Chapter II

Peter was footsore and weary. For three days he had walked from sunrise to sunset, and now, at the end of the third day, his shipman’s legs were stiff and his feet blistered almost to bleeding. But he valiantly stepped forward, looking neither to left nor right, aiding himself much by his staff, and planting his feet firmly on the rough way.

He began to recognise the landmarks. There, blue-black against the red-shot sky of sunset, lay the Cow’s Back, as he had seen it so often of old, like a barrier for ever dividing darkness from intolerable splendours; there, winding down and clothing the valley as far as the eye could reach in a mantle of sombre foliage, lay the Ravens Wood, in which he had so often gone shooting with his little bow when a boy; there, wave after wave in multitudinous succession swept the grassy uplands over which he had seen the villeins drive the herds in the fresh light of so many mornings of yore; there, clad in bramble and gorse and heather, stretched the wild common where he had been wont to gather the ripe berries in autumn.

And now, as he came nearer home, there was the splintered oak which folk called ‘the Fairies,’ round which he had danced with two little village girls for good luck when a lad; there were the two huge and solitary stones, by which he had played with his dead brother through many a long summer’s day; there was the standing pool upon which he had been wont to slide with the village boys in the hard winters; there was the desolate mere where he had found the bittern’s nest.

Meanwhile the red fire had faded from the western sky, and the shadows deepened and stretched outwards from under the hills. The mist came up and hid the land like a layer of cotton wool and soaked him to the skin. He plodded on.

At the last village folk had told him, ‘A good eight mile and he were best to stay there that night, for it was a rough road and one easy to miss.’ But he had replied that he was in haste and he knew the road. In the darkness he could distinguish little, but over the hill yonder should lie the church with the graveyard, in which rested his father’s and his father’s father’s bones. In the hollow below the hill and on this side of it should lie his mother’s house; at the top of the rise he should see it if there were only light enough. He hastened and climbed the rise. Down in the valley, a tiny yellow light glimmered feebly through the blackness. There was his home, and the candles burnt for his return. He hastened on again, breaking into a shambling run. As he drew near he fell into a walking pace, for he felt a sudden shamefacedness. Besides, he did not want to alarm his mother; honest wayfarers were few at that time of night, he thought.

He reached the door and put his hand upon the latch. Suddenly he stayed. An unearthly wailing came from within, the feeble and cracked voices of old women raised in a mournful melody. Peter’s breath came thick and fast, he almost choked, and his heart thumped like a hammer against his ribs. With an effort he lifted the latch and flung open the door.

Upon a table in the middle of the room lay the dead body of his mother, laid out for burial and swathed completely except for the face in white grave-clothes. Upon her bosom was set a small platter of salt, and at each corner of the table a rushlight burnt feebly. Four old women sat round the corpse and wailed the lyke-wake dirge.

‘This ae night, this ae night,
Every night and all,
Fire and sleet and candle light,
And Christ receive thy soul.’

Their ancient withered bodies swayed in time with the mournful air they sang, and cast fantastic shadows on the bare and plastered walls. Peter comprehended the scene in an instant.

At his entrance the hags abruptly ceased their wailing and, gazing upon him, sent up exclamations of recognition and surprise.

‘Eh, this is thy home-coming,’ quoth one.

‘Behold thy mother, thou evil son,’ cried another.

‘Art not ashamed?’ screamed the third, pointing to the corpse.

‘Thou serpent,’ cried the fourth.

Peter did not answer them. He stood uncertainly upon his feet as though he had been drunk, and trembled like a leaf. Then he went shakily across the floor and gazed upon the face of the dead.

One of the old women stole up behind him. ‘She hath gone to accuse thee before the Lord God,’ she screamed into his ear.

Peter turned and looked mournfully upon her with a face like death. ‘That she would never do,’ quoth he sadly.

Whereupon they snarled at him like she-wolves, he not answering them but standing like one sore perplexed and distressed. Then one began the dirge again, and the others held the burden. Peter turned and gazed steadily at them.

‘Go,’ he said, and pointed to the door.

They ceased wailing and looked at him dumbly. One began to utter words of abuse, but he pointed to the door again. So they gathered their rags about them and went out, muttering foully and casting spiteful glances upon him. He shut the door behind them.

