FM Peard (continued 3)

“Hadst thou met with so much unkindness here, that thou couldst not trust us to do what was best?” asked Gervase gravely.

“I thought—” began Hugh, and stopped.

“And how came you idle?” Elyas demanded more sternly.

“He ever gave me such foolish work! He would not hearken when I said I could do better!” burst out Hugh. “Master, only let me try, and you will see.”

“Perhaps,” returned Elyas. “But there are things that I value more, ay, and thy father would have valued more, than fair carving. Thou hast got thy life to shape, Hugh, rough stone to hew and carve into such a temple as the Master loves. All the best work that we can do with our tools is but a type of this. And what sort of carving was this rebellion of thine?”

He would say no more, being one of those who leave their words to sink in. But after, when he came up to see the boy, he would choose for his talk tales of men who had become great through mastery of themselves. And when he found how Hugh’s thoughts ran upon King Edward, he spoke of him, and how he had tamed that strong nature of his which might have led him into tyrannical acts, so that at whatever cost to himself he followed faithfully that which was right and just. And he told the story of how once, when he had been unjust towards an attendant, he punished his own hasty temper by fining himself twenty marks.

“This it is which makes him great,” added Elyas.

“And thou hast seen and spoken with him? The more need to follow him.”

“Saw you ever the king, goodman?”

“Ay, truly; ten or eleven years ago he and the queen held Parliament here at Christmas. Great doings were there, and it was then the bishop got leave to fence the close with walls. I like them not myself, they shut out the fair view of the western front; but after the precentors murder the chapter sought greater security. There is talk of the king coming again next month. If he does I warrant he will bring a sore heart, remembering who was with him last time.”

“And the queen was fair, goodman?”

“Fair and sweet beyond telling. All that looked at her loved her.”

Hugh never got worse reproach for his conduct, but by listening to these tales of Master Gervase’s with talk of men who took not their own wild wills, but a high ideal of duty for their standard, he grew to be ashamed of it, and to have a longing for the time when he might go to work again in a different spirit. And he changed in his conduct to Wat, who was ever full of awkward good-will.

It was much as Elyas had foretold. By Christmas time Hugh was up, though too feeble to enter into all the merry-making and holiday-keeping of the time; nor, indeed, could he so much as go out with the others when, at two of the morning, the moonlight shining, the rime hanging to the elms and just whitening the roof of the Cathedral, they all set forth for the parish church of St. Martin’s. Wat came back blowing his blue fingers and stamping on the ground, but radiant with the promise that next year in the mumming he should be St. George himself.

“Rob the ostler says so, and he knows.”

“Thou wast the hobby-horse last night,” said Hugh with a laugh.

“Ay, and I am weary of the hobby-horse, of prancing up and down, and being hit with no chance of hitting back again. But, St. George! what wouldst thou give, Hugh, to be a knight all in shining armour, and to slay the Dragon?”

New Year’s Eve was the great day for gifts; Joan had a number of toys and sweetmeats, and Hugh gave her a kind of cup and ball, which he had managed to carve for her, though with trembling fingers, after the recollection of one which had been shown to his father by a merchant travelling from China, or Cathay, as it was then called. It was a dainty little toy, and Gervase examined it closely, feeling that Hugh had some reason for fretting against the monotonous work to which Franklyn condemned him. But Elyas had no thought of interfering. He believed it would be wholesome discipline for the boy to have to work his way upward by force of perseverance and obedience, each step so taken would be a double gain; he had time enough before him, and should prove his powers to Franklyn by his own efforts. Meanwhile he kept him with him a good deal, and took him one day to the Cathedral to see the progress which had been made.

Hugh could not rest without going everywhere, and then was so tired that, while Gervase went off to inspect some of the masons’ work, he curled himself up upon one of the misereres and fell asleep. He awoke with a start to find himself looked down upon by a kindly-faced man in an ecclesiastical dress, though this last was not of the sumptuous character at that time worn. Other ecclesiastics were moving about the building. Hugh started to his feet, but the priest, whoever he was, seemed in no way displeased at his presence.

“Thou art a pale-faced urchin,” he said good-humouredly; “have thy friends left thee behind and forgotten thee?”

“Nay, reverend sir,” said Hugh, “I am Master Gervase’s apprentice.”

“I always heard he was an easy man, and so he suffers his apprentices to sleep in working hours? But it is he for whom we were searching, and if thou wilt go forth and find him for me, thou mayest earn a silver penny.”

Hugh had some little difficulty in discovering Elyas, who had climbed a scaffolding to examine the work close at hand. He hurried down when he had heard Hugh’s report, saying that it was doubtless the bishop, and bidding the boy follow him.

The three bishops who succeeded each other in the see of Exeter, Quivil, Bitton, and Stapledon, have each left their mark upon the Cathedral. Quivil’s share was the most important; it was he who by the insertion of large windows formed the transepts, and to whom we owe the beautiful and unbroken line of vaulting. Bitton was only fifteen years at Exeter, but he carried on the designs of his predecessor with enthusiastic loyalty, and completed the eastern end of the choir. It was this on which he constantly desired to consult Gervase.

“The work goes on well,” he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands. “You have caught the true spirit. We shall never see our glorious Church finished, goodman, yet it is something to feel that we shall have left behind us something towards it. Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine virtutum! I like the lightness of that stonework, and mine eye is never weary of following the noble lines of vaulting. Only I shall not rest until something has been designed to unite it with the pillars. There is a blank look which offends me.”

“I see it, too, my lord. Is it not the very place for a richly carved surs (corbel)?”

“Ay, that is it, that is it! A corbel which should spring from the pillar, and follow the line of the arch. We must reflect on this, Master Gervase, and they shall be of finest cutting, and each varying from the other. But we may not think of this yet awhile, for truly there is enough on hand to call for all thy skill and industry. How fair it looks, with the winter sunshine striking on the fair stonework! Non nobis, Domine!”

One or two of the canons had by this time closed up, and began to speak of what had been done.

“When the western end is brought to equal the eastern,” said one of them, William Pontington by name, “there will be no church in our land more fair. What will the king say?”

“The king is not in the best of humours with his clergy,” said the chaunter or precentor, a little dried-up man, with a sour face. “What think you, my lord, of the archbishop’s mandate?”

The good bishop looked uneasy. Winchilsey, Archbishop of Canterbury, was a turbulent and ambitious prelate, and the king, though sincerely religious, was forced to be ever on the watch against encroachments made by Pope Boniface, and supported by the archbishop, which threatened the royal supremacy. The strongest attempt of all had just been put forth in a bull from the pope, “forbidding the clergy to grant to laymen any part of the revenues of their benefices without the permission of the Holy See.” Now as the kings of England had ever the right of taxing the clergy with the rest of their subjects, as the possessions of the Church were enormous, and papal taxation of the whole kingdom far exceeded the taxation by the State, so that in a few years the pope is said to have received money from England equal to nine millions of our present money, Edward promptly resisted this fresh and unheard-of claim. He did so by a simple and effectual counter-stroke. It was announced at Westminster that whatever complaint was brought to the court by the archbishops, bishops, or clergy, “no justice should be done them,” and this withdrawal of State protection speedily led the clergy to offer their submission to the king, in spite of the anger of pope and archbishop.

But the dissension had placed them on the horns of a dilemma, and Bishop Bitton had no liking for speech on the subject. He muttered something in answer to the precentor’s injudicious question, and turned to Hugh, who was standing a short way from the group.

“There is thy penny for thee,” said the bishop, beckoning to him, “and now tell me, sir apprentice, whether thou art a good lad, and learning thy craft fairly and truly, so that in time thou mayest have thy share in this great work of ours?”

Hugh coloured crimson, and looked down, and Elyas came to his rescue.

“He hath not been with me yet three months, my lord, so please you, and half that time hath been ill; but he is the child of the wood-carver of whom I spoke, and, if he is industrious, I have good hope he will credit his father.”

“And what part wilt thou choose for thy share?” asked the bishop, with a wave of his gloved hand towards roof and walls.

“The corbels, my lord,” answered Hugh, boldly. Bitton looked delighted.

“So thou hast caught our words, and wilt bespeak the work thyself? Well, I shall not forget. Learn with all thy might, and, who knows, some day thy carving may help to decorate this our Church of St. Peter’s?”

After this, when the bishop caught sight of Hugh, he never failed to speak to him and ask how his learning fared. And hearing from Elyas that the boy could read and write, he arranged that on Sundays he should come to the Kalendarhay, where one of the Kalendar brothers instructed him.

When Twelfth-Night was over, Hugh went back to the yard, where work was expected to go on vigorously after the feasting and mirth of that season, which was loud and boisterous. On the eve the town was full of minstrels, who carried huge bowls of wassail—ale, sugar, nutmegs, and roasted apples—to the houses of the well-to-do inhabitants, and Wat, as it may be conceived, had his full share in these doings. In the country there was a curious pagan ceremony kept up in Devonshire on this night, for at the farms the farmer and his men would carry a great pitcher of cider into the orchard, and choosing the best bearing tree, walk solemnly round it, and drink its health three times.

Master Gervase grew somewhat red and shamefaced when his wife reminded him that he had often been the pitcher-bearer on his father’s farm.

