L I E) I^ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLR5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 B73he
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY; 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 LONDON ; 
 PRINTED EY sAMVEL BENTLEY, 
 
 Bangor House, Shoe Lane.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY; 
 
 \ 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE EVE OE ST. JOHN. 
 
 A LEGEND OF CORNWALL AND DEVON. 
 BY MRS. BRAY. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 '^TRELAWNY," "TRIALS OF THE HEART," 
 
 "THE WHITE HOODS," " DE FOIX," " BORDERS OF 
 
 THE TAMAR AND TAVY," ETC. 
 
 Can such things be 
 And overcome us like a summer's cloud, 
 Without our special wonder ? 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1842.
 
 9 
 
 8£3 
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 Though shiggards deem it but a foolish chase. 
 And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
 
 The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
 O ! there is sweetness in the mountain air. 
 And life that bloated ease can never hope to share. 
 Byron's Childe Harold. 
 
 , I HAD long entertained the wish to visit that 
 
 ^ part of Devon known by the name of the South 
 
 Hams, but not so designated, I presume, as an 
 
 ingenious historian once conjectured, in honour 
 
 of Ammon, who, he states, was worshipped by 
 
 ,; the Druid priesthood on the southern coast of 
 
 t that county ; for as the word Ham was anciently 
 
 ^^ applied to a low pasture ground, situated near 
 
 ■'^^^ river or the sea, this circumstance alone seems 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 i
 
 2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to point out the source whence the Hams derived 
 their name, as the cattle ground of Devon. 
 
 But I will no longer detain my reader re- 
 specting the disputed etymology of one of the 
 most lovely portions of our county ; suffice it 
 to say, that my wish to visit these far-famed 
 valleys was, at length, kindly indulged by my 
 partner, not only through this journey, but that 
 of life also; and, in the summer of 1888, we 
 commenced that memorable expedition, replete 
 with consequences of so much import to our- 
 selves, and, I trust, to you, my gentle reader, 
 in your progress through the work, more espe- 
 cially should you find in it wherewithal to amuse 
 an idle hour, or to afford you any useful informa- 
 tion. And I would strongly advise you to bear 
 in mind the maxim of a very great author, who 
 was also a very good man, as it will be profitable 
 to us both ; namely, '' Not to fall into the bad 
 habit of reading too critically,'"' by which he 
 means ill-humouredly, caustically, sourly ; but 
 rather to recollect that an author's book is.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 3 
 
 generally speaking, like the author himself, a 
 compound, not all good, nor yet all bad : — 
 
 " Our virtues would be proud if our vices wliipt tliem not, 
 And our vices would despair, if they were not cherished 
 by our virtues." 
 
 Remember, reader, how much of time and 
 thought goes to the composition of a book, (if 
 it be at all worth the perusal,) through which 
 you glide onward in a few hours with so much 
 ease. Think of the days, weeks, and months 
 of study that an author, at least in many in- 
 stances, must undergo, merely to prepare his 
 own mind for a subject that is to instruct or 
 delight thine. Think of his health, his temper, 
 his feelings, his anxiety, the trials he must en- 
 dure, the wear and tear of these things, in the 
 progress of writing, printing, and publishing. 
 And then think how liable he is to be mistaken 
 by others, or to be misrepresented by those who 
 are his enemies, to be censured by the ill-na- 
 tured, and hated by the envious, who are not 
 the least bitter of his foes. Think, too, of his 
 
 B 2
 
 4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 labour ; that tlie spirit of his subject, like other 
 spirits, will sometimes be elusive as well as de- 
 lusive ; and that, like the devil and Owen Glen- 
 dower, he will not always " come when you do 
 call for him."" 
 
 Take, therefore, whatever thou canst find good 
 in an author, and lay it to thy heart, and esteem 
 him and thyself the better for having good 
 thouo^hts and feelino^s in common. And what 
 thou likest not, or what liketh not thee, give 
 it, at least, so much of thy charity as to think, 
 hadst thou been in the writer''s place, thou 
 mightest not have done better, and such thoughts 
 as these shall never harm thee. And when, also, 
 the author's labour is considered, recollect the 
 exclamation of good old Bishop Hall, who lived 
 in the times of King James the First, when he 
 thus comments on one of the vanities of this 
 world in the pains of composition : — " What 
 scratching of heads do we find in the closets 
 of our scholars." Think, therefore, gentle reader, 
 of the difficulties of authorship with some com-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 miseration, and make a large allowance for faults, 
 wherever you find something of nature, for that 
 is the salt of a book whatever be its subject, 
 and that ought to cover a multitude of sins, 
 though not if they be sins that militate either 
 against morals or religion. For in thy most 
 critical mood, my reader, ever bear in mind that 
 the priest and the barber, in the expurgation 
 of Don Quixote's library, would not suffer the 
 housekeeper and niece to send flying out of the 
 window, as an accumulation to the pile of con- 
 demned books, Tirante the White, simply be- 
 cause there was in it so much of nature that 
 the knights ate, drank, slept, made their wills, 
 and died in their beds like other people, " with 
 several other things," said the priest, " not to be 
 found in other books of the kind, and, therefore, 
 do we spare him." And if, my reader, you 
 should now and then find a passage too grave, 
 or too copious, take as thy remedy the maxim 
 of the very judicious Spanish critic just quoted, 
 that " There cannot be too much of what is reallv
 
 6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 gooi;"" and, be it also recollected, that, though 
 a writer may fail to teach patience in the argu- 
 ment of his book, it is well if he does so by his 
 own example, to bear all that may await him, 
 for good or evil, with an equal mind ; and those 
 who gain the admirable virtue of a practical 
 patience, acquire that which will make any bur- 
 then light in their progress through the world. 
 To sum up all, let me recommend to you, my 
 gentle reader, to select, not only from these 
 pages, but from whatever you may read, the 
 passages or morsels most healthful in themselves 
 and most suited to your taste, and leave the 
 rest for those who are indifferent about the 
 matter. 
 
 But, no longer to digress, I shall commence 
 at once with noticing that part of our journey 
 which gave rise to the following work, our visit 
 to the very ancient and very interesting ruins 
 of the Castle of Berry Pomeroy, near Totness, 
 in Devonshire. 
 
 My companion had visited it many years be-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 fore, but now scarcely recognized it again ; so 
 much was it altered by the course of time. To 
 me it was all new ground ; and my impressions, 
 therefore, were perhaps more lively than his on 
 the present occasion. I do not wonder that he 
 found some difficulty in recognizing an old ac- 
 quaintance here, for the very gateway of the 
 castle was so hidden by trees, and so overgrown 
 with ivy, that, on a first approach, it is no easy 
 matter to make out what it is. 
 
 We had left the carriage in which we drove to 
 the spot; and a nice little girl, who told us 
 she was ten years old, had accompanied us from 
 a cottage near the entrance of the wood, with the 
 keys of the castle ; and under her guidance, we 
 were now to proceed to the inspection of the 
 ruins. 
 
 Passing under the gateway, we ascended to 
 what is generally called the chapel ; but which 
 was evidently the guard- room, above the en- 
 trance, as the opening for the fall of the port- 
 cullis still remains in the walls. Here are three
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 arches supported on rough columns, of a very an- 
 cient appearance. The flanking towers of the 
 gateway lead to the ramparts ; and all this part 
 of the building, I am convinced, is of high an- 
 tiquity : most likely the work of that De Pome- 
 roy on whom the manor was bestowed by Wil- 
 liam the Conqueror, and who was the original 
 founder of this once stupendous castle. 
 
 The most striking parts of the edifice, those 
 situated within the interior court, are, as may be 
 seen at a glance, of the Tudor age. The door- 
 ways of the roofless apartments, the mullions of 
 the square-headed windows, kc. are all of the 
 period of Henry the Seventh. Nor does this 
 fact at all invalidate the account given by Prince, 
 in the "Worthies of Devon," when he mentions 
 that a Seymour, at a subsequent period, laid out 
 twenty thousand pounds on this part of the build- 
 ing. Such a sum might easily, even in his days, 
 be expended, on improvements and repairs ; and 
 Prince states that this large expenditure was 
 principally devoted to the costly decorations of 
 the interior.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 When Henry the Seventh ascended the throne, 
 he took the Castle of Berry Pomeroy from the 
 Baron La Zouch, on account of his havinir es- 
 poiised the cause of Richard the Third, and be- 
 stowed it on that celebrated knight, Sir Piers 
 Edgcumbe, who had rendered him such essential 
 services, when he was Earl of Richmond, and 
 only a pretender to the crown. Every part of 
 the kingdom was so drained by the wars of the 
 red and white roses, that the monasteries and 
 churches were almost totally neglected, and many 
 of the castles nearly ruined for want of repair 
 after the dilapidations they had undergone in 
 these long protracted contests, so detrimental to 
 the welfare of the kingdom at large. 
 
 Peace once more restored by the union of the 
 roses, the princes, barons, and knights had lei- 
 sure to repair, rebuild, and adorn the ecclesi- 
 astical and civil edifices of every description. 
 That they did so in the west is most conspicu- 
 ous, as there is scarcely a church or ancient 
 mansion in that part of England, but it bears
 
 10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 evidence of having undergone some repairs or 
 additions about the time of Henry the Seventh. 
 
 That the gateway and the most ancient por- 
 tions of Berry Pomeroy are of Norman con- 
 struction, I do not doubt. That something was 
 added to the original castle by the celebrated 
 Sir Henry de Pomeroy, who figured in the reign 
 of Richard the First, is very likely ; and that 
 La Zouch also repaired and made additions to it 
 is more than probable; but that the whole of the 
 interior building, the palace, (for so it might be 
 called,) was the work of Sir Piers Edgcumbe, 
 admits, I think, of no question, as it has none of 
 that florid decoration, none of that mixture of the 
 Grecian with the Gothic, which we may see in 
 similar works of the time of Henry the Eighth, 
 and still more so in the heavy and ungraceful 
 architecture of the reign of Elizabeth. 
 
 After a careful survey of the whole, we could 
 not help saying that Berry Pomeroy would be a 
 most interesting ruin, if it were not so encum- 
 bered with brambles and trees, that in many places
 
 INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 you can see nothing else. That portion of the 
 castle which is stationed on the esplanade above a 
 rocky precipice, at the back of the building, is so 
 completely surrounded by trees that you are 
 scarcely conscious you are near a precipice, till 
 on its very verge. Indeed at this spot, only 
 heaps of rubbish indicate the foundations of ex- 
 terior walls, long since fallen into ruin, and the 
 castle is so much injured and dilapidated along 
 the whole range of the esplanade, that only 
 fragments of four lofty towers remain. Here, 
 therefore, the ruin is most complete. 
 
 On our coming to this place, our little fairy- 
 footed guide took us to the very verge of the 
 precipice, and said — but I must not say what 
 she said as it would be anticipating: suffice it 
 then to mention that on the very spot where 
 such extraordinary circumstances are said to have 
 occurred, the little creature related to us the 
 romantic tradition respecting that Sir Henry 
 de Pomeroy who flourished in the reign of Rich- 
 ard the First, and to whom I have already
 
 12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 alluded as one of the lords of Berry Pomeroy 
 Castle. This tale of " old tradition;' I had 
 before heard ; but there was a double interest 
 in listening to it under the shadow of these 
 ancient walls. 
 
 The same intelligent little person added, 
 " and this is the place also where the castle 
 was taken in the time of Charles the First. 
 They took it by guns ; great guns planted on 
 yonder hill," pointing, as she spoke, to a lofty 
 height that was opposite to the eminence on 
 which we stood. The story of the castle 
 having been stormed on this side with artillery, 
 sufficiently accounts for its being more battered 
 than in any other part of the building. Some 
 persons have, I know, doubted the fact of the 
 siege during the civil wars ; but so many cir- 
 cumstances exist to render it more than probable, 
 that I entertain no doubt whatever of the truth. 
 Whilst we were viewing the ruins, the child's 
 mother arrived, and expressing a fear that her 
 daughter had not been able to give us such
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 information as miglit be required, she confirmed 
 the little girPs story about the De Pomeroy 
 in the time of Richard the First, and that con- 
 cerning the battering of the castle by a canonnade 
 in the days of the great rebellion. 
 
 The castle, as I have noticed, was evidently 
 built at different periods, and should it continue 
 a few years longer, the confusion to the tyro 
 antiquary will be greater than it is already; as, 
 for the purpose of strengthening the building, 
 and also, for securing it against the inspection 
 of gratuitous visiters, walls with rude emattle- 
 ments have recently been built from one part 
 of the structure to another, giving it a patchwork 
 appearance, very incompatible with picturesque 
 beauty. 
 
 Being desirous of seeing the ruins if pos- 
 sible from below, we inquired if there was any 
 path that would lead us thither. On informing 
 us there was, the good woman put us again 
 under the guidance of the little girl ; who now 
 took us to see a large beech-tree which, she
 
 14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 said, was considered to be as old as the castle. 
 The tree is certainly of a very extraordinary 
 size, but by no means of such great antiquity. 
 Its lowest branches were at no mean height, 
 and yet persons must have given themselves 
 some trouble to climb it, as above them we saw 
 several names cut in the bark. A single beech- 
 tree, perhaps, may not produce the effect, but 
 from what I have observed at Mount Edgcumbe, 
 and at Spitchwick, where there are several beeches 
 together, no grass will grow under them ; this, 
 I believe, is owing to the fall of the leaves, 
 which have something in them unfavourable to 
 vegetation. 
 
 By a winding path through the wood, we 
 descended the hill, at the foot of which runs 
 a little brook : this, collected into a pond, 
 turns a mill that, no doubt, belonged to the 
 castle; as (after scrambling up the opposite bank, 
 whence we had a somewhat less obstructed view 
 of the ruins,) when we reached the summit, we 
 found the mill was built with some share of
 
 INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 ancient architectural ornament. Soon after see- 
 ing tliis, we bade adieu to Berry Pomeroy. 
 
 I must not here omit to mention that on 
 the day after, when we were about half a mile 
 on our road to Torquay, we once more met 
 our little guide. We were much pleased to 
 see her again, as I had regretted I had not asked 
 her name. This I now did ; and the answer was 
 Mary Chaff. Not exactly catching the last 
 word, I asked her to spell her name ; and with 
 all the naivete of childhood, she began with 
 the beginning and spelt every letter of Mary Chaff 
 with the utmost deliberation. With a laugh, 
 and an additional present, we then took our leave 
 of her, as she stood making her little courtesies 
 as long as we were in sight. 
 
 As we drove on we took a last look at the 
 distant towers of Berry Pomeroy Castle, our 
 minds filled with the recollection of the impressive 
 events there said to have occurred in the romantic 
 age of Richard of the Lion Heart, that most 
 gallant and crusading king.
 
 IG INTRODUCTION. 
 
 But these circumstances respecting Sir Henry 
 de Pomeroy, are not all that have come down 
 to us. Another and no less striking tradition con- 
 cerning the same Sir Henry is still preserved in 
 Cornwall, in the neighbourhood of St. Michael's 
 Mount, in which celebrated spot it is said to have 
 occurred. This last mentioned story is noticed, 
 though very slightly, by a few lines in an ancient 
 Chronicler ; and, as far as I have been able to 
 ascertain, the truth of both traditions has never 
 been questioned by any biographer or historian 
 of ancient or modern times. 
 
 I have only to add, that having already 
 published three works of fiction, and one topo- 
 graphical and historical, connected with the 
 counties of Cornwall and Devon, in the former 
 of which I availed myself of many fragments of 
 tradition, to raise " a superstructure of fiction 
 on a ground-work of truth,"*' I was induced to 
 undertake the present partly by my own wish, 
 and partly from being urged to do so by more 
 than one literary friend, natives of the west.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 who had repeatedly pointed out to me the tradi- 
 tionary fragments of Henry de Pomeroy, as a 
 most desirable subject for my series of works 
 on the counties of Cornwall and Devon. 
 
 One friend, now, alas ! no more, of considerable 
 literary taste, so repeatedly urged me " to call 
 up," — such was the playful phrase, — the monks 
 of Tavistock Abbey, in the days of their power 
 and their pride, that I promised I would endea- 
 vour to combine with the subject in question 
 some scenes of ancient times, in the far famed 
 and favoured Abbey of the Tavy. 
 
 For *the rest, desirous to please the more 
 serious classes of my readers, I can assure them, 
 I have attempted to blend with the events and 
 characters of imagination, such sketches of the 
 manners and customs of the twelfth century, 
 the period of the narrative, as I trust will be 
 acceptable in an historical point of view : and 
 though to cite ancient authorities, or modern 
 antiquaries, for every instance of obsolete manners, 
 would be an insufferable piece of pedantry in
 
 18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a romance, yet I feel it due to myself to state 
 that for whatever of this nature will be found 
 in the following pages, it has the sanction of 
 historical and unquestionable authority. 
 
 A. E, B. 
 
 The Vicarage, Tavistock, 
 April 10th, 1841.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "An old, old Monastery, — 
 Witlial it lies, perhaps, a little low, 
 Because the monks preferred a hill behind. 
 To shelter their devotion from the wind. 
 It stood embosomed in a happy valley." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 \ 
 About the latter part of the twelfth century, 
 
 the Abbey of Tavistock, of which so few re- 
 mains now exist to attest its former splendour, 
 was in the very height of its beauty, wealth, 
 and power. A Saxon prince had been its 
 founder ; kings had contributed by their munifi- 
 cence to its opulence and its immunities. Bar- 
 barians and invaders had burnt and pillaged 
 its sacred cells ; but it had risen again, like 
 the fabled phoenix, from its ashes, and with 
 its renovated existence acquired a dignity and
 
 20 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 strength that soon placed it above every other 
 religious house, saving that of Glastonbury, in 
 the West of England. 
 
 The Virgin and St. Rumon were the heavenly 
 patrons to whom it was dedicated ; and nobles, 
 churchmen, and knights were alike eager to pro- 
 mote the opulence and grandeur of so celebrated 
 a foundation, nothing doubting that the good of 
 their own souls was secured past being shaken 
 by the enemy, by every stone of the building 
 they helped to pile with so much liberality of 
 spirit. 
 
 For learning, also, our abbey was in great 
 repute. Aimer the Saxon was its first Abbot ; 
 and Livingus, afterwards Bishop of St. Germain 
 in Cornwall, famous alike for his munificence, 
 his misfortunes, and the high estimation in 
 which he was held by Canute the Great, was 
 in a manner its second founder ; and in the 
 abbey he had so benefited, Livingus, at last, 
 laid his bones. There, likewise, did Edwy 
 Atheling seek refuge from the jealousies of the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 21 
 
 Danish usurper, and dying, was buried near 
 the grave of Orgar, Earl or Heretoge of Devon, 
 his Saxon ancestor, and the illustrious founder 
 of the house. But to cite the names of all 
 those to whom history has done honour, and 
 who were all more or less connected with the 
 Abbey of Tavistock, would be a task better 
 suited to the professed antiquary than to such 
 chroniclers as ourselves, who propose, in our 
 narrative, to treat of persons and things of a very 
 different character. 
 
 At the time of which we write, many portions 
 of the abbey even now remaining, were not 
 in existence, such being of a more recent period. 
 The monastery was then a noble, solid, but 
 somewhat sombre pile, built in that style of 
 architecture popularly called Saxon. It was 
 characterised by massive towers and walls, not 
 so lofty as they were strong ; by deep-set, round- 
 headed windows and door-ways, with their short 
 clustered columns and their circular mouldings, 
 carved with the ziGf-zaor and other fanciful orna-
 
 22 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 ments, that swept along the whole span of the 
 arch. These door-ways were, like all other parts 
 of the building, too heavy for elegance ; but, 
 when viewed in their general outline, there was 
 something simple and imposing in the massive- 
 ness of their architecture, that would have been 
 destroyed by any additions of a more refined 
 taste. 
 
 Indeed, the Anglo Saxon or Norman archi- 
 tecture (for one was much the same as the 
 other, prior to the Conquest,) was a style of 
 building that disdained to rest its claims on 
 the graces of detail, or the elegances of form. 
 It was like one of those hardy barons, of the 
 early times of which we write, who found in 
 a solid bulk and a stout frame of sinews and 
 muscles, with a noble aspect, (though calculated 
 to awe rather than to captivate the beholder,) 
 a sufficient counterbalance for the want of that 
 more light and graceful figure and appearance, 
 which, by a different education, and a greater 
 refinement of manners, characterized the youth of
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 23 
 
 France and of England also, in the days of less 
 personal hardiliood in action. 
 
 On the banks of the Tavy (that took its rise 
 in the very heart of Dartmoor, and here made its 
 rapid course over a channel amid picturesque 
 rocks, surrounded by woods in the bosom of a 
 valley, watered by a thousand streams,) stood 
 this noble abbey, at once the support, the benefac- 
 tor, and the glory of the country and the town from 
 which it took its name. Its turreted towers, and 
 its strong embattled walls, rose within a short 
 space of the river, that in gentle murmurs, or when 
 swollen by rains, in foaming billows, rolled at 
 their feet. 
 
 The abbey church reared itself above those 
 walls, and all other of the monastic buildings, 
 and seemed, in the solemnity of its aspect, to give 
 an air of quiet sanctity to the surrounding scene. 
 These objects, most impressive in themselves, 
 were, when viewed in combination, altogether 
 calculated to produce that romantic gloom, so 
 replete with poetic feeling, which associates itself
 
 24 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 SO entirely with scenes of seclusion and of holy 
 and contemplative retirement from the world. 
 
 Within a small apartment belonging to the 
 offices of this delightfully situated abbey, one 
 summer"'s day towards the close of the twelfth 
 century, there sat a little party enjoying them- 
 selves at noon, when the Lord Abbot, the monks, 
 and some of the novices were taking what was 
 called their meridian ; that is their day sleep ; 
 a very "necessary repose in a house whose duties 
 and offices in the church obliged most of its 
 members to be out of their beds during no in- 
 considerable portion of the night. 
 
 The little party of which we now speak was of 
 a social character, and entertained at the particu- 
 lar invitation of Thomas the Cellarer in his own 
 especial snug cell, conveniently placed where 
 none of the more rigid officers of the household 
 could be in any way annoyed, if now and then 
 any too obstreperous sounds of mirth and jollity, 
 when the wine was in and the wit was out, might 
 proceed from its confines ; nor was it so near the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 25 
 
 inspectors as to be constantly exposed to the eye 
 of any jealous obedientiari/ as lie was called, or 
 too prying monk, whose tnrn it might be for the 
 week to keep a watchful look-out over the bro- 
 thers to see they lived within the rule of the 
 godly St. Bennet, for Benedictine monks were 
 those of our abbey. 
 
 True it is that the cellarer had little cause for 
 fear, as few of the brotherhood were disposed to 
 be at cross purposes with him, or to look at all 
 too closely after his ways ; for never since the days 
 of Livingus, had this excellent abbey been famed 
 for anything like an observance of too much rule. 
 It was not a house that made holiness a penance. 
 The paths of peace, with somewhat of the plenty 
 that peace is proverbially said to bring along with 
 her, had been very generally held as the plea- 
 santest path to heaven, by almost all the abbots, 
 priors, sub-priors, and monks, vowed to the 
 honour of the Virgin and St. Rumon, in this 
 blessed society. 
 
 There was something in the very air of the 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 house that was thriving ; for the brothers com- 
 monly grew fat upon it ; notwithstanding fast- 
 days and vigils were regularly proclaimed by the 
 tolling of the bells, and the calends of the mo- 
 nastery. The cellarer, however, albeit the Lord 
 Abbot was a very good apothecary, and the Lord 
 Bishop of the diocese, according to the custom of 
 the age, an excellent physician, took much credit 
 to himself, that in Tavistock Abbey there was at 
 all times a lean hospital and a fat kitchen. 
 
 This worthy Thomas was looked upon, if not 
 as a father, yet somewhat as a godfather to the 
 whole fraternity ; for he stood sponsor for them 
 all in sundry particulars, and promised in their 
 names, that they should eschew all ale that was 
 not up to the true strength of old Saxon hufF- 
 cap ; that roasted swans were nothing too good at 
 the feast of the Virgin in honour of her ascension ; 
 and that carp, cooked in choice malmsey wine, 
 was a dish orthodox for days of fast and mortifi- 
 cation ; and it may here be stated, that, among 
 many other privileges, the cellarer possessed one
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 27 
 
 calculated to make him exceedingly popular with 
 his brother monks, as they all benefited by it : 
 that of his being authorized to ask for certain 
 indulgences for the whole fraternity, — such as 
 that he might be permitted to order the dishes 
 for refection for a certain space of time, just 
 before the precentor was to rehearse, in chapter, 
 what was called the sentence of the rule. This 
 being nothing less than a particular rule of the 
 holy St. Bennet which enforced a strict observance 
 of the most poor and abstemious diet. 
 
 True it is that this golden code of abstinence 
 was at all times hung up and displayed in a most 
 conspicuous part of the house. But in order 
 that it might not hang as useless on the walls of 
 the monastery, (as we sometimes see an old hat, 
 coat, or straw figure hang in a bed of peas, to 
 frighten the birds, till, by finding it does them 
 no harm, they become at last so familiar with the 
 scarecrow that they transgress with boldness, and 
 pilfer all around with the utmost impunity,) it 
 
 was wisely ordained that on certain days, four 
 
 c2
 
 28 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 times in a year, this self-denying rule should be 
 first read aloud, and afterwards enforced, excepting 
 when the cellarer had previously asked an indul- 
 gence for the brothers. No wonder, therefore, 
 an official who had the exercise of such a privilege 
 as this within his own power, should be one 
 towards whom most men looked with an eye of 
 favour within the abbey walls ; and, indeed, on 
 all occasions, the eatables and drinkables were so 
 much under his control, that, like Doctor Pedro 
 Rezio Turte Defuero, with the luckless governor, 
 Sancho Panza, his wand or word could give wings 
 to the dishes, however excellent, and lay them 
 under interdict to all but the very heads of the 
 house. 
 
 So influential a man as the cellarer was not with- 
 out state. He had his court days, a sort of " petty 
 sessions of his own ;"" when swans, geese, turkeys, 
 and most other feathered fowl were brought be- 
 fore him, alive or dead, for account ; and butts 
 of ale, cider, and wine were laid in store by this
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 29 
 
 provident official ; whilst the Idtchener looked 
 after the less aristocratic viands of bullocks, sheep, 
 goats, and lambs. Indeed, so many and so vari- 
 ous were the duties, privileges, and profits of 
 this worthy, that we should weary our readers 
 did we recite them at large. We shall, there- 
 fore, but add, that at this monastery he held, 
 also, his court of thieves and robbers, and some- 
 times gave sentence on animals not quite so harm- 
 less as ducks and geese ; he had, likewise, power 
 over the highways on the abbey lands, so that 
 not a stick or stone could be removed without 
 his consent ; and though last, not least of 
 his prerogatives, he was the man to whom the 
 porter of the abbey gates was obliged to send 
 the keys, after locking up for the night, when 
 no one could enter or pass without the walls 
 unless by his most especial favour ; whilst his 
 authority was absolute over all such as trans- 
 gressed the rules, by being absent after complin, 
 the last evening service in the church.
 
 30 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 The cellarer's personal distinctions were many. 
 He had his two palfreys ; his servant, in the 
 livery of the honse ; and in addition to his com- 
 fortable monk''s frock, he was allowed a good 
 robe of clerk's cloth, with its hood of lamb''s 
 fur, to keep him warm and dry whenever he rode 
 forth in foul weather for the service of the 
 brotherhood, in whose welfare he took so lively 
 an interest in all the seasons of game and venison 
 throughout the whole year. 
 
 Brother Thomas was one of those who followed 
 literally the injunction of the apostle ; for when 
 merry — and the note of his cheerful spirits, 
 like the crow of chanticleer, began at morning's 
 dawn — he always sang psalms. He was jolly and 
 rubicund ; had a full cheek, a sleek skin, a laugh- 
 ing eye, a nose like a peony in full blow, and 
 a shaven crown that was round and bright as 
 a new tennis ball. His voice was full and sound- 
 ing, and so nice was his ear that, like Master 
 Nicholas, the clerk, in Chaucer's Tale, he made
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 31 
 
 the gayest melody on the giterne, the ribible, 
 or the saultrie, and 
 
 " So sweetly, that all the chamber rong, 
 And Angelus ad virginem he song, 
 And often blessed was his merry throat." 
 
 Such was our cellarer : with him sat the sacrist ; 
 church bells, banners, and tapers, were under his 
 control ; and the lantern, which it was his duty 
 to carry before the priest, after he had deposited 
 the text upon the altar, in his way to the lecture, 
 now lay at his feet ready for the hour of service ; 
 a sure note that he did not intend to budge 
 from his present seat till the vespers might re- 
 quire his attendance in the church. 
 
 The sacrist was a little, thin, grave-looking 
 man ; one that a sinner might mistake for a 
 saint, though he was no hypocrite. But for all 
 his grave appearance, he liked a jest in a quiet 
 way, and was fond of a dry humour rather than 
 a dry cup. He was considered to be wise ;
 
 32 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 but he held there was no wisdom like that which 
 arises from counsel ; consequently, whenever he 
 had any matter that he deemed to be of import 
 to take in hand, he never ventured upon it 
 till such time as he had considered the affair 
 with his especial chum, Thomas the cellarer, 
 over a flagon of Rhenish wine. 
 
 With these pious monks — who might both 
 be said to hold office in the monastery, which, 
 like most ministers in office, they had no desire 
 to resign — sat a somewhat singular companion 
 for men so holy, and within their own walls. 
 This was a certain individual known all the 
 country round, and a very great man in his own 
 estimation, being no less a person than Patch, 
 for such was his name, domestic fool of my 
 Lady Alicia de Beaumont, of Wilsworthy Castle, 
 an edifice situated in the adjoining parish, and 
 very nigh Dartmoor. 
 
 Patch was in the fooFs attire common to his 
 day, and we have seen in our travels (for we 
 wish our readers to understand that we have
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. S3 
 
 travelled, and, therefore, have seen many 
 " strange thhigs,'") an old and curious picture 
 of the middle ages, in the museum at Antwerp, 
 which so exactly represents our Patch, that we 
 are much disposed to think he must have been 
 the original of the portrait. It represents the 
 clown in full dress ; his nether socks (long pan- 
 taloons) being mi partly that is, different in 
 colour, the right leg scarlet, the left blue ; 
 wooden shoes, like clogs, are on his feet ; he 
 wears a tight jerkin guarded with red and blue ; 
 whilst his cap, the gayest part of his costume, 
 is adorned with a red cock's comb at the crown, 
 long ears, like those of an ass, at the sides, and a 
 long pendent point on which jangles a row of bells. 
 In the days of Patch, a bauble surmounted 
 by an ass's head and a pair of bagpipes, on which 
 one of his trade often played, were likewise the 
 especial appointments of the fool ; but at the 
 moment we introduce him to our readers, Patch 
 had neither bauble nor bagpipe in his hands, 
 but a cup of good red wine, which he very much
 
 34 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 preferred to any symbol of his office, or any other 
 distinction. 
 
