When Waleran de Monceaux, that man of the fierce face and the bristling10 beard, fled to Winchelsea town, he rode by the Abbey of Battle as the dawn was breaking and halted there and called for food. He and his men had touched neither meat nor bread for a day and a night. Some were wounded, all of them ragged11, famished12, and caked with the mire13 of the woodland ways. The hosteler looked sulkily at these savage and beaten men. Love them he could not because of their importunity14, and their great hunger. And while they cursed him because of his slowness, he sent word to the Abbot, desiring his commands.
“Feed them, and be rid of them.”
So Waleran and his men had their paunches filled, because Reginald of Battle was a man of discretion16 and desired to keep his lands untainted. There were sundry17 inconveniences that clung even to the right of sanctuary18 and such high prerogatives19. Reginald of Brecon was a smooth and astute20 man, a fine farmer, and keen as any Lombard. He would have no neighbour’s sparks from over the hedge setting fire to his own hayrick. If fools quarrelled, he could pray for both parties, and hold up the Cross benignantly, provided no one came trampling21 his crops.
In those days Dom Silvius was almoner at the Abbey, a quiet, sharp-faced, gliding22 mortal, very devout23 yet very shrewd. Men said that Dom Silvius loved his “house” better than he loved his soul. Never was a mouse more quick to scent24 out peas. He knew the ploughlands in every manor, every hog25 in every wood, how much salt each pan should yield, the value of the timber and the underwood, the measure of the corn ground at the mills, the honey each hive yielded, the number of fish that might be taken from the stews26. The Abbey’s charter, and each and every several bequest27 might have been written on Dom Silvius’s brain. He was ever on the alert, ever contriving28, and such a man was to be encouraged. His brethren loved him, for he was not miserly towards the “girdle,” and their pittances29 were bettered by Dom Silvius’s briskness30. What did it matter if a monk31 meddled32 with more than concerned him, provided the buildings were in good repair, and his brethren had red wine to warm their bellies33.
Dom Silvius’s ears were always open. He was a quiet man who did not frighten folk, but he learnt their secrets, and he often touched their money. Few lawyers could have snatched a grant from under the almoner’s cold, white fingers. He was a man of foresight34, and of some imagination. Property to him was not merely a matter of so many plough teams and so many hides, pannage for hogs35, and grindings at the mill. The Church held all charters in the land of the Spirit; she could take toll36 from the lay folk, and make them pay for using her road to heaven.
The very day that Waleran rode through Battle, Dom Silvius walked with folded arms and bowed head into the Abbot’s parlour. He stood meekly37 within the door, his face full of a smooth humility38, his eyes fixed39 upon the rushes.
Abbot Reginald trusted greatly in this monk. The man was ever courteous40 and debonair41, never turbulent or facetious42, always inspired for the “glory” of his “house.”
Dom Silvius lifted his eyes for the first time to his superior’s face.
“If I repeat myself, Father, my importunity is an earnest failing. It concerns the Red Saint for whom Olivia of Goldspur built a cell.”
Reginald of Brecon leant back in his chair, and closed the book that he had been reading.
“The woman whom they call Denise?”
Silvius looked demure44, as though his sanctity were especially sensitive where a woman was concerned.
“Her fame has become very great these months,” he said quietly.
The almoner bowed his head.
“I grudge46 no soul its good works, Father. But in these days of burnings, and of spilling of blood——”
“That is the very truth, sir. There is no place safe outside the sanctuaries48. I have heard it said that the Prior of Mickleham has offered protection to the woman.”
Abbot Reginald smiled, the smile of a philosopher.
“Speak your thoughts, brother.”
Silvius spread his hands.
“The woman is certainly a saint,” he said. “It is common report that she has worked many and strange cures. And, lord, with the foresight of faith I look towards the future. From simple beginnings great things have arisen. We do not draw pilgrims here—to our Abbey. How much glory, sir, has the altar of Canterbury won by the swords of those violent men.”
Reginald of Brecon saw Dom Silvius’s vision.
Silvius had no mistrust of his inspiration.
“The maid is certainly miraculous50,” he said. “We could grant her a cell within our bounds.”
He of the mitre put the tips of his fingers in opposition51.
“They love their ‘houses,’ Father, and for that I praise them.”
“There is that stone cot near Mountjoye, sir, with the croft below it. We could set up a cross there that would be seen from the road. If the maid can but work miracles here, people will flock to her; then gifts can be laid upon our altar.”
A sudden clangour of bells from the tower brought the almoner’s audience to an end. Reginald of Brecon rose, and laid aside his book.
“That, lord, must be discovered. If I have your grace in this——?”
And Silvius went out noiselessly from the parlour, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his habit.
