Part 8

‘Vill Beaumont was utterly given over to all kinds of wretchedness and distress, for it lay close under the castle, and the men-at-arms were wont often to come down thither and despoil the villagers, slaying the sheep and cattle in the fields, trampling the standing rye and corn, devouring the bread and meat which God sent for the bellies of His poor, and wantonly and in derision spilling the thin ale from their barrels. Yea, twice or thrice, when these insolent men of war were in their cups, they had fired the village and burnt down the better half of it, whereby some poor souls, being chiefly babes and old and infirm persons, were sent to their account, unshriven and unanointed, with their sins upon them, Christ have mercy. When the villeins came and made complaint to their Lord, he would cry out upon them fiercely, “What, ye swine, ye cattle, is there not ploughing? Is there no ditching? Away, ye beasts,” and he would drive them headlong from his presence with curses and buffets, and then call to his Bailey to put more work upon them, that they should have no leisure to waste in grumbling and tale-bearing.

‘Many villeins would not abide longer in the vill but fled into the greenwood to drive the hart and the doe instead of the plough and the cart, and to sustain the heat, the cold, the snow, the frost, the rain of God’s heaven, rather than the inhumanity of Christian men. Corn, flesh, cheese, and butter were so scarce and dear that few had wherewith to keep them from starving, for where there was so little hope of harvest, men would not trouble to sow or plant or plough. Some fled to foreign boroughs where they were not known, to live as freemen, and some, who erstwhile had been men of substance, left the village secretly to go on alms. Never elsewhere was more wretchedness seen.

‘Hither to this village came one morning a wandering minstrel. Lo, good fellows all, he was the pitifullest figure a man might conceive, his hosen and jerkin all torn, his hair sticking out from the holes in his cap, his toes projecting from his bursten shoes, and white with dust from head to foot as though he had walked many miles between Matins and Prime. He seemed half pined for lack of food, there was no flesh on his bones, and I ween you might have counted his ribs. His face was like a pale flower, his faint blue eyes wandered when he spoke to any, so that folks easily judged him to be one of God’s innocents. Around his neck upon a cord he bore a fiddle, and the bow thereof swung by a string from his shoulder. Of these he took great care, as though they had been treasures of worth.

‘He came to the folk who sat idly by the watermill, and looked vacantly upon them with his lustreless eyes.

‘“Will ye have any mirth?” he asked, fingering his fiddle and speaking in a thin, sad voice, like a sick child’s.

‘They were silent at first. Then they began to speak in bitter jest, as desperate men will do.

‘“We are merry devils enough without thy mirth,” said one.

‘“Hast _thou_ any mirth?” asked another. “I wot thou hadst been Death himself.”

‘“We have done nothing but sing and play here the last half-score of years,” said another. “I am sick of mirth; hast thou no bread?”

‘“I had rather use my teeth than my ears,” said another.

‘But one of the women, casting her eyes upon him, cried, “Nay, thou art but a child and half dead at that, poor knave. Sit thee down and rest awhile. Thou art a true foreigner, else thou wouldst know that the villeins of Beaumont have naught to put into their own bellies, much more to give away. But stay; God forbid that one of His innocents should perish by the wayside.”

‘So saying she went into her hovel and presently returned with a cup of sheep’s milk and a thin cake of rye-bread. (Verily, as saith the Evangelist, few but the poor shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.) The minstrel smiled sadly at her and took the cup and the cake, saying “Merci.” Folk watched him curiously while he ate, for he seemed fragile as a young girl and unhappy as a bird that has lost her mate. When he had finished he took his fiddle and bow and began to play. Certainly he was a skilful musician, and he played many strange songs in which they had great delight, but after a while they bid him stay.

‘“Thou art a right cunning minstrel,” they said, “and right woe are we that we have naught wherewith to repay thee for thy sweet music; ’twould be shame to keep thee here playing for nothing, when thou mightest earn rich gifts for thyself up at the castle. The Lord has a feast toward, and though he is full stark and cruel to such poor labouring folk as we, he loves music and mirth, and belike would pay thee dearly for thy skill.

‘“My good Lord loved to hear me play once,” said the minstrel, “but he is dead, and sleepeth with the saints in Christ.”

‘“Come, little knave,” said the woman. “Get thee to the great castle thou seest yonder. There at least thou shalt get broken victuals to fill thy poor, empty maw.”

