Chapter Four.
God Save the King!
The last day’s journey was a heavy one, owing to the rain which fell persistently. All the travellers wore their long pointed hoods, and carried tall, stout sticks, but their legs were not very well protected except by thick hose, and Bassett’s cough was none the better for the journey. He was glad enough when they came near the clusters of houses or villages which marked the outskirts of London, and saw the mist hanging over the city which, helped by the moisture from the marshes, the new use of coal was already beginning to produce. Matthew was in a high state of delight.
“Truly something of a city!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands, “sheltering within its walls something like forty thousand souls. A noble city! I’ll warrant a man of parts might make a name here. There are the walls.”
The carver was almost too weary to bear Hugh’s questionings as to the Franciscan monastery in Newgate Street where they were to lodge, and whether the prior might object to the presence of Agrippa. When they reached the monastery, indeed, he was so sorely spent that the good friars at once called one of their number who had studied physic and consigned Bassett to his care, giving him, moreover, the best room in the guests’ quarters.
It must be said that the monkey was very doubtfully received, indeed he might probably have been altogether refused, for some of the brethren looked upon him as an actual imp of Satan, or perhaps Satan himself. But the prior was of a larger nature, so that Hugh was suffered to take Agrippa with him into the room he shared with his father.
And here, in spite of his impatience, Bassett was forced to spend a week, Friar Luke altogether refusing to allow his patient to leave the room until the cough and pain in his side were subdued. Had it not been for his strong longing to reach Exeter and see Hugh started as an apprentice this would have been a time of peace for the carver. His quarters were sunny and cheerful; Friar Luke was a herbalist, and in his search for healing plants would bring him back what autumn flowers yet lingered, and talking of them would draw out stores of simple learning. Agrippa, moreover, somewhat to Friar Luke’s discomfiture, had shown a strong attraction for his master’s physician, and would come flying down from all manner of unexpected places to greet him. Sometimes the prior would visit his guest, and, being a man of thought, his presence was a real delight to Stephen, while the prior was glad to hear the experiences of a man who had travelled largely and seen something of the world. As Stephen grew stronger Friar Luke allowed him to attend the services in the chapel.
Then Hugh would come in, rosy and excited with his walks with Matthew, who would see everything, even to the hangings on the Tyburn elms. They went to mass at St. Paul’s, then surrounded by its own walls; they walked down the grassy spaces of Strand; they looked with some dread at the round church of the New Temple, and heard tales of the Templars fit to make the hair stand on end; they passed another day to the village of Westminster, where was the king’s palace and the beautiful abbey, together with the great hall where Parliament, when it met in London, assembled. It amused Hugh very well at first to see the crowds of suitors who poured up the stairs—those who had some complaints to make, grievances to be redressed, or petitions to be laid before the Triers. No hindrance was put in their way; everyone was free to come, each had a fair hearing. Outlaws came to beg for pardon, when, if the Triers thought fit, they were recommended to the king’s grace; men and women sought redress from wrongs inflicted perhaps by the lord of the manor; jurors who had perverted their office were brought up to receive judgment—all these lesser matters were as much the business of Parliament as granting aids to the king for carrying on the wars, and so fascinated was Matthew with the scene that Hugh was wearied to death of it before he could drag him away.
He got him out at last, muttering to himself that had he but known how easy matters were made he would have looked up a case of his own against the University of Cambridge. Hugh, stirred by ambition to have to do with an actual suitor, which was much more exciting than looking on and listening to matters he did not understand, was for his going back again at once. Great was Matthew’s indignation at the idea.
“Thou silly oaf!” he said, angrily. “To go without preparation!”
“They but told a plain story,” returned Hugh, sturdily. “Anyone could do as much.”
“Seest thou not the difference? They were ignorant men with whom the Council was wondrous patient, overlooking all their clipped words, and mercifully stooping to their simpleness. But for a man of understanding to put a case matters must be very different. Fit words must he use, and just pleadings must he make, and be ready to give good reason. Their worships know well with whom they have to do. I will take thee to the Guildhall one day, and there thou shalt see the lawyers in their white coifs. They are no longer monks, as once they were.”
