I
It was very hot in the market-place. The sun blazed from a cloudless
sky like a globe of molten brass. The houses on each side of the
square threw a hard and narrow rim of shadow upon the pavement, above
the scorched cobbles of which heat ceaselessly vibrated in waves. A
couple of dogs lay panting under the market cross with glazed eyes,
and dripping, projected tongues. The open market-place was well-nigh
deserted, for folk could not cheapen and bargain with the fierce
sunlight beating on the napes of their necks, and so had taken shelter
from the sweltering heat in the neighbouring hostelries and canvas
ale-booths. Only in the little patch of shade cast by the ‘Three
Arrows’ stood a small group of hucksters selling petty wares. There
was a fellow with bright-coloured ribbons and gloves, whose parched
tongue had long since refused to perform its office; there was another
with damsons and little green apples, whose thirst had driven him to
devour almost as much as he had sold; there was an old woman fallen
uneasily asleep upon the handle of a corded-in basket wherein half a
dozen pullets clucked and struggled wearily; there was a chapman with
a priceless elixir for Saint Antony’s fire, who sucked greedily at an
empty tankard; there was an old man with a great green leaf on his
head, sitting with closed eyes and clasped hands upon his basket of
peascods; and there among the rest was Meg of Four Lane Ends, a fierce
and uncouth figure, standing with arms akimbo and a sack of corn at her
feet.
Meg was a good six foot high, with broad hips and shoulders, and an
arm and fist like a blacksmith’s. She might have been one of those
Amazons who, the learned say, are shut up in the North with Gog and
Magog, whence they will come with terror and woe and destruction at
the dreadful Doomsday. ‘God help the man she taketh to husband,’ folk
were wont to say; but lo how the Lord in His Providence provides--she
married Gilbert of the Four Lane Ends, a somewhat stern albeit a kindly
man, and one who could knock down an ox with one blow of his fist.
Her red hair straggled in wisps across her freckled face, her nostrils
quivered like a mettled horse’s, as she snuffed up the hot air, and
her thin lips twitched and puckered nervously at the corners. Her
steel-blue eyes now rested on the corn-sack at her feet and now roved
wearily round the market-place, searching for possible customers. She
had carried the corn on her back five long miles that morning; there
were three good bushels of it, and no one had offered her more than
twelvepence the bushel for it, a malison on them.
She saw John the Miller come slowly across the market-place. She
moistened her parched, black lips with her tongue and cried out to him
in a cracked voice, ‘Dost lack any corn, John Miller?’
He came across to her and, opening the sack, plunged his hand into the
corn, running the grain through his fingers and feeling it between his
finger and thumb.
‘I will give thee elevenpence the bushel,’ he said.
‘By Christ’s Passion,’ she answered him wrathfully, ‘I had rather fling
it on the fire or to the swine.’
‘Nay, nay, be not an angered.’
‘I have been offered more this morning already.’
‘Ay, hast thou? Well then, twelvepence, I’ll say twelvepence the
bushel.’
‘Nay, nor that either, as I am a mortal woman. Fourteenpence or I’ll
not sell.’
John the Miller shook his head. ‘I cannot more than twelve,’ he said,
‘’tis a just price.’
‘Then, by the Lord,’ quoth Meg furiously, ‘’twill be for those that can
and will.’
John the Miller shook his head again, smiled and passed on.
The Bailey called from within the hostelry of the ‘Three Arrows,’ where
he drank his fourth flagon of ale.
‘I told thee, little Meg, thou shouldst not get better than twelvepence
the bushel.’
‘To Hell with thee,’ screamed Meg furiously.
The market square was like a furnace, her mouth was parched as a
lime-kiln, but she had no pennies wherewith to buy ale until her corn
was sold. The houses, pens, and booths seemed to rise and fall before
her eyes in a fierce wave of heat. Directly before her stood the Town
Church, its front bathed in the white glare of the sunlight; she gazed
at it with hard and half-unwitting eyes. The little door in the porch
was slowly pushed open, and an old woman came out and hobbled away on
her stick down the side of the market hill. The door, swinging slowly
to again, gave a momentary glimpse of the cool and shadowy interior.
Meg gazed awhile at the closed door; then she stooped, shouldered the
heavy sack of corn, and slowly crossed the torrid market-place.
She pushed open the little door and entered the church. She crossed
herself at the font with holy water, and lifted some of the water in
her hands and bathed her hot and dusty face. She carried some of it
to her lips, but it was too salt. Then she curtsied awkwardly to the
Holy Altar, and going up to the rood-screen, sank down on her knees
before a bench with her sack beside her. The church was very dark and
still and cool, and the faint smell of flowers and incense filled it.
