The Bishop stood up upon his feet and the vestiarius went down upon his

knees. So the Bishop blessed him and put his hand heavily into the arm

of the monk Francis.

"You shall lead me to my chamber," he said.

"God help us," the vestiarius cried, "shall I not first take off your

vestments?"

"I had forgotten," the Bishop said. So he stood by the table whilst

that old man took off the great cope, the silver cross and the white

robes and stole that were beneath and fetched a purple gown edged with

fur--for he considered that Bishop to be cold and weak with the blood

that had been let from him the day before as the custom was. Upon the

Bishop's head he set a furred cap, covering his ears, and hung round his

neck once more the silver chain with the great crucifix in silver

dependent. And so the Bishop, when he had drunk a little more wine,

went up the stairs slowly to his chamber, and the vestiarius called in

several pages and young boys and saw to it that they laid those

vestments away in due order.

The Bishop's chamber had been taken out of a Norman gallery with pillars

and arcades. Here many men-at-arms in parti-coloured woollen garments

of natural wool and yellow, sat about on the floor or between the

arcades, playing at dice together or drinking from flagons. Their

immensely long pikes stood against the arches beside them. One, with

his eyes shut, leaned back against the wall, saying prayers in penance

for a crime he had committed.

The Bishop, upon the monk's arm passed slowly down this corridor to his

chamber which had bare walls painted yellow in honour of St. Cuthbert; a

great quantity of books, very big or very little, were upon shelves. A

great many manuscripts in rolls lay upon other shelves, and papers that

overflowed from chests, of which there were five, along one wall. There

was a pallet bed in this room; a three-cornered stool and a coarsely

hewed lectern; a prie-dieu and a crucifix. Thus it was a very bare

room. This Bishop, though he affected somewhat great state before the

people, was, in secret, a very ascetic man.

Few people, however, came into this bare room--not even his highest

officers. The square windows--but that had been done in Bishop

Skirlawe's days just a hundred years ago--were filled with bright glass,

showing once again the history of the translation of St. Cuthbert. All

in little squares this history was, monks with shaven heads crouching

down as if the space would not contain them, and the head of Dun Cow

showing yellow against a background of glass shining like pigeon's blood

rubies. One of these little, square casements hung open and through it

the distant landscape showed clear, with hills grey and woods grey-blue,

astonishing for its tranquillity.

So, the monk Francis being sat up on his three-legged stool, the Bishop

began to pace up and down before the long window space--backwards and

forwards over the tiles, with an immense swiftness. Once he turned his

face imperiously to where the monk sat and said harshly:

"Pray God, you bring me no ill news."

The monk, who had been gazing, out of respect, at the tiles, raised his

glance to say:

"I think it is rather good news."

The Bishop said:

"I thank God!" and touched his fur cap. Once again he resumed his

pacing, biting his lips and clenching and unclenching his fingers.

Suddenly, in the stillness there resounded a rustle of wings, and,

balancing unsteadily upon the iron frame of the open window, there

appeared a blue pigeon that craned its head to one side or the other,

watching the Bishop. From outside there came a still greater rustle of

wings.

Then the monk's face grew colourless.

"Father in God," he said in a low voice, "what is that fowl?"

The Bishop turned his lean head round over his shoulder, when he saw the

pigeon that gazed anxiously at him, he smiled a kindly and soft smile.

"That is my weakness, Brother Francis," he said. With his brushing step

he crossed the smooth tiles towards one of the chests that was filled

with parchments. As he lifted the lid that pigeon flew from the window

on to his shoulder. And immediately another pigeon took its place in

the opening. "Brother Francis," he continued, "you are a stern man, yet

be indulgent to my weakness. It was your namesake that was called 'of

the Birds.' And in Scripture you may read the exhortation: 'Be ye

guileless as doves and with the wisdom of the serpent.'" So he lifted

that chest-lid and took from it a little linen bag of pease.

Then the face of the monk became radiant.

"Father in God," he said, "I thank heaven for this. For those very

words I used twenty hours ago and now you use them again."

"Why," the Bishop said, "what harm ever came from these pretty fowls of

heaven?" The pigeon on his shoulder stretched its neck out to reach his

mouth with its bill. Urgently and insistently it did this. And others

were entering the window space. Then, before the flutter of their wings

should drown his voice, the Bishop said that these birds reminded him

that his dinner hour was come. And he begged the monk Francis to tell a

page that he should find amongst the men-at-arms in the gallery that the

Lord Bishop would have his guests sit down to dinner and eat with a good

appetite; whereas he himself was a little indisposed and would have his

own cook send up to him four eggs with a little saffron and some of the

drink called clary, such as the cook knew he wished for when he was ill.

So, the monk Francis went out and, after some time, found that page, who

was playing knucklebones with another in the stairway. And when the

monk had cuffed him well he sent him upon his errand, and so went back

to the room. The Bishop was smiling down at from twenty to thirty

pigeons. They were around his feet, upon his bed where he had sat down,

upon his knees and, precariously they found footholds, fluttering their

wings upon his moving arms.

So there he sat, looking upon those fowls of the air and smiling. And

in a little time that page brought him the four eggs, the saffron and

the beverage called clary. And so the Bishop ate his meal, sprinkling

the saffron upon the eggs. He scattered fragments of the hard yolk

amongst the pigeons. And when he was done and had drunk his drink he

shook the crumbs off his gown and came over towards the monk Francis,

all the pigeons scattering before his feet.

The Bishop was a man much taller than the monk and much thinner in the

features. That is to say that, of late years, he had grown thin with

his cares, but his purple and furred gown gave him a certain bulk. So

he looked down upon the monk and said:

"My brother in God, you have perceived my weakness, for each day I spend

certain minutes upon these birds and gain comfort from the contemplation

of their beauty and guilelessness. And I think they are the only

friends I have, so lonely is my state in these great and peopled halls.

Time was, no doubt, when a Prince Bishop was beloved, dwelling amongst

people of a simple piety. And in such a day I could have done well.

But, as I have often told you, my brother, in this place I cannot see my

way. I am troubled with many doubts. If these were again the days of

St. Thomas of Canterbury, I could at least extend my neck to the

butcher's sword. I think I should have had that courage.... But this

then is my road and in which God has set me. And very willingly I

totter along it. Only, from time to time, my brain reels; I seem to see

nothing, amongst great defiles, with rocks that roll down upon me. And

this my see appears like a little church set between towering

precipices.... And so I rest my brain by playing with these birds."

"So," the monk Francis said, "St. Gerome had a lion, that lightened his

labours and the solitude of his cell, and so many other saints had."

"But I am no saint," the Bishop said, "and have no licences so to

disport myself as they had.... But even so it is! God give me guidance.

For it is certain that the King that we have hates me a little and in

some sort fears me. And he is a strong, persevering and cunning prince.

And I do take him to be an evil prince that murdered a very good King,

my friend and the friend of this see. And if I had courage and could

see clearly, I should raise up the standard of this my see and call to

me the barons and the knights and so, in a crusade, march to the

dethroning of this King. But, as you know, I am not framed for such a

part. I am no commander, neither has God given me the golden gift of

oratory to inflame men's hearts to a holy war. Nor yet, in this age, is

the spirit of piety abroad among the people, and I know not who are my

friends.... So here I sit in doubt and perplexity. And now there is

come, even to this my city, a man calling himself commissioner of this

upstart King. For such a man thundered upon the city gates last night.

And very willingly I could have refused him entrance, but in my trouble

and perplexity I did not dare. What say you then, brother Francis, to

all these things, for I will hear you very willingly?"

The monk kept his eyes for some time longer upon the floor and at last

he spoke:

"My lord and prince," he said, "pardon me beforehand if in what I shall

tell you now I have done aught amiss. But this I will tell you at once:

this commissioner of King Henry's is a subtle spy. Therefore, taking

upon my own person the shame, if shame there be, I have set myself to

counterspy him. For it fell out in this way: in certain secret

manners--not under seal of confession--I have known for some time past

that this Sir Bertram of Lyonesse, was gathering news of the North

parts. There are certain contractors for the building of our Tower in

Belford, and one of them is called Richard Chambre, a burgess of

Newcastle. And because I have lent him now and then a little money and

much good advice, this contractor is my good friend and child. So one

day, last September, this Richard Chambre told me, whilst devising of

other things, that there was one, John of Whitley, a burgess of

Newcastle, that went gathering news for a knight of the King's court

called Sir Bertram, of Lyonesse. He was writing him letters and the

like, and this John of Whitley had come to Richard Chambre, and had

asked him for news of our monastery of Belford, and of how we monks were

affected towards the new King.... And so, gathering here a piece of

news and there another, I gathered that this Sir Bertram had agents here

and there--one a monk in Alnwick called Ludovicus and another, a bailiff

of our own, called the Magister Stone at Castle Lovell. But that

Magister is much in Durham...."

