"So, some time, when the last of all our evenings
Crowneth memorially the last of all our days,
Not loth to take his poppies, man goes down and says:
'_Sufficient for the day were the day's evil things_.'"
Free will, warring with fate, produces Tragedy, so it is said. To-day,
we have lost much of the significance of the old "[Greek: tragôdia]."
When the priest poets Tyrtæus and Æschylus clamorously exalted--held
high that all might see--the Godhead of men who fight and do, it was not
so much the tragedy itself, but the circumstances that made it which
inspired men's hearts.
"Free will warring with Fate"--it was the clash of that fine battle,
which those old Greeks found significant and uplifting.
For a moment let us look into this so seeming-piteous a one of ours, on
which soon the iron curtain is resonantly to fall.
It is a hard, stern story this of our poor serf. The rebel lifted his
hand against an established force. For that he perished in bitter
agony. But, going so soon to his death, he shows us a Man in spite of
all his woes. And we can be uplifted in contemplating that. It is Hyla's
message to us no less than to his scarred brethren on the castle hill.
The Lord of Hilgay could maim and kill his body, but the Manhood in him
was a flame unquenchable, and burnt a mark upon his age. The clash of
his battle rings through centuries.
His doings sowed a seed, and we ourselves sit to-day in that great
blood-nourished tree of Freedom which sprang therefrom.
* * * * *
The stars that night were singularly bright and vivid. The sky was
powdered with a dust of light, among which the greater stars burned like
lamps.
Below that glorious canopy Hyla lay in an uneasy sleep. Every now and
then he awoke, chilled to the bone. Though the stars were all so clear
and bright they seemed very remote from this world and all its business,
as he looked up with staring, miserable eyes. Hyla believed, as little
children in Spain are taught to this day, that the stars were but
chinks, holes, and gaps in the floor of heaven itself. He thought their
bright white light but an overflow of the great white radiance of God's
Home.
That comforted him but little as he lay cold and hungry in the swamp.
Indeed it was easier to pray in the day-time, when even a hint of heaven
was absent. The enormous radiance was so remote in its splendour. It
accentuated his forlorn and forgotten state.
He was lying but a few yards from the edge of the broad pool which
barred his progress, and as the hours wore on and the stars paled, the
blackness of the water became grey and tremulous.
It was nearing dawn, though the sun had not yet risen, when he thought
he saw a red flicker in the mist which lay over the lagoon. It was too
ruddy and full-coloured for a marsh light, and his hopes leapt up, half
doubting, at the sight. In a moment or two, the light became plainer,
and he knew he was not deceived. The thing was real. It advanced towards
him, and seemed like a torch.
He sent a husky shout out over the water. Whether the light betokened
advance of friend or foe he did not know or care.
No answer came to his call, but he saw the red light become stationary
immediately, and cease to flicker.
He shouted again louder than before, standing up on the rotting log, and
filling his lungs with air. An answering voice came out of the mist at
this, and the light moved again.
And now the grey waste began to tremble with light. The sun was rising,
and at the first hint of his approach, the mists began to sway and
dissolve.
Coming straight towards the bank, Hyla saw a fen punt urged by a tall,
thin man dressed in skins like a serf. He used the long pole with skill,
and seemed thoroughly at home in the management of his boat.
About six yards from the shore, he dug his pole deep down and checked
the motion of the punt. Hyla waded down among the mud as far as was
safe, and hailed him. "For the love of God, sir," he said, "take me from
this swamp."
The stranger regarded him fixedly for a moment, without answering. Then
he spoke in a slow, deliberate, but resonant voice.
"Who are you? How have you come here in this waste? I thought no man
could come where you are."
"I am starving for food," said Hyla, "and like to die in the marsh an
you do not take me in your boat. I am of Icomb, thrall to the Prior Sir
Richard. The Lord of Hilgay's men took me and another who lies dead in
the swamp. They were upon the big lake when the boat upset, and all were
drowned save one. He has got him back to the castle, and I am journeying
to Icomb, if perchance I may come there safely."
"You tell of strange things," said the tall man, "and I will presently
ask you more of them. Now hearken. I am not one of those who give,
taking nothing in return. I will take you safe back to the Fathers, and
feed you with food. But for three days you must labour for me in work
that waits to be done in my field. I need a man's arm."
"For a week. If by that you will save me from this."
"So be it," said the tall man with great promptness. "You shall work for
a week, and then I will take you to Icomb."
With that he loosened the dripping pole, drove it again into the water,
and the nose of the punt glided up to Hyla.
He clambered carefully on board, and sat dripping.
"I have no food here," said the man, "for I live hard by, and did but
come out to look at some lines I set down overnight, but we shall soon
be there."
