Chapter Twelve.
With the Prentices in the Meadows.
Time passed on, weeks, months, years: slowly, though happily, for the children; ever faster and faster for the elders. Joan was still the only child, the darling of the house, but with a sweet, frank nature which was proof against spoiling. Roger had long finished his seven years’ apprenticeship, and now worked by the day as journeyman; even Wat was close on the end of his term, but nobody seemed to think he could ever be anything except Prentice Wat, whom everybody laughed at and everybody liked, even better than they knew. Nevertheless, by dint of hard belabouring of brains, and a most impatient patience, for he was ever rating him for his dulness, and yet never giving up the teaching, Hugh had managed to hammer more out of Wat than had been supposed possible in the beginning of things. It was very hard to get him to take in an idea, but once in his head, he sometimes showed an aptitude for working it out which surprised the others, and caused Hugh delightful moments of triumph.
As for Hugh himself, his progress was astonishing. If he still lacked something of the technical skill of Franklyn, there was no one, except Gervase himself, who could come near his power of design. The boy had an intense love of nature, nothing was lost upon him. When he was in the fields or woods, he would note the exquisite curve of branches, the uncurling of ferns, the spring of grass or rushes, and was for ever trying to reproduce them. By this means his eye and hand were trained in the very best school, and his designs had an extraordinary beauty and freedom of line, devoid of all stiffness and conventionality. He could never be induced to delight in the grinning masks and monsters which were the joy of Wat’s soul, but when any delicate and dainty work was called for, it was always Hugh who was set to do it.
His pride and delight in the Cathedral was scarcely less than the bishop’s. Bishop Bitton was steadily carrying out his work in the choir, so as to complete the design of his predecessors. The choir was now entirely rebuilt, and united to the Lady Chapel, left standing at the end. The beautiful vaulting of the roof was in course of construction, and pushed on with all the speed that good work would allow. For one characteristic of the work of those days was that it was of the best. There was no competition, which we are accustomed to look upon as an actual necessity, but in place of this the guilds, which controlled labour and held it in their own hands, exercised a very strict oversight upon materials and execution, so that nothing which was bad or indifferent was allowed to pass; there was no possibility of underselling, nor of the workman being underpaid.
The bishop had by no means forgotten his idea about the corbels. As the beautiful clustered shafts of the columns—of soft grey unpolished Purbeck marble—were raised to support the arches, above each one was built in the long shapeless block, waiting to be some day carved into shape. Gervase, also, was fired into enthusiasm when he spoke of them, and if Gervase, then yet more Hugh. Much of his handiwork was already to be found in the Cathedral, but this was of more importance, and there was even talk of the guild admitting into their number a skilled workman from France, famous for his skill in stone carving.
One day, in the June of 1302, master and apprentice were standing in the choir, Hugh having just come down from work on the triforium.
“I find my eye ever running over those blocks,” said Elyas with a smile, “and picturing them as they might look, finished. To-day, at any rate, I have brought one question to an end.”
“What, goodman?”
“I shall be offered my choice of which to work upon myself.”
“Ay?” said Hugh eagerly.
“I shall choose that,” he said, pointing to one about half-way between the entrance of the choir and the spot where it was designed that the bishop’s seat should be. “There is something friendly and inviting in that pillar, it fits in with my design. Thou, Hugh, must take whichever they offer thee.”
“If they will accept me at all!”
“I think so,” said Elyas gravely. “’Tis true thy lack of years is against thee, but there is no other hindrance, and I believe they will trust me in the matter. How old art thou now, Hugh?”
“Just seventeen, sir.”
“Already? But, yes, it must be so. It is all but six years since I stumbled upon thee in the street, a little fellow, no older than our Joan is now. Much has happened in the kingdom since then, but here the time has flown peacefully.”
