Boston was surrounded by high and thick walls fortified with turrets and bulwarks. It was reached from the main highway to Lincoln by a rough road through the morasses which terminated in a big wooden bridge across the Lindis River, now called the Witham. The outer gate or Bridgegate, was in disuse at this time, but the inner one, St. Botolph’s gate, was inhabited by a porter whose business it was to collect toll of all who entered this way with merchandise. Market days and fair days were busy days for him, and by night his bag was heavy with farthings and pennies, but other days not many passed into the town. Occasionally there would be a knight attended by his squire who perhaps might be looking for some rich burgher’s daughter whose marriage portion would be worthy of weighing against his lineage and knightly reputation; sometimes a group of monks on muleback would ride out on a pilgrimage; and always and ever there were rascals of one kind or another, for the world was full of them and they traveled in many disguises.
Of all who came and went Simon Gough kept note, as he hastened out from his dim, stone-walled room in the gatehouse at the sound of approaching steps. Simon Gough was in the service of Sir Frederick Tilney, who was warden of the bridge appointed by the king. In return for permission to collect toll Sir Frederick was pledged to keep the bridge in good condition, and this he had honestly done. He was the head of a Boston family of good tradition. The Blackfriars monastery which now spread from Shodfriar Lane to Spain Lane, a space of some ten acres, was founded at the end of the thirteenth century by a member of the Tilney family, and the cornerstone of St. Botolph’s church itself was laid in 1309 by Dame Margery Tilney. Again and again in important events in the growth of Boston, the Tilney family had figured, and today Sir Frederick held the high position of Mayor of the Staple, for Boston had been made a staple town. This meant no more than that it was one of the towns authorized by the king to be a depot for the export of wool, sheepskins, and English leather. Hence to Boston came foreign merchants to buy, and they were known to the townspeople as “Easterlings,” and were looked upon with suspicion.
On a night in early April Simon Gough was awaiting the setting of the sun before shutting the great oak gate, heavily barred with iron. He stood in the archway, his feet wide apart, looking down the road to see if he could spy any traveler who might be headed toward the town. If one should in another moment appear around the wall of the Whitefriars convent, which was laid out with its buildings, orchard, and gardens on the west side of the Lindis, there would time for him to make the town. If he were five minutes later, he would have to seek shelter at the monastery or in some peasant hut on the ridge beyond.
Even as he stood there in his coarse burel tunic with dagger at his belt, a man did appear around the monastery wall and approach the bridge. He wore the flowing gown and hood of a friar, and he was hurrying clumsily, showing that he was aware of the need for haste.
As he set foot on the bridge, Simon addressed him.
“Good even, holy brother; if thou hadst been one moment later thou wouldst not have been greeted by my ruddy countenance with the sun shining on it, but by the blank faces of Sister Oak and Brother Iron. Hasten or they will pinch thy heels.”
The friar who stumbled hastily through the gate wore the habit of the Blackfriars or Dominican brotherhood, consisting of a black mantle under which could be seen a white tunic, a black hood, and a scapulary, which fell far over the shoulders.
“Good even to thee, good Simon; thou art as prompt in the discharge of thy duties as we who serve a greater Master than thou!”
Simon scrutinized him more closely when he spoke his name. “I prithee do not ‘good Simon’ me, for I know thee not. At least,” he hastened to add, “I should not say I ever before saw that face behind a friar’s hood.”
The friar did not stop but called back over his shoulder, “God will send blessings thy way if thou but continue to discharge thy duties.”
Simon watched him out of sight and until his sandaled feet could no longer be heard on the cobbled street.
“Well, it is no business of mine,” he muttered, as he turned to draw the heavy gate to, with a clanking of chains and bolts, “but it certainly does seem as if I always saw that face coming in through the gate and never going out.” Sitting down for a minute on the lowest step of the gatehouse, he picked up what he thought to be a flat stone, and making a long mark on the cobble in front of him, he muttered, “Yesterweek it was in a peasant smock sitting on a mule with a bag of grain slung in front of him.” He made another mark on the stone. “Two days later it was on a chapman who was loath to give me a farthing for his pack.” Another mark was drawn on the stone. “Two days ago it was in a minstrel’s garb, and now there it goes in a friar’s habit, and it’s not Simon Gough who makes a mistake in faces. Moreover he did not walk as though he were used to the flapping of cloth around his legs.”
He threw the object he held carelessly against the wall of the gatehouse, but it bounded back again to his feet with a metallic sound, and he stooped to pick it up.
“By our good St. Botolph, who am I to be throwing away a gold noble? If these be the blessings that will come my way, far be it from me to go out of that same way to pursue trouble, be it garbed like the Evil One himself.” He rubbed the money on his sleeve, and removed the dust which had dimmed its brightness and made it seem no more than a worthless stone. Plainly enough on one side appeared the outline of the ship in which stood the king holding sword and shield, and on the other, the letter and cross surrounded by small crowns and fleur-de-lis.