Then he went and stood by the head of the dead woman and regarded her face steadfastly. It was as white as the linen which shrouded it, and the features as clear-cut and firm as they had been cunningly worked in marble; the majesty of an unutterable peace was on her countenance. Peter thought of the stone image of a holy nun he had once seen on a tomb in a great church at Bruges.

‘She was a very holy woman, although she was my mother and I am her son,’ he thought simply. ‘I am as foul as she was holy.’

He watched the dead hour after hour all through the night, and the whole of his life passed before his eyes as the life of every man will pass before the eyes of the Incorruptible Judge at Doomsday. Anon bitter tears fell like rain down his cheeks, anon his eyes were hot and dry as glowing coals; he tried to pray, but he had forgotten most of what his mother had taught him, and he had no wit to pray in his own language. Anon he passionately hated himself as Righteousness hateth Sin, anon he pitied himself with a pity nigh as great as Our Lord’s for the souls that are damned. The dead woman lying there shamed him all the while, but she could not rebuke him.

It neared the end of the last watch of the night, and the rush-lights guttered out one by one. Peter was moved with a mighty anguish and shaken like a reed from head to foot. He flung his arms round the dead woman and cried out with a loud and terrible voice, ‘Mother, forgive me, I did not know.’

The eyes of the dead woman slowly unclosed, her mouth opened and she spoke:

‘Son, keep me no longer here, nor cheat me of that everlasting rest that I have already found.’

Her eyes closed for ever, and Peter knew that of the dead there is no forgiveness.

The Fall of Castle Beaumont

Ralph of the Skeely-Eye was right wroth that night. He had drunk much of the alewife’s strongest brew, he had lost eightpence at quoits to Watkin Ploughman, and Clarice of Cock’s Lane had openly flouted him before the menfolk. Now he played at draughts with Thomas the Cordwainer, and Thomas had penned his pieces in a corner so that he could move no way without being taken. The flush on his red face deepened, he tugged at his black beard, and then with one heavy blow of his great fist sent board and draughtsmen with a crash to the floor.

‘To Hell with the game!’ he cried, rising to his feet.

Thomas the Cordwainer looked afeared; he would for a moment that he had not won that game. The sudden noise interrupted the little group round the hearth fire, where Pierce the Clerk, Watkin and Long Hugh were deep in talk with the barefooted friar. A stranger sat quietly listening by them.

‘Steady,’ cried Pierce. ‘Thou hast that same Hell so often on thy lips that I doubt but it will be thine own place at the last.’

Ralph of the Skeely-Eye swung unsteadily on his feet, and turned his fierce, bloodshot eyes on Pierce.

‘God blight thee, thou snivelling hound,’ he cried. ‘And what is it to thee if it is to Hell that I fare?’

He bared his thick hairy arm and pointed to its corded knots of muscle.

‘Seest thou this arm? Here is bone and sinew and muscle enough to knock a way through the world for me, and God help the man who comes between me and my will. While I am man of flesh and blood I will do my pleasure and play my game; when I’m dead, so-so, let the Devil have his due. ’Tis all fair enough; my day now, his day then, but let him keep his distance till the clock strikes.’

He paused, glaring fiercely round on the company. The barefoot friar caught his eye, regarding him steadily with blue and lambent orbs.

‘Thou fool,’ quoth he in deep, sad tones. ‘Thou poor fool. Knowest thou not that the Lord hath given this world into the hand of the Adversary, that he may weigh unto men according to their deserts and reap unto them after their sowing? Even now, while thou standest blaspheming, the Devil is behind thee and laugheth at thy folly till he is like to burst. When the measure of thine iniquity is heaped to the full, although thou be all unwitting of the date thereof, thou shalt straightway be borne in his fierce talons as the tares to the furnace, which burneth evermore.’

Ralph started at the mention of the Devil and cast a fearful glance behind him; then, reassured, he gave his leather girdle a hitch and answered sullenly.

‘I’ll not speak with friars. When my spell’s up, let the Devil come; till then I am neither his nor thine nor any man’s but mine own.’