 Patch was a little fellow ; and though at the 
 time of which we write there was a certain degree 
 of knavery and even of malice, which under the 
 mask of folly often did much mischief, attached 
 to the character of the fool, yet we must in truth 
 say there was no natural malice in the compo- 
 sition of Patch ; and as his noble mistress had 
 never allowed him to be hunted and teased by 
 the pages and the boys, nor to be worried in any 
 way, so as to excite or call forth any evil dispo- 
 sitions, he was a very harmless creature, a mere 
 fool for sport and amusement, such as was kept 
 in every palace or castle of prince, bishop, baron, 
 knight, or, in short, of any persons of rank of the 
 period. 
 
 Patch, as we have said, was a little fellow, 
 slight and active, with a handsome leg and foot, 
 of which he was so proud, that his socks and his 
 shoes were ever of the newest and the best ; and
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 35 
 
 he had fallen into the habit of walking with his 
 toes turned out in a manner bordering on the 
 ludicrous, from the great desire he felt that these 
 distinctions of his person should attract observa- 
 tion. His head was small, and covered with 
 curly black hair ; his nose was not set straight on 
 his face ; all the features of which were irregular, 
 and so flexible, that he had the power of con- 
 torting them into the most hideous and ludicrous 
 grimaces ; even into that of giving a sort of 
 caricature representation of sundry animals, whose 
 sounds and voices he could imitate with wonder- 
 ful truth and ease. 
 
 Patch had bright, black, fiery eyes, and a 
 pair of eyebrows not unworthy the glances that 
 shot from the orbs beneath them, to which they 
 gave both character and additional effect. His 
 forehead, according to the system of Spurzheim 
 and Gall, would have been held as indicative of 
 small space for the brains, as it receded very 
 much, like the forehead of the dog. Truth to
 
 36 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 tell, an over portion of sound judgment was not 
 the characteristic of Patch's mind under any 
 circumstances. 
 
 His great merit rested in his talents as a 
 grimacier and imitator. He could grin like one 
 of the carved gothic heads on the oak stalls in the 
 church; lengthen his visage when he would indi- 
 cate the physiognomy of an ass, bringing forward 
 the long ears of his fooFs cap to assist the 
 portraiture ; and would give out the bray of 
 that animal in startling perfection, whenever he 
 found himself in a company where he thought 
 sympathy was particularly due to the qualities 
 of such a creature. Like Daniel Dove, the 
 cock, with his " embattled comb,"*** w^ould re- 
 spond to his crowdng ; the very hens would 
 run about the poultry-yard and flap and agitate 
 their wings as he clucked to them, as if in 
 search of their chickens ; or as if they fancied 
 that a sister hen had laid an egg^ when all the 
 Dame Partletts deem themselves bound to cele- 
 brate it wdth cackling. And like Daniel, even
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 37 
 
 the solemnity of the owl, with its half-closed 
 sleepy eye, and its ominous hooting too-whoo, 
 were not beyond the powers of Patch in imita- 
 tion ; powders that made him the delight of chil- 
 dren, who would stare with all their eyes, laugh, 
 shriek, run to him, lean their heads on his lap, 
 or stand in silent wonder, as he went through his 
 exhibition. And such was his perfection in imi- 
 tating the cats, that, like the luckless Diego in 
 Gil Bias, (who made those caterwaulings the sig- 
 nal of his meetings with Dame Margelina, the old 
 Doctor's wife,) he once got his head broken by a 
 stone pelted at him in mistake for a real grimal- 
 kin. When, in addition to these accomplishments, 
 it is told that Patch had the most ready caper 
 at a morris-dance, could play on the hand-bells, 
 was master of a thousand antics, and could sing 
 at counter-point, ( a method of singing some- 
 thing like our glees,) his value will be more 
 readily understood in a family such as the Lady 
 Alicia's, at a time when few but the clergy could 
 read, and when domestic occupations, to wile
 
 38 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 away the hours of an easy life and a rainy clay, 
 were of the fewest and most confined description. 
 
 The natural disposition of Patch was that of 
 extreme good-nature. He would do anything, 
 run anywhere, to serve anybody, who gave him 
 but a good-natured word ; and as he had a sort of 
 idle curiosity, that prompted him to learn all the 
 news he could collect, he was ever on the alert, 
 a professed gossip, and knew every woman, old or 
 young, famed for chattering, within the compass 
 of his walks, and those were only limited by the 
 strength of his legs in his wanderings from home. 
 
 Now the cellarer being a great lover of news 
 also, but from his official character not being 
 able to collect it quite so readily as one whose 
 professed folly caused no questions he asked 
 to be deemed impertinent, was not at all sorry 
 to extract from Patch, at the very cheap rate 
 of a cup of wine, all the intelligence he could 
 gather, respecting divers noble persons and 
 families in the neighbourhood. These morsels 
 of news were not simply as choice scraps for
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 39 
 
 his own entertainment ; for the Lord Abbot 
 was not inapt to collect from the cellarer as 
 the cellarer did from Patch, the gossip of the 
 country, though from a very different motive. 
 By means, therefore, of that ingenious art of 
 cooking news, so practised and perfected in this 
 small town, even in its days of Saxon celebrity, 
 there was nothing easier than by adding here, 
 and twisting and turning there, and putting in 
 a few grains of scandal and the sauce of a little 
 malice, to serve as dainty a dish of news for 
 the table of my Lord Abbot, as could possibly 
 be desired on any occasion of wonderment, idle- 
 ness, or envy, in a country town, where there 
 were so many little minds to be gratified by 
 little means. Yet we do not wish to imply 
 that Brother Thomas thus gathered his intelli- 
 gence for any especial purpose of mischief; 
 for we can safely aver he was a very friendly man 
 over a cup of wine, — that he was singularly good- 
 humoured when he was pleased; and so far 
 was he from doing wrong by premeditation, that
 
 40 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 he never even suspected he could do wrong 
 at all. 
 
 With this object in view, the cellarer now 
 sat with his two friends round a little table, 
 on which stood no insignificant portion of a 
 delicate roasted swan ; flanked by a loaf of monks"* 
 bread, and some manchets of the best Simnel. 
 Of choice liquors there were abundance ; from 
 portly huff-cap, malmsey, and metheglin, down 
 to simple cowslip wine ; for the cellarer having 
 absolute rule over these matters, kept a little 
 buffet well stored at hand, the contents being 
 selected from the treasures of his own especial 
 crypt ; and if any objections were made to 
 a provision so tempting to solitary indulgence, 
 the plea of '"' only by way of sample,**' or "just 
 to taste what might be best suited to the 
 palate of my Lord Abbot and his guests," 
 were answers prompt and never questioned. 
 
 One other individual helped to complete the 
 party ; a hound, a favourite of the Abbot, when 
 he made up a company to go to his hunting-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 41 
 
 seat at Morwell-house ; and never till of late 
 had the dog been left behind on any such occa- 
 sions of joyous sport. He now lay stretched 
 at the cellarer's feet. Some allusion had been 
 made to him in conversation. 
 
 " And pray," said Patch, as he put down 
 the flagon, from which he had taken no small 
 draught; ''what ails Woden there?" pointing 
 to the hound, for the names of the ancient 
 Saxon deities were often given at this period, 
 as a mark of contempt, by the Normans, to 
 their dogs. " Woden hath become something 
 like me of late, more to be found in the house 
 than in the field ; looking after the porridge, 
 and letting go free the hares. Woden hath 
 truly the wisdom of years growing upon him, 
 as well as some of its grey hairs ; he likes best 
 the fire-side and a soft cushion ; wherefore is it 
 that he goes not forth to the field ? " 
 
 " His scent fails him," replied the cellarer ; 
 " and my Lord Abbot likes not a hound at 
 fault."
 
 42 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " Blow vinegar in his nose,"" said the fool ; 
 "'tis a sovereign remedy to restore his scent 
 to a hound, or to call up a lethargic man. And 
 do you, sir cellarer, in your wisdom construe 
 me this. Wherefore is our King Richard, him 
 of the lion's heart, like the hound with a 
 vinegared nose ?" 
 
 The cellarer studied a minute ; looked up at 
 the ceiling and down on the floor, then at the 
 grinning and self satisfied propounder of the ques- 
 tion, whose very air seemed to say that his mean- 
 ing, though pregnant, lay too deep for a common 
 wit. Then the cellarer rubbed his hand over 
 his shaven crown, and finally repeated the ques- 
 tion, weighing every word of it with the slowest 
 delivery, and at last looked just as wise as he 
 did before. 
 
 "Thou canst not hit it," said Patch. "Do 
 thou try thy wits, master sacrist. Wherefore is 
 the hound with the vinegared nose, like our 
 King Richard.?" 
 
 " Why, may be,*" replied the sacrist, " it may
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 43 
 
 have been as startling to his highness, as vinegar 
 to a hound's nose, to find himself on a sudden 
 prisoner to the Duke of Austria, when he looked 
 to return to his good land of England ; for such 
 things are apt to startle a man mightily, even 
 as do our bells the newcomers, when I give an 
 unexpected pull at the ropes; therefore I con- 
 ceive — "" 
 
 " Anything but that which comes nigh the 
 matter,**^ said the fool ; " thou hast ever but one 
 thing at work in thy brains, to beat on thy wits, 
 like the clapper of thy own bells. Do what thou 
 wilt, all with thee is a bell, master sacrist. If 
 thou walkest, thy arms swing upwards, as if they 
 were ringing the lauds ; thy discourse is ever 
 to the same tune, — it is but as so many changes 
 on bell-ringing. Thou hast the very sound 
 of the matins in thy talk, and when thou takest 
 thy turn to lecture in the pulpit to the brothers, 
 the curfew itself sounds not a more drowsy chime 
 to the ear of a borrel churl after a day's labour ; 
 and they are all soon fast asleep,"
 
 41 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 The sacrist frowned on Patch, but a fool's 
 vein is not easily checked ; so on he went : "I 
 tell thee, man, thy very life is but an epitome 
 of thy calling. It needs one of thy own ropes 
 to draw thee to any good work. And thy con- 
 science is not to be awakened unless it be by 
 an alarum, like thy own bells at a fire. Thou 
 livest by a rope, and may be thou wilt die by 
 a rope ; seeing thy abbey hath the right of 
 pit and gallows." 
 
 " And of the stocks and rod, for the legs 
 and backs of fools who prate too freely with 
 their betters," said the sacristan, angrily ; for, 
 even from one licensed in his folly, he liked not 
 too much freedom. But the cellarer, wishing 
 for no brawls between friends, filled out another 
 cup, and proposed that they should all drink a 
 speedy deliverance to King Richard, and hoped 
 that Patch would expound his riddle, as well as 
 pledge the royal health. 
 
 " Well, then, here 'tis," said Patch. " The
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 45 
 
 royal Richard hath borrowed from my trade of 
 late, and hath played the fool, at no man's bidding 
 but his own. He hath left his kingdom to go 
 after foreign wars, and now that is like to leave 
 him ; even like a hen in the mouth of a fox, 
 that is on the start to run away with her, and 
 when good man the master would run after her, 
 he finds the door locked upon him, and Renard 
 safe with his fowl. Even so, then, like to a 
 once brave hound that hath lost its scent for 
 the game, did our gallant king, whilst following 
 after Saladin abroad, lose all scent of the treason 
 that was going on at home, till, like vinegar 
 in the nose, his brother John's treachery, being 
 suddenly brought to his knowledge, waked him 
 up with its stinging ; and then would he return 
 to look after his affairs in England fast enough, 
 but may be too late, for the Duke of Austria 
 lay in the way, and our fighting king was made 
 a prisoner. Now do you take mine enigma, 
 and is it not an ingenious one ? even like those
 
 46 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of Sir ^iSop, that Csedmon, tlie Saxon boy, tells 
 of as a yule tale, round the red hearth and the 
 blazing logs.*" 
 
 *' 'Tis far-fetched,^' said the sacristan ; " thy 
 wits are muddy.'" 
 
 " Not so is thy ale," replied Patch ; " and 
 I will even crush another cup with thee for fellow- 
 ship, for my legs are weary, and the spirit that sus- 
 tains them somewhat faint ; it needeth cheering.'" 
 
 " Hast thou been far to-day ? " inquired the 
 cellarer ; " at what taverners hast thou been 
 news gathering ? anything stirring ? anything 
 worth the carrying ? ^"^ 
 
 " Aye, marry is there,'"* said Patch, " more 
 than my head could bear ; a burthen of news that 
 would weary a sumpter mule, though used to 
 carry the wallet of a pardoner and his bags of 
 relics from the Holy Land on sale, his ' pigs'* 
 bones ** converted into those of the thumbs and 
 toes of saints."''* 
 
 *' Peace, fool, peace,'"* exclaimed the cellarer ;
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 47 
 
 " no jesting with sacred things, and within the 
 walls, too, of this holy house. Holy St. Bennet ! 
 it were as much as my office were worth and 
 all its havings, were it known that I suffered 
 a fool's prate on such matters within my cell. 
 Down on thy knees, on the instant ; ask pardon, 
 and I will give thee absolution ; ask it on the 
 instant, and then we may go on with our dis- 
 course," continued the cellarer, following that 
 rule of the house which enjoined immediate par- 
 don being asked and absolution given for all 
 offences in conversation and sins of a lighter kind. 
 Patch obeyed. " And now for thy news," said 
 brother Thomas. 
 
 " Here it is then," replied Patch. " The 
 queen-mother, the royal Eleanor, is come over, 
 with a power from Wales, in support of the 
 rights of her imprisoned son. King Richard. 
 I had the news this morning, as I called in at 
 the Lord de St. Loe's buttery hatch ; and there 
 is more news still."
 
 48 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " What is it ?" inquired the cellarer, eagerly. 
 
 " Why, 'tis thought,*" continued Patch, after 
 a pause, " that widows will rise in price, and 
 maidens become cheaper, by reason of the ransom 
 of King Richard." 
 
 " How, fool, how ? " said the cellarer. 
 
 " I will tell you anon," answered Patch, " and 
 I had it from a clerk of good account, one who 
 can both read and write, and hath a turn for 
 gramery; he, therefore, knoweth the truth of 
 things. The king's ransom is stated at the 
 value of his highnesses valour, not at that of 
 his people's means ; so, besides lands to be 
 yielded up in France and elsewhere, there are 
 more pounds to be paid in money — payment in 
 tale — than I can reckon up by memory, though 
 I can count with any man by the fingers." 
 
 " The religious houses are, questionless, not 
 to be taxed for the king's ransom," said the 
 sacristan ; " they will pray for his majesty's 
 speedy release."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 49 
 
 '' They must do something more than that 
 for it,"' said Patch, " for the limbo of the Duke 
 of Austria is not like purgatory, there is no 
 praying a soul out of it. Like the gates of our 
 blessed St. Peter, the duke opens not those of 
 his cage to let slip the royal bird of England, 
 without the Peter pence being paid. It is noised 
 abroad that every one above the degree of a 
 socman is to pay a fourth part of his revenue 
 for the year towards the ransom, ay, and as 
 much of his moveable goods or their value, and 
 every knight the sum of twenty shillings, and 
 now comes the cream of the matter and of 
 my discourse — the fee for marrying a widow, 
 who is under crown custody, is to be equal to 
 that of marrying a maid under the same : till 
 this thing happened, to raise the ransom of a 
 king, the fee for marrying a widow was but 
 half as much. And then the abbeys, it is said, 
 are to give the value of a year's wool."" 
 
 " Only those of the orders of Cisteaux and of 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 Sempringham," said the cellarer ; " they were 
 ever forward in putting forth claims for privi- 
 leges to King Richard, and now will they find 
 the truth of the proverb, ' Many go for wool 
 and come home shorn.' The blessed brothers 
 of St. Benedict will, I trust, get off more easily. 
 It is not good to tax those who are as the foun- 
 tains of learning in the land. England were 
 barbarous still, like those wolves, the hordes of 
 the north, but for the Benedictines. Learning hath 
 its labours, and ought to have its immunities ; 
 for we, who spend our days in abstinence and 
 study, and in fasts, and our nights in prayer — ^" 
 
 " Pray, brother,'"* said Patch, " when are the 
 feast days of this house ? for, seeing that thy 
 fasts are so very tolerable, I would gladly partake 
 of them. I never here taste worse fare than 
 thy simnel or wheaten bread, though at home 
 I have often the brown loaf. Thou must have 
 an honest miller, or a miller's daughter that 
 favours thee from the choicest sack." 
 
 *' Holy Mary ! there she stands," said the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 51 
 
 cellarer, and he pointed, as he spoke, to a laugh- 
 ing face, like that of a young Hebe, that peeped 
 in through a small open window, which looked 
 towards a very convenient low door in the abbey 
 walls, that opened on the banks of the river, 
 near the mills. 
 
 D 2
 
 52 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Ful brighter was the shining of hire hewe 
 Than in the towr the noble yforged newe 
 But of hire song, it was as loud and yerne, 
 As any swallow sitting on a berne. 
 Thereto she coude skip, and make a game, 
 As any kid or calf following his dame. 
 Hire mouth was swete as braket or the meth, 
 Or hord of apples, laid in hay or heth, 
 Winsing she was, as is a joly colt. 
 Long as a mast and upright as a bolt. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 The little window, at which now appeared the 
 plump, round, and rosy face of Grace Bolt, the 
 miller's daughter, was one whose services were 
 more than of a two-fold nature. Most glazed 
 apertures in walls and houses, civil or ecclesiastic, 
 are considered as merely useful for the very
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 5S 
 
 simple purposes of admitting air and liglit. But 
 the window in the cell of our cellarer, if fame 
 did him no injustice, was used, and not unfre- 
 quently, for things of a very different and far 
 more substantial nature ; for nothing less than 
 admitting goods, living or otherwise, that were 
 very generally held as contraband to the monks. 
 A friend, or a boon companion, was sometimes 
 smuggled in ; or a dainty in Lent ; or report 
 had gone so far as to say, now and then a damsel. 
 In short, anything that could not pass the watch 
 and ward of the porter''s gates undetected. 
 
 Grace Bolt was a blithe merry maiden, wild 
 as a Dartmoor colt, and pure as the flour that 
 had been thrice sifted at her father's mills. She 
 was a pet with the cellarer, in a harmless way. 
 He was, as we have before intimated, a good- 
 natured man, a dear lover of gossip, and had so 
 much of the milk of human kindness in his dis- 
 position, that he entertained a tenderness for the 
 female sex at large, — that delighted to expand 
 itself in acts of kindness to pretty children, were
 
 54 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 they little girls of eight, or blooming ones of 
 eighteen years old. Nor was he less good-na- 
 tured towards their mothers, or even their grand- 
 mothers, provided the latter would give him a 
 seat in the chimney nook, and a cup of spiced 
 wine, to season a gossip, and did not require of 
 him too often the kiss of peace. 
 
 The very cockles of the cellarer''s heart were 
 moved by a sense of the purest joy at seeing a 
 happy, frank, youthful face, shining and spark- 
 ling mouth, eyes, and cheeks, with the joyance 
 of a gay spirit ; even, as he would say, the weir 
 of the Tavy sparkled in the sunshine. And then 
 he liked to keep a fat pullet, or a choice store 
 of apples, to give one to Grace, and to see her 
 eat it, showing her white teeth, and looking 
 roguish, as he chucked her under the chin. And 
 sometimes, in graver moments, as she enjoyed 
 this dainty of the orchard, the cellarer, good man, 
 would sermonize a little, making his subject, like 
 the great French divines, apply to the circum- 
 stances before him. In such moments, he would
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 55 
 
 point out to her the danger of eating forbidden 
 fruit, (always accompanying the lecture with an 
 injunction never to trespass on my Lord Abbot's 
 garden,) and the fatal consequences of curiosity 
 to the mother of mankind. In illustration of 
 which, our worthy brother would remind her 
 there was a beauteous piece of carving in oak 
 to be seen about the altar of St. Mary Mag- 
 dalen, in the abbey church, where all the Gothic 
 devils were represented as pampering and making 
 much of the serpent, their great master, when 
 going forth in this reptile guise on the deadly 
 work of temptation. 
 
 Grace Bolt received these tokens of the cel- 
 larer''s regard with all the gratitude they deserved, 
 and she really felt for the worthy man something 
 of that duty and affection which a child feels for 
 an indulgent parent. She often, therefore, took 
 occasion to slip in at the postern door in the 
 wall, that being the nearest way for bringing 
 in the bags of flour, and followed the sacks even 
 as she was wont to do when she was a " tottering
 
 56 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 little girl" of but four or five years old ; and she 
 had grown up so gradually under the eye of 
 the monks, that even the severest among them 
 almost forgot she was now a woman, and none 
 were shocked at a sight so familiar to them as 
 that of Grace's rosy cheeks and smiling lips, 
 if any one of the brothers chanced to meet her 
 near the little window we have named. As 
 for going beyond it, or trespassing on the abbot's 
 private grounds, it was a thing quite out of the 
 question, though we will not say but that Grace 
 had a curious eye to them. She would have 
 liked much to ramble amongst their long alleys 
 of sycamore, and their beautiful terraces, and 
 to see the carp play, or come and be caught, 
 in any one of the three stew ponds that were 
 within these precincts of the domain. Grace had 
 in herself all those points of character in which 
 a good-natured man most delights. There was, 
 therefore, sympathy between herself and the cel- 
 larer ; and, moreover, the additional tie of doing 
 kindnesses, where the one party is willing and
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 57 
 
 the other grateful ; there are few stronger bonds. 
 
 In her person, Grace had more of the partridge 
 
 than the weasel ; she was plump, tall, and active, 
 
 had a neat ankle, and a well-turned arm, locks 
 
 of curly brown, and a pair of dark eyes that 
 
 shone like bugles or jet. She could not frown, 
 
 for the perpetual smile on her lips would not 
 
 let her ; the laughing eyes, indeed, forbade even 
 
 the attempt at putting on an angry look ; if 
 
 teased, she could only, like other good-humoured 
 
 but petted children, shake her tiny hand, stamp 
 
 with her little foot, and say a pouting word or 
 
 two that did but make her look the more 
 
 pretty ; so that it became a real pleasure to vex 
 
 her a little sometimes, in order to forgive her, 
 
 or to soothe her into a return of her sportive- 
 
 ness and mirth. Even as fond mothers delight 
 
 in those rainbow smiles in their infants that 
 
 dimple their soft checks whilst the tears yet 
 
 hang upon them. 
 
 Grace was, also, a damsel of taste ; indeed, 
 
 she rather dressed beyond her degree, notwith- 
 
 D 5
 
 58 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 standing it was a high offence in a vassal to do 
 so. But Grace was a church vassal, and she had 
 found the most indulgent rule from her masters 
 the monks. The sub-prior himself had more 
 than once given her a word out of Solomon, 
 about the humble attire of women, and had cited 
 the pillows of the Jewish daughters at their arms, 
 as awful warnings against finery. On all these 
 occasions, the modest way in which Grace took 
 the rebukes of her vanity (a fault, however, 
 which she did not reform,) disarmed wrath, so 
 that the sub-prior was obliged to content himself 
 with having given the warning, and with the 
 recollection that the daughters of Tyre were 
 celebrated for their vain love of dress ; and that 
 the Lady of Babylon, (understanding literally the 
 figurative language of prophecy, and, therefore, 
 fancying the image of an idolatrous worship to 
 be that of a living queen,) was to come down at 
 last, and to sit in the dust, notwithstanding her 
 pride. 
 
 Grace's taste in dress was more for variety
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 59 
 
 than uniformity. She had, perhaps, an eye to 
 a nosegay, where blues, greens, and reds are 
 gaily mixed together; and certainly a tailor, or 
 master fashioner might have culled a pattern-book 
 from the many samples of bright colours she 
 wore on her back. Her dress is so great a 
 curiosity in these days, that we must say a word 
 about it. 
 
 She wore a stammel petticoat of orchard green ; 
 a pair of new scarlet hose of sey, and half socks 
 of Cordovan leather. Her girdle was of Coventry 
 blue ; her bodice of ginger-coloured, cendal 
 furred with lamb's skin ; cherry-coloured knots 
 and laces fastened her kirtle in the front, and 
 tied up her sleeves ; and her fillet round the head 
 was of nun's white, surmounted by a volupure, 
 or veil, of Paris facture. 
 
 The cellarer, on seeing Grace's pretty face 
 peeping in at the window, insisted she should 
 come in and take some fruit. There was a fine 
 dish of ripe cherries standing on the table, flank- 
 ed by one of pippins. She had been accustomed
 
 60 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 to partake of such good things ever since she 
 used to be handed in, like a kitten or a puppy, 
 through the window, when a child. True it is 
 Grace had outgrown the possibility of making 
 such entries and exits ; but as, according to the 
 vulgar saying among the Turks, (then commonly 
 known in England by means of the crusaders,) 
 " if Mahomet's coffin won't come to us, we must 
 go to Mahomet ;"*' even so, if Grace Bolt could 
 no longer get in through the window, the win- 
 dow had been accommodated to get her in ; for 
 by some strange fancy or other, the cellarer, 
 long before we opened this history, had caused 
 it to be more widened in its dimensions than 
 a strict adherence to the architecture of the 
 period would admit, in a building of such pre- 
 tensions. 
 
 Through this window Grace was now, there- 
 fore, invited to come in ; and as she had for 
 years been as friendly and familiar with the good 
 cellarer as with her father's great dog, Trench- 
 ard ; was a rustic in education, and though per-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. C)i 
 
 fectly modest, knew none of the refinements in 
 manners even of her own day, she made, as she 
 said, no bones about it, but accepted at once 
 the invitation ; took the helping hand that brother 
 Thomas offered to her, gave a spring, like a 
 fawn at its gambols under the greenwood tree, 
 and scrambled in at the window without any 
 difficulty ; sat down immediately at the table, 
 and sipped the cup of cowslip wine that was 
 handed to her, in a modest way. Indeed, she 
 quaffed it as delicately as Chaucer's prioress her- 
 self might have done ; for so nice were her lips, 
 she left not even a stain upon the cup that had 
 been pressed to them. 
 
 " And where is thy father gone to-day, 
 wench?" said the cellarer; "T saw him not 
 with the villains who brought up the sacks of 
 corn."" 
 
 " Father is gone," answered Grace, " to seek 
 the Lady Alicia, and to beg my lady to be so 
 good as to give order that the new miller, who 
 has set up at Cudlipp town, may keep to his
 
 G2 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 own bounds, and not slock away our folk to take 
 their grist to his mill." 
 
 '' The common sin and complaint of millers 
 throughout the land," said the sacrist, " they 
 cannot keep bounds." 
 
 " And what makes thee in that holiday guise, 
 my lass ?" said the cellarer ; " this is not fair day !" 
 
 " No," replied Grace ; " but there 's talk of 
 the great folk coming from Exeter; and all the 
 town will be out to-day; and so there's to be 
 a morris, and a jongleur, and a turgator, come 
 all the way from over seas ; and he has seen 
 Saladin with his own eyes ; and has heard the 
 speaking stone at Jerusalem ; and seen a man 
 that tried to do it, but who could not drown 
 himself in the Dead Sea. And he saw, also, 
 the hermit of Lebanon, the pious hermit, that 
 at the prayers of the nuns of St. Jean d'Acre, 
 got up and put his own head on again, after 
 the Saracens had cut it off! And besides all 
 these, there 's to be a wonderful doctor ; a pil- 
 grim that cures all diseases by miracle, and — "
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 63 
 
 '' I see," said the fool, " you are my most 
 pretty Finestra, making yourself gay as the popin- 
 jay to go and see how many of my trade can be 
 made by listening to one travelling minstrel who 
 returns from the Holy Land. Thou wilt have to 
 pay coin for this. Marry, wench, it will cost thee at 
 at least an esterling ; for quartered money passes 
 not current with your minstrel. Now, for my 
 part, give me but a silver sixpence, and I will 
 entertain the whole town for it. Holy Land fashion, 
 and never be at fault for lack of a story, but 
 rather for breath." 
 
 " La !" said Grace, " what mean you by that, 
 Master Patch?" 
 
 " Why, look you," replied Patch, "get me an 
 old pilgrim'^s gown that hath gaping wounds in it, 
 one only fit for the lazar ; where all the tattered, 
 the ragged, and the cuffed go to be healed after 
 the holy wars : stick me a cockleshell here in 
 my bonnet, — there is much in your cockleshell ; 
 give me scrip and staff with an old palm branch, 
 stolen out of church after palm Sunday ; and see
 
 64 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 if I make not as reverend a palmer, and as good 
 a potecary, as ever came home to cure folk by 
 miracle from tlie East ; for I know how to tell lies 
 and to ask alms for the sake of the holy places 
 I have visited, as well as the best among them." 
 
 " You ! — you would never pass for a palmer," 
 said Grace ; " your very bells would betray you." 
 
 " My bells betray me !" said the fool, " they 
 shall be my warrant. Know you not, daughter of 
 a flour sack, that the Moslem is forbidden bells 
 by his religion. I will therefore swear that I 
 hung mine in my cap to spite the infidels, and 
 thus will I turn my very folly into wisdom." 
 
 " How, fool, how ?" said the sacrist. 
 
 " Why, thus," answered Patch: "know ye not, 
 that all men run on one of my errands nowadays 
 to the Holy Land ? All go to it as fools, but 
 many come from it as knaves. May the bless- 
 ing of St. Thomas-a-Becket rest on the king's 
 head, though his father had little comfort from 
 his saintship whilst he lived. What hath our Rich- 
 ard gotten, think you, by his journey to Syria ?
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 6<) 
 
 Truly, trouble at home and a prison abroad. 
 What errand hath his turned out to be but one 
 fit for a fool ? My cap and bells to him, his high- 
 ness may claim them as crown dues. And then to 
 see the fools that are made at home by these 
 praying palmers, who traffic in physic from the 
 East. I would work healing miracles as well as 
 they at any pinch for a groat." 
 
 " La ! master Patch," said Grace, '' you could 
 never get the trick of it." 
 
