Part 4

There was no one who knew Thomas very well, for he came seldom to the village except on Court days or Market, and he was by nature a silent man. He was tall above usual and stoutly made, with heavy shoulders, hands large as hoofs, and legged like a stork. He walked and moved like an ox, slowly and clumsily. But he was powerful of his body, and I have seen him lift a horse as lightly as an infant at the breast. (That was on the day when Sir John’s wain and horses were in the Great Bog.) Yet for all that, he was a mild mannered man, slow of reproach, sparing of oaths, honest in his dealings, punctual in paying his dues and in his charity to the poor, no haunter of taverns, nor gamester or ribald. Yet he seemed to hold himself aloof from folks, and in the days of which I speak, reckoned little of religion or his immortal soul, though, as to that, you shall hear later how the Lord in His infinite mercy afterwards touched his eyes, so that he should see, and seeing, walk into the way of peace. He lived in his house in the valley to himself and his wife and his children. He rose early and worked long and laboriously in the good light, and when his day’s labour was done he would return from his fields to sit by the great fire and dandle his babies. I have heard that even in the long winter evenings, when he sat at home with his family around him, he had little to say. He would sit with his little girl on his knee, singing old women’s songs of the countryside--‘Hey, northern wind, how dost thou blow?’ or ‘Janikin came to dress our well’--as though he had been a tender, nursing-mother himself instead of a mighty figure of a man, the measure of two bowshafts long. Then he would say to Katherine, his wife, ‘Lo, Kat, how the young one grows; he can nearly walk,’ and she would answer, ‘Yea, he groweth out of knowledge. But all our family made fine babies.’

Then there would be a long silence of about an hour or thereabouts between them, while the children would play and laugh at their feet and the goodwife would get on with her spinning. Perhaps Thomas would show Thomas and Robert how to build a great castle, like that of Earl Ranulf, out of the wooden fire-blocks, or would amuse them smilingly at the game which is called ‘Cat’s Cradle.’ Then, as they grew sleepy one by one, he would take and lay them gently on the soft straw in the warm corner.

‘Kat,’ he would say, or some such matter, ‘methinks I will take little Thomas with me to the Longacre in the morning and let him aim at the crows with his sling.’

‘Do, good husband,’ she would answer, ‘the boy dearly loves the sport.’

Then they would to bed themselves.

So Thomas lived innocently enough, but overmuch immersed in secular employment, and seldom troubling himself to come to Mass, even on Holy Days, except it were Easter or Christmas, or when he brought a child to the christening. Whereby Sir John, our priest, was somewhat troubled, and at times exhorted Thomas that he should come to Church more regularly, as befitted a Christian. To which Thomas would answer that the way was something long to the Church from his house, and he trusted he served God all the same, and so, smiling gently, he would home to his wife and babes and little amendment made.

But in the spring of the year of our Lord eleven hundred and eighty-nine, there came a wandering man of religion to the town, who was destined to be the means whereby, under God, a great miracle should be wrought in this man. For it was in that year that our sovereign Lord and King, Richard, being moved by the wrongs which Christ suffered at the hands of the heathen and accursed Saracens, in Jerusalem, the town of His Passion, made a strong vow, assumed the cross and proclaimed that he would set out with a great company of Christian knights and men-at-arms to wrest the Holy Sepulchre from the hands of the unbelievers. Many holy men therefore, moved thereto by the Pope and the Bishops, went about all Christendom, exhorting the people to take up the Cross and follow the pious King overseas. Of these devoted preachers, came one Master Benedict to our village, and, having obtained permission, as was seemly, of Sir John, he preached daily to the people.

