One night, about an hour after sundown, William returned from dancing
on the green. It had turned in chill with a heavy dew falling, so he
sat awhile before the fire to warm himself before going to his bed.
As he sat humming to himself a jolly tune he had gotten from Nick the
Piper, there came a sort of scratching or rustling at the door.
‘Beshrew me,’ he said half aloud, ‘but rats are as plentiful as
blackberries in this house,’ and he hurled a log at the place whence
the sound came. But instead of the noise ceasing, it came again a
little louder than before, and Will then understood that it was some
one fumbling at the latch outside.
‘In God’s name,’ he cried lustily, ‘come in, thou old bat.’
With that the latch was hesitatingly lifted and Master Mark cautiously
poked his red pate inside and peered suspiciously around.
‘What,’ cried Will, ‘Master Mark? Mine ancient friend of the patched
cloak, mine honest acquaintance the Prince of the Jews? Enter, my
worthy usurer, out of the night dew and warm thy cold heart against the
fire.’
‘For the love of Mary, good Master Will, speak more quietly,’ stuttered
Master Mark, half dead with fear. ‘If these town devils hear thee, they
will slay me.’
‘Oh, oh,’ thought Will. ‘“Good Master Will,” forsooth. Sits the wind in
that quarter i’ faith?’
Master Mark insinuated himself through the doorway and, shutting the
door behind him with exceeding great quietness, shuffled into the room.
‘Sit down, my Master,’ quoth Will courteously, ‘though why thou thus
honourest my poor dwelling, I cannot tell, since I have no need or mind
to go a-borrowing again.’
Master Mark subsided heavily upon a chair, blew a great sigh of relief
from his gross carcass, and blinked ponderingly at the fire with his
beady black eyes. Then he turned to William and, with his harsh voice
for the nonce tuned to entreaty, said, ‘Good Master William Mason, I
know thou hast a mild and compassionate heart, albeit thou art fond of
quips and laughter.’
‘Yea, I am a mild man,’ quoth William, ‘as mild as curds and whey.’
‘Yea, yea, and so say all men, so therefore when my friends and I took
counsel together.’
‘_Thy_ friends. Prithee, and who are they?’
‘Why, Master Luke and Master Philip and Master----’
‘Ay, now I take thee, the Apostles?’
‘Ay, so men blasphemously miscall us, who are indeed good Christian
men. When we had taken thought together, it seemed best to us all,
seeing that thou wert a man with bowels of compassion, that one of
us should come and tell thee that we cast ourselves utterly on thy
misericord and mercy.’
‘“Mercy?” “Misericord?” Master Mark, thou jestest. Are ye not rich?
Have ye not gold? Have ye not houses? Have ye not lands? Who are ye, to
cast yourselves on the mercy of a poor fellow that lives by the sweat
of his brow?’
‘Ah, sir, jest not with miserable and broken men, that are as worms
under thy heel. Hast thou not wrought satirical sculptures of us
over the Church porch, and filled the dead stones with a devilish
cunning and malice, that they lie, as it were, in wait, to precipitate
themselves upon us when we pass underneath, so that we are afeared for
our lives to fulfil our pious desires and devoirs to Holy Church, which
we duly owe as Christian men?’
Master Mark snuffled in his nose and rubbed his dirty sleeve across his
gingery eyebrows.
‘“Christian men”?’ said Will. ‘I had thought ye were Jews.’
‘Nay, gentle Master Will, no Jews, but as good Christians as any in
Roodborough. Yea, and have not thy sculptures brought upon us the
hatred and contempt of the whole town, so that we daily go in fear of
violence even to murder? Ay, and besides; whereas we dare not for thy
spiteful carvings go to Church to Mass or Confession, do not the people
say openly that we are heretics and Jews, and threaten to present us to
the Archdeacon that we may be delivered to the torment and the fire?’
‘’Twas the finger of God that hurled the stone on the head of old
Master Matthew, and none can stand before His wrath. Thou wert best,
Master Mark, to get to thy prayers, for I doubt whether thou wilt live
over long.’
‘Good Master Will,’ whined Master Mark, ‘we do indeed pray hourly
and daily to the Blessed Virgin and all Saints to intercede for us,
miserable sinners. But thou art a good, kindly man, and perchance in
this case more powerful than they, and we would ask thee, we would
entreat thee, to take down--of course for a payment--for a good
substantial sum--to take down these carven figures, that we may worship
in the Church again like good Christian men, as we did heretofore.’
‘Holy Saints of God, and wouldst thou have the artist destroy his
artistry, desecrate the Blessed Church and meddle with the wrath of
God? Blessed Mary forbid.’