 " Never get the trick of it ! " repeated Patch, 
 " only get me the old palmer's gown, and see 
 how I will do it. My long face shall be my 
 wisdom. I will get me a mummer's beard for 
 reverence ; a blear eye shall pass for the redness 
 of weeping for my sins. If I meet one who may 
 need me, I will be in a hurry, and that shall give 
 me the air of much occupation. Then, if my 
 lady tells me she is very sick, I will say that I 
 apprehended as much the last time I saw her. If 
 she asks how long her distemper may continue, 
 I will tell her it will depend much on what she
 
 66 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 can afford to expend on a holy palmer''s prayers. 
 And whensoever a question is put to me that 
 I cannot answer, I will shake my head, and that 
 shall reply to all interrogatories." 
 
 " But if the sick you attend should die," said 
 the sacrist, ''how then would you come off?" 
 
 " Why, the man's sins are stronger than my 
 prayers for his cure," said Patch ; " and his heirs 
 will rest satisfied with such a reason, and will 
 never question further. Nor will they grudge 
 the fee to the leech, so he keep not the sick long 
 in his pains ; more especially if his testament be 
 made to their minds. To increase the calls on 
 my attendance, my discourse shall ever be of 
 princes, noble ladies, barons, and portly abbots, 
 who have all been healed by my miracle-working 
 art." 
 
 "You have never attempted to doctor your 
 mistress, I will warrant," said the sacrist ; " yet, if 
 report speaks truth, she needs the mediciner." 
 
 " Why, look you," said Patch, " the point is a 
 nice one ; and may be, master sacrist, there are
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 67 
 
 disorders which palmers dare not meddle with, 
 which the leech cannot cure, and which are only 
 fit to be dealt with by men of frock and cowl, 
 when, perhaps, in confession : but I say nothing, 
 for what saith Solomon, a 'prating fool shall fall.'" 
 Patch nodded, winked, looked wise, and held his 
 tongue, with that peculiar air which persons affect 
 when they would intimate that they could tell 
 a great deal more, well worth knowing, did they 
 choose to tell it. 
 
 This was the very thing to excite the curiosity 
 of the cellarer ; and, determined to come to the 
 bottom of the mystery, he forthwith plied Patch 
 with all manner of civil and cajoling speeches ; 
 produced from his secret store the choicest flask 
 of a foreign wine ; noticed the fooFs pleasant 
 way of relating a tale ; praised his voice, which, 
 though tolerable in the bass of a counter-point, 
 was singularly harsh and disagreeable in a solo ; 
 till, like the fox and the crow in the fable, he 
 set Patch a-singing. 
 
 But as the words of a catch were not those
 
 68 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of the dainty morsel to satisfy curiosity that 
 our good cellarer hungered to have dropped from 
 the flattered lips of the fool, he gently reminded 
 Patch that such harmonies might become audible 
 where it was not at all desirable they should 
 be heard, in the cells of the brothers ; and after 
 filling up another cup, seasoning it with a little 
 more compliment, Patch's vanity in becoming 
 the person in company to whom all the rest paid 
 the deference of listening, got the better of the 
 little judgment he could boast, and he became 
 as eager to talk about, as he had before been 
 shy of entering on, the matter. The cellarer, drew 
 his stool closer to the speaker, not to lose a word 
 of his discourse. The sacrist listened carelessly, 
 but still he listened ; and Grace Bolt stared with 
 all her eyes as Patch began with the very start- 
 ling question — 
 
 " Did you never hear that by some men my 
 lady is thought to be possessed ? " 
 " La!" said Grace, "what is that?'' 
 '' Possessed ! holy Mary ! " exclaimed the eel-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 69 
 
 larer, " how can that be, when Father Hillary 
 hath the keeping of her soul/'' 
 
 " Say not of her soul, but of her conscience," 
 said Patch, " and that the devil will trouble 
 in spite of all the holy man's care, or I know 
 not a hawk from a kestril. But no matter for 
 that," he added, putting his finger to his nose. 
 " Possessed some folk say she is, sure enough." 
 
 " She should be brought bound to the high 
 altar of our church, then, as they bring delirious 
 people to be exorcised," said the sacrist ; ''and 
 T ought to have my ringing and my candle fees 
 for the same ; it were a defrauding of the church 
 else, and a neglecting a poor suffering soul." 
 
 " She ought not only to be exorcised, but 
 to have the evil spirit taken out of her by the 
 prayers of the monks," said the cellarer. 
 
 " She should make a waxen heart, and offer 
 it with six candles to the blessed image of our 
 Lady," said Grace Bolt. 
 
 " She should send a written schedule of what- 
 ever sins lay heaviest upon her mind, to have
 
 70 HENRY DE POMEKOY. 
 
 it hid under the altar cloth of St. Rumen on 
 Ash Wednesday," said the sacrist ; " when, after 
 sin dole paid, she would find not a sin left on 
 the scroll ; the parchment would come out from 
 the altar as fair as her own conscience.'" 
 
 " Not so fast, holy men," said Patch ; " why 
 now you run before the doctor, for he neither 
 lets blood nor drenches before he handles the 
 pulse, and learns what may be the disease of 
 the patient. But you ply your remedies as the 
 Duke of Austria and the Emperor of Germany 
 do their demands for our king's ransom, the 
 one on the back of the other, and each with 
 an eye to himself. You have not heard how 
 my lady is possessed, and yet you slip in a 
 way in a mighty hurry for her cure. I said 
 she was possessed, but I said not with a devil." 
 " But you said the devil troubled her." 
 "Aye, that may be," said Patch, "but not 
 possessed her. Why, I tell you, sir priest, 
 she is possessed by the witch melancholy, of 
 which there is no worse spirit, at least, to my 
 thinking."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 71 
 
 " Melancholy ! " exclaimed the cellarer, " and 
 she the mistress of Wilsworthy Castle, and of 
 as goodly an estate as any Norman baron, the 
 forfeiture of one of our greatest Saxon thanes, 
 who was amerced by Henry, the late king, and 
 had his castle stormed and his head broken by 
 this noble lady's husband, whose estate, with 
 all its immunities, dependencies, its serfs, vassals, 
 and villains, sack and sock, and toll and team, 
 are even now her own ; — all this, and she me- 
 lancholy ! I will never believe it. There never 
 was woman so widowed, and so endowed, that 
 held her grief past the term of her weeds." 
 
 '' Nay, for matter of that, I don't say that 
 she mourns for her widowhood, nor yet that 
 she pines for a husband,'"'* said Patch, " seeing 
 that no man thrives who wooes her, though she 
 has had as many suitors as Queen Penelope, 
 that are seen coming up with relics in their 
 hands, with crosses carried before them, as our 
 damsels worked the story in the tapestry for 
 the chapel of our castle/''
 
 72 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " Then your damsels made into good Catho- 
 lics a set of Pagan heathens,""* said the sacrist, 
 who had some smattering of learning. " I know 
 the fashion of that tale. You see, Sir Ulysses 
 was a knight, and his wife was a Lady Penelope." 
 
 But the cellarer being much more disposed 
 to hear Patch's account of the Lady Alicia, 
 stopped short his brother monk, and the fool 
 proceeded. 
 
 " For many years past, my Lady Alicia de 
 Beaumont hath led a strange kind of life, though 
 being but newly returned to this neighbour- 
 hood, 'tis not much known here. There are 
 times and seasons when there is no knowing in 
 what mood to take her; for sometimes she is 
 high and proud, and will admit no approach 
 to her person. At others she is altogether gentle 
 and sad, and will talk of St. Dunstan's dove, 
 and wish that it might come and settle in her 
 bosom as it did on that saint's head, who is 
 said to have broke nobody's ever after ; and then 
 her mood will change, and she will look wild
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 73 
 
 and ask who it is that is come to the castle 
 gates, or did we meet no stranger, when, may 
 be, nobody has crossed the threshold but a beg- 
 ging palmer, or the house steward and his lads." 
 
 " May be," said Grace, " she has seen some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Seen something '" replied Patch, " I will 
 warrant she has ; and seen something few of 
 us would like to see, — a great deal of trouble, 
 sorrow, and change, and very few quiet nights, 
 and as few quiet days. For some folk do say 
 that her husband, the late Lord de Wilsworthy 
 and de Beaumont — " 
 
 "Was what.''" cried the cellarer; "what do 
 some men say of him ?" 
 
 '' I will not tell you," said Patch, reconsider- 
 ing the matter ; " it is enough for me to tell 
 what I know, and not to repeat the talk of other 
 folk. Fool I may be, but not fool enough to 
 put my spoon into scalding porridge, and com- 
 mend it to my own lips : no, no, say what you 
 yourself know, and no harm done ; but talk of 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 HENRY DE POxMEROY. 
 
 otlier people's tellings, and you may quickly find 
 the cudgel on your own back that should be 
 bestowed on that of another."*' 
 
 " And what hast thou known, Master Patch ?'' 
 said the cellarer ; "do tell us. Talking is dry 
 work, take another cup ; you shall not drink 
 beyond the first knob ; for though we are of 
 Norman blood, in our cups we hold Saxon mea- 
 sure.* We hold it to be a wise rule thus, as 
 it were, to place water-marks to our pledges of 
 good fellowship ; showing how much may suf- 
 fice a man for necessity, how much for con- 
 viviality, and how much after labour ; and in this 
 we disdain not to follow the custom of the Saxon 
 churls.'' 
 
 " And yet thy water-marks, holy father, as thou 
 callest them," said Patch, " I will venture to say, 
 were never yet consulted for a less flowing tide 
 than that of the good red wine. In them hath 
 been laid to rest, within this abbey, even as in the 
 
 * The Saxons had knobs fixed within their cups for 
 measurement, answering to our quarts, pints, half-pints, &c.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 75 
 
 Red Sea, many an evil spirit, and none that I 
 would more willingly drown than the fiend me- 
 lancholy, of whom we talked but now. And if 
 thy water-marks be thus cheerly, thy land-marks, 
 I trust, are no less generous. How account you 
 of them, master cellarer ?" 
 
 " A quarter of a yard of beef for every man 
 at breakfast, saving on fast and fish days, and 
 all in proportion. But to thy tale, good fellow, 
 thy tale. In truth is the cup the greatest of 
 all ramblers, for it makes both the tongue and 
 the brains to wander far and wide. You were 
 but now at Wilsworthy Castle, and the subject 
 your lady — " 
 
 " Here 's a health to her,"" said Patch. " You 
 must know, then, that our Lady Alicia will 
 sometimes do very strange things : she will ab- 
 sent herself for days together from her house- 
 hold, and nobody knows whither she goes ; 
 some say on penances so secret and so severe, 
 that no mortal eye must look on them. Others 
 say she has a vow, and not a few that she has 
 
 e2
 
 76 HENRY DE POJVIEROY. 
 
 a familiar ; but that I will never believe, for 
 nobody keeps a spirit for their own torment, 
 though often to torment others ; and whatever 
 spirit our Lady Alicia may consult, it is one 
 that never brings a smile on her own face, as 
 I can witness. She was bad enough in Nor- 
 mandy, but worse since she has returned to 
 merry England." 
 
 " She should get her a good husband, a blithe 
 bachelor, some knight of renown, or lord of high 
 degree, or even squire of low degree. To live 
 alone is never well for maid or widow, unless 
 she be vowed as a spouse of holy church,"' said 
 the cellarer, crossing himself. 
 
 '' It cannot be that which grieves her,"" replied 
 Patch ; " for the sovereign king having the right 
 of wardship, by the laws of the Norman William, 
 over all widows of rank, as well as noble orphans, 
 with the power to make their marriages, and to 
 compel them to wedlock within a certain time, 
 our Lady Alicia, not liking to be so compelled, 
 paid no less a sum than a thousand pounds,
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 77 
 
 tower weight, to Henry, our late king, that 
 she might not be forced to marry till such time 
 as it might please her own fancy to do so." 
 " And did the king grant her suit ?" 
 " Ay, that he did,"' said Patch ; " and no- 
 thing loth was Henry to do so, and to clutch 
 the gold ; for it was at the time he had his war 
 of railing tongues, and hot disputes, and ban- 
 nings, and excommunications with Thomas-a- 
 Becket ; and there was nothing to be done at 
 Rome with the Pope and the cardinals, to lull 
 the storm, without money ; and so gold was 
 as welcome to the royal treasury at that time 
 as grist is to thy father's mill, Grace,'' added 
 the speaker, as he looked at the pretty wonder- 
 ing face of the miller's maid. 
 
 " And if report tells truth," observed the 
 sacrist, '' the present king, his highness King 
 Richard, was not sorry to have a like sum from 
 the Lady Alicia, in another matter of ward- 
 ship, — I mean that concerning the younger lady, 
 the blooming Adela de Marmoutier, for such, I
 
 78 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 think, is the Norman damsePs name. How went 
 that matter ? " 
 
 " Marry, thus,'' answered Patch. *' The Lady 
 Alicia had an only brother, a Norman baron of 
 great estate ; and after her husband had perished 
 in the Holy Land, she found much comfort in 
 his affection. Well, this noble baron died also, 
 as a noble baron should do, in battle ; and thus 
 was my poor lady bereft both of husband and 
 brother, with no earthly creature kindred to her 
 in blood, excepting a little child, her niece, the 
 orphan daughter of her deceased brother, and 
 sole heiress to all his castles and lands. To 
 take charge of this infant girl, my lady passed 
 over seas into Normandy, but could not settle 
 matters about her till she came back again to 
 England." 
 
 " And there was some dispute, we heard," 
 said the sacrist, " between her and our King 
 Richard concerning the wardship of the child. 
 Was it not so ?'' 
 
 " There was such a dispute about it," said
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 79 
 
 Patch, " that nothing but the king's necessity, 
 and my lady's gold could settle it. Gold and 
 necessity are two arbitrators in a quarrel, that 
 soon kiss and make peace, and so the Lady 
 Alicia paid his highness as much for the ward- 
 ship of the Lady Adela, as she had before paid 
 to his royal father to secure her own liberty for 
 widowhood or marriage: a thousand marks were 
 told down, and she forthwith stept into the king's 
 place, and became lawful guardian to her own 
 orphan niece. This done she once more passed 
 over seas into Normandy, took possession of 
 the castle of Marmoutier in the name of her 
 ward, lived there for awhile, then travelled on 
 holy pilgrimages to many a distant shrine, and 
 has at length returned to England with her 
 young charge, who is now a woman grown." 
 
 " Wisely has she done," said the cellarer, " for 
 Philippe of France, many men think, hath a 
 shrewd eye on Normandy, now that the princely 
 Richard lies like a caged lion in his cell. Phi- 
 lippe, it is thought, will stir a war there, for the
 
 80 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 mastery of the land. The Lady Alicia and her 
 fair ward are safer far in England at such a 
 time/' 
 
 The discourse had arrived at this point, when 
 it was very suddenly disturbed by a slip of a boy, 
 one of the scholars of the abbey school, who 
 acted as a sort of page to the cellarer. This lad 
 was alert and shrewd, one who delighted to 
 assist in any matter that transgressed the rules 
 of the house, for the pure pleasure of doing so, 
 and of exercising that degree of adroitness and 
 wit that is necessary to prevent detection, or to 
 frame an excuse when unavoidably detected. 
 The boy was very useful to the cellarer, and 
 had found his account in being so, especially in 
 the fruit season, or when any sports were going 
 on in the neighbourhood or the town. 
 
 He was always prying about, and, from some 
 hidden nook, had seen Grace Bolt slip in at the 
 cellarer's window. Knowing how much her pre- 
 sence within the abbey walls was contrary to 
 rule, he now came to give notice, in order, that
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 81 
 
 the coast might be cleared ; as he had just seen, 
 from one of the towers, a progress, as it was 
 called, moving along the Oakhampton road, to- 
 wards the good town of <Cavistock. By a banner 
 and the cross being carried before the chief rider, 
 with the black cloaks and white scapularies of 
 the rest, the lad was sure the progress must be 
 a body of churchmen. 
 
 ''A banner and a cross, carried before the 
 chief rider ! It must be the archdeacon, then,''' 
 exclaimed the cellarer; "what doth he here? — 
 our monastery is exempt ! Up, my lass, up, never 
 mind the pippins ; our lad, here, shall run down 
 with a basket of them presently to the mill, — 
 up, and out of the window with you, — the arch- 
 deacon is not a man to play with. He hath not 
 the absent mind of our Lord Abbot, who heeds 
 not trifles that occur around him, when he is 
 busied in his own concerns. Neither has he the 
 consideration of the prior, nor the good-nature of 
 the sub-prior. The archdeacon is as the eye of 
 the bishop, and though he be but one man, and 
 
 E 5
 
 82 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 therefore may his lordship, in respect to him, be 
 said to be one-eyed, yet this one eye of his hath 
 a piercing vision, — therefore up and away with 
 you. And you, Master-^atch, had best not lin- 
 ger. Though i/ou might have excuse, — you bear 
 a message from your mistress, or a dozen of tapers 
 or so from the noble Lady Alicia to St. Rumon's 
 shrine." 
 
 " I bear candle ends for my lady, I ! " said 
 Patch indignantly. " I would have you to know 
 such offices are performed by the varlets of our 
 house, and not by me who wear no silver collar. 
 I am a free man, and am neither serf nor thrall, 
 and moreover this is not Candlemas for the setting 
 up of lights. I shall out at the gTcat gates, even 
 as I came in at them ; and if I meet the arch- 
 deacon, I may chance to tell him, that there are 
 more fools than one who come on errands to the 
 abbey, as he may find to his cost, if he have any 
 matter to debate with Abbot Baldwin. But 
 mum for that, I will even depart." 
 
 " Do so," said the cellarer, " and now I be-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 83 
 
 think me, 'tis best you should go forth by the 
 great gates ; but you, Grace, you must once more 
 out of the window."" And without further speech 
 the good man assisted her, and she w^as soon on 
 the outside of his apartment. He stayed but to 
 charge her to slip away by the postern door ere it 
 should be locked, and not to say to any one 
 where she had been. 
 
 Having given these directions, the cellarer 
 closed the window, hurried off Patch, and, with 
 the assistance of the sacrist, cleared the tables of 
 cups and flagons ; washed his face, to cool the 
 heat of rather a copious refreshment, and went 
 forth to seek the sub-prior, to confer with him on 
 some matters of import, before the arrival of the 
 archdeacon.
 
 84 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A clerk ther was of Oxenforde also, 
 That unto logicke hadde long ago. 
 
 But all be that he was a philosophre, 
 
 Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre, 
 
 But all that he might of his frendes hente, 
 
 On bokes and on learning he it spente, 
 
 And besily gan for the soules praie, 
 
 Of them, that gave him wherewith to scolaie. 
 
 Of studie toke he moste cure and hede. 
 
 Not a word spake he more than was nede, 
 
 And that was said in form and reverence, 
 
 And short, and quicke, and ful of high sentence, 
 
 Sonning in moral vertue was his speech, 
 
 And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Abbot Baldwin, the superior of our monas- 
 tery, was of Norman blood. Though he shared 
 to the fullest extent the pride and spirit of
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 85 
 
 oppression with which the victorious Normans 
 harassed the unhappy Saxons and their aggrieved 
 descendants, yet, with more prudence than most 
 of his countrymen had displayed, he forbore to 
 express his scorn of the vanquished by those 
 outward demonstrations of contempt which are 
 so offensive to a conquered people, still smarting 
 under the yoke ; and still, with the bitterness of 
 unavailing regret, cherishing the recollection of 
 the privileges they had lost by the overthrow of 
 their fathers in their own land. 
 
 Thus, though invested with arbitrary power from 
 the high station he held in the west, Abbot Bald- 
 win was, in a great measure, acceptable both to 
 Norman and Saxon ; for if the latter remembered 
 he was of the blood of their detested conquerors, 
 they also recollected how different he was in 
 his conduct towards themselves, to the tyrannical 
 feudal barons, who frequently treated them with 
 far less consideration than they bestowed on 
 their hounds ; bought and sold them with their 
 lands, scourged, imprisoned, or hanged them as
 
 86 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 slaves and criminals, on the slightest suggestions 
 of their interest, passion, or caprice. 
 
 Abbot Baldwin had also another strong hold 
 on the goodwill of the Saxons. The school 
 denominated Saxon^ originally instituted by 
 Orgar, the founder of the abbey, and suppressed 
 in consequence of the havoc made by the Danes, 
 who burnt the sacred edifice soon after its foun- 
 dation, had been revived by Abbot Baldwin ; 
 he had even restored to it its ancient name, — 
 the Saxon School. Had the abbot given the 
 fallen Thanes, the Ceorls, the Socmen, and even 
 those of a far humbler grade, gold or precious 
 stones to console them for their poverty and 
 degradation, he w^ould not have gratified them 
 so much as he did by this simple act of restoring 
 to them their school, at so ancient and important 
 a place as the abbey of Tavistock. 
 
 The truth is, that Baldwin was a learned man ; 
 and feeling desirous to preserve in all its purity 
 the Saxon tongue, (which was more a curious
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 87 
 
 than a copious language,) to prevent its being 
 utterly lost and confounded with the jargon of 
 Norman French, then beginning to mingle itself 
 with the ancient Saxon in common conversation, 
 he determined to revive the school for the youth 
 of the conquered people, where no tongues but 
 the Latin and the pure Saxon were to be 
 taught, though the various sciences of the period 
 were to be admitted without restraint. The 
 revival of such an institution was most welcome 
 to the public; and even Norman youths were 
 not refused instruction, provided, like the less 
 favoured race, they would strictly conform to 
 the rules as well as "the learning of the school. 
 From this cause Abbot Baldwin became as popu- 
 lar with the Saxons, and, indeed, with all parties, 
 as any abbot could be, who, born in Normandy, 
 had been transferred to England, and was there 
 put over so large a body of men, and so many 
 thousand acres, with all the live stock, both 
 human and bestial upon it, at a period when
 
 88 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 slavery, witli its attendant hardsliips and in- 
 justice, was a part and parcel of the laws of 
 the land. 
 
 In his person, Abbot Baldwin was tall and 
 well formed, and had that grace about him in- 
 herent to men who are cast in Nature's finest 
 mould ; so that education seems to have little 
 to do with it ; for those whose limbs are of 
 such exact proportion in themselves, can scarcely 
 be said to move in an ungainly manner, though 
 they are strangers to the arts of discipline in 
 the training of the human frame. 
 
 The abbot had numbered nearly sixty years, 
 but as he had never known hardship nor sick- 
 ness, and was far from being one who deemed 
 person of too little consequence to require at- 
 tention, he had bestowed so much care upon 
 the preservation of his own, that he looked, as 
 very handsome men always do, when past the 
 middle age, many years younger than he really 
 was. His features were regular, and of a noble 
 cast , his forehead high, with a pair of as bright
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 89 
 
 and piercing eyes as ever shot their glances from 
 beneath cowl or hood. And we may here be 
 permitted to remark, that the hood, when worn 
 so as to throw a shade over the upper part of 
 the head, gives to it that air of grandeur and 
 awe which the partially revealed and partially 
 concealed never fails to create, a thing so poetical 
 in personal beauty, and that produces such a 
 wondrous effect in a head like Abbot Baldwin's, 
 characterised as it was by intellect and expression. 
 His mouth was finely and delicately formed ; 
 such as we very commonly see in persons of 
 high birth and the most refined education. 
 
 Though our abbot was stately in his attire 
 when he rode forth, or went into society on 
 occasions of ceremony, yet his dress in common 
 was simple ; being only distinguished from the 
 rest of the brothers by its finer material, and 
 by the precious rosary of gold and amber that 
 depended from his girdle. A crucifix, also, of 
 like metal was suspended from a gold chain 
 about his neck. For the rest, his scapular, an
 
 90 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 upper garment worn beneath the black tunic, 
 was of fine white cloth ; and over the tunic, 
 (that was girt round the middle with a leathern 
 belt,) he wore a mantle of black samite ; to 
 which was attached a cowl long and peaked: 
 this, at the pleasure of the wearer could be 
 drawn over the head and about the face, or be 
 cast back upon the shoulders, so as to leave bare 
 the shaven crown, with its fringe of short hair 
 suffered to grow round the head, just above 
 the ears, like a wreath or chaplet. Though 
 the abbot was privileged to wear a cap lined 
 with fur, Baldwin seldom did so within doors ; 
 and by the humility of his general attire, it 
 would seem as if he only adopted one of a 
 more costly nature, when he deemed it necessary 
 to the ceremonial of his high office. Common 
 eyes measure the dignity of the individual by 
 the awe inspired by his presence ; and common 
 men feel respect for the office in proportion to 
 the power which they fancy is indicated by the 
 wealth and splendour of the official.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 91 
 
 At the time we introduce Baldwin to our 
 reader, he was seated in an apartment of the abbey 
 that was not liable to intrusion ; it was called 
 the abbot's hall. The ceiling and panelling 
 were of oak ; the rafters of the former were 
 black with age and smoke ; for the huge stone 
 chimney that stood at the lower end of the 
 hall, sent, in every high wind, more than half 
 its smoke with the eddies that roared down its 
 tunnel, into the room. 
 
 On the panelling towards the upper end of 
 this apartment hung a long and narrow piece of 
 tapestry, the work of the nuns of St. MichaeFs 
 Mount in Cornwall ; of whose house the sister 
 of our abbot was the prioress. This tapestry 
 represented in worsted on cloth, the acts of 
 sundry Cornish saints of eminence ; and more 
 especially those of St. Michael. The principal 
 subject was the saints' contest with the devil for 
 the body of Moses. In it the archangel appear- 
 ed in chain mail, with the cross on his shield 
 like a crusader. And in order to paint, as they
 
 D2 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 thought, the devil a little blacker than he was 
 usually deemed to be, the godly sisters who 
 executed the work had given him, as well as 
 their simple skill could represent it, the physio- 
 gnomy of a jew ; the foul fiend''s long beard, 
 gaberdine, and yellow cap, being all characteristic 
 of that despised and unhappy race. 
 
 In this hall there was likewise a window of 
 great beauty; it terminated the room opposite 
 the dais. It was magnificent though somewhat 
 gloomy, and shed its subdued light upon the 
 pavement of glazed tiles in streams of variegated 
 colours. This, called the St. George's window, 
 was the gift of a Ferrers, a knight banneret, who 
 had been a very great benefactor to the abbey, 
 and had not confined his donations to the church 
 alone. 
 
 The window represented the acts of the warlike 
 saint and patron of England. Amongst these 
 were some with which modern times are less 
 familiar than they are with the story of his 
 killing the dragon by thrusting his lance down
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 93 
 
 the monster''s throat. Even that celebrated 
 combat was not represented in the manner in 
 which we may now not unfrequently behold it, 
 whilst swinging on a sign post before the door 
 of a house open to the public for good cheer. 
 No, in the window in question St. George was 
 made to slay his dragon in the land of Egypt, 
 whilst a king and a queen were seen looking 
 on from the top of a pyramid, their virgin 
 daughter, at a distance, chained to a pillar, 
 and attended by her little dog. This inscription 
 appeared beneath, 
 
 Hic mactat draconem. 
 
 In another compartment the saint had his 
 head cut off by a foe, and very nicely put on 
 again by the Virgin Mary. These words were 
 beneath, 
 
 Hw heata Maria resuscitat eum a tumulo. 
 
 But a window of such warlike records, more 
 suited to the chamber of a military monk or 
 knight templar than to the hall of an abbot 
 of Benedictines, was not the only indication of
 
 94 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 a warlike spirit within precincts apparently so 
 devoted to seclusion and peace. Several suits 
 of armour, some helmets and morions, with many 
 an arbaleste or cross-bow, and many a cloth-yard 
 arrow and barbed missile, with bill and hook, 
 hung in the abbot's hall ; indicating that weapons 
 were not wanting to put into the hands of his 
 yeomen, prickers, bordarii, serfs, and villains, if 
 any sudden alarm might call on the monastery 
 to arm. Indeed Tavistock Abbey had never 
 been unmindful of its defence since it was so 
 suddenly surprised and burnt by the Danes. 
 
 There was also in this chamber a few early 
 hard gothic paintings on panelling, principally con- 
 sisting of rude attempts at the portraits of the 
 founders of the abbey. Orgar, in the odour of 
 sanctity, at the gate of heaven, presenting to 
 St. Peter the abbey church of Tavistock^ which 
 he held in his hand, as he kneeled to the Apostle, 
 who, on the sight of it, opens to him the gates 
 of bliss : whilst a whole row of cherubim are
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 95 
 
 singing, piping, harping, fiddling, and ringing the 
 hand bells, to welcome him to heaven. 
 
 The picture which Abbot Baldwin presented 
 in his own person, as he sat in the hall we have 
 described, would have been a fine one for Rem- 
 brandt, had Rembrandt been then living to secure 
 it upon canvass. It was a picture calculated 
 to touch the imagination. There, within the 
 shade of the gorgeous window, and beneath a 
 carved canopy of oak, where the arches and 
 stone pillars supported a roof of gothic gloom, 
 sat, in the silence of monastic meditation. Abbot 
 Baldwin. His manly figure was striking, though 
 shrouded in the garments of a black monk. His 
 cowl thrown back, as his head leaned on his hand 
 and the arm rested on that of his chair. The 
 expression of his face was severe, thoughtful, 
 but majestic. The brow was in repose, the 
 muscles of the mouth relaxed, the eye fixed, but 
 not on outward objects ; for at that moment 
 Baldwin had neither sight nor attention but
 
 96 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 for the things within his own deep, thinking, 
 and energetic mind. 
 
 Did we continue to look upon the scene with 
 the eye of a painter, we should say it was finely 
 finished by a second figure, that, soon after we 
 opened this chapter, entered upon it and com- 
 pleted its most picturesque effect. — Baldwin, 
 striking with a wooden hammer on the table 
 before him, (which hammer he used as we now 
 do a bell, to call a domestic,) the summons was 
 answered by a youth about seventeen years old, 
 who was of a most manly aspect. 
 
 His limbs though slight were muscular; and 
 the dress he wore, that of a Saxon boy, seemed 
 well calculated to show to advantage his tall 
 and handsome person. He was attired in a tunic 
 of red woollen cloth, which descended to the 
 knees, and had long close sleeves. The throat 
 was bare. The tunic was bound round the 
 waist by a girdle, or, as it was called in the Saxon, 
 a rooc^ beautifully embroidered with a running 
 pattern of flowers and birds in silks of divers
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 97 
 
 colours. His hrech or hosen scarcely reached 
 the knee, and on his legs he had the scin hosen^ 
 or stockings formed of leather; over these a socca, 
 consisting of bandages of red cloth, that united 
 to a stout leathern sole, crossed the foot and legs 
 up to the knees in the same way as to this day, 
 we see Highlanders wear red-crossed stockings ; 
 a fashion concerning which we hesitate not to 
 venture the opinion that it is nothing less than 
 a remnant of this ancient Socca, or Scancberg of 
 the Saxons. 
 
