Many guests were there—lay folk on pilgrimage, palmers and pilgrims with their stories, pedlars with their wares, clerics on their road to the Continent from the central parts of the island, men-at-arms, Englishmen, Normans, Gascons, Provencals. And all had good fare, while a monk in nasal voice read:
A good old homily of Saint Guthlac of Croyland,
Above the clatter of knives and dishes.
Now this Saint Guthlac was an abbot of Croyland, and many conflicts did he have with the devils of the fen country, whose presence could generally be ascertained by the hissing which took place when they settled with their fiery hoofs and claws on the wet swamps and moist sedges.
“And my brethren, certes we poor monks of Saint Benedict may learn much from these fiends; and first, from their hot and fiery tempers and bodies, we may be taught to say with Saint Ambrose:”
Quench thou the fires of hate and strife
The wasting fevers of the heart.
At this moment a calf’s head was brought in, very tender and succulent, and the rest of the quotation was drowned in the clatter of plates and dishes. At last the voice emerged from the tumult:
“Which I have seen in these fens, whither Satan and his imps do often resort to cool themselves in these stagnant waters. And first there be the misshapen, goggle-eyed goblins, with faces like the full moon, only never saw I the moon so hideous; these be the demons of sensuality, gluttony and sloth—libera nos Domine, and then there be . . .”
The wine was handed round, wine of Gascony, where the friars of Michelham had vineyards; full drinking, rich-bodied red wine, brought in huge jugs of earthenware, and poured generally into wooden mugs. Only the prior and subprior had silver goblets: glass there was none.
Again the voice rose above the din: