The Fool (Bailey)/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX
WHEN FRIENDS FALL OUT
ON the King's right hand was an empty place and all the court was aware of it. Away down the table two of his knights, Reginald Fitzurse and Hugh de Morville, winked and whispered: "He means mischief. He is eating like a bird." The King would bend over his food, munching quickly for a moment, then sit up and stare all about.
From his left hand spoke the justiciar Richard de Lucy: "We shall not see him this day, sir. My Lord Archbishop holds his own court."
The King scowled. His steward made to take away the unused platter and cup. "Let be," said the King with an oath. "Here is the man for the place." And from the stool behind him he haled up his fool Bran and inducted motley and bauble into the Archbishop's chair. "Now give us your blessing, my lord Bran," he laughed.
Some laughed with him, some looked awry. "Nenny, nenny," said Bran, and rolled his eyes. "Too bad for blessing are you, my brother, too good for a curse. When the fire smokes, you seek the smother, brave the bad in the worse."
"Go to school with the fool," the King laughed again. "Oh, read me my lesson, good my lord."
"You mock poor Bran," and he wept grotesquely and made a farce of sobbing and eating. It went not ill and the King was merry awhile. But he did not linger at table and when he was gone, men gathered in little voluble companies. The Archbishop would not be the King's guest, the King set his fool in the Archbishop's place, flagrant things, things to make a court babble of the world's end.
And Bran, the fool, stole away to the Archbishop's palace. There was such a throng at the gate that he could not in a long while and with much labour draw near, a ragged, unsavoury crowd, jostling and quarrelsome, beggars all, the halt, the maimed and the blind and in great abundance the imitators thereof. So Bran was rebuked for his coming and though he had hidden his motley under a cloak of frieze his neighbours swore that he was no true beggar and cursed him and bade him begone.
"Na, na, brother, I rob no man of his alms. Not for my body but my soul am I come."
They jeered then and bade him keep his tricks for those who were not in the trade.
"A beggar begs not of beggars? Shy men are you. A priest prays among priests. And a dog barks at a dog. Fie, brother, never be ashamed of your trade. A great trade. Never I knew there were so many beggars in the land."
Then the gates were opened and small coin and broken meats were thrown far and wide and monks stood and called to whomsoever they descried most wretched till they had picked out thirteen in all and these thirteen were admitted and the gates shut. The crowd scrambled and fought for what had been thrown and melted away. So at last Bran came to the palace and he knocked and the porter looked at him through the grating and bade him begone for the day's alms were spent.
"No alms I seek, brother, but my soul's ease. A traveller of the world, I, and sick at heart and I come to my lord to be cured of my sickness." The porter closed the grating, but in a while a monk came.
"What is your errand, my son?" and shrewd eyes studied him.
"God be with you, father, mine own heart is my errand. I must lay it before my lord or no peace have I."
"Come in peace," the monk said, and opened the gate.
Bran was brought into the hall where the tables were spread for supper with gold plate and silver and rich fare. But other splendour was none. The thirteen beggars in a row on their bench were not more sombre than the Archbishop and his household. In a monk's black gown, barefooted, the Archbishop came down the hall; most of those about him were monks and the others by their dress poor clerks. The Archbishop knelt and water was brought him in silver basin and ewer and he washed the feet of his thirteen beggars and dried them on lawn. Then, the more majestic for it, he swept to the high table and his chaplains chanted grace.
"Sit down and eat, my son," the monk laid his hand on Bran.
"Nenny, nenny, I think I have left my body behind," said Bran, "out in the wicked world. Here be too many saints for poor me," but down he sat and was fed sumptuously, while above him and about him the sombre company talked theology and canon law in Latin. When it was done, and the Archbishop sat long, "Stand in his way, my son," the monk said, "he marks all men."
"Yea, yea, me he will mark," Bran said, and as the Archbishop came down the hall he fell on his knees and "Speak with the poor fool," he droned and looked up with a sheepish pathetic grin on his big face.
Becket's eyes gleamed. Becket raised a hand and blessed him. "Follow you me," he said, and swept on, and Bran shambled after, all men giving him place.
Into a room small and bare as a monk's cell he came. Becket sat down on the stone bench. "What is the fool's errand?" he said coldly.
"Nenny, nenny, I am not sent. Here is but poor Bran. And whom hath he found, lord Thomas?"
"A man of God."
"Then he hath found good company."
"And the head of God's Church in this land."
"Pity poor Bran, brother. Once you called him friend."