The friar straightway rose from his seat and, swiftly crossing the floor, seized Ralph by the arm.

‘Come, sit thee here,’ he said, ‘and I will tell thee that which, if it melt not thy soul in utter penitence, will at least show thee the power of the Prince of Darkness and the miserable end of sinners such as thou.’

He half led and half dragged Ralph to the chimney, and forced him to sit down upon a bench. Ralph made but a feeble resistance, for he was subdued and nigh scared by the friar’s eye. Pierce, Thomas, Watkin and Long Hugh gathered eagerly round, for the deep voice of the friar charmed them like church music when it breaks upon the ear at midnight. His eyes held them and they listened to him as to a man speaking in a vision. Even from Ralph’s dull face the fumes of strong drink half dissipated. The stranger listened from his seat a little way off.

‘Listen,’ cried the friar, ‘to the tragical history of Castle Beaumont, and may Christ and the Blessed Virgin and All Hallows grant it be to the health and comfort of your souls.

‘Five days’ journey hence into the West country stood Castle Beaumont, and it was the fairest and strongest castle that any man had ever seen. It was built on the crest of a great hill so high that its towers, like those of the proud Babel, seemed to threaten the Heavens, and so stoutly of hard hewn stone, and so cunningly with barbicans, bastions and battlements and broad moats, that it might not be taken, nay, though even the Lord King himself came against it with tens of thousands of men and with mangonels, belfries, and rams. Above it was naught but the wide and naked heaven; below it, richly clothing the slopes of the great hill, lay a forest of oak and beech; below the forest lay a wide water, and a mile over the meadows, this side of the water, lay a poor village called Vill Beaumont.

‘The Lord of Beaumont was rich and mighty above all the nobles in this realm, for east and west, and south and north, as far as one might ride on a long summer’s day, one’s horse would not step on an ell of land that was not his. A score of stone castles and thirty walled towns owned him allegiance, and he milked the fatness from a hundred and fifty rich manors. When he rode forth to war there rode with him a hundred knights in full harness and five hundred men-at-arms in helmets and hauberks of twisted mail, so that there was no lord in the land who could stand against him.

‘But lo, this Lord, of whom I speak, was a man of stark and violent heart, swollen with pride and vain imagination, a fearer of neither God nor man. For him Christ and His Church might not have been; he took no thought for his soul but lived as a beast of the field, subject to his own unlawful lusts and desires. Fierce moods came upon him like lightning at midsummer, but aye more harmful, and he was more stark and terrible in his rages than a roaring lion. If one vexed him, he would gnash upon him with his teeth and strike him with his fist even to the breaking of bones, or if so be that he might not come at him, he would hurl himself down upon the rushes and bite upon them with his teeth, smiting himself upon the face and dashing his head against the floor.

‘This Lord one evening a little before sunset returned from his day’s hunting, and he was merry because he had slain much. As he rode slowly homeward (his attendants being occupied with the quarry) he spied in the great wood and not many paces from the Castle Drawbridge a strange lady. She rode upon a grey palfrey and was clad in a bright green cloak embroidered all with pearls. She was very comely. She seemed to that wicked Lord to be more fair than summer or the sweet sunlight, and he gazed on her like one smitten with sudden wonder. But he was no man to be abashed before womenfolk, so he presently saluted her and rode towards her. To him she made answer with so melodious and delicate voice (as the deceitful Sirens used towards Sir Ulysses), and with so jolly demeanour and sweet accord, that his heart was ravished within him, and he was filled with sudden desire of her. Therefore coming up close to her palfrey, without more ado he flung his arm round her waist and kissed her on the lips, she making but faint and seemingly wanton resistance. So toying with her, he led her into the castle and kept her with him that night and thereafter.

