The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER VI

THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST

“Nay, I have naught for thee this morn­ing,” said Mary Antony to the robin; “naught, that is, save sprite­ly con­ver­sa­tion. I can tell thee a tale or two; I can give thee sage ad­vice; but, in my wal­let, lit­tle Mas­ter Men­di­cant, I have but my bag of peas.”

The old lay-​sis­ter sat rest­ing in the gar­den. She had had a busy hour, yet com­pli­cat­ed in its busy-​ness, for, start­ing out to do weed­ing, she had present­ly fan­cied her­self in­tent up­on mak­ing a posy, and now, sat up­on the stone seat be­neath the beech tree, hold­ing a large nosegay made up of many kinds of flow­er­ing weeds, ar­ranged with much care, and bound round with con­volvu­lus ten­drils.

Keen and un­com­mon shrewd though old Antony cer­tain­ly was in many ways, her great age oc­ca­sion­al­ly be­trayed it­self by child­ish va­garies. Her mind would start off along the lines of a false premise, land­ing her even­tu­al­ly in a dream-​like con­clu­sion. As now, when wak­ing from a mo­ment's nod­ding in the wel­come shade, she won­dered why her old back seemed well-​nigh bro­ken, and mar­velled to find her­self hold­ing a big posy of dan­de­lions, ground­sel, plan­tain, and bindweed.

On the oth­er end of the seat, stood the robin. The beech was just near enough to the clois­ters, the pie­man's tree, and his own par­tic­ular yew hedge, to come with­in his lit­tle king­dom.

Hav­ing men­tioned her bag of peas, Mary Antony ex­pe­ri­enced an ir­re­sistible de­sire to view them and, more­over, to dis­play them be­fore the bright eyes of the robin.

She laid the queer nosegay down up­on the grass at her feet, turned side­wise on the stone slab, and drew the bag from her wal­let.

“Now, Mas­ter Pie­man!” she said. “At thine own risk thou doest it; but with thine own bright eyes thou shalt see the holy Ladies; the Un­named, all like peas in a pod, as the Lord knows they do look, when they walk to and fro; but first, if so be that I can find them, the Few which I dis­tin­guish from among the rest.”

Present­ly, af­ter much peer­ing in­to the bag, the fine white pea, the wiz­ened pea, and the pale and speck­led pea, lay in line up­on the stone.

“This,” ex­plained Mary Antony, point­ing, with knob­by fore­fin­ger, to the first, "is the Rev­erend Moth­er, Her­self--large, and pure, and no­ble. . . . Nay, hop not too close, Sir Red­breast! When we en­ter her cham­ber we kneel at the thresh­old, till she bids us draw near­er. True, _we_ are mere­ly sober­ly-​clad, holy wom­en, where­as _thou_ art a gay, gaudy man; bold-​eyed, and, doubt­less, steeped in sin. But even thou must keep thy dis­tance, in pres­ence of this most Rev­erend Pea of great price.

“This,” in­di­cat­ing the shriv­elled pea, "is Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, who would love to have the whip­ping of thee, thou naughty lit­tle ras­cal!

"This is Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca who dai­ly grows more crooked, both in mind and body; yet who ev­er sweet­ly smileth.

“Now will I show thee, if so be that I can find her, Sis­ter Tere­sa, a kind­ly soul and gra­cious, but with a sniff which may be heard in the kitchens when that holy La­dy taketh her turn at the Re­fec­to­ry read­ing. And when, the read­ing over, hav­ing sniffed ev­ery oth­er minute, she at length, feels free to blow, beshrew me, Mas­ter Red­breast, one might think our old dun cow had just been part­ed from a new­ly-​born calf. Yea, a kind, gra­cious soul; but noisy about the nose, and for­get­ful of the ears of oth­er peo­ple, her own ne­ces­si­ty seem­ing ex­cuse enough for ver­ita­ble trum­pet blasts.”

Mary Antony, half turn­ing as she talked, peered in­to the open bag in search of Sis­ter Tere­sa.

Then, quick as thought, the un­ex­pect­ed hap­pened.

Three rapid hops, a jerky bend of the red breast, a flash of wings----

The robin had flown off with the white pea! The shriv­elled and the speck­led alone re­mained up­on the seat.

Ut­ter­ing a cry of hor­ror and dis­may, the old lay-​sis­ter fell up­on her knees, lift­ing de­spair­ing hands to trees and sky.