“It was there I first saw thee,” she said, “and my mother pointed thee out, and said thou wast as strong as Edulf.”

“Who was Edulf?” asked Hugh of Wat, under his breath.

“The strongest man that ever lived. He came to Exeter in a rage, and broke the iron gate with his two hands,” expounded Wat, stuffing a large piece of pasty into his mouth.

“The strongest man that ever lived was Samson,” said Hugh, dogmatically.

“Samson! Nobody ever heard of him, and I tell thee Edulf was the strongest.”

The quarrel might have grown, but that Franklyn growled at them to hush their unmannerly prating; and Joan announced in her clear, decided voice that Agrippa should have his special Twelfth-night spice-cake. For in spite of her mother’s loud remonstrances, the monkey had been taken into Joan’s heart of hearts, and, it was certain, was secure from any sentence of banishment.

Franklyn had been a good deal shocked by Hugh’s flight and illness, but, as was natural, the impression passed away as the little apprentice regained his health, and Elyas saw that he was not inclined to change his treatment. For the reasons already given, the master had no thought of interfering, it was for the boy now to prove what stuff he had in him. It was a sort of ordeal through which he had to pass; an ordeal which might develop patience, resolution, and the humility of a true artist, and though Gervase told himself that he would be on the watch, ready with words of encouragement when they were needed, he held back from more. Hugh had the same rough, uninteresting work to toil upon—indeed the stone had been set aside for his return; the same careful explanations of how to handle his tools and make his strokes, which he took to be a reflection on his father’s teaching; the same lack of praise. But now he brought to it a more cheerful spirit, hope was astir; he felt sure that the master was watching his efforts, and that it rested with himself and his own perseverance to make his way. It was not easy. Often he grew hot and angry; often he was tempted into careless work; but he would not give up trying, and upon the whole held on very fairly.

Then, in spite of his awkwardnesses and a dense stupidity about his work, Wat was a good-natured companion, ready to take any trouble and to carry any blame. He had been so often told by Franklyn that he would never rise to more than a mason, that he had grown to accept the verdict against which Hugh was always trying to make him rebel.

“He knows best,” he would say, hammering loosely at the stone.

“What an oaf thou art, Wat! It all rests with thyself. Franklyn should never make me a mason.”

“Because—there, I have chipped it!” scratching his head in dismay.

“And small wonder! Give me thy tool, which thou holdest as the goodwife holds her knife—so!”

“If I thought it were any use—” began the disconsolate Wat.

“Try and see.”

“And thou thinkest I might catch the trick of it?”

“Try. There, now go on. Thou knowest as well as any how to hold the tools.”

So far as impatience and calling of names went Hugh was a harder taskmaster than Franklyn, but he put more energy into his teaching, and dragged the reluctant Wat along by sheer force of will, the result being that, though he got no praise for himself, some fell to his pupil, which really pleased him as much as if it had been the other way.

Wat was the great purveyor of news; no one knew how he picked up his information, but nothing happened in the city but it somehow reached his ears before it was half an hour old. He knew of all the quarrels between the bishop and chapter and the mayor and his twenty-four councillors or aldermen, and how two of the canons fell upon two of the bailiffs and pommelled them vigorously, before even the mayor’s wife had been informed of the scandal. He it was who reported the falling out between Sir Baldwin de Fulford and his wife, because she wanted an extravagantly fine chaplet of gold, the cost of which displeased him. It seemed that there were great expenses she led him into, for they had glass over from France for their windows, and forks for dinner, and many such luxuries, and each one Wat knew quite well—though how, no one ever knew. And at last, one day in January, when there had been a fall of snow which whitened all the roofs, and gave great joy to the prentice lads, Wat rushed in, powdered over with snow, so full of news that he could scarce keep from shouting it out as he ran, and so intent upon that and nothing else that he rushed up against Mistress Prothasy, and sent the dish of roasted apples she was carrying out of her hand. She gave him a sound box in his ear, and told him he should have no apples for supper. But even this threat could not compose Wat, well as he loved roasted apples.

“Truly, good wife,” he said, breathlessly, as he picked them up, “thou must forgive me this time for my news.”

“What news?” said Prothasy crossly. “Thou hast ever some foolish tale in thy idle head.”

“This is no foolish news,” cried Wat, triumphantly. “King Edward is on his way!”

“Nay!”

“Ay, mistress, it is true. He is at Bristol, and comes here in four days’ time, and the mayor is almost out of his wits, and there will be a banquet at the Guildhall, and the Baron of Dartington and Lord Montacute and Sir Richard de Alwis and my Lord of Devon are making ready to ride to meet the king, and all the saddlers and armourers are rushing from one end of the city to the other, and there will be feasting and bonfires, and we prentices are to stand in the Crollditch to shout when he comes in at the East Gate, and I warrant you none will shout lustier than I!”

“Mercy on us, thou wilt deafen me with thy chatter!” said Prothasy, clapping her hands on her ears; “but there is an apple for thee, since thy head had some reason for its turning to-day. The king so near! I must go and pull out my green kirtle.”

Chapter Ten.

Sword or Chisel?

Wat’s enthusiasm found hearty echo in the house. Roger, indeed, ever self-absorbed and eagerly bent upon his own advancement, muttered something that such shows were fit only for fools and jackanapes, but he dared say nothing of the sort aloud, when even Master Gervase himself was like a boy in his delight over the occasion. Great consultations took place between the different guilds. These guilds had flourished in Exeter from a very early period, and were founded and preserved on strong religious lines. Chief and earliest among them were the merchant guilds. Craft guilds grew up later, not, as in other countries, opposed to the merchants, but under their authority, formed merely to promote and regulate matters belonging to their own crafts. Master and wardens met regularly in the common hall, and every full craftsman worth twenty shillings might be a brother. Generally there was a distinctive dress, or, at any rate, hood. The guilds took care that their members bore good characters, and there were heavy penalties for bad words, or what was called “misquoting.” No one might work without leave of the wardens. No one might undersell a craft brother. The guilds arranged that all goods received a fair price, and that they were of the best quality. An excellent technical education was provided, and the tools that were used were closely inspected. Women might have part in the guilds, widows being allowed to carry on their business under their protection. There were also craft courts to which all complaints were brought, and it will be easily understood how much guilds had to do with the local government of a town.

It was now necessary to organise a banquet to be given to the king, and a day of feasting and rejoicing for the poor, and Gervase was very busy over the arrangements. Frost and snow still continued, but flags and gay hangings were profusely used, and nothing could have been more picturesque than the narrow streets with their beautiful black-timbered houses, snow on the steep roofs, and all manner of bright colours hanging from windows and carved balconies. The only thing there was doubt about was the sun, but after an hour or two of hesitation in the morning, it broke out in full brilliancy, giving the final touch to a gay pageant of moving colour, of which we in England now have little conception.

Rougemont Castle, of course, put on its gayest face, but the chief preparations were at the East Gate, to which the road from Bristol led direct, passing by St. Sidwell’s Church. Here the king would enter, and here in Crollditch, the present Southernhay, where the Lammas fair was annually held, the apprentices intended to muster, and to see as much as they could, the greater number of the burgesses being within the gate, so as to welcome the king to the city. If it had not been for Wat, Hugh’s chance of seeing would have been small, for as the king and his knights rode up, the bigger apprentices closed tumultuously nearer, shouting with all the force of their lungs, and the lesser boys were pushed back without mercy. But Wat was a faithful friend. He held fast by Hugh, and used his own strong limbs to good effect. Opposite to them was a crowd of the poorest of the city.

“Keep thy legs, gammer—good folk, press not so closely! Here they come!”

“Alack, alack, I can see nothing!”

“There is the king on a black horse!”

“Nay, that is my Lord of Albemarle.”

“Ay, there’s the king!”

“Where? Where?”

“He rides a white horse, with the bishop by his side.”

“The saints preserve him! How he towers above them all! A proper man, indeed!”

The sight was very striking as the gallant cavalcade swept slowly into the grim shadows of the East Gate, with its walls stretching away on either side, and out into the keen sunshine beyond, where representatives from the guilds, the mayor, bailiffs, and councilmen were drawn up with every mark of pageantry. Loud shouts broke from the crowd, many cries of blessing were raised, and some appeals for “Justice, my Lord King!” were heard. All the way down the High Street the narrow way was so thronged with citizens that Edward and his train could scarcely make way, and there was time enough for Wat and Hugh to rush down a side way and get round to their master’s house before the king reached it. Joan was in the balcony with her mother craning her little neck to see the show, and beckoning to Hugh, but the boy had a design in his head; rushing up to catch Agrippa, and, when he had got him, determinedly squeezing his way to the front. In this he might not have succeeded but for the good nature of my Lord of Devon’s jester, who was a favourite in the town, and now in his motley suit had taken up his position before Master Gervase’s house. He pathetically implored the crowd to make room for his grandfather, and the roar of laughter which followed when this turned out to be the monkey secured Agrippa’s position.

Hugh’s heart beat fast as he saw the men-at-arms clearing the way with no little difficulty.

“Hold thou on to my sleeve,” whispered the good-humoured jester, “and we’ll not budge.”

