"Though you be in a place of safety, do not, on that account,
think yourself secure."--SAINT BERNARD.
Brother Felix, the monk who had come to them from Icomb, bade them rest
another day before setting out over the lake.
"Ye have had a shrewd shog, Lisolé, in the news that Hyla brought, and
he also has gone hardly of late. Let us rest a day and eat well, and
talk withal. There is a bottle of clary that the Prior sent. It is good
to rest here."
His merry black eyes regarded them with an eminent satisfaction at his
proposal. It was his holiday, this trip from the Priory, and he had no
mind to curtail it.
There was yet a quaint strain of melancholy humour about the ex-fool.
The joy had gone, the wit lingered. His sojourn alone among the waters
had mellowed it, added a new virtue to the essential sadness of the
jester.
And Felix was no ordinary man. He had been an epicure in such things
once. What the time could give of culture was his. He had been a writer
of MS., a lay scriptor in the house of the Bishop at Rouen; he had
illuminated missals in London, was a good Latinist, and, even in that
time, had a little Greek. A day with Lisolé was a most pleasant variant
to a life which he lived with real endeavour, but which was sometimes at
war with his mental needs.
So they sat out on deck, among all the medley of the jester's rough
household goods, on deck in the sunshine, while the monk and the
prospective novice ranged over their experiences.
Hyla had never heard such talk before. Indeed, it is not too much to say
that through all the years of his life he had never, until this day,
been present at a _conversation_. Nearly all the words the serf had
heard, almost all the words he himself had spoken, were about things
which people could touch and see.
He and his friends, Cerdic notably, had touched on the unseen things of
religion--"principalities and powers" who dominated the future--in their
own uncouth way. But conversation about the abstract things of this
earthly life he had rarely heard before.
For the first hour the novelty of it almost stunned him. He listened
without thought, drinking it all in with an eagerness which defied
consideration. It was his first and last social experience!
"Wilt not be so lonely in the cloister, friend," said Felix.
"Say you so?" answered the jester. "Yet to be alone is a powerful good
thing. I have but hardly felt lack of humans this many a year. Many
sorry poor ghosts of friends, gone to death back-along, come to me at
night-time."
"And she, that saint that was thy wife, comes she to thee, Lisolé?"
"Betimes she comes, and ever with healing to my brain; but it is not the
wife who slept by my side."
"More Saint and less Woman! Is that truth?"
Lisolé nodded sadly. The big monk stretched himself out at length so
that the hot sun rays should fall on every part of him.
"I have no more to do with women," he said; "but in those other days I
liked a woman to be a very woman, and not too good. Else, look you,
wherein lieth the pleasure? It is because of the difference. Never
cared I for a silent woman. If you would make a pair of good shoon, take
the tongue of a woman for the sole thereof. It will not wear away. Full
many a worthless girl has enslaved me--me whom no enemy ever did. Yet
knowing all and seeing all, yet loved I all of them. And now--quantum
mutatus ab illo!"
He sighed, a reminiscent sigh. "They took from me all I had," he
continued, "and being poor and in distress I turned my thoughts
Godwards."
"Women, priests, and pullets have never enough," said Lisolé with a
sudden and quaint return of his professional manner. "They are past all
understanding, save only the saints. Truly I have found a woman to be
both apple and serpent in one. A woman, she is like to a fair table
spread with goodly meats that one sees with different eyes before and
after the feast."
"But hast feasted, brother, natheless? Forget not that."
"Art right, and it was well said. One should take bitter and sweet
together. Yet, friend, I do not doubt but that when the Lord Jesus fed
the concourse out of His charity and miracle, there were some at that
feast who told one another the bread was stale and the fish too long out
o' water! Men are so made. It is so in this life."
"Aye, and thou doest well in leaving this world for the Church's peace.
Now thy enemy is dead and thy hate with him thou shalt find peace, even
as I have done. For in what a pass is England! Peace being altogether
overthrown love is cooled; all the land is moist with weeping, and all
friendship and quietness is disappeared. All seek consolation and quiet.
Almost all the nobles spend their time in contriving evil; the mad
esquires delight in malice. These cruel butchers despise doctrine, and
the holy preachers have no effect. These men will not be amended by
force of sermons, nor do they take any account of the lives of men. They
all plunder together like robbers."
His voice rose in indignation, and both Hyla and the jester raised their
heads in bitter acquiescence.
It was so true of that dark time. Each one there was a waif of life, a
somewhat piteous jetsam from the dark tides which had almost
overwhelmed them. The Anglo-Norman song was very true--
"_Boidie ad seignurie, pes est mise suz pé._"
("The fraud of the rulers prevails, peace is trodden underfoot.")
Lisolé began to sing the air under his breath. The monk stopped him.
