Chapter IV

Easter fell full early the year following, and it was a cruel, bitter season. Then it was that Sir Geoffrey’s new barn was levelled to the earth by weight of snow, and there was a great flood in the village by reason of the swelling of the stream.

All the year preceding, Master Parson had come often to Four Lane Ends, and he comforted Meg as much as he might, bidding her earnestly to trust in the merits of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and to cease not from importuning the Blessed Virgin that she would intercede for her at the Throne of Grace. Moreover, he said that though her sins were as scarlet yet might they be whiter than snow, and that our God was a God of mercy and not of vengeance, and would abundantly pardon such as returned to Him with weeping and amendment.

‘Nay,’ quoth Meg sadly, ‘I have sinned the unpardonable sin for which there is no forgiveness.’

‘Tush, tush, woman,’ cried Master Parson, ‘thou talkest nonsense. To sin against the Holy Ghost were indeed to be in evil case, but thou hast sinned against Christ alone, and He is full soft and kind and forgiving.’

By this time Meg was so infirm of her body that she could only walk with difficulty, and it was sore trouble for her to do about the house, much more to go hoeing and weeding in the fields as she was wont to do. When the sun shone brightly on the Red Headland she would sit in the doorway of the cottage sadly regarding the green-budding hawthorns and the early violets that grew under the bank, and at whiles her lips moved as though she prayed. Much she thought in those days of her former wild words and deeds, and many bitter tears she shed therefore.

‘My sins are too black for even Christ to forgive,’ she would say.

‘’Twould much ease her heart,’ quoth Gilbert to Master Parson, ‘if she could but think she was forgiven.’

Towards Easter she grew more feeble, weakening as the year strengthened, and when the earth began to put on its robe of green she began to strip off, as it were, her robe of mortality. About a week before Easter Day her husband came in from his work in the fields to see how she fared. She was sitting deep in thought at the doorway.

‘I have been thinking, husband,’ quoth she, ‘that I would above all things partake of the Blessed Sacrament in the Town Church this Easter. But I am unworthy and that I know. The Lord hath taken the strength out of my joints. Pray for me, dear husband.’

‘Why, Meg,’ quoth he. ‘Hob of the Cross would gladly lend me a hand and we two could right easily carry thee to Church, an there were need, the Holy Day.’

‘Thou art indeed a kind man and a good to me,’ said his wife. ‘If the Lord granted me to partake once more of His precious Body and Blood, I should die happy, for I should know that He had forgiven my sin and done away mine iniquity.’

On Easter day Gilbert looked from the little window. The air was chill as death, and a soft darkness brooded dumbly over a waste of snow. The branches of the trees bowed under their burden; the ways were choked. Tears came into his eyes.

‘It lies thick with snow,’ he said sadly.

Meg bowed her head. ‘The Lord is not willing. How can He forgive me?’ she said simply.

But anon and in the good time he had promised came Hob of the Cross, his round face like a glowing coal, his breath going up like a white cloud from his mouth.

‘What, Meg,’ quoth he, stamping the snow from his shoes before the hearth fire and clapping his hands noisily together. ‘Art ready for Church? We shall fetch thee there right readily, I warrant thee.’

A faint colour tinged her faded cheeks and a light flickered in her eyes. Gilbert stood doubtfully by.

‘Would God it were possible,’ she said.

‘It lies three feet deep in places, I guess, good Hob?’ said Gilbert.

‘Yea, neighbour, but if thy wife here be ready, it might be done.’

‘’Twould do her mortal harm, I’m feared,’ said Gilbert.

‘When I have partaken of the Blessed Sacrament this Easter Day,’ quoth Meg, ‘happy will I die straightway.’

Then, turning from one to another with more alacrity than she had used this many a long day, she said, ‘Good husband mine and kindest neighbour Hob, do ye but take me in your arms this morning to the Town Church and leave the rest to the Lord. Fear not for the snow or the foul ways; I must die and that soon, and I might die the happier for your kindness.’

Hob looked at Gilbert.

‘We will do as she wishes,’ said Gilbert.

