Kabanata Kabanata 7 · HOW THE THREE COMRADES JOURNEYED THROUGH THE WOODLANDS.

. HOW THE THREE COMRADES JOURNEYED THROUGH THE WOODLANDS.

At early dawn the country inn was all alive, for it was rare indeed

that an hour of daylight would be wasted at a time when lighting was so

scarce and dear. Indeed, early as it was when Dame Eliza began to stir,

it seemed that others could be earlier still, for the door was ajar,

and the learned student of Cambridge had taken himself off, with a

mind which was too intent upon the high things of antiquity to stoop

to consider the four-pence which he owed for bed and board. It was the

shrill out-cry of the landlady when she found her loss, and the clucking

of the hens, which had streamed in through the open door, that first

broke in upon the slumbers of the tired wayfarers.

Once afoot, it was not long before the company began to disperse. A

sleek mule with red trappings was brought round from some neighboring

shed for the physician, and he ambled away with much dignity upon his

road to Southampton. The tooth-drawer and the gleeman called for a cup

of small ale apiece, and started off together for Ringwood fair, the old

jongleur looking very yellow in the eye and swollen in the face after

his overnight potations. The archer, however, who had drunk more than

any man in the room, was as merry as a grig, and having kissed the

matron and chased the maid up the ladder once more, he went out to the

brook, and came back with the water dripping from his face and hair.

“Hola! my man of peace,” he cried to Alleyne, “whither are you bent this

morning?”

“To Minstead,” quoth he. “My brother Simon Edricson is socman there, and

I go to bide with him for a while. I prythee, let me have my score, good

dame.”

“Score, indeed!” cried she, standing with upraised hands in front of the

panel on which Alleyne had worked the night before. “Say, rather what

it is that I owe to thee, good youth. Aye, this is indeed a pied merlin,

and with a leveret under its claws, as I am a living woman. By the rood

of Waltham! but thy touch is deft and dainty.”

“And see the red eye of it!” cried the maid.

“Aye, and the open beak.”

“And the ruffled wing,” added Hordle John.

“By my hilt!” cried the archer, “it is the very bird itself.”

The young clerk flushed with pleasure at this chorus of praise, rude and

indiscriminate indeed, and yet so much heartier and less grudging than

any which he had ever heard from the critical brother Jerome, or the

short-spoken Abbot. There was, it would seem, great kindness as well as

great wickedness in this world, of which he had heard so little that was

good. His hostess would hear nothing of his paying either for bed or

for board, while the archer and Hordle John placed a hand upon either

shoulder and led him off to the board, where some smoking fish, a dish

of spinach, and a jug of milk were laid out for their breakfast.

“I should not be surprised to learn, mon camarade,” said the soldier, as

he heaped a slice of fish upon Alleyne's tranchoir of bread, “that you

could read written things, since you are so ready with your brushes and

pigments.”

“It would be shame to the good brothers of Beaulieu if I could not,” he

answered, “seeing that I have been their clerk this ten years back.”

The bowman looked at him with great respect. “Think of that!” said he.

“And you with not a hair to your face, and a skin like a girl. I can

shoot three hundred and fifty paces with my little popper there, and

four hundred and twenty with the great war-bow; yet I can make nothing

of this, nor read my own name if you were to set 'Sam Aylward' up

against me. In the whole Company there was only one man who could read,

and he fell down a well at the taking of Ventadour, which proves that

the thing is not suited to a soldier, though most needful to a clerk.”

“I can make some show at it,” said big John; “though I was scarce long

enough among the monks to catch the whole trick of it.

“Here, then, is something to try upon,” quoth the archer, pulling a

square of parchment from the inside of his tunic. It was tied securely

with a broad band of purple silk, and firmly sealed at either end with a

large red seal. John pored long and earnestly over the inscription upon

the back, with his brows bent as one who bears up against great mental

strain.

“Not having read much of late,” he said, “I am loth to say too much

about what this may be. Some might say one thing and some another, just

as one bowman loves the yew, and a second will not shoot save with the

ash. To me, by the length and the look of it, I should judge this to be

a verse from one of the Psalms.”

