The Man On a Donkey

by H. F. M. Prescott

  Aske looked at Will over the top of Ned’s bright brown head as the boy stooped to button his doublet. Will’s face was grey; he was as thin as a garden rake. Aske thought, ‘By the Rood! however I needed him, he could not come with me.’

  ‘Master,’ said Will, ‘send away the lad.’

  Ned turned round, grinned, stared, then looked up at Aske. He nodded, so Ned went away. Will shut the door upon him, and with his back to his master said, in a wisp of a voice, – ‘You are going to London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Will turned, throwing up his hands to clutch his hair with a gesture and look so wild that it startled Aske, who stretched his arm out to catch him if he should fall.

  Will took his wrist with both hands.

  ‘Master,’ he said, ‘I will not drink. I swear it as I hope for mercy. I will not touch drink but only water, if you will forgive me, and I may come with you.’

  ‘It is not that,’ Aske told him hastily. ‘You should have come. But you are not fit to ride such a long gate.’

  Will let go his wrist. He stood there with his head hanging, and said, not wildly now, but so low that Aske could hardly hear, and indistinctly as if he was powerless even to move his lips – ‘I shall die if I may not go.’

  ‘Will!’ Aske said, and then, not knowing what he did, went over to the window and flung open the shutters. Outside in a drenched grey dawn a blackbird called nearby, sudden and urgent as a trumpet, but announcing only peace.

  ‘Master, I have always been with you. There never has been a time – Never – Always—’ Will muttered.

  ‘Oh, Will!’ Aske began, then stopped short. ‘If you can ride,’ he said, ‘you shall come.’

  He expected and feared some passionate demonstration of feeling.

  But Will only stood silent for a moment and then spoke quietly. ‘You’ve heard me promise,’ said he. ‘If I fail you this time also, may my Maker, when next I receive Him, be my damnation.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll see have they a breakfast ready,’ he said, and went out.

  Julian was in the parlour and sat with her uncle while he breakfasted, but they said very little once he had told her that he would leave a servant at Buntingford. ‘To bring home news how – To bring home news,’ he said. When he had finished they went out through the Hall and to the Court. Julian looked sharply at her uncle when she saw Will Wall in the saddle instead of Ned Acroyd. But after that glance she made no comment.

  Aske mounted, and she stood at his knee with her hand laid on the horse’s neck. He had not kissed her, and now they avoided each other’s eye as if they were two plotters guilty and unmasked.

  He said: ‘Keep my little coffer for me, niece. You know where it lies.’

  She nodded. He had charged her with it last night.

  ‘It may be,’ he said, ‘that the King’s Grace will be persuaded to hear me. Then it will be well that I have made this journey.’

  She nodded to that too.

  ‘God be with you, niece,’ he said, touching her head lightly with his hand. She felt the horse move from under her fingers. She looked at him then, meeting his eye.

  ‘God—’ she said, and shut her lips tight, and nodded hard.

  He did not look back at all. Will Wall and the other men wheeled their horses and followed him. So he was gone, with all that there was to say left unsaid. She went back into the Hall, and stood there irresolute what to do now, because there was nothing to be done. She heard little Dickon upstairs calling out, as joyfully ready for the new day as the birds outside.

  *

  Gib sat down to supper alone. Old Kat had gone off to the tavern; Wat had snatched what he could get and gone away to eat it in some corner, like an animal; Malle would not stir from where she sat by the hearth. She did not plague him with her chatter now; but he was finding her silence worse.

  When he had brought her in the other day old Kat had made a great scene, screaming at him to take away his drab and his bastard, whose presence she seemed to think an insult to her virtuous respectability.

  But now, though she still railed on him, when she could find him alone, for bringing these two, it was on a different ground. For this morning she had announced that the wench was bewitched, and the lad a warlock. ‘Surely,’ she said, ‘Satan has them both in his power. For when I speak to her, saying she should fetch or carry for me (and heavy my work is with you all), what will she say but one word over and over. “There’s darkness,” says she, “darkness, deep, deep darkness.”’