‘Nay, nay, we would not have thee destroy thy work, which is indeed
exceeding rare and cunning, but only to remove it from its present
place, so that we might go to Mass in safety. Doubtless if thou take
it down, thou couldst sell it again at great profit. Besides, good
Master William, remember that it hath been defaced already with the
fall of Master Matthew’s stone, and with each one of us that crosses
the threshold of the porch, it will deface itself more, until it be
entirely destroyed, and that with lamentable shedding of blood.’
‘Of a surety, Master Mark, each stone will have its man.’
‘Ah, Master William, have mercy upon us broken men. We will pay thee, I
warrant thee, if thou wilt but remove them, and that right liberally.’
William lit a taper at the fire, and going to his workshop door, flung
it open. He peered within, holding the taper high above his head so
that the light fell on the shattered image of Master Matthew struggling
in the hands of the demons.
‘’Tis piteously shattered,’ he thought, ‘I doubt beyond redemption.
Lo, the old man is dead now and doubtless in Hell; I should be loath to
set his figure up again thus. Yet without it my work is defaced, yea,
and every Apostle that ventures into Church will deface it more.’
Then his eye fell on certain parchments, whereon he had but yesterday
sketched out a fair design and had sighed to himself to think that
there was no other porch like that at the Abbey Church to ornament. He
had thought that, were it to be done again, he would do it thus, and
better so. He turned to Master Mark, who watched him with cunning eyes
like a pig’s.
‘And what wilt thou pay me for taking down the carvings?’ he asked.
‘Marry,’ cried Mark joyfully, ‘we are no skinflints, good sir; we are
honest men and will pay. For each stone thou removest we will give thee
ten crowns.’
‘Ten crowns. Thou jestest, my gentle usurer. Hast thou bethought that
the carvings have not only to be removed but also to be replaced by
others as beautiful? Thou hast best home again.’
‘Oh Mary, ten crowns. Wilt thou not take ten crowns? Oh, the hard
hearts of men. Not ten crowns? Nay then, fifteen. Nay? Not fifteen?
Then twenty, twenty crowns; say twenty crowns for each stone, Master
William, eleven twenties, two hundred and twenty crowns in all, or say
two hundred, two hundred in all.’
‘Hast thou considered, Master Mark, that maybe there is the Abbot to
placate for taking liberties with his new Porch? Is not even a usurer’s
life worth thirty crowns? Say thirty crowns for each stone and I will
close with thee, nay, for three hundred crowns in all I am thine. Dost
agree? Otherwise, home again to thy prayers, mine ancient penitent.’
‘Oh,’ groaned Master Mark, ‘oh Mary, that such a young man should have
such a hard heart, and should be so covetous. Three hundred didst thou
say?’
‘Yea, no less.’
‘Mary, Mary, ’tis too much.’
‘Good even, then, Master Mark.’
‘Nay, nay, if thou must, then thou shalt have it, three hundred crowns.
But thou wilt take away every single stone?’
‘Yea, and replace every single one.’
‘Swear then.’
‘Nay, my word is my bond.’
‘Promise then.’
‘Ay, I promise.’
‘Agreed then, and I take thy promise. But when wilt thou do it?’
‘As soon as I have carved the stones wherewith to replace thee and thy
brethren. But do thou bring the three hundred crowns here this time
to-morrow evening.’
‘Yea, I will bring two hundred and the other hundred after the work is
finished.’
‘If it please thee, good night.’
‘Good night.’
Master Mark crept forth from the house like a rat from his hole.
For three months afterwards Will was seldom to be seen at the Market,
at the Green, or at the Alehouse, but was ever in his shop singing like
a thrush and working like a Trojan. When folk asked what kept him so
busy these days he would answer that he was carving a wondrous fine
memorial for Master Matthew’s grave, whereat they laughed and called
him a mad wag.
When he had finished the work, having called his two faithful men, Abel
and Geoffrey, to him, he swore them to secrecy. Then he told them all
that he was about and desired them to help him, to which they agreed
right willingly. That night after Vespers they went privily forth
by a back way to the Church, bearing with them a ladder and mallets
and chisels. Climbing the porch, they worked there the best part of
the night, breaking away the mortar and cement which held the carved
stones in their places, so that in the end they rested loosely in their
sockets and might be carried easily away. The next night came in
very misty and dark, so that for lack of light they could not go and
finish their work, but the night following they stole forth again and
this time brought down the Apostles from their places on the porch and
replaced them by the stones which William had newly worked, in such
sort that the upper part of the porch was all remade as he had designed
it afresh.
Early next morning the people coming to Mass were filled with great
astonishment to see that the Apostles had disappeared and in their
place were carvings the most beautiful imaginable of the Adoration of
Our Lord by the Three Magi. Many and loud were their expressions of
wonder and admiration, and, ever as the news spread, the crowd of those
gazing increased, until nigh half the town stood round the West Porch.