The bowman shook his head. “It is scarce likely,” he said, “that Sir

Claude Latour should send me all the way across seas with nought more

weighty than a psalm-verse. You have clean overshot the butts this time,

mon camarade. Give it to the little one. I will wager my feather-bed

that he makes more sense of it.”

“Why, it is written in the French tongue,” said Alleyne, “and in a

right clerkly hand. This is how it runs: 'A le moult puissant et moult

honorable chevalier, Sir Nigel Loring de Christchurch, de son tres

fidele ami Sir Claude Latour, capitaine de la Compagnie blanche,

chatelain de Biscar, grand seigneur de Montchateau, vavaseur de le

renomme Gaston, Comte de Foix, tenant les droits de la haute justice, de

la milieu, et de la basse.' Which signifies in our speech: 'To the very

powerful and very honorable knight, Sir Nigel Loring of Christchurch,

from his very faithful friend Sir Claude Latour, captain of the White

Company, chatelain of Biscar, grand lord of Montchateau and vassal to

the renowned Gaston, Count of Foix, who holds the rights of the high

justice, the middle and the low.'”

“Look at that now!” cried the bowman in triumph. “That is just what he

would have said.”

“I can see now that it is even so,” said John, examining the parchment

again. “Though I scarce understand this high, middle and low.”

“By my hilt! you would understand it if you were Jacques Bonhomme. The

low justice means that you may fleece him, and the middle that you may

torture him, and the high that you may slay him. That is about the truth

of it. But this is the letter which I am to take; and since the platter

is clean it is time that we trussed up and were afoot. You come with

me, mon gros Jean; and as to you, little one, where did you say that you

journeyed?”

“To Minstead.”

“Ah, yes. I know this forest country well, though I was born myself

in the Hundred of Easebourne, in the Rape of Chichester, hard by the

village of Midhurst. Yet I have not a word to say against the Hampton

men, for there are no better comrades or truer archers in the whole

Company than some who learned to loose the string in these very parts.

We shall travel round with you to Minstead lad, seeing that it is little

out of our way.”

“I am ready,” said Alleyne, right pleased at the thought of such company

upon the road.

“So am not I. I must store my plunder at this inn, since the hostess is

an honest woman. Hola! ma cherie, I wish to leave with you my gold-work,

my velvet, my silk, my feather bed, my incense-boat, my ewer, my naping

linen, and all the rest of it. I take only the money in a linen bag,

and the box of rose colored sugar which is a gift from my captain to the

Lady Loring. Wilt guard my treasure for me?”

“It shall be put in the safest loft, good archer. Come when you may, you

shall find it ready for you.”

“Now, there is a true friend!” cried the bowman, taking her hand. “There

is a bonne amie! English land and English women, say I, and French wine

and French plunder. I shall be back anon, mon ange. I am a lonely man,

my sweeting, and I must settle some day when the wars are over and done.

Mayhap you and I----Ah, mechante, mechante! There is la petite peeping

from behind the door. Now, John, the sun is over the trees; you must be

brisker than this when the bugleman blows 'Bows and Bills.'”

“I have been waiting this time back,” said Hordle John gruffly.

“Then we must be off. Adieu, ma vie! The two livres shall settle the

score and buy some ribbons against the next kermesse. Do not forget Sam

Aylward, for his heart shall ever be thine alone--and thine, ma petite!

So, marchons, and may St. Julian grant us as good quarters elsewhere!”

The sun had risen over Ashurst and Denny woods, and was shining

brightly, though the eastern wind had a sharp flavor to it, and the

leaves were flickering thickly from the trees. In the High Street of

Lyndhurst the wayfarers had to pick their way, for the little town

was crowded with the guardsmen, grooms, and yeomen prickers who were

attached to the King's hunt. The King himself was staying at Castle

Malwood, but several of his suite had been compelled to seek such

quarters as they might find in the wooden or wattle-and-daub cottages of

the village. Here and there a small escutcheon, peeping from a

glassless window, marked the night's lodging of knight or baron. These

coats-of-arms could be read, where a scroll would be meaningless, and

the bowman, like most men of his age, was well versed in the common

symbols of heraldry.

