"Introibo ad altare Dei."
"Surely," said a monk of Bec, "God has made the evening beautiful and
full of lights, so that we may think on Him at that time, and as we
watch the very gates of heaven in the sky, pray to our Father that we
may some day be there also."
It was a holy and wonderful evening-time, as the boat glided on through
the vast shining solitudes. The heavenly influence stole into the souls
of the three serfs, and purged them of all fear and sorrow. Imagine the
enormous change in their lives. A curtain seemed to have fallen over all
that they had known. The noise of the horrible castle, the sharp orders,
the lash of the whip, the foetid terrors of the stoke, had all
vanished as if they had never been. Before them might lie a wonderful
life, possible happiness, freedom. At any rate, for the moment they were
free, and the sky shone like the very pavements of heaven.
All three of them noticed the beautiful sunset with surprise, as if it
were a thing that had never been before their eyes till now.
Day by day, as their work at Hilgay was drawing to a close, the sky had
been as beautiful as this. The sky had been all gold and red, and copper
green and great purple clouds had passed over it like a march of kings.
But they had never seen it until now. Freedom had come to them and
whispered in their ears. She had passed her hands over their eyes, and
they began to know, with a sort of wonder, that the world was beautiful.
Nor was this all of the gracious message. Everything was altered. Hyla,
it will be remembered, had a face of little outward intelligence. He
had, in fact, the face of a serf. But the latent possibilities of it had
been made fine realities within the last few hours. What he had done,
his own independent action, woke up the God in him, as it were. His
voice was not so slipshod. Round his mouth were two fine lines of
decision, his lips did not seem so full, his eyes were alert and
conscious.
Gurth was a sunny-haired, nut-brown youth, straight as a willow wand,
and of a careless, happy disposition. But he had been cowed by the stern
and cruel subjection under which he had lived. One could see the change
in him also. He flung his arms about as he punted, with the graceful
movements of a free man who felt his limbs his own. Little smiles
rippled round his lips, he looked like a young man thinking of a girl.
It is obviously most difficult for us to project ourselves with any
certainty into the mood of these three men. The whole conditions of our
lives are so absolutely different. But we can at any rate imagine for
ourselves, with some kindness of spirit, how joyous these tremulous
beginnings of freedom must have been! The modern talk of "freedom," the
boasting of nations that enjoy it, does not mean very much to us. The
thing is a part of our lives, we do not know how much it is. But who
shall estimate the mysterious splendour that irradiated the hearts of
those three poor outcasts?
The long supple poles went swishing into the water and the boat leapt
forward. They rose trailing out of the water, and the drops fell from
them in cascades of jewels, green, crimson, and pearl. Every now and
again the turnings of the passage brought them to a stretch of water
which went due west. Then they glided up a sheet of pure vivid crimson,
and at the end the fiery half-globe of the sun.
Just as the sun was dipping away they rested again for half-an-hour, and
when they went on it was dark. At last, when the night was all velvet
black and full of mysterious voices, they turned a corner, and suddenly
the punt poles could find no bottom, though they went on with the
impetus of the last stroke.
A greater silence suddenly enveloped them, they saw no reeds round them,
the horizon seemed indefinite.
"This is Wilfrith Lake," said Cerdic, "and we are near home."
Now an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. The lake was far too deep
to punt in, and they had no oars. For the next hour their progress would
be slow. Cerdic came to the rescue. With his knife he cut a foot of wood
from each punt pole, with infinite labour; then he fashioned the tough
wood into four stout pegs. Gurth drilled two holes in the gunwales of
the punt, with the dagger which had been taken from Pierce. Then they
hammered the pegs into the holes and made rough rowlocks. There were no
seats in the punt, and the thin poles did not catch the water very well,
but by standing with their faces towards the bow they were able to make
slow but steady progress.
It was a little unnerving. They could not be sure of their direction
except in a very general way. It was chilly on this great lake, and very
lonely. Hyla, and Gurth also, began to think of the great black hand.
Who knew what lay beneath those sombre waters?
Never before in their lives had they spent such an exciting day. Hardy
as they were, inured to all the chances and changes of a rough day, they
began to be rather afraid, and their nerves throbbed uncomfortably.
