Chapter II: Part 2

St. Paul's, the principal church in the town, had been despoiled by the sacrilegious baron, who had carried off the stones of which it was built to repair his stronghold, and it is not clear if the Augustinian canons who continued to serve it, though they had removed many years before to the priory erected for them at Newenham by Roisia de Beauchamp, would have found just then an altar to serve. Only on certain occasions would her brutal husband permit Margaret to attend to her religious duties at the chapel of St. Thomas-at-bridge, which stood at the foot of the bridge outside the castle gate. This morning, however, taking advantage of the fit of penitence which had seized him in the night, she was craving permission to go to the retreat at Elstow.

"I like not your running after these priests and their masses," remonstrated Sir Fulke. "We have gone many years with chapel unserved here. You know I have made of it a lumber-room; and we are none the worse for it, and," he added, with a grim chuckle, "perchance none the better."

"But, and did you allow me, I would go pray for you, while you yourself get you to the shrine of St. Alban, and make reparation to the holy servants of St. Benedict there, as you promised me last night, on your honour, you would do," pleaded the wife.

Sir Fulke winced at this allusion to his weakness and terror in the hours of darkness.

"Besides, you have often exhorted me to stand well for your sake with the knights and noble families round, and you know full well how many ladies are like to be at Elstow."

Sir Fulke paused awhile. It was perfectly true, as his wife had said, that he wanted to improve his social position in the neighbourhood, and though the superstitious fears arising from his fearful dream had now vanished, he was well aware that his last raid, with its accompanying murders, was more than any decent-minded men could put up with, even in those rough and cruel days. Therefore, as religious observances counted for much in the way of expiation of crime, he came to the conclusion that no harm would be done by a little vicarious repentance.

"Go, then," he said roughly. "But take care that if aught is said to you concerning this St. Alban's turmoil, you make out the best case you can for me. Say that the bailiff was burned by my men ere I got to the abbey gate, and that I knew naught of it till afterwards. You can add that some of my men-at-arms have been hanged for it, or aught else that occurs to you. Your woman-wit will tell you what to say."

"And then," exclaimed Lady Margaret, overlooking, in her thankfulness, the condition of lying imposed on the desired permission--"and then you will go yourself to St. Alban's, and--"

"Peace, woman!" interrupted the knight; "leave me to order my own doings. I will command your palfrey to be ready. Take one of your women with you, and I will order varlets to go attend you. I would not that the wife of De Breaute should go to Elstow with any fewer train than the other dames."

So saying, Sir Fulke strode from the room, leaving his wife setting about her preparations for departure with all alacrity.

De Breaute, rough and cruel as he was, had a great idea of keeping such state at Bedford as befitted a castle of such importance, and had no notion of letting it go down from the position which it had occupied in the time of the De Beauchamps. Indeed, from a military point of view, he had considerably strengthened it by adding to its defences with the material he had robbed from St. Paul's. Within, it was well garrisoned and provisioned, and held by a force of nearly one hundred men-at-arms, or trained soldiers, besides grooms, servants, and followers. Though deprived of the services of a chaplain, the Lady Margaret was allowed to have two or three waiting-women or attendants, who held more the position of companions than mere servants.

Accompanied by one of these, she found herself, an hour or two after her interview with her husband, riding on her palfrey towards Elstow Abbey.

Her companion was a young and pretty girl who, by her combined prudence and archness, managed to hold her own among the rough crew who garrisoned Bedford Castle, while her bright wit and merry laugh at times shed a brief ray of brightness on the gloomy life of her unfortunate mistress, whose loneliness was cheered by her faithful attachment.

Beatrice Mertoun might, had she been inclined, have chosen a husband for herself from her many admirers among De Breaute's chief retainers. But her affections were already fixed upon an officer in the royal army, one John de Standen, the king's miner, from the Forest of Dean. De Standen occupied an important post as director of the mining operations so necessary in a siege, though he did not hold the rank of a knight, and therefore could hardly be said to represent a modern officer of engineers.

As the two ladies, followed by their grooms, proceeded on the way, the Lady Margaret confided to Beatrice the story of her lord's dream, congratulating herself on its result being so far favourable as to allow her to pay this visit to the abbey.

"Now, by my halidom," quoth the maiden, as she listened to the account of the vision, her thoughts running rather on her lover than on this pious pilgrimage, "methinks to hurl down a stone like that were rather more like the work of Master John de Standen than of the holy Alban!"

"Tush, child! jest not of the blessed saints!" reproved the elder woman.

"I meant no harm, lady," retorted the incorrigible Beatrice. "I was ever taught that the holy Alban was a good soldier and true, like De Standen, but I never heard that he was at his best in the mining works of a siege!"

But her lady hardly caught her last remark. Her eye perceived the tall central tower of Elstow rising among the trees, and the sight suggested alarming thoughts to her harassed mind.

"Ah me!" she said, half to herself. "What if my lord in his madness should attack the holy abbey of Elstow and the reverend women there!"

"And lack-a-day, my lady," Beatrice went on, "men do say that the king will certes one day pull down Bedford Castle over Sir Fulke's head; and who could raze those stout walls without the aid of bold John and his men?"

But the elder lady continued to pursue her own train of thought concerning the abbey and the approaching retreat, so that the conversation ran on between the two in the following somewhat disjointed fashion, the venerable Archdeacon Martin de Pateshulle and the bold John de Standen being alternately the theme.