‘The Lord’s wife was a lady right devout and pious, much given to orisons and fasting and penance. Mightily had she striven to turn her husband from his evil way of life, and she had also gotten many religious men and women, far and near, to pray for his amendment, and in especial had had supplication made at the shrines of the Saints most powerful in such cases throughout the land. But so entirely was her Lord given over to the Devil that all was in vain, and the more she talked to him of repentance and the torments of the damned, the more he hardened his heart and the more fierce and hot his anger boiled against her. “Go to thy prayers, thou jade,” he would cry, “thou wert fit for a green-faced nun or a puling anchoress.” Then he would revile her grievously, saying the sight of her chapfallen face set his teeth on edge like a sour apple and was like to turn the victual on his stomach, and would blasphemously offer golden candlesticks to all the parish churches in England, would she but hang herself from the battlements or cast herself headlong into the moat. Whereupon, weeping, she would betake herself to her bower and read solitarily (but none the less in the care of Holy Angels) from her Book of Hours.

‘With the coming of the strange woman to the Castle, the Lord’s rage against his Lady was grievously increased, so that he gave over all the governance of his household to his new mistress, and forbade his true wife to look upon his face any more, lest he did her some violent injury.

‘Lo, good men all, how one sin leadeth to another, for pride, having begotten lust, now lust begot murder.

‘One day his Lady-wife, conceiving that a little religious book, which a godly man had sent her, entitled _A Little Sooth Sermon of the Seven Deadly Sins_, might aid to cleanse his filthy and impure heart, came to him as he sat on a bench in the base court singing a vain amorous song beneath the window of his wanton, and, calling him from his lightness, began forthwith to read to him from the book. She had not interrupted him long or read far, when the blood rushed madly to his impious brain, the veins knotted on his forehead, his complexion became sanguine and purple, and without more ado, drawing his dagger from his girdle, he rushed upon her and slew her with a hundred thrusts thereof, afterwards casting her martyred body into the moat.

‘Now, look ye, good men, what befell after this evil and horrid deed. The wicked Lord, after he had gone so far in iniquity, considered that the Devil would be sure to have him at the last. Therefore, like Ralph here, he determined to have his fling, and to lead his life with as much solace and mirth and gladness as might be, thus blotting out from his soul the consciousness of the eternal miseries which awaited him. But mark ye what happened in the sequel.

‘Vill Beaumont was utterly given over to all kinds of wretchedness and distress, for it lay close under the castle, and the men-at-arms were wont often to come down thither and despoil the villagers, slaying the sheep and cattle in the fields, trampling the standing rye and corn, devouring the bread and meat which God sent for the bellies of His poor, and wantonly and in derision spilling the thin ale from their barrels. Yea, twice or thrice, when these insolent men of war were in their cups, they had fired the village and burnt down the better half of it, whereby some poor souls, being chiefly babes and old and infirm persons, were sent to their account, unshriven and unanointed, with their sins upon them, Christ have mercy. When the villeins came and made complaint to their Lord, he would cry out upon them fiercely, “What, ye swine, ye cattle, is there not ploughing? Is there no ditching? Away, ye beasts,” and he would drive them headlong from his presence with curses and buffets, and then call to his Bailey to put more work upon them, that they should have no leisure to waste in grumbling and tale-bearing.

‘Many villeins would not abide longer in the vill but fled into the greenwood to drive the hart and the doe instead of the plough and the cart, and to sustain the heat, the cold, the snow, the frost, the rain of God’s heaven, rather than the inhumanity of Christian men. Corn, flesh, cheese, and butter were so scarce and dear that few had wherewith to keep them from starving, for where there was so little hope of harvest, men would not trouble to sow or plant or plough. Some fled to foreign boroughs where they were not known, to live as freemen, and some, who erstwhile had been men of substance, left the village secretly to go on alms. Never elsewhere was more wretchedness seen.

‘Hither to this village came one morning a wandering minstrel. Lo, good fellows all, he was the pitifullest figure a man might conceive, his hosen and jerkin all torn, his hair sticking out from the holes in his cap, his toes projecting from his bursten shoes, and white with dust from head to foot as though he had walked many miles between Matins and Prime. He seemed half pined for lack of food, there was no flesh on his bones, and I ween you might have counted his ribs. His face was like a pale flower, his faint blue eyes wandered when he spoke to any, so that folks easily judged him to be one of God’s innocents. Around his neck upon a cord he bore a fiddle, and the bow thereof swung by a string from his shoulder. Of these he took great care, as though they had been treasures of worth.

