A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous, Andrew Lang [speld decodable readers TXT] 📗

“Lady—” but alas! no miracle was wrought for a sinner like me.  Howbeit I am inclined to believe that the kerchief was no saintly thing, and had never come near the body of the blessed Colette, but rather was a gift from one of the cordelier’s light-o’-loves.  Assuredly it was stained red with blood from my lungs ere I could utter two words.

The Maid stanched the blood, saying—

“Did I not bid thee to be silent?  The saints forgive my lack of faith, whereby this blessed thing has failed to heal thee!  And now I must be gone, to face the English in the field, if they dare to meet us, which, methinks, they will not do, but rather withdraw as speedily as they may.  So now I leave thee with this holy man to be thy nurse-tender, and thou canst write to him concerning thy needs, for doubtless he is a clerk.  Farewell!”

With that she was gone, and this was the last I saw of her for many a day.

Never have I known such a horror of fear as fell on me now, helpless and dumb, a sheep given over to the slaughter, in that dark chamber, which was wondrous lown, {26} alone with my deadly foe.

Never had any man more cause for dread, for I was weak, and to resist him was death.  I was speechless, and could utter no voice that the people in the house might hear.  As for mine enemy, he had always loathed and scorned me; he had a long account of vengeance to settle with me; and if—which was not to be thought of—he was minded to spare one that had saved his life, yet, for his own safety, he dared not.  He had beguiled the Maid with his false tongue, and his face, not seen by her in the taking of St. Loup, she knew not.  But he knew that I would disclose all the truth so soon as the Maid returned, wherefore he was bound to destroy me, which he would assuredly do with every mockery, cruelty, and torture of body and mind.  Merely to think of him when he was absent was wont to make my flesh creep, so entirely evil beyond the nature of sinful mankind was this monster, and so set on working all kinds of mischief with greediness.  Whether he had suffered some grievous wrong in his youth, which he spent his life in avenging on all folk, or whether, as I deem likely, he was the actual emissary of Satan, as the Maid was of the saints, I know not, and, as I lay there, had no wits left to consider of it.  Only I knew that no more unavailing victim than I was ever so utterly in the power of a foe so deadly and terrible.

The Maid had gone, and all hope had gone with her.  For a time that seemed unending mine enemy neither spoke nor moved, standing still in the chink of light, a devil where an angel had been.

There was silence, and I heard the Maid’s iron tread pass down the creaking wooden stairs, and soon I heard the sound of singing birds, for my window looked out on the garden.

The steps ceased, and then there was a low grating laughter in the dark room, as if the devil laughed.

Brother Thomas moved stealthily to the door, and thrust in the wooden bolt.  Then he sat him heavily down on my bed, and put his fiend’s face close to mine, his eyes stabbing into my eyes.  But I bit my lip, and stared right back into his yellow wolf’s eyes, that shone like flames of the pit with evil and cruel thoughts.

So I lay, with that yellow light on me; and strength came strangely to me, and I prayed that, since die I must, I might at least gladden him with no sign of fear.  When he found that he could not daunton me, he laughed again.

“Our chick of Pitcullo has picked up a spirit in the wars,” he said; and turning his back on me, he leaned his face on his hand, and so sat thinking.

The birds of May sang in the garden; there was a faint shining of silver and green, from the apple-boughs and buds without, in the little chamber; and the hooded back of the cordelier was before me on my bed, like the shape of Death beside the Sick Man, in a picture.  Now I did not even pray, I waited.

Doubtless he knew that no cruel thing which the devil could devise was more cruel than this suspense.

Then he turned about and faced me, grinning like a dog.

“These are good words,” said he, “in that foolish old book they read to the faithful in the churches, ‘Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.’  Ay, it is even too sweet a morsel for us poor Christian men, such as the lowly Brother Thomas of the Order of St. Francis.  Nevertheless, I am minded to put my teeth in it”; and he bared his yellow dog’s fangs at me, smiling like a hungry hound.  “My sick brother,” he went on, “both as one that has some science of leech-craft and as thy ghostly counsellor, it is my duty to warn thee that thou art now very near thine end.  Nay, let me feel thy pulse”; and seizing my left wrist, he grasped it lightly in his iron fingers.  “Now, ere I administer to thee thy due, as a Christian man, let me hear thy parting confession.  But, alas! as the blessed Maid too truly warned thee, thou must not open thy poor lips in speech.  There is death in a word!  Write, then, write the story of thy sinful life, that I may give thee absolution.”

So saying, he opened the shutter, and carefully set the paper and inkhorn before me, putting the pen in my fingers.

“Now, write what I shall tell thee”; and here he so pressed and wrung my wrist that his fingers entered into my living flesh with a fiery pang.  I writhed, but I did not cry.

“Write—”

“I, Norman Leslie of Pitcullo—” and, to escape that agony, I wrote as he bade me.

“—being now in the article of death—”

And I wrote.

“—do attest on my hope of salvation—”  And I wrote.

