"Have at him, Peter!"
"Roll him in the mud!"
"Nay, now, 'twere rarer sport to duck the lubber in the river!"
These and a hundred other taunts were hurled with entire freedom at the
head of a sturdy boy, to judge from his round and rosy face not more
than eleven years old, by six or eight urchins, who were dancing round
him with many unfriendly demonstrations. Apparently there had already
been an exchange of hostilities. One of the half-dozen had received a
blow in the eye which had half closed that organ and another showed
signs of having suffered on the nose, much to the damage of his
clothing; these injuries had evidently enraged and excited the
sufferers. Prudence, however, was not forgotten. They egged each other
to the attack, but at the same time showed signs of hesitation, perhaps
for want of a leader who might organise a simultaneous rush.
The boy, meanwhile, though he too bore marks of the fray, for his
clothes were torn, and a streak of blood on his cheek showed where he
had been hit by a stone or a stick, kept a valiant front. He stood with
his back against a fine oak, and flourished a short stout cudgel.
"Come on, come on, all of you!" he shouted. "A broken crown the first
shall have, I promise you!"
"He's threatening thee, Jack Turner. Hit him over the pate!"
"Look at his jerkin--he's one of the Flemish hogs."
"Flemish!" cried the boy indignantly. "Better English than all of you
put together. No English that I know are cowards!"
The dreadfulness of such a charge overcame all fears of broken heads.
With a yell of rage the urchins rushed pell-mell upon their foe, and
battle, indeed, arose! He defended himself with a courage and vigour
worthy of all praise, hitting at weak points, and bestowing at least two
of his promised broken heads. But numbers will prevail over the most
determined bravery, and here were at least a dozen kicking legs and
encumbering arms. Do what he would he could not shake them off, blows
rained upon him under which he turned dizzy, and his evil case would
soon have been exchanged for a worse, if an unexpected ally had not
rushed upon the group. A splendid deer-hound crashed in upon them,
upsetting two or three of the boys, though more as if he were amusing
himself with a rough frolic than with thought of harm. The urchins,
however, did not stay to consider this, for, picking themselves up with
cries of terror, they fled as fast as their legs could carry them,
leaving sundry spoils behind them in the shape of apples and a
spice-cake, which latter the dog, doubtless considering himself entitled
to his share of the booty, gobbled up without a moment's hesitation.
The boy who had been the object of attack was the only one who showed no
sign of fear. He stood, breathless and panting, his cheeks crimson, his
clothes torn, but with so resolute a determination in his face as proved
that he was ready for another fight. Seeing, however, that the hound
had no ill intentions, he straightened and shook himself, picked up the
cap which had fallen off in the fray, and looked round to see who was
near.
He saw for the first time that two persons were watching him with some
amusement. One was a boy of about fourteen, the other an elderly man in
the grey dress of a Franciscan friar.
"Thou art a sturdy little varlet," said the friar, coming forward with a
smile, "and held thine own right well. But I doubt me how it would have
gone, had Wolf not borne in to the rescue. No shame to thee either, for
thou wast sorely overmatched. What had brought such a force of
rascaille upon thee?"
The boy had grown rather redder, if that were possible, but he spoke out
bravely.
"Holy friar, they were angry because this morning I saved a monkey out
of their hands. Its master, an Italian, had died, and they called the
poor beast a devil's imp, and were going to stone it to death."
"I would Wolf had served them worse! But why did they not fight with
thee at the time?"
"They were but three then," said the boy with a laugh.
"Hum. And who are the little varlets? Give me their names, and they
shall have a goodly thrashing."
The boy for the first time hung his head. The other lad, who had been
listening impatiently, broke in in French.
"Set Wolf at them in another sort of fashion. I see them still skulking
about, and peeping at us from behind the trees--the unmannerly loons!
They need to be taught a lesson."
"Gently, Edgar," said the friar, laying his hand on his young
companion's arm, "Wolf might prove a somewhat dangerous chastiser.