“I would liefer go down the river and see the ships,” said Hugh wearily.
Matthew, who was really good-natured, yielded to this desire, and they picked their way along the swampy ground as best they could, and past the Tower. The great trade of London, even at this time when commerce was ever made secondary to politics, was so large that a number of vessels were in the river. Strange craft they were and of all shapes and sizes, the largest resembling nothing so much as a swollen half-circle, broadening at one end, and coming round so as to form a sort of shelter, and curving sharply to a point at the bow. No such thing as sea charts as yet existed, so that a voyage was a perilous matter, and, in spite of the Crusades and of the trade with the Mediterranean, few vessels ventured through the Straits of Gibraltar. Edward was turning his attention to the navy, and was the first to appoint admirals, but, so far, England’s strength lay altogether in her army and her famous bowmen, and the sea was no source of power, nor her sailors famous.
Still, though Matthew professed the greatest contempt for his taste, Hugh found the river more delightful than the Council Hall, and was for lingering there as late as he could. Some of the vessels were unloading, others embarking corn from the eastern counties, so that there was much stir and turmoil, and more vessels were in than was usual, because the time of the autumn equinox was dangerous for sailing. Children, too, were, as ever, playing about, and one group attracted Hugh, because in it was a little maid much about the size of little Eleanor, and with something of her spirited ways. The boys, her companions, were rough, and at last one pushed her with such force that she fell, striking her head violently against a projecting plank. Hugh flew to avenge her, but the boys, frightened at seeing her lie motionless, fled, and Matthew stood growling at the manners of the age. Hugh, used to sickness, ran to the water’s brink, and scooped up a little water in his two hands. By the time he had poured it on her face and raised her head on his knee she opened her brown eyes with a cry of “Mother!” and the next moment a man in a sailor’s dress had leaped ashore from one of the vessels which were lading close by, had run to the group and taken her in his arms.
“Art thou hurt, my Moll, and where?”
“Father, ’twas Robin Bolton pushed me.”
“Ay, and I wot Robin Bolton shall have a clout on his head when he comes within my reach. But there, thou wilt soon be well again. Thank thee for thy help,” he added, more roughly, to Hugh.
“If you stand in need of a witness,” began Matthew, but the sailor interrupted him—
“Witnesses? No! What she stood in need of was water, which thy boy fetched. He is quick enough to be a sailor,” he added, with a laugh.
“Wilt thou come on a voyage to Dartmouth?”
“I should be frighted on the sea,” said Hugh sturdily.
“Nay, it’s not so bad, so you fall not in with pirates, which are the pest of our coasts. I’ve been lucky enough to escape them so far. But then,” he added with a wink, “they know me at Dartmouth, and folk sometimes tell evil tales of Dartmouth.”
He was of a talkative nature, or perhaps thought it well to keep his Moll quiet on his knee, for he went on to tell them that his wife and child lived near the spot where they were, while he went on trading voyages, bringing up Cornish ore from Dartmouth and carrying back other ladings. He was very proud of his vessel, and yet prouder of his little maid, whom it was plain he did his best to spoil; and when he saw that she had taken a fancy to Hugh, he told him he might come on board his vessel one day before he sailed.
“Which will be in a week,” he said, confidently. “The storms will be over by then.”
Hugh was glad enough of the bidding, for Matthew, with his love for the law courts and for all that concerned the State, was but a dry companion to an eager boy. He went back to the monastery in high glee, to tell his father all that he had heard.
Friar Luke was with Stephen, having brought his patient a decoction of coltsfoot, and also a little bunch of flowers which he was examining with enthusiastic patience.
“See here,” he said, with a sigh, “though in good sooth one needs eyes of more than human power to examine so minute a structure. There is a talk that one of our order, Friar Bacon, who died not many years ago, could by means of a strange instrument so enlarge distant objects as to bring them into the range of a man’s vision. I know not. Many strange things are told of him, and many of our brethren believe that he had dealings with the black art. It might be he was only in advance of us all. But while he was about it I would he had taught us how to enlarge what is near. And, indeed, there is talk of a magic beryl—”
“Father, father!” cried Hugh, rushing in breathless; “we have been to the river, and there was a ship, and a little maiden called Moll, and the master has bid me on board the ship before he sails for Dartmouth.”
