"The reul of Saint Maure and of Saint Beneit
Because that it was old and some deale streit
This ilke monk let old things pace
He held ever of the new world the trace."
Chaucer.
"The churls!" exclaimed Stephen.
"Poor old man!" said Ambrose; "I hope they are good to him!"
"To think that thus ends all that once was gallant talk of fighting
under Talbot's banner," sighed Stephen, thoughtful for a moment.
"However, there's a good deal to come first."
"Yea, and what next?" said the elder brother.
"On to uncle Hal. I ever looked most to him. He will purvey me to a
page's place in some noble household, and get thee a clerk's or
scholar's place in my Lord of York's house. Mayhap there will be room
for us both there, for my Lord of York hath a goodly following of armed
men."
"Which way lies the road to London?"
"We must back into the town and ask, as well as fill our stomachs and
our wallets," said Ambrose. "Talk of their rule! The entertaining of
strangers is better understood at Silkstede than at Hyde."
"Tush! A grudged crust sticks in the gullet," returned Stephen. "Come
on, Ambrose, I marked the sign of the White Hart by the market-place.
There will be a welcome there for foresters."
They returned on their steps past the dilapidated buildings of the old
Jewry, and presently saw the market in full activity; but the sounds and
sights of busy life where they were utter strangers, gave Ambrose a
sense of loneliness and desertion, and his heart sank as the bolder
Stephen threaded the way in the direction of a broad entry over which
stood a slender-bodied hart with gold hoofs, horns, collar, and chain.
"How now, my sons?" said a full cheery voice, and to their joy, they
found themselves pushed up against Father Shoveller.
"Returned already! Did you get scant welcome at Hyde? Here, come where
we can get a free breath, and tell me."
They passed through the open gateway of the White Hart, into the court,
but before listening to them, the monk exchanged greetings with the
hostess, who stood at the door in a broad hat and velvet bodice, and
demanded what cheer there was for noon-meat.
"A jack, reverend sir, eels and a grampus fresh sent up from Hampton;
also fresh-killed mutton for such lay folk as are not curious of the
Wednesday fast. They are laying the board even now."
"Lay platters for me and these two young gentlemen," said the
Augustinian. "Ye be my guests, ye wot," he added, "since ye tarried not
for meat at Hyde."
"Nor did they ask us," exclaimed Stephen; "lubbers and idlers were the
best words they had for us."
"Ho! ho! That's the way with the brethren of Saint Grimbald! And your
uncle?"
"Alas, sir, he doteth with age," said Ambrose. "He took Stephen for his
own brother, dead under King Harry of Windsor."
"So! I had heard somewhat of his age and sickness. Who was it who
thrust you out?"
"A lean brother with a thin red beard, and a shrewd, puckered visage."
"Ha! By that token 'twas Segrim the bursar. He wots how to drive a
bargain. Saint Austin! but he deemed you came to look after your
kinsman's corrody."
"He said the king spake of a visitation to abolish corrodies from
religious houses," said Ambrose.
"He'll abolish the long bow from them first," said Father Shoveller.
"Ay, and miniver from my Lord Abbot's hood. I'd admonish you, my good
brethren of Saint Grimbald, to be in no hurry for a visitation which
might scarce stop where you would fain have it. Well, my sons, are ye
bound for the Forest again? An ye be, we'll wend back together, and ye
can lie at Silkstede to-night."
"Alack, kind father, there's no more home for us in the Forest," said
Ambrose.
"Methought ye had a brother?"
"Yea; but our brother hath a wife."
"Ho! ho! And the wife will none of you?"
"She would have kept Ambrose to teach her boy his primer," said Stephen;
"but she would none of Spring nor of me."
"We hoped to receive counsel from our uncle at Hyde," added Ambrose.
"Have ye no purpose now?" inquired the Father, his jolly good-humoured
face showing much concern.
"Yea," manfully returned Stephen. "'Twas what I ever hoped to do, to
fare on and seek our fortune in London."
"Ha! To pick up gold and silver like Dick Whittington. Poor old Spring
here will scarce do you the part of his cat," and the monk's hearty
laugh angered Stephen into muttering, "We are no fools," but Father
Shoveller only laughed the more, saying, "Fair and softly, my son, ye'll
never pick up the gold if ye cannot brook a kindly quip. Have you
friends or kindred in London?"
"Yea, that have we, sir," cried Stephen; "our mother's own brother,
Master Randall, hath come to preferment there in my Lord Archbishop of
York's household, and hath sent us tokens from time to time, which we
will show you."
