CHAPTER I.
HUGH THE WRITER.
A boy of fifteen, clad in doublet and hose of plain cloth dyed a soberbrown, sat alone at one end of a broad, vaulted room, before a writingtable. The strong, clear light which covered him and his work fellthrough an open window, arched at the top and piercing a stone wall ofalmost a yard's thickness. Similar openings to the right and left ofhim marked with bars of light a dozen other places along the extended,shelf-like table, where writers had now finished their day's labor,and, departing, had left covered horns of ink and cleansed utensilsbehind them. But the boy's task lagged behind fulfilment, and mockedhim.
Strive as he might, Hugh could not compel the tails of the longerletters to curl freely and with decent grace, or even to run in thesame direction, one with the other. Though he pressed his elbow to theboard, and scowled intently at the vellum before him, and even thrustout his tongue a little in earnest endeavor, still the marks wentwrong. At last there came at the end of a word an "f," which needs mustflow into shapely curves at top and bottom, if all fair writing werenot to be shamed--and, lo! it did neither, but sloped off shakily intoa rude angle above, a clumsy duck's egg below. Then he laid down hisreed pen, and groaned aloud.
This Hugh Overtown, having later come to man's estate and thencomfortably ripened into old age, has been dust and ashes now closeupon four hundred years. For every minute in that huge stretch of time,some other boy since then has put aside his pen and groaned, becausethe stubborn letters would not come right. But not many of these havehad such sound cause for vexation.
First of all, Hugh was a trained writer, who might look a little laterto be actually paid for his toil, if so be he did not take the blackhabit and became a monk himself. All of their gentle craft that themaster limners and letterers in this great scriptorium of TewkesburyAbbey could teach him, he had learned. In all the ten major abbeys andpriories of Gloucestershire, perhaps no other lad of his years was soskilled to use both brush and pen. His term of tutelage being passed,he wrought now, in repayment for his teaching, upon the choicest of thevolumes written here for great nobles and patrons of art and letters.And if ever sureness of glance and touch was called for, it was at thispresent time, since the work must be meet for royal eyes. Thevolume--when all its soft, creamy leaves should have been covered witharabesques and high painted crests and shields and deftly regular textof writing, and been sewed together inside their embossed covers--wasto be given, they said now, to the brother of the King. Prouderambition than this a craftsman could hardly dream of--yet now, all atonce, Hugh despaired to find himself making foolish mis-marks on theprecious page, and not able to contrive their betterment.
The boy stared in gloom upon the parchment, wondering if, in truth, itwere wholly spoilt; then his eyes wandered off through the open windowto the blue May sky, and drifting after their gaze went his thoughts,in wistful reverie upon that gilded dreamland of princes and earls,whither this book, in good time, was to wend its way. New promptingsstirred in his blood.
He had been a monk's boy in all these later years of peace, since hisfather, the poor saddler, fell in his Nevill livery on Hedgely Moor,away in the farthest north. The great kindly Abbey had been much morehis home than the dark, squalid little house in the village below,where his widowed mother lived: here he had learned to write so thateven the Abbot, John Strensham, lofty magnate and companion of princesthough he was, had nodded smilingly over his work; here he had helpedto serve the Mass in the grand Abbey church, with censer and bell, andfelt his young mind enriched and uplifted by pious longings; here, too,he had dreamed into the likeness of veritable and detailed history hisvision of the time when he should compose some wonderful chronicle, andwin thanks from the great ones of the earth, and be known to all men asHugh of Tewkesbury, whose book was to be prized above every other.
But now, after seven years wherein peaceful desires possessed plainmen--lo! here was fighting in the land. And now of a sudden it seemedto Hugh that the writing of books, the quiet cloistral life, even thefavor of the Abbot himself, were paltry things. An unaccustomed heattingled in his veins at thought of what existence outside these thickwalls might now once more signify. Who would be a stoop-shoulderedscribe, a monk, or even a mass-priest when there were war harnesses towear, horses to mount, yew bows to bend till the shaft trembled in thestrain?
