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HOW ALLEYNE EDRICSON CAME OUT INTO THE WORLD.
NEVER had the peaceful atmosphere of the old Cistercian house been so
rudely ruffled. Never had there
been insurrection so sudden, so short, and so successful.
Yet the Abbot Berghersh was a man of too firm a grain to allow one bold
outbreak to imperil the settled order of his great household.
In a few hot and bitter words, he compared their false brother's exit to
the expulsion of our first parents from the garden, and more than hinted that
unless a reformation occurred some others of the community might find themselves
in the same evil and perilous case. Having
thus pointed the moral and reduced his flock to a fitting state of docility, he
dismissed them once more to their labors and withdrew himself to his own private
chamber, there to seek spiritual aid in the discharge of the duties of his high
The Abbot was still on his knees, when a gentle tapping at the door of
his cell broke in upon his orisons.
Rising in no very good humor at the interruption, he gave the word to
enter; but his look of impatience softened down into a pleasant and paternal
smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.
He was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middle size,
comely and well shapen, with straight, lithe figure and eager, boyish features.
His clear, pensive gray eyes, and quick, delicate expression, spoke of a
nature which had unfolded far from the boisterous joys and sorrows of the world.
Yet there was a set of the mouth and a prominence of the chin which
relieved him of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive
he might be, enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and adaptive in
his disposition; but an observer of nature's tokens would have confidently
pledged himself that there was native firmness and strength underlying his
gentle, monk-bred ways.
The youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire, though his
jerkin, cloak and hose were all of a sombre hue, as befitted one who dwelt in
sacred precincts. A broad leather
strap hanging from his shoulder supported a scrip or satchel such as travellers
were wont to carry. In one hand he
grasped a thick staff pointed and shod with metal, while in the other he held
his coif or bonnet, which bore in its front a broad pewter medal stamped with
the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour.
"Art ready, then, fair son?" said the Abbot.
"This is indeed a day of comings and of going.
It is strange that in one twelve hours the Abbey should have cast off its
foulest weed and should now lose what we are fain to look upon as our choicest
"You speak too kindly, father," the youth answered.
"If I had my will I should never go forth, but should end my days
here in Beaulieu. It hath been my
home as far back as my mind can carry me, and it is a sore thing for me to have
to leave it."
"Life brings many a cross," said the Abbot gently.
"Who is without them? Your
going forth is a grief to us as well as to yourself.
But there is no help. I had
given my foreword and sacred promise to your father, Edric the Franklin, that at
the age of twenty you should be sent out into the world to see for yourself how
you liked the savor of it. Seat
thee upon the settle, Alleyne, for you may need rest ere long."
The youth sat down as directed, but reluctantly and with diffidence.
The Abbot stood by the narrow window, and his long black shadow fell
slantwise across the rush-strewn floor.
"Twenty years ago," he said, "your father, the Franklin of
Minstead, died, leaving to the Abbey three hides of rich land in the hundred of
Malwood, and leaving to us also his infant son on condition that we should rear
him until he came to man's estate. This he did partly because your mother was
dead, and partly because your elder brother, now Socman of Minstead, had already
given sign of that fierce and rude nature which would make him no fit companion
for you. It was his desire and
request, however, that you should not remain in the cloisters, but should at a
ripe age return into the world."
"But, father," interrupted the young man "it is surely
true that I am already advanced several degrees in clerkship?"
"Yes, fair son, but not so far as to bar you from the garb you now
wear or the life which you must now lead. You
have been porter?"
"But have sworn no vow of constancy or chastity?"
"Then you are free to follow a worldly life.
But let me hear, ere you start, what gifts you take away with you from
Beaulieu? Some I already know. There
is the playing of the citole and the rebeck.
Our choir will be dumb without you.
You carve too?"
The youth's pale face flushed with the pride of the skilled workman.
"Yes, holy father," he answered.
"Thanks to good brother Bartholomew, I carve in wood and in ivory,
and can do something also in silver and in bronze.
From brother Francis I have learned to paint on vellum, on glass, and on
metal, with a knowledge of those pigments and essences which can preserve the
color against damp or a biting air. Brother
Luke hath given me some skill in damask work, and in the enamelling of shrines,
tabernacles, diptychs and triptychs. For
the rest, I know a little of the making of covers, the cutting of precious
stones, and the fashioning of instruments."
"A goodly list, truly," cried the superior with a smile.
"What clerk of Cambrig or of Oxenford could say as much?
But of thy reading--hast not so much to show there, I fear?"
"No, father, it hath been slight enough.
Yet, thanks to our good chancellor, I am not wholly unlettered.