"Not while we be feasting," said Father Shoveller, hastily checking
Ambrose, who was feeling in his bosom. "See, the knaves be bringing
their grampus across the court. Here, we'll clean our hands, and be
ready for the meal;" and he showed them, under a projecting gallery in
the inn yard a stone trough, through which flowed a stream of water, in
which he proceeded to wash his hands and face, and to wipe them in a
coarse towel suspended nigh at hand. Certainly after handling sheep
freely there was need, though such ablutions were a refinement not
indulged in by all the company who assembled round the well-spread board
of the White Hart for the meal after the market. They were a motley
company. By the host's side sat a knight on his way home from
pilgrimage to Compostella, or perhaps a mission to Spain, with a couple
of squires and other attendants, and converse of political import seemed
to be passing between him and a shrewd-looking man in a lawyer's hood
and gown, the recorder of Winchester, who preferred being a daily guest
at the White Hart to keeping a table of his own. Country franklins and
yeomen, merchants and men-at-arms, palmers and craftsmen, friars and
monks, black, white, and grey, and with almost all, Father Shoveller had
greeting or converse to exchange. He knew everybody, and had friendly
talk with all, on canons or crops, on war or wool, on the prices of pigs
or prisoners, on the news of the country side, or on the perilous
innovations in learning at Oxford, which might, it was feared, even
affect Saint Mary's College at Winchester.
He did not affect outlandish fishes himself, and dined upon pike, but
observing the curiosity of his guests, he took good care to have them
well supplied with grampus; also in due time with varieties of the
pudding and cake kind which had never dawned on their forest--bred
imagination, and with a due proportion of good ale--the same over which
the knight might be heard rejoicing, and lauding far above the Spanish
or French wines, on which he said he had been half starved.
Father Shoveller mused a good deal over his pike and its savoury
stuffing. He was not by any means an ideal monk, but he was equally far
from being a scandal. He was the shrewd man of business and manager of
his fraternity, conducting the farming operations and making all the
bargains, following his rule respectably according to the ordinary
standard of his time, but not rising to any spirituality, and while duly
observing the fast day, as to the quality of his food, eating with the
appetite of a man who lived in the open fields.
But when their hunger was appeased, with many a fragment given to
Spring, the young Birkenholts, wearied of the endless talk that was
exchanged over the tankard, began to grow restless, and after exchanging
signs across Father Shoveller's solid person, they simultaneously rose,
and began to thank him and say they must pursue their journey.
"How now, not so fast, my sons," said the Father; "tarry a bit, I have
more to say to thee. Prayers and provender, thou knowst--I'll come
anon. So, sir, didst say yonder beggarly Flemings haggle at thy price
for thy Southdown fleeces. Weight of dirt forsooth! Do not we wash the
sheep in the Poolhole stream, the purest water in the shire?"
Manners withheld Ambrose from responding to Stephen's hot impatience,
while the merchant in the sleek puce-coloured coat discussed the Flemish
wool market with the monk for a good half-hour longer.
By this time the knight's horses were brought into the yard, and the
merchant's men had made ready his palfrey, his pack-horse being already
on the way; the host's son came round with the reckoning, and there was
a general move. Stephen expected to escape, and hardly could brook the
good-natured authority with which Father Shoveller put Ambrose aside,
when he would have discharged their share of the reckoning, and took it
upon himself. "Said I not ye were my guests?" quoth he. "We missed our
morning mass, it will do us no harm to hear Nones in the Minster."
"Sir, we thank you, but we should be on our way," said Ambrose, incited
by Stephen's impatient gestures.
"Tut, tut. Fair and softly, my son, or more haste may be worse speed.
Methought ye had somewhat to show me."
Stephen's youthful independence might chafe, but the habit of submission
to authorities made him obediently follow the monk out at the back
entrance of the inn, behind which lay the Minster yard, the grand
western front rising in front of them, and the buildings of Saint
Swithun's Abbey extending far to their right. The hour was nearly noon,
and the space was deserted, except for an old woman sitting at the great
western doorway with a basket of rosaries made of nuts and of snail
shells, and a workman or two employed on the bishop's new reredos.
"Now for thy tokens," said Father Shoveller. "See my young foresters,
ye be new to the world. Take an old man's counsel, and never show, nor
speak of such gear in an hostel. Mine host of the White Hart is an old
gossip of mine, and indifferent honest, but who shall say who might be
within earshot?"