They joined hands with crossed arms and took Meg upon their wrists, she staying herself thereon by clasping their shoulders. Thus they carried her forth between them in the twilight of the early morning. Their feet sank deeply into the snow even to their knees, and much ado they had to keep their footing on the rough way under such a burden and going in such a fashion. Often they stayed by the way to get their breath and to rest a while, when Meg stood leaning heavily upon her husband. Once as they stood thus she spied a dead bird that had dropped frozen upon the snow from the branches overhead.

‘Alas,’ quoth she, ‘thou poor bird.’

As they got nearer the town the morning lightened.

‘Are we far off yet?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Nay, not far,’ quoth Gilbert.

A little while after they caught a glimpse of the smoking roofs of the town lying down in the hollow, and with that they heard the first merry peal of Easter bells chiming up over the snow.

‘Jesus be praised,’ cried Meg faintly.

‘Hold fast, good Meg,’ panted Hob. ‘We shall win through at last. Holy Virgin, how I sweat.’

Then they saw the Town Church itself and the people streaming through the porch.

‘Jesus, Jesus, for but a little while longer,’ murmured Meg.

Gilbert and Hob hastened their toilsome steps. So at last they came to the Church and, the folk courteously making way for them, they bore her to a stool by the rood-screen.

The Church was decked with fair flowers, white tapers burnt like stars before the Altar, a sweet smoke of incense went up to the rafters, the clergy boys sang loudly and clearly ‘Alleluia.’ Lit by candleshine, with white lilies round her feet, stood God’s Mother clasping her Little Son, and He stretched His little arms out and smiled towards her through the odorous mist. Meg had been overcome by faintness once or twice by the way, but now all her mortal powers concentrated themselves on the act of devotion. As she listened to the words of the Priest her eyes closed, and she turned her face upwards to Heaven like as she had been one born blind. Her lips moved at the responses but made no sound, except, when the sacring bell rang, a deep sob burst from her and shook her weakened frame from head to foot. In her turn she would have gone toward the Altar to receive the Blessed Sacrament but for her bodily weakness she might not, so her husband aided her upon the one side and Hob upon the other, and the three of them knelt together thus side by side. Then came the Priest and said, ‘This is the cup of My Blood which is shed for you,’ and placed the Sacred Wafer upon her tongue. As she received and swallowed it a blissful light as of a great peace shone out of her countenance; she lifted up her hands joined together towards Heaven, and cried in a clear joyful voice that all might hear, ‘Jesu!’ She fell back into Gilbert’s arms, and the Priest, gazing upon her face, knew she was dead.

They began to bear her away, and, as they did so, Gilbert saw that Hob of the Cross wept. He turned to him with a right steadfast and glad countenance and cried in a joyful voice, ‘Weep not, dear Hob, the Lord hath judged His servant worthy to depart in peace.’

The Life and Death of Saint Simon of Blewberry

When folk come into Roodborough for the market ’tis easy to tell the Blewberry people from all other. For these, when they will take oath in their talk, say ‘By blessed Peter,’ or ‘By Saint Thomas of Canterbury,’ or ‘By Saint George,’ but folk from Blewberry swear never but by Saint Simon, and this Saint Simon is not the Holy Apostle whose festival we keep with Saint Jude’s in the month of October, but is indeed a Blewberry Saint born and bred.

Like many other holy men, Saint Simon of Blewberry was of lowly and obscure birth. Of his parentage little certain is known. Some say that his father was a man-at-arms broken in the French wars, others a wandering tumbler and rope dancer, and others again one Rutterkin, a travelling scribe. Lo, did not five cities of Greece contend to be accounted the birthplace of Dan Homer, that great and famous Greekish poet? Among so many claimants I may not any more decide who was the father of the Holy Simon. Certainly, however, his mother was the daughter of a poor villein of Sir Robert of Blewberry, a woman much noted in her younger days for the sin of gadding and haunting alehouses. In her latter years, however, it was granted to her to repent and, when she was somewhat past her prime, she entered into wedlock with one Walter Thinshanks, an aged villein of some threescore winters.

