Part 6

When the news got about the town that old Master Matthew was minded to marry a young wench, great was the talk thereof. Some asked what an old wretch, who had enough to do with cordials and powders to keep the flicker of life in his withered carcass, could want with a wife. Others said that there was not heat enough in his heart to warm his own body in bed of a winter’s night, and that he had better be thinking of burying instead of marrying; others that he had been better minded to patch up his old soul for the next world than to meddle with womankind, with much more that was true of the same sort. Even his infamous companions in sin, the Apostles (or the Apostates as they might have been more rightly called), came and reasoned with him against his intention, saying that a young wife would be wanton, fickle, and wasteful, spending and squandering on rich garments for her back and rare dainties for her belly, and wasting in a few months what he had hardly gotten in so many years, and that she would make his life a Hell or at least a Purgatory so as to bundle him as quickly as might be into his grave, that she might enjoy his goods and fortune with a lusty young husband of her own choosing after his decease. But old men are violent and headstrong in their fancies, and Master Matthew in his sudden heat seemed to love the wench even more than his gold and silver, so that all their persuasions were of no effect.

On the bridal day, therefore, away he crept to Church in a shabby green jerkin, which he had had from Nick the Piper in pawn, with a favour in his bosom and a stick in his hand. Holy Virgin, but a pretty couple the jolly young Margot and he made, she fresh and fair as a mead in May when it is all be-starred with flowers, he like a figure of Old Time on a monument. He tottered along clinging to her arm like a brat to his mother’s gown, stumbling and coughing and wheezing and spitting as though he would shatter his old frame to pieces. She looked straight before her, and the tears stood in her bonny blue eyes.

So they came to the threshold of the Church, and lo, just as the wretched old man put forth his quivering foot to touch consecrated ground, the Lord showed full mightily that He does not sleep or slumber, for He touched the stone whereon William had carved the carrying hence of Master Matthew by Devils with His finger and it fell suddenly from its place and smote the usurer on his bald and shining skull, crushing him to the ground. When they ran to him and raised him up, he was dead. Truly, when William carved that stone, God inspired him more than he thought, so that his chisel carved not only symbols but also prophecies.

When the news of this event became known in the town, folk said that it was a judgment of God upon Master Matthew, because he had practised the sin of usury, and they began to ask how long the remaining eleven Apostles would be suffered to live in their wickedness. Many thought that each in his turn would be slain in precisely the same manner, each by his own carven stone as he went through the great West porch to offer hypocrisy at the altar of the Most High. When men met any of them walking abroad, they would stand and jeer at them with cunning words.

‘Nay, I know not, Master Luke,’ would Nick the Piper say, ‘but if I were one of you fellows, who live in the corner of the Market, I would never go into the Church unless it were by the windows.’

‘Is Master Mark alive yet?’ would ask the Fletcher. ‘I wot he had been killed by a shrewd blow on the pate days ago.’

‘Hast thou heard?’ quoth Sim. ‘An angel sat watching all last Holy Day on the great porch. I marvel, Master Mark, that thou and thy fellows come not to Church. Surely thou hast been instructed and knowest what is fit for a Christian man?’

‘Has Master Philip’s stone fallen from the Church porch yet?’ asked the Arrowsmith. ‘Methinks it seemed perilously loosened last time I saw it.’

Robert the Carpenter, meeting three of the Apostles in the Market Place, stopped them and roundly declared in the hearing of all that he would build eleven good oak coffins for such as might be in need of them as cheaply as might be, were they only bespoken at once and in that quantity.

By reason of so many quips and dry bobs the Apostles were in a few weeks brought to a misery and humiliation befitting their state of sin. They scarcely dared poke their noses from their lattices into the street but folk would begin to cry out upon them and to wonder loudly that they were still alive. None of them dared go to Church; Master Mark, taking his courage in both hands, set out one Holy Day, but when he came in sight of the church porch, and caught sight of the gap in the upper projection thereof, whence Master Matthew’s stone had fallen, his heart failed him and he turned back, and that although many good men standing within the porch, encouraged him to enter, calling to him that it were better to be damned as a usurer than as a heretic. This saying, getting passed from mouth to mouth, gave new matter to the people, who now stood about in their idle moments under the Apostles’ houses in the corner of the Market Place, and cried to each other that the Abbot had written a letter to the Archdeacon of the Diocese that there were eleven men in the town, who came to none of the Divine Services, and were esteemed either heretics or Jews, and that the Archdeacon had sent word in reply that he would shortly come with his clerks and purge the town of heresy as though with a raging fire, and further inquiring whether there were any known and notorious practisers of usury in the Borough.

