by Norah Lofts
Something wet on my lips turned to fire in my mouth.
‘Come, rouse yourself, man!’
‘… to reach such a state in little over twenty-four hours.’
‘Probably he was fasting when he was thrown in. Come, drink properly, wake up and drink. You waste more than you take.’
The cool voice, which I recognized as the Prior’s said,
‘This noxious air as much as the fast, is responsible for his state. Unless we move soon we shall all be insensible.’
I made a great effort and mustered my voice.
‘Why?’ I cried. ‘Why did you leave me to die? I came to bring you warning.’
‘Drink,’ said Brother Sebastian, pressing the cup to my mouth again.
‘Everything shall be explained presently,’ said the Prior. ‘Get him out of here, give him food. Then clean him and dress him anew. When he is ready, bring him to the Abbot’s Parlour.’
Whatever it was they had given me to drink had gone to my head, so that my ears rang, and when at last they heaved me to my feet the floor seemed soft and yielding and a long way away. Brother Sebastian, carrying the candle, moved ahead, murmuring gentle encouragements. One of the men who ordinarily collected the market dues helped me along.
In a small warm room they sat me down and brought a basin and towel so that I could clean my hands before I ate. They served me barley broth, a roast capon, dried figs. Gradually my head cleared and my spirits rose. They seemed, after all, well disposed towards me. I had done them a service, been ill-used. … I began to think about reward, began framing in my mind the plea for my little hut. Surely now that would not seem much to ask.
‘Now, Martin,’ said Brother Sebastian, ‘having restored the inner man, let us attend to the outer. That dungeon reek clings hard.’
He led me to the laundry, where stone slabs, hollowed into basins, ran the length of one wall, and a great fire burned, with huge iron cauldrons swinging above. Hot water, tempered with cold, was poured into one of the basins. Brother Sebastian handed me a square of strong lye soap.
‘I should get right in and wash all over, hair as well, if I were you. Our Abbot has a fastidious nose. Clothes will be brought you. I must get back to my duties. Fare you well.’
The clothes, brought by a servant as I towelled myself, were such as I had never dreamed to wear, a rich man’s clothes. Soft woollen shift, clinging close and warm from neck to knee and down the arms to the elbows, a fine linen shirt, hose and tunic of smooth grey cloth. The touch of them against my freshly-scoured skin gave me a sense of well-being, of bodily ease that I had never known before. I had known its shadow once or twice, back at Rede when I was very young and a few of us boys had stripped and plunged into the river on a very warm sunny day, but we had come out and donned our creased, dirty clothes.
I remember thinking that the clothes themselves were a kind of reward and that the shift was big enough for Kate to cut up and shape into warm garments for Stephen and Robin.
I was stooping to put on my old worn shoes when the door opened and there was a young monk, with a pink, girlish face and his sleeves rolled over his elbows. He had a pair of shoes in his hand.
‘Made hurriedly and from memory. We trust they will fit.’
They fitted much better than the old ones.
‘Then … if you will come with me …’
We went along passages, up and down steps and at last came out into the open, where immediately I smelled the sour harsh scent of slow burning wood, like that which fills a room where a log has rolled off the hearth. I stopped and sniffed and said,
‘Did they get in then, after all?’ If so all my effort had been wasted and there would be no reward.
‘Nobody got in,’ he said gently. ‘We were prepared and the main gate was reinforced. They tried to batter it down, and failed, so they set it afire. We welcomed its destruction, it was never worthy of its place. The new one is to be made from cedar wood from the groves of Lebanon.’ His voice took on a dreamy ecstatic note. ‘Cedars are long lived trees. It may even be that St. Egbert’s new Gate may be made from a tree which cast its shade over Our Lord.’
‘But you said you were prepared.’
‘Oh yes. Our Abbot has fifty knights to call upon; there was time to reach two of them, and their menies. But our rule forbids us to strike the first blow. Once the Gate was burned and the attackers were inside … then the archers and pikemen went into action.’