"He will draw us all up higher when we come within those walls."

"Nay, lady; methinks he will draw them down about our ears and ourselves with them."

"How meanest thou? I speak of the holy church and the reverend father."

"In good sooth, it looks strong and stout, the abbey church; and yet, were it a castle, methinks John could find his way beneath its walls."

"And how, Beatrice? To me it seems to figure the firmness of Holy Church, founded on the rock of the blessed apostle, the see of our lord his Holiness the Pope."

"Yet neither rock nor sea can withstand the skilful miner's advances; for John has ofttimes explained to me how he has dug his mines beneath the water of the deepest moat."

And so, running on at cross purposes, they rode through the abbey gateway, and entered the outer or guests' yard.

*CHAPTER V.*

_*IN ELSTOW ABBEY.*_

Elstow is probably connected in the minds of most people with the name of John Bunyan only. But long before the time of the Puritan tinker Elstow had a history and a renown of its own. Here Judith, niece of the Conqueror and wife of Waltheof, Earl of Northampton and Huntingdon, the Saxon hero and martyr, had founded an abbey of Benedictine nuns, endowing it with many broad acres. The stately abbey church still remains in part, and is used as the parish church, though much shorn of its beauty; for the central tower, chancel, and Ladychapel have all disappeared, and the nave only is left. The Lady de Breaute and her attendant dismounted from their palfreys in the outer yard, beyond which men were not allowed to penetrate, and whence the grooms returned to Bedford with the horses. The servants of the convent approached, headed by the ancient steward. He recognized the wife of the Robber Baron, but received her with a low obeisance; for he knew her to be a dutiful servant of the Church, and one who protested, as far as in her lay, against her husband's outrages on church and monastery. Informing her that the office had already commenced in the church, and that the archdeacon would address the congregation when vespers were over, he led them into the crowded nave.

It was now late in the afternoon, and already dusk within the depths of the severe Norman church. The narrow windows admitted but little light, and there were no lamps burning in the bare, unfurnished nave, which on an occasion like the present was thrown open to the public, who could listen to the offices chanted by the nuns within the massive screen, beyond which the _externs_ were not allowed to penetrate. On the west side of the screen a small temporary platform or pulpit had been erected.

From within the choir, behind the screen, came the solemn sound of the sisters' voices, chanting vespers to Gregorian tones, unaccompanied by any instrumental music, and rolling thrillingly through the echoing church. As she knelt in the dim light Margaret felt almost happy. A calm, a peace, such as she had not known for months, stole over her somewhat weak and susceptible nature as she listened to the singing in the gloomy twilight of the grand church, and it fanned the ray of hope which her husband's professed penitence had kindled in her weary heart. Nor was Beatrice Mertoun, whose opportunities of worship since she had been at Bedford had been confined to attendance at the tiny chapel at St. Thomas-at-bridge, unimpressed.

The office over, the Archdeacon of Northampton, Martin de Pateshulle, took his stand on the little platform by the screen and began his sermon. It was addressed, not to the nuns in the choir behind, but to the lay-folk gathered in the nave before him. His subject--a favourite one with ecclesiastics of all ages--was the persecution of the Church; his text, so to speak, was the evil-doings of Fulke de Breaute. Of course he was unaware of the presence of the latter's unhappy wife, or he would not have touched so directly on the personal character of the Robber Baron, nor enlarged so particularly on the destruction of St. Paul's Church and the raid upon the Abbey of St. Alban. Finally, he rose to a passion of indignation and stern vengeance in denouncing the perpetrator of these outrages, and concluded in a different key--supplicating divine aid for Zion in her bondage, and describing the Church under forms of scriptural imagery much employed by the preachers of the time.

When the discourse was ended the congregation of _externs_ passed out of the nave and into the outer court to the abbey gateway. But the Lady Margaret made her way to the lodgings of the abbess at the south-west corner of the church.

The foundation of Judith had risen in importance, and was now one of the principal religious houses in the neighbourhood. The abbess was of noble birth, and the convent was largely composed of ladies belonging to the county families, if we may believe the chronicle of names which has come down to us. In later days, just prior to the dissolution, these religious ladies waxed somewhat secular in their mode of life, and drew down upon them the stern reproof of their bishop; but in the thirteenth century Elstow Abbey retained most of its proper character and strict discipline. In so important a house, owning such wide estates, the abbess had many secular rights, duties, and privileges to occupy her without, so a prioress was responsible for the internal arrangement and order. To the abbess it fell, as the dignified head of the house, to receive visitors and to exercise hospitality. To the abbess Lady Margaret accordingly presented herself, that she might gain entrance to the convent, and share, during the archdeacon's special services, in the life of the nuns, as far as might be permitted to an outsider. A lay-sister, the portress of the abbess's lodgings, conducted Lady Margaret to the parlour or room open to guests. The dignified lady who had for some years so discreetly ruled at Elstow Abbey had just returned from the evening office, and received her visitor while still clad in her choir habit.

"Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reformed on Benedictine school;
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare;
Vigils and penitence austere
Had early quenched the light of youth."

Above the long black robe and the scapulary, which formed the ordinary monastic dress of Benedictine nuns, she wore a cowl or hood similar to that used by the monks of the order and worn by the nuns in church. In her right hand she carried her pastoral staff, and the third finger of her left hand was adorned by a massive gold ring--the symbol of her profession as the spouse of Christ.