Down by the low­er wall, in earnest med­ita­tion, the Pri­oress moved back and forth, on the Cy­press Walk.

Mary Antony's shriek of dis­may, faint but un­mis­tak­able, reached her ears. Turn­ing, she passed noise­less­ly up the green sward, on the fur­ther side of the yew hedge; but paused, in sur­prise, as she drew lev­el with the beech; for the old lay-​sis­ter's voice pen­etrat­ed the hedge, and the first words she over­heard seemed to the Pri­oress whol­ly in­com­pre­hen­si­ble.

“Ah, thou Knight of the Bloody Vest!” moaned Mary Antony. “Heav­en send thy wicked per­fidy may fall on thine own pate! In­trud­ing thy­self in­to our most pri­vate places; beg­ging food, which could not be re­fused; wheedling old Mary Antony in­to let­ting thee have a peep at the holy Ladies--thou bold, bad man!--and then car­ry­ing off the Rev­erend Moth­er, Her­self! Ha! Hadst thou but caught away Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, she would have re­formed thy home, whipped thy chil­dren, and mend­ed thine own vile man­ners, thou grace­less churl! Or hadst thou tak­en Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca, _she_ would have brought the place about thine ears, telling thy wife fine tales of thine un­faith­ful­ness; whis­per­ing that Mary Antony is younger and fair­er than she. But, nay, for­sooth! Nei­ther of these will do! Thou must needs snatch away the Rev­erend Moth­er, Her­self! Oh, sac­ri­le­gious fiend! Stand not there mock­ing me! Where is the Rev­erend Moth­er?”

“Why, here am I, dear Antony,” said the Pri­oress, in sooth­ing tones, com­ing quick­ly from be­hind the hedge.

One glance re­vealed, to her re­lief, that the lay-​sis­ter was alone. Tears ran down the fur­rows of her worn old face. She knelt up­on the grass; be­side her a large nosegay of flow­er­ing weeds; up­on the seat, peas strewn from out a much-​used, linen bag. Above her on a bough, a robin perched, bend­ing to look, with rogu­ish eye, at the scat­tered peas.

To the Pri­oress it seemed that in­deed the old lay-​sis­ter must have tak­en leave of her sens­es.

Stoop­ing, she tried to raise her; but Mary Antony, fling­ing her­self for­ward, clasped and kissed the Rev­erend Moth­er's feet, in an aban­don­ment of pen­itence and grief.

“Nay, rise, dear Antony,” said the Pri­oress, firm­ly. “Rise! I com­mand it. The day is warm. Thou hast been dream­ing. No bold, bad man has forced his way with­in these walls. No 'Knight of the Bloody Vest' is here. Rise up and look. We are alone.”

But Mary Antony, still on her knees, half raised her­self, and, point­ing to the bough above, qua­vered, amid her sobs: “The bold, bad man is there!”

Look­ing up, the Pri­oress met the bright eye of the robin, peep­ing down.

Why, sure­ly? Yes! There was the “Bloody Vest.”

The Pri­oress smiled. She be­gan to un­der­stand.

The robin burst in­to a stream of tri­umphant song. At which, old Mary Antony, still kneel­ing, shook her up­lift­ed fist.

The Pri­oress raised and drew her to the seat.

“Now sit thee here be­side me,” she said, “and make full con­fes­sion. Ease thine old heart by telling me the en­tire tale. Then I will pass sen­tence on the robin if, true to his name, he turns out to be a thief.”

So there, in the Con­vent gar­den, while the robin sang over­head, the Pri­oress lis­tened to the quaint recital; the dread of mak­ing mis­take in the dai­ly count­ing; the elab­orate plan of drop­ping peas; the man­ner in which the peas be­came iden­ti­fied with the per­son­al­ities of the White Ladies; the games in the cell; the tam­ing of the robin; the habit of shar­ing with the lit­tle bird, in­ter­ests which might not be shared with oth­ers, which had re­sult­ed that morn­ing in the dis­play of the peas, and this un­dreamed of dis­as­ter--the ab­duc­tion of the Rev­erend Moth­er.

The Pri­oress lis­tened with out­ward grav­ity, striv­ing to con­ceal all signs of the in­ward mirth which seized and shook her. But more than once she had to turn her face from the peer­ing eyes of Mary Antony, striv­ing anx­ious­ly to gath­er whether her chron­icle of sins was plac­ing her out­side the pale of pos­si­ble for­give­ness.