At which words the eleven Apostles, who stood each one listening beside his lattice, quaked with dread and crept away silently to the back of the house, being too afeared to listen to any more of such talk.

IV

One night, about an hour after sundown, William returned from dancing on the green. It had turned in chill with a heavy dew falling, so he sat awhile before the fire to warm himself before going to his bed. As he sat humming to himself a jolly tune he had gotten from Nick the Piper, there came a sort of scratching or rustling at the door.

‘Beshrew me,’ he said half aloud, ‘but rats are as plentiful as blackberries in this house,’ and he hurled a log at the place whence the sound came. But instead of the noise ceasing, it came again a little louder than before, and Will then understood that it was some one fumbling at the latch outside.

‘In God’s name,’ he cried lustily, ‘come in, thou old bat.’

With that the latch was hesitatingly lifted and Master Mark cautiously poked his red pate inside and peered suspiciously around.

‘What,’ cried Will, ‘Master Mark? Mine ancient friend of the patched cloak, mine honest acquaintance the Prince of the Jews? Enter, my worthy usurer, out of the night dew and warm thy cold heart against the fire.’

‘For the love of Mary, good Master Will, speak more quietly,’ stuttered Master Mark, half dead with fear. ‘If these town devils hear thee, they will slay me.’

‘Oh, oh,’ thought Will. ‘“Good Master Will,” forsooth. Sits the wind in that quarter i’ faith?’

Master Mark insinuated himself through the doorway and, shutting the door behind him with exceeding great quietness, shuffled into the room.

‘Sit down, my Master,’ quoth Will courteously, ‘though why thou thus honourest my poor dwelling, I cannot tell, since I have no need or mind to go a-borrowing again.’

Master Mark subsided heavily upon a chair, blew a great sigh of relief from his gross carcass, and blinked ponderingly at the fire with his beady black eyes. Then he turned to William and, with his harsh voice for the nonce tuned to entreaty, said, ‘Good Master William Mason, I know thou hast a mild and compassionate heart, albeit thou art fond of quips and laughter.’

‘Yea, I am a mild man,’ quoth William, ‘as mild as curds and whey.’

‘Yea, yea, and so say all men, so therefore when my friends and I took counsel together.’

‘_Thy_ friends. Prithee, and who are they?’

‘Why, Master Luke and Master Philip and Master----’

‘Ay, now I take thee, the Apostles?’

‘Ay, so men blasphemously miscall us, who are indeed good Christian men. When we had taken thought together, it seemed best to us all, seeing that thou wert a man with bowels of compassion, that one of us should come and tell thee that we cast ourselves utterly on thy misericord and mercy.’

‘“Mercy?” “Misericord?” Master Mark, thou jestest. Are ye not rich? Have ye not gold? Have ye not houses? Have ye not lands? Who are ye, to cast yourselves on the mercy of a poor fellow that lives by the sweat of his brow?’

‘Ah, sir, jest not with miserable and broken men, that are as worms under thy heel. Hast thou not wrought satirical sculptures of us over the Church porch, and filled the dead stones with a devilish cunning and malice, that they lie, as it were, in wait, to precipitate themselves upon us when we pass underneath, so that we are afeared for our lives to fulfil our pious desires and devoirs to Holy Church, which we duly owe as Christian men?’

Master Mark snuffled in his nose and rubbed his dirty sleeve across his gingery eyebrows.

‘“Christian men”?’ said Will. ‘I had thought ye were Jews.’

‘Nay, gentle Master Will, no Jews, but as good Christians as any in Roodborough. Yea, and have not thy sculptures brought upon us the hatred and contempt of the whole town, so that we daily go in fear of violence even to murder? Ay, and besides; whereas we dare not for thy spiteful carvings go to Church to Mass or Confession, do not the people say openly that we are heretics and Jews, and threaten to present us to the Archdeacon that we may be delivered to the torment and the fire?’

