Part 14

“Who showed you the way here, squire?” asked the knight.

“Your little mule, monseigneur,” said he. “I found it at the foot of the stairs, when I supped with you at the castle. It was there alone, and seemingly lost, so I asked it what it was waiting for, and it replied that it was waiting for its saddle-cloth and you. ‘To go where?’ I asked. ‘Where we usually go,’ replied the mule. ‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘that your master will not leave the house to-night, for he is going to bed, so take me where you usually go, I beg.’ It was content, so I mounted on it, and it brought me here, for which I give it thanks.”

“God reward the little beast that betrayed me,” said the good knight.

“Ah, you have fully deserved it, monseigneur,” said the damsel, when at last she was able to speak. “I know well that you have deceived me, but I wish you to know that it is not much to your honour. There was no need, if you would not come yourself, to send some one else surreptitiously. It was an evil day for me when first I saw you.”

“Morbleu! I never sent him,” he said; “but since he is here I will not drive him away. Besides there is enough for the two of us; is there not my friend?”

“Oh, yes, monseigneur, plenty of spoil to divide. Let us celebrate the arrangement by a drink.”

He went to the side-board and filled a large cup with wine, and said, “I drink to you, friend.”

“And I pledge you, friend,” said the other, and poured out another cup for the damsel, who refused to drink, but at last, unwillingly, kissed the cup.

“Well, friend,” said the knight, “I will leave you here. Ruffle her well; it is your turn to-day and will be mine to morrow, please God, and I hope you will be as obliging to me, if ever you find me here, as I am to you now.”

“By Our Lady, friend, doubt not but I shall be.”

Then the knight went away and left the squire, who did as well as he could on the first night. And he told the damsel the whole truth of his adventure, at which she was somewhat relieved to find that he had not been sent.

Thus was the fair damsel deceived by the mule, and obliged to obey the knight and the squire, each in his turn--an arrangement to which she finally became accustomed. The knight and squire grew more attached to each other than before this adventure; their affection increased, and no evil counsels engendered discord and hate between them.

*****

STORY THE THIRTY-SECOND -- THE WOMEN WHO PAID TITHE. [32]

By Monseigneur De Villiers.

_Of the Cordeliers of Ostelleria in Catalonia, who took tithe from the women of the town, and how it was known, and the punishment the lord of that place and his subjects inflicted on the monks, as you shall learn hereafter._

In order that I may not be excluded from the number of fortunate and meritorious writers who have worked to increase the number of stories in this book, I will briefly relate a new story, which will serve as a substitute for the tale previously required of me.

It is a well-known fact that in the town of Hostelleria, in Catalonia, (*) there arrived some minor friars of the order of Observance, (**) who had been driven out of the kingdom of Spain.

(*) Hostalrich, a town of Catalonia, some 28 miles from Girona.

(**) One of the principal branches of the order of Franciscans.

They managed to worm themselves into the good graces of the Lord of that town, who was an old man, so that he built for them a fair church and a large convent, and maintained and supported them all his life as best he could. And after him came his eldest son, who did quite as much for them as his worthy father had done.

In fact they prospered so, that, in a few years they had everything that a convent of mendicant friars could desire. Nor were they idle during all the time they were acquiring these riches; they preached both in the town and in the neighbouring villages, and had such influence over the people that there was not a good christian who did not confess to them, they had such great renown for pointing out faults to sinners.

But of all who praised them and held them in esteem, the women were foremost, such saints did they deem them on account of their charity and devotion.

Now listen to the wickedness, deception, and horrible treason which these false hypocrites practised on the men and women who every day gave them so many good gifts. They made it known to all the women in the town that they were to give to God a tenth of all their goods.

“You render to your Lord such and such a thing; to your parish and priest such and such a thing; and to us you must render and deliver the tithe of the number of times that you have carnal connection with your husband. We will take no other tithe from you, for, as you know, we carry no money--for the temporal and transitory things of this world are nothing to us. We ask and demand only spiritual goods. The tithes which we ask and which you owe us are not temporal goods; as the Holy Sacrament, which you receive, is a divine and holy thing, so no one may receive the tithe but us, who are monks of the order of the Observance.”

The poor simple women, who believed the good friars were more like angels than terrestrial beings, did not refuse to pay the tithe. There was not one who did not pay in her turn, from the highest to the lowest, even the wife of the Lord was not excused.

Thus were all the women of the town parcelled out amongst these rascally monks, and there was not a monk who did not have fifteen or sixteen women to pay tithes to him, and God knows what other presents they had from the women, and all under cover of devotion.

This state of affairs lasted long without its ever coming to the knowledge of those who were most concerned in the payment of the new tithe; but at last it was discovered in the following manner.

