- A DARK FINDING
IT is a far cry from St Alban's to Bungay - which village of the good ford lies somewhat south-east of Norwich, five leagues distant - and the journey is doubled in the winter time. Hilarius and the Friar were long on the road, for January's turbulent mood had imprisoned them many days, and early February had proved little kinder. They had companied with folk, light women and brutal men; but, for the most part, coarse word and foul jest were hushed in the presence of the blind friar and the lad with the wondering eyes. In every village the Friar preached and called on men to repent and be saved, for Death's shadow was already upon them.
Folk wondered and gaped - the Plague was still only a name ten leagues east of London - but many repented and confessed and made restitution, though some heard with idle ears, remembering the prophecy of Brother Robert who had come with the same message half a man's lifetime before, and that no evil had followed his preaching.
At last St Matthias' Eve saw Hilarius and the Friar at St Edmund's Abbey. There were many guests for the Convent's hospitality that night, and as Hilarius entered the hall of the guest-house - a brother had charged himself with the care of the Friar - he heard the sound of the vielle, and a rich voice which sang in good round English against the fashion of the day.
"Martin, Martin!" he cried.
The vielle was instantly silent.
"Hole, lad!" cried the Minstrel, springing to his feet; he caught Hilarius to him and embraced him heartily.
"Why, lad, not back in thy monastery? Nay, but I made sure the Plague would send thee flying home, and instead I find thee strayed farther afield." Then seeing the injured faces round him for that the song was not ended, he drew Hilarius to the bench beside him and took up his vielle. "Be still now, lad, 'til I have finished my ditty for this worshipful company; then, an't please thee to tell it, I will hear thy tale."
The guests, who had looked somewhat sour at the interruption, unpursed their lips, and settled to listen as the minstrel took up his song:-"The fair maid came to the old oak tree (Sun and wind and a bird on the bough), The throstle he sang merrily - merrily - merrily, But the fair maid wept, for sad was she, sad was she, Her sweet knight - Oh! where was he?
He lay dead in the cold, cold ground (Moon and stars and rain on the hill), In his side and breast were bloody wounds.
Woe, woe is me for the fair ladye, and the poor knight he, The poor knight - Ah! cold was he.
The maiden sat her down to die (Cold, cold earth on her lover's breast), And the little birds rang mournfully, And the moonshine kissed her tenderly, And the stars looked down right pityingly On the poor fair maid and the poor cold knight.
Ah misery, dear misery, sweet misery!"
This mournful song was no sooner ended than supper was served; and the company proved themselves good trenchermen. Hilarius caught sight of the seditious friar making short work of the Convent's victuals, and marvelled to see him in a place to which he had given so evil a name.
Martin was unfeignedly glad to see the lad, and listened intently to his tale. He nodded his head as Hilarius related how the friar he companied with preached in each village that men should repent ere the scourge of God fell upon them; "but there is naught of it as yet," said the lad.
"Nay, nay, it is like a thief in the night. One day it is not; and then the next, men sicken and fall like blasted wheat. I heard a bruit of London that it was but a heap of graves - nay, one grave rather, for they flung the bodies into a great trench; there was no time to do otherwise: Black Death is swift with his stroke."
Then Hilarius told of Piping Hugh and the Friar's death-words to the guests.
Martin swore a round oath and slapped his thigh.
"Now know I that thy Friar is a proper man an he has set a curse on Piping Hugh of Mildenhall! A foul-mouthed knave, with many a black deed to his name and blood on his hands, if men say truth; and yet there was never a bird that would not come at his call, and I never heard tell that he harmed one. What will thy Friar in Bungay, lad?"
When he had heard the story of the Friar's twice-repeated vision and quest, the Minstrel sat silent awhile with knitted brow and head sunk on his breast; then he eyed Hilarius half humorously, half tenderly.
"Methinks, lad, an thy Friar alloweth it, I will even go to Bungay with thee; for I love thee well, lad, and would have thy company.
Also I like not the matter of the vision and would fain see the end of it."
That night the dream came again to the Friar, and a voice cried:
"Haste, haste, ere it be too late." And so Hilarius and Martin came to Bungay, the Friar guiding them, for the way was his own.
None of the three ever saw St Edmund's Abbey again, for in one short month the minster with its sister churches was turned to be a spital-house, while the dead lay in heaps, silently waiting to summon to their ghastly company the living that sought to make them a bed.
Quaint little Bungay lay snug enough in the embrace of the low vine-crowned hills which half encircled common and town. The Friar strode forward, straining in his pace like a leashed hound; Martin and Hilarius following. Once he stopped and turned a stricken face on his companions.
"What is that?" he said shrilly.
A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself fearfully.
"Let us make haste," cried the Friar when they told him; and so at full pace they came to Bungay town.
The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the roar and hum of an angry crowd.
"The people are abroad," said Martin, and his face was very grave, "no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the common. Prithee, where is thy mother's dwelling, good Father, and I will go and ask news of her?"
"'Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate;Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for."