Come, boy, let us have their names," he added, turning to the other.
"Holy friar," said the boy eagerly, "I know the French."
The friar lifted his eyebrows.
"I thought thy tongue had a strange trick about it, but I could have
sworn it was Flemish that it resembled."
"We have just come from Flanders."
"Not English," cried Edgar angrily. "If I had known he was one of those
blood-sucking foreigners, who fasten like leeches upon our poor country,
Wolf should never have bestirred himself to the rescue."
"Peace," said the friar more sharply, but before he could say more the
younger boy broke in indignantly--
"We are English, good English! My father has but been in Flanders
perfecting himself in his trade of wood-carving."
"And 'twas there you learnt the French?"
"Ay, sir, from the monks."
"Perhaps also thou hast learnt to read?" pursued the friar, with the
smile with which in these days we might ask a ploughboy whether he knew
Hebrew.
"A little," said the boy modestly.
So unexpected was the answer, that the friar started back.
"Why this is amazing!" he said. "Edgar, dost thou hear?"
"Ay. He is training, no doubt, for the monastery," said the lad
carelessly, though looking at the other with amazement.
"Nay," said the boy sturdily; "no monk's hood for me. I would be a
soldier and fight for King Edward."
"And what knowest thou of King Edward?" inquired the friar, who
evidently found amusement in questioning.
"What all the world knows," the boy answered sturdily, "that never was a
nobler king or truer Englishman."
"Ay? Learnt you that in Flanders?" said the friar, lifting his eyebrows
in some astonishment. "Well, wherever you had it, 'tis good teaching
and true, such as men by-and-by will look back and own. And so nothing
will serve thee but hard blows? What is thy name?"
"Hugh Bassett, holy friar."
"Come to the great Stourbridge fair with thy father and mother?"
"My mother is dead. My father has brought some of his carvings here to
sell, and we lodge in the sacristan's house because 'tis too cold in the
fields."
Wolf, at a call from the young lad, had come back from an investigation
among the oaks, and was now slobbering affectionately over his young
master's hand; Hugh watching him with deepest interest.
"There is one thing thou hast all but forgotten," said the friar; "the
names of thy tormentors? See, they are still watching and peeping."
The boy again hung his head.
"What now? Hast lost thy tongue?"
"Nay, father, but--"
"But what?" Then as Hugh muttered something, "What, I am not to know?
Yet they were for serving thee badly enough!"
"I would fight them again," said the boy, looking up boldly.
"I warrant thou wouldst," said the friar, laughing heartily. "And
without a mother, who will mend thy clothes? They have suffered more
damage than thy tough head, which looks as if 'twere made to bear
blows."
Hugh glanced with some dismay at his torn jerkin. It was not the first
time that the question had presented itself, though the friar's
questions had driven it out of his head. And the elder lad now showed
symptoms of impatience.
"May we not be going back, sir?" he said to his companion. "The
jongleurs were to be at their play by now, and we are not like to see
much out in this green tangle."
"As thou wilt," said the good-tempered friar; "I will but make one more
proffer to our valiant friend. See here, Hugh, I have a fancy to know
the name of the biggest of thine enemies, the one who set the others on
thee. Will a groat buy the knowledge? There it is before thine eyes,
true English coin, and no base counterfeit pollard. Only the name, and
it is thine."
"Not I!" cried the boy. "I'll have nothing to do with getting him
flogged."
"Yet I'll answer for it thy pocket does not see many groats, and what
brave things there be to be bought at the fair! Sweets and comfits and
spices."
"They would choke me!"
The friar laughed long, with a fat, noiseless chuckle full of merriment.
"Well," he said, "I keep my groat, and thou thine honour, and I see that
Wolf hath shown himself, as ever, a dog of discretion. Shall we take
the boy back to thy father's lodgings, Edgar, and persuade Mistress
Judith to bestow some of her fair mending upon his garments?"
