Gathering of Brother Hilarius | Page 6

will but come back; 'tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us again."
He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as the minstrel sang. Hilarius' eyes filled with tears, for he was still heart-sore, and Martin's voice rose and fell like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song itself was sad--of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:-
"Did'st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?"
"Ay, lad, and of my mistress." He stopped suddenly, louted low to the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside. "A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces of her hair across a man's face only to elude him. She holds him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he must seek as though he knew her not, or she flouts him."
Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant--the "wide wide world, hunger and love"?
"Did'st thou ever hunger, good Martin?"
"Ay, lad," said the minstrel, surprised, "and 'tis good sauce for the next meal"
"Did'st thou ever love?"
Martin broke into a great laugh.
"Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, here comes one who knows little enough of hunger or love." Round the bend of the road came a man in hermit's dress carrying a staff and a well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become less upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an alms from the two travellers.
Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.
"Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than help to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; 'tis not the first time we have met. See here," and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit's wallet.
This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace down the road, while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid on with a cudgel.
Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing companion, who answered the unspoken question.
"A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand's turn and yet live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good stuff in that larder of his to make merry with."
Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head.
"I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness," he said at last.
"It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and 'tis true enough that godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit's robe may cover a rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face and tongue. See, lad," as another turn in the road brought them in sight of Westminster, "there lies thy new world, God keep thee in it!"
He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water's edge, with roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the western sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold.
Hilarius gave a little cry.
"'Tis like the New Jerusalem!" he said, and Martin smiled grimly.
An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin's side. Around him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages, falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius' untutored eyes, wild confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the day's work was done. In the courtyard of the "Black Boar" a chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius crossed himself anxiously--was the devil about to beset him under all guises at once? He raised a fervent Ora pro me to St Benedict as he hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk