Gathering of Brother Hilarius Part 8

Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently to his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar he companied with preached in each village that men should repent ere the scourge of G.o.d fell upon them; "but there is naught of it as yet," said the lad.

"Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and then the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard a bruit of London that it was but a heap of graves--nay, one grave rather, for they flung the bodies into a great trench; there was no time to do otherwise: Black Death is swift with his stroke."

Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar's death-words to the guests.

Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh.

"Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse on Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a black deed to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yet there was never a bird that would not come at his call, and I never heard tell that he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?"

When he had heard the story of the Friar's twice-repeated vision and quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and head sunk on his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly.

"Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungay with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company.

Also I like not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end of it."

That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried: "Haste, haste, ere it be too late." And so Hilarius and Martin came to Bungay, the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own.

None of the three ever saw St Edmund's Abbey again, for in one short month the minster with its sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, while the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting to summon to their ghastly company the living that sought to make them a bed.

Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin and Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken face on his companions.

"What is that?" he said shrilly.

A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself fearfully.

"Let us make haste," cried the Friar when they told him; and so at full pace they came to Bungay town.

The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the roar and hum of an angry crowd.

"The people are abroad," said Martin, and his face was very grave, "no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the common. Prithee, where is thy mother's dwelling, good Father, and I will go and ask news of her?"

"'Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate; Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for."

Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining to make his ears do a double service.

Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar's business as the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. Then he fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off to catch what was said.

"See there, 'tis her son," Martin was saying vehemently; "yon holy friar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for his mother's soul--and now, and now--"

The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old woman lay on the ground by the river's edge; a bundle of filthy water-logged rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe and so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in their hot haste they had not stayed to strip her.

Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful crowd:

"By Christ's Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought," he said.

"Nay," said one of the bystanders, "but it was fair judgment, Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in this place, ay, and cattle have perished and women gone barren through her means. Near two days agone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and never seen again. When we came to question her she cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, and swear she knew naught of the misbegotten brat."

"Maybe 'twas true eno'," said Martin. "I hate these rough-cast witch-findings--'tis not a matter for man's judgment, unless 'tis sworn and proven in court before the Justiciary."

"Nay," joined in an old man, "what need of a Justice when G.o.d speaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink or swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeing that, we drew her under--ay, and see her now as she lies, and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on his own?"

Martin wrung his hands.

"For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no word of this to yon holy man."

Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and bore her to her wretched bed.

The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor place and its dead dishonoured mistress.

Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common. March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius s.h.i.+vered, and the Friar started nervously when Martin spoke.

"Friar," he said, "G.o.d comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art too late to speed thy mother's soul; she pa.s.sed to-day, and lies even now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands."

The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his blessing.

They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin.

"Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people feared her?"

"Ay, she died alone," answered Martin, and muttered, "now G.o.d forgive me!" under his breath.

As they went into the wretched shed the setting sun broke through the lowering grey clouds and shone full on the dead woman. It lighted each vicious line and hideous trait of the wrinkled, toothless face, and betrayed the mark of an evil life, surcharged with horrid fear.

Hilarius shrank back shuddering. Could this hideousness be death?

The Friar stepped forward, but Martin stayed him.

"Nay, touch her not, Father, it may be the pestilence as thou didst read in thy dream."

The Friar fell on his knees; and, in the silence that followed was heard the drip, drip, drip, from the sodden rags on the beaten earth floor. The people without, staring, open-mouthed and silent, saw the Friar look up; his hand hastily outstretched touched the dank, muddy hair; then he knew all, and fell on his face with an exceeding bitter cry. It was answered by another cry--the glad cry of a lost child that is found.

The Friar, standing in front of that hovel of death, preached to the cringing, terrified people, many of whom knelt and crouched in the down-trodden gra.s.s and quag. He threw up his arms, and turned his blind, anguished face to the setting sun.

"Woe to the rebellious children, saith the Lord, that take counsel but not of Me, that they may add sin to sin. Darkness shall come upon them; Death shall overtake them; their place shall know them no more. Let them bare their backs to the scourge, let them confess and repent ere I visit them as I visited Sodom and Gomorrah, cities of the Plain.

"O ye people, ye have taken judgment in your hands and judged falsely withal; but ye shall be judged in truth, yea, even according to your measure. Repent, repent, for Death cometh swiftly and maketh no long tarrying. It shall come; it shall s.n.a.t.c.h men's souls away, even as ye have torn away my mother's soul, leaving no s.p.a.ce for repentance."

He stretched his hands out over the common, and pointed to the little town.

"Your dwellings shall be desolate, and this place a place of heaps.

Ye shall run hither and thither, seeking safety and finding none; for the arm of the Lord is stretched out still because of the wickedness of the earth. Woe, woe, woe, a disobedient and gainsaying people! Woe, woe, woe, a people hating righteousness and loving iniquity! The Lord shall straightway destroy them from off the face of the earth."

He made an imperative gesture of dismissal, and first one and then another in the crowd turned to slink home like beaten dogs, snarling, growling, but afraid.

Hilarius and Martin buried the witch at the back of her wretched den; and the Friar, the priest lost in the son, prayed long by the else unhallowed grave, and Martin prayed beside him.

Hilarius stood apart, his lips set straight, and said no prayer; for what availed it to pray for an una.s.soilzied witch who had met her due, d.a.m.ned alike by G.o.d and man?

Martin came up to him.

"She was his mother," he said, as if making excuse.