He was as good as his word, and as the king passed with a smile on his grave face, for he was touched by the fervour of his welcome, Hugh and his monkey were so close that Edward’s eye fell upon him. He was certain that he was recognised, for the king’s smile deepened, and he said something to the bishop, who raised himself in his stirrups to get sight of the boy. Nor was this all. The monkey attracted the attention of the suite, and a knight suddenly reined up his horse and bent down.

“Why, thou art the little varlet that was at Stourbridge Fair! I mind me now thy father spoke of Exeter. How goes it with him? Has he a choice bit of his work that I can take back to my lady? What, dead! Nay, that is sad, but he looked scarce like to live. Thou mayest come to the bishop’s palace, where we lie, and ask for my squire, John Wakefield, if thou wilt.”

He nodded and rode on, and Hugh was besieged by inquiries of who he was, and what had led him to speak.

“Sir Thomas de Trafford,” repeated the jester. “A fair name and an honourable. Prithee forget not a poor cousin, if there be preferment to be had. I would almost renounce my cap and bells to be dubbed a knight.”

But Joan overhead was clamouring for Hugh, and Prothasy’s curiosity was getting past bearing. She had never quite believed the boy’s story of the gold noble, but all had seen the king’s amused smile of recognition, and now she questioned Hugh sharply, while he was longing to be off with Wat, who was in the thick of the crowd which had closed up on the heels of the men-at-arms, and was following the king down the High Street, for to pleasure them he rode as far as the Carfax or conduit, the central point of the city, which stood at the junction of North and South Street, where much business was transacted, before going to the quarters prepared for him in the bishop’s palace. Hugh got away at last, but he was in the rear of things, and could get no nearer than the tail of the procession, every now and then catching the gleam of armour in the distance as some corner was turned, while the people were cheering and pushing with all their might, and gathering the largesse freely distributed.

Gervase came home in high good humour, for the king had received the guild officers very cordially, and promised a hearing for the next day, the townspeople having certain matters to plead against the clergy with reference to the walls of the close—a very fruitful source of dispute.

“’Tis a pity though, goodman, that the king is lodged in the palace where the bishop will have his ear,” said Franklyn.

“Pish!” answered Elyas. “Little thou knowest of Edward if thou thinkest him to be so easily turned! He will look into the affair and judge according to right. No favour beyond that need bishop nor mayor look for. But there is no doubt that the ecclesiastics are pushing their privileges as to right of way too far, and I wish there were as good a chance of getting Countess Weir removed, and restoring the navigation of the river.”

“Father,” said Joan solemnly, “I saw the king, and I kissed him my hand.”

“Didst thou so, my popinjay? And I warrant that pleased him. He hath a Joan of his own, what thinkest thou of that?”

“Little, like me? Father, there was a beautiful shining knight that spoke to Hugh and Agrippa, and Hugh is to go to the palace to-morrow.”

So Gervase had to hear this story. He looked grave over it, for he knew what were the boy’s secret longings, and Stephen had told him of Sir Thomas de Trafford’s offer, and how it had fallen in with them. And though Hugh was his sworn apprentice, and could not be removed, yet the king, who had a high respect and liking for Sir Thomas, might ask for his release as a personal favour which the stone-cutter could not refuse. Elyas felt, moreover, that the boy’s first days of apprenticeship had not been of a kind to lead him to care overmuch for his craft. Franklyn had succeeded in making them full of discouragement, and though of late Hugh had worked steadily and well, he had been given no opportunity of getting on, and might well be out of heart. Elyas felt very doubtful as to the result of this visit, and was grieved not only because his promise to Stephen had been to do his utmost to teach him his craft, but because he really loved the boy. In those days apprentices were not treated as “hands,” they were actual members of the family. Roger was too self-absorbed to have won his master’s affection, and Wat, though he had excellent qualities, was for ever vexing Prothasy, and committing some clumsy awkwardness. Elyas was sure that Hugh had that in him which by-and-by would make his work excellent, and had set his heart upon bringing it out. Was all this hope to end?

Hugh himself was not without thoughts on the subject. The sight of the king, the half smile with which he had been recognised, had stirred up his old desires into ardent longing. Once again nothing in the world seemed so grand as to have the power of fighting, and, if needs were, dying for him. The grave earnest face, saddened by troubles which would have overwhelmed a weaker soul, fired the boy’s enthusiasm, where others complained of want of geniality. Then Sir Thomas de Trafford’s notice had crimsoned him with pleasure and brought back Dame Edith’s sweet face, with which it must be owned Prothasy’s could not compare. He was sick of mouldings and ratings, and though the Cathedral always raised a longing in him to be one of the great brotherhood of workers who were making it glorious, he felt at times a dreary conviction that the day would never come, and then the old longing to fling down hammer and chisel grew strong, and he thought that had his father but been there he would surely have yielded to his longing.

Wat was even more excited than he on the matter of this visit, begging hard to be allowed to go with him as far as the palace, and quite content with the prospect of a chance of seeing a squire, or a man-at-arms, or perhaps one of the pages who swaggered about with much contempt for sober citizens. With this hope he stayed outside the palace gate, where a crowd was collected to see the king.

Hugh’s heart beat fast, but he went boldly in and asked for John Wakefield. A sturdy, fatherly-looking squire came out, who smiled when he saw so young a visitor, and reported that the knight was in the garden where he had gone to look at the towers of the Cathedral. In parts of the garden the snow lay deep, and the pages had been amusing themselves this morning with building a snow man in one corner, but now were gone off to attend the king, and only Sir Thomas and a chaplain paced the walks. Hugh waited until they turned towards him.

“Who’s this?” said the knight stopping. “Beshrew me, but it is the monkey boy, as my little Nell persists in calling him! Knowest thou aught of him, holy father?”

“Naught, gentle sir, more than that by his dress he should be apprenticed to the Masons’ Guild—yes, and I have seen him in the Cathedral with Master Gervase.”

Beckoned to come nearer, Hugh made his reverence and stood bare-headed, while Sir Thomas questioned him upon what had befallen them: the shipwreck, his father’s death, and his present position.

“And thou wouldst sooner chip stones than be in my household? By my faith it seems a strange choice!”

Poor Hugh! It was all he could do to keep the tears back from his eyes.

“I would rather be in your household, sir, than anywhere in the world,” he said in a choked voice.

“Sayest thou so?” returned Sir Thomas loudly. “Then, wherefore not? Thy master would do me a favour, I make no doubt, and cancel thy bond, and it would pleasure my little Nell if I took thee and the monkey back with me, though I know not how Wolf would behave. Speak up, without fear, and tell me if thou art willing.”

Willing! Every longing in his heart leapt up and cried out to be satisfied. Willing! What would he not give for such a life! It danced up and down before him decked in brightest colours, while on the other side he seemed to hear Franklyn’s ceaseless rebukes, and to feel all the weariness of unsuccessful toil. Willing!

But then at that moment his eye fell upon the towers of the Cathedral, and from the building, faint but sweet, there came the sound of young voices chanting the praises of the Lord. And with the sound rushed upon him the remembrance of his father’s words, of the promise he had made, of all the wood-carver’s hopes, and fears, and longings! Could he disappoint him? He covered his face with his hands and sobbed out, “Noble sir, I would, I would, but I can not!”

“Wherefore?”

“My father—he would have me a carver.”

Sir Thomas was silent, but perhaps thinking to pleasure him, the chaplain pushed the matter.

“But thou mayest choose for thyself now that thy father is dead.”

“Nay, holy sir,” said Hugh, keeping his head down, “but I promised.”

“Nevertheless—” began the chaplain, when the knight interrupted.

“Prithee no more, father; a promise is a sacred thing, and the urchin is in the right. Keep covenant is ever the king’s word. What was thy promise, boy?”

“That I would learn the craft, and he hoped that in time I might work there,” pointing to the Cathedral. “But William Franklyn says I never shall.”

“Pay no heed to his croaking,” said Sir Thomas heartily. “Work there, ay, that shalt thou, and when I ride here again with the king, thou shalt show me what thou hast done.”

He kept the boy longer, speaking kindly, and sending him away at length with the gift of a mark, as he said, to buy a remembrance of Mistress Nell. And when he had gone he turned to the chaplain.

“That was a struggle gallantly got through,” he said. “I would I could be sure mine own Edgar would keep as loyally to my words when I am gone. But the boy prince’s example and influence are of the worst.”

And Hugh?

He had done what was right, but right doing does not always bring immediate satisfaction—very often it is the other way, and we think with regret upon what we have given up, and something within us suggests that we have been too hasty, and that there were ways by which we might have done what was almost right and yet had what we wanted. If Master Gervase could have been brought to consent, knowing all Stephen Bassett’s wishes, why, then, surely Hugh might have gone his way, feeling that he had tried to follow his father’s road, and only given up when he found he could not get on. And yet twist it as he would, this reasoning would not come fair and smooth, and there was always something which he had to pass over in a hurry. Sir Thomas, too, had said he was right.

