When wilt thou learn that brains are better than fists? Peace, and
keep back."
Stephen Bassett had stepped out, and civilly informed the men that a
monkey had been taken from his house, and that he had reason to think it
might be in their possession.
"Going beyond known facts," muttered Matthew, "yet one must sometimes
make a leap in the dark. They shake their heads and deny. What next?
Friend Stephen presses his demand, and all four knaves wax violent in
vowing lies; and Dick is puffing and blowing with desire to break heads.
They have the beast, but where?"
His quick eyes, darting hither and thither, had soon answered this
question. One or two of the men had bundles on their backs, and a boy
carried something of the same sort, though smaller. Matthew noticed
that, at a word from one of the men, this boy slipped out of the group,
and, avoiding the side where Dick and his neighbour Hob were mounting
guard, passed round near Matthew himself. In an absolutely unexpected
moment he found himself caught by the arm, and though he fought and
kicked he was held in a vice. The men turned upon Matthew with
threatening gestures, and Dick, in high delight, flourished his
quarterstaff, and pressed up to the defence with one eye on the bear,
who in a free fight might be held to represent an unknown quantity.
Finding they had fallen into powerful hands the Italians confined
themselves to pouring out violent ejaculations, while Hugh flung himself
upon the bundle. His fingers trembled so much with excitement that he
could hardly drag out the wooden skewers which served to keep it
together, but in a minute or two it was unrolled, and the terrified
monkey sprang out. He had made one frightened leap already when Hugh's
call checked him, and the next moment, with a cry of delight, almost
human in its intensity, he ran to the boy, and clambering on his
shoulder gave the most unmistakable signs of pleasure.
"The monkey is his own jury," said Matthew, sententiously. "Tried and
found guilty, my masters."
The Italians, however, had no intention of giving up their booty without
a struggle, and they called upon several jongleurs, who had crowded
round, to assist them. One went so far as to seize the monkey,
whereupon Dick's cudgel, describing a circle in the air, came down upon
the head of the assailant with such force that he dropped like a stone,
and Hob following up with another blow scarcely less formidable, it
seemed likely that here would be a battle royal. Two men fell upon
Matthew, who would have been in evil case had not Dick done as much for
him as he had for the monkey; and Stephen Bassett was set upon with a
vigour which soon left him breathless, although Hugh, clasping Agrippa
with one hand, with the other arm laid about him to such excellent
purpose that he hoped to save his father from hurt till Dick could come
to the rescue.
But might has been often found to get the upper hand of right, and both
Stephen and Dick had fallen into the common English error of underrating
their opponents. A good many of the foreigners had closed round with
the desire to help their own body, and without knowing anything of the
quarrel; and the English, who would have stoutly taken the opposite
side, could only see that some quarrel was going on, and supposed the
strangers to be fighting among themselves. Dick had done prodigies of
valour, and dealt furious blows with his quarterstaff, but he was
hampered by numbers who clung to his arm, and by the charge of
protecting his cousin, and he was reluctantly framing a call for rescue
when a party of horsemen rode into the very thick of the struggling
mass, and scattered it in all directions.
CHAPTER THREE.
RESCUED.
It was time. Stephen Bassett was all but spent, and Hugh, trying his
best to shield him, was pressed backwards until, to his terror, he found
himself close to the hairy form of the bear. But the instant the
knights appeared the throng opened and fled, except the bear-leaders,
who, hampered by their unwieldy animal, prepared to put the best face
they could on the matter.
For the first few minutes, indeed, there was nothing but trying to quiet
the horses, frightened out of their senses by finding themselves in
close neighbourhood with the bear, and this gave time for Hugh to look,
and to cry out joyfully--
"Father, it is Sir Thomas de Trafford! He will see justice done."
"How now, my masters?" cried the knight, a dark-haired, bright-eyed man
with a red face. "What means this brawling?"
"Your worship," said Dick-o'-the-Hill, wiping his face with the back of
his hand, "these knaves have been taken in the very act of stealing."
"Is that you, Dick Simpkins?" said Sir Thomas, with a laugh. "I might
have guessed that heads could not be broken without your having a hand
in the breaking. But the King will have none of this violence, and the
Master of the Hospital will have thee up for it, neck and crop."
Dick, looking somewhat sheep-faced at this view of his conduct, was yet
going to reply, when his cousin Matthew pushed forward.
"Hearken not to him, your worship," he began; "he is an ignorant though
a well-meaning knave. But I humbly bid your worship take notice that
these men be the culprits who have stolen our property, and, when we
would have reclaimed it, set upon us, and were like to have killed us."
"Killed us forsooth!" muttered Dick, stirred to anger at last.
"--Had your worship not come to our rescue. And as witness, knowing all
the circumstances--none better--I claim, if they are put upon their
trial, to take my place as one of the twelve jurors. It is a case of
flagrant delict."
The culprits, conscious of their guilt, but not understanding the
conversation, stood as pale as death, glancing from one to the other.
"Let us hear in plain words what hath been stolen," said Sir Thomas,
impatiently.
"Please your worship," said Hugh, stepping forward and holding out the
monkey, "it is Agrippa."
"A monkey! Why, thou must be the urchin my little maidens are for ever
chattering about. And Edgar--where is Edgar? Not here? The youngster
is stopping in the fair. And did these fellows steal thy monkey?"
Bassett, who had recovered his breath, put in his word.
"Ay, your worship; when we were away at your lady's, showing her the
carved work of mine she would see. We left the door of John the
sacristan's--where we are lodging--shut, and came back to find it open
and the monkey gone."
"Might he not have escaped?"
"He was too timid unless he had been driven forth. Besides, we have
evidence that the boy, who hath shown much ill-will already in the
matter, was seen to go in at the door with two others. If these men are
questioned I believe they will tell us that they bought the beast from
these boys, and your worship may hold their fault the less."
The knight growled something in his beard which was not flattering to
foreign traders; but his sense of justice led him to take the course
which Bassett suggested, and he put his questions in French to the
Italians, who, watching the faces of those around (of whom a
considerable number had now collected), were in mortal terror of short
shrift. By all the saints in the calendar they vowed that no thought of
stealing had crossed their minds. A boy had brought the monkey; they
could understand no more than that he wanted to sell it, and, as they
were glad of the opportunity, they gave him ten silver pennies for their
bargain.
Matthew was greatly vexed not to understand this defence, in which he
would have been ready enough to pick holes; but Bassett, knowing that,
though true in the main, their story said nothing to explain their
denial of having seen the monkey or of its concealment in the bag, kept
merciful silence. The men, at any rate, had been punished by fright,
and when Sir Thomas de Trafford asked if he demanded that they should be
haled back and given over to the college authorities he shook his head.
"E'en let them go, so we have the monkey," he said.
The knight administered a sharp rating, and bade them tie up their
comrade's broken head and be off; a permission of which they were only
too glad to avail themselves, the bear shuffling after them and causing
a fresh panic among the horses.
"Quiet, Saladin!" said Sir Thomas, irritably. "Master Carver, somebody
must suffer for this, and the boy who stole and sold the beast is the
worst offender. Thou--what is thy name--Hugo? Hugh?--what sayest thou
should be done to him?"
"Your worship," said Hugh, tingling all over with eager thrill of hope,
"your worship, I should like to fight him."
"Trial by combat," said the knight, laughing.
"Nay, nay, he's a false loon, and that were too honourable a punishment.
Here, Dick-o'-the-Hill, thou knowest every knave for miles round, go to
the watch, and bid them take the thievish young varlet to the
whipping-post, and let him remember it. Tell them I will answer for
them to their masters."
"Tell them," Matthew called after him, "that it is a case of flagrant
delict."
"Here, Master Carver," said Sir Thomas, moving his horse a few paces off
and beckoning to Bassett, "that boy of thine is a gallant little urchin,
and my babies have taken a fancy to him. Wilt thou spare him to us? He
shall be well eared for; my lady has but too soft a heart, as I tell
her, for the youngsters of the household."
"I am deeply beholden to your worship," returned Stephen, hastily. "It
sounds ungracious to refuse so good an offer, but I cannot part with him
while I live. You may guess from my face that that will not be for
long."
At the first part of this speech Sir Thomas had frowned heavily, but he
could not be wroth with the end.
"The more reason," he said, "that the boy should have a protector."
"True," Bassett answered. "I have thought much of that. But I hope to
have time yet to place him somewhere where he can follow my craft and
build his own fortunes."
"And you would throw away his advancement for a dream?"
"Is it a dream?" said the carver. "Believe me, your worship, that,
although you may find it hard to believe, we men of art have our
ambitions as strong in us as in the proudest knight of King Edward's
court. Hugh has that in him which I have fostered and cherished, and
which I believe will bear fruit hereafter and bring him, or his art,
fame."
"Small profits, I fear me," said Sir Thomas.
"That is like enough. It may be not even a name. But something will he
have done, as I believe, for the glory of God and the honour of his
art."
"Well," said the knight, half vexed, "I have made thee a fair offer, and
the rest lies with thyself. Where go you after the fair?"
"By Friar Nicholas's advice, gentle sir, as far as to Exeter. He thinks
I may meet with work there and a softer air."
"Since thy father will have nought better, I must find a gift for thee,
boy," said the knight, reining back his horse. He drew a richly-chased
silver whistle from his breast and threw it to the boy. "Take good care
of Agrippa; my little Nell would have broken her heart if she had heard
he was gone. Good day, friend Matthew; good day, Master Carver."
The next moment the little party had clattered away, leaving Hugh with
thanks faltering on his tongue, and Matthew on tip-toe with pride at his
own discernment.
"Never would you have seen your monkey again if I had not collared the
knave," he said. "Now, there is my cousin Dick, an honest fellow as
ever swung a flail, but with no thought beyond what he can do with fists
and staff; no use of his eyes, no putting two and two together. I'll
warrant me by the time he reaches the watch he will have forgotten the
words I put into his mouth; and yet they are the very pith of the
matter. I'll e'en go after him."
He started off, while Bassett and his boy made their way back towards
the church, Hugh ill at ease because, while the pommelling of Peter
seemed a fine thing, his doom to the whipping-post, though no more than
justice, gave him an uneasy feeling. But his father would hear of no
going to beg him off, and, indeed, it would have been bootless. Peter's
offence was one for which whipping might be held a merciful punishment--
"And may save him from turning into a cut-purse later on," added
Bassett.
So Agrippa went back to his rafters and met with no more adventures.
The fair ran its usual busy course; the friar came often to talk with
Stephen Bassett and to give Hugh exercises in reading and writing;
while, more rarely, Eleanor and Anne appeared with Mistress Judith--in
great excitement the last time because the next day they were to set
forth for their home. September was drawing to an end, the weather was
rainy, and Bassett began to make inquiries as to parties who would be
travelling the same road as himself. Dick-o'-the-Hill was certain that
his cousin Mat would find the right people. He had implicit faith in
his sagacity, and came with him in triumph one day to announce success.
It seemed that a mercer, his wife, and son were going back to London and
would be glad of company. And then it came out that Matthew himself was
strongly drawn in the same direction.
"A man," he explained, "is like to have all his wits dulled who sees and
hears none but clodhoppers. I feel at times as if I were no sharper
than Dickon here. Now in London the citizens are well to the front.
There is the Alderman-burgh, with the Law Courts and the King's Bench,
there is the Lord Mayor, there is the King's Palace at Westminster and
the great church of St Paul's; much for a man of understanding to see
and meditate upon, Master Bassett, and I have half a mind--"
"Have a whole one, man," cried the carver, heartily; "and I would Dick
would come too."
"Nay, in London I should be no better than an ass between two bundles of
hay," said honest Dick, shaking his head. "But if Mat goes he will
bring us back a pack of news, and maybe might see the king himself."
It did not take much to give a final push to Matthew's inclination. He
had neither wife nor child, and, as he confided to Bassett, his bag of
marks would bear a little dipping into. He bought a horse--or rather
Dick bought it for him--the carver agreeing to pay him a certain sum for
its partial use during their journey to London, and they set out at
last, leaving the fair shorn of its glory.
Folk were travelling in all directions; but London was the goal of the
greater number, and the little knots of traders with one consent, for
fear of cut-purses, kept well within sight of each other. The road was
not bad, although a course of wet weather might quickly convert it into
a quagmire; and it was easy enough to follow, for one of the king's
precautions against footpads was the clearing away of all brushwood and
undergrowth for a space of two hundred feet on each side of the highway
as well as round the gates of towns. A great deal of talk passed
between the different groups, for fairs were the very centre of news,
foreign and English, political and commercial, with a strong
under-current of local gossip. The Hansards, Easterlings, and Lombards
had brought the latest information about the French claims to Gascony,
as well as much trading information from Bruges, which was then the
great seat of commerce; the English merchants discussed the king's wise
and politic measures to promote the unity of the kingdom, a cause which
Edward had much at heart, as necessary not only for the greatness but
the safety of that England for whose good never king toiled more
unselfishly.
It was all deeply interesting to Stephen Bassett, who had left his own
country many years before, and was amazed at the strides civil liberties
had made since that time. Before this the making and the keeping of
laws had depended upon the fancies of the reigning king, checked or
enlarged as they might be by the barons. It was Edward the First who
called his Commons to assist in the making of these laws, who summoned
burgesses from the principal towns throughout the kingdom, who required
the consent of the people for Acts proposed in Parliament, and enforced
the keeping of these laws so powerfully that his greatest lords could no
more break them with impunity than the meanest churl. He set up a fixed
standard of weights and measures. Up to this time all attempts in this
direction had been failures, and the inconvenience must have been great.
He tried to encourage the growth of towns, freeing them from petty
local restrictions and introducing staples or fixed markets. Under him
taxation became more general and more even. He made a survey of the
country yet more important than that of Domesday. And if that
honourable hold of plighted word was--at any rate until late years--the
proud characteristic of an Englishman, this national virtue, which does
not come by chance any more than does a personal virtue, is owing in no
small degree to the steady and strong example of the great king, who on
his tomb left that bidding to his people--"Pactum serva"--keep covenant.
Hugh, for love of his father, listened as well as he could to the talk;
but he had good play-times as well, for there were many boys and girls
on the road, and, indeed, the mercer with whom they travelled had his
lad of thirteen with him. Agrippa, held by Dame Edith's silken cord,
was an immense object of interest; the mercer's wife made him a new
little coat of scarlet cloth, and, besides the black rye bread which he
shared with his masters, the children were never tired of bringing him
nuts, costard apples, and spice-nuts, so that he fared well. He showed
great affection for Hugh, and was never so happy as when on his
shoulder; tolerating Stephen and detesting Matthew.
The hostels were crowded, and the accommodation of the roughest; but it
was always a matter of rejoicing to have got through the day's journey
without encounter of outlaws. Highway robbery was one of the evils with
which the king had vigorously to contend, and at their last
halting-place the host's wife had such a number of terrible stories at
her fingers' ends as made the more timorous shake in their shoes. She
discoursed volubly as she brought in an excellent supper, which they ate
with knives, forks being as yet a great luxury.
"Alack-a-day, my masters!" she said. "I wot that shameful things have
happened on this very road not so long ago. My lord Abbot from the
neighbouring house, having but one brother with him, was seized and
robbed, and left bound in the ditch. The thief made off with his
palfrey, and that led to his being taken and hung; but the abbot, holy
man! has scarce recovered from the shock."
One story brings another, and Matthew was seldom behindhand when
anything had to be said.
"Things be better, however, than they were ten years ago. Then was a
time of riot. I mind me I had a cousin, living in Boston, when there
came to the gates one night a party of monks wanting room in the
monastery. Fine monks were these, for, when all honest citizens were in
bed, out they slipped, stripped off their gowns, appeared in doublet and
hose of green, and never trust me, my masters, if these merry men did
not take the town so completely by surprise that they sacked and set
fire to it before they left."
