บทที่ บทที่ 1 · HOW THE BLACK SHEEP CAME FORTH FROM THE FOLD.

. HOW THE BLACK SHEEP CAME FORTH FROM THE FOLD.

The great bell of Beaulieu was ringing. Far away through the forest

might be heard its musical clangor and swell. Peat-cutters on Blackdown

and fishers upon the Exe heard the distant throbbing rising and falling

upon the sultry summer air. It was a common sound in those parts--as

common as the chatter of the jays and the booming of the bittern. Yet

the fishers and the peasants raised their heads and looked questions at

each other, for the angelus had already gone and vespers was still far

off. Why should the great bell of Beaulieu toll when the shadows were

neither short nor long?

All round the Abbey the monks were trooping in. Under the long

green-paved avenues of gnarled oaks and of lichened beeches the

white-robed brothers gathered to the sound. From the vine-yard and

the vine-press, from the bouvary or ox-farm, from the marl-pits and

salterns, even from the distant iron-works of Sowley and the outlying

grange of St. Leonard's, they had all turned their steps homewards. It

had been no sudden call. A swift messenger had the night before sped

round to the outlying dependencies of the Abbey, and had left the

summons for every monk to be back in the cloisters by the third hour

after noontide. So urgent a message had not been issued within the

memory of old lay-brother Athanasius, who had cleaned the Abbey knocker

since the year after the Battle of Bannockburn.

A stranger who knew nothing either of the Abbey or of its immense

resources might have gathered from the appearance of the brothers some

conception of the varied duties which they were called upon to perform,

and of the busy, wide-spread life which centred in the old monastery.

As they swept gravely in by twos and by threes, with bended heads and

muttering lips there were few who did not bear upon them some signs of

their daily toil. Here were two with wrists and sleeves all spotted

with the ruddy grape juice. There again was a bearded brother with

a broad-headed axe and a bundle of faggots upon his shoulders, while

beside him walked another with the shears under his arm and the white

wool still clinging to his whiter gown. A long, straggling troop bore

spades and mattocks while the two rearmost of all staggered along under

a huge basket o' fresh-caught carp, for the morrow was Friday, and there

were fifty platters to be filled and as many sturdy trenchermen behind

them. Of all the throng there was scarce one who was not labor-stained

and weary, for Abbot Berghersh was a hard man to himself and to others.

Meanwhile, in the broad and lofty chamber set apart for occasions of

import, the Abbot himself was pacing impatiently backwards and forwards,

with his long white nervous hands clasped in front of him. His thin,

thought-worn features and sunken, haggard cheeks bespoke one who had

indeed beaten down that inner foe whom every man must face, but had none

the less suffered sorely in the contest. In crushing his passions he had

well-nigh crushed himself. Yet, frail as was his person there gleamed

out ever and anon from under his drooping brows a flash of fierce

energy, which recalled to men's minds that he came of a fighting stock,

and that even now his twin-brother, Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, was one

of the most famous of those stern warriors who had planted the Cross of

St. George before the gates of Paris. With lips compressed and clouded

brow, he strode up and down the oaken floor, the very genius and

impersonation of asceticism, while the great bell still thundered and

clanged above his head. At last the uproar died away in three last,

measured throbs, and ere their echo had ceased the Abbot struck a small

gong which summoned a lay-brother to his presence.

“Have the brethren come?” he asked, in the Anglo-French dialect used in

religious houses.

“They are here,” the other answered, with his eyes cast down and his

hands crossed upon his chest.

“All?”

“Two and thirty of the seniors and fifteen of the novices, most holy

father. Brother Mark of the Spicarium is sore smitten with a fever and

could not come. He said that--”

“It boots not what he said. Fever or no, he should have come at my call.

His spirit must be chastened, as must that of many more in this Abbey.

You yourself, brother Francis, have twice raised your voice, so it hath

come to my ears, when the reader in the refectory hath been dealing with

the lives of God's most blessed saints. What hast thou to say?”

The lay-brother stood meek and silent, with his arms still crossed in

front of him.