‘And drove them off?’
‘Very easily I believe.’
Most cheerful news. ‘We were prepared,’ he said. ‘Time to reach two of them and their menies.’ All thanks to me!
We were walking along a path, grey paved, between two green lawns which ended in a laurel hedge through which the path went on. Behind the fence was a low stone building, made of dressed flint and owning a high, arched doorway, flanked by several windows in each side. The windows were glassed and just caught the last rays of the sinking sun.
At the doorway the monk halted.
‘The Prior awaits you in the ante-room,’ he said.
I went in, blinking in the sudden light of a huge leaping fire and three or four candlestands. There was a long table in the centre of the room and at it a monk sat writing. The Prior stood at his elbow, reading every word he wrote. He gave me a brief glance of recognition, looked down again and said,
‘That will do well. Seal it.’
The scribing monk took a bar of sealing wax, held it to a candle, dropped a great blob on the bottom of the parchment and the Prior took up a gold seal and stamped it down. Then he rolled the parchment into a tube and said to me,
‘There you are. Smelling sweeter, I trust. Follow me.’
He opened a door at the back of the room and I followed him.
It was like walking into an oven, but the little figure seated in a chair close to the fire was all shrouded in fur, a great shawl of it lay across his shoulders, and another covered his legs. A woollen hood such as peasants wear in the fields in winter was pulled low over his ears and brow. His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut and his lips a thin blue line. He looked a hundred years old. Only his eyes were lively.
The Prior went close to him and said in a high, penetrating voice,
‘My Lord Abbot, here is the man, Martin, whom you wished to see.’
Turning back to me he said, ‘The Abbot is very deaf. Speak loudly or not at all.’
In a high, thin monotone the Abbot Said,
‘Ah yes, yes indeed. We owe you a great deal. I wished to thank you. Also I wished to hear why it was that you sided with us rather than with your fellows.’
I said, in my loudest voice, ‘They refused me admission to the Guild.’
He gave me an odd little smile and looked over my shoulder.
‘What does he say?’
‘He says that the townsfolk refused to admit him to the Guild.’
‘Ah, those Guilds. Most regrettable! Becoming so arbitrary. I’m not quite sure how far the Guilds were involved in last night’s affair. …’ he looked inquiringly at the Prior. ‘However. The Guild refused to admit you, so you turned against the Guild. And very fortunate for us that you did. Quite right of course in any circumstance.’ He nodded and smiled at me approvingly and I thought that now was my chance.
‘I had another reason, my lord,’ I said loudly.
Once again the Prior was obliged to repeat what I had said.
‘Indeed. And what was that?’
I turned helplessly to the Prior who said, with a sly smile,
‘Now you see the truth of what I said. I am my lord’s ear. Very well, tell me and I will speak for you.’
‘They speak of clearing Squatters Row. I built a little hut there. I know I had no right to build, but I didn’t know at the time. It is the only home I have and it is not unsightly. I wondered … I mean I thought that if the information I brought you served your purpose, you might perhaps overlook … might allow my little hut to remain.�
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This stumbling speech the Prior compressed into two clear sentences. I watched the old man’s face and saw with dismay that the request found no favour with him.
‘The Cellarer tells me that the spot is a disgrace, a mere rubbish heap thrown up against our walls. It does not offend my eyes or nose, I never go abroad now. But we have visitors. What do they think when they see human beings living like pigs within arms’ reach of the most splendid shrine in Christendom? The Cellarer tells me that nobody entering by the East Gate can fail to see the place – and smell it.’
It was, once again, a verdict against which there was no appeal. Forbidden to be a priest, I thought; forbidden to be married; forbidden to be a journeyman; and now, forbidden to remain in my hut.
‘You have the parchment?’ the old man asked the Prior.
‘Signed and sealed, my lord.’
