A boy of fifteen, clad in doublet and hose of plain cloth dyed a sober brown, sat alone at one end of a broad, vaulted1 room, before a writing table. The strong, clear light which covered him and his work fell through an open window, arched at the top and piercing a stone wall of almost a yard's thickness. Similar openings to the right and left of him marked with bars of light a dozen other places along the extended, shelf-like table, where writers had now finished their day's labor2, and, departing, had left covered horns of ink and cleansed3 utensils4 behind them. But the boy's task lagged behind fulfilment, and mocked him.
Strive as he might, Hugh could not compel the tails of the longer letters to curl freely and with decent grace, or even to run in the same direction, one with the other. Though he pressed his elbow to the board, and scowled5 intently at the vellum before him, and even thrust out his tongue a little in earnest endeavor, still the marks went wrong. At last there came at the end of a word an "f," which needs must flow into shapely curves at top and bottom, if all fair writing were not to be shamed—and, lo! it did neither, but sloped off shakily into a rude angle above, a clumsy duck's egg below. Then he laid down his reed pen, and groaned6 aloud.
This Hugh Overtown, having later come to man's estate and then comfortably ripened7 into old age, has been dust and ashes now close upon four hundred years. For every minute in that huge stretch of time, some other boy since then has put aside his pen and groaned, because the stubborn letters would not come right. But not many of these have had such sound cause for vexation.
First of all, Hugh was a trained writer, who might look a little later to be actually paid for his toil8, if so be he did not take the black habit and became a monk9 himself. All of their gentle craft that the master limners and letterers in this great scriptorium of Tewkesbury Abbey could teach him, he had learned. In all the ten major abbeys and priories of Gloucestershire, perhaps no other lad of his years was so skilled to use both brush and pen. His term of tutelage being passed, he wrought10 now, in repayment11 for his teaching, upon the choicest of the volumes written here for great nobles and patrons of art and letters. And if ever sureness of glance and touch was called for, it was at this present time, since the work must be meet for royal eyes. The volume—when all its soft, creamy leaves should have been covered with arabesques12 and high painted crests13 and shields and deftly14 regular text of writing, and been sewed together inside their embossed covers—was to be given, they said now, to the brother of the King. Prouder ambition than this a craftsman16 could hardly dream of—yet now, all at once, Hugh despaired to find himself making foolish mis-marks on the precious page, and not able to contrive17 their betterment.
The boy stared in gloom upon the parchment, wondering if, in truth, it were wholly spoilt; then his eyes wandered off through the open window to the blue May sky, and drifting after their gaze went his thoughts, in wistful reverie upon that gilded18 dreamland of princes and earls, whither this book, in good time, was to wend its way. New promptings stirred in his blood.
He had been a monk's boy in all these later years of peace, since his father, the poor saddler, fell in his Nevill livery on Hedgely Moor19, away in the farthest north. The great kindly20 Abbey had been much more his home than the dark, squalid little house in the village below, where his widowed mother lived: here he had learned to write so that even the Abbot, John Strensham, lofty magnate and companion of princes though he was, had nodded smilingly over his work; here he had helped to serve the Mass in the grand Abbey church, with censer and bell, and felt his young mind enriched and uplifted by pious21 longings22; here, too, he had dreamed into the likeness23 of veritable and detailed24 history his vision of the time when he should compose some wonderful chronicle, and win thanks from the great ones of the earth, and be known to all men as Hugh of Tewkesbury, whose book was to be prized above every other.
But now, after seven years wherein peaceful desires possessed25 plain men—lo! here was fighting in the land. And now of a sudden it seemed to Hugh that the writing of books, the quiet cloistral26 life, even the favor of the Abbot himself, were paltry27 things. An unaccustomed heat tingled28 in his veins29 at thought of what existence outside these thick walls might now once more signify. Who would be a stoop-shouldered scribe, a monk, or even a mass-priest when there were war harnesses to wear, horses to mount, yew30 bows to bend till the shaft31 trembled in the strain?
