Montjoy rode through a dewy June morning. He crossed the bridge, his
horse’s hoofs sounding deeply, an air from the sea filling nostrils,
the light striking sails of fishing boats gliding away below the arches
where all widened. Montjoy was bound for Damson Wood.
Montjoy rode homeward in the evening, after a day in the deep wood,
after a visit to Damson Hill graveyard. His two stout serving men,
riding the brown and the roan behind him, thought it a strange visit.
Nearing the bridge Montjoy checked the black horse and turning
slightly, looked back at Saint Leofric’s mound. There was now full,
level flow of reddened light, and the mound was bathed in it. The
church stood up in that light, the cloister walls were made faery.
“Oh, Hugh and Hugh! I walk in your heart and I see the dark engines,
and I walk in your mind and it is a hold for sorceries!”
He put his horse into motion. “Such a plan and such a course could
never have come to Mark! Though it might have come to Prior Matthew.”
He was upon the bridge. Others were crossing. Sir Robert Somerville he
caught up with. “Well met, Somerville!”
“My lord Montjoy--” Somerville presented his kinsman riding beside him.
The sunset reddened and reddened. The waters glowed below the arches,
the boats moved, a barge slipped underneath, emerged and went up
stream, its rowers singing. The dark houses rose from the river bank.
One that was narrow and latticed, close to the old wall, drew their
eyes. The sunset made its windows to blaze. Somerville and Montjoy both
saw, without the physical eye, the courtesan, Morgen Fay.
Somerville began to talk of where he had been. He had been to show his
kinsman Saint Leofric’s and a miracle.
Said Sir Humphrey, “I have always desired to see a miracle.”
“Saw you one?”
“You gibe!” said Somerville. “But we did see one. It would not be wise,
even for Montjoy, to doubt to the throng that we saw one!”
“What happened?”
“A woman received her sight.”
They left the bridge. The dying rose of the sun touched Middle Forest’s
High Street. Folk were yet abroad, going this way and going that; most
or all going home. Droning sound was in the air; then Saint Ethelred’s
bell began to ring.
Somerville talked on. He lived so, with vivacity, like a quick sword
playing with joy in its own point and edge, like wine liking its own
sparkle from beaker to cup. To a certain depth he could read Montjoy.
Old rivalries, jealousies conflicts existed between Somerville and
Montjoy. Now all the sea above was calm, but those ancient tendencies
stayed like reefs below. Light-drawing boats could pass above them, but
greater craft might be in danger.
Somerville’s quick and agreeable voice jetted on. His eye, quick as a
hawk’s, marked the small erect man riding the black horse. If Montjoy
in his nature had sensitive tracts, far be it from Somerville not to
touch these! Do it always, though with swordly skill, keeping one’s
self invisible, invulnerable!
Montjoy, it was evident, did not like Saint Leofric’s miracles. Why?
Somerville, using wit, found part of it. All affairs were seesaw! You
go up; I go down. Up Saint Leofric; down Saint Willebrod. Up Dominican;
down Cistercian. Up Prior Hugh; down Abbot Mark, Montjoy’s kinsman. Up
Friary; down Silver Cross, enriched by, linked to, the castle on the
hill. Up neighbour’s glory; down my glory! If Montjoy, as apparently
was the case, identified his glory with that of Silver Cross--Why, or
to what extent, who cared? He did it, that was evident! His doing it
answered for Somerville’s cue.
Somerville with malice dilated upon the throng at Saint Leofric’s and
the mounting excitement. He had a vigour and colour of speech that
lifted the scene bodily across the river and set it in the High Street.
He appealed for corroboration to his cousin. The latter, though he
could not guess all, guessed some motive and fell easily in with his
kinsman and host. Not only the great play over there, the singing and
weeping, the light in the church and the shout of joy--but he could
report the stir that was spreading through England. Indeed, it was said
that the Princess of Spain was coming--
Montjoy thought, “That Princess should give her presence to Silver
Cross. She should smooth Isabel’s tomb with her hand. Life should come
from her eyes to the picture.”
Somerville was drawing comparisons, and yet he lived this side the
river, up the Wander indeed, where from any hilltop he might see Silver
Cross!
“It’s an ill bird that fouls its own nest!” said Montjoy, harshly.
Somerville laughed and shot across a hawk glance. “But if it is true?
Look at Abbot Mark and then at Prior Hugh! The last ascetic, fired,
ever praying; the first--But he is your kinsman, Montjoy, and I touch
him not--”
“I want truth,” said Montjoy, and his voice had an angry croak.
“Then in truth is he one whose abbey would show miracles? Who says
great sanctity shows anywhere at Silver Cross? Is it carping to cry
out against sloth and indulgence? If they are near home, I believe in
confessing they are near home! Has Silver Cross one monk who may stand
with the Friar to whom hand and arm appeared?”
“I could tell you--,” burst forth Montjoy, then checked himself. “I
know not of the monks,” he said, “though there be two or three--I know
not in these days of any place more or less slothful than another. We
are all drunken and dazed, we have sinned so long! But of old Silver
Cross was a saintly place!”