"There, see now!" cried the hostess, lifting up her hands; "and they
might do the same by us now, and we sleeping in our beds like babes!"
"I warrant that was what caused the king to ordain that town gates
should be closed between sunset and sunrise, and makes him so strict in
the matter," said a monk who was seated at table, with a good helping of
a fish called cropling on his trencher. "Nay, good mistress, look not
mistrustfully on me. I wear no cassock of green, only that which
belongs to the habit of St Austin, of which I am an unworthy brother."
"There be land pirates and sea pirates," said the little red-faced
mercer, pompously; "both be enemies to an honest man's trade."
"Alack, I know not how any can venture on the seas!" added his wife,
putting her head as much on one side as her stiff gorget would allow.
"There's terrible venturesome folk nowadays," put in the hostess,
pouring out a tankard of ale.
"They do say that ships be going so far as Spain; never will they come
back again, that's certain." Bassett listened, smiling, to these
doleful conjectures; at the same time, hearing more of the dangers of
the highways made him think with some anxiety of the long journey to
Exeter which lay before them. His strength had been tried by that now
going on, and he wished it had been earlier in the year, when the days
had been longer and roads better. But he was naturally hopeful, and,
comforting himself with the thought that on the next day, if all was
well, they would reach London, he listened patiently to much which Hugh
had to tell about his comrades on the road and Agrippa's cleverness
before stretching themselves on the hard pallet which fell to their
share in the common room.
CHAPTER FOUR.
GOD SAVE THE KING!
The last day's journey was a heavy one, owing to the rain which fell
persistently. All the travellers wore their long pointed hoods, and
carried tall, stout sticks, but their legs were not very well protected
except by thick hose, and Bassett's cough was none the better for the
journey. He was glad enough when they came near the clusters of houses
or villages which marked the outskirts of London, and saw the mist
hanging over the city which, helped by the moisture from the marshes,
the new use of coal was already beginning to produce. Matthew was in a
high state of delight.
"Truly something of a city!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands,
"sheltering within its walls something like forty thousand souls. A
noble city! I'll warrant a man of parts might make a name here. There
are the walls."
The carver was almost too weary to bear Hugh's questionings as to the
Franciscan monastery in Newgate Street where they were to lodge, and
whether the prior might object to the presence of Agrippa. When they
reached the monastery, indeed, he was so sorely spent that the good
friars at once called one of their number who had studied physic and
consigned Bassett to his care, giving him, moreover, the best room in
the guests' quarters.
It must be said that the monkey was very doubtfully received, indeed he
might probably have been altogether refused, for some of the brethren
looked upon him as an actual imp of Satan, or perhaps Satan himself.
But the prior was of a larger nature, so that Hugh was suffered to take
Agrippa with him into the room he shared with his father.
And here, in spite of his impatience, Bassett was forced to spend a
week, Friar Luke altogether refusing to allow his patient to leave the
room until the cough and pain in his side were subdued. Had it not been
for his strong longing to reach Exeter and see Hugh started as an
apprentice this would have been a time of peace for the carver. His
quarters were sunny and cheerful; Friar Luke was a herbalist, and in his
search for healing plants would bring him back what autumn flowers yet
lingered, and talking of them would draw out stores of simple learning.
Agrippa, moreover, somewhat to Friar Luke's discomfiture, had shown a
strong attraction for his master's physician, and would come flying down
from all manner of unexpected places to greet him. Sometimes the prior
would visit his guest, and, being a man of thought, his presence was a
real delight to Stephen, while the prior was glad to hear the
experiences of a man who had travelled largely and seen something of the
world. As Stephen grew stronger Friar Luke allowed him to attend the
services in the chapel.
Then Hugh would come in, rosy and excited with his walks with Matthew,
who would see everything, even to the hangings on the Tyburn elms. They
went to mass at St Paul's, then surrounded by its own walls; they
walked down the grassy spaces of Strand; they looked with some dread at
the round church of the New Temple, and heard tales of the Templars fit
to make the hair stand on end; they passed another day to the village of
Westminster, where was the king's palace and the beautiful abbey,
together with the great hall where Parliament, when it met in London,
assembled. It amused Hugh very well at first to see the crowds of
suitors who poured up the stairs--those who had some complaints to make,
grievances to be redressed, or petitions to be laid before the Triers.
No hindrance was put in their way; everyone was free to come, each had a
fair hearing. Outlaws came to beg for pardon, when, if the Triers
thought fit, they were recommended to the king's grace; men and women
sought redress from wrongs inflicted perhaps by the lord of the manor;
jurors who had perverted their office were brought up to receive
judgment--all these lesser matters were as much the business of
Parliament as granting aids to the king for carrying on the wars, and so
fascinated was Matthew with the scene that Hugh was wearied to death of
it before he could drag him away.
He got him out at last, muttering to himself that had he but known how
easy matters were made he would have looked up a case of his own against
the University of Cambridge. Hugh, stirred by ambition to have to do
with an actual suitor, which was much more exciting than looking on and
listening to matters he did not understand, was for his going back again
at once. Great was Matthew's indignation at the idea.
"Thou silly oaf!" he said, angrily. "To go without preparation!"
"They but told a plain story," returned Hugh, sturdily. "Anyone could
do as much."
"Seest thou not the difference? They were ignorant men with whom the
Council was wondrous patient, overlooking all their clipped words, and
mercifully stooping to their simpleness. But for a man of understanding
to put a case matters must be very different. Fit words must he use,
and just pleadings must he make, and be ready to give good reason.
Their worships know well with whom they have to do. I will take thee to
the Guildhall one day, and there thou shalt see the lawyers in their
white coifs. They are no longer monks, as once they were."
"I would liefer go down the river and see the ships," said Hugh wearily.
Matthew, who was really good-natured, yielded to this desire, and they
picked their way along the swampy ground as best they could, and past
the Tower. The great trade of London, even at this time when commerce
was ever made secondary to politics, was so large that a number of
vessels were in the river. Strange craft they were and of all shapes
and sizes, the largest resembling nothing so much as a swollen
half-circle, broadening at one end, and coming round so as to form a
sort of shelter, and curving sharply to a point at the bow. No such
thing as sea charts as yet existed, so that a voyage was a perilous
matter, and, in spite of the Crusades and of the trade with the
Mediterranean, few vessels ventured through the Straits of Gibraltar.
Edward was turning his attention to the navy, and was the first to
appoint admirals, but, so far, England's strength lay altogether in her
army and her famous bowmen, and the sea was no source of power, nor her
sailors famous.
Still, though Matthew professed the greatest contempt for his taste,
Hugh found the river more delightful than the Council Hall, and was for
lingering there as late as he could. Some of the vessels were
unloading, others embarking corn from the eastern counties, so that
there was much stir and turmoil, and more vessels were in than was
usual, because the time of the autumn equinox was dangerous for sailing.
Children, too, were, as ever, playing about, and one group attracted
Hugh, because in it was a little maid much about the size of little
Eleanor, and with something of her spirited ways. The boys, her
companions, were rough, and at last one pushed her with such force that
she fell, striking her head violently against a projecting plank. Hugh
flew to avenge her, but the boys, frightened at seeing her lie
motionless, fled, and Matthew stood growling at the manners of the age.
Hugh, used to sickness, ran to the water's brink, and scooped up a
little water in his two hands. By the time he had poured it on her face
and raised her head on his knee she opened her brown eyes with a cry of
"Mother!" and the next moment a man in a sailor's dress had leaped
ashore from one of the vessels which were lading close by, had run to
the group and taken her in his arms.
"Art thou hurt, my Moll, and where?"
"Father, 'twas Robin Bolton pushed me."
"Ay, and I wot Robin Bolton shall have a clout on his head when he comes
within my reach. But there, thou wilt soon be well again. Thank thee
for thy help," he added, more roughly, to Hugh.
"If you stand in need of a witness," began Matthew, but the sailor
interrupted him--
"Witnesses? No! What she stood in need of was water, which thy boy
fetched. He is quick enough to be a sailor," he added, with a laugh.
"Wilt thou come on a voyage to Dartmouth?"
"I should be frighted on the sea," said Hugh sturdily.
"Nay, it's not so bad, so you fall not in with pirates, which are the
pest of our coasts. I've been lucky enough to escape them so far. But
then," he added with a wink, "they know me at Dartmouth, and folk
sometimes tell evil tales of Dartmouth."
He was of a talkative nature, or perhaps thought it well to keep his
Moll quiet on his knee, for he went on to tell them that his wife and
child lived near the spot where they were, while he went on trading
voyages, bringing up Cornish ore from Dartmouth and carrying back other
ladings. He was very proud of his vessel, and yet prouder of his little
maid, whom it was plain he did his best to spoil; and when he saw that
she had taken a fancy to Hugh, he told him he might come on board his
vessel one day before he sailed.
"Which will be in a week," he said, confidently. "The storms will be
over by then."
Hugh was glad enough of the bidding, for Matthew, with his love for the
law courts and for all that concerned the State, was but a dry companion
to an eager boy. He went back to the monastery in high glee, to tell
his father all that he had heard.
Friar Luke was with Stephen, having brought his patient a decoction of
coltsfoot, and also a little bunch of flowers which he was examining
with enthusiastic patience.
"See here," he said, with a sigh, "though in good sooth one needs eyes
of more than human power to examine so minute a structure. There is a
talk that one of our order, Friar Bacon, who died not many years ago,
could by means of a strange instrument so enlarge distant objects as to
bring them into the range of a man's vision. I know not. Many strange
things are told of him, and many of our brethren believe that he had
dealings with the black art. It might be he was only in advance of us
all. But while he was about it I would he had taught us how to enlarge
what is near. And, indeed, there is talk of a magic beryl--"
"Father, father!" cried Hugh, rushing in breathless; "we have been to
the river, and there was a ship, and a little maiden called Moll, and
the master has bid me on board the ship before he sails for Dartmouth."
He poured out the history of the day, standing by his father's knee,
with Agrippa nestling in his arms. Bassett heard him so thoughtfully
that Hugh began to think he was displeased.
"Mayn't I go?" he asked, tremulously.
"Ay, ay," said his father, absently. "Friar Luke, tell me truly, do you
still dread for me this journey to Exeter?"
"Rather more than less," answered the friar.
"The fatigue?"
"Ay, fatigue and exposure, but chiefly the fatigue."
"Yet I must go."
"Ay, ay, there is ever a must in the mouth of a wilful man," said the
friar, testily. "And then you fall sick, and it is the fault of the
leech."
"That it can never be in my case," said the carver, gratefully, "for
never had man a kinder or more skilful. But I will tell you why I ask.
Hugh's encounter has put into my mind the thought that we might go to
Dartmouth by ship."
"The saints forbid!" said the friar, rapidly crossing himself. "You
must be mad to think of it, Master Bassett."
"Nay, but why?"
"The dangers, the discomforts!--shoals, rocks, pirates!"
"Dangers there are in all journeys. The discomforts will no doubt be
great, but put on the other side the fatigue you warn me against."
"You should not go at all," said Friar Luke. "Remain here where you can
be cared for. Hugh shall be a serving-boy, and take the habit when he
is old enough."
"Wilt thou, Hugh?" demanded his father.
A vehement shake of the head was his answer.
"Nay, holy friar," said Bassett, with a smile; "I am bending the twig so
far that the strain is great, but your proposal, I fear, would snap it
altogether. But about our voyage. I am greatly inclined to Hugh's new
friend. When does he sail?"
"In a week," said the boy, with some reluctance. He had not liked the
voyage from Flanders, and this promised to be worse. Still he felt it
incumbent upon him to show no fear.
"That would do well. I tell thee what, Hugh, thou shalt ask the master
to come and see me here if he has a mind for another kind of cargo."
With his usual hopefulness, the idea had taken hold of the wood-carver
so strongly that he turned aside all remonstrances, though the prior
himself came up to beg him not to be so foolhardy. But it was true, as
Bassett maintained, that each kind of travelling had its dangers, and,
if the sea offered the most, he felt a sick man's longing to be spared
trouble, and a feverish desire for the salt breezes. Matthew, too,
thought it philosophical to be above listening to the tales of
sea-perils which the brethren related, it need hardly be said, at
second-hand; but it must be owned that he showed no desire to extend his
own travels so far as Exeter. Hugh went down the next day and talked to
the master, who at first shook his head.
"Two landsmen on board? Where could we stow ye? And if we met with
rough weather we should have you crying upon all the saints in the
calendar. A sick man, too! How could he put up with our rough fare?"
"My father does not get frighted," said Hugh, indignantly, though
pleased to be counted a landsman.
"Thou art a sturdy little varlet," said the master, looking at him
approvingly. "If my Moll had been a boy, I should have been content had
he likened thee. But I would not have her other than she is, and thou
wast good to her the other day. I'll come and see thy father, and if he
is a good, honest man, and none of your dandy long-toed fops, he and
thou shalt have a passage to Dartmouth."
The next day was Sunday, and, to the scandal of the grey friars, Matthew
insisted upon taking Hugh to St Bartholomew in Smithfield, the noble
Norman church of the Augustinian friars. There was a good deal of
jealousy between the orders, and each was ready enough to listen to or
to repeat tales which told to the discredit of the others; so that, as
Matthew said, black, white, and grey, each held their colour to be the
only one in which a friar might travel to heaven. Mass being over at
St Bartholomew's they went to great St Paul's.
This was in that day a splendid Gothic church, twice as big as the
present building, and with a dazzling high altar. But, in spite of its
magnificence, and perhaps partly on account of its size, it was a
notorious haunt of cut-purses and brawlers, and all manner of crimes
were committed in the church; so that a few years before the king had
given the Chapter leave to surround it with walls and gates, treating it
indeed as a town, and keeping out suspicious characters.
By this means matters had mended a little, but there was still a great
deal of unseemly conduct which caused scandal to the more devout. Hugh
came back to the monastery bursting with all he had to tell, and he was
beyond measure delighted when his father said he would himself go out
the next day.
Before the sun had mounted high enough for Friar Luke to allow this the
master of the _Queen Maud_ arrived, and Stephen saw a sturdy, sunburnt
man, with an open countenance, blue-eyed, light-haired, wearing a
garment of coarse cloth which reached to his knees, who looked as uneasy
at finding himself in a monastery as a freshly-trapped pony from his own
wilds of Dartmoor might have looked in a walled town. His discomfort
made him surly, so that he gave the carver no encouragement for the
voyage.
"Hard living and a perilous life, my master."
"That does not affright me."
"Because you know it not," said the other, impatiently. "Here you sit
in a drone's hive and hear the winds blow outside, and have no fear.
With a plank for your wall you would tell a different tale."
"I have tried the plank," said Bassett, with a smile. "Though, as you
say, Master Shipman, we know not other's lives till we try them, and
maybe you, if you lived here, would think more kindly of what you call a
drone's hive."
"The Church and the Pope swallow up all a poor man's savings," said the
sailor, less gruffly. "'Tis nothing but fresh taxes, and these Lombard
usurers are every whit as bad as the Jews. I would the king could make
as clean a sweep of them. To make money without working for it is a sin
and a shame."
"The king does what he can."
"Ay, does he," said the other, heartily. "He is the poor man's friend."
"Truly."
The sailor looked at him. "Why, then," he said, "if thou lovest King
Edward--"
"No question of that."
"E'en come along with us. I am but taking down some bales of cloth and
of silk, and as thou mindest not a rough life, and I have a fancy for
thy boy, we may perchance rub along together."
So it was settled, and, in spite of the friar's forebodings, Stephen
Bassett thought of his venture with an excellent heart. Hugh was
naturally fearless, and, though the sea was a great object of dread in
those times, he believed his father knew best, and began to look forward
also. But first he would have Bassett come forth for his promised walk,
and without Matthew.