Simon’s infancy and boyhood were marked by no signs of the grace and piety which distinguished his maturer years. Him indeed in his green days Satan seems to have especially tempted and tried, and full seldom, as he himself was accustomed afterwards to relate, did he escape the snare of the fowler. Chiefly at this time was he filled with carnal desires for dainty food, and to satisfy these ravenous lusts he was wont to steal meat and pies even from the neighbours’ ovens, to rob the Parson’s orchard of pears and apples while they were yet unripe, and to kill and devour in secret such pullets and tender fowls as he could come at. When he was accused of any such sins he would lie remorselessly to save himself from deserved chastisement, saying secretly, ‘Better a soft answer than a sore breech,’ and so deft was he with his tongue, that his tender boy’s flesh usually escaped correction at the expense of his immortal soul. He was a stout lad of his body and a lusty and a great quarreller, so that he was ceaselessly embroiled with the other lads of the village, and generally by reason of his uncommon physical strength had the victory. Folk noted him as a rare companion of wenches at a somewhat premature age, and there were not to lack (and among them observant and sagacious men) who prophesied that his end would be sudden, and neither on the earth nor in the water.

But even while they spoke thus, honestly misled by appearances, the spirit of inward grace was stirring in the bosom of the young man, and though now he hid his light under a bushel, it was soon to shine forth with glorious radiance before the eyes of men. Yet such was the jealous humility with which he veiled the true piety of his disposition, that perhaps it had never been brought to light, nay, not during the whole course of his life, had it not been for a chance so happy and unexpected as to more than smack of God’s Providence. It fell out in this way.

One Holy Day Master Parson was officiating at Mass, and at the solemn moment when he says ‘Hoc est Corpus’ a loud burst of laughter interrupted him. Casting his eyes towards whence it came, he spied Simon seated between two fat wenches and laughing as though his sides would burst. Whereupon Master Parson closed his lips on that very blessed word ‘Corpus,’ and would not proceed with the Sacrament until Simon had ceased. After Mass was finished he had Simon sent for and brought to him in the vestry.

Master Parson was a very devout man and a charitable, although somewhat simple, and was much loved therefore on all sides in the village. So Simon came without fear and stood before him cap in hand, humbly and gravely. The Parson gazing upon and noting his bowed head, downcast eyes and clasped hands, thought there was no more godly-looking young fellow in the whole village, and marvelled that the Lord should fashion so deceptively a church-brawler and a ribald.

‘Thou profane knave,’ quoth he, ‘how was it thou didst belch forth such a loud guffaw in the midst of the Blessed Sacrament?’

‘“Belch”? “Guffaw”?’ said the young man in meek surprise. ‘Good Sir John, I wot full well I had laughed, but methinks it had not been so loud.’

‘“Loud?”’ quoth Sir John. ‘“_Loud?_” ’Twas loud enough to set the steeple tumbling about our ears. If it had been a common vulgar laugh, it might have been pardoned, but a guffaw like a thunder-clap, why boy, ’tis an outrage, ’tis rank blasphemy!’

‘Then I humbly and unfeignedly beseech pardon, good Sir John,’ said Simon in a gentle and subdued voice.

‘This shall not serve thy turn,’ cried Master Parson wrathfully, for he weened Simon played the hypocrite. ‘I will know what it was that made thee laugh like the Bull of Bashan in the middle of my Latinity. Why sattest thyself down between those fat and wanton wenches?’

‘Fat and wanton wenches? “wenches,” Sir John?’ repeated Simon in great wonderment.

‘Yea, fat wenches, two fat wenches, wenches fat as Flanders mares, dost understand English?’

‘If thou sayest so, Sir John, then indeed I must have sat between two fat wenches. But my mind was so on the matter of my devotion that I wot not of it.’

The pious Simon spoke in so quiet and humble a tone, and with such a grave face, that Master Parson was struck all of a heap. He bethought himself that he must have erred in his judgment of the young man, who stood so meekly and transparently sincere before him.

‘Come now,’ quoth he, ‘tell me why thou didst laugh. Happen thou hadst some reason that may excuse thee somewhat.’

‘Dost thou command me to speak, good Sir John, for I had lief not for humility’s sake.’

‘“Humility’s sake?” I do indeed command thee to speak.’

‘Then,’ said Simon, ‘I will tell thee why I laughed, but, good Sir John, thou wilt bear witness for me if ever in the future question be made, that I told thee against my will and at thy express command?’