Wat pounced upon him before he had gone far, evidently expecting that he would have a great deal to tell—perhaps have seen the king in his crown. At any other time Hugh might have held his peace, but just now there was a hungry longing in his heart, so that he poured all out to Wat—Sir Thomas’s offer and his own refusal. It must be owned that he was disappointed that Wat took it as a matter of course, while agreeing that it would have been very fine to have ridden away from Exeter in the king’s train.

“Then with Agrippa in thy arms thou might’st have passed for the jester.”

“Gramercy for thy fancy,” said Hugh offended.

“That would become thee better.”

“Ay, it would be rare,” answered Wat with a sigh. “I am such an oaf at this stone-cutting that sometimes I could wish myself at the bottom of the sea.”

“What made thee take to the craft?”

“To pleasure my old mother. She is a cousin of Franklyn’s, and thought I was a made man when she had stinted herself sufficiently to pay the premium. But I shall never be more than a mason,” added Wat dolefully. “Now thou hast it in thee.”

“I know not. Franklyn has never a good word for aught I do.”

“Never heed old Franklyn. He is as sour as a crab, because he wanted the master to take his little jackanapes of a nephew as prentice. He would like to keep thee back, but do thou hold on and all will come right. Why, even I can see what thy work is like, and so does he, and so does the master, only the master will do nothing to touch Franklyn’s authority, and so he holds his peace.”

“But you think he knows?” asked Hugh eagerly.

“Think? How should he not know? He can measure us all better than Franklyn, and he knows, too, that I am more fitted for a life in the greenwood than to be chopping away with mallet and chisel.”

It was very unusual for Wat to talk with so much shrewdness and common sense. Usually he was addle-pated enough, caring little for ratings, and plunging into trouble with the most good-natured tactlessness, so that friends and foes alike showered abuse upon him. Hugh had taken it for granted that he would be the same wherever he was, never realising that his present life was especially distasteful to him, and yet that he accepted it without gainsaying. It gave his words now a weight which was quite unusual, for he seemed never to suppose it possible that Hugh could go against his promise to his father, while he quite acknowledged that the other life would have been delightful. All seemed to arrange itself simply into two sides, right and wrong, so that Hugh began to wonder how he could ever have doubted when it was so clear to Wat.

In the house he found Joan shrieking because her father could not take her forth, and he was glad enough to make her over to Hugh, telling him that the king was to ride down the High Street to see the new bridge before returning to the banquet at the Guildhall, and warning him to take care not to allow Joan to be over-much entangled in the crowd. Then he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked into his face.

“What said the knight to thee?”

“He offered, if thou wouldst consent, sir, to take me back with him, and to bring me up in his household.”

“As I expected,” said Elyas, gravely. “And that would content thee?”

“It is what I ever longed for,” said poor Hugh.

There was a pause. Gervase seemed to find it difficult to put the next question.

“Does the knight come here then to see me?”

“Nay,” said the boy wearily, “it were no use, goodman. I told him that I was bound by my promise to my father.”

“Ay, didst thou so? And what said he?”

“There was a holy father there who would have urged me, but the knight stopped him, and said a promise was binding, and that the king’s word was ever ‘Keep covenant.’”

Gervase’s eyes glistened. “It was well, it was well. Hadst thou been set upon it, Hugh, I had not withstood thee, but I should have grieved. No blessing comes from self-seeking. And hast thou,” he added more cheerily, “hast thou forgotten the corbels thou hast to do for the bishop?”

His words put fresh heart into the boy, and he felt that even had he followed his own longings it would have cost him much to leave Master Gervase. Then Joan ran in, warmly and daintily dressed, gathering up her little skirts to show Hugh her new long pointed shoes, all her tears forgotten, and her mind running upon the king and his knights. Her mother, though sharp with Hugh, would trust her little maid anywhere with him, and the two set forth down the narrow streets where was a throng of villeins, of country people who had poured in for miles round, of guild-brothers in their distinctive dresses, of monks from the monasteries of Saint Nicholas and Saint James, grey and black friars, Kalendar sisters, while mingling with these graver dresses were the more brilliantly clad retainers of the nobles who had accompanied or come to meet the king, most gorgeous among whom were those of the household of Dame Alicia de Mohun, who had journeyed in great state from Tor Mohun, near Torbay, and the trappings of whose palfrey caused the citizens much amazement. As many minstrels, dancing girls, and jongleurs had collected as if it had been fair time, and the bakers who sold bread by the Carfax were so pressed upon that they were forced to gather up their goods and remove them hastily.

Joan did not find it as delightful as she expected. Not all Hugh’s efforts could keep the crowd from pressing upon her, and he looked anxiously about for some safer means of letting her see the show. He spied at last a projection from one of the houses where he thought she might stand, and from whence she could look over the shoulders of the crowd, and there with much difficulty and pushing he managed to place her, standing himself so that he could both shield and hold her. There was no chance of seeing anything himself, for he was hedged in by a moving crowd, and more than one looked rather angrily upon him for having secured this standing-point before they had discovered its advantages. But Joan was mightily pleased. She was out of the press, and could see all that was to be seen, upon which she chattered volubly to her faithful guard below.

They had long to wait, but there was enough amusement for her not to weary, and when at last she became a little silent and Hugh wondered whether she would be content much longer, a cry of “The king!” was raised, and heads were eagerly stretched to see him turn out from Broad Gate. Down came the gay train, larger than that of the day before, owing to the many nobles and knights, Champernownes, Chudleighs, Fulfords, Pomeroys, Courtenays, and others, who had come into the city, and very noble they looked turning down the steep hill between the old houses.

But Hugh could neither see nor think of them, he was in so much dread that Joan would be swept or dragged off her standing place. The people were wild to have sight of the king, and those who were behind looked covetously at the projection. One or two pressed violently by Hugh, muttering that children were best left at home, and at last, as the cavalcade drew nearer and the excitement heightened, a wizened little man pushed the girl off and would have clambered into the place if a stronger fellow had not collared him and climbed there himself. Joan meanwhile was in danger of being trampled under foot, though Hugh fought and kicked with all the vigour in the world, shielding her at the cost of many hard blows on himself from those who were bent only upon pushing forward without heeding what was in their way. Joan, however, was not one to be maltreated without protest, and the instant she realised what had happened, she uttered a series of piercing shrieks, which caused the king and his train to look in her direction. Edward pulled up, and two or three of the men-at-arms, hastily parting the crowd, disclosed Joan clinging to Hugh, uttering woeful cries and prayers to be taken home. One of them would have raised her in his arms, but this was fresh terror, and whispering to Hugh, “Bring her thyself,” he pushed them gently along towards the royal party.

“Is the child hurt?” asked Edward hastily, and then recognising Hugh, who was red with shame at his own plight, and to have Joan hanging round his neck, the king smiled, and beckoned to him. Hugh bent on his knee as well as he could for Joan, and answered the king’s brief questions clearly. Someone had pulled the little maid down, and she was afraid of being trampled upon, and Joan, convinced now that she was in safety, relaxed her hold and gazed from one to the other with eyes full of innocent awe.

“She is a fair little maiden,” said Edward, kindly, “and thou art a brave prentice. Ever keep on the side of the weak. Now, my lords,” he added, “as the matter is not serious, we will ride to the bridge.”

The people cheered lustily as he passed on, and Hugh and Joan were the hero and heroine of the hour.

“What said he? What said he?”

“Blessings on him, he hath a kindly heart! There’s many a proud baron would have paid no heed to a babe’s cries, but I warrant me he thinks of his lady.”

“Where’s the churl that pushed her off? A good ducking should he have.”

But, fearing this turn of the tide, the man had slunk away, and Joan, pleased as she was with the admiring epithets bestowed upon her, desired to be taken home, and made a discovery which moved her to tears, in the fact that the long toes of her new shoes, subjects of much pride, were hopelessly-ruined.

She reached the house weeping, and her mother, flying out, rated Hugh soundly before hearing anything of what had happened, whereupon Joan flung her arms round his neck, said that Hugh was good, the king had said so, and the people were naughty. Prothasy listening in amazement could scarce believe her ears, making Hugh tell his story over and over again, and pouring it out to Elyas when he came back from the banquet.

“The king called her a fair maiden, what thinkest thou of that, goodman?” she asked proudly.

“And Hugh a brave prentice, what thinkest thou of that, goodwife?” returned her husband, with a smile.

Chapter Eleven.

Agrippa Brings Promotion.

The king’s visit was short, for the next day he departed, and Hugh with a swelling heart saw Sir Thomas ride away, and with him all chance of changing his condition. Still, he had got over the first pangs, was more content, and resolved that, whatever Franklyn might do, he would not be discouraged. He made another resolve. As has been said, the apprentices had plenty of holidays, and Hugh cared nothing for the cock-fighting, which was a favourite amusement. He liked football better, but he made up his mind that some of his holiday time should be spent in a stone carving of Agrippa. If it pleased Master Gervase,—why, then, his hopes flew high.