"So as we waste no more time here, I care not," said the lad
impatiently.
Bidding the boy follow, Friar Nicholas and his companion walked away,
leaving the wood with its undergrowth of bracken, already looking rather
brown and ragged with the past heat of the summer, and first touch of
frost sharpening the nights in the low-lying Eastern counties, as is
often the case by Michaelmas. At that time, towards the end of the
thirteenth century, it need hardly be said that the country presented a
very different appearance from that which we see now. Parts were
densely wooded, and everywhere trees made a large feature in the
landscape, which was little broken by human habitations. The chief
clearings were effected in order to provide sheep walks, wool being at
that time a large, if not the largest, export; although matters had not
as yet arrived at the condition of some fifty years later, when, after
England was devastated by the Black Death, and agricultural labour
became ruinously dear, serfs were evicted from their huts, and even
towns destroyed, in order to gain pasturage for sheep. Under Edward the
First things were tending the other way; marshes were drained, waste
land was brought into cultivation, and towns were increasing in size and
importance. Wheat was dear, animal food cheap. Some of the greater
barons lived in almost royal state, but the smaller gentry in a
simplicity which in these days would be considered absolute hardship.
With an absence of shops, and with markets bringing in no more than the
local produce of a few miles round, it will be easily understood how
fairs became a need of the times. They began by people flocking to some
Church festival, camping out round the church, and requiring a supply of
provisions. The town guilds, setting themselves to supply this want,
found here such an opening for trade that the yearly fairs became the
chief centres of commerce, and had a complete code of laws and
regulations. Privileges were even granted to attract comers, for at a
fair no arrest could be made for debts, saving such as were contracted
at the fair itself. And it was a fruitful source of revenue, because
upon everything bought a small toll was paid by the buyer.
Gradually these fairs increased in importance. English traders
travelled to those across the seas, to Leipsic, to Frankfort, even to
Russia. Foreigners in their turn brought their wares to England, where
the principal yearly fair was held at Stourbridge, near Cambridge,
another of scarcely less importance at Bristol, and somewhat lesser ones
at Exeter and other towns.
The scene at these fairs, when the weather was favourable, was one of
extreme gaiety and stir. As the friar and his young companion, followed
by Hugh, walked back towards the town a soft autumnal sun was shining on
the fields, where were all sorts of quaint and fantastic erections, and
where the business of the fair was at its height. Such people as could
find house-room were lodged in the town, but these only bore a moderate
proportion to the entire throng, and the less fortunate or poorer ones
were forced to be content with tents, rude sheds, and even slighter
protection. These formed the background, or were tacked on to the
booths on which the varied collection of wares were set forth, and which
with their bright colourings gave the whole that gay effect which we now
only see in the markets of the more mediaeval of foreign towns. To this
must be added a large number of motley costumes: here not only were seen
the different orders of English life--the great baron with his wife and
children, his retinue, squires, men-at-arms, pages; the abbot riding in
little less state; friars, grey, black, and white; pilgrims--but
foreigners, men of Flanders with richly dyed woollen stuffs, woven from
English wool; merchants from the Hans towns displaying costly furs;
eastern vendors of frankincense, and spices, and sugar; Lombard usurers;
even the Chinaman from Cathay, as China was then called, with his stores
of delicate porcelain--each and all calling attention to their wares,
and inviting the passers-by, whether nobles or churls, to buy.
The fair originated in a grant to the hospital of lepers at Cambridge,
bestowed by King John. It opened on the nineteenth of September,
continued for two or three weeks, and was under the control of the
master of the leper-house, no slight undertaking when the great
concourse of people is considered, for not only had they to be housed
and fed, but at a time when carriages and carts were unknown, and men
and merchandise were alike carried on horses and mules, there must
necessarily have been a vast number of beasts to keep. Protection had
to be afforded against possible attacks of robbers or outlaws, and--
almost the most difficult task of all--it was necessary to check as far
as possible quarrels which frequently arose between the haughty barons
or their retainers, as also to protect the foreigners from the rough
treatment which it was not unlikely they would receive should anything
excite the people against them. Particularly, and it must be owned
justly, was this at times the case with the usurers.