"He has been very good to thee," said the carver reproachfully.
"Ay, but he has always something to say against everything. This might
be better, or that couldn't be worse. I believe he would find fault
with King Edward himself."
"Poor Matthew! He has the critical spirit," said Stephen, smiling.
"Is that what makes him so thin?" demanded Hugh, innocently.
"Ay. It often works that way, and is bad for the owner. Nevertheless,
it has its advantages. Look at that bowl. If I listened to the good
brothers I should deem it perfect; but when Matthew says, `Hum--I know
not--is there not something lacking?' I begin to search for a way of
bettering it, and presently find that he was right. So his
fault-finding does me a better service than all their praise. Keep that
in mind, Hugh. Now we will forth. I will buy some cloth and take it to
one of the tailors' guild, that you may have a cloak for rough weather
like mine."
This was a delightful errand, and when it was ended Stephen had not the
heart to refuse Hugh when he begged that he would try to go towards St
Paul's and see the noble church. The boy was very happy in acting as
showman, pointing out the beautiful spire while they were yet at some
distance. He had begged to bring Agrippa, promising to keep him covered
by a piece of cloth, and the monkey was sufficiently alarmed by the
strange noises and cries in the street to keep quiet. Hugh found it a
rare opportunity to ask questions which Matthew had been either unable
or unwilling to answer.
"Look, father, look quickly! There is a woman with bread in her
panniers! What is she doing?"
"I have heard of her," said Stephen, stopping. "Friar Luke told me
that, instead of folk being forced to fetch the daily bread from the
bakers, there was now a woman who had got leave to take it round from
house to house. She has the thirteenth loaf for her pains. Truly
there's no knowing to what a pitch of luxury we may come! Are we nearly
at our journey's end, Hugh? My legs have fallen out of the way of
walking, and are true sluggards."
He was in truth standing somewhat exhausted in the road under one of the
black-timbered houses in Ludgate Hill, when a small cavalcade of knights
and squires, some in armour, some in the scarlet cloaks of the
Hospitallers, came sharply round the corner, so sharply, indeed, that in
the narrow road one of the squires' horses struck Stephen and sent him
staggering against the wall.
The party reined up at once. Hugh had uttered a cry and sprung to his
father's side, dropping the monkey as he stretched out his arms. Half a
dozen men-at-arms crowded round; one of the red-cloaked knights leaped
from his horse, but they all drew back before one who seemed the
principal knight, a man of great stature, with brown hair and thick
beard, and gravely searching blue eyes.
"Is he hurt?" he demanded. "That is your squire's rough riding, Sir
John de Lacy."
"My liege, 'twas but a touch," urged an older knight. "I saw it all.
He can scarce be hurt." Stephen, indeed, had well-nigh recovered
himself, though dizzy with the shock, and scarcely knowing what had
happened or why he was surrounded by horsemen. Hugh, seeing him
revived, stared at the group with all his might, while the monkey,
frightened to death at the horses, had run up a projection of the house
and perched himself upon a carved wooden balcony, from which he scolded
and chattered.
"It is nothing, I am not hurt," faltered Stephen; and then the colour
rushed back to his white face, and he bent his knee hastily. "My Lord
the King," he stammered, "is it not?"
"Ay," said Edward, with one of his rare kindly smiles; "but it was not I
who rode over thee. Art thou not hurt?"
"Nay, my liege, it is but that I have been ill. It was no more than a
touch."
It had all passed quickly, but a knot of bystanders had by this time
collected, kept off by the men-at-arms.
"He speaks truly, my lord," said one of the Hospitallers who had
dismounted. "He has not been hurt by the horse, but--"
He paused significantly, and Edward glanced at Hugh. "Come hither,
boy."
So Hugh, crimson with wonder and delight, stood by the king's horse, and
answered his questions as firmly as he could. His father was a
wood-carver. They were going to Exeter to seek work--by ship, as he
took care to state; and meanwhile, because father had been so ill, they
were lodging at the Franciscan monastery in Newgate Street.
"And is that thy beast?" asked the king, whose quick eye had caught
sight of the monkey between the carved work of the balcony. "How wilt
thou catch him? Let us see."
Hugh promptly stood under the balcony, opened his arms, and uttered a
call, to which Agrippa responded, though fearfully, by swinging down by
tail and hands and dropping into his master's arms.
"Well climbed indeed," said Edward; and seeing that Stephen was in some
degree recovered, he bade one of the men-at-arms lend him his horse and
go with him to the convent. "And here is a gold piece for thee, boy--
for remembrance," he added, tossing him the coin as he moved off.
"And a silver one for the monkey," said a young knight, with a merry
laugh, stooping to offer the mark to Agrippa, who cleverly clutched it,
and then trotting after the king.
All had passed so quickly that Hugh scarcely knew where he was or what
had happened. He stood staring at the gold noble in his hand, while the
bystanders closed up curiously, and one rough fellow, who looked as if
he had been drinking, made as though he would have snatched it from his
hand. A fat monk, with a red good-natured face, hit the fellow a sound
buffet; the crowd laughed, and the man-at-arms made haste to get Bassett
on his horse, and to hurry his charges away, the king being always
roused to anger by any brawling in the streets.
"Keep close to me," he said to Hugh; "and give thy money to thy father.
Now, where are we bound? The Grey Friars? I warrant me they brew good
ale there, and supper-time is nigh enough to make a tankard right
welcome."
"And that was the king," said Hugh, drawing a deep breath.
"Ay, the king. What thinkest thou of him?"
"I would I could fight for him," burst out the boy.
"Why, so thou shalt!" said Hob Trueman, with a laugh. "Eat good beef,
and drink good ale, and grow up a lusty yeoman. The king's a good
master, I have nought to say against him--saving that he is somewhat
over strict," he added, with qualifying remembrance. "We should be near
by this time--"
That night, before lying down in the wooden crib which served for bed,
Stephen Bassett called his boy.
"Hugh, thou hast not forgotten thy promise," he said anxiously.
"No, father;" in a low voice.
"Fight for the king thou must, or be ready to fight. That is the law
for all Englishmen. Does not that content thee?"
Silence. Then--"I should like to be near him, to be one of the
men-at-arms."
Bassett sighed.
"I cannot yield to thee, Hugh."
"No, father."
"And I have no breath for talking to-night. We will speak of it again."
CHAPTER FIVE.
THE VOYAGE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Stephen Bassett was not the better for that day's work, though the
accident was too slight to have harmed a man in fair health, and it made
a sound reason for Friar Luke to urge upon him that he should give up
his wild project of going west in the _Queen Maud_. But the carver was,
if possible, only the more bent upon the scheme. He wanted to get Hugh
out of London, where was more stir of arms and rumour of wars than in
the shires, and have him safely bound apprentice where there should be
no withdrawing.
"He will not fail me, poor little lad," he said; "but were I to be taken
from him here his task would be ten times harder. Besides, I see no
opening for him except what the good brothers offer, which he would hate
worst of all."
So he kept the tales of his aches and weakness to himself as much as he
could, though it cost him not a little to avoid Friar Luke's reproachful
eye when he came in from the garden with his herbs; and, armed with a
letter from the prior--written in Latin on a strip of vellum--to the
head of the Franciscans in Exeter, and accompanied to the water's edge
by several of the brethren, and a hospitable store of provisions with
which they insisted on supplying them, the little party and their gear
got safely on board the vessel, and would go down the river by the next
tide. Little Moll and her mother were there, which made it seem more
friendly to poor Hugh, who looked about him with dismay, and had had all
possible mischances put before him by the friars, who thought Bassett's
action nothing less than flying in the face of Providence.
Still, when the farewells had all been spoken, the cumbersome anchor
dragged out of the mud, and the great square sail with its sprawling
centre device rigged up, they went merrily down the river. It was
getting towards the middle of October, and the great buildings of
London, the Abbey of Westminster, the Church of the Templars, the Gothic
spire of St Paul's, the Tower, and various beautiful conventual
buildings, stood, mostly surrounded by fine trees, in all the glory of
autumnal gold and red. The lesser buildings--the very hovels--were
picturesque, the river ran clear and strong, the vessels flaunted bright
sails, colour was everywhere, and the soft blue mists but made a fair
background for the scene.
Stephen Bassett stood watching, with a feeling that it was for the last
time, when Andrew the ship-master joined him.
"A fair prospect," said the carver.
"Ay, though I love my red Devon hills better. But, tell me, master, is
it true, as thy boy relates, that you met King Edward yesterday and
spoke with him?"
"I said not much, I had no breath left in my body," said Stephen,
smiling; "but it is true that the king spoke to us, chiefly to Hugh, and
was very gracious."
"To think of that!" said the sailor, staring. He walked away, but after
this it was evident that his respect for his passengers was mightily
increased, and he seldom came near Stephen without putting some question
as to how the king looked and spoke, while Hugh had the same to answer
from them all--more, indeed, since he never tired of the subject, and
his pride in it was immense. His father had sewn his gold piece into
the lining of his vest; Hugh never intended to spend it, it was for
"remembrance," as he was never tired of telling his father; and Stephen
used laughingly to inquire whether Hugh had begun to persuade himself
that he had been the hero of some courageous adventure, for reward of
which the king had bestowed the token upon him? The boy used to redden
at this, for there was a certain truth in the jest, and finding himself
listened to with such interest by the sailors was like to turn his head.
Fortunately, as usual, there was a depreciating element. The youngest
on board was a round-shouldered somewhat misshapen lad of seventeen,
ill-favoured in temper as well as face, unpopular among his mates,
except for one gift, that of storytelling. He could relate or invent
tales with amazing ease, and on days when there was an idle calm the
men, who at other times knocked him about roughly, would listen
spell-bound for hours. This was his moment of glory.
But on this voyage his power seemed gone. The real explanation was very
simple: the wind had shifted so as to follow them favourably, they had
got safely round the dangerous Goodwins, and swept down the Channel past
Dover, its castle and old British church standing out sharply above the
white cliffs, while the setting sun shone like fire on the great sail of
the vessel. They cast anchor in the first convenient creek; this
required care and labour with the oars to avoid shoals, and the men were
too sleepy afterwards to listen to stories. So it went on; the breeze
blew freshly from the east, Stephen, crouched under what shelter the
stern could afford, shivered, but Andrew the master rubbed his hands,
and there was no slackening sail or delay.
This was really the reason why the sailors would not listen to the boy
Jakes, but he chose to lay it to Hugh's charge.
"Young fool," he muttered, "always boasting, and telling about the king,
I wonder they hearken!"
Such spite as he could work he was not slow to show. Many rough
practical jokes he played, which Stephen counselled his boy to receive
good-humouredly. But Hugh was set up with his Ludgate Hill adventure
and the notice it had brought him, so that it made him mad to be jeered
at for feeling sea-sick, or tripped up over ropes, or brought to the
ground when he imagined himself to be sitting on something solid. Jakes
was afraid of Agrippa, never having seen a monkey before, and fully
sharing the idea that here was something uncanny, which was quite able
to revenge itself if any harm was attempted. Jakes, therefore, let him
alone, and even preferred to play his malicious jokes upon Hugh when the
monkey had climbed the ropes and was out of reach and sight.
The voyage had on the whole been a success, and the _Queen Maud_ was at
length coasting along under the white cliffs of Dorsetshire, with the
red ones of Devon lying rich and soft against a blue grey sky before
them, and the sea leaping and whitening under the easterly wind.
"Strange that it should blow so long at this season," said the master,
standing by Bassett and looking forwards.
"If it goes on, we may get in to-morrow night?"
"Ay, if it doesn't freshen into a gale, which the saints forbid! I mind
not a gale in my teeth, but rocks before and the wind driving behind is
what I mislike. Methinks, master," he added, abruptly, "it will be well
for you to get to your journey's end."
"I have a longer before me," said Stephen, with a smile.
"Ay, to Exeter," answered Andrew, misunderstanding, "and I have been
thinking I would put you ashore at Teignmouth, and save you a piece of
your journey. I might try Exmouth, but--there are ill tales of Exmouth,
as I told you there were of Dartmouth," he added, with a laugh; "at
Dartmouth they know me, but at Exmouth--there might by chance be a
mistake."
Stephen thanked him heartily, saying, and truly, that the shortening of
the road would be a great gain. They put in that night at a small
harbour formed for the convenience of coasting vessels, but though their
start was made with the first glimmer of dawn, Jakes, who generally had
to be aroused by a rope's end or a kick, had been on shore, and came
back carrying a bag and grinning from ear to ear, so that Hugh was
forced to ask him what he had got.
"Apples," he said, still grinning; "rare fine apples. Bide a bit, and
shalt have one."
Hugh, who loved apples as well as any boy with a wholesome appetite
should do, kept an eye on Jakes and his promise without suspecting that
there might be anything unfriendly in this sudden change of disposition.
The wind had freshened, of that there could be no doubt, and the
sailors were busy with the lumbering sail, when Jakes beckoned Hugh
forward to the bow, where was the bag.
"Put in thy hand and pull'm out, quick!" he said, running back to his
work; and, thinking no harm, Hugh thrust in boldly, to have his fingers
instantly seized in a nip which made him feel as if by the next moment
they would be all left behind in the bag.
He cried out lustily, and dragged out his hand, to which a fine
blue-black lobster was hanging, a creature at least as strange to Hugh
as the monkey was to Jakes. The more he shook the tighter the lobster
pinched, and when one of the sailors looked round the sail he could do
nothing but split his sides with laughing. Hugh, crimson with pain and
fright, was dancing about, vainly trying to disengage his hand. Jakes,
the next to appear, broke into uproarious merriment.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he yelled, "told him there were apples in the bag, and he
went for to steal 'em! Serve him right, serve him right! How like you
your apples, my master?"
The buffeting of the wind in the sail and the rising noise of the sea
had kept much of this from Stephen, but he at last became conscious that
something unusual was going on, and made his way to the bows.
"Father!" cried poor Hugh, flying to him.
"Why, my little lad!" said Bassett, unable himself to avoid a smile,
"what coil have you got into?"
"What is it?" demanded the boy, in a shamefaced whisper, as his father
proceeded quietly to loosen the great claws.
"A lobster. Didst never see his like? He will be a dainty morsel for
supper, and will change his blue coat for a scarlet. There," he added,
as he finished his task, "I counsel Agrippa not to let his curiosity
jeopardise his tail. But how did he fasten on you?"
"It was that wicked Jakes!" cried Hugh, with flashing eyes.
"Were a stealing my apples," Jakes retorted, defiantly. "Told him there
was apples in the bag, and he put in his hand and the lobster caught
un." And clapping his unshapely hands on his knees, he roared with
laughter once more, until he bent himself double. Hugh flew at him like
a tiger, but the other sailor pulled him off.
"Never heed the great lozel," he said. "It was but an apple."
"He told me--he told me to put in my hand and take one out," panted
Hugh, struggling with his captor. "He's a false liar!"
"Softly, Hugh, softly," said his father gravely.
Jakes was for telling his story again with fresh detail, when the
master's voice was heard calling angrily. Stephen got Hugh back into
shelter, and Agrippa, frightened by the creaking of the mast and the
straining of ropes, clambered down to take refuge in his master's arms.
Hugh's face was like a thunder-cloud. He burst out presently--
"To call me a thief!"
Stephen was silent.
"If Dickon had left me alone, I would have made him own it was a false
lie. I would I were a man!"
"Why?"
"I should be strong and could fight," the boy said, surprised at the
question.
"I often think of that time," returned Bassett thoughtfully. "I may not
be here to see it, and I would fain know--" He paused.
"What?" asked Hugh.
"Who thou wilt fight?"
"Who? Mine enemies," said Hugh, lifting his head.