Hugh could almost believe that he heard the tramp and distant confused murmuring of an armed host, as his musing32 dream took form. The very pages lying before him spoke33 of this new outburst of war, and linked him to it. The book was one of heraldry, and it had been begun for the great Earl of Warwick. Both the fame and the person of this mighty34 captain were well-known to the lad, for the King-maker was lord of Tewkesbury, and the overshadowing patron of village and abbey alike. But when scarcely the first sheets had been written this puissant35 lord had fled the kingdom, and the cautious monks36 had laid the work aside. Later came strange rumors37 and tales: how Warwick had returned and driven the King away, and put up his whilom Red-rose foes39 to rule in London—and then pens and brushes were set busily at the book once more. But now the King had in turn come back and seized his own again, and slain40 Warwick on bloody41 Barnet field—and the frightened monks had bethought them to finish the book, with sundry42 emblazonings of the royal arms now ingeniously married to those of the Nevills, and make it a peace offering to Duke George of Clarence, who had wedded43 Warwick's daughter, and would be lord of Tewkesbury in his shoes.
The half-written page of vellum on the table seemed to Hugh a living part of all this stirring new romance of blood and spark-striking steel. Almost it made a soldier out of him to touch it. The characters engrossed44 thereon by his own hand danced before his eyes—waved in his daydream45 like the motto on some proud knight46's banner being borne forward to battle.
Suddenly the boy sat upright. Beyond question there was an unwonted noise, as of tumult48, coming through the casement49 from the village without. He could distinguish the clanking of iron harness and weapons, the trampling50 of hoofs51; and now—once! twice! a trumpet52 blast, rising on the air above the dull, vague rumble53 which bespeaks54 the assembling of a throng55. He sprang to his feet, with the thought to climb the embrasure and look forth56—and then as swiftly sat down again and bent57 over his work; the Chief Scrivener of the Abbey had entered the chamber58.
Brother Thomas came slowly to the table—a good, easy man, whose fat white fingers knew knife and spoon now in these latter days much oftener than brush or pen—and glanced idly over Hugh's shoulder at the pages. Then he lifted the unfinished one, held it in the light to peer more closely, and sniffed59 aloud. Next he put his hand under Hugh's chin, and raised the boy's blushing face up till their glances met.
"What palsied spiders'-tracks are these?" he asked, holding out the vellum. "Art ill, boy?"
The gentle irony60 in his master's tone touched Hugh's conscience. He shook his head, and hung it, and kept a sheepish silence.
Thomas tossed the sheet upon the table, and spoke with something more of sharpness. "It is the mummers that have led thy wits off morris-dancing," he said. "These May-day fooleries stretch themselves out now, each year more, until no time at all is left for honest work. This it is I noted61 in thee yesterday, and marvelled62 at—when thou hadst ruled the lines bordering the painted initial letter with effect to cut off holy St. Adhelm's ear. Thy head is filled with idle sports and frolics outside. Happen his Lordship shall put them down now, once for all!"
Hugh's red face turned redder still, and when he would have spoken, his tongue was tied in confusion. Brother Thomas had unwittingly drawn63 very near to the truth of an awkward thing, the burden of which lay heavily on the boy's mind. In the next room, hidden but indifferently, were the fanciful garments which he himself had painted for the village morris-dancers a month before. They had been returned in privacy to him, and he had weakly pledged himself to trick them out anew against their coming use at Whitsuntide. This guilty secret it was that had preyed64 upon his peace, and robbed his hand of its cunning, ever since the masking dresses had been brought to him on yester-morning.
In any other year, he might have spoken freely to his master of this matter. But as evil chance would have it, on this very May festival, now two days gone—when in their pleasant wont47 the youths and maidens65 of Tewkesbury rose before cockcrow, and hied them to the greenwood with music and the blowing of horns, to gather haythorn branches and dell-flowers, to bathe their faces in the May-dew for beauty's sake, to shoot at target with Robin66 Hood67, and dance their fill about Maid Marian—who but Brother Thomas should pass on his return from matins at Deerhurst cell, nodding drowsily68 with each movement of his patient mule69? Hugh recalled with a shudder70 how some wanton ne'er-do-well had from the bushes hurled71 a huge, soft swollen72 toadstool, which broke upon the good monk's astonished countenance73, and scattered74 miserably75 inside his hood. It was small wonder that from this Brother Thomas conceived sour opinions of May-day sports, and now hinted darkly that the Abbot should make an end to them. But as it stood thus, Hugh dared not speak concerning the morris-dresses, and so had hidden them, and now was sorely troubled about it all.
It may be that here, upon the moment, he would have broken silence with his secret, well knowing how truly gentle a heart had Thomas. But at this the door was flung open, and there entered Brother Peter, his gaunt gray poll shaking with excitement, his claw-like hands held up as one amazed, his eyes aflame with eagerness.
