The Herd Boy and His Hermit

CHAPTER VII. – ON DERWENT BANKS

Simon Bunce came himself to conduct his new tenants to their abode. It was a pleasant spot, a ravine, down which the clear stream rushed on its course to mingle its waters with those of the ocean. The rocks and brushwood veiled the approach to an open glade where stood a rude stone hovel, rough enough, but possessing two rooms, a hearth and a chimney, and thus superior to the hut that had been left on the moor. There were sheds for the cattle around, and the grass was fresh and green so that the sheep, the goat and the cow began eagerly feeding, as did the pony which Hal and Piers were unloading.

On one side stretched the open moor rising into the purple hills, just touched with snow. On the other was the wooded valley of the Derwent, growing wider ever before it debouched amid rocks into the sea. The goodwife at once discovered that there had been recent habitation, and asked what had become of the former dwellers there.

‘The woman fretted for company,’ said Simon, ‘and vowed she was in fear of the Scots, so I even let her have her way and go down to the town.’

The town in north country parlance only meant a small village, and Hob asked where it lay.

It was near the junction of the two streams, where Simon lived himself in a slightly fortified farmhouse, just high up enough to be fairly safe from flood tides. He did not advise his newly arrived tenants to be much seen at this place, where there were people who might talk. They were almost able to provide for their daily needs themselves, excepting for meal and for ale, and he would himself see to this being supplied from a more distant farm on the coast, which Hob and Piers might visit from time to time with the pony.

Goodwife Dolly inquired whether they might safely go to church, from which she had been debarred all the time they had been on the move. ‘So ill for both us and the lad,’ she said.

Simon looked doubtful. ‘If thou canst not save thy soul without,’ he said, ‘thou mightst go on some feast day, when there is such a concourse of folk that thou mightst not be noticed, and come away at once without halting for idle clavers, as they call them here.’

‘That’s what the women folk are keen for with their church-going,’ said Hob with a grin.

‘Now, husband, thou knowst,’ said Dolly, injured, though she was more than aware he spoke with intent to tease her. ‘Have I not lived all this while with none to speak to save thee and the blessed lads, and never murmured.’

‘Though thy tongue be sore for want of speech!’ laughed Hob, ‘thou beest a good wife, Dolly, and maybe thy faithfulness will tell as much in the saving of thy soul as going to church.’

‘Nay, but,’ said Hal with eagerness, ‘is there not a priest?’

‘The priest comes of a White Rose house—I trust not him. Ay, goodwife, beware of showing thyself to him. I give him my dues, that he may have no occasion against me or Sir Lancelot, but I would not have him pry into knowledge that concerns him not.’

‘Did not Sir Lancelot say somewhat of a scholarly hermit who might learn me in what I ought to know?’ asked the boy.

‘Never you fear, sir! Here are Hob Halstead and I, able to train any young noble in what behoves him most to know.’

‘Yea, in arms and sports. They must be learnt I know, but a noble needs booklore too,’ said the boy. ‘Cannot this same hermit help me? Sir Lancelot—’

Simon Bunce interrupted sharply. ‘Sir Lancelot knows nought of the hermit! He is—he is—a holy man.’

‘A priest,’ broke in Dolly, ‘a priest!’

‘No such thing, dame, no clerk at all, I tell thee. And ye lads had best not molest him! He is for ever busy with his prayers, and wants none near him.’

Hal was disappointed, for his mind was far less set on the exercises of a young knight than on the desire to acquire knowledge, that study which seemed to be thrown away on the unwilling ears of Anne St. John.

Hob had been awakened by contact with his lady and her husband, as well as with the old comrade, Simon Bunce, to perceive that if there were any chance of the young Lord Clifford’s recovering his true position he must not be allowed to lounge and slouch about like Piers, and he was continually calling him to order, making him sit and stand upright, as he had seen the young pages forced to do at the castle, learn how to handle a sword, and use the long stick which was the substitute for a lance, and to mount and sit on the old pony as a knight should do, till poor Hal had no peace, and was glad to get away upon the moor with Piers and the sheep, where there was no one to criticise him, or predict that nothing would ever make him do honour to his name if he were proved ten times a baron.

It was still worse when Bunce came over, and brought a taller horse, and such real weapons as he deemed that the young lord might be taught to use, and there were doleful auguries and sharp reproofs, designed in comically respectful phrases, till he was almost beside himself with being thus tormented, and ready to wish never to hear of being a baron.

