It is tempting, but it is unwise, for a man whose ankle is swelling inside his boot to try a short cut. Before long Aske knew that it was so, but because he was obstinate he would not turn back. When he came to the road running from Grinton up the Dale below Harkerside he was going very halt. He had thought to find someone on horseback who would take him up behind, but, as luck would have it, only those on foot were going his way, and these were children and women; those on horseback going towards Keld he would not ask to turn for him.
So he went slowly, and in pain, and had made up his mind to go in to the Manor, though the bailiff and a few servants would be the only people there, when Gib Dawe, coming briskly up from behind, drew level, stopped and asked what was to do.
Aske told him what had happened, and Gib, in a stiff, harsh way, offered his help. Aske hesitated, then accepted; it had long been in his mind to speak a word to the Marrick Priest, and perhaps this was as good an opportunity as another; he did not reckon that the pain he was in would make it difficult to keep his temper. They went on together then, but with some embarrassment, and, for Aske, a good deal of discomfort, since Gib was by so much the taller that to lean on his shoulder was difficult, and besides that Gib did little to moderate his pace in order to make it easy for a limping man.
So it was abruptly that Aske opened his matter.
‘Sir Gilbert, from all I can hear you are one of those who teach heresy to the simple poor folk.’
‘Sir,’ said Gib, very harsh, ‘that you call heresy I call the true word of God.’
‘That I call heresy General Councils of the Church have called heresy.’
‘As what?’
Aske bit his lip as his foot turned on a stone. ‘I’ll not dispute it with you,’ he said shortly. ‘You know well enough what things are contrary to that which the Church has always taught.’
‘Ha!’ cried Gib, triumphantly. ‘But now it is all to be reformed. The King and the Vicar-General—’
Aske cried, ‘Out on Thomas Cromwell! Is he to make and unmake what men should believe?’
‘Yea. He and the King. Because that is the work to which God hath sent them. You have seen what is done already – superstitious practices forbidden, the Pope’s authority broken; carnal ill-living Monks and Nuns driven like conies out from their buries—’
Aske stopped and took his arm from Gib’s shoulder and faced him on the road.
‘I’ll hear no more of this—’ he began, but Gib did not wait for him to finish.
‘Aye, but you shall hear more of it. The work’s only now begun. But the field shall be reaped clean, and it is the King that has laid his hand to the sickle.’
He gave a sort of laugh, but cut it short at the sound of Aske’s voice when he spoke.
‘Sir Priest,’ said he, ‘the King will do what he will. But here in the North the time for these things is not yet, and I swear to you I shall some way let you from this preaching. I’ll be loath to bring a man into trouble, but you shall not so deceive the simple commons. I shall see to it.’
‘Against the King’s will?’ Gib said, and was angrier almost with himself than with the other, because his own voice lacked that ring of sureness that Mr. Aske’s had.
‘I’ve told you. I shall see to it.’
They measured each other, eye to eye, then Gib’s dropped; he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. But when he had gone a step or two he came back.
‘Lean on my shoulder,’ he said.
‘I shall make shift well enough without.’
So when Gib went on again alone each of them was much out of temper – Gib because he had not been able to out-face Master Aske, but Aske for a deeper and more grievous reason. What Gib had said of the King, and of the work yet to be done, was only too true. And though he himself should be able to have one preacher silenced. what would that avail? As he limped on downhill towards the mill and the yew trees in the churchyard he contemplated a prospect of such total ruin that he could hardly yet believe it possible. Then he remembered a story that was going about, of a simple fellow who had come to the churchyard of a village, nearby a Monastery to which the King’s Commissioners were come to suppress it. This fellow had a spade and mattock on his shoulder and when he was asked why, ‘Marry,’ quod he, ‘because I am here to bury Jesus Christ.’ ‘Fie,’ quod they, ‘on such a word!’ ‘Marry!’ quod he, ‘but it is sure he must be dead. Whoever heard of a man’s goods being appraised while he was still alive.’