"God help me," the Bishop said, "I have seen him often upon the affairs

of the Knights of Cullerford and Haltwhistle...."

"Well, he is an agent of that Sir Bertram's," the monk said. "Now let

me go on further with my story."

"But this is very terrible hearing," the Bishop said. "All this spying

and treachery is a new thing. It is even as it is in Italy."

"This is a new age, Father in God," the monk said, "and you will find

this King to employ as many spies as any Duke Borgia or of Ferrara. And

so it will go from bad to worse. Therefore let us be prepared.... So

this matter is: I came this morning, riding with a certain knight and

lord, to Framwell Gate Bridge, just as they opened it. And because I

would speak certain private words with that lord I had ridden with him a

mile ahead of his spears. So we waited at the bridge for them to come

up. Then I fell a-talking with the captain of the bridge as to the news

and so I heard, as ye know, that this same Sir Bertram, calling himself

commissioner of the King had come in last night with the old Princess of

Croy and her train--but his own train had been sent to lodge in Old

Elvet. So I learned where he was, for every woman in the street could

tell me.

"I went swiftly afoot to the house of the Princess of Croy, and the door

stood open with the old steward before it, chaffering with a fisherman.

So, frowning fiercely upon that steward, I crept up that stairway, my

sandals making no sound, and going higher than the door, I stood upon

the stairs and had a fair view of this Sir Bertram and heard much of

what he said.... I would have come to you the sooner, Father in God,

but this was a very pertinent matter and I heard you were saying of

mass."

Then the monk Francis reported to the Prince Bishop much of what that

Sir Bertram had said, but keeping back some of it for the time. The

Bishop stood before him, clasping and unclasping his hands; the pigeons,

having dispersed about the tiles in the search of pease that had rolled

away, flew now, by ones and twos, out of the little window again.

In the view of the monk Francis the coming of this Sir Bertram meant, as

he under-read that knight's words, an immediate calm in those parts, but

afterwards, in three years or four, a much greater danger. For, as the

monk saw it, it was the design of that King Henry Seventh to show

himself to the great lords of the North, a very kind, indulgent and

lenient ruler. So he should gather them under his wing to be a potent

engine against that see of Durham, that powerful kingdom within his

kingdom. Thus, for the time being, the monk perceived no danger for

that see. He thought--and time would very likely prove him right--that

that Sir Bertram would begin, to the Bishop as to the great lords, with

kind and soothing words, or even with presents. So, peace being there

established and the memory of King Richard forgotten, the King would

begin to move the lords of the North against that bishopric. And,

doubtless, the further extent of his design--the bishopric being

weakened by the meeting of the lords--would be to lop off the great

lords, one by one, advisedly and with caution until the King had the

upper hand of all in those parts....

"This is a very fell scheme, my brother," the Bishop said. "I had

rather the King would march upon me with his flags on high."

"So would all the King's enemies," the monk Francis said, "for that

would bring him down. He is not strong enough for that." He paused for

a moment: "If my lord and prince will let me speak my mind..." he began

again.

"You are here for that," the Bishop said. "What I need is counsel."

"Then I will say this," the monk Francis began again: "To a mine you set

a countermine and so may we. This subtle King will by acts of

graciousness win the North parts to him. My lord and prince under God,

you may do this very much more easily than he. For, by the grace of

God, in these days you are a very wealthy Prince but he for a King is

very poor, he having great expenses for wars in France and elsewhere

where rebellions break out. And acts of graciousness, in this world,

end either in gifts of money or the remission of fines, rents and

amercements. These this King cannot come to do, or he will starve. But

all these things you can do very easily. If he can spare the nobles a

little he will do it, but he must then press the more heavily upon the

commons and so great cries against him will rise up in these parts....

But you, lord and prince, can be gracious to all. And so I would have

you show yourself. Thus, at the end of three or four years this King

may find himself only the poorer for his efforts."

"I hope you may be right," the Bishop said.

"Time will show it," the monk answered, "and the grace of God. Now I

will talk to you of the Young Lovell.... He is come here again."

"God help me," the Bishop said, "I have been talking of him all this

morning."

The monk Francis said:

"Ah, that is what I had thought. And it was with that bailiff--the

lawyer, Master Stone."

"It was even with him," the Bishop said. "He seemed a worthy and a

pious man and full of zeal for this see of Durham."

"Well, you shall hear," the monk said. "I will wager he came with this

advice--that you should lay hands upon the estates of the Young Lovell

under a writ of sorcery, and so divide them between yourself and the

Knights of Haltwhistle and Cullerford. Thus you should be beforehand

with the Earl of Northumberland who would do as much for the King's

disgrace in these parts."

"It was even that that he reded me do," the Bishop said. "He urged the

see should gain much good land thereby."

"And lose much worship," the monk said. "It is that that Sir Bertram

wishes."

"I can see as much as that," the Bishop answered. "And this Master

Stone--who is an ill-looking man--never told me that the Young Lovell,

as you say, was come again, but said that he was dead and that

Cullerford and Haltwhistle, being by marriage his heirs, would very

willingly divide with me. He was insistent with me to issue that writ

this afternoon."

"Well, it was a clever, foul scheme," the monk Francis said. "For well

that bailiff knew the Young Lovell had been seen riding into Castle

Lovell! Hard he has ridden here--if a lawyer can ride hard--to get that

writ against the Young Lovell or ever we could come to you. So with

that he would have earned great disgrace for you and this see. But what

I would have you do is to confirm, as far as the see goes, that Young

Lovell in his inheritance. So it will rest with the King, the Earl of

Northumberland, and this Sir Bertram to dispossess him. And thus shall

their names stink in the nostrils of all this country-side. For that

young man is very beloved, by gentle and simple, having fought well

against the false Scots at Kenchie's Burn, as these eyes did see."

The monk spoke long and earnestly in that sense; and indeed he had the

right of it. There would have been none in that country that would not

have cried shame on the Church for her greed, if the Bishop had divided

these lands with foul knights like Sir Walter Limousin and Symonde Vesey

and Vesey the outlaw and the Decies. But if the Bishop would confirm

Sir Paris Lovell in the lands over which the see had rights and

overlordships, great discredit would fall upon the Percy for having, in

a Warden's Court, essayed to ruin the Young Lovell on a false charge.

And after the monk Francis had talked in that way for some time, the

Bishop was convinced of--nay he shuddered at--the trap into which he had

nearly fallen. But, he said, the lawyer Stone had so bewildered him

with one legal point and another--such as how the Decies, being knighted

and plighted by the Prince Bishop himself in the name of the Young

Lovell, had all the rights forfeited by that lording. He would very

willingly resign a portion of his rights by way of fine; it was,

moreover, in the protocol of the Bishops of Durham that no Bishop could

refuse such a gift freely made, to the disadvantage of the see. And the

lawyer said, from his knowledge of canon law, that, the Bishop having

made the Decies into Young Lovell and a knight of the Church and the

betrothed of the Lady Margaret of Glororem, nothing could undo all those

things but a bull or dispensation of the Pope.

"Well," the monk Francis said, "I have considered that point and have

read in such books as our poor monastery hath, both upon the canon and

the civil law--such as the book of decrees of which the first leaf

begins '_Jejunandi_' and the penultimate leaf ends '_digestus erif_,' or

the book of decretals which begins '_Nullain res est_' and ends: '_in

causa negligenciae_.' Also I have spoken with the most learned of our

brethren upon this case and with your sergeants of law and your justices

and all with one accord agree that a long law case might be made out of

it. That Decies hath his grounds of appeal, at least upon the matter of

knighthood and betrothal. For it is very uncertain if you could unknight

him or break his betrothal with the Lady Margaret of Glororem without an

appeal to our Father in Rome.

"As to the matter of the other rights conveyed by that name, that is

much simpler. For the Young Lovell has only to make appeal to you

through a person of the Church as his best friend. Then you shall give

him licence, under the decretal '_in causa negligenciae_' and he may at

once enter upon his lands by force or how he may...."

"What then should the man called Decies do?" the Bishop asked. "I am

not very learned in these laws; but that lawyer Stone said he may do

great things."

"For that," the monk Francis said, "he might. But, if I can have a say

with that Decies, he shall hang from a very high tree. Or, if the Young

Lovell is too tender of his half-brother, for that the Decies is, the

Decies shall at my complaint to your officers and, after a fair trial,

be broken upon the wheel. For before a court non-ecclesiastical he hath

brought false witness against a vassal of your see upon an

ecclesiastical charge, to wit sorcery. There is no escape for him."