 Over his shoulders the youth wore a short 
 mantle, like the Roman Pallium, that fastened 
 at the shoulders by a fula or brooch of wrought 
 silver. On his wrists he had bracelets of carved 
 ivory and silver ; a collar of the same description 
 was about his throat, and from it depended a 
 Bulla or amulet, or charmed gem, (a piece of 
 superstition long retained by his people,) that 
 was formed of an engraved amethyst. It bore 
 upon it the head of St. Luke. The charm in 
 the present instance was worn to keep off leprosy' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 &S HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 a disease then gaining ground in Europe, having 
 been originally brought into its several countries 
 from the East by the Crusaders, who frequently 
 brought home nothing else from the holy wars. 
 The dress, "which from its curiosity, as well as 
 its antiquity, we have here described at full to 
 tlie reader, was long retained by the Saxons, who, 
 even in their outward attire, were very long before 
 they would adopt the fashions of the Normans. 
 It was the common habit of civilians amongst that 
 people, more or less costly, according to the 
 material of which it was composed, and the or- 
 naments and jewels by which it was enriched. 
 
 The wearer of the garments we have noticed, 
 was a Saxon youth of more than ordinary pre- 
 tensions ; but not in fortune, for he was poor, 
 the fatherless son of a degraded thane, degraded 
 because that thane had taken part in some matter 
 of a public nature against the Norman rulers of 
 the land. But Csedmon the fatherless (for so 
 was this youth called), had merit of a personal 
 kind more than sufficient to counterbalance the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 99 
 
 hardships of his fortune. He had distinguished 
 himself so much at the Saxon school, in the 
 sciences as well as in the languages there taught, 
 that he was a favourite with the Lord Abbot, 
 who, delighting in the handsome appearance of 
 those about him, allowed Csedmon the rich habit 
 we have described, and promoted him not only 
 to the honour of wielding a pen, of writing and 
 illuminating manuscripts in the Scriptorium, but 
 to that of being his own principal secretary, 
 minstrel, and page : and we must here remark, 
 that in all the great monasteries of the period, 
 the sons of the noblest born among the novices 
 or scholars were usually selected as pages of the 
 abbot. 
 
 In his person Csedmon was graceful. His 
 countenance open, frank, and manly. His com- 
 plexion retained its natural fairness, for as he 
 had been closely kept to the pursuits of the 
 scholar, he had not shared much in those exercises 
 common to the youth of his time, though he 
 dearly loved the sports of the field whenever he 
 
 f2
 
 100 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 could on any rare occasion be permitted to in- 
 dulge in them. Csedmon had the large blue eye 
 and the light yellow hair for which the Saxons 
 were so celebrated ; and that eye could become 
 brilliant and sparkling in moments of strong 
 emotion ; and when circumstances connected with 
 the aiFections called forth the finer feelings of his 
 heart, its expression was no less animated than 
 tender. 
 
 '' Benedicite," said the abbot, as Csedmon, 
 bowing reverently, stood before him with a re- 
 spectful air, holding in his hands a bundle of 
 newly written parchments. " Optatus advenis,'"* 
 continued the abbot. " Quid libellorum est in 
 manibus ?'''' 
 
 " Lectionem in linguam vernaculam translatu- 
 rus sum," replied Csedmon. 
 
 ^'Egotein in genii palsestram et arenam in- 
 ducam,"" said the abbot. 
 
 " Nullum ego tribunal recuse,'" answered Caed- 
 mon, modestly, but without hesitation ; and the 
 abbot accordingly proceeded to put to this
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 101 
 
 his favourite boy of the school, sundry questions 
 respecting the studies and scholarship of the 
 class ; with which some of our readers, notwith- 
 standing the universal education of these days, 
 would be very little edified, did we follow it 
 up in the monkish Latin dialogue in which the 
 discussion was carried on ; now and then mixed 
 with the Lingua Franca of the period, and even 
 with good old Saxon, a tongue with which our 
 Abbot was well acquainted. 
 
 During the twelfth century the subtleties of 
 the Aristotelian logic were a most favourite study. 
 But the Abbot of Tavistock, like John of Salis- 
 bury and Alan de Lisle, liked not that abuse 
 of the cultivation of the reasoning powers which 
 had become a perfect mania in many of the 
 then existing schools. Indeed sophistry and 
 quibbling had risen to such a height, that as 
 the clergy were in those days the clerks or lawyers 
 of the country, the present ingenious gentlemen 
 of the wig and gown, and the more dangerous 
 part of the profession, (in a few instances, the
 
 102 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 very sparrow-hawks of it,) the attorneys, may 
 lay claim to the canon lawyers of the twelfth 
 century as the fathers, grandfathers, and origina- 
 tors of the nicest arts of subtlety and evasion : 
 those arts which by quibbling, by going the 
 roundabout way through all the labyrinth of 
 cross pleas, like cross roads, appeals, writs of 
 error, &c. &c., may, by good management, keep 
 a client in an excellent march and counter march 
 in pursuit of justice, instead of bringing him 
 point-blank to the mark, and at once settling 
 the matter. That witty Spaniard was no fool 
 who said that many a lawyer defends his client 
 as seamen do their ship in a storm, throwing over- 
 board all they have, that, if it be God's will, they 
 may be brought into port — empty. 
 
 To return to our abbot. 
 
 " And what hath Radulphus the logician, 
 taught in the schools to-day, Csedmon ?" he 
 continued ; " somewhat more, I trow, of that 
 close and abstruse method, to which I am no 
 friend."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 103 
 
 '* The subject of to-day's inquiry, most holy 
 father,"" replied Csedmon ; " proposed by Radul- 
 phus for discussion, was on the substantial form of 
 sounds. There was a very hot debate between 
 him and Father Albertus on this matter; that 
 Albertus, I mean, who is come to teach the 
 singing novices counter point in the song school." 
 
 "• And how like you, Ctedmon, the subtleties 
 of these teachers ? " 
 
 " Oh ! how cold do all such studies appear 
 to me, when compared to the divine arts of 
 poetry and music I " replied the Saxon youth ; 
 " it is when I sing to my harp the poetry that 
 has been inspired in my thoughts by the sight of 
 nature, that I can forget all the griefs of this 
 world : then do I seem to soar above them on 
 a spirit's wing/' 
 
 " To become a good poet thyself, Csedmon,"' 
 said the abbot, " thou shouldest study the 
 works of the best poets. Hast thou seen the 
 Antioches of Joseph of Exeter ? a poem wherein 
 he makes the Croisade the subject. It will be an
 
 104 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 admirable exercise for thee, to render it into 
 the Saxon tongue ; though we like the Latinity 
 of Joseph better than we do his hero, our 
 King Richard.*" 
 
 " I have seen it, my lord," answered Caedmon ; 
 " but to my thinking, it lacks the essence of true 
 poetry in those parts wherein Joseph describes 
 the face of nature. Had he wandered over 
 our hills as I have done, as the early day rises 
 slowly from his bed of fleecy clouds, whilst our 
 brightening rivers lift up their many voices, and 
 the lark sings her shrill song, as chanticleer 
 sounds the bugle note of morning to the cotter's 
 ear, and calls him from his slumbers to labour 
 in the field ; — had the poet of Exeter studied 
 these things in themselves, he would have better 
 known how to sing of their delights. For my 
 own part, I never look on the face of nature, at the 
 morning or the evening hour, but my soul is 
 on fire to sing her praise." Csedmon's eye 
 dilated and flashed, as, with spirits raised to en-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 105 
 
 tliusiasm by youth and the love of song, he 
 thus gave utterance to his feeling. 
 
 The abbot saw this, and said in a tone of 
 friendly admonition, — " My son, forget not in 
 this ardent love for the gentle craft of the min- 
 strel, that poetry is but as the gems or ornaments 
 of human knowledge ; whilst solid learning and 
 moral philosophy are as her garments for summer 
 and winter use, no less serviceable in the genial 
 days of prosperity, than comfortable and sustain- 
 ing in those of adversity. Cultivate ethics, there- 
 fore, my son, second only in excellence to the 
 study of the canon law, and that of obedience to 
 the church, which is obedience to God, for we 
 may never forget — Veritas a quocunque dicitur, 
 a Deo est." 
 
 The abbot was here interrupted in his dis- 
 course vvith his favourite, by the blast of a horn. 
 Thrice it rang through the old walls of the 
 monastery. 
 
 "Go to the tower at the end of the dortor," 
 
 F 5
 
 106 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 said the abbot, addressing Caedmon, " the tower 
 which overlooks the great gates, and tell me 
 who it is that comes. That horn had a blast 
 with it that might be heard to the very summit 
 of the hills;' 
 
 Csedmon obeyed and soon returned. 
 
 *' It is the archdeacon and his train who come, 
 may it please you, my lord,"*"* said the Saxon. 
 " He bears the banner of the bishop, my lord 
 of Exeter." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the abbot, " from Exeter, 
 and to our house ! We hold our monastery 
 exempt. What can make this man so bold 
 to come hither with his state ? Had he come 
 to our poor abbey on his own account, he should 
 have been welcome ; but we admit not the 
 authority of the diocesan here, and, therefore, 
 we will not yield to it. Csedmon, dost thou 
 know this man ? " 
 
 " No, my lord, I know him only by repute, 
 but men speak fairly of him, and say he is one 
 who investigates to discover honesty, truth, and
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 107 
 
 justice. He is the very eye of the bishop, who 
 receives from him all the light he gathers re- 
 specting the monasteries of his diocese in the 
 west." 
 
 " It shall not serve him to look into our 
 concerns, Cseclmon," said the abbot. " Yon 
 say you do not know him. I will teach you, 
 then, what he is ; — a wily subtle Norman, one 
 who took part with the late king against Thomas- 
 a-Becket, a supporter of the constitutions of 
 Clarendon — which that primate opposed — giving 
 up to laymen the power of administering the 
 laws in the punishment of offences committed 
 by the clergy. Such a yielding of the spiritual 
 to the temporal power was not to be endured, 
 for the honour or the independence of the church. 
 Becket suffered exile, misery, strife, — yea, death ! 
 rather than yield the point ; and here stands one, 
 though of the church's humblest servants, who 
 would be as bold, — one who, if he may not 
 emulate Becket in greater things, would, at 
 least, follow in his steps in the courage to
 
 108 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 suffer as he suffered, to die as he died, for 
 the independence of his office and of his mo- 
 nastery. By the holy bones of St. Thomas, I 
 feel my spirit mount to a yet stronger reso- 
 lution, when I do but name his martyrdom. 
 Cffidmon ! " 
 
 " My lord." 
 
 " We will meet this archdeacon ; we will 
 entertain him with all courtesy, but we will 
 confer with him in no place save the chapter. 
 We will have no private tutoring here, no pro- 
 posals for our ear in the locutory, with another 
 manner of argument for us in the assembly of 
 our brethren.''*' 
 
 " You will not meet the archdeacon then, 
 » holy father, till you do so in the chapter ?"' said 
 Csedmon. 
 
 " I said not so," replied the abbot ; " he shall 
 have all hospitable greeting ; our house must 
 not be wanting in its duty to a wayfarer ; but 
 we will have no private conference with this 
 man, this Alberic the Norman, once of the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 109 
 
 Abbey of Le Bee. Well do we know him, — 
 a very subtle man, of wliom it may be said, 
 as Sallust said of Catiline, cujuslibet rei simu- 
 lator atque dissimulator, we will not trust him. 
 He the bishop's eye ! he a searcher after truth ! 
 why, I tell thee, Csedmon, he is but as the tool 
 of men in power — a very cameleon ; for whatever 
 colour the bishop may take, that doth he become 
 on the instant. Every Bishop of Exeter is with 
 him the perfection of man and churchman ; and 
 the last ever the best." 
 
 " Will you, my lord, be pleased to feast him 
 in the guest chamber or in the refectory ? I 
 must give notice of your pleasure to the cel- 
 larer." 
 
 " Oh ! in the refectory," replied the abbot. 
 *' Our investigator after rule shall see that we 
 keep rule. And hark thee, Csedmon, who lec< 
 tures to-day at the refection ?" 
 
 " I do, my lord." 
 
 " Well, then, do thou give us that piece, 
 Csedmon, which thou hast penned for the history
 
 110 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of our abbey, taken from our records, the founda- 
 tion of our house by Orgar : the archdeacon 
 shall see we lack not scholars here. And, hark 
 thee, charge the cellarer to be punctual in the 
 performance of his duty on ourself ; we will 
 not abate an atom of our privileges. Let him 
 suffer no one to sit till we are seated ; let him 
 give but half a sextary of wine to any brother 
 who asks for beverage at dinner ; and bid the 
 cup-bearers be ready to attend on their abbot 
 at the table : we may not slight ceremony to- 
 wards our person as superior of this house, at 
 a time when there are those who would pass 
 on us an authority that we deny. Go, therefore, 
 Csedmon, look diligently after these matters, and 
 bid the vestiarius attend upon us in our cham- 
 ber. We will change these mean garments for 
 robes of more state. Yet, Ceedmon, these are 
 but outward things ; we should robe ourself 
 rather in the mantle of righteousness and of sim- 
 plicity, and trust the rest to Heaven, for all 
 these indignities may but be aimed at us for our
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. Ill 
 
 spiritual good, since they are but among those 
 changes and variations of fortune that wean holy 
 men from the world. Yet this archdeacon, — it 
 were good for his soul's sake to humble his pride ! 
 He visit here to look after our abbey ! — our rule ! 
 — but I will be patient," 
 
 Having thus vented his spleen against the un- 
 fortunate archdeacon, Abbot Baldwin went to 
 prepare for his reception, which he intended to 
 make as tedious by ceremonies as he could possi- 
 bly render it. In the mean time we must retro- 
 grade a little, and state some matters which 
 occurred at the abbey just before the archdeacon 
 reached its gates.
 
 112 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. . 
 
 The garden was by measuring 
 Right even and square in compassing, 
 It was as long as it was large, 
 Of fruit had every tree his charge. 
 There were, and that wote T full well, 
 Of pomegranettcs a full great dele. 
 
 -X- * * * * 
 
 These trees were set, that I devise, 
 One from another in assise 
 Five fadome or sixe, I trowe so. 
 But they were high, and great also. 
 And for to keepen out well the sunne. 
 The croppes were so thicke irunne, 
 That every hraunche in other knitte. 
 And full of green leaves sitte. 
 That sunne might there none descend, 
 Lest the tender grasses shend. 
 
 The Romaunt of' the Rose. 
 
 Trust not two things, says the old proverb, 
 a calm sea and a woman^s curiosity. We appre-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 113 
 
 hend that, good girl as Grace Bolt really was, 
 it would have been more prudent in the cellarer, 
 when he dismissed her, instead of receiving her 
 assurances only to leave the abbey by the postern 
 door, had he fairly seen her off the premises 
 himself; for it so chanced that, not very far 
 from the postern in question, by following the 
 path under the wall, a private way was to be 
 found that led direct into my Lord Abbot's garden. 
 
 Grace had not been in it since she was a little 
 child, when the late abbot would sometimes take 
 her there himself, and, leading her by the hand, 
 would walk up and down one of the shady alleys 
 of the holly and the sycamore, and would listen 
 to her prattle. 
 
 What now possessed her, and under circum- 
 stances so pressing, to think of peeping into 
 the garden, we cannot say, since we are not 
 sufficiently masters of the philosophy of the hu- 
 man mind to be able to account for all the 
 freaks that will often excite the fancy and over- 
 rule the will of a pretty, petted, and spoilt
 
 114 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 girl of eighteen. Perhaps the idea of visiting 
 the spot was at this moment simply suggested 
 to her by seeing the little private door that led 
 to it standing most invitingly open, and no 
 one within sight. The garden being more es- 
 pecially the abbot's, the cellarer had never allowed 
 her to trespass within its bounds since she had 
 become old enough to fall under the clause of 
 prohibited goods at the monastery. And ever 
 since she was forbidden she felt the strongest 
 wish to see the place. Yet, recollecting the 
 cellarer's admonition on the subject, it was not 
 without a struggle between her curiosity and 
 her conscience, (something like that between 
 Master Launcelot and his internal monitor, when 
 he meditated showing a clean pair of heels to 
 the Jew, and running away from old Shylock 
 to a new master,) that Grace now resolved to 
 satisfy at once her idle fancy by entering the 
 forbidden ground. 
 
 No sooner had she done so, and passed within 
 its first bounds, than she kept close in the long
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 115 
 
 walk, under the abbey walls, for greater security. 
 The walk was thickly set, on the wall side, with 
 a clothing of ivy, and on the other, by a tall 
 row of sycamores, planted very nigh to each other. 
 This long avenue, for such it was, extended as 
 far as the last of the stew ponds that lay at 
 the end of the wall. By peeping through the 
 holes of the trees, Grace saw the gay flower- 
 beds, the terraces, the fruits, the gothic pleasure 
 house, and all the delights of my Lord Abbot's 
 garden, and more especially was she struck with 
 the grand appearance of the old stone cross that 
 stood in the very centre, and the pond and the 
 old willow, drooping its branches into the waters 
 about which she had heard tell the wildest tale 
 of superstition. 
 
 On these, and many more such things did 
 Grace now look with eager and wondering eyes. 
 She would have liked very well to have helped 
 herself to a little fruit, for though the cellarer was 
 bountiful to her in this respect, there is always 
 something iadescribably sweet to the young in
 
 116 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 picking for themselves. But she would not ven- 
 ture out of the shade of the trees, for fear of being 
 seen from the monastery windows. At length, 
 satisfied with gazing, she thought of making her 
 retreat, when a pretty little bird that flew down 
 from its nest among the ivy, attracted her eye. 
 It was a robin — a robin, that most bold of birds, 
 most fighting, as well as most familiar. It came 
 so near Grace, now with its stiff and straight 
 legs hopping on before her, then just rising 
 and flitting aside to a bush or bough, then again 
 brushing its wing on the ground, and still on 
 the flutter, and still seeming to invite her on- 
 ward, that she, girl-like, followed too far, in 
 the hope to see where the nest might be. But 
 ere she could discover the retreat of this pretty 
 pecksy in search of his flapsy, what was her 
 dismay in perceiving through the boles of the 
 trees, the sub-prior. Sir Simon, the curate of 
 the parish, and the cellarer himself coming to- 
 wards the long walk in which she had hoped 
 to be concealed. She stayed to see no more,
 
 HENRY DE POiMEROY. 117 
 
 but with the foot of a fawn ran in all haste 
 to the postern. But what again was her con- 
 sternation on finding the door locked ! She knew 
 not where to go, till, recollecting she had observed 
 the door of the still house to be open, (the still 
 house was a tower situated in the boundary 
 wall by the Tavy side without^ and flanked 
 within by the long walk of the garden,) she 
 resolved there to seek shelter, in the forlorn hope 
 that she might not be detected. She reached 
 it in safety, ascended at once the outside steps, 
 and got into the upper apartment, a place very 
 seldom visited excepting by the monks, who 
 there distilled their medicines and sweet waters 
 before breakfast, for every Benedictine abbey 
 had a school for medicine within its walls. In 
 this apartment there were two narrow windows ; 
 Grace went to that which overlooked the river 
 in the direction towards the old stone bridge. 
 
 The miller'*s maid peeped cautiously through 
 the lattice, where her eyes were speedily gra- 
 tified with a sight that all the town, men, women,
 
 118 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 and cliildren, seemed to be running out to wit- 
 ness, — the progress of the archdeacon. It was 
 evident that he was engaged on some mission 
 from the bishop, as he came in state. She saw 
 the whole procession, but she liked it not so well 
 as the siffhts she had seen at the octaves of 
 Easter, at the fairs, and rustic sports of May- 
 day. 
 
 First came a knight and two esquires, each 
 armed and mounted, and followed by six archers 
 in their short tunics and steel caps, for there 
 were too many bands of outlaws and thieves at 
 this period in England to make the roads safe 
 for a journey of any distance without a guard. 
 Then came a mounted priest bearing a banner, 
 on which was embroidered a mitre, and beneath 
 a crosier crossed by a key of gold. After the 
 banner bearer, came another ecclesiastic, also 
 mounted, and carrying aloft a cross. Then fol- 
 lowed the archdeacon himself, well hooded and 
 furred, and seated on a palfrey, whose housings 
 were plain and without embroidery, for he was
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 119 
 
 a man of no pomp in his equipage, beyond what 
 might be absolutely necessary for the occasion 
 on which he moved. He was attended by his 
 chaplains and train, each man being attired in 
 a black frock and white scapulary, and each hav- 
 ing his head well protected with a thick furred 
 hood. The progress was closed by six more 
 archers and a waggon, for there being no good 
 monastery on the road between Exeter and Ta- 
 vistock, the archdeacon had travelled with all 
 necessaries and comforts about him. He had 
 also a couple of pack horses and a sumpter mule ; 
 the former carried his mail trunks, and the latter 
 the especial services of plate for his table, his 
 breviaries, his chalices, and his priest's cope. On 
 the top of the sumpter mule, agreeably to the 
 singular fashion of the time, sat an ape, dressed 
 in scarlet and silver. All the animals of burthen 
 had their heads gaily set off with ribands and 
 silver bells, and a stout mastiff was tethered 
 to the back part of the waggon by a long chain, 
 so that he kept a post of very useful watch
 
 120 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 and guard over the viands and the comforts of 
 the party. 
 
 Having seen the procession clear the bridge, 
 Grace knew that in ten minutes it would be 
 passing Avithin the monastery's gates. Not doubt- 
 ing, therefore, the holy men she had espied in 
 the garden were by this time gone forth to 
 meet it, she once more ventured from her hiding- 
 place, her intent being to steal round the house 
 and endeavour to gain speech with one of the 
 scholars, to whom she knew she could with safety 
 impart her trespass, and from whom she might 
 seek aid for her deliverance. But in this plan 
 she was also thwarted. No sooner had she reach- 
 ed the last of the tower steps, than she again 
 caught sight of the three individuals who had 
 before so much alarmed her. There was no 
 time for consideration, for they were coming to- 
 wards the very spot where she stood ; only the 
 boughs of a large old tree that drooped over 
 her head, at this moment concealed her. As 
 her last chance, she now, therefore, slipped into
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 121 
 
 the lower or ground floor of the still house, and 
 hid herself behind its half open door. 
 
 But cross purposes, like misfortunes, never 
 come alone. How it happened we cannot exactly 
 tell ; yet true it is, just as the sub-prior was 
 answering some remark of Sir Simon the curate, 
 they all three walked up to the still house. 
 
 " Never tell me," quoth the sub-prior ; " of 
 the archdeacon coming to look after the keep- 
 ing of rule within our house, by order of the 
 bishop. Why there is no house of Benedictines 
 within the realm, where stricter order is taken 
 with all within its walls. Canonical rule never 
 forgotten ; Lauds, Prime and Tierce always sung. 
 Not a fast neglected, no capons and fat swans 
 allowed in Lent. No leaving an empty refec- 
 tory that the brothers may regale, contrary to 
 rule, in their own cells. No want of rods 
 and disciplines, as the precentor can witness, who 
 makes his regular supply of the new, as the 
 boys make a bonfire of the old, the week before 
 Ash Wednesday. No want of hair shirts here : 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 no babbling at compline. After that hour, our 
 silence, Sir Simon, is so absolute, that it would 
 be difficult to say if some of our brethren were 
 dozing or meditating on holy things : and, then, 
 for the sanctity of the brotherhood, they will 
 not even endanger their eyes, far less their 
 thoughts. We admit no temptations here ; shun 
 them. Fly the devil is our rule ; and so, not so 
 much as even the petticoat of a woman is admit- 
 ted within our walls ; save by my Lord Abbot, 
 who sees ladies of estate in the locutory ; or 
 poor old women at the alms gate or in the 
 cloisters. In good sooth. Sir Simon, my Lord 
 Abbot holds all the sex safest at a distance, 
 be the age of the individual what it may. So 
 that he encourages not the old w^omen to come 
 too often to the Maundy, when he washes the 
 feet of the poor on holy Thursday, in the 
 church porch. The gossips, however, like not 
 the restriction ; for, truth to tell, they felt their 
 pride mightily gratified in the late abbot Walter's 
 time, (good man, peace be to his soul !) by having
 
 HENRY dp: pomeroy. 123 
 
 such a personage to wash their feet ; and so "'twas 
 their custom not to suffer them to be touched for 
 many a week before the Maundy, but to reserve 
 their perfect ablution for my Lord Abbot's own 
 hands.'"* 
 
 This was the longest speech the sub-prior had 
 ever made, but he was warm in defence of his 
 abbey ; and though Sir Simon essayed to speak 
 he would not let him, but summed up all, like 
 an advocate, in these words, by way of peroration. 
 " No, no, Sir Curate, we admit no women here, 
 for did we find one within these walls, knowing 
 she could never come where there is such dis- 
 cipline, unless it were by gramery, and for evil 
 intents, we should immediately seize upon her, 
 scourge her for a wanton, make her stand in a 
 white sheet for a harlot, and, may be, burn her 
 for a witch.'' 
 
 Grace Bolt, who stood behind the half-opened 
 door, trembling, fearing, panting like a hunted 
 hare, on hearing these threats proceed from the 
 mouth of the sub-prior, and knowing that in 
 another instant she should be detected, in her 
 
 g2
 
 124 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 panic rushed from the tower, threw herself on her 
 knees at the feet of the cellarer, and begged 
 brother Thomas for our Lady's sake, to save her, 
 to bear witness to her innocence, that she was 
 no harlot, no witch, that she might not be burnt 
 alive ; and, speaking as well as she could between 
 her sobs, that she had only slipt in at the window 
 of his cell, by his own invitation, on that blessed 
 morning, and entirely to please him. Here 
 Grace stopped in her voluntary confession, not 
 for want of matter, but for want of breath. 
 
 How shall we describe the scene that followed ? 
 The astonishment of the sub-prior, the rage of 
 the curate, (for Grace Bolt was one of his parish 
 and of his own flock,) and the utter surprise 
 and dismay of the cellarer. For a few moments, 
 all carried on a discourse of looks, wonder being 
 the predominant feeling with each ; but this 
 could not last. Had there been no one present 
 but the sub-prior, the cellarer would not have 
 cared a rush for the matter, in being thus caught. 
 For had the sub-prior thought proper to be a
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 125 
 
 little angry on the occasion, he must soon have 
 been reconciled to the cellarer, on the same 
 excellent principle that makes Peachem and Lock- 
 itt friends in the Beggar's Opera; namely, be- 
 cause one could hang the other, did it come to a 
 matter of detection. But the curate of the 
 parish, Sir Simon, was present, and that altogether 
 altered the nature of the case. 
 
 Sir Simon, like most of his brothers among 
 the secular clergy, looked with a jealous eye, 
 from out his poor manse, on the comforts and 
 enjoyments of the monks in their more costly 
 abbey ; and delighted to have a hole to pick 
 in their coats, and to detect any one of their 
 frailties, in order that he might chuckle over 
 it, as he sat at laymens' boards, and did, what 
 a single man could do, to fight a thousand, for 
 in number the monks of Tavistock Abbey were 
 no less strong. To have him present, therefore, 
 to witness this shame, was not to be thought 
 of by the worthy sub-prior with any degree of 
 patience ; and yet, not wishing to run the risk
 
 126 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of offending and irritating the feelings of the 
 cellarer, he felt that he had a very nice part to 
 play at such a crisis. He paused a moment, 
 therefore, to consider how to proceed. But 
 not a little was the sub-prior's embarrassment 
 increased, when he looked on the curate, and 
 beheld the strange commotion that seemed to war 
 within his breast. 
 
 Sir Simon's large goggle eyes appeared to flame 
 up with passion, like a couple of torches or 
 lighted brands ; his lips quivered, his chest 
 heaved, he pressed his teeth together as if to 
 keep in the rage that was ready to fly out, like 
 the hot steam of a boiling caldron. At length he 
 stammered forth in a voice sharpened to the 
 keenest pitch of bitterness, — " You Thomas the 
 cellarer, you have drawn astray one of my flock ; 
 you have been the wolf to steal into my fold ; 
 you have robbed me of my choicest lamb ; you 
 have outraged all my feelings, that is, I mean, my 
 feelings for holy mother Church ; for I am here in 
 right of her cure, and all the souls and bodies
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 127 
 
 in the parish are given to me. And to me shall 
 you answer for one lamb that is led astray. The 
 bishop himself shall hear of this ; I will prefer 
 my complaint against you to the archdeacon ; I 
 will make you stand to your account ; will you or 
 nill you, you shall answer it." 
 
 ''I am answerable to none, but my Lord 
 Abbot," said the cellarer stoutly ; " and I have 
 done no ill. Speak ! Grace, speak, what harm 
 has come to you for being in my cell this morn- 
 ing ; what did I give you when you came there ? '' 
 '' Cherries and apples," sobbed out Grace Bolt, 
 not daring to move from her kneeling position. 
 
 "Apples!" echoed Sir Simon; "apples! 
 Holy Mary protect us ! the very temptation of 
 Eve, the very wile of the serpent ! To tempt a 
 silly girl like that, with apples ! and then to cry, no 
 harm done ! How do I know but that they may 
 have been the apples of the dead sea, which some 
 of our reckless Crusaders bring from the East ; 
 fair outside, full of rottenness within. She mxay 
 by eating them have sold herself to the devil.
 
 128 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 for aught I know ; and then how am I to answer 
 for the lost sheep of my fold ? " 
 
 '' Brother, brother,**" said the sub-prior, in a 
 conciliatory voice, " let me pray you not to make 
 a brawl of this matter ; for though you, Sir 
 Simon, are secular and we conventual, yet are we 
 both men of holy church ; therefore would I 
 counsel peace, forbearance, and brotherly love."''* 
 
 " There hath been too much of it, I fear, for a 
 sister," said Sir Simon, with a sneer ; "I marvel 
 you so excuse him."*"* 
 
 " I excuse him not," replied the sub-prior ; 
 *' mistake me not, good Sir Simon, I only pity 
 him : truly apprehending that all this may after 
 all arise from a snare of the enemy. We know 
 how potent he can be. He may have whispered 
 to our brother here, that apples were innocent 
 things. We do not say they are so ; Holy St. 
 Bennet forbid that we should call that innocent 
 which lost our first parents Paradise. But the 
 cellarer hath done her no wrong." 
 
 " I know not that,"" said Sir Simon. " To
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 129 
 
 entice her tliitlier, I hold to be as foul an act 
 as was the sin of King David, when he laid a 
 snare for the undoing of Queen Bathsheba, as 
 he looked upon her from the housetop.'' 
 
 The cellarer held up his hands in wonder, as 
 well he might, at the hearing of such a charge. 
 
