A Monk of Fife | Page 9

to us, who, under Heaven and the Maid, have set their
King on his throne again.
The English knew this, if the French did not; and their great King,
Harry the Fifth, when he fell ill of St. Fiacre's sickness, after plundering
that Scots saint's shrine of certain horse-shoes, silver- gilt, said well
that, "go where he would, he was bearded by Scots, dead or alive." But
the French are not a thankful people.
I had no answer very ready to my tongue, so stepped down silent to the
water-edge, and was about taking off my doublet and hose, meaning to
carry them on my head and swim across. But he barred the way with
his staff, and, for me, I gripped to my whinger, and watched my chance
to run in under his guard. For this cordelier was not to be respected, I
deemed, like others of the Order of St. Francis, and all men of Holy
Church.
"Answer a civil question," he said, "before it comes to worse:
Armagnac or Burgundy?"
"Armagnac," I answered, "or anything else that is not English. Clear the
causeway, mad friar!"
At that he threw down his staff.
"I go north also," he said, "to Orleans, if I may, for the foul "manants"
and peasant dogs of this country have burned the castle of Alfonse
Rodigo, a good knight that held them in right good order this year past.
He was worthy, indeed, to ride with that excellent captain, Don
Rodrigo de Villandradas. King's captain or village labourer, all was fish
that came to his net, and but two days ago I was his honourable
chaplain. But he made the people mad, and a great carouse that we kept

gave them their opportunity. They have roasted the good knight
Alfonse, and would have done as much for me, his almoner, frock and
all, if wine had any mastery over me. But I gave them the slip. Heaven
helps its own! Natheless, I would that this river were between me and
their vengeance, and, for once, I dread the smell of roast meat that is
still in my nostrils--pah!"
And here he spat on the ground.
"But one door closes," he went on, "and another opens, and to Orleans
am I now bound, in the service of my holy calling."
"There is, indeed, cause enough for the shriving of souls of sinners,
Father, in that country, as I hear, and a holy man like you will be right
welcome to many."
"They need little shriving that are opposite my culverin," said this
strange priest. "Though now I carry but an arbalest, the gun is my
mistress, and my patron is the gunner's saint, St. Barbara. And even
with this toy, methinks I have the lives of a score of goddams in my
bolt-pouch."
I knew that in these wild days many clerics were careless as to that
which the Church enjoins concerning the effusion of blood--nay, I have
named John Kirkmichael, Bishop of Orleans, as having himself broken
a spear on the body of the Duke of Clarence. The Abbe of
Cerquenceaux, also, was a valiant man in religion, and a good captain,
and, all over France, clerics were gripping to sword and spear. But such
a priest as this I did not expect to see.
"Your name?" he asked suddenly, the words coming out with a sound
like the first grating of a saw on stone.
"They call me Norman Leslie de Pitcullo," I answered. "And yours?"
"My name," he said, "is Noiroufle"--and I thought that never had I seen
a man so well fitted with a name;--"in religion, Brother Thomas, a poor
brother of the Order of the mad St. Francis of Assisi."
"Then, Brother Thomas, how do you mean to cross this water which
lies between you and the exercise of your holy calling? Do you swim?"
"Like a stone cannon-ball, and, for all that I can find, the cursed water
has no bottom. Cross!" he snarled. "Let me see you swim."
I was glad enough to be quit of him so soon, but I noticed that, as I
stripped and packed my clothes to carry in a bundle on my head, the
holy man set his foot in the stirrup of his weapon, and was winding up

his arbalest with a windlass, a bolt in his mouth, watching at the same
time a heron that rose from a marsh on the further side of the stream.
On this bird, I deemed, he meant to try his skill with the arbalest.
"Adieu, Brother Thomas," I said, as I took the water; and in a few
strokes I was across and running up and down on the bank to get
myself dry. "Back!" came his grating voice--"back! and without your
clothes, you wine-sack of