‘He came to the folk who sat idly by the watermill, and looked vacantly upon them with his lustreless eyes.

‘“Will ye have any mirth?” he asked, fingering his fiddle and speaking in a thin, sad voice, like a sick child’s.

‘They were silent at first. Then they began to speak in bitter jest, as desperate men will do.

‘“We are merry devils enough without thy mirth,” said one.

‘“Hast _thou_ any mirth?” asked another. “I wot thou hadst been Death himself.”

‘“We have done nothing but sing and play here the last half-score of years,” said another. “I am sick of mirth; hast thou no bread?”

‘“I had rather use my teeth than my ears,” said another.

‘But one of the women, casting her eyes upon him, cried, “Nay, thou art but a child and half dead at that, poor knave. Sit thee down and rest awhile. Thou art a true foreigner, else thou wouldst know that the villeins of Beaumont have naught to put into their own bellies, much more to give away. But stay; God forbid that one of His innocents should perish by the wayside.”

‘So saying she went into her hovel and presently returned with a cup of sheep’s milk and a thin cake of rye-bread. (Verily, as saith the Evangelist, few but the poor shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.) The minstrel smiled sadly at her and took the cup and the cake, saying “Merci.” Folk watched him curiously while he ate, for he seemed fragile as a young girl and unhappy as a bird that has lost her mate. When he had finished he took his fiddle and bow and began to play. Certainly he was a skilful musician, and he played many strange songs in which they had great delight, but after a while they bid him stay.

‘“Thou art a right cunning minstrel,” they said, “and right woe are we that we have naught wherewith to repay thee for thy sweet music; ’twould be shame to keep thee here playing for nothing, when thou mightest earn rich gifts for thyself up at the castle. The Lord has a feast toward, and though he is full stark and cruel to such poor labouring folk as we, he loves music and mirth, and belike would pay thee dearly for thy skill.

‘“My good Lord loved to hear me play once,” said the minstrel, “but he is dead, and sleepeth with the saints in Christ.”

‘“Come, little knave,” said the woman. “Get thee to the great castle thou seest yonder. There at least thou shalt get broken victuals to fill thy poor, empty maw.”

‘They went with him, leading him to the end of the village and showing him the track thence up to the castle. They wished him Godspeed and a good journey.

‘The minstrel slowly descended the hillside, crossed the broad meadows and came to the still water and thence climbed upward through the great wood. Bright beams pierced the thick leafage overhead and shot the cool rich shadows with patches of brilliant emerald. The moss yielded like a carpet to his feet. On either side of the narrow track waved the lush bracken, high to his waist. The undergrowth in the odorous glades was besnowed with flowering bramble and starred with golden honeysuckle. Bright toadstools lit gorgeously the secret glooms. Now and then a squirrel rustled lightly among the branches, and ever and anon a coney started from beneath his feet, but in all that green wilderness sounded no voice of a bird.

‘After a toilsome climb he came to the castle and stood doubtfully at the Drawbridge. The warden spied him from his place under the portcullis and, noting the fiddle he carried, called to him lustily to enter, for the Lord was at meat and dearly loved to hear minstrels. So the minstrel crossed the bridge, and the warden, gripping him by the arm, delivered him over with a leer and a wink to a sewer. The sewer grinning spitefully, linked arms with him and so brought him, willy-nilly, to the great hall.

‘Never was there a hall half so magnificent and stately as that of Castle Beaumont. Words cannot describe it; ’tis past mortal cunning to speak of it justly. Its walls were twice as high as the steeple of your parish church and its length was two good bowshots. It was hung round about with gorgeous tapestries, whereon were worked figures of men and horses and trees and palaces in fresh and lively colours; the oak-ribbed vault was coloured as an azure heaven in which burnt an infinite multitude of golden stars. The floor was carpeted with cloth of indigo and silver.

‘The tables, which ran down the hall from end to end, and the high table upon the Lord’s dais, shone with precious vessels of silver and gold, wrought cunningly in fantastic shapes, delicately chiselled and chased, and set with flaming rubies and whitest pearls. Left and right against the walls were sideboards laden with the remains of rich and delicate dishes, with cygnet, peacock, and venison, with pies, custards and jellies, and flanked with great tuns of beer and wine.