"Know ye what is come upon us?" he called out breathlessly. "The foreign woman—save her Grace, she that was—or is—Queen Margaret, I mean—is at our gates, and with her the Lord Duke Somerset, and her son the Prince Edward, and the great Earl's daughter, our Lady Anne, and with them a mort of lords, and knights76, and men-at-arms—running now over every highway and lane inside Tewkesbury and out, taking to themselves roughly whatever eye likes or belly77 craves—swearing by the Rood they will have the Abbey down about our ears if we deny them or food or drink!"
While Peter's vehement78 tongue hurled forth these tidings, the man Thomas went pale with sudden concern for the great treasures and peace of the house; the boy Hugh rose to his feet, all the miseries79 of May-day and morris-garments clean forgotten, and only the inspiriting ring of steel on steel in his ears.
"Oh! may I run and behold80 the brave sight?" he prayed aloud, but Thomas held forth a restraining hand for the moment, and Hugh, much chafing81, heard what further Peter had to tell.
The Abbot, and with him the heads of the Chapter, had gone to the gates, and by parley82 had warded83 off incursion. The Abbey servants, threescore in number, were bearing forth meat and bread and ale to spread on the ham by the mill for the famished84 Lancastrians, who had in these thirty hours marched from Bristol by Gloucester, through forest and foul85 by-ways, with scarcely bite or sup, and now ravened86 like winter wolves. There were stories that King Edward, in pursuit, had covered ground even more swiftly, and now was this side of Cheltenham, in hot chase. With this dread87 foe38 at their tail, the Lancastrian lords dared not attempt to ford88 the Severn, and so Queen, Prince, Duke, and all were halted up above the village on the high Gaston fields, and there would on the morrow give battle to King Edward.
"Oh! woe89 the day!" groaned Thomas, whose heart was in peaceful things. "How shall we escape sack and pillage—our painted missals and fair written tomes, our jewelled images, our plate of parcel-gilt90, and silver-gilt and white, the beryl candlesticks, the mitres, monstrances, rings, gloves—wist ye not how after Wakefield's victory the Queen's men broke open churches, and defiled91 altars, from York along to London town?"
"Hast but a poor stomach for war times, good Thomas!" said the lean and eager old Brother Sacristan, in a tone spiced with sneering92. "Who talketh of Wakefield? Who hath promised victory to these ribald Devon louts? On the morrow, we shall see them cast off their coats to run the better. Our stout93 King Edward hath never lost fight or turned tail yet. Shall he begin now?"
The old monk had not forgotten the deep Yorkist devotion in which his hotter secular94 youth had been trained, and his eyes sparkled now at thought of how true a fighter King Edward really was. No such fire of remembrance burned within Thomas, who none the less accepted the proffered95 consolation96.
"Of a certainty," he admitted, "the King hath won all his battles heretofore. Doubtless he hath the close favor of the saints. I mind me now of his piety97—how that he would not be crowned on the day appointed, for that it was Childermas, and the Holy Innocents might not be thus affronted98. Thus do wise and pious kings and men"—Thomas lifted his voice here, and glanced meaningly at Hugh—"win Heaven's smiles, and honor fitly the anniversaries of the year—not by dancing and mumming in the greenwood."
"I ween that in this game now forward, hard knocks will serve King Edward more than all his holiness, good Thomas," said Peter, who, coming to the Abbey late in life, brought some carnal wisdom along in his skull99. "And this more—mark thou my words—when all is still again the Abbey will be the richer, not the poorer, for it all."
"How wilt100 thou make that good?" asked Thomas. "At best, this beef and ale must be at our cost—and the worst may more easily come to pass."
"Hast forgotten the funerals?" said Peter, dryly, with a significant nod towards the door beyond. Then, noting no gleam of comprehension on the faces of the others, he strode to this door, and threw it open. Within, in the half light, they could see through the narrow archway the dim outlines of rich banners standing101 piled against the walls, and candles heaped on chests of vestments, and velvet102 palls103.
"How make it good?" cried the worldly Peter. "Where we have put pence into that room we shall draw forth rose-nobles. Know you not the King's charge to his fighting men, 'Kill the lords, but spare the commons!' By sundown of the morrow one may walk among dead knights round about like sheeps' carcasses on a murrain'd moor. The Gastons, if there the Queen holdeth her place till she be met, will turn to marshes105 with gentle blood. And where shall they be buried, but here, within the holy Abbey's walls? Then see what comes: item, for tolling106 the death-bells; item, for streaking-board and face-cloth; item, for so many sin-eaters, to be of our own servitors; item, for so much waste of funeral torches; item, for funeral sermons; item, for the hiring of palls; item, for hiring of garlands of wax and gum to hang over the graves; item, for masses and candles before the rood at month's mind; item——"
"Peace, greedy Peter!" broke in the artist Thomas; "wert thou bred for a gravedigger? His Lordship mislikes this funeral zeal107 of thine. When thy grumbling108 for that the great Earl came not here from Barnet for his burial reached the Abbot's ears, he spoke wrothfully concerning it."