The Bishop was, by that, hot to do grace to the Young Lovell. And,

after he had made the monk Francis recite over again all that he had

said, he agreed very heartily to do all that that monk asked of him.

For that was a position that jumped very well with Bishop Sherwood's

character, and one that made all things the plainer to him. Being a

churchman, subtle rather than vigorous, he desired above all things the

good and glory of his see. He desired that, so much above his own glory

and good, that in later years he left his see and went into exile rather

than that the bishopric should suffer from the King's hatred of his

person. But he could see very well that the bishopric of Durham would

lose rather than gain by taking the lands of a young lord, well loved

and deserving well of those parts. The Church, as he was aware, was

called, in those days, avaricious, gluttonous and avid of lands and

rent. But here, by a shining instance, he might show that the

see-palatine of Durham held its hand and so that see should gain in

credit and renown at the expense even of all other bishoprics in the

realm and of the realm itself. And here was a course of action that

this Bishop could very well understand and set going. Besides, of his

own predilection, he had a hearty inclination towards such high and

chivalric natures as was the Young Lovell's. He saw in him a shining

and armoured protector against the foes of his see. Seeing things very

much in symbols and pictures, this Bishop seemed to see that young lord,

in silver harness, shining in the sun and raising his sword against the

mists, fumes and flames that beset this fair city of Durham.

Therefore he said hastily to the monk Francis that if that monk would

take a sheet of parchment and write the various matters of canon law and

the rest, he, the Bishop, would commit them to memory, and, that evening

he would call before him the lawyer Stone, the Young Lovell and, if it

seemed advisable, the King's commissioner and announce to them what his

rede was in all these matters.

So he gave the monk a great sheet of parchment from a chest and the monk

turned round to the pulpit and began to write. The Bishop walked up and

down behind his back, rubbing his hands delicately together with

pleasure at that their scheme and at the discomfiture of the King's

commissioner that must ensue therefrom.

Now let us turn for a moment to what passed in the house of the Princess

Rohtraut of Croy, Lady mother of Dacre, during this time, whilst the

monk wrote.

VII

At that heavy beating of iron upon the stair the Lady Margaret and Sir

Bertram of Lyonesse looked into each other's eyes, crossing glances of

apprehension in the one case and of terror in the other. For the Lady

Margaret was divided between joy and love and the sad and sorrowful gaze

that three times the Bride of Christ had cast upon her in her dreams.

Sir Bertram, for his part, was filled with dread of sorceries, fearing

for his soul. For, if in matters of statecraft and the affairs of this

world he was a very cool man, yet--as is often the case with those who

are half men of law, half men of state, new and rising men not very

scrupulous of means but solidly set upon matters of their day--this Sir

Bertram quailed like a dog before thoughts of death, sorcery, the omens

of superstition and hell fire. So he crossed himself again and again.

For, though much of his talk with those ladies had been wary and

cautious, he had very sincerely believed when he said that this Paris

Lovell had been carried off by a white witch or a magic courtesan. Such

things he believed in as he believed in treachery, guile, want of faith

in men and the deceit that lies in women, coming from Adam's snake-wife,

called Lilith.

Only the old Princess leaned forward in her throne-chair, watching the

dark stone doorway with pleasant eyes, for she believed neither in the

sorceries nor the prowess of her grandson, but made sure of finding him

an arrant fool.

So a figure in very shining steel stood in that little painted arch. At

sight of it, at the very first, the Lady Margaret cried out. For she

knew very well every detail of the silken dresses and accoutrements of

her lord and love. And there he stood in his armour of state, fluted,

with long steel shoes and a round helmet without a plume, like the head

of a bull-dog. This suit of armour she had last seen upon the Decies,

and it seemed to her like a sort of sorcery that he should wear it

there. For she never thought it was the Decies that stood before her;

she had known too well the young lord's voice upon the stairs.

How he had come by that suit was no sorcery but a very simple matter.

At Castle Lovell, since they could by no means come at the late lord's

gold in the White Tower, they were much in need of money; for they could

gather no rents and no fines and no tolls. The people would not pay

them. Therefore, in those months past, without remorse they had sold

all such furnishings of the Castle as they could find buyers for. For

the jewels of the Lady Rohtraut they could not do it very easily, since

the goldsmiths of Newcastle set their heads together and would have none

of them, fearing the reprisals of the Dacres and suits at law and the

like. But certain hangings and furniture they sold for a good price to

a German of Sunderland, who shipped them beyond the seas. And certain

arms that they had, more than they had men for, they sold for what

little these would fetch to certain armourers of the town of Morpeth.

Amongst these had been this suit of state. For this suit was too small

for the Decies; it had galled him very uncomfortably beneath the

arm-pits and between the thighs, when he had played the part of his

half-brother, and he had been heartily glad to be out of it. It had

been too large for the Knights of Cullerford and Haltwhistle, so that

they rattled inside it like walnuts in their shells in June. As for

Henry Vesey of Wall Houses, the evil knight, he said he would be hanged

if he wore the Young Lovell's armour, for it would bring him ill-luck.

So they sold it for forty shillings to a Morpeth armourer called Simon

Armstrong, who thought he had a bargain. But he found that neither

knight nor esquire of that countryside would take it of him, for the

reasons given by Henry Vesey. So there it was in his store.

Now two days before, very early in the morning, the monk Francis, Young

Lovell and ten men-at-arms, well found, had set out from the monastery

of Belford, the monk upon a trotting mule, the Young Lovell, in light

armour, upon Hamewarts, and the men-at-arms upon little galloways, small

horses such as the Scots use when they came raiding over the borders.

But at the monastery gate they found nine men of the old Lovell

men-at-arms waiting to come into Young Lovell's service. There was no

room for them to be harboured in the monastery, so they must come along

with the Young Lovell. And, ever as he rode along--and he went slowly

for that purpose--came men-at-arms and bowmen hastening out of the

hay-fields, where they had taken service, to come under the banner of

the Young Lovell, until he had forty men and more. And at a cross in

the hill-paths, ten miles below Belford, there were awaiting them

Cressingham and La Rougerie, esquires that had been in service at Castle

Lovell. They were well armed, upon little Scots horses, and came out of

the hills where there was a deserted tower. They had with them

seventeen men, and four women that had served in Castle Lovell, and all

were well fed and found, so what they had done in the meantime it was

better not to inquire, though they swore that all they had came from the

Scots' side of the border. The Young Lovell was well heartened by the

sight of all these men, and they rode onward, to the number of

sixty-five men and two esquires; twenty-two men having no horses and

holding by the stirrups of them that had.

They made a circuit round Alnwick, for the monk Francis doubted the

friendship of the Earl of Northumberland. So they went from the high

ground by Hagdon to Eglingham and so, holding always to the hills and

moors, above Broom Park and Overthwarts and across the North Forest,

going south and to the east of Rothbury. There they deemed themselves

safe of the Percy, and they could take to the lower grounds and such

roads as there were. There being a good road from Eshot Hill to Morpeth,

they made for that, and hit upon it towards two in the afternoon, having

come nearly forty miles since four of that morning because of the

roundabout path they had followed.

There, because they were near his mother's lands, it came into the Young

Lovell's head, and seemed good to him to visit these places and take

possession of them in her name. Therefore they made what haste they

could and so came to the Castle at Cramlin by six of the evening. This

Castle of his wife's the late Lord Lovell had very much neglected,

having stripped it of all its furnishings and even of much of the lead

upon the roofs. And, where there were slates or stone roofing, the

rains and snows had penetrated to the upper floors. Nevertheless the

lower rooms were sound enough. So the Young Lovell said that that night

he would sleep there. Mattresses and bedding were brought from the

bondsmen of that place for the Young Lovell, the monk and the two

esquires; the men slept very well upon straw in the stables. Also the

Young Lovell sent the esquire Cressingham with the men to his mother's

house at Killingworth, and the esquire La Rougerie with the men to her

other house at Plessey, which stood in a pleasant place. So then the

monk Francis went to his prayers and the Young Lovell round the

battlements of that smallish Castle. He noted carefully what stones

were sound and which tottered, and so he came to the conclusion that,

with a little mason's work well expended, his men might hold it very

well for a space.

Then came back those two esquires, having left five men each in the

houses at Plessey and Killingworth. The houses they reported to be in as

sad a plight as that Castle, or worse, so that it seemed that they must

fall into utter ruin. At a bondsman's house the esquire Cressingham had

come upon a fellow calling himself the receiver for the Knights of

Cullerford and Haltwhistle. This man the esquire had brought with him

and he proved of much use. For, in the first place, he had taken some

money which he had about him and, in the second, he had a great book of

accounts which showed what was due to the Lady Rohtraut from each

holding. So they kept that fellow in a stable, taking from him the

money and the book. Both these esquires said that all the men of these

villages and hamlets welcomed the coming of their lord and were ready to

do him suit and service. In those parts the Lady Rohtraut had nine

thousand acres of serviceable land and twenty of heathery and

indifferent. So they slept very well that night.