  So now, though he despised himself for it, Gib hitched his chair round a little so that he could, out of the corner of his eye, see her if she moved. Yet all he could see was that now and again she would raise her hand, and holding it spread out before her eyes, would strike it up and down a few times; but whether to hide something from herself, or to clear away some obscurity, he could not tell.

  Every time she did it, however, the skin of his back seemed to prickle. He even envied Wat’s escape, who now seemed to shrink from Malle as much as he had before used to cling to her.

  March 27

  The baggage was packed, the trussing coffer locked and one of the two saddle-bags corded, and the Prioress of Marrick stood in the midst of the guest chamber at St. Helen’s Priory, looking about at the litter of things upon the floor yet to be put in – a girdle, a comb, a little painted box, some shifts, and a pair of shoes. During the last weeks this room had grown familiar, from the painted Passion emblems on its carved ceiling to the worn red brick of the hearth, and the hangings of green verders, paled to the colour of pea soup near the windows where the light caught them. Now, because of the disarray of her packing, and the empty perches where her gown and cloak had hung, it was once more strange. The sun came out with a sudden harsh gleam, filling it with brightness which faded as suddenly as it had shone.

  ‘Tchk!’ said the Prioress impatiently. The man who had been sent to fetch more cord, and the woman who had taken the Prioress’s riding coat away to brush it – both should have been back by now. She opened the door and listened. Besides the sound of the Ladies of St. Helen’s chanting Prime, she could hear voices below. ‘How they must ever be talking!’ she said to herself, and came in again to walk restlessly up and down the room, and at last stand looking down at the trussing coffer, impatience giving way in her to pride and pleasure as she thought of those things bought yesterday which were packed inside it.

  For the House there was a little silver plate, and skeins of silk enough to last Dame Anne Ladyman through several years of embroidery, besides a reel of wonderful gold thread. There was also a length of sanguine brocade, very rich, very lustrous. But for the Prioress herself there was a small goblet of glass from Venice, almost as clear as water; with bubbles such as rise through water caught and prisoned in it; yet it had been made by the hands of men, and by fire. It had cost nearly all that was left of the money she had so painfully wrung from Marrick lands to save the Priory from suppression. Well, she deserved the pretty thing, for the Priory was saved, and by her doing.

  The serving-man came back again; at least he seemed to have made haste at the last, for he was out of breath.

  ‘Come now,’ she said briskly, ‘cord it up and then load the beasts and we’ll—’

  ‘Madame,’ he interrupted her, ‘he says we shall not go till we deliver her up again.’

  ‘“He” says? Who is he? And deliver whom—?’

  ‘He says he is a servant of Lord Privy Seal and that we must give up mad Malle.’

  ‘He is mad!’ cried the Prioress courageously, but yet her heart sank. When she came down to the Court she found a tall young gentleman with a loud voice, a heavy gold chain and much assurance; his manner was rough and hectoring but he was certainly not mad.

  During their conversation, since the young man would not speak low, quite a number of people collected, at a discreet distance but well within hearing. The Prioress could see, beyond the wide shoulders of Lord Privy Seal’s gentleman, a little mob of Nuns
jammed in the doorway of the Cloister; they wrung their hands together, and she could hear their voices shrill and shaking, protesting that they were the King’s most loyal subjects any day of the week, and that they harboured no such woman, and that she was none of theirs, but the Prioress of Marrick’s servant. The Prioress led the young gentleman further apart, and spoke with him for a long time. He nodded at last; aloud he said, ‘See to it that you find her,’ but he winked one eye at the Prioress.

  When he had gone away she returned to the chamber which she had thought so soon to leave, but in which she must now endure yet more waiting. Another time she might have taken comfort to herself from the manner in which she had conducted this last negotiation – from her own sagacity, firmness and address – but the blow had been so sharp that she could feel only the bitterness of impotent resentment.