Chuckling at his good fortune, Simon stowed the coin in his pouch, took down the great iron key from a ledge inside the door, locked the guardroom, and betook himself into the town.
Entering the town from St. Botolph’s gate one did not really encounter many signs of life until the main street led into the market place. On one side were high walls enclosing an ancient nunnery and on the other the blank wall of Bailiff Hugh Witham’s home, a three-story house of timber, which faced toward Bargate. In the center of the market place was a market cross, a large one with a square tower. From all sides, alleys, well packed with houses whose gabled fronts all but touched across the narrow way, tumbled into the market place.
In front of the “Golden Fleece” tavern which stood opposite the parish church, many of the townsfolk had congregated this evening. There were aldermen in scarlet gowns; merchants, clerks, and craftsmen in sober colors; and a group of young men in the latest court fashion, gay in purple, orange, green, and blue. As Simon drew near, he saw that a minstrel was the center of attention, and he hastened that he might not miss the song.
The minstrel’s voice rang out clear and mellow. His face was in half shadow, for he stood leaning against the frame of the tavern doorway, so that those who were sitting at the big table within might hear as well as those without. Flickering rushlights played upon the whole scene, making faces ruddy and pale in turn and pewter tankards gleam and grow dull. The odor of ale hung heavy under the low rafters.
It was the noble Moringer within an orchard slept,
When on the Baron’s slumbering sense a boding vision crept,
And whispered in his ear a voice, “’Tis time, Sir Knight, to wake,
Thy lady and thy heritage another master take.
“Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another’s will thy gallant vassal train;
And she the lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair,
This night within thy father’s hall, she weds Marstetten’s heir.”
Simon looked around him. All eyes were fixed on the minstrel, who was clad in a green doublet with flowing sleeves, and red hose. The silver chain with the badge such as was common for a minstrel to wear to show to what house he belonged, gleamed on his breast. It was a long story which he had to tell, but the townsfolk did not tire of it. Only the young noblemen tittered occasionally or nudged one another as if this was but poor amusement in comparison with what they we
re used to at court.
Verse after verse followed. The Moringer, a powerful baron, had set out on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Thomas, but before going had called together his vassals and offered his castle, dominions, and lady to the one who would pledge himself to watch over them until the seven years of his pilgrimage were ended. The seven years except for a night and a day were passed, when he was warned in a vision that his lady was on the eve of marriage to Marstetten, the very vassal who had taken upon himself the trust. By a miracle of St. Thomas, the Moringer was able to gain his domain before it was too late.
He leaned upon his pilgrim staff, and to the mill he drew,
So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew,
The baron to the miller said, “Good friend, for charity
Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings there may be!”
The miller answered him again, he knew of little news
Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose;
“Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord.”
Unrecognized, the pilgrim gained admission to the wedding feast, and dropping his nuptial ring into the goblet of wine with which he asked the lady to pledge her venerable guest, he made known his presence to her and to Marstetten.
It was the Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew,
He kneeled before the Moringer, and down his weapon threw;
“My oath and knightly faith are broke,” these were the words he said,
“Then take, my liege, thy vassal’s sword, and take thy vassal’s head.”
The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say,
“He gathers wisdom that hath roamed this seven twelvemonths and a day.
My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair;
I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir.
“The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old,
Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually were told,
But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate,
For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.”
When the minstrel had finished, there was a stir of general approval and an opening of pouches, for all were glad to give a penny or two for such fine entertainment. Tucking his harp carefully under his arm, the minstrel picked his way among the bystanders, collecting the coins in his silken hood.
When he reached the group in which Simon stood, Simon was taken aback with astonishment. Here he saw again the straight nose, high cheek-bones, and bright blue eyes under shaggy eyebrows which he had only a short time before seen in the friar’s hood. He passed his hand in bewilderment over his own eyes. Then he opened his pouch as the minstrel stood beside him, but instead of withdrawing his hand with the penny he sought, he stared in amazement at a second noble which appeared in it as the minstrel passed by him, singing the last two lines of the ballad he had just finished.
But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate,
For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.
CHAPTER II
Enter Tod of the Fens
“Good morrow!” said a tall man, stepping out of the wayside bushes and addressing a beggar who came along a rough path that ran beside the Lindis River. “Art thou on thy way to Boston?”
“Ay,” was the surly answer, and the beggar turned aside to adjust a patch over one eye, for he was taken unawares, and had been enjoying the sight of the eye that needs must be blinded when he plied his trade.
“Such a poor beggar as thou deserves much pity. I see thou art blind in one eye, poor soul. May St. Catherine heal thee! I suppose thy purse be as empty as thy poor pate. Out with it and let me see!”
The tall fellow who spoke wore a tawny-colored jerkin with loose sleeves of blue and scarlet and stout leather leggings. His head was uncovered and his hair grew heavy and almost to his shoulders. His broad frame and the stout staff which he carried filled the narrow way. The beggar began to whimper and to try to hide his leather wallet that hung among his rags.