"I am the friend of all poor men. And of all good men the servant. May I serve you, Bran?"
"I am a sad man this day, lord."
"Sorrow told is sorrow halved," said Becket gently. "Speak your heart, brother."
"You are a great man and wise and a fool am I. Be gentle, lord."
Becket smiled. "I remember you would call me a hard man in the old days. While I lived in the world I was as the world. I am a priest of God. I will be hard to none but God's enemies, brother Bran."
"Oh Thomas my lord, it is a wide world and there be evil men enough. Pray you peace in it for men of good will."
"My heart is eager."
"Once I knew two men and they loved well and each served other and poor folk had comfort of them. But either was strong and proud and so it fell they forgot their love and service and each strives against other and by their strife the land is torn."
Becket's haggard face flushed. "You would not so school the King."
"Oh, Thomas, when did I fear the face of man?"
"Well said. Forgive me that. I am humbled. But oh, Bran, Bran, it is to the King you must speak."
Bran smiled. "Thomas my brother, of two in a quarrel, was there ever a man who would not bid you school the other? Nay, you know him well. You loved him once"
"And still would love him. He is my King and my true friend he was and out of nothing he made me."
"Sooth, sooth. But you know him. He is a hot man and quick to anger and when his rage is upon him he does wildly. And you—do you know yourself as well, Thomas, my lord?"
"Ay, a hard man am I," Becket smiled. "You have said it. But I pray you what have I done that the King should be fierce against me?"
"There was a great lord of old which made a feast and bade his friends sit down with him, but they came not, and when they came not, he went out and gathered rogues and masterless men to be his company. So will it fall if you stand off from the King."
"I am driven away, brother. He denies me my pleas. He makes my enemies great. I dare not go where there is no honour for me."
"Yet you have loved him and he loved you," Bran said. "Oh, brother, brother, that endures. Nay, but honour is service. A strong man are you and serve men well. A strong man is he and would serve his folk. But if you stand each against other, God have mercy on this England."
"God will have mercy upon his own." Becket stood up. "I have served the King in true faith and love and will serve. But I serve God also. I will render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's, but unto God the things that are God's. I will yield all to the King, saving the rights of Holy Church. I have said, brother. Go in peace."
"The Church was given to heal men's pain, to give men justice the King doth reign, if Church and King shall break the peace, either and other must wane and cease. God have mercy, brother, good night."
He went his way through the night and when he came to the King talked to him of old days. And the King was ready for it in a mood of gentleness rare with him. He too had his memories and Becket loomed large in them, Becket who was good fellow and bold horseman, Becket who was loyal counsellor and true friend, a man's other self. "God's my life, what have I done to change him? I have not changed to him. Oh, brother Bran, give me back past years."
"Keep the heart of your youth, brother," Bran said, and went not unhappily to bed.
In the morning the King rode out to hunt in the Bishop of London's chase at Highgate and when he came to dine at the Bishop's house there a woman sat by the gate who cried out, "Justice, my lord, justice in the name of God!"
The Bishop turned and rated his men and bade drive her off. But the King held up his hand. "What ill hath she done, Gilbert?"
"Nay, my lord, I know her not, not I. But I would not have rogues weary you."
"I had a man once would not have harried them that ask me justice," the King said, and Gilbert Foliot looked down, for he hated Becket.
"Draw near, good wife." The King sat himself down on the door step. "Tell your tale."
She was young still and had been comely. She was worn and a fierce yearning in her eyes. "I ask justice, my lord, justice for my man."
"Where is your man that he asks not for himself?"
"He is dead."
"Peace be with him. And to you peace, good wife."
"There is no peace," she cried. "He is dead, murdered. And the man which slew him walks scatheless. His blood cries out to me."
"Let me hear it," the King said.
"We be of Elstow under Bedford. Gytha am I and Edgar was my man, a wright. There is a man Philip de Broc hath land there and this Philip would look on me. For men say that I was fair once. And Philip de Broc, who is an evil man and a man without shame, came into the house and would have forced me. Then I cried out and Edgar came to me and this Philip smote him down with a knife that he had and presently he died and Philip de Broc went his way and he lives and makes merry. And my man is slain in our youth. And I—I live yet. Justice, my lord, justice."
"A dark tale," the King bent his brows, "who else has heard it, Gytha?"
She stared at him. "Who has not heard it?" she cried, "All know it."
"All know it and naught is done? God's my life, where is my Sheriff's work? Hark you, Gytha, how long since your man was slain?"
"A month and a month and three weeks more."