"So would he not, when I had shown him the charges in my book for that same," retorted Peter. "For how lives an Abbey save by the death of generous and holy men and women? And was it not a foul thing that the great Earl—lord of this manor109, patron of this Abbey—should not have profitably laid his bones here, where now for four hundred years lie all the lords of Tewkesbury, Fitz-Hamons, Clares, De Spensers, Beauchamps—but should be filched110 away to Berkshire to enrich those Austin friars instead? Thus is religion scandalized, Sir Scrivener!"
Thomas turned away at this, mistrusting his temper in further argument; and Hugh would gladly have followed him out of the room, but that Peter bent his steps toward the storage chamber beyond, where lay hidden those wretched morris trappings. Prudence111 counselled the lad to depart, and let discovery take care of itself; but anxiety held him back, and he went in at the heels of the Sacristan.
Old Peter sent a speculative112 eye shrewdly over the contents of the room, making a rough enumeration113 as he progressed, and offering comments aloud from time to time half to himself.
"Full seven dozen small candles," he muttered, "but scarce a score of torches. How should we be shamed if they brought us a great lord like Somerset! The moulds shall be filled overnight." Then he turned up the corner of a purple velvet pall104, noting its frayed114 edge and tarnished115 gilt braid. "Time was," he grumbled116, "when for this eight crowns was gladly paid in hire; alack, but two months since Dame117 Willowby cried out against me when I asked a paltry five, and buried her good man under that fustian118 with the linen119 edge instead. Ah, the impious times we are fallen upon! Yet, if so be the press to get buried is great enough, and they carry the lights well up in air, a lord might be content with it at ten crowns." Again he mused120 over the waxen wreaths heaped on the floor.
"There are half as many more on the rood screen that may come down, if it be deftly done, and go into hire again for better men. The townspeople will be too stirred with battle talk to miss them."
Suddenly he turned to Hugh, and raised his voice. "The Sub-Prior will not hearken to me. What we are richest in is banners—here, against the wall, are a dozen of the bravest in all Gloucester. Yet in what do they serve!—naught save those trivial processions of Rogation Week, where all is outlay122 and nothing income. If he did but drop the hint, the fashion would rise to hire them for funerals; yet when I urged this upon him he laughed me to scorn! I tell thee, boy, there is no true piety left in mankind!"
Hugh had listened with but dull ears, his mind wavering between thoughts of what was going forward outside, and fears lest Peter should push his inquiries123 within the chamber too far. Here he said:—
"Good brother, if I do help thee to-night with the moulds—and later with what else is needful—wilt thou go with me now forth to the street and view these strange new things? I have never yet seen an army, harnessed for fighting, close at hand. And if thou art with me, Thomas will not be vexed124."
So the twain—the old monk full as eager as the lad to rub shoulders with men-at-arms—made their way through the corridors and cloister125 walks to the great western gate of the Abbey. They met no one either within the buildings or in these cool, open-air paths: the monks were at their prayers in the church, perhaps, or in the garden burying the Abbey's treasures.
But when the gate was reached—"Angels save us!" gasped126 good Peter; "if our walls win soundly through this next forty hours, commoners shall be buried with candles till Ascension Day for threepence. I vow127 it to Our Lady!"
Well might such as loved the Abbey feel their hearts sink at the sight! Upon the green before the gate, which sloped smoothly128 for an arrow's flight down to the mill pit on the Avon, swaggered or lounged at leisure full five hundred base-born archers129 and billmen, mired130 to the knees, unwashed and foul of aspect, with rusty131 chain coats or torn and blackened leathern jackets. Some wore upon their heads battered132 iron sallets; others had only hoods133 pulled forward to their brows, or even lying back upon their shoulders, but over each face hung tangled134 masses of thick hair, and on the cleanest chin sprouted135 a fortnight's beard.