‘Yea,’ quoth Sir John, much mystified, ‘I will bear witness.’

‘Thou didst notice who sat on either side of me, Sir John, the which I omitted, but didst thou also note the gossips who sat on the bench before me?’

‘Nay, yea--one was the Bailey’s wife and the other--the Saints bless me--the other----’

‘The other was the Miller’s.’

‘Yea, yea.’

‘They are the two most notorious gossips in the town, good Sir John, as thou knowest full well. Their tongues drop adders and vipers, their mouths are full of backbiting and scandal, so that there is no man or woman in this town, wed or unwed, but hath suffered from their malice and slander. Even of thyself, good father, I have heard them say full often that----’

‘Pass that over, pass that over,’ interrupted Master Parson hastily.

‘Yea, it is shameful, but I will pass that over,’ said Simon. ‘As these two old women sat before me during the Blessed Mass they chattered together loudly like monkeys, how Cicely’s petticoat was shorter than it had been, how Sir Robert was too often to see the Smith’s bonny daughter, how ’twas somedeal late for Tom the Hedger and Rose of the Crown to patch their sinful bodies together in Holy Matrimony, and a great deal more of such scandalous stuff as made my ears burn and my eyes water to harken to it, so that I could not for their infernal cackling keep my thoughts on thy words or my devotions. Sorely was I vexed with them, and, groaning in spirit, I turned my eyes towards Heaven to invoke the aid of the Blessed Saints, when lo! upon the great beam just above the heads of the two impious women I saw a little black Devil.’

‘Devil?’ quoth the Parson.

‘Yea, a little black Devil, and he held himself fast on the beam by his feet and his tail. In one hand he had a long scroll of parchment and in the other a quill, and there was an inkhorn slung round his neck such as Rutterkin the scribe carries. Anon he listened with one hand behind his ear to the gossips, and anon he dipped his quill into the ink and wrote at great pace every evil word that they said. Blessed Virgin, how he scribbled and scribbled until he had already filled one side of his scroll and the sweat ran in great drops down his brow. Then he turned over to the other side of the scroll and scribbled and scribbled again until he was ready to drop with exhaustion and had filled every corner of the parchment on both sides. Then was he mightily perplexed and annoyed, for the gossips ceased not to commit sin with their tongues, and he had no fair parchment left whereon to record their foul words. So having considered for a little, as it seemed to me, he grasped one end of the roll with his teeth and seized the other end with his claws and pulled so as to stretch the parchment. He tugged and tugged with all his strength, jerking back his head mightily at every tug, and at last giving such a fierce jerk as should have lengthened the scroll by an inch at least, but lo, such was the fury of the jerk that he suddenly lost his balance and fell head over heels from the beam to the floor. At this it was, good Sir John, that I was constrained to burst into laughter.

‘’Tis strange,’ mused the Parson, much astonished at this narration. ‘’Tis indeed strange that thine eyes should have been opened to this while mine were closed. But didst thou observe the Devil narrowly?’

‘Yea, indeed,’ quoth Simon, ‘I beheld him while thou mightest have said two dozen _Pater Nosters_ and three dozen _Aves_.’ With that he described him from the tips of his horns to the end of his tail, and with such wonderful detail and exactness that Master Parson was able to recognise him as the devil Tutivillius, of whom he had read a description lately in one of his learned books.

‘Truly,’ said he, ‘thou art an Israelite in whom there is no guile, for never else but by beholding this sly Devil wouldst thou be able to describe him so aptly. It is clear to me that the Lord hath endowed thee with the gift of spiritual sight for His own holy purposes; I must ponder the matter more at large.’

Then he blessed Simon and dismissed him with many words of commendation and good comfort.

Presently the story of what Simon had seen got all over the village, and he was forced to tell it again a round dozen of times, and the more it was told and heard the more true it seemed (for such as the learned Lollius saith is the strange character of truth). More especially was it believed because Sir John told it everywhere he came, and because the Bailey’s wife and the Miller’s were heartily hated of every one. So it came to pass that people openly jeered at these two wicked women in the way, and, whenever they went abroad for business or delight, the little boys would pursue them, crying after them, ‘Tutivillius hath it in his roll,’ or ‘Tutivillius listeneth,’ or some such like admonition, the very babes and sucklings thus crying shame upon them.

