Montjoy—yes, Montjoy!

A house that he had loved came down about Montjoy’s ears. A garden that he had tended the swine rooted up. One came and threw filth against his Love.

He seemed to understand this monk and the monk to understand him. For an instant they were brothers in suffering and rage.

Sow it with salt—Silver Cross!

Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew. Who best to send to cardinal and to Rome on that business? Procure their degradation! Have them cursed with bell, book and candle!

The whore—let her be burned slowly until she was ashes!

O Isabel—Isabel—Isabel!

O Kingdom of Heaven that hath suffered wrong!

Montjoy sat with a working face. He sat in his great chair on the dais in castle hall and his hands gripped the arms of the chair. At last he spoke with voice of one underground who has fire still but has lost the light of day. “Well, as for thee, monk—”

“Give me, no more, that name!” cried the man addressed. “The monk is dead. I am Richard Englefield, the Smith!”

At that moment entered bruit of the arrival of Abbot and Prior. “Yes, yes, let us see them!” said Montjoy, and who knows what hope sprang up in his heart. He believed Richard Englefield, but there pressed against his belief all the weight of old, loved Silver Cross, and the weight of the priest and the weight of Mother Church. Things happened, vile things, as they happened in Kingdom, in Nobility and Knighthood. But for all that Knighthood was heroic and Holy Church holy. Child could not go against mother, lover against beloved. Let us at any rate hear what this Iscariot Abbot and Prior shall say! And with that rolled for the first time upon Montjoy’s mind Saint Leofric, and he heard the joy of Hugh who was not discovered. “That this vileness that he saith were not true!” cried Montjoy within. “O Isabel, that it were not true!”

Morgen Fay! The Lord of Montjoy was dead ember there, and all the breathing of Morgen Fay might not relume. “O High God, I would live cleanly! That harlot, wherever she is, doth always only evil!”

Silver Cross—Silver Cross! The church, Isabel’s tomb and the great picture. He saw that Morgen Fay could have played it because she had the height and faintly, faintly the face. Isabel was the true likeness and Morgen Fay the false, the evil. “Let her burn, who deserveth it if ever any did!”

Silver Cross, and cold wretchedness and grinning, mocking Satan if it were no better than Saint Leofric! Mark a kinsman, too. All honour smirched!

Again his eyes were for Richard Englefield. To have believed that Heaven had singled you out—to have had vast raptures of mind and heart, all fragrance, all flavour, all light, all music, all warmth, all lifting—to have fallen at the feet of the Brightest Star, to have had the honey of touch and the honey of word and the honey of smile, and knowledge that all was immortal and holy, all was heavenly true!—to have had that and believed it eternal—and then to have fallen, fallen, gulf upon gulf, dreary world by dreary world, to last mire and stubble, nay, past that into caverns of hell—

Abbot Mark came into the hall, he and Prior Matthew, and behind them Brothers Anselm and Norbert with Walter the leech and six besides. Out of these monks five at least knew only that the fiend had made sortie against and taken and poured madness upon the holy man, yesterday the pride, the boast, of Silver Cross. Abbot Mark—large, authoritative, stately—showed pallor indeed, but also concern and innocency and high unawareness that Silver Cross did or could stand in any danger. As for Prior Matthew, he stood and moved, red, dry, cool, collected, always a man with a head. Abbey monks, drawing together, looked trustingly upon their Superiors and pityingly, it was seen, upon Brother Richard, standing very gaunt and ghastly white, with blazing eyes.

Montjoy faced that entry. All Silver Cross with long venerableness and power, great church of Silver Cross, the jewel windows, the picture, the sculptured Isabel upon her tomb entered also castle hall and drowned it into vaster space and into significances otherwise and potent. Something of rigidity went out of the lord of Montjoy. Trust—trust!

Friar Martin, the Black Friar, saw it go—clouds again mounting against Saint Leofric. And all the hall full of people, hanging divided in wish and thought! He felt it running through, “Was it not monstrous, unthinkable—were there not explanations—was it reasonable now—and if it was all a cheating show, where was Middle Forest? Why, left holding a great bag of Loss!” The Black Friar felt, as though he were Leofric’s Hugh, stricture about the heart. Good Chance was quitting, the fickle jade!