Much, indeed, had happened to weight the last years of the reign of the great king. The second war in Scotland was over; Edward had married again, the Princess Margaret of France being his chosen wife. Parliaments had by his efforts become more frequent and more important, and the parliament of Lincoln, in 1301, marked an era in representative government, when one hundred and thirty seven cities and boroughs sent up representatives. Archbishop Winchelsey was still trying to enforce the papal supremacy, which Edward ever resisted, and certain disaffected nobles joined the archbishop. The king dealt with the two principal conspirators, Norfolk and Hereford, both firmly and leniently. Winchelsey he would not himself judge, but his ambassador placed the matter in the hands of the pontiff, who immediately cited the archbishop to Rome, to answer for his conduct. William Thorn, a monk of Canterbury, thus describes the next scene: “When the archbishop knew that he was thus cited, he went to the king to ask for permission to cross the sea. And when the king heard of his coming, he ordered the doors of his presence chamber to be thrown open, that all who wished might enter, and hear the words which he should address to him. And having heard the archbishop, he thus replied to him:—‘The permission to cross the sea which you ask of us we willingly grant you—but permission to return grant we none:—bearing in mind your treachery, and the treason which at our parliament at Lincoln you plotted against us;—whereof a letter under your seal is witness, and plainly testifies against you. We leave it to the pope to avenge our wrongs; and as you have deserved, so shall he recompense you. But from our favour and mercy, which you ask, we utterly exclude you; because merciless you have yourself been, and therefore deserve not to obtain mercy.’ And so we part with Winchelsey.” (The Greatest of all the Plantagenets.)
At Exeter, however, as Gervase said, the time had passed peaceably. Two burgesses had indeed with much pain and trouble journeyed all the way to Lincoln, and came back with marvellous stories of the magnificence of the barons, the crowds of retainers, the quantity of provisions supplied, and the deliciousness of sea-wolves, now tasted for the first time.
And, greatly to Hugh’s delight, it appeared that Sir Thomas de Trafford, being there with his lady and children, applied to one of the Exeter burgesses for news of Hugh, and sent word he was glad to hear that he was a good lad, and doing credit to his craft. And Dame Edith despatched him a token, a rosary from the Holy Land, and the two sisters a gift of a mark to Agrippa, to buy him cakes.
On poor Agrippa the years had, perhaps, told the most hardly. He suffered much from the cold winters, and had lost a good deal of his activity. But on the whole he had a very happy life, with no fear of ill-usage from boy or man, for he was as well-known to all the citizens as any other dweller in the High Street, and was held to be under the special protection of the guild of which Elyas was warden.
That June in which Gervase and Hugh talked in the Cathedral found Wat in low spirits. He had been out of his apprenticeship for nearly a year, but this was the first midsummer that had fallen since he had been promoted to what might be called man’s estate, which promised to require more sacrifices to its dignity than he was at all willing to make. On one point he had besought Master Gervase so piteously that the master had yielded, and allowed him to remain in the house. Another apprentice, one Hal Crocker, had been admitted, and of him Wat was absurdly jealous, so that Hugh sometimes had to interfere, though Hal was a malapert boy, very well able to take care of himself.
But Midsummer Eve had ever been a time of high revel for the prentices.
“And this year the bonfires will be bigger than ever,” cried Wat in a tragic voice. “Alack, why couldn’t the master keep me on as a prentice?”
“What an oaf thou art!”
“I care not for being an oaf, but I hate to be a journeyman, and have no merriment.”
Poor Wat! He did not so much mind giving up what Hugh liked best in all the day, the wreathing the doorways with fennel, green birch, and lilies, but to lose the joy of collecting the brushwood and piling it in great heaps, with much rivalry among the lads as to which was the highest and best built—this was indeed doleful. The meadows were thronged with crowds, among which he wandered disconsolate, giving sly help when he could do so without loss of dignity, until to his great joy he espied Gervase himself dragging a great bush to one of the heaps, upon which, with a shout of delight, Wat flung himself into a thorny thicket, and emerged with as much as his arms could clasp.
Meanwhile other things besides fuel were being brought into the field by goodwives and serving maids. Round each bonfire were placed tables on which supper was bountifully spread, and when it grew dusk and the fires were lighted, all passers-by were invited to eat, besides the friends of the providers. The whole scene was extremely gay and brilliant, and between crackling of green things and chatter of many voices, the noise was prodigious. Wat was by this time as happy as a king, running here and there as freely as ever in prentice days, helping the smaller boys, seeing that there was no lack of provisions, and inexhaustible in his good humour.
