CHAPTER XII. - Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

All the principal streets of the old town of Hereford were thronged

with personages of various conditions and degrees, towards the evening

of one of those soft, but cloudy summer days, when the sun makes his

full warmth felt, but without the glare which dazzles the eye when he

shines unveiled upon the world. That street, however, to which we shall

conduct the reader, was narrow, so that not more than three or four

horsemen could ride abreast, and yet it was one of the best in the

town. But, in reality, the space for passengers was much wider than it

seemed; for, as was then very common, especially upon the frontiers of

Wales, one half of the ground-floor of the houses was taken up by a

long, open arcade, which sheltered the pedestrians from the rain at

some periods of the year, and from the heat at others. From the first

floors of these houses--just high enough to allow a tall horse, mounted

by a tall man with a lance in his hand to pass, without striking the

head of the cavalier or the weapon he carried--projected long poles,

usually gilt; and suspended therefrom appeared many of the various

signs which are now restricted to inns and taverns, but were then

common to every mansion of any importance.

Down this street, and underneath innumerable symbols of swans, and

horses, and eagles, and mermaids, and falcons, and doves, and of all

those heterogeneous mixtures of birds, beasts, and fishes, which the

fertile fancy of man ever confounded, were riding, at the time I speak

of, various groups of horsemen, while ever and anon the progress of one

party or another would be stopped by some man, woman, or child, darting

out from the arcade at the side, and holding a conversation, short or

long, as the circumstances might be, with one of the equestrians.

Amongst other groups in the gay and animated scene, was one which

remained ungreeted by any of the good people of the town, but which was

suffered to pass along uninterrupted till it reached a second-rate inn,

called the Maypole. It consisted of four human beings and three

beasts--namely, three men and a woman, two horses, and a sleek,

vicious-looking mule. On one of the horses was mounted a tall sturdy

man in the guise of a servant; on the other was evidently a

fellow-labourer in the same vineyard; but he was not alone, for on a

pillion behind him appeared a female from, covered with a thick veil

which shrouded the face, so that it was impossible to see whether there

was beauty beneath or not, although the figure gave indications of

youth and grace which were not to be mistaken.

Jogging along upon the mule, with his legs hanging down easily by the

side of the animal, and his fat stomach resting peacefully upon the

saddle, was a jolly friar clothed in grey, with his capuche thrown

back, the sun not being troublesome, and a bald head--the glistening

smoothness of which had descended by tradition even to Shakspeare's

days, and was recorded by him in his Two Gentlemen of Verona--peeping

out from a narrow ring of jet black hair, scarcely streaked with grey.

His face was large and jovial, which, in good sooth, was no distinction

in those times between one friar and another; but there was withal a

look of roguish fun about the corners of his small grey eyes; and a

jeering smile, full of arch satire, quivered upon his upper lip,

completely neutralizing the somewhat sensual and food-loving expression

of the under one, which moved up and down every time he spoke, like a

valve, to let out the words that could never come in again. Indeed, he

seemed to be one of those easy-living friars who, knowing neither

sorrow nor privation in their own persons, appeared to look upon grief

and care with a ready laugh and a light joke, as if no such things in

reality exist. His rosy gills, his double chin, and his large round

ear, all spoke of marrow and fatness; and, indeed, at the very first

sight, the spectator saw that he was not only a well-contented being,

but one who had good reason to be so.

Just as they reached the entrance of the tavern which we have

mentioned, the friar, by some mismanagement, contrived to get his

mule's hind quarters towards the servant, who was riding singly on

horseback, and by a touch of the heel, given, apparently, to make the

beast put itself into a more convenient position for all parties, he

produced a violent fit of kicking, in the course of which the horseman

received a blow upon the fleshy part of his thigh, which made him roar

with pain. The seat upon the vicious beast's back was no easy one, but

yet the fat monk kept his position, laughing heartily, and calling his

mule a petulant rogue, while he held him by his left ear, or patted his

pampered neck. As soon as the fit was done, he rolled quietly off at

the side, and looking up to his companion, saw, or appeared to see, for

the first time, the wry faces which the servant man was making.

"Bless my heart!" he cried, "has he touched thee, the good-for-nothing

rogue? I will chastise him for it soundly."

"If he have not broke my leg it is not his fault," replied the man,

dismounting, and limping round his horse; "and you have as great a

share in it, mad priest, for bringing his heels round where they had no

business to be."