"If you know them."
"I shall know them, because they will try to do me a mischief. Jakes--
he is an enemy," fiercely.
"Thou hast worse than Jakes, my poor little lad," Stephen said,
tenderly, "and nearer at hand. Thine own passions will truly do thee a
mischief, except thou keep them under. There's fighting ground for
thee. And, see here, I have long meant to say something to thee about
King Edward, only I have an ill-trick of putting off. Thou thinkest the
only way of serving him is by hard blows. He himself would tell thee
that there be better ways. Serve the State faithfully as a peaceful
citizen, keep the laws, and work for the glory of God and the honour of
England. He would tell thee more. That his hardest work of government
has been the task of governing himself. That is what has made him a
great king. It seems small to thee just now, but one day, my Hugh, my
words may come back."
A fit of coughing stopped him. Hugh's ill-temper had had a little
cooling time, but it had not by any means left him. It was not the
pain, perhaps it was not even so much the being called a thief, for no
one on board was like to listen much to Jakes, and as for his father he
had not even cared to allude to the absurd accusation. What Hugh really
so much hated was the being laughed at. He had heard the men roaring
with merriment after Dickon joined them, even his father had laughed; it
would be for ever a sort of standing joke. What turned his thoughts
more than anything was the weather. Anyone could see how much the wind
had strengthened since they put out to sea. The colours, which had been
clear and distinct, now had become blurred; a wet mist, not yet rain,
but near it, was driving up from the southeast; the waves had grown
larger and rushed past them in wild hurly-burly; the air was full of
noisy tumult; the clumsy vessel groaned and laboured on her way, and
Stephen and Hugh could not find shelter enough to protect them from the
clouds of spray which swept across the vessel.
Andrew, the master, was too closely occupied with his work to come near
them; he shouted directions to the man who was steering, but kept by the
sail, and Bassett knew enough of the sea to suspect that they were in a
position of some peril. For himself he thought it mattered little. He
knew that he was even more ill than he outwardly appeared, and the
wetting under which he was shivering was likely to quicken matters. But
for Hugh? He could resign himself, it was a far harder matter to resign
this young life, so full of vigorous promise--to give up with him all
the hopes in which he had indulged of fame to come to his name, though
not in his life. He had dreamt of late much of this; had pictured Hugh
leaping to eminence, leaving his mark as a stone-carver in some
beautiful cathedral, where age after age his work should stand, and when
men asked who had done this great thing, the answer would be--Hugh
Bassett. Was it all to end in an unknown grave under the grey waters
which leaped so wildly round their prey?
Every half-hour the storm seemed to increase in fury. The shores on
either side were now blotted out, and the steering was a matter of great
difficulty. Andrew took it himself for a time, but his quick eye and
steady courage were needed for the look-out, and he went forward again
until he gave orders to strike sail. Then he once more came back and
stood near Bassett and Hugh, looking as undaunted as ever. But when he
spoke they could scarce hear his voice for the turmoil of the sea.
"Rough weather, goodman!"
"Ay! Will the boat hold?"
Andrew, who had stooped down to catch the carver's words, straightened
himself with a laugh.
"Ay, ay, the boat will hold. No fear of her failing. But where she
will carry us I would I could say so certainly. Thou wouldst fain be
back in the drones' hive hearkening to book and bell, eh?"
"I am right glad to be remembered in the good brothers' prayers," said
Stephen, quietly.
"Well, it may be as you say. Those I have known--I would not have given
a base pollard for the pardon-mongers' prayers; but there are false
loons in every craft."
They were silent again, for their voices were pretty well stormed down,
and the sea broke so fiercely over the vessel that two or three of the
men had to be constantly baling it out. Still she held her way
gallantly. The shipmen of that day were not without an imperfect form
of compass, in which the needle was laid upon a couple of straws in a
vessel of water, but these contrivances were apt to get out of gear at
the very time when they were most needed, such as a storm like that now
raging round the _Queen Maud_, and hardy sailors trusted rather to their
own skill and courage or their knowledge of the coast. Nothing was,
therefore, so dangerous as fog or mist.
To Hugh, however, what seemed most terrible was the wild driving storm
and the rush of the waves against the boat, which shivered under each
stroke as if she had received a mortal blow. Agrippa, wet and
miserable, cowered in his master's arms, and turned up a piteous little
wrinkled face full of inquiry. Hugh crept closer to his father, and at
last put his question--
"Shall we be drowned?"
Stephen turned and caught his hands in his.
"Nay, my little lad, I know not, I know not! I should not have brought
thee!"
The boy looked in his face gallantly.
"I am not frightened," he said, "only I wish poor Agrippa were safe."
They were silent again after this. Andrew was evidently uneasy; he
shouted orders to the sailors, and strained his eyes through the
baffling mist as if he feared what might be in advance of him. His
hope, and it was a feeble one, consisted in the chance that he might
strike the estuary of the Teign, avoiding the bar, and, as the tide
would be full, getting into the shelter of the river. He was one of the
most skilful of the sailors of the west, knowing all the currents and
dangers thoroughly; but navigation was then in its infancy, and vessels
were clumsy, lumbering things, suited but to calm weather, when they
would coast along from creek to creek. The bolder craft chiefly
belonged to pirates. Still, England was beginning to awake to her sea
powers, and Henry the Third had taken the title of Ruler of the Seas in
honour of a victory gained over the Spaniards. Andrew himself had been
down as far as Spain, and was held to be over-daring; moreover, he
wanted to hasten his voyage and get back to his wife and to Moll,
otherwise he would hardly have put out that morning in the teeth of a
possible gale.
And now, although nothing was to be seen except perhaps what seemed like
a thickening of the mist, Stephen knew from the master's face that the
danger was worse. He was so numb and cold himself as to feel
indifferent to his own fate--besides, as he reflected, at the most it
was but shortening his life by a month or two--but his love for Hugh
went up in a yearning cry that he might be saved. He touched him, and
made the boy put his ear close to his mouth.
"See here, Hugh," he said, with labouring breath, "if you are spared out
of this coil thou must make thy way to Exeter. The Franciscans will
take thee in at first, but thou must seek out James Alwyn. I mind me
that was the name of thy mother's cousin. Get him to apprentice thee
where thou canst learn thy trade. Thou hast it in thee--do not forget."
"No, father," said poor little Hugh, glancing fearfully round.
It was but a minute after that, or so it seemed, that they heard a cry
from one of the sailors. The wall of mist had suddenly become solid; it
loomed before them in unmistakable cliffs, so near that the man who was
steering dropped the rudder and fell upon his knees. With a cry of rage
Andrew leaped back from the bows, seized the rudder, and using all his
strength forced her head somewhat round. It was a strange sight, this
struggle of the man with the elements. The man standing undaunted in
the midst of a hurly-burly which threatened quick death, facing his
danger without flinching, resolute, bent upon snatching every advantage
which skill could give him. That the vessel was drifting against the
wall of red rock before them was plain; Stephen, clutching Hugh in his
arms, wondered that the master should hope to avert it. Suddenly he saw
Andrew's face change. He set his teeth, and slackening the rudder drove
straight for the cliffs.
There was a breathless pause; the next minute the vessel struck a small
sandy beach, driven up it and wedged there by the uplifting force of the
waves. The master's keen eye had noted the one comparative chance of
safety, and had tried for it. Almost as the ship touched the sailors
sprang forward and leaped into the sea. Only Andrew, Bassett, Hugh and
Agrippa remained on board.
CHAPTER SIX.
A WEARY JOURNEY.
The first sensation had been one of deliverance. The second was more
like despair.
The waves breaking against rocks and shore looked more terrible than out
in the open sea, and this sudden rush for safety on the part of the men
had something about it so cowardly that it produced in Stephen a
wretched sense of desolation. He supposed that in another moment Andrew
would have followed his fellow sailors, and they would be left alone.
Andrew had in fact rushed to the bows as the men leaped over, and
Stephen, bitter in spirit at such a cruel desertion, strained his boy in
his arms so that, if he could do no more, he might at least hide death
from him.
He almost started when he heard a voice. The master was standing over
him with a face full of rage.
"The cowardly loons!" he cried; "I would the waves had choked them! No
Devon man would have played such a trick. I knew they were helpless
oafs, but to save their skins like that! If they had stopped it would
have been easy enough, but now we must think how to get thee on shore."
Stephen sprang up.
"Think not on me. My life is nothing. Save Hugh, and I ask no more."
Andrew stared at him and began to laugh.
"Prithee, dost thou suppose I should leave thee here to drown? Why one
of thy precious drones' hive would scarce be so unmanly, though, in
truth, I can say nought against them after those base knaves of mine.
But now, see here, if I fasten a rope round the mast--which will hold
yet awhile--and go ashore with the other end, canst thou find thy way?"
"The boy first."
"Ay, the boy first, and the monkey with him, if the beast has the sense
to hold on. Thou wilt want both hands for thyself, Hugh."
"I will tie him to me," cried the boy, hopefully. His hopes had risen
with Andrew's cheerfulness, and as for Bassett, with the revulsion of
feeling, a new and extraordinary strength seemed to have come to him; he
helped the master to fasten the rope securely, and stood, unheeding the
buffet of wind and waves, watching the sailor when he had cast himself
into the sea, and was fighting his way towards the shore. Once or twice
he was sucked back by the retreating water and nigh overwhelmed, and the
time seemed endless before they made out that he had gained a footing,
and was with the other men on the beach. His shout only faintly touched
their ears.
"Now, Hugh," said Bassett firmly.
They had bound poor Agrippa as closely to him as they could, while round
his own neck the carver had disposed a bag with money and such small
specimens of his workmanship as were portable. His tools he was
reluctantly obliged to leave behind him; his breathing could bear no
further weight.
"Thou wilt be sorely scratched by Agrippa," he said. He was so hopeful
he could smile. But the monkey was so cowed that he only clung closely,
turning his head piteously from side to side, and realising that
something terrible was about to happen. Hugh bore himself manfully.
One or two of the sailors who had escaped, finding themselves safe, were
ready to help Andrew with the rope, and though the boy was half choked
and sorely beaten by the waves, he held on, reaching the shore after a
tremendous tussle, by the end of which he was so spent that he fancied
he must drop, when he felt himself clutched by Andrew and drawn through
the remaining waves. He lay for a time exhausted on the beach; but life
was young and strong in him, and he staggered to his feet, tried to
comfort and warm the poor monkey, and to watch for his father's coming.
Andrew had scarcely thought that Bassett would have the strength to bear
the passage through the surf. It relieved him greatly to find that the
carver was slowly nearing the shore. Now and then he disappeared under
the crest of a great wave, but he always reappeared, holding on with a
tenacity which was little less than miraculous. Andrew, though even his
strength was pretty well spent, again cast himself into the sea to help
him in his last struggle, and the carver by his aid managed to reach the
shore, but in so terrible a plight that Hugh cried out and flung himself
by his side.
And now a very dreadful thing happened, for, as Stephen lay there like a
log and Hugh knelt calling on him to look up, the waves, which had but
just had their prey snatched from them, as if they meant to show that in
another case they had had their way, brought up something large and dark
and motionless, and flung it at their very feet; and while Hugh,
scarcely recognising what it was, yet shrank from it as from some
fearful thing, two of the men ran hastily down and seized and dragged it
beyond the water's reach. Hugh caught the face then, and gave a cry of
horror; it was the boy Jakes--dead.
He must have swooned after this, for when he came to himself again he
was lying higher up, at the mouth of a small natural cave formed in the
sandstone rock. His father sat by him, and in the cave a fire of
brushwood had been lit, close to which crouched Agrippa, munching black
rye bread soaked in sea water, and jabbering with satisfaction.
"Father," said the boy, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "are we safe?"
"Saved by a miracle, my little lad."
"But Jakes--his face--what was it!"
"He was drowned," said Bassett, gravely; "he never got to land with the
others. Eat some of this bread; I had it in my pocket."
"Is anyone else drowned?" asked Hugh, shuddering.
"No, thank Heaven! And the master has gone off to see if perchance
there might be some hut or cottage near where we can get lodging for the
night and means of reaching Exeter."
"Father, you must be spent. Think no more of me. Sit by the fire, and
take off your clothes to dry."
Hugh was almost himself again, although evidently deeply shocked at the
death of Jakes, and with the burden on him of remorse for unkind
thoughts which is hard to bear. But fire and food comforted them all in
some measure, and Andrew came back before long to tell them that he had
been lucky enough to reach a serf's hut not far away, where they could
at least find shelter, with hope of a horse.
"You have done everything for us, and have lost more than any," said
Bassett, gratefully.
"Nay, I know not what I have lost yet," returned the sailor. "The bales
of silk and woollen are spoiled; no hope for them. But maybe, if the
gale goes down, I may have my boat again. I can put up with the rest."
When they had rested awhile they made their way up through a sort of
gully piercing the red cliffs. This same redstone amazed Hugh, for the
pools of rain were crimson to look at, and he had never seen anything
like it before. But glad enough he was to turn his back on the wild
sea.
"I hate it! I would I might never see it again."
"Thou wouldst be a poor crusader," panted Stephen, whose breath was
sorely tried by the ascent.
They stumbled on through tussocks of grass until they reached the top,
where trees grew thickly, though somewhat one-sided and windblown with
south-west gales. Andrew was not with them, but he had directed them
fully, and they soon came upon a rough hovel, built of a mixture of mud
and straw called cob, and coarsely thatched. A wild-looking herd and a
wilder-looking woman stared at them from the doorway; but though uncouth
they were not unkindly, and had got a fire of logs burning, together
with bread and bacon and a large tankard of cider on the table.
As usual, the monkey caused the greatest astonishment, and Hugh dared
not loosen his hold of him because of a sheep-dog, who growled angrily
at the strange party. The other sailors were already there, eating and
drinking and drying their clothes, and presently Andrew came in. He was
very short and surly with the men, though, as he told Stephen
afterwards, unable to cast them off altogether, as he would willingly
have done, because, if there were a chance of saving the boat, he would
need their help in getting her off and in sailing her. All depended
upon the abatement of the gale. If the wind went down with the tide
there was a chance of floating her in calmer weather and of repairing
damages. She was strongly built, and, so far, showed no signs of
breaking up.
To Hugh's eyes his father seemed scarcely worse or more feeble than he
had often been before. He was very pale it is true, his breathing was
laboured, and he had a short, sharp cough, which scarcely ceased; but he
was keen to push on, and would not rest until he had urged the herd to
go that evening to the sheep-farm where he worked, and where he thought
a horse might be bought. They were, as Stephen ascertained, not more
than fifteen or sixteen miles from Exeter, the spot where they were
wrecked being a little north of the mouth of the Teign; and this he was
feverishly anxious to declare they could ride in a day. A strong horse
could easily carry two; it was madness for him to think of remaining
where he was for rest, since if he became worse there was no means of
procuring a leech.
"E'en go thy way," said Andrew, half angrily, half sadly, for he had
done enough for his passengers to feel a sincere liking for them.
The hut, as usual, consisted of but one smoky room, in which they all
bestowed themselves for the night. Andrew saw that Stephen had the best
of the miserable accommodation; but little rest came to him owing to the
constant torment of his cough, and he was up as soon as the sailor and
out in the air, though not strong enough to go down to the cove. But
what a change was there since the former night! The wind had shifted to
the south-west, and blew as softly as if it had never known violence.
The sun, though not yet showing much face through misty grey clouds,
filled the air with delightful promise. All the land colouring was rich
and varied, for the trees, though shaken by the past storm, were in
their fullest and most gorgeous autumnal colouring, and the deep red of
the soil, the vivid green of the grass, and the brown of the bracken
made a splendid harmony of tint.