Hugh could almost believe that he heard the tramp and distant confusedmurmuring of an armed host, as his musing dream took form. The verypages lying before him spoke of this new outburst of war, and linkedhim to it. The book was one of heraldry, and it had been begun for thegreat Earl of Warwick. Both the fame and the person of this mightycaptain were well-known to the lad, for the King-maker was lord ofTewkesbury, and the overshadowing patron of village and abbey alike.But when scarcely the first sheets had been written this puissant lordhad fled the kingdom, and the cautious monks had laid the work aside.Later came strange rumors and tales: how Warwick had returned anddriven the King away, and put up his whilom Red-rose foes to rule inLondon--and then pens and brushes were set busily at the book oncemore. But now the King had in turn come back and seized his own again,and slain Warwick on bloody Barnet field--and the frightened monks hadbethought them to finish the book, with sundry emblazonings of theroyal arms now ingeniously married to those of the Nevills, and make ita peace offering to Duke George of Clarence, who had wedded Warwick'sdaughter, and would be lord of Tewkesbury in his shoes.
The half-written page of vellum on the table seemed to Hugh a livingpart of all this stirring new romance of blood and spark-strikingsteel. Almost it made a soldier out of him to touch it. The charactersengrossed thereon by his own hand danced before his eyes--waved in hisdaydream like the motto on some proud knight's banner being borneforward to battle.
Suddenly the boy sat upright. Beyond question there _was_ an unwontednoise, as of tumult, coming through the casement from the villagewithout. He could distinguish the clanking of iron harness and weapons,the trampling of hoofs; and now--once! twice! a trumpet blast, risingon the air above the dull, vague rumble which bespeaks the assemblingof a throng. He sprang to his feet, with the thought to climb theembrasure and look forth--and then as swiftly sat down again and bentover his work; the Chief Scrivener of the Abbey had entered thechamber.
Brother Thomas came slowly to the table--a good, easy man, whose fatwhite fingers knew knife and spoon now in these latter days muchoftener than brush or pen--and glanced idly over Hugh's shoulder at thepages. Then he lifted the unfinished one, held it in the light to peermore closely, and sniffed aloud. Next he put his hand under Hugh'schin, and raised the boy's blushing face up till their glances met.
"What palsied spiders'-tracks are these?" he asked, holding out thevellum. "Art ill, boy?"
The gentle irony in his master's tone touched Hugh's conscience. Heshook his head, and hung it, and kept a sheepish silence.
Thomas tossed the sheet upon the table, and spoke with something moreof sharpness. "It is the mummers that have led thy wits offmorris-dancing," he said. "These May-day fooleries stretch themselvesout now, each year more, until no time at all is left for honest work.This it is I noted in thee yesterday, and marvelled at--when thou hadstruled the lines bordering the painted initial letter with effect to cutoff holy St. Adhelm's ear. Thy head is filled with idle sports andfrolics outside. Happen his Lordship shall put them down now, once forall!"
Hugh's red face turned redder still, and when he would have spoken, histongue was tied in confusion. Brother Thomas had unwittingly drawn verynear to the truth of an awkward thing, the burden of which lay heavilyon the boy's mind. In the next room, hidden but indifferently, were thefanciful garments which he himself had painted for the villagemorris-dancers a month before. They had been returned in privacy tohim, and he had weakly pledged himself to trick them out anew againsttheir coming use at Whitsuntide. This guilty secret it was that hadpreyed upon his peace, and robbed his hand of its cunning, ever sincethe masking dresses had been brought to him on yester-mornin
g.
In any other year, he might have spoken freely to his master of thismatter. But as evil chance would have it, on this very May festival,now two days gone--when in their pleasant wont the youths and maidensof Tewkesbury rose before cockcrow, and hied them to the greenwood withmusic and the blowing of horns, to gather haythorn branches anddell-flowers, to bathe their faces in the May-dew for beauty's sake, toshoot at target with Robin Hood, and dance their fill about MaidMarian--who but Brother Thomas should pass on his return from matins atDeerhurst cell, nodding drowsily with each movement of his patientmule? Hugh recalled with a shudder how some wanton ne'er-do-well hadfrom the bushes hurled a huge, soft swollen toadstool, which broke uponthe good monk's astonished countenance, and scattered miserably insidehis hood. It was small wonder that from this Brother Thomas conceivedsour opinions of May-day sports, and now hinted darkly that the Abbotshould make an end to them. But as it stood thus, Hugh dared not speakconcerning the morris-dresses, and so had hidden them, and now wassorely troubled about it all.
