"What didst thou tell the maid?"

"That I never knew her, but that my father was a gentle knight who died ere I saw him; and then the maid said perchance my mother was light of love."

"Boy," said the Prior gravely, "'tis a weary tale, and sad of telling. Thy mother was wondrous fair without, but she reckoned love lightly, nay, knew it not for the holy thing it is, but thought only of bodily l.u.s.ts. Pray for her soul"--his voice grew stern--"as for one of those upon whom G.o.d, in His great pity, may have mercy. Thus have I prayed these many years."

Hilarius looked at him in wide-eyed horror:-

"She was evil, wicked, my mother?"

"Ay--a light woman, that was what the maid meant."

Then great darkness fell upon the soul of Hilarius, and he clasped the Prior's knees weeping and praying like a little child.

"And so, my son," said the Prior, "for a time thou shalt go out into the world, to strive and fail, hunger and love; only have a care that thou art chaste in heart and life; for it is the pure shall see G.o.d, and seeing love Him. Leave me now that. I may set in order thy going; and send the Chamberlain hither to me."

That night Hilarius knelt through the long hours at the great Rood, and then at St Mary Maudlin's altar he did penance for his dead mother's sin.

A week later he left the Monastery as a bird leaves its nest, nay, is pushed out by the far-seeing parent bird, full of vague terrors of the great world without. He had a purse for his immediate needs; a letter to a great knight, Sir John Maltravers, who would be his patron; and another to the Prior's good friend, the Abbat of St Alban's. The Convent bade him a sad farewell, for they loved this gentle lad who had been with them from a little child; and Brother Richard strained his filmy eyes to look his last at the young face he would never see again.

The Prior gave him the Communion; and later walked beside him to the gates. Then as Hilarius knelt he blessed him; and the boy, overmastered by nameless fear, sprang up and prayed that he might stay and learn some other way, however hard. The Prior shook his head.

"Nay, my son, so it must be; else how shall I answer to the Master for this most precious lamb of my flock? Come back to us--an thou can'st--let no fear deter thee; only take heed, when thine eyes are opened and the great gifts of hunger and love are vouchsafed thee, to keep still the faithful heart of a little child."

Then he bade him go; and Hilarius, for the pull of his heart- strings, must needs run hot-foot down the broad forest road and along the highway, without daring to look back, and so out into the wide, wide world.

CHAPTER III--THE KING'S SONG-BIRD

Martin the Minstrel sat under a wayside oak singing softly to himself as he tuned his vielle. He was a long lanky fellow with straight black locks flat against his sallow face, and dark eyes that smouldered in hollow cavities. He wore the King's colours, and broke a manchet of white bread with his mid-day repast.

"Heigh-ho!" sighed Martin, and laid the vielle lovingly beside him, "another four leagues to Westminster, and I weary enough of shoe- leather already, and not another penny piece in my pocket 'til I win back to good King Ned. A brave holiday I have had, from Candlemas to Midsummer; free to sing or to be silent, to smile or frown; wide England instead of palace walls; a crust of bread and a jug of cider instead of a king's banquet. Now but another few leagues and the cage again. Money in my pocket, true; but a song here and a song there, such as suit the fancy of the Court gentles, not of Martin the Minstrel. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho! 'tis a poor bird sings at the word of a king, and a poor enough song too, if Edward did but know it.

"Who comes here? Faith, the lad goes a steady pace and carries a light heart from his song; and no ill voice either."

It was Hilarius, and he sang the Alma Redemptoris as he sped along the green gra.s.s which bordered the highway.

When Martin hailed him he turned aside gladly, and his face lit up at the sight of the vielle.

"Whence dost thou come, lad?" said Martin, eyeing him with interest.

"Many days' journey from the Monastery of Prior Stephen," answered Hilarius.

"But thou art no monk!"

"Nay, a novice scarcely; but the Prior hath bidden me go forth to see the world. It is wondrous fair," he added sincerely.