Master Benedict was truly a man filled with the Holy Ghost, and his sermons and speeches cast a spell over the town. ‘O ye people, sons of God,’ he would cry, ‘why will ye make it your only care that your swine and cattle increase, that your corn shall ripen, that your grass wax strong and long in the water meadows, when your Lord is day by day crucified afresh in His Holy City at the hands of idolaters and blasphemers?’ He told of the bitter wrongs which Christian pilgrims suffered when they visited our Lord’s Sepulchre; then men shook and wept with grief. He told how our King had entered on that glorious enterprise first of all Christian Princes, and asked if they desired him to set out to that sacred slaughter single-handed and with no following of his liege people; then men’s eyes flashed with holy devotion and loyalty, and they cried out vehemently, ‘Nay, nay.’ He told how the Holy Father had offered a plenary indulgence to all who took the Cross, and how the souls of all Christians who suffered death on the Crusade would be borne instantly to Paradise; then the people fell down on their knees and cried out with fierce sobs, ‘Holy Cross, Holy Cross; we will follow the Cross.’

So in one week twenty-three men had vowed themselves to the Holy Land, and I myself was so moved by the Monk’s words, that I would have vowed, had it not been for a matter of importance I had on hand with William of Mousehill about a field which was used for pasture at Houghton. As it was, however, I bought from Master Benedict for twenty-two Easterling shillings, a phial containing a feather from the wing of the Archangel Michael, which he had gotten from Jerusalem, and I am assured that as often as I say a _Pater_ _Noster_ and kiss this precious relic, so often do I partake the more amply of Our Saviour’s merits. Moreover, when Master Benedict went forth from our village, he took with him certain gold and silver ornaments and cloths of brocade, fine silk and cambric, which the people, coming together, offered of their own free will towards the expenses of the Blessed Expedition.

However, of the twenty and three men who had taken the Cross, it is shameful to relate that more than half of them were absolved of their vow by the Archdeacon, some paying fines for that purpose up to twelve shillings. In the end something under half a score went from the village, and those not such men as we could have wished, being for the most part wastrels and ne’er-do-wells instead of such as truly feared and wished to serve God. One man, Nick the Carpenter, went, as folk shrewdly thought, because he was suspected of a certain man-slaying at Houghton, and two other men, Hick of the Hill and Eddie of the Townsend, had vowed when they were overfull of strong drink and had not afterwards the wherewithal to absolve themselves with the Archdeacon.

It happened by chance that Thomas the Freeman was in town to market the first morning when Master Benedict spoke, and having sold a couple of swine, he stood afterwards listening at the edge of the crowd round the Market Cross. At first he looked on unconcernedly, leaning heavily on his staff, as was his wont, and once or twice turning, as though to go home again. But Master Benedict began to warm to his preaching, crying out ‘Ah, Little Child, that criest from Thy Mother’s arms, shall we not hear Thee? Ah, little Babe, that bore such pangs for us in Thy tender flesh, shall we not suffer a little for Thee? Ah, little Holy Boy, Who gavest Thyself for us, shall we not give ourselves for Thee?’ and then Thomas, too, could not withdraw his eyes from the Monk’s passionate face, and as he gazed his breath came thick and fast through his lips, and the great tears began to roll down his cheeks, although he made no manner of outcry as most of the people did, sobbing and striking themselves in their grief, and even falling prostrate on the ground and heaping dirt and stones on their heads. As the Monk finished, several made oath and took the Cross, but Thomas only sighed and turned heavily homeward, without a word to any man. The next day, however, he came again to the preaching, and the next day also, and so every day until the end of the week, when Master Benedict departed to preach his mission in other villages.

Then the Lord began to work mightily upon Thomas the Freeman. Now he entirely forsook his former and too secular habits and began to come most often to Church. Many a time I have seen him kneeling before the painted Christ with his head in his hands, bowing himself and quivering from head to foot, as though in agony of spirit; and the villeins, driving their teams afield in the first light of morning, have seen him hurrying on his way to early morrow mass, anon crying out and anon muttering to himself, like a man possessed. Now he worked little about the homestead and in the fields as he was wont to do, but wandered all alone in the forest on Hart Hill, and often forgetting to return even at meal-times. Now he spoke less than ever to Katherine his wife, and you might see in his face the terrible conflict betwixt duty and created pleasure which raged within him. Of a night, he played no more with the children nor dandled them on his knee, but sat with a perplexed brow, ever and anon calling upon God, Our Lady, and the Blessed Saints. When his wife asked what ailed him that he was not as he was wont to be, he answered, ‘The words of the man of God are eating out my heart.’

