The White Company
fourteen deniers, having drunk wine for which he hath never paid.
For the easing of his soul, he asked me to pay the money to you as I
passed.' Now this Gourval was very greedy for money, so he thrust forth
his hand for the fourteen deniers, but Simon had his dagger ready and
he pinned his hand to the door. 'I have paid the Englishman's debt,
Gourval!' quoth he, and so rode away, laughing so that he could scarce
sit his horse, leaving mine host still nailed to his door. Such is the
story of the hole which you have marked, and of the smudge upon the
wood. I have heard that from that time English archers have been better
treated in the auberge of Cardillac. But what have we here by the
wayside?”
“It appears to be a very holy man,” said Alleyne.
“And, by the rood! he hath some strange wares,” cried John. “What are
these bits of stone, and of wood, and rusted nails, which are set out in
front of him?”
The man whom they had remarked sat with his back against a cherry-tree,
and his legs shooting out in front of him, like one who is greatly at
his ease. Across his thighs was a wooden board, and scattered over it
all manner of slips of wood and knobs of brick and stone, each laid
separate from the other, as a huckster places his wares. He was dressed
in a long gray gown, and wore a broad hat of the same color, much
weather-stained, with three scallop-shells dangling from the brim. As
they approached, the travellers observed that he was advanced in years,
and that his eyes were upturned and yellow.
“Dear knights and gentlemen,” he cried in a high crackling voice,
“worthy Christian cavaliers, will ye ride past and leave an aged pilgrim
to die of hunger? The sight hast been burned from mine eyes by the sands
of the Holy Land, and I have had neither crust of bread nor cup of wine
these two days past.”
“By my hilt! father,” said Aylward, looking keenly at him, “it is a
marvel to me that thy girdle should have so goodly a span and clip thee
so closely, if you have in sooth had so little to place within it.”
“Kind stranger,” answered the pilgrim, “you have unwittingly spoken
words which are very grievous to me to listen to. Yet I should be loth
to blame you, for I doubt not that what you said was not meant to sadden
me, nor to bring my sore affliction back to my mind. It ill becomes me
to prate too much of what I have endured for the faith, and yet, since
you have observed it, I must tell you that this thickness and roundness
of the waist is caused by a dropsy brought on by over-haste in
journeying from the house of Pilate to the Mount of Olives.”
“There, Aylward,” said Alleyne, with a reddened cheek, “let that curb
your blunt tongue. How could you bring a fresh pang to this holy man,
who hath endured so much and hath journeyed as far as Christ's own
blessed tomb?”
“May the foul fiend strike me dumb!” cried the bowman in hot repentance;
but both the palmer and Alleyne threw up their hands to stop him.
“I forgive thee from my heart, dear brother,” piped the blind man. “But,
oh, these wild words of thine are worse to mine ears than aught which
you could say of me.”
“Not another word shall I speak,” said Aylward; “but here is a franc for
thee and I crave thy blessing.”
“And here is another,” said Alleyne.
“And another,” cried Hordle John.
But the blind palmer would have none of their alms. “Foolish, foolish
pride!” he cried, beating upon his chest with his large brown hand.
“Foolish, foolish pride! How long then will it be ere I can scourge it
forth? Am I then never to conquer it? Oh, strong, strong are the ties of
flesh, and hard it is to subdue the spirit! I come, friends, of a noble
house, and I cannot bring myself to touch this money, even though it be
to save me from the grave.”
“Alas! father,” said Alleyne, “how then can we be of help to thee?”
“I had sat down here to die,” quoth the palmer; “but for many years I
have carried in my wallet these precious things which you see set forth
now before me. It were sin, thought I, that my secret should perish with
me. I shall therefore sell these things to the first worthy passers-by,
and from them I shall have money enough to take me to the shrine of Our
Lady at Rocamadour, where I hope to lay these old bones.”
“What are these treasures, then, father?” asked Hordle John. “I can but
see an old rusty nail, with bits of stone and slips of wood.”
“My friend,” answered the palmer, “not all the money that is in this
country could pay a just price for these wares of mine. This nail,” he
continued, pulling off his hat and turning up his sightless orbs, “is
one of those wherewith man's salvation was secured. I had it, together
with this piece of the true rood, from the five-and-twentieth descendant
of Joseph of Arimathea, who still lives in Jerusalem alive and well,
though latterly much afflicted by boils. Aye, you may well cross
yourselves, and I beg that you will not breathe upon it or touch it with
your fingers.”
“And the wood and stone, holy father?” asked Alleyne, with bated breath,
as he stared awe-struck at his precious relics.
“This cantle of wood is from the true cross, this other from Noah his
ark, and the third is from the door-post of the temple of the wise King
Solomon. This stone was thrown at the sainted Stephen, and the other two
are from the Tower of Babel. Here, too, is part of Aaron's rod, and a
lock of hair from Elisha the prophet.”
“But, father,” quoth Alleyne, “the holy Elisha was bald, which brought
down upon him the revilements of the wicked children.”
“It is very true that he had not much hair,” said the palmer quickly,
“and it is this which makes this relic so exceeding precious. Take now
your choice of these, my worthy gentlemen, and pay such a price as
your consciences will suffer you to offer; for I am not a chapman nor
a huckster, and I would never part with them, did I not know that I am
very near to my reward.”