On the morrow they had much to do. Thus the monk went with the esquire

Cressingham and men bravely armed from farm to farm, warning the men

there that those were the lands of the Lord Lovell and his mother. They

had that false bailiff well trussed upon a little horse to show them the

way; but long before noon he had begged to be allowed to take up the

service of the Lord Lovell, and so they were the quicker done and had no

hindrances, all the peasants vowing to do their services very willingly.

One other thing was good, and that was that the esquire La Rougerie was

the son of a Frenchman, very skilled in matters of fortifying and

building in stone. This Frenchman the old Lord Lovell had brought from

France to see to the building of the White Tower, which he wished to

make a citadel, as it were, of Castle Lovell. And this esquire had

learned much of his father; the Young Lovell could trust him very well.

So the Young Lovell sent that La Rougerie into the countryside to find

masons and stone workers, and he found some, though not many, for most

men of that class worked in the fisheries in summertime, coming back to

building only when the storms drove them off the seas. The Young Lovell

was minded to have that Castle put first into a state to withstand an

assault and later to have it roofed and rendered fair, with the lower

part of one of the round towers turned into a wheat-pit and another made

into a great pit of brine, in which they could cure whole carcases of

oxen, swine and sheep, to the number of five hundred or more. So, when

he had showed La Rougerie the weak places he had discovered the night

before, he took thirty of his men for the greater safety and rode unto

the town of Morpeth, Here he sent for the bailiff of that town to come

to the market place and told him that his errand was very peaceable.

For he desired to buy arms and bows for twenty of his men, with

twenty-five pikes and two hundred barrels of arrows and several

pack-horses, and a saker or two for the defence of Castle Cramlin and

ten or more pack-horses to carry all these things. So the bailiff of

that town answered him very civilly saying that he was glad of that

lord's visit because he was akin to the Dacres and the Ogles and the

Bertrams and other lords that had been friends to the good town of

Morpeth. And he did what he could amongst the armourers and citizens

that had arms to sell. So, in a short time, the Young Lovell had a good

part of what he sought. This would not have been the case so easily but

for the arms that those of Castle Lovell had sold to these very

armourers. As it was, many of the Young Lovell's men got back arms that

they had borne in that Castle before. Then came the armourer called

Armstrong to the Young Lovell and begged him to be his good lord and

pardon him. This the Young Lovell said he would do if his crime was not

very great. So that armourer revealed to the Young Lovell that he had

that lord's armour of state which he had bought for forty shillings, but

no knight of that part would buy it of him. And he said that if the

Lord Lovell was his very good lord he would pay him again that forty

shillings, but, if not, he might take it and welcome. Then the Young

Lovell was glad of that armourer, and said that if Armstrong would put

new straps to all places where straps should go he would pay him fifty

shillings for his honesty. So the armourer was very glad.

It was four of the afternoon before the Young Lovell came back to

Cramlin Castle, having nearly all that he needed of harness, pikes,

bows, pack-horses and the rest, but only one hundred and twenty barrels

of arrows, three sakers and a little gunpowder, for the town of Morpeth

could not supply more at that time. Still it was well enough, and there

he found that La Rougerie had brought masons and carpenters enough to do

his work roughly in a week's time, and afterwards to amend it fairly and

in permanence. And, towards six, came back the monk Francis and the

others with good news of the bondsmen's submission. They drove before

them three young oxen and over thirty sheep and lambs, and these things

were offerings from the various hamlets of the Lady Rohtraut, together

with eleven hogsheads of beer and other things eatable that should come

after. And these bondsmen promised that for six months they would

supply all that should be needed for the support of such men as the Lord

Lovell should see fit to leave in that Castle, the price being left in

account between that lord and them, and the men-at-arms to be ready to

defend them against raiders if any should come.

So the Young Lovell began to be of better spirits for, with all these

preparations for warfare, he had thought less of the lady of the doves.

And the monk Francis encouraged him in this, though once or twice he

sighed. But when the Young Lovell asked him why this was, he said it

was because of his cousin that he had slain. One thing that had given

heart to the Young Lovell was this, that amongst the arms that had come

from Castle Lovell unto the hands of the Morpeth armourers was a fair

lance and rolled round it a small fine banner of silk with the arms of

Lovell upon it. Now, the Lord Lovell, because of his estate in those

parts, had the right to ride across the lands of the Bishop of Durham

with his banner displayed, and he would have ridden to that city very

unwillingly without it.

So, after taking counsel together, they decided that they would lie down

and sleep at six and, rising at twelve, should ride to Durham so as to

come there at the dawn. The Young Lovell would take with him twenty

spears and the esquire Cressingham to bear the banner, who was a fine

man of thirty with good armour of his own. And the twenty spears should

be all fine men on the best horses that they had. So they should make a

fair show when they rode into the city of Durham; and, the more to that

end, the Young Lovell took with him his armour of state upon a pack

horse, that he might put it on when he was a mile or so away from the

bridge.

The remaining five and forty men with the esquire La Rougerie, who was a

man to be trusted, should remain to hold Castle Cramlin for the Young

Lovell and to aid in the buildings that should go forward there. In

that way the Young Lovell rode out from a Castle of his own.

And, in that way too, he came before the Lady Margaret and his

grandmother, the Princess Rohtraut, as well as Sir Bertram of Lyonesse,

in his armour of state. He seemed to survey them for a space through

the opening of his helmet. This he had kept closed in riding through

the city for fear any friend of the Knights of Cullerford and

Haltwhistle should by chance be in those streets and aim an arrow at him

from a window or from behind a buttress. Then he pushed up the visor.

Stern he always looked when his face was framed in iron, but so stern as

he looked that day the Lady Margaret considered that she had never seen

him. He had broad, level eyebrows of brown, a pointed nose, firm lips

and a determined chin. The Lady Margaret knew that he had a pleasant

smile but he showed none of it then, and he paid no attention either to

her or to the Cornish knight. His grandmother regarded him with a keen,

hostile glance, and with his eyes set upon hers he advanced grimly

towards her. His short dagger was girt around him, but he had no sword.

So, in that shining harness, he knelt before that old lady on the second

step. He lifted up his hands and said:

"Madam, Princess and my Granddam, to whom I owe great honour...."

"That is a good beginning, by Our Lady," the Princess said.

"I would not so soon have come to you," he continued in firm tones, "but

that you sent me your commands."

"Well, this grows better and better," the old woman said.

"It is neither out of lack of duty, nor of due awe and natural

affection, that I had not the sooner come," the Young Lovell said.

"That passes me!" the Princess cried out. "By Our Lady, I do not

understand that speech."

The Young Lovell who towered on high when he stood, and was tall enough

though he knelt, appeared like a great hound, attacked by this fierce

little woman as by a savage lap-dog.

"Madam and gentle Princess," he said slowly, "I cannot easily say what I

would say, for no man would say it easily."

"Then you are on a fool's errand," the Princess said, "for a wise man

can say most things." She considered him for a moment and then said

jeeringly: "If you had business in the town, stiff grandson of mine, say

you had business: if you were gone after wenches, lie about it. But I

care very little. I sent for you to have your news; so leave the

complimenting and give me that."

"Madam and gentle Princess," he began again, though the old lady grunted

and mumbled. "I did not come before because I sought assoilment."

"What is assoilment?" she asked.

He answered briefly:

"Pardon for sin, witting and unwitting."

"Well, get on," she said impatiently.

"Lacking that assoilment," he said, "I did not know if I were a fit

knight to come into your presence."

"Why, I am an old horse," she said, "and not to be frightened by a dab

of pitch. If you never showed yourself but after confession you might

live in a cave, or so it was in my time."

"Then," said he, "know this. I came to my Castle and they shot upon me.

So I have gathered together certain of my men and have taken my mother's

Castle of Cramlin and hold it. So that is my news. And when I have the

pardon of the Bishop and have paid forfeit, or what it is, I will get

more of my men. For my standard is set up in Castle Cramlin and my men

come to it from here and there. So in a fortnight or less I will retake

my Castle; and I shall hang my brothers-in-law, send my half-brother

across the sea, and put my sisters into nunneries. These are my

projects."

"Body of God!" the old lady said. "By the Body of God!"

Then the Cornish knight moved round and stood beside the Princess and

spoke to the Young Lovell.

"Ah, gentle lord," he said, "may I ask you a fair question?"

"By God's wounds," the Young Lovell said, "you shall ask me none. Who

be you?"