Good Master Parson had been so much impressed by the humble piety and reverence of demeanour with which Simon had related his wonderful vision, that he marvelled much at his own lack of discernment in not earlier recognising that the young man’s wildness and seeming irregularity of behaviour had been nothing more nor less than the frothy turbulence of a saintly soul, secretly consumed with religious fervour, although not yet fully broken in to the yoke of the Lord. After due consideration, therefore, he went up to the Great House to Sir Geoffrey, and fully explained to that devout Lord how the Almighty had bestowed upon Simon the gift of Divine Vision, and craved his permission that the young man might be made a priest. Sir Geoffrey marvelled much at what he heard, and gave his consent gladly to all that the Parson proposed, giving thanks to God with tears in his eyes that such a saintly soul should be born in his village.

But when Master Parson came to Simon and proposed to him that he should become a priest, Simon violently opposed himself thereto, crying at the top of his voice with surprising vehemence that he had no call to serve the Lord, that he was a mean, worthless, unlettered rascal and unfit for such an office; and further, moreover, that he would much rather succeed his father, Walter Thinshanks, in his holding. Then Sir John understood his deep humility, and thanked the Lord, that He had let him live to see and hear such religion. But he pleaded with him earnestly and went on to show him that if he took Holy Orders, Sir Geoffrey would entirely release him from his servility and would liberally provide for him in the future, exhorting him to beware by the example of Jonah from shrinking from the burden that the Lord had clearly laid upon his shoulders. So in the end this humble Christian man was compelled, as it were against his will, to serve God as a priest.

He gained such schooling as was fit for his holy calling from Master Parson, and, although he was by nature ever more apt to seek the Lord in His wonderful works than in mere books, yet, God willing, he became in process of time a subdeacon. When good Sir John departed this life Sir Geoffrey gave to him the benefice of Blewberry, saying that it was indeed fit that he should minister in the Church where God had first called him in a vision. Never did priest take more delight in his pastoral labours than Simon; he was never absent from love-feasts, at christening and churching ales none was more welcome than he; he mingled with his parishioners in pleasant Christian sort, laughing with them merrily in all honest mirth as though he had been a man of no more religion than they, and openly saying that he was not one of those who show how they love God by hating their neighbour, and that nothing kept the Devil and his Angels so much at a distance as clean and hearty conviviality. For which things he was much loved by all the people, except for a few malicious and hypocritical backbiters, who, seeing him hale-fellow-well-met with all sorts and conditions of men at all times and places, imitated the wickedness of the Pharisees of old, and called him a glutton and a wine-bibber.

A little time after Simon had succeeded to the benefice, the Bishop of the diocese, who loved, after the manner of bishops, to put his finger in every pie whether of his own or other’s making, sent round in his presumption certain vain and supercilious clerks to examine the parish clergy of the diocese as to their proficiency in Divine Learning and, more especially, as to their ability to read the services of Holy Church with a just pronunciation and understanding of the Latin tongue. When these fellows came to Blewberry, they called before them Master Simon and caused him to read aloud to them from the Canon of the Mass. This he did with an enunciation so clear and accurate as to be little short of miraculous, giving every syllable its just quantity whether short or long. So finding that they might catch him in no fault of pronunciation, they straightway impertinently proceeded to question him upon the grammar thereof, not considering in their vain hearts that the words of the Holy Mass are no fit subject for the wranglings of schoolmen.

‘“Te igitur, clementissime Pater,”’ quoth one of them, ‘and in what case falleth “Te,” Master Simon?’

The good Simon was silent, and hung his head, and cast down his eyes as though ashamed. Whereat these insolent clerks sniggered audibly, thinking that he was confounded, and asked him again and badgered him much to reply, but yet he would not.

Quoth one, ‘Tell us at least, then, what governeth “Te”?’

Then Simon lifted up his face and beholding them steadily made answer that ‘Pater governeth “Te,” for Pater governeth all things.’