Yet when Montjoy stepped toward the Abbot, pale Accusation stepped with him. “Lord Abbot—Lord Abbot, you are in time! You have fouled Christendom—oh, if you have fouled Christendom!”

But the Abbot seemed not to notice words and mien. He cried, “O Montjoy, the holy man, good Brother Richard, hath gone mad! Yesterday he broke into a frightful babbling, the fiend at his ear, the fiends within him! The morn, Walter the leech leaving him awhile, thinking that loneliness might do somewhat, he burst window, broke cloister! Whereupon we ourselves follow him, not knowing what harm he doth to himself and to all! For alas! he now doubteth the happening of the Great Miracle and clamoureth that it was the demon. We know, alas! how at times it happeneth! Overmuch light, the weak soul bending aside from Heaven-grace, the fiends gathering to torment and perplex, and were it possible, to defeat light! The warder faints. Madness enters. Poor soul, alas! yet Heaven did use him! Heaven-grace and the miracle persists, though for him be madman’s cell—”

He stood, father Abbot, in his large face godly concern for all awryness. He loomed. All Silver Cross seemed with him, Silver Cross through the centuries. Three fourths in the hall turned that way. “He crieth otherwise,” said Montjoy, and with a gesture set Brother Richard and his Superior face to face.

Cried Richard Englefield, “Thou shameless, false shepherd! Thou lying Abbot of a rotted fold!”

At which a young monk, Brother Wilfrid, so forgot himself, defending good, shaming ill, that he rushed against the mad monk. “Son!” thundered the Abbot and brought Brother Wilfrid to his knees, crying, “Pardon!”

Truly Richard Englefield maddened. He saw how it would end, and the legion before him. His vision swam and darkened, light foam came about his lips. He sent out a loud, hoarse and broken voice. “Fraud! Fraud! Lord of Montjoy, come to Silver Cross and see!”

The Black Friar, straining forward with the rest, caught at that word, “Fraud!” He did not dare to echo it aloud, for now, in a moment as it were, many a hundred year of Silver Cross, many a goodly deed and use penetrated, reverberated here, large space entering somehow small space, riving it apart. Old authority, long veneration, the great Abbey church, Montjoy’s love for it, Middle Forest’s clinging to it—Friar Martin had thundered one misty afternoon against Montjoy’s doubting of Saint Leofric. Montjoy had had to down head and slink homeward. Now Friar Martin wished to shout, “Fraud! Fraud!” and, “It began in envy of Saint Leofric his great glory!” But he was afraid. There might be no proof. If the monk were not already mad he would soon be so.

Prior Matthew of Westforest moved a piece. Still, conclusive, calming, entered his voice. “It is seldom well to take madman’s advice! But here it seemeth to me well. Lord of Montjoy, you cannot do better than to ride with us to Silver Cross.”

Lean and strong, and a master chess player, he came to front of the dais, and lifting voice, entered into explanation of Brother Richard’s sad illness and of the ways of the fiend who for this time had overthrown the saintly man. But he would recover—Prior Matthew had no doubt of it—under Walter the leech’s care, amid his brethren at Silver Cross, or at Westforest, where was smaller range, stricter solitude. He should have tendance; he should have prayers. “As for that Presence that did descend upon him. She the Blessed is not harmed! Men and women of Middle Forest, the Rose still rests in reliquary, the Healing Well still heals! Let them that are sick come prove it!”

Edmund the Preacher cried out mightily. “If it be so, still hath the devil compacted with the harlot, Morgen Fay! How else could the thought of her, the form of her, enter here? The devil made her to be seen in monastery cell, thrusting aside True Queen! Seek her out, bind her to the stake by town cross and burn her! Never else will this countryside be cleansed!”