It may be that here, upon the moment, he would have broken silence withhis secret, well knowing how truly gentle a heart had Thomas. But atthis the door was flung open, and there entered Brother Peter, hisgaunt gray poll shaking with excitement, his claw-like hands held up asone amazed, his eyes aflame with eagerness.
"Know ye what is come upon us?" he called out breathlessly. "Theforeign woman--save her Grace, she that was--or is--Queen Margaret, Imean--is at our gates, and with her the Lord Duke Somerset, and her sonthe Prince Edward, and the great Earl's daughter, our Lady Anne, andwith them a mort of lords, and knights, and men-at-arms--running nowover every highway and lane inside Tewkesbury and out, taking tothemselves roughly whatever eye likes or belly craves--swearing by theRood they will have the Abbey down about our ears if we deny them orfood or drink!"
While Peter's vehement tongue hurled forth these tidings, the manThomas went pale with sudden concern for the great treasures and peaceof the house; the boy Hugh rose to his feet, all the miseries ofMay-day and morris-garments clean forgotten, and only the inspiritingring of steel on steel in his ears.
"Oh! may I run and behold the brave sight?" he prayed aloud, but Thomasheld forth a restraining hand for the moment, and Hugh, much chafing,heard what further Peter had to tell.
The Abbot, and with him the heads of the Chapter, had gone to thegates, and by parley had warded off incursion. The Abbey servants,threescore in number, were bearing forth meat and bread and ale tospread on the ham by the mill for the famished Lancastrians, who had inthese thirty hours marched from Bristol by Gloucester, through forestand foul by-ways, with scarcely bite or sup, and now ravened likewinter wolves. There were stories that King Edward, in pursuit, hadcovered ground even more swiftly, and now was this side of Cheltenham,in hot chase. With this dread foe at their tail, the Lancastrian lordsdared not attempt to ford the Severn, and so Queen, Prince, Duke, andall were halted up above the village on the high Gaston fields, andthere would on the morrow give battle to King Edward.
"Oh! woe the day!" groaned Thomas, whose heart was in peaceful things."How shall we escape sack and pillage--our painted missals and fairwritten tomes, our jewelled images, our plate of parcel-gilt, andsilver-gilt and white, the beryl candlesticks, the mitres, monstrances,rings, gloves--wist ye not how after Wakefield's victory the Queen'smen broke open churches, and defiled altars, from York along to Londontown?"
"Hast but a poor stomach for war times, good Thomas!" said the lean andeager old Brother Sacristan, in a tone spiced with sneering. "Whotalketh of Wakefield? Who hath promised victory to these ribald Devonlouts? On the morrow, we shall see them cast off their coats to run thebetter. Our stout King Edward hath never lost fight or turned tail yet.Shall he begin now?"
The old monk had not forgotten the deep Yorkist devotion in which hishotter secular youth had been trained, and his eyes sparkled now atthought of how true a fighter King Edward really was. No such fire ofremembrance burned within Thomas, who none the less accepted theproffered consolation.
"Of a certainty," he admitted, "the King hath won all his battlesheretofore. Doubtless he hath the close favor of the saints. I mind menow of his piety--how that he would not be crowned on the dayappointed, for that it was Childermas, and the Holy Innocents might notbe thus affronted. Thus do wise and pious kings and men"--Thomas liftedhis voice here, and glanced meaningly at Hugh--"win Heaven's smiles,and honor fitly the anniversaries of the year--not by dancing andmumming in the greenwood."
"I ween that in this game now forward, hard knocks will serve KingEdward more than all his holiness, good Thomas," said Peter, who,coming to the Abbey late in life, brought some carnal wisdom along inhis skull. "And this more--mark thou my words--when all is still againthe Abbey will be the richer, not the poorer, for it all."
"How wilt thou make that good?" asked Thomas. "At best, this beef andale must be at our cost--and the worst may more easily come to pass."
