The Gathering of Brother Hilarius
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Michael Fairless >> The Gathering of Brother Hilarius
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6 Transcribed from the 1912 John Murray edition by David Price, email
ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
THE GATHERING OF BROTHER HILARIUS
PART I--THE SEED
CHAPTER I--BLIND EYES IN THE FOREST
Hilarius stood at the Monastery gate, looking away down the smooth,
well-kept road to the highway beyond. It lay quiet and serene in
the June sunshine, the white way to the outer world, and not even a
dust cloud on the horizon promised the approach of the train of
sumpter mules laden with meats for the bellies and cloth for the
backs of the good Brethren within. The Cellarer lacked wine, the
drug stores in the farmery were running low; last, but not least,
the Precentor had bespoken precious colours, rich gold, costly
vellum, and on these the thoughts of Hilarius tarried with anxious
expectation.
On his left lay the forest, home of his longing imaginings. The
Monastery wall crept up one side of it, and over the top the great
trees peered and beckoned with their tossing, feathery branches.
Twice had Hilarius walked there, attending the Prior as he paced
slowly and silently along the mossy ways, under the strong,
springing pines; and the occasions were stored in his memory with
the glories of St Benedict's Day and Our Lady's Festivals. Away to
the right, within the great enclosure, stretched the Monastery
lands, fair to the eye, with orchard and fruitful field, teeming
with glad, unhurried labour.
At a little elevation, overlooking the whole domain, rose the
Priory buildings, topped by the Church, crown and heart of the
place, signing the sign of the Cross over the daily life and work
of the Brethren, itself the centre of that life, the object of that
work, ever unfinished because love knows not how to make an end.
To the monks it was a page in the history of the life of the Order,
written in stone, blazoned with beauty of the world's treasure; a
page on which each generation might spell out a word, perchance add
a line, to the greater glory of God and St Benedict. They were
always at work on it, stretching out eager hands for the rare
stuffs and precious stones devout men brought from overseas,
finding a place for the best of every ordered craft; their shame an
uncouth line or graceless arch, their glory each completed pinnacle
and fretted spire; ever restoring, enlarging, repairing,
spendthrift of money and time in the service of the House of the
Lord.
The sun shone hot on grey wall and green garth; the spirit of
insistent peace brooded over the place. The wheeling white pigeons
circling the cloister walls cried peace; the sculptured saints in
their niches over the west door gave the blessing of peace; an old,
blind monk crossed the garth with the hesitating gait of habit
lately acquired--on his face was great peace. It rested
everywhere, this peace of prayerful service, where the clang of the
blacksmith's hammer smote the sound of the Office bell.
Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign
of the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior's lips would
take a thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue;
and it was ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept
the fragrance of Mary's lilies across to the lad; he turned his
dreamy, blue eyes from the highway to the forest. The scent of the
pinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought. Should he, dare he,
break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of an unwalled
world? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-made novice,
cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered him; the trees
beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the voice of the
forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, with
bowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles.
At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair
aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and
pillared city of mystery and wonder.
It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled,
and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius'
eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit
blue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our
Lady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he
bathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool
depths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped
from him, and joy replaced it--joy so great that his heart ached
with it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes
following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open
glade, halted in amazement.
A flower incarnate stood before him; stood--nay, danced in the
wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased
each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the
folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as
stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowers
itself. Hilarius' eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks
like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender,
laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils
of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level
brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for
untutored novices such as Hilarius.
His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St
Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a
murmured "Apage Sataas!"
The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind.
"O what a pretty boy!" she cried gaily. "Playing truant, I dare
wager. Come and dance!"
Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. "Woman," he said, and
his voice trembled somewhat, "art thou not shamed to deck thyself
in this devil's guise?"
The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily.
"No more devil's guise than thine own," she retorted, eyeing his
semi-monastic garb with scant favour. "Can a poor maid not
practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred
youngster must cry devil's guise?"
As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke
into peal on peal of joyous laughter. "Poor lad, with thy talk of
devils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?"
