Chapter V

It was the eve of our Lord’s Nativity. The dusk was falling like a grey powder on the wide waste stretches of snow; the distant forests and barren hills were already hidden in an ashen darkness. A single light shone warm and red from the village in the valley. No wind blew; it was very still and bitterly cold. The leper women stood in the highroad, a score of hideous, withered creatures, like phantoms embodied from foulness and decay. They gathered their filthy and scanty rags about them to defend them as they might from the nipping air. Some blew upon their meagre fingers, some feebly struck their bony palms together, some shuffled their swathed feet upon the snow. Their breath froze upon their blue lips.

‘There will be no more travellers this way to-night,’ said one, ‘it grows dark apace.’

‘God’s malison upon them,’ cried another. ‘It’s precious little, when they do come, that they give us. A cursed day may the Holy Day be to them all; may all whole folk rot piecemeal, as we do,’ and she shook her corroded arms fiercely in the air.

‘Ah,’ quoth Alice, looking toward the village. ‘There were good and kindly folk once. I doubt but they are all gone now.’

One of the women laughed, screaming shrilly. ‘What, thou fool? Didst ever hear of a leper’s friends? Why, the Lord Almighty Himself deserts us and lives with rich men in the warm houses.’

‘Hush, thou blasphemest,’ cried another. ‘Look, Christ is good, here come other wayfarers.’

Sturdily over the snow rode a young knight in armour that shone like gold. His horse was black as coal, with crimson trappings. Behind him a squire bore his broad pennon and there followed ten well-mounted men-at-arms, with bright spears and shields. At the noble’s side rode a lady on a white palfrey. She was richly dressed in ermine and vair and cloth of brocade and gold. Her face was as fair as spring-time and glowed like a rose with the sharp exercise of riding. The hoofs of the horses sounded dully on the hard-frozen snow, and the laughter of the woman pierced through the air like the clear note of a bell.

Sir Philip of Gisburn returned from France, and with him travelled the fair lady Margot, the queen of love and delight.

‘Money, money, for the love of Heaven, money,’ whined the lepers.

‘Beautiful lady, money for the poor lepers.’

‘Largesse, noble knight and gentles all.’

‘For Christ’s sake a trifle, a miserable coin, good gentlemen.’

‘May the Holy Virgin bless you a thousand times for each of your alms.’

‘We will pray for you night and day for a penny, a single penny.’

They clacked their clacks and held out their wooden dishes.

‘Holy Mother, what foul creatures are these?’ cried Margot, shrinking upon her saddle. ‘But, poor souls, I pity them from my heart.’

‘Keep back, keep back, ye hags!’ cried Sir Philip, making his stout charger rear and plunge from left to right among them. ‘Out of my way, woman,’ he cried to Alice, who stood in the way with extended dish.

At the sound of his voice she looked up into his face, gave a little cry, and shuffled quickly back before the French woman’s palfrey.

‘Poor soul!’ quoth Margot, and unfastening her silken purse she threw a silver penny toward her. ‘Pray for me,’ she said.

The cavalcade moved quickly on over the snow. Their merry laughter and talk rang clear upon the air, growing fainter and fainter as they descended the hill path toward the village.

‘Umph,’ said Sir Philip to the fair Margot, ‘I seem to have seen that wench’s face before, somewhere. Lo, the church steeple; we have made a good journey.’

The leper women mumbled among themselves in groups. ‘Let’s home,’ said one to Alice. ‘There’ll be no more to come by to-night; it grows dark apace. Here’s enough to stay our bellies on to-morrow.’

Alice’s laugh echoed wild and shrill over the snow.

‘Ay, home, home,’ she cried. ‘The French harlot hath given me a penny; the French harlot hath given me a penny.’

How the Devil stole the Pyx from Saint Osbert’s Church

At Easter this year Sir Geoffrey gave unto the parish church to have and to keep for ever a fair silver pyx, wherein to preserve the Blessed Body of Christ, which said vessel was beset about with many precious gems and wrought with the utmost cunning of art, so that the fame thereof spread into the country round, and many folk came many miles solely to gaze upon it.