A young man who was newly married, was invited to supper at the house of one of his relations--he and his wife--and as they were returning home, and passing the church of the above-mentioned good Cordeliers, suddenly the bell rang out the _Ave Maria_, and the young man bowed to the ground to say his prayers.

His wife said, “I would willingly enter this church.”

“What would you do in there at this hour?” asked her husband. “You can easily come again when it is daylight; to-morrow, or some other time.”

“I beg of you,” she said, “to let me go: I will soon return.”

“By Our Lady!” said he, “you shall not go in now.”

“By my oath!” she replied, “it is compulsory. I must go in, but I will not stay. If you are in a hurry to get home, go on, and I will follow you directly.”

“Get on! get forward!” he said, “you have nothing to do here. If you want to say a _Pater noster_, or an _Ave Maria_, there is plenty of room at home, and it is quite as good to say it there as in this monastery, which is now as dark as pitch.”

“Marry!” said she, “you may say what you like, but by my oath, it is necessary that I should enter here for a little while.”

“Why?” said he. “Do you want to sleep with any of the brothers.”

She imagined that her husband knew that she paid the tithe, and replied;

“No, I do not want to sleep with him; I only want to pay.”

“Pay what?” said he.

“You know very well,” she answered; “Why do you ask?”

“What do I know well?” he asked, “I never meddle with your debts.”

“At least,” she said, “you know very well that I must pay the tithe.”

“What tithe?”

“Marry!” she replied. “It always has to be paid;--the tithe for our nights together. You are lucky--I have to pay for us both.”

“And to whom do you pay?” he asked.

“To brother Eustace,” she replied. “You go on home, and let me go in and discharge my debt. It is a great sin not to pay, and I am never at ease in my mind when I owe him anything.”

“It is too late to-night,” said he, “he has gone to bed an hour ago.”

“By my oath,” said she, “I have been this year later than this. If one wants to pay one can go in at any hour.”

“Come along! come along!” he said. “One night makes no such great matter.”

So they returned home; both husband and wife vexed and displeased--the wife because she was not allowed to pay her tithe, and the husband because he had learned how he had been deceived, and was filled with anger and thoughts of vengeance, rendered doubly bitter by the fact that he did not dare to show his anger.

A little later they went to bed together, and the husband, who was cunning enough, questioned his wife indirectly, and asked if the other women of the town paid tithes as she did?

“By my faith they do,” she replied. “What privilege should they have more than me? There are sixteen to twenty of us who pay brother Eustace. Ah, he is so devout. And he has so much patience. Brother Bartholomew has as many or more, and amongst others my lady (*) is of the number. Brother Jacques also has many; Brother Anthony also--there is not one of them who has not a number.”

(*) The wife of the Seigneur.

“St. John!” said the husband, “they do not do their work by halves. Now I understand well that they are more holy than I thought them; and truly I will invite them all to my house, one after the other, to feast them and hear their good words. And since Brother Eustace receives your tithes, he shall be the first. See that we have a good dinner to-morrow, and I will bring him.”

“Most willingly,” she replied, “for then at all events I shall not have to go to his chamber to pay him; he can receive it when he comes here.”

“Well said,” he replied; “give it him here;” but as you may imagine he was on his guard, and instead of sleeping all night, thought over at his leisure the plan he intended to carry out on the morrow.

The dinner arrived, and Brother Eustace, who did not know his host’s intentions stuffed a good meal under his hood. And when he had well eaten, he rolled his eyes on his hostess, and did not spare to press her foot under the table--all of which the host saw, though he pretended not to, however much to his prejudice it was.

After the meal was over and grace was said, he called Brother Eustace and told him that he wanted to show him an image of Our Lady that he had in his chamber, and the monk replied that he would willingly come.

They both entered the chamber, and the host closed the door so that he could not leave, and then laying hold of a big axe, said to the Cordelier.

“By God’s death, father! you shall never go out of this room--unless it be feet foremost--if you do not confess the truth.”

“Alas, my host, I beg for mercy. What is it you, would ask of me?”

“I ask,” said he, “the tithe of the tithe you have received from my wife.”

When the Cordelier heard the word tithes, he began to think that he was in a fix, and did not know what to reply except to beg for mercy, and to excuse himself as well as he could.

“Now tell me,” said the husband, “what tithe it is that you take from my wife and the others?”

The poor Cordelier was so frightened that he could not speak, and answered never a word.

“Tell me all about it,” said the young man, “and I swear to you I will let you go and do you no harm;--but if you do not confess I will kill you stone dead.”

When the other felt convinced that he had better confess his sin and that of his companions and escape, than conceal the facts and be in danger of losing his life, he said;

“My host, I beg for mercy, and I will tell you the truth. It is true that my companions and I have made all the women of this town believe that they owe us tithes for all the times their husbands sleep with them. They believed us, and they all pay--young and old--when once they are married. There is not one that is excused--my lady even pays like the others--her two nieces also--and in general there is no one that is exempt.”