The Church clock struck, leisurely and sweet, the hour of seven. Aske, abreast of the gate, stopped, hesitated, and turned in. ‘Indeed,’ he thought, ‘I can’t go further.’ There was a bench under the south wall where folks sat who came to Mass on Sundays from far up the Dale, bringing their bread and cheese, pork and beer, to eat and drink in the churchyard. He got that far and plumped down on it, and then, taking out his knife, began to slit away the boot from his leg. It took long, for the pain increased as he jagged at the leather, so that he must go gingerly. A small child came and stood close to watch, but Aske had no attention for him; his hands were shaking now and there was a darkness in his eye, and roaring, as if the Swale were in flood, in his ears. He heard someone say, ‘You’ve dropped the knife,’ and he muttered crossly, ‘I know that,’ not connecting the voice with the child, because it seemed to come from so far away; but though he groped for the knife he could not lay his hand on it.
Then he knew that someone was lifting his foot from the ground. There was a wrench that spun blackness and noise together into one, and then relief; the roaring died to no more than a rustling, and the blackness to flying spots that cleared and let in the brightness of the day. He saw that Malle, the Priory serving wench, had his knife in her hand; she had got his boot off and was slitting away the lacing of the gusset of his hosen at the ankle. He wiped his forehead clumsily with the back of his hand, and said, ‘That’s better. Thank you,’ smiling at her, and she smiled back with her dull, indeterminate smile.
He did not speak to her again till she had bound up his ankle with a strip of linen borrowed from the Miller’s wife, who would have come to attend the gentleman, she told Malle, who told Aske, but that she was baking, and her husband should have the cob saddled for him so that he might ride at his ease back to the Manor. Malle had soaked the rag in well-water, deliciously chill, and Aske sat, enjoying with a vacant mind mere physical sensations, the warmth of the sun on his hands and face, ease after pain, and the simple but primary pleasure of light.
While Malle stooped over his foot he looked about the churchyard where the long, low hummocks of the graves made soft shadows in the grass. There were three yew-trees along the wall, two to one side of the gate, one to the other. The rumble and splash of the millwheel filled the air with comfortable sound, and now and again came voices, speaking or singing, from the village beyond the wall. Up the Dale there was the great heather-red flank of Harkerside; looking down, past the roofs of Grinton, he could see the steep woods behind Marrick Priory. It was always a strange thing for him, a fenland man, to find himself so deep among the hills, which, like great silent beasts, lay to this side and that of the quick-flowing river. Sometimes he felt stifled by the depth of the Dale, but to-day the fells, steeped in sunshine, stood up as if to shelter this quiet place.
‘Montes in circuitu ejus, et Dominus in circuitu populi sui; ex hoc nunc usque in saeculum.’
The well-known words slipped into his mind so aptly that it was as if someone had heard and answered the thought in his mind, and answering had led him out into a great peace.
As the hills about Jerusalem, and as the hills about the Dale, even so God stood round about His people.
Malle sat back on her heels. ‘There, Master,’ said she, ‘I’ll help you stand and bring you to the gate.’
‘No. No. Wait a minute.’
He had never, except that first time when Jack had spoken of them, taken much account of what he had heard of her dreams, or visions, or whatever they were, having heard
at the same time that she was but a crazy creature, and knowing how poor folk will make a marvel out of nothing. It was, he had thought, a gold chain to a duck’s egg that whatever she had seen was but part of her madness. But now, having talked with her, he knew that though she might be simple she was certainly not crazed; and if simple might not God have spoken to her simplicity?
Suddenly, with relief, he felt his own littleness, as he had felt a few moments ago the greatness of that which stood round about to shelter.
He said aloud – but it was to himself that he spoke – ‘It is sure that God must prevail.’ And he leaned forward, laying a hand on her shoulder.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘has there been word given to you, or a sign shown, that God will come to our help?’
Malle said:
‘There was a great wind of light blowing, and sore pain.’
She lifted her head, so that now he could see her face.
He got up hurriedly from the bench; she got up too and stood; it was he who went down on his knees and knelt in front of her on the grass.