“Out with it!” commanded the man again, “for I am loath to lay hands upon thy dirty rags! Seest thou this hand.” And he held up his right hand, which bore a deep scar as if pierced through by a dagger. “Take off thy patch that thou mayst see the better. Know then, that that means I have wounded a man, and what a man does once that can he do again an he would.”
In those days a man who was caught having wounded another, had the choice of paying a heavy fine, of being imprisoned for a year, or of having his hand pierced by the weapon that did the deed. Without more ado, the beggar loosed his wallet, and turning it up gingerly shook a few farthings and pennies into his hand.
“Up with it, man, and show me the bottom.”
The beggar, thus urged, turned up the wallet, the coins filled his hand, and a few fell over to the ground. The beggar made a quick movement as if to recover these.
“Nay, leave them be,” was the curt order. “Now put the rest back in thy wallet and be off before I have a change of heart.”
The beggar did as he was bid with more speed than he had yet shown in carrying out any command, and soon he disappeared around a bend in the road, where he concealed himself in the bushes.
“Mayhap he will not find the farthing that rolled into the grass,” he thought, as he hid himself to wait.
After a little while he cautiously peered around the curve of the path. No one was in sight, so he advanced slowly and warily. Having gained the spot where the disaster took place, he stopped in amazement. There on the ground lay every groat, penny, and farthing that he had dropped.
Meanwhile the other participant in the adventure walked in the other direction. He walked lightly and whistled as he went. Occasionally he stopped whistling and laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. “The world be full of fools,” he muttered. “How they toil and sweat and cheat and lie for a handful of dirty coins! Well, I have but this right hand to remind me that I once was a fool, too, but thank God I am no more. Heigh-ho! A good tale to tell the band this even.”
He had gained a rise of ground and stopped a moment to look around him. Behind lay the great stretch of fens with St. Botolph’s steeple rising beyond them and against the sea. Below wound the sparkling Lindis like a silver ribbon through green meadows and pasture lands where flocks of sheep grazed, and here and there could be seen the thatched roof of a peasant cottage.
“Aha!” laughed he. “There is the wretch even now groveling for his money. I knew he would be back to have a look, and I wager he is more surprised than if he found his rags were changed to silk.”
He turned again. On the left was the thread of highroad leading to Lincoln and farther on skirting the fringe of Sherwood Forest. Here where the rough country lane joined the highway was an alehouse, as could be seen by the pole with a brush on it which projected over the door.
On the rude bench before the door a man sat drinking ale, who immediately spoke.
“I give thee good morrow, and if thou wilt stop and have a drink with me, all that I ask is to be amused for an hour.”
“Thou hast found the right person to do that,” was the quick response, “be thou as dull-witted as a mitered abbot, and I can promise thee more than an hour’s entertainment if thou wilt do as I bid.”
“What is thy name, and whence comest thou?”
“Some men do call me Tod of the Fens and others who are as niggard with their words as with their farthings simply call me Tod, and I care not so long as they shear only my name.”
“What meanest thou by that?”
“Alack! Where wast thou bred that thou canst not understand a good pun? Dost not know the meaning of ‘tod’? It is a good measure of wool and it is this crop of mine that gives me my name,” and Tod shook his shaggy head.
“Fetch an
other pint of ale,” called the stranger to the alewife who put her frowsled head out at the sound of voices. She withdrew it and soon appeared with a foaming mug.
Tod seated himself likewise on the bench and drank deeply. Wiping his arm across his mouth, he eyed his companion covertly. He was a young, clean-shaven man with blue eyes deep-set under heavy eyebrows. He wore the livery of some noble, a blue mantle with scarf and hat with cock’s feather.
“In whose service art thou?” asked Tod, after his second draught had emptied his mug.
“I am in the service of Tedium and would leave it forthwith. What canst thou offer?”
“If thou wilt take service with me, thou wilt be serving Sir Mockery and a merry time thou wilt have, I promise.” And Tod threw back his head and let out such a roar of laughter that the stranger clapped his hand over his ears.
“Hold!” he shouted, “wouldst shatter my eardrums?”
Tod stopped but long enough to take a deep breath that swelled his chest to an amazing degree, and then followed a burst that was second to the other in sequence but not in lustiness.
The stranger dropped his hands and stared. “Egad!” he ejaculated, and then as the laugh died away so that he could be heard, he continued, “If thou canst do better than that last and not burst thyself, I will join thee for a fortnight and a day, that I may learn the art. At the end of that time I should at least be able to pucker this melancholy face of mine into a smile, learning from such an artist.”
Tod took up the offer, if one may judge by appearances, for the next moment the alewife appeared, scolding at the disturbance that surely would roil her ale, and only the heels of the stranger were to be seen, for his ears had sought protection in an empty ale barrel which lay on its side not far from the alehouse.
The Young Adult Award-Winners Megapack Page 45
