THE GATE HOUSE
change. Outside, in King Street, everybody was alert, the street was filled with the happiness of life; the men-at-arms swaggered as they rolled along, hand on sword hilt; the children ran about and laughed and sang and shrieked for mere joy of living; through open windows, down narrow courts, one could see men at work; the girls laughed and talked as they went about the house, or leaned out of windows, or sat over their sewing; life was at full flow, like the broad river beyond. But here—it was a City of Silence. The men stood at the doors moody and silent; the women in the house went about their work in moody silence; the very children rolling in the dust of the foul lanes had forgotten how to laugh; there were no cheerful sounds of work; there were no swash-bucklers, there were no roysterers, there were no taverns; the men carried no arms, they wore no liveries, except the Sanctuary gown with the keys of the Abbey worked in white on the left shoulder; they were apparently plain burgesses of the humbler sort, craftsmen, or keepers of shops and stalls. A strange place! A city apart; a city of melancholy; a city of restlessness and discontent. For the most part the men sat or walked apart; but here and there were groups of twos and threes who whispered with each other, and showed things secretly under cover of their gowns. Villainous faces they wore, and when they walked it was after the manner of the wild beast which slinks behind the rocks.
The visitor found himself before the great square Tower of which we have already spoken. Gloomy and threatening it looked down upon the tenements below, with its belfry in one corner, its single door, its two windows above, its stair tower beside the door, and its blackened massive walls.
As he stood there, wondering and trying to understand this strange world, the door was opened, and a man came forth.
He was dressed as an ecclesiastic, in a black gown; on his left shoulder he wore the keys in white; he was old and somewhat bent; a man of the middle height; the thin hair that showed from under the cap was white; his nose was broad and somewhat flat; his eyes were large, and when he spoke they became luminous and smiling; his voice was still young, and his laugh was ready—a thing unusual in a man when he is past fifty; but this man was close upon seventy—the allotted span. He was so near his end, and yet he laughed. It is given to few among mortals to find aught that makes for mirth after the days of boyhood. Mostly their days are full of misery: men of violence rob them; kings and barons drive them forth to war; they are flogged and set in pillory and are clapped in prison. How should they laugh, when all they desire is rest, when they rejoice exceedingly and are glad if they think the grave is near?
This man, as he came forth from the Sanctuary, espied the visitor, and greeted him.
“Sir,” he said, “be welcome. I am John Skelton.” He drew himself up proudly. “Johannes Skelton, Artium Magister, Laurea Ornatus. Were I free to leave this place—but my Lord the Cardinal takes care of that, so tender is he lest ill hap come to me—I could show you the cloak of white and green, the King’s colors, with the laurel wreath embroidered on the shoulder and the word ‘Calliope’ in cunning device within the wreath—here, on this spot”—he touched his left shoulder—“where are now the keys that are my safety—the keys of this Abbey.”
“And wherefore, Sir John,” asked the visitor, “art thou in Sanctuary?”
“Come with me, and we will talk.”
So John Skelton led the way to a house of better appearance than most. It stood beside the Gate House, which was also the Abbot’s prison. Over against it was the group of buildings called the Almonry, and from the windows there was a pleasant view across the gardens and the orchards of the Abbey.