Though the may was whitening in the woods, and the blue bells spread an azure56 mist above the green, May was a harsh and rugged57 month that year, with north winds blowing, and the sky hard and grey. And Dom Silvius when he mounted a quiet saddle horse and trotted58 away followed by two servants, drew his thick cloak about him, and was glad of his gloves and his lamb’s-wool stockings.
Up in the beech59 wood above Goldspur the wind made a restless moan through the branches of the trees. Sometimes the sun struck through the racing60 clouds, and a wavering chequer of light and shadow fell on the thin forest grass. There was a shimmer61 of young green everywhere, yet the year seemed sad and plaintive62 as though chilled to heart by the north winds.
Denise, wrapped in her grey cloak, wandered that morning along the grass paths of her trampled64 garden, brooding over the wreck65 thereof. Here were her thyme and lavender bushes trodden under foot, or snapped and shredded66 by the browsing67 teeth of a horse. Crushed plants peered at her pathetically from the pits where hoofs69 had sunk into the soft soil; a bed of pansies seemed to scowl70 at her with their quaint71 and many-coloured faces, as though reviling72 her for having brought such barbarians73 to trample63 them. Almost the whole of the wattle fence had fallen, dragging down into the dirt the roses that had been trained to it.
Yet never had Denise’s garden been a more intimate part of herself than that May morning with the wind tossing the beech boughs74 against a heavy sky. What a change from yesterday, what a breaking in of violent life, what revelations, what regret! The quiet days seemed behind her, far in the distance, for the vivid present had made even the near past seem unreal. As for her own heart, Denise was almost afraid to look therein. It was like her garden, with the barriers broken, and the life of yesterday trodden into the soil.
She had tried to put these passionate75 things from her, and to turn again to the life that she had known. There were a hundred things for her hands to do, but do them she could not, for the will in her seemed dead. Even the familiar trifles of her woodland hermitage were full of treachery and of suggestive guile76. Her bed, Aymery had lain there. Her earthen pitcher77, she had brought him water therein. The very stones of the path still seemed to show to her the stains of the man’s blood. Memories were everywhere, memories that would not vanish, and would not pale.
Denise’s face still burnt when she remembered Etoile’s laughter, that hard, metallic78 laughter like the clash of cymbals79. The woman’s insolence80 showed her the mocking face of the world, yet for the life of her, Denise could not tear her thoughts from the happenings of those two days. Had the whole country risen to jeer81 at her, she could have suffered it because of the mystery that made of the ordeal82 a sacrifice. She had not saved the man, and yet she did not grudge all that she had borne, all that she still might bear. The violence of yesterday had opened the woman’s eyes in Denise. The world had a new strangeness, and the chant of the wind a more plaintive meaning.
She had been unable to sleep with thinking of Aymery, and of what had befallen him, for she still seemed to see his white, furious face, throwing its scorn into the scoffing83 mouths of the Gascon’s men. Nor could she forget the last look that had passed between them, the appeal in the man’s eyes as though he would have said to her: “God forgive me, for all this.” Where were they taking him, would they be rough with him, would he die of his wounds upon the road? What offence had he committed that his house should be burnt, and his life hazarded, and who was this Peter of Savoy, this Provençal that he should lord it over the men of the land, claiming to act for his over-lord the King? It was the right of the strong over the weak, the pride of the men who held the castles crushing those who refused to be exploited. The curse of a weak King was over the country. These hawks84 of his whom he had let loose in England obeyed no one, not even their own lord.
But Denise’s conscience took scourge85 in hand at last, and drove her from her broodings and her visions. Work, something to fill the mind, something tangible86 to fasten the hands upon! What did it avail her to loiter, to dream, and to conjecture87? There was no salvation88 in mere feeling. Her heart was turning to wax in her, she who had worked for others, and who had been knelt to as a saint. A rush of shame smote89 her upon the bosom90. The peasant women, these men of the fields, what would they think of her if they could read her thoughts? She had held up the Cross before their eyes, and was forgetting to look at it herself.
So Denise drove herself to work that morning, lifting the fallen fence and propping91 it with stakes, gathering92 the wreckage93, binding94 up the broken life of the place. It eased her a little this labour under the grey sky, with the wind in the woods, and the smell of the soil. For in simple things the heart finds comfort, and idleness is no salve to the soul.
It was about noon when Dom Silvius came to the clearing in the beech wood, and Denise, who was binding up her trailing roses, saw figures moving amid the trees. Her brown eyes were alert instantly as the eyes of a deer. But there was nothing fierce about Dom Silvius’s figure, and nothing martial95 or masterful about the paces of his horse.
The almoner left the two servants under the woodshaw and rode forward slowly over the grass. Silvius’s eyes had a habit of seeing everything, even when they happened to express a vacant yet inspired preoccupation. He saw the scarred turf, the hoof68 marks everywhere, the broken fence about the garden, the woman in the grey cloak at work upon her roses.