He poured out the history of the day, standing by his father’s knee, with Agrippa nestling in his arms. Bassett heard him so thoughtfully that Hugh began to think he was displeased.
“Mayn’t I go?” he asked, tremulously.
“Ay, ay,” said his father, absently. “Friar Luke, tell me truly, do you still dread for me this journey to Exeter?”
“Rather more than less,” answered the friar.
“The fatigue?”
“Ay, fatigue and exposure, but chiefly the fatigue.”
“Yet I must go.”
“Ay, ay, there is ever a must in the mouth of a wilful man,” said the friar, testily. “And then you fall sick, and it is the fault of the leech.”
“That it can never be in my case,” said the carver, gratefully, “for never had man a kinder or more skilful. But I will tell you why I ask. Hugh’s encounter has put into my mind the thought that we might go to Dartmouth by ship.”
“The saints forbid!” said the friar, rapidly crossing himself. “You must be mad to think of it, Master Bassett.”
“Nay, but why?”
“The dangers, the discomforts!—shoals, rocks, pirates!”
“Dangers there are in all journeys. The discomforts will no doubt be great, but put on the other side the fatigue you warn me against.”
“You should not go at all,” said Friar Luke. “Remain here where you can be cared for. Hugh shall be a serving-boy, and take the habit when he is old enough.”
“Wilt thou, Hugh?” demanded his father.
A vehement shake of the head was his answer.
“Nay, holy friar,” said Bassett, with a smile; “I am bending the twig so far that the strain is great, but your proposal, I fear, would snap it altogether. But about our voyage. I am greatly inclined to Hugh’s new friend. When does he sail?”
“In a week,” said the boy, with some reluctance. He had not liked the voyage from Flanders, and this promised to be worse. Still he felt it incumbent upon him to show no fear.
“That would do well. I tell thee what, Hugh, thou shalt ask the master to come and see me here if he has a mind for another kind of cargo.”
With his usual hopefulness, the idea had taken hold of the wood-carver so strongly that he turned aside all remonstrances, though the prior himself came up to beg him not to be so foolhardy. But it was true, as Bassett maintained, that each kind of travelling had its dangers, and, if the sea offered the most, he felt a sick man’s longing to be spared trouble, and a feverish desire for the salt breezes. Matthew, too, thought it philosophical to be above listening to the tales of sea-perils which the brethren related, it need hardly be said, at second-hand; but it must be owned that he showed no desire to extend his own travels so far as Exeter. Hugh went down the next day and talked to the master, who at first shook his head.
“Two landsmen on board? Where could we stow ye? And if we met with rough weather we should have you crying upon all the saints in the calendar. A sick man, too! How could he put up with our rough fare?”
“My father does not get frighted,” said Hugh, indignantly, though pleased to be counted a landsman.
“Thou art a sturdy little varlet,” said the master, looking at him approvingly. “If my Moll had been a boy, I should have been content had he likened thee. But I would not have her other than she is, and thou wast good to her the other day. I’ll come and see thy father, and if he is a good, honest man, and none of your dandy long-toed fops, he and thou shalt have a passage to Dartmouth.”
The next day was Sunday, and, to the scandal of the grey friars, Matthew insisted upon taking Hugh to St. Bartholomew in Smithfield, the noble Norman church of the Augustinian friars. There was a good deal of jealousy between the orders, and each was ready enough to listen to or to repeat tales which told to the discredit of the others; so that, as Matthew said, black, white, and grey, each held their colour to be the only one in which a friar might travel to heaven. Mass being over at St. Bartholomew’s they went to great St. Paul’s.
This was in that day a splendid Gothic church, twice as big as the present building, and with a dazzling high altar. But, in spite of its magnificence, and perhaps partly on account of its size, it was a notorious haunt of cut-purses and brawlers, and all manner of crimes were committed in the church; so that a few years before the king had given the Chapter leave to surround it with walls and gates, treating it indeed as a town, and keeping out suspicious characters.
