Hugh's illness was severe and painful, for he was racked with feverish
rheumatism, and could scarcely bear to be touched or even looked at.
Often he was light-headed and talked persistently of his father,
imploring him not to leave him, and at other times would cry so bitterly
that it was impossible to soothe him. Prothasy had been terribly
shocked when her husband rode up to the door, carrying his unconscious
burden, and had spared neither care nor attendance upon him, rigidly
carrying out the directions of the leech, which to us would sound
hopelessly fantastical, and listening patiently to his long
disquisitions upon Aesculapius and Galen. But her presence seemed to
disturb the boy, and she often drew back wounded. Strange to say, he
endured Wat's awkward though good-hearted ministrations, but the only
person to whom he clung, to please whom he would take his medicine, and
who seemed to have the power of causing him to sleep, was Elyas. One
possible reason was that Master Gervase had a strange quickness in
finding out what troubled him. Once or twice he had soothed him by
putting before him his father's carvings, and more often by placing
Agrippa on the bed. The monkey had been ill himself after the exposure
of that night, and it was Prothasy who--mightily it must be owned
against her inclination--wrapped him in woollen, and though she could
never be brought to take him on her lap, saw that he was not neglected.
But one day, when Hugh was really better and less feverish, though still
in pain which made him fretful and peevish, he opened his eyes upon a
new sight. A little girl, with golden hair and brown eyes, stood about
a yard away from the crib, gazing with deep interest and her finger in
her mouth, from him to Agrippa, who sat on the bed in his scarlet coat,
and stared back at her. For a short time all three were silent,
contemplating each other curiously. It was Joan who broke the silence,
pointing to Agrippa.
"Doth he bite?"
Hitherto everyone who came near Hugh had asked how he felt or what they
could do. Here was a change indeed!
"No." Then with an effort--"You may stroke him, mistress."
Upon this invitation Joan advanced, stretching out two rosy fingers.
But they hesitated so long on the way that Hugh put forth his own wasted
little hand, and conducted them to Agrippa's head. Joan coloured
crimson but would not show fear.
When she had got over the wonder of this courageous deed, she began to
smile, bringing two dimples into her cheeks, and dancing a little up and
down for joy.
"Art thou the new boy? Why doesn't thou get up?"
This was too much; besides, the pain of stretching his hand had hold of
him. Hugh shut his eyes and groaned. The next thing he felt was a
dreadful shake of the crib, and a soft kiss planted upon his closed eye.
"Poor boy! Make haste and get well!"
She trotted away, but the next day appeared again, and her mother,
arriving in haste, found to her horror Joan sitting upon the edge of the
crib, with Agrippa in her arms. Prothasy would have snatched him from
her, but Joan put up her small hand lest she should come too near. She
was actually trembling with ecstasy.
"He doesn't bite, and he likes me. Isn't he beautiful?"
Agrippa had conquered.
After this Hugh began to improve more rapidly Joan's visits brought
something into his life which had been wanting before, and he could not
but be conscious of the kindness with which he had been nursed and cared
for, when he might have expected very different treatment. He still
watched Mistress Prothasy with anxiety, but his eyes followed Gervase
with devotion which touched the good warden's heart. Nothing had been
said about Hugh's flight during the worst part of his illness, but one
afternoon in December, when Elyas had come in from consultation with the
bishop at the Cathedral, he sat down on the boy's bed.
"We shall have thee up and about by Christmas," he said, cheerfully;
"out by the New Year, and at work by Twelfth Day."
"Ay, master," said Hugh faintly.
Elyas turned and looked at him. "It were best for thee," he said, "to
tell me what ailed thee that day. I have heard nothing from thee."
In a faltering voice Hugh would have murmured something scarce
distinguishable, but Gervase made him put all into words. It is often
hard so to describe one's wrongs; things which had seemed of infinite
importance lose dignity in the process, and there is an uncomfortable
conviction that our hearers are not so greatly impressed as we desired.
After all, except the threat about Agrippa, it looked trifling seen from
a distance, and even for Agrippa--
"Hadst thou met with so much unkindness here, that thou couldst not
trust us to do what was best?" asked Gervase gravely.
"I thought--" began Hugh, and stopped.
"And how came you idle?" Elyas demanded more sternly.
"He ever gave me such foolish work! He would not hearken when I said I
could do better!" burst out Hugh. "Master, only let me try, and you
will see."
"Perhaps," returned Elyas. "But there are things that I value more, ay,
and thy father would have valued more, than fair carving. Thou hast got
thy life to shape, Hugh, rough stone to hew and carve into such a temple
as the Master loves. All the best work that we can do with our tools is
but a type of this. And what sort of carving was this rebellion of
thine?"
