Chapter I

It was very hot in the market-place. The sun blazed from a cloudless sky like a globe of molten brass. The houses on each side of the square threw a hard and narrow rim of shadow upon the pavement, above the scorched cobbles of which heat ceaselessly vibrated in waves. A couple of dogs lay panting under the market cross with glazed eyes, and dripping, projected tongues. The open market-place was well-nigh deserted, for folk could not cheapen and bargain with the fierce sunlight beating on the napes of their necks, and so had taken shelter from the sweltering heat in the neighbouring hostelries and canvas ale-booths. Only in the little patch of shade cast by the ‘Three Arrows’ stood a small group of hucksters selling petty wares. There was a fellow with bright-coloured ribbons and gloves, whose parched tongue had long since refused to perform its office; there was another with damsons and little green apples, whose thirst had driven him to devour almost as much as he had sold; there was an old woman fallen uneasily asleep upon the handle of a corded-in basket wherein half a dozen pullets clucked and struggled wearily; there was a chapman with a priceless elixir for Saint Antony’s fire, who sucked greedily at an empty tankard; there was an old man with a great green leaf on his head, sitting with closed eyes and clasped hands upon his basket of peascods; and there among the rest was Meg of Four Lane Ends, a fierce and uncouth figure, standing with arms akimbo and a sack of corn at her feet.

Meg was a good six foot high, with broad hips and shoulders, and an arm and fist like a blacksmith’s. She might have been one of those Amazons who, the learned say, are shut up in the North with Gog and Magog, whence they will come with terror and woe and destruction at the dreadful Doomsday. ‘God help the man she taketh to husband,’ folk were wont to say; but lo how the Lord in His Providence provides--she married Gilbert of the Four Lane Ends, a somewhat stern albeit a kindly man, and one who could knock down an ox with one blow of his fist.

Her red hair straggled in wisps across her freckled face, her nostrils quivered like a mettled horse’s, as she snuffed up the hot air, and her thin lips twitched and puckered nervously at the corners. Her steel-blue eyes now rested on the corn-sack at her feet and now roved wearily round the market-place, searching for possible customers. She had carried the corn on her back five long miles that morning; there were three good bushels of it, and no one had offered her more than twelvepence the bushel for it, a malison on them.

She saw John the Miller come slowly across the market-place. She moistened her parched, black lips with her tongue and cried out to him in a cracked voice, ‘Dost lack any corn, John Miller?’

He came across to her and, opening the sack, plunged his hand into the corn, running the grain through his fingers and feeling it between his finger and thumb.

‘I will give thee elevenpence the bushel,’ he said.

‘By Christ’s Passion,’ she answered him wrathfully, ‘I had rather fling it on the fire or to the swine.’

‘Nay, nay, be not an angered.’

‘I have been offered more this morning already.’

‘Ay, hast thou? Well then, twelvepence, I’ll say twelvepence the bushel.’

‘Nay, nor that either, as I am a mortal woman. Fourteenpence or I’ll not sell.’

John the Miller shook his head. ‘I cannot more than twelve,’ he said, ‘’tis a just price.’

‘Then, by the Lord,’ quoth Meg furiously, ‘’twill be for those that can and will.’

John the Miller shook his head again, smiled and passed on.

The Bailey called from within the hostelry of the ‘Three Arrows,’ where he drank his fourth flagon of ale.

‘I told thee, little Meg, thou shouldst not get better than twelvepence the bushel.’

‘To Hell with thee,’ screamed Meg furiously.

The market square was like a furnace, her mouth was parched as a lime-kiln, but she had no pennies wherewith to buy ale until her corn was sold. The houses, pens, and booths seemed to rise and fall before her eyes in a fierce wave of heat. Directly before her stood the Town Church, its front bathed in the white glare of the sunlight; she gazed at it with hard and half-unwitting eyes. The little door in the porch was slowly pushed open, and an old woman came out and hobbled away on her stick down the side of the market hill. The door, swinging slowly to again, gave a momentary glimpse of the cool and shadowy interior. Meg gazed awhile at the closed door; then she stooped, shouldered the heavy sack of corn, and slowly crossed the torrid market-place.

