“And they, too, are confined in a little enclosure and can but dream of things beyond,” sighed Johanna.
“Ay,” answered Brother Stephen, “but remember that they look straight up to Heaven, and does he who can see Heaven care that he cannot see the things of the Earth?”
Brother Stephen dropped the spade with which he had been loosening the earth in the flower beds, and getting down on his knees, he carefully worked around the roots of the young plants with his hands. Johanna liked to watch his serene face as he cared for the flowers he loved so dearly.
“Dear Brother Stephen, thou knowest I am not good as thou art, but I am not so bad that I am not grateful for thy teaching.”
Then as the shadows deepened around the Gothic walls of the convent with its lofty windows stained with lovely colors, Brother Stephen told her of St. Hugh. In a picturesque valley of France watered by the river Isere and surrounded by hills covered with scattered ruins, there was a castle in which dwelt a family whose armorial bearings bore proof of its noble origin. This was the castle of Avalon, and here was born Hugh of Avalon, later to be known as St. Hugh of Lincoln. Far off on the distant horizon from his home stood the great walls of rock which hid from the world the monastery of Grande Chartreuse. In this solitary place, surrounded by dense forests and roaring torrents, Hugh spent his young manhood in prayer and fasting. Then one day came a messenger from England from King Henry II, begging that one of the monks ordained in that order be sent to England to found a monastery. Hugh was chosen, and with great regret he left his beloved refuge and went forth to serve others. He built the monastery, and strove to give his monks a real love of the rule which was a rigid one. Later he was called to be Bishop of Lincoln, and with his own hands he helped to build its great cathedral.
“And what of the swan, Brother Stephen?” asked Johanna.
“A great wild white swan that lived in a lake near the bishop’s palace would allow only St. Hugh to touch him. When St. Hugh was at home, the swan would be near by, but when he was away, it would escape to its wild haunts, always to reappear when St. Hugh was expected to return and be the first to greet him.”
“And dost thou really think St. Hugh always regretted having left Grande Chartreuse and having come to England?”
“Nay,” answered Brother Stephen quickly, “he was ready to serve God here, and he loved his people, but his spirit longed for the deep meditation of that great, silent monastery. When the day came for him to go to be consecrated into the new office of Bishop of Lincoln, horsemen arrived to conduct him in state to London. They were mounted on magnificent horses, richly caparisoned, and in their midst on muleback rode good St. Hugh, bareheaded and simply clad, with a bundle of sheepskins which was his bed, fastened on behind.”
“Is it not true, Brother Stephen, that some men are born to be saints, whereas others may be born to be—Merchant Adventurers, mayhap?” and Johanna watched Brother Stephen’s face closely as she said this.
“There is more than one way of serving God in this world, Johanna, but I can lead thee to Him only by ways of the spirit. Thou must learn of the good ways of the world from another teacher than I.”
“But thou hast seen the world, Brother Stephen. Thou hast wandered far.”
“Ay,” answered Brother Stephen. “I have sailed over many leagues of water and have trod many stretches of desolate land to pray and fast in the holy places.” With his back to the sun he lifted his head, and looked off. “Far, far to the east is the Holy Land, and the hearts of men are still ringing with the cry of the First Crusade! It is the Will of God!”
“But what is to the west?” Johanna asked suddenly with childlike impetuosity, and turned to look full into the glory of the setting sun.
Just then the convent bell rang for vespers, and Brother Stephen, slowly shaking his head, picked up his spade and withdrew, repeating over and over again, “It is the Will of God! It is the Will of God!”
So indeed did the saints look to the East and the Holy Land, but the Merchant Adventurers came to look to the great unknown West which had yet to be explored and settled, and on the lips of many of them were the words of the First Crusade, “God Wills It.”
CHAPTER VIII
Lord Arundel in the Fens
Lord Arundel left by Wormgate, as he was instructed, shortly before noon. He was rather filled with misgivings, for he knew enough of Prince Henry’s ways to feel that they might lead the man who took them into unfamiliar and somewhat hazardous places, but underneath his fine clothes Lord Arundel carried a stout heart and one that was not averse to a moderate degree of adventure.