His relief was to wander away upon the moors, watch the lights and shadows on the wondrous mountains, or dream on the banks of the river, by which he could make his way to the seashore, a place of endless wonder and contemplation, as he marvelled why the waters flowed in and retreated again, watched the white crests, and the glassy rolls of the waves, felt his mind and aspiration stretched as by something illimitable, even as when he looked up to the sky, and saw star beyond star, differing from one another in brightness. There were those white birds too, differing from all the night-jars and plovers he had seen on the moor, floating now over the waves, now up aloft and away, as if they were soaring into the very skies. Oh, would that he could follow them, and rise with them to know what were those great grey or white clouds, and what was above or below in those blue vastnesses! And whence came all those strange things that the water spread at his feet the long, brown, wet streamers, or the delicate red tracery that could be seen in the clear pools, where were sometimes those lumps like raw flesh when closed, but which opened into flowers? Or the things like the snails on the heath, yet not snails, and all the strange creatures that hopped and danced in the water?

Why would no one explain such things to him? Nay, what a pity everyone treated it as mere childish folly in him to be thus interested! They did not quite dare to beat him for it—that was one use of being a baron. Indeed, one day when Simon Bunce struck him sharply and hard over the shoulders for dragging home a great piece of sea-weed with numerous curious creatures upon it, Goodwife Dolly rushed out and made such an outcry that the esquire was fain to excuse himself by declaring that it was time that my lord should know how to bide a buffet, and answer it. He was ready and glad to meet the stroke in return! ‘Come on, sir!’

And Hob put a stout headless lance in the boy’s hand, while Simon stood up straight before him. Hob adjusted the weapon in his inert hand, and told him how and where to strike. But ‘It is not in sooth. I don’t want to hurt Master Simon,’ said the child, as they laughed, and yet with displeasure as his blow fell weak and uncertain.

‘Is it a mouse’s tail?’ cried Simon in derision.

‘Come, sir, try again,’ said Hob. ‘Strike as you did when the black bull came down. Why cannot you do the like now, when you are tingling from Bunce’s stroke?’

‘Ah! then I thought the bull would fall on Piers,’ said Hal.

‘Come on, think so now, sir. One blow to do my heart good, and show you have the arm of your forebears.’

Thus incited, with Hob calling out to him to take heart of grace, while Simon made a feint of trying to beat Mother Dolly, Hal started forward and dealt a blow sufficient to make Simon cry out, ‘Ha, well struck, sir, if you had had a better grip of your lance! I even feel it through my buff coat.’

He spoke as though it had been a kiss; but oh! and alack! why were these rough and dreary exercises all that these guardians—yea, and even Sir Lancelot and his mother—thought worth his learning, when there was so much more that awoke his delight and interest? Was it really childish to heed these things? Yet even to his young, undeveloped brain it seemed as if there must be mysteries in sky and sea, the unravelling of which would make life more worth having than the giving and taking of blows, which was all they heeded.

CHAPTER VIII. – THE HERMIT

Hal had wandered farther than his wont, rather hoping to be out of call if Simon arrived to give him a lesson in chivalrous sports. He found himself on the slope of one of the gorges down which smaller streams rushed in wet weather to join the Derwent. There was a sound of tinkling water, and leaning forward, Hal saw that a tiny thread of water dropped between the ferns and the stones. Therewith a low, soft chant in a manly voice, mingling with the drip of the water.

The words were strange to him&&

but they were very sweet, and in leaning forward to look between the rowan branches and hear and see more, his foot slipped, and with Watch barking round him, he rolled helplessly down the rock, and found himself before a tall light-haired man, in a dark dress, who gave a hand to raise him, asking kindly, ‘Art hurt, my child?’

‘Oh, no, sir! Off, off, Watch!’ as the dog was about to resent anyone’s touching his master. ‘Holy sir, thanks, great thanks,’ as a long fair hand helped him to his feet, and brushed his soiled garment.

‘Unhurt, I see,’ said that sweet voice. ‘Hast thou lost thy way? Good dog, thou lovest thy master! Art thou astray?’

‘No, sir, thank you, I know my way home.’

‘Thou art the boy who lives with the shepherd at Derwentside, on Bunce’s ground?’