"Not so," he said. "I was wrong to speak of these things to-day. They
have passed us by. And this is my holiday, and I would not have it a sad
one withal. We have no cause for sadness, we three. Let us eat, for our
better enjoyment. Sun hath clomb half-way upon his journey, and I am
hungry."
He bustled about, helping them to prepare the meal.
"Wine, fish, and eke wheaten-cakes," he cried merrily. "Do not we read
in the Gospels that it was Christ His fare?"
Hyla noticed that a curious change had taken place in his host's face.
The strained, brooding look in his eyes had disappeared. Already it was
calmer, happier.
The monk, full of meat and once more basking in the heat, began to chat
on all trivial subjects. He made little, aimless, lazy jests;
contentment was exhaled from him.
The sun seemed to draw out the latent humour on the jester's
countenance. He capped one remark by another; on the eve of taking the
Vows, the clown flickered up in him, as though to rattle the bells once
more in a last farewell.
Felix had thrown off his habit, and his massive neck and chest, covered
with black hair, lay open to the genial warmth. His black hair and eyes,
his ruddy cheeks, were in fine colour contrast; he was a study in black
and crimson. He lay at length, his head pillowed on a catskin rug, and
looked up at Lisolé, who leaned his length against the side of the
cabin.
The jester had a thin metal rod in his hand, part of his cooking
apparatus, his poker in fact, and all unconsciously he began to use it
to emphasise his remarks--the fools bâton of his happier days. Now that
the pressure on his brain, the dead-weight of hate, had been removed, a
kind of reflex action took place. He became a little like his former
self.
"Old Fenward," said the monk, "thou art changing as the worm to the
winged fly! Thy wit fattens and mars with sorrow! On this day of
deliverance make some sport for us; show thy old tricks, as Seigneur
David leapt before the Lord. There is no sin in mirth--out of
cloister," he added with a sudden afterthought, as a quick vision of
Richard Espec crossed his mind.
Hyla sat at the edge of the little deck and looked on, wondering, his
hard brown feet just touched the water. His face had sunk once more into
its old passive unemotional aspect. A gaudy marsh fly, in its livery of
black and yellow, had settled upon his hand, but he made no movement to
brush it away.
The trio were beautifully grouped against the background of vivid green
reeds, surrounded by the still brown water. To any one coming suddenly
upon the quaint old boat lying among the white and yellow
water-flowers, and its strange distinctive crew, the picture would have
remained for long as an unforgettable mental possession.
The accidents of time, place, and colour, had so beautifully blended
into a perfectly proportioned whole that it seemed more of design than
chance.
Lisolé smiled down at the big man. "My jesting days are long gone by,"
he said. "But, messires, I will try my hand for you this noon if
perchance it has not lost all cunning. Once I had knowledge of the art
of legerdemain, by which the hands, moving very swiftly and with
concealed motions, do so trick and deceive the eye that he knows not
what a-hath seen."
With a gurgle of satisfaction, Brother Felix sat up and propped himself
against the cabin. Hyla drew nearer, with attentive eyes.
Lisolé left them for a moment and went inside the cabin. He came out
with several articles in his hands, which he put beside him on the deck.
He showed them his bare hands, and then suddenly stretching out his
right arm he caught at the empty air, and, behold! there came into his
hand, how they could not tell, a little rod of black wood a foot in
length or more.
A swift change came into his voice. It sank a full tone and became very
solemn. His face was very grave. Hyla watched him with wide eyes and
parted lips.
He turned to the serf, "Now, Hyla," said he, "art about to witness art
magic, but none of Satan's, so be brave. Take you this little wand of
enchaunted ebon-wood and say what dost make of it."
Very timidly, and with a half withdrawal, Hyla's great brown paw took
the toy. He examined it, smelt it like a dog, and then with some relief
gave it back to the owner.
"'Tis but a little stick of wood," he said.
"Natheless, a stick of good magic, thrall, for 'twas of this wood that
the coffin of Mahound was built."
Hyla crossed himself reverently. He was surprised to see the monk was
smiling easily. "The holy man has known these things of old," thought
he, with a humble recognition of his own limitations and ignorance. "He
seemeth nothing accoyed."
Lisolé cleared a space on the deck in front of him, and laid the wand
upon it. Then he stretched out his hand over it, as though in
invocation. "_By the Garden of Alamoot where thou grew_," he cried,
"_and by the virtue of the blood of Count Raymond of Tripoli, whose
blood fell on thee as he died in that garden, I command thee to do my
will, little black stick_."
He took a little pipe of reed from his belt, and, stopping one end with
his finger, blew softly through it.
A mellow flute-like note quivered through the air. Hardly pausing for
breath, the jester continued the monotonous cooing sound for several
minutes.
Hyla watched the wand with fascinated eyes. Suddenly it began to tremble
slightly and to roll this way and that. The pipe changed its notes and
broke into the lilt of a simple dance. Simultaneously with the change
the little stick rose up on its end and inclined itself gravely to each
of them in turn. Then it began to hop up and down, retreating and
advancing, in time to the music.