“’Twill be worth something if indeed the payment will cover a new outfit of clothes,” he thought, as he pushed the skiff out into the river and took up the oars. “To do that it must be around two marks, and I was but thinking yesterday that I should have a hard time securing that amount for several months yet.”
Below at the quay many ships and fishing boats were at anchor, and traders and shipmen were actively plying back and forth in small boats laden with bales and barrels. Soon Lord Arundel passed beyond all this, and as the current was strong, he tucked up his sleeves and set himself to work at the oars.
“He said to take the inlet by the large oak tree, and there it is ahead,” he muttered between pulls. “Then must I paddle and pole through a shallow lagoon, and so through the reeds and rushes into a small lake.” He rested a moment on his oars and shook out his tunic that it might not get into great disorder. “What strikes me as a little uncommon is that a fenman, and an honest one at that, should have as much as two marks to lay in a wager. If he were not honest, it would not be so hard to believe, but being honest, as the prince claims him to be, it is a large amount to expect him to hand over, and if he were dishonest, he would not be likely to pay it. However, I can but do as the prince said and wait to see the results.”
Now Lord Arundel ceased to wonder at other than the pleasant country around him. His way took him between dark green alders and pale green reeds, where the coot clanked, and the bittern boomed, and the sedge bird, not content with its own sweet song, mocked the song of the other birds around. From afar came the wild whistle of the curlew and the trumpet note of the great white swan. It was a sunny expanse of fertile marshland adorned with goodly trees.
In the willow grove Tod of the Fens and Tom True Tongue were concerned over the recovering of an eel trap, a device made of reeds and twigs which was baited with small fish and sunk several feet below the surface among the reeds.
“It is a large and lively one which we have caught this day,” said Tod as he pulled up the trap with great difficulty.
“Ho there!” called a voice which startled Tod so that he reversed the trap, and the eel fell at his feet. Without a moment’s delay he stepped hard upon it as did likewise Tom True Tongue on another part of the slippery creature, and then they both looked up. Lord Arundel swung around in the skiff and faced them.
“Art thou Tod of the Fens?” he asked, “thou with the shaggy locks?”
“Ay,” answered Tod in surprise, “that is my name.”
“Thy locks would be quite in style, forsooth, if thou didst but brush them and curl them a bit,” and Lord Arundel surveyed him critically. “’Twould not be so bad!” Then he turned to Tom True Tongue. “And thou—why, it seems as if I had seen thee before. Canst thou be Tom True Tongue or Tongue Tie?”
“Ay.”
“And where have I seen thee? Egad! I know now! Thou art the rogue who set us astray in the fens.”
“And who is it that has set thee astray here?” asked Tom.
“A man thou dost call Dismas. But help me ashore, and I promise not to beat thee as I said I would should I see thee again.”
Tod and Tom looked at each other, then at the still squirming eel, and then at Lord Arundel.
“Thou canst beach thyself yonder,” said Tod. “We can do nothing for thee until we have finished with this eel and skinned him.”
“I a
m like to get my shoes in the mud if I do try to land myself,” complained Lord Arundel.
“Well, then, thou canst sit out there until we have finished.”
“The sun will fade the scarlet of my houppelande, and sunburn my nose to an unbecoming degree. I will come in myself since I must.”
Tod smiled broadly.
“Dismas has not done so badly,” he whispered. “I can see sport ahead.”
“I, too,” answered Tom.
In another moment Lord Arundel’s voice was heard a short distance away. “Help!” he called in tones of distress. “’Tis just as I said. I have one foot ashore, and it has sunk in to the ankle. Here am I astride the skiff, and I can neither go nor come.”
“Thou canst not have chosen a good place,” called back Tod, peering through the leaves, and then he burst into a loud laugh at the sight he saw. One of Lord Arundel’s feet was indeed well sunk in the mud, and balancing himself with one hand on the bow, the other foot in the skiff, he was trying to keep his long houppelande from trailing in the water.
“Thou didst not come in a good boating costume,” called Tod. “Thy red leg is the wise one, for it would not venture forth, but thy blue leg is indeed in trouble. Go help him, Tom.”