"A poor knight," Sir Bertram answered, "but the commissioner of the most

dread King Henry!"

"Then you are a friend of the false Percy," the Young Lovell said. "Get

you gone. You are no friend to me."

And at that the old Princess cried out:

"Body of God! You have taken Castle Cramlin? Then without doubt you

have taken Plessey House and Killingworth?"

"Madam and gentle Princess," the Young Lovell said, "I have taken and

hold them for my mother. And so I will do for all my mother's lands

whether round Morpeth or elsewhere."

"Then I have no more to say," the old Princess said. "Get you gone."

The Young Lovell remained nevertheless kneeling for a space.

"Madam," he said, "it comes to me now that ye have a lawsuit with my

mother for certain of those lands."

"Aye, and I will have them," she said. "It is not you nor any stiff

popinjay shall hold them from me." She leaned out from her chair and

cried these words into his face, her own being purple and her eyes

bloodshot. So he crossed himself with his hand of bright steel.

"Madam," he said, "I cannot talk of lawsuits. They have done me too much

wrong."

"But I will talk of lawsuits," she said. "By God, I will take a score

of my fellows and drive your rats from my Castle of Cramlin!"

"Madam and gentle Princess," he answered, "you could not do it with ten

score nor yet twenty. For I have there forty of the best fighting men

of this North country; and in two days I think I shall have six score.

How the rights of this lawsuit may be I do not know. But my mother's

necessity is great. She has languished for a quarter year in prison

during which time you have done nothing for her. When the lands fall to

me upon my mother's death you and the Dacres may have them again. That

is all that I know. And so I pray our gentle Saviour to have you in His

keeping; and so I get me gone."

All this while the Lady Margaret had sat motionless, gazing upon her

true love's face that never cast a glance aside at her. For it was not

manners that she should speak before that old lady. But when he was on

his feet and near the door, she ran down from that throne-step, and her

rich robes and her great veil ran out behind her. The Cornish knight

was already in the stairway, and the Lady Margaret came to it before the

Young Lovell, for he walked slowly on account of the weight of his

armour. So in the stairway she came before him and held up her hands to

his steel chest:

"Ah, gentle lord," she said, "will you speak no word with me?" And, in

having said so much, because she had spoken before he had, she had said

too much for manners, and she hung her head and trembled, for she was a

very proud woman.

He looked at her with stern and affrighting eyes.

"Ah, gentle lady," he said, "you are plighted to my false brother."

"No! No!" she said, "not with my will. Would you believe I am in a

tale against you, with your false sisters?"

He raised his voice till it was like the harsh bark of the male seal;

his eyes glowed with hatred.

"Gentle lady," he cried out, "ye should have known!"

The sight of this lady had been to him a sudden weariness, like the

sound of a story heard over and over again. And hot anger and hatred

had risen violently in his heart when she spoke.

But then he perceived her anguished face, the corners of the proud lips

drawn down and the features pale like alabaster. And he remembered that

all things, to pursue a fair course, must go on as they before would

have gone--even all things to the end. So that, although his heart was

weary for the lady of the doves and sparrows, he said:

"Ah, gentle lady, I believe you. I remember me. My false brother was

inside these pot-lids. You could do no otherwise. All these things

shall be set in order. We will sue to the Pope. So it shall be." He

could not easily find words; that was very difficult speaking for him;

for still this lady was wearisome beyond endurance to him, because of

the lady of the doves and sparrows. But he would not let her see this,

for he knew she was a loyal and dutiful friend to him, and he must take

her to wife when he had his Castle again and the dispensation of our

Father that is in Rome. And indeed she fell upon her knees before him

there in the stairway:

"Gentle lord, my master and my love," she said, "I smote your false

brother on the mouth in that day. And all my lands are yours and my

towers of Glororem and on Wearside; and all my red gold and all my

jewels of price. And all my men-at-arms are yours, to the number of

eight score, and two esquires; and all my bondsmen that can bear bows,

and my rough pikemen...."

He stepped back stiffly in his arms, so that he was nearly within his

grandmother's chamber again. And this he did that he might avoid her

touch. And he said "No! No!" That he said because it seemed horrible

to him to have her aid in the retaking of his Castle. But, before she

was done speaking with her deep and full voice, he knew that these

things too must be.

Therefore he advanced upon her courteously, and stretched out his hands

in steel and raised her up.

"Ah, gentle lady," he said, "all these things shall be, and I thank you.

And peaceful times shall, God willing, repay these troublous ones."

She looked upon him a little strangely; but she held her cheek to him.

"Ah, gentle lady," he said, "I may not kiss you. For, as I stand before

you, I am a man under a ban, so I think I may not do it until my lord

the Prince Bishop shall have assoiled me and taken cognisance of my plea

to Rome against my false brother."

She wished to have said: "Ah, what reck I of that!" and so to have taken

him in her arms, steel and all. But that she might not do for fear of

her manners. For she had been well schooled, and, whereas, she might

well, if she would, give him her towers and lands and men and bondsmen,

still she could not go against the ban of the Church; for the ladies of

her house of Eure were very proud ladies. Neither, for pride, though the

tears were wet upon her cheeks, would she ask him what ban it was that

he lay under.

So, seeing those her tears, he said as gently as he could--for when the

head of the axe is thrown the helve may as well go with it:

"Ah, gentle lady, be of very good cheer! For I am assured of assoilment

by such a very good churchman that I know no better. And, that once

had, shall we not make merry as in the old time? Aye, surely, for if you

will, I will well. And so, that it may be the sooner done, I will go to

that good prince." Yet, as he said these words, he sighed. Then he

added: "In a little while, gentle lady and my true love, I will come

back to you."

So she stood back in the stairway to let him pass; but it was piteously

that she looked after him. For she had never seen him so earnest and so

sober. He seemed the older by twenty years, and never had his foot been

so heavy on the stairs; it was like the beating of a heart of lead.

Now when the Young Lovell came to the stair-foot where there was a

square space, there there was standing the Knight Bertram of Lyonesse.

And so he stood before the Young Lovell that that lord could not pass

him or get to the street. And hot rage was already in that lording's

heart, for never had he talked so painfully as he had done to that Lady

Margaret, and it seemed as if his breast must burst its armour. Up to

him stepped that Cornish knight and spoke in gentle tones, bending his

particoloured leg courteously, in the then fashion of London town.

"Gentle lording," he said, "you called me even now the friend of Henry

Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Let me say presently that by my office I

stand above that lord, though far below him in my person. So I am no

friend of his, though not his foe."

The Young Lovell held his brows down and gazed upon this man beneath

them, breathing heavily in his chest.

"Go on," he said.

"Then I will tell you this," the Cornish knight went on. "I have heard

you twice say ye were beneath a ban. Now that may well be and I think

it is along of a White Lady."

The Young Lovell loosened his dagger within its sheath.

"My silken knight," he said, "ye were never so near your death."

"Gentle lording," that knight answered, "if I die another will take my

place and no one will lament me. But it is my function and devoir to

talk and so I take it." He paused for a moment, and then he went on:

"God forbid that I should say word against Holy Church; I am not one

that does it. Yet I will say this: If Holy Church will not raise the

ban from you, yet I, Sir Bertram of Lyonesse, who have some skill at

inquiries, will so put this matter to the King and dread lord that,

without more words said, that judgment of the Warden's Court against you

shall be revised, and if those false Knights shall withhold your Castle

from you you shall have instant licence to take it again and do justice

upon them as you will. And the fines due of you under that judgment

shall be remitted to you. For I acknowledge that therein the Percy hath

overstepped himself; for firstly he can give no judgment and foul no

bill upon a suit of sorcery. And secondly, I am convinced that here was

no sorcery. For, touching that White Lady...."

"Sir Knight," the Young Lovell said, "I bid you stand aside from that

door and see a thing...." Then Sir Bertram stepped down into the

roadway.

The Young Lovell took out his dagger and raised it above his shoulder.

It was of the length of his forearm. The door that stood against the

wall, being open, was of thick oak, studded with large bosses of iron.

The Young Lovell brought forward that dagger over his head and it sank

into that door up to the hilt, and sank in and passed through the door,

and so into the mortar between two stories and the door was nailed

there.

"Sir," the Young Lovell said, "seek to withdraw that dagger."

"Nay, that I cannot do," Sir Bertram said.

"Neither can I nor any man," the Young Lovell said. "And I am glad of

it. For if you had spoken more upon that theme, that dagger should have

gone through your throat. And this I tell you: there is no knight in

all the North parts that could have done that, and I think none in all

Christendom. How it may be in Heathenesse I do not know, for I hear

that the Soldan has some very good knights. And that I did to show you

that I am no braggart if you will hear me further."