Shrewdly hit, mistress; never before has Hilarius looked a maid in
the eyes, and now he drops his own.
"Dost thou not know it is sin to deck the body thus, and entice
men's souls to their undoing?"
"An what is the matter with my poor body, may it please you, kind
sir?" she asked demurely, and stood with downcast eyes, like a
scolded child.
"It is wrong to deck the body," began Hilarius, softening at her
attitude, "because, because--"
Again the merry laugh rang out.
"Because, because--nay, Father" (with a mock reverence), "methinks
thy sermon is not ready; let it simmer awhile, and _I_ will
catechise. How old art thou?" She held up her small finger
admonishingly.
"Seventeen," replied Hilarius, surprised into reply.
"Art thou a monk?"
"Nay, a novice only."
"Hast thou ever loved?"
Hilarius threw up his hands in shocked indignation, but she went on
unconcerned -
"'Twas a foolish question; the answer's writ large for any maid to
read. But tell me, why art thou angry at the thought of love?"
Hilarius felt the ground slipping from under his feet.
"There is an evil love, and a holy love; it is good to love God and
the Saints and the Brethren--"
"But not the sisters?" the wicked little laugh pealed out. "Poor
sisters! Why, boy, the world is full of love, and not all for the
Saints and the Brethren, and it is good--good--good!" She opened
her arms wide. "'Tis the devil and the monks who call it evil.
Hast thou never seen the birds mate in the springtime, nor heard
the nightingale sing?"
"It is well for a husband to love his wife, and a mother her child.
That is love in measure, but not so high as the love we bear to God
and the Saints!" quoth Hilarius sententiously, mindful of
yesterday's homily in the Frater.
"But how can'st thou know that thou lovest the Saints?" the dancer
persisted.
How did he know?
"How dost thou know that thou lovest thy mother?" he cried
triumphantly, forgetting the reprobate nature of the catechist, and
anxious only to come well out of the wordy war.
But the unexpected happened.
"Dost thou dare speak to me of my mother? _I_, love her?--I HATE
her;" and she flung herself down on the grass in a passion of
weeping.
Even a master of theology is helpless before a woman's tears.
"Maid, maid," said Hilarius, in deep distress, "indeed I did not
mean to vex thee;" and he came up and laid his hand on her
shoulder.
So successfully can the Prince of Darkness simulate grief!
The dancer sat up and brushed away her tears; she looked fairer and
more flowerlike than before, sitting on the green sward, looking up
at him through shining lashes.
"There, boy, 'tis naught. How could'st thou know? But what of
thine own mother?"
"I know not."
"Nay, what is this? And thy father?"
"He was a gentle knight who died in battle ere I knew him. I came
a little child to the Monastery, and know no other place."
"Ah,"--vindictively,--"then THY mother may have been a light o'
love."
"Light of love; it has a wondrous fair sound," said Hilarius with a
smile.
The maid looked at him speechless.
"GO HOME, BOY," she said at last emphatically.
Just then a lad, a tumbler by his dress, pushed a way through the
undergrowth, and stood grinning at the pair.
"So, Gia!" he said. "We must make haste; the others wait."
"'Tis my brother," said the dancer, "and"--pointing to the bag
slung across the youth's shoulder--"I trust he hath a fine fat hen
from thy Monastery for our meal."
Hilarius broke into a cold sweat.
The Convent's hens! The Saints preserve us! Was nothing sacred,
and were the Ten Commandments written solely for use in the
Monasteries?
"'Tis stealing," he said feebly.
"'Tis stealing," the dancer mocked. "Hast thou another sermon
ready, Sir Preacher?"
"Empty bellies make light fingers," quoth the youth. "Did'st thou
ever hunger, master?"
"There is the fast of Lent which presses somewhat," said Hilarius.
"But ever a meal certain once in the day?" queried the girl.
"Ay, surely, and collation also; and Sunday is no fast."
The mischievous apes laughed--how they laughed!