 " Nay, Sir Simon, nay," said the sub-prior, 
 " there you go too far. Such a charge cannot 
 be made within reason. Not that we would 
 altogether excuse Thomas the cellarer, though 
 we do in some measure excuse him, always 
 supposing he has acted under the delusion of the 
 enemy; therefore I, being sub-prior, and not 
 choosing to trouble the Lord Abbot in this 
 matter, I do herewith enjoin a penance on him 
 for the breaking of rule, which shall be sufficient 
 for his repentance and amendment. Brother 
 Thomas, I recommend you to sing this day before 
 you sleep, the seven penitential psalms; and 
 furthermore to humble your human pride, which 
 may have had some influence over your will to 
 induce this lapse of rule, possibly whispering to 
 
 G 5
 
 130 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 you that you were comely and portly in the sight 
 of this silly wench, — to humble, I say, your human 
 pride, I recommend you, also, as an act of de- 
 gradation in penance, to assist this very day in 
 the hospitaler — to assist by there receiving the 
 newly arrived guests, and by drawing off their 
 boots and socks, to ease them after their journey, 
 and putting on their feet the taleaparia, or old 
 shoes. And should any further or voluntary 
 motion of penance occur to your own mind, you 
 can, good brother, call in at the confessional, 
 after compline, and confer with me respecting the 
 same." 
 
 A sly glance of grave good-humour which ac- 
 companied these last words, intimated to the 
 cellarer how much of this speech was made to 
 save appearances, and how much to exact obedi- 
 ence. Grace Bolt being twitted by brother Tho- 
 mas for speaking before she was spoken to, and, 
 by so doing, making a great coil about a little 
 matter ; receiving, also, a moderate scolding from 
 the sub-prior for the present, and the promise of
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 131 
 
 one far more severe by and by from Sir Simon 
 himself, was finally dismissed, and hurried off as 
 privately as could be, not only from the garden 
 of my Lord Abbot, but from the abbey's bounds 
 to its outmost wall.
 
 132 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Love it is an hateful peace 
 A free acquittance without release, 
 And through the fret full of falseheed, 
 A sikernesse all set in drede 
 In herte is a despairing hope. 
 And full of hope, it is wanhope, 
 * * * 
 
 For none is of so mokell prise, 
 Ne no man founden so wise, 
 Ne none so high of parage, 
 Ne no man found of witte so sage, 
 No man so hardie ne so wight, 
 Ne no man of so mokell might. 
 None so fulfilled of bountie. 
 That he with love may daunted he ; 
 All the world holdetli this say, 
 Love maketh all to gone misway. 
 
 Romaunt of the Rose. 
 
 When Sir Simon, the curate, quitted the 
 monastery, he was too much heated with the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 133 
 
 fumes of anger and jealousy to be capable of 
 cool reflection. The offence, therefore, of the 
 cellarer, in respect to Grace Bolt, appeared before 
 his imagination in the most false and exaggerated 
 colours. But thinking the detection of the girl 
 herself gave him an advantage over her hitherto 
 obdurate spirit, which he had long desired to pos- 
 sess, he determined not to lose the occasion, but 
 to go forthwith to the dwelling of Grace, in the 
 somewhat singular and contradictory characters of 
 an amorous suitor, and an offended pastor to the 
 strayed but still precious lamb of his flock. 
 
 Now let not the reader be shocked at this 
 assertion, for Sir Simon meant no harm to Grace ; 
 for " all he did, he did in honour,'" with a little 
 policy to boot the more readily to help the work. 
 The truth is, he had long looked towards her with 
 an eye of affection, and purposed making her his 
 own in an honest way, by making her his wife. 
 In order to explain this to our readers, we 
 - must first tell them, that so long did the English 
 secular clergj/ continue to marry, it was not till
 
 134 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 some years after the date of our narrative that 
 their doing it was altogether, as a crying sin, 
 rooted out of the land. 
 
 In the early part of the twelfth century, during 
 the archbishopric of Anselm, the severest canons 
 had been made in the councils of Westminster 
 against the marriage of the clergy. But these 
 were so indifferently observed, that others of a 
 yet more severe nature were enacted, whereby all 
 priests were enjoined to put away their wives, 
 and never after to see or speak with them, except 
 on occasions of great necessity, in the presence of 
 two or more witnesses. These laws, however, 
 being found insufficient to prevent the supposed 
 offence, the Church turned her fury principally 
 against the women, as the weaker party concerned 
 in the crime, and therefore the more easily to be 
 subdued : consequently, any woman who should 
 be induced to commit the offence of marrying a 
 secular priest became subject to punishment, the 
 same as an adulteress ; no difference was made, 
 no mitigation. But feelings of natural affection
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 135 
 
 were stronger than all the canons instituted for 
 their suppression ; and so much did the clergy 
 continue to marry, that at last the Church, des- 
 pairing by her own authority to prevent the evil, 
 insisted on the king's putting in force the laws 
 against it. The monarch, however, who was ex- 
 pected to enforce these severe penalties, (Henry 
 the Second,) was, perhaps, too conscious of his 
 own frailties in respect to the weaker sex, to feel 
 much interest in the matter of their chastisement. 
 And not liking, may be, to be too hard upon 
 those whom God had joined together in matri- 
 mony, if holy or unholy, and at the same time 
 not altogether wishing to be at cross purposes 
 with the Church, he went exactly half way between 
 both parties ; and thinking that a good sum paid 
 down, as we now pay an impost on forbidden 
 goods, would satisfy canonical justice, and put 
 the loves of husbands to the test, (as all priests 
 were at liberty to put away their wives if they 
 did not choose to pay for them,) he contented 
 himself with laying a round sum on the head of
 
 136 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 every ecclesiastic who had a wife ; a tax which 
 instantly made her, in the literal sense of the 
 word, a very dear thing. And as Richard of 
 the lion heart, the successor of Henry, by 
 every possible exaction extorted from and op- 
 pressed his subjects, to supply his necessities for 
 the holy wars, he privately winked at the custom ; 
 so that any priest, in his time, who could pay 
 on what was called inquisition, a good sum into 
 the exchequer of amercements and fines, was 
 allowxd to keep his spouse without fear of moles- 
 tation ; and at no other rate of annoyance than 
 that of being twitted by a stricter secular than 
 himself, envied by the monks, and looked down 
 upon with scorn by those self-satisfied persons 
 who were righteous over much, and who severely 
 condemned all sins and affections for which they 
 had in themselves not the slightest inclination ; 
 a race of censurers quite as rife in the nineteenth 
 as in the twelfth century. 
 
 We deemed it right to say thus much in 
 rei^ard to the marriages of the secular clergy,
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 137 
 
 in justice to Sir Simon, that his reputation might 
 be cleared from all suspicion, and that he might 
 stand forth in the eyes of our reader, even as 
 he did in his own, as a most worthy and merito- 
 rious suitor of Grace Bolt of the mill, being 
 instigated to undertake his suit by that most 
 powerful of all passions — love. Love, which, 
 like a fire, shows neither sense nor respect in 
 its rage, seeing it sends forth its flames hither 
 and thither, enters the palaces of kings and 
 nobles, and the cottages of villagers and serfs, 
 without distinction, and when once bent on a 
 destructive course, consumes where it had once 
 only comforted and cherished, and never stops 
 in its career till pride is laid low in the dust ; 
 and will, when seemingly extinct, frequently send 
 up a flame from its ashes, and even then will 
 linger amongst the very destruction and ruin 
 it has made. 
 
 Such is love with many ; but with our Sir 
 Simon it was, just at the time we introduce 
 him to our reader, far more like a flambeau or
 
 138 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 a torch, that, flamed high, making a dazzling and 
 glaring rather than a pleasant and a steady light, 
 sending out streams of black smoke, and casting 
 its sparks in every direction. In truth, Sir Simon 
 was not merely up to the ears in love, but from 
 the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, 
 he was all over in it, — he had tumbled into it, 
 for he neither saw, moved, thought, nor spoke, 
 but Grace Bolt was before his eyes, in his path, 
 in his mind, or on his tongue. With what pre- 
 tensions to success, in respect to his own person 
 and attractions, let our readers decide from the 
 following sketch of him. 
 
 At a time when the clergy were by far the 
 most educated class of the community, when 
 many of them were really learned as men, and 
 accomplished as gentlemen. Sir Simon was, if 
 brought into contact with such of his cloth, very 
 like a wild man that had been caught in the 
 woods amongst the bands of outlaws and half 
 savage persons who then infested England. He 
 was altogether unacquainted with the customs
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 139 
 
 of the higher orders of society in his clay ; so 
 that the Abbot of Tavistock, and many others, 
 looked upon him as a churl, entitled to a certain 
 degree of toleration only on account of his cloth. 
 He was, it was said, of true Danish breed, with 
 the blood of a great Saxon grandfather intermixed ; 
 yet he deemed himself pure Norman, because 
 it was the fashion of the time so to be, or so 
 to appear. 
 
 Sir Simon had a head of hair fiery red ; a 
 little nose that looked as if only half-formed 
 by nature, when she had been disturbed whilst 
 originally squeezing it into shape ; a large mouth, 
 and, though full and goggled, deep sunk eyes, 
 overshadowed by a pair of shaggy eyebrows. 
 These peculiarities of feature altogether presented 
 a countenance so singular, so strange, and so 
 wild, that many on first sight of it did not know 
 if it were most calculated to make them laugh or 
 to make them fear. This face, so oddly put to- 
 gether, in one of nature's freaks, could, in mo- 
 ments of irritation, become even convulsed with
 
 143 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 passion, like an animal of the feline tribe spitting 
 and liissino- in its rao^e. It looked in such mo- 
 ments like a wild cat of the mountains, more 
 than anything else ; as to compare it to a tiger 
 would be by far too dignified a comparison. 
 
 Yet for all this, the face of Sir Simon could 
 smile and look tender upon Grace Bolt ; and he 
 was proud to display before her, what, as a coun- 
 try lass, he ftmcied she liked best to see, — how 
 strong he was, and that he could have broken the 
 heads of all the cudgel players in the ring with 
 ease, had he not been a priest. The motion of 
 his legs and arms was ungainly, and when he pre- 
 sented his hand in salutation, it was with a twist of 
 his whole body, just as a lion or tiger, when tamed 
 into civility, would present his paw. And as na- 
 ture seldom works by halves, to a form that was 
 so herculean in limb, muscle, and brawn, she had 
 added a voice not unworthy being found in com- 
 bination with proportions of such strength and 
 power ; for when he opened his mouth to perform 
 mass in his church, it was like the rumbling of
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 14] 
 
 thunder ; and his sermons were not only calcu- 
 lated to awaken a sinner, but even to waken the 
 deaf or the dead. 
 
 With parts and qualifications, personal and 
 otherwise, such as we have described, it was not 
 to be supposed Sir Simon could be so unthankful 
 as not to be sensible of their merits. Indeed, so 
 far was he, good man, from being dissatisfied with 
 his abilities, that he rather, than otherwise, over- 
 estimated them. For he thought there was 
 no person in all the wide world like himself, so 
 richly gifted by nature, so favoured by heaven, and 
 so sensible of its favours, that he was quite sure, 
 happen what would in any matter, he never could 
 be in the wrong. Sir Simon was none of your 
 poor spirited fellows, who could not say bo to a 
 goose ; for on a proper occasion he had impu- 
 dence enough to have faced the dark enemy him- 
 self, had he dared to come up from his own realms 
 to question with him in person. Not even St. Dun- 
 stan could have been bolder when he took the 
 devil by the nose. Sir Simon was none of ycur
 
 143 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 doubters neither, — men who halt between two 
 opinions, — for he listened to nobody's but his own; 
 and his temper was naturally so sweet, that he 
 was always in excellent humour when he had all 
 liis own way, and all went well to please him. 
 And so far from yielding was he from weakness 
 or modesty, or a mistrust of his own reason, 
 he was on all occasions of opposition as blind as 
 passion could make him ; and very malicious 
 where he thought there w^as nothing to fear ; 
 whilst, as for forgiveness of injuries, real or sup- 
 posed, he never had the presumption to think 
 himself saint enough for any such act ; and so, 
 from a pure spirit of humility, if once offended he 
 never did forgive. 
 
 Such was altogether the very excellent person 
 who, out of pure love to Grace Bolt, had made 
 up his mind to put up with all the scoiFs and 
 scorns of the more rigid among both laity and 
 clergy, and to pay the tax into the bargain for 
 becoming a married priest. He had settled the 
 whole thing in his own mind, and some how
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 14o 
 
 or other he never doubted hers. Yet, as for 
 Grace, though she could frolic with her playmates 
 the village lads and lasses on the green, and dearly 
 loved the cellarer, who had petted her ever since 
 she was a child, she thought no more of Sir 
 Simon than she did of my Lord Abbot; but re- 
 spected him as being the priest of her parish, and 
 that was all. She would often sit and wonder in 
 respectful silence, as he talked what she could not 
 understand, which he frequently did, when he 
 would call in at her father''s mill, take a cup of 
 ale, and enjoy a gossip ; for Sir Simon at all 
 times opened his ears to one as widely as any old 
 woman in the parish could do. 
 
 But as love is never deficient in imagination, 
 it did so happen that Sir Simon was not wanting 
 in this particular ; and moreover not being at 
 all mistrustful of his own powers to please, he 
 had most ingeniously construed the silence of 
 Grace into an understood consent to his addresses, 
 and never doubted (as she now and then would 
 stare with her full round eyes upon him, when lost
 
 144 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 in wonder at the more abstruse parts of his 
 conversation,) but that on all such occasions, she 
 was riveted in admiration of his most rare and 
 eloquent discourse. Not till within the last two 
 or three days, when he called repeatedly at the 
 mill, did it ever enter into his besotted head 
 to doubt his visits were other than agreeable. 
 But somehow or other, self satisfied and self 
 deceived as he was, he did, nevertheless, remark 
 that in these latter visits, when he spoke some 
 soft things in her ear, Grace turned away from him 
 with a cross and pettish air, and looked as if 
 she did not like it. 
 
 These indications of gathering clouds in that 
 atmosphere of love with which the curate's imagi- 
 nation had surrounded his fair one, puzzled his 
 shallow wits ; he could by no means account for 
 them ; since, having satisfied himself he ous^ht 
 to be beloved, he did not doubt but that he was 
 so. When, therefore, the incidents of the day 
 at the abbey came to light, the cellarer's atten- 
 tion in the temptation of the apples, the stroll
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 145 
 
 into the abbot's garden, &c., Sir Simon could no 
 longer hesitate, no longer forbear suspecting that, 
 notwithstanding the great difference of their ages, 
 and his being vowed to monastic rule, the cellarer 
 had become his rival, and that Grace was as 
 fickle as she was fair. 
 
 To satisfy all doubt, however, he determined 
 to seek his charmer ; but some provoking circum- 
 stance or other had intervened all the day long, so 
 that he could not find himself at liberty to execute 
 his purpose till after curfew. In fact, it was so 
 late that the miller had gone to bed, and so had 
 the miller's knave ; * and Grace was about to be- 
 take herself to rest, when she heard a growling 
 from the watch-dog, stationed in the small court 
 before the mill. She knew the gates were locked, 
 and that, as a wall of some height surrounded the 
 premises, no one could enter. She therefore never 
 troubled herself about the matter, but took the 
 brass bodkin out of her hair, shook her long 
 
 * The word kiiave is here used in its ancient signification 
 that of a servant. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 unbound tresses over her shoulders, and proceed- 
 ed to pass a comb through them, ere she made 
 any further preparations for going to rest. 
 
 Meanwhile the unfortunate Sir Simon, like a 
 vessel of modern construction that is impelled 
 forward by the steam which arises from her 
 boilers within, hurried on, scarcely feeling the 
 ground beneath his feet, till he arrived at the 
 "well known gates of the abbey mills; forgetful 
 alike of the hour, and of the curfew bell that had 
 long since tolled; forgetful of the darkness and 
 the difficulties of the way, and seeing only by 
 the flambeau of jealousy, that cast its own un- 
 natural glare on every object on which he looked, 
 giving a colouring of its own to all things within 
 and wdthout his impassioned mind. In this 
 bewilderment Sir Simon never once thought of 
 the gates being shut, till, fancying they would 
 yield, as usual, to a slight push of his hand, he 
 nearly knocked his nose against them, in the 
 effort to pass on. 
 
 This circumstance made him feel that they
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 147 
 
 were locked ; but what are locked gates to that 
 power which is proverbially said to laugh at locks 
 and the smiths who made them ? " Very poor is 
 the love," thought Sir Simon, " that cannot 
 get over a wall/"' And, in this tempest of the 
 passions, thought and action being with him one 
 and the same thing, up he sprang, and with the 
 activity of a marmoset scrambling after a nut, 
 gained the top of the wall, and slid down on the 
 other side, never heeding the slight accident o* 
 leaving a part of his gown behind him, nor that 
 of the rent he made in his hose, a part of male 
 attire which, in the days of which we write, 
 included more than the stockings. 
 
 In the courtyard there was no one at hand 
 but the great dog, and the great dog growled. 
 Sir Simon, emboldened by his rage, never heeded 
 the animal, and was about to give him a kick, 
 but, recollecting that the creature might set up 
 a bark and disturb the neighbourhood if he did 
 so, he chose rather the method of conciliation ; 
 and so, making himself known to his four-footed 
 
 h2
 
 148 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 acquaintance by femiliarly calling him by his 
 name, to which the dog's nicety of recognition 
 gave no denial, the trusty guard very compla- 
 cently wagged his tail, remained perfectly quiet, 
 and let Sir Simon pass on undisturbed. 
 
 Grace had carelessly left the door on the latch, 
 and, as her father was a vassal of the Lord Abbot, 
 she frequently broke the law about the curfew 
 with impunity, for she had even now, after the legal 
 hour, kept a light burning within the dwelling at 
 the mills; so that, when Sir Simon walked in with- 
 out ceremony, she could at a glance discern the 
 discomposure of his dress, his face, and his eyes 
 staring wider than they ever stared before ; he 
 looked wild, disordered, almost beside himself with 
 the mingled emotions of jealousy and love. On 
 seeing Grace, Sir Simon exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh, Grace ! what have you done with me ? '" 
 
 " What have I done with you ?" re-echoed 
 
 the astonished maid of the mill, shaking back 
 
 her hair and parting it from before her face with 
 
 both hands. '' Oh, Sir Simon ! what have you
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 149 
 
 done with yourself? You, a priest, to be coming 
 here at this time of the night ! — I will call up 
 father." 
 
 " I do not want to see your father ; it is you, 
 Grace, who must hear me, or I 'm a dead man 
 before the morning. I can't bear what I feeX 
 here," he continued, putting his hand on his 
 heart. The miller's daughter thought he spoke 
 of his stomach, and, being of a kind and chari- 
 table disposition, she very good-naturedly offered 
 him a cup of carraway waters, as her father"*s 
 remedy against the colic. " Carraway waters 
 to me, Grace Bolt !" exclaimed the unhappy 
 Sir Simon, " to me ! and I in the agonies of 
 love, — agonies that none but yourself can re- 
 lieve. You have dealt with me cruelly, you 
 have, you false, deceitful woman ; " and then, 
 adding a trope, like one from his own sermons 
 on idolatry, he said, "you have cast down the 
 virgin image of the purest love from its shrine, 
 and have there raised a wanton image instead 
 for your idolatry."
 
 150 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 Grace, quite incapable of comprehending such 
 a flight of nonsense as this, (in which Sir Simon 
 had, as he believed, made a figurative application 
 of his own pure love, and opposed it as meta- 
 phorically by the fancied dishonourable passion of 
 the cellarer,) but hearing, as she did, the words 
 virgin image and shrine, and something about 
 casting them down, she very naturally concluded 
 that she was accused by Sir Simon of the sin 
 of an Iconoclast, (though she would not have 
 comprehended it by that hard name,) and so, 
 wringing her hands and blessing herself, at the 
 hearing of so false a charge, she called on all 
 the saints above to bear her witness that she 
 never did such a wickedness in all her life ; that 
 she never saw an image of the holy Virgin without 
 kneeling to it, nor a picture of her without kissing 
 it ; and regularly set up two candles before her 
 altar on her own day, ever since she was a little 
 child ; and furthermore, she told him that she 
 scorned his false words, and would appeal to the 
 Lord Abbot, whose vassal she was, to protect her.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 151 
 
 Sir Simon now accused himself of talking to 
 the wench in a way she could not understand, 
 and of wasting his tropes and figures on such 
 ignorant ears, though they belonged to the pretty 
 head of Grace Bolt ; but so angered was she, 
 that it was long ere he could make her com- 
 prehend his meaning. At length he succeeded, 
 and once more pleaded his love with all the 
 ardour of the passion. He told her he would 
 make her his wife, and that he meant to pay 
 the tax for her dear sake, 
 
 " But I don't want you to pay it,'' said Grace, 
 very bluntly ; " you are not to my mind ; I had 
 rather see the back than the face of thee, any 
 day, at our mill.'*'' 
 
 " This to me, young wench ! to me, your lawful 
 pastor !" said Sir Simon with a haughty air, for 
 her bluntness and scorn had roused in him a 
 sense of offended pride, and now spoke the supe- 
 rior, the lover giving place for a moment to the 
 priest. " Do you know, Grace," he continued 
 with a solemn air, " do you know what are the
 
 152 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 judgments of Heaven against those who treat 
 its ministers with contempt or scorn ? Do you 
 know, young damsel, that miracles are called 
 up to punish those who commit such offences ? 
 You may, for this contempt of me, be awfully 
 visited, even as the young men and maidens 
 who scoffed at Robert the Saxon, so famous for 
 his prayers. They put scorn on the holy man, 
 by disturbing him with their dancing and sing- 
 ing whilst he was at his orisons ; whereupon he 
 straightway prayed to our Lady and St. Magnus 
 that the offenders might continue dancing and 
 singing during a whole year, and so they did." 
 
 "What! without stopping?"" said the won- 
 dering and alarmed miller^s maid. 
 
 " Ay, without stopping," replied Sir Simon ; 
 " and it was a piteous sight to see how they 
 could not even be suffered to stand still to tie 
 up a garter, or to slip on a shoe, if it got down 
 at heel in the dance : one of the young men took 
 his sister by the hand to whirl her round at the 
 cutting of a caper, and immediately her arm
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 153 
 
 dropped off; and so she danced out her whole 
 year, with nothing left but the stump !" 
 
 " Alack ! "" exclaimed Grace, as she opened her 
 eyes, mouth, and ears, in wonder, at the hearing 
 of such a miracle as this was. And now begin- 
 ning to fear that she had gone too far in offending 
 a priest, she hung down her head, and tried to 
 cry ; but she could not manage it. For not 
 feeling respect enough for Sir Simon to be able 
 to force out a tear of repentance, she made wise 
 to do 50, as the good folk say in Devonshire, 
 when they mean to intimate that they are playing 
 off a little deceit, and she now very demurely 
 wiped her eyes with the corner of her volupure. 
 
 Sir Simon, seeing her contrition, thought he 
 had produced the desired effect, and that he had 
 done enough for his own dignity. So wishing 
 to blend awe and love together, as the most 
 likely means of governing the female heart, he 
 once more became tender, and tried to soften 
 the flinty bosom of the maid of the mill. Long 
 did he plead, but to all his impassioned ex- 
 
 H 5
 
 154 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 pressions did she remain silent, looking down 
 with shamefacedness, and playing with the corner 
 of her volupure, as a modern and fashionable 
 beauty would with the end of her scarf, when 
 listening to a declaration of love to which her 
 heart has no inclination, but for which her self- 
 interest has something to plead. 
 
 At length Sir Simon got on to protesting what 
 he would and would not do for her sweet sake, 
 would she but listen to him. He would get half 
 the parish to send their corn to be ground at her 
 father^s mills. He would give her a new blue 
 court-pie, guarded with silver, as fine as that of 
 the reeve's daughter. She should hear minstrels 
 and turgetors, as if she were a baron''s lady ; 
 she should see the apes and the dancing dogs, 
 just come from France, that Queen Berengaria 
 herself had seen and laughed at till the tears ran 
 out of both her eyes for mirth ; she should hear 
 the harp and the crota, and even dance round 
 the may-pole, as she did when a girl. 
 
 To all these tempting, and not very canonical.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 155 
 
 offers, Grace turned a deaf ear. Sir Simon then 
 proceeded to tell her, he would go a love pilgri- 
 mage for her dear sake ; and we may here observe 
 that love pilgrimages were at their very acme in 
 the twelfth century. " Oh, Grace r he continued, 
 "there are few things but I could submit to them 
 for thy dear love, so I might but win it in the 
 end. I could whip myself every night under 
 thy window, as if thou wert a very saint before 
 whose hnage I did penance for a sin. And is it 
 not sin to love thee as I do ? my idol — my dearest 
 — my ladybird — ^my mouse !" As Sir Simon pro- 
 nounced this last pet name of endearment, in the 
 very tenderest manner, he ventured to seize on one 
 of Grace's fair hands and to squeeze it, which pro- 
 cured for him a most cat-like completion of his 
 compliment, for Grace, as if by accident, but really 
 by design, as she snatched her hand away, scratched 
 the back of his very sharply with her long nails. 
 
 Sir Simon reddened as he felt the smart, but 
 Cupid's was even yet more severe ; and so he 
 thus went on : — " Oh, Grace ! you have become
 
 156 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 to me like my patron saint, more than my lady 
 love. I have burnt tapers and said masses for 
 the success of my suit ; and have taken you up 
 as my one idea. I see and hear you in everything. 
 In the very bells that summon me to my duty, 
 I seem to hear but the clapper of thy father's 
 mill. If I look on a white fleecy cloud, as it 
 sails above in the sky, I think straight upon 
 thee, as I have seen thee among the flour-sacks, 
 whitened all over with their dust. All other 
 women seem but as bran in comparison with thee. 
 Now Grace, dost thou understand me ? How I 
 love thee, my very pearl of miller's daughters, 
 the wassail bread, as I may say, in a banquet of 
 delights." 
 
 Here Sir Simon was again getting poetical. 
 He stopped, however, in the midst of his flight, and 
 once more came down to homely prose, saying 
 very roundly, " Grace Bolt, can you love me .?"" 
 
 To so direct a question, the maid of the mill 
 rave as direct an answer, and that was, " No."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 157 
 
 " Not love me, Grace ! " exclaimed Sir Simon, 
 in amazement, " how can tliat be ? May be, you 
 have not seen sufficient of me yet." 
 
 " I have seen thee at father's mill every day 
 since Candlemas last," she replied ; " and if that is 
 not seeing enough of thee, tell me what is." 
 
 " Yes, Grace, but thy father, or thy old 
 grandmother, or thy aunt have been present, 
 and such company has been an impediment to 
 the endearment of lovers ; what talk could pass 
 between us in their company ? Now, if you 
 would but consent to let me sit by your side, or 
 walk alone with you every day, for a few hours, 
 Grace, you cannot think how much you would 
 love me at the end of the year." 
 
 " Not a whit more than I do now," she re- 
 plied ; " and may be I should hate you for 
 teasing me so." 
 
 " Hate me ! impossible," cried Sir Simon ; 
 " nobody could ever yet hate me. On the 
 contrary, from the very dogs and cats in the
 
 158 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 house up to the old women in it, everybody 
 loves me, — a man of my eloquence, of my 
 character and calling; whilst to young creatures 
 like yourself, I am as sweet milk or fresh butter. 
 You would love me were I daily in your com- 
 pany alone. Philosophy has long since settled 
 it, that love comes by proximity. " Grace Bolt, I 
 see you do not understand me, by the way in 
 which you stare ; I will explain in a more plain 
 phrase. Do you see yonder those two joint 
 stools ? Well, Grace, even so as they now stand 
 fixed side by side, they could not so remain, for 
 any length of time, without loving each other in 
 the end ; always supposing joint stools could be 
 capable of the passion of love. Even so should 
 you and I love were we always together." 
 
 Somewhat out of breath, or out of Avit, Sir 
 Simon here paused in his discourse. But oh ! 
 what was his wrath when, instead of being moved 
 to pity by his figures of speech, Grace, unable any 
 longer to keep her countenance, was so amused at
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 159 
 
 the illustration of tlie joint stools, that she burst 
 into a fit of laughter, so obstreperous as to cause 
 her to show her white teeth, and to hold her very- 
 sides in this overflow of her mirth. 
 
 With Sir Simon, however, it was no laughing 
 matter; or if he laughed for a moment, it was 
 like an hyena that laughs before he flies at a 
 pretty playful gazelle, which bounds across his 
 path. He tried to speak collectedly, but his 
 sentences were short, and broken with the bitter- 
 ness of his passion. His countenance became 
 fierce, his eyes wild, and he almost grinned in his 
 fury, as he said, — " Insolent woman, you shall 
 rue this ! — I can hate as well as love ; and may 
 be, a little better. Hearken to me : I suspect you 
 and the cellarer, — suspect you both ; there are 
 laws for such offenders. There are appeals to be 
 made, informations to be given, judgments to 
 be passed, and punishments to be inflicted — '"* 
 
 " The cellarer is as honest a man as ever 
 breathed,'' said Grace Bolt, boldly.
 
 160 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " Curse liim ! " cried Sir Simon, in his jealous 
 passion, forgetting he was a priest ; " name him 
 not to me ; for if you do, if you say but a word in 
 his favour, you are a lost woman, though my own 
 soul went to purgatory for the deed. You do 
 not know what I can do : I can be dangerous, 
 and that you may find to your cost." 
 
 Grace would have spoken to mitigate his fury, 
 but he would not let her. 
 
 " I will not suffer you to condemn yourself,"" 
 he said ; I will give you time to consider of this 
 matter. I love you, fool that I am to stoop so 
 much beneath me. I love in spite of myself, love 
 you with a fire in my breast that not the torments 
 of limbo itself can surpass in its flames. Thou 
 must — thou shalt be mine ; shalt have pity on 
 me. I will give thee till eight o'clock to-morrow 
 morning to think on my proposal : then, Grace, 
 declare thyself, and then are we friends or foes, 
 and for ever. To love or to hate, do thou choose. 
 If thou wilt love me, I will adore; if thou wilt 
 hate, I will revenc^e."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 161 
 
 So saying, without staying to hear a word in 
 reply, with a violence of manner and of gesture 
 which indicated frenzy, did Sir Simon quit the 
 miller"'s maid, and left her to settle her resolu- 
 tion as she best could with her own stout heart.
 
