Such was St. John of Beverley, of whom we may see a picture, though not, I fear, a portrait, in the south transept of this minster. It represents him receiving from King Athelstane a charter with a portentous seal and the following legend:—
"Als fre make I the
as hert may thynke
or egh may see."
King Athelstane, it is true, was by no means a contemporary of St. John of Beverley, but he regarded the saint as his special benefactor, and gave many privileges to Beverley on that account—so the symbolism is pretty even if the picture is not. If we walk along the nave till we are beneath the second boss of the vaulted roof, counting from the east, we shall be above the spot where John of Beverley's dust has lain for many centuries. He was originally buried in the porch; probably his bones were moved when the Saxon Church was replaced by a Norman one. I do not know on what authority the local guide informs us that Athelstane's dagger is in this grave. Gibson, who in his additions to Camden describes the opening of the tomb in the seventeenth century, makes mention of no dagger, but only of the sweet-smelling dust, and the six cornelian beads, and the brass pins and iron nails. Athelstane, it is true, left his dagger as a hostage on St. John's grave while he was fighting the Scots; but the story says that he redeemed it on his return by re-founding the monastery as a college, and granting it the right of sanctuary. Hence the legend on the charter.
In the north aisle of the choir, near the entrance to the Percy Chapel, is the visible symbol of that right of sanctuary, the Fridstool, the plain rounded seat in which he that sat was safe even though he were a murderer, the sacred centre of the six circles that conferred each its own amount of security. To this Stool of Peace, in the days when it stood beside the altar, many a man—indeed many a ruffian—has owed his life and the freedom he so little deserved. It was to this very seat that Richard II.'s half-brother, Sir John Holland, came hurrying through the night. Froissart tells the story, how Holland and Lord Ralph Stafford met in a lane but could not see each other for the darkness. "I am Stafford," said one. "And I am Holland," said the other, and added: "Thy servants have murdered my squire whom I loved so much." Then he killed Lord Ralph with a blow. Stafford's servant cried out that his master was dead. "Be it so," said Sir John; "I had rather have put him to death than one of less rank, for I have the better revenged the loss of my squire." In spite of this haughty attitude, however, he lost no time in taking refuge here. The beautiful towers were not in existence then, but the nave through which he hastened was this Decorated nave that we see now, and these Early English arches were above him as he sat in the sanctuary, and close to him was that wonderful canopied tomb near the altar, supposed to be the grave of Eleanor, Lady Percy.
If it were not eclipsed by the minster the church of St. Mary at Beverley would be more famous than it is, for it, too, is full of beauty and interest. But only those who are very enthusiastic lovers of architecture, or who are able to spend some days in the town, will risk confusing their memories of the first with the details of the second.
Beverley, though never fortified, had once three gates. Of these only one still stands, the North Bar. Beneath its crow-stepped parapet Charles I. must have passed with an angry heart when he rode out to York after his futile expedition to Hull. And it is very likely that we, if we are going south, shall drive out of Beverley upon the same road by which he came from Hull the night before, with the first open defiance of one of his own towns ringing ominously in his ears.
Who thinks of history when he goes to Hull? It is, no doubt, like all great commercial centres, of paramount interest to its inhabitants; but to the traveller what is it? A starting-place, a place where there are docks, railway stations, hotels. Even that increasing band of travellers who are learning, with the help of bicycles and motor-cars, to know their country with the intimate knowledge that nearly always means love, to linger in its historic towns, to seek its little villages, and to eat the familiar bacon-and-eggs of its wayside inns, even these are fain to pass through Hull with no thought beyond their anxiety to reach some other place. Beyond the two old churches of Holy Trinity and St. Mary there is nothing here to see except a good deal of prosperity and the squalor that prosperity brings.
Yet even these wide streets of central Hull, with all their prosaic traffic, should take our thoughts back to Edward I. These things are the justification of that astute and high-handed king; they are the fulfilment of his prophecy. This sheltered corner of the Humber, he thought, would make a fine position for a commercial town. To think of a thing was to do it at once, with our first Edward; so he bought the land from the Abbey of Meaux, made himself a manor, called the place King's Town, built some houses, and paid people to live in them. Well, there may be some even now who would have to be paid to live in Hull; but none the less Edward was wise here as in most other places.
And, moreover, as we reach the outskirts of this town we may recall that one of the most dramatic scenes in English history was enacted here—that defiance of Charles I. at the walls of his own town, which was the gauntlet flung by the Parliament.