Indeed, it is little to be wondered at. They were men and not machines
of steel. Once a great moth, which had strayed far out over the waters,
flapped into Hyla's face with an unpleasant warmness and beating of
wings. He gave a little involuntary cry of alarm, which was echoed with
a quick gasp from the other two.
"What is that?" said Cerdic.
"Only a buterfleoge," Hyla answered him. "For the moment I was fearful,
but it was nothing, and as light as a leaf on a linden tree."
The other two crossed themselves without answering, and strained their
eyes out into the dark.
"Hist!" said Gurth suddenly. "Listen! Cannot you hear anything? Wailing
voices like spirits in pain!" They shipped the poles and bent out over
the boat listening intently.
Something strange was occurring some half a mile away, judging from the
sound. A long musical wail came over the water at regular intervals, and
it was answered by the sound of many voices.
As they watched and listened in terror, they saw a tiny speck of light
on a level with the water, which appeared to be moving towards them. The
voices grew louder, and then with a gasp of relief the fugitives heard
the tones of men singing.
"They are the fathers from Icomb," said Hyla; "they are looking for us,
and have come out in their boats."
In the still night a deep voice chanted a verse of the sixty-ninth
psalm. The sonorous words of comfort rolled towards them:
"_Deus in adjutiorum meum intende: Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina._"
Then came the antiphon in a great volume of sound: "_Confundantur et
revereantur: qui quaerunt animam meam._"
The single voice complained out into the night: "_Avertantur retorsum,
et erubescant; qui volunt mihi mala._"
The many voices replied in thunderous appeal: "_Avertantur statim
erubescentur: qui dicunt mihi, euge, euge!_"
Then the cantor sang with singular and penetrating sweetness:
"_Exsultent et laetantur in te omnes qui quaerunt te: et dicant semper,
magnificetur Dominus, qui diligunt salutare tuum._"
And the poor monks answered him of their estate: "_Ego vero egenus et
pauper sum. Deus adjuva me!_"
The boat of the fathers was now quite close to the serfs. The lantern in
the bows sent out long wavering streaks of light into the dark, and the
many voices were full, and clear, and strong.
"Ahoy! ahoy!" shouted Cerdic in tremulous salutation.
The singing stopped suddenly, save for the cantor, who quavered on for a
word or two of the _Gloria_. "What are you?" came over the water.
"Hyla of Hilgay, with Cerdic and Gurth."
There was a full-voiced shout of welcome, and the great boat came
alongside with a swirl of oars.
The lantern showed many dark figures, some of them wearing the tonsure,
and rows of pale faces gazed at the three serfs with eager interest.
A tall man in the bows of the boat, with a thin, sharp face peered at
them. "We expected you," he said simply, "and we prayed that you might
come, Benedicite! What news bring you? What is done? Christ be with you!
Have you struck the tyrant and avenged the blood of the saints whom he
slew?"
"Father," said Hyla, "I did kill the divell, sure enough. With two
arrows--'One for Frija,' I said, and 'this for Elgifu.' I have blood
guilt upon me."
The man in the bows lifted his right hand and stretched out two fingers
and a thumb. They saw he was a priest. Then he said the _Confiteor_:
"_Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te
ad vitam aeternam._"
And every man in the boat answered "Amen."
Then the priest changed his tone, and became brisk and business-like.
"You have lost your oars, fools," he said. "Or, perhaps, you brought
none. Should'st have remembered the lake. Take a stern rope and we'll
tow ye home like knights. Now then, brethren, ye have heard the news,
God in His mercy hath sent power to these poor men and aided their arm,
so that they have slain the burner of His priests and ravisher of poor
maids. God has answered our prayers. Sing we to Him then a song of
thanksgiving. Sing up every man-jack of you, for God has wonderfully
dealt with these poor men."
And then with a sudden crash of sound they began to sing the greatest of
all hymns, the _Te Deum_.
"_Te Deum Laudamus: te Dominum confitemur_," pulsed and rang through the
night in glad appeal. So fervent and joyous was the song, the monks sang
it so merrily, and withal it was to such a good and jocund tune, that
Hyla was overcome entirely. He knelt in the swiftly-moving punt sobbing
like a little child. Once he raised his face to heaven, and behold,
there was a bright white moon silvering all the sky!