He worked hard at his design, keeping it jealously hid from all but Wat, whom he would have found it difficult to shut out, and who was profoundly impressed by his ambition. Agrippa was not the easiest of models, since to keep still was an impossibility, but Hugh managed to get him into clay very fairly, and in a good position. He was dreadfully disheartened when he tried to reproduce it in stone; it fell far short of his conception, and appeared to him to be lifeless. Indeed, had it not been for Wat, he might have given up his attempt in despair; but Wat’s interest was intense, and he was never weary of foretelling what Master Gervase would say of it, and how even Franklyn might be compelled to admire in spite of grudging. How this might have been, it is impossible to say; Hugh was spared from making the trial, for, as it happened, just when Lent began Franklyn was seized with severe rheumatic pains, which made it impossible for him to work, or even come to the yard. Generally one of the other journeymen on such an emergency stepped into his place, but this time, for some reason or other, Master Gervase overlooked things himself. He made a very careful examination, and, for almost the first time in his life, Wat received actual praise.

“Thou hast got a notion into thy head at last.”

Wat could not resist making a face expressive of his amazement.

“’Twas thou hammered it there,” he whispered to Hugh. “If I tell the gammer she will think all her prophecies are coming true. Now where’s thy work? Hast stuck it where he must needs see?”

“Ay, see a failure,” said Hugh, dolefully.

But Wat was too intent upon watching Elyas to have an ear for these misgivings of the artist. He fidgeted about instead of working, and got a sharp rebuke from the master for wasting his time; indeed, Gervase was so much taken up with seeing that the right vein of the Purbeck quarry was being used for carrying on the delicate arcades of the triforium, that it was long before he left the men engaged upon it and came to Hugh. His eye fell immediately upon the little figure.

“When didst thou this?” he demanded, taking it up.

“In holiday time, goodman.”

Long and silently the master examined it, and every moment Hugh’s fluttering hopes sank lower. He was sure it had never looked so ill before. At last Elyas raised his head.

“It doth credit to thine age,” he said, warmly. “Faults there are, no doubt: the head a little larger than it should be except in fashioning the grotesque; the space across the forehead too broad. But what pleases me is that thou heist caught the character of the creature, thine eye having reported it to thee faithfully. If Franklyn saw it he would own,” he added, raising his voice so that all might hear, “that thou hadst earned advancement. Finish this moulding, and I will set thee on some small bosses which Dame Alicia de Mohun hath commanded for her private chapel, and if thou wilt thou mayest work Agrippa into one of them.”

If Hugh were pleased, Elyas was hardly less so. He had been greatly desirous to find some excuse by which, without seeming to set aside Franklyn’s rule, he might give the boy a chance which he considered he well deserved. He had understood something of Hugh’s feelings when the hopes he had given up were once more dangled before his longing eyes, and the kindly master longed for an opportunity of encouraging him in his present work. The carving of the monkey was clever enough to have really surprised him. Franklyn’s illness came at an excellent time, and no one could complain of favouritism. So he thought Oddly enough, the only one who did was Roger, the elder prentice, who had hitherto seemed quite indifferent. He was manifestly out of temper, muttering that it was enough to have the beast jabbering at you in life, without having him stuck up in stone, and for the first time doing his best in the small room the three apprentices shared to make things bad for Hugh. But Hugh was much too proud and happy to care for this, and he had Wat on his side, so that Roger’s enmity could not do much. Wat’s great desire was to be himself perpetuated as a grinning mask in the centre of a boss. He was for ever making horrible faces in order that Hugh might judge whether they were not grotesque enough, and poor little Joan, coming upon him one day with a mouth as it seemed to her stretching from ear to ear, and goggle saucer eyes, was so frightened that it was all the boys could do to quiet her.

“If only I could round my eyes and yet frown fearfully!” cried Wat, making ineffectual struggles to carry out his aspiration. “There, is that better? What do I look like now?”

“Like a grinning cat,” said Hugh, bursting into a laugh.

“Not a demon? Perchance if I squinted?”

“Hearken, Wat, I will not spoil my bosses by such an ill-favoured countenance, but the very first gargoyle the master sets me to make, thou shalt be my model. That is a pact.”

“I shall?”

“Ay, truly.”

“I will practise the most fearsome faces,” cried Wat, joyfully. “There shall be no such gargoyle for miles around! Where do you think it will be placed? There is a talk of a new Guildhall in the High Street, and it would be fine to stare down and grin at the citizens. Then, whenever he saw it, it would remind the master of Prentice Wat. Art thou coming out on Refreshment Sunday?”

“Where?”

“I never saw such a boy as thou, thou knowest naught! Why, we make a figure of straw—Hugh, you could make it finely!”

“What to represent?”

“Nay, I know not—oh, ay, I remember me, it is Winter, only the country people will have it ’tis Death, ’tis so gruesome and grisly, and they hate to have us bring it to their houses, and give us cakes to keep it away. A party of us are going as far as Topsham and Clyst this time. Wilt come?”

“’Tis naught but mumming!”

Nevertheless Hugh consented to shape the figure, which represented Winter in the last stage of decrepitude, and Wat begged an old tattered cloak and hood, so that it really gave not a bad idea of a tottering old man, when about twenty apprentices, sinking their constant rivalries, set out in high glee to visit the neighbouring hamlets, and, when all was done, burn Winter in the meadows outside the walls, Agrippa, by common consent, of the party.

They had great merriment, though not by any means universal welcome, for some of the country folk were so frightened that they closed the doors of their huts, and stuffed up the window lest the hateful thing should be thrust in that way. Others, seeing them in the distance, ran out with cakes and spiced ale, and even pennies, begging them to come no nearer. The boys were very scornful of such fears.

“What harm could it bring thee, goody?”

“Alack, alack, young sirs, I know not, but this I know, that come last March Snell the smith would have it into his house, and before the year was out, the goodwife, who had been ailing for years, and never died before, was a corpse. Here’s as good a simnel cake as you will find for miles round, and welcome, but, prithee, bring the thing no nearer.”

Others there were, however, who made the boys welcome, and feasted them so bountifully that Hugh vowed he had never eaten so much in his life, and Agrippa grew to treat his dainties with scorn. They took their way at length back to the meadows, bestowed the cloak and hood upon a blind beggar, who, guessing what was going on, besought the charity of a few rags, and built a grand bonfire, on the top of which Winter was seated, in order, as they said, that he might be warm for once. There were other groups of the same sort scattered about the fields, and many elders had ridden out to see the fun, which reminded them of their own boyish days. Joan was perched in front of her father on the broad-backed grey, insisting upon keeping as near to Hugh’s bonfire as the grey could be induced to go, and crying out with delight as the tongues of fire leapt up, and the brushwood crackled, and at last, old Winter’s straw being reached, a tall and glorious pyramid of fire rushed upwards; the lads shouted, and the reign of Winter was held to be ended.

Before Lent finished, Franklyn hobbled back to the yard. Hugh expected that he would have been very angry at finding him put to really advanced work, but it is possible that Franklyn was himself not sorry that things had changed without his having had to give way. He muttered gruffly that the boy was no wonder, but had improved with teaching; and he showed no spite, for though always strict with Hugh, he took pains to correct his faults carefully, so that his training was thoroughly good, and Gervase was well satisfied with the two bosses which were Hugh’s share of Dame Alicia’s work. Agrippa peeped from one, half concealed by foliage, and the other was formed of ivy and holly. When summer came he was resolved to follow the master’s advice and study different plants and leaves, so as to catch the beautiful free natural curves. He had grown to love his work dearly, and to have high hopes about it, but perhaps it was the recollection of his father’s last words, at a time when visions of earthly fame seemed dim and worthless, which kept him from thinking only, as Roger thought, of his own advancement and glory, and ever held before him, as the crown of his work, the hope some day to give of his best for the House of the Lord.

The bishop had not forgotten him, often asking Master Gervase for the little prentice who meant to carve one of the corbels.

“Ay, my lord, and it would not greatly surprise me if he carried out his thought,” said Elyas, with a smile. And he told the bishop of his work for Dame Alicia’s chantry. “He hath a marvellous fancy for his age,” he added.

“Brother Ambrose at the Kalendarhay complains that he is idle, but says he can do anything with his fingers,” remarked the bishop. “He would fain he were a monk, that he might paint in the missals, but thou and I would have him do nobler work. Not that I would say aught against the good brothers,” he added, rapidly crossing himself. “Everyone to his calling, and the boy’s lies not between their walls. Keep him to it, keep him to it, goodman; give him a thorough training, for which none is better fitted than thyself. It is my earnest desire that proper workers may be trained to give their best in this building, as of old the best was given for the Temple. Thou and I may never see the fruit of our labours—what of that? One soweth and another reapeth, and so it is for the glory of God, let that suffice. The walls of the choir go on well, methinks, and in another year or two we shall have reached the Lady Chapel.”

“Ay, my lord.”

“And then there must be no more work done by thee for town or country. I claim it all. So thou hadst best finish off Dame Alicia’s chantry.”

“No fear, my lord. The lady is impatient, and will not tarry till then. I shall have to go down in the summer to see after the fixing of these bosses, and of some other work which she hath confided to me, and that will end it.”

The good bishop, indeed, was inclined to be jealous over anything which took away Gervase’s time and attention, and the stone mason had some difficulty in keeping his own hands free, his skill being of great repute among all the gentlemen round, and some of them being of fiery dispositions, ill-disposed to brook waiting. There was plenty doing in the yard, and often visitors to see how the work got on or to give orders, and, as Hugh was the only one in the house who could write or read, his master frequently called him to his aid when a scroll was brought from some neighbouring abbot or prior.

