The glorious termination of Edward's campaign, and the rich spoil
brought home from the wars by the soldiers, had served to put the nation
into a marvellous good temper. Their enthusiasm for their King amounted
almost to adoration, and nothing was thought of but tourneys, jousts,
and all sorts of feasting and revelry. Indeed, things came to such a
pass that at last an order was given that tournaments might be held only
at the royal pleasure, else the people were disposed to think of nothing
else, and to neglect the ordinary avocations of life. As the King
appointed nineteen in six months, to be held in various places
throughout the kingdom, it cannot be said that he defrauded his subjects
of their sports; and he himself set the example of the extravagant and
fanciful dressing which called forth so much adverse criticism from the
more sober minded, appearing at the jousts in all manner of wonderful
apparel, one of his dresses being described as "a harness of white
buckram inlaid with silver -- namely, a tunic, and a shield with the motto:
'Hay, hay, the wythe swan!
By Goddes soul I am thy man;'
whilst he gave away on that occasion five hoods of long white cloth
worked with blue men dancing, and two white velvet harnesses worked with
blue garters and diapered throughout with wild men."
Women disgraced themselves by going about in men's attire and behaving
themselves in many unseemly fashions. The ecclesiastics, too, often fell
into the prevailing vices of extravagance and pleasure seeking that at
this juncture characterized the whole nation, and, as Father Paul had
said to Raymond, disgraced their calling by so doing far more than
others who had never professed a higher code. Amongst the graver and
more austere men of the day heads were gravely shaken over the wild
burst of enthusiasm and extravagance, and there were not wanting those
who declared that the nation was calling down upon itself some terrible
judgment of God -- such a judgment as so often follows upon a season of
unwonted and sudden prosperity.
As for the twin brothers, they spent these months in diverse fashion,
each carrying out his own tastes and preferences. Gaston attached
himself to Sir James Audley once again, and travelled with him into
Scotland, where the knight frequently went upon the King's business.
When in or about the Court, he threw himself into the jousting and
sports with the greatest enthusiasm and delight, quickly excelling so
well in each and every contest that he made a name and reputation for
himself even amongst the chosen flower of the English nobility. Real
fighting was, however, more to his taste than mock contests, and he was
always glad to accompany his master upon his journeys, which were not
unfrequently attended by considerable peril, as the unsettled state of
the Border counties, and the fierce and sometimes treacherous nature of
the inhabitants, made travelling there upon the King's business a matter
of some difficulty and danger. There was no fear of Gaston's growing
effeminate or turning into a mere pleasure hunter; and he soon made
himself of great value to his master, not only by his undaunted bravery,
but by his success in diplomatic negotiation -- a success by no means
expected by himself, and a surprise to all about him.
Perhaps the frank, free bearing of the youth, his perfect fearlessness,
and his remarkably quick and keen intelligence, helped him when he had
any delicate mission entrusted to him. Then, too, the hardy and
independent nature of the Scots was not altogether unlike that of the
free-born Gascon peasant of the Pyrenean portion of the south of France;
so that he understood and sympathized with them better, perhaps, than an
average Englishman could have done.
A useful life is always a happy one, and the successful exercise of
talents of whose very existence we were unaware is in itself a source of
great satisfaction. Gaston, as he grew in years, now began to develop in
mind more rapidly than he had hitherto done, and though separated for
the most part from his brother, was seldom many months without meeting
him for at least a few days.
Raymond was spending the time with his old friend and comrade and
cousin, John de Brocas. It had become evident to all who knew him that
John was not long for this world. He might linger on still some few
years, but the insidious disease we now call consumption had firm hold
upon him, and he was plainly marked as one who would not live to make
any name in the world. He showed no disposition to seclude himself from
his kind by entering upon the monastic life, and his father had recently
bestowed upon him a small property which he had purchased near
Guildford, the air and dryness of which place had always been beneficial
to him.
This modest but pleasant residence, with the revenues attached, kept
John in ease and comfort. He had spent the greater part of his income
the year previous in the purchase of books, and his uncle's library was
always at his disposal. He had many friends in and about the place; and
his life, though a little lonely, was a very happy one -- just the life
of quietness and study that he loved better than any other.