‘You see, we had thought of rewarding you by giving you what all poor men seem most to desire – a piece of land. Perhaps you know it – just outside the town on the south – the Old Vineyard they call it. The blight persists there and I understand that we already have as much acreage under plough as we can handle. So it is yours, in perpetuity, in return for a red rose on the last day of June each year – a formality which shouldn’t cause you any inconvenience. Give him his copyhold.’
The Prior pushed the rolled-up parchment into my hand.
I tried to shout my thanks. Whether he heard or not I could not know, but the Abbot nodded and smiled again. Then he said,
‘On the other hand it is poor gratitude which gives with one hand and takes away with the other. Also they tell me that the land is full of stumps, which must be cleared before it can yield any crop. What will you eat while you labour, and where will you live? I think’, he said, looking past me at the Prior, ‘we should give him some money, too.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Give him fifty marks.’
‘My lord! Fifty marks is the scutage for the three Flaxhams in one year.’
‘Sir Alain and Sir Godfrey reached us, with their men, did they not? If that rabble had made an entry it would have cost us fifty marks many times over. Fifty marks is no more than his due. Give it to him.’
The Prior pulled aside a piece of tapestry hanging on the wall and opened the door behind it, went through and closed the door carefully behind him.
I said, ‘My lord, I know not in what words to thank you.’
The Abbot said, ‘It is useless to speak to me. For some reason known only to God I am deaf to all voices but his.’ He looked towards the door. ‘Very occasionally he thinks that gives him the right to dictate to me.’ He smiled and nodded his head.
I thought that if I could not speak I could act my gratitude, so I dropped to my knees, took the old man’s thin cold hand and kissed it. He withdrew it hastily and patted my shoulder.
‘Don’t let the aspect lead you to think that you can grow vines on that field. Six years ago the blight struck there and though we rooted out every stump and ploughed it over and laid it fallow for a year and then planted strong new stock, still the blight remained. I went out to see for myself I remember – one of my last rides. It was a sad sight – a very sad sight. Ah …’
The Prior returned, carefully closing the door again and drawing the tapestry over it. He carried a linen bag tied at the neck. He said to me, in the cool, amused voice which showed that he had recovered his composure,
‘My Lord Abbot must set high store on the people of Baildon. Our Lord Himself was betrayed for only thirty pieces. You have all this – and the Potter’s Field as well!’
He could have said sharper things and caused me no twinge.
‘Please’, I said, ‘tell him how very grateful I am. All my life I have been so very poor … and lately lame as well. All that I have tried has been of no avail. Now I can begin again. I am so very thank …’ I choked and tears came into my eyes.
The Abbot gave me one of his bright shrewd glances.
‘You would be wise – for your own sake – to conceal the source of your money.’
I nodded to show that I understood and the movement brought two tears spilling over.
‘We are grateful to you,’ he said. ‘Go in peace.’
The Prior came to the door with me.
‘The East Gate is nearest for you. Besides the Great Gate is closed.’
The clerk, without being bidden, rose from the table and led the way. On this journey I saw several groups of pikemen and archers as well as a few men in armour, but they, like everything else were just the background of a dream to me.
It was almost dusk. I intended to go to Webster’s and fetch Kate and the children home, for the last time. I would put my arms about her and say – ‘Don’t ask questions now. I will tell you everything when we are home, but, sweetheart, we are rich!’ We would walk slowly down Cooks Row, that street which we so often avoided because of the sight and scent of food so far out of our reach, and we would buy everything we fancied. When we were home I would make a fire, not sparing the wood because in future we could have as much wood as we wanted. Over supper I would tell her the story and speak of what I planned. Dear Kate, she should never lift a finger outside her own house again.
Something sloughed off my soul, like the scab from an old sore and all at once I was able to look beyond that happy supper table. Kate and I could go to bed together, properly, again. Another child would be welcome now. In every way we would start anew.