When his wife understood that, she burst into a loud cry, saying, ‘I would to God that Monk had never come to the village, for, but for him, I had been the happiest woman alive.’

Thomas groaned as if his heart would break. Then he said, ‘Let us pray that God will guide us even as it seemeth best to Himself.’

So they prayed together with many tears, and after that Katherine felt easier in her mind.

For many days Thomas struggled with the fierce prompting which the Monk had put into his heart and strove to put it by him, saying to himself, ‘I would gladly take sword and buckler and do service for Jesus Christ, but verily I am a married man and I must needs look to my wife and my four young children.’

But ever he would be answered from within himself, ‘If thou settest thy hand to the Lord’s work, shall the Lord forsake thee and thine?’

One day, as Katherine was plucking a fowl, he came in from the village, whence he had been to Church. His face was calm and set, and a solemn smile played about his countenance. Katherine had not seen him so pleasant for many a long day, and she was glad in her heart. But she fell also into some little awe of him, for he was, as it were, lifted far off from her.

‘Ay, Thomas, but thou lookest kindly,’ she said.

‘Katherine, do not blame me overmuch; forgive me that I cannot but put sore trouble upon thee. The Lord hath strictly told me that I must go and serve Him in the Holy Land, and I have this morning made oath to Sir John, our priest.’

‘Holy Mother, have pity, have pity,’ cried Katherine. ‘Oh husband, thou must not leave me, not after all these years. Say thou wilt not go.’

‘Dear Katherine,’ he said sweetly, ‘I must go. I have not been able to escape God these many days, and I must not disobey Him. It is He that hath commanded me.’

‘Ah, dear God. And is this all thy love for me and thy little ones, to leave me now for these cursed wars? I shall not see thee again, I know I shall not, and I and my little ones shall all perish. Thou never lovedst me or thou wouldst not desert me now.’

‘Dear Katherine, I love thee now more than ever I did, but I cannot refuse my God; I must go.’

‘But the children that you have made so much of? Oh husband, bethink thyself; thou mayst wipe out thy oath by a fine to the Archdeacon.’

‘That I may not do, dear Katherine, for I have made my oath to God. As for the children, He knows how heavy my heart is to leave them, but Sir John has given me a word of comfort from Holy Writ, that the Lord is mindful of His own.’

The tears burst from Katherine’s eyes, and she flung herself at his feet, convulsed with great sobs and clinging to his knees.

‘Don’t go, don’t go!’ she cried, but her husband sadly raised her, kissing her again, and said,’I must; I must.’

Then Thomas gently disengaged her arms from his body and laid her on the settle, and went forth to prepare for his journey. Going to town, he sold a herd of swine for coined silver, and exchanged thirty parcels of wool with a Flanders merchant, who happened to be in the village, against a gold Byzant. Having thus furnished himself with ready money to pay his way across the sea, he returned home and fetched down his leather and iron jerkin from the wall, and furbished his great sword and shield.

Two days later, he set out alone to join King Richard, going first to Southampton, thence to take ship for France. At his house door Katherine wept on his bosom, and held him to her as strongly as she might, that at last he had to burst from her by main force. Then she clung gasping and nigh fainting to the door-post, and had no strength to wave him farewell. The children ran after him, crying, ‘Father, father,’ in shrill misery. Three times he turned back and took them up in his arms and blessed and kissed them, before he could drag himself away. He did not dare to look back down the forest pathway to his wife upon the threshold of the house, but he said to himself crazily, ‘For the Lord is mindful of His own; He remembereth His servants.’

Katherine fell in a swoon across the doorway. The children thought she was dead, and knelt round the senseless body, screaming in their desolation.

* * * * *

Evil things happened in the year that followed, for there befell a great feud between Earl Ranulf and William of Beeston. One winter’s night William of Beeston’s men came down by Hart Hill, and they ravished as far as they dared up to Earl Ranulf’s castle, and they burnt Thomas the Freeman’s house, and slew his wife and children, therein showing themselves more like beasts than Christian men.