"Hast forgotten the funerals?" said Peter, dryly, with a significantnod towards the door beyond. Then, noting no gleam of comprehension onthe faces of the others, he strode to this door, and threw it open.Within, in the half light, they could see through the narrow archwaythe dim outlines of rich banners standing piled against the walls, andcandles heaped on chests of vestments, and velvet palls.
"How make it good?" cried the worldly Peter. "Where we have put penceinto that room we shall draw forth rose-nobles. Know you not the King'scharge to his fighting men, 'Kill the lords, but spare the commons!' Bysundown of the morrow one may walk among dead knights round about likesheeps' carcasses on a murrain'd moor. The Gastons, if there the Queenholdeth her place till she be met, will turn to marshes with gentleblood. And where shall they be buried, but here, within the holyAbbey's walls? Then see what comes: item, for tolling the death-bells;item, for streaking-board and face-cloth; item, for so many sin-eaters,to be of our own servitors; item, for so much waste of funeral torches;item, for funeral sermons; item, for the hiring of palls; item, forhiring of garlands of wax and gum to hang over the graves; item, formasses and candles before the rood at month's mind; item----"
"Peace, greedy Peter!" broke in the artist Thomas; "wert thou bred fora gravedigger? His Lordship mislikes this funeral zeal of thine. Whenthy grumbling for that the great Earl came not here from Barnet for hisburial reached the Abbot's ears, he spoke wrothfully concerning it."
"So would he not, when I had shown him the charges in my book for thatsame," retorted Peter. "For how lives an Abbey save by the death ofgenerous and holy men and women? And was it not a foul thing that thegreat Earl--lord of this manor, patron of this Abbey--should not haveprofitably laid his bones here, where now for four hundred years lieall the lords of Tewkesbury, Fitz-Hamons, Clares, De Spensers,Beauchamps--but should be filched away to Berkshire to enrich thoseAustin friars instead? Thus is religion scandalized, Sir Scrivener!"
Thomas turned away at this, mistrusting his temper in further argument;and Hugh would gladly have followed him out of the room, but that Peterbent his steps toward the storage chamber beyond, where lay hiddenthose wretched morris trappings. Prudence counselled the lad to depart,and let discovery take care of itself; but anxiety held him back, andhe went in at the heels of the Sacristan.
Old Peter sent a speculative eye shrewdly over the contents of theroom, making a rough enumeration as he progressed, and offeringcomments aloud from time to time half to himself.
"Full seven dozen small candles," he muttered, "but scarce a score oftorches. How should we be shamed if they brought us a great lord likeSomerset! The moulds shall be filled overnight." Then he turned up thecorner of a purple velvet pall, noting its frayed edge and tarnishedgilt braid. "Time was," he grumbled, "when for this eight crowns wasgladly paid in hire; alack, but two months since Dame Willowby criedout against me when I asked a paltry five, and buried her good manunder that fustian with the linen edge instead. Ah, the impious timeswe are fallen upon! Yet, if so be the press to get buried is greatenough, and they
carry the lights well up in air, a lord might becontent with it at ten crowns." Again he mused over the waxen wreathsheaped on the floor.
"There are half as many more on the rood screen that may come down, ifit be deftly done, and go into hire again for better men. Thetownspeople will be too stirred with battle talk to miss them."
Suddenly he turned to Hugh, and raised his voice. "The Sub-Prior willnot hearken to me. What we are richest in is banners--here, against thewall, are a dozen of the bravest in all Gloucester. Yet in what do theyserve!--naught save those trivial processions of Rogation Week, whereall is outlay and nothing income. If he did but drop the hint, thefashion would rise to hire them for funerals; yet when I urged thisupon him he laughed me to scorn! I tell thee, boy, there is no truepiety left in mankind!"
Hugh had listened with but dull ears, his mind wavering betweenthoughts of what was going forward outside, and fears lest Peter shouldpush his inquiries within the chamber too far. Here he said:--
"Good brother, if I do help thee to-night with the moulds--and laterwith what else is needful--wilt thou go with me now forth to the streetand view these strange new things? I have never yet seen an army,harnessed for fighting, close at hand. And if thou art with me, Thomaswill not be vexed."