‘They went with him, leading him to the end of the village and showing him the track thence up to the castle. They wished him Godspeed and a good journey.

‘The minstrel slowly descended the hillside, crossed the broad meadows and came to the still water and thence climbed upward through the great wood. Bright beams pierced the thick leafage overhead and shot the cool rich shadows with patches of brilliant emerald. The moss yielded like a carpet to his feet. On either side of the narrow track waved the lush bracken, high to his waist. The undergrowth in the odorous glades was besnowed with flowering bramble and starred with golden honeysuckle. Bright toadstools lit gorgeously the secret glooms. Now and then a squirrel rustled lightly among the branches, and ever and anon a coney started from beneath his feet, but in all that green wilderness sounded no voice of a bird.

‘After a toilsome climb he came to the castle and stood doubtfully at the Drawbridge. The warden spied him from his place under the portcullis and, noting the fiddle he carried, called to him lustily to enter, for the Lord was at meat and dearly loved to hear minstrels. So the minstrel crossed the bridge, and the warden, gripping him by the arm, delivered him over with a leer and a wink to a sewer. The sewer grinning spitefully, linked arms with him and so brought him, willy-nilly, to the great hall.

‘Never was there a hall half so magnificent and stately as that of Castle Beaumont. Words cannot describe it; ’tis past mortal cunning to speak of it justly. Its walls were twice as high as the steeple of your parish church and its length was two good bowshots. It was hung round about with gorgeous tapestries, whereon were worked figures of men and horses and trees and palaces in fresh and lively colours; the oak-ribbed vault was coloured as an azure heaven in which burnt an infinite multitude of golden stars. The floor was carpeted with cloth of indigo and silver.

‘The tables, which ran down the hall from end to end, and the high table upon the Lord’s dais, shone with precious vessels of silver and gold, wrought cunningly in fantastic shapes, delicately chiselled and chased, and set with flaming rubies and whitest pearls. Left and right against the walls were sideboards laden with the remains of rich and delicate dishes, with cygnet, peacock, and venison, with pies, custards and jellies, and flanked with great tuns of beer and wine.

‘Never were men and women so richly arrayed as the guests that sat at board, each with the value of a fat manor to cover the dainty skin; some in cloth of tars, some in sendal, some in pall and some in corduroys, many-hued like the rainbow. Round their proud necks they wore chains of the purest gold; on their fingers sparkled precious stones worth a king’s ransom. Never, nay, not in the King’s hall royal, were gathered such pomp and prodigality, such wealth and such splendour. Lo, this world passeth away to nothingness and maketh haste unto its end, yet men still vainly boast themselves in the clothes that hide and the meat that feeds corruption, making themselves laughingstocks to God and His holy angels.

‘When the poor minstrel shambled into the hall, he was utterly abashed and so smitten with shame that his knees turned to water under him, and he was fain to bow his head to hide the tears which suddenly filled his eyes. A sea of many colours surged before him, with rows of flushed cruel faces of men, with here and there the sheen of a woman’s white shoulder. A great blare of trumpets went suddenly soaring up to the roof. He looked round pitifully like a lost child, starting this way and that like a hare caught in a net. The guests burst into a roar of laughter at the sight of him.

‘The Lord of Beaumont sat at the high table on the dais, with his wanton leman by his side. When he saw the minstrel he stared hard, then he laughed loudly with the rest. Then he brought his heavy fist down with a crash on the board to command silence. There was a sudden hush.

‘“Bring the Ragman here,” quoth he harshly.

‘The lady by his side laughed lightly in clear cold tones.

‘The sewer led the minstrel before the dais and left him trembling there before the Lord. The Lord of Beaumont was as huge as an ox, and held his two fists clenched on the table before him as though he were an angered. His broad bearded face was like a fire, and his fierce bloodshot eyes rolled evilly round the hall. But as for his leman, not Helen nor Guinivere, long since dead, but ever famous for excellent beauty, could well compare with her, so wanton, so white, so debonair. I ween she was well fitted to draw the hearts of all men unto her. Folk who had gazed on her might say “I have seen the fairest of created flesh.”

‘“What, thou starveling,” cried the Lord, “art thou come hither to make us merry; methought thou wert a skeleton from the graveyard, walking at noonday.”