II

I remember that we had that day finished cutting the corn in the Long Field. It was evening, and a large moon had just come up. I had been to see John the Smith about four horse-shoes, which he had promised me, and I was returning by the bridge, having them hitched in my belt. As I came by the great oak, which grows by the bridge, I became aware of a man lurking there in the shadow, and looking narrowly I knew him for a stranger. I was at first minded to give the hue and cry, and to bring the whole village about his ears, but yet there was something familiar to me in the man’s figure, so putting my hand to my knife, I came a little out of my way to pass nearer to him. Blessed God, how cold my heart turned when of a sudden I recognised him. It was Thomas the Freeman, home from the Holy Land. I thought of his dead wife and babes up at Hart Hill, and I was fain to pass him as if I knew him not, but my knees failed under me, and I stood shaking like a leaf as he came towards me.

‘What, Nicholas man,’ he said, ‘dost not know me, Thomas the Freeman?’

‘Holy Virgin,’ I said, and took his outstretched hands.

‘How go things with Katherine and the children? How are they?’ he asked.

I was silent, being troubled as to how I should answer him, for my heart bled at the thought of the news he must have. I turned my face to the ground.

‘What; are they not well? What’s to do? For the love of God, answer me.’

At that I turned to him full heavily and said sadly, ‘If to be at peace is to be well, they are well, for they rest with the Blessed Saints in Christ.’

He swayed to and fro like a drunken man.

‘They are dead?’ he asked, in a hoarse gasping voice.

I nodded, and he gave a low cry and sank to the earth as one dead. I halloaed loudly, and John the Smith and his big son came running from their house with bills in their hands. But I told them what had befallen, and John’s son fetching water from the brook, we bathed Thomas’s face therewith; so after a time he came to himself, though moaning a little as though he were sore hurt. We half led and half carried him to the Smith’s house, where they sat him on a great chair by the fire. It was a long time before he spoke, and we stood apart from him, the womenfolk and the children gazing curiously and pityingly at him from the corner. Then he said, ‘How did they die?’ and we told him shortly that the men of William of Beeston had slain them.

‘Kat and all my little ones; they did not leave a single one,’ he said, and his head dropped slowly upon his breast and a single tear welled from each of his eyes.

After that he was quiet again, and we knew not what to say to comfort him, so after a little time I went my way home, and he stayed with John the Smith that night.

The next morning I went to see how he fared. He was still sitting on the great chair by the fireside where I had left him overnight, and indeed they told me he had never moved or spoken a single word since. He sat with his head on his bosom and his eyes half closed, fidgeting with his fingers like a little boy who has been shamed for tardiness at school. John greeted him as I entered, and asked him to break his fast on bacon and beer, but he denied him and asked for a cup of water, which they brought him. When he saw me he rose unsteadily.

‘I will go to my house,’ he said, and went towards the door.

‘Go not to-day,’ cried the Smith’s wife. ‘Sit and rest thee a while.’

‘Nay, good wife, but I will go,’ he said.

‘Ay, but the man is as weak as a sick dog,’ she cried. ‘Prithee, good husband, if he will go, go thou with him.’

The Smith took his staff, and we both of us went together after Thomas. It is a stiff uphill road to Hart Hill, and Thomas was forespent so that we had to help him over the rough and steep places, going always side by side in perfect silence. So we came to the little forest path, and it was now half grown over and obstructed by the branches of the trees, and so on to the stone wall that ran round the steading, and there we stopped, for thence could all be seen of what was Thomas’s house. In the midst of a wide open space, overgrown with rough hill grass and ragwort and young gorse and blackberry, were a few charred rafters and some baked and crumbling plaster. The September morning was mellowing into perfect brightness, the dew had fallen heavily the night before and glistened mistily on every blade and leaf. A great stillness hung over the place; only a single crow flapped its black wings in the blue sky, cawing its way to the woods. In three years the busy homestead had become a wilderness and the spear-grass waved where Thomas had dandled his babies. Thomas sighed heavily as he gazed, then crossing himself he turned away.