When his cousin Raymond came home from the wars without any very
definite ideas as to his own immediate career in the future, it had
occurred to John that if he could secure the companionship of this
cousin for the coming winter it would be a great boon to himself; and
the suggestion had been hailed with pleasure by the youth.
Raymond would gladly have remained with the King had there been any
fighting in the cause of his country to be done; but the round of
feasting and revelry which now appeared to be the order of the day had
no charms for him. After breaking a lance or two at Windsor, and seeing
what Court life was in times of triumphant peace, he wearied of the
scene, and longed for a life of greater purpose. Hearing where his
cousin John was located, he had quickly ridden across to pay him a
visit; and that visit had lasted from the previous October till now,
when the full beauty of a glorious English summer had clothed the world
in green, and the green was just tarnishing slightly in the heat of a
glaring August.
As Raymond had seen something of the fashion in which the world was
wagging, his thoughts had ofttimes recurred to Father Paul and that
solemn warning he had uttered. He had spoken of it to John, and both had
mused upon it, wondering if indeed something of prophetic fire dwelt
within that strong, spare frame -- whether indeed, through his
austerities and fasts, the monk had so reduced the body that the things
of the spiritual world were revealed to him, and the future lay spread
before his eyes.
At first both the cousins had thought week by week to hear some news of
a terrible visitation; but day had followed day, and months had rolled
by, and still the country was holding high revel without a thought or a
fear for the future. So gradually the two studious youths had ceased to
speak of the visitation they had once confidently looked for, and they
gave themselves up with the zest of pure enjoyment to their studies and
the pursuit of learning. Raymond's spiritual nature was deepened and
strengthened by his perusal of such sacred and devotional lore as he
could lay hands upon; and though the Scriptures, as they were presented
to him, were not without many errors and imperfections and omissions, he
yet obtained a clearer insight into many of the prophetical writings,
and a fuller grasp of God's purposes towards man, than he had ever
dreamed of before. So that though strongly tinged with the mysticism and
even with the superstition of the times, his spiritual growth was great,
and the youth felt within him a spring of power unknown before which was
in itself a source of exaltation and power.
And there was another element of happiness in Raymond's life at this
time which must not be omitted from mention. Seldom as he saw her --
jealously as she was guarded by her father and brother, now returned
from the war, and settled again at Woodcrych -- he did nevertheless from
time to time encounter Mistress Joan Vavasour, and each encounter was
fraught with a new and increasing pleasure. He had never spoken a word
of love to her; indeed he scarce yet knew that he had lost his heart in
that fashion which so often leads to wedlock. He was only just beginning
to realize that she was not many years older than himself -- that she
was not a star altogether beyond the firmament of his own sky. He had
hitherto regarded her with one of those boyish adorations which are for
the time being sufficient in themselves, and do not look ahead into the
future; and then Raymond well knew that before he could for a moment
dream of aspiring to the hand of the proud knight's daughter, he must
himself have carved his way to moderate fortune and fame.
His dreams of late had concerned themselves little with his worldly
estate, and therefore his deep reverential admiration for Joan had not
developed into anything of a definite purpose. If he dreamed dreams of
the future in which she bore a part, it was only of laying at her feet
such laurels as he should win, without thinking of asking a reward at
her hands, unless it was the reward of being her own true knight, and
rescuing her from the power of the Sanghursts, father and son, who
appeared to have regained their old ascendency over Sir Hugh and his
son, and to be looking forward still to the alliance between the two
families.
Joan was of more than marriageable age. It was thought strange by many
that the match was not yet consummated. But the quietly determined
resistance on the part of the girl herself was not without some effect;
and although there were many rumours afloat as to the boundless wealth
of the ill-famed father and son, it was not yet an affair of absolute
certainty that they were in possession of the secret of the
transmutation of metals. So the match still hung fire, and Raymond
received many bewitching smiles from the lady on the rare occasions when
they met; and he thought nothing of the threat of Peter Sanghurst, being
endowed with that fearless courage which does not brood upon possible
perils, but faces real ones with quiet resolution.
John was sitting over his books in the pleasant western window one
evening at the close of a hot September day, when he heard a quick
footstep crossing the anteroom, and Raymond came in with a strange look
upon his face.