He would say no more, being one of those who leave their words to sink
in. But after, when he came up to see the boy, he would choose for his
talk tales of men who had become great through mastery of themselves.
And when he found how Hugh's thoughts ran upon King Edward, he spoke of
him, and how he had tamed that strong nature of his which might have led
him into tyrannical acts, so that at whatever cost to himself he
followed faithfully that which was right and just. And he told the
story of how once, when he had been unjust towards an attendant, he
punished his own hasty temper by fining himself twenty marks.
"This it is which makes him great," added Elyas.
"And thou hast seen and spoken with him? The more need to follow him."
"Saw you ever the king, goodman?"
"Ay, truly; ten or eleven years ago he and the queen held Parliament
here at Christmas. Great doings were there, and it was then the bishop
got leave to fence the close with walls. I like them not myself, they
shut out the fair view of the western front; but after the precentors
murder the chapter sought greater security. There is talk of the king
coming again next month. If he does I warrant he will bring a sore
heart, remembering who was with him last time."
"And the queen was fair, goodman?"
"Fair and sweet beyond telling. All that looked at her loved her."
Hugh never got worse reproach for his conduct, but by listening to these
tales of Master Gervase's with talk of men who took not their own wild
wills, but a high ideal of duty for their standard, he grew to be
ashamed of it, and to have a longing for the time when he might go to
work again in a different spirit. And he changed in his conduct to Wat,
who was ever full of awkward good-will.
It was much as Elyas had foretold. By Christmas time Hugh was up,
though too feeble to enter into all the merry-making and holiday-keeping
of the time; nor, indeed, could he so much as go out with the others
when, at two of the morning, the moonlight shining, the rime hanging to
the elms and just whitening the roof of the Cathedral, they all set
forth for the parish church of St Martin's. Wat came back blowing his
blue fingers and stamping on the ground, but radiant with the promise
that next year in the mumming he should be St George himself.
"Rob the ostler says so, and he knows."
"Thou wast the hobby-horse last night," said Hugh with a laugh.
"Ay, and I am weary of the hobby-horse, of prancing up and down, and
being hit with no chance of hitting back again. But, St George! what
wouldst thou give, Hugh, to be a knight all in shining armour, and to
slay the Dragon?"
New Year's Eve was the great day for gifts; Joan had a number of toys
and sweetmeats, and Hugh gave her a kind of cup and ball, which he had
managed to carve for her, though with trembling fingers, after the
recollection of one which had been shown to his father by a merchant
travelling from China, or Cathay, as it was then called. It was a
dainty little toy, and Gervase examined it closely, feeling that Hugh
had some reason for fretting against the monotonous work to which
Franklyn condemned him. But Elyas had no thought of interfering. He
believed it would be wholesome discipline for the boy to have to work
his way upward by force of perseverance and obedience, each step so
taken would be a double gain; he had time enough before him, and should
prove his powers to Franklyn by his own efforts. Meanwhile he kept him
with him a good deal, and took him one day to the Cathedral to see the
progress which had been made.
Hugh could not rest without going everywhere, and then was so tired
that, while Gervase went off to inspect some of the masons' work, he
curled himself up upon one of the misereres and fell asleep. He awoke
with a start to find himself looked down upon by a kindly-faced man in
an ecclesiastical dress, though this last was not of the sumptuous
character at that time worn. Other ecclesiastics were moving about the
building. Hugh started to his feet, but the priest, whoever he was,
seemed in no way displeased at his presence.
"Thou art a pale-faced urchin," he said good-humouredly; "have thy
friends left thee behind and forgotten thee?"
"Nay, reverend sir," said Hugh, "I am Master Gervase's apprentice."
"I always heard he was an easy man, and so he suffers his apprentices to
sleep in working hours? But it is he for whom we were searching, and if
thou wilt go forth and find him for me, thou mayest earn a silver
penny."
Hugh had some little difficulty in discovering Elyas, who had climbed a
scaffolding to examine the work close at hand. He hurried down when he
had heard Hugh's report, saying that it was doubtless the bishop, and
bidding the boy follow him.
The three bishops who succeeded each other in the see of Exeter, Quivil,
Bitton, and Stapledon, have each left their mark upon the Cathedral.
Quivil's share was the most important; it was he who by the insertion of
large windows formed the transepts, and to whom we owe the beautiful and
unbroken line of vaulting. Bitton was only fifteen years at Exeter, but
he carried on the designs of his predecessor with enthusiastic loyalty,
and completed the eastern end of the choir. It was this on which he
constantly desired to consult Gervase.