By this means matters had mended a little, but there was still a great deal of unseemly conduct which caused scandal to the more devout. Hugh came back to the monastery bursting with all he had to tell, and he was beyond measure delighted when his father said he would himself go out the next day.
Before the sun had mounted high enough for Friar Luke to allow this the master of the Queen Maud arrived, and Stephen saw a sturdy, sunburnt man, with an open countenance, blue-eyed, light-haired, wearing a garment of coarse cloth which reached to his knees, who looked as uneasy at finding himself in a monastery as a freshly-trapped pony from his own wilds of Dartmoor might have looked in a walled town. His discomfort made him surly, so that he gave the carver no encouragement for the voyage.
“Hard living and a perilous life, my master.”
“That does not affright me.”
“Because you know it not,” said the other, impatiently. “Here you sit in a drone’s hive and hear the winds blow outside, and have no fear. With a plank for your wall you would tell a different tale.”
“I have tried the plank,” said Bassett, with a smile. “Though, as you say, Master Shipman, we know not other’s lives till we try them, and maybe you, if you lived here, would think more kindly of what you call a drone’s hive.”
“The Church and the Pope swallow up all a poor man’s savings,” said the sailor, less gruffly. “’Tis nothing but fresh taxes, and these Lombard usurers are every whit as bad as the Jews. I would the king could make as clean a sweep of them. To make money without working for it is a sin and a shame.”
“The king does what he can.”
“Ay, does he,” said the other, heartily. “He is the poor man’s friend.”
“Truly.”
The sailor looked at him. “Why, then,” he said, “if thou lovest King Edward—”
“No question of that.”
“E’en come along with us. I am but taking down some bales of cloth and of silk, and as thou mindest not a rough life, and I have a fancy for thy boy, we may perchance rub along together.”
So it was settled, and, in spite of the friar’s forebodings, Stephen Bassett thought of his venture with an excellent heart. Hugh was naturally fearless, and, though the sea was a great object of dread in those times, he believed his father knew best, and began to look forward also. But first he would have Bassett come forth for his promised walk, and without Matthew.
“He has been very good to thee,” said the carver reproachfully.
“Ay, but he has always something to say against everything. This might be better, or that couldn’t be worse. I believe he would find fault with King Edward himself.”
“Poor Matthew! He has the critical spirit,” said Stephen, smiling.
“Is that what makes him so thin?” demanded Hugh, innocently.
“Ay. It often works that way, and is bad for the owner. Nevertheless, it has its advantages. Look at that bowl. If I listened to the good brothers I should deem it perfect; but when Matthew says, ‘Hum—I know not—is there not something lacking?’ I begin to search for a way of bettering it, and presently find that he was right. So his fault-finding does me a better service than all their praise. Keep that in mind, Hugh. Now we will forth. I will buy some cloth and take it to one of the tailors’ guild, that you may have a cloak for rough weather like mine.”
This was a delightful errand, and when it was ended Stephen had not the heart to refuse Hugh when he begged that he would try to go towards St. Paul’s and see the noble church. The boy was very happy in acting as showman, pointing out the beautiful spire while they were yet at some distance. He had begged to bring Agrippa, promising to keep him covered by a piece of cloth, and the monkey was sufficiently alarmed by the strange noises and cries in the street to keep quiet. Hugh found it a rare opportunity to ask questions which Matthew had been either unable or unwilling to answer.
“Look, father, look quickly! There is a woman with bread in her panniers! What is she doing?”
“I have heard of her,” said Stephen, stopping. “Friar Luke told me that, instead of folk being forced to fetch the daily bread from the bakers, there was now a woman who had got leave to take it round from house to house. She has the thirteenth loaf for her pains. Truly there’s no knowing to what a pitch of luxury we may come! Are we nearly at our journey’s end, Hugh? My legs have fallen out of the way of walking, and are true sluggards.”
He was in truth standing somewhat exhausted in the road under one of the black-timbered houses in Ludgate Hill, when a small cavalcade of knights and squires, some in armour, some in the scarlet cloaks of the Hospitallers, came sharply round the corner, so sharply, indeed, that in the narrow road one of the squires’ horses struck Stephen and sent him staggering against the wall.