But though the nominal business of the fair consisted in trading,
money-getting, and money-lending, there were plenty of shows and
amusements to attract those who loved laughter. In one part a number of
lads were throwing the bar, in another they were playing at what seemed
a rough kind of tennis. Merry Andrews tumbled on the green, rope
dancers performed prodigies of activity; here men played at
single-stick, wrestled, or shot at a mark; at another place were the
jongleurs or conjurers, and in yet another a bespangled company of
dancing dogs, which excited the lordly contempt of Wolf.
"These fellows have rare skill," said Edgar, watching a conjurer effect
a neat multiplication of balls.
"Stay and watch them," said the friar. "Thy father will not yet have
ridden back from Cambridge, and thou art not wanted in the house. I
will go and do my best to gain Mistress Judith's good aid for this
urchin, and after that, if he will, he may show me where he lodges."
Sir Thomas de Trafford, knight of the shire, and father of the lad
Edgar, had found accommodation for his family in a house which we should
now consider very inadequate for such a purpose, though it was then held
to have made a considerable stride towards absolute luxury from being
able to boast a small parlour, or talking room. Neither glass nor
chimneys, however, were yet in use, although the latter were not
unknown, and had crept into some of the greater castles. Fires were
made in the centre of the rooms, and the pungent wood smoke made its
escape as best it could through door or windows, which in rough weather
or at night were protected by a lattice of laths.
The friar, however, went no further than the passage, where he called
for Mistress Judith, and was presently answered in person by a somewhat
crabbed-looking personage, who listened sourly to his entreaty that she
would do something towards stitching together Hugh's unfortunate jerkin.
"The poor varlet has no mother," he ended. But Mistress Judith pursed
her mouth.
"The more need he should be careful of his clothing," she was beginning,
when suddenly with a rush two little golden-haired girls of not more
than four or five came running along the passage, calling joyfully upon
Friar Nicholas, and clinging to his grey cloak.
"Thou wilt take us to the fair, wilt thou not?"
"And let us see the monkey that runs up the ladder, and the dancing
bear, and--we have some nuts for the monkey."
Mistress Judith's face relaxed.
"Nay, now, children, ye must not be troublesome. The good friar has
doubtless other business on hand--"
"I'll take them, I'll take them," said the friar, hastily, "if you will
put the boy in order by a few touches of your skilful handiwork. As
soon as I have bestowed him in safety I will return for them."
"To see the monkey," persisted little Eleanor.
"Ay, if thou wilt--" He was interrupted by a pull of the sleeve from
Hugh.
"So please you, holy friar," said the boy shyly, "the monkey is at our
lodging."
"What, is that the poor beast which those young villains would have
stoned? Nay, then, hearken, little maidens. The monkey has been in
evil case, and was like to be in worse but for this boy, Hugh Bassett.
And the cruel varlets who would have killed it set upon him for
delivering it, and though he fought right sturdily he would have been in
evil case but for Wolf."
"Our Wolf?"
"Even so. What say you now?"
"He is a good boy," said the little Anne gravely. Eleanor went nearer,
and looked steadfastly at Hugh.
"Is the poor monkey at your house?"
"Ay, little mistress."
"Shall we come and see him?"
Hugh looked uncertainly at the friar, and the friar at Mistress Judith.
Mistress Judith threaded her needle afresh.
"If my lady--" began the friar.
"My lady does not permit my young mistresses to run about the fair like
churls' children," interrupted the nurse sourly. "Marry, come up! I
marvel your reverence should have thought of such a thing."