"John," he said, before his cousin could ask a single question, "it has
come at last!"
"What has come?"
"The visitation -- the sickness -- the scourge of God. I knew that
Father Paul was looking into the future when he pronounced the doom upon
this land. It has come; it is amongst us now!"
"Not here -- not in this very place! We must have heard something of it
had it been so nigh."
"It has not yet reached this town," answered Raymond, the same strange
light shining in his eyes that John had observed there from his
entrance. "Listen, and I will tell thee all I myself know. Thou knowest
that I have been to Windsor, to meet my brother who is there. Him I
found well and happy, brave as ever, knowing naught of this curse and
scourge. But even as we talked together, there came a messenger from
London in hot haste to see thy father, good John. He had been straight
despatched by the King with a message of dire warning. A terrible
sickness, which already men are calling by the name of Black Death, has
broken out in the south and west of the land, and seems creeping
eastward with these hot west winds that steadily blow. It attacks not
only men, but beasts and cattle -- that is, it seems to be accompanied
by a plague something similar in nature which attacks the beasts. Word
has been passed on by the monks of what is happening far away, and
already a great terror has seized upon many, and some are for flying the
country, others for shutting themselves up in their houses and keeping
great fires burning around them. The message to thy father was to have a
care for the horses, and to buy no new ones that might by chance carry
the seeds of the sickness within them. Men say that the people of London
are very confident that they can keep the sickness away from entering
their walls, by maintaining a careful guard upon the city gates. At
Windsor, I left the town in a mighty fear, folks looking already askance
at each other, as if afraid they were smitten with the deadly disease.
The news of its appearance is passing from mouth to mouth faster than a
horseman could spread the tidings. It had outridden me hither, and I
thought perchance thou mightest have heard it ere I reached home."
"Nay, I have heard naught; but I would fain hear more now."
"I know little but what I have already told thee," answered Raymond.
"Indeed, it is but little that there is to know at present. The disease
seems to me somewhat to resemble that described by Lucretius as visiting
Athens. Men sometimes suddenly fall down dead; or they are seized with
violent shiverings, their hair bristling upon their heads. Sometimes it
is like a consuming fire within, and they run raving mad to the nearest
water, falling in perchance, and perishing by drowning, leaving their
carcases to pollute the spring. But if it do not carry off the stricken
person for some hours or days, black swellings are seen upon their
bodies like huge black boils, and death follows rapidly, the victim
often expiring in great agony. I have heard that the throat and lungs
often become inflamed before the Black Death seizes its victim, and that
in districts where the scourge has reached, any persons who appear to
have about them even a common rheum are cast forth from their homes even
by those nearest and dearest, for fear they are victims to the terrible
scourge."
"Misfortune makes men cruel if it do not bind them closer together.
Raymond, I see a purpose in thy face -- a purpose of which I would know
the meaning. That light in thine eyes is not for nothing. Tell me all
that is in thine heart. Methinks I divine it somewhat already."
"Belike thou dost, good John," answered Raymond, speaking very calmly
and steadily, "for thou knowest the charge laid upon me by my spiritual
Father. 'Fear not, be not dismayed. A thousand shall fall beside thee,
and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.'
Such was the burden of his charge; and shall I shrink or falter when the
hour I have waited and watched for all these years has come like a thief
in the night? Good John, thou wast the first to teach me that there was
a truer, deeper chivalry than that of the tourney or the battlefield.
Thou wast the first to understand, and to make me understand, that the
highest chivalry was that of our Lord Himself, when He laid down His
life for sinners, and prayed for His enemies who pierced and nailed Him
to the Cross. His words are ever words of mercy. Were He here with us
today upon earth, where should we find Him now? Surely where the peril
was greatest, where the need sorest, where the darkness, the terror, the
distress blackest. And where He would be, were He with us here, is the
place where those who would follow Him most faithfully should be found.
Not all perchance; there be claims of kindred, ties of love that no man
may lightly disregard: But none such ties bind me. I have but my brother
to love, and he is out in the world -- he needs me not. I am free to go
where the voice within calls me; and I go forth to-morrow."
"And whither goest thou?" asked John, in a low, awestruck tone.