The Pri­oress did not has­ten the recital. She knew the im­por­tance, to the mind with which she dealt, of even the most triv­ial de­tail. To be checked or hur­ried, would leave Mary Antony with the sense of an in­com­plete con­fes­sion.

There­fore, with in­fi­nite pa­tience the Pri­oress lis­tened, seat­ed in the sun­lit gar­den, undis­turbed, save for the silent pass­ing, once or twice, of a veiled fig­ure through the clois­ters, who, see­ing the Rev­erend Moth­er seat­ed be­neath the beech, did rev­er­ence and has­tened on, look­ing not again.

When the gar­ru­lous old voice at last fell silent, the Pri­oress, with kind hand, cov­ered the rest­less fin­gers--clasp­ing and un­clasp­ing in anx­ious con­tor­tions--and firm­ly held them in fold­ed still­ness.

Her first words were of a thing as yet un­men­tioned.

“Dear Antony,” she said, “is that thy posy ly­ing at our feet?”

“Ah, Rev­erend Moth­er,” sighed the old lay-​sis­ter, "in this did I again do wrong mean­ing to do right. Sis­ter Mary Au­gus­tine, com­ing in­to the kitchens with leave, from Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, to make the pasties, and de­sir­ing to be free to make them heavy--un­ham­pered by my ad­vice which, of a sure­ty, would have helped them to light­ness--bade me go out and weed the gar­den.

“Weed­ing, I bethought me how much liefer I would be gath­er­ing a posy of choic­est flow­ers for our sweet La­dy's shrine; and, thus think­ing, I be­gan to do, not ac­cord­ing to Sis­ter Mary Au­gus­tine's hard task, but ac­cord­ing to mine own heart's prompt­ings. Yet, when the posy was fin­ished, alack-​a-​day! it was a posy of weeds!”

Tears filled the eyes of the Pri­oress; at first she could not trust her voice to make re­ply.

Then, stoop­ing she picked up the nosegay.

“Our La­dy shall have it,” she said. "I will place it be­fore her shrine, in mine own cell. She will un­der­stand--know­ing how of­ten, though the hands per­force do weed­ing, yet, all the time, the heart is gath­er­ing choic­est flow­ers.

“Aye, and some­times when we bring to God of­fer­ings of fairest flow­ers, He sees but worth­less weeds. And, when we mourn, be­cause we have but weeds to of­fer, He sees them fra­grant blos­soms. What­ev­er, to the eye of man, the hand may hold, God sees there­in the bou­quet of the heart's in­ten­tion.”

The Pri­oress paused, a look of great glad­ness on her face; then, as she saw the old lay-​sis­ter still eye­ing her posy with dis­sat­is­fac­tion: “And, af­ter all, dear Antony,” she said, "who shall de­cide which flow­ers shall be dubbed 'weeds'? No plant of His cre­ation, how­ev­er hum­ble, was called a 'weed' by the Cre­ator. When, for man's sin, He cursed the ground, He said: 'Thorns al­so and this­tles shall it cause to bud.' Well? Sharpest thorns are found around the rose; the this­tle is the roy­al bloom of Scot­land; and, if our old white ass could speak her mind, doubt­less she would call it King of Flow­ers.

"Nowhere in Holy Books, is any plant named a 'weed.' It is left to man to pro­claim that the flow­ers he wants not, are weeds.

"Look at each one of these. Could you or I, labour­ing for years, with all our skill, make any­thing so per­fect as the mean­est of these weeds?

"Nay; they are weeds, be­cause they grow, there where they should not be. The gor­geous scar­let pop­py is a weed amid the corn. If ros­es over­grew the wheat, we should dub them weeds, and root them out.

"And some of us have had, per­force, so to deal with the ros­es in our lives; those sweet and fra­grant things which over­grew our of­fer­ing of the wheat of ser­vice, our sac­ri­fice of praise and prayer.

“Per­haps, when our weeds are all torn out, and cast in a tan­gled heap be­fore His Feet, our Lord be­holds in them a gar­land of choice blos­soms. The crown of thorns on earth, may prove, in Par­adise, a di­adem of flow­ers.”

The Pri­oress laid the posy on the seat be­side her.