‘Then he called to his musicians, who sat with their trumpets, nakers, and cymbals in their hands, smiling disdainfully, “Look, ye knaves, here is a fellow come to teach you your trade. He can many a merry note and jolly stave, he can many a wanton song and sly ballad. God’s foot, I see it in his cunning eye, though to look at his lean ribs a man might not think it.”

‘The guests in the hall laughed loudly at their Lord’s mirth.

‘“If he cannot make good mirth,” quoth the lady in a hard cruel voice, “it were best he were whipped till the blood come, for his lantern chaps and staring eyes. Ugh, my gorge rises to look on the fellow; he looks worse than a spitted lark and smells of death.”

‘One of the musicians rose from his place beside the dais and went and whispered in the Lord’s ear. The Lord laughed hoarsely. “God’s fist,” he said, “’tis a good jest, let it be done.”

‘Whereupon the musician approached the minstrel.

‘“Good Master Minstrel,” quoth he with cunning pleasantry, “what rare instrument hast thou in thy hands? Blessed Virgin, ’tis no wonder thou claspest it so closely to thy bosom. And what an excellent piece of work is thy bow! Verily I believe they must have been Apollo’s, the god of music’s. Prithee let me and my poor fellows behold it more closely.”

‘The minstrel did not answer, but held his fiddle the more tightly to him, shrinking away.

‘“Nay, for courtesy’s sake,” said the musician.

‘“God’s eyes, thou wert best, thou scarecrow,” thundered the Lord from the dais.

‘In great dread the minstrel released his hold upon the fiddle; his hands fell awkwardly by his sides; he gazed foolishly at the floor. The musician took the instrument and the bow and passed them round among his fellows. Many were the mocking commendations they made upon it, but at the last they returned it to him with satirical compliments and courtesy.

‘“Play,” cried the Lord,--“Play, for thy hide’s sake, minstrel,” and he thumped the board again.

‘The minstrel held his fiddle and bow ready to play. He closed his eyes and swayed a little to and fro; the riot of colour and noise faded from his eyes and ears, it grew very silent. He felt himself alone on a far hillside; a small, still rain fell out of the clouds and murmured upon multitudinous leaves; a rainbow spanned the heavens and its misty radiance was reflected in watery meadows far away. Blue smoke went slowly up from the chimney of his mother’s cottage. Then the songs of his own country came to his heart and filled his eyes with tears. His fingers lovingly sought the keyboard, one moment he paused, then drew the bow over the strings.

‘A discordant shriek stridently echoed through the hushed hall: they had greased his bow.

‘A roar of laughter went up from the benches. He opened his eyes in agonized bewilderment and gazed uncomprehendingly at his fiddle.

‘“A right minstrel indeed,” shouted the guests.

‘“An ass to bray thus,” cried some.

‘“A beast to beard us thus,” cried others; and yet again, “Pelt him, pelt him!”

‘Some spat at him, some slung the wine from their goblets at him, others pelted him with broken piecrust and gobbets of custard and jelly and cake, and with apples and pears and nuts. Half-dazed he stood stock-still awhile, until at length an apple struck him full on the forehead and nearly brought him to the ground. The men guffawed till they cried and the women screamed with delight.

‘“Again, again,” they shrieked. “Bring the little devil down,” “Break his skull,” “Knock his eye out,” “A crown that I break his fiddle,” “Under the ear this time.” The lady at the dais drew a dagger from her girdle and, leaning over the table, aimed it with all her force at the minstrel. She snarled like a cat when she saw she had missed her aim. The noise of Hell went up from the hall.

‘With a sudden cry, the minstrel, clasping his fiddle and bow to his side, turned like a hunted hare, and, before any of the drunken feasters could stagger to their feet to stay him, had rushed through the hall and out at the great door. Lo, the Lord held this innocent in the hollow of His hand, for as he sped across the courtyard and drawbridge there was none to let him. Down the forest path he went, and down and down and down, leaping the great roots of oak and beech, bursting through the tall bracken, diving through the tangled undergrowth, falling headlong down the dry watercourses and gullies, and down and down and down until he came to the still water. Then up and up and up over the broad meadows, and up and up and up the hillside, with never a moment’s stay for breath, never a moment’s looking backward, up, up to Vill Beaumont cowering in the hollow of the ridge. At the top of the hill he ran full tilt into a group of villeins. They stood gazing toward the Castle, their countenances smitten with amazement and horror. They crossed themselves devoutly and uttered many a broken prayer.