"The work goes on well," he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands. "You
have caught the true spirit. We shall never see our glorious Church
finished, goodman, yet it is something to feel that we shall have left
behind us something towards it. _Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine
virtutum_! I like the lightness of that stonework, and mine eye is
never weary of following the noble lines of vaulting. Only I shall not
rest until something has been designed to unite it with the pillars.
There is a blank look which offends me."
"I see it, too, my lord. Is it not the very place for a richly carved
_surs_ (corbel)?"
"Ay, that is it, that is it! A corbel which should spring from the
pillar, and follow the line of the arch. We must reflect on this,
Master Gervase, and they shall be of finest cutting, and each varying
from the other. But we may not think of this yet awhile, for truly
there is enough on hand to call for all thy skill and industry. How
fair it looks, with the winter sunshine striking on the fair stonework!
_Non nobis, Domine_!"
One or two of the canons had by this time closed up, and began to speak
of what had been done.
"When the western end is brought to equal the eastern," said one of
them, William Pontington by name, "there will be no church in our land
more fair. What will the king say?"
"The king is not in the best of humours with his clergy," said the
chaunter or precentor, a little dried-up man, with a sour face. "What
think you, my lord, of the archbishop's mandate?"
The good bishop looked uneasy. Winchilsey, Archbishop of Canterbury,
was a turbulent and ambitious prelate, and the king, though sincerely
religious, was forced to be ever on the watch against encroachments made
by Pope Boniface, and supported by the archbishop, which threatened the
royal supremacy. The strongest attempt of all had just been put forth
in a bull from the pope, "forbidding the clergy to grant to laymen any
part of the revenues of their benefices without the permission of the
Holy See." Now as the kings of England had ever the right of taxing the
clergy with the rest of their subjects, as the possessions of the Church
were enormous, and papal taxation of the whole kingdom far exceeded the
taxation by the State, so that in a few years the pope is said to have
received money from England equal to nine millions of our present money,
Edward promptly resisted this fresh and unheard-of claim. He did so by
a simple and effectual counter-stroke. It was announced at Westminster
that whatever complaint was brought to the court by the archbishops,
bishops, or clergy, "no justice should be done them," and this
withdrawal of State protection speedily led the clergy to offer their
submission to the king, in spite of the anger of pope and archbishop.
But the dissension had placed them on the horns of a dilemma, and Bishop
Bitton had no liking for speech on the subject. He muttered something
in answer to the precentor's injudicious question, and turned to Hugh,
who was standing a short way from the group.
"There is thy penny for thee," said the bishop, beckoning to him, "and
now tell me, sir apprentice, whether thou art a good lad, and learning
thy craft fairly and truly, so that in time thou mayest have thy share
in this great work of ours?"
Hugh coloured crimson, and looked down, and Elyas came to his rescue.
"He hath not been with me yet three months, my lord, so please you, and
half that time hath been ill; but he is the child of the wood-carver of
whom I spoke, and, if he is industrious, I have good hope he will credit
his father."
"And what part wilt thou choose for thy share?" asked the bishop, with a
wave of his gloved hand towards roof and walls.
"The corbels, my lord," answered Hugh, boldly. Bitton looked delighted.
"So thou hast caught our words, and wilt bespeak the work thyself?
Well, I shall not forget. Learn with all thy might, and, who knows,
some day thy carving may help to decorate this our Church of St
Peter's?"
After this, when the bishop caught sight of Hugh, he never failed to
speak to him and ask how his learning fared. And hearing from Elyas
that the boy could read and write, he arranged that on Sundays he should
come to the Kalendarhay, where one of the Kalendar brothers instructed
him.
When Twelfth-Night was over, Hugh went back to the yard, where work was
expected to go on vigorously after the feasting and mirth of that
season, which was loud and boisterous. On the eve the town was full of
minstrels, who carried huge bowls of wassail--ale, sugar, nutmegs, and
roasted apples--to the houses of the well-to-do inhabitants, and Wat, as
it may be conceived, had his full share in these doings. In the country
there was a curious pagan ceremony kept up in Devonshire on this night,
for at the farms the farmer and his men would carry a great pitcher of
cider into the orchard, and choosing the best bearing tree, walk
solemnly round it, and drink its health three times.
Master Gervase grew somewhat red and shamefaced when his wife reminded
him that he had often been the pitcher-bearer on his father's farm.
"It was there I first saw thee," she said, "and my mother pointed thee
out, and said thou wast as strong as Edulf."
"Who was Edulf?" asked Hugh of Wat, under his breath.
"The strongest man that ever lived. He came to Exeter in a rage, and
broke the iron gate with his two hands," expounded Wat, stuffing a large
piece of pasty into his mouth.
"The strongest man that ever lived was Samson," said Hugh, dogmatically.
"Samson! Nobody ever heard of him, and I tell thee Edulf was the
strongest."