As he spoke he was poling vigorously, and they were already half way
over the pool.
As they neared the opposite shore, Hyla saw the reeds grew to a great
height above them, forming a thick screen with apparently an unbroken
face. But he knew that suddenly they would come upon an opening which
would be quite imperceptible to the ordinary eye, and so it proved.
With a sure hand the stranger sent the bows at a break but a yard wide
in the reeds. The punt went hissing through the narrow passage, pushing
the reeds aside for a moment, only that they should spring back again
after its passage. A few yards through the thick growth brought them
into a circular pool or basin. This also was surrounded with reeds which
towered up into the air. It was very small in diameter, and floating on
its placid black water was like being at the bottom of a jar.
The place was full of the earliest sunlights and busy with the newly
awakened life of the fen.
But what arrested the serf's immediate attention was a curious structure
at the far side of the pool. It resembled nothing so much as a small
house-boat. A wooden hut had been built upon a floating platform of
timber, and the whole was moored to a stout pile which projected some
three feet from the water.
A fire smouldered on the deck in front of the hut, and a cooking pot
hung over it by a chain.
"This is my home," said the man, pointing towards the raft. "Where I go
I take my house with me, and ask no man's leave. I have lived on this
pool for near two years now."
They landed on the raft.
"Now you shall fill your belly, Sir Wanderer," said the man, "and then I
will hear more of you. Here is a mess of hare, marsh quail, and herbs.
It's fit for a lord eke a thrall, for I see you wear a thrall's collar.
Here is a wooden bowl, fill it, and so thyself."
He came out of the cabin with two rough wooden bowls, which he dipped
and filled in the cauldron.
Then for a space, while the sun rode up the sky, there was no sound
heard but the feeding of hungry men.
Hyla began to feel the blood moving in him once more, and the strength
of manhood returning. The sun shone on his chilled limbs and warmed
them, the night was over.
At the finish of the meal the tall man turned on him suddenly and
without preparation. "How should Hyla of the long arms, thrall of
Geoffroi de la Bourne, be making his way to Richard Espec? Has the devil
then made friends with Holy Church? Is Geoffroi about to profess for a
monk?"
Hyla stared at him stupidly with open mouth, and swift fear began to
knock at his heart.
"I doubt me there is something strange here," said the tall man, with a
sudden bark of anger. "There is something black here, my good rogue. I
pray you throw a little light upon this. If ever I saw a man with fear
writ upon him you are that man, Hyla. I beg leave to think there are
others of you not far away! There are more from Hilgay about us in the
fen."
Hyla glanced hurriedly round the quiet little pool. "Where? where?" he
said in a tone of unmistakable terror. "Have you seen them, then? Are
they in wait to take me?"
The other looked at him with a long searching glance for near a minute.
"We two be at a tangle," he said at length. "You are in flight, then,
from the Hilgay men?"
"For my life," said Hyla.
"Then you and I are in one boat, Hyla, as it is said. I doubted that you
had come against me just now. So they are after you? Have you been
killing game in the forest or stealing corn?"
"It was game," said Hyla quickly; "big game," he added in an uneasy
afterward.
There was silence for a minute. The long, lean man seemed turning over
something in his mind.
"So you got to Icomb for sanctuary," he said slowly. "And Geoffroi sent
his men after you. It is a long way through the fen to go after one
thrall. And also they say Lord Roger Bigot is going to Hilgay with a
great host. It is unlike Geoffroi de la Bourne to waste men hunting for
a serf at such a time. He is growing old and foolish."
Hyla glanced at him quickly. He knew by the man's mocking tone that he
was disbelieved. Hyla was but a poor liar.
"Then you know Lord Geoffroi?" he said, stumbling woefully over the
words.
"I know him," said the man slowly. "I am well acquainted with that lord,
though it is eight years since we have met." Suddenly his voice rose,
though he seemed to be trying to control it. "God curse him!" he cried
in a hoarse scream; "will the devil never go to his own place!"
Hyla started eagerly. The man's passion was so extreme, his curse was so
real and full of bitter hatred that an avowal trembled on his lips.
The other gave him the cue for it.
"Come, man," he said briskly, resuming his ordinary voice; "you are
keeping something. Tell out straight to one who knows you and Gruach
also--does that surprise you? There are no friends of the house of
Bourne here. What is it, what hast done?"
"Killed him," said Hyla shortly.
"Splendeur dex!" said the man in a fierce whisper. His face worked, his
eyes became prominent, he trembled all over with excitement, like a
hunting dog scenting a quarry while in the leash.
Then he burst out into a torrent of questions in French, the foreign
words tumbling over each other in his eagerness.