Very soon they came to the opposite shore of the lake, indeed, before
the final "_In te Domine_."
The shore sloped gradually down to the lake's edge in a smooth sweep of
grass sward which met the water without any break. A few yards up the
slope high trees fringed a road which led to the Abbey on the hill-top.
Icomb was, in fact, a low island about half a mile square. Its highest
point was hardly out of the fen mists. Round about in the county, the
place was always spoken of as an Abbey, though it was, as a matter of
fact, no more than a Priory, and of no great importance at that.
Icomb was a new offshoot from Saint Bernard's famous Abbey of Clairvaux.
Very little was as yet known of the Cistercians, and the monks of Icomb
were regarded as mysterious and not altogether desirable people by the
great religious houses at Ely and Medhampstede.
It was part of the Cistercian rule that the founders of an abbey should
choose some lonely, dismal place for their home. The idea was not
entirely that of the eremite, for the Cistercians were improvers as
well as colonists.
Icomb was the most lonely place in all the Eastern counties that the
monks could have chosen for their retreat from the perils and unrests of
this world. The low, tree-crowned island hill, surrounded by vast
waters, protected by savage swamps, hidden in the very heart of the fen,
was ideal for their purpose.
In that time not even churches were safe from lawless bandits like
Geoffroi de la Bourne or Roger Bigot. Although men like these were
belted knights of noble family, and still kept up much of the ceremonial
of their position, they were little more than robbers, and instances
abound of their sacrilege.
But as yet none of them had troubled Icomb. The place was very
inaccessible; it was excellently protected by Nature, the defences were
very strong, and the garrison a fine one.
The lay-brothers or _fratres conversi_ were lusty and used to arms. Many
of them had borne a pike in battle before entering into the peace of the
Church. Then there were a goodly number of serfs and fenmen employed on
the daily business of the Priory, who would all fight to the death if it
were attacked.
No better sanctuary could be found for fugitives. Richard Espec, the
prior of Icomb, was always ready to extend the hand of welcome to the
oppressed. The time was so black and evil, such a horrible cloud of
violence hung over England, that he felt it his bounden duty to make his
house a refuge.
The Priory, like all Cistercian monasteries, was surrounded by a strong
wall for defence. The buildings, though large and well built, were of a
studied plainness. No glorious tower rose into the sky, but little
ornament relieved the bareness of the walls. By the rules of that order
only one tower, a centralone, was permitted, and that, so it was
ordained, must be very low. All unnecessary pinnacles and turrets were
absolutely prohibited. In the chapel the triforium was omitted, and the
windows were of plain glass with no colour. The crosses on the altars
were of simple wood, and the candlesticks of beaten iron. Lewin would
have been absolutely disgusted with Icomb.
The buildings consisted of the chapel, a chapter-house adjoining,
connected with the church by a sacristy and a cell, the refectory and
monks' dormitories, and the calefactorium, or day-room. Here the monks
met in the daytime to gossip and to grease their sandals. In winter it
was warmed by flues set in the pavement. The centre of the block of
buildings was occupied by the cloisters and a grass plot.
The two boats were hauled up the slope, and the party went singing up
the hill in the moonlight. The dark trees which lined the road nodded
and whispered at their passing, as the holy song went rolling away among
the leaves. The three serfs felt wonderfully safe and happy. The dark
depths of the thicket had no suggestion of a lurking enemy, the moon
shone full and white over the road, and above, the tall buildings of the
Priory waited for them. The hand of God seemed leading them, and His
presence was very near.
They came to the gateway and the priest beat upon it with his
walking-stick. In a moment it swung open, and they heard the porter say
"Deo gratias," thanking Heaven that it had afforded him the chance of
giving hospitality. Then, according to use, he fell upon his knees with
a loud "Benedicite."
The priest who had met them went at once in search of the prior. In a
minute or two he returned, saying that the prior was praying in the
chapel, but that he would see them in the sacristy when he rose.