Prior Matthew looked with narrowed eyes. “There is truth in what you say, Edmund the Preacher! Long hath she been great scandal!” He thought, “Best that she have her cry quickly and be done with it! All the poison out at once in one dish, not trailing forever, word here and word there! She set sail, long ago, to come to this end. This year or next, what matter?”

And he saw that it would make diversion. Let her clamour what she would of what she had done! It would be the fiend speaking. Silver Cross and Matthew of Westforest against a mad monk and a harlot!

Silver Cross and Westforest and Montjoy. He saw as in a scroll that Montjoy would never wholly believe nor yet wholly disbelieve.

Richard Englefield cried again, “Ride at once, Montjoy! They will have burned ladder and ropes and cloaks and scarfs. But the door behind the rood—they have not had time there—”

“What is that? What?” cried the Abbot sharply. “Door behind rood?”

“Where was none, door was made between my cell and yonder villain monk’s! So you sent me for penance to Westforest, so it was done. Then a great rood, great and black, was set before it. Yea, you used Christ on the cross for mask! Dim was it in that cell—never had I light in that cell! Now I have light—now it burns! Aside she pushed salvation—in she stepped, mincing like a harlot, having taken sugar for her voice—”

Abbot Mark fairly shrieked with horror. “Oh, if we did not know that it is Sathanas himself that speaketh, not the poor man whom he hath laid in bonds! Door—door!” He summoned sub-prior.

“Reverend father, door truly was made, it being once plan to take the wall down wholly, making of two cells one and using it for an infirmary. Then it was found that the light was not good, and the plan was abandoned. Stone was set back in the opening, and true it is that a rood being about that time placed in each cell, it was fastened, in this man’s and in Brother Norbert’s, against that wall. Of all his story it is the only truth! In his madness he must have torn the rood aside and seen that once there was opening, though now stone-filled and mortared. After that what Sathanas saith to him God forbid that we should know or repeat!”

“Shall I believe?” whispered Montjoy. “Shall I not believe? O Isabel—O Lady near whom moveth Isabel—”

Richard Englefield towered. He stretched his arms, he raised his face. “O Christ, if thou be true—O Blissful One, Eternal Virgin, if thou be real—”

But summer sun shone on.

It was Prior Matthew who summed up and delivered judgment in Montjoy’s hall. “Ride with us now to Silver Cross, Montjoy—and do you come also, Edmund the Preacher, and you, Master Eustace Bettany, and any and all others who will! Yea, make throng and procession! What! Shall there be division between Silver Cross and Middle Forest who have dwelled together since the Confessor’s day? Sometimes eh, Middle Forest?—we have quarrelled, but not for long, have we? Ours, after all, one bed and one hearth! Doth Silver Cross grow rich and great, it is for Middle Forest. Doth Middle Forest increase, Silver Cross goes smiling. Remember the saintly abbot—Abbot Robert—and how did he and his monks when befell the Plague! Remember war, and we stood together. And now Heaven blesseth both, and Holy Well, a thousand years from now, shall still be Holy Well!”

He had it now—Mark and he had it in their four hands! If they carried it carefully, and they would do so, four hands obeying the Prior of Westforest’s head. Now for the trouble maker, the crazed one who failed to see or hear Interest though she shouted at him and pulled him by the robe! Prior Matthew gave a short order to Silver Cross monks. “Take him!”

Brother Norbert, Brother Anselm, Brother Wilfrid and the others fell upon Brother Richard. Short, hard struggle, and they had him. Brother Norbert bound his arms with hempen girdle. As he still shouted accusations, at the Prior’s nod they gagged him. “Not holy man who may be holy man again, but Apollyon who now hath seized the tower and speaketh from the gate!”

Montjoy sat in his lord’s chair and looked straight before him. Truth, truth—is it not profoundly likely to be here? Were it not for Hugh of Saint Leofric, could ever he have doubted it? The monk’s tale,—fantastic, like a romaunt! Say, darkly, it is true; what other can cry Aye! and strengthen it, or No! and dash it into dreams? Who other but Morgen Fay?

It formed in Montjoy’s mind that that harlot must be found.