Several of Master Gervase’s friends were seated at his tables, and among them one Master Tirell, a member of the Goldsmiths’ Guild, with his wife and daughters. Hugh had noticed one of these as a very fair and dainty little damsel in a pale blue kirtle, who seemed somewhat shy and frightened, and kept very close to her mother’s side. The merriment, indeed, grew somewhat boisterous as the darkness crept on, and the bonfires were constantly fed with fresh fuel, and certain of the younger of the prentices amused themselves by dragging out burning brands, and pursuing each other with shrieks of excitement about the meadows. Foremost among these was Hal Crocker, who managed more than once to slip by Wat before the elder lad could seize him, and whose wild spirits led him to fling about the burning sticks which he pulled out, to the danger of the bystanders. Suddenly, after one of these wild rushes there was a cry of terror. Thomasin Tirell, the fair-haired girl already mentioned, started up and ran wildly forwards, stretching out her hands, and screaming for help. Almost before the others could realise what had happened, Wat had sprung towards her, thrown her on the grass, and pressed out the fire with his hands. She was scarcely hurt at all, though sorely frightened, bursting into sobs and hiding her face on her mother’s shoulder as soon as she was on her feet again, and trembling like a terrified bird. Her mother soothed her, while Master Tirell heartily thanked Wat, and Gervase looked angrily round in search of the culprit.
“Beshrew me, but it was bravely done, and thou art a gallant lad,” said Master Tirell, a portly, red-faced man; “St. Loys shall have a silver chain for this, for the poor silly maid might have been in a sorry plight had she run much farther, and the fire been fanned into flame. Shake hands—what, are thy hands so burned? See here, goodwife, here is room for thy leechcraft.”
It was in vain that Wat protested, he was forced to display his hands, at which Thomasin gazed, horror-struck, with tears running over her blue eyes, and hands clasped on her breast. In fact, Wat was suddenly elevated into quite a new position, that of a hero, for the citizens pressed to the spot from all sides and heaped praises upon him.
“’Twas nothing!” he kept saying awkwardly, turning redder and redder at each congratulation, and looking from side to side for a loophole of escape. Then, as Hugh came rushing up with an eager “What is it?”—“That mischievous loon Hal! If I can but lay hands on him!”
“Hath he set anyone on fire?”
“Ay, young Mistress Tirell. Nay, mistress, prithee think not of it—my hands will be well to-morrow—’tis nothing, Mistress Thomasin—Hugh,” (aside), “get me out of this, for I never felt such a fool!”
But there was no escape for Wat. Hal, having been caught, and received summary punishment from his master, was sent home, and the party sat down again, some to go on with Prothasy’s good things, and Thomasin to recover a little from her condition. Nothing would serve but that Wat must sit down, too, between Thomasin and her elder sister, Alice, and there he was more confused than ever by faltered thanks, and grateful glances of the blue eyes.
“How was it?” asked Alice, whispering across him.
“Alack, I know not!” said the other girl, shuddering. “I felt something hot under my elbow, and looked down, and there was a line of flame darting up, and then I screamed, and then—” to Wat—“you came.”
“I was too rough,” stammered Wat, “but then I always am a bear.”
“A bear! Nay, it was to save my life.”
“It was all past in a minute,” said Alice.
“But thy hands. I hope mother has bound them up skilfully. Is the pain great?”
“Prithee speak not of it again!” cried Wat in desperation.
It was curious, however, how content he was to remain in his present position, which Hugh fancied must be terribly irksome to him, Wat always finding it most difficult to sit still when anything active was going on. It made him fear that he might be more hurt than they knew. But the bonfires were in full blaze, and every great crackle and leap of flame caused Thomasin to tremble, so that Wat’s presence and protection were very grateful to her. And to him it was a new experience to be appealed to and looked up to as if he were a man; he found it exceedingly pleasant, he had never believed it could be so pleasant before. Mistress Tirell would have him go home with them, having an ointment which she thought excellent for burns, and though Thomasin could not endure to look upon the dressing, Wat thought her interest and sympathy showed the kindest heart in the world. In fact, it seemed to him that no one ever had been so sweet, and when he got back late, he was very angry that Hugh should be too sleepy to listen to his outpourings of admiration.
As for Hal, he had to keep out of his way all day, Wat scarce being able to withhold his hands from him, while to Hugh he talked perpetually of what had happened, and put numberless questions as to what he thought about it all.
“She was a silly maiden,” said Hugh, bluntly, “to shriek and run like a frightened hare.”
“Much thou knowest!” cried the indignant Wat. “Thou wouldst have had her sit and be burned, forsooth!”
“Well, ’tis no matter of mine. Thou hast thy hands burned so thou canst not work, and had to sit up like the master himself—poor Wat! I was sorry for thee!”
“It was not so bad,” said Wat, meditatively. “When thou art a grown man, thou wilt not care so much for all that foolish boy’s play. I shall have no more of it.”
Hugh burst into a laugh, as he shaped the graceful curve of a vine tendril.
“What has come to thee? Who was mad yesterday at having to play Master Sobersides?”