I have read Ockham, Bradwardine, and other of the schoolmen, together
with the learned Duns Scotus and the book of the holy Aquinas."
"But of the things of this world, what have you gathered from your
reading? From this high window you
may catch a glimpse over the wooden point and the smoke of Bucklershard of the
mouth of the Exe, and the shining sea. Now,
I pray you Alleyne, if a man were to take a ship and spread sail across yonder
waters, where might he hope to arrive?"
The youth pondered, and drew a plan amongst the rushes with the point of
his staff. "Holy father,"
said he, "he would come upon those parts of France which are held by the
King's Majesty. But if he trended to the south he might reach Spain and the
Barbary States. To his north would
be Flanders and the country of the Eastlanders and of the Muscovites."
"True. And how if,
after reaching the King's possessions, he still journeyed on to the
"He would then come upon that part of France which is still in
dispute, and he might hope to reach the famous city of Avignon, where dwells our
blessed father, the prop of Christendom."
"Then he would pass through the land of the Almains and the great
Roman Empire, and so to the country of the Huns and of the Lithuanian pagans,
beyond which lies the great city of Constantine and the kingdom of the unclean
followers of Mahmoud."
"And beyond that, fair son?"
"Beyond that is Jerusalem and the Holy Land, and the great river
which hath its source in the Garden of Eden."
"Nay, good father, I cannot tell.
Methinks the end of the world is not far from there."
"Then we can still find something to teach thee, Alleyne," said
the Abbot complaisantly. "Know
that many strange nations lie betwixt there and the end of the world.
There is the country of the Amazons, and the country of the dwarfs, and
the country of the fair but evil women who slay with beholding, like the
basilisk. Beyond that again is the
kingdom of Prester John and of the great Cham.
These things I know for very sooth, for I had them from that pious
Christian and valiant knight, Sir John de Mandeville, who stopped twice at
Beaulieu on his way to and from Southampton, and discoursed to us concerning
what he had seen from the reader's desk in the refectory, until there was many a
good brother who got neither bit nor sup, so stricken were they by his strange
"I would fain know, father," asked the young man, "what
there may be at the end of the world?"
"There are some things," replied the Abbot gravely, "into
which it was never intended that we should inquire.
But you have a long road before you.
Whither will you first turn?"
"To my brother's at Minstead. If
he be indeed an ungodly and violent man, there is the more need that I should
seek him out and see whether I cannot turn him to better ways."
The Abbot shook his head. "The
Socman of Minstead hath earned an evil name over the country side," he
said. "If you must go to him, see at least that he doth not
turn you from the narrow path upon which you have learned to tread.
But you are in God's keeping, and Godward should you ever look in danger
and in trouble. Above all, shun the
snares of women, for they are ever set for the foolish feet of the young.
Kneel down, my child, and take an old man's blessing."
Alleyne Edricson bent his head while the Abbot poured out his heartfelt
supplication that Heaven would watch over this young soul, now going forth into
the darkness and danger of the world. It was no mere form for either of them.
To them the outside life of mankind did indeed seem to be one of violence
and of sin, beset with physical and still more with spiritual danger. Heaven,
too, was very near to them in those days. God's
direct agency was to be seen in the thunder and the rainbow, the whirlwind and
the lightning. To the believer,
clouds of angels and confessors, and martyrs, armies of the sainted and the
saved, were ever stooping over their struggling brethren upon earth, raising,
encouraging, and supporting them. It
was then with a lighter heart and a stouter courage that the young man turned
from the Abbot's room, while the latter, following him to the stair-head,
finally commended him to the protection of the holy Julian, patron of
Underneath, in the porch of the Abbey, the monks had gathered to give him
a last God-speed. Many had brought some parting token by which he should remember them. There was brother Bartholomew
with a crucifix of rare carved ivory, and brother Luke With a
white-backed psalter adorned with golden bees, and brother
Francis with the "Slaying of the Innocents" most daintily set
forth upon vellum. All these were
duly packed away deep in the traveller's scrip, and above them old pippin-faced
brother Athanasius had placed a parcel of simnel bread and rammel cheese, with a
small flask of the famous blue-sealed Abbey wine.
So, amid hand-shakings and laughings and blessings, Alleyne Edricson
turned his back upon Beaulieu.
At the turn of the road he stopped and gazed back.
There was the wide-spread building which he knew so well, the Abbot's
house, the long church, the cloisters with their line of arches, all bathed and
mellowed in the evening sun. There
too was the broad sweep of the river Exe, the old stone well, the canopied niche
of the Virgin, and in the centre of all the cluster of white-robed figures who
waved their hands to him. A sudden
mist swam up before the young man's eyes, and he turned away upon his journey
with a heavy heart and a choking throat.
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