So the twain--the old monk full as eager as the lad to rub shoulderswith men-at-arms--made their way through the corridors and cloisterwalks to the great western gate of the Abbey. They met no one eitherwithin the buildings or in these cool, open-air paths: the monks wereat their prayers in the church, perhaps, or in the garden burying theAbbey's treasures.
But when the gate was reached--"Angels save us!" gasped good Peter; "ifour walls win soundly through this next forty hours, commoners shall beburied with candles till Ascension Day for threepence. I vow it to OurLady!"
Well might such as loved the Abbey feel their hearts sink at the sight!Upon the green before the gate, which sloped smoothly for an arrow'sflight down to the mill pit on the Avon, swaggered or lounged atleisure full five hundred base-born archers and billmen, mired to theknees, unwashed and foul of aspect, with rusty chain coats or torn andblackened leathern jackets. Some wore upon their heads battered ironsallets; others had only hoods pulled forward to their brows, or evenlying back upon their shoulders, but over each face hung tangled massesof thick hair, and on the cleanest chin sprouted a fortnight's beard.
These unkempt ruffians were for the most part swart of visage, as Devonand Cornishmen should be. They waited now idly upon the return of theirlords from the great church in front. While their betters within prayedto the saints in heaven against the morrow's carnage, these fellowssauntered in groups on the green sward, or played at dice upon a cloakspread flat on earth, or wrestled in rough jest to further amaze thegaping natives. Many were already in their cups, yet still the servantsof the Abbey were to be seen, in the waning sunlight, on the hambeyond, broaching new casks of ale. Ribald quips and drunken laughterfilled the air. In the distance, close upon the entrance to the churchitself, two soldiers had thrown a farmer to the ground, and one wasstripping off his doublet while the other kicked him as he lay. Fromthe direction of the mill there rose the scream of a woman--and no oneheeded it.
The Sacristan and the boy cowered for a time in the shadow of thegateway, looking out with fearful eyes upon this unwonted scene. Fromtheir cover, they watched until the great ones began coming out fromtheir prayers, and the idling men-at-arms were hurriedly gathered, eachafter his livery, to attend them. These billmen bore upon their breaststhe cognizances of their masters, but so worn and defaced were many ofthese that all Hugh's heraldic lore could not cope with them. Thus theycould but guess who this or that proud knight might be, as he passedwith gilded armor rattling in every joint, and the squalid knot ofsoldiers tramping at his heels.
"But this--this is surely the three _torteaux_ of the Courtenays," hewhispered, nudging Peter. "And he who carries his casquetel in hand,with fair curls and head bent in thought--that would be John, the newEarl of Devon."
The two looked upon this fine, strong, goodly young nobleman, and readin the three crimson circles wrought upon the jerkins of his retainersa tale of stately long descent, of cousinship with kings, of crusades,tournaments, and centuries of gallant warfare--familiar and stirringthen to every schooled mind in England.
"Ay--I mind him now," said Peter, peering eagerly forth. "I saw hisbrother, the Earl Thomas, led to the block at York, after Towtonfield--'tis nine years sine. There was a witch who then foretold thatthose three ripe-red roundels of the Courtenays were blood spots fromthree brothers' hearts, and all should die under the axe."
A stranger's voice, close behind them, took up their talk.
"My father saw the second brother, Earl Henry, beheaded at Salisburyfour years later--and men called then to mind this same bloodyprophecy--to the end that the Lord John fled the realm. Look where hewalks, with bowed head and face o'er-cast--a fateful man! Belike theaxe's edge is whetted for him, even now."
He who spoke thus, with a shivering sigh to close his speech, was youngand of slight form--clad from sole to crown in plain and dulledplate-harness. His uplifted visor framed a face of small features andsoft lines, with saddened eyes. He had stepped aside into the gatewayunnoted by the two, and stood now at the Sacristan's elbow, gazingforth as gloomily as ever affrighted monk might do.
Peter glanced him briefly over, and sniffed disdain.
"I know you not, young sir," he said, with curtness, "and offer nooffence. But I have seen stout fighting in my time--and were you kin ofmine, into to-morrow's battle you should not stir, with witches' babblesickening your thoughts, and dead men's bones in your eyes. Heartenyourself, I conjure you!"