The abbess advanced to meet Lady Margaret with much cordiality, for the latter's sad history was well known to her; and all persons of whatever ecclesiastical degree who were acquainted with it felt sympathy and pity for her who was the wife, against her will, of the Church's deadly enemy.

"Lady of Bedford Castle," she said, "you are welcome to our abbey of Helenstowe, and to the protection of Our Lady and the Most Holy Trinity,"--for it was by this latter dedication that the house was then known.

As she spoke the nun made a gesture of benediction, and the Lady Margaret a low reverence of respect.

"Reverend mother," she replied, "to enter your sanctified dwelling and to pray in your holy church is indeed a privilege which lessens for me the remembrance of the many burdens which I have already borne and the dread expectation of the many sorrows which are still before me."

"Ah, my daughter," exclaimed the abbess, "you have already been in the church and joined in the holy office? Alas that it has been so, and that on your ears have fallen the words of our venerable Father Martin! He knew not of your presence, or he would have chosen another theme."

The words of the preacher had reached the nuns in the choir on the farther side of the screen, and they had heard that denunciation of Fulke de Breaute by Martin de Pateshulle which had thrilled all who had listened to it.

"It is indeed true, venerable abbess," replied the lady; "but no one knows better than your unworthy servant that the deeds of my lord have indeed deserved the just vengeance of Heaven. But I have come to entreat the prayers of yourself and of your holy sisters that the first signs of a repentance tardily begun may bear fruit."

The unhappy lady proceeded to recount to the abbess Fulke's dream of the preceding night, and the nun gave her comfort and encouragement.

"Reverend mother," said Margaret, "your peaceful words fall like balm on a weary heart. Suffer me, I pray, to remain awhile under this holy roof, that I may share in the ministration of Father Martin, and also for a time become, as it were, a dweller in this holy house."

"My daughter," replied the abbess, "right gladly do I accede to your request. Holy Church has ever been a consoler to those who labour and are heavy laden, and I doubt not but much peace shall come to you from the venerable father's exhortations. And indeed, that you may enjoy more frequent opportunities of converse with him in the intervals between the offices, I will arrange for you to be my guest in my lodgings, instead of sharing that portion of the abbey buildings which has been set aside for the _extern_ women; for you know full well that Father Martin lodges in the priest's chamber in these lodgings, as no priest may enter further into the abbey except when engaged in the sacred office."

Margaret's eyes filled with tears at the abbess's kind words.

"Mother," she said, "I am all too unworthy of your goodness and hospitality. Who am I, alas! that you should treat me thus?"

"My daughter, you are sorrowful; that is enough. To all who are in misery does Holy Church hold out her arms. Enter in and find peace," she added, with a sign of benediction.

The Lady Margaret shared the abbess's supper later in the evening. The archdeacon himself and the abbess's chaplain--that is to say, one of the sisters specially selected as her companion or secretary, and who bore that title of office--were the only other guests.

After the meal the Lady Margaret had an opportunity of unburdening her mind to Martin de Pateshulle, and of relating her story. The good priest was able to add further cheering suggestions to those already made by the abbess. Comforted and thankful, at the conclusion of the conversation the lady rose, and said,--

"Venerable father and reverend mother, thanks to your kind words I feel less heart-sick than I have been for many a long day. I pray you now to permit me to retire into the church, and there pray and meditate in thankfulness ere begins the hour of compline."

The abbess acceded, volunteering herself to accompany her. The two women passed out into the dark and silent cloisters, which ran along the south side of the nave of the church. Up and down the pavement, in silent meditation, paced here and there in the gloom a

Pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn."

The abbess led her companion along the northern side, or _walk_ as it was called, and entered the church by the door into the south transept; for no opening was allowed to exist in the close screen shutting off the nave, which was occasionally open to the public. Into the chancel and the transepts were permitted to enter none but the officiating clergy and the sisters themselves, or women introduced by authority.

Leaving the transept, they paused for a moment beneath the central tower, and the abbess drew her monastic cowl over her head. Save for the faint glow of a few lamps before the images of the saints, the church was almost dark. At the extreme end of the chancel, before the high altar, above which the blessed sacrament was deposited for veneration in a closed tabernacle or shrine, burned one solitary lamp.

The abbess had happened to stop close to the massive Norman pier which supported the south-eastern angle of the great tower above them. In front of this pier stood a more than life-size figure of St. Paul. But the uplifted right hand was empty, and the sword it should have grasped was carefully laid at its feet.

"See, mother," cried Lady Margaret, "the sword has fallen from the hand of the blessed apostle!"

"Nay," replied the abbess, "I removed it with my own hand. On that evil day when we heard that Sir Fulke de Breaute had destroyed the fair church of St. Paul at Bedford, I vowed to the saints that his statue in our church should not bear the sword again till vengeance had been taken upon the destroyer."

The unhappy wife covered her face with her hands with a low moan.

"May it be the vengeance of a true repentance!" she ejaculated.

The abbess laid her hand soothingly on her head.

"Pardon me, my daughter," she said, "I should not have told you of the vow."

They passed on through the choir of the nuns, whose stalls occupied the central crossing under the tower and a portion of the chancel, and approached the high altar. At the foot of the steps a black-robed figure knelt motionless in prayer.

"See," whispered Lady Margaret, "one of the sisters is here already!"