"Nay," rejoined the friar, "I brought not his heels round, he brought

them himself, and me along with them. It was all intended to cast me

off; so the offence is towards myself, and I shall punish him severely.

He shall have five barley-corns of food less for his misbehaviour."

"Psha!" said the serving-man, looking up at the inn. "You are jesting

foully, friar; I am sorry I let you join us. Is this the hostel you

boasted had such good wine? It seems but a poor place for such

commendation."

"Thou shalt find the liquor better than in any house in Hereford,"

replied he of the grey gown; "whether you choose mead, or metheglin, or

excellent warm Burgundy, or cool Bordeaux. Taste and try--taste and

try; and if you find that I have deceived you, you shall cut me into

pieces not an inch square, and sow me along the high road! There is

good lodging, too.--Canst thou not trust a friar?"

The man grumbled forth some reply not very laudatory of the order to

which his fat friend belonged; and in a few minutes after, the whole

party were seated in a hall, which, for the time being, lacked other

tenants. The usual hour of supper was over, and in many a hostelry of

those days the wayfarers would have found no food in such a case,

unless they brought it with them. But the host was a compassionate man,

and, moreover, knew right well the twinkle of the jolly friar's eye, so

that, for old friendship's sake, many a savoury mess was speedily set

before them, together with a large flagon of wine, which fully bore out

the character that had been given to it by the friar as they rode

along.

Under the influence of such consolations, the serving-man forgot his

bruise; and the lady, laying aside her veil, shewed a pretty face, with

which the reader is in some part acquainted, being none other than that

which, once happy and bright, graced the door of the little village inn

under the name of Kate Greenly. There was some sadness upon that fair

countenance--the cheerful smile was gone, although there was a smile of

a different character still left. The freshness, the ease, the

lightness, were all wanting; though there was greater depth of thought

and feeling in the expression than during the pleasant days of village

sport and girlish coquetry. The rough touch of passion had brushed the

bloom from the fruit, and Kate Greenly, in look at least, was three or

four years older than a few weeks before.

As she put aside her veil to take part in the meal, the eye of the

friar fixed upon her, till she reddened under his gaze, looking half

angry, half abashed; but the moment after, the colour became deeper

still, when he said, "Methinks, fair lady, I have seen that sweet face

before."

"Perhaps so," she replied--"I cannot tell. There's many a wandering

friar comes to my father's door; but I heed them not, good sooth."

The friar laughed, answering gaily--

"Beauty, fair girl, is like the sun--

Is marked by all, but marketh none."

"Try some of these stewed eels, pretty one; they are worthy of the Wye,

whose waters have no mud to give them a foul flavour. Try them--try

them--they are good for the complexion: and now, Master Serving-man,

what think you of the wine? Did you ever taste better out of the spare

tankard which the butler hideth behind the cellar door?"

The serving-man was forced to admit that he had seldom drunk such good

liquor, and gradually getting over the ill humour which had been

sharpened by a lurking suspicion that the heels of the mule had been

turned towards him by human agency rather than the brute's own

obstinacy, enjoyed his supper, and laughed and talked with the friar

till the wine seemed to mount somewhat into the brain of both.

In the meanwhile, the light-o'-love, Kate Greenly, sat by for some

three quarters of an hour, melancholy in the midst of mirth. The

thoughts of home had been called up in her heart by the monk's

words--the thoughts of home and happy innocence! and she now found that

in giving up every treasure with which Heaven had gifted her lot, for

one trinket that, she could not always wear upon her hand, she had made

a mighty sacrifice for an uncertain reward. The only object that could

console her was away; and after enduring for the space of time we have

mentioned the pangs of others' mirth, she rose, and said she would seek

her chamber, as they had to proceed early.

The two serving-men sat idly at the table, leaving her to find her way

alone, for they reverenced but little their master's leman; but the

jovial fat friar started up from his seat with an activity which he

seemed little capable of, saying, "Stay, stay, pretty one--I will call

my host or hostess to you. They are worthy, kind people, as ever

lived," and he walked side by side with her towards the door.

Had the eyes of her two companions been upon her, they would have seen

her start as she was quitting the room with the friar; but their looks

were directed to the tankard which was passing between them, and in a

moment after, the rich full voice of the grey gown was heard calling

for the host and hostess. In another instant he rolled back into the

room, and resuming his place at the table, did as much justice as any

one to the good wine of the Maypole.

