He stood, father Abbot, in his large face godly concern for all awryness. He loomed. All Silver Cross seemed with him, Silver Cross through the centuries. Three fourths in the hall turned that way. “He crieth otherwise,” said Montjoy, and with a gesture set Brother Richard and his Superior face to face.
Cried Richard Englefield, “Thou shameless, false shepherd! Thou lying Abbot of a rotted fold!”
At which a young monk, Brother Wilfrid, so forgot himself, defending good, shaming ill, that he rushed against the mad monk. “Son!” thundered the Abbot and brought Brother Wilfrid to his knees, crying, “Pardon!”
Truly Richard Englefield maddened. He saw how it would end, and the legion before him. His vision swam and darkened, light foam came about his lips. He sent out a loud, hoarse and broken voice. “Fraud! Fraud! Lord of Montjoy, come to Silver Cross and see!”
The Black Friar, straining forward with the rest, caught at that word, “Fraud!” He did not dare to echo it aloud, for now, in a moment as it were, many a hundred year of Silver Cross, many a goodly deed and use penetrated, reverberated here, large space entering somehow small space, riving it apart. Old authority, long veneration, the great Abbey church, Montjoy’s love for it, Middle Forest’s clinging to it—Friar Martin had thundered one misty afternoon against Montjoy’s doubting of Saint Leofric. Montjoy had had to down head and slink homeward. Now Friar Martin wished to shout, “Fraud! Fraud!” and, “It began in envy of Saint Leofric his great glory!” But he was afraid. There might be no proof. If the monk were not already mad he would soon be so.
Prior Matthew of Westforest moved a piece. Still, conclusive, calming, entered his voice. “It is seldom well to take madman’s advice! But here it seemeth to me well. Lord of Montjoy, you cannot do better than to ride with us to Silver Cross.”
Lean and strong, and a master chess player, he came to front of the dais, and lifting voice, entered into explanation of Brother Richard’s sad illness and of the ways of the fiend who for this time had overthrown the saintly man. But he would recover—Prior Matthew had no doubt of it—under Walter the leech’s care, amid his brethren at Silver Cross, or at Westforest, where was smaller range, stricter solitude. He should have tendance; he should have prayers. “As for that Presence that did descend upon him. She the Blessed is not harmed! Men and women of Middle Forest, the Rose still rests in reliquary, the Healing Well still heals! Let them that are sick come prove it!”
Edmund the Preacher cried out mightily. “If it be so, still hath the devil compacted with the harlot, Morgen Fay! How else could the thought of her, the form of her, enter here? The devil made her to be seen in monastery cell, thrusting aside True Queen! Seek her out, bind her to the stake by town cross and burn her! Never else will this countryside be cleansed!”
Prior Matthew looked with narrowed eyes. “There is truth in what you say, Edmund the Preacher! Long hath she been great scandal!” He thought, “Best that she have her cry quickly and be done with it! All the poison out at once in one dish, not trailing forever, word here and word there! She set sail, long ago, to come to this end. This year or next, what matter?”
And he saw that it would make diversion. Let her clamour what she would of what she had done! It would be the fiend speaking. Silver Cross and Matthew of Westforest against a mad monk and a harlot!