Stephen had a mind to say that he did not see why the meddling monk
should wish to see them at all, and Ambrose looked a little reluctant,
but Father Shoveller said in his good-humoured way, "As you please,
young sirs. 'Tis but an old man's wish to see whether he can do aught
to help you, that you be not as lambs among wolves. Mayhap ye deem ye
can walk into London town, and that the first man you meet can point you
to your uncle--Randall call ye him?--as readily as I could show you my
brother, Thomas Shoveller of Cranbury. But you are just as like to meet
with some knave who might cozen you of all you have, or mayhap a beadle
might take you up for vagabonds, and thrust you in the stocks, or ever
you get to London town; so I would fain give you some commendation, an I
knew to whom to make it, and ye be not too proud to take it."
"You are but too good to us, sir," said Ambrose, quite conquered, though
Stephen only half believed in the difficulties. The Father took them
within the west door of the Minster, and looking up and down the long
arcade of the southern aisle to see that no one was watching, he
inspected the tokens, and cross-examined them on their knowledge of
their uncle.
His latest gift, the rosary, had come by the hand of Friar Hurst, a
begging Minorite of Southampton, who had it from another of his order at
Winchester, who had received it from one of the king's archers at the
Castle, with a message to Mistress Birkenholt that it came from her
brother, Master Randall, who had good preferment in London, in the house
of my Lord Archbishop of York, without whose counsel King Henry never
stirred. As to the coming of the agate and the pouncet box, the minds
of the boys were very hazy. They knew that the pouncet box had been
conveyed through the attendants of the Abbot of Beaulieu, but they were
only sure that from that time the belief had prevailed with their mother
that her brother was prospering in the house of the all-powerful Wolsey.
The good Augustinian, examining the tokens, thought they gave colour to
that opinion. The rosary and agate might have been picked up in an
ecclesiastical household, and the lid of the pouncet box was made of a
Spanish coin, likely to have come through some of the attendants of
Queen Katharine.
"It hath an appearance," he said. "I marvel whether there be still at
the Castle this archer who hath had speech with Master Randall, for if
ye know no more than ye do at present, 'tis seeking a needle in a bottle
of hay. But see, here come the brethren that be to sing Nones--sinner
that I am, to have said no Hours since the morn, being letted with
lawful business."
Again the unwilling Stephen had to submit. There was no feeling for the
incongruous in those days, and reverence took very different directions
from those in which it now shows itself, so that nobody had any
objection to Spring's pacing gravely with the others towards the Lady
Chapel, where the Hours were sung, since the Choir was in the hands of
workmen, and the sound of chipping stone could be heard from it, where
Bishop Fox's elaborate lace-work reredos was in course of erection.
Passing the shrine of Saint Swithun, and the grand tomb of Cardinal
Beaufort, where his life-coloured effigy filled the boys with wonder,
they followed their leader's example, and knelt within the Lady Chapel,
while the brief Latin service for the ninth hour was sung through by the
canon, clerks, and boys. It really was the Sixth, but cumulative easy-
going treatment of the Breviary had made this the usual time for it, as
the name of noon still testifies. The boys' attention, it must be
confessed, was chiefly expended on the wonderful miracles of the Blessed
Virgin in fresco on the walls of the chapel, all tending to prove that
here was hope for those who said their Ave in any extremity of fire or
flood.
Nones ended, Father Shoveller, with many a halt for greeting or for
gossip, took the lads up the hill towards the wide fortified space where
the old Castle and royal Hall of Henry of Winchester looked down on the
city, and after some friendly passages with the warder at the gate,
Father Shoveller explained that he was in quest of some one recently
come from court, of whom the striplings in his company could make
inquiry concerning a kinsman in the household of my Lord Archbishop of
York. The warder scratched his head, and bethinking himself that
Eastcheap Jockey was the reverend father's man, summoned a horse-boy to
call that worthy.
"Where was he?"
"Sitting over his pottle in the Hall," was the reply, and the monk, with
a laugh savouring little of asceticism, said he would seek him there,
and accordingly crossed the court to the noble Hall, with its lofty dark
marble columns, and the Round Table of King Arthur suspended at the
upper end. The governor of the Castle had risen from his meal long ago,
but the garrison in the piping times of peace would make their ration of
ale last as far into the afternoon as their commanders would suffer.
And half a dozen men still sat there, one or two snoring, two playing at
dice on a clear corner of the board, and another, a smart well-dressed
fellow in a bright scarlet jerkin, laying down the law to a country
bumpkin, who looked somewhat dazed. The first of these was, as it
appeared, Eastcheap Jockey, and there was something both of the
readiness and the impudence of the Londoner in his manner, when he
turned to answer the question. He knew many in my Lord of York's
house--as many as a man was like to know where there was a matter of two
hundred folk between clerks and soldiers, he had often crushed a pottle
with them. No; he had never heard of one called Randall, neither in hat
nor cowl, but he knew more of them by face than by name, and more by by
name than surname or christened name. He was certainly not the archer
who had brought a token for Mistress Birkenholt, and his comrades all
avouched equal ignorance on the subject. Nothing could be gained there,
and while Father Shoveller rubbed his bald head in consideration,
Stephen rose to take leave.