Prior Matthew, Brother Richard silenced, had present eyes for the Black Friar there to one side, standing grimly for Saint Leofric. “Now and here!” said within the Westforest chess player. Matthew spoke in his dry, reasonable voice.

“Ride you, too, with us, Friar Martin! You shall have mule. What! Saint Leofric and Saint Willebrod, be sure they ride together! Shall we not make England and Christendom ring for that all this corner of earth, this side river, that side river, Silver Cross and Saint Leofric alike are blessed? Bridge over river shall be to you and be to us, and I see it built thick and high with booths and rooms for pilgrims! The Princess of Spain goes to-day to Saint Leofric’s tomb, to-morrow to Holy Well! To-day the Dauphin heareth mass in Silver Cross, to-morrow goeth in procession around Saint Leofric his church! Both ways he passeth through Middle Forest. Common good—common good! What else is worth anything in this life? The more massive the bruit, the broader, higher, shooteth the fame of all!”

It was undeniable! Black Friar thought somewhat surlily, “If I go I can at least take account of all to Prior Hugh. And there is something in ‘If you can’t increase apart, increase together’!”

Rested that fanatic, Father Edmund the Preacher. Better always have Father Edmund preach for you, not against you! He could any time whip calm sea into storm. The chess player considered him, to whom just now Morgen Fay, the harlot, stood for all harlotry, whether of brain or heart. When all heinousness was believed of Morgen Fay, then would the countryside be roused at last, then would every man, woman and child become huntsman! Father Edmund meant to continue to believe Brother Richard’s story. Why not? She was capable of it. Certain abbeys of this later time were capable. Father Edmund was one to cry under the Pope’s great window, “Reform! Reform!”

Prior Matthew saw the weather thickening. Presently from that quarter lightning flash and thunder clap! “Boldness my wisdom!” he breathed.

His dry voice, somehow powder red like his hair and tint, dry, rarely loud but procuring attention, continued to hold all ears. “As to the harlot, Morgen Fay, would you have my mind? It is quite likely she be hidden somewhere within five leagues. Now Sathanas worketh underground and taketh evil mind to evil mind, or often to weak mind, or to mind that was Sathanas’ enemy against whom he useth every springe! So to my thought it hath been here. Heaven permitteth—yes, to try faith, Heaven permitteth! The fiend works what seemeth victory, good man turning toward him. Whom doth he use? Yea, there is it! Harlot consenting, he yesternight taketh her image and with it entereth neither by door nor window cell of Brother Richard; yea, entereth his mind and his eye and his ear, his will, his belief and his heart. Brother Richard thinketh, ‘It is the great True Pearl!’ And falleth upon his knees before empty air, for the devil fixeth images within, not without. But the devil gives never for proof Holy Well that healeth a score a week! And the devil hath had only yesternight. Yea, moreover, midway Heaven sendeth some aid and he that hath been holy man seeth that it is not she who came before, but stained wax and that the devil cheateth him! Whereat the devil, that harlot no doubt still aiding, leapeth, greatly angered, upon his mind, teareth and bruiseth it tiger-wise and bringeth it for this time into huge confusion and madness. Again Heaven suffereth it, and suffereth him to cry and accuse as madmen ever cry and accuse, that by trial of our faith we may all be brought clearer. But Heaven willeth always that we defeat the fiend and his instruments. Aye, search for these and grind them small and so grieve and weaken that Evil One who rides invisible!”

Father Edmund cried. “She said, ‘Aye, aye!’ or the devil could not use her! Lord of Montjoy, town of Middle Forest, Abbey of Silver Cross, Priory of Westforest and Priory of Saint Leofric, I, Edmund the Preacher, summon you by souls’ welfare to join search for the Plague-spot, the Witch-mark! When she is burned then may the monk recover his mind, then may the True Pearl, the Very Rose, show again, the toad be banished from the Holy Well, Saint Leofric and Saint Willebrod be sworn brothers, Montjoy give again with joy to Silver Cross, Middle Forest prosper, and all England and the Princess of Spain and the Dauphin come in pilgrimage!”