  This resentment was not directed against Cromwell, nor against his gentleman, though it was to Cromwell that she had sent, as a humble gift, the little cup of Venice glass, and it was to reward the young gentleman for his good offices in bringing the cup to his master, and word to her again, that the length of sanguine brocade would have to be once more converted to silver pieces.

  Christabel Cowper’s resentment was aimed rather against Malle, and against the Prioress of St. Helen’s, and against something – or perhaps it was someone – behind Malle and the old Prioress, in alliance with, or in support of them. Her thought here became obscure, and she did not try to resolve the obscurity, but she knew that the something or someone was set to gainsay her, as she was set to have her own way, maugre any gainsaying.

  *

  Laurence Machyn opened the door of the solar where July sat on the settle beside the fire. As he came in he could see that she did not turn her head, but remained stooping forward, holding out her hands to the flames. She was very idle these days, doleful and tetchy by turns; the child to come seemed nothing to her but an enemy that drained her life.

  Laurence knew all that, was sharply wounded by it, and loved her all the more. He came softly behind her now, leaned over the back of the settle, and laid one hand over her eyes. Then, before she could start away, he brought the other hand forward, so that what his fingers held was just under her nose.

  ‘Guess what it is,’ he said, and dabbed it, soft, faintly fragrant and cool, upon her lips.

  ‘Flowers,’ she said, not striking his hand away. He was so glad at that that he laughed. ‘But what flowers?’

  She sniffed at the little posy, and cried, ‘Oh! Sir, primroses!’

  He let her go then, feeling himself well paid by the joy in her voice, and almost overpaid when, sitting beside her, he saw her bend over the tight little bunch with its frill of green leaves as she held them cupped in her hands. She looked up at him and they smiled at each other. It was for a minute as though they were very close to each other, and very young together with the young flowers of the year between them.

  March 29

  Very early on this morning Lord Privy Seal’s gentleman came once more knocking at the gate of St. Helen’s Priory. They told him he might not enter. He said enter he must, and speak with the Prioress of Marrick. He had a letter for the Prioress from his master, telling her that he took in good part her gift, and would be gracious Lord to the Priory (so long as the Ladies should show themselves to deserve it), and would in no wise recall their backslidings, but only their humble supplication and good will to himward. But the young gentleman said nothing of the letter, insisting that he must speak with the Prioress.

  So down came Dame Christabel while the bells were ringing for Prime; she had a velvet purse gripped in her hand in which was the price of the sanguine brocade. She received the letter from the young man, and gave him thanks, and the little purse in recompense of his good offices with his master. What she had bought of him was worth the price, and yet she felt a pang when he took the purse from her fingers, and tossed it in the air, before he shoved it in his pouch, kissed her hand and went away.

  *

  It was just about that same moment that Malle, coming in suddenly, caught Wat lapping cream from the top of the milk. He thought her hand on his shoulder was Gib’s, and he jumped aside as nimbly as a flea. He had his arms up to guard his ears, and when he saw Malle he let them drop, but he edged away from her as far as he might, until the wall stopped him.

  Malle said:

  ‘Darkness, and God moving nigh-hand in the darkness. The cloud eats up the sky, black cloud, so that the ash-trees are white against it as clean bone, and the elms show green. Down there’s the Priory. Look, you can see the Nuns’ Court and the orchard, and the Church in the midst. And there’s Hodge in his red hood carting dung.’

  ‘O Jerusalem!’ she cried. ‘If thou hadst known those things that belong unto thy peace. But now are they hid from thine eyes.’

  She heard Wat’s teeth chatter, and stretched out a hand to comfort him. He endured her touch, but only as an animal that stands because it is too terrified to run.

  She said: ‘He has bowed the Heavens down, and their darkness is under His feet, and dark water in the clouds of the air. And now with the wind He winnows snow from the cloud.

  ‘Look, Watt’ she cried, and pointed towards the naked mud and wattle of the wall, but neither of them saw it. ‘Look! There He comes down the Dale-side with the young bracken uncurling like rams’ horns, spreading like wings about His feet. The head of Him and His hairs are as white as white wool, and as snow.’