"Look you here, my fair son," said the monk. "Starting at this hour,
though the days be long, you will not reach any safe halting place with
daylight, whereas by lying a night in this good city, you might reach
Alton to-morrow, and there is a home where the name of Brother Shoveller
will win you free lodging and entertainment."
"And to-night, good Father?" inquired Ambrose.
"That will I see to, if ye will follow me."
Stephen was devoured with impatience during the farewells in the Castle,
but Ambrose represented that the good man was giving them much of his
time, and that it would be unseemly and ungrateful to break from him.
"What matter is it of his? And why should he make us lose a whole day?"
grumbled Stephen.
"What special gain would a day be to us?" sighed Ambrose. "I am
thankful that any should take heed for us."
"Ay, you love leading-strings," returned Stephen. "Where is he going
now? All out of our way!"
Father Shoveller, however, as he went down the Castle hill, explained
that the Warden of Saint Elizabeth's Hospital was his friend, and
knowing him to have acquaintance among the clergy of Saint Paul's, it
would be well to obtain a letter of commendation from him, which might
serve them in good stead in case they were disappointed of finding their
uncle at once.
"It would be better for Spring to have a little more rest," thought
Stephen, thus mitigating his own longing to escape from the monks and
friars, of whom Winchester seemed to be full.
They had a kindly welcome in the pretty little college of Saint
Elizabeth of Hungary, lying in the meadows between William of Wykeham's
College and the round hill of Saint Catherine. The Warden was a more
scholarly and ecclesiastical-looking person than his friend, the good-
natured Augustinian. After commending them to his care, and partaking
of a drink of mead, the monk of Silkstede took leave of the youths, with
a hearty blessing and advice to husband their few crowns, not to tell
every one of their tokens, and to follow the counsel of the Warden of
Saint Elizabeth's, assuring them that if they turned back to the Forest
they should have a welcome at Silkstede. Moreover he patted Spring
pitifully, and wished him and his master well through the journey.
Saint Elizabeth's College was a hundred years older than its neighbour
Saint Mary's, as was evident to practised eyes by its arches and
windows, but it had been so entirely eclipsed by Wykeham's foundation
that the number of priests, students, and choir-boys it was intended to
maintain, had dwindled away, so that it now contained merely the Warden,
a superannuated priest, and a couple of big lads who acted as servants.
There was an air of great quietude and coolness about the pointed arches
of its tiny cloister on that summer's day, with the old monk dozing in
his chair over the manuscript he thought he was reading, not far from
the little table where the Warden was eagerly studying Erasmus's _Praise
of Folly_. But the Birkenholts were of the age at which quiet means
dulness, at least Stephen was, and the Warden had pity both on them and
on himself; and hearing joyous shouts outside, he opened a little door
in the cloister wall, and revealed a multitude of lads with their black
gowns tucked up, "a playing at the ball"--these being the scholars of
Saint Mary's. Beckoning to a pair of elder ones, who were walking up
and down more quietly, he consigned the strangers to their care,
sweetening the introduction by an invitation to supper, for which he
would gain permission from their Warden.
One of the young Wykehamists was shy and churlish, and sheered off from
the brothers, but the other catechised them on their views of becoming
scholars in the college. He pointed out the cloister where the studies
took place in all weathers, showed them the hall, the chapel, and the
chambers, and expatiated on the chances of attaining to New College.
Being moreover a scholarly fellow, he and Ambrose fell into a discussion
over the passage of Virgil, copied out on a bit of paper, which he was
learning by heart. Some other scholars having finished their game, and
become aware of the presence of a strange dog and two strange boys,
proceeded to mob Stephen and Spring, whereupon the shy boy stood forth
and declared that the Warden of Saint Elizabeth's had brought them in
for an hour's sport.
Of course, in such close quarters, the rival Warden was esteemed a
natural enemy, and went by the name of "Old Bess," so that his
recommendation went for worse than nothing, and a dash at Spring was
made by the inhospitable young savages. Stephen stood to the defence in
act to box, and the shy lad stood by him, calling for fair play and one
at a time. Of course a fight ensued, Stephen and his champion on the
one side, and two assailants on the other, till after a fall on either
side, Ambrose's friend interfered with a voice as thundering as the
manly crack would permit, peace was restored, Stephen found himself free
of the meads, and Spring was caressed instead of being tormented.