Hyla knew nothing of what he said, for he had no French. Seeing his
look of astonishment, the man recovered himself. "I forgot for a
moment," he said, "who you were. Now thank God for this news! So, you
have killed him! At last! At last! How and why? Say quickly."
Hyla told him in a few words all the story.
"And who are you, then?" he said, when he had done.
"I call myself Lisolé to the few that I meet in the fen. But agone I had
another name. Come and see."
He took Hyla by the arm and led him into the cabin. It was a comfortable
little shelter. A couch of skins ran down one side, and above it were
shelves covered with pots, pans, tools, and fishing gear. A long
yew-bow stood in one corner among a few spears. An arbalist lay upon a
wooden chest. Light came into the place through a window covered with
oiled sheep-skin stretched upon a sliding frame. In one corner was an
iron fire-pan for use in winter, and a hollow shaft of wood above it
went through the roof in a kind of chimney.
The place was a palace to Hyla's notions. No serf had such a home. The
cabin was crowded with possessions. Unconsciously Hyla began to speak
with deference to this owner of so much.
"See here," said the man. At the end of the cabin was a broad shelf
painted in red, with a touch of gilding. A thick candle of fat with a
small wick, which gave a tiny glimmer of light, was burning in an iron
stand. In the wall behind, was a little doorless cupboard, or alcove, in
which was a small box of dark wood, heavily bound round with iron bands.
At the back of the alcove a cap of parti-coloured red and yellow was
nailed to the wall.
The man who called himself Lisolé lifted the box from the alcove
carefully, and as he did so the edge touched a bell on the end of the
pointed cap. It tinkled musically.
Hyla crossed himself, for the place he saw was a shrine, and the
iron-bound coffer held the relic of some saint.
"On this day," said the man, "I will show you what no other eyes than
mine have seen for eight long, lonely years. I doubt nothing but that it
is God His guidance that has brought you here to this place. For to you
more than all other men this sight is due."
So saying, he fumbled in his coat, and pulled therefrom a key, which
hung round his neck upon a cord of twisted gut.
He opened the box and drew several objects from it. One was a great lock
of nut-brown hair, full three feet long, as soft and fine as spun silk.
Another was a ring of gold, in which a red stone shone darkly in the
candle-light. There were one or two pieces of embroidered work, half the
design being uncompleted, and there was a Christ of silver on a cross of
dark wood.
"They were Isoult's," said the man in a hushed voice.
"Isoult la Guérisseur?" said Hyla.
"Isoult, the Healer."
"Then you who are called Lisolé----?"
"Was once Lerailleur, whose jesting died eight years ago. It was buried
in Her grave."
"God and Our Lady give her peace," said Hyla, crossing himself. "See you
this scar on my arm? A shaft went through it in the big wood. Henry
Montdefeu was hunting with Lord Geoffroi. I was beating in the
undergrowth, and a chance shaft came my way. La Guérisseur bound it up
with a mess of hot crushed leaves and a linen strip. In a week I was
whole. That was near ten years ago."
"You knew me not?"
"Nor ever should have known hadst not told me. Your hair it is as white
as snow, your face has fallen in and full of lines, aye, and your voice
is not the voice that sang in the hall in those days."
"Ah, now I am Lisolé. But thank God for this day. I can wait the end
quiet now. So you have killed him! Know you that I also tried? I was not
bold as you have been. I tried with poison, and then fled away by night.
I took the poppy seeds--_les pavois_--and brewed them, and put the juice
in his drink. But I heard of him not long after as well and strong, so I
knew it was not to be. I never knew how I failed."
"I can tell you that," said Hyla, "it was common talk. Lord Geoffroi
went to his chamber in Outfangthef Tower drunken after dinner in the
hall. Dom Anselm led him there, and the priest was sober that night, or
'twould have been Geoffroi's last. On the table was his night-draught of
morat in which you had put the poison. Geoffroi drank a long pull, and
then fell on the bed and lay sleeping heavy among the straw. Dom Anselm,
being thirsty, did go to take a pull at the morat, but had scarce put
lip to it when the taste or smell told him what it was. Hast been a
chirurgeon, they do say, and knoweth simples as I the fen-lands. So he
ran for oil and salt, and poureth them into Geoffroi until he vomited
the poison. But for two days after that he was deadly sick and could
hold no food. I mind well they searched the forest lands for you and eke
the fen, but found not."
"Aye, I fled too swiftly and too far for such as they. It takes wit to
be a fool, and they being not fools but men-at-arms had no cunning such
as mine. I built this house of mine with wood from Icomb, and have lived
upon the waters this many a year."
"Ever alone and without speech of men?"