 162 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 You are meek, and humble moutli'd ; 
 You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, 
 With meekness and humility ; but your heart 
 Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. 
 You have, by fortune, and his highness' favours, 
 Gone slightly o'er low steps ; and now are mounted 
 Where powers are your retainers ; and your words, 
 Domestics to you, serve your will, as 't please 
 Yourself pronounce their office ; I must tell you, 
 You tender more your person's honour than 
 Your high profession spiritual. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The chapter-liouse of Tavistock Abbey, of a 
 more recent date than many other parts of the 
 edifice, was circular within ; of a light, lofty, and 
 graceful style of architecture, which, together 
 with the pointed arch, was first introduced into 
 England at the time of the Crusades. There 
 were in this chapter thirty-six stalls, wrought
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 163 
 
 of stone, within the walls, over-arched and deco- 
 rated with the richest carvings. In the centre 
 arose one slender reeded pillar, which, branching 
 from the top, into regular arches, formed a 
 vaulted roof of the greatest beauty. In form and 
 elegance this tall and shafted column, with its 
 sprouting branches above, might be compared 
 to the palm-tree of the East, — the palm so 
 uniform, yet so graceful in its uniformity, that it 
 may not inaptly be designated as the architectural 
 among trees. 
 
 The windows of the chapter were in the point- 
 ed style, very narrow, and filled with small dia- 
 mond squares of plain glass, that admitted unob- 
 structed the light of day. But these colder por- 
 tions were surrounded by a border of rich stained 
 glass, and on the top of each window appeared, 
 in the same glowing materials, the arms of the 
 patrons and benefactors of the house. 
 
 It was in this beautiful apartment that Abbot 
 Baldwin, on the morning after his anival, prepar- 
 ed to meet the archdeacon, in the full ceremonial
 
 164 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of his order. The abbot was attired in his alb, 
 robe, and cope, with gloves richly jewelled on the 
 back of the hands ; his ring of espousal to the 
 church on his finger ; his cross of precious stones 
 depending from his neck, and his low and pe- 
 culiarly formed mitre on his brows.* 
 
 With great dignity of aspect and demeanour, 
 did Abbot Baldwin now advance to take his seat. 
 He was preceded by his cross-bearer, and a chap- 
 lain, who bore, likewise, his crosier before him. 
 The crosier was in the ancient form ; it resembled 
 a warrior'*s mace. The train of his robe was borne 
 by Csedmon, the Saxon page. His arms were 
 crossed upon his breast, his head rather raised ; 
 and as all the brothers assembled arose at his 
 presence, he acknowledged their courtesy by 
 
 * All abbots wore the kind of mitre here described ; it 
 differed from that of a bishop, or mitred abbot ; the latter 
 being allowed to sit in the parliament amongst the peers 
 spiritual. As the Abbot of Tavistock did not receive a 
 grant to take his seat amongst these till the reign of Henry 
 the Eighth, Abbot Baldwin could only wear the common 
 mitre.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 165 
 
 slightly bowing till he reached the steps of an 
 elevated stall, >vhich stood alone on the eastern 
 side of the circle, facing the entrance. 
 
 After a moment's pause, he again bowed and 
 took his seat. Then all present followed his ex- 
 ample ; and the prior and sub-prior both advanced, 
 knelt, and kissed their superior's hand ; this 
 homage paid, they returned to their seats ; and 
 the abbot said, with solemnity, " The souls of 
 all deceased brethren and of all believers rest 
 in peace.'' To which the monks in chapter re- 
 sponded, " Amen." 
 
 " Benedicite," continued the Abbot ; " and now 
 let us to the business of the day." 
 
 No sooner were these forms ended, than, at 
 a given signal, the doors of the chapter were 
 again opened, and the archdeacon and his train 
 were seen standing without. There was a bustle, 
 a stir, something like a contest. The abbot soon 
 perceived that his own cross-bearer, who had re- 
 treated after conducting his superior to his stall, 
 was among the throng, and was, in fact, the indi-
 
 166 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 vidual principally engaged in a warm debate with 
 the cross-bearer of the archdeacon, who now at- 
 tempted to enter the chapter with the same cere- 
 monial as had before been observed on the en- 
 trance of the abbot. The words, " Not here, — 
 not to be suffered here," were heard above all 
 the murmurs of the voices in the crowd. " Not 
 here. My Lord Abbot is in chapter. None may 
 advance into his presence with a cross borne be- 
 fore him, whilst he sits here in council, in his 
 own monastery, unless he be a cardinal who comes 
 with the authority of his holiness the Pope."" 
 
 '^' It is my Lord of Exeter, who visits in the 
 person of his archdeacon," said the cross-bearer of 
 the latter, as, with a fierce look, he attempted 
 to pass forward, in no very gracious manner. 
 " Know your duty, and give way to the power 
 of the bishop."" 
 
 " No such power passes here," said the officer 
 of the abbot, and lowering his cross, and using it 
 like a halbert, he barred the entrance in a way so 
 as to render the passage of his rival impossible.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 167 
 
 " You come not here with the raised cross of 
 Exeter ; this abbey is exempt."" 
 
 The dispute was likely to be warm between 
 the officials. Abbot Baldwin kept his seat 
 whilst it was carried on with the most unmoved 
 demeanour, till the archdeacon, seeing no possi- 
 ble means of making his entry but by violently 
 dislodging the opposing cross-bearer from the 
 station he had assumed, (where, if the truth 
 must be told, he held his sacred emblem as a 
 bar to the way, with as little respect as, in our 
 days, the keeper of a turnpike would bar the 
 road with the gate closed, till a dispute about 
 the toll might be settled,) he bade his own cross- 
 bearer stand back. On this the other instantly 
 raised his symbol of abbatical authority, and let 
 the proxy of the bishop pass forward, followed 
 only by his train of chaplains and clerks. 
 
 " My Lord Abbot," he said, as he addressed 
 Baldwin with a look of defiance and a bow of 
 respect, " this is not well. Did I come hither 
 as Alberic, sometime a simple monk of Abbey
 
 168 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 Le Bee, — did I approach as such into your 
 presence, barefooted, with a discipline in one 
 hand and the penitential rule in the other, and 
 so crawled to your feet to beg a benison, it would 
 not be too humble for me in my own person. 
 But, mean though I may be in myself, not so 
 am T in my office. I come hither. Abbot Bald- 
 win, in the name of my Lord Bishop of Exeter, 
 your diocesan, to whom you owe obedience ; I 
 come on a visitation respecting the rule of that 
 house over which you bear sway. In showing 
 disrespect to me in this mission, you show it 
 to my Lord of Exeter; and to him, therefore, 
 will I make my appeal. '"* 
 
 " We hold ourself and our house exempt 
 from his authority,*" said Baldwin ; " but inas- 
 much as it respects our own honour that we 
 should receive with all courtesy whatever matter 
 my Lord of Exeter would propound to us, we 
 will not deny you the audience you require. 
 Speak freely, reverend archdeacon : we will hear 
 the bishop in your person as a suitor, though
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 169 
 
 not as a master ; and therefore is it that his 
 lordship's cross could not, in this chapter, be 
 borne before his archdeacon/' 
 
 " Proud Abbot,*" said Alberic, " this assump- 
 tion will not pass. Your house is not exempt ; 
 it is amenable to the power of the bishop, and 
 that it is so you may be made sensible of to 
 your shame hereafter. There are many grievous 
 charges that my lord hath against you, of which 
 I here present you the written schedule in this 
 scroll. You are accused, as abbot, with having 
 your own private seal, with which you have 
 signed away certain lands appertaining to this 
 abbey, for your own profit, and to the grievous 
 injury of the house." 
 
 " It is a false charge," answered Baldwin ; 
 " I have not so done. I did but sign away 
 a part and parcel of land that the old Lord De 
 Dunsford coveted, as it adjoined his own. I 
 made it over to him for the wisest purpose, that 
 it should return to the abbey with a tenfold 
 interest, even with the estate to which it thus 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 170 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 became annexed, at its owner'*s death. A wise 
 thrift was such a gift, I trow ; else had the old 
 Lord De Dunsford's nephew claimed the estate 
 as his heritage, and so it would have been lost 
 to the church; for the young man cares not for 
 cowl nor mass. He would not give a mark to 
 have a mass said or a bell rung for a dead uncle's 
 soul. But now will the old Lord De Dunsford 
 enjoy our small parcel of ground whilst he lives, 
 have the benefit of our prayers when he is dead, 
 and we of all his lands. What other charge have 
 you against us ? for we would fain have the scroll 
 unfolded to its utmost limits," added the speaker 
 in a tone of scorn. 
 
 " My Lord of Exeter charges you with having 
 taken upon you to interfere in affairs of an epis- 
 copal nature. You have granted sundry licences 
 for wedlock within prohibited degrees of kindred ; 
 as in a case of marriage between cousins of the 
 sixth remove. You have enjoined a public pen- 
 ance on the wife of a secular priest ; a matter 
 clearly beyond your power. And you have also
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 171 
 
 taken upon you to grant letters of indulgence 
 for the erection of certain chapels and cells within 
 the diocese, without warrant of my Lord Bishop." 
 " To charges such as these," said the abbot, 
 " I have but one answer. The times are not 
 those of such easy manage, that we may let them 
 run their own accustomed course, and either do, 
 or delay to do till the exact forms and ceremonies 
 of every matter may be observed. These are 
 times of extreme necessities, and such must be 
 met by extreme measures, often above rule, 
 though not contrary to it. Is it contrary to 
 rule that when a house like ours is called upon to 
 furnish such store of arms, of steeds, and sums 
 in gold, for these wars in the East, that rather 
 than oppress our poor vassals to raise them, we 
 make the rich furnish them, by sale of licences 
 and indulgences granted at their own suit, for 
 which they pay nobly ? And shall we not put 
 to open shame a woman who has become the 
 wife of a secular priest ! because it is shrewdly 
 suspected that the Lord Bishop of Exeter is
 
 172 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 disposed to view such offences with too great 
 lenity, and therefore lets go by the offenders ? 
 We will suffer no such practices within the 
 bounds of our own domain." 
 
 "But you suffer some that are worse,"' said 
 the archdeacon. " I came to your town but 
 yester even, and this morning have I received 
 information of a charge most solemnly preferred 
 against one of your own house, for conduct that I 
 should blush to name. The secular priest here, 
 Sir Simon, the curate, charges one Thomas, a 
 monk and cellarer of this abbey, with having, 
 contrary to rule, and at the suggestion of the 
 great enemy of mankind, admitted to private 
 conference, and that, too, within his own cell, 
 a woman, the daughter of your own miller ! The 
 sub-prior. Sir Simon also accuses of being a 
 party to the transaction, having full knowledge of 
 the fact." 
 
 The abbot looked round with astonishment. 
 " How!" said he to the sub-prior," what charge 
 is this ? Send for the cellarer ; call him hither.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 173 
 
 This matter is one which it becomes our autho- 
 rity to correct. In good sooth it were a scandal 
 to our abbey to let such go unchastised." 
 
 The sub-prior, who had his own reasons for 
 not being at all over anxious that he should be 
 made an accusing party against the cellarer, would, 
 had it been possible, have stolen out of the 
 chapter to prepare brother Thomas for his de- 
 fence; but such an escape was not admissible, 
 and a chaplain was forthwith despatched to sum- 
 mon the accused. 
 
 With no inconsiderable feeling of alarm, the 
 cellarer drew near the seat of judgment ; heard 
 the charge, and would have flatly denied it, had 
 not the sub-prior been called upon to bear witness 
 to the fact, by Sir Simon himself. Finding, 
 therefore, that to tell the truth was the least 
 dangerous course in such a strait, the cellarer 
 most heroically determined at once to speak it. 
 As he was mustering up courage to begin, Sir 
 Simon, who had accompanied the archdeacon to 
 the chapter, stood forward with wrath imprinted
 
 174 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 on every line of his face, for the hard-heartedness 
 of Grace, who had finally denied his suit, had 
 converted all his tender flames into those of 
 hatred and revenge : he now, therefore, charged 
 the cellarer with his supposed offences to his 
 teeth. 
 
 In reply, brother Thomas stated, that he had 
 known Grace Bolt ever since she was born ; and 
 having been accustomed to play with her from 
 childhood, she still appeared as a child to him : 
 he was very fond of little children, and having also 
 an earnest wish to talk to Grace, for the good of 
 her own soul, about the vanity of her dress and 
 some other follies, he admitted that he had some- 
 times given her a ghostly lecture in his own 
 cell. 
 
 " Enough," said the abbot, " enough ; the 
 cellarer confesses his offence. What says the 
 sub-prior ? " 
 
 " My Lord Abbot,"" he answered, '' I do not 
 deny that I caught the maid in question con-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 175 
 
 cealed in one of the towers of your lordship's 
 private gardens." 
 
 The archdeacon gave a start, raised his hands, 
 shrugged his shoulders, brightened up, half smiled, 
 and then shook his head like a man who feels he 
 ought to seem pained and surprised by a piece 
 of information, over which he inwardly rejoices, 
 as it is calculated to injure another with whom 
 he is at issue, and is of a nature to lessen the es- 
 timation of that opponent at the very moment he 
 appeared to stand so greatly above him. 
 
 But the abbot was not a whit humbled ; with 
 the most unmoved air he merely said, — 
 
 "In my garden ! who dared to conduct her 
 thither ? I will know." 
 
 " The foul fiend, doubtless," replied the sub- 
 prior ; " the fiend who ever tempts woman to 
 do that which she is forbidden, and who, by 
 awakening in this silly wench an idle spirit of 
 curiosity, as she has confessed, led her, after 
 quitting brother Thomas's cell, into the Lord 
 Abbof s garden."
 
 176 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " This may be true, but it cannot exculpate 
 tlie cellarer," said the abbot ; " wherefore should 
 the damsel come to his cell ? " 
 
 The cellarer could but protest what he had 
 before protested, his innocence of all offence in 
 the matter ; but this satisfied no one. The arch- 
 deacon looked with an air of triumph as he un- 
 rolled his scroll of offences against the Abbey 
 of Tavistock, and pointing with his finger to 
 each item, shrugged his shoulders, and talked 
 apart to his own chaplains, whilst they listened 
 with that air of grave attention as if they were 
 a jury called upon to deliberate before a verdict 
 was passed on the evidence of the case. The 
 brothers were uneasy in their stalls ; some rose, 
 many gathered into knots, as their voices were 
 heard in subdued murmurs, and by the echoes 
 of the vaulted roof produced a buzzing sound, 
 like a chorus of bees in a hive. 
 
 The cellarer wiped his brow in the heat that 
 had been produced in him by perturbation of 
 mind. Sir Simon, the curate, grew vehement
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 177 
 
 in his exclamations for punishment on the of- 
 fender. The sub-prior seemed to be in utter 
 despair of making any impression in favour of 
 the culprit ; when, with an air of dignity, the 
 abbot at length arose, waved his hand to indicate 
 his wish to speak, and this he did thrice ere any- 
 thing like order could be restored. Silence how- 
 ever, once more prevailed in the chapter ; and 
 scarcely had the word ordeal passed the superior's 
 lips, when the whole assembly, as with one voice, 
 exclaimed, " The ordeal ! the ordeal ! let the 
 cellarer have the benefit of the ordeal.'" 
 
 '' Of red hot iron," said Sir Simon, coming 
 up to him on the right hand. 
 
 " Of boiling water," said the archdeacon, ad- 
 vancing towards him on the left. 
 
 " Of hot pitch or molten lead," said the pre- 
 centor, as he also drew near the condemned. 
 
 " Or of cold water by immersion," said a chap- 
 lain hard at hand. 
 
 Durinff these several nominations of ordeal, 
 from which, according to canonical rule, the cel-
 
 178 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 larer was at liberty to make his own election, 
 he stood between the proposing parties, looking 
 first at one speaker, then at another, with a most 
 dismal countenance, his head turning from side 
 to side as if it moved on a pivot, eager to catch 
 at any word that might be spoken likely to pro- 
 pose a mitigation of the cruel sentence from which 
 he had to choose. But as neither hot iron, 
 molten pitch, boiling or cold water, (and the 
 last was that kind of ordeal by which he must 
 risk drowning,) were at all of a nature to suit 
 his taste, or his skin, which being smooth and 
 sleek with good cheer, was none of the hardest, 
 he was sorely puzzled which to choose. He 
 would at once have named the cold water had 
 he been able to swim, but he doubted his power 
 of floating, and he had not, perhaps, altogether 
 that confidence in his own innocence which, con- 
 sidering his perfect integrity of purpose respect- 
 ing Grace Bolt, and the supposed unerring cor- 
 rectness of ordeals, he ought to have felt at such a 
 crisis. He now gave a rueful look of appeal to
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 179 
 
 the sub-prior, as much as to say, *' Can you 
 do nothing to help me out of this dilemma ? *' 
 
 The look of appeal being made to no un- 
 friendly person, was answered by the sub-prior 
 saying, with much gravity, — 
 
 " All here seem to have forgotten the solemn 
 ordeal of bread and cheese. None is more fear- 
 ful, as, unless the brother who attempts to swallow 
 such in ordeal is as clear in his innocence as 
 yonder noon- day sun, he is sure to be choked. 
 How say you, brother Thomas, will you venture 
 on the ordeal of bread and cheese ?" 
 
 " Most willingly," replied the cellarer, witli 
 alacrity ; " that is an ordeal allowed only to holy 
 men: it becomes, therefore, as a test spiritual.* 
 The bread is sweet as the manna of the wilder- 
 ness, and the cheese hath a smoothness in it 
 that resembles the olive oil of Judea, or the 
 anointing unction of holy priests and kings. I 
 seem already, in proof of my innocence, to feel 
 
 * The ordeal of bread and cheese here described, was 
 allowed only to monks and friars.
 
 180 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 it going smoothly down my throat. I do at 
 once decide for the ordeal of bread and cheese." 
 
 " Had you not better take time to consider 
 of it, brother Thomas ? " said the abbot ; " you 
 may prefer a more impressive ordeal, — the red 
 hot iron balls, or boiling water." 
 
 " By no means,**' replied the cellarer, " I 
 never was skilful at handling a ball in all my 
 life ; hot or cold, I ever let it slip through my 
 fingers on my toes ; I could never clutch it. 
 And as for boiling water, I never could abide 
 it ; it vexes too much the spirit within me, for 
 I, being a man of peace, like not to be put into 
 hot water, which so unpleasantly brings to mind 
 the discords of this vain world." 
 
 " The boiling pitch, molten lead, or cold water 
 are equally at your discretion," said Father Alberic. 
 
 " Many thanks, most worthy archdeacon," re- 
 plied the cellarer; " but my discretion leads not to 
 any one of them ! Boiling pitch and molten lead 
 are ordeals more especially belonging to the Stan- 
 nary courts, where they pour them down the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 181 
 
 throats of miners and Jews, who are suspected of 
 foul phiy with the purity of our tin. And as for 
 the cold water, it is in no wise decorous, seeing it 
 is an ordeal fit only for old wives suspected of 
 witchcraft. No, most worthy archdeacon, I, a 
 poor monk of the rule of St. Bennet, am for 
 none of these. I have no ambition in ordeal, 
 none that might make me eminent in story. 
 Therefore will the ordeal of bread and cheese 
 be quite honourable enough for such a poor simple 
 man as I am ; and for none other will I give my 
 voice." 
 
 " Be it so then," said Abbot Baldwin ; " it is 
 one in accord with conventual rule." 
 
 "And quite orthodox," said the sub-prior; 
 " and there are many sorts of cheese to choose 
 from." 
 
 " There are," said the cellarer, "and I would 
 furthermore request to have permission to take 
 my own choice ; and to be indulged with a 
 slice of my Lord Abbot's. It is from the dairies 
 of the good wives and thrifty housekeepers of
 
 182 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 Cheddar; and being especially reserved for my 
 Lord Abbot's table, it must have about it that 
 odour of safictity which belongs to no other com- 
 pound of coagulated cream." 
 
 " You shall take as much of it as you may 
 desire, brother Thomas,*" said the Abbot, " and 
 welcome." 
 
 " Nay, good my lord, with your permission, I 
 will take the whole," said the cellarer, " as 
 a matter to meditate over before the day of 
 ordeal." 
 
 And so saying, without further ceremony, the 
 cellarer made his exit ; and having the consent 
 of his superior for what he did, nothing out of 
 heart ; and being no less strong in body than in 
 innocence, he walked direct to my lord's kitchen, 
 tucked the much prized cheese under his arm, 
 smiled till his full round cheeks lifted their 
 muscles so high as almost to close his small twink- 
 ling eyes, so great was his inward satisfaction, 
 and thus retreated with the future ordeal of 
 Heaven's justice to his own snug cell.
 
 HENRY DE POJVIEROY. 183 
 
 The first thing he did was to deposit the 
 cheese in his cupboard ; then, in order to guard 
 so precious a dainty from an unhallowed theft, 
 he took from it a few crumbs, and set the mouse- 
 trap at a particular spot whence he had found 
 a quick-scented little nibbler had often sallied 
 out to make an attack upon the choice bits 
 and dainties of his secret store. This done, 
 he sat down ; took a cup of his own wine to 
 drink joy to himself for the easy manner in 
 which he had escaped in chapter ; and, as we 
 have already stated, that, when under the influ- 
 ence of mirth, he was particularly musical, he 
 commenced quavering the snatch of an old hunt- 
 ing song, till, at last, he might be said to crow 
 in his melody like chanticleer himself in his 
 morning matins, so great was the joy of his 
 heart on this lucky day. But we must leave 
 him and go back to the chapter.
 
 184 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I'll read you matter deep and dangerous, 
 As full of peril, and advent'rous spirit, 
 As to o'erwalk a current roaring loud, 
 On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. 
 
 Shakspkare. 
 
 At the moment we return to the chapter, we 
 find my Lord Abbot and the archdeacon carrying 
 on a stormy debate, far more in character with 
 the quarrels of the turbulent barons of the period, 
 than with the settlement of any question about 
 the church. Every eye was fixed upon the 
 speakers. 
 
 " You refuse then,"" said the archdeacon, '•' to 
 answer my Lord of Exeter touching these mat- 
 ters in charge against you.**' 
 
 " I deny the power of the bishop altogether 
 within this house," replied the abbot ; '* I ac- 
 knowledge no authority but that of Rome."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 185 
 
 *' Your house lias no claim of exemption by 
 any bull or charter'"* said the archdeacon ; " con- 
 sequently you are amenable to Exeter. There- 
 fore, in the name of the most reverend the Lord 
 Bishop of the diocese, do I summon you, Bald- 
 win, Abbot of Tavistock, to appear at Exeter, 
 before my Lord Bishop, in chapter there assem- 
 bled, on or before the day of the assumption of 
 our blessed Lady, the mother of God, to answer 
 for the facts herewith charged against you, on 
 pain of being subject to the utmost penalties of 
 body and soul that my Lord Bishop may please 
 to enforce against you, even to the penalty of ex- 
 communication, if you persist in this contumacy 
 towards his episcopal rule ; a contumacy evinced 
 towards him in my poor person, unworthy as 
 that may be in itself, but most worthy as the 
 deputy of my lord." 
 
 Baldwin rose in haste, snatched his abbot's 
 staff from the hand of the chaplain to whom he 
 had committed it, advanced some paces towards 
 the archdeacon, raised his head, and with an
 
 186 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 impassioned look of offended pride, confronted 
 him, holding forth his staff, as he delivered the 
 following address ; with an energy of manner, a 
 resolution of purpose, and a dignity of demeanour 
 that was altogether most impressive. " I will give 
 no reply to this summons, saving that which I 
 have already given, that where there is no au- 
 thority to summon, there can be no duty to 
 obey." 
 
 " This," said the archdeacon, angrily, " this 
 refusal is more than an offence to the bishop ; 
 it is an insult to the king, by whose gracious 
 pleasure the bishop received his investiture ; and 
 who willed that my Lord of Exeter should have 
 power over all monasteries within this diocese 
 of the west." 
 
 " A temporal prince," replied Abbot Bald- 
 win, " can have no authority to will or to do 
 within the pale of the church. Can we forget 
 the recent evidence of this, in those fearful strug- 
 gles, those long continued jars between the 
 late King Henry and the holy martyr Saint
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 187 
 
 Thomas of Kent? He did not, I trow, die 
 in vain ; and it is our part, for "vvliose service 
 he shed his sacred blood, to look well that 
 we do not betray our cause into the hands of 
 any king, even were he proud and powerful 
 as Pharaoh when he held in bondage the people 
 of God;' 
 
 " But bethink you," said the archdeacon, 
 " that the king you thus openly defy, is Richard 
 of the lion heart, the glory of chivalry, the 
 beloved son of holy church ; he who quitted 
 a life of royal ease, a pleasant land, an easy 
 sceptre, a kingdom at home, to seek dangers 
 abroad, — to wield, amidst the arid sands and 
 burning suns of Palestine, the lance and the 
 sword of battle, to rescue a tomb — the tomb 
 of the Lord of life, from foul and infidel hands. 
 O Jerusalem, Richard is thy champion ! — the 
 liberator to whom thou lookest with hope amid 
 thy tears ; and yet here is one, and he, too, 
 a Christian and a priest, who would treat with 
 contempt the authority of such a prince.""
 
 188 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 "It is false,"*^ exclaimed Baldwin, irritated by 
 the turn the archdeacon had given to his words : 
 " I said not so ; I spoke but of Richard as a 
 temporal prince, having no power over persons 
 spiritual, who are amenable but to God in 
 Heaven, and to his Holiness on earth. When 
 I stand here in vindication of my own indepen- 
 dent right, did Richard come, armed with the 
 chivalry of Palestine, with all his honours, like a 
 star of that East whence they have derived their 
 lustre, glittering on his crest, I would not fear 
 him. No, did he come with an unsheathed 
 falchion in his mailed hand, with all his lion 
 heart roused into fury by the passions of a 
 blinded rage, I would meet him with as stout 
 a heart, and a stomach high as his own. Armed 
 with no fleshly sword, but with my abbot's 
 staff, I would remember Becket ; how he met 
 Henry face to face, and hurled upon him, and 
 all who took part with him, the thunders of 
 the church. Even so would I defy Richard, did 
 he raise but a finger of authority against me.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 189 
 
 Baldwin, as abbot of this house. Even so do 
 I defy the power of Exeter, now before me 
 in thy person ; and here, in the presence of this 
 chapter, which I call on to witness to the fact, I 
 make my appeal to Rome." 
 
 At these words, the superior drew from his 
 bosom a written parchment, sealed with his 
 own seal, and making a sign to a monk who 
 was one of the assembly, he approached, knelt 
 and kissed the hand of the abbot, as he received 
 from him the appeal to the Pope. At the sight 
 of a reference made to a power so august, all 
 the chapter rose and bowed in token of respect, 
 for all held in awe the very name of the father 
 of the apostolical christian and catholic church. 
 
 " I have herewith declared my purpose in 
 chapter," said the abbot ; " I shall without 
 delay despatch my chaplains and messengers 
 to Rome. Say as much to your bishop, for 
 mine he is not. Say I have made my appeal 
 of exemption from all episcopal jurisdiction ; even 
 as did the Abbots of Battle and of St. Alban's,
 
 190 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 on a like account, to Pope Adrian of blessed 
 memory ; and I doubt not liis Holiness, who 
 now holds the keys of St. Peter, will be no 
 less good lord to me than Adrian was to those 
 abbots, and will grant me as ample a bull as 
 I shall require at his hands."" 
 
 " Proud abbot," said the archdeacon, " is 
 this a time, when the good King Richard, who, 
 after his defence of the holy sepulchre, has 
 fallen into such a strait as to be prisoner to 
 his worst enemy, — when England is torn asun- 
 der by manifold foes, by miseries numberless, 
 till, like a mother against whom rise her own 
 children, she bleeds from every vein in the 
 wounds of civil strife ; — is such a time as this 
 one for churchmen to quarrel, and for pride to 
 gain the mastery ? It is not well, casting all 
 authority aside, I tell you, as brother to brother 
 in one calling and one faith, that in the garment 
 of the church you have made a grievous rent. 
 Oh ! how would infidels rejoice, did they know 
 that we send forth our lion-hearted king, the
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 191 
 
 flower of our nobles and our chivalry of England, 
 to win an empty sepulchre from their hands, 
 that we may but regain it to bury therein the 
 peace of the Anglican church ; and ere our tem- 
 poral swords are well sheathed, to draw them 
 anew in the evil spirit of a rebellious pride." 
 
 The archdeacon wiped away the tears that 
 started to his eyes as he spoke. " I see," he con- 
 tinued, " all the misery that will result from 
 this contest with my Lord of Exeter. Would 
 I could mediate ; but you are stubborn, and 
 think yourself certain of success in this matter 
 against my lord. Be not too certain ; remember 
 the shaft does not always fix in the mark to 
 which the eye directs it. Be ruled in time : 
 let me mediate between you. Blessed are the 
 peace-makers. Think of the peace of the 
 church ! " 
 
 '* I must not on that account sacrifice the 
 freedom of this abbey," replied Baldwin ; " I 
 shall abide by my appeal." 
 
 " Farewell, then," said the archdeacon ; " I
 
 19^ HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 see all I would do to mediate is vain. I will, 
 therefore, take my leave ; praying that the deci- 
 sion of his Holiness may quiet these angry jars. 
 And though I will not do other than part from 
 you in peace, yet my duty to my Lord of Exeter 
 demands that, as I pass your threshold, I shake 
 off the dust of your rebellious house from my 
 feet;' 
 
 " Such may be your duty to your bishop,'** 
 said Abbot Baldwin ; " but it suits not with the 
 hospitality of our abbey that you go hence with 
 an unbroken fast. You shall not depart our gates 
 till you have partaken of our refection. It is 
 near the hour. In the interval, let me pray you, 
 most venerable archdeacon, to rest awhile in the 
 guest-hall, where we will speedily join you. For 
 this chapter, we here dissolve it ; the brothers 
 may depart." 
 
 The formalities and ceremonies of breaking up 
 the chapter were speedily concluded. The arch- 
 deacon with his train retired to the guest-chamber, 
 the monks dispersed; Abbot Baldwin remained
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 193 
 
 alone, as he was often wont to do, to make notes 
 in his tablets of any thoughts that had occurred 
 to him during the sitting, respecting the business 
 of the day. He now did so in the matter of his 
 proposed appeal to Rome. 
 