They were shown into a low, vaulted room with oak chests all round, and
lit by a horn lantern. A half-drawn curtain separated it from the
church, and through a vista of pillars they could see the high altar
gleaming with lights, and a bowed figure on the steps before it. The
rest of the great place was in deep shadow.
They sat down upon one of the chests and waited. A profound silence
enveloped them, the wonderful and holy silence of a great church at
night. A faint, sweet smell of spices pervaded the gloom.
Suddenly they realised that they were tired to death. All three leant
back against the wall in motionless fatigue and let the silence steal
into their very blood. They ceased to think or conjecture, and let all
their souls be filled with that great, fragrant peace.
At last they heard some one coughing in the church, waking shrill
echoes, and in a moment the sound of approaching footsteps. Richard
Espec came in at the door. He was a short, enormously fat man, with a
shrewd, benevolent face. He wore a white scapular and a hooded cowl,
and on his breast gleamed the gold cross of Wilfrith. He blessed them as
he entered, and they fell on their knees before him. He turned and drew
the curtain over the door, shutting out the view of the church, and then
sitting down upon a chest, regarded them with a penetrating though
kindly glance.
"Ye are tired, my men," he said. "I can see it in your faces. Sit down
again. Now I know from Harl, your friend, and Gruach, the wife of Hyla,
what business you went out to do. Which of you is Hyla?"
"I am Hyla, father."
"Well?"
"Father," said poor Hyla, trembling exceedingly, "I have killed Lord
Geoffroi."
The prior gave a slight start, and said nothing for a minute or two. At
last he spoke.
"I may be wrong, Hyla, but I wist not. I do tell you here that I believe
our Heavenly Father has guided your arm, and that you were appointed an
instrument of His hand. Therefore, to-morrow you shall confess to one of
the brethren and receive absolution for your act, if indeed you need it.
And you shall be with your friends, servants to the monastery, well
treated. Outside the walls live many of our fishermen and farm hands,
and you and your wife and daughters shall be given a hut there. And I
charge you three that you live well and wisely with us. Remember, ye
come from Satan his camp, and from among evil men, and that we were not
as they. But I well think you will be good and live for Christ. Not in
fear of God's anger, but in pleasure and joy at His love and kindly
_régime_, so that at last ye may join the faithful who have scand to
heaven before you. I will pray for you, my sons, very often. Now I will
call Brother Eoppa, our hospitaller, and he will give you food and a
nipperkin of wine. But before you go to your rest I ask you to pray with
me."
He knelt down, panting a little with the exertion, and said the Lord's
Prayer in Latin. Then he opened a door which led into the cloisters.
Outside the door the light of the sacristy lantern showed a thin sheet
of copper hanging from an iron bracket. The prior struck this with his
clenched fist, and a brother came running in answer. He committed the
serfs to him with a kind smile, and then went back into the great,
silent church.
The four went down the North Walk together, and turned into the western
cloister. A door leading out of this led them into the hospitium, where
the lay-brother, who had charge of guests, presently joined them.
"Hungry?" said he, "I think well you must be that. Brother Maurice is
broiling fish for ye, and that is a dish that Saint Peter himself loved.
It would be waiting now, but that kitchen fire was very low. Here is
wine, a nipperkin for each of you."
Presently they heard footsteps echoing in the cloister.
"I can smell your fish in the slype," said the hospitaller. "It's here.
Fall to, and bless God who gives ye a fat meal."
He left them alone to eat, meeting another lay-brother in the cloister
and going with him into the kitchen.
"Dull fellows, I call them," said he.
"Yes. They do not look very sensefull."
"Poor men, they have been evilly used, no doubt. They have rid the world
of as bloody a devil as ever cumbered it. I mind well what he did to the
hedge priest in Hilgay fen," and they fell talking of Geoffroi and his
iniquities with bated breath.
Hyla, Cerdic, and Gurth made a great meal.
"It's wonderful well cooked," said Gurth.
"And good corn-bread," said Cerdic.
"Never did I drink such wine before," said Hyla, and without further
words, they fell asleep upon three straw mattresses placed for them
against the wall. The tolling of the bell in the centralone, calling the
monks to the night-offices, did not disturb them. Nor were they assailed
by any dreams. "Nature's dear nurse," tended them well at the close of
that eventful night.