‘“Look, look,” they cried, “Jesu! look,” and they pointed upwards.

‘The minstrel turned and gazed.

‘“Christ be merciful to me, a sinner,” cried a man hoarsely from the crowd.

‘“Amen.”

‘“The Lord deliver us from evil.”

‘“Amen.”

‘Castle Beaumont had disappeared. The great hill on which it had stood was covered with ancient trees even to its summit; a clear, still sky lay over it, against which a dozen black rooks flapped lazily homewards to their nests. The wide water reflected sky and hill and ancient forest as though in a quiet and eternal mirror. The minstrel fell upon his knees and sobbed as though his heart would break.’

* * * * *

‘Ah-h-h,’ said Watkin, drawing a long breath as the Friar concluded.

‘’Tis certain,’ said Long Hugh solemnly, after a long pause, ‘that the ways of the Lord are wonderful and not to be scanned.’

‘Good fellows all,’ said the Friar, ‘and you in especial, Ralph of the Skeely-Eye, we see by this true and notable ensample----’

‘Ah,’ interrupted Ralph, recovering from a fit of stupid amazement,--‘Ah, but be it true, Master Friar, be it true?’

‘As true as Holy Writ,’ said the Friar.

‘Didst thou know the castle?’ asked Ralph.

‘Nay, but the man who told me the tale swore to its truth by the bones of the Holy Saint Thomas.’

‘’Tis Gospel truth,’ quoth the stranger from the corner, where he sipped his warmed ale, and breaking in on the conversation for the first time. ‘I knew the castle well, and have been therein often myself.’

Meg of Four Lane Ends

I

It was very hot in the market-place. The sun blazed from a cloudless sky like a globe of molten brass. The houses on each side of the square threw a hard and narrow rim of shadow upon the pavement, above the scorched cobbles of which heat ceaselessly vibrated in waves. A couple of dogs lay panting under the market cross with glazed eyes, and dripping, projected tongues. The open market-place was well-nigh deserted, for folk could not cheapen and bargain with the fierce sunlight beating on the napes of their necks, and so had taken shelter from the sweltering heat in the neighbouring hostelries and canvas ale-booths. Only in the little patch of shade cast by the ‘Three Arrows’ stood a small group of hucksters selling petty wares. There was a fellow with bright-coloured ribbons and gloves, whose parched tongue had long since refused to perform its office; there was another with damsons and little green apples, whose thirst had driven him to devour almost as much as he had sold; there was an old woman fallen uneasily asleep upon the handle of a corded-in basket wherein half a dozen pullets clucked and struggled wearily; there was a chapman with a priceless elixir for Saint Antony’s fire, who sucked greedily at an empty tankard; there was an old man with a great green leaf on his head, sitting with closed eyes and clasped hands upon his basket of peascods; and there among the rest was Meg of Four Lane Ends, a fierce and uncouth figure, standing with arms akimbo and a sack of corn at her feet.

Meg was a good six foot high, with broad hips and shoulders, and an arm and fist like a blacksmith’s. She might have been one of those Amazons who, the learned say, are shut up in the North with Gog and Magog, whence they will come with terror and woe and destruction at the dreadful Doomsday. ‘God help the man she taketh to husband,’ folk were wont to say; but lo how the Lord in His Providence provides--she married Gilbert of the Four Lane Ends, a somewhat stern albeit a kindly man, and one who could knock down an ox with one blow of his fist.

Her red hair straggled in wisps across her freckled face, her nostrils quivered like a mettled horse’s, as she snuffed up the hot air, and her thin lips twitched and puckered nervously at the corners. Her steel-blue eyes now rested on the corn-sack at her feet and now roved wearily round the market-place, searching for possible customers. She had carried the corn on her back five long miles that morning; there were three good bushels of it, and no one had offered her more than twelvepence the bushel for it, a malison on them.

She saw John the Miller come slowly across the market-place. She moistened her parched, black lips with her tongue and cried out to him in a cracked voice, ‘Dost lack any corn, John Miller?’