‘Ay, Hob Hogward’s herd boy,’ said Hal. ‘Oh, sir, are you the holy hermit of the Derwent vale?’

‘A hermit for the nonce I am,’ was the answer, with something of a smile responsive to the eager face.

‘Oh, sir, if you be not too holy to look at me or speak to me! If you would help me to some better knowledge—not only of sword and single-stick!’

‘Better knowledge, my child! Of thy God?’ said the hermit, a sweet look of joy spreading over his face.

‘Goodwife Dolly has told me of Him, and taught me my Pater and Credo, but we have lived far off, and she has not been able to go to church for weeks and years. But what I long after is to tell me what means all this—yonder sea, and all the stars up above. And they will call me a simpleton for marking such as these, and only want me to heed how to shoot an arrow, or give a stroke hard enough to hurt another. Do such rude doings alone, fit for a bull or a ram as meseems, go to the making of a knight, fair sir?’

‘They go to the knight’s keeping of his own, for others whom he ought to defend,’ said the hermit sadly; ‘I would have thee learn and practise them. But for the rest, thou knowest, sure, who made the stars?’

‘Oh yes! Nurse Dolly told me. She saw it all in a mystery play long long ago—when a Hand came out, and put in the stars and sun and moon.’

‘Knowest thou whose Hand was figured there, my child?’

‘The Hand of God,’ said Hal, removing his cap. ‘They be sparks to show His glory! But why do some move about among the others—one big one moves from the Bull’s face one winter to half-way beyond it. And is the morning star the evening one?’

‘Ah! thou shouldst know Ptolemy and the Almagest,’ said the hermit smiling, ‘to understand the circuits of those wandering stars—Coeli enarrant gloriam Dei.’

‘That is Latin,’ said the boy, startled. ‘Are you a priest, sir?’

‘No, not I—I am not worthy,’ was the answer, ‘but in some things I may aid thee, and I shall be blessed in so doing. Canst say thy prayers?’

‘Oh, yes! nurse makes me say them when I lie down and when I get up—Credo and Pater. She says the old parson used to teach them our own tongue for them, but she has well-nigh forgot. Can you tell me, holy man?’

‘That will I, with all my heart,’ responded the hermit, laying his long delicate hand on Hal’s head. ‘Blessed be He who has sent thee to me!’

The boy sat at the hermit’s feet, listening with the eagerness of one whose soul and mind had alike been under starvation, and how time went neither knew till there was a rustling and a step. Watch sprang up, but in another moment Simon Bunce, cap in hand, stood before the hut, beginning with ‘How now, sir?’

The hermit raised his hand, as if to make a sign, saying, ‘Thou seest I have a guest, good friend.’

Bunce started back with ‘Oh! the young Lord! Sworn to silence, I trust! I bade him not meddle with you, sir.’

‘It was against his will, I trow,’ said the hermit. ‘He fell over the rock by the waterfall, but since he is here, I will answer for him that he does no hurt by word or deed!’

‘Never, holy sir!’ eagerly exclaimed Hal. ‘Hob Hogward knows that I can keep my mouth shut. And may I come again?’

Simon was shaking his head, but the hermit took on him to say, ‘Gladly will I welcome thee, my fair child, whensoever thou canst find thy way to the weary old anchoret! Go thy way now! Or hast thou lost it?’

‘No, sir; I ken the woodland and can soon be at home,’ replied Hal; then, putting a knee to the ground, ‘May I have your blessing, holy man?’

‘Alack, I told thee I am no priest,’ said the hermit; ‘but for such as I am, I bless thee with all my soul, thou fatherless lad,’ and he laid his hand on the young lad’s wondering brow, then bade him begone, since Simon and himself had much to say to one another.

Hal summoned Watch, and turned to a path through the wood, leading towards the coast, wondering as he walked how the hermit seemed to know him—him whose presence had been so sedulously concealed. Could it be that so very holy a man had something of the spirit of prophecy?

He kept his promise of silence, and indeed his guardians were so much accustomed to his long wanderings that he encountered no questions, only one of Hob’s growls that he should always steal away whenever there was a chance of Master Bunce’s coming to try to make a man of him.

However, Bunce himself arrived shortly after, and informed Hob that since young folks always pried where they were least wanted, and my lord had stumbled incontinently on the anchoret’s den, it was the holy man’s will that he might come there whenever he chose. A pity and shame it was, but it would make him more than ever a mere priestling, ever hankering after books and trash!