“One thousand Aves and as many Credos, said standing with arms

outstretched before the shrine of the Virgin, may help thee to remember

that the Creator hath given us two ears and but one mouth, as a token

that there is twice the work for the one as for the other. Where is the

master of the novices?”

“He is without, most holy father.”

“Send him hither.”

The sandalled feet clattered over the wooden floor, and the iron-bound

door creaked upon its hinges. In a few moments it opened again to admit

a short square monk with a heavy, composed face and an authoritative

manner.

“You have sent for me, holy father?”

“Yes, brother Jerome, I wish that this matter be disposed of with as

little scandal as may be, and yet it is needful that the example should

be a public one.” The Abbot spoke in Latin now, as a language which was

more fitted by its age and solemnity to convey the thoughts of two high

dignitaries of the order.

“It would, perchance, be best that the novices be not admitted,”

suggested the master. “This mention of a woman may turn their minds from

their pious meditations to worldly and evil thoughts.”

“Woman! woman!” groaned the Abbot. “Well has the holy Chrysostom termed

them _radix malorum_. From Eve downwards, what good hath come from any

of them? Who brings the plaint?”

“It is brother Ambrose.”

“A holy and devout young man.”

“A light and a pattern to every novice.”

“Let the matter be brought to an issue then according to our old-time

monastic habit. Bid the chancellor and the sub-chancellor lead in the

brothers according to age, together with brother John, the accused, and

brother Ambrose, the accuser.”

“And the novices?”

“Let them bide in the north alley of the cloisters. Stay! Bid the

sub-chancellor send out to them Thomas the lector to read unto them

from the 'Gesta beati Benedicti.' It may save them from foolish and

pernicious babbling.”

The Abbot was left to himself once more, and bent his thin gray face

over his illuminated breviary. So he remained while the senior monks

filed slowly and sedately into the chamber seating themselves upon the

long oaken benches which lined the wall on either side. At the further

end, in two high chairs as large as that of the Abbot, though hardly as

elaborately carved, sat the master of the novices and the chancellor,

the latter a broad and portly priest, with dark mirthful eyes and a

thick outgrowth of crisp black hair all round his tonsured head. Between

them stood a lean, white-faced brother who appeared to be ill at ease,

shifting his feet from side to side and tapping his chin nervously with

the long parchment roll which he held in his hand. The Abbot, from his

point of vantage, looked down on the two long lines of faces, placid and

sun-browned for the most part, with the large bovine eyes and unlined

features which told of their easy, unchanging existence. Then he turned

his eager fiery gaze upon the pale-faced monk who faced him.

“This plaint is thine, as I learn, brother Ambrose,” said he. “May the

holy Benedict, patron of our house, be present this day and aid us in

our findings! How many counts are there?”

“Three, most holy father,” the brother answered in a low and quavering

voice.

“Have you set them forth according to rule?”

“They are here set down, most holy father, upon a cantle of sheep-skin.”

“Let the sheep-skin be handed to the chancellor. Bring in brother John,

and let him hear the plaints which have been urged against him.”

At this order a lay-brother swung open the door, and two other

lay-brothers entered leading between them a young novice of the order.

He was a man of huge stature, dark-eyed and red-headed, with a peculiar

half-humorous, half-defiant expression upon his bold, well-marked

features. His cowl was thrown back upon his shoulders, and his gown,

unfastened at the top, disclosed a round, sinewy neck, ruddy and corded

like the bark of the fir. Thick, muscular arms, covered with a reddish

down, protruded from the wide sleeves of his habit, while his white

shirt, looped up upon one side, gave a glimpse of a huge knotty leg,

scarred and torn with the scratches of brambles. With a bow to the

Abbot, which had in it perhaps more pleasantry than reverence, the

novice strode across to the carved prie-dieu which had been set apart

for him, and stood silent and erect with his hand upon the gold bell

which was used in the private orisons of the Abbot's own household. His

dark eyes glanced rapidly over the assembly, and finally settled with a

grim and menacing twinkle upon the face of his accuser.

The chancellor rose, and having slowly unrolled the parchment-scroll,

proceeded to read it out in a thick and pompous voice, while a subdued

rustle and movement among the brothers bespoke the interest with which

they followed the proceedings.