“Marry!” said the other, “since my lord and other great folks pay it, I ought not to be dissatisfied, however much I may dislike it. Well! you may go, worthy father, on this condition--that you do not attempt to collect the tithe that my wife owes you.”

The other was never so joyous as when he found himself outside the house, and said to himself that he would never ask for anything of the kind again, nor did he, as you will hear.

When the host of the Cordelier was informed by his wife of this new tithe, he went to his Lord and told him all about the tax and how it concerned him. You may imagine that he was much astonished, and said;

“Ah, cursed wretches that they are! Cursed be the hour that ever my father--whom may God pardon--received them! And now they take our spoils and dishonour us, and ere long they may do worse. What is to be done?”

“By my faith, Monseigneur” said the other, “if it please you and seem good to you, you should assemble all your subjects in this town, for the matter touches them as much as you. Inform them of this affair, and consult with them what remedy can be devised before it is too late.”

Monseigneur approved, and ordered all his married subjects to come to him, and in the great hall of his castle, he showed them at full length why he had called them together.

If my lord had been astonished and surprised when he heard the news, so also were all the good people who were there assembled. Some of them said, “We ought to kill them,” others “They should be hanged!” others “Drown them!” Others said they could not believe it was true--the monks were so devout and led such holy lives. One said one thing, another said another.

“I will tell you,” said the Seigneur, “what we will do. We will bring our wives hither, and Master John, or some other, shall preach a little sermon in which he will take care to make allusion to tithes, and ask the women, in the name of all of us, whether they discharge their debts, as we are anxious they should be paid, and we shall hear their reply.”

After some discussion they all agreed to the Seigneur’s proposal. So orders were issued to all the married women of the town, and they all came to the great hall, where their husbands were assembled. My lord even brought my lady, who was quite astonished to see so many persons. An usher of my lord’s commanded silence, and Master John, who was slightly raised above the other people, began the address which follows;

“Mesdames and mesdemoiselles, I am charged by my lord and those of his council to explain briefly the reason why you are called together. It is true that my lord, his council, and all his people who are here met together, desire to make a public examination of their conscience,--the cause being that that they wish (God willing) to make ere long a holy procession in praise of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and His Glorious Mother, and from the present moment to be in such a devout frame of mind that they may the better praise him in their prayers, and that all the works which they do may be most agreeable to God. You know that there have been no wars in our time, and that our neighbours have been terribly afflicted both by pestilence and famine. Whilst others have been cast down, we have nothing to complain of, and we must own that God has preserved us. There is good reason that we should acknowledge that this is not due to our own virtues, but to the great and liberal mercy of our Blessed Redeemer, who cries, calls, and invites us to put up in our parish church, devout prayers, to which we are to add great faith and firm devotion. The holy convent of the Cordeliers in this town has greatly aided, and still aids us in preserving the above-mentioned benefits. Moreover, we wish to know if you women also perform that which you have undertaken, and whether you sufficiently remember the obligation you owe the Church, and therefore it will be advisable that, by way of precaution, I should mention the principal points. Four times a year,--that is to say at the four Natales (*) you must confess to some priest or monk having the power of absolution, and if at each festival you receive your Creator that will be well done, but twice, or at least once a year, you ought to receive the Communion. Bring an offering every Sunday to each Mass; those who are able should freely give tithes to God--as fruit, poultry, lambs, pigs, and other accustomed gifts. You owe also another tithe to the holy monks of the convent of St. Francis, and which we earnestly desire to see paid. It greatly concerns us, and we desire it to be continued, nevertheless there are many of you who have not acted properly in this respect, and who by negligence, or backwardness, have neglected to pay in advance. You know that the good monks cannot come to your houses to seek their tithes;--that would disturb and trouble them too much; it is quite enough if they take the trouble to receive it. It is important that this should be mentioned--it remains to see who have paid, and who still owe.”

(*) The four principal festivals in the life of Christ-- Christmas, Easter, Whitsuntide, and Ascension.

Master John had no sooner finished his discourse, than more than twenty women began to cry at the same time, “I have paid!” “I have paid!” “I owe nothing!” “Nor I,” “Nor I.” A hundred other voices chimed in--generally to say that they owed nothing--and four or six pretty young women were even heard to declare that they had paid well in advance, one four times; one, six; and another, ten.

There were also I know not how many old women who said not a word, and Master John asked them if they had paid their tithe, and they replied that they had made an arrangement with the Cordeliers.

“What!” said he, “you do not pay? You ought to advise and persuade the others to do their duty, and you yourselves are in default!”

“Marry!” said one of them, “I am not to blame. I have been several times to perform my duty, but my confessor would not listen to me: he always says he is too busy.”