“Ay, and be quick about it,” called Lord Arundel desperately, “for the skiff is moving out and my legs are at odds in more than color.”
Tom True Tongue, convulsed with laughter, hurried to his rescue, and with a stout stick he was able to assist the scarlet leg of Lord Arundel’s parti-colored hose to a hard bit of ground, and then pulling together they freed the blue leg. Lord Arundel sank down on the ground, his blue leg with its besmeared shoe, dangling gold chain, and water-soaked point stretched out beside the still immaculate scarlet leg.
“Didst ever see such destruction?” he lamented. “How can I ever appear at Bolingbroke in such a state?”
Tom pulled up the skiff, and Tod came around, holding the eel, now entirely prepared for cooking, on the end of a stick.
“And why has Dismas sent thee here?” asked Tod.
“These be the words he told me to say,” answered Lord Arundel, “‘Dismas was delayed and could not keep the tryst. I am come at his bidding to take the payment Tom True Tongue would give, for which thou must notch his tally once more.’ Those be his words, but I must add that I hope the payment will cover a new blue leg to these hose as well as a new attire. How much is it?”
“How much is what?” asked Tom in amazement, “I do not understand.”
“I might say thou art famous for that, for thou didst not understand the last time I had discourse with thee. Mayhap thou art dreaming again.”
“Ay, perhaps I be,” answered Tom, rubbing his hand over his close-cropped hair which was trimmed high above his ears in quite the opposite extreme to Tod’s. “What sayest thou, Tod?”
“I think I see,” answered Tod slowly. “See if this be right. Dismas could not come himself and so he sent thee to pay the wager which he lost to Tom True Tongue here.”
“Lost? For shame! Dost think to fool me? ’Twas won, and the amount was to be paid me. Come, now, do not think to cheat me out of anything, for he promised on his honor that thou wert fair and honest.”
“What was the payment that he named?”
“He named no exact amount except that it would vouchsafe me a new attire.”
At these words Tod let out a roar and so did Tom True Tongue, for now they knew what Dismas had meant. Lord Arundel looked on in amazement. Then as the shouts continued, he began to get angry.
“Egad! What fools ye be to rant around and toss your heads like baited bulls. I see naught to laugh at. Besides, the fog is rolling in, and I would have the money and be off to Horncastle, where I am told ye will guide me.”
The fog was indeed rolling in, for the sun was fast disappearing and the willow grove itself was fading away into soft grayness.
“Thou canst not make Horncastle this afternoon, even with us to guide thee,” Tod told him. “’Twould be useless to try. Do thou stay here until the fog lifts, and in the meantime we shall see about this payment.”
“Ah, well!” sighed Lord Arundel, “if I must, I must; but I do hope thou art prepared to feed me, for I am quite empty.”
“We are well supplied with fish and eel and waterfowl so that thou needst not starve.”
Lord Arundel was about to speak again, when suddenly he turned and through the fog behind him enormous figures loomed up, indistinguishable except in their great height and breadth.
“How now!” ejaculated Lord Arundel, “is this place inhabited by giants? We are being beset by some strange creatures,” and he jumped to his feet and set his back to a near-by tree trunk. On came the dark masses, and the foremost one broke through the mist. It was Heron mounted on stilts and carrying his skiff on his back, held there by a strong thong bound to his forehead. Behind him were several other members of the band, likewise burdened and mounted. They dropped their skiffs and dismounted, whereupon Lord Arundel again found his voice.
“Dost mean to say thou canst walk about the fens like that?”
Heron turned at his words, for he had not seen that there was a stranger present. He eyed him in surprise.
“It is no more strange than that thou canst walk about the fens in those things,” he commented, when his eye fell on the elegant shoes with their enormously long toes.
“A match! A match!” called Tom True Tongue suddenly. “Heron and this stranger to run a race! The stranger on stilts, and Heron in his outfit. The prize, the longest pike which has been caught this day!”
The band of fenmen cheered and all looked to Lord Arundel to see what he would say. His face was full of seriousness, while Heron’s was wreathed in a broad grin.