The sailors followed the master to the cove; the herd went off to his
work, promising that the horse should come when the morning was a little
advanced, after the nine o'clock dinner; the wife made much of Hugh; and
Stephen, looking and feeling wretchedly ill, tried to wear off his
restlessness by wandering towards the edge of the cliff, but his
strength giving out he was forced to crawl back and sit quiet. The
horse arrived, and proved a strong, serviceable beast.
Stephen could scarce touch the coarse food, being too feverish. Andrew
came up quite hopeful, and laden with the carver's tools and other
possessions, which, though somewhat marred by the salt water, he was
thankful to see again. The woman of the house dried the clothes; all
the gear was securely strapped on the horse, and then came the
farewells. The master would not consent to receive a penny for the cost
of the voyage.
"Nay," he said, "we feasted on the grey brothers' good cheer, and, by my
troth, I shall never have the heart to call it a drones' hive again.
One of these days Moll and I will go and have speech with Friar Luke,
and let him know what befell. Nay, I tell you, I can be obstinate too,
though with no hope of evening thy powers in that matter. Wonderful it
is that so little mischief has been done with all that turmoil; if the
poor fool Jakes had but stayed on board he would have saved his skin."
"Have a mass said for his soul," said Stephen, pressing a little money
into his hand. "Nay, thou must not refuse, it is conscience money."
"Well, it shall go to the grey brothers," said Andrew, who seemed to
limit his new-born tolerance to the one monastery. "Hearken, Hugh, if
thy father is spent, get him to stop for a night on the road. Some day
I shall come to see thee at Exeter."
The kind-hearted sailor stood watching the pair when they had started,
Stephen riding, Hugh stepping manfully through the bracken, and both
turning back and waving their hands until they were lost in the thicket
of underwood through which they had to pass before reaching the road.
Road, indeed, it could scarce be called, for at this season the best
were in some places nigh impassable, and Devonshire mud when it is left
to follow its own will cannot easily be beaten. In sortie parts the
road was little more than a channel worn by constant running of water,
and leaving banks on either side; and, owing to the rain of the day
before, the water flowed down these banks in little runnels, and rushed
cheerfully along the course at the foot. Hugh, however, found it
amusing enough to splash through these streams, or to leap from bank to
bank, and clamber along through ivy and long grasses and briars and
nut-bushes; such a thicket of greenery as he had never seen before.
When he was tired he would scramble up behind his father, the stout grey
making light of his double burden; and he was untroubled by Stephen's
anxiety lest these narrow lanes should offer opportunity for thieves and
outlaws.
They met no such dangerous folk. A ploughman passed and looked
curiously at them, and a priest carrying a staff, and on his way to a
sick parishioner, stopped and inquired whither they were bound.
Bassett's evident illness made the good man uneasy, and he would have
had him rest at his house until better able to go on; indeed, pressed it
on him. The carver shook his head.
"I thank you heartily, sir priest, but I must push on, having, as you
may judge, but little time before me. If, of your courtesy, you will
point out the shortest and safest road, you will be doing us a
kindness."
The old man, who had a very pleasant and earnest face, assured him that,
so far as he could tell, the country for some miles round was tolerably
free from rogues, though he could not answer for the neighbourhood of
Exeter. He himself went a little way with them, and directed them the
shortest path along the rocks, where the sea stretched on one side,
softly grey, and only a little stirred with remembrance of yesterday's
gale, and pointed out Exmouth, which he said had an ill character for
pirates, and then showed them the Exe stretching away, and told them how
they should leave it on their right and take the inland road, and so
left them with his blessing.
It was all that Stephen could do to hide his increasing weakness from
Hugh. There were times when he felt that he must give it all up, drop
from the horse, and let himself die by the road-side. Only a will
strong for his boy's sake could have given him strength to sit upright.
When they paused at a little hostelry for some food he did not dare get
off his horse, fearing that he might lack the resolution to mount again.
His suffering became so acute that he could not hide it from Hugh, and
though the boy dreaded nothing worse than one of those sharp fits of
illness which his father had weathered before, he did his best to induce
him to seek a night's lodging on the road. But Stephen refused almost
irritably.
Nor could he bear to follow where Hugh's remorse would have led him--
into talk of Jakes. It seemed as if he would put aside all that was
harsh and painful, and he was either silent or--as the boy afterwards
remembered--let fall words which showed that his thoughts were with the
wife he had lost, or dwelling upon some of the talks he had had with
Friar Luke. Once or twice Hugh was sorely perplexed by what he said,
fancying that he could not have heard rightly; but Stephen seemed unable
or unwilling to repeat the sentence, and murmured something else. Once
they fell in with a gay party going to a neighbouring castle; there was
a minstrel, and two or three glee maidens were of the company. When
they overtook Stephen and Hugh they were making a great noise and
merriment, and the boy wondered why, on seeing them, all their jests
died away and they looked almost frightened. They made haste, too, to
part company, saying they had no time to spare; and Hugh saw them
looking back and pointing as at some strange sight.
He was beginning to be alarmed himself, though not knowing why, perhaps
chiefly because his father seemed to heed him so little, no longer
asking if he were not tired, or noticing Agrippa's merry pranks, but
riding bent upon the horse's neck, and seeming only to keep his seat
with difficulty. Hugh called gladly to him when he saw before him a
town which he guessed to be Exeter, lying on a hill above the river,
with the fair cathedral standing in a very beautiful position about
half-way up, and Stephen so far roused himself as to clasp his hands and
to murmur, "God be thanked!" but with that fell back into silence.
It was well that the road was plain enough to need no consultation; and
poor little Hugh, wearied out, for he had ridden but little of late,
thinking it oppressed his father, struggled manfully on, hoping to get
in before sunset. It was well, too, that the last mile or two was of a
tolerable flatness, and the road wider and less heavy, though always
bad; for Stephen grew more and more bowed, and Hugh became so fearful
lest he should fall that he had to steady him as he walked by his side.
Thankful he felt when he came upon a few scattered hovels while the sun
was yet some quarter of an hour from setting, at which time the town
gates would be shut, and presently he saw the river running swiftly,
swelled by the autumn rains, and spanning it a brave new bridge of
stone, with houses and a chapel upon it.
"Father, father, here is Exeter!" cried Hugh, with anxious longing for
some reassuring word.
But he got no answer, and not daring to pause lest the gates might be
shut, he joined the throng of citizens who were pressing in for the same
good reason, and passed through the gate before setting himself to ask
any questions. The first person he addressed gave him a shove and told
him to get out of his way; but the second, who by his dress and bearing
might have been some kind of trader, stopped at once, and having
satisfied his own curiosity as to who they were and where they came
from, showed himself of a most friendly nature.
"We are in the Western or High Street," he said; "we have come through
the West Gate, and the Franciscans have their house between this and the
North Gate. But thou art a little varlet to have so much on thy hands,
and thy father looks in a sore plight. A monkey, too! How far have you
come?"
"Some sixteen miles, noble sir."
"Nay, I am no noble; only plain Elyas Gervase. Sixteen miles, and a
dy--a sick man who can scarce keep on his horse! What doth he work at?"
"He is a wood-carver, sir."
"Why, that is somewhat my own craft, since I am a stone-cutter. Have
you friends in this fair town?"
"Father has a letter to the prior, and I am to seek out a cousin of my
mother's, Master James Alwyn," said poor Hugh wearily.
"The child himself is almost spent," muttered the good citizen to
himself. "Prothasy would make them welcome, and we are surely bidden to
entertain strangers. Thou and thy father shall come home with me," he
added aloud, laying his hand kindly on Hugh's shoulder. "My house is
nigher than the monastery, and I will speak to a learned leech as we
pass. Both of ye need a woman's care."
If the boy was a little bewildered at this change of plan he could not
oppose it, nor had he any desire to do so. There was something in
Master Gervase's honest face which instinctively inspired confidence.
He was a man of about forty-five, somewhat light as to complexion and
hair, his beard was forked, his eyebrows were straight, marking a kindly
temper, and his eye was clear and open. He wore an under tunic of blue
cloth, with buttons closely set from the wrist to the elbow of the tight
sleeve, tight pantaloons, and low boots with long pointed toes. His
hair hung a little below his ears, and was covered by a cap. He walked
up the steep Western Street by the side of the horse, passing his strong
arm round poor Stephen's bowed form so as in some measure to support
him, and he paused presently before a door, and sent in a boy to say
that Master Gervase prayed Master Miles to come without delay. A few
minutes after this they stopped again before a timbered house projecting
far into the narrow street. Without a moment's delay Gervase had lifted
Stephen from the horse, and rather carried than led him in.
"Prothasy!" he called, the moment he was in the passage.
"I am coming!" answered a voice, and, following the sound, a young woman
ran in, small, dark, bright-eyed, and scarcely more than a girl in
appearance. "How late thou art, Elyas! And whom have we here?"
starting back.
"A sick man for thee to nurse. Nay, thou shalt hear more later, when we
have got him to bed. Wat! Where's Wat? Wat," as a lad hastily
appeared, "go out to the door and take the horse, and see that he has
good food and litter. Send the boy that is there in here."
It was evident that Prothasy Gervase was a capable woman. She asked no
questions, made no difficulties, but ran to see that all was right, and
Stephen, too much exhausted to be aware of what was happening, was got
into his crib-like bed in a little room overlooking the street, and
Mistress Gervase had brought up some hot spiced wine and bidden Hugh
take a drink of it before the doctor came. Then Elyas took the boy down
to the common room, and asked him a number of questions. He was one of
the burgesses who, by a recent law, was responsible for the good conduct
of twelve--some say ten--citizens, and would have to furnish an account
of the strangers, so that besides the call of natural curiosity, to
which he was not insensible, it was necessary that he should know
something of their history. He listened attentively to the story of the
shipwreck.
"And what brought thy father here?" he asked at last.
"He thought," faltered Hugh, for his spirits had sunk low, never having
seen his father in such sore plight before, "that our cousin, Master
Alwyn, might help him to get work in the great church of St Peter's."
"James Alwyn is dead," said Gervase, gravely. Hugh's face quivered. He
seemed more lonely than ever.
"He died a year ago, come Martinmas. What was thy mother's name?"
"Alice Alwyn."
"I mind me there was one of that name lived out by Clyst. And--but I
warrant me thou wilt say, ay--is thy father a good craftsman?"
"There is no better work," said Hugh, proudly. "He will show it you,
gentle sir, and you will see."
"Ay," said Gervase, hesitatingly, "and thou wilt follow his craft?"
"I would carve in stone," muttered Hugh, turning away that his
questioner might not see the tears which sprang into his eyes. He was
tired, and his heart seemed strangely heavy.
"Sayest thou so!" eagerly. "Thou art right, there is nought like it.
We must see what can be done for thee, perchance--" he checked himself.
"I must talk with Prothasy," he added, under his breath.
He was very good to the boy, leaving him to make a good meal while he
went out to meet the doctor, a gaunt, melancholy man, dressed in bluish
grey lined with thin silk, who spoke with bent head and joined
finger-tips.
"By virtue of the drugs I administered," he began, "my patient hath
revived a little, but Is in evil case."
"How long will he live, sir leech?" demanded Elyas bluntly.
"Scarce more than a few days. I am going home to prepare a cordial, and
I shall cast his horoscope to-night, when I doubt not to find evil
influences in the ascendent."
"You may take that for granted without seeking to find out whether it is
so," said the other, with a short laugh. "However, let him want no
care. Will you be back before curfew?"
The doctor promised and kept his word. By eight o'clock all lights were
out; Hugh was stretched on a rough pallet in his father's room with
Agrippa, at whom Mistress Prothasy looked askance, by his side, and all
was silent, indoors and out, save for the quick laboured breathing of
the sick man.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
IN THE WARDEN'S HOUSEHOLD.
It was doubtless a satisfaction to the leech's astrological mind to
ascertain that, beyond a question, malignant conjunctions were
threatening Stephen Bassett. But without this profound knowledge it was
evident to the watchers that Master Gervase had brought home a dying
man, who would not long be spared. He rallied a little, it is true, and
though at times light-headed, and always taking young Mistress Prothasy
to be his lost Alice, could understand and be grateful for the kindness
shown him, and speak feebly to Hugh about his work. The prior's letter
had been taken to the Franciscan monastery, but no sign was given by
that house of the kindly hospitality shown in London.
"I knew it," said Elyas, with some triumph to his wife. "When the boy
told me whither they were bound, I could not bear they should have no
more comfort than they would get from that fat prior. Now, the poor man
shall want nothing."
"Truly, no," said Prothasy, quite as heartily. "But it were best that
our little Joan remained away a little longer with thy mother."
"I suppose so," answered her husband, with a sigh. "The house seems
strangely silent without Joan."
"We must have sent her away had she been here," she said decidedly.
He went to the door and came back.
"Prothasy," he said, with something like appeal in his voice, "that is a
comely little lad."
"Ay, Elyas."
"What will become of him when his father is dead?"
"Thou hadst best seek out some of his kin."
It was not the answer he wished for, yet, as always, it carried sense
with it; he hesitated before he spoke again.
"If he would be a stone-cutter?"
"Thou hast two apprentices already."
"Ay, but a fatherless child--"
"Elyas, thou wilt never learn prudence. All would come upon thee."
"The guild would help in case of need."
"So thou sayest, but never wouldst thou apply."
He made no answer, only seemed to be reflecting as he left the room.
She walked quickly up and down, once or twice dropping her long dress
and stumbling in it.
"Was ever anyone so good as he, or so provoking!" she exclaimed, half
crying. "A fine dowry will come to Joan, when her father spends his all
upon strangers! And yet he makes me cry shame upon myself for
close-fistedness, and wonder at the sweetness with which he bears my
sourness. If he will, he shall have the boy as prentice, I'll e'en put
up with the monkey; but, do what I will, it is certain I shall season
any kindness with sharp words, and Elyas will feel that all the while I
am grudging. I would I had a better heart, or he a worse!"
Elyas, meanwhile, all unknowing of these stormy signs of relenting, went
slowly up to the little bare room where the carver lay, while Hugh,
looking out of the small unglazed window, was telling him as much as he
could see to be going on in the street. Stephen, however, was paying
little attention, and when Gervase came in his eyes brightened at once.
"Leave Agrippa here," he said to Hugh, "and do thou run out and look at
the Cathedral, and bring me back word what it is like."
His interview with his host was long, the more so as he could speak but
slowly, and at times had to stop altogether from exhaustion. Then it
was necessary that Elyas should see the carving, which took him
altogether by surprise.
"Truly," he said, "this will make our good bishop's mouth water! He is
ever seeking for beautiful work for St Peter's, and thou mightest have
made thy fortune with misereres and stalls. Perchance--" he said,
looking hesitatingly at the carver. Stephen shook his head.
"Never again," he said. "But Hugh, young as he is, has it in him. If--
if he could be thy apprentice?"
Elyas almost started at having his thought so quickly presented to him
from the other side, but he did not answer at once, and Stephen went on,
his words broken by painful breathing--
"There is a little money put by for him--in yonder bag--I meant it for
this purpose--the horse may be sold--if I thought he could be with thee
I should--die happy."
Gervase was not the man to resist such an appeal. He stooped down and
clasped the sick man's wasted hand in his.
"The boy shall remain with me," he said. "Rest content. I am warden of
my guild. He shall learn his craft honestly and truly, shall be brought
up in the holy Faith, and shall be to me as a son. There is my hand."
With one look of unutterable thankfulness the carver closed his eyes,
and murmured something, which Elyas, bending over him, recognised as the
thanksgiving of the _Nunc Dimittis_. He said no more, but lay
peacefully content until he roused himself to ask that a priest might be
sent for; and when Hugh came in Elyas left him in charge, while he went
to seek the parish priest, "and no monk," as he muttered.