Hyla's tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. His lips were hot and dry,
his throat seemed as if he had been eating salt.
A horrid fear began to rise within him, such strange fear as he had
never known, as he watched the devilish little stick--how human it
was!--in its fantastic dance. He did not see that both Felix and Lisolé
were regarding him with the most intense amusement. The monk was
grinning from ear to ear, and his hands were pressed to his sides in the
effort to control a paroxysm of internal laughter.
Suddenly the music stopped. The stick ceased all movement, standing
upright upon its end. Then--horror!--very slowly, but with great
deliberation, it began to hop towards Hyla. Nearer and nearer it came,
in little jumps of an inch or so. The tan of the serf's face turned a
dusky cream colour, he put out both hands to ward off the evil thing.
But it hopped on relentlessly.
It came within a foot or two, and Hyla's terror welled up within him so
fiercely that he gave a loud cry, stepped back, and with an echoing
splash disappeared into the water over the boat side.
He rose almost immediately, spluttering and gasping, the shock depriving
him of his senses.
Peals of laughter, echoing uncontrollable peals, saluted him. Felix
thundered out his joy, the jester's thin voice shrieked in merriment.
Hyla trod water, staring at them in amazement.
"Come aboard, man! Come aboard!" cried the monk at length. "'Twas naught
but a jest, a jougleur's trick, oh slayer of Lords!" His laughter
forbade speech once more.
They helped the poor fellow on deck once more, and reassured him. But it
was long before he began to like his company again. He remembered the
shrine inside the cabin, the sudden appearance of the jester's torch
through the mists of night, and longed most devoutly to be back at work
on the good brown fields.
Till evening fell and supper-time was at hand, Lisolé entertained them.
Never had he been more skilful and more full of humour than on this, his
"farewell appearance," as he would have called it nowadays.
In his hands a wild duck's egg came, went, and changed, until Hyla's arm
was tired with crossing himself. Water poured into an earthen jar
changed into chopped straw in a single moment. Never were such wonders
before on earth.
But as day went, so gaiety went with it. And before rest the monk said
prayers at the lighted shrine of Isoult the Healer. He prayed for a safe
passage over the waters on the morrow, and that the healing virtues of
the relics before them might grow stronger and more powerful as they
reposed before the Host in Church.
Then they all said the Lord's Prayer together, and so to sleep.
But Hyla's rest was fitful and disturbed. Strange broken dreams flitted
through it. Often during the night he lay awake and heard the heavy
snoring of his companions. The sound brought little sense of
companionship with it. He was alone with his thoughts and the night.
* * * * *
In the early morning they set forth gravely, as befitted the solemn
business they were about.
The precious coffer was laid reverently upon a bed of reeds in the punt,
and, as the air was very still, the thick candle was lighted and placed
before it. It was a very feeble, dusty, yellow gleam in the sunshine.
They set slowly out, down the brown channel among the rushes. The birds
were singing.
The monk blessed the boat and the holy relics, and Lisolé took a last
long look at his floating home ere they turned a corner and it passed
from view.
He was very silent now that he had left everything. His thoughts were
sad, for he was but human. That little refuge had been Home. He had been
alone with the memory of Isoult there. They forged up the creek towards
the lake, and his eyes fell upon the iron-bound box.
Then his face brightened. He set it towards the Island of Icomb, and
made the sign of the cross. Nor did he look back any more.
About half-way over the lake they rested, and ate some bread and broiled
fish. Till then Hyla's strong arms had rowed them, and now Lisolé
prepared to relieve him.
They were busy with the victuals in the bottom of the boat when a shout
floated over the water, sudden and startling. They had thought no one
near.
Looking up they saw a large boat manned by many oars, but two hundred
yards away. It was strange they had not heard the rattle in the
rowlocks.
A man in a shirt of chain mail stood upright in the bows, and a levelled
cross-bow threatened them.
They gazed stupidly at the advancing terror. In forty seconds the boat
was lying motionless beside them. Hyla saw many cruel, exulting,
well-known faces. The monk began Latin prayers. Lisolé grasped the
iron-bound box.
Suddenly Hyla became aware that a harsh voice was speaking. "We have no
quarrel with you, Sir Monk, nor with your boatman. Natheless, unless you
wish death, you will give that serf Hyla up to us without trouble. We
are in luck to-day. We but thought to find the bodies of dead friends."
The rapid pattering Latin went on unceasingly, Hyla was lifted from the
punt by strong, eager arms. A push sent the smaller vessel gliding
away, he saw the distance opening out between--the ripples sparkled in
the sun.
The wail of a farewell floated towards him, and then some one struck him
a heavy blow upon the head, and everything flashed away.