‘’Twas the finger of God that hurled the stone on the head of old Master Matthew, and none can stand before His wrath. Thou wert best, Master Mark, to get to thy prayers, for I doubt whether thou wilt live over long.’

‘Good Master Will,’ whined Master Mark, ‘we do indeed pray hourly and daily to the Blessed Virgin and all Saints to intercede for us, miserable sinners. But thou art a good, kindly man, and perchance in this case more powerful than they, and we would ask thee, we would entreat thee, to take down--of course for a payment--for a good substantial sum--to take down these carven figures, that we may worship in the Church again like good Christian men, as we did heretofore.’

‘Holy Saints of God, and wouldst thou have the artist destroy his artistry, desecrate the Blessed Church and meddle with the wrath of God? Blessed Mary forbid.’

‘Nay, nay, we would not have thee destroy thy work, which is indeed exceeding rare and cunning, but only to remove it from its present place, so that we might go to Mass in safety. Doubtless if thou take it down, thou couldst sell it again at great profit. Besides, good Master William, remember that it hath been defaced already with the fall of Master Matthew’s stone, and with each one of us that crosses the threshold of the porch, it will deface itself more, until it be entirely destroyed, and that with lamentable shedding of blood.’

‘Of a surety, Master Mark, each stone will have its man.’

‘Ah, Master William, have mercy upon us broken men. We will pay thee, I warrant thee, if thou wilt but remove them, and that right liberally.’

William lit a taper at the fire, and going to his workshop door, flung it open. He peered within, holding the taper high above his head so that the light fell on the shattered image of Master Matthew struggling in the hands of the demons.

‘’Tis piteously shattered,’ he thought, ‘I doubt beyond redemption. Lo, the old man is dead now and doubtless in Hell; I should be loath to set his figure up again thus. Yet without it my work is defaced, yea, and every Apostle that ventures into Church will deface it more.’

Then his eye fell on certain parchments, whereon he had but yesterday sketched out a fair design and had sighed to himself to think that there was no other porch like that at the Abbey Church to ornament. He had thought that, were it to be done again, he would do it thus, and better so. He turned to Master Mark, who watched him with cunning eyes like a pig’s.

‘And what wilt thou pay me for taking down the carvings?’ he asked.

‘Marry,’ cried Mark joyfully, ‘we are no skinflints, good sir; we are honest men and will pay. For each stone thou removest we will give thee ten crowns.’

‘Ten crowns. Thou jestest, my gentle usurer. Hast thou bethought that the carvings have not only to be removed but also to be replaced by others as beautiful? Thou hast best home again.’

‘Oh Mary, ten crowns. Wilt thou not take ten crowns? Oh, the hard hearts of men. Not ten crowns? Nay then, fifteen. Nay? Not fifteen? Then twenty, twenty crowns; say twenty crowns for each stone, Master William, eleven twenties, two hundred and twenty crowns in all, or say two hundred, two hundred in all.’

‘Hast thou considered, Master Mark, that maybe there is the Abbot to placate for taking liberties with his new Porch? Is not even a usurer’s life worth thirty crowns? Say thirty crowns for each stone and I will close with thee, nay, for three hundred crowns in all I am thine. Dost agree? Otherwise, home again to thy prayers, mine ancient penitent.’

‘Oh,’ groaned Master Mark, ‘oh Mary, that such a young man should have such a hard heart, and should be so covetous. Three hundred didst thou say?’

‘Yea, no less.’

‘Mary, Mary, ’tis too much.’

‘Good even, then, Master Mark.’

‘Nay, nay, if thou must, then thou shalt have it, three hundred crowns. But thou wilt take away every single stone?’

‘Yea, and replace every single one.’

‘Swear then.’

‘Nay, my word is my bond.’

‘Promise then.’

‘Ay, I promise.’

‘Agreed then, and I take thy promise. But when wilt thou do it?’

‘As soon as I have carved the stones wherewith to replace thee and thy brethren. But do thou bring the three hundred crowns here this time to-morrow evening.’

‘Yea, I will bring two hundred and the other hundred after the work is finished.’