“Oh, I’ll give you ‘of old’! Well, Saint Leofric may redeem the time!
And surely for that we must rejoice!”
“If it be redeemer and not Iscariot--yes! But Saint Leofric’s miracles
are false miracles!”
He spoke with an energy of passion, forgetting caution. He spoke louder
than his wont. They were passing through the market square and folk in
numbers were about. Montjoy’s voice reached the nearer circle of these.
There fell upon the centre of Middle Forest a pause, a hush. It was as
though the world had come to an end! Then like a bolt from the tawny
sky laced with blue and rose, fell a great voice, “You lie, lord of
Montjoy!”
It was so thick, loud and startling that Montjoy himself, thrilling,
dragged his horse back upon haunches. Somerville, too, started. It
took a moment to see that the voice proceeded from a Black Friar, a
man with the frame of a giant, who had been climbing the stone stair
to the upper street. They were passing the stair foot; he heard and
turned. Now he was set as in a pulpit above them. His great bell voice
reached half the dwindled market. The folk were already looking Montjoy
and Somerville way. Those hearing Montjoy needed no explanation, but
explained to their fellows. Montjoy’s words ran around the market
place. With agitation a wave of folk lifted itself and began to flow
toward steps and toward checked horses. The Black Friar’s voice took
thunder tone. “Who discredits Saint Leofric discredits God and Our Lady
and Her Son!”
A woman shrilled from a booth of earthenware and hats of plaited
straw. “Don’t ye anger the Saint and dry up his miracles, Montjoy!
Don’t ye! My dumb daughter is coming from up the Wander. Don’t ye!”
“Don’t ye!”
“My palsied brother is going!”
“The morn I take my child--”
“Don’t ye!”
A mob was gathering. Above their heads the Dominican, great figure
in great pulpit, with point and energy recited as it were a rosary
of Saint Leofric’s deeds, and between them scarified doubt. Said
Somerville with an excited laugh, “Wasp’s nest was not empty, Montjoy!”
Montjoy had power, Montjoy had his own kind of popularity. He was
thought a lord of his word and of generous notions, rather a godly
lord. He had the gift of shy and subtle loving, and so he loved Middle
Forest and it hurt him always when they differed.--Now what? He saw in
a grim flash of cold, uncaring light, that his world was not going to
have Saint Leofric’s miracles false.
No use saying anything--
He must even recover if he could its liking, must render harmless to
himself Black Friar’s lightning.
What to say? How positively to lie? Excuse stuck in his throat. At last
he managed to shout forth. “You know me, good folk. If I doubt, it is
not Saint Leofric that I doubt!”
“Whom dost thou doubt? Prior Hugh, whose austerities, whose prayers and
fastings brought the blessing? What dost thou doubt? That the woman who
this morn was blind now sees?”
“That you cannot doubt, Lord of Montjoy!” said Somerville in a loud
voice. “Sir Humphrey Somerville and I saw that wonder! The woman
_sees_--praise Our Lady and Saint Leofric!”
Having cleared himself he found himself willing to aid in extricating
Montjoy. Give him the prick of being aided! “The sun is strong
to-day, and my lord Montjoy hath been long in saddle and is weary and
half-sick! So for one instant, good friends, the devil had his ear! It
is naught--he will shake the fiend off. Hurt him not by mistrusting
him! Presently will you see him on pilgrimage himself to Saint
Leofric’s!”
Montjoy, dry-voiced, tried to speak. He was dark red, his voice broke
in his throat. Suddenly, sharply turning Black King, he touched him
with his heel and rode from the market place. “See you, he is really a
sick man!” cried Somerville and pushed his bay after him. Sir Humphrey
followed, and Montjoy’s two serving men.
Middle Forest knew the lord of the castle for an encreasingly devout
man. It could not even now see him as scoffer. Sir Robert Somerville,
now, was much more like a scoffer than was Montjoy! For a moment folk
hung in the wind, then the larger number agreed to give Montjoy the
benefit of the doubt. Probably to-morrow he would come praising Saint
Leofric! Envious Satan did attack each one in turn! The buzz and hum
continued, but it left the key of anger. The Black Friar, having
vindicated the right, climbed triumphantly the stair to the upper
street.
On castle road where the Wander road diverged Montjoy abruptly said
good night. His voice was moved, sonorous, thrilling with hurt pride.
He seemed eager to leave them, to mount to his old castle that was not
so large, not so threatening, after all!
When he was gone Somerville laughed, and Sir Humphrey complaisantly
with him. They trotted on upon the Wander road, a great manor house
and supper before them, three miles up the vale. “When all’s spoken,”
said Somerville, “I have a back-handed liking for that lord that’s just
left us! I like him enough inwardly to quarrel with him, and frustrate
him, and make sure that he thinks not too well of himself! I preoccupy
myself with him. The day is stale when I run not somehow against him!
What miracle he decrys, will I cry up; or what he cries up, will I
decry!”
He began to whistle, sweet and clear as a blackbird.
“Lyken I wander
My love for to see--
My love for to see
On a May morning,
Where she goes dressed
In cramoisie--”