The quarrel might have grown, but that Franklyn growled at them to hush
their unmannerly prating; and Joan announced in her clear, decided voice
that Agrippa should have his special Twelfth-night spice-cake. For in
spite of her mother's loud remonstrances, the monkey had been taken into
Joan's heart of hearts, and, it was certain, was secure from any
sentence of banishment.
Franklyn had been a good deal shocked by Hugh's flight and illness, but,
as was natural, the impression passed away as the little apprentice
regained his health, and Elyas saw that he was not inclined to change
his treatment. For the reasons already given, the master had no thought
of interfering, it was for the boy now to prove what stuff he had in
him. It was a sort of ordeal through which he had to pass; an ordeal
which might develop patience, resolution, and the humility of a true
artist, and though Gervase told himself that he would be on the watch,
ready with words of encouragement when they were needed, he held back
from more. Hugh had the same rough, uninteresting work to toil upon--
indeed the stone had been set aside for his return; the same careful
explanations of how to handle his tools and make his strokes, which he
took to be a reflection on his father's teaching; the same lack of
praise. But now he brought to it a more cheerful spirit, hope was
astir; he felt sure that the master was watching his efforts, and that
it rested with himself and his own perseverance to make his way. It was
not easy. Often he grew hot and angry; often he was tempted into
careless work; but he would not give up trying, and upon the whole held
on very fairly.
Then, in spite of his awkwardnesses and a dense stupidity about his
work, Wat was a good-natured companion, ready to take any trouble and to
carry any blame. He had been so often told by Franklyn that he would
never rise to more than a mason, that he had grown to accept the verdict
against which Hugh was always trying to make him rebel.
"He knows best," he would say, hammering loosely at the stone.
"What an oaf thou art, Wat! It all rests with thyself. Franklyn should
never make me a mason."
"Because--there, I have chipped it!" scratching his head in dismay.
"And small wonder! Give me thy tool, which thou holdest as the goodwife
holds her knife--so!"
"If I thought it were any use--" began the disconsolate Wat.
"Try and see."
"And thou thinkest I might catch the trick of it?"
"Try. There, now go on. Thou knowest as well as any how to hold the
tools."
So far as impatience and calling of names went Hugh was a harder
taskmaster than Franklyn, but he put more energy into his teaching, and
dragged the reluctant Wat along by sheer force of will, the result being
that, though he got no praise for himself, some fell to his pupil, which
really pleased him as much as if it had been the other way.
Wat was the great purveyor of news; no one knew how he picked up his
information, but nothing happened in the city but it somehow reached his
ears before it was half an hour old. He knew of all the quarrels
between the bishop and chapter and the mayor and his twenty-four
councillors or aldermen, and how two of the canons fell upon two of the
bailiffs and pommelled them vigorously, before even the mayor's wife had
been informed of the scandal. He it was who reported the falling out
between Sir Baldwin de Fulford and his wife, because she wanted an
extravagantly fine chaplet of gold, the cost of which displeased him.
It seemed that there were great expenses she led him into, for they had
glass over from France for their windows, and forks for dinner, and many
such luxuries, and each one Wat knew quite well--though how, no one ever
knew. And at last, one day in January, when there had been a fall of
snow which whitened all the roofs, and gave great joy to the prentice
lads, Wat rushed in, powdered over with snow, so full of news that he
could scarce keep from shouting it out as he ran, and so intent upon
that and nothing else that he rushed up against Mistress Prothasy, and
sent the dish of roasted apples she was carrying out of her hand. She
gave him a sound box in his ear, and told him he should have no apples
for supper. But even this threat could not compose Wat, well as he
loved roasted apples.
"Truly, good wife," he said, breathlessly, as he picked them up, "thou
must forgive me this time for my news."
"What news?" said Prothasy crossly. "Thou hast ever some foolish tale
in thy idle head."
"This is no foolish news," cried Wat, triumphantly. "King Edward is on
his way!"
"Nay!"
"Ay, mistress, it is true. He is at Bristol, and comes here in four
days' time, and the mayor is almost out of his wits, and there will be a
banquet at the Guildhall, and the Baron of Dartington and Lord Montacute
and Sir Richard de Alwis and my Lord of Devon are making ready to ride
to meet the king, and all the saddlers and armourers are rushing from
one end of the city to the other, and there will be feasting and
bonfires, and we prentices are to stand in the Crollditch to shout when
he comes in at the East Gate, and I warrant you none will shout lustier
than I!"
"Mercy on us, thou wilt deafen me with thy chatter!" said Prothasy,
clapping her hands on her ears; "but there is an apple for thee, since
thy head had some reason for its turning to-day. The king so near! I
must go and pull out my green kirtle."