These unkempt ruffians were for the most part swart of visage, as Devon and Cornishmen should be. They waited now idly upon the return of their lords from the great church in front. While their betters within prayed to the saints in heaven against the morrow's carnage, these fellows sauntered in groups on the green sward, or played at dice136 upon a cloak spread flat on earth, or wrestled137 in rough jest to further amaze the gaping138 natives. Many were already in their cups, yet still the servants of the Abbey were to be seen, in the waning139 sunlight, on the ham beyond, broaching140 new casks of ale. Ribald quips and drunken laughter filled the air. In the distance, close upon the entrance to the church itself, two soldiers had thrown a farmer to the ground, and one was stripping off his doublet while the other kicked him as he lay. From the direction of the mill there rose the scream of a woman—and no one heeded141 it.
The Sacristan and the boy cowered142 for a time in the shadow of the gateway143, looking out with fearful eyes upon this unwonted scene. From their cover, they watched until the great ones began coming out from their prayers, and the idling men-at-arms were hurriedly gathered, each after his livery, to attend them. These billmen bore upon their breasts the cognizances of their masters, but so worn and defaced were many of these that all Hugh's heraldic lore144 could not cope with them. Thus they could but guess who this or that proud knight might be, as he passed with gilded armor rattling145 in every joint146, and the squalid knot of soldiers tramping at his heels.
"But this—this is surely the three torteaux of the Courtenays," he whispered, nudging Peter. "And he who carries his casquetel in hand, with fair curls and head bent in thought—that would be John, the new Earl of Devon."
The two looked upon this fine, strong, goodly young nobleman, and read in the three crimson147 circles wrought upon the jerkins of his retainers a tale of stately long descent, of cousinship with kings, of crusades, tournaments, and centuries of gallant148 warfare—familiar and stirring then to every schooled mind in England.
"Ay—I mind him now," said Peter, peering eagerly forth. "I saw his brother, the Earl Thomas, led to the block at York, after Towton field—'tis nine years sine. There was a witch who then foretold149 that those three ripe-red roundels of the Courtenays were blood spots from three brothers' hearts, and all should die under the axe121."
A stranger's voice, close behind them, took up their talk.
"My father saw the second brother, Earl Henry, beheaded at Salisbury four years later—and men called then to mind this same bloody prophecy—to the end that the Lord John fled the realm. Look where he walks, with bowed head and face o'er-cast—a fateful man! Belike the axe's edge is whetted150 for him, even now."
He who spoke thus, with a shivering sigh to close his speech, was young and of slight form—clad from sole to crown in plain and dulled plate-harness. His uplifted visor framed a face of small features and soft lines, with saddened eyes. He had stepped aside into the gateway unnoted by the two, and stood now at the Sacristan's elbow, gazing forth as gloomily as ever affrighted monk might do.
Peter glanced him briefly151 over, and sniffed disdain152.
"I know you not, young sir," he said, with curtness153, "and offer no offence. But I have seen stout fighting in my time—and were you kin15 of mine, into to-morrow's battle you should not stir, with witches' babble154 sickening your thoughts, and dead men's bones in your eyes. Hearten yourself, I conjure155 you!"
That monk should bear himself thus masterfully toward warrior156 startled Hugh for the moment, until he recalled that old Peter had on occasion browbeaten157 even the Sub-Prior himself, and reflected that this Knight seemed very young.
The stranger made no reply, but kept his anxious gaze fastened upon the scene without. Then, with a sudden little shudder which rattled158 swiftly like an echo through his armor, he lifted his head upright, and tossed the end of his cloak across his shoulder.
"The streets are strange to me," he said proudly. "If you are so minded, walk with me upon them. No harm shall befall you!"
His beckoning159 hand summoned from the outer shadows two tall old men-at-arms, in bull's-hide jackets and bearing pikes.
"Fare ye close upon our heels, Wilkin and Ashman," the Knight commanded. The monk and scrivener-lad took instant counsel of glances, and without a word walked beside their new companion—forth from the calm haven160 of Mother Church into the rude turbulence161 of murderous civil war.
Pressing tight together, the five made their way across the green and into Church Street. To their left, above the black roofs of the Abbey mills, the sunset sky was glowing with laced bars of blood and sulphur, overhung by a pall of lead. Before them, the narrow street lay dark beneath the shadows of projecting roofs and swollen galleries.
Here, as in the other streets which they traversed, the houses were for the most part closed and lightless. Even in the market-place, where the Tolzey cross glimmered162 faintly in the waning daylight like an altar in some deserted163 unroofed church, the citizens gave no sign of life in their homes; movement enough was on foot all about them, but it was that of strangers. Knots of soldiers, some already with flaming torches, strode aimlessly up and down before the taverns164 and in the alleys165, roaring forth camp songs, kicking at suspected doors, or brawling166 with such trembling inhabitants as they had unearthed167. Amidst it all the Knight passed unquestioned, with head haughtily168 erect169.