"Very willingly will I hear you further, ah, gentle lording," the

Cornish knight answered, and again he bent his knee where he stood in

the street.

"Then," the Young Lovell said, "it is because I can do such deeds as

that you have seen that all the men of the North parts will willingly

follow me upon any journey. So it would be well if the Percy let me be.

For--an he will not I will come to Alnwick and to Warkworth with twice

four thousand men for this Percy is little beloved. And so, with

scaling hooks and hurdles and faggots and the rest I will smoke him out

of Northumberland and hang him upon the first tree in this County

Palatine. And that you may tell your King."

"Ah, gentle lording," Sir Bertram said, "I tell you that judgment is

already reversed."

"Of that I know nothing," the Young Lovell said. "But so it is as I have

told you. If your King will dwell at peace with us of the North parts

he may for me, and I ask nothing better. And so much more I will say,

that he has good servants; for no man ever went nearer his death than

you when you spoke to me now. And I think you know it well, yet you

gave no ground and spoke on. I do not like your kind, for I have seen

some of them about the courts of princes, here and elsewhere and you are

the caterpillars upon the silken tree of chivalry that shall yet destroy

it. Yet that was as brave a feat as ever I saw, and your King is happy

if he have more such as you."

VIII

In the meanwhile that monk Francis sat writing in the Bishop's room and

the Bishop walked up and down behind his back. Once or twice the Bishop

paused in his walking as if he wished to speak to the monk, but again he

walked on and the monk Francis continued to write rapidly, pausing now

and then and looking upwards as he sought to remember the words of the

decree beginning: "Jejunandi," or the Decretal: "Nullam res est...."

So at last the Bishop stood for a long time near the door, looking down

at the nails of his fingers, and then suddenly:

"Touching the matter of sorcery, my brother in God...." he said.

The monk swung quickly round upon his stool:

"There was no sorcery," he said determinedly. "Those three of Castle

Lovell were perjured."

"So I gathered," the Bishop said softly; "I considered that; it appeared

so from what was said to me by the lawyer, Magister Stone."

The monk looked with the greater respect at the Bishop.

"Father in God," he said, "will you tell me how you came upon that

thought?"

The Bishop smiled a little faint smile of pleased vanity. For he liked

to be considered that he was a subtle reader of the hearts of men. In

that he thought that he was the superior of this monk.

"When a man comes to me," he said, "with two tales, to each of which he

will swear to find many witnesses, I am apt to think that one is false.

So it was with this our friend called Stone."

"May I hear more?" the monk asked.

"It was in this way," the Bishop said, "and now you will see why I was

troubled in my conscience when you found me. This lawyer Stone took it

for postulated that I thirsted for the lands of this Young Lovell. He

would have it no other way. Though once or twice I said I loved justice

better than land he would have it no other way, but took my protestings

for the solemn fooleries of a priest. He is, I think, a very evil man,

with the face of an ape, stiff gestures, and the voice of a door hinge."

"I know the man very well," the monk Francis said. "He has twice

proposed to me the spoliation of widows with false charters for the

benefit of our monastery."

"So," the Bishop said, "he would have it that I was greedy of gold and

lands for my see. And indeed I am if I may have them with decency. So

he saith to me under his breath that, in two ways I might have Castle

Lovell. One tale was that this Young Lovell had capered with naked

witches and others round a Baal fire. For that he had as witnesses

himself and another gossip called Meg of the Foul Tyke and that bastard

called the Decies."

"It is because of that false witnessing that the Decies shall be broken

on the wheel," the monk Francis said.

"Well, it was false witnessing," the Bishop said. "And so I divined.

For, afterwards, this lawyer, brings along another story. And it was

easy to see that this lawyer considered this the better story of the two

and would be mightily relieved of doubt if I would adopt it. And it was

this."

The monk Francis looked now very eagerly upon the Bishop, who stood

straight and still in his furred gown, lifting one hand stiffly:

"There is in the village of Castle Lovell," he said, "a fair lovechild

called Elizabeth. Some will have it that the father is the Young

Lovell, some that it is of the Young Lovell's father. How that may be I

do not know, but it is certain that that child is of the Lovell kin and

Harrison is its name. Now, as May comes in, that child, as children

will, goeth afield seeking herbs for a coney that the mother had

a-fattening. So the child Elizabeth goeth further and further amongst

these hills of sand where green stuff is rare. For, that she might not

pluck herbs in the bondsmen's fields, that are laid down to hay, that

child very well knew. So, looking up suddenly, that child perceived

upon a high sand-hill, and sitting upon a brown horse that she well

knew, a knight that very well she knew too, being the Young Lovell. For

this lording was accustomed to bring the child Elizabeth pieces of sugar

and figs and to give her fair words and money to the mother.

"So that child had no fear of the Young Lovell, but ran up to him crying

out for sugar and figs. But he paid no heed to her, only sat there upon

his horse. So the child looked further and perceived, upon a white

horse, a lady in a scarlet gown, in a green hood, who smiled very kindly

at her. So that child was afraid, as children are, and ran home. That

was in the midst of May....

"Now came fell poverty into the hut where dwelled that woman and her

child. The last pence were gone, the fatted coneys eaten; they must go

batten upon roots, and when that mother sought relief of the Ladies

Douce and Isopel in the Castle they jeered and spat upon her. And ever

the mother cried that if the Young Lovell would come they would find

relief. Then at last that child took courage and said that she knew

where the Young Lovell was and would lead her there.

"So she leads her mother through these hills of sand--and it was then

close to July, the 29th of June as it might be. There upon the hills of

sand that mother perceives the Young Lovell. He sat upon his brown

horse, in his cloak of scarlet, with his parti-coloured hose of scarlet

and green. He wore his cap of scarlet set about with large pearls...."

"These pearls," the monk Francis said, "I have as a gage in my aumbrey

of Belford."

"His long hair fell down upon his shoulders and he looked away. Then

wearily that mother climbed the sand-hill crying out to the Young Lovell

for gold. He never looked upon her but gazed always away; nevertheless

he fingered his girdle and found his poke and cast down to her a French

mark of gold."

"I thank God he did that charity," the monk Francis said, "even if he

did not know it; and I think he did not."

"Why let us thank God," the Bishop said. And he asked: "Then this is a

true tale?"

"I think it is," the monk Francis answered. "But, of your charity, tell

me more."

"Then," the Bishop said, "that poor woman fell upon that piece of gold

in the sand and kissed it. And, as she looked up over it to kiss too the

Young Lovell's hand, so she saw a fair, kind woman. Red hair she had

and was clothed in white with a jewel of rubies in a white hat. Such a

kind, fair lady that woman had never seen, and the Young Lovell gazed

upon her and she into his eyes. Then tears blinded that woman and grief

and pain at the heart. So she came back to her hut, she knew not how;

and, indeed, she knew no more until there came the lawyer Stone holding

a cordial to her lips.

"For, you must know that that child, taking that piece of gold from her

mother's fingers and being all innocent, went away into the village to

buy food for her mother. So the first man she came to, seeing her with

it, took her to the house of the lawyer Stone to have the right of it.

Then the lawyer having beaten her, she told him that the Young Lovell

had that day given it to her mother.

"So the lawyer, avid of news of the Young Lovell, jumped like an ape to

that poor hut. But it was two days before that woman could speak,

though he nursed her and fed cordials to her never so. Then that lawyer

got men-at-arms and scoured the country according to her directions.

But upon the Young Lovell he never came."

"By that day," the monk Francis said, "he was in my cell commending

himself to God."

The Bishop looked apprehensively upon the monk Francis.

"Then this you take for a true tale," he said. "Woe is me."

They were both silent for a while, and then the monk said--for they were

looking with faces of great weariness upon the tiles:

"Father in God, tell me truly, I do pray, all that you know from this

lawyer."

"Brother," the Bishop said, "God help us, this lawyer was insistent that

the tale of sorcery against this lording should be let to lapse or

changed for another, such as that he consorted with old fairies and

worse."

"How then," the monk Francis said, "would he put aside his former

perjuries?"

"He would say," the Bishop said, "that his eyes deceived him, magic

being in the air, and that on that morning the Young Lovell rode

furiously past him going as if he knew not whither."

"Why so he did!" the monk Francis said, "but that shall not save the

lawyer. His former oaths are written down."

"Brother," the Bishop said, "it is that lawyer's plan to begin another

suit in the courts ecclesiastical and there not to swear at all, but

ignoring the bill before the Wardens, to bring many witnesses about this

fairy lady."

"What other witnesses has he?" the monk Francis asked. He spoke like a

man without hope.