At Easter they had, as usual, the gammon of bacon, to show widespread hatred of the Jews, and the tansy pudding in remembrance of the bitter herbs. Also another old custom there was, the expectation of which kept Gervase on the watch with a comical look on his face, and set Joan quivering with excitement for, as she confided to Hugh in a very loud whisper, mother had promised that she should be by “to see father heaved.”

She was terribly disappointed when he went out, and scarcely consoled by his taking her with him, and when at last he brought her home, clasping a great bunch of primroses in her little hot hands, she was not to be separated from him.

“Why dost thou not go and look for thy friend Hugh?”

“They might come and do it.”

“Perhaps I shall slip away and not let them find me at all.”

But the bare idea of this produced so much dismay, that Elyas was obliged to hasten to assure her that he would not resort to any such underhand proceeding. He turned to Prothasy with a smile.

“An I am to endure it, I would the silly play were over.”

“Thou wilt not escape, goodman. Master Allen, the new warden of the Tuckers’ Guild, has had such a lifting that he was fain to give twelve pennies to be set down again.”

“They’ll not get twelve pennies from me. Richard Allen is an atomy of a man.”

“Ay, thy broad shoulders will make it a different matter,” said Prothasy, looking proudly at him; “but be not over-confident, goodman, for King Edward is a bigger man than thou, and they heaved him one Easter till he cried for mercy and offered ransom.”

Nothing more was heard till supper-time, when, as Elyas sat at the head of his table, four stout girls rushed into the room, and, amid loud laughter from everyone and ecstatic shrieks and clappings from Joan, lifted the rough stool on which he was seated into the air, and swung him backwards and forwards.

“There, there, ye foolish wenches! I’m too heavy a load. Put me down, and the goodwife shall give ye your cakes.”

“Twelve pennies, goodman! Thou, a new warden, wouldst not pay less than Richard Allen of the Tuckers?”

“Ay, would I though.”

Whereupon he was screamed at and rocked as unmercifully as any boat in a storm, until between laughter and vexation he promised all that they asked, and the four girls went away declaring their arms would ache for a week.

“Ye will not be able to make the dumb cake on Saint Mark’s Eve,” Gervase called after them, “and then, no chance for you to see your sweethearts at midnight.”

“No need for that, goodman,” answered the eldest and prettiest, “we know who they are already.”

So many holidays fell at that fair time of the year that the master grumbled his work would ne’er be done.

“May Day come and gone, ye shall have no more.”

But May Day itself could not be slighted, for long before sunrise the lads and lasses were out to gather May, or any greenery that might be got, and the prentices tramped through mud and mire, and charged the thickets of dense brushwood valiantly. Wat was covered with scratches, and a sorry object as they trudged home by sunrise, in order to decorate the house door with branches, and all the other boys and girls were at the same work, so that in a short time the street looked a very bower of May.

And now the days growing longer and the country drier, there was less danger from travelling, and a general desire in everyone’s heart to be doing something or going somewhere, or otherwise proving themselves to have some part in this world, which never looks so fair or so hopeful as at the beautiful spring season. Many of the neighbouring gentry rode into the city, and the ladies were glad to wear their whimsically scalloped garments, and their fine mantles, and to display their tight lacing in the streets instead of country lanes, as well as to visit the clothiers and drapers for a fresh supply; while their lords took the opportunity of looking at horses, playing at tennis, and some times, when much in want of ready money, disposing of a charter of liberties, to gain which the citizens were ready to pay a heavy fine.

Master Gervase had many visits from these lords and knights, and more work pressed upon him than he would undertake. My Lord of Devon had pretty well insisted upon his carrying out some change in his house at Exminster, where some forty years later was born William Courtenay, the future Archbishop of Canterbury, and Gervase was one day cutting the notches in a wooden tally, made of a slip of willow—which was the manner of giving a receipt—and handing it to the bailiff, when a tall man holding a little girl by the hand strode into the yard.

“It is Sir Hereward Hamlin,” Wat whispered to Hugh.

Sir Hereward Hamlin, it appeared, had a commission which he would entrust to none but Elyas, and very wroth he became when he found it could not be undertaken. It was evident that he was not used to be gainsaid, for he stormed and tried to browbeat the stonemason, who showed no signs of disturbance. The little girl also listened quite unmoved.

“They say she is as proud as he is,” Wat the gossip commented under his breath, “for all her name is Dulcia; and the poor lady her mother scarce can call her soul her own between them.”

“I hope the master will not yield,” muttered Hugh indignantly.

There was small fear of that. Sir Hereward’s fiery temper and passionate outbreaks had caused him to be much disliked in the city, and Gervase would at no time have been disposed to work for him even had time been at his disposal.

“It is impossible, your worship,” he said coldly, nor could anything turn his resolution, so that Sir Hereward had to leave, muttering angry maledictions upon upstart knaves who know not how to order themselves to their betters.

“I would he knew how to order himself to his own,” said Gervase to Franklyn, “but he has never been friendly to the king since he was forced to restore the crown lands and divers of our rights which his fathers had illegally seized. If I had yielded and done his work he would have thought the honour sufficient payment.”

When the week of rogations was at an end, with its processions and singing of litanies all about the streets from gate to gate, Gervase told Hugh of a plan which mightily delighted him, for it was none other but to take him with him on his journey to Tor Brewer, or Tor Mohun, where he had to go on this business of the Dame Alicia’s chantry. She had already sent serfs and horses to fetch the carved work, and with them an urgent message for Master Gervase to come; and as Hugh had done his work well—marvellously well, Elyas privately thought—he determined to give him the delight of seeing it fixed in its place, and the two set off together one morning in early June, with Joan kissing her hand from the balcony. The only pang to Hugh was the leaving Agrippa, but Wat was his devoted slave, and solemnly vowed not to neglect him, and, moreover, to protect him from Roger, who had developed a keen dislike for the creature, while Mistress Prothasy had quite forgotten hers.

It was a fair morning, and the country, then far more thickly wooded than now, was in its loveliest dress of dainty green. The brushwood was full of birds, thrushes and blackbirds drowning the smaller notes by the jubilance of their whistling, while, high up, the larks were pouring out a rapturous flood of song. It was the same road along which Hugh had journeyed twice before, but how different it looked now, and how strange it seemed to him that he should ever have run away from the home where he was so happy! Something of the same thought may have been in Gervase’s mind, for when they were not very far from Exminster, riding between banks, and under oaks, of which the yellow leaf was not yet fully out, he pointed to a spot in the hedge, and said with a smile:

“’Twas there I found thee, Hugh, and a woe begone object thou wast!” Then, as he saw the boy redden, he went on kindly, “But that is all over and done with long ago, and now thou art content, if I mistake not.”

“More than content, good sir.”

“That is well, that is well. A little patience will often carry us through the darkest days. By-and-by show me about where thou wast wrecked. Ay, the sea is a terrible place for mischances, and for myself I cannot think how men can be found willing to encounter such risks. There is talk of building larger vessels and adventuring longer voyages, but ’tis a rash idea. What know we of the awful regions that they might light upon, or whether the vessels might not be carried too close to the edge of the world? Nay, nay, keep to land, say I. Those who must explore may travel there as Marco Polo hath done, and indeed there are many tales going about the wonders of the Court of the great Khan of Tartary.”

The road, as they journeyed on, became very beautiful, so wooded was it and broken, and with ever-widening views of water to the left, while on the right after a time they saw the ridges of Dartmoor, a very bleak and barren country, as Elyas told the boy, but now looking softly grey and delicate in colour. By this time they had reached the Teign, and here at Kingsteignton stopped to rest their horses, at a house belonging to the Burdons of that place, Elyas having done some work for them, and requiring to see it in its finished condition. Plain country people they were, and awkward and uncouth in manners, two or three boys on bare-backed colts riding up as Gervase and Hugh arrived, and pointing at them with bursts of laughter. The girls, Hugh thought, were little better, and the fashion of their garments curiously odd and slatternly. When supper—which was very plentifully provided—was over, they set forth again on their journey, getting into a most vile road, which lasted for some miles, but took them without adventure to Tor Mohun, although it led them through an extraordinary number of rocks and tors, and also between exceedingly thick woods.

Gervase had never been there before, and was no more prepared than Hugh for the view which met their eyes when they came out of the circle of these woods. For there lay a very noble bay, well shut in, and with very beautiful and thickly wooded cliffs rising up on the eastern side. In a hollow of these cliffs and hills there clustered a few miserable hovels, otherwise it was a wild solitude, only so tempered by a kindly climate and the softness of the sea breezes that there was nothing rough or savage about it; and just now, towards sunset, with the sea like opal glass, and the colours all most bright and yet delicate, and the thorns yet in blossom, it was exceedingly pleasant to the eye, and Dame Alicia’s house, though standing back, had it well in view.

It was plain that she was a great lady by the size of the building and the number of retainers about, but they heard afterwards that these were not all hers, Sir William de Sandridge from Stoke Gabriel, and Sir Robert le Denys of Blagdon in the moor, having ridden over to spend two or three nights. An elderly squire took charge of Gervase and his apprentice, showing them the little room that was to be theirs, and telling the warden that his lady had been eagerly expecting his coming, and would see him the next day.