‘If it please thee, good night.’

‘Good night.’

Master Mark crept forth from the house like a rat from his hole.

For three months afterwards Will was seldom to be seen at the Market, at the Green, or at the Alehouse, but was ever in his shop singing like a thrush and working like a Trojan. When folk asked what kept him so busy these days he would answer that he was carving a wondrous fine memorial for Master Matthew’s grave, whereat they laughed and called him a mad wag.

When he had finished the work, having called his two faithful men, Abel and Geoffrey, to him, he swore them to secrecy. Then he told them all that he was about and desired them to help him, to which they agreed right willingly. That night after Vespers they went privily forth by a back way to the Church, bearing with them a ladder and mallets and chisels. Climbing the porch, they worked there the best part of the night, breaking away the mortar and cement which held the carved stones in their places, so that in the end they rested loosely in their sockets and might be carried easily away. The next night came in very misty and dark, so that for lack of light they could not go and finish their work, but the night following they stole forth again and this time brought down the Apostles from their places on the porch and replaced them by the stones which William had newly worked, in such sort that the upper part of the porch was all remade as he had designed it afresh.

Early next morning the people coming to Mass were filled with great astonishment to see that the Apostles had disappeared and in their place were carvings the most beautiful imaginable of the Adoration of Our Lord by the Three Magi. Many and loud were their expressions of wonder and admiration, and, ever as the news spread, the crowd of those gazing increased, until nigh half the town stood round the West Porch. All agreed that cunning as William’s work had been, it was naught compared with this. ‘Nay,’ they said among themselves, ‘William doth well enough, but this is beyond him; this is plainly the hand of God. Glory be to the Blessed Virgin, that we should live to see such a great miracle worked, and in this our town too.’

Then up spake a certain cordwainer, ‘Now I call to mind somewhat I saw late last night, as I came from Mistress Woolcomb’s churching-ale.’

‘And what was that?’ they asked him.

‘Marry, ’twas full moon,’ said he, ‘and wondrous bright, and casting my eyes on the Abbey Church as I came down the Abbey hill, ’twas as though I saw three great fellows hard at work on yon porch. I had drunk full heavy of Mistress Woolcomb’s strong ale, and I weened I had been deceived, else had I spoken before, but now methinks they were wondrous large for mortal men and had each a glory round his head very sweet and comfortable to see.’

‘Yea,’ quoth another, ‘and I saw them too as I came with the cordwainer, and I dared not speak either, for I had drunk full heavily and weened that they might not be there after all, and they had mighty wings all feathery on their shoulders and a great light was going forth out of them.’

‘Doubtless,’ said the people, ‘these were three angels, and they it is who have wrought this beautiful work.’

Whereupon it straightway went through the town that the three Archangels had visited the Abbey Church in the night and had carved thereon the Adoration of the Magi in the stead of William’s usurers. This tale cast the whole place into a turmoil and, spreading into the country districts, caused the upland folk to come into Roodborough in hundreds in order to see the angelic handiwork. For many days the town was like a fair with so many people coming and going, with such selling of meat and beer and bread, such cryings for lodging and stabling, such companies of pilgrims, so many monks and friars and so many minstrels and tumblers. Never before had the alehouses and hostelries been so full, and never before had so much good coin flowed into them in so short time.

Meanwhile William, and Abel and Geoffrey, played mum-budget and held their tongues, privily laughing and girding one another, saluting each other by ‘Blessed Archangel Michael,’ or ‘Good Sir Raphael,’ or ‘My Lord Gabriel.’ William said that never before had folk so fully owned to his skilful craftsmanship, and he should without doubt be able to sell the Apostles elsewhere for a good round sum.

But at the end of a couple of weeks came old Abbot Absalom riding down from London, from the King’s holding of Parliament. Being told of the great miracle which the Blessed Archangels had worked on his Church porch, he went in hot haste to behold it. He examined it carefully and critically.

‘Marry,’ quoth he at length in a dry decided voice, ‘if this be the work of the Blessed Archangels, then have Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael been to school at that knave William’s.’

Then he pointed with his staff to the figure of Our Blessed Lady, carved to the life, holding the Holy Infant on her lap for the Wise Men to adore. ‘God’s foot,’ quoth he, ‘I have seen that Virgin’s face somewhere before.’