"Nay," replied the abbess; "she is not one of our sisters. She is a young damsel of the neighbourhood who has come to our retreat and has craved permission to wear for the time the habit of our novices. Poor child, she is in sore distress! It is sad to see one so young and fair thus cast down. Her talk is all of embracing the religious life. But a vocation is not given to all damsels of lovely face and form. God has for each woman her work and her duty. Some must perchance be wives and mothers."

The abbess paused. A faint smile flickered over her still handsome face as her thoughts wandered for a brief moment, even in the precincts of her abbey church, back to bygone days when she, too, had been a young and high-born beauty.

"The damsel," she continued, returning to the present, "is evidently in sore perplexity. She has had much talk with her uncle, the revered archdeacon. Perchance you know her. Her name is--"

At this moment the kneeling girl, aroused by the sound of whispering behind her, looked round, and perceiving the abbess, rose and approached to make an obeisance. The sad face, marble-like in its pallor, which appeared above the black robes of a novice, was that of Aliva de Pateshulle.

*CHAPTER VI.*

_*A PENITENT.*_

Fulke de Breaute had been in earnest when he had allowed his wife to go to the retreat at Elstow, on condition that she should try to set matters straight between himself and the Church; and she had no sooner gone than he set to work to think matters over, and to consider how best he could reinstate himself in the ecclesiastical good graces which he felt he had entirely forfeited, but, however, without expending any of his worldly wealth in restitution or reparation.

In those days there were two acknowledged ways of making peace with offended ecclesiastical authority. One of these was the endowing, building, or otherwise pecuniarily assisting religious foundations, especially monasteries.

But Fulke had no notion of spending his ill-gotten gain in such a manner.

There was another plan which he could adopt, and for which he had the highest precedent. Just half a century before the date of our story, no less a personage than the King of England himself, Henry II., had submitted to the penance of corporal punishment in the chapter-house of Canterbury, in expiation of words spoken in hasty anger which had indirectly brought about the death of an archbishop.

The idea seized Fulke of a similar form of reconciliation with Holy Church.

Accordingly, the day after his wife's departure he set off for the abbey of St. Alban. His dress was of studied simplicity. He wore no armour, but was clad in the ordinary long robe or gown which was worn in civil life by all above the rank of labourers and manual workers, and a plain cloak, fastened by a buckle or brooch on his right shoulder, fell over his left side.

The gowns or cloaks of the upper classes at that time were richly ornamented with deep borders of embroidery, but Fulke had carefully selected garments free from any such adornments. He had also removed his gilt spurs of knighthood, and any who met him riding along the road might well have taken him for a physician, notary, or some professional man of the laity. The grooms who followed him also wore the plainest attire; and the whole party were mounted upon mere hacks or palfreys, very unlike the ponderous war-horses usually bestridden by men in armour.

By the afternoon Fulke had reached St. Alban's, and saw before him rise the abbey towers.

"Once resplendent dome,
Religious shrine......
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb.
Years roll to years, to ages, ages yield,
Abbots to abbots in a line succeed;
Religion's charter their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed."

At the abbey gate he made known his name and rank to the astonished porter, who failed to recognize in the unobtrusive figure requesting an audience with the abbot the dreaded leader of the murderous attack upon the sanctuary but a few weeks before.

The abbot came hurrying out. He, too, was amazed that the sacrilegious robber who had lately extorted from him the sum of one hundred pounds, under threat of destroying the town, should again pay him a visit, and in such a guise.

Fulke was well acquainted with the etiquette necessary on such occasions. He dismounted, went down on one knee before the dignified ecclesiastic, and raised the hem of the latter's habit to his lips.

"Thou seest in me, reverend father," he exclaimed, "a humble penitent come to offer submission to his holy Mother, and to crave thy gracious absolution for misdeeds committed!"

The abbot was well aware how to deal with such cases. Penance he knew he could enjoin; restitution he hoped he might suggest.

"My son," he said, "Holy Church ever receives back into her fold those who have erred and strayed. But follow me," he added; "I, the humble servant of the Church, will call my brethren together to treat with me of so weighty a matter as concerneth this visit of thine."

Consigning Fulke to the care of the guest-master, the abbot went off to give directions for the immediate summoning of a chapter, and the Robber Baron was left swearing, in his usual brutal way, at his men for some carelessness as to his orders.

Wondering much for what cause a council was assembled at so unusual an hour, the monks came streaming into the chapter-house. The long, narrow, barrel-roofed apartment opening from the east walk of the cloister on the south side of the transept was soon filled, and the chapter duly opened according to the usual custom. Then the abbot announced the purpose of the assemblage.

"My brethren," said he, "we are here gathered together upon no slight matter. The prayers of this poor house have been heard, and God and our holy Alban have stretched forth their power and moved a heart of stone deeply sunken in iniquity. But even now came Fulke de Breaute to our gates, and came, not as before, an impious marauder, but as a penitent and a suppliant craving absolution."

A great sigh of amazement floated from the lips of the assembled brethren up to the vaulted roof.

"Brothers," added the abbot, "I beg you to grant me the benefit of your wisest counsel in this matter."

There was a silence. Advice is a thing usually to be had for the asking. But the abbot of the great house of St. Alban was a personage of much power and importance, and accustomed to rule with a high hand, and no one seemed at this moment in any way inclined to grudge him his supreme authority.