“There is the Saracen's head of Sir Bernard Brocas,” quoth he. “I saw

him last at the ruffle at Poictiers some ten years back, when he bore

himself like a man. He is the master of the King's horse, and can sing

a right jovial stave, though in that he cannot come nigh to Sir John

Chandos, who is first at the board or in the saddle. Three martlets on a

field azure, that must be one of the Luttrells. By the crescent upon it,

it should be the second son of old Sir Hugh, who had a bolt through his

ankle at the intaking of Romorantin, he having rushed into the fray ere

his squire had time to clasp his solleret to his greave. There too is

the hackle which is the old device of the De Brays. I have served under

Sir Thomas de Bray, who was as jolly as a pie, and a lusty swordsman

until he got too fat for his harness.”

So the archer gossiped as the three wayfarers threaded their way among

the stamping horses, the busy grooms, and the knots of pages and squires

who disputed over the merits of their masters' horses and deer-hounds.

As they passed the old church, which stood upon a mound at the left-hand

side of the village street the door was flung open, and a stream of

worshippers wound down the sloping path, coming from the morning mass,

all chattering like a cloud of jays. Alleyne bent knee and doffed hat at

the sight of the open door; but ere he had finished an ave his comrades

were out of sight round the curve of the path, and he had to run to

overtake them.

“What!” he said, “not one word of prayer before God's own open house?

How can ye hope for His blessing upon the day?”

“My friend,” said Hordle John, “I have prayed so much during the last

two months, not only during the day, but at matins, lauds, and the like,

when I could scarce keep my head upon my shoulders for nodding, that I

feel that I have somewhat over-prayed myself.”

“How can a man have too much religion?” cried Alleyne earnestly. “It is

the one thing that availeth. A man is but a beast as he lives from day

to day, eating and drinking, breathing and sleeping. It is only when

he raises himself, and concerns himself with the immortal spirit within

him, that he becomes in very truth a man. Bethink ye how sad a thing

it would be that the blood of the Redeemer should be spilled to no

purpose.”

“Bless the lad, if he doth not blush like any girl, and yet preach like

the whole College of Cardinals,” cried the archer.

“In truth I blush that any one so weak and so unworthy as I should

try to teach another that which he finds it so passing hard to follow

himself.”

“Prettily said, mon garcon. Touching that same slaying of the Redeemer,

it was a bad business. A good padre in France read to us from a scroll

the whole truth of the matter. The soldiers came upon him in the garden.

In truth, these Apostles of His may have been holy men, but they were of

no great account as men-at-arms. There was one, indeed, Sir Peter, who

smote out like a true man; but, unless he is belied, he did but clip

a varlet's ear, which was no very knightly deed. By these ten

finger-bones! had I been there with Black Simon of Norwich, and but one

score picked men of the Company, we had held them in play. Could we do

no more, we had at least filled the false knight, Sir Judas, so full of

English arrows that he would curse the day that ever he came on such an

errand.”

The young clerk smiled at his companion's earnestness. “Had He wished

help,” he said, “He could have summoned legions of archangels from

heaven, so what need had He of your poor bow and arrow? Besides, bethink

you of His own words--that those who live by the sword shall perish by

the sword.”

“And how could man die better?” asked the archer. “If I had my wish, it

would be to fall so--not, mark you, in any mere skirmish of the Company,

but in a stricken field, with the great lion banner waving over us and

the red oriflamme in front, amid the shouting of my fellows and the

twanging of the strings. But let it be sword, lance, or bolt that

strikes me down: for I should think it shame to die from an iron ball

from the fire-crake or bombard or any such unsoldierly weapon, which is

only fitted to scare babes with its foolish noise and smoke.”

“I have heard much even in the quiet cloisters of these new and dreadful

engines,” quoth Alleyne. “It is said, though I can scarce bring myself

to believe it, that they will send a ball twice as far as a bowman

can shoot his shaft, and with such force as to break through armor of

proof.”