He came across to her and, opening the sack, plunged his hand into the corn, running the grain through his fingers and feeling it between his finger and thumb.

‘I will give thee elevenpence the bushel,’ he said.

‘By Christ’s Passion,’ she answered him wrathfully, ‘I had rather fling it on the fire or to the swine.’

‘Nay, nay, be not an angered.’

‘I have been offered more this morning already.’

‘Ay, hast thou? Well then, twelvepence, I’ll say twelvepence the bushel.’

‘Nay, nor that either, as I am a mortal woman. Fourteenpence or I’ll not sell.’

John the Miller shook his head. ‘I cannot more than twelve,’ he said, ‘’tis a just price.’

‘Then, by the Lord,’ quoth Meg furiously, ‘’twill be for those that can and will.’

John the Miller shook his head again, smiled and passed on.

The Bailey called from within the hostelry of the ‘Three Arrows,’ where he drank his fourth flagon of ale.

‘I told thee, little Meg, thou shouldst not get better than twelvepence the bushel.’

‘To Hell with thee,’ screamed Meg furiously.

The market square was like a furnace, her mouth was parched as a lime-kiln, but she had no pennies wherewith to buy ale until her corn was sold. The houses, pens, and booths seemed to rise and fall before her eyes in a fierce wave of heat. Directly before her stood the Town Church, its front bathed in the white glare of the sunlight; she gazed at it with hard and half-unwitting eyes. The little door in the porch was slowly pushed open, and an old woman came out and hobbled away on her stick down the side of the market hill. The door, swinging slowly to again, gave a momentary glimpse of the cool and shadowy interior. Meg gazed awhile at the closed door; then she stooped, shouldered the heavy sack of corn, and slowly crossed the torrid market-place.

She pushed open the little door and entered the church. She crossed herself at the font with holy water, and lifted some of the water in her hands and bathed her hot and dusty face. She carried some of it to her lips, but it was too salt. Then she curtsied awkwardly to the Holy Altar, and going up to the rood-screen, sank down on her knees before a bench with her sack beside her. The church was very dark and still and cool, and the faint smell of flowers and incense filled it. Meg regarded the miraculous image of Our Lady and Her Blessed Babe, which, as folk think, was wrought by the Holy Saint Joseph himself in the exact portraiture of the Virgin and her Son. Before her shrine burned a dozen candles and the sacred lamp, which, according to usage, is never extinguished night nor day. The Blessed Virgin clasped the little Christ close to her bosom, but His little arms were stretched out towards Meg and His countenance gazed sweetly and lovingly upon her.

‘O little Jesu,’ cried Meg, stretching out her clasped hands in prayer and addressing Him, ‘I can get but twelvepence a bushel for my corn, which, as Thou knowest and can see for Thyself, is worth at least fourteenpence, yea and more, were it not for the good year. Thou knowest I am no wicked regrater to demand an unjust price from poor men because of their need, but only a poor labouring woman asking for a fair recompense for having lugged this heavy sack of corn five miles this morning, and for having stood like a sick dog three hours in the cursed market-place yonder. Do but grant me, Little Jesu, fourteenpence the bushel and I will buy thee a penny wax candle at Eastertide.’

She crossed herself and said ‘Hail Mary,’ then, taking her sack, went out into the market-place. Other folk had now come in to buy and sell, amongst them several rich Roodborough merchants; the sun was beginning to drop westwards; traffic was brisker in the lengthening patch of shadow under the ‘Three Arrows.’ She went across and took her stand in the busiest of the crowd. ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ she cried.

Presently she heard another cry ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ and then another, and looking round she saw a half-dozen upland folk had brought in corn with them and were selling it as fast as they could. She frowned and grated her teeth and cried the more shrilly, ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any corn?’ But although some asked her how much, none stayed to buy of her. After she had stood a full hour and her knees were weak with standing and her voice worn to a whisper with crying, the Bailey and John the Miller came by.

The Bailey laughed to see her still there with her corn unsold.

‘What, Meg, thou mad wench!’ he cried, ‘art thou still asking fourteenpence the bushel? Thou mightest cry it from now till Doomsday at that rate.’

‘Fourteenpence?’ quoth John the Miller. ‘’Tis no fair price, ’tis extortionate, good Meg.’

‘’Tis worth that or nothing,’ cried Meg hoarsely.