All agreed that cunning as William’s work had been, it was naught
compared with this. ‘Nay,’ they said among themselves, ‘William doth
well enough, but this is beyond him; this is plainly the hand of God.
Glory be to the Blessed Virgin, that we should live to see such a great
miracle worked, and in this our town too.’
Then up spake a certain cordwainer, ‘Now I call to mind somewhat I saw
late last night, as I came from Mistress Woolcomb’s churching-ale.’
‘And what was that?’ they asked him.
‘Marry, ’twas full moon,’ said he, ‘and wondrous bright, and casting
my eyes on the Abbey Church as I came down the Abbey hill, ’twas as
though I saw three great fellows hard at work on yon porch. I had drunk
full heavy of Mistress Woolcomb’s strong ale, and I weened I had been
deceived, else had I spoken before, but now methinks they were wondrous
large for mortal men and had each a glory round his head very sweet and
comfortable to see.’
‘Yea,’ quoth another, ‘and I saw them too as I came with the
cordwainer, and I dared not speak either, for I had drunk full heavily
and weened that they might not be there after all, and they had mighty
wings all feathery on their shoulders and a great light was going forth
out of them.’
‘Doubtless,’ said the people, ‘these were three angels, and they it is
who have wrought this beautiful work.’
Whereupon it straightway went through the town that the three
Archangels had visited the Abbey Church in the night and had carved
thereon the Adoration of the Magi in the stead of William’s usurers.
This tale cast the whole place into a turmoil and, spreading into the
country districts, caused the upland folk to come into Roodborough in
hundreds in order to see the angelic handiwork. For many days the town
was like a fair with so many people coming and going, with such selling
of meat and beer and bread, such cryings for lodging and stabling,
such companies of pilgrims, so many monks and friars and so many
minstrels and tumblers. Never before had the alehouses and hostelries
been so full, and never before had so much good coin flowed into them
in so short time.
Meanwhile William, and Abel and Geoffrey, played mum-budget and held
their tongues, privily laughing and girding one another, saluting each
other by ‘Blessed Archangel Michael,’ or ‘Good Sir Raphael,’ or ‘My
Lord Gabriel.’ William said that never before had folk so fully owned
to his skilful craftsmanship, and he should without doubt be able to
sell the Apostles elsewhere for a good round sum.
But at the end of a couple of weeks came old Abbot Absalom riding down
from London, from the King’s holding of Parliament. Being told of the
great miracle which the Blessed Archangels had worked on his Church
porch, he went in hot haste to behold it. He examined it carefully and
critically.
‘Marry,’ quoth he at length in a dry decided voice, ‘if this be the
work of the Blessed Archangels, then have Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael
been to school at that knave William’s.’
Then he pointed with his staff to the figure of Our Blessed Lady,
carved to the life, holding the Holy Infant on her lap for the Wise
Men to adore. ‘God’s foot,’ quoth he, ‘I have seen that Virgin’s face
somewhere before.’
They all began to stare at the carven Virgin; then some began to titter
and then to laugh, and at last one cried out, ‘Beshrew me, if it is not
bonny Gilly Hedgerow from the Crutched House.’
Now at the time William was amorous of this wench.
When the Abbot had dined he sent a messenger for William, and had him
brought forthwith into his presence.
‘Right noble and celestial sire,’ said the Abbot, bowing satirically as
low as his fat paunch would let him, ‘I have spoken with many a great
lord and noble, with our Lord the King and with His Holiness the Pope,
but never have I had the honour of meeting an Archangel before.’
Whereupon William fell down upon his knees and told the Abbot all that
had happened, how the Twelve Apostles had cheated him of a hundred
crowns, and how he had made them repay him three times as much. In the
end he asked forgiveness, humbly submitting that although he had indeed
taken down the Apostles he had put a better piece of work in their
place.
Then the Abbot laughed heartily at the story and, raising William to
his feet, sent for a cup of wine wherein he pledged him merrily as the
wittiest cogging knave in England, and forced him also to pledge him in
return.
‘I freely forgive thee,’ quoth he, ‘for thou hast not only given me a
good jest to tell to my Lord Abbot of Saint Alban’s, but an excellent
exchange against the Apostles, which, however, I will buy from thee
again for the Chapter House.’
So saying he gave Will the cup with twenty crowns in it to boot, and
afterwards told the story of Will’s revenge upon the usurers with great
applause at the King’s Court at Westminster. When the townsfolk got to
hear of it, they laughed as heartily thereat as the Abbot had done, and
for a long time afterwards William and his two men were commonly known
as the Archangels. Further, they said that Roodborough was indeed a
town favoured by God, for whereas it had long possessed a famous goodly
Abbey and the Twelve Apostles, now also it had the three Archangels
into the bargain.