Of my _Lord Maugher_ and his _Familiar Demon_. How he received the
abbot's letter, and how I was courteously entertained at his house of
_Blanchelande_.
And my lord was not difficult of access. He sat in a deep chair in the
hall, and round him were all manner of strange things whose shape and
name I knew not, but little was there save old rolls of parchment to
betoken a Churchman's dwelling. A great table held bottles of many
shapes of glass and earthenware, and optic glasses and tools lay
intermingled. I caught the gleam of much bright steel on settle and
shelf--chain-mail, targe, dagger, helmet, and sword. A great warrior's
complete equipment, tunic and hose of mail, shield, and helm, hung
before me as I entered. Three huge hounds, with heavy chaps hanging
loose from their jaws, lay about the hearth, but only noted my entrance
with a drowsy gaze, then dropped back upon their paws; but a strange
ugly creature, like an ill-shaped child, that was so vile to look on
that I thought him the very Devil himself, crouching on the table by the
archbishop's side, set up a chattering and a muttering, with now and
then a kind of mocking laughter like a madman's meaningless merriment.
Nor would he cease until my lord clouted him twice or thrice rudely on
his ill-favoured crown with a "Hist, folly, stay thy devil's clatter."
Now, this beast it was, one, I suppose, of those apes that King Solomon
trafficked in, that gave rise to the saying that a familiar from Hell
housed with my lord in Guernsey. But being of a bold spirit, and
expecting even worse than I yet saw from the ill-fame of my lord, and
the tales of monk and churl, I stood firm, and with something of a
courtier's air placed in his hand the letter I bore, with a simple,
"Greeting, your grace, from my lord the Abbot of the Vale;" and as I
gave the letter, I set my gaze on him for the first time square and
straight, and met eyes as keen and straight as mine own. Now, this
surprised me, for I had heard evil men could not look straight into
men's faces. He was far above the common height, and his body and face
were very fat; like a great bull of the stall he lay in his chair. His
face was full and red, and I noted he had little hair, save a mass, half
grey, half red, that clung about his ears and neck. Of his passions I
was soon to see evidence, for having gazed at me a moment, he took the
letter from my hand, tore away the seal, and unrolled the scroll. As he
did so I saw another little scroll roll out, which fell upon the ground
before my feet. Then I knelt and handed this to him likewise. Can I ere
forget his look as he took it from me, or wrung it rather from my
fingers?
"Whence hast thou this? Whence came it?" he shrieked, with a rabble of
ill words; and for a moment it seemed he would have crushed me in his
great sinewy clenched hands as I stood there before him. His face was
scarlet that before was only red. Great black veins started up upon his
forehead, and his round blue eyes were straining out of the flesh in
which they were enclosed.
I stood firm before him, and humbly showed him that the second scroll
fell out of the first. Then he turned suddenly upon his heel and went
towards the window, and looking forth upon the bay below in a few
moments calmed himself, read what was writ on the first scroll, and with
an air of unconcern tossed them to a corner of the table.
"Thou knowest naught of these papers, lad?" he said at length.
"Naught, my lord, in good faith, save that I bore them hither."
"And thou didst well to do that," he said, "for here is a matter
dangerous to me, as thou sawest by mine anger. Your good abbot hath done
well to send me this letter by thee."
I answered not, since it was not for me to speak, and yet I craved to
know what could be in the second scroll to move him so.
"May I return with your grace's greeting or other message to my lord?" I
said.
"Ay, and by word of mouth," he said. "We exiled men well-nigh forget to
write, nor have much practice in the tools of the clerk. Tell the abbot
the Archbishop of Rouen thanks him for his courtesy, and that this
paper--this paper was written by some foe of other days that chooses
thus to strike the fallen. Canst thou carry that."
I said I could, but I thought that there was an ill lie behind his
words.
"Hist, good lad, what is thy name?" said he.
"Nigel de Bessin, nephew of the Vicomte of St. Sauveur," I answered.
He pondered and gazed at me curiously. "Ay, well I knew thy grandsire,
the old vicomte," said he. "And thine uncle has had of me other gifts
than shriving."
Now it came into my heart to ask him of my father, since he knew my
grandsire and my uncle; so I said boldly--
"And didst thou know my father?"
"Ay, I knew him--I knew him," said he; "but what do they tell thee of
him?"
"Nothing, in sooth, my lord," I answered; "and bid me wait till my
pupilage is over."
"Then I may tell thee naught more than thou knowest, save that we were
good friends. Thou wilt not long be bearing missives for your abbot, if
thou art like thy sires. Thou art soon for Normandy?"
I wished not to unfold my purpose to this man, so I simply bowed, and
prepared to go with due courtesy. Now, as I knelt upon one knee, he
laid his hand upon my shoulder wondrous kindly, and raised me up by the
arm, and led me to a seat so gently that for the moment I forgot that I
distrusted him. Then he spoke of studies, and brought down some great
tomes, excellently well writ and pictured in French scriptoria, and
turning from them to his table he showed me a wondrous box, which
looking through, as I held it up, I saw as it were the far off bay draw
near to mine eyes, so that I could see men walk clear where I saw but
shapes before. And with surprise I well-nigh dropped it from my hands.
He took it from me, and told me I had seen what none had seen in the
earth before but he alone.