Silvius kept a staid and thoughtful face till he had come close to the hermitage. Then his eyes beamed out suddenly as though he had only just discovered Denise behind the spring foliage96 of her roses. And Dom Silvius could put much sweetness into his smile so that his face shone like the face of a saint out of an Italian picture.
“Peace to you, Sister; we were nearer than I prophesied97.”
Denise lifted her head and looked at him. A rose tendril had hooked a thorn in the cloth of her cloak. And to Silvius as he gazed down into the questioning brown of her eyes, that thorn seemed to point a moral.
“I come as a friend,” he said, hiding his curiosity behind smooth kindness. “Silvius the almoner of the Abbey of Battle.”
“I have heard of you, Father,” she answered him.
Silvius smiled, as though there were no such thing as spite and gossip in the world.
“May my grace fly as far as yours, Sister,” he said. “You are wondering why I have ridden hither? Well, I will tell you. It is because of the rumours98 of violence and of bloodshed that have come to us. Even here, I see that you have not been spared.”
He looked about him gravely, yet with no inquisitive99, insinuating100 briskness. His eyes travelled slowly round the circle of the broken fence, and came to point at last upon Denise.
“I have come with brotherly greetings to you, Sister, from Lord Reginald our Abbot. All men know what a light has burnt here these many months upon the hills. It is a holy fire to be cherished by us, and all men would grieve to see it dimmed or quenched101.”
After some such preamble102 he began to speak softly to Denise, for he was a good soul despite his shrewdness, and the woman’s face was like a face out of heaven. He put the simple truth before her, speaking with a devout fatherliness that betrayed no subtler motive103. Peace should be hers, and a sure sanctuary, roof, clothes, bed, and garden, and a daily corrody from the Abbey. The times were full of violence, lust104, and oppression, and Silvius feared for those far from the protecting shadow of some great lord or priest. At Battle she should enjoy all the sweetness of sanctity; she should have even her flowers there, and he waved a hand towards the ruinous garden.
Denise listened to him with a pale and unpersuaded face. Perhaps a flicker105 of distrust had leapt up at first into her eyes. But the monk’s simplicity106 seemed so sincere a thing that she put distrust out of her heart.
When he had ended, she looked towards the woods in silence for a while, and Silvius made no sound, as though he reverenced107 her silence, and understood its earnestness.
“For all this I thank you, Father,” she said at last. “But come to you I cannot. It is not in my heart to leave this place.”
Silvius smiled down at her very patiently.
“Who shall deny that the Spirit must guide you. Yet even St. Innocence108 may remember what God has given.”
Denise reddened momentarily, and Silvius looked away from her towards the sky.
“I am not a child, Father,” she said simply. “The people in these parts love me, and I, them. They will return home in time, and will come and seek for me. I should seem to them the worst of cowards, if they found that I had fled.”
Silvius was too sensitive and too shrewd to press his importunity upon her, seeing that she was prejudiced in her heart. He could leave her to think over what he had said to her. Her pride might refuse to waver at the first skirmish.
“You are living your life for others, Sister,” he said. “Nor do we live in the midst of a wilderness109 at Battle. Trust the Spirit in you; do not be misled. Yet I would beseech110 you to remember what manner of world this is. Had not St. Paul fled from the city of Damascus, the Faith would have lacked a flame of fire.”
Denise looked up at him with miraculous eyes.
“And yet, I would stay here,” she said.
“So be it, Sister; some day I will ride this way again.”
So Denise sent Dom Silvius away, clinging with all this strange new tenderness of hers to a place that seemed sacred by reason of its memories. Yet if she had known what others knew, or guessed what was passing beyond her ken8, she might have fled with Silvius that day, and left her cell to the wild winds, the sun, and the rain.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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prerogatives
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| n.权利( prerogative的名词复数 )；特权；大主教法庭；总督委任组成的法庭 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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23
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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pittances
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| n.少量( pittance的名词复数 )；少许；微薄的工资；少量的收入 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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42
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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43
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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45
covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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46
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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47
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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48
sanctuaries
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| n.避难所( sanctuary的名词复数 )；庇护；圣所；庇护所 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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50
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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51
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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52
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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53
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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54
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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55
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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56
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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57
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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58
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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59
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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63
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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64
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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65
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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66
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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68
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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69
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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70
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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71
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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72
reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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73
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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74
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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75
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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76
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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77
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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78
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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79
cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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80
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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81
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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82
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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83
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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84
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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85
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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86
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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87
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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88
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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89
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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90
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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91
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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92
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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93
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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94
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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95
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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96
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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97
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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99
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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100
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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101
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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102
preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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103
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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104
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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105
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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106
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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107
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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108
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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109
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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110
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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