"So, good Preacher," said the dancer at last, rising to her feet,
"thou dost know it is wrong to steal; but hast never felt hunger.
Thou dost know it is wrong to love any but God, the Saints, and thy
mother; but thou hast never known a mother, nor felt what it was to
love. Blind eyes! Blind eyes! the very forest could teach thee
these things an thou would'st learn. Farewell, good novice, back
to thy Saints and thy nursery; for me the wide wide world; hunger
and love--love--love!"
She seized her brother's hand and together they danced away like
two bright butterflies among the trees.
Hilarius stared after them until they disappeared, and then with
dazed eyes and drooping head took his way back to the Monastery.
The train of mules had just arrived; all was stir, bustle, and
explanation; and in the thick of it he slipped in unseen,
unquestioned; but he was hardly conscious of this mercy vouchsafed
him, for in his heart reigned desolation and doubt, and in his ears
rang the dancer's parting cry, "Hunger and love--love--love!"
CHAPTER II--THE LOVE OF PRIOR STEPHEN
Brother Bernard, the Precentor, dealt out gold, paint and vellum
with generous hand to his favourite pupil, and wondered at his
downcast look.
"Methinks this gold is dull, Brother," said Hilarius one day,
fretfully, to his old master.
And again -
"'Tis very poor vermilion."
The Brother looked at him enquiry.
"Nay, nay, boy; 'tis thine eyes at fault; naught ails the colours."
Later, the Precentor came to look at the delicate border Hilarius
was setting to the page of the Nativity of Our Lady.
"Now may God be good to us!" he cried with uplifted hands. "Since
when did man paint the Blessed Mother with grey eyes and black
hair--curly too, i' faith?"
Hilarius crimsoned, he was weary of limning ever with blue and
gold, he faltered.
It was the same in chapel. The insistent question pursued him
through chant and psalm. Did he really LOVE the Saints--St
Benedict, St Scholastica, St Bernard, St Hilary? The names left
him untouched; but his lips quivered as he thought of the great
love between the holy brother and sister of his Order. If he had
had a sister would they have loved like that?
The Saints' Days came and went, and he scourged himself with the
repeated question, kneeling with burning cheeks, and eyes from
which tears were not absent, in the Chapel of the Great Mother.
"Light of Love," the girl had called his mother; what more
beautiful name could he find for the Queen of Saints herself? So
he prayed in his simplicity:- "Great Light of Love, Mother of my
mother, grant love, love, love, to thy poor sinful son!"
The question came in his daily life.
Did he love the Prior? He feared him; and his voice was for
Hilarius as the voice of God Himself. Brother John? He feared him
too; Brother John's tongue was a thing to fear. Brother Richard,
old, half-blind? Surely he loved Brother Richard?--sad, helpless,
and lonely, by reason of his infirmities--or was it only pity he
felt for him?
Nay, let be; he loved them all. The Monastery was his home, the
Prior his father, the monks his brethren; why heed the wild words
of the witch in the forest? And yet what was it she had said?
"For me the wide world, hunger, and love--love--love!"
He wandered in the Monastery garden and was troubled by its
beauties. Two sulphur butterflies sported around the tall white
lilies at the farmery door. Did they love?
He watched the sparrows at their second nesting, full of business
and cheerful bickerings. Did they love?
SHE had said the answer was writ large for him to see: he wandered
staring, wide-eyed but sightless.
At last in his sore distress he turned to the Prior, as the ship-
wrecked mariner turns to the sea-girt rock that towers serene and
unhurt above the devouring waves.
The Prior heard him patiently, with here and there a shrewd
question. When the halting tale was told he mused awhile, his
stern blue eyes grew tender, and a little smile troubled the firm
line of his mouth.
"My son," he said at length, "thou art in the wrong school;
nursery, was it the maid said? A shrewd lass and welcome to the
hen. Thou art a limner at heart--Brother Bernard tells of thy
wondrous skill with the brush--and to be limner thou must learn to
hunger and to love as the maid said. Ay, boy, and to be monk too,
though alack, men gainsay it."
