Part 11 (1/2)
Following closely at the heels of his guide, Buckland was ushered into a room which, in the frigid plainness of its appearance, differed little from the cells of the ordinary brethren, only it was larger.
The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls were bare and unbroken, save for two narrow lancet windows and the low, Gothic-arched door by which the archer entered. In the centre of the room stood a plain oaken table, on which was a small ivory crucifix, which, together with a number of richly-bound books of illuminated vellum--the most highly-prized objects within the monastery walls--gave a fitting setting to the gaunt figure of the stern yet revered Abbot. Two heavy wooden stools completed the furniture of the apartment, one of which was for the head of the Abbey himself, the other for the use of any visitor of equal or higher rank; otherwise, all who were called into the presence of the Abbot were obliged to stand, with bent head, patiently waiting to be addressed, and not daring to speak save when spoken to.
”Well, my son,” quoth the Abbot, after the customary benediction had been given. ”I have a small matter of which I would speak. Raymond, thy son, was until recently with us as a novice.”
”Yes, Father.”
”But thou didst send for him?”
”I could not do without him.”
”Yet he was ill spared by us a youth of much promise. Did he not ask to be allowed to take the vows of chast.i.ty and obedience?”
”Nay, Father.”
”What, then, is in thy mind with regard to his up-bringing?”
”But two days agone he did ask to go with me to the wars.”
”Alas! Alack!” groaned the Abbot, speaking half to his visitor, half to himself. ”To think that one brought up in the sanct.i.ty of this place should have a mind for the horror of war! It but shows that men's minds are by nature inclined to strife, and that we must ever be subduing the desires of malice and hatred, which, though dormant for years, are too often ready to burst forth with renewed strength.
Ah me! And I did think Raymond was a brand plucked from the burning.
Thinkst thou that 'tis not too late to turn him from his purpose and bring him into the brotherhood?”
”Father,” replied the master-bowman earnestly, ”many a time have I pondered the matter over in my heart, for he is very dear to me. In my wanderings I knew him to be in safe keeping in this peaceful place, yet I look to my son as a tried companion of my old age, for I have no other kith or kin in the world. To the wars he would go, yet Heaven forfend that ill should happen to him.”
”But if he wish to stay?”
”Then he may do so, though as a monk he will be as far from me as ever.”
”Then he shall be asked, my son. Should he remain with us the Order profiteth; should he go Franceward, then the saints be with him and bring him safely home again. But, I ask,” he added, fixing his dark eyes intently on the archer, ”when Raymond left us didst thou fetch him away?”
”Nay, Father, I----”
”Then where have I met thee before?”
For a moment a pallor, quickly succeeded by a deep flush, overspread the tanned features of the master-bowman, and his mind travelled back for nigh two score years. Then in quick, short sentences he replied, telling the story of the tragedy which had darkened his life.
”Ah! I thought my memory played me not false,” returned the Abbot.
”But of that enough! I knew it! And, for an archer, thou art certainly apt in speech. Canst read?”
”Yea, Father.”
”And write?”
”Yea, Father. Many a time have I acted as scrivener to Sir John Hacket, the Constable of the Castle of Portchester.”
”'Tis well; and rest a.s.sured, my son, that, by my holy calling, no word of thy past shall fall from my lips.”
”And there is another small matter of which I would speak,” said Redward.