“St. John!” said the other old women, “we have compounded with the monks to pay them the tithe we owe them in linen, cloth, cushions, quilts, pillow-cases and such other trifles; and that by their own instructions and desire, for we should prefer to pay like the others.”

“By Our Lady!” said Master John, “there is no harm done; it is quite right.

“I suppose they can go away now; can they not?” said the Seigneur to Master John.

“Yes!” said he, “but let them be sure and not forget to pay the tithe.”

When they had all left the hall, the door was closed, and every man present looked hard at his neighbour.

“Well!” said the Seigneur. “What is to be done? We know for certain what these ribald monks have done to us, by the confession of one of them, and by our wives; we need no further witness.”

After many and various opinions, it was resolved to set the convent on fire, and burn both monks and monastery.

They went to the bottom of the town, and came to the monastery, and took away the _Corpus Domini_ and all the relics and sent them to the parish church. Then without more ado, they set fire to the convent in several places, and did not leave till all was consumed--monks, convent, church, dormitory, and all the other buildings, of which there were plenty. So the poor Cordeliers had to pay very dearly for the new tithe they had levied. Even God could do nothing, but had His house burned down.

*****

STORY THE THIRTY-THIRD -- THE LADY WHO LOST HER HAIR.

By Monseigneur.

_Of a noble lord who was in love with a damsel who cared for another great lord, but tried to keep it secret; and of the agreement made between the two lovers concerning her, as you shall hereafter hear._

A noble knight who lived in the marches of Burgundy, who was wise, valiant, much esteemed, and worthy of the great reputation he had, was so much in the graces of a fair damsel, that he was esteemed as her lover, and obtained from her, at sundry times, all the favours that she could honourably give him. She was also smitten with a great and noble lord, a prudent man, whose name and qualities I pass over, though if I were to recount them there is not one of you who would not recognise the person intended, which I do not wish.

This gentle lord, I say, soon perceived the love affair of the valiant gentleman just named, and asked him if he were not in the good graces of such and such a damsel,--that is to say the lady before mentioned.

He replied that he was not, but the other, who knew the contrary to be case, said that he was sure he was,

“For whatever he might say or do, he should not try to conceal such a circumstance, for if the like or anything more important had occurred to him (the speaker) he would not have concealed it.”

And having nothing else to do, and to pass the time, he found means to make her fall in love with him. In which he succeeded, for in a very short time he was high in her graces and could boast of having obtained her favours without any trouble to win them.

The other did not expect to have a companion, but you must not think that the fair wench did not treat him as well or better than before, which encouraged him in his foolish love. And you must know that the brave wench was not idle, for she entertained the two at once, and would with much regret have lost either, and more especially the last-comer, for he was of better estate and furnished with a bigger lance than her first lover; and she always assigned them different times to come, one after the other, as for instance one to-day and the other to-morrow.

The last-comer knew very well what she was doing, but he pretended not to, and in fact he cared very little, except that he was rather disgusted at the folly of the first-comer, who esteemed too highly a thing of little value.

So he made up his mind that he would warn his rival, which he did. He knew that the days on which the wench had forbidden him to come to her (which displeased him much) were reserved for his friend the first-comer. He kept watch several nights, and saw his rival enter by the same door and at the same hour as he did himself on the other days.

One day he said to him, “You well concealed your amours with such an one. I am rather astonished that you had so little confidence in me, considering what I know to be really the case between you and her. And in order that you may understand that I know all, let me tell you that I saw you enter her house at such and such an hour, and indeed no longer ago than yesterday I had an eye upon you, and from a place where I was, I saw you arrive--you know whether I speak the truth.”

When the first-comer heard this accusation, he did not know what to say, and he was forced to confess what he would have willingly concealed, and which he thought no one knew but himself; and he told the last-comer that he would not conceal the fact that he was in love, but begged him not to make it known.

“And what would you say,” asked the other, “if you found you had a companion?”

“Companion?” said he; “What companion? In a love affair? I never thought of it.”

“By St. John!” said the last-comer, “I ought not to keep you longer in suspense--it is I. And since I see that you are in love with a woman who is not worth it, and if I had not more pity on you than you have on yourself I should leave you in your folly, but I cannot suffer such a wench to deceive you and me so long.”

If any one was astonished at this news it was the first-comer who believed himself firmly established in the good graces of the wench, and that she loved no one but him. He did not know what to say or think, and for a long time could not speak a word. When at last he spoke, he said,

“By Our Lady! they have given me the onion (*) and I never suspected it. I was easily enough deceived. May the devil carry away the wench, just as she is!”

(*) i.e. “they have made a fool of me.”

“She has fooled the two of us,” said the last-comer;

“at least she has begun well,--but we must even fool her.”

“Do so I beg,” said the first. “St. Anthony’s fire burn me if ever I see the jade again.”