"You must know," the Bishop said, "that this lawyer during these months

was enquiring of the Young Lovell in the past. So in Newcastle he found

a master-tailor to whom the Young Lovell for long owed four pounds. And

one day in February this tailor, needing money, went out from Newcastle

towards Castle Lovell, riding upon an ass. And so, upon the way, he saw

a lady that had a white horse and was little and dark. He was in

tribulation for his money and pondered much upon the Young Lovell

whether he was a lording that would pay him or one that would have him

beaten at the gate.

"And, as he thought that, this lady looked upon him as if she would ask

the way to where the Young Lovell dwelt. She was little and swart and

had a green undercoat.

"And again in February there was a ship boy that went from Sunderland

with a white falcon his ship had brought from Hamboro', for the Young

Lovell. Now, upon this voyage, this ship boy had conceived a great love

for that falcon even as boys will that upon ships are beaten by all and

conceive loves for dumb beasts. So that ship boy went pondering with

the white hawk and wondering and almost weeping to think that that

lording might be a cruel master to the falcon. For he loved that falcon

very well. So he was aware of a kind, fair lady with a white horse that

looked upon him as much as to say that the Young Lovell would be a

gentle and kind lord to that fowl. She was a great fair woman in a

German hood of black velvet--such a one as that ship boy had seen and,

as boys will, had conceived an ardent love for, in Hamboro'."

The monk Francis said: "Ah," and then he brought out the words: "Father

in God, I too have seen her--and twice. When I thought of the Young

Lovell."

Then the Bishop groaned lamentably; three times and very swiftly he

walked from end to end of the cell, holding his hands above his head.

Then he ran upon a shelf and with a furious haste pulled out a large

book bound in white skin. He threw it open upon his bed and bade the

monk come look at a picture.

This picture was all in fair blues and reds and greens, going across the

two pages of the book.

"I had this book in Rome," the Bishop said, "of a Greek called Josephus.

Look upon this picture."

The picture showed a mountain with trees upon it. And round the mountain

went a colonnade of marble pillars. In between the central columns,

where it was higher, sat a grey-bearded and frowning man. Naked he was

to the waist and he was upon a throne of gold. At his left hand was an

eagle; in his right the forked lightning of a thunderbolt. Beside him

stood a proud woman in purple with a diadem of gold. In the next temple

was a helmed woman that leaned upon a great spear; next her, a man all

furious, that held up a great round shield and a pointed sword. Over

against him reclined a great man with a lion's hide who leant upon a

club; beyond him a man all white with the sun in his hair and beyond

that a youth with wings upon his feet, upon his cap and upon a rod,

twined with snakes that he held. All these were in the temple, and many

more, such as a woman in a chariot drawn by oxen, and an old crowned man

rising from the blue waves of the sea.

Then the Bishop laid his trembling imperious fingers upon a place higher

up the mountain, above the temple.

"Look upon this," he said. There, amongst olive trees, the monk

perceived a pink, naked woman. In one hand she held a mirror into

which, lasciviously, she smiled. Her other hand held out behind her a

wealth of shining hair like gold. Above her, clouds upon the blue sky

turned over and let down a rain of pink roseleaves.

"I do not know who these be," the monk Francis said. "I was never in

Rome."

Then the Bishop said harshly:

"Was the woman you saw like this woman?"

"Not so," the monk answered, "she had dark hair divided down the middle

and parted lips. She was like the cousin that I slew and so she

smiled."

The Bishop groaned. And so he wrung his hands and cried out:

"As God is good to me, I saw that naked woman stand so and smile so, in

my vestiary, this morning after I had said mass. Six times I made the

sign of the cross and she went not away. I was pondering upon the case

of the Young Lovell.... She went not away.... Pondering.... God help

me, a sinful man.... The eremites of the Libyan desert.... But no, it

was not so.... No temptation...."

The waves of terror shook that Bishop with the thin features. His hands

were so knitted and squeezed together in a paroxysm that it seemed the

blood must spurt from his finger nails. And even as he stood, so he

groaned with a hollow and continuous sound. Then the monk Francis cried

out:

"Those are the fairies! Those women are the fairies! God help you,

Lord Bishop, you cannot condemn my friend because he has seen them, if

you cannot keep them out of your own vestiary.... For all about this

world they are.... They peer in upon us. Thro' the windows they peer

in! Looking! Looking! You cannot condemn my friend.... Like beasts of

pray in the night they peer into the narrow rooms.... Hungering! ...

Hungering!" His voice was like heavy, fierce sobs and it sounded

against the Bishop's moans.

"God forgive me," he cried out, "it was upon these that I thought when I

comforted my friend with talks of angels and saints.... I lied and

thought I was lying.... Angels! These are the little people! The

little angels, as the country people say, that were once the angels of

God. But they would not aid Him against Lucifer, doubting the issue of

the combat.... They it is, have brought this fine weather we enjoy. A

great host of them, like fair women, is descended upon this country.

They cannot live without fine weather...."

Both these churchmen were weakened with fasting and prayers when they

might have slept. The monk Francis had great fears, their minds leapt

from place to place. That long, bare room seemed surrounded with hosts

of fair, evil fiends. He imagined devils with twisted snouts and long

claws scraping and scratching at the leads of the painted glass and at

the stones of the mortar.

Then the Bishop cried out upon him with a fearful voice, calling him

ignorant, a fool rustic monk, a low, religious filled with barbarous

superstitions. He came close to the monk Francis and cried into his

very face:

"God help me, thou fool, bleating of fairies.... All those women were

one woman! ... And again God help me! When I heard thee bleat

ignorantly of the prowess of that young knight I did not believe

thee.... But now I do believe he is the most precious defender we have

in this place.... I will asperge his shining armour with holy oils....

I will bless his sword.... God help him.... How shall he fight against

a goddess with a sword of steel.... Yet she is vulnerable! All writings

say she is vulnerable...."

He began a pitiful babble that the monk could not well understand, of

Italy where he had lived many years as the King's Friend. So he spoke

of cypress groves and the ruined corners of old temples, and fireflies

and nights of love. He spoke of earth crumbling away in pits and great

white statues with sightless eyes rising out of the graves on

hill-sides, tall columns that no one could overset, and the gods of the

hearth. Of all these things the monk Francis knew nothing. The Bishop

spoke of crafty Italians with whom he had spoken, and of subtle Greeks

of the fallen Eastern Empire; and of how this subtle creature, as the

credible legends said, dwelt now, since the fall of Byzantium, upon a

mountainside in Almain, and of an almond staff that flowered....

Then that Bishop cast himself upon his bed, face downwards, and so he

lay still.

That monk sat there many hours upon the little stool, and whether the

Bishop slept or thought he could not tell, for the Bishop never moved.

Then that monk considered that that Bishop had many and strange

knowledges, having passed so long a time in foreign parts. And there

was fear in that monk's heart, for he thought he was with a sorcerer

that aimed to make himself pope by sorceries. And afterwards he fell to

considering of how this Bishop should deal with his friend the Young

Lovell, for that Bishop was master and lord.

And so, being the harder man of the two, he went over in his mind the

necessity that that see had for a champion in those parts and how there

could be none so good as the Young Lovell, even though that knight were,

as he feared, a man accursed and certain of a pitiful end. Yet he might

as well do what he could for the Church before that end came. And the

monk thought of the evil King and the subtle Sir Bertram and the grim

coward that the Percy was and the discontent of the common sort and how

that might be used. And he thought of all these things for a long time,

as if they were counters he moved upon a chess-board. And he cried to

himself: "Ah, if I were Bishop I would control these things."

And then he remembered that it was long since he had prayed for the soul

of his cousin that he had slain. So he set himself upon his knees and

sought to make up for lost time in prayer. Those windows faced towards

the west, being high over the river that rushes below. And from where

one knelt he could see the tower of St. Margaret's Church through the

open casement of stained glass. And at last, towards its setting, the

sun shone blood red through all those windows of colours, ruby, purple,

vermeil, grass green and the blue of lapis lazuli. All those colours

fell upon the tiles of the floor that were hewn with a lily pattern in

yellow of the potter. Twenty colours fell upon the figure of the

Bishop, lying all in black upon his bed and as many upon the form of the

monk where he knelt and prayed. Scarlet irradiated his forehead, purple

his chin and shoulder, and to the waist he was bluish.

The voices of the pigeons on the roofs lamented the passing of the day

with bubbling sounds, the great bell of the cathedral and many other

bells called for evening prayer in the fields; it was late, for that was

the season of hay-making. Then that praying monk perceived, through the

small window, a great red globe hastening down behind the tower of St.

Margaret's Church and, with a sudden deepening, twilight and shadows

filled that long room because of the opaque and coloured windows.