“Aylward,” said Alleyne excitedly, “this is such a chance as few folk
have twice in one life. The nail I must have, and I will give it to the
abbey of Beaulieu, so that all the folk in England may go thither to
wonder and to pray.”
“And I will have the stone from the temple,” cried Hordle John. “What
would not my old mother give to have it hung over her bed?”
“And I will have Aaron's rod,” quoth Aylward. “I have but five florins
in the world, and here are four of them.”
“Here are three more,” said John.
“And here are five more,” added Alleyne. “Holy father, I hand you twelve
florins, which is all that we can give, though we well know how poor a
pay it is for the wondrous things which you sell us.”
“Down, pride, down!” cried the pilgrim, still beating upon his chest.
“Can I not bend myself then to take this sorry sum which is offered me
for that which has cost me the labors of a life. Give me the dross! Here
are the precious relics, and, oh, I pray you that you will handle them
softly and with reverence, else had I rather left my unworthy bones here
by the wayside.”
With doffed caps and eager hands, the comrades took their new and
precious possessions, and pressed onwards upon their journey, leaving
the aged palmer still seated under the cherry-tree. They rode in
silence, each with his treasure in his hand, glancing at it from time to
time, and scarce able to believe that chance had made them sole owners
of relics of such holiness and worth that every abbey and church
in Christendom would have bid eagerly for their possession. So they
journeyed, full of this good fortune, until opposite the town of Le Mas,
where John's horse cast a shoe, and they were glad to find a wayside
smith who might set the matter to rights. To him Aylward narrated the
good hap which had befallen them; but the smith, when his eyes lit upon
the relics, leaned up against his anvil and laughed, with his hand to
his side, until the tears hopped down his sooty cheeks.
“Why, masters,” quoth he, “this man is a coquillart, or seller of false
relics, and was here in the smithy not two hours ago. This nail that
he hath sold you was taken from my nail-box, and as to the wood and the
stones, you will see a heap of both outside from which he hath filled
his scrip.”
“Nay, nay,” cried Alleyne, “this was a holy man who had journeyed to
Jerusalem, and acquired a dropsy by running from the house of Pilate to
the Mount of Olives.”
“I know not about that,” said the smith; “but I know that a man with a
gray palmer's hat and gown was here no very long time ago, and that he
sat on yonder stump and ate a cold pullet and drank a flask of wine.
Then he begged from me one of my nails, and filling his scrip with
stones, he went upon his way. Look at these nails, and see if they are
not the same as that which he has sold you.”
“Now may God save us!” cried Alleyne, all aghast. “Is there no end then
to the wickedness of humankind? He so humble, so aged, so loth to take
our money--and yet a villain and a cheat. Whom can we trust or believe
in?”
“I will after him,” said Aylward, flinging himself into the saddle.
“Come, Alleyne, we may catch him ere John's horse be shod.”
Away they galloped together, and ere long they saw the old gray palmer
walking slowly along in front of them. He turned, however, at the sound
of their hoofs, and it was clear that his blindness was a cheat like all
the rest of him, for he ran swiftly through a field and so into a wood,
where none could follow him. They hurled their relics after him, and so
rode back to the blacksmith's the poorer both in pocket and in faith.
CHAPTER XXVII. HOW ROGER CLUB-FOOT WAS PASSED INTO PARADISE.
It was evening before the three comrades came into Aiguillon. There they
found Sir Nigel Loring and Ford safely lodged at the sign of the
“Baton Rouge,” where they supped on good fare and slept between
lavender-scented sheets. It chanced, however, that a knight of Poitou,
Sir Gaston d'Estelle, was staying there on his way back from Lithuania,
where he had served a term with the Teutonic knights under the
land-master of the presbytery of Marienberg. He and Sir Nigel sat late
in high converse as to bushments, outfalls, and the intaking of cities,
with many tales of warlike men and valiant deeds. Then their talk turned
to minstrelsy, and the stranger knight drew forth a cittern, upon which
he played the minne-lieder of the north, singing the while in a high
cracked voice of Hildebrand and Brunhild and Siegfried, and all the
strength and beauty of the land of Almain. To this Sir Nigel answered
with the romances of Sir Eglamour, and of Sir Isumbras, and so through
the long winter night they sat by the crackling wood-fire answering each
other's songs until the crowing cocks joined in their concert. Yet, with
scarce an hour of rest, Sir Nigel was as blithe and bright as ever as
they set forth after breakfast upon their way.
“This Sir Gaston is a very worthy man,” said he to his squires as they
rode from the “Baton Rouge.” “He hath a very strong desire to advance
himself, and would have entered upon some small knightly debate with me,
had he not chanced to have his arm-bone broken by the kick of a horse.
I have conceived a great love for him, and I have promised him that when
his bone is mended I will exchange thrusts with him. But we must keep to
this road upon the left.”
“Nay, my fair lord,” quoth Aylward. “The road to Montaubon is over the
river, and so through Quercy and the Agenois.”
“True, my good Aylward; but I have learned from this worthy knight, who
hath come over the French marches, that there is a company of Englishmen
who are burning and plundering in the country round Villefranche. I have
little doubt, from what he says, that they are those whom we seek.”
“By my hilt! it is like enough,” said Aylward. “By all accounts they had