"Now, Antony, about thy games with peas. There is no wrong in keep­ing count with peas of those who dai­ly walk to and from Ves­pers; though, I ad­mit, it seems to me, it were eas­ier to count one, two, three, with fold­ed hands, than to let fall the peas from one hand to the oth­er, be­neath thy scapu­lary. How­beit, a method which would be but a pit­fall to one, may prove a prop to an­oth­er. So I give thee leave to con­tin­ue to count with thy peas. Al­so the games in thy cell are harm­less, and lead me to think, as al­ready I have some­times thought, that games with balls or rings, some­thing in which eye guides the hand, and mind the eye, might be help­ful for all, on sum­mer evenings.

“But I can­not have thee take up­on thy­self to de­cide the fu­ture state of the White Ladies. Who art thou, to send me to Par­adise with a fil­lip of thine old fin­ger-​nail, yet to keep our ex­cel­lent Sub-​Pri­oress in Pur­ga­to­ry? Shame up­on thee, Mary Antony!” But the stern­ness of the Rev­erend Moth­er's tone was be­lied by the mer­ri­ment in her grey eyes.

“So no more of that, my Antony; though, truth to tell, thy sto­ry gives me re­lief, an­swer­ing a ques­tion I was mean­ing to put to thee. I heard, not an hour ago, that Sis­ter Antony had boast­ed that with a turn of her thumb and fin­ger she could, any night, send Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress to Pur­ga­to­ry.”

“Who said that of me?” stut­tered Mary Antony. “Who said it, Rev­erend Moth­er?”

“A lit­tle bird,” mur­mured the Pri­oress. “A lit­tle bird, dear Antony; but not thy pret­ty robin. Al­so, the boast was tak­en to mean poi­son in the broth of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress. Hast thou ev­er put harm­ful things in the broth of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress?”

Mary Antony slipped to her knees.

“On­ly beans, Rev­erend Moth­er, cas­tor beans; and, when her tem­per was vilest, purg­ing herbs. Noth­ing more, I swear it! Old Antony knows naught of poi­sons; on­ly of mix­ing bal­sams--ah, ha!--and sooth­ing oint­ments! Our blessèd La­dy knows the tale is false.”

Hasti­ly the Pri­oress lift­ed the nosegay and buried her face in bindweed and dan­de­lions.

“I be­lieve thee,” she said, in a voice not over steady. “Rise from thy knees. But, re­mem­ber, I for­bid thee to put aught in­to Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress's broth, save things that soothe and com­fort. Give me thy word for this, Antony.”

The old wom­an humbly lift­ed the hem of the Pri­oress's robe, and pressed it to her lips.

“I promise, Rev­erend Moth­er,” she said, “and I do re­pent me of my sin.”

“Sit be­side me,” com­mand­ed the Pri­oress. “I have more to say to thee. . . . Think not hard thoughts of the Sub-​Pri­oress. She is stern, and ex­treme to mark what is done amiss, but this she con­ceives to be her du­ty. She is a most pi­ous La­dy. Her zeal is but a sign of her piety.”

Mary Antony's keen eyes, meet­ing those of the Pri­oress, twin­kled.

Once again the Pri­oress took refuge in the posy. She was be­gin­ning to have had enough of the scent of dan­de­lions.

“Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress is sick,” she said. "The cold struck her last evening, af­ter sun­set, in the or­chard. I have bid­den her to keep her bed awhile. We must tend her kind­ly, Antony, and help her back to health again.

"Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca is al­so sick, with pains in her bones and slight fever. She too keeps her bed to-​day. Strive to feel kind­ly to­ward her, Antony. I know she oft thinks evil where none was meant, telling tales of wrong which are most­ly of her own imag­in­ing. But, in so do­ing, she harms her­self more than she can harm oth­ers.

"By stir­ring up the mud in a dark pool, you dim the re­flec­tion of the star which, be­fore, shone bright with­in it. But you do not dim the star, shin­ing on high.

"So is it with the slan­der­ous thoughts of evil minds. They stir up their own murk­iness; but they fail to dim the stars.

“We must bear with Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca.”

“Go not nigh them, Rev­erend Moth­er,” begged old Antony. “I will tend them with due care and pa­tience. These pains in bones, and gen­er­al shiv­er­ings, are giv­en quick­ly from one to an­oth­er. I pray you, go not near. Re­mem­ber--_you_ were tak­en--alas! alas!--and _they_ were left!”

At this the Pri­oress laughed, gai­ly.

