Silver Cross. Mary Johnston
and half-sick! So for one instant, good friends, the devil had his ear! It is naught—he will shake the fiend off. Hurt him not by mistrusting him! Presently will you see him on pilgrimage himself to Saint Leofric’s!”
Montjoy, dry-voiced, tried to speak. He was dark red, his voice broke in his throat. Suddenly, sharply turning Black King, he touched him with his heel and rode from the market place. “See you, he is really a sick man!” cried Somerville and pushed his bay after him. Sir Humphrey followed, and Montjoy’s two serving men.
Middle Forest knew the lord of the castle for an encreasingly devout man. It could not even now see him as scoffer. Sir Robert Somerville, now, was much more like a scoffer than was Montjoy! For a moment folk hung in the wind, then the larger number agreed to give Montjoy the benefit of the doubt. Probably to-morrow he would come praising Saint Leofric! Envious Satan did attack each one in turn! The buzz and hum continued, but it left the key of anger. The Black Friar, having vindicated the right, climbed triumphantly the stair to the upper street.
On castle road where the Wander road diverged Montjoy abruptly said good night. His voice was moved, sonorous, thrilling with hurt pride. He seemed eager to leave them, to mount to his old castle that was not so large, not so threatening, after all!
When he was gone Somerville laughed, and Sir Humphrey complaisantly with him. They trotted on upon the Wander road, a great manor house and supper before them, three miles up the vale. “When all’s spoken,” said Somerville, “I have a back-handed liking for that lord that’s just left us! I like him enough inwardly to quarrel with him, and frustrate him, and make sure that he thinks not too well of himself! I preoccupy myself with him. The day is stale when I run not somehow against him! What miracle he decrys, will I cry up; or what he cries up, will I decry!”
He began to whistle, sweet and clear as a blackbird.
“Lyken I wander
My love for to see—
My love for to see
On a May morning,
Where she goes dressed
In cramoisie—”
CHAPTER V
Not on a May but on a June morning—five days in fact after his supper at the house of Morgen Fay—Master Thomas Bettany found himself some miles up the Wander, and with him, riding the gray mare, a bale of sample cloths strapped to saddle, John Cobb the apprentice, with whom, when he did not think to be stiff, he was upon the best of terms. He was up the Wander upon business for his father, that rich merchant who would one day leave him house and gear and trade. Then would he himself, Thomas Bettany, be Middle Forest merchant—who wanted only to sail for the New World that one Columbus had recently discovered!
He rode absorbed in discontent. Finally he again took up speech with John Cobb.
“It’s a dull life! I wish something would happen—anything!”
“There be the miracles.”
“I haven’t any hand in them. You can’t be interested unless you’re doing something yourself.—I’d rather be a robber than just trotting from shop and trotting back again.—Hist, John! What’s behind yon tree?”
“Where?”
“There! A big, black man! Two—four, five! Draw your weapon, man!”
John struck hand to the dirk at his waist. His eyes enlarged, his lips clapped shut. Then, “They bain’t but little fir trees!—You’re grinning!—Your pranking and mystery-playing’ll break you one day!”
“I wish it had been Robin Hood—”
They rode through the wood. It was a bright morn after rain. The trees showered them with diamonds, the world smelled like a pomander box. When they were out from the trees and amid tilled land every blade of springing grain carried jewels. Far up in a light blue sky a lark was singing.
“By’re lady!” said John Cobb. “If I were taken up by Somerville and went to sup with Morgen Fay, I’d not be saying life was dull!”
“He nor no one else has ‘taken me up.’ His uncle married my father’s cousin. Bettany’s a name that has sounded well since long time. My father helped him, too, with monies—but that’s nothing either!—Somerville and I are friends.”
“Like you and me?”
“No!—His being ‘Sir Robert’ and older doesn’t make any difference.”
He was superbly sure of that and rode with his blond head up like a youthful, adventurous king. “As for Morgen Fay, I’d think more of her if I hadn’t seen last Candlemas—you know whom!”
“That’s Mistress Cecily. She’s a fair one! But I don’t believe she’s pricked your heart much either. You’re just for the New World and men and adventure. It would make me proud though to sup with Morgen Fay.”
“Oh, you’ll never, my poor John! I tell you what she’s like. She’s like something you see in poetry. But Cecily walked in first, into my keep and hold. Besides, I wouldn’t interfere with Robert.”
“Robert!” John Cobb could but admire, while Master Thomas Bettany tossed his clear whistle up to the lark singing.
So many birds were singing! The two were now riding by the Wander, through Westforest land. Mounting a little hill they saw below them monastery walls and roofs, not a large place, set among trees by the water’s side. Some of the old forest held here.
Their business was with Westforest. The house of Bettany sold Silver Cross and Westforest woollen cloth for monks’ gowns. Presently they were at the gate. The porter opened to them, and the stable Brother took their horses, and a third Brother carried them to the guest house where they were set in a room. All was very grave and in order. Master Thomas Bettany at the window heard bells and saw the monks pacing two by two. He had never before been to Westforest. Saint Ethelred in Middle Forest was his church. Neither with any sufficiency did he know Silver Cross. He had been five times perhaps, when there was festival, in the great church. Only this year was his father using him thus in business.
The monk reappeared and had them to the refectory where they were served with ale and bread and cheese. Thence they went to a business-like room where met them Brother Oswald, steward and purchaser for the Priory. He gave Master Thomas Bettany good greeting, and John Cobb a shorter one. John Cobb opened the bale of cloths.
Business advanced. A Brother appeared to do duty as steward’s clerk. Thomas Bettany turned into merchant not unshrewd. He did things with his might, when he could be brought to do them at all. Now he pictured and bargained and was not behind Brother Oswald in ability.
The hour and more of marketing passed. Brother Oswald, straightening himself from the table at last, paid his compliment. “No manner of doubt, my son, but that you be merchant, son of merchant!”
“If Westforest be not content—”
“Oh, we are content.”
“—and I have here,” said the younger Bettany, “the fine white wool—”
“That is for reverend father the Prior to see. Let your man take it up and we will go to the parlour.”
They crossed the cloister to a large, well-windowed room that gave upon walled garden. On a bench without sat a monk with book and rosary, and he would get audience for them with reverend father. Presently the inner door opened and Prior Matthew stood before them. Thomas Bettany and John Cobb kneeled for his blessing, and when that was had John Cobb spread the table with lengths of fine white cloth. The Prior chose, nor was long about it. The Abbot of Silver Cross loved finery, dressing much like a lord of this world. But Prior Matthew scorned all that and kept near in apparel to ancient simplicities.
Selection