"By the holy rood," exclaimed the father almoner, breaking the silence at last, "this is no easy task. The French tyrant is even within our gates, say you, reverend father? Would he had stayed in his own ill-gotten castle! The lion is dangerous even in a cage, and Sir Fulke respects not even holy places, we know. We have e'en heard of a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"But he cometh as a penitent, we are to understand," put in the prior.--"Brothers, we see the finger of God in this matter. He hath delivered this Philistine of Gath into our hands. Praise be to him!" And they all crossed themselves devoutly.

"And a penitent beseeching absolution," said another brother, the old father cellarer. "He must show his repentance in works. A tree is known by its fruits. Let him give back the hundred pounds he hath taken from Holy Church."

"And furthermore," added the father sacristan, "let us do even as the Israelites were commanded when they left the land of Egypt. Let us spoil him of silver and gold. He owes us not only our own, but some reparation."

The discussion grew. The assembly seemed of many minds. At length, in the hope of arriving at some conclusion, the prior made a suggestion, an unfortunate one for the abbey, as matters turned out.

"By the mass, reverend father and brothers of the order of Holy Benedict, we waste our time. Were it not well to have this penitent before us, and to question him as to his purpose of showing his repentance?" he said.

In an evil moment the motion was carried, so to speak, and Fulke was invited to enter the chapter-house.

Unarmed and alone though he was, the monks began to tremble visibly as their grim visitor strode into the assemblage, and a silence fell on all the tongues so ready to wag but a few moments before.

The Robber Baron made obeisance to the abbot, who began by delivering a suitable homily, adorned with texts and quotations, on the special subject of the readiness of the Church to receive sinners back to her arms. It concluded with a broad hint that the abbey should be compensated for the harm done to her; but it was a guarded discourse, for the abbot could not tell how the dreaded tyrant might receive his suggestion.

Fulke ignored it.

In a reply full of proper respect and deep humiliation, he brought forward the leading case of Henry II at Canterbury, and expressed his willingness to submit to like discipline as full and complete satisfaction for his crime.

He chose his words carefully. The discipline was to be complete satisfaction. There was no mistaking the drift of his meaning.

Feeling that they had indeed been foiled, the chapter requested the penitent to withdraw, and deliberated again.

"By the light of Our Lady's brow," muttered the prior, under his breath, "had I been the reverend father, I would so have spoken that the knight could not fail to see that reparation was essential to repentance, as well as penance."

"Tush!" answered the old father cellarer; "we want not a martyr here in the abbey, even as the poor bailie (God rest his soul!) hath been martyred for the town."

"Methinks it was evil counsel that was given when we decided to let the penitent appear before us and choose his own punishment," said the abbot, with a scowl at the prior. "But, my brethren, we must even be content. As the humble ruler of this house, I think I may say that what was not thought too heavy a censure for the King of England, in the holy church of Christ at Canterbury, for the fearful crime of the murder of a minister of Christ, will be sufficient punishment for the sacrilege of this nameless Norman knight against our house. Is this the counsel of the brethren?"

Perforce every one agreed.

Accordingly, next morning a solemn conclave again assembled in the chapter-house. First came the brothers in their cowls, two and two; then the prior, sub-prior, and other officers; and, lastly, the father abbot himself in his robes of office. One of the officers, the master of the novices, carried in his hand a scourge of cords.

The chapter assembled, Fulke was introduced between two of the brothers. He had passed a not uncomfortable night, for though, as a penitent still under the displeasure of the Church, he could not be admitted to the abbot's table in the latter's lodgings, he seemed in no wise to feel the indignity, and had done ample justice to the guest-master's entertainment.

The abbot pronounced the sentence of the chapter, and Fulke, stripping himself to the waist, knelt down, and leaning forward, presented his bare back to the lash.

Round him in a circle stood the abbot and the monks, and from one to the other the brethren handed a discipline or scourge of small cords, and each monk in turn stepped forward and struck De Breaute a blow upon his naked shoulders.

We need not inquire with what force the lashes were given. The humiliation and the obedience were sufficient without taking into consideration the actual pain inflicted. The Church triumphed in the indignity of her enemy's position, and her ministers in avenging her insulted honour.

The penance over, Sir Fulke rose and kissed each monk present. His punishment was complete, and he left the chapter-house absolved. It did not, apparently, occur to him that any act of restitution should accompany the outward form of penance, for, as the chronicler pathetically remarks, "Christ's faithful poor stood at the door of the chapter-house expecting that something would be restored to them; but in vain."

It may seem inconsistent in such a brutal and godless man as Fulke to have submitted himself to this ignominious punishment. He acted, however, from mixed motives. First, it was a little bit of religious feeling, very small indeed, and call it superstition if you will, such as caused him uneasiness the morning after his dream, which led him to pay this visit to St. Alban's. Excommunication he feared, if indeed his brutal nature could feel fear. But he dreaded it quite as much for its temporal consequences as for those of the future; for it was apt to affect unpleasantly a man's social and worldly position. Secondly, Sir Fulke reflected that King Henry had certainly greatly strengthened himself by that visit to the chapter-house at Canterbury. With such an example, no one could aver that Sir Fulke's penance was unknightly or derogatory to his position. Further, he was obliged to confess to himself that he had much greater need of a coat of moral whitewash than had Henry; and, lastly, there was what he considered the great advantage of making his peace with the Church by an act of submission which did not necessarily involve any restitution--a matter so alien to his greedy disposition.