At this the examiners (as might have been expected of such base fellows) burst into a roar of coarse laughter, and said he was an ignoramus and an unlettered ass. But when folk heard how the Blessed Simon had replied to them, they much approved his answer, and said that surely he had been inspired to speak such good religion, and if what he had said was not in the Mass Book, then it was time it was put there.

Simon’s divine gifts of supernatural vision and for working miracles began now to be clearly seen on all sides. Such by God’s favour was the clearness of his sight that folk who had lost or mislaid anything, by coming to him with a small offering for the Church, were often resolved by him where that they had lost lay hid. In this way Sir Geoffrey recovered his lost purse.

One Holy Day this pious knight came to Mass with the great silken purse he bore at his girdle plainly crammed with French crowns. With it thus dangling by his side he went up to receive the Blessed Sacrament at the hands of the good Simon. When after Communion he returned to his pew, great was his perturbation and distress to find that his purse had vanished, the strings thereof having been cut clean through, as though with a sharp knife. After Mass, therefore, he went, as was his wont when in any trouble, to the good Priest and told him of his heavy loss. Master Simon said he was in no way surprised thereat, for it had been granted him in a vision to see how the fiends raged against Sir Geoffrey because of his pious way of life and especially because of his almsgiving, and that he made no manner of doubt that the devils had stolen his purse, out of the bitter spite they cherished towards him. At this Sir Geoffrey was much gratified, and said that he was glad to have lost the purse and the French crowns into the bargain if it was for God’s sake. ‘Therein thou showest thyself a truly devout Christian,’ quoth Simon; ‘but trust me, I will pray to the Lord this night that the purse may be returned to thee nevertheless.’ This the holy man did according to his promise, and such was the efficacy of his prayers, that shortly after he was enabled to take Sir Geoffrey into the Church (as he had been directed in a vision) and to bring forth the purse from behind the Altar, with the strings thereof clean cut, just as it had been stolen from the Knight’s girdle. When Sir Geoffrey opened it, however, instead of twenty crowns therein he found only ten, the others having been changed by the malice of the Devil into worthless pebbles. Nevertheless, so grateful was Sir Geoffrey for the prayers of the Blessed Simon that he generously gave these remaining crowns into his hands for the poor of the parish, to which use they were punctually applied in due course.

Not only were Simon’s eyes thus clear to see the things of the present, but he could often see also far into the future. Of this one example must suffice.

There was in Blewberry an ancient villein who had been married some six years to a lusty young wench and had yet gotten neither son nor daughter by her. This ancient man coming from his work at mid-day met the Blessed Simon upon his threshold and complained bitterly to him that the Lord had not yet seen fit to bless him with children. Simon turned to him with eyes glowing with the celestial light of prophecy.

‘Be of good cheer,’ quoth he. ‘Verily, I say unto thee that in nine months she shall bring forth to thee a man-child.’

In the end it fell out just as Simon had foretold, even to the very day.

Many were the miracles this good man wrought, of which perhaps his casting out of the devils from the clergy-boys of Roodborough is the most famous.

These lads were possessed by certain evil spirits, which tormented them grievously, compelling them to quiver from head to foot as though with an ague, to roar and gnash with their teeth like wild beasts, to hurl themselves on the ground, and to kick like mad horses, to vomit nails, and stones, and straw, and ofttimes to dance until they dropped with exhaustion. More especially were they afflicted thus when there was any question of their going into the Abbey Church to sing, to their book-learning, or to any other wholesome labour. Many priests and holy men had attempted to exorcise them by prayers, holy water, and precious relics, some of which last were brought many miles for the purpose, but all to no effect. At length the sanctity of Master Simon being in every one’s mouth, and coming to the ears of the Roodborough folk, entreaty was made by a special messenger to him that he would come over forthwith and heal them, if so he might. The good Simon having been informed of every detail of the matter, replied that the morrow he must commune with God thereon, but the day following he would come without fail, and do whatever it might be revealed him to do.