“But I was not tak­en de­cent­ly, with pains in my bones and a-​bed, dear Antony. I was car­ried off by a bold, bad man--thy Knight of the Bloody Vest.”

“Oh, pray!” cried the old lay-​sis­ter. “I fear me it is an omen. The an­gel Gabriel, Rev­erend Moth­er, sent to bear you from earth to heav­en. 'The one shall be tak­en, and the oth­er left.' Ah, if he had but flown off with Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress!”

The Pri­oress laughed again. "Dear Antony, thy lit­tle bird took the first pea he saw. Had there but been a crumb, or a morsel of cheese, he would have left thee thy white pea. . . Hark how he sings his lit­tle song of praise! . . . Is it not won­der­ful to call to mind how, cen­turies ago, when white-​robed Druids cut mistle­toe from British oaks, the robin red­breast hopped around, and sang; when, ear­li­er still, men were wild and sav­age, dwelling in holes and caves and huts of mud, when church­es and clois­ters were un­known in this land and the one true God un­dreamed of, robins mat­ed and made their nests, the speck­led thrush­es sang, 'Do it now--Do it now,' as they sought food for their young, the black­birds whis­tled, and the swal­lows flashed by on joy­ous wing. Aye, and when Eve and Adam walked in Eden, amid strange beasts and gai­ly plumaged birds, here--in these Isles--the robin red­breast sang, and all our British birds busi­ly built their nests and reared their young; liv­ing their lit­tle joy­ous lives, as He Who made them taught them how to do.

"And, in the cen­turies to come, when all things may be changed in this our land, when we shall long have gone to dust, when our loved clois­ters may have crum­bled in­to ru­in; still the hills of Malvern will stand, and the sil­very Sev­ern flow along the val­ley; while here, in this very gar­den--if it be a gar­den still--the robin will build his nest, and car­ol his hap­py song.

“Mark you this, dear Mary Antony: all things made by man hold with­in them the el­ements of change and of de­cay. But na­ture is at one with God, and there­fore im­mutable. Earth­ly king­doms may rise and wane; mighty cities may spring up, then fall in­to ru­in. Na­tions may con­quer and, in their turn, be con­quered. Man may slay man and, in his turn, be slain. But, through it all, the moun­tains stand, the rivers flow, the forests wave, and the red­breast builds his nest in the hawthorn, and war­bles a love-​song to his mate.”

The Pri­oress rose and stretched wide her arms to the sun­lit gar­den, to the bough where the robin sang.

“Oh, to be one with God and with Na­ture!” she cried. “Oh, to know the es­sen­tial mys­ter­ies of Life and Light and Love! This is Life Eter­nal!”

She had for­got­ten the old lay-​sis­ter; aye, for the mo­ment she had for­got­ten the Con­vent and the clois­ter, the mile-​long walk in dark­ness, the chant of the un­seen monks. She trod again the springy heather of her youth; she heard the rush of the moun­tain stream; the sigh of the great for­est; the rus­tle of the sun­lit glades, alive with, life. These all were in the robin's song. Then----

With­in the Con­vent, the Re­fec­to­ry bell clanged loud­ly.

The Pri­oress let fall her arms.

She picked up the nosegay of weeds.

“Come, Antony,” she said, “let us go and dis­cov­er whether Sis­ter Mary Au­gus­tine hath con­trived to make the pasties light and savoury, even with­out the aid of the ad­vice she might have had from thee.”

Old Mary Antony, glee­ful and mar­vel­ling, fol­lowed the state­ly fig­ure of the Pri­oress. Nev­er was shriv­en soul more bliss­ful­ly at peace. She had kept back noth­ing; yet the Rev­erend Moth­er had im­posed no pun­ish­ment, had mere­ly asked a promise which, in the ful­ness of her grat­itude, Mary Antony had found it easy to give.

Tru­ly the broth of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress should, for the fu­ture, con­tain naught but what was grate­ful and sooth­ing.

But, as she en­tered the Re­fec­to­ry be­hind the Rev­erend Moth­er and saw all the wait­ing nuns arise, old Mary Antony laid her fin­ger to her nose.

“That 'lit­tle bird' shall have the cas­tor beans,” she said, “That 'lit­tle bird' shall have them. Not my pret­ty robin, but the oth­er!”

And, sad to say, poor Sis­ter Seraphine was sore­ly griped that night, and suf­fered many pangs.