"Here's to thy lord, whosoever he may be!" cried the friar, addressing

the serving-man whom his mule had kicked. "God prosper his good deeds,

and frustrate his bad ones, if he commits any!"

"I'll not drink that," replied the worthy who had carried Kate Greenly

behind him. "I say, God prosper my master, and all his works--good,

bad, and indifferent. I have no business to take exceptions."

"Tut, man, drink the toast, and sing us a song!" cried he of the grey

gown.

"Sing first, thyself, fat friar," answered the serving-man.

The friar rejoined, "That I will!" and after taking another deep

draught, he poured forth, in full mellow strains, the well-known old

song,

"In a tavern let me die,

And a bottle near me lye,

That the angelic choir may cry,

God's blessing on the toper!" etc.

The song was much applauded, and as both the friar's companions were

now sufficiently imbued with drink to be ready for any species of

jollity, the same musical propensity seized upon them both in turn, and

they poured forth a couple of strains, which, if they could be found

written down in the exact terms in which they were sung, might well be

considered as invaluable specimens of the English poetry of that early

age. As they had no great tendency to edification, however, and

contained more ribaldry than wit, the gentle render will probably

excuse their omission in this place.

While thus with mirth and revelry three out of the personages whom we

saw arrive at the inn passed more than one hour of the night, the

fourth was ushered to a chamber hung with dark-painted cloth, while a

lamp placed in the window shewed a deep recess projecting over the

street, and making, as it were, a room within the room. The hostess

accompanied Kate Greenly to her apartment, and for some time bustled

about, seeing that all was in order, much to the poor girl's

discomfort. In vain she assured the good landlady that she had all she

wanted; in vain she expressed weariness and a desire to retire to bed:

still the hostess found something to set to rights, some table to

place, some stool to dust, while ever and anon she declared that her

girls were slatterns, and her chamberlain a lazy knave. At length she

turned towards the door, and Kate Greenly thought that she was going to

be freed from her presence; but it was only to call for her husband,

and to tell him, at the top of her voice, that he was "wonderful slow."

The poor girl could bear it no longer, but approaching the deep recess,

where the lamp stood in the window, she mounted the two little steps,

which separated it from the rest of the room, and standing close to the

light, unfolded a paper which she held in her hand. At first she could

scarcely see the words which were written therein, but shading her eyes

with her hand, she gazed intently on the lines, and read,--

"Return to your father; leave him not broken-hearted with shame and

sorrow! If you are willing to go back, I will soon find means; for I

have more help at hand than you wot of. Say but one word to the

hostess, and ere daylight to-morrow you shall be on the way to

Barnesdale. As I know the whole, so I tell you that the last hope is

before you. If you go back you may have peace and ease, though you have

cast away happiness; if you go forward, you may have a few hours of

joy, but a long life of misery, neglect, destitution, and despair,

without the hope of this world or the hope of the next.

"THE FRIAR."

Kate trembled very much, and her whole thoughts seemed to refuse all

direction or control; but at that moment the host of the Maypole

himself appeared, bearing a small silver chalice of warm wine, and a

plate filled with many-coloured comfits.

"I pray you, taste the sleeping-cup," he said, approaching his fair

guest; and as she mechanically followed the common custom of the day in

taking the cup, putting a few comfits in, and raising it for an instant

to her lips, she saw the eyes of both her companions fix upon her

countenance with a look of interest and inquiry, and perceived at a

glance that they also had, in some way, been made acquainted with her

history.

The burning glow of shame--the first time that she had felt it

fully--came into Kate Greenly's cheek, but it only roused her pride;

and instead of trampling that viper of the human heart under her feet,

after a moment's pause to recover herself, she said, with the look and

air of a queen--

"I want nothing more. You may go! If I want aught else, I will call."

The host and hostess retired, wishing her good night; but she thought

she saw upon the man's lip one of those maddening smiles which say more

than words, but do not admit of reply.

The moment they were gone she clasped her hands together, and burst

into tears--tears, not calm and soothing; tears, not bitter and

purifying; but tears of fierce and passionate anger at meeting,

perhaps, kinder treatment than she deserved. Seating herself upon the

step to the window, she sobbed for a few minutes with uncontrollable

vehemence; and then, starting up, she approached the lamp, and once