*CHAPTER VII*

*"*_*ARCADES AMBO.*_*"*

In the evening of the day on which the strange scene at St. Alban's Abbey just described had taken place, Sir Fulke de Breaute sat with his younger brother in the lord's private room at Bedford Castle.

The Robber Baron was in a complacent mood, well satisfied with himself.

"By St. Denis," he muttered, "methinks I have done a good morning's work;" and he reached across to the huge flagon of hippocras that stood on the table beside him, and poured himself out a deep draught. Then he passed the wine across to his brother, who sat moodily staring into the log-fire.

"Fill up, brother; meseemeth thou wantest cheering."

"'Tis heady, this heavy English wine," replied the other sulkily. "I like it not overmuch. Give me the pure clarets of France and Italy," he added, but replenishing his horn all the same.

Sir Fulke looked askance at his brother. A great change had come over William since that eventful evening when he had ridden back from Bletsoe in a perfect frenzy of jealousy and passion, his curses keeping time to the rattle of his horse's hoofs. First and foremost he had cursed Ralph de Beauchamp--for now he knew that he had a rival--and in his rage he drove the rowels again and again deep into the flanks of his unfortunate steed. Next he cursed all the De Beauchamp family and all connected with it. Then gnashing his teeth, he recollected how De Pateshulle had urged him to prosecute the suit which had resulted in such dire humiliation. But here he had paused in his curses.

He could not couple the name of De Pateshulle's daughter with an oath. Her face haunted him as he rode along: her face--first, cold and set as marble, as when she stepped in majesty into the hall; and then, flushed and flashing, with gleaming eyes and distended nostrils, as she turned to him from the window, and took those six paces to confront him. Her scornful beauty seemed to madden him, and a wild lurid passion seized him.

He had flung himself from his horse in the castle-yard, and strode into the hall, scattering curses right and left at the astonished servants, used only to such a display of anger from his elder brother.

For weeks after this outburst he lived in a state of brooding sullenness, broken only by occasional violent fits of rage. His sister-in-law, if she met him in the hall, turned and fled. Even pretty Beatrice Mertoun, whom he was wont to regard with more favour than perhaps the bold miner would have approved of, flitted past him as quickly as possible, with a mere nod.

Sir Fulke observed this change in his brother with grim satisfaction. In furtherance of his new evil schemes he determined to turn to good or bad account the dormant ferocity which had been aroused.

"Marry, brother," he remarked, "methinks there sits a cloud on your brow, as if your thoughts were far away--perchance over Bletsoe way?" he added, with a grim chuckle.

"What's that to you?" retorted William sullenly. "In good sooth you had better mind your own business, and attend to your masses, and your flagellations, and your retreats, along with the rest of the women folk, and leave my thoughts to myself!"

"I crave your pardon, brother," replied Sir Fulke, in mock humility. "Fill up again, man. I was a fool not to see that your meditations were too unpleasant to be connected with so fair a subject as the Lady Aliva."

"The Lady Aliva!" exclaimed William fiercely, leaning forward on the table eagerly, and confronting his brother, his chin supported on his hands, and his eyes gleaming--"the Lady Aliva! By the mass, I swear to you, brother, I cease not to think of her night and day! I see her ever before me, those eyes, those flashing eyes, that queenly form; I dream I clasp her, and I awake mad with despair! May the curses of St. Denis of France light for ever on that traitorous villain who dared supplant me, on that lying fool of a De Pateshulle, who--" And he buried his face in the deep flagon once more, as if to drown his feelings.

Fulke laid his hand firmly on his arm.

"Hark ye, brother," he said; "calm yourself and lower your voice. I have somewhat to say unto you which I care not that all the varlets in the hall hear. Do you wish for vengeance on a De Pateshulle?"

"Do I?" gasped William. "Try me!"

"So be it. I will put vengeance within your reach. It shall lie with you to take it, if you carry out the plan I have in my head."

"Another fat abbey to sack!" cried the younger brother. "In good sooth, brother, you smite with your hands while you give your back to be smitten," he laughed.

"Not so," rejoined Fulke. "I am in no mind to meddle with churches for the nonce. This is quite another kind of deer to chase. You mind that special commission of the king's justices, convoked at Dunstable not long since to inquire into certain of my doings in these parts, which it seemed pleased not those most concerned with them. It hath come to my knowledge that the court has pronounced judgment against me. They may, by my troth, if it pleases _them_, for it does _me_ no harm. No less than thirty verdicts did they bring against me," he went on chuckling, "and for these thirty verdicts some one shall suffer, I warrant me, though it shall not be he whom their worships had in their mind's eye when they delivered them!"

William gazed at his brother admiringly. His weaker, shallower brain, already somewhat fuddled with his copious libations of the past few weeks, followed him with difficulty.

"Beshrew me, brother, if I see what nail thou art hammering at. These justices will have none of me."

"But I fain will that you have some of them," Fulke went on. "It would beseem ill to the repentant son of Holy Church to lift his arm so soon against her after she has absolved him, for one of these justices is a priest. But you, brother, owe her naught. From trusty sources I learn that these three legal spiders are to meet again at Dunstable for further spinning as soon as this retreat at Elstow is over. Now, what say you, brother, to meeting them upon their journey thither, and to bringing to Bedford Castle, instead of to Dunstable town, the worshipful Thomas de Muleton, Henry de Braybrooke, and Martin de Pateshulle?"