Stephen was examined on his past present, and future, envied for his
Forest home, and beguiled into magnificent accounts, not only of the
deer that had fallen to his bow and the boars that had fallen to his
father's spear, but of the honours to which his uncle in the
Archbishop's household would prefer him--for he viewed it as an absolute
certainty that his kinsman was captain among the men-at-arms, whom he
endowed on the spot with scarlet coats faced with black velvet, and
silver medals and chains.
Whereat one of the other boys was not behind in telling how his father
was pursuivant to my Lord Duke of Norfolk, and never went abroad save
with silver lions broidered on back and breast, and trumpets going
before; and another dwelt on the splendours of the mayor and aldermen of
Southampton with their chains and cups of gold. Stephen felt bound to
surpass this with the last report that my Lord of York's men rode
Flemish steeds in crimson velvet housings, passmented with gold and
gems, and of course his uncle had the leading of them.
"Who be thine uncle?" demanded a thin, squeaky voice. "I have brothers
likewise in my Lord of York's meine."
"Mine uncle is Captain Harry Randall, of Shirley," quoth Stephen
magnificently, scornfully surveying the small proportions of the
speaker. "What is thy brother?"
"Head turnspit," said a rude voice, provoking a general shout of
laughter; but the boy stood his ground, and said hotly: "He is page to
the comptroller of my lord's household, and waits at the second table,
and I know every one of the captains."
"He'll say next he knows every one of the Seven Worthies," cried another
boy, for Stephen was becoming a popular character.
"And all the paladins to boot. Come on, little Rowley!" was the cry.
"I tell you my brother is page to the comptroller of the household, and
my mother dwells beside the Gate House, and I know every man of them,"
insisted Rowley, waxing hot. "As for that Forest savage fellow's uncle
being captain of the guard, 'tis more like that he is my lord's fool,
Quipsome Hal!"
Whereat there was a cry, in which were blended exultation at the hit,
and vituperation of the hitter. Stephen flew forward to avenge the
insult, but a big bell was beginning to ring, a whole wave of black
gowns rushed to obey it, sweeping little Rowley away with them; and
Stephen found himself left alone with his brother and the two lads who
had been invited to Saint Elizabeth's, and who now repaired thither with
them.
The supper party in the refectory was a small one, and the rule of the
foundation limited the meal to one dish and a pittance, but the dish was
of savoury eels, and the Warden's good nature had added to it some cates
and comfits in consideration of his youthful guests.
After some conversation with the elder Wykehamist, the Warden called
Ambrose and put him through an examination on his attainments, which
proved so satis factory, that it ended in an invitation to the brothers
to fill two of the empty scholarships of the college of the dear Saint
Elizabeth. It was a good offer, and one that Ambrose would fain have
accepted, but Stephen had no mind for the cloister or for learning.
The Warden had no doubt that he could be apprenticed in the city of
Winchester, since the brother at home had in keeping a sum sufficient
for the fee. Though the trade of "capping" had fallen off, there were
still good substantial burgesses who would be willing to receive an
active lad of good parentage, some being themselves of gentle blood.
Stephen, however, would not brook the idea. "Out upon you, Ambrose!"
said he, "to desire to bind your own brother to base mechanical arts."
"'Tis what Nurse Joan held to be best for us both," said Ambrose.
"Joan! Yea, like a woman, who deems a man safest when he is a tailor,
or a perfumer. An you be minded to stay here with a black gown and a
shaven crown, I shall on with Spring and come to preferment. Maybe
thou'lt next hear of me when I have got some fat canonry for thee."
"Nay, I quit thee not," said Ambrose. "If thou fare forward, so do I.
But I would thou couldst have brought thy mind to rest there."
"What! wouldst thou be content with this worn-out place, with more
churches than houses, and more empty houses than full ones? No! let us
on where there is something doing! Thou wilt see that my Lord of York
will have room for the scholar as well as the man-at-arms."
So the kind offer was declined, but Ambrose was grieved to see that the
Warden thought him foolish, and perhaps ungrateful.
Nevertheless the good man gave them a letter to the Reverend Master
Alworthy, singing clerk at Saint Paul's Cathedral, telling Ambrose it
might serve them in case they failed to find their uncle, or if my Lord
of York's household should not be in town. He likewise gave them a
recommendation which would procure them a night's lodging at the Grange,
and after the morning's mass and meat, sped them on their way with his
blessing, muttering to himself, "That elder one might have been the
staff of mine age! Pity on him to be lost in the great and evil City!
Yet 'tis a good lad to follow that fiery spark his brother. _Tanquam
agnus inter lupes_. Alack!"