"Not so. Sometimes I get me to Mass at Icomb, and I am well with the
monks. And sometimes they bring a sick brother to this place to touch
this hair and cross, and be cured. For know, Hyla, that my wife, a
healer in her life, still heals by favour of Saint Mary, being gone from
this sad world and with Lord Christ in heaven. The Fathers would have me
bring these relics to Icomb there to be enshrined, and I to profess
myself a monk. Often have they sent messengers to persuade me. But I
would not go while He was living, for I could not live God's life
hating him so. But now perchance I shall go. It will bear thinking of."
They knelt down before the lock of hair and the crucifix and prayed
silently.
It was a strange meeting. This man Lerailleur had been buffoon to
Geoffroi, and had come with him from Normandy. His wife, Isoult, was a
sweet simple dame, so fragrant and so pure that all the world loved her.
She was a strangely successful nurse and doctor, and knew much of herbs.
In those simple times her cures were thought miraculous, and she was
venerated. The jester, a grave and melancholy man when not
professionally employed, thought her a saint, and loved her dearly. Now
one winter night, Lord Geoffroi being, as was his wont, very drunk, set
out from his feasting in the hall to seek sleep in his bed-chamber.
Isoult had been watching by the side of a woman--wife to one of the
men-at-arms--who was brought to bed in child-birth. She crossed the
courtyard to her own apartment, in front of Geoffroi de la Bourne. He,
being mad with drink, thought he saw some phantom, and drew his dagger.
With a shout he rushed upon the lady, and soon she lay bleeding her
sweet life away upon the frosty ground.
They buried her with great pomp and few dry eyes, and Geoffroi paid for
many Masses, while Lerailleur bided his time. The rest we have heard.
Hyla and Lisolé sat gravely together on the deck of the boat. The relics
were put away in their shrine.
Neither said much for several hours, the thoughts of both were grave and
sad, and yet not wholly without comfort.
They seemed to see God's hand in all this. There was something fearful
and yet sweet in their hearts. So Sintram felt when he had ridden
through the weird valley and heard Rolf singing psalms.
The "midsummer hum"--in Norfolk they call the monotone of summer insect
life by that name--lulled and soothed them. There was peace in that deep
and secret hiding-place.
In the afternoon they broiled some firm white fish and made another
meal. "Come and see my field," said Lisolé afterwards.
They got into the small punt and followed a narrow way through the
reeds, going away from the wide stretch of water on the further shore
of which they had first met. At a shelving turfy shore they disembarked.
Climbing up a bank they came suddenly upon three acres of ripening corn,
a strange and pastoral sight in that wilderness. Small dykes covered
with bright water-flowers ran through the field dividing it into small
squares. It was thoroughly drained, and a rich crop.
"All my own work, Hyla," said the ex-jester, with no inconsiderable
pride in his voice. "I delved the ditches and got all the water out of
the land. Then I burnt dried reeds over it, and mixed the ashes with the
soil for a manure. Then I sowed my wheat, and it is bread, white bread,
all the year round for me. I flail and winnow, grind and bake, and no
man helps me. The monks would lend me a thrall to help, but I said no. I
am happier alone, La Guérisseur seems nearer then. I have other things
to show you, but not here. Let us go back to home first. To-day is a
holiday, and you also need rest."
When the moon rose and the big fishes were leaping out of the water with
resonant echoing splashes in the dusk, they were still sitting on the
deck of the boat in calm contemplation.
They spoke but little, revolving memories. Now and then the jester made
some remark reminiscent of old dead days, and Hyla capped it with
another.
About ten o'clock, or perhaps a little later, a long, low whistle came
over the water to them, in waves of tremulous sound. Lisolé jumped up
and loosened the painter of the punt. "It's one of the monks," he said;
"now and again they come to me at night time."
Hyla waited as the punt shot off into the alternation of silver light
and velvet shadow. Before long he heard voices coming near, and the
splash of the pole. It was a monk from Icomb, a ruddy, black-eyed,
thick-set man. His coracle was towed behind the punt.
He greeted the serf with a "benedicite," and told him that Lisolé had
given him the outlines of his story.
"Anon, my son," said he, "you shall go back with me to peace. We
thought, indeed, that you had left us with the thrall Cerdic, and we
were not pleased. Your wife and daughter have been in a rare way, so
they tell me."
For long hours, as Hyla fell asleep covered with a skin upon the deck,
he heard the low voices of the monk and his host in the cabin. It was a
soothing monotone in the night silence.
In the morning Lisolé came to him and woke him. "The father and I have
talked the night through," he said, "and soon I leave my home for Icomb.
'Twill be better so. We will start anon. It is hard parting, even with
this small dwelling, but it is Godys will, I do not doubt."