"He who speaks thus is cloister-bred," said Martin, and as Hilarius made sign of a.s.sent, "'tis writ on thy face as well. Thy Prior gave thee letters to the Abbat of St Peter's, I doubt not; thy face is set for Westminster."

"Ay, for Westminster, but my letters are for that good knight, Sir John Maltravers. I should have made an end of my journeying ere now but that two days ago I met strange company. They took my purse and hat and shoes, and kept me with them all night until the late dawn. Then they gave me my goods again, and bade me G.o.d- speed.'

"But kept thy purse?" Martin laughed.

"Nay, it is here, and naught is missing. It was all pa.s.sing strange, and I feared them, for they looked evil men; yet they did me no wrong, and set me on my way gently enough, giving me provision, which I lacked."

"Pick-purses and cut-throats afraid of G.o.d's judgments for once,"

muttered Martin; then aloud, "Well, young sir, we shall do well if we win Westminster before night-fall; shall we journey together since our way is the same?"

Hilarius a.s.sented gladly; and as they went, Martin told him of Court and King, and the wondrous doings when the Princess Isabel was wed. He listened open-eyed to tales of joust and revel and sport; and heard eagerly all the minstrel could tell of Sir John Maltravers himself, a man of great and good reputation, and no mean musician; "and," added Martin, "three fair daughters he hath, the eldest Eleanor, fairest of them all, of whom men say she would fain be a nun. Thou art a pretty lad, I wager one or other will claim thee for page."

"I will strive to serve well," said Hilarius soberly, "but I have never spoken but to one maid 'til yesterday, when a woman gave me good-morrow."

Martin looked at his companion queerly.

"And thou art for Westminster! Nay, but by all the Saints this Prior of thine is a strange master!"

"It is but for a time," said Hilarius, "then I shall go back to the Monastery again. But first I would learn to be a real limner; I have some small skill with the brush," he added simply.

Martin stared.

"Back to the cloister? Nay, lad, best turn about and get back now, not wait till thou hast had a taste of Court life. Joust and banquet and revel, revel, banquet, and joust, much merry-making and little reason, much love and few marryings: a gay round, but not such as makes a monk."

Hilarius smiled.

"Nay, that life will not be for me. I am to serve my lord, write for him, methinks. But tell me, good Martin, dost thou love the Court? It seems a fine thing to be the King's Minstrel."

"Nay, lad, nay," said the other hastily, "give me the open country and the greenwood, and leave to sing or be silent. Still, the King is a good master, and lets me roam as I list if I will but come back; 'tis ill-faring in winter, so back I go to pipe in my cage and follow the Court until next Lady-day lets the sun in on us again."

He struck his vielle lightly, and the two fell into a slower pace as the minstrel sang. Hilarius' eyes filled with tears, for he was still heart-sore, and Martin's voice rose and fell like the wind in the tossing tree-tops which had beckoned him over the Monastery wall. The song itself was sad--of a lover torn from his mistress and borne away captive to alien service. When it was ended they took a brisker pace in silence; then, after a while, Hilarius said timidly:-

"Did'st thou sing of thyself, good Martin?"

"Ay, lad, and of my mistress." He stopped suddenly, louted low to the sky, and with comprehensive gesture took in the countryside.

"A fair mistress, lad, and a faithful one, though of many moods. A man suns himself in the warmth of her caresses by day, and at night she is cold, chaste, unattainable; at one time she is all smiles and tears, then with boisterous gesture she bids one seek shelter from her buffets. She gives all and yet nothing; she trails the very traces of her hair across a man's face only to elude him. She holds him fast, for she is mother of all his children; yet he must seek as though he knew her not, or she flouts him."

Hilarius listened eagerly. Was this what the dancer had meant--the "wide wide world, hunger and love"?

"Did'st thou ever hunger, good Martin?"

"Ay, lad," said the minstrel, surprised, "and 'tis good sauce for the next meal"

"Did'st thou ever love?"

Martin broke into a great laugh.