Elyas asked whether he should find workmen in the chapel early in the morning.

“No fear, goodman,” said the squire with a laugh; “Dame Alicia is not one to let the grass grow under her feet, and I would not answer but what she may keep them there all night. Go as early as thou wilt; follow this passage, turn down another to the right, and thou wilt come to a door with steps, which will take thee there.”

The next few days were days of both wonder and amusement to Hugh. Dame Alicia was a fiery and impetuous little lady, using such strong language as would have brought her a heavy fine had she been an apprentice; ruling her household and serfs with much sharpness, disposed to domineer, yet with a kind heart which prevented any serious tyranny, and sometimes moved her to shame for too hasty acts. She was at times very impatient with Elyas, expecting her wishes to be carried out in an unreasonably short time, and that all other work should give way to hers; but the stonemason had a dignity of his own, which never failed him, and kept him quietly resolute in spite of sudden storms. He would not consent to undertake the carving of the pulpit, or ambo, which she wanted set about, declaring that he had too much already on hand, nor would he yield to Sir Robert le Denys and go to Blagdon to advise on alterations there. All, however, that he had to do at Tor Mohun he did admirably. It was a proud day to Hugh when he saw the bosses he had carved fixed in the vaulted roof. He worked all day in the chantry with delight, and would scarcely have left it had not Gervase insisted on his going forth into the air. Then sometimes he would go out in one of the rude fishing-boats, and was delighted to find a man who knew Andrew of Dartmouth, and promised to convey tidings of Hugh to him.

At the end of a week, in spite of Dame Alicia’s reluctance, Elyas and Hugh went back to Exeter again, and to the old life, which had become so familiar.

Chapter Twelve.

With the Prentices in the Meadows.

Time passed on, weeks, months, years: slowly, though happily, for the children; ever faster and faster for the elders. Joan was still the only child, the darling of the house, but with a sweet, frank nature which was proof against spoiling. Roger had long finished his seven years’ apprenticeship, and now worked by the day as journeyman; even Wat was close on the end of his term, but nobody seemed to think he could ever be anything except Prentice Wat, whom everybody laughed at and everybody liked, even better than they knew. Nevertheless, by dint of hard belabouring of brains, and a most impatient patience, for he was ever rating him for his dulness, and yet never giving up the teaching, Hugh had managed to hammer more out of Wat than had been supposed possible in the beginning of things. It was very hard to get him to take in an idea, but once in his head, he sometimes showed an aptitude for working it out which surprised the others, and caused Hugh delightful moments of triumph.

As for Hugh himself, his progress was astonishing. If he still lacked something of the technical skill of Franklyn, there was no one, except Gervase himself, who could come near his power of design. The boy had an intense love of nature, nothing was lost upon him. When he was in the fields or woods, he would note the exquisite curve of branches, the uncurling of ferns, the spring of grass or rushes, and was for ever trying to reproduce them. By this means his eye and hand were trained in the very best school, and his designs had an extraordinary beauty and freedom of line, devoid of all stiffness and conventionality. He could never be induced to delight in the grinning masks and monsters which were the joy of Wat’s soul, but when any delicate and dainty work was called for, it was always Hugh who was set to do it.

His pride and delight in the Cathedral was scarcely less than the bishop’s. Bishop Bitton was steadily carrying out his work in the choir, so as to complete the design of his predecessors. The choir was now entirely rebuilt, and united to the Lady Chapel, left standing at the end. The beautiful vaulting of the roof was in course of construction, and pushed on with all the speed that good work would allow. For one characteristic of the work of those days was that it was of the best. There was no competition, which we are accustomed to look upon as an actual necessity, but in place of this the guilds, which controlled labour and held it in their own hands, exercised a very strict oversight upon materials and execution, so that nothing which was bad or indifferent was allowed to pass; there was no possibility of underselling, nor of the workman being underpaid.

The bishop had by no means forgotten his idea about the corbels. As the beautiful clustered shafts of the columns—of soft grey unpolished Purbeck marble—were raised to support the arches, above each one was built in the long shapeless block, waiting to be some day carved into shape. Gervase, also, was fired into enthusiasm when he spoke of them, and if Gervase, then yet more Hugh. Much of his handiwork was already to be found in the Cathedral, but this was of more importance, and there was even talk of the guild admitting into their number a skilled workman from France, famous for his skill in stone carving.

One day, in the June of 1302, master and apprentice were standing in the choir, Hugh having just come down from work on the triforium.

“I find my eye ever running over those blocks,” said Elyas with a smile, “and picturing them as they might look, finished. To-day, at any rate, I have brought one question to an end.”

“What, goodman?”

“I shall be offered my choice of which to work upon myself.”

“Ay?” said Hugh eagerly.

“I shall choose that,” he said, pointing to one about half-way between the entrance of the choir and the spot where it was designed that the bishop’s seat should be. “There is something friendly and inviting in that pillar, it fits in with my design. Thou, Hugh, must take whichever they offer thee.”

“If they will accept me at all!”

“I think so,” said Elyas gravely. “’Tis true thy lack of years is against thee, but there is no other hindrance, and I believe they will trust me in the matter. How old art thou now, Hugh?”

“Just seventeen, sir.”

“Already? But, yes, it must be so. It is all but six years since I stumbled upon thee in the street, a little fellow, no older than our Joan is now. Much has happened in the kingdom since then, but here the time has flown peacefully.”

Much, indeed, had happened to weight the last years of the reign of the great king. The second war in Scotland was over; Edward had married again, the Princess Margaret of France being his chosen wife. Parliaments had by his efforts become more frequent and more important, and the parliament of Lincoln, in 1301, marked an era in representative government, when one hundred and thirty seven cities and boroughs sent up representatives. Archbishop Winchelsey was still trying to enforce the papal supremacy, which Edward ever resisted, and certain disaffected nobles joined the archbishop. The king dealt with the two principal conspirators, Norfolk and Hereford, both firmly and leniently. Winchelsey he would not himself judge, but his ambassador placed the matter in the hands of the pontiff, who immediately cited the archbishop to Rome, to answer for his conduct. William Thorn, a monk of Canterbury, thus describes the next scene: “When the archbishop knew that he was thus cited, he went to the king to ask for permission to cross the sea. And when the king heard of his coming, he ordered the doors of his presence chamber to be thrown open, that all who wished might enter, and hear the words which he should address to him. And having heard the archbishop, he thus replied to him:—‘The permission to cross the sea which you ask of us we willingly grant you—but permission to return grant we none:—bearing in mind your treachery, and the treason which at our parliament at Lincoln you plotted against us;—whereof a letter under your seal is witness, and plainly testifies against you. We leave it to the pope to avenge our wrongs; and as you have deserved, so shall he recompense you. But from our favour and mercy, which you ask, we utterly exclude you; because merciless you have yourself been, and therefore deserve not to obtain mercy.’ And so we part with Winchelsey.” (The Greatest of all the Plantagenets.)

At Exeter, however, as Gervase said, the time had passed peaceably. Two burgesses had indeed with much pain and trouble journeyed all the way to Lincoln, and came back with marvellous stories of the magnificence of the barons, the crowds of retainers, the quantity of provisions supplied, and the deliciousness of sea-wolves, now tasted for the first time.

And, greatly to Hugh’s delight, it appeared that Sir Thomas de Trafford, being there with his lady and children, applied to one of the Exeter burgesses for news of Hugh, and sent word he was glad to hear that he was a good lad, and doing credit to his craft. And Dame Edith despatched him a token, a rosary from the Holy Land, and the two sisters a gift of a mark to Agrippa, to buy him cakes.

On poor Agrippa the years had, perhaps, told the most hardly. He suffered much from the cold winters, and had lost a good deal of his activity. But on the whole he had a very happy life, with no fear of ill-usage from boy or man, for he was as well-known to all the citizens as any other dweller in the High Street, and was held to be under the special protection of the guild of which Elyas was warden.

That June in which Gervase and Hugh talked in the Cathedral found Wat in low spirits. He had been out of his apprenticeship for nearly a year, but this was the first midsummer that had fallen since he had been promoted to what might be called man’s estate, which promised to require more sacrifices to its dignity than he was at all willing to make. On one point he had besought Master Gervase so piteously that the master had yielded, and allowed him to remain in the house. Another apprentice, one Hal Crocker, had been admitted, and of him Wat was absurdly jealous, so that Hugh sometimes had to interfere, though Hal was a malapert boy, very well able to take care of himself.

But Midsummer Eve had ever been a time of high revel for the prentices.

“And this year the bonfires will be bigger than ever,” cried Wat in a tragic voice. “Alack, why couldn’t the master keep me on as a prentice?”

“What an oaf thou art!”

“I care not for being an oaf, but I hate to be a journeyman, and have no merriment.”