“True enough, my lad. But while the armorer is thrusting in his

devil's-dust, and dropping his ball, and lighting his flambeau, I

can very easily loose six shafts, or eight maybe, so he hath no great

vantage after all. Yet I will not deny that at the intaking of a town

it is well to have good store of bombards. I am told that at Calais they

made dints in the wall that a man might put his head into. But surely,

comrades, some one who is grievously hurt hath passed along this road

before us.”

All along the woodland track there did indeed run a scattered straggling

trail of blood-marks, sometimes in single drops, and in other places in

broad, ruddy gouts, smudged over the dead leaves or crimsoning the white

flint stones.

“It must be a stricken deer,” said John.

“Nay, I am woodman enough to see that no deer hath passed this way this

morning; and yet the blood is fresh. But hark to the sound!”

They stood listening all three with sidelong heads. Through the silence

of the great forest there came a swishing, whistling sound, mingled

with the most dolorous groans, and the voice of a man raised in a

high quavering kind of song. The comrades hurried onwards eagerly, and

topping the brow of a small rising they saw upon the other side the

source from which these strange noises arose.

A tall man, much stooped in the shoulders, was walking slowly with

bended head and clasped hands in the centre of the path. He was dressed

from head to foot in a long white linen cloth, and a high white cap

with a red cross printed upon it. His gown was turned back from his

shoulders, and the flesh there was a sight to make a man wince, for it

was all beaten to a pulp, and the blood was soaking into his gown and

trickling down upon the ground. Behind him walked a smaller man with his

hair touched with gray, who was clad in the same white garb. He intoned

a long whining rhyme in the French tongue, and at the end of every line

he raised a thick cord, all jagged with pellets of lead, and smote his

companion across the shoulders until the blood spurted again. Even as

the three wayfarers stared, however, there was a sudden change, for the

smaller man, having finished his song, loosened his own gown and handed

the scourge to the other, who took up the stave once more and lashed

his companion with all the strength of his bare and sinewy arm. So,

alternately beating and beaten, they made their dolorous way through the

beautiful woods and under the amber arches of the fading beech-trees,

where the calm strength and majesty of Nature might serve to rebuke the

foolish energies and misspent strivings of mankind.

Such a spectacle was new to Hordle John or to Alleyne Edricson; but the

archer treated it lightly, as a common matter enough.

“These are the Beating Friars, otherwise called the Flagellants,” quoth

he. “I marvel that ye should have come upon none of them before, for

across the water they are as common as gallybaggers. I have heard that

there are no English among them, but that they are from France, Italy

and Bohemia. En avant, camarades! that we may have speech with them.”

As they came up to them, Alleyne could hear the doleful dirge which the

beater was chanting, bringing down his heavy whip at the end of each

line, while the groans of the sufferer formed a sort of dismal chorus.

It was in old French, and ran somewhat in this way:

Or avant, entre nous tous freres

Battons nos charognes bien fort

En remembrant la grant misere

De Dieu et sa piteuse mort

Qui fut pris en la gent amere

Et vendus et trais a tort

Et bastu sa chair, vierge et dere

Au nom de ce battons plus fort.

Then at the end of the verse the scourge changed hands and the chanting

began anew.

“Truly, holy fathers,” said the archer in French as they came abreast of

them, “you have beaten enough for to-day. The road is all spotted like a

shambles at Martinmas. Why should ye mishandle yourselves thus?”

“C'est pour vos peches--pour vos peches,” they droned, looking at the

travellers with sad lack-lustre eyes, and then bent to their bloody

work once more without heed to the prayers and persuasions which were

addressed to them. Finding all remonstrance useless, the three comrades

hastened on their way, leaving these strange travellers to their dreary

task.

“Mort Dieu!” cried the bowman, “there is a bucketful or more of my blood

over in France, but it was all spilled in hot fight, and I should think

twice before I drew it drop by drop as these friars are doing. By my

hilt! our young one here is as white as a Picardy cheese. What is amiss

then, mon cher?”

“It is nothing,” Alleyne answered. “My life has been too quiet, I am not

used to such sights.”

