“Then go, Girolamo, and take with thee such men and boats and other appliances as thou mayest need. But have a care, for I have work on hand that cannot be done without thee; and if I lose Elfric I lose the nimblest-witted of all my Saxons. So good night, and may the blessed saints go with ye both, although ye be dressed in devils’ skins!”

“Brother devil, that is to be,” said Elfric to the Salernitan, “there be bulls’ hides and bulls’ horns in the out-houses; and good coils of iron chain in the kitchen, to do the clanking.”

“Boy,” said Girolamo, “thou hast but a vulgar idea about demons! Dost think I am going to make jack-pudding devils, such as are gazed at at wakes and country fairs? No, no; I will give you devils of another sort I guess. But leave all that to me, and apply your own mind to the means of getting into the house at Crowland or of establishing a correspondence therein, so that the Normans may be devil-ridden inside as well as outside.”

“And do thou, great master Girolamo, leave that to me,” said Elfric, “for I know some that are within the house of Crowland that would face the real devil and all his legions for the chance of driving out the French abbat and friars; and if I myself do not know every dark corner, every underground passage, and every hiding-hole in and about the house, why there is no one living that hath such knowledge.”

Here the two separated. The young Saxon lay down on some rushes near the door of Lord Hereward’s chamber, and pulling his cloak over his face was soon fast asleep: the Salernitan, who had a chamber all to himself, sat up till a late hour among the packages and vessels he had brought with him: and yet was he ready to start on his journey for Crowland at the first glimpse of day. Those who entered his room in the morning, just after he was gone, smelt a strong smell of sulphur: and, sorely to Girolamo’s cost, some louts remembered this smell at a later season.

CHAPTER X.
THE HOUSE AT CROWLAND.

Compared with Crowland, Ely was quite a dry place: there the abbey church and conventual buildings stood upon a hill and on firm hard ground;[[132]] but here all the edifices stood upon piles driven into the bog, and instead of a high and dry hill, there was nothing but a dead wet flat, and unless in those parts where the monastery and the town stood the ground was so rotten and boggy that a pole might be thrust down thirty feet deep. Next to the church was a grove of alders, but there was nothing else round about but water and bogs, and the reeds that grow in water. In short this Crowland, both in the situation and nature of the place, was a marvel even in the fen-country; and, certes, it was different from all places in any other part of England. Lying in the worst part of the fens, it was so enclosed and encompassed with deep bogs and pools, that there was no access to it except on the north and east sides,[[133]] and there too only by narrow causeways. Even in the summer season the cattle and flocks were kept at a great distance, there being no pasture-land upon which they could be placed without danger of seeing them swallowed up; so that when the owners would milk their cows they went in boats, by them called skerries, and so small that they would carry but two men and their milk-pails. There was no corn growing within five miles of Crowland. The greatest gain was from the fish and wild-ducks that were caught; and the ducks were so many that the Crowland fowlers could at times drive into a single net three thousand ducks at once; and so the good people called these pools their real corn-fields.[[134]] For this liberty of fishing and fowling they paid yearly to the Lord Abbat a very round sum of money: and, we ween, the abbat and the monks had ever the choice of the best fowls and fishes they caught. That holy man Guthlacus, who had laid the Crowland devils, and who had cut the sluices that led from the fetid pools to the flowing rivers, had also made the causeways which gave access to the town and monastery. These narrow but solid roads of wood and gravel ran across the deepest marshes, and had willows and alders growing on either side of them: they were marvellous works for the times; and do we not see in our own day a pyramidal stone on the causeway leading to the north, inscribed with the name of Guthlacus?[[135]] Much had this beatified anchorite done to alter the face of the country; yet many of the foulest pools remained and could not be purified. The town was separated from the abbey by a broad stream, and three other streams or water-courses flowed through the town,[[136]] separating the streets from each other; the streets were planted with willows; and the houses raised on piles driven into the bottom of the bog; and the people of one street communicated with the people of another street by means of light flying-bridges or by means of their skerries. A bold people they were, and hardy and dexterous withal, for their lives were spent in hazardous fowling and fishing, and in toiling over measureless waters and quagmires. Fenners must be bold and expert men, or they must starve. Moreover the folk of Crowland town were very devout and constant in their worship of the Saxon saints and had a laudable affection for their dispossessed Saxon monks and Lord Abbat: although in the time of King Edward, of happy memory, when they knew not what real sorrow or trouble was, they would at times murmur to my Lord Abbat’s chamberlain about the money they were called upon to pay, and at times they would even quarrel lustily with the purveyors of the house about eels and wild-ducks, pikes and herons, and such like trivialities. But the usurping abbat from France had already nearly doubled their rents and dues, and for every fish or fowl that the Saxon purveyors had claimed, the Norman purveyors laid their hands upon a dozen. Ye may judge, therefore, whether the good folk of Crowland town did not abhor the Norman monks and wish them gone.

In turning away the good Lord Abbat and all his obedientiarii or officials, and all his superior monks, the intruders had left in the house a few inferior monks, and about half a score of servientes and lay-brothers to hew their wood and draw their water. And they had so overwrought these Saxon laics, and had so taunted and vilipended them, that the poor hinds, one and all, wished them in the bottomless pit.

On the night after Lord Hereward’s feast at Brunn and the fifth night from the festival of the Nativity, Alain of Beauvais, the intrusive abbat, was feasting in the hall with his Norman friars, who had never passed through a noviciate, and with his Norman men-at-arms, who were neither more nor less godly than his monks. One or two of the English laics were waiting upon these their lords and masters; the other lay-brothers were supposed to be gone to their straw beds. Alain the pseudo-abbat, being warm with wine, was talking in the manner of all Frenchmen about dames and demoiselles, and was telling his company what a sweet lady it was that broke her heart when he first left Beauvais to seek his fortune with Duke William. Just at this juncture of time there came into the hall an invisible devil in the essence of a stink. It was such a stench as mortal nose had never smelt before—it was so intense, so foul and diabolical, that no mortal man could bear it long! Alain the pseudo-abbat, putting both his hands to his nose, said, “Notre Dame de la misericordi! what smell is this?” They all put their hands to their nostrils, and roared “What stink is this?”