"Martin de Pateshulle!" interrupted William eagerly. "Pardie! a De Pateshulle is a quarry that would please me well."

"He is learned in the law, this priest," Fulke continued, apparently not heeding how his fish had risen to his bait. "The king can fare ill without his counsel in these parts, and methinks, were he and his brother worships safe caged in our stronghold here, it would prove Fulke de Breaute to be a greater fool than men hold him for did he not get what ransom he named. But, certes, I would be merciful, as it beseemeth with a priest. I would ask neither silver nor gold, naught save the remission of the thirty judgments that are out against me. What say you, brother? Is the snaring this legal vermin to your mind?"

"'Twould be good sport, by my troth!" ejaculated William, "though methinks it is no easy emprise! To seize the king's justices! 'Tis a bold swoop, brother."

"Tush!" replied Fulke scornfully; "there speaks no brother of mine! I trow a De Breaute, bastard from a little Norman village, had ne'er sat in the seigneur's parlour of this, one of the fairest of English castles, had he piped in that strain. Take another draught, brother," he added, pushing the flagon across.

"In good sooth, this English wine warms the blood in this cursed land of fogs," apologized William, draining his horn. "But I must have some of your best varlets at my back, Fulke--fellows who know the country, and plenty of them."

"Trust me, I will let fly my best trained hawks for such game as this, man! These reverend justices shall have a fair retinue to Bedford--a noble train! Take heart o' grace. Think thee of thy vengeance. It is a De Pateshulle that is the booty!"

"Ha! a De Pateshulle!" exclaimed William, screwing up his courage still further by another drink. Then he added sulkily, "Would it were the niece and not the uncle!"

Fulke smiled grimly.

"And why not?" he asked quietly.

William, half stupified as he was fast becoming, saw the development of a new plot.

"Pardie! That proud maiden here! Helpless--a prisoner! Niece snared with the uncle! Ha, ha!" he cried, his eyes rolling excitedly. "Ha, my lady! who would say me nay a second time? Not you, by St. Denis, I warrant me!" and he laughed wildly. "Travel they together, say you? Father Martin to Bletsoe--the haughty lady to Dunstable; nay, beshrew me, it is Father Martin to Dunstable, and--"

Here he fell forward on the table and burst into a maudlin giggle. Sir Fulke rose, pushed the wine-flagon out of his reach, and called to two varlets from the hall to carry his brother off to bed.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

_*JUSTICE IN BONDS.*_

A few mornings later the two worshipful justices of the king, Thomas de Muleton and Henry de Braybrooke, were riding together through the central part of the county, a few miles south of Bedford. They had been engaged at Northampton in making preliminary arrangements for the great council which the king proposed to hold there in the summer, and having concluded that part of the business, were now journeying towards Dunstable to clear off certain matters which had been left unfinished, as their time there previously had been entirely taken up with examining the many suits brought before them against Fulke de Breaute.

They had entered the county from Northamptonshire by the ford through the Ouse at Turvey, and were riding leisurely along on their stout palfreys, with their serving-men jogging behind them, and discussed as they went grave legal questions and learned points of law.

For about eight miles after passing the ford, they took their way along the boundary-line between the counties of Bedford and Buckingham, in a southerly direction. Then turning eastward, they reached the amphitheatre of hills which encloses the vale of Bedford on the south-west. Passing the village of Cranfield and its Norman church, still in part existing, they rode under the old fortifications and earth-works of Brogborough--old even at that time--until at noon they reached the castle of Rougemount, standing on a red sandy hill (whence its name, corrupted in modern pronunciation and spelling into Ridgmount) and commanding the country to the north.

Here they were expected by the lord of the castle, the Baron Lisle, who had invited them to rest upon their journey and partake of his mid-day meal. Here also they had arranged to meet their colleague, Archdeacon Martin de Pateshulle, with whom they proposed to travel on to Dunstable.

As soon as the retreat at Elstow was over, the archdeacon had promised to come direct to Rougemount, but Lord Lisle had awaited him in vain. So when the other justices made their appearance, their host commanded the repast to be served, without any further waiting for the absent guest, whose non-arrival was unexplained.

Lord Lisle had exerted himself to provide a suitable entertainment for guests of such high degree as the lords justices of the king.

"'Twas now the merry hour of noon,
And in the lofty arched hall
Was spread the gorgeous festival.
Steward and squire, with heedful haste,
Marshalled the rank of every guest;
Pages with ready blade were there,
The mighty meal to carve and share.
O'er capon, heronshaw, and crane,
And princely peacock's gilded train,
And o'er the boar-head, garnished brave,
And cygnet......
The priest had spoke his benison."

At the high table sat the host, his distinguished visitors on either hand. Some of the notables of the neighbourhood were also present, among whom was the lord abbot of the abbey of Woburn hard by. The head of the Cistercian house, founded not a century before by Hugh de Bolebec, had already come to hold a high position in the county.

Thronging the hall and the castle-yard was a crowd of servants and retainers, who had accompanied their masters, many of them strangers not only to one another, but to the servants belonging to the castle. In those days any festivities at a great castle were attended by a motley crowd of hangers-on, such as beggars, travelling minstrels, and the like, who seemed to scent from afar the preparations for the banquet.