“—and do especially desire Madame Jeanne, La Pucelle, and all Frenchmen and Scots loyal to our Sovereign Lord the Dauphin, to accept my witness, that Brother Thomas, of the Order of St. Francis, called Noiroufle while of the world, has been most falsely and treacherously accused by me—”

I wrote, but I wrote not his false words, putting my own in their place—“has been most truly and righteously accused by me—”

“—of divers deeds of black treason, and dealing with our enemies of England, against our Lord the Dauphin, and the Maid, the Sister of the Saints, and of this I heartily repent me,—”

But I wrote, “All which I maintain—”

“—as may God pardon my sins, on the faith of a sinful and dying man.”

“Now sign thy name, and that of thy worshipful cabbage-garden and dunghill in filthy Scotland.”  So I signed, “Norman Leslie, the younger, of Pitcullo,” and added the place, Orleans, with the date of day and year of our Lord, namely, May the eighth, fourteen hundred and twenty-nine.

“A very laudable confession,” quoth Brother Thomas; “would that all the sinners whom I have absolved, as I am about to absolve thee, had cleansed and purged their sinful souls as freely.  And now, my brother, read aloud to me this scroll; nay, methinks it is ill for thy health to speak or read.  A sad matter is this, for, in faith, I have forgotten my clergy myself, and thou mayst have beguiled me by inditing other matter than I have put into thy lying mouth.  Still, where the safety of a soul is concerned, a few hours more or less of this vain, perishable life weigh but as dust in the balance.”

Here he took from about his hairy neck a heavy Italian crucifix of black wood, whereon was a figure of our Lord, wrought in white enamel, with golden nails, and a golden crown of thorns.

“Now read,” he whispered, heaving up the crucifix above me.  And as he lifted it, a bright blade, strong, narrow, and sharp, leaped out from beneath the feet of our Lord, and glittered within an inch of my throat.  An emblem of this false friar it was, the outside of whom was as that of a holy man, while within he was a murdering sword.

“Read!” he whispered again, pricking my throat with the dagger’s point.

Then I read aloud, and as I read I was half choked with my blood, and now and then was stopped; but still he cried—

“Read, and if one word is wrong, thine absolution shall come all the swifter.”

So I read, and, may I be forgiven if I sinned in deceiving one so vile!  I uttered not what I had written, but what he had bidden me to write.

“I, Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, being now in the article of death, do attest on my hope of salvation, and do especially desire Madame Jeanne, La Pucelle, and all Frenchmen and Scots loyal to our Sovereign Lord the Dauphin, to accept my witness that Brother Thomas, of the Order of St. Francis, called Noiroufle while of the world, has been most falsely and treacherously accused by me of divers deeds of black treason, and dealing with our enemies of England, against our Lord the Dauphin, and the Maid, the Sister of the Saints, and of this I heartily repent me, as may God pardon my sins, on the faith of a sinful and dying man.  Signed, at Orleans, Norman Leslie, the younger, of Pitcullo, this eighth of May, in the year of our Lord fourteen hundred and twenty-nine.”

When I had ended, he took away his blasphemous dagger-point from my throat.

“Very clerkly read,” he spake, “and all runs smooth; methinks myself had been no poor scribe, were I but a clerk.  Hadst thou written other matter, to betray my innocence, thou couldst not remember what I said, even word for word,” he added gleefully.  “Now I might strangle thee slowly”; and he set his fingers about my throat, I being too weak to do more than clutch at his hand, with a grasp like a babe’s.  “But that leaves black finger-marks, another kind of witness than thine in my favour.  Or I might give thee the blade of this blessed crucifix; yet dagger wounds are like lips and have a voice, and blood cries from the ground, says Holy Writ.  Pardon my tardiness, my poor brother, but this demands deep thought, and holy offices must not be hurried unseemly.”  He sat now with his back to me, his hand still on my throat, so deep in thought that he heard not, as did my sharpened ears, a door shut softly, and foot-falls echoing in the house below.  If I could only cry aloud! but he would stifle me ere the cry reached my throat!

“This will serve,” he said.  “Thou wilt have died of thy malady, and I will go softly forth, and with hushed voice will tell how the brave young Scot passed quietly to the saints.  Yet, after all, I know not.  Thou hast been sent by Heaven to my aid; clearly thou art an instrument of God to succour the unworthy Brother Thomas.  Once and twice thou hast been a boat to carry me on my way, and to save my useful life.  A third time thou mightst well be serviceable, not by thy will, alas! but by God’s, my poor brother”; and he mockingly caressed my face with his abhorred hand.  “Still, this must even serve, though I would fain find for thee a more bitter way to death”; and he gently and carefully drew the pillow from beneath my head.  “This leaves no marks and tells no tales, and permits no dying cry.”

He was looking at me, the pillow in his hands, his gesture that of a tender nurse, when a light tap sounded on the door.  He paused, then came a louder knock, one pushed, and knocked again.

“Open, in the name of the Dauphin!” came a voice I knew well, the voice of D’Aulon.

“The rope of Judas strangle thee!” said Brother Thomas, dropping the pillow and turning to the casement.  But it was heavily barred with stanchions of iron, as the manner is, and thereby he might not flee.

Then came fiercer knocking with a dagger hilt, and the cry, “Open, in the name of the Dauphin, or we burst the door!”

Brother Thomas hastily closed the wooden shutter, to darken the chamber as much as might be.  “Gently, gently,” he said.  “Disturb not my penitent, who is newly shrived, and about to pass”; and so speaking, he