‘Never were men and women so richly arrayed as the guests that sat at board, each with the value of a fat manor to cover the dainty skin; some in cloth of tars, some in sendal, some in pall and some in corduroys, many-hued like the rainbow. Round their proud necks they wore chains of the purest gold; on their fingers sparkled precious stones worth a king’s ransom. Never, nay, not in the King’s hall royal, were gathered such pomp and prodigality, such wealth and such splendour. Lo, this world passeth away to nothingness and maketh haste unto its end, yet men still vainly boast themselves in the clothes that hide and the meat that feeds corruption, making themselves laughingstocks to God and His holy angels.

‘When the poor minstrel shambled into the hall, he was utterly abashed and so smitten with shame that his knees turned to water under him, and he was fain to bow his head to hide the tears which suddenly filled his eyes. A sea of many colours surged before him, with rows of flushed cruel faces of men, with here and there the sheen of a woman’s white shoulder. A great blare of trumpets went suddenly soaring up to the roof. He looked round pitifully like a lost child, starting this way and that like a hare caught in a net. The guests burst into a roar of laughter at the sight of him.

‘The Lord of Beaumont sat at the high table on the dais, with his wanton leman by his side. When he saw the minstrel he stared hard, then he laughed loudly with the rest. Then he brought his heavy fist down with a crash on the board to command silence. There was a sudden hush.

‘“Bring the Ragman here,” quoth he harshly.

‘The lady by his side laughed lightly in clear cold tones.

‘The sewer led the minstrel before the dais and left him trembling there before the Lord. The Lord of Beaumont was as huge as an ox, and held his two fists clenched on the table before him as though he were an angered. His broad bearded face was like a fire, and his fierce bloodshot eyes rolled evilly round the hall. But as for his leman, not Helen nor Guinivere, long since dead, but ever famous for excellent beauty, could well compare with her, so wanton, so white, so debonair. I ween she was well fitted to draw the hearts of all men unto her. Folk who had gazed on her might say “I have seen the fairest of created flesh.”

‘“What, thou starveling,” cried the Lord, “art thou come hither to make us merry; methought thou wert a skeleton from the graveyard, walking at noonday.”

‘Then he called to his musicians, who sat with their trumpets, nakers, and cymbals in their hands, smiling disdainfully, “Look, ye knaves, here is a fellow come to teach you your trade. He can many a merry note and jolly stave, he can many a wanton song and sly ballad. God’s foot, I see it in his cunning eye, though to look at his lean ribs a man might not think it.”

‘The guests in the hall laughed loudly at their Lord’s mirth.

‘“If he cannot make good mirth,” quoth the lady in a hard cruel voice, “it were best he were whipped till the blood come, for his lantern chaps and staring eyes. Ugh, my gorge rises to look on the fellow; he looks worse than a spitted lark and smells of death.”

‘One of the musicians rose from his place beside the dais and went and whispered in the Lord’s ear. The Lord laughed hoarsely. “God’s fist,” he said, “’tis a good jest, let it be done.”

‘Whereupon the musician approached the minstrel.

‘“Good Master Minstrel,” quoth he with cunning pleasantry, “what rare instrument hast thou in thy hands? Blessed Virgin, ’tis no wonder thou claspest it so closely to thy bosom. And what an excellent piece of work is thy bow! Verily I believe they must have been Apollo’s, the god of music’s. Prithee let me and my poor fellows behold it more closely.”

‘The minstrel did not answer, but held his fiddle the more tightly to him, shrinking away.

‘“Nay, for courtesy’s sake,” said the musician.

‘“God’s eyes, thou wert best, thou scarecrow,” thundered the Lord from the dais.

‘In great dread the minstrel released his hold upon the fiddle; his hands fell awkwardly by his sides; he gazed foolishly at the floor. The musician took the instrument and the bow and passed them round among his fellows. Many were the mocking commendations they made upon it, but at the last they returned it to him with satirical compliments and courtesy.

‘“Play,” cried the Lord,--“Play, for thy hide’s sake, minstrel,” and he thumped the board again.