 He drew forth his book of fine ivory leaves, 
 made his notes with the utmost deliberation, and 
 was about to retire, when he thought he heard 
 some one stir behind him. He looked round 
 and perceived a small door, which led to a long 
 gallery from the abbot"*s apartments, move. It 
 was slowly opened, and a figure issued from 
 beneath the low arch that was somewhat unusual 
 in such a place ; a man equipped in the defensive 
 armour of a knight. He wanted only the lance 
 and triangular shield.* He was clad in a coat 
 of chain mail ; to the long and close sleeves of 
 which were attached gloves, also of linked steel, 
 that covered his hands to the fingers' ends : they 
 
 * These pieces of armour, on account of their great 
 weight, were seldom carried by the knight himself, unless 
 when in action, being at other times borne by his pages, 
 or esquire. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 were as flexible as those made of leather. Indeed, 
 from the smallness of the rings of which the 
 chain armour of the twelfth century was composed, 
 it was in no way an impediment to the action of 
 the limbs ; whilst, from its high polish, it re- 
 flected the light on every movement of the body, 
 even as water reflects the gleams of the sun at 
 every undulation of the wave. His legs and 
 feet, also, were completely covered by this close 
 fitting mail. On his head was a flat-crowned 
 steel cap, to which was attached that part of the 
 armour called the gorget, that protected the 
 throat and chin : to this cap, in time of battle, was 
 affixed a piece of armour to protect the face, 
 formed of iron bars in front, through which the 
 wearer could see and breathe : it was called the 
 Aventaille.* The surcoat of this warlike figure, 
 (of crimson silk richly embroidered, but stained 
 and worn,) was girt round the middle by a leathern 
 
 * The Aventaille was first brought into use by the cru- 
 saders, during the holy wars in Syria. See, " Monumental 
 Effigies."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 195 
 
 belt, fastened in front by a buckle of gold. On 
 his left side he wore a sword, the blade of which 
 was straight, and the handle in the form of a cross. 
 A small and richly inlaid dagger hung in his 
 girdle. 
 
 This armed figure, whose sudden appearance so 
 surprised Abbot Baldwin, was tall and stately ; 
 indeed, the warrior dress he wore seemed calcu- 
 lated to make him so appear, even had nature 
 done her work in a manner less striking ; but 
 she had formed it in one of her noblest and most 
 beautiful moulds. His countenance was youth- 
 ful, manly, and commanding. The upper part of 
 the forehead and the lower of the chin were 
 hidden ; as the small square aperture left by the 
 cap for the face (all the rest being covered by 
 the gorget fastened to the steel cap at the sides of 
 the head,) allowed only the more prominent fea- 
 tures, and the upper lip, to be seen. The eyes, 
 dark and penetrating, had in them a glance 
 
 that indicated an impatient and a haughty spirit. 
 
 k2
 
 196 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 The expression of the whole countenance was, at 
 this moment, perturbed. 
 
 As Abbot Baldwin hastily inquired who he 
 might be that thus strangely and suddenly came 
 into his presence in a m.anner so unwonted, and 
 in so unusual a place, the armed figure eagerly 
 replied, " Do you not know me ? can a mailed 
 coat and a cap of steel thus alter a man, that his 
 friend need ask his name ? " 
 
 He approached nearer: Baldwin started. "Holy 
 Mary ! " he exclaimed, " Henry de Pomeroy ! 
 Can it be ? — impossible ! He is even now with 
 the Earl of Mortaigne." 
 
 " He was with the Earl of Mortaigne," replied 
 the stranger, " but he is no longer so ; he is a 
 fugitive, like the hart that flies before the hunters 
 and the hounds. Henry de Pomeroy now stands 
 before you, a defeated man ! " 
 
 "And the Earl of Mortaigne ?" said the 
 abbot, with an eagerness that scarcely allowed 
 him to draw breath. " What of him, — is his 
 cause lost ? "
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 197 
 
 " Not so, I trust," replied Henry de Pomeroy ; 
 " not lost, though the bark of his fortunes is fast 
 driving towards the rocks. The Earl of Mor- 
 taigne seized the castle of Windsor. Philippe of 
 France, in secret, aided him with money and 
 men-at-arms. I joined him. We might have 
 defied all assaults, had the Baron de St. Lo kept 
 faith with us. But he came not, as he had 
 pledged his word to do, to man the castle with a 
 sufficient force. In the meanwhile certain friends 
 and adherents of the captive Richard besieged 
 Earl John in this strong hold of Windsor. We 
 held out till the fear of famine compelled us to 
 yield. At this juncture, our envoy, in returning 
 from Philippe, being taken prisoner, betrayed cer- 
 tain letters to the victorious friends of the king. 
 By these they learnt the truth ; and without pause 
 denounced John, Earl of Mortaisrne, a traitor 
 to his brother Richard : for hitherto John had 
 made some matters of quarrel between these bold 
 barons and himself a pretext for seizing the 
 castle. But all was now changed : all who had
 
 198 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 proclaimed themselves his partisans were dealt 
 with by the severest measures. Many were even 
 hanged by these proud and triumphant barons. I 
 escaped with the prince, who is now gone to 
 Nottingham, there to join his power ; and hither 
 am I come to bear these tidings of mischance to 
 his friends in the West." 
 
 " Does your purpose end so ?*" inquired the 
 abbot, with a peculiar tone and air. 
 
 " No," said Henry de Pomeroy ; "it has a 
 larger aim. I come to rouse the friends of the 
 Earl of Mortaigne, both in Devon and in Corn- 
 wall : to raise men and means ; and once more 
 to hold ourselves prepared for the moment when 
 John may, with a bold hand, seize that sceptre 
 which his brother has so recklessly thrown aside, 
 like a bauble, from his grasp. This is my pur- 
 pose. I arrived but now ; and desirous to com- 
 municate these matters to you alone, I sought 
 Csedmon, your Saxon page, and prayed him to guide 
 me where I might gain speech with you in private 
 after your chapter. I have now told you all.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 199 
 
 These are times that demand action. We must 
 not slumber when the lion is about to be un- 
 chained." 
 
 " Never," exclaimed Baldwin, " never shall 
 Richard again put his foot on English ground." 
 
 " Truly you have no cause to love this cru- 
 sading king," said Henry de Pomeroy ; "he has 
 been no good friend to you." 
 
 " An ingrate !" exclaimed the abbot ; " he has 
 been to me like the frozen viper, warmed in the 
 bosom it requites with its sting." 
 
 " Did you not," inquired De Pomeroy, "offend 
 the deceased King Henry by taking part with 
 his rebellious son ? I have heard men report as 
 much." 
 
 " The quarrel was unnatural," said the abbot. 
 " I did but seek to shield him from his father's 
 wrath. He loved me ; and then was I to Rich- 
 ard even as David was to Jonathan ; we two were 
 as a double bosom owning but one heart. I 
 toiled for him, served him ; and how, think you, 
 he requited my pains ?"
 
 200 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " By making you, by his influence, abbot of 
 this house ; was it not so ?" 
 
 " It was. But was that, I trow, a fitting re- 
 quital to me ? — to me who looked to be primate of 
 all England ! But I was passed over, and an- 
 other Baldwin chosen in my stead.* This is an 
 insult never to be forgotten. No more of it : let 
 us talk of other matters. I have here a list " (he 
 drew forth a scroll as he spoke) " of those who are 
 thought to be friends to Prince John. These we 
 must secure. Men and means must be found; 
 the stout castles of the West must be ours ; and 
 then shall we be ready to meet all occasions of 
 necessity. We heard that, previous to this last 
 contest, you and Prince John had a hot battle 
 with the friends of Richard." 
 
 " It was with William de Stuteville, who led 
 on the power of the Archbishop of York,'^ said 
 Henry de Pomeroy. " The contest was brief, but 
 
 * The abbot probably alludes to that Baldwin, Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, who died at Ptolemais during the 
 Crusades
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 201 
 
 manly. Our men stood like a tower in the depth 
 and strength of their ranks ; whilst their Avinged 
 arrows flew so thick and fast, that the very face of 
 heaven was darkened with their flight : where they 
 fell they fixed ; a life was struck by every shaft." 
 
 " Where was the Earl of Mortaigne ?'' in- 
 quired the abbot ; " was he in the battle ?" 
 
 " He was in its very heart," replied Henry de 
 Pomeroy. " John, with his falchion in his hand, 
 that day made his passage through all opposition. 
 The lightning, when it darts from the cloud, is 
 not more fierce or sudden than was his spirit. 
 Now he was seen leading on the van, till he met 
 his foes face to face ; their very aventailles struck 
 in the closeness of the encounter. The horses 
 they rode seemed to understand the conflict, to 
 strain at the curb that held them back, as their 
 expanded nostrils and reared heads showed their 
 impatience for the fray. The prince brought 
 with him victory. At one part of the field where 
 ail seemed lost, with but the waving of his pennon 
 he turned the fortunes of the battle." 
 
 K 5
 
 202 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " He is a brave prince," said the abbot ; 
 " he shall want no aid that we can give him. 
 Have you the letters that I sent to you at 
 Berry Pomeroy Castle, ere you ventured on this 
 business ?" 
 
 " I have," replied Henry. " I have thought 
 upon their contents ; their counsel to me seems 
 good and wise. You say she is heiress to her 
 dead father''s lands in Normandy and England ; 
 that a kinswoman purchased the wardship of her 
 from the king. This is well — but is she fair 
 and young ? and — " 
 
 *' She is fair as the lily drooping on its bed," 
 answered the abbot ; " she hath, too, that most 
 excellent spirit of meekness, which in woman is 
 so precious. Her kinswoman, the Lady Alicia 
 ^e Beaumont, keeps her much from the world. 
 She is as a flower in the shade, on which the 
 sun has scarcely looked with an ardent eye. She 
 were worthy to become a prince''s bride. I know 
 well her guardian, who keeps the fair Adela, 
 for that is the maiden''s name, more like a votress
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 203 
 
 in a cell than as an heiress inhabiting her own 
 castle. Yet will I contrive that you shall meet ; 
 for I have much influence with the Lady Alicia ; 
 and when once known to her fair charge, the 
 Lord of Berry Pomeroy, young, debonnaire, and 
 brave, need not fear a denial to his suit ! " 
 
 " I will not fear it," said the youthful warrior ; 
 " and trust me, Father Abbot, if I win her by 
 your aid, I will not be ungrateful. I have in- 
 fluence with the Earl of Mortaigne. Once let 
 his partisans, of which we are not the meanest, 
 place the crown on John's head, and your own 
 shall soon bear its augmented honours, as a 
 mitred abbot among our peers ! " 
 
 " And Exeter, that proud bishop, shall no 
 longer insult our power," said Baldwin, " by 
 asserting any right of rule over this house. But 
 I must leave you ; for even now does his arch- 
 deacon wait for me in the guest-chamber. There 
 join us. But you must first seek Csedmon ; bid 
 the Saxon page conduct you to a chamber near 
 my own. There disarm ; attire you in a less
 
 204 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 warlike habit; these mailed trappings might ex- 
 cite some spirit of curiosity at such a time. 
 There are abundance of tunics and gowns in 
 the wardrobes of my chamber. I will despatch 
 Csedmon to the Lady Alicia, to request per- 
 mission that I may bring with me a noble friend 
 to hunt upon her lands. Her young charge 
 delights to witness such sports. This hunting 
 will surely lead the way to your becoming known 
 to* her. We shall meet anon in the refectory, 
 —till then, farewell !" 
 
 So spake the abbot ere he retired from the 
 chapter-house ; Henry de Pomeroy lost no time 
 in obeying his directions, and went forthwith 
 to seek the page who had already privately ad- 
 mitted him, and to whom he was now to be 
 beholden for a civil dress, suited to his rank 
 and the state in which he moved.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY, 205 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Great chere made our hoste everich one, 
 And to the supper set he us anone ; 
 And served us with vitaille of the beste ; 
 Strong was the wine, and wel to drinke us leste. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 The hostrey, or guest-hall of the abbey was 
 a noble chamber : on either side were seen a row 
 of pillars supporting the arches of the carved 
 oak ceiling. The furniture was costly ; it had 
 been chosen by the present abbot, who, in 
 whatever appertained to his person or his dwell- 
 ing, was splendid and sumptuous. The richest 
 hangings decorated the walls, and the tapers 
 that at night were burnt in this apartment, in 
 sconces of silver, were perfumed with amber- 
 gris and cloves.
 
 S06 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 It was here that the archdeacon, his train, 
 and Henry de Poraeroy, were waiting a summons 
 to the refectory. The latter had changed a 
 military for a civil habit, and wore a rich dal- 
 matic of Genoese crimson silk over a tunic of 
 green ; its ample folds were bound round the 
 middle by a rich belt ; and as he advanced with 
 a graceful step into the room, the drapery of 
 his long and purple robe showed on his tall 
 and stately person to the greatest advantage. 
 The robe was embroidered with silver stars, 
 and fastened on the left shoulder with a fibula, 
 or brooch, of emeralds and gold. His boots 
 were short and furred ; and round his head he 
 wore a chaplet, or circle of pearls, that confined 
 the hair, which, according to the fashion of the 
 time, (a fashion so severely reprobated in the 
 sermons of the • clergy,) was suffered to grow 
 long, and fall flowing over the back. 
 
 It was in this chamber that the hosteler met 
 the guests, and gave to each the Benedicite, and 
 the kiss of peace. Soon after he conducted them
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. ^07 
 
 to the refectory, where the abbot intended to 
 entertain the archdeacon with all the ceremonies 
 and solemnities of his house. The refectory 
 was a long and rather low chamber ; short and 
 massive columns supported the roof; it was but 
 feebly lighted by the small round-headed win- 
 dows of its primitive construction. A stone 
 pulpit projected from the north side of the wall, 
 where the reader appointed to lecture during 
 the repast always took his station. At the east 
 end, above the panelling of oak, was seen a 
 large and rude picture representing the cruci- 
 fixion. Within the doorway, on the left hand, 
 was an almtry^ or poor box ; and there, also, 
 stood the ^race cup; — a cup so called on ac- 
 count of its being handed round to every monk, 
 immediately after the grace, as the finishing 
 draught of a meal. In some religious houses, 
 where the superior was particularly indulgent, 
 it was often long ere the rap of the prior's 
 hammer upon the table called for the finishing 
 goblet of the day.
 
 208 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 We have somewhat dwelt on these curious 
 customs of our ancient monasteries, because few 
 of our general readers can have the opportunity 
 of making themselves acquainted with them ; 
 and if those who chance to know more than we 
 do of the subject, should find such notices im- 
 pertinent, we can only recommend them to resort 
 to the very common practice of skipping ; when, 
 a few pages passed over, they may follow the 
 narrative in unbroken succession. Few readers, 
 however, will object to the items of a good 
 dinner. We trust, therefore, that none will do 
 our abbot such discourtesy as to refuse to ac- 
 company him to the social board. 
 
 Baldwin entered the refectory bare-headed, 
 his arms crossed upon his breast, with an air of 
 modest dignity in his deportment, combined with 
 the ease of one accustomed to high society, who 
 is about to do the honours in his own house. He 
 was attended by several of his chaplains, and four 
 youths ; two were pages of the digitus, the other 
 two of the covered cup. As he entered all
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 209 
 
 present rose, and remained standing; till after 
 having first saluted the cross, the abbot pro- 
 ceeded to the digitus at the side table, where 
 the pages whose duty it was ministered to him, 
 whilst the prior poured from a silver ewer, per- 
 fumed water into a basin of like material, and 
 presented to him a napkin to dry his hands after 
 the ceremony of ablution. 
 
 This done, he advanced to the head of his own 
 separate table, to which he had invited the arch- 
 deacon and Sir Henry de Pomeroy. The prior and 
 sub-prior presided at the long tables appropriated 
 to the monks. On a signal being given, two of 
 the singing chaplains advanced to the foot of the 
 abbot's board, and sang the Latin grace.* The 
 grace was led off by a few notes struck by the 
 precentor, on an instrument he held in his hand, 
 and used as the moderns do the pitch-pipe in a 
 country church. This instrument, called a ta- 
 bula, was of bone, ornamented with gold and 
 
 * A ceremony still observed at the tables of our colleges 
 of Oxford and Cambridge.
 
 210 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 silver, in form not unlike the ancient lyre ; 
 indeed the office of precentor, or chanter, in the 
 monasteries, seemed to answer to that of the 
 Coryphaeus, or leader of the choruses, in the 
 ancient drama of the Greeks. 
 
 On the abbot's table were several loaves of 
 wassel bread, two of which only were allowed for 
 use, the other four being allotted to the poor. 
 There also stood the orthodox jug of single beer, 
 and the modest half sextary of small wine. But 
 these humble liquors, though strictly enjoined by 
 rule for an abbot's table, were, like the hundred 
 hob-nails, presented in our times to the Lord 
 Mayor of London on the day of his inauguration, 
 a mere ceremony of office, more for show than use. 
 In earlier ages, the being able to count the cen- 
 tury of nails, proclaimed that the individual chosen 
 for the civic lordship was possessed of sufficient 
 education to enable him to perform the duties of 
 his place ; as an alderman who could not tell that 
 two and two made four, would never have been 
 deemed efficient to calculate what might be due
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 211 
 
 to the account of justice, when fines, amerce- 
 ments, and penalties, paid down in hard coin, con- 
 stituted the laws of reparation, as well as of punish- 
 ment, in most cases of ordinary offence, and even 
 in some of a criminal nature. But notwithstand- 
 ing, by the progress of time, the constitution of 
 the realm and the entire state of education have 
 changed in this country, the custom of the hob- 
 nails, though no longer necessary, is still duly 
 observed in the ceremony of making a Lord 
 Mayor. Even so was the jug of weak beer, and 
 of still weaker wine retained, as the ancient and 
 ordained potations befitting a Lord Abbot. But 
 as the indulgence to partake of better things, 
 depended solely on his own will, our abbot was 
 content with the mere presence of the humbler 
 liquors, without drawing upon them for use. In 
 fact, he held them as a commander holds his troops 
 in times of peace, to be always ready at the roll 
 call, to answer to their names, but without any 
 intention of leading them into action. 
 
 Abbot Baldwin, though he liked good cheer
 
 212 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 when he had no deep schemes in his immediate 
 consideration, to spoil his relish and injure his 
 digestion, was by no means a selfish man in any 
 such matters. He did not, therefore, deny that 
 indulgence to others which he granted to himself. 
 Yet let not scandal assail his memory with any 
 undue suspicions on this head. The monks of 
 Tavistock were really no topers : they were 
 allowed a social but not a solitary cup ; and the 
 cheerful was never suffered to degenerate into the 
 intoxicating bowl. If it did, now and then, by 
 any stolen indulgence become such, the offender 
 never escaped unpunished. In such cases he 
 had either a severe taste of discipline awarded to 
 his back, or he was imprisoned in the monastery, 
 or he had his hood and frock turned wrong side 
 outwards, so to be worn during many days ; an 
 ancient mode of punishment for drunkenness still 
 retained among our old soldiers and sailors, by 
 having their coats turned at Chelsea or Greenwich 
 Hospitals. 
 
 The potations that flanked those of ceremony.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 213 
 
 already named, were as various as they were 
 excellent ; they consisted of clary, metheglin, 
 piment, and vernage, a mixture of wine, honey, 
 and spices, and the still richer hippocrass. Two 
 windows in the refectory opened from the great 
 kitchen, and through these were served the meats, 
 hot and hot, to the tables. 
 
 No sooner had the dishes appeared, than the 
 officer, called the particularius^ cut up the food 
 into a comjnons ; such being the allotted portion 
 for one monk ; but to the novices and scholars 
 was given a pittance^ which was nothing more nor 
 less than an allowance for two lads on one plate ; 
 a circumstance by no means favourable to the 
 justice due to a growing boy's stomach, if he 
 happened to have in his fellow commoner * a 
 youth stouter, and more active in the play of the 
 fingers than himself, with better grinders and a 
 larger swallow. 
 
 The dishes now served were by no means in- 
 
 * An ancient name for one who is accustomed to eat with 
 another, from one trencher or plate, in convent or college.
 
 214 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 different; for no monastery in the West could 
 boast better cooks than our Abbey of Tavistock ; 
 and though the fare was capital at all the tables, 
 that served to my Lord Abbot's, for its variety 
 and recherche character, might have figured in 
 the carte of a modern Parisian restaurateur. 
 
 Yet we must here observe, that spiritual persons, 
 according to strict canonical rule, were permitted 
 to eat of no four-footed thing ; because God had 
 cursed the beasts of the earth on the fall of Adam. 
 But, with truly nice discrimination, indulging 
 themselves in a little quibbling with the courts of 
 heaven, even as the gentlemen of the long robe 
 do with those of the law, the worthy monks had 
 considered that as in this curse the word earth 
 had been introduced to distinguish those animals 
 that walked upon it from the winged inhabitants 
 of its neighbour element, the air, the creatures 
 of the latter were not to be held as excommuni- 
 cated from holy stomachs. Hence arose the re- 
 probation of four-footed things, and that most 
 unrelenting war which brothers of conventual rule
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY 215 
 
 never relaxed against ducks, geese, swans, and all 
 manner of feathered fowl : till, at length, finding 
 a larger variety of food was necessary for a large 
 fraternity, and that many capital creatures, fat 
 bucks for instance, ran on all fours, they got over 
 the canonical scruple by introducing an indul- 
 gence on the plea of necessity ; so that at the 
 last, it came to this, there was no necessity at 
 all to observe the rule, excepting whenever they 
 might be so disposed. 
 
 But we will not follow up this subject. We 
 will not intrude on the province of Mrs. Glass, 
 though, as that celebrated book (which notwith- 
 standing the brittle name of its pseudo author, 
 has had so long an existence,) is said to be really 
 the work of a bishop, we might plead even 
 episcopal authority, were we disposed to give a 
 chapter on ecclesiastical cookery. We shall, how- 
 ever, content ourselves with saying, that among 
 the good things at the abbot's table was one 
 that made a great show, — a fine, fat, roasted 
 swan, in Jeiv's chains^ which was nothing less
 
 216 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 than the bird being hung with pork sausages ; so 
 designated in derision of that people, who would 
 rather go to prison than eat swine's flesh in 
 defiance to their law. There were also the cold 
 baked meats, that Hamlet talks about as 
 decorating funeral feasts ; and every possible 
 variety of pastry, creams, sweetmeats, and per- 
 fumes. 
 
 And all this Abbot Baldwin called his poor 
 fare, as he welcomed the archdeacon and his 
 guests to his poor house ; and glancing his eye 
 round the refectory with a look of proud humility, 
 he bade all be seated at the conclusion of the 
 ^race ; and the refectioner rang a small hand-bell 
 at the warning of what was called the charity ; 
 namely, that each monk was on this day to have 
 poured out to him a cup of hydromel at the com- 
 mencement of his repast. The word was given, 
 and now Ca^dmon, the reader for the day, ascended 
 the stone pulpit and opened his book. 
 
 Still he had to wait till silence should prevail ; 
 for, at present, there was all the clatter and com-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 217 
 
 motion attending a numerous body of men dining 
 together in hall. And the servants and obedi- 
 entaries were still running about, presenting to 
 each brother a super tunic to save his frock and 
 the nappery from the spoonfuls of soup and rich 
 gravies which might be spilt in being carried 
 from the plate to the mouth. Greatly will our 
 readers wonder when we tell them that these 
 super tunics, through which the monks poked their 
 arms and tucked under their chins, were not 
 unlike the garment the good little people, in our 
 schools or nurseries, have so carefully put upon 
 them before sitting down to dinner. 
 
 There is a solidity of purpose about English- 
 men which makes them always intent over a good 
 thing. Hence is it that, unlike their neighbours 
 the French, they are no great chatterers at dinner. 
 But in the monasteries, as there were a good 
 many services within the church, and silence was 
 absolute after complin, they were more apt to 
 talk at their meals than are in general the natives 
 of these isles. Abbot Baldwin, however, found 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 such a perpetual gossiping, wliicli not imfrequently 
 resembled the gabbling of geese, or the buzzing 
 of bees in a hive, a great let to the reader (who 
 sometimes read the learned abbot's own compo- 
 sitions) ; it not a little annoyed him, and more 
 especially, when he had guests at his own table. 
 He determined, therefore, to give a check to 
 their loquacity by enjoining that, on all days of 
 especial ceremony, the worthy brothers should be 
 permitted to talk only in Latin ; a permission 
 that put the curb upon their satirical jestings, 
 their stories to provoke laughter, and their gos- 
 sipings, as effectually as if they were under the 
 severest penance in discourse. 
 
 At such seasons they were also enjoined 
 to express their wants at dinner by the use of 
 what was called the signa necessaria, or, literally, 
 the language of signs, which was a sort of short- 
 hand talking with the fingers. Thus, on these 
 peculiar days, if a monk needed some fish, he 
 waved his hand like the tail of a fish in the 
 water ; and if he wanted a slice of venison from
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 219 
 
 my Lord Abbot's board, he was to hold up his 
 two fingers, on either side his temples, to denote 
 the horns of a deer. It was surprising to see 
 how many brothers were eager to put forth this 
 sign on venison days in the refection. Indeed, 
 so many and so various were these signs, that 
 it was acquiring a language that resembled the 
 manual exercise to learn them. 
 
 Whilst the repast was proceeding, the chap- 
 lains, called the monitors, from their duty being 
 to report to the abbot or prior whatever they 
 observed amiss, ranged from table to table, and 
 gave a shrewd eye to the novices, pages, and 
 scholars. 
 
 Before the reader commenced his task, the 
 abbot, as a matter of courtesy, prepared to go 
 through one of the highest ceremonials of the 
 day, that of the covered cup (for his was the 
 only one allowed to have a cover) ; the youth who 
 was the cup-bearer ascended the dais, (or raised 
 platform on which stood the superior's table,) 
 knelt before the abbot, gave the cover to his 
 
 L 2
 
 2^0 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 fellow page, and after reverently kissing his lorcFs 
 hand, presented to him a goblet filled with the 
 choicest wine. Baldwin took the richly chased 
 and sparkling cup, and with an air of dignity, 
 bowing as he named his guests, pledged the 
 archdeacon and his friends. After this the 
 cup was presented to each, with an air of pro- 
 found respect, by the pages of the dais. 
 
 All being seated, and all having drunken a 
 draught, the business of dinner was seriously 
 commenced ; whilst Csedmon read aloud from 
 a curious history, which he had composed on 
 the authority of the ancient chronicles of the 
 house : — ••' A true and faithful Narration of the 
 Foundation of the Abbey of Tavistock, by Orgar, 
 Earl or Heretoge of Devon ; and the curious 
 events connected with the court of that most noble 
 Earl ; also, how the abbey was burnt by the 
 Danes, and built again only thirty years after its 
 original construction."" 
 
 Csedmon having gone through his reading, the 
 abbot struck the table with the palm of his
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 221 
 
 Land ; on which signal, a little page, son of a 
 noble Norman, advanced and knelt on the step 
 of the dais, ready to fulfil his pleasure. It was 
 to send a cup of wine to the reader. Csedmon 
 descended from his pulpit to receive it ; the abbot 
 again struck the table thrice to denote that 
 dinner was ended and the grace might be sung. 
 Once more did the precentor and the chaplains 
 step forward to perform their duties. 
 
 The abbot now rose and pronounced the 
 benediction. The spoon officer was already 
 engaged in going round the tables and collecting 
 the spoons, assisted by the cellarer ; and accord- 
 ing to rule, the former took especial care to 
 hold my Lord Abbot's spoon in the right hand, 
 and all the rest in the left. 
 
 In the midst of this bustle, and before the 
 abbot and his guests had quitted the dais, there 
 was a stir at the end of the hall that arrested 
 attention. The servant of the locutory now 
 came forward and announced that certain pilgrims 
 Avere at the gates, demanding admission ; and
 
 222 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 that the janitor (who, according to rule, was to 
 be a "wise old man,"") had left them standing 
 without the wicket, till he should know his lord's 
 pleasure, as it was past the hour for admitting 
 strangers. 
 
 The abbot directed that they should be let 
 in, and declared his intention to receive them 
 himself. Previous to their entrance, however, 
 the hosteler came to make his report. He said 
 that some of the strangers were pilgrims of an 
 ordinary sort ; they had been as poor sinners to 
 the shrine of St. Thomas-a-Kent to look upon 
 his cloven skull. He had ascertained this at 
 a glance, by observing that they wore round 
 their necks the Canterbury/ bells ; that jingled 
 like sheep-bells wherever they went ; and none 
 but St. Thomas's pilgrims might put them on. 
 Others were on their way to the blessed wxll 
 of St. Maderne, in Cornwall ; and of one, who 
 came alone, he knew nothing excepting that he 
 had a grey beard, and must therefore be an old 
 man. He was, to be sure, a palmer ; for he
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 223 
 
 carried attached to his bourbon, or pilgrim''s staff, 
 the branch of a palm-tree. He had merely 
 stated to the hosteler that he came hither on his 
 return from the Holy Land, to offer his bourbon 
 and scrip at the altar of the abbey church. 
 
 " He must be then originally of this parish,'** 
 said the abbot ; " or he would not make such 
 an offering here. Marshal him hither; we 
 would gladly hear the news from Palestine, and 
 how matters stand in the Holy Land, since the 
 capture of our king."
 
 224 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
 And wrapt a breast bestow'd on Heaven alone. 
 
 Byron. 
 An oath is a recognizance to Heaven, 
 Binding us over in the courts above. 
 
 Southern. 
 
 The hosteler soon returned, conducting the 
 company of pilgrhns. The palmer came last and 
 spoke last ; for were it age, or timidity, or both 
 combined to depress his spirits in the presence 
 of strangers, he was heard to sigh deeply, as he 
 bent his knee before the Lord Abbot, and seemed 
 to shun rather than to seek notice. This was 
 the more remarkable, as palmers in general were 
 apt to thrust themselves forward, and to be eager 
 in assuming that im.portance which was then
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 225 
 
 ceded to the traveller who returned from such 
 far distant lands. 
 
 The other pilgrims easily satisfied the inquiry 
 of the abbot. One had been to Rome to see 
 the Veronica, or sacred handkerchief, impressed 
 with a portrait of the Lord of life, as he had 
 wiped his face with it, when on his way to 
 Calvary. Another had visited the church of 
 St. John of Lateran, which had been built by 
 the Emperor Constantine after his baptism. The 
 rest were returning from the shrine of St. Thomas- 
 a-Kent, excepting one, who came to offer, at 
 the altar of St. Rumon, a statual taper. This 
 was nothing less than an immense wax candle, 
 the weight of a child that had been stolen by 
 the wandering beggars from its parents : the un- 
 happy father hoped by such an offering, accom- 
 panied by his prayers, to propitiate the saint 
 for the recovery of his child ; and for this pur- 
 pose he intended, also, to consult the mystical 
 waters of the holy well of St. Maderne, in Corn- 
 wall. 
 
 l5
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 All these individuals had been so willing to 
 disclose the purposes and motives of their pil- 
 grimage, that the reserve of the palmer became 
 the more remarkable, and did but fix the abbot's 
 attention more exclusively upon himself. The 
 superior was curious to know who he Avas, and 
 whence he came. 
 