"I go to Father Paul," answered Raymond, without hesitation, as one who
has thought the matter well out beforehand. "Wherever the need is
sorest, the peril greatest, there will Father Paul be found. And the
Brotherhood stands in the heart of the smitten regions; wherefore at his
very doors the sick will be lying, untended perchance and unassoiled,
save in those places whither he can go. I fare forth at sunrising
tomorrow, to seek and to find him. He will give me work, he will let me
toil beside him; better than that I ask not."
John had risen from his seat. An answering light had sprung to his eyes
as he had heard and watched Raymond. Now he laid his hand upon his
cousin's arm, and said quietly:
"Go, then, in the name of the Lord; I too go with thee."
Raymond turned his head and looked full at his cousin, marking the thin,
sunken lines of the face, the stooping pose of the shoulders, the hectic
flush that came and went upon the hollow cheek; and seeing this and
knowing what it betokened, he linked his arm within John's and commenced
walking up and down the room with him, as though inaction were
impossible at such a moment. And as he walked he talked.
"Good John," he said, "I would fain have thee with me; but I well know
thou hast no strength for the task thou hast set thyself. Even the long
day's ride would weary thy frame so sorely that thou wouldst fall an
easy victim to the sickness ere thou hadst done aught to help another.
Thou hast thy father, thy mother, and thy good uncle to think of. How
sad would they be to hear whither thou hadst gone! And then, my cousin,
it may well be that for thee there is other work, and work for which
thou canst better prepare thyself here than in any other place. I have
thought of thee as well as of myself as I have ridden homeward this day.
Shall I tell thee what my thought -- my dream of thee was like?"
"Ay, tell me; I would gladly hear."
"I saw in my spirit the advance of this terrible Black Death; I saw it
come to this very place. Dead and dying, cast out of their homes by
those who would neither bury the one nor tend the other, were left lying
in the streets around, and a deadly fear was upon all the place. And
then I saw a man step forth amongst these miserable wretches, and the
man had thy face, dear cousin. And he came forward and said to those who
were yet willing to touch the sick, 'Carry them into my house; I have a
place made ready for them. Bring them to my house; there they will he
tended and cared for.' And then I thought that I saw the bearers lift
and carry the sick here to this house, and that there they were received
by some devoted men and women who had not been driven away by the
general terror, and there were clean and comfortable beds awaiting the
sick, and great fires of aromatic herbs burning upon the hearths to keep
away the fumes of the pestilence from the watchers. And as the wretched
and stricken creatures found themselves in this fair haven, they blessed
him who had had this care for them; and those who died, died in comfort,
shriven and assoiled by holy priests, whilst some amongst the number
were saved, and saved through the act of him who had found them this
safe refuge."
Raymond ceased speaking, and looked out over the fair landscape
commanded by the oriel window of the room in which they were standing;
and John's pale face suddenly kindled and glowed. The same spirit of
self-sacrifice animated them both; but the elder of the pair realized,
when it was put before him, how little he was fit for the work which the
younger had set himself to do, whilst he had the means as well as the
disposition to perform an act of mercy which in the end might be a
greater boon to many than any service he could offer now. And if he did
this thing -- if he turned his house into a house of mercy for the sick
of the plague -- he would then have his own opportunity to tend and care
for the sufferers.
Only one thought for a moment hindered him from giving an answer. He
looked at Raymond, and said:
"Thinkest thou that this sickness will surely come this way?"
"In very truth I believe that it will ravage the land from end to end. I
know that Father Paul looked to see the whole country swept by the
scourge of God. Fear not but that thy work will find thee here. Thou
wilt not have to wait long, methinks. Thou wilt but have fair time to
make ready all that thou wilt need -- beds, medicaments, aromatic wood,
and perfumes -- and gather round thee a few faithful, trusty souls who
will not fly at the approach of danger. It may be no easy task to find
these, yet methinks they will be found here and there; for where God
sends His scourges upon His earth, He raises up pious men and women too,
to tend the sufferers and prove to the world that He has still amongst
the gay and worldly His own children, His own followers, who will follow
wherever He leads."
John's mind was quickly made up.
"I will remain behind and do this thing," he said. "Perchance thou and I
will yet work together in this very place amongst the sick and dying."