And the thought entering into my mind that here was something more than
human, he seemed to guess it, and said with a smile that was hard and
keen--
"Nor is there wizardry therein, save the wizardry of a lonely man, that
devises new solace for his loneliness."
A pasty was ere long set before us and a flask of wine, whereof we both
partook.
"Say not," said he, "that my lord of Rouen sends his guests hungry
away."
So we ate together. And after eating, as the sun was already stealing
down the western sky, he bade me farewell, and pressed a little ring
upon my finger as I left him, bidding me not forget to see him again ere
I left for the wars, and at any time he said he would stand my friend,
with a greater air of power, it struck me, than one could show who knew
no other future than more long years of exile, such as he now lived in
our small isle.
Now, as I turned from the drawbridge at the moat-house of Blanchelande
to go homewards the remembrance came to me of those men that I guessed
were pirates digging their storehouse in mother earth in the midst of
the wood. And thinking on it, though I feared them not, I had no taste
to return to the vale that way. So, instead, I followed the path rugged
and uneven as it was, along the side of the cliff to the northward.
First along the gorge of the Bay of Saints I went by the side of the
stream that ran singing from Blanchelande, and then I cut straight up
the cliff amid the heather, and so came into sight of Moulin Huet, where
an ugly craft, that I liked not the sight of lay at anchor, right under
the nose of Jerbourg Castle, wherein our abbot had a small corps of men,
even as at the Vale. I stood a moment looking down on her riding deep in
the sky-blue water, and presently I saw a boat put out from shore with
men on board that rowed towards her. I could not tell if they were the
same I saw up by the château, but I guessed they were, as I saw them
climb into the bark. And then I journeyed on, clinging here and there to
the cliff or the green stuff that grew thereon, like a very cat of the
woods, past Fermain Bay, and through the little township of St. Pierre
Port, and I wondered, since the pirate bark was so near at hand, that
naught was stirring in the street or on the jetty. Now, St. Pierre Port
was a pleasant place to me. A little world of its own, for every man of
St. Pierre Port was a soldier, and could draw bow and slash with his
broadsword, and pirates meddled not much with St. Pierre Port, for its
men were tough and stern and loved their homes right well.
I stayed not to chatter with fishermen or priest to-day; but hasted on,
and at length the little tower of St. Sampson arose before me, and ere
long I was at the abbot's lodging.
The abbot paced up and down his orchard and garden of flowers.
"Thou art late, my son," said he. "Did my lord detain you?"
"My lord," I said, "was very kind and gentle, far beyond that I dreamed
possible, and kept me with good entertainment and choice converse far
into the day."
"And my lord was pleasing to thy taste?" said Abbot Michael, with a
strange smile, not like his own, that I knew not.
"How may I, holy Father," answered I, "speak aught but well of him, who
did me no ill, but good only? And, indeed, my lord spake to me out of
his store of knowledge, as to one not ignorant and young; but, indeed,
like himself in age and state. And yet, in good faith, he pleased me not
at first."
"And how was that?"
"There seemed indeed, Father, somewhat that I distrusted, and then his
passion at the opening of thy scroll was terrible to see."
"Ay, was he moved? And what said he when he perceived that inner
scroll?" inquired the abbot.
"Moved, Father! I thought he might have done some deadly deed. But he
calmed himself at length."
"And what sent he in return?"
"Nothing in writing," I answered, "but this by my mouth--that the inner
scroll was the writing of some foe of other days, who thus strikes at a
fallen man."
The abbot mused in silence at this reply, and took a pace or two beside
his lily border. Then he gazed seriously at me for a moment, and bade me
walk by his side.
"Thou hast seen to-day, son, one of the world's schemers, and thou hadst
been, as was natural, deceived by him. With ill men first impressions
are the true ones. Thou hadst been more than a stripling of the
cloister, and we had taught thee over well for thy years, had he, whose
power has lain in such arts, not made thee love him in spite of thyself.
Son, dost thou know why this Maugher lies here in exile?"
"Ay, Father, was he not like St. John of old, who said, 'Thou shalt not
have her:' to King Herod?" answered I, as I thought aptly.
"Indeed, my son, they said so, and strong were the archbishop's words
when Duke William wedded against God's law. But thou wilt learn, that
words and censures of Holy Church are too oft like daggers and knives in
the hands of evil men in high places of the Church--and such was this
censure of the marriage of Matilda in the hand of Maugher. He would have
cut his way with it--dost thou know whither, son?"
"Whither, Father?"
"My son, to the dukedom itself, Churchman though he was."
I listened in astonishment, and an air of doubt must have shone out from
my innocent eyes, that never knew to hide the thought within.
"Wouldst thou have proof of this that I say, and know how even to-day
this serpent in our island-grass bites at the heel of princely
authority?" the abbot asked.
"Indeed, Father, I would. His words to me so frank, his description of
great men so just--his----" I was about to be fervent indeed in the praise
of my new-found friend. Abbot Michael drew a scroll from his breast, and
held it before my eyes with firm fingers, watching me intently the
while. It was like the scroll I had taken to Blanchelande within the
other. It was the same scroll, or a cunning copy, for there lay two
great hasty blots upon it in one corner, and its signature ran up the
page like a ladder against a wall.
"Read here, and here," said he, "and understand how this cursed man
would incite milder men to shed Duke William's blood!"