THE SAXON DEVIL AND THE WICKED ABBOT.
"When night
Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons
Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine."
Milton.
Most humiliating and distressing to us Saxon monks was the state of lax morality in which these foreign monks lived. One of the worst vices imported into England by the Normans was that of uncleanness, a vice practically unknown amongst Saxons, and looked upon by them with great abhorrence. This was an offence, too, which the hardy Norsemen regarded with loathing. Fierce and blood-thirsty as they were, seduction, adultery, and the violation of the sanctity of blood-relationship, they detested. Amongst the Normans, not only the wild troopers, but the monks also, lived loose, irregular lives; and the chief and vilest offender, in this respect, was our new Abbot. Many were the outrages perpetrated by this man. Night by night, under cover of the darkness, he issued from the Monastery with lascivious intent, often accompanying his outrages by crime and bloodshed if he met with opposition. In vain I sought the assistance of Alice, who entreated the Count, her father; but he was either powerless, or cynical and indifferent—probably both. Sometimes a fierce check was given to these scoundrels by a sudden outburst of rage and revenge on the part of the Saxons; but for the most part, the Saxons who meekly submitted to serfdom were the most abject of their race, being often so broken in spirit that they submitted to unfathomable indignities, rather than face the consequences of opposition. Indeed, any display of spirit, and any act of retaliation or revenge, was sure to be followed by the most cruel vindictiveness, and most sweeping punishment. I stay to note one act of retaliation done to our Abbot by Badger, on one occasion, when the Abbot was bent on carrying his unscrupulous violence to the cottage of one of the serfs. I note it because of its comicality, as well as its effectiveness in punishing the vicious priest.
Now the Abbot, though it will scarcely be believed, was, in spite of his turbulent wickedness, a most abjectly superstitious man, as indeed most ignorant and wicked people are. Of this fact Badger, who was a most observant and shrewd judge of character, quickly became aware; and, taking advantage of this weakness, he used it to teach the Abbot a most valuable and salutary lesson. One of the serfs had frequently made most doleful complaints to Badger of the violation of the sanctities of his home by this man. Now Badger most cordially hated the Abbot, as indeed any one who knew the man could not fail to do; and on the other hand, his sympathies, either openly or veiled, were always extended to his countrymen, and he frequently wrought substantial amelioration in their lot. Badger turned this matter over in his mind, and at last hit upon a plan which he conceived would have the desired effect if successfully carried out. So, making use of his old expedient, he decked himself most fantastically as the Saxon "Zernebock" or devil. He expended much skill and ingenuity in the manufacture of some wondrously grotesque apparel, introducing a pair of horns and a tail after the orthodox fashion. In addition to this, he had also decked out one of the most savage of his hounds in a most fantastic garb, and, so disguised and ludicrously tricked out, they sallied forth at eventime, intent on frustrating the Abbot's vile intentions. Having selected their place of ambush, they patiently lay in wait for the object of their enterprise, bent both on terrifying and worrying him into a relinquishment of his devilish purpose.
The night selected as fitting for Badger's enterprise was moonless and somewhat dark, especially so within the added shade of the forest. Having selected a suitable place, Badger lay quietly in wait until he heard the approaching footsteps of the Abbot; then he strode into the path with the hound by his side, and together they fronted the object of their quest. Great was the consternation of the Abbot when he confronted this awful apparition. His knees smote together, and his teeth chattered in his head, as the awful voice of the fiend accosted him in angry tones.
"Abbot, I know thy errand; I am the Saxon devil 'Zernebock,' and this is my Hel-hound. I have come to kill thee, and my hound will tear thee in pieces, for thy cup of wickedness is now full; I give thee, therefore, two minutes in which to prepare for death."
So saying, the fiend uplifted a mighty sword, which seemed to the Abbot to tower almost to the height of the trees. It was a wooden one, but the night was too dark for this to be perceived, even if the victim had not been too terror-stricken to note it.
In a terrible fright he fell on his knees and began to call upon all the saints to protect him, writhing and groaning piteously.
"Silence!" said the fiend in still more awful tones. "Thou must die! I have been waiting long for permission to slay thee! The saints will not protect thee any longer, for thou hast professed to be a holy man, and thou art bent this night on an errand of wickedness, and I have permission to kill thee at last. Thy life is now in my hands. Art thou ready?" again roared the fiend in savage tones, whilst the hound, seeing the threatening attitude of his master, waxed furious, snarling and growling savagely, and making many half-executed attempts to fly at the Abbot, which half a word of encouragement from the fiend would have completed. "Speak!" said the fiend, "thy time is now expired."
And the uplifted sword began most ominously to sway to and fro, as though about to fall.
"Have mercy on me, fiend!" screamed the Abbot, "and I will make a vow to thee that I will repent me of my sins, and I will cease from fleshly lusts! I will set about mortifying my flesh this very night! I vow to abstain from meats and strong drink for the space of twelve months if thou wilt have mercy on me."
"Silence when I bid thee!" again roared the fiend. "I know thee for a hypocrite, and thou wilt not abide thy vow. Art thou ready? Quick! bow thy head, so that I cut it off clean."
Quick as thought in this dire strait the Abbot sprang to his feet, and fled with miraculous energy for one so stout and pursy.
"Hist! hist!" said the fiend to his hound.