‘Were it not better to ask my lady and Sir Lancelot if they would have it so? I could walk over to Threlkeld!’

‘No, no, no, on your life not,’ exclaimed Simon, striking his staff on the ground in his vehemence. ‘Never a word to the Threlkeld or any of his kin! Let well alone! I only wish the lad had never gone a-roaming there! But holy men must not be gainsaid, even if it does make a poor craven scholar out of his father’s son.’

And thus began a time of great contentment to the Lord Clifford. There were few days on which he did not visit the hermitage. It was a small log hut, but raised with some care, and made weatherproof with moss and clay in the crevices, and there was an inner apartment, with a little oil lamp burning before a rough wooden cross, where Hal, if the hermit were not outside, was certain to find him saying his prayers. Food was supplied by Simon himself, and, since Hal’s admission, was often carried by him, and the hermit seemed to spend his time either in prayer or in a gentle dreamy state of meditation, though he always lighted up into animation at the arrival of the boy whom he had made his friend. Hal had thought him old at first, on the presumption that all hermits must be aged, nor was it likely that age should be estimated by one living such a life, but the light hair, untouched with grey, the smooth cheeks and the graceful figure did not belong to more than a year or two above forty. And he had no air of ill health, yet this calm solitary residence in the wooded valley seemed to be infinite rest to him.

Hal had no knowledge nor experience to make him wonder, and accepted the great quiet and calm of the hermit as the token of his extreme holiness and power of meditation. He himself was always made welcome with Watch by his side, and encouraged to talk and ask questions, which the hermit answered with what seemed to the boy the utmost wisdom, but older heads would have seen not to be that of a clever man, but of one who had been fairly educated for the time, had had experience of courts and camps, and referred all the inquiries and wonderments which were far beyond him direct to Almighty Power.

The mind of the boy advanced much in this intercourse with the first cultivated person he had encountered, and who made a point of actually teaching and explaining to him all those mysteries of religion which poor old Dolly only blindly accepted and imparted as blindly to her nursling. Of actual instruction, nothing was attempted. A little portuary, or abbreviated manual of the service, was all that the hermit possessed, treasured with his small crucifix in his bosom, and of course it was in Latin. The Hours of the Church he knew by heart, and never failed to observe them, training his young pupil in the repetition and English meaning of such as occurred during his visits. He also told much of the history of the world, as he knew it, and of the Church and the saints, to the eager mind that absorbed everything and reflected on it, coming with fresh questions that would have been too deep and perplexing for his friend if he had not always determined everything with ‘Such is the will of God.’

Somewhat to the surprise of Simon Bunce and Hob Hogward, Hal improved greatly, not only in speech but in bearing; he showed no such dislike or backwardness in chivalrous exercises as previously; and when once Sir Lancelot Threlkeld came over to see him, he was absolutely congratulated on looking so much more like a young knight.

‘Ay,’ said Bunce, taking all the merit to himself, ‘there’s nought like having an old squire trained in the wars in France to show a stripling how to hold a lance.’

Hal had been too well tutored to utter a word of him to whom his improvement was really due, not by actual training, but partly by unconscious example in dignified grace and courtesy of demeanour, and partly by the rather sad assurances that it was well that a man born to his station, if he ever regained it, should be able to defend himself and others, and not be a helpless burthen on their hands. Tales of the Seven Champions of Christendom and of King Arthur and his Knights likewise had their share in the moulding of the youthful Lord Clifford.

His great desire was to learn to read, but it was not encouraged by the hermit, nor was there any book available save the portuary, crookedly and contractedly written on vellum, so as to be illegible to anyone unfamiliar with writing, with Latin, or the service. However, the anchoret yielded to his importunity so far as to let him learn the alphabet, traced on the door in charcoal, and identify the more sacred words in the book—which, indeed, were all in gold, red and blue.

He did not advance more than this, for his teacher was apt to go off in a musing dream of meditation, repeating over and over in low sweet tones the holy phrases, and not always rousing himself when his pupil made a remark or asked a question. Yet he was always concerned at his own inattention when awakened, and would apologise in a tone of humility that always made Hal feel grieved and ashamed of having been importunate. For there was a dignity and gentleness about the hermit that always made the boy feel the contrast with his own roughness and uncouthness, and reverence him as something from a holier world.