Poor Wat! He did not so much mind giving up what Hugh liked best in all the day, the wreathing the doorways with fennel, green birch, and lilies, but to lose the joy of collecting the brushwood and piling it in great heaps, with much rivalry among the lads as to which was the highest and best built—this was indeed doleful. The meadows were thronged with crowds, among which he wandered disconsolate, giving sly help when he could do so without loss of dignity, until to his great joy he espied Gervase himself dragging a great bush to one of the heaps, upon which, with a shout of delight, Wat flung himself into a thorny thicket, and emerged with as much as his arms could clasp.

Meanwhile other things besides fuel were being brought into the field by goodwives and serving maids. Round each bonfire were placed tables on which supper was bountifully spread, and when it grew dusk and the fires were lighted, all passers-by were invited to eat, besides the friends of the providers. The whole scene was extremely gay and brilliant, and between crackling of green things and chatter of many voices, the noise was prodigious. Wat was by this time as happy as a king, running here and there as freely as ever in prentice days, helping the smaller boys, seeing that there was no lack of provisions, and inexhaustible in his good humour.

Several of Master Gervase’s friends were seated at his tables, and among them one Master Tirell, a member of the Goldsmiths’ Guild, with his wife and daughters. Hugh had noticed one of these as a very fair and dainty little damsel in a pale blue kirtle, who seemed somewhat shy and frightened, and kept very close to her mother’s side. The merriment, indeed, grew somewhat boisterous as the darkness crept on, and the bonfires were constantly fed with fresh fuel, and certain of the younger of the prentices amused themselves by dragging out burning brands, and pursuing each other with shrieks of excitement about the meadows. Foremost among these was Hal Crocker, who managed more than once to slip by Wat before the elder lad could seize him, and whose wild spirits led him to fling about the burning sticks which he pulled out, to the danger of the bystanders. Suddenly, after one of these wild rushes there was a cry of terror. Thomasin Tirell, the fair-haired girl already mentioned, started up and ran wildly forwards, stretching out her hands, and screaming for help. Almost before the others could realise what had happened, Wat had sprung towards her, thrown her on the grass, and pressed out the fire with his hands. She was scarcely hurt at all, though sorely frightened, bursting into sobs and hiding her face on her mother’s shoulder as soon as she was on her feet again, and trembling like a terrified bird. Her mother soothed her, while Master Tirell heartily thanked Wat, and Gervase looked angrily round in search of the culprit.

“Beshrew me, but it was bravely done, and thou art a gallant lad,” said Master Tirell, a portly, red-faced man; “St. Loys shall have a silver chain for this, for the poor silly maid might have been in a sorry plight had she run much farther, and the fire been fanned into flame. Shake hands—what, are thy hands so burned? See here, goodwife, here is room for thy leechcraft.”

It was in vain that Wat protested, he was forced to display his hands, at which Thomasin gazed, horror-struck, with tears running over her blue eyes, and hands clasped on her breast. In fact, Wat was suddenly elevated into quite a new position, that of a hero, for the citizens pressed to the spot from all sides and heaped praises upon him.

“’Twas nothing!” he kept saying awkwardly, turning redder and redder at each congratulation, and looking from side to side for a loophole of escape. Then, as Hugh came rushing up with an eager “What is it?”—“That mischievous loon Hal! If I can but lay hands on him!”

“Hath he set anyone on fire?”

“Ay, young Mistress Tirell. Nay, mistress, prithee think not of it—my hands will be well to-morrow—’tis nothing, Mistress Thomasin—Hugh,” (aside), “get me out of this, for I never felt such a fool!”

But there was no escape for Wat. Hal, having been caught, and received summary punishment from his master, was sent home, and the party sat down again, some to go on with Prothasy’s good things, and Thomasin to recover a little from her condition. Nothing would serve but that Wat must sit down, too, between Thomasin and her elder sister, Alice, and there he was more confused than ever by faltered thanks, and grateful glances of the blue eyes.

“How was it?” asked Alice, whispering across him.

“Alack, I know not!” said the other girl, shuddering. “I felt something hot under my elbow, and looked down, and there was a line of flame darting up, and then I screamed, and then—” to Wat—“you came.”

“I was too rough,” stammered Wat, “but then I always am a bear.”

“A bear! Nay, it was to save my life.”

“It was all past in a minute,” said Alice.

“But thy hands. I hope mother has bound them up skilfully. Is the pain great?”

“Prithee speak not of it again!” cried Wat in desperation.

It was curious, however, how content he was to remain in his present position, which Hugh fancied must be terribly irksome to him, Wat always finding it most difficult to sit still when anything active was going on. It made him fear that he might be more hurt than they knew. But the bonfires were in full blaze, and every great crackle and leap of flame caused Thomasin to tremble, so that Wat’s presence and protection were very grateful to her. And to him it was a new experience to be appealed to and looked up to as if he were a man; he found it exceedingly pleasant, he had never believed it could be so pleasant before. Mistress Tirell would have him go home with them, having an ointment which she thought excellent for burns, and though Thomasin could not endure to look upon the dressing, Wat thought her interest and sympathy showed the kindest heart in the world. In fact, it seemed to him that no one ever had been so sweet, and when he got back late, he was very angry that Hugh should be too sleepy to listen to his outpourings of admiration.

As for Hal, he had to keep out of his way all day, Wat scarce being able to withhold his hands from him, while to Hugh he talked perpetually of what had happened, and put numberless questions as to what he thought about it all.

“She was a silly maiden,” said Hugh, bluntly, “to shriek and run like a frightened hare.”

“Much thou knowest!” cried the indignant Wat. “Thou wouldst have had her sit and be burned, forsooth!”

“Well, ’tis no matter of mine. Thou hast thy hands burned so thou canst not work, and had to sit up like the master himself—poor Wat! I was sorry for thee!”

“It was not so bad,” said Wat, meditatively. “When thou art a grown man, thou wilt not care so much for all that foolish boy’s play. I shall have no more of it.”

Hugh burst into a laugh, as he shaped the graceful curve of a vine tendril.

“What has come to thee? Who was mad yesterday at having to play Master Sobersides?”

“I shall play the fool no more, I tell thee. What age, think you, might Mistress Thomasin be?”

“Nay, I scarce looked at her.”

“I am going soon to the house to have my hands dressed.”

“What need for that when the goodwife here could do it?”

“I could scarce be such a churl as to refuse when I was bidden,” said Wat, hotly.

Hugh stared at him, not understanding the change from the Wat who fled the company of his elders, caring for none but hare-brained prentices; and as the days went by he grew more and more puzzled. Wat’s hands seemed long in getting well, at any rate they required to be frequently inspected by Mistress Tirell, and it was remarkable that he could talk of naught but his new friends. He had always preferred the carving of curious and grotesque creatures, leaving all finer and more graceful work to Hugh. But now he implored Hugh to let him have the fashioning of a small kneeling angel.

“Thou!” cried the other, amazed. “What has put that into thy head? It is not the work that thou carest for.”

“I have a mind for it when my hands are well. Prithee, Hugh!”

“Nay, thou wilt stick some grinning face on the poor angel’s shoulders.”

“Not I. I am going to try to shape something like Mistress Thomasin—well, why dost thou laugh?”

“What has come to thee, Wat? Since that day in the meadows it has been naught but Thomasin, Thomasin! Now I think of it, perhaps the fairies bewitched thee, since it was Midsummer Eve!” Perhaps Master Gervase guessed more clearly than Hugh what was the magic that had wrought this change, for though he laughed a good deal, he kept Wat occupied after the first three or four days were past, and Prothasy undertook to do all that was now necessary for the hurt hands. It was remarkable that under her care they seemed to improve more rapidly than at one time appeared probable, so that it was not very long before Wat was able to handle his chisel again, though from the great sighs he emitted Hugh was afraid the pain might be more than he allowed.

But now were no more pranks or junketings for Wat, no more liberties permitted from the prentices whose merry company he had hitherto preferred. He had suddenly awakened to a dignified sense of his position as journeyman, and Roger himself did not maintain it more gravely. Most remarkable, however, was the change in his appearance. It had always been an affront to Prothasy that Wat would never keep his clothes tidy or clean, she vowed he was a disgrace to their house, and that no others in the town made such a poor appearance. But now—now times indeed were changed! Now was Wat going off to the draper’s to purchase fine cloth, and taking it himself to the Tailors’ Guild, and most mighty particular was he about the cut of his sleeves. And as for his shoes, he ran to outrageous lengths in the toes—he who had always inveighed against the oafs who were not content with modest points! On the first Sunday on which Wat, thus attired, set forth, carrying a posy of lilies in his hand, and walking with such an air of conscious manliness as quite impressed those who met him, Hugh and Joan, with Agrippa, watching from the balcony, saw him turn up to St. Martin’s Gate, and both burst out laughing.

“What has come to Wat?” cried Hugh. “Didst see his posy?”

“That is for Thomasin,” Joan answered, nodding her pretty little head, “for I heard him ask mother what flowers maidens loved, and mother laughed, and said ’twas so long since she was a girl, she had forgotten, but if it was meant for Thomasin he had best ask Mistress Tirell. And I know Thomasin loves lilies. I wonder why Wat likes Thomasin so much? I like Alice better. But he is for ever talking about her yellow hair and her blue eyes, and wanting to hear if I have seen her pass. Look, Hugh, what a fierce-looking man!”