She pushed open the little door and entered the church. She crossed herself at the font with holy water, and lifted some of the water in her hands and bathed her hot and dusty face. She carried some of it to her lips, but it was too salt. Then she curtsied awkwardly to the Holy Altar, and going up to the rood-screen, sank down on her knees before a bench with her sack beside her. The church was very dark and still and cool, and the faint smell of flowers and incense filled it. Meg regarded the miraculous image of Our Lady and Her Blessed Babe, which, as folk think, was wrought by the Holy Saint Joseph himself in the exact portraiture of the Virgin and her Son. Before her shrine burned a dozen candles and the sacred lamp, which, according to usage, is never extinguished night nor day. The Blessed Virgin clasped the little Christ close to her bosom, but His little arms were stretched out towards Meg and His countenance gazed sweetly and lovingly upon her.

‘O little Jesu,’ cried Meg, stretching out her clasped hands in prayer and addressing Him, ‘I can get but twelvepence a bushel for my corn, which, as Thou knowest and can see for Thyself, is worth at least fourteenpence, yea and more, were it not for the good year. Thou knowest I am no wicked regrater to demand an unjust price from poor men because of their need, but only a poor labouring woman asking for a fair recompense for having lugged this heavy sack of corn five miles this morning, and for having stood like a sick dog three hours in the cursed market-place yonder. Do but grant me, Little Jesu, fourteenpence the bushel and I will buy thee a penny wax candle at Eastertide.’

She crossed herself and said ‘Hail Mary,’ then, taking her sack, went out into the market-place. Other folk had now come in to buy and sell, amongst them several rich Roodborough merchants; the sun was beginning to drop westwards; traffic was brisker in the lengthening patch of shadow under the ‘Three Arrows.’ She went across and took her stand in the busiest of the crowd. ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ she cried.

Presently she heard another cry ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ and then another, and looking round she saw a half-dozen upland folk had brought in corn with them and were selling it as fast as they could. She frowned and grated her teeth and cried the more shrilly, ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any corn?’ But although some asked her how much, none stayed to buy of her. After she had stood a full hour and her knees were weak with standing and her voice worn to a whisper with crying, the Bailey and John the Miller came by.

The Bailey laughed to see her still there with her corn unsold.

‘What, Meg, thou mad wench!’ he cried, ‘art thou still asking fourteenpence the bushel? Thou mightest cry it from now till Doomsday at that rate.’

‘Fourteenpence?’ quoth John the Miller. ‘’Tis no fair price, ’tis extortionate, good Meg.’

‘’Tis worth that or nothing,’ cried Meg hoarsely.

‘Nay then, ’tis worth nothing,’ said the Bailey, ‘for Hob of the Cross and Sim of the Wry-Mouth and the rest of the upland fellows yonder are selling as good as thine for tenpence.’

‘Tenpence,’ screamed Meg. ‘Thou art a liar.’

‘No liar, little Meg,’ laughed the Bailey. ‘Go thou and look.’

So Meg went and looked, and there was Hob of the Cross and Sim of the Wry-Mouth and the rest of the upland folk selling fine corn at tenpence the bushel. She grinned with rage and ground her teeth. An evil, black cloud came over her fierce face.

‘’Twas pity thou didst not let it go at twelvepence when thou hadst the chance,’ said John the Miller.

Meg turned towards the Church and shook her fist passionately; she strove to blaspheme but her wrath choked her.

‘Nay, nay,’ said the Bailey. ‘Be a wise wench. Lo, here are thirty pennies; give me the three bushels and get thee to the ‘Three Arrows’ and take a bite and a sup to sweeten thy sour heart, for thou art indeed a bitter herb and grown little in God’s grace, despite thy inches. Thou shalt not get a better price in the whole market, I warrant thee.’

‘Give me the thirty pennies,’ snarled Meg. The Bailey counted them out in her hand. She put them without a word of thanks into her leathern purse. Then pushing her way through the throng of people she crossed over to the Church again. She entered and went up to the Altar. Christ stretched out His little arms lovingly towards her as before. But she gnashed upon Him with her teeth, wrinkled her nose at Him and shook her great fist at Him with fierce vehemence.

‘O little Christ,’ she whispered, trembling with rage, ‘hast Thou indeed done this to me? I might have had twelvepence at the first and I would not, but asked Thine aid instead, and now I cannot get but tenpence. Thou shalt get no penny candle at Eastertide of me, but I will pay Thee out for this, even at Thine Own Holy Season. Lo, now, thou little Jesu, as much shame and evil as Thou hast done to me will I do also unto Thee and more also.’

With that she flung herself out of the Church and hied sullenly homewards to Four Lane Ends.