“Charges brought upon the second Thursday after the Feast of the

Assumption, in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and sixty-six,

against brother John, formerly known as Hordle John, or John of Hordle,

but now a novice in the holy monastic order of the Cistercians. Read

upon the same day at the Abbey of Beaulieu in the presence of the most

reverend Abbot Berghersh and of the assembled order.

“The charges against the said brother John are the following, namely, to

wit:

“First, that on the above-mentioned Feast of the Assumption, small beer

having been served to the novices in the proportion of one quart to

each four, the said brother John did drain the pot at one draught to

the detriment of brother Paul, brother Porphyry and brother Ambrose,

who could scarce eat their none-meat of salted stock-fish on account of

their exceeding dryness.”

At this solemn indictment the novice raised his hand and twitched his

lip, while even the placid senior brothers glanced across at each other

and coughed to cover their amusement. The Abbot alone sat gray and

immutable, with a drawn face and a brooding eye.

“Item, that having been told by the master of the novices that he should

restrict his food for two days to a single three-pound loaf of bran and

beans, for the greater honoring and glorifying of St. Monica, mother of

the holy Augustine, he was heard by brother Ambrose and others to say

that he wished twenty thousand devils would fly away with the said

Monica, mother of the holy Augustine, or any other saint who came

between a man and his meat. Item, that upon brother Ambrose reproving

him for this blasphemous wish, he did hold the said brother face

downwards over the piscatorium or fish-pond for a space during which

the said brother was able to repeat a pater and four aves for the better

fortifying of his soul against impending death.”

There was a buzz and murmur among the white-frocked brethren at this

grave charge; but the Abbot held up his long quivering hand. “What

then?” said he.

“Item, that between nones and vespers on the feast of James the Less the

said brother John was observed upon the Brockenhurst road, near the spot

which is known as Hatchett's Pond in converse with a person of the other

sex, being a maiden of the name of Mary Sowley, the daughter of the

King's verderer. Item, that after sundry japes and jokes the said

brother John did lift up the said Mary Sowley and did take, carry, and

convey her across a stream, to the infinite relish of the devil and the

exceeding detriment of his own soul, which scandalous and wilful falling

away was witnessed by three members of our order.”

A dead silence throughout the room, with a rolling of heads and

upturning of eyes, bespoke the pious horror of the community.

The Abbot drew his gray brows low over his fiercely questioning eyes.

“Who can vouch for this thing?” he asked.

“That can I,” answered the accuser. “So too can brother Porphyry, who

was with me, and brother Mark of the Spicarium, who hath been so much

stirred and inwardly troubled by the sight that he now lies in a fever

through it.”

“And the woman?” asked the Abbot. “Did she not break into lamentation

and woe that a brother should so demean himself?”

“Nay, she smiled sweetly upon him and thanked him. I can vouch it and so

can brother Porphyry.”

“Canst thou?” cried the Abbot, in a high, tempestuous tone. “Canst thou

so? Hast forgotten that the five-and-thirtieth rule of the order is that

in the presence of a woman the face should be ever averted and the eyes

cast down? Hast forgot it, I say? If your eyes were upon your sandals,

how came ye to see this smile of which ye prate? A week in your cells,

false brethren, a week of rye-bread and lentils, with double lauds and

double matins, may help ye to remembrance of the laws under which ye

live.”

At this sudden outflame of wrath the two witnesses sank their faces on

to their chests, and sat as men crushed. The Abbot turned his angry eyes

away from them and bent them upon the accused, who met his searching

gaze with a firm and composed face.

“What hast thou to say, brother John, upon these weighty things which

are urged against you?”

“Little enough, good father, little enough,” said the novice, speaking

English with a broad West Saxon drawl. The brothers, who were English

to a man, pricked up their ears at the sound of the homely and yet

unfamiliar speech; but the Abbot flushed red with anger, and struck his

hand upon the oaken arm of his chair.

“What talk is this?” he cried. “Is this a tongue to be used within the

walls of an old and well-famed monastery? But grace and learning have

ever gone hand in hand, and when one is lost it is needless to look for

the other.”