The Martinmas following came one Master Montalto to the village, giving himself out to be a great master of physic and surgery from Paris and Naples and other Universities across the seas. He gained much credence with the people, inasmuch as he spoke with a wonderful gift of words, and was by his own confession far seen in the medicinal learning of the Moors and other heathen peoples. He lodged at the hostelry with Meg Dogtooth, and on holidays was wont to stand in the market-place and to speak to such as gathered round in the Greekish, Moorish, and Arabic tongues, and that with such astounding fluency that he never was at a loss for a single word. Also he sold there a most potent and magical elixir, which could restore nature to those sick of disease or wasted by process of age.

There accompanied him one Martin, his servant, whose tongue never tired of magnifying and extolling the Doctor’s skill and learning. This fellow, amongst other things, said that his master had cured Prester John’s daughter of an imposthume in the neck, which she had had seven years, and which the Royal College of Physicians had despaired of; that he had restored sight to a certain blind pilgrim who had vainly spent his substance and fifteen years in seeking aid at the blessed shrines of Walsingham, Compostella, and elsewhere; and that he had also made whole of the leprosy a noble lady of Maguntium in High Germany.

This almost incredible skill of the Doctor gave many in the village to suppose that he dealt in magic and kindred unlawful arts, and this seemed the more probable inasmuch as the two weeks he remained in the village he went not once to church, whereby neglecting an observance which is strictly enjoined on all Christian men. Of this took especial note Master Bailiff, who was Churchwarden that year.

Now one evening the Bailiff sat by the hostel fire talking with Meg Dogtooth, when who should come in but man Martin, and would not be gainsaid but the Bailiff must drink with him? When they had somewhat drunk together the Bailiff laid gentle complaint to Martin that his master, the Doctor, was over lax in his duty to Holy Mother Church.

‘And for that I am right sorry, Master Bailiff,’ said Martin, ‘but, alas, he hath grown wondrous moody and passionate of late. Of a night he doth not sleep, but walketh aye up and down our chamber, wringing his hands, striking his breast and head, moaning and crying out on Our Blessed Lady and the Saints. I cannot persuade him to peace and quietness; he is sore troubled, and for my part I know not what to think. He groweth as thin as a Lenten herring and as pale as a wax candle, and he the greatest master of physic in the whole world. ’Tis a sad sight for these eyes of mine, I warrant thee.’

‘Belike he hath some naughty matter on his conscience,’ quoth the Bailiff cunningly. ‘Maudlin of the Crossways was sorely troubled in like manner when she could not make full confession for shame.’

‘Lo, Master Bailiff, I see indeed my master was right yesterday, when he said thou wert “vir doctissimus,” which in the vulgar tongue betokeneth a man most wise and sagacious. By Our Lady, thou persuadest me to thine opinion. My master hath power over the body but none over the soul, and therein lieth his sore. Would God there were some good man of religion in the town to whom he might disclose himself.’

‘Why, good Martin, there is Sir John, our priest. I never knew an honester man of his cloth.’

‘Sayest thou so, good sir? Then am I much beholden to thee for thy good counsel, and right glad would I be to perform thy counsel every whit. But alas, how might we come at Sir John? My master is proud as the Devil himself, and, God forgive him, Master Bailiff, loveth not priests.’

‘I’faith, that shall be easily managed. Knowest thou not I am Churchwarden?’

‘Marry, I knew thou wert much esteemed of the townsfolk.’

‘Ay, ay, let it pass if I am. I will deal with Sir John; do thou deal with thy master and I warrant we shall bring them together. The Parson and I would patch up thy Master’s soul, were it rotten as Northern cloth.’

‘The Saints bless thee, Master Bailiff. Would I might persuade the good Doctor to thy counsel, but, alack, I have not thy silver tongue and subtle reasonings; the Blessed Virgin knows I am a poor creature.’

‘Why, good Martin, thou hast only to open thy mouth.’

‘Ay, ay, thou talkest an I were a man of thy own coinage, when I am but base metal. But, good Master Bailiff, wouldst thou but step to his chamber, where he sits even now moodily brooding all alone, I have no manner of doubt but thou wouldst prevail with him, especially if thou wouldst but consent to go with him to Sir John and join thy advice to that of the Parson.’

The Bailiff hemmed twice or thrice, stroked his beard, and emptied his tankard.

‘Well, well, young man,’ he said, ‘e’en lead me to thy master.’