Meg regarded the miraculous image of Our Lady and Her Blessed Babe,
which, as folk think, was wrought by the Holy Saint Joseph himself in
the exact portraiture of the Virgin and her Son. Before her shrine
burned a dozen candles and the sacred lamp, which, according to usage,
is never extinguished night nor day. The Blessed Virgin clasped the
little Christ close to her bosom, but His little arms were stretched
out towards Meg and His countenance gazed sweetly and lovingly upon her.
‘O little Jesu,’ cried Meg, stretching out her clasped hands in prayer
and addressing Him, ‘I can get but twelvepence a bushel for my corn,
which, as Thou knowest and can see for Thyself, is worth at least
fourteenpence, yea and more, were it not for the good year. Thou
knowest I am no wicked regrater to demand an unjust price from poor
men because of their need, but only a poor labouring woman asking
for a fair recompense for having lugged this heavy sack of corn five
miles this morning, and for having stood like a sick dog three hours
in the cursed market-place yonder. Do but grant me, Little Jesu,
fourteenpence the bushel and I will buy thee a penny wax candle at
Eastertide.’
She crossed herself and said ‘Hail Mary,’ then, taking her sack, went
out into the market-place. Other folk had now come in to buy and sell,
amongst them several rich Roodborough merchants; the sun was beginning
to drop westwards; traffic was brisker in the lengthening patch of
shadow under the ‘Three Arrows.’ She went across and took her stand in
the busiest of the crowd. ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’ she
cried.
Presently she heard another cry ‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any fine corn,’
and then another, and looking round she saw a half-dozen upland folk
had brought in corn with them and were selling it as fast as they
could. She frowned and grated her teeth and cried the more shrilly,
‘Corn, corn, d’ ye lack any corn?’ But although some asked her how
much, none stayed to buy of her. After she had stood a full hour and
her knees were weak with standing and her voice worn to a whisper with
crying, the Bailey and John the Miller came by.
The Bailey laughed to see her still there with her corn unsold.
‘What, Meg, thou mad wench!’ he cried, ‘art thou still asking
fourteenpence the bushel? Thou mightest cry it from now till Doomsday
at that rate.’
‘Fourteenpence?’ quoth John the Miller. ‘’Tis no fair price, ’tis
extortionate, good Meg.’
‘’Tis worth that or nothing,’ cried Meg hoarsely.
‘Nay then, ’tis worth nothing,’ said the Bailey, ‘for Hob of the Cross
and Sim of the Wry-Mouth and the rest of the upland fellows yonder are
selling as good as thine for tenpence.’
‘Tenpence,’ screamed Meg. ‘Thou art a liar.’
‘No liar, little Meg,’ laughed the Bailey. ‘Go thou and look.’
So Meg went and looked, and there was Hob of the Cross and Sim of the
Wry-Mouth and the rest of the upland folk selling fine corn at tenpence
the bushel. She grinned with rage and ground her teeth. An evil, black
cloud came over her fierce face.
‘’Twas pity thou didst not let it go at twelvepence when thou hadst the
chance,’ said John the Miller.
Meg turned towards the Church and shook her fist passionately; she
strove to blaspheme but her wrath choked her.
‘Nay, nay,’ said the Bailey. ‘Be a wise wench. Lo, here are thirty
pennies; give me the three bushels and get thee to the ‘Three Arrows’
and take a bite and a sup to sweeten thy sour heart, for thou art
indeed a bitter herb and grown little in God’s grace, despite thy
inches. Thou shalt not get a better price in the whole market, I
warrant thee.’
‘Give me the thirty pennies,’ snarled Meg. The Bailey counted them out
in her hand. She put them without a word of thanks into her leathern
purse. Then pushing her way through the throng of people she crossed
over to the Church again. She entered and went up to the Altar. Christ
stretched out His little arms lovingly towards her as before. But she
gnashed upon Him with her teeth, wrinkled her nose at Him and shook her
great fist at Him with fierce vehemence.
‘O little Christ,’ she whispered, trembling with rage, ‘hast Thou
indeed done this to me? I might have had twelvepence at the first and
I would not, but asked Thine aid instead, and now I cannot get but
tenpence. Thou shalt get no penny candle at Eastertide of me, but I
will pay Thee out for this, even at Thine Own Holy Season. Lo, now,
thou little Jesu, as much shame and evil as Thou hast done to me will I
do also unto Thee and more also.’
With that she flung herself out of the Church and hied sullenly
homewards to Four Lane Ends.