“I know not about that,” said brother John. “I know only that the words

come kindly to my mouth, for it was the speech of my fathers before me.

Under your favor, I shall either use it now or hold my peace.”

The Abbot patted his foot and nodded his head, as one who passes a point

but does not forget it.

“For the matter of the ale,” continued brother John, “I had come in hot

from the fields and had scarce got the taste of the thing before

mine eye lit upon the bottom of the pot. It may be, too, that I spoke

somewhat shortly concerning the bran and the beans, the same being poor

provender and unfitted for a man of my inches. It is true also that I

did lay my hands upon this jack-fool of a brother Ambrose, though, as

you can see, I did him little scathe. As regards the maid, too, it is

true that I did heft her over the stream, she having on her hosen and

shoon, whilst I had but my wooden sandals, which could take no hurt from

the water. I should have thought shame upon my manhood, as well as my

monkhood, if I had held back my hand from her.” He glanced around as

he spoke with the half-amused look which he had worn during the whole

proceedings.

“There is no need to go further,” said the Abbot. “He has confessed to

all. It only remains for me to portion out the punishment which is due

to his evil conduct.”

He rose, and the two long lines of brothers followed his example,

looking sideways with scared faces at the angry prelate.

“John of Hordle,” he thundered, “you have shown yourself during the two

months of your novitiate to be a recreant monk, and one who is unworthy

to wear the white garb which is the outer symbol of the spotless spirit.

That dress shall therefore be stripped from thee, and thou shalt be cast

into the outer world without benefit of clerkship, and without lot or

part in the graces and blessings of those who dwell under the care of

the Blessed Benedict. Thou shalt come back neither to Beaulieu nor to

any of the granges of Beaulieu, and thy name shall be struck off the

scrolls of the order.”

The sentence appeared a terrible one to the older monks, who had become

so used to the safe and regular life of the Abbey that they would have

been as helpless as children in the outer world. From their pious

oasis they looked dreamily out at the desert of life, a place full of

stormings and strivings--comfortless, restless, and overshadowed by

evil. The young novice, however, appeared to have other thoughts, for

his eyes sparkled and his smile broadened. It needed but that to add

fresh fuel to the fiery mood of the prelate.

“So much for thy spiritual punishment,” he cried. “But it is to thy

grosser feelings that we must turn in such natures as thine, and as

thou art no longer under the shield of holy church there is the less

difficulty. Ho there! lay-brothers--Francis, Naomi, Joseph--seize him

and bind his arms! Drag him forth, and let the foresters and the porters

scourge him from the precincts!”

As these three brothers advanced towards him to carry out the Abbot's

direction, the smile faded from the novice's face, and he glanced right

and left with his fierce brown eyes, like a bull at a baiting. Then,

with a sudden deep-chested shout, he tore up the heavy oaken prie-dieu

and poised it to strike, taking two steps backward the while, that none

might take him at a vantage.

“By the black rood of Waltham!” he roared, “if any knave among you lays

a finger-end upon the edge of my gown, I will crush his skull like a

filbert!” With his thick knotted arms, his thundering voice, and his

bristle of red hair, there was something so repellent in the man that

the three brothers flew back at the very glare of him; and the two rows

of white monks strained away from him like poplars in a tempest. The

Abbot only sprang forward with shining eyes; but the chancellor and the

master hung upon either arm and wrested him back out of danger's way.

“He is possessed of a devil!” they shouted. “Run, brother Ambrose,

brother Joachim! Call Hugh of the Mill, and Woodman Wat, and Raoul with

his arbalest and bolts. Tell them that we are in fear of our lives! Run,

run! for the love of the Virgin!”

But the novice was a strategist as well as a man of action. Springing

forward, he hurled his unwieldy weapon at brother Ambrose, and, as desk

and monk clattered on to the floor together, he sprang through the open

door and down the winding stair. Sleepy old brother Athanasius, at

the porter's cell, had a fleeting vision of twinkling feet and flying

skirts; but before he had time to rub his eyes the recreant had passed

the lodge, and was speeding as fast as his sandals could patter along

the Lyndhurst Road.