Hugh was full of the glories of the Cathedral, to which he had made his
way. It had remained unfinished longer than most of the others in the
kingdom, but the last bishop, Quivil, and the present, Bitton, had
pushed on the work with most earnest zeal, and Hugh described the rising
roof and the beautiful clustered pillars of soft grey Purbeck marble
with an enthusiasm which brought a smile of content upon the face of the
dying man.
"Would I could work there!" said the boy, with a sigh.
"One day," whispered his father, "Master Gervase will take thee as
apprentice; thou wilt serve faithfully, my Hugh?"
The boy pressed against him, and laid his cheek on the pillow.
"Ay, to make thy name famous."
"No, no," gasped Stephen, eagerly. "That dream is past--not mine nor
thine--not for thyself but for the glory of God. Say that."
"For the glory of God," Hugh repeated, gravely. "Father?"
"Ay."
"Where wilt thou live?"
There was a silence. Then the carver turned his eyes on the boy.
"I am going on--a journey--a long journey." Hugh shrank away a little.
He began to understand and to tremble; and he dared not ask more
questions. The priest came and he was sent from the room, and wandered
miserably into a sort of yard with sheds at the back of the house, where
the stone-cutting was going on, and journeymen and two apprentices were
at work.
One of these latter--the younger--was the boy called Wat, whom Hugh had
already seen. He was a large-limbed, untidy-looking, moon-faced lad,
the butt of many jibes and jests from the others, careless in his work,
and yet so good-natured that his master had not the heart to rate him as
he deserved. The other apprentice, Roger Brewer, was sixteen, and had
been for six years with Gervase, who was very proud of his talents, and
foretold great things for his future. He was a grave sallow youth,
noticing everything and saying little, and with a perseverance which
absolutely never failed. The journeymen, of whom there were three, were
stone-workers who had been Gervase's apprentices; their seven or eight
years ended, they now worked by the day, and hoped in time to become
masters. They wore the dress and hood of their guild, and one, William
Franklyn, had the principal direction of the apprentices. Much of the
stonework of the cathedral was being executed under Gervase's orders.
When Hugh appeared in the yard, Agrippa produced an immediate sensation,
Wat and the men crowding round him, Roger alone going on with his work
of carving the crockets of a delicate pinnacle. The boy's eyes
glistened as he glanced about at the fragments which were scattered here
and there, while the others, on their part, were curiously examining the
monkey.
"Saw you ever the like!" cried Wat, planting himself before him, all
agape, with legs outspread and hands on his knees. "Why, he hath a face
like a man!"
"Ay, Wat, now we know thy kin," said one of the men, winking to the
others, who answered by a loud laugh.
"Where got ye the beast?" asked William, laying his hand on Hugh's
shoulder.
"At Stourbridge fair," answered the boy. He had to give an account of
their adventures after this, and they stared at him the more to hear of
London and the shipwreck.
"And so thy father is sick to death in there?" said another man,
pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. The tears rushed into Hugh's
eyes, and Franklyn interposed.
"His craft is wood-carving, they say. Hast thou learnt aught of the
trick of it?"
"Nay, I shall be a stone-carver," faltered the boy. "I am to be
prenticed here."
"With Master Gervase?"
"Ay."
William Franklyn looked black. He had a nephew of his own whom he had
long tried to persuade the master to take into his house. That hope was
now altogether at an end. He turned away angrily and went back to his
work.
"What wilt thou do with thy monkey?" cried Wat, hopping round in high
delight.
"No foreigners may work in the yard. That were against the guild laws,"
said one of the men. "Down with all Easterlings!"
They were a jesting, light-hearted set, who laughed loudly, lived
rudely, had plenty of holidays, yet did excellent work. At another time
the boy would have had his answer ready, but now was sick at heart, and
wanting nothing so much as a woman's comforting, and the men thought him
sullen. He got back to his father as quickly as he could, leaving many
remarks behind him.
"An ungracious little varlet!" said one.
"Tut, man, he could scarce keep back his tears," said another who saw
further.
"What makes the master take another prentice? I thought Mistress
Prothasy would never abide more than two. And there was thy nephew,
William, if a third must be."
"The master will do what pleases him," said Franklyn stiffly.
"Or what pleases Mistress Prothasy, and most likely this is her fancy.
She would have another Wat in the house."
This was followed by a loud laugh, for Wat's awkwardnesses were
well-known to bring him into sore disfavour with the mistress of the
house.
The day went by, and the night came on again. Elyas proposed sitting up
himself, but Stephen refused, saying that he wanted no one but Hugh.
"And I think I shall sleep well," he added, with a feeble smile.
Afterwards, Gervase thought he meant more than his words conveyed.
Before Hugh lay down his father made him put back the shutter from the
little window, and look out upon the night. All was quiet, lights were
extinguished, every now and then the watchmen came up and down the
street, but no other noises were abroad; the opposite houses rose up so
closely that from the balconies it looked as if it were possible to
touch hands, and over head, though it was late autumn, the moon shone in
a serene sky, sending her silver rays into the narrow street and
intensifying all the shadows. Stephen listened, while Hugh told him
just what he could see.
The boy closed the shutter and would have lain down, but Stephen called
him feebly to his side.
"Remember," he whispered, with difficulty. "For the glory of God."
"Ay, father."
"And the--enemies. Fight the right enemies."
"Ay, father."
Something the carver murmured, it might have been a blessing, but Hugh
caught only the word, "Alice."
"Shall I get thee aught, father?"
"Nay. Lie down--I will call if I need aught."
It was his last self-denial for his child. The boy was soon asleep, but
through the long hours, Stephen lay, fighting for breath, until the
struggle ended in unconsciousness, and that, too, passed into death.
When Elyas came in the early morning, and saw what had happened, he
lifted Hugh in his strong arms and carried him into the room where the
other boys slept. Wat was snoring peacefully with open mouth, but Roger
was awake, and the master hastily whispered how it was to him.
"Keep the boy here. Tell him his father must not be disturbed," he
said.
It was Prothasy who, after all, broke the tidings. She shrank from it
at first, saying that Elyas was tenderer in words and less strange to
Hugh, but her husband looked so grieved that, as usual, she repented,
and did his bidding. And she was really kind, leading him in herself to
look upon the peaceful face of the dead, and soothing his burst of tears
with great patience and gentleness.
The days that followed were strange and miserable to poor Hugh. He had
never been without his father, who had been father and mother both to
him, and had made him so close a companion that in many ways he was much
older than his years. And, in spite of all kindness, the sense of
solitude and loneliness that swept over him when the funeral--which the
guild of which Elyas was warden attended--was over, and he was back in
the house, with a new life before him, to be lived among those who were,
in good truth, strangers, was something which all his life long he could
not forget.
The good master had him rightly enrolled as his apprentice, and then
judged it well to leave him alone for a day or two, telling him he might
go where he liked until his work began. No place seemed so comforting
to Hugh as the Cathedral. He would go and watch the workers, and feed
his keen sense of beauty with gazing on the fair upspringing lines and
the noble sheaves of pillars, and wonder whether the day would come when
work of his should find a place there, and his father's dream be
fulfilled.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
DIFFICULTIES.
It was about a week after this that Master Gervase in working dress went
out into his yard. Dinner was over at an early hour, and the two meals
of the day were long and plentiful as to cheer; so long and so
plentiful, indeed, that there is a record in the preceding reign of
thirty thousand dishes being served at one feast, and the sumptuary laws
which regulated excesses in dress and food do not seem to have been
uncalled for.
In Master Gervase's household there was no excess, but abundance in
every kind, and hearty partaking of beef and cider, Mistress Prothasy
being famous for her housekeeping and capable ways, so that Elyas went
into his yard with all the contentment of a well-fed man.
Men and prentices were hard at work in their different ways. Franklyn
and Roger had the finest cutting, and Elyas paused before Roger's
crocket to examine his progress.
"It is excellent," he said, heartily, so that the lad's sallow face
flushed; "the cutting deep and clean--naught can be much better in good
sooth than the workmanship. Thy design is not so good."
"No," said Roger, quickly.
"No. It wants freedom, boldness, it smacks too much of the yard and too
little of the artist. There is thy stumbling-block, Roger. I can give
thee the means of execution, but I cannot put this into thee. See!"
He seized a piece of burnt stick which lay by, and on a rough plank
hastily sketched a crocket similar in form to that on which Roger was
working. But what a difference! What strength in the up-curved lines!
What possibilities seemed to blossom out of the rapid outline! As Roger
watched a look of bitter mortification gathered in his face; the ease
and vigour of the drawing were, as he recognised, quite beyond his
grasp. When the master moved on he drew the board close to him, yet so
that it was concealed from other eyes, and tried with all his skill to
bring his carving into better harmony with its spirit.
Gervase glanced at all the work in the yard, giving a word to each, and
special praise to a canopy which Franklyn and another man were engaged
upon, and which was an order from a neighbouring abbey. To a fourth
worker, Peter Sim, he pointed out that his moulding was thin and wanted
richness.
"Ay," muttered his neighbour, "he is so thin himself he can see no
beauty save in leanness."
"That will scarce be thy failing, Hal," said Gervase, good-humouredly.
"Now, Wat, what tool is that thou art using?"
"It is broken, but it cuts well enough, sir," said Wat, regarding his
half chisel with affection.
"Cuts well enough," repeated the master, angrily, throwing the tool on
one side; "and what thinkest thou, prithee, the guild would say if I
suffered such a tool to be used in my yard? And how came it broken?"
"There never was such a one for breaking his tools," grumbled Franklyn,
who had picked up the chisel and was examining it; "it is my belief he
uses them to dig the ground with."
"Nay," said Wat, scratching his head, "but the stone is hard."
"Thou shalt spend thy next holiday in finding out whether it be hard or
not," said Elyas, angrily, "an thou be not more careful. How now, Hugh,
what work have they set thee to?"
The good man's heart melted as he looked at the boy, who seemed a sad
little figure among the others. He had got into a far corner, and
Agrippa peered down from a rafter in the shed.
"Why art thou in this dark corner by thyself?" demanded Elyas.
"They like not Agrippa, sir," said Hugh, listlessly.
Elyas looked vexed. His wife was also sorely set against the monkey,
and he would gladly have had it away, yet he could not find it in his
heart to deprive the boy of his only friend. He stood awhile watching
Hugh work, and presently went across to Franklyn.
"See that no harm comes to the monkey," he said in a tone which all
might hear; then, in a much lower voice, "that is hard work thou hast
set him to do."
"He must learn his craft," said Franklyn, gruffly.
"But he is a little urchin."
"The more need he should begin at the beginning."
"His father told me he had a wonderful talent for his age."
"Fathers ever think their children wonders. Is it your pleasure, Master
Gervase, that I treat him differently from any other prentice?"
"Nay, nay," said Elyas, hastily, and, knowing that the idea of
favouritism would make Hugh very unpopular, he pushed the matter no
further.
The time that followed was full of bitterness to Hugh. Franklyn, though
not a bad-hearted man, was sore and disappointed to have his nephew, as
he thought, supplanted, and, since he could not visit it upon the master
himself, he visited it upon Hugh. The other men sided with Franklyn,
and Hugh made no efforts to gain their good-will; pride grows quickly,
and he had been a good deal set-up on board the ship, although Jakes's
death had shocked him into a temporary shame. His self-importance was
sorely wounded by finding himself treated as absolutely of no
consequence, he, who had spoken, as he reflected with swelling heart,
with King Edward himself. Mistress Prothasy was sincerely desirous to
pleasure her husband, but she loved not boys, classing them all as
untidy and unmannerly. It had been by her wish that Elyas had hitherto
abstained from taking more than two apprentices, and, as she was proud
of her influence over him, she had made it a matter of boasting when
talking to gossips whose husbands were more wilful. She hated having to
put up with what she now took to be their pitying smiles, and, without
meaning to be unjust, her feelings towards Hugh were not friendly. It
provoked her, moreover, to have the monkey, which she both feared and
disliked, in the house, and she was constantly urging Elyas to send it
away.
But what Hugh felt sharply was Franklyn's treatment of him as of one who
must be taught the very beginning of his craft. He had learned much
from his father, and had been made to use his tools when he was scarce
six years old, so that in point of fact he was advanced already beyond
Wat, who had gone through three years' apprenticeship. But of all this,
and in spite of the master's hints, Franklyn was doggedly unheeding. He
allowed the boy nothing but the roughest and simplest work. He
explained with provoking carefulness each morning how this was to be
carried out, and if, as frequently happened, the boy was inattentive, he
rated him sharply. The discipline might have been good, but injustice
is never wholesome, and feeling himself to be unfairly treated, Hugh set
up his back more and more, took no pains to please, and moped in
solitary corners.
Elyas saw that things were moving wrongly, and was vexed, but he never
willingly interfered with Franklyn's rule, and having an easy-going
genial nature was disposed to believe that with time and patience things
would right themselves. He had ever a kindly word for Hugh, though not
realising how the boy clung to him as to a link with that past which
already seemed so far away and so happy.
The weeks passed and November was well advanced. There was no lack of
holidays and feastings, which Hugh in his present mood found almost more
irksome than work. Agrippa was his chief companion, and yet his
greatest care, as the monkey, if he took it with him, was ever likely to
call a crowd together, and perhaps get pelted, until one day Elyas,
coming upon him in one of these frays, advised him to have a basket and
carry him thus, by which means he was able to take him to the cathedral
itself.
Wat was not unfriendly. He was awkward and ungainly, and ever falling
into disgrace himself, but this afflicted him scarcely at all. He had a
huge appetite, and stores of apples, nuts, and cakes, which he was ready
enough to share, and could not understand that anything more was wanted
for happiness. Hugh, caring little for these joys, despised Wat's
advances, and would not be beguiled into friendship. He was very
miserable, poor boy, and inclined to wish that he had stayed with the
Franciscans in London, as Friar Luke counselled, or to long--oh, how
earnestly!--that his father had suffered him to accept Sir Thomas de
Trafford's offer and be brought up in the good knight's household. As
for learning his craft, that, he said bitterly to himself, was hopeless;
he was more like to forget what his father had taught, and to sink into
such coarse work as Wat's. In fact he made up his mind to the worst,
and would scarce have been contented with easier measure.
Towards the end of November a new personage came into the family, small
in size but of immense importance, Mistress Joan Gervase, aged five, who
had been for some time staying with her grandmother, and had remained so
long, owing to an attack of measles, or some such childish complaint.
Great preparations were made for her home coming; Mistress Prothasy had
the rooms furbished, and made all manner of spice-cakes, and Elyas rode
off one day in high spirits, to sleep at his mothers and to bring back
his little daughter on the morrow.
It was a bad day for Hugh. He was sick of his work, and, instead of
setting himself to do it as well as he could, all went the other way;
careless chippings brought down Franklyn's wrath upon him; he would take
no pains, idled and played with Agrippa, and was altogether
unsatisfactory. Franklyn had good reason for anger, though rather too
ready to jump at it, and he was rating the boy loudly when Mistress
Prothasy came into the yard to deliver some message with which she was
charged from her husband.
It was an expressed wish of his that she should never interfere with the
conduct of the prentices at their work. Indoors she might say what she
liked, and nothing displeased him more than a sign of disrespect on
their part, but in the yard it was understood that she was silent.
Nevertheless, on this occasion she asked Franklyn what Hugh had done,
and hearing that Agrippa was in the matter burst out with her own
grievances.
"The hateful little beast, I would he were strangled! I am frighted out
of my life to think of what he may do to Joan! But I will not bear it.
Hark ye, Hugh, thou wilt have to dispose of him. I have threatened it
before, and now I mean it, and I shall tell thy master that it makes
thee idle over thy work. He or I go out of the house!"