If the Knight had led the walk townwards with set purpose, it did not appear; for presently he turned, and the five pushed back again through the jostling, clamorous170 crowd to the open Abbey green. At the great gate he paused, and motioned the two retainers to stand aside. Still he hesitated, tapping the sward impatiently with his mailed foot, his gaze astray among the clouds. At last he spoke, turning abruptly171 to the boy:—
"Canst write me a letter, to-night?"
"How wist ye he is a penman?" asked Peter, in amazed suspicion.
"What other wears ink upon his fingers? Nay—not you, good monk!—I asked the lad."
"The scriptorium is long since shut," Hugh began; "and——"
"Mayhap this golden key will fit the lock," the Knight interposed, drawing a coin from the purse at his side. "The letter is a thing of life or death."
"It may be contrived," broke in good Peter, taking the money without ceremony. "When a life hangs on a few paltry scratches of the pen, should we be Christians172 to withhold173 them?"
The Sacristan led the way now by a postern door into a basement room, and lighted two candles by the embers on the hearth174.
"Run you," he said to Hugh, "and bring hither what is needful."
When the boy returned, and placed paper, inkhorn, and wax upon the table, and, pen in teeth, looked inquiry175 upward, the Knights wits seemed wandering once again. He paced to and fro about the chamber, halting a dozen times to utter words which would not come, and then, with a head-shake, taking up his march upon the stones. Finally, thus he ordered the letter written, though not without many pauses, and erasures in plenty:—
From a true friend: Much there is to tell you; how that the Lady Katherine's father is dead, and herself for some time sore beset176 and menaced by the enemy you wot of, but now in safety. Worse betides you if this evil man works his will. This se'nnight four villeins took horse from Okehampton with intent to slay177 you and win reward from him; so that he gains your lands and hers, and gets her to wife to boot. These foul knaves178 wear the Courtenay livery, and, arrived to-day in your camp, mix with the Lord John's train; though of this he is innocent. So watch and ware179, as herself and I will pray.
"There needs no signature," the Knight replied, when at the finish Hugh looked up. "Seal it with this ring," and took from his baslard-hilt a little jewelled hoop180, with the signet of three fishes, upright. Then, when the wax securely held the silk, he bade him superscribe the name "Sir Hereward Thayer, Knt."
The Knight took the packet—saying, briefly: "I am in much beholden to you both, and to all black monks through you, and shall forget nor one nor other," and went his way through the postern into the darkness, leaving the ring behind.
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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16
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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17
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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18
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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19
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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20
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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21
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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22
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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23
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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24
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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25
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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26
cloistral
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| adj.修道院的，隐居的，孤独的 | |
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27
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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28
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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30
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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31
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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32
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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33
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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34
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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35
puissant
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| adj.强有力的 | |
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36
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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37
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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38
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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39
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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40
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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41
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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42
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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43
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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45
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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46
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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47
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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48
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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49
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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50
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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51
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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53
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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54
bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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55
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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56
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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57
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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58
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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59
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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60
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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61
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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62
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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64
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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65
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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66
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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67
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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68
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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69
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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70
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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71
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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72
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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73
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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74
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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75
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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76
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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77
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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78
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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79
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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80
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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81
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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82
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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83
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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84
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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85
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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86
ravened
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| v.掠夺（raven的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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87
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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88
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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89
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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90
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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91
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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92
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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94
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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95
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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97
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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98
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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99
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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100
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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101
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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102
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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103
palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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105
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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106
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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107
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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108
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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109
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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110
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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112
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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113
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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114
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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116
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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117
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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118
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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119
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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120
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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121
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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122
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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123
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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124
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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125
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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126
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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127
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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128
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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129
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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130
mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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132
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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133
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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134
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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136
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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137
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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138
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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139
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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140
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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141
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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143
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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144
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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145
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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146
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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147
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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148
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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149
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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151
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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152
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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153
curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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154
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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155
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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156
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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157
browbeaten
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的过去分词 ) | |
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158
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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159
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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160
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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161
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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162
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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164
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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165
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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166
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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167
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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168
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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169
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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170
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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171
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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172
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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173
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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174
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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175
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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176
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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177
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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178
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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179
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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180
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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