There was a fierce growl and a few long, slouching strides, and the hound grasped the Abbot's nether parts in his powerful jaws; and with a yell of pain his reverence fell prone upon his face, writhing, groaning, wriggling, and yelling, as though ten thousand fiends clutched him. But the hound clung to him like a vice, chawing his struggling prey the more lustily as he tried to shake him off. At last the fiend called off his hound; but at the same time he lifted his sword over the prostrate Abbot.
"It is no use thy attempting to fly; thy doom is come, and I am here to kill thee. Choose at once whether thou wilt be torn in pieces by my hound or slain by my fiery sword; there is no escape for thee."
"Have mercy, fiend!" groaned the Abbot piteously; "thy hound hath well-nigh killed me already. His teeth are red hot, as thou well knowest. I shall surely die now, after the savage manner he hath torn me. In mercy leave me the little time left me for repentance. Think of my poor soul."
"I am the foul fiend, and there is no mercy now for thee. Thy soul is forfeited and given into my hands; but what of thy body? decide quick! Shall I kill thee, or wilt thou be devoured by my hound?"
Just at that moment, however, the fiend was interrupted, for footsteps and voices were heard approaching, and presently a couple of troopers, attracted by the terrible howling of the Abbot, drew near. As they did so the fiend and his hound promptly disappeared in the wood.
As these troopers timidly and fearfully advanced to the spot, to their consternation they beheld the Abbot lying flat along, and bellowing like any bull of Bashan, and calling upon the saints to come to help him. At once he was recognised by the pair.
"Ho, your reverence! what is this? What ails you?"
"Now the saints be praised! the foul fiend is fled; the Blessed Virgin hath sent me help, but too tardily, for I am surely done for. The mischief is ended, and I shall surely die. Had ye tarried but one minute more, my poor body would have been devoured also."
"What is it, your reverence! Have you been attacked by wolves?"
"Alas! I have been set upon by the wolf of hell; I have met face to face in this very spot the foul fiend. 'Twas the Saxon devil Zernebock, for he spoke Saxon. He and his furious Hel-hound hath set upon me together. The fiend was about to kill me with his fiery sword when ye drew near so opportunely; and his hound hath torn me dreadfully. His teeth were red hot, and he spouted fire out of his fearful mouth. Can ye lift me up? for I hardly know whether he hath left me any legs to stand upon. Oh! not there! not there! did I not tell you he had torn me fearfully behind. Lift me by the shoulder, but do not touch me behind. Steady, ye maudlin villains! did I not tell ye to be steady?" he roared most savagely.
"I think your reverence had better let me go for help; my comrade will stand by ye till I come again," remarked one trooper.
"Stay ye where ye are, villain! Ye do not stir from me, either of ye, not a yard! If the fiend come again the other one will run also, and I shall be slain and devoured. Lift me up, ye lazy louts! ye are well able."
By dint of tugging and lifting, eventually they set the Abbot on his legs; but he could not bear to walk, neither could he bear to be carried; and he would not be left for a moment. Slowly he made an effort to shamble along, but every step was torture to him, and he swore at the two troopers as roundly as in his extremity he had prayed to the saints. It was a most painful and protracted home-coming to all of them; for the Abbot clutched his deliverers most tenaciously, terrified almost into frenzy if there was a rustle in the bushes, and conjured up visions of the fiend and his hound in every object that met his gaze; whilst all the while he vented upon the two his spleen and rage, sometimes for their clumsiness and want of sympathy, and at other times for their having been so long in coming to his aid.
With infinite trouble they at last reached the Abbey, and the Abbot was put to bed; but when there he was obliged to lie upon his stomach, for the hound had severely mauled him behind. Two of the monks were set apart to nurse him by night, and two by day. The rest of the monks were commanded to spend so many hours of each day in prayers and in invocations, whilst penances and fasting were imposed upon all.
In time, by dint of careful nursing, the Abbot was restored. But he could not so easily forget the painful lesson he had learnt; and as he still firmly believed that it was indeed the Saxon devil Zernebock and his Hel-hound that had set upon him, he never dared venture abroad after dark until he had banished the fiend from the adjacent woods.
Then ensued the most comical part of the whole affair. A procession of the monks to the place of adventure was organised. One headed the solemn procession bearing a crucifix on which our blessed Lord was impaled. Others followed next in order bearing the sacred relics, most of which had been brought from Normandy, and consisted of bones of eminent saints of the order, also a shred of the garment of our Saviour, the identical one for which the soldiers cast lots. One carried a front tooth of the apostle Peter, said to have been broken out at the last supper of our Lord; and another had a small vial containing a portion of the tears which Peter shed at the denial, when "he went out and wept bitterly"; the last had possession of a pair of straps or leathern thongs, said to have been used to fasten the sandals of the Apostle John when he dwelt in the lonely isle of Patmos. But most laughable it was to see Badger and several of the lay brothers of the monastery following behind, with large ewers containing holy water, with which the monks plentifully besprinkled the path and its surroundings; all the while chanting psalms and repeating prayers for the exorcism of the devil and all evil spirits that haunted the woods.
One can imagine the uncontrollable delight with which Badger assisted at this solemn function. And I confess when he told me the whole story I could not help but laugh most immoderately, though such levity scarcely became my office, especially when I remembered that our sacred things had been associated with so ridiculous an exploit. Though I can scarcely undertake to excuse the deception practised upon this occasion, yet it had a most salutary effect upon the Abbot, for seldom after that incident did he venture, under cover of the night, to prosecute his villainies; though, like most vile and wicked persons, he found other means of giving rein to his lusts, which were infamous and cruel.