“I shall play the fool no more, I tell thee. What age, think you, might Mistress Thomasin be?”
“Nay, I scarce looked at her.”
“I am going soon to the house to have my hands dressed.”
“What need for that when the goodwife here could do it?”
“I could scarce be such a churl as to refuse when I was bidden,” said Wat, hotly.
Hugh stared at him, not understanding the change from the Wat who fled the company of his elders, caring for none but hare-brained prentices; and as the days went by he grew more and more puzzled. Wat’s hands seemed long in getting well, at any rate they required to be frequently inspected by Mistress Tirell, and it was remarkable that he could talk of naught but his new friends. He had always preferred the carving of curious and grotesque creatures, leaving all finer and more graceful work to Hugh. But now he implored Hugh to let him have the fashioning of a small kneeling angel.
“Thou!” cried the other, amazed. “What has put that into thy head? It is not the work that thou carest for.”
“I have a mind for it when my hands are well. Prithee, Hugh!”
“Nay, thou wilt stick some grinning face on the poor angel’s shoulders.”
“Not I. I am going to try to shape something like Mistress Thomasin—well, why dost thou laugh?”
“What has come to thee, Wat? Since that day in the meadows it has been naught but Thomasin, Thomasin! Now I think of it, perhaps the fairies bewitched thee, since it was Midsummer Eve!” Perhaps Master Gervase guessed more clearly than Hugh what was the magic that had wrought this change, for though he laughed a good deal, he kept Wat occupied after the first three or four days were past, and Prothasy undertook to do all that was now necessary for the hurt hands. It was remarkable that under her care they seemed to improve more rapidly than at one time appeared probable, so that it was not very long before Wat was able to handle his chisel again, though from the great sighs he emitted Hugh was afraid the pain might be more than he allowed.
But now were no more pranks or junketings for Wat, no more liberties permitted from the prentices whose merry company he had hitherto preferred. He had suddenly awakened to a dignified sense of his position as journeyman, and Roger himself did not maintain it more gravely. Most remarkable, however, was the change in his appearance. It had always been an affront to Prothasy that Wat would never keep his clothes tidy or clean, she vowed he was a disgrace to their house, and that no others in the town made such a poor appearance. But now—now times indeed were changed! Now was Wat going off to the draper’s to purchase fine cloth, and taking it himself to the Tailors’ Guild, and most mighty particular was he about the cut of his sleeves. And as for his shoes, he ran to outrageous lengths in the toes—he who had always inveighed against the oafs who were not content with modest points! On the first Sunday on which Wat, thus attired, set forth, carrying a posy of lilies in his hand, and walking with such an air of conscious manliness as quite impressed those who met him, Hugh and Joan, with Agrippa, watching from the balcony, saw him turn up to St. Martin’s Gate, and both burst out laughing.
“What has come to Wat?” cried Hugh. “Didst see his posy?”
“That is for Thomasin,” Joan answered, nodding her pretty little head, “for I heard him ask mother what flowers maidens loved, and mother laughed, and said ’twas so long since she was a girl, she had forgotten, but if it was meant for Thomasin he had best ask Mistress Tirell. And I know Thomasin loves lilies. I wonder why Wat likes Thomasin so much? I like Alice better. But he is for ever talking about her yellow hair and her blue eyes, and wanting to hear if I have seen her pass. Look, Hugh, what a fierce-looking man!”
“That is he they call Henry of Doune, and Sir Adam Fortescue is stopping his horse to speak with him. And here comes Peter the shereman, and Nat the cordwainer. They say that. Earl Hugh has been quarrelling with the mayor again, and threatening to stop all the fishing in the Exe. Thy father is very wroth; he says the city bears it too tamely, and should complain to the king.”
“Hugh, tell me about thy corbel. Hast thou thought it out?”
“I am always thinking. I see such beautiful lines and curves in my dreams that I am quite happy—till I wake.”
“Father says in two or three months there will be a beginning, and I don’t know what to wish,” continued Joan. “I want both of you to do the best.”
“There is no fear. I cannot match with the master.”
“There is no other that can match with thee then!” cried Joan, fondling Agrippa. “He first and thou second—that is what it must be.”
Hugh shook his head.
“Franklyn and Roger.”
“They can work but they cannot design like thee,” returned Joan, eagerly. “Roger will be mad to be the best, but—unless he steals a design—there is no chance of that. Oh, thou foolish Hugh, to make me tell thee this over and over again when thou knowest it better than I do!”