‘The minstrel held his fiddle and bow ready to play. He closed his eyes and swayed a little to and fro; the riot of colour and noise faded from his eyes and ears, it grew very silent. He felt himself alone on a far hillside; a small, still rain fell out of the clouds and murmured upon multitudinous leaves; a rainbow spanned the heavens and its misty radiance was reflected in watery meadows far away. Blue smoke went slowly up from the chimney of his mother’s cottage. Then the songs of his own country came to his heart and filled his eyes with tears. His fingers lovingly sought the keyboard, one moment he paused, then drew the bow over the strings.

‘A discordant shriek stridently echoed through the hushed hall: they had greased his bow.

‘A roar of laughter went up from the benches. He opened his eyes in agonized bewilderment and gazed uncomprehendingly at his fiddle.

‘“A right minstrel indeed,” shouted the guests.

‘“An ass to bray thus,” cried some.

‘“A beast to beard us thus,” cried others; and yet again, “Pelt him, pelt him!”

‘Some spat at him, some slung the wine from their goblets at him, others pelted him with broken piecrust and gobbets of custard and jelly and cake, and with apples and pears and nuts. Half-dazed he stood stock-still awhile, until at length an apple struck him full on the forehead and nearly brought him to the ground. The men guffawed till they cried and the women screamed with delight.

‘“Again, again,” they shrieked. “Bring the little devil down,” “Break his skull,” “Knock his eye out,” “A crown that I break his fiddle,” “Under the ear this time.” The lady at the dais drew a dagger from her girdle and, leaning over the table, aimed it with all her force at the minstrel. She snarled like a cat when she saw she had missed her aim. The noise of Hell went up from the hall.

‘With a sudden cry, the minstrel, clasping his fiddle and bow to his side, turned like a hunted hare, and, before any of the drunken feasters could stagger to their feet to stay him, had rushed through the hall and out at the great door. Lo, the Lord held this innocent in the hollow of His hand, for as he sped across the courtyard and drawbridge there was none to let him. Down the forest path he went, and down and down and down, leaping the great roots of oak and beech, bursting through the tall bracken, diving through the tangled undergrowth, falling headlong down the dry watercourses and gullies, and down and down and down until he came to the still water. Then up and up and up over the broad meadows, and up and up and up the hillside, with never a moment’s stay for breath, never a moment’s looking backward, up, up to Vill Beaumont cowering in the hollow of the ridge. At the top of the hill he ran full tilt into a group of villeins. They stood gazing toward the Castle, their countenances smitten with amazement and horror. They crossed themselves devoutly and uttered many a broken prayer.

‘“Look, look,” they cried, “Jesu! look,” and they pointed upwards.

‘The minstrel turned and gazed.

‘“Christ be merciful to me, a sinner,” cried a man hoarsely from the crowd.

‘“Amen.”

‘“The Lord deliver us from evil.”

‘“Amen.”

‘Castle Beaumont had disappeared. The great hill on which it had stood was covered with ancient trees even to its summit; a clear, still sky lay over it, against which a dozen black rooks flapped lazily homewards to their nests. The wide water reflected sky and hill and ancient forest as though in a quiet and eternal mirror. The minstrel fell upon his knees and sobbed as though his heart would break.’

* * * * *

‘Ah-h-h,’ said Watkin, drawing a long breath as the Friar concluded.

‘’Tis certain,’ said Long Hugh solemnly, after a long pause, ‘that the ways of the Lord are wonderful and not to be scanned.’

‘Good fellows all,’ said the Friar, ‘and you in especial, Ralph of the Skeely-Eye, we see by this true and notable ensample----’

‘Ah,’ interrupted Ralph, recovering from a fit of stupid amazement,--‘Ah, but be it true, Master Friar, be it true?’

‘As true as Holy Writ,’ said the Friar.

‘Didst thou know the castle?’ asked Ralph.

‘Nay, but the man who told me the tale swore to its truth by the bones of the Holy Saint Thomas.’

‘’Tis Gospel truth,’ quoth the stranger from the corner, where he sipped his warmed ale, and breaking in on the conversation for the first time. ‘I knew the castle well, and have been therein often myself.’

Meg of Four Lane Ends