"Father," said Hilarius, waxing bold from excessive need, "did'st
thou ever love as the maid meant?"
"Ay, boy--thy mother."
There was a long silence. Then the boy said timidly:-
"The maid said she might be light of love; 'tis a beautiful
thought."
The Prior started, and looked at him curiously:-
"What didst thou tell the maid?"
"That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight who
died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was
light of love."
"Boy," said the Prior gravely, "'tis a weary tale, and sad of
telling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned
love lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it is, but
thought only of bodily lusts. Pray for her soul"--his voice grew
stern--"as for one of those upon whom God, in His great pity, may
have mercy. Thus have I prayed these many years."
Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:-
"She was evil, wicked, my mother?"
"Ay--a light woman, that was what the maid meant."
Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped
the Prior's knees weeping and praying like a little child.
"And so, my son," said the Prior, "for a time thou shalt go out
into the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a
care that thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure
shall see God, and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set
in order thy going; and send the Chamberlain hither to me."
That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood,
and then at St Mary Maudlin's altar he did penance for his dead
mother's sin.
A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay,
is pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors
of the great world without. He had a purse for his immediate
needs; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would
be his patron; and another to the Prior's good friend, the Abbat of
St Alban's. The Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they loved
this gentle lad who had been with them from a little child; and
Brother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look his last at the
young face he would never see again.
The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to
the gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy,
overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might
stay and learn some other way, however hard. The Prior shook his
head.
"Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master
for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us--an thou
can'st--let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are
opened and the great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee,
to keep still the faithful heart of a little child."
Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart-
strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and
along the highway, without daring to look back, and so out into the
wide, wide world.
CHAPTER III--THE KING'S SONG-BIRD
Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly to
himself as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with
straight black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes
that smouldered in hollow cavities. He wore the King's colours,
and broke a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast.
"Heigh-ho!" sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him,
"another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of shoe-
leather already, and not another penny piece in my pocket 'til I
win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from
Candlemas to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile or
frown; wide England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and a
jug of cider instead of a king's banquet. Now but another few
leagues and the cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but a song
here and a song there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles,
not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 'tis a poor bird
sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if Edward
did but know it.
"Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries a
light heart from his song; and no ill voice either."
It was Hilarius, and he sang the Alma Redemptoris as he sped along
the green grass which bordered the highway.
When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up
at the sight of the vielle.
"Whence dost thou come, lad?" said Martin, eyeing him with
interest.
"Many days' journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen," answered
Hilarius.
"But thou art no monk!"
"Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to
see the world. It is wondrous fair," he added sincerely.
"He who speaks thus is cloister-bred," said Martin, and as Hilarius
made sign of assent, "'tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior
gave thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter's, I doubt not; thy face
is set for Westminster."
"Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir
John Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere
now but that two days ago I met strange company. They took my
purse and hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until the
late dawn. Then they gave me my goods again, and bade me God-
speed.'
"But kept thy purse?" Martin laughed.
"Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all passing
strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did
me no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving me
provision, which I lacked."
"Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of God's judgments for once,"
muttered Martin; then aloud, "Well, young sir, we shall do well if
we win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together
since our way is the same?"
Hilarius assented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of
Court and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel
was wed. He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and
sport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John
Maltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, and no mean
musician; "and," added Martin, "three fair daughters he hath, the
eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, of whom men say she would fain
be a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager one or other will claim
thee for page."
"I will strive to serve well," said Hilarius soberly, "but I have
never spoken but to one maid 'til yesterday, when a woman gave me
good-morrow."
Martin looked at his companion queerly.
"And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this
Prior of thine is a strange master!"
"It is but for a time," said Hilarius, "then I shall go back to the
Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I
have some small skill with the brush," he added simply.
Martin stared.
"Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now,
not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust and
banquet and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and
little reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not
such as makes a monk."
Hilarius smiled.
"Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write
for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the
Court? It seems a fine thing to be the King's Minstrel."
"Nay, lad, nay," said the other hastily, "give me the open country
and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King
is a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I 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."
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