After a moment he uncovered his eyes, and drawing a deep breath let it out with, ‘Deo gratias! Then it’s true. You saw Him. Tell me.’
When she said nothing he instead began to tell her, but as if she knew all about it already, how he needed – ‘how we all need, we that fear – that think—’ He broke off. ‘I have needed the comfort of that blessed sight which was shown you.’
But when she still was silent he cried, as if in anger, ‘Him that the Jews crucified, you saw ride in triumph. It was in triumph?’ He caught at her gown and shook it.
But Malle made no answer. He joined his two hands together and bit at his knuckles, and in a minute got to his feet and without looking at her went heavily towards the gate of the churchyard. She had tried to help him, but he put her by, though gently, so she stood and watched him limp away. He checked once and half turned, for he had remembered that he had given her nothing for her service to him, but he knew that now he could not give her money, so he went on, and found a boy in a red coat and ragged hosen standing looking in at the gate, the bridle of the miller’s white pony over his arm, and his eyes like two round O’s. When Aske had got into the saddle and was riding off he looked back, and saw the boy speak to a man passing by with a sack of meal on his shoulder. The man dumped the meal, and together they stood staring into the churchyard. When Aske turned again there was a little crowd there, all looking towards the place where he had knelt before the Priory wench, Malle.
August 31
Gib Dawe was wakened just before daylight by a knocking on the door. When he opened he found Perkin a’ Court standing outside with a lantern; Perkin was an old man who lived in a hut up Cogden Beck in a very lonely place. He said that his wife was dying and asked Gib to come.
So Gib dressed, and came down again. As he went out of the door the old goodwife, his mother, called sharply, ‘Gib! Gib!’ and he answered her that he was going out. He heard her call again as he shut the door.
The sun was up, but hidden from the Dale in a white, weeping mist when he came back. He took a short cut along the side of one of the hay closes where the aftermath stood pretty tall, and crossed the Swale below the stepping-stones, then up past the Nuns’ fish-ponds with his wet gown slapping uncomfortably against the calves of his legs. He intended to go straight home, break his fast, and only later to return the oil and the Pyx to Church. Let any that saw him disapprove if they chose. Such things to him were superstition, and often his conscience pricked him that for the sake of quiet, and lest the Prioress should deprive him of his benefice, he ever performed such rites.
When he came to the door of the parsonage it was open. He shouted for Wat, but there was no answer. He called to his mother, but got no answer from her either.
When he went in he found her body, wizened, twisted, shrunk, sprawled half out of bed, but she was not in her body any longer. Wat did not come back till supper-time, having an animal’s dislike of death.
September 2
Sir John Bulmer and Robert Aske were playing chess in the window of the summer parlour. It was evening and the sharp fierce gold of sunset, pouring through the trees, turned all the leaves to a burning green, while the flies shone gold as they jigged in the light. Through the open casement came the voices of Dame Nan and others of the Ladies who sat together under the apple trees: further off some of the village children were playing a singing game that went to a sweet plaintive tune. Aske sat astride of the bench, very still; when it was not his turn to play he kept his hands on his knees; when he should make a move he bent his head a little lower, and sometimes, if the game went badly, sucked in his cheeks; then he lifted one hand from his knee, made his move, and sat still again. Sir John, on the other hand, was both indecisive and fidgety; he would keep his fingers on a piece, push it this way, set it back, and begin all over again with another; when it was not his turn to play he drummed tunes on the edge of the board. Yet for all that he was a wily opponent, and it was long before Aske murmured softly, ‘Ah!’ and, having moved a rook, ‘Check.’ Ten minutes later he said, ‘Mate,’ and raised his arms to stretch them over his head; it was like seeing a bent bow slacked to see the intent look pass from his face.
‘You are too good for me,’ said Sir John.
Aske smiled, ‘Nay – nay,’ but then he turned his head to the window; just outside, Sir Rafe and one of the older guests walked up and down along the terrace. They spoke of great matters, and, Aske thought, rashly, making no bones but that they were much discontented with the King’s doings. But then, Aske remembered, it was not in the North Country as it was in London, that a man must guard his tongue every minute. He turned back to the room, for Sir John was speaking.