The party reined up at once. Hugh had uttered a cry and sprung to his father’s side, dropping the monkey as he stretched out his arms. Half a dozen men-at-arms crowded round; one of the red-cloaked knights leaped from his horse, but they all drew back before one who seemed the principal knight, a man of great stature, with brown hair and thick beard, and gravely searching blue eyes.
“Is he hurt?” he demanded. “That is your squire’s rough riding, Sir John de Lacy.”
“My liege, ’twas but a touch,” urged an older knight. “I saw it all. He can scarce be hurt.” Stephen, indeed, had well-nigh recovered himself, though dizzy with the shock, and scarcely knowing what had happened or why he was surrounded by horsemen. Hugh, seeing him revived, stared at the group with all his might, while the monkey, frightened to death at the horses, had run up a projection of the house and perched himself upon a carved wooden balcony, from which he scolded and chattered.
“It is nothing, I am not hurt,” faltered Stephen; and then the colour rushed back to his white face, and he bent his knee hastily. “My Lord the King,” he stammered, “is it not?”
“Ay,” said Edward, with one of his rare kindly smiles; “but it was not I who rode over thee. Art thou not hurt?”
“Nay, my liege, it is but that I have been ill. It was no more than a touch.”
It had all passed quickly, but a knot of bystanders had by this time collected, kept off by the men-at-arms.
“He speaks truly, my lord,” said one of the Hospitallers who had dismounted. “He has not been hurt by the horse, but—”
He paused significantly, and Edward glanced at Hugh. “Come hither, boy.”
So Hugh, crimson with wonder and delight, stood by the king’s horse, and answered his questions as firmly as he could. His father was a wood-carver. They were going to Exeter to seek work—by ship, as he took care to state; and meanwhile, because father had been so ill, they were lodging at the Franciscan monastery in Newgate Street.
“And is that thy beast?” asked the king, whose quick eye had caught sight of the monkey between the carved work of the balcony. “How wilt thou catch him? Let us see.”
Hugh promptly stood under the balcony, opened his arms, and uttered a call, to which Agrippa responded, though fearfully, by swinging down by tail and hands and dropping into his master’s arms.
“Well climbed indeed,” said Edward; and seeing that Stephen was in some degree recovered, he bade one of the men-at-arms lend him his horse and go with him to the convent. “And here is a gold piece for thee, boy—for remembrance,” he added, tossing him the coin as he moved off.
“And a silver one for the monkey,” said a young knight, with a merry laugh, stooping to offer the mark to Agrippa, who cleverly clutched it, and then trotting after the king.
All had passed so quickly that Hugh scarcely knew where he was or what had happened. He stood staring at the gold noble in his hand, while the bystanders closed up curiously, and one rough fellow, who looked as if he had been drinking, made as though he would have snatched it from his hand. A fat monk, with a red good-natured face, hit the fellow a sound buffet; the crowd laughed, and the man-at-arms made haste to get Bassett on his horse, and to hurry his charges away, the king being always roused to anger by any brawling in the streets.
“Keep close to me,” he said to Hugh; “and give thy money to thy father. Now, where are we bound? The Grey Friars? I warrant me they brew good ale there, and supper-time is nigh enough to make a tankard right welcome.”
“And that was the king,” said Hugh, drawing a deep breath.
“Ay, the king. What thinkest thou of him?”
“I would I could fight for him,” burst out the boy.
“Why, so thou shalt!” said Hob Trueman, with a laugh. “Eat good beef, and drink good ale, and grow up a lusty yeoman. The king’s a good master, I have nought to say against him—saving that he is somewhat over strict,” he added, with qualifying remembrance. “We should be near by this time—”
That night, before lying down in the wooden crib which served for bed, Stephen Bassett called his boy.
“Hugh, thou hast not forgotten thy promise,” he said anxiously.
“No, father;” in a low voice.
“Fight for the king thou must, or be ready to fight. That is the law for all Englishmen. Does not that content thee?”
Silence. Then—“I should like to be near him, to be one of the men-at-arms.”
Bassett sighed.
“I cannot yield to thee, Hugh.”
“No, father.”
“And I have no breath for talking to-night. We will speak of it again.”