‘Nurse, I do think he is a saint,’ one day said Hal.

‘Nay, nay, my laddie, saints don’t come down from heaven in these days of evil.’

‘I would thou could see him when one comes upon him at his prayers. His face is like the angel at the cross I saw so long ago in the castle chapel.’

‘Dost thou remember that chapel? Thou wert a babe when we quitted it.’

‘I had well nigh forgotten it, but the good hermit’s face brought all back again, and the voice of the father when he said the Service.’

‘That thou shouldst mind so long! This hermit is no priest, thou sayst?’

‘No, he said he was not worthy; but sure all saints were not priests, nurse.’

‘Nay, it is easy to be more worthy than the Jack Priests I have known. Though I would they would let me go to church. But look thee here, Hal, if he be such a saint as thou sayst, maybe thou couldst get him to bestow a blessing on poor Piers, and give him his hearing and voice.’

Hal was sure that his own special saint was holy enough for anything, and accordingly asked permission of him to bring his silent companion for blessing and healing.

The mild blue eye lighted for a moment. ‘Is the poor child then afflicted with the King’s Evil?’ the hermit asked.

‘Nay, he is sound enough in skin and limb. It is that he can neither hear nor speak, and if you, holy sir, would lay thine hand on him, and sign him with the rood, and pray, mayhap your holiness—’

‘Peace, peace,’ cried the hermit impetuously, lifting up his hand. ‘Dost not know that I am a sinner like unto the rest—nay, a greater sinner, in that a burthen was laid on me that I had not the soul to rise to, so that the sin and wickedness of thousands have been caused by my craven faint heart for well nigh two score years? O miserere Domine.’

He threw himself on the ground with clasped hands, and Hal, standing by in awestruck amazement, heard no more save sobs, mingled with the supplications of the fifty-first Psalm.

He was obliged at last to go away without having been able to recall the attention of his friend from his agony of prayer. With the reticence that had grown upon him, he did not mention at home the full effect of his request, but when he thought it over he was all the more convinced that his friend was a great saint. Had he not always heard that saints believed themselves great sinners, and went through many penances? And why did he speak as if he could have cured the King’s Evil? He asked Dolly what it was, and she replied that it was the sickness that only the King’s touch could heal.

CHAPTER IX. – HENRY OF WINDSOR

Summer had faded, and an early frost had tinted the fern-leaves with gold here and there, and made the hermit wrap himself close in a cloak lined with thick brown fur.

Simon, who was accustomed very respectfully to take the command of him, insisted that he should have a fire always burning on a rock close to his door, and that Piers, if not Hal, should always take care that it never went out, smothering it with peat, as every shepherd boy knew how to do, so as to keep it alight, or, in case of need, to conceal it with turf.

One afternoon, as Hal lay on the grass, whiling away the time by alternately playing with Watch and trying to unravel the mysteries of a flower of golden-rod, until the hermit should have finished his prayers and be ready to attend to him, Piers came through the wood, evidently sent on a message, and made him understand that he was immediately wanted at home.

Hal turned to take leave of his host, but the hermit’s eyes were raised in such rapt contemplation as to see nought, and, indeed, it might be matter of doubt whether he had ever perceived the presence of his visitor.

Hal directed Piers to arrange the fire, and hurried away, becoming conscious as he came in sight of the cottage that there were horses standing before it, and guessing at once that it must be a visit from Sir Lancelot Threlkeld.

It was Simon Bunce, however, who, with demonstrations of looking for him, came out to meet him as he emerged from the brushwood, and said in a gruff whisper, clutching his shoulder hard, ‘Not a word to give a clue! Mum! More than your life hangs on it.’

No more could pass, to explain the clue intended, whether to the presence of the young Lord Clifford himself, which was his first thought, or to the inhabitant of the hermitage. For Sir Lancelot’s cheerful voice was exclaiming, ‘Here he is, my lady! Here’s your son! How now, my young lord? Thou hast learnt to hold up thy head! Ay, and to bow in better sort,’ as, bending with due grace, Hal paused for a second ere hurrying forward to kneel before his mother, who raised him in her arms and kissed him with fervent affection. ‘My son! mine own dear boy, how art thou grown! Thou hast well nigh a knightly bearing!’ she exclaimed. ‘Master Bunce hath done well by thee.’