"Month on month and naught is done. Have you seen no Sheriff in Elstow?"
She laughed. "He has come and again he has come. He has heard me and he bids me be of good cheer for ill cannot be mended," she flung out her hands. "Philip de Broc is too great for him. Justice, my lord, justice for my man."
The King started up. "Who is he, in the fiend's name, who is your Philip de Broc? And who is my Sheriff in Bedfordshire? Aye, it is old Hugh de Leya and a wise man he was wont to be." He bit his nails and after a moment turned on the Bishop. "Lend me a good horse and man, Gilbert. Hugh de Leya must hear of me. And I give you the woman to care for. Courage, Gytha, courage now. Justice you shall have and justice I will do."
"There speaks the King," the Bishop bowed and smiled.
Men rode hard on this King's errands. Before dark of the next day Hugh de Leya stood before him in his palace of Westminster, a grey man and fat with his age and breathing heavily but sharp of eye. "So you live yet, Master Hugh?" the King said.
"Who wishes me dead, my lord?"
"By my soul, if a Sheriff does his work there should be many wish him dead. And dead I feared you by the tales which come to me from your shire."
"Who bears tales against me, my lord?"
"None. You are for naught in the tale. That is what you shall answer. Here is a woman of Elstow, Gytha to name, which says her man was slain by one who would have forced her and he who slew, Philip de Broc, goes free and master Sheriff bids her take heart for ill cannot be mended."
"Poor wretch," said the Sheriff calmly. "There is here more ill than you know, my lord."
"Aye, aye? A dark tale it is and hath covert enough for lying. Come then, we will have her in, and you shall front her. The truth must out."
"The truth is out, my lord, but not all the truth. I will not stand against the woman. I believe on my soul the thing was done as she tells it. She has a clean name and I see no evil in her, and this Philip de Broc is a wild fellow."
"God's my life, gentle words! He sought to ravish and did murder. And the wild fellow goes free. A stout Sheriff are you."
"I do as I can, my lord. I choose my words to match my deeds. And I cannot touch him. A blithe day it were to me that I had the hanging of Philip de Broc. But I have called him into my court and he answers me he has benefit of clergy and it is true."
"What, is the knave a priest?"
"Not he. No outlaw lives more wickedly. But he has minor orders, he is a clerk, and he is beyond my arm." The King glowered at him, muttering oaths. "You know it, my lord."
"I know it!" the King cried. "God's body, God's body, shall every rogue that was bred in a churchman's house harry my folk and mock at my law?"
"No clerk stands his trial," the Sheriff shrugged. "It is so and so it has been all my days."
"God's my life, so it shall be no more," the King cried. "Hark you, master Hugh, go down into your shire and bring me this rogue. By holy rood and holy thorn he shall learn that the King reigns."
So Hugh de Leya went back into Bedfordshire with a warrant under the King's own hand. But on the fourth day he came again alone, an anxious man. For Philip de Broc, when he was told that the King summoned him to Westminster and shown the warrant—it was all he had of the clerk, that he could read—went into his house to make ready and went out again secretly and fled and the Sheriff in a while pursuing him had word of him upon the London road, and following hard ran him to ground in the Archbishop's palace. There when the Sheriff demanded his body it was answered that Philip de Broc by right of clergy placed himself under ward of the Archbishop and this the Sheriff took in writing and brought it to the King.
Then the storm broke. "By the bones of God, are there two Kings in my realm?" the King roared, and rent his gown from throat to hem and beat upon the table till his hands bled and drove all men out from him, and shut himself up with his rage.
When Bran stole in upon him in the twilight he was on his knees. "Is it you, brother?" he said quietly enough. "Well met! I and my fool and God," and he put his arm round Bran and drew him down beside him. "The trumpets sound, brother. We must run our course now. God defend the right."
"If God be with us who shall be against us?" Bran said. "Who is against us, brother?"
"You know him who knew him well. Pride is his master. He would be above the King and above the law, he and his. God forgive me who raised him out of the dust."
"Proud he is, but right he would do if he sees aright, brother."
"By what he does he is judged. God shall judge me by what I do. I have my task, brother. No man shall work men wrong and go free because on a day a priest touched him. The law is over all or no King am I." He smiled. "The trumpets sound, brother Bran."
"Hear him, brother. You loved him well and{bar|2}}"
"Bran, Bran, I have torn my own heart for him. No more of that. You cry peace where there is no peace. Aye, but I will hear him. Even now—even now{bar|2}}" he bowed his head on his hands.