She swept away, leaving Hugh in a whirlwind of grief, bewilderment, and
anger. Part with Agrippa, his one friend? Never! And yet--he knew
from experience, and the men often spoke of it--Master Gervase never
gainsaid his wife. He dashed down his tools, caught Agrippa in his
arms, and faced Franklyn in a fury.
"You have done nothing but spite me, and I hate you!" he cried. "You
may kill me if you like, but I will never part with my monkey!"
In his heart of hearts Franklyn was sorry that things had gone so far,
but such rebellion could not be overlooked, and he fetched Hugh a sound
buffet which made him tingle all over, told him the master should hear
of it, and that he should have no supper but bread and water. Hugh
sullenly picked up his chisel and went on with his work, paying no heed
to Wat's uncouth attempts at comfort. Work was to be put away some
hours earlier than usual, and a feast provided for supper in honour of
Mistress Joan's return; but Hugh would go no farther than the balcony
which ran outside the prentices' room, supported by wooden posts, and
here he crouched in a corner, hugging Agrippa, weeping hot tears of rage
and turning over in his mind possible means of escape.
He had heard tales of prentices running away from harsh masters,
although he had an idea that dreadful penalties were due for such an
offence; but he thought he might manage to avoid being re-taken, and
cared not what risks he ran. Where should he go? If he could get to
Dartmouth someone might keep him till Andrew the shipman came again and
took him back to London, and the boundless hope of childhood made the
wild plan seem possible as soon as it came into his mind. He had the
king's gold noble sewn into his clothes, and though he never intended to
spend it, the feeling that it was about him gave him a sensation of
riches. He had received his first month's pay, as apprentice; this
amounted, it is true, to no more than threepence, but Elyas had given
him two groats from his father's store, and he hoped that people would
be willing to pay something when he had got far enough to let the monkey
display his tricks without fear of detection.
All these plans he made hastily, for the more he thought over the matter
the more determined he was to run away at once. He must slip out of the
gates before sunset, and while Elyas was absent; there would be so much
excitement in the house with Joan's return that he would not be missed
until it was too late to follow him. Wat had gone off to see some men
in the pillory; Hugh hastily rolled his father's things in a bundle,
slipped Agrippa into his basket, and was out of the house without
meeting a soul.
He could not help pausing at Broad Gate to look through it once more at
the Cathedral, but something in the beautiful building, some memories of
his father's hopes, brought such a choking lump into his throat that he
turned hastily away, hurrying down the Western Street and out at the
West Gate, and flattering himself that he had passed unnoticed by the
keeper of the gate.
From one cause or another he had not gone that way since the evening
they entered a month ago. Here was the new stone bridge; there in its
midst stood the fair chapel where lay the good citizen who had given the
bridge to the town, a little light burning ever before the altar. How
well Hugh remembered touching his father's arm to show it to him, and
how he got no sign in return, and was frightened. And then but a minute
or two later Master Gervase had come to their help like a good
Samaritan, and he no longer felt so lonely.
It was an inconvenient recollection, because he could not help recalling
with a rush how thankful his father had seemed when he came to himself,
and knew in whose house they were. Also with what earnestness he had
prayed Master Gervase to take Hugh, telling him that he was a good boy
and would be a credit to him.
"But father never knew!" cried Hugh, stifling uneasy thoughts; "he never
thought I should be set to fool's work, and flouted at, and Agrippa
taken away."
He pushed on with the thought. He fancied that he remembered a house
some five or six miles away, where the woman had been kind, and would
have had them come in and rest. This was the place where he meant to
spend the night.
But travelling in November was harder work than a month earlier. The
road soon became a quagmire, lain began to fall, darkness set in, and
there was no moon. He trudged on as bravely as he could, but he began
to be very much frightened with the loneliness and the darkness, and the
uneasy sense that, unlike the time when he passed before, he was not
going the way in which he could expect the overshadowing Care in which
his father had rested so confidently. Then more than once side roads
branched off; he was not sure that he was keeping to that which was
right, and little as he seemed to have to steal, there was the king's
gold noble which would be excellent booty for any cut-purse. The house
seemed so long in coming that he began to think he must have passed it
in the dark, and when at last he made it out, his heart sank to think
that after all his efforts he had got no further; besides, there was not
a light or sign of life about it, it looked so gloomy and forbidding
that he was scarcely less terrified at it than at the lonely road. He
ventured at last, however, to knock timidly at the door, but was
answered by such a fierce growling that he clasped Agrippa the closer
and fled.
Fled--but where to flee? Wet to the skin, hungry, miserable, before he
had got six miles on his way, what could he do? Creeping back to the
house to see if there were no outside shelter under which he might
crawl, he at last found a small stack of fuel piled close to the mud
walls, and by pulling this out a little formed a small hole where he
made shift to lie, shivering, and in a miserable plight.
He slept, however, and forgot his misery until he awoke, cramped, aching
all over, and hungrier than ever. He was too much afraid of the dog to
venture to wait till the people were up and about, and set off again on
his weary tramp, hoping he might reach some other hut where he could get
food for himself and the monkey. Rain still fell, though not so
heavily, and he could not understand why he got on so slowly, and found
himself scarcely able to drag one leg after the other. Agrippa, too,
also wet, cold, and hungry, shivered and chattered piteously.
At last he reached a hut where the man had gone to work, and the woman
gave him black bread and cider. But she had an evil face, and took more
from him than the food was worth, casting greedy looks at the remainder,
and the children ran after him and pelted him and Agrippa with stones;
so that Hugh was forced to hurry on as fast as his aching limbs could
carry him, and by the time he had gone up a little hill, felt as if all
the breath were out of his body, and he must drop by the road-side. He
knew now that he must be ill, it seemed to him, indeed, that he was
dying, and it was horrible to picture himself lying unheeded among the
piles of dead leaves, the dank and rotting vegetation, the deep red
mud--no one would know, and his only friend, poor Agrippa, would die of
cold and hunger by his side.
It was no wonder that his thoughts went back with longing to Master
Gervase's house in Exeter, where food and shelter were never lacking.
After this he still struggled on, but in a dazed, mechanical sort of
way, until he was quite sure that he had been walking all day, and that
night must be near at hand. And with this conviction, and all the
horror of coming darkness sweeping over him, he felt he could go no
farther, and flung himself down upon the wet bank, under a thick growth
of nut-bushes.
There Master Gervase found him.
When Elyas reached home close on sunset the day before, there was so
much welcoming and hugging of Joan, so many messages to give, so many
things to be spoken about, that he did not at first miss Hugh,
especially as Wat was also absent. By-and-by when Wat returned,
open-mouthed with sights at the pillory, Elyas asked for the little boy,
and Prothasy poured out her grievances. The monkey made him idle, and
she had said it should not stay in the house, and then he had flown into
a rage with William, and had been told he should have nought but bread
and water.
"And that is better than he deserves," she ended. "Look you, husband, I
am resolved. That evil beast shall not remain here with Joan. Thou
knowest that my nay is ever nay."
Elyas looked very grave, but made no answer. Hugh was idle, and no
rebellion against Franklyn could be permitted, yet his kind heart ached
for the fatherless little fellow who had taken his fancy from the first.
He would not interfere with the punishment, but he resolved that when
supper was over, he would go upstairs and see whether he could not mend
matters. And he was a little distraught throughout the long supper,
whereat Joan reigned like a veritable queen, and, it must be owned,
tyrannised in some degree over her subjects. She rather vexed her
mother by demanding the new boy. Father had talked to her of him, and
had told her of a wonderful little beast with a face like an old man's,
and hands to hold things by; she would love to see him--where was he,
why didn't he come to supper?
"Think not of him, Joan," said her mother quickly at last. "He is no
playfellow for thee. He would bite and terrify thee."
This caused an interval of pondering, and Prothasy fondly hoped of
impression, but presently Mistress Joan lifted her little golden head.
"I want him," she said. "I would kiss him." Prothasy looked
reproachfully at her husband, who was smiling.
The supper, as has been said, was long, and before it was finished Joan,
tired out with excitement, was leaning against her father's arm, asleep.
He lifted her tenderly and carried her to their room, where she slept,
and where she was soon lying in her little crib, looking fairer than
ever. Husband and wife stood gazing at her with overfull hearts, and
Elyas, ever large in sympathies, let his thoughts go out to the
wood-carver who had cared so much for his boy, and wished he could have
taken Hugh with him that day, or that he could talk him into readier
obedience to Franklyn. He was very desirous to temper justice with
mercy when he left Joan and went to seek Hugh.
It surprised him exceedingly to get no answer to his call. He lifted
the light and looked round the room in vain, nor was Agrippa to be seen
overhead among the rafters. It was possible that Hugh had slipped out
and stayed thus late, but he had never done it before, and it was seven
o'clock, dark and raining. Elyas began to feel very uneasy. He sought
his wife, called Franklyn, who had not left the house, and questioned
the other apprentices. Roger never paid any attention to Hugh, treating
him as a little boy, whom it would be waste of time to notice; Wat
reported that he had invited him to go out with him, but got no answer.
"He had never seen a man in the pillory, either, and here were three,"
added Wat cheerfully.
Quick compunction seized Prothasy, though rather for her husband's sake
than Hugh's; she said little, but ran hastily about the house, and even
out into the wet yard, where, however, Franklyn had been before her, and
then she stood in the doorway, looking up and down the street. Her
husband's voice behind startled her.
"He hath run away," he said gravely.
"Thinkest thou so?" she said turning quickly. "Elyas, it was not much
that I said, and it was not he but the monkey which provoked me."
"Nay, I am not blaming thee, I blame myself. He is but a little lad to
be left friendless in the world, and I might have been more tender with
him, and kept him more by mine own side. Then this would not have
happened."
"Where will he go?"
"That I must find out at the gates, which I will do presently, though it
is too late to pass out to-night. Most likely he has taken the road he
knew best."
He came back before long, saying it was as he thought, for the keeper of
the West Gate had seen the boy go out. At sunrise Elyas said he would
mount his good grey and follow. There was nothing else to be done, and
he made as light of it as he could to Prothasy, saying the dreariness of
the night might give a useful lesson.
And so it was that early the next day, when poor Hugh had got no further
than a bare two miles from the place where he had slept, although he
felt as if he had been walking all day, Master Gervase came upon a
little figure lying under a clump of nut-bushes, and with a pang in his
heart, sprang off his horse, and gathering Hugh and Agrippa into his
arms, mounted again, and rode back as quickly as he could to Exeter.
CHAPTER NINE.
BISHOP BITTON IN HIS CATHEDRAL.
Hugh's illness was severe and painful, for he was racked with feverish
rheumatism, and could scarcely bear to be touched or even looked at.
Often he was light-headed and talked persistently of his father,
imploring him not to leave him, and at other times would cry so bitterly
that it was impossible to soothe him. Prothasy had been terribly
shocked when her husband rode up to the door, carrying his unconscious
burden, and had spared neither care nor attendance upon him, rigidly
carrying out the directions of the leech, which to us would sound
hopelessly fantastical, and listening patiently to his long
disquisitions upon Aesculapius and Galen. But her presence seemed to
disturb the boy, and she often drew back wounded. Strange to say, he
endured Wat's awkward though good-hearted ministrations, but the only
person to whom he clung, to please whom he would take his medicine, and
who seemed to have the power of causing him to sleep, was Elyas. One
possible reason was that Master Gervase had a strange quickness in
finding out what troubled him. Once or twice he had soothed him by
putting before him his father's carvings, and more often by placing
Agrippa on the bed. The monkey had been ill himself after the exposure
of that night, and it was Prothasy who--mightily it must be owned
against her inclination--wrapped him in woollen, and though she could
never be brought to take him on her lap, saw that he was not neglected.
But one day, when Hugh was really better and less feverish, though still
in pain which made him fretful and peevish, he opened his eyes upon a
new sight. A little girl, with golden hair and brown eyes, stood about
a yard away from the crib, gazing with deep interest and her finger in
her mouth, from him to Agrippa, who sat on the bed in his scarlet coat,
and stared back at her. For a short time all three were silent,
contemplating each other curiously. It was Joan who broke the silence,
pointing to Agrippa.
"Doth he bite?"
Hitherto everyone who came near Hugh had asked how he felt or what they
could do. Here was a change indeed!
"No." Then with an effort--"You may stroke him, mistress."
Upon this invitation Joan advanced, stretching out two rosy fingers.
But they hesitated so long on the way that Hugh put forth his own wasted
little hand, and conducted them to Agrippa's head. Joan coloured
crimson but would not show fear.
When she had got over the wonder of this courageous deed, she began to
smile, bringing two dimples into her cheeks, and dancing a little up and
down for joy.
"Art thou the new boy? Why doesn't thou get up?"
This was too much; besides, the pain of stretching his hand had hold of
him. Hugh shut his eyes and groaned. The next thing he felt was a
dreadful shake of the crib, and a soft kiss planted upon his closed eye.
"Poor boy! Make haste and get well!"
She trotted away, but the next day appeared again, and her mother,
arriving in haste, found to her horror Joan sitting upon the edge of the
crib, with Agrippa in her arms. Prothasy would have snatched him from
her, but Joan put up her small hand lest she should come too near. She
was actually trembling with ecstasy.
"He doesn't bite, and he likes me. Isn't he beautiful?"
Agrippa had conquered.
After this Hugh began to improve more rapidly Joan's visits brought
something into his life which had been wanting before, and he could not
but be conscious of the kindness with which he had been nursed and cared
for, when he might have expected very different treatment. He still
watched Mistress Prothasy with anxiety, but his eyes followed Gervase
with devotion which touched the good warden's heart. Nothing had been
said about Hugh's flight during the worst part of his illness, but one
afternoon in December, when Elyas had come in from consultation with the
bishop at the Cathedral, he sat down on the boy's bed.
"We shall have thee up and about by Christmas," he said, cheerfully;
"out by the New Year, and at work by Twelfth Day."
"Ay, master," said Hugh faintly.
Elyas turned and looked at him. "It were best for thee," he said, "to
tell me what ailed thee that day. I have heard nothing from thee."
In a faltering voice Hugh would have murmured something scarce
distinguishable, but Gervase made him put all into words. It is often
hard so to describe one's wrongs; things which had seemed of infinite
importance lose dignity in the process, and there is an uncomfortable
conviction that our hearers are not so greatly impressed as we desired.
After all, except the threat about Agrippa, it looked trifling seen from
a distance, and even for Agrippa--
"Hadst thou met with so much unkindness here, that thou couldst not
trust us to do what was best?" asked Gervase gravely.
"I thought--" began Hugh, and stopped.
"And how came you idle?" Elyas demanded more sternly.
"He ever gave me such foolish work! He would not hearken when I said I
could do better!" burst out Hugh. "Master, only let me try, and you
will see."
"Perhaps," returned Elyas. "But there are things that I value more, ay,
and thy father would have valued more, than fair carving. Thou hast got
thy life to shape, Hugh, rough stone to hew and carve into such a temple
as the Master loves. All the best work that we can do with our tools is
but a type of this. And what sort of carving was this rebellion of
thine?"
He would say no more, being one of those who leave their words to sink
in. But after, when he came up to see the boy, he would choose for his
talk tales of men who had become great through mastery of themselves.
And when he found how Hugh's thoughts ran upon King Edward, he spoke of
him, and how he had tamed that strong nature of his which might have led
him into tyrannical acts, so that at whatever cost to himself he
followed faithfully that which was right and just. And he told the
story of how once, when he had been unjust towards an attendant, he
punished his own hasty temper by fining himself twenty marks.
"This it is which makes him great," added Elyas.
"And thou hast seen and spoken with him? The more need to follow him."
"Saw you ever the king, goodman?"