I reached Webster’s gate just as one of the wool-pickers, a bent old woman with screwed up, half-blind eyes, was coming out. She stopped by me and said,
‘Kate ain’t bin to work today. Master’s rare and vexed.’
I turned and began to run as quickly as I could in my new shoes, towards Squatters Row.
Interval
I
The man with the bear came into Baildon just before dusk. November days are short. They are cold, too, and the man, heavily muffled, thickset and clumsy, might, in outline, almost have been another bear, forced to stay upright. As though to prove his claim to be human, he talked to himself as he walked. Very often children, keeping at a safe distance, would call after him, ‘Talk to yourself, talk to the Devil.’
He was telling himself that leading a dancing bear was all right in the summer, but misery in winter. He said there ought to be a place where bears could be left at the end of September and collected at the beginning of April, well fed and kept in training. There was no such place. He reminded himself that even when a bear leader had money for a lodging for himself and could find a place that had a stable where the bear could sleep, nine times out of ten they wouldn’t have you in – horses didn’t like the bear smell.
Every time he reminded himself of this, and felt the bitter wind, he looked at the bear with hatred and dragged viciously at the chain. Every time he did so the bear looked at him with a curiously similar expression. In their imposed physical likeness to one another, in the flashes of hatred, and in their dependence each upon the other for the basic necessities of living, they were like an old married couple.
The man’s name was Tom, and he was known on the roads as Pert Tom; the bear, neutered at the beginning of his training, was called Owd Muscovy.
As Tom had suspected, there was no lodging for man and bear; he took the rebuffs philosophically. It was some years since he had been in Baildon, but he remembered it well and knew of a fairly snug place in which to spend the night, a place where several people lived between the buttresses of the Abbey wall, and made their little fires and were willing – for a small consideration – to allow a stranger to warm himself and cook a bite of food. On his last visit there had been a woman, living behind a screen of tarred canvas, who – again for a consideration – had been willing to grant other favours. That, he remembered, must have been all of five years ago; probably she’d moved on, and in any case she would have aged. Still in November a man couldn’t be too particular.
When he reached
the place it was very much as he remembered it, except that in one corner, between the wall and the buttress, someone had built a tidy little hut, with a thatch to its roof and a hole for a chimney, the hole carefully plastered round with clay to keep the straw from catching alight. Pert Tom looked at the place speculatively. If the owner of the place was good hearted he might find shelter for the night after all. At the moment the place was deserted and he wandered on, found two campers whom he remembered from his last visit – a very old woman and a deaf-and-dumb man and his wife, whose family had increased considerably, but the woman who had slept behind a piece of canvas and been willing to share her bed with him was not – to his disappointment – there.
‘They laid on to her so hard last time she went to be whipped,’ the dumb man’s wife explained, ‘that she mended her ways. She went off into the country to work in a dairy.’
‘What a cruel waste,’ Pert Tom said.
He began his preparations for the night, settling down in the corner opposite the little hut. He hobbled the bear by fixing the chain around one foreleg and one back, removed its iron muzzle and gave it its supper. Always, wherever he was, he fed the bear first and when, as sometimes happened, there was only food for one it was the bear which supped and he who hungered. There was no sentiment concerned; he was capable of using the bear brutally, but to keep it in good fettle was simply common sense. When the beast had devoured its bread and honey, he slipped back its muzzle and went to sit by the dumb man’s fire. But he kept his eye on the hut and in the very last of the light saw a small woman, a girl almost, with two young children, enter it and close the door. He waited a little while, then, muttering that he was going to turn in, he went to the corner where the bear was asleep, lay down beside it and waited again. He could see by the light that came through the ill-joined timbers of the hut that the young woman had got the fire going. At what he thought the right time he rose, went softly across the space and knocked on the door. Kate opened it. Against the smoky red fire glow he saw the halo of her pale hair and missed the lines of worry and disappointment on her face. In his smoothest, most wheedling tone he said,