  As Wat tried to dive away under her hand she grasped him tighter.

  ‘He’s Love,’ she said, ‘and that is greedy as a lion, and may not stint till it has ate us to the bare bones.

  ‘For how can He,’ she said, ‘give us the whole height of heaven till we come begging to Him with empty pokes? How can He bear us up in His hand while we grovel safe on ground? How can He lap us close and dear in His love when we are girded with housen and cattle, and cloaked about with gold?

  ‘To-day—’ she said, ‘now – we must find the Lady and tell her.’

  *

  An hour or so later the Prioress of Marrick came into the Cloister to take leave of the Prioress of St. Helen’s, just as fourteen old dames, dot-and-carry-one on crutches, twisted with rheumatism, or bent under the mere load of years, went into the Ladies’ Frater to eat their breakfast, for it was Maundy Thursday. She heard their clacking yet feeble voices, saw their deformities, and, smelling them also, pinched her nose between her fingers and pulled a disgusted face.

  The Prioress of St. Helen’s, summoned from the Frater, came out, still wearing the apron patched with damp in which she had knelt to wash the knobbled, twisted feet of an old creature from Portsokenward. She was flustered to see Dame Christabel, because, having been moved by pity and excitement, she had let herself cry, and she guessed that the Prioress of Marrick would not miss the redness of her eyes.

  ‘Will you go, Madame?’ she fussed. ‘Will you not stay with us over the Feast? Why must you ride to-day?’

  ‘Because my business is done,’ Christabel Cowper said, and no more. She was not going to explain by telling about the visit of Lord Privy Seal’s gentleman.

  ‘But hearken!’ she said to the Prioress of St. Helen’s. ‘Here comes to me again, this very morning, that same serving-wench that I brought here, and for whose sake Lord Privy Seal had me in anger. Well, I have had my man send her packing. And if she comes again to your gate do you the same. I tell you friendly. Else she will bring you into trouble with her talk of visions. Even now she would have had me listen to some madness of visions, but I would not hear her.’

  She snorted through her nose, and gave a derisive laugh. ‘I gave my man silver to give her, though he’s a sad knave and may have put it into his pouch. I cannot help that. Let her fend. I’ll have no more to do with her. And now, Madame,’ she said, in a different smooth tone, proper to one great person speaking ceremoniously with another, ‘and now, Madame, I am come to take my leave, and to give you thanks for—’r />
  ‘If she comes again,’ the Prioress of St. Helen’s broke in, speaking breathlessly, ‘I shall succour her. And I shall hear her visions if she will tell them.’

  ‘Ho!’ said the Prioress of Marrick, without any affectation of respect, ‘will you so? Well, so you may, if you care not whether your House stand or fall.’

  ‘It is better,’ said the Prioress of St. Helen’s, pressing her soft wrinkled hands together, ‘better it should fall, if thereby shall come peace between us and God. For I think it is for our sins, Madame, that He has chastened us. And if He take from us all we have, it is to make us, who have cleaved to worldly wealth, cleave only to Him, so that He may bless us.’

  The Prioress of Marrick stared to hear this gentle creature turn upon her. She was even a little impressed; not very much, but enough to make her argue the point.

  ‘But though He bless,’ she said, ‘what then?’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘If we – if you shall have lost all, and are turned out and the House fall...? Then it will be too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  The Prioress of Marrick, thinking in terms of a bargain between buyer and seller, found herself unwilling to use the first words that came to her tongue. ‘Too late for payment.’ She would not say that; she even rejected the word ‘reward’. ‘For His help. For comfort,’ she said at last, for once preferring propriety to sincerity.

  But the old Prioress answered sincerely, though with a most undignified shaken voice, and a great sniff after she had spoken: ‘Let Him alone for that. He will see to our help, and He will know how to comfort.’

  They stood facing each other a moment longer. From the open door of the Frater came the cackle of the old folks’ voices, even, now and again, the smacking sound they made as they ate. Someone belched; someone choked on a draught of beer and began to cough.