"Ay, truly; ten or eleven years ago he and the queen held Parliament
here at Christmas. Great doings were there, and it was then the bishop
got leave to fence the close with walls. I like them not myself, they
shut out the fair view of the western front; but after the precentors
murder the chapter sought greater security. There is talk of the king
coming again next month. If he does I warrant he will bring a sore
heart, remembering who was with him last time."
"And the queen was fair, goodman?"
"Fair and sweet beyond telling. All that looked at her loved her."
Hugh never got worse reproach for his conduct, but by listening to these
tales of Master Gervase's with talk of men who took not their own wild
wills, but a high ideal of duty for their standard, he grew to be
ashamed of it, and to have a longing for the time when he might go to
work again in a different spirit. And he changed in his conduct to Wat,
who was ever full of awkward good-will.
It was much as Elyas had foretold. By Christmas time Hugh was up,
though too feeble to enter into all the merry-making and holiday-keeping
of the time; nor, indeed, could he so much as go out with the others
when, at two of the morning, the moonlight shining, the rime hanging to
the elms and just whitening the roof of the Cathedral, they all set
forth for the parish church of St Martin's. Wat came back blowing his
blue fingers and stamping on the ground, but radiant with the promise
that next year in the mumming he should be St George himself.
"Rob the ostler says so, and he knows."
"Thou wast the hobby-horse last night," said Hugh with a laugh.
"Ay, and I am weary of the hobby-horse, of prancing up and down, and
being hit with no chance of hitting back again. But, St George! what
wouldst thou give, Hugh, to be a knight all in shining armour, and to
slay the Dragon?"
New Year's Eve was the great day for gifts; Joan had a number of toys
and sweetmeats, and Hugh gave her a kind of cup and ball, which he had
managed to carve for her, though with trembling fingers, after the
recollection of one which had been shown to his father by a merchant
travelling from China, or Cathay, as it was then called. It was a
dainty little toy, and Gervase examined it closely, feeling that Hugh
had some reason for fretting against the monotonous work to which
Franklyn condemned him. But Elyas had no thought of interfering. He
believed it would be wholesome discipline for the boy to have to work
his way upward by force of perseverance and obedience, each step so
taken would be a double gain; he had time enough before him, and should
prove his powers to Franklyn by his own efforts. Meanwhile he kept him
with him a good deal, and took him one day to the Cathedral to see the
progress which had been made.
Hugh could not rest without going everywhere, and then was so tired
that, while Gervase went off to inspect some of the masons' work, he
curled himself up upon one of the misereres and fell asleep. He awoke
with a start to find himself looked down upon by a kindly-faced man in
an ecclesiastical dress, though this last was not of the sumptuous
character at that time worn. Other ecclesiastics were moving about the
building. Hugh started to his feet, but the priest, whoever he was,
seemed in no way displeased at his presence.
"Thou art a pale-faced urchin," he said good-humouredly; "have thy
friends left thee behind and forgotten thee?"
"Nay, reverend sir," said Hugh, "I am Master Gervase's apprentice."
"I always heard he was an easy man, and so he suffers his apprentices to
sleep in working hours? But it is he for whom we were searching, and if
thou wilt go forth and find him for me, thou mayest earn a silver
penny."
Hugh had some little difficulty in discovering Elyas, who had climbed a
scaffolding to examine the work close at hand. He hurried down when he
had heard Hugh's report, saying that it was doubtless the bishop, and
bidding the boy follow him.
The three bishops who succeeded each other in the see of Exeter, Quivil,
Bitton, and Stapledon, have each left their mark upon the Cathedral.
Quivil's share was the most important; it was he who by the insertion of
large windows formed the transepts, and to whom we owe the beautiful and
unbroken line of vaulting. Bitton was only fifteen years at Exeter, but
he carried on the designs of his predecessor with enthusiastic loyalty,
and completed the eastern end of the choir. It was this on which he
constantly desired to consult Gervase.
"The work goes on well," he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands. "You
have caught the true spirit. We shall never see our glorious Church
finished, goodman, yet it is something to feel that we shall have left
behind us something towards it. _Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine
virtutum_! I like the lightness of that stonework, and mine eye is
never weary of following the noble lines of vaulting. Only I shall not
rest until something has been designed to unite it with the pillars.
There is a blank look which offends me."
"I see it, too, my lord. Is it not the very place for a richly carved
_surs_ (corbel)?"
"Ay, that is it, that is it! A corbel which should spring from the
pillar, and follow the line of the arch. We must reflect on this,
Master Gervase, and they shall be of finest cutting, and each varying
from the other. But we may not think of this yet awhile, for truly
there is enough on hand to call for all thy skill and industry. How
fair it looks, with the winter sunshine striking on the fair stonework!
_Non nobis, Domine_!"
One or two of the canons had by this time closed up, and began to speak
of what had been done.
"When the western end is brought to equal the eastern," said one of
them, William Pontington by name, "there will be no church in our land
more fair. What will the king say?"
"The king is not in the best of humours with his clergy," said the
chaunter or precentor, a little dried-up man, with a sour face. "What
think you, my lord, of the archbishop's mandate?"
The good bishop looked uneasy. Winchilsey, Archbishop of Canterbury,
was a turbulent and ambitious prelate, and the king, though sincerely
religious, was forced to be ever on the watch against encroachments made
by Pope Boniface, and supported by the archbishop, which threatened the
royal supremacy. The strongest attempt of all had just been put forth
in a bull from the pope, "forbidding the clergy to grant to laymen any
part of the revenues of their benefices without the permission of the
Holy See." Now as the kings of England had ever the right of taxing the
clergy with the rest of their subjects, as the possessions of the Church
were enormous, and papal taxation of the whole kingdom far exceeded the
taxation by the State, so that in a few years the pope is said to have
received money from England equal to nine millions of our present money,
Edward promptly resisted this fresh and unheard-of claim. He did so by
a simple and effectual counter-stroke. It was announced at Westminster
that whatever complaint was brought to the court by the archbishops,
bishops, or clergy, "no justice should be done them," and this
withdrawal of State protection speedily led the clergy to offer their
submission to the king, in spite of the anger of pope and archbishop.
But the dissension had placed them on the horns of a dilemma, and Bishop
Bitton had no liking for speech on the subject. He muttered something
in answer to the precentor's injudicious question, and turned to Hugh,
who was standing a short way from the group.
"There is thy penny for thee," said the bishop, beckoning to him, "and
now tell me, sir apprentice, whether thou art a good lad, and learning
thy craft fairly and truly, so that in time thou mayest have thy share
in this great work of ours?"
Hugh coloured crimson, and looked down, and Elyas came to his rescue.
"He hath not been with me yet three months, my lord, so please you, and
half that time hath been ill; but he is the child of the wood-carver of
whom I spoke, and, if he is industrious, I have good hope he will credit
his father."
"And what part wilt thou choose for thy share?" asked the bishop, with a
wave of his gloved hand towards roof and walls.
"The corbels, my lord," answered Hugh, boldly. Bitton looked delighted.
"So thou hast caught our words, and wilt bespeak the work thyself?
Well, I shall not forget. Learn with all thy might, and, who knows,
some day thy carving may help to decorate this our Church of St
Peter's?"
After this, when the bishop caught sight of Hugh, he never failed to
speak to him and ask how his learning fared. And hearing from Elyas
that the boy could read and write, he arranged that on Sundays he should
come to the Kalendarhay, where one of the Kalendar brothers instructed
him.
When Twelfth-Night was over, Hugh went back to the yard, where work was
expected to go on vigorously after the feasting and mirth of that
season, which was loud and boisterous. On the eve the town was full of
minstrels, who carried huge bowls of wassail--ale, sugar, nutmegs, and
roasted apples--to the houses of the well-to-do inhabitants, and Wat, as
it may be conceived, had his full share in these doings. In the country
there was a curious pagan ceremony kept up in Devonshire on this night,
for at the farms the farmer and his men would carry a great pitcher of
cider into the orchard, and choosing the best bearing tree, walk
solemnly round it, and drink its health three times.
Master Gervase grew somewhat red and shamefaced when his wife reminded
him that he had often been the pitcher-bearer on his father's farm.
"It was there I first saw thee," she said, "and my mother pointed thee
out, and said thou wast as strong as Edulf."
"Who was Edulf?" asked Hugh of Wat, under his breath.
"The strongest man that ever lived. He came to Exeter in a rage, and
broke the iron gate with his two hands," expounded Wat, stuffing a large
piece of pasty into his mouth.
"The strongest man that ever lived was Samson," said Hugh, dogmatically.
"Samson! Nobody ever heard of him, and I tell thee Edulf was the
strongest."
The quarrel might have grown, but that Franklyn growled at them to hush
their unmannerly prating; and Joan announced in her clear, decided voice
that Agrippa should have his special Twelfth-night spice-cake. For in
spite of her mother's loud remonstrances, the monkey had been taken into
Joan's heart of hearts, and, it was certain, was secure from any
sentence of banishment.
Franklyn had been a good deal shocked by Hugh's flight and illness, but,
as was natural, the impression passed away as the little apprentice
regained his health, and Elyas saw that he was not inclined to change
his treatment. For the reasons already given, the master had no thought
of interfering, it was for the boy now to prove what stuff he had in
him. It was a sort of ordeal through which he had to pass; an ordeal
which might develop patience, resolution, and the humility of a true
artist, and though Gervase told himself that he would be on the watch,
ready with words of encouragement when they were needed, he held back
from more. Hugh had the same rough, uninteresting work to toil upon--
indeed the stone had been set aside for his return; the same careful
explanations of how to handle his tools and make his strokes, which he
took to be a reflection on his father's teaching; the same lack of
praise. But now he brought to it a more cheerful spirit, hope was
astir; he felt sure that the master was watching his efforts, and that
it rested with himself and his own perseverance to make his way. It was
not easy. Often he grew hot and angry; often he was tempted into
careless work; but he would not give up trying, and upon the whole held
on very fairly.
Then, in spite of his awkwardnesses and a dense stupidity about his
work, Wat was a good-natured companion, ready to take any trouble and to
carry any blame. He had been so often told by Franklyn that he would
never rise to more than a mason, that he had grown to accept the verdict
against which Hugh was always trying to make him rebel.
"He knows best," he would say, hammering loosely at the stone.
"What an oaf thou art, Wat! It all rests with thyself. Franklyn should
never make me a mason."
"Because--there, I have chipped it!" scratching his head in dismay.
"And small wonder! Give me thy tool, which thou holdest as the goodwife
holds her knife--so!"
"If I thought it were any use--" began the disconsolate Wat.
"Try and see."
"And thou thinkest I might catch the trick of it?"
"Try. There, now go on. Thou knowest as well as any how to hold the
tools."
So far as impatience and calling of names went Hugh was a harder
taskmaster than Franklyn, but he put more energy into his teaching, and
dragged the reluctant Wat along by sheer force of will, the result being
that, though he got no praise for himself, some fell to his pupil, which
really pleased him as much as if it had been the other way.
Wat was the great purveyor of news; no one knew how he picked up his
information, but nothing happened in the city but it somehow reached his
ears before it was half an hour old. He knew of all the quarrels
between the bishop and chapter and the mayor and his twenty-four
councillors or aldermen, and how two of the canons fell upon two of the
bailiffs and pommelled them vigorously, before even the mayor's wife had
been informed of the scandal. He it was who reported the falling out
between Sir Baldwin de Fulford and his wife, because she wanted an
extravagantly fine chaplet of gold, the cost of which displeased him.
It seemed that there were great expenses she led him into, for they had
glass over from France for their windows, and forks for dinner, and many
such luxuries, and each one Wat knew quite well--though how, no one ever
knew. And at last, one day in January, when there had been a fall of
snow which whitened all the roofs, and gave great joy to the prentice
lads, Wat rushed in, powdered over with snow, so full of news that he
could scarce keep from shouting it out as he ran, and so intent upon
that and nothing else that he rushed up against Mistress Prothasy, and
sent the dish of roasted apples she was carrying out of her hand. She
gave him a sound box in his ear, and told him he should have no apples
for supper. But even this threat could not compose Wat, well as he
loved roasted apples.
"Truly, good wife," he said, breathlessly, as he picked them up, "thou
must forgive me this time for my news."
"What news?" said Prothasy crossly. "Thou hast ever some foolish tale
in thy idle head."
"This is no foolish news," cried Wat, triumphantly. "King Edward is on
his way!"
"Nay!"
"Ay, mistress, it is true. He is at Bristol, and comes here in four
days' time, and the mayor is almost out of his wits, and there will be a
banquet at the Guildhall, and the Baron of Dartington and Lord Montacute
and Sir Richard de Alwis and my Lord of Devon are making ready to ride
to meet the king, and all the saddlers and armourers are rushing from
one end of the city to the other, and there will be feasting and
bonfires, and we prentices are to stand in the Crollditch to shout when
he comes in at the East Gate, and I warrant you none will shout lustier
than I!"
"Mercy on us, thou wilt deafen me with thy chatter!" said Prothasy,
clapping her hands on her ears; "but there is an apple for thee, since
thy head had some reason for its turning to-day. The king so near! I
must go and pull out my green kirtle."
CHAPTER TEN.
SWORD OR CHISEL?
Wat's enthusiasm found hearty echo in the house. Roger, indeed, ever
self-absorbed and eagerly bent upon his own advancement, muttered
something that such shows were fit only for fools and jackanapes, but he
dared say nothing of the sort aloud, when even Master Gervase himself
was like a boy in his delight over the occasion. Great consultations
took place between the different guilds. These guilds had flourished in
Exeter from a very early period, and were founded and preserved on
strong religious lines. Chief and earliest among them were the merchant
guilds. Craft guilds grew up later, not, as in other countries, opposed
to the merchants, but under their authority, formed merely to promote
and regulate matters belonging to their own crafts. Master and wardens
met regularly in the common hall, and every full craftsman worth twenty
shillings might be a brother. Generally there was a distinctive dress,
or, at any rate, hood. The guilds took care that their members bore
good characters, and there were heavy penalties for bad words, or what
was called "misquoting." No one might work without leave of the
wardens. No one might undersell a craft brother. The guilds arranged
that all goods received a fair price, and that they were of the best
quality. An excellent technical education was provided, and the tools
that were used were closely inspected. Women might have part in the
guilds, widows being allowed to carry on their business under their
protection. There were also craft courts to which all complaints were
brought, and it will be easily understood how much guilds had to do with
the local government of a town.
It was now necessary to organise a banquet to be given to the king, and
a day of feasting and rejoicing for the poor, and Gervase was very busy
over the arrangements. Frost and snow still continued, but flags and
gay hangings were profusely used, and nothing could have been more
picturesque than the narrow streets with their beautiful black-timbered
houses, snow on the steep roofs, and all manner of bright colours
hanging from windows and carved balconies. The only thing there was
doubt about was the sun, but after an hour or two of hesitation in the
morning, it broke out in full brilliancy, giving the final touch to a
gay pageant of moving colour, of which we in England now have little
conception.
Rougemont Castle, of course, put on its gayest face, but the chief
preparations were at the East Gate, to which the road from Bristol led
direct, passing by St Sidwell's Church. Here the king would enter, and
here in Crollditch, the present Southernhay, where the Lammas fair was
annually held, the apprentices intended to muster, and to see as much as
they could, the greater number of the burgesses being within the gate,
so as to welcome the king to the city. If it had not been for Wat,
Hugh's chance of seeing would have been small, for as the king and his
knights rode up, the bigger apprentices closed tumultuously nearer,
shouting with all the force of their lungs, and the lesser boys were
pushed back without mercy. But Wat was a faithful friend. He held fast
by Hugh, and used his own strong limbs to good effect. Opposite to them
was a crowd of the poorest of the city.
"Keep thy legs, gammer--good folk, press not so closely! Here they
come!"
"Alack, alack, I ca
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