‘Anan?’ said he.
‘Have you ever thought of marrying?’
‘Marrying?’ Aske was vague.
‘They say,’ and Sir John stared at him as if to read it written upon him, ‘they say you have a Manor in the South for which you pay your brother eight pounds a year.’
‘So I have.’
‘For life?’
Aske said – ‘Yes, for life.’
‘And land in Yorkshire – worth twenty pounds a year, they say.’
‘They say too much. But why all this?’
‘If you thought to marry – Do you think?’
‘I might.’
‘What would you say to a dower of two hundred marks?’
Aske picked up one of the pieces from the board, and began to rub his finger over it. He had not thought of marriage lately, but the idea was not unpleasant. It had a good settled sound in these unsettled times. ‘Maid or widow?’ he asked.
‘Maid,’ Sir John said.
‘And the dower in money or land?’
‘Money.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Meg’s sister.’
‘Little July? Surely she’s not of an age to be married?’
Sir John said she was fifteen or sixteen at the least. ‘It’s only that she’s so lean and small,’ he said.
Aske looked down at the chess piece in his hand. Such a thing he had never thought of, yet after all why not? He’d promised himself to be good friend to her, and in this manner he would be. He began to smile, partly with amusement, because still the notion seemed comical, but partly also for gentleness.
Sir Rafe and the old man he walked with had come back and were standing just outside the window. The older man was speaking.
‘Throgmorton himself told me so. They had spoken in the King’s presence how His Grace was troubled in his conscience for his marriage to his brother’s wife. And Throgmorton said he feared that if His Grace married Queen Anne his conscience would be more troubled at the length, “For that it is thought,” said he, speaking to the King’s Grace himself, “that ye have meddled with both the mother and the sister of her.” To the which His Grace replied, “Never with the mother.” From which it is manifest that His Grace had first the one siste
r and then the other.’
Sir Rafe gave a snort.
‘And that if the first marriage was incest, so was the second.’
‘First the one sister, and then the other...’ Aske felt his face reddening. He set down the chess piece upon the board and said to Sir John, ‘No.’ But then, realizing that he could not let the blank flat negative stand alone, he added, ‘She is too young for me.’
Sir John got up. He stooped over Aske, thrusting his face close. He was a slow man, but he had been on the watch, and he had missed nothing.
‘Is that all your reason?’ he said, and Aske knew that he was dangerous, and why. As they faced each other eye to eye Aske had time to marvel that suspicion should have lain working in Sir John’s mind for so long. But he must think of an answer that would put an end to the business, and yet not be the truth.
He said, with a hard look, ‘No. If you will have it, I’ll not marry with a bastard,’ and he thought, ‘How long will it take to work through his thick skull that that is what he has done? And will he then strike me?’ He saw in his mind the two of them scrapping together on the floor like a couple of pages. Or would Sir John take his dagger out?
None of that happened. Relief, rather than anger, and some perplexity, perturbed the other’s face.
He said vaguely, ‘Well. Well. If you will not...’ and went away, leaving Aske to sit alone with the disordered chessboard, and to feel reviving within him a deep disgust and anger against himself. It was not that he wished with any vehemence to marry poor little Julian Savage, even now when he knew it impossible, but it went clean against all the grain of his pride that he should be let from marrying her for such a reason.
*
July was stooping and gathering among the raspberry canes in the dusk. She and several of the servants had been at it all evening since supper, because to-morrow, guests or no guests, Dame Nan was determined to preserve the fruit. July was alone now, the servants having gone in; she intended to fill her basket and then follow them. It was while she was working down the last of the rows that Meg Bulmer came by with Bet. July saw them, but took care that they did not see her. She bent lower and kept very still as they passed by, and as they passed she heard Meg tell Bet that Sir John was speaking to Master Aske of marriage with ‘that ill-favoured sister of mine’, and then Meg laughed and said something else that July did not catch.
The Man On a Donkey Page 50