On that day, having come to Roodborough as he had promised, he ordered the clergy boys to be brought into the Abbey Garden and, standing before them there, he addressed the evil spirits that possessed them in the following fashion:

‘Imps of Satan and Spawn of Hell, I am told that ye grievously vex and torment these boys’ bodies whenever they strive to go to the Abbey Church, to their book learning or any other labour which it is meet for them to perform. Now, give heed to my solemn words and mark me well. Much as ye grieve their bodies, mayhap I shall grieve them still more.’ (Here he brought forth from under his cassock a birch rod, such as schoolmasters use, but huge in size and cunningly wrought, and indeed most painful and terrible to behold, and bared his hairy and muscular right arm to the shoulder.) ‘The first boy whom ye cause to quiver, to dance, to vomit, to squeal, nay even to tremble a hair’s-breadth, shall I beat with this birch rod until he is black and blue from head to foot, and there is no more life left in his miserable body than there is in a stone. Yea, I will do it an there be forty thousand devils in his body.’

The holy man waved the birch three times in the air with religious fervour and cried, ‘Boys, loosen the hinder points of your hose so they may fall the more easily if there should be need.’ Anon trembling, the clergy boys did as he commanded. ‘Now,’ quoth he, ‘we will go into the Church.’

Thereat the boys walked into the Church as soberly and staidly as the Lord Abbot himself. At the sound of the Blessed Simon’s voice the devils had slunk away out of them, defeated and ashamed, neither dared they trouble the boys any more after that, for they knew that the man of God was more powerful than they. By this miracle the Saint’s fame was enlarged in all corners of the realm, so that people came from afar to see and converse with him, often bringing with them gracious gifts for the Church at Blewberry, and to these, under God, he was able to give much spiritual assistance and comfort.

But now, even while the holy man was in the prime of his years and labours, and long before he had fulfilled the natural term of man’s life, it pleased the Lord in his Providence to call him from this vale of tears to Himself, and it was sweet and comfortable to the lovers and admirers of the Saint to reflect that the summons came to him even as he was engaged in the actual discharge of his sacred functions. The manner of his decease was in worthy keeping with the manner of his life, and it is hard to write of it without tears.

It chanced that he officiated at the churching of Robert’s wife of Haydock, and after the churching he was asked to the ale, whither many gossips had repaired to celebrate the occasion with plenty that was fit both to eat and to drink. Being, as has been said, no enemy of honest mirth, Simon courteously consented to drink somewhat with them for good fellowship’s sake, and being much importuned remained with the company until late that evening. But after it had grown dark, and the moon was gotten up and most of the guests had well drunken, he took his leave with some haste, saying that he had bethought him of certain devotions he was bound to make that night. About an hour after, three others took their leave also, going the same way to town as the good Simon had gone before them. These three fellows had not gone more than a mile from Haydock, making their way along the road with arms lovingly linked for friendship’s sake, when one of them spied something dark lying by the wayside. They made their way slowly toward it, and, when they had gazed upon it for some time, they recognised Master Simon lying peacefully upon his back as though absorbed in a deep meditation. His face was turned upward towards the bright moon and his feet lay in a great pool of water. They took him by the shoulder and shook him with all the force they might, saying, ‘Rise, Master Parson, or thou wilt perish from wet and cold.’

The good Simon stirred uneasily, opened his eyes slowly, and blinked solemnly at the moonlight.

‘Put some more clothes on my feet,’ quoth he in a full soft and broken voice, ‘and blow out the light and leave me to the contemplation of God.’

Whereat these three men, after much contention and sagacious deliberation, concluding that he was absorbed in divine meditation, left him anon and brought each other home in safety.

The same night it came on heavily to rain.

Next morning an old woman going to drive pigs, found the holy man dead, exactly as he had been left the night before, his eyes rapt and fixed upon the Heavens as though in the last and greatest of his visions.

Then folk called to mind his last words, how he had asked to be left alone to the contemplation of God, and they knew that he had foretold his own death, albeit to dull and uncomprehending ears. Also they called to mind divers others of his prophecies and wonderful works and said one to another, ‘Surely there has been a Saint among us.’ After his interment many sick folk were miraculously healed of their diseases at his tomb.

Thus it is that when you go through Roodborough market-place on a fair day, you will hear Blewberry folk swear never by Saint George or Saint Peter or Saint Thomas of Canterbury, but by Saint Simon, and this Saint Simon, as I have told you, is a Blewberry Saint born and bred.

The Lie of the Flesh