She was interrupted in her turn. Eleanor had clambered on a chair and
flung her arms round her neck, laying hold of her chin and turning it so
as to look in her face, and press her rosy lips to her cheek.
"Nay, nay, mother said we should see the monkey! Thou wilt come with
us, and Friar Nicholas, and this good boy. Say yea, say yea, good
nurse!"
Mistress Judith, rock with all others, was but soft clay in the hands of
her nurslings. She remonstrated feebly, it is true, but Eleanor had her
way, and it was not long before the little party set forth, the children
indulging in many skips and jumps, and chattering freely in their
graceful _langue de Provence_.
There was so much to see, and so many remarks to be made on many things,
such wonderful and undreamt of crowds, such enchanting goods, such
popinjays, such booths of cakes, such possibilities of spending a silver
penny, that it seemed as if the sacristan's house would never be
reached, and 'twas easy to see it cost the children something to turn
from the fair towards the church. Perhaps Anne would have consented to
put their object aside and remain in this busy scene of enchantment.
But nothing to Eleanor could balance her desire to see the monkey, and
they went their way with no further misadventure than arose from the bag
of nuts slipping from her little fingers, and the nuts scattering in all
directions.
The sacristan's house consisted of but one room, with the fire as usual
in the centre. The sacristan himself was in the church; over the fire
sat a thin pale-faced man, engaged in putting the last strokes to a
carved oaken box of most delicate workmanship. The monkey, which had
been sitting with him, directly the little party appeared, uttered a cry
of fear, sprang on the high back of a bench, and from thence to the
uncovered rafters of the roof, where it sat jabbering indignantly, and
glancing at the visitors with its bright eyes.
The man, who was Stephen Bassett, Hugh's father, rose and greeted them
respectfully, though with some amazement at seeing his boy in unknown
company.
"Welcome, holy friar," he said. "If you seek John the sacristan, Hugh
shall run and fetch him from the church."
"Nay," said the friar, with his easy smile, "I fear me we are on a
lighter quest. These little maidens had a longing to behold the monkey,
and thy boy offered to bring them here for that purpose." Mistress
Judith looked unutterable disgust at the poor room and her surroundings,
though she condescended to sit down on a rough stool, from which she
first blew the dust. The friar entered into conversation with Stephen
Bassett, and the little golden-haired girls pressed up to Hugh.
"Make him come down," said Eleanor pointing.
"He is frightened--I know not," said Hugh, shaking his head. He was,
however, almost as anxious as the other children could be to show off
his new possession, and, thanks either to an offered nut, or to the
trust which the monkey instinctively felt towards his deliverer, the
little creature came swiftly down, hanging by hand and tail from the
rafters, to intensest delight of both Anne and Eleanor, and finally
leaping upon Hugh's shoulder, where it cracked its nut with all the
confidence possible. It was small and rather pretty, and it wore much
such a little coat as monkeys wear now. Eleanor could not contain her
delight. She wanted to have it in her own arms, but her first attempt
to remove it from its perch brought such a storm of angry chattering
that Anne in terror plucked her sister's little gown and implored her to
come away. Eleanor drew back unwillingly.
"Why doesn't he like me?" she demanded. "I love him. What is his
name?"
"Agrippa."
"Agrippa! And can he do tricks? Yesterday he did tricks."
"He knows me not yet, mistress," explained Hugh. "His master died
suddenly, and he had no other friend."
"But thou wilt be his friend," said Eleanor, looking earnestly at the
boy, "and so will I. I will leave him all these nuts. Anne, I would my
father would give us a monkey!"
"I like him not," said Anne, fearfully withdrawing yet closer to
Mistress Judith. Eleanor knew no fear. She would have taken the little
creature in her arms, regardless of its sharp teeth, or of the waiting
woman's remonstrances, but that Hugh would not suffer her to make the
attempt. He looked at the two little girls with an eager pride and
admiration, felt as if he were responsible for all that happened, and
had he been twice his age could not have treated them with more careful
respect.