‘This is a hard home-coming for a man like me,’ he said, ‘God knows I had not looked for this at His hands.’

‘We are all in His hands, Thomas,’ I said, ‘and your wife and children no less than we.’

So we came back in silence to town, and as we came to the Market we had to catch Thomas between us or he would have fallen with his weakness. When he had revived somewhat he said, ‘Now I must go to the Abbey at Roodborough, for so I swore to myself when we were up yonder at Hart Hill.’

‘Roodborough,’ I cried. ‘Why, Thomas, it is seven miles, and thou couldst hardly walk the length of the Market Place.’ But he answered, ‘I must go,’ and actually tried to set forward. Then seeing he would not be stayed, and wondering why he should wish to go thither, I bethought myself of a certain business of my Lord’s, which I had with the Cellarer of the Abbey, and I offered right willingly to bring him there. I took him and led him to my house, where he ate a little fresh fish and bread, and then we took cart and came two hours after noon to Roodborough.

There I had much talk with Simon the Cellarer. Meanwhile, as I heard, Thomas accosted certain of the monks as they stood in the Guest House administering to the wants of the poor, and prayed them with vehemence and insistence to lead him to the Abbot. So earnest was his countenance and so strange and convincing his manner, that they knew not how to deny him, especially as Abbot Gregory had notable bowels of compassion, and never denied himself to the poor and afflicted, and they weened he might be wroth if they sent the man away. So they brought him to the Abbot, and he told the Abbot all those things which had happened to him since his going forth overseas, and humbly asked to be admitted to their Order. Then the Abbot sent for me, and partly from the confirmation of my lips, and partly from common rumour, knowing Thomas to have spoken truly, he commanded that he should be taken into the Abbey. So I returned home by myself, and a week or two later Thomas was admitted to the Order as he had asked.

But he was very feeble and ill from the time that he came within the Abbey walls. They put him in a bed in their Infirmary, attending him night and day. All through his illness he was very devout in the exercises of religion, as far as the weakness of his body and the strict commands of the Abbot would allow, continually recommending himself to his Maker through the merits of Christ Jesus, Our Lord, and ceaselessly imploring the intercession of Our Lady and All Saints for the remission of his sins. The good Abbot, being filled with pity for the man on account of the grievous trials, with which it had seemed meet to the Lord to try him, had him oftentimes carried from his cell in the Infirmary of the Choir to assist at the Holy Sacrament of the Mass. On the warm days of the late autumn, they would open the little window of his cell and place his bed so that he could gaze towards Hart Hill and Garstang, which he loved above all things. For there in the mellow distance he could watch the white mists swirl round the familiar peaks and woods and fill the remembered valleys as though with fine wool. He watched the wind bend the trees upon the slopes and drive the clouds like a flight of wild geese across the grey sky. Nearer at hand in the Abbey orchard the last red leaves came fluttering down, and he knew that the winter was hard by. Then his stricken face grew bright with some faint foreshining of the joy to come, and his lips moved in prayer.

‘What prayer dost thou pray?’ the Brother who had charge of the Infirmary asked him one day.

‘Good brother, I am thanking God,’ he replied.

He grew feebler day by day, his life quietly flowing hence, like a still river that flows through secret valleys to the sea, until as days grew sharp and chill, at the beginning of Advent, the Brethren doubted whether God would not call him to Himself before Christmas Day came. But hearing two of the Brethren whispering somewhat to this effect, when they thought that he slept, he called to them, and said, ‘Dear Brethren, have no fear for me; I shall live till Christmas Day.’

When the bell rang for Midnight Mass on Christmas Day, and he still lay on his bed a living man, the Brethren knew that God must have made him a promise. But even while Mass was singing in the Church, he grew on a sudden weaker; he twice failed to catch his breath, and he became very cold, so that they could not warm him by rubbing his limbs. So they sent to warn the Abbot, as he had straitly charged them, and he hastening brought the Blood and Body of Christ, and having shriven him without delay, administered it to him, who received it with trembling humility, but with tears of joy in his eyes.