They all began to stare at the carven Virgin; then some began to titter and then to laugh, and at last one cried out, ‘Beshrew me, if it is not bonny Gilly Hedgerow from the Crutched House.’

Now at the time William was amorous of this wench.

When the Abbot had dined he sent a messenger for William, and had him brought forthwith into his presence.

‘Right noble and celestial sire,’ said the Abbot, bowing satirically as low as his fat paunch would let him, ‘I have spoken with many a great lord and noble, with our Lord the King and with His Holiness the Pope, but never have I had the honour of meeting an Archangel before.’

Whereupon William fell down upon his knees and told the Abbot all that had happened, how the Twelve Apostles had cheated him of a hundred crowns, and how he had made them repay him three times as much. In the end he asked forgiveness, humbly submitting that although he had indeed taken down the Apostles he had put a better piece of work in their place.

Then the Abbot laughed heartily at the story and, raising William to his feet, sent for a cup of wine wherein he pledged him merrily as the wittiest cogging knave in England, and forced him also to pledge him in return.

‘I freely forgive thee,’ quoth he, ‘for thou hast not only given me a good jest to tell to my Lord Abbot of Saint Alban’s, but an excellent exchange against the Apostles, which, however, I will buy from thee again for the Chapter House.’

So saying he gave Will the cup with twenty crowns in it to boot, and afterwards told the story of Will’s revenge upon the usurers with great applause at the King’s Court at Westminster. When the townsfolk got to hear of it, they laughed as heartily thereat as the Abbot had done, and for a long time afterwards William and his two men were commonly known as the Archangels. Further, they said that Roodborough was indeed a town favoured by God, for whereas it had long possessed a famous goodly Abbey and the Twelve Apostles, now also it had the three Archangels into the bargain.

How Peter heard the Cock crow

I

It was pitch dark in Deptford Creek, neither moon nor star. Uneasily walking by the waterside on the squelching mud flats, or on the landing-stage among tuns and chests and beams and piles of stone ballast, you might just make out the mast and round hull of the cog _Rose Mary_, as she swung slowly at her moorings. On the one side, the broad flood of the Thames shone dully like molten lead or thick oil; on the other, one or two lights glimmered faintly from Deptford town. There was a smell of tar and bilge-water and stale beer.

Beneath the light of the lantern, which burned dimly on the poop of the _Rose Mary_, lay Peter the Shipman comfortably on a coil of rope. By his side was a stoup of the strongest French wine he had been able to find in the cog’s hold. He had reason to be merry that night, so he trolled jolly choruses to himself between his long draughts. The _Rose Mary_ had sailed from Bordeaux with the tide on the night of the last Wednesday, and here she was, gotten into Deptford Creek safe and sound by the Friday midnight. Never had he made such an easy and speedy passage. Besides, in his purse he bore certain pieces of silver, which he had gotten from the chapman of the Bordeaux ward at easy purchase, together with a rose noble, which he had picked from the purse of a young squire, who had taken passage with him to England. Peter chuckled. He thought to himself, ‘To-morrow early shall I leave these knaves, Thomas and Ralph, to unlade, and will I forth to the Golden Cock in Deptford to my leman Kate, to be jolly and to play me with her all the day, and I shall have great plenty of silver to buy me as much good ale as I want (curse this feeble French wine!), and as many delicate cakes and puddings and pies and ripe Kentish cherries as I can get into my belly. And the day after that shall I to Newington with that knave Ralph, to his wench’s by the Green, and stay there till all my money is spent, and then, heigho, for my pretty little Bette at Bordeaux. Beshrew my heart, how I love the girl, now I’ve left her a day or two.’

Then he burst out into a sailor’s catch.

‘Who leadeth so merry, so merry his life, As the Shipman of Sandwich, who wanteth a wife.’

At the sound of his voice a woman came out of the darkness and stood at the edge of the landing-stage in the faint light cast by the ship’s lantern. She was clad in many-coloured and tawdry garments, and from his place on the poop Peter could discern the chalk and rouge plastered on her cheeks and the bright vermilion on her lips; he knew her for a wench of the town. She peered into the cog.