“Ma foi!” the other cried, “I have never yet seen a man who was so stout

of speech and yet so weak of heart.”

“Not so, friend,” quoth big John; “it is not weakness of heart for I

know the lad well. His heart is as good as thine or mine but he hath

more in his pate than ever you will carry under that tin pot of thine,

and as a consequence he can see farther into things, so that they weigh

upon him more.”

“Surely to any man it is a sad sight,” said Alleyne, “to see these

holy men, who have done no sin themselves, suffering so for the sins of

others. Saints are they, if in this age any may merit so high a name.”

“I count them not a fly,” cried Hordle John; “for who is the better for

all their whipping and yowling? They are like other friars, I trow, when

all is done. Let them leave their backs alone, and beat the pride out of

their hearts.”

“By the three kings! there is sooth in what you say,” remarked the

archer. “Besides, methinks if I were le bon Dieu, it would bring me

little joy to see a poor devil cutting the flesh off his bones; and I

should think that he had but a small opinion of me, that he should hope

to please me by such provost-marshal work. No, by my hilt! I should look

with a more loving eye upon a jolly archer who never harmed a fallen foe

and never feared a hale one.”

“Doubtless you mean no sin,” said Alleyne. “If your words are wild, it

is not for me to judge them. Can you not see that there are other foes

in this world besides Frenchmen, and as much glory to be gained in

conquering them? Would it not be a proud day for knight or squire if he

could overthrow seven adversaries in the lists? Yet here are we in the

lists of life, and there come the seven black champions against us Sir

Pride, Sir Covetousness, Sir Lust, Sir Anger, Sir Gluttony, Sir Envy,

and Sir Sloth. Let a man lay those seven low, and he shall have the

prize of the day, from the hands of the fairest queen of beauty, even

from the Virgin-Mother herself. It is for this that these men mortify

their flesh, and to set us an example, who would pamper ourselves

overmuch. I say again that they are God's own saints, and I bow my head

to them.”

“And so you shall, mon petit,” replied the archer. “I have not heard

a man speak better since old Dom Bertrand died, who was at one time

chaplain to the White Company. He was a very valiant man, but at

the battle of Brignais he was spitted through the body by a Hainault

man-at-arms. For this we had an excommunication read against the man,

when next we saw our holy father at Avignon; but as we had not his name,

and knew nothing of him, save that he rode a dapple-gray roussin, I have

feared sometimes that the blight may have settled upon the wrong man.”

“Your Company has been, then, to bow knee before our holy father, the

Pope Urban, the prop and centre of Christendom?” asked Alleyne, much

interested. “Perchance you have yourself set eyes upon his august face?”

“Twice I saw him,” said the archer. “He was a lean little rat of a man,

with a scab on his chin. The first time we had five thousand crowns out

of him, though he made much ado about it. The second time we asked ten

thousand, but it was three days before we could come to terms, and I

am of opinion myself that we might have done better by plundering the

palace. His chamberlain and cardinals came forth, as I remember, to

ask whether we would take seven thousand crowns with his blessing and

a plenary absolution, or the ten thousand with his solemn ban by bell,

book and candle. We were all of one mind that it was best to have the

ten thousand with the curse; but in some way they prevailed upon Sir

John, so that we were blest and shriven against our will. Perchance it

is as well, for the Company were in need of it about that time.”

The pious Alleyne was deeply shocked by this reminiscence. Involuntarily

he glanced up and around to see if there were any trace of those

opportune levin-flashes and thunderbolts which, in the “Acta Sanctorum,”

were wont so often to cut short the loose talk of the scoffer. The

autumn sun streamed down as brightly as ever, and the peaceful red path

still wound in front of them through the rustling, yellow-tinted forest,

Nature seemed to be too busy with her own concerns to heed the dignity

of an outraged pontiff. Yet he felt a sense of weight and reproach

within his breast, as though he had sinned himself in giving ear to such

words. The teachings of twenty years cried out against such license. It

was not until he had thrown himself down before one of the many wayside

crosses, and had prayed from his heart both for the archer and for

himself, that the dark cloud rolled back again from his spirit.