"I well believe it," answered Raymond, with one of his far-away looks;
and the cousins stood together looking out over the green world bathed
in the light of sunset, wondering how and when they would meet again,
but both strangely possessed with perfect confidence that they would so
meet.
Then Raymond went to make his simple preparations for the morrow's ride.
He had intended travelling quite alone, and chancing the perils of the
road, which, however, in these times of peace and rejoicing, were not
very great; for freebooters seldom disturbed travellers by day, save
perhaps in very lonely forest roads. But when Roger, the woodman's son,
heard whither his master's steps were bent, and upon what errand he was
going, he fell at his feet in one of his wild passions of devotional
excitement, and begged to be allowed to follow him even to the death.
"It may well be to the death, good Roger," answered Raymond gravely.
"Men say that death is certain for those who take the breath of the
smitten persons; and such as go amongst them go at the risk of their
lives. I do not bid thee follow me -- I well believe the peril is great;
but if thou willest to do this thing, I dare not say thee nay, for
methinks it is a work of God, and may well win His approval."
"I will go," answered Roger, without the slightest hesitation. "Do I not
owe all -- my body and soul alike -- to you and Father Paul? Where you
go, there will I go with you. What you fear not to face, I fear not
either. For life or for death I am yours; and if the Holy Saints and the
Blessed Virgin will but give me strength to fight and to conquer this
fell foe, I trow they will do it because that thou art half a saint
thyself, and they will know that I go to be with thee, to watch over
thee, and perchance, by my service and my prayers, guard thee in some
sort from ill."
Raymond smiled and held out his hand to his faithful servant. In times
of common peril men's hearts are very closely knit together. The bond
between the two youths seemed suddenly to take a new form; and when they
rode forth at sunrise on the morrow, with John waving an adieu to them
and watching their departure with a strange look of settled purpose on
his face, it was no longer as master and servant that they rode, but as
friends and comrades going forth to meet a deadly peril together.
It seemed strange, as they rode along in the bright freshness of a clear
September morning, to realize that any scenes of horror and death could
be enacting themselves upon this fair earth not very many miles away.
Yet as they rode ever onwards and drew near to the infected districts,
the sunshine became obscured by a thick haze, the fresh wind which had
hitherto blown in their faces dropped, and the air was still with a
deadly stillness new to both of them -- a stillness which was oppressive
and which weighed upon their spirits like lead. The first intimation
they had of the pestilence itself was the sight of the carcasses of
several beasts lying dead in their pasture, and, what was more terrible
still, the body of a man lying beside them, as though he had dropped
dead as he came to drive them into shelter.
Raymond looked at the little group with an involuntary shudder, and
Roger crossed himself and muttered a prayer. But they did not turn out
of their way; they were now nearing the gates of the Monastery, and it
was of Father Paul that Raymond's thoughts were full. Plainly enough he
was in the heart of the peril. How had it gone with him since the
sickness had appeared here?
That question was answered the moment the travellers appeared within
sight of the well-known walls. They saw a sight that lived in their
memories for many a day to come.
Instead of the calm and solitude which generally reigned in this place,
a great crowd was to be seen around the gate, but such a crowd as the
youths had never dreamed of before. Wretched, plague-stricken people,
turned from their own doors and abandoned by their kindred, had dragged
themselves from all parts to the doors of the Monastery, in the hope
that the pious Brothers would give them help and a corner to die in
peace. And that they were not disappointed in this hope was well seen:
for as Raymond and his companion appeared, they saw that one after
another of these wretched beings was carried within the precincts of the
Monastery by the Brothers; whilst amongst those who lay outside waiting
their turn for admission, or too far gone to be moved again, a tall thin
form moved fearlessly, bending over the dying sufferers and hearing
their last confessions, giving priestly absolution, or soothing with
strong and tender hands the last agonies of some stricken creature.
Raymond, with a strange, tense look upon his face, went straight to the
Father where he stood amongst the dying and the dead, and just as he
reached his side the Monk stood suddenly up and looked straight at him.
His austere face did not relax, but in his eyes shone a light that
looked like triumph.
"It is well, my son," he said. "I knew that thou wouldest be here anon.
The soldier of the Cross is ever found at his post in such a time as this."