That monk should bear himself thus masterfully toward warrior startledHugh for the moment, until he recalled that old Peter had on occasionbrowbeaten even the Sub-Prior himself, and reflected that this Knightseemed very young.
The stranger made no reply, but kept his anxious gaze fastened upon thescene without. Then, with a sudden little shudder which rattled swiftlylike an echo through his armor, he lifted his head upright, and tossedthe end of his cloak across his shoulder.
"The streets are strange to me," he said proudly. "If you are sominded, walk with me upon them. No harm shall befall you!"
His beckoning hand summoned from the outer shadows two tall oldmen-at-arms, in bull's-hide jackets and bearing pikes.
"Fare ye close upon our heels, Wilkin and Ashman," the Knightcommanded. The monk and scrivener-lad took instant counsel of glances,and without a word walked beside their new companion--forth from thecalm haven of Mother Church into the rude turbulence of murderous civilwar.
Pressing tight together, the five made their way across the green andinto Church Street. To their left, above the black roofs of the Abbeymills, the sunset sky was glowing with laced bars of blood and sulphur,overhung by a pall of lead. Before them, the narrow street lay darkbeneath the shadows of projecting roofs and swollen galleries.
Here, as in the other streets which they traversed, the houses were forthe most part closed and lightless. Even in the market-place, where theTolzey cross glimmered faintly in the waning daylight like an altar insome deserted unroofed church, the citizens gave no sign of life intheir homes; movement enough was on foot all about them, but it wasthat of strangers. Knots of soldiers, some already with flamingtorches, strode aimlessly up and down before the taverns and in thealleys, roaring forth camp songs, kicking at suspected doors, orbrawling with such trembling inhabitants as they had unearthed. Amidstit all the Knight passed unquestioned, with head haughtily erect.
If the Knight had led the walk townwards with set purpose, it did notappear; for presently he turned, and the five pushed back again throughthe jostling, clamorous crowd to the open Abbey green. At the greatgate he paused, and motioned the two retainers to stand aside. Still hehesitated, tapping the sward impatiently with his mailed foot, his gazeastray among the clouds. At last he spoke, turning abruptly to theboy:--
"Cans
t write me a letter, to-night?"
"How wist ye he is a penman?" asked Peter, in amazed suspicion.
"What other wears ink upon his fingers? Nay--not you, good monk!--Iasked the lad."
"The scriptorium is long since shut," Hugh began; "and----"
"Mayhap this golden key will fit the lock," the Knight interposed,drawing a coin from the purse at his side. "The letter is a thing oflife or death."
"It may be contrived," broke in good Peter, taking the money withoutceremony. "When a life hangs on a few paltry scratches of the pen,should we be Christians to withhold them?"
The Sacristan led the way now by a postern door into a basement room,and lighted two candles by the embers on the hearth.
"Run you," he said to Hugh, "and bring hither what is needful."
When the boy returned, and placed paper, inkhorn, and wax upon thetable, and, pen in teeth, looked inquiry upward, the Knights witsseemed wandering once again. He paced to and fro about the chamber,halting a dozen times to utter words which would not come, and then,with a head-shake, taking up his march upon the stones. Finally, thushe ordered the letter written, though not without many pauses, anderasures in plenty:--
From a true friend: Much there is to tell you; how that the Lady Katherine's father is dead, and herself for some time sore beset and menaced by the enemy you wot of, but now in safety. Worse betides you if this evil man works his will. This se'nnight four villeins took horse from Okehampton with intent to slay you and win reward from him; so that he gains your lands and hers, and gets her to wife to boot. These foul knaves wear the Courtenay livery, and, arrived to-day in your camp, mix with the Lord John's train; though of this he is innocent. So watch and ware, as herself and I will pray.
"There needs no signature," the Knight replied, when at the finish Hughlooked up. "Seal it with this ring," and took from his baslard-hilt alittle jewelled hoop, with the signet of three fishes, upright. Then,when the wax securely held the silk, he bade him superscribe the name"Sir Hereward Thayer, Knt."
The Knight took the packet--saying, briefly: "I am in much beholden toyou both, and to all black monks through you, and shall forget nor onenor other," and went his way through the postern into the darkness,leaving the ring behind.
The Deserter, and Other Stories: A Book of Two Wars Page 18