And ever as the monk prayed there, he was pervaded by the image of his

cousin's face--Passerose of Widdrington she had been called, for she was

held to exceed the rose in beauty. In that darkness where he knelt he

was pervaded by the thought of her face with the hair divided in the

middle, the smooth brow, the so kind eyes and the parted lips. He knew

she must be in purgatory for that space, for he had killed her with an

arrow in the woodlands, unassoiled, and he could not consider that his

prayers yet had sufficed to save her so little as five hundred years of

that dread place. Yet, tho' he knew her to be in purgatory, in those

dark shadows he had a sense that she was near him so that he could hear

the rustle of her weed moving around him. She had loved green that is

very dark in shadowy places. A great longing seized upon him to stretch

out his arms and so to touch her. Then he remembered that it was that

face that had looked kindly in upon him in his cell, and he groaned and

cried upon our Saviour and His Mother to save him from such carnal

longings. He had much loved his kind cousin whilst he had been a rough

knight of this world. Many had loved her, but he alone remembered, and

he considered how she that had been most beautiful was now no more than

a horrible and grinning skull, God so willing it with all beauty that is

of this world and made of the red blood that courses through the veins.

At the sound that he then gave forth he heard another sound which was

that of the Bishop where he stirred upon his bed. And, in the deep

shadows, he was aware that that Bishop sat up and looked upon him. And

at last John Sherwood, Bishop Palatine spoke, his voice being harsh and

first.

"Brother in God," he said, "I have determined that this Young Lovell

shall have my absolution and blessing upon his arms and the sacrament of

knighthood and all the things of this world that you desired for him.

Touching the things that are not of this world I will not say much, but

only such matters as shall suffice for your guidance. For of these

matters I know somewhat and you nothing at all."

The Bishop paused and the monk said humbly:

"Father in God and my lord, I thank you."

"I lately rebuked you," the Bishop said, "for meddling brutishly in

things of which you knew nothing. For you cried out to me ignorant and

rustic superstitions, such as it is not fitting for a religious to

meditate upon. And so I rebuke you again and I command you that you ask

of your confessor such a penance as he shall think fitting for one that

has miserably blasphemed, and in a manner of doctrine.... Now this I

tell you for your guidance.... This apparition that you have seen and I,

appeareth with many faces and bodies, being the spirit that most snareth

men to carnal desires. So doth she show herself to each man in the

image that should snare him to sin, with a face, kind, virtuous and

alluring after each man's tastes. That is the nature of such false

gods. For this is a false god, such as I have discerned you never, in

your black ignorance, to have heard of. But Holy Writ, which I have

much studied and you very little, after the fashion of certain monks,

enjoins upon us to believe in the existence of false gods. So there are

ever strange and cold creatures, looking upon this world with steadfast

eyes. For Lucretius says, that was a writer, pagan yet half inspired:

'The universe is very large and in it there is room for a multitude of

gods.' So I rede you, believe of false gods."

"Father in God, I will," the monk said, "I perceive it to be my duty.

For now I remember me the Church enjoins upon us to be constant in

fighting against such, therefore they must exist."

"Then this too I command you as a duty," the Bishop said from the thick

darkness, "that for the duration of his life you quit never this knight

but be ever with him, seeking how you may win him from the perception of

this evil being. For signing of the cross shall not do it, neither

shall sprinklings with holy water such as avail with the spirits of men

deceased or with Satan and such imps. For this is even a god and the

only way you may prevail against it is by keeping the mind of your

penitent upon the things of this world of God. If you shall perceive

this form of a woman here or there you shall speak to him quickly of

setting up an oratory, or charity to the poor, or riding, in the name of

God, against the false Scots. This shall avail little, but somewhat it

may. Do you mark me?"

"Father in God," the monk said, "you put me in much better heart than I

was before. For if I may, I will tell you how once I have done."

So the monk, from the darkness, told the Bishop how for the second time

he had seen that lady. This was upon the road below Eshot Hill, going

to Morpeth, near the farmhouse called Helm. Here, as he rode with the

Young Lovell, a little before his men, he had seen that lady come out of

a little wood and mount upon a white horse with a great company of

damsels upon horses about her. And so all that many, brightly clad,

rode down to a little hillock and watched that lording pass them, all

smiling together. So that monk for the first time had been afraid that

this was no St. Katharine and no angel of God.

But the Young Lovell had gone drooping in the hot sun and thirsting

within himself and had not seen that lady. And at first that monk had

wished to pull out his breviary and bid the Young Lovell read a prayer

in it. But in his haste he could not come upon it amongst his robes for

he was riding upon a mule. So, in that same haste, he had made certain

lines with his finger nail upon the saddle before him and commanded the

Young Lovell to look upon them saying it was a plan of Castle Lovell

that he scratched, and the White Tower. And to have money, he told the

Young Lovell, that lord must go with a boat to below the White Tower

where it stood in the sea. And so Richard Raket should lower him gold

in baskets at the end of a rope.

And the Young Lovell had looked down upon these markings attentively and

said it was a good plan and never looked up at that lady and her company

who sat there, all smiling, until they were passed.

"Well, she can bide her time," the Bishop said; then he said: "Brother

in God, I have never seen this Young Lovell, but I perceive that he must

be fair in his body."

"He is the fairest man of his body that ever I saw," the monk answered,

"And as I have heard said by servants that went to meet him and his

father, to Venice, he was esteemed the fairest man that those parts, as

all the world, ever saw. But how that may be I know not."

"You may say he is the fairest knight of Christendom," the Bishop said.

"That is very certain. I know it that have never seen this lord....

But so it is that I see you are not so great a fool as I had thought.

And it is ever in such ways that you shall deal with this Young Lovell

as you did then."

"I will very well do that, if I may," the monk said. "And if I may do

nothing more I will spit upon that foul demon who without doubt beneath

a fair exterior beareth a beak or snout, claws, and filthy scales...."

"Nay do not do that," the Bishop said, "for if God who is the ancient of

days permitteth these false gods to walk upon this godly earth that is

His, shall we not think that they are in some sort His guests? Or so I

think, for I do not know."

So by that hour both these churchmen were very hungry and weary too.

For that reason the fury was gone out of them, and it was ten at night.

So the Bishop called for torches in the gallery and went into a little

refectory that he had in that part of the Castle. Whilst these two ate

heartily together, the Bishop sent messengers to the higher officers of

the monastery to rouse them from their beds and to say that shortly

after midnight, as soon as they might, the Prince Bishop begged them to

rise from their sleep and sing a _Te Deum_ in the cathedral, upon a very

special occasion.

In the black cathedral, near the steps that pass into the choir, the

Young Lovell knelt. Beside him, since he was so great a lord, stood the

esquire Cressingham supporting his banner and his shield and having in

his arm the helmet of state. There were lay brothers up before the

altar, moving into place a great statue of Our Lady that ran upon

wheels. This they were bringing from near the North door to stand before

the high altar. This statue was twelve foot high of brass gilt and, the

better to see, these lay brothers had placed a candle upon Our Lady's

crown. That was all the light there was in the great space that smelt

of incense and was sooty black.

As near as she might to the black line in the floor--beyond this no

woman may go in the cathedral of Durham and even Queen Eleanor of

Aquitaine had been beaten with rods by the monks when she passed it to

join King Edward--beyond this line knelt the Lady Margaret of Glororem

in the darkness, and behind a pillar was the lawyer Stone who would fain

speak some words with the Young Lovell. For he wished to have sold the

people of Castle Lovell to him if the Young Lovell would pay him a small

price.

The lawyer had waited all that night from seven or earlier.

Then a little noise began to be heard in the great cathedral, and two

little boys came in and lit candles by the North door and then came a

page bearing a great sword. He leant it against a vast pillar and began

to laugh with the little boys that had lit the candles. Then there came

in the Bishop with his chaplain and the monk Francis.

So the Bishop went and stood before the Young Lovell and said he had

permission of them of the monastery to hear that lord confess himself

there where he knelt. So the esquire Cressingham removed himself to a

distance and drove away the little boys when they would have approached.

And so the Bishop absolved the Young Lovell and bade him rise from his

knees and go with him to where the Lady Margaret of Glororem knelt in

darkness.

Her too he bade rise from her knees, and so walked up and down between

them, saying comfortable things and exhorting them, when the Pope should

have given them licence, to marry one another and live faithful each to

each and to be charitable and piteous to the poor and be good children

of Holy Church. And so by twos and threes monks began to come in, and,

going behind the high altar, they sang a mass with a _Te Deum_, for it

was just past midnight.

Then the Prior of that monastery placed between the lips of the Young

Lovell the flesh of our Lord. The Prior wished to do this that he might

do honour to that young lord, and that great boon of giving him the

sacrament. And, afterwards, with the sword that page had brought,

sitting in his stall the Bishop made a Knight of that lord.

In that way the Young Lovell had his knighthood and his pardon.