“Come now, ’tis not such a bad idea, after all,” said Lord Arundel, “but there is nothing to prevent his winning that I can see. He has the advantage. Moreover, ’twill not be so very good for my fine clothes, for belike he will stretch and split them all to pieces.”
“If thou wilt agree to this entertainment,” said Tod, “we will dismiss the payment that Dismas intended for thee, and thou mayhap wilt be better off.”
“And how is that?” asked Lord Arundel, raising his eyebrows and turning upon Tod with an air of disbelief.
“Because Dismas and Tom True Tongue held a wager that the one could fool more people in a week and a day than the other. The time was up night before last so that Tom True Tongue wins, for Dismas did not come. The loser was to be ducked in our ducking stool which we have yonder in the bog-hole. Which dost thou prefer for thy fine clothes, the ducking stool or the race?”
It did not take Lord Arundel long to decide.
“Marry! The race, by all means. I did not think it of him, but now ’tis as clear as yon muddy bog-hole, but what causes the mud is the thought that I could be so outdone!”
With many sighs and groans Lord Arundel set to work to remove his clothes, and as he took off each piece, he held it up for careful inspection, as a clothier would his wares, that no fine detail might be overlooked.
“Dost see this pattern in gold thread?” he asked as he removed his houppelande, and revealed the under tunic with its long tight sleeves, “and this gold button at the wrist? Take care now thou dost not burst that off.”
At last, after more cautioning and delay, Heron stood dressed in Lord Arundel’s clothes and Lord Arundel in Heron’s coarse tunic, while the band looked on in great merriment. Heron scarcely dared to breathe, for the costume strained at every point, and his long toes from which the chains had been removed to make the race more even, tripped him up when he moved.
“Come now, Sir Popinjay, art thou so lost in those clothes that thou canst not find thyself?” shouted Wat, dancing around him and slapping his sides with mirth.
“Nay,” answered Lord Arundel dismally, “but I might wish I were. Fetch me those stilts and help me to mount.”
“Not here,” said Heron, “let us to yonder straig
ht stretch where the ground is not soft.”
“And the race shall be to the oak tree and back,” announced Tom True Tongue, “for beyond that we could not see well and the sight would be wasted.”
With the help of Wat and Bat at the sides, Lord Arundel mounted the stilts, but before the word could be said to start, he had come down again, stepping so hard on Bat’s toe that Bat caught it up in his hand and hopped around, his mouth drawn up into a grimace of pain. The same thing happened again, but this time Wat was the sufferer.
“Here, Sir Popinjay, I will not help thee more,” said Wat, limping off in disgust. “Do thou mount thyself!”
“Ah, well, what must be, must,” sighed Lord Arundel, and he rose again on the stilts.
“Go!” shrieked Tod in haste while he saw him still in the air. Off went Heron, the long houppelande caught up over his arm, the turban-like hat slipping over his forehead, and the liripipe floating out behind. Lord Arundel still stood balancing, until Heron had gone several rods, had stepped on the end of his right toe with his left foot and fallen with a thud and the loud sound of ripping. The fenmen rolled around with laughter, which was silenced suddenly and amazingly. Lord Arundel started off, and with swift strides he stepped over the prostrate Heron, gained the oak, and returned before Heron had time to rise, or the echo of the fenmen’s laughter to have more than just died away.
Lord Arundel dismounted and hurried to Heron.
“Now out of those clothes before thou dost them any more harm,” he commanded. “I have beat thee.”
The band cheered lustily and gathered around.
“Ay, thou art indeed beaten, and thou wilt do well if thou canst beat him on stilts,” cried Tod. “Never have I seen greater skill. Long live Sir Popinjay!”
“And long live Dismas!” said Tom True Tongue, “for he, too, could vie with us in our sport.”
Lord Arundel was in the best of spirits.
“The pike is mine and I would eat it now.”
“Thou shalt,” said Tod, “and thou shalt have back thine own clothes without more delay. I will not deny thou didst fool me, and the man who fools Tod of the Fens can be master of the band.”
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