On this occasion, however, these gentry were somewhat disappointed to find that the expected guests were to be grave judges and churchmen. The beggars, indeed, ranged themselves into position to ask for alms in the name of religion, but the minstrels and the jugglers felt themselves _de trop_. Finding their entertainments unacceptable to the guests, they betook themselves to an audience of grooms and varlets in the castle-yard.

The ancient seneschal of the castle, moving through the various groups, his keys of office jingling at his side, remarked a swarthy man of considerable height and size, who was evidently not connected with the Saxon peasants around him. He was wrapped in a long, large cloak.

"So ho, friend! and whence comest thou?" asked the seneschal.

The nondescript stranger answered him in French; not in the Norman-French which his interlocutor could easily have followed, but in a dialect imperfectly known to the worthy head of the household of Lord Lisle.

"I come from distant lands, noble seneschal. I chant love-lays to fair ladies' ears."

"We have e'en no ladies here anon," replied the functionary gruffly, "naught but abbots and justices. So get thee gone!"

At the mention of the word "justices" a momentary gleam of satisfaction passed over the swarthy face of the stranger.

"Justices, good my lord seneschal?" he repeated.

"Yea, justices," retorted the seneschal, not noting the look. "Art deaf, man? My lord the king's justices who travel towards Dunstable. Did you _jongleurs_ expect a bevy of giddy damsels and young gallants?"

The burden of his duties had made Lord Lisle's officer somewhat testy.

"But perchance, with your good leave, I may sing to my lords the justices' serving-men a song of fair France; or a love _chansonnette_ will I teach them, wherewith to tingle the ears of their Saxon gills?"

"As you will, man," answered the seneschal with a shrug, turning away, "an you find fools to listen to such trash!"

"Thanks for your leave, good sir," the stranger called after him, with a queer twinkle in his dark eye. Then he turned to one of De Braybrooke's men, staring open-mouthed and stolid at the strange dialect and stranger countenance. "Wilt list to a song, friend? It hath a refrain will ring in thy ears and cheer thee on thy long journey."

"A long journey! Gramercy, a mole might see as how thou art a stranger in these parts. A long journey to Dunstable, forsooth!"

"And is it not far?"

"Nine miles as the crow flies, I trows, and but eke some ten the way we ride, through the woodland, by way of Eversholt," replied the varlet, with a snigger of contempt.

"Aver--aver--sole," repeated the dark stranger, mispronouncing the name. "This English tongue cracks the jaw!"

"Marry, he stammereth like a cuckoo at hay-harvest," jeered the other. "Say it plain, man--Eversholt."

"Gather your fellows together while I go fetch my rebec I left at the gate-house, and, pardie, you shall see what you shall see, and hear what you shall hear," retorted the stranger imperturbably. But as he strode across the yard, the serving-man, had he not been so busily engaged mimicking the Frenchman's accent to his companions, might have noticed an armed heel glitter beneath the folds of his cloak.

The day was wearing on ere the justices could tear themselves away from Lord Lisle's hospitable board and once more proceed on their journey.

Southwards, beyond Rougemount, the country becomes more wooded. In the higher parts of Woburn Park old timber trees even now show where once the forest extended round the famous Cistercian abbey. In the midst of this district stands a village, whose name, Eversholt--the _holt_, or wood, of the _efer_ or wild boar--still hands down the characteristics of the neighbourhood.

Into this wood, in the waning afternoon, rode, unsuspectingly, the two justices, engaged in a warm discussion over some quibble of the law.

"Now, by my troth, brother Thomas," De Braybrooke was saying, "all our jurisconsults are agreed that if the judge be free to act--"

He stopped short, and never finished his sentence, for he was "free to act" no longer.

With a fierce cry of "A De Breaute! a De Breaute!" armed men rushed down from either side of the road upon the hapless representatives of the law, and surrounded them ere they could recover from their stupefaction.

"Let the varlets go free!" cried William de Breaute. "We have no need of grooms!" he added, as he saw his men seizing the bridles of the servants' horses as well as those of their masters.

It was a lucky cry for Thomas de Muleton, for it led to his escape. By some mistake, the men who held his horse, not distinguishing in the confusion between master and man, released their hold, and his servants, closing round him, hurried him back along the woodland bridle-path towards Rougemount.

Too late De Breaute saw the error. But De Muleton and his men had put spurs to their horses, and he and his men-at-arms were all dismounted, their horses tethered to the trees, or held by some of the band. Pursuit was out of the question, even had the marauders dared to follow up their prey to the very walls of Rougemount Castle.

William de Breaute's rage knew no bounds when he became aware that but one of the desired prisoners had been secured. Swearing roundly at his men for their blunder, he struck the unfortunate serving-man who had been detained instead of his master a blow with the flat of his sword which nearly knocked him off his horse, and allowed him to ride away after his fellows.

"Pardie!" he swore. "We trouble not ourselves with dogs that can pay no ransom. Get you gone!"

Disgusted with the less than half success of his scheme, he ordered his men to remount, and the party rode off rapidly towards Bedford, the hapless Henry de Braybrooke well guarded in their midst. De Breaute's rage was a little softened, however, when he learned that he had not missed two of his prey--that Martin de Pateshulle had not been of the party, though as to his whereabouts De Braybrooke could give no information.

*CHAPTER IX.*

_*AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.*_