 The palmer was a tall man ; clad in a sclavina, 
 or long gown of woollen cloth. His scrip hung 
 across his shoulders ; he was girded vfith a 
 leathern belt, and a scarf was thrown careless- 
 ly over his gown. On his broad-brimmed pil- 
 grim's hat (usually worn turned up in front, 
 though not so with him,) he displayed not mere- 
 ly the well known scallop shell, but what was 
 called a sign of Sinai, also ; that was a relic 
 from the Holy Land. In the present instance it 
 was a small piece of wood, said to be a portion 
 of the tree under which our Lord had seen Na- 
 thaniel, " that Israelite without guile." We fear 
 scarcely so much could be said of the fabricator 
 of the reliC;, whoever he might have been. A
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. S27 
 
 rosary of amber beads, and the bourbon the 
 palmer carried in his hands, surmounted by a 
 branch of dry and withered palm, completed his 
 equipments as a devotee from the Holy Land. 
 
 There was something noble but sad in the 
 expression of his countenance ; the features of 
 which, though worn and altered by change of 
 climate, and that still greater change, perhaps, 
 produced by the passions of the soul, must in 
 youth have been eminently handsome. On an 
 attentive consideration of his countenance, he 
 might be said to be more old in cares than in 
 years. And as at this period both clergy and 
 laity had renounced the wearing of beards, they 
 were seldom seen on the chins of any, excepting 
 very poor persons ; the grey beard, therefore, of 
 our palmer might serve not only to disguise 
 him, but to indicate he was a man of very mean 
 condition. 
 
 On being questioned, he admitted that he was 
 a native of the parish of Tavistock, where he 
 desired to offer up, and to redeem for a small
 
 2^8 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 sum, his bourbon and scrip, in gratitude for his 
 safe return to the land of his birth. But on 
 being asked his name, he replied simply, " Wal- 
 ter the Palmer."" 
 
 " No other ! *" said the abbot, in a tone of 
 surprise ; " for this can alone have been yours 
 since you became a palmer.*" 
 
 " Walter of the Plant Wormwood, may it 
 please you, then," said the palmer; "for by 
 that name was I known till I gained the palm 
 by visiting the tomb of our Lord." 
 
 " You are a pilgrim of sorrow, then,"" said 
 the abbot, for at the date of our narrative it 
 was common with persons going on pilgrimage, 
 or to the Holy Land wars, to assume a sobriquet, 
 or penitential name, as it was called, altogether 
 suppressing their own. Motives of humility and 
 repentance sometimes led to this, as a disguise 
 to their rank and station, and sometimes it was 
 a matter of convenience, if they were labouring 
 under any circumstances that rendered a tem-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 229 
 
 porary obscurity desirable for their affairs.* But 
 though these sobriquets were not at all uncom- 
 mon, they were so when assumed by poor people, 
 who, having no rank or state from which any 
 merit could be derived by its being laid aside 
 for awhile, and who, being too insignificant and 
 too obscure to be pursued by any enemy as far 
 as the East, had no motive for disguise. That 
 the palmer was poor, was a thing to be inferred 
 from his long beard, and the very coarse materials 
 of which his dress was composed. The abbot's 
 curiosity, therefore, was greatly excited by all 
 the circumstances we have named, and he still 
 further pressed on the stranger to declare himself. 
 The palmer, without giving any answer, laid 
 aside his staff, bared his right arm, and showed 
 
 * Geoffrey of Anjou, die father of Henry tlie Second of 
 England, on assuming the bourbon and the scrip, to go on 
 one of these incognito pilgrimages, had taken, as his name 
 of penitence, that of a lowly plant, the Planta-genista, or 
 Plantagenety or the broom ; a devotional name which stuck 
 to his posterity, till it became a proper one, and was, there- 
 fore, afterwards affixed to the blood royal of England.
 
 230 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 that he wore, soldered upon it, an iron ring of 
 some weight. All present crossed themselves at 
 the sight, in token of respect to the vow of 
 penance which this ring so fastened, indicated 
 had been made by the wearer, from some secret 
 motive, in the name the most sacred to the Chris- 
 tian church. 
 
 " I am under a vow, holy father,**' said the 
 palmer. " Before the blessed sepulchre itself 
 was I vowed never to reveal my name, my family, 
 my degree, or the one great purpose for which 
 I live and breathe ; never to suffer this iron, 
 so painful to the flesh that bears it, to be struck 
 off this arm, till I have visited in deepest hu- 
 mility, and have performed an enjoined penance, 
 at every one of those holy places to which I 
 have bound my soul in my secret vow. Thus 
 much I am at liberty to speak. The visitations 
 to which I am sworn will detain me for some 
 time in the neighbourhood of this abbey, though 
 I must have no fixed home. I must visit, ere 
 I quit the west, the Mount of St. Michael, and
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 231 
 
 one place more ; after which, reverend father, I 
 shall be at liberty to tell my name and lineage. 
 But till such time comes, I rest me Walter of 
 the Plant Wormwood, an unhappy man, vowed 
 to penance for his sins ; a poor but true servant 
 of the church. Having spoken these things 
 concerning myself, I have nothing more to add." 
 
 " The blessed Virgin forbid that we should 
 do other than respect your vow, holy palmer,'" 
 said the abbot ; " yet we may, without infringing 
 it, require of you the news from Palestine. We 
 pray you to rest your weary limbs ; sit, pilgrim, 
 sit, the hosteler will speedily bring in the basins 
 and water for the Maundy. As wayfarers and 
 pilgrims from a distant land, it is our duty to 
 wash your feet, holy men. But we will grant 
 ourself a dispensation this evening from the 
 performance of our duty; and our brother, the 
 cellarer, who is under sentence of ordeal, shall 
 be our proxy. Let the cellarer be called hither, 
 to wash these good men's feet ; you shall not 
 lack a cup to refresh you after your journey ; and
 
 232 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 we will order the consolatio * in our own chamber. 
 There we invite you, holy palmer, and as many 
 of these pilgrims as would rather partake with 
 us, than with the brothers. You, most venerable 
 archdeacon, have declared your purpose of going 
 early to rest ; we will not, therefore, require your 
 company. But you, Sir Henry de Pomeroy, 
 are a young man, and care not, therefore, to close 
 your eyes at the hour the birds fold their wings ; 
 we therefore invite you ; and we doubt not that 
 the intelligence we shall gain from Palestine will 
 much cheer and delight both you and us poor 
 recluses, who live within our melancholy cells, 
 shut out from all the vain pleasures of the world 
 we have renounced.*" 
 
 The palmer, two or three of the pilgrims, and 
 Sir Henry de Pomeroy accepted the invitation ; 
 and at the hour of the consolatio, the abbot 
 found his private chamber strewed with fresh 
 rushes, the board laid on tressels ready for the 
 
 * The consolatio was a private supper in the abbot's 
 apartment.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 2S3 
 
 repast, and his servants about to spread the 
 nappery and to bring up the dishes. All was 
 soon ready ; and Baldwin welcomed his guests 
 as one by one they saluted him with an air of 
 dignified courtesy, that well became him as abbot 
 of the house.
 
 234- HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 This rash, romantic war, 
 Begot by hot-brained bigots and fomented 
 By the intrigues of proud designing priests : 
 All ages have their madness, this is ours. 
 
 LiLLO. 
 
 Shall we look at the group assembled in 
 the abbot's chamber, gentle reader, before we 
 proceed to the matter of their discourse ? The 
 picture it presents to our view is striking ; it is 
 worth a moment's pause. 
 
 There sits the abbot at the head of the board ; 
 he has exchanged his dress of state for one of 
 private ease ; his air and demeanour are less 
 austere, more pleasing. This is the hour of 
 domestic indulgence without ceremony. Yet
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 2S5 
 
 even now, his stateliness of carriage being natural 
 to him, cannot wholly be laid aside ; and though 
 his mind is in repose, yet is there something 
 in the expression of those quiescent features, 
 and in the glance of that haughty and penetrating 
 eye, that seems to say the passions which have 
 left so strong an impress in their course, did but 
 slumber for awhile, and were liable to be roused 
 up on the slightest call of offended pride, to 
 resume their empire with all their wonted force. 
 
 Near the abbot sits Sir Henry de Pomeroy ; 
 there is in him a luxuriousness of manly beauty 
 in its bloom, mingled with a free and soldier-like 
 air, that altogether would render the young and 
 gallant knight a fit representative for a painter 
 who wished to portray an Anthony after victory, 
 in his hours of voluptuous ease. His beautiful 
 hair, with its long curled and perfumed locks, 
 his fair forehead, and his looks of indolent en- 
 joyment being singularly contrasted with the 
 general form and structure of his body and his
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 limbs, which indicate strength and vigour of a 
 more than ordinary kind. 
 
 In the finest possible relief, if we may be allow- 
 ed so to express ourselves, to this luxuriousness of 
 youthful beauty, is seen the palmer. He stands 
 with his eyes intently fixed upon the young war- 
 rior, who forms so remarkable a contrast to his own 
 tall and sombre figure, wrapped in the long and 
 ample folds of his simple and coarse gown ; his 
 head, now bare, for he had taken off his pilgrim's 
 hat, is of the most marked kind. The counte- 
 nance pale, the features regular, and though a 
 good deal wrinkled about the eyes and brow, 
 yet not other than handsome ; whilst the long 
 beard falling over the bosom, gives, as a beard 
 always does, so venerable an air to the head, that 
 he looks many years older than he really is. 
 
 The two or three other pilgrims who arc pre- 
 sent, add to the picturesque character of the 
 group, as they are all persons of a goodly form 
 and mien ; and Ceedmon the Saxon, the favourite 
 page of the abbot, availing himself of his
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 237 
 
 privilege to be near his lord's person, now sits 
 on a low stool near his feet, and completes the 
 picture. 
 
 " Will you take nothing but so cold a cup 
 as one of water, holy palmer?" said the abbot. 
 " Take a cup of wine, — remember what says 
 the Apostle, — for thy stomach's sake. It will 
 not, I trust, infringe upon thy vow to pledge me 
 in this !"" He filled one with hyppocrass, and 
 handed it to the stranger. 
 
 " I may not misprize such courtesy," said the 
 palmer. " By my vow I am bound to tem- 
 perance, not to abstinence. Therefore, holy fa- 
 ther, I may venture to pledge you in this fair 
 cup, with thanks for the hospitality of your 
 house. I have not tasted such a draught since 
 I quaffed one of hyppocrass in the tents of our 
 crusaders, after we had become masters of Acre." 
 
 " You have served in these wars, then ?" said 
 the abbot ; " and peradventure we ought to call 
 you Sir Walter of the Plant Wormwood, — a 
 knight may be .^"
 
 238 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 '' I said not so," replied the palmer. " My 
 bracelet of iron must excuse my further answer." 
 
 " It must, indeed," said the abbot. " We 
 spoke without thought of thy vow. But, believe 
 us, we have no idle curiosity. Our arrow was 
 but as the fooFs bolt, cast at a venture from 
 a bow drawn in idleness. We will ask but such 
 questions as any man may answer, — the last 
 tidings of Richard. For such a captive as he 
 of the lion's heart, cannot be kept from the 
 thoughts of his people, though he may from 
 their eyes. Have you, in your journey hither, 
 heard aught of him ?''"' 
 
 " Nothing but what has been often told," 
 replied the palmer, " that John, Earl of Mor- 
 taigne, the unnatural brother of our brave Rich- 
 ard, combined with his enemies, and supported 
 by the envious and malicious Philippe of France, 
 conspire together to bribe the Emperor and the 
 Duke of Austria still to detain captive the royal 
 Richard, till his usurping brother may find oc- 
 casion to seat himself in security upon England's
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 239 
 
 throne. But Heaven will not suiFer that trea- 
 cherous brother, that coward heart, to prevail I"" 
 
 " John, Earl of Mortaigne, is no coward ! " 
 said Sir Henry de Pomeroy, as he glanced his 
 eye indignantly at the palmer. " And in my 
 presence no man may call him so, without answer- 
 ing to me the foul scorn so cast upon his princely 
 name." 
 
 " Peace ! peace ! my son,'' said the alarmed 
 abbot, who feared Sir Henry's sudden passion 
 might betray more than it would be safe to let 
 out just at this crisis. " Know you not, a 
 palmer, and one having a vow, cannot underlay 
 any man's challenge ? To speak thus is, there- 
 fore, folly ; and yonder good man's grey beard 
 should be his warrant, so that an over hasty 
 word may receive a pardon without more ado." 
 
 " He shall ask it, then," said Sir Henry, 
 stubbornly; "he shall ask it. The Prince is 
 my friend." 
 
 " I am not his enemy," said the palmer : " I 
 have nothing to do with the quarrels of princes.
 
 240 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 My vow dedicates my thoughts to Heaven ; and 
 to Heaven, therefore, can I alone pray to set 
 at rest these unhappy feuds ; and to restore 
 peace, hope, charity^ brotherly love to England, 
 from the princes of the royal blood, down to 
 the poorest of her people.^"* 
 
 " Well, let us speak of Palestine,"''' said the 
 abbot, glad to turn the conversation from such 
 dangerous ground. " That is a country I would 
 fain have visited, had occasion so permitted. 
 What news thence ? ''"' 
 
 " News most sad,"' said the palmer : " the 
 infidels, no longer in fear of the mighty Richard, 
 break the truce every hour. Once more are 
 our pilgrims interrupted, maltreated, robbed, 
 murdered. Yet even do the very infidels, who 
 thus profit by the captivity of Richard, deplore 
 it, and do that for the princes of Europe which 
 they are too shameless in their envy to do for 
 themselves ; — they blush that the brave king's 
 mates in arms can let him lie imprisoned by one 
 of their own Christian faith, and not rise to a
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 241 
 
 man to free him. Their expedition must fall 
 to ruin wanting his aid ; even as the body falls 
 into the dust, when the heart ceases to animate 
 it with the purple tide of life." 
 
 " No man denies Richard the praise of 
 valour," said Sir Henry de Pomeroy. " He owes 
 his courage to his English stock, but his pride 
 to his own spirit ; and that few men can brook." 
 
 The palmer fixed his inquiring eye on the 
 young baron, as he said, *' Whilst Richard 
 was free, no man claiming knighthood dared 
 have spoken as much, unless he set his life at 
 naught. To slander the absent and the un- 
 fortunate is not well. Young sir, were the king 
 once more at liberty, your vaunted courage might 
 be but as a quivering flame, that would expire 
 at the very fear of Richard ! " 
 
 Henry de Pomeroy started up, laid his hand 
 on his dagger, but recollecting who it was who 
 had said this, he dashed the half drawn weapon 
 back into its sheath, and calling himself petu- 
 lantly a fool, to be thus angered by a grey- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 24f2 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 beard, sank down into his seat, and preserving 
 a moody air, scarcely spoke five words to the 
 palmer during the rest of the evening. 
 
 The abbot again endeavoured to direct the 
 conversation to other subjects. He talked of 
 Syria ; of the holy sepulchre ; the miraculous 
 images and relics : and received such answers 
 from the palmer as showed he had been an 
 attentive observer of the scenes through which 
 he had passed ; and the changes Judea had 
 undergone in the latter ages seemed very forcibly 
 to strike him. 
 
 " I have visited," said he, " that land of 
 majestic memory. With feelings of the deepest 
 awe have I stood where holy men trod of old ; 
 where the princes of an ancient people rose, like 
 its suns, matchless in splendour; princes of a 
 favoured line, fearful in their spirit, glorious in 
 their adoption, the chosen of God ; mighty 
 even in their shadows, in the memory of their 
 long departed greatness. That land where pro- 
 phet arose after prophet, and with a voice, as
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 243 
 
 of a fiery trumpet in the wilderness, aroused 
 a sleeping world, proclaiming to the nations the 
 coming of their King."" 
 
 The palmer looked upward as he spoke ; an 
 expression of awe was strongly imprinted on every 
 feature of his face ; and his voice became deep 
 and emphatic as he dwelt on the wonders, and 
 the sacred character of those scenes, so surpassing 
 all the ordinary experience of mankind. The 
 abbot was struck by the energy of his expres- 
 sions, and felt that respect for the superiority 
 of the palmer's mind, which makes so strong 
 and so favourable an impression on a man of 
 sense, when such superiority is unexpectedly and 
 unpretendingly brought before him. 
 
 Yet, in the midst of his enthusiasm, there was 
 a degree of melancholy in the palmer, that 
 seemed constantly to keep it in check ; for, after 
 he had spoken with the utmost animation, he 
 would sink into silence and abstraction, till he 
 was again roused to exertion by some question he 
 
 could not well avoid. The abbot soon observed 
 
 m2
 
 244 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 that melancholy was his principal characteristic ; 
 all he said or did was coloured by it, even as a 
 piece of painted glass gives its own hue to what- 
 ever objects may be seen through its medium. 
 But though so sad, there was nothing harsh or 
 unpleasant in his manner. The palmer''s was 
 evidently the melancholy of a sensitive and a 
 suffering heart, not of a discontented or disap- 
 pointed spirit ; hence was it gentle. 
 
 The abbot spoke of Jerusalem, and said he 
 could almost envy the happiness the wanderer 
 must have felt on first placing his foot on such 
 sacred ground. 
 
 " The feeling was too much akin to awe, to be 
 called happiness," replied the palmer ; " a strong 
 sense of the judgments of an offended God seized 
 on my soul as I looked around me on that blight- 
 ed land. Yet I felt that every thought of man's 
 heart in such a region of the still existing evi- 
 dences of Divine power partook of its sublimity." 
 
 " True," said the abbot ; "for that land is 
 the still existing record of miracle."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 245 
 
 " The scourge of God," exclaimed the pahner, 
 " throughout those solitary plains, has marked 
 with desolating stripes on every rock and vale, 
 that his wrath has passed over an accursed land. 
 The cities whereof trembled and stood mute, 
 as God's word came upon them, and they fell ; 
 and He who would not break the bruised reed, 
 nor quench the smoking flax, yet shook in his 
 wrath the cedars of Lebanon." 
 
 " It is even so,'*'' said the abbot ; " nothing 
 is left of the once splendid cities of Judea ; and 
 only the sepulchres of their kings remain to tell 
 the tale of their departed power." 
 
 "■ When man is no more," replied the palmer, 
 " how vain are all his efforts to prolong the record 
 of his existence. The names of the tenants of 
 those very sepulchres are unknown. The cities 
 over which they ruled are in the dust, and with 
 the Jews, as a people, all is now a tomb." 
 
 " We will speak no more of that unhappy 
 race,"" said the abbot ; "the subject pains us. 
 Caedmon, hast thou thy harp at hand ? A shade
 
 246 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of sorrow hangs on the brow of our holy palmer 
 here ; and you. Sir Henry de Pomeroy, the 
 dark spirit seems to be with you also. Like 
 Saul, you shall essay what a harp can do to cheer 
 it. Our young David here shall try his skill."*"* 
 Caedmon did so. He took his harp ; swept his 
 hand lightly and rapidly over its chords ; then, 
 with great art, played a gentle air, and stole gra- 
 dually into a flow of the softest and most melan- 
 choly music. Again he led into a less pensive 
 strain, till, at length, he gave full scope to the 
 instrument, and rang out such a glorious measure, 
 with all the power of the harp, making its tones 
 speak to the heart, and rousing those who lis- 
 tened to a feeling of life and energy, that the 
 spirit of sadness which had before stolen on the 
 social hour was at once put to flight, and all 
 were so cheered and animated by the skill of 
 the Saxon minstrel, that even the Lord Abbot 
 could not help showing some outward marks of 
 his inward satisfaction ; a strong proof, as he
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 247 
 
 afterwards said, that Csedmon had indeed no equal 
 as a harper. 
 
 The strain ended, the abbot filled the cups, 
 and Sir Henry de Pomeroy, now restored to his 
 better humour, smiled as in a significant manner 
 the superior gave the health of the fair Adela de 
 Marmoutier, and might success attend the hunting 
 match on the lands of her kinswoman, the Lady 
 Alicia de Beaumont. 
 
 The palmer, who, after Caedmon had done 
 playing, had sunk again into a reverie, on hearing 
 the last sentence, seemed to be suddenly roused 
 to attention. In a moment he bent his keen eye 
 on the abbot, and on Sir Henry de Pomeroy, 
 as if he would penetrate their very thoughts. 
 The abbot, who was quite as observing as the 
 palmer, remarked the interest he betrayed at the 
 mention of the young and beautiful Adela. He 
 asked if the holy man might be known to her, 
 or to her guardian, the Lady Alicia. 
 
 " I was formerly of this county," said the
 
 248 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 palmer ; " and know therefore that the Lady 
 Alicia de Beaumont is the mistress of Wilsworthy 
 Castle. But so many years have passed since I 
 have seen my native place, that I did not know 
 till this day she was still alive." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the abbot ; " she has lived 
 in the old castle, excepting when absent in Nor- 
 mandy, ever since the news came of her lord's 
 death that made her the richest widow of the 
 west. The Lady Adela, her orphan niece and 
 her ward — the wardship purchased of the king, 
 is also the heiress of great wealth. Many seek 
 her hand. But she has been strangely kept 
 from the resort of nobles and gentlemen, who 
 would prefer their suit to her : whilst her aunt, the 
 Lady Alicia, studies only how to fit her for a saint ; 
 and some think she will at last prevail with her 
 fair charge to become a nun, and to bestow all 
 her immense riches on the foundation of a religious 
 house." 
 
 " Such would be a godly purpose," said the 
 palmer.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 249 
 
 " Yet one that would make all men sigh to 
 think so sweet a rose, as report speaks this lady 
 to be," said Sir Henry de Pomeroy, " should 
 be taken from the world, condemned to perpetual 
 seclusion, and by disclaiming marriage, leave no 
 branch of so fair a tree." 
 
 " It were a pity it should be thus," said the 
 abbot ; " but we have better hopes. It were a 
 good deed, and I speak it openly, — seeing it is a 
 matter more of honour than of mystery, — to win 
 this prize of love and beauty, — to win her for a 
 noble youth, such as thou art, Sir Henry de Pome- 
 roy. Palmer, thou shalt not be so moody ; thou 
 shalt drink a cup to wish the gallant De Pomeroy 
 God speed him in his suit to the lovely Lady 
 Adela." 
 
 " I may not taste another cup," said the 
 palmer ; " but I am in charity with Sir Henry 
 de Pomeroy, and with all men, I trust ; I will 
 therefore wish that he may speed in every suit 
 that shall be acceptable in the eye of God. And 
 now, Father Abbot, I would crave your leave, 
 
 JM 5
 
 250 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 for I am weary, and must depart hence at 
 early morn, to pass from this chamber to my 
 place of rest. Give me your benison, and suffer 
 me to depart." 
 
 " Holy man," replied the abbot, " you have 
 our leave, and our blessing. Csedmon ! " 
 
 " My Lord." 
 
 "Summons hither the chamberlain, and bid 
 him guide the palmer to his couch. The blessing 
 of St. Rumon and our lady be upon your rest." 
 
 The palmer bowed and retired. As he passed 
 on, he asked the chamberlain where Sir Henry de 
 Pomeroy would be lodged. He was told, in the 
 chamber at the end of the gallery appropriated 
 for strangers. 
 
 "And the archdeacon, where is he lodged?" 
 inquired the palmer. 
 
 " In the chamber next to yours," replied the 
 official. 
 
 " I am too much honoured for so poor a man," 
 said the palmer; "the janitor's cell would have 
 been good enough for me. I am not worthy to 
 be lodged near so noble a churchman."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 251 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 treach'rous night ! 
 Thou lend'st thy ready veil to ev'ry treason, 
 And teeming mischiefs thrive beneath thy shade. 
 
 Hill's Zara. 
 
 With whisp'ring noise, as tho' the earth around me 
 
 Did utter secret things ! 
 
 The distant river, too, bears to mine ear 
 
 A dismal wailing. O mysterious night ! 
 
 Thou art not silent ; many tongues hast thou. 
 
 Joanna Baillie. 
 
 It was not till a late hour that the abbot 
 and Sir Henry de Pomeroy retired to rest. 
 When left to themselves, they had discussed 
 with mutual energy those dark designs in which 
 the subtle policy of Baldwin, from motives of 
 personal ambition, and the fiery spirit and ill- 
 directed friendship of Sir Henry de Pomeroy for
 
 252 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 Prince John, made each take so warm a part, 
 and caused each to play for so deep a stake in 
 the treasonable game that was on foot. Yet, 
 even with men so heedless of the ordinary routine 
 of life, whilst bent on objects of such high aim, 
 nature claimed her dues, and very weariness at 
 last compelled them to seek repose. Soon after, 
 all the house was still. 
 
 Nothing now was heard but the " many 
 tongues '"* of night : the wind that whistled 
 down the large old chimney ; the rushing of the 
 Tavy over its rocky bed ; and, now and then, 
 the baying of a dog, or the hooting of an owl 
 amongst the towers and trees. 
 
 The palmer, though he had sunk on his pallet 
 to rest, after devoutly telling his beads, had not 
 extinguished his lamp ; indeed, he seemed in no 
 mood for sleeping: his thoughts were active, 
 and notwithstanding there had been on this even- 
 ing a settled calm about his heart, it was more 
 the calm which a long habit of self-control can 
 call up at will, than that conquest over feeling
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 253 
 
 from a sense of religion, that renders the mind 
 incapable of being assailed by any of the ordinary 
 occurrences of human life. 
 
 To support with a manly resolution a destiny 
 which had been one of an uncommon character, 
 to expiate by long and severe penance those 
 things of which conscience had accused him, were 
 the leading principles of the palmer'^s mind. For 
 the rest, though his cares were sufficient, they 
 were, he had been heard to say, of a nature which 
 may wound but cannot corrode the heart, which 
 is, therefore, though deeply afflicted, spared that 
 bitterness of grief that makes sorrow as a poisoned 
 dart, infecting whatever is most vital in the frame 
 of man. Hence was it inferred by the few with 
 whom he had familiarly conversed, that the pal- 
 mer was a wronged man ; one more sinned against 
 than sinning ; and that those traits of generosity 
 and magnanimity which so often escaped him, 
 served to prove, the injuries done to an individual 
 by another often call forth his noblest feelings 
 in the effort to support them ; whilst those a
 
 254> HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 man does to himself, frequently sink alike his 
 moral and his physical being ; such is the differ- 
 ence between misfortune and vice. Nevertheless, 
 though we have here mentioned the remarks 
 made upon the wanderer by the companions of 
 his journey, they were but the result of conjec- 
 ture ; for no man knew the story of the palmer's 
 life. Those with whom he had travelled felt an 
 almost instinctive respect for one under so strict 
 a vow, whilst his demeanour was, although humble 
 and gentle, dignified, and even noble. But it is 
 to the cell of the youthful Sir Henry de Pomeroy 
 we must now bend our steps, and must relate 
 what there passed on this most memorable night. 
 He had not, we fear, told his beads as regu- 
 larly as the church of which he was a member 
 would have required ere he slept. He had re- 
 moved whatever might be cumbrous about his 
 dress, wrapped himself in his long and large 
 mantle, and, without more preparation, warrior- 
 like, had thrown himself on the couch intended 
 for his repose. But not long had he slumbered
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 255 
 
 when he was disturbed, and fancied, whilst in that 
 dreamy state between sleeping and waking, that 
 he heard something more than the moaning of 
 the wind and the rush of the river, audible as 
 were those melancholy sounds in the ancient 
 and vaulted chamber where he slept. 
 
 He started, looked up, and beheld the palmer 
 standing before him, holding a lamp, and gazing 
 upon him with a countenance marked by an ex- 
 pression so peculiar, so different to that which had 
 hitherto characterized it, that a sense of alarm 
 was the first of which he became conscious on being 
 thus suddenly aroused from his uneasy rest. Yet 
 it was not such a feeling of fear as would have 
 disgraced one who bore arms ; what he felt was, 
 an instinctive terror, which will assail even the 
 boldest heart, and make it shrink and shudder 
 at the sudden appearance of a supposed assassin ; 
 even as the firmest man that ever lived may 
 feel a curdling of the blood at the unexpected 
 sight of a viper, if he accidentally treads upon 
 it in his path.
 
 256 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 There was something so extraordinary in the 
 countenance of the palmer, as he now gazed 
 upon the youth, that, in a very great degree, 
 it justified his fears. The whole man seemed 
 changed ; he did not look to be the same as 
 when, with that melancholy and reverend air, 
 he had conversed so respectfully with Abbot 
 Baldwin, ere he went to rest. The lamp which 
 the palmer held in his hand, casting its rays 
 of light upward from below the head, gave an 
 effect to the shadows of the face that was almost 
 of an unearthly character, and the lines of the 
 countenance, which was very pale, when thus 
 seen, looked stronger, deeper than they did be- 
 fore. There was, also, in the fixed gaze of his 
 large, black eyes a glowing expression ; they 
 darted their fierce glances upon Sir Henry from 
 beneath a cowl which hung as low as the eye- 
 brows over his head, and the mouth, that was 
 agitated with a tremulous action, like a leaf as 
 it quivers in the blast, indicated an emotion too 
 strong to be suppressed. Indeed, every feature
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 257 
 
 seemed to betray the passions and the smothered 
 resentments of a vindictive mind. 
 
 Surprised, astonished by the appearance of the 
 stranger at such an hour, and evidently under 
 the influence of such strong and inward emotions, 
 the first thought that darted on the mind of Sir 
 Henry de Pomeroy was, that an assassin had 
 stolen upon his sleep to do him an injury. He 
 sprang up, therefore, and seized his dagger, that 
 lay near his bed. 
 
 " What r' exclaimed the palmer, " do you 
 fear an unarmed man ? can this lamp slay you ? 
 I have no weapon." 
 
 Ashamed of his precipitation, Sir Henry threw 
 down his dagger, and said, " Wherefore am I 
 thus disturbed, and at such an hour, and in so 
 strange a manner by you ? If you have aught 
 to say to me, why not have spoken it ere I came 
 to rest, or have waited till to-morrow ?" 
 
 " Peace !" said the palmer, " peace ! what 
 I would say, even for your own sake, rash youth, 
 must be spoken in secret. For, of our con-
 
 258 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 ference this night must no man know, and, least 
 of all men, Baldwin, the wily monk. Ere you 
 will be stirring on the morrow, my purposes will 
 compel me to quit these walls. I am not now 
 come with so much danger to us both, for I warn 
 you there is danger in our meeting at this hour, 
 to be questioned by you. Answer me briefly 
 to what I shall propose to you, and fear not.'' 
 
 " I fear no man whilst I wear a sword,*" replied 
 Henry de Pomeroy ; " but who are you, who 
 thus address yourself to me in the accents of 
 command ? on what authority ? '' 
 
 " On an authority you dare not disobey, should 
 you compel me to name it," said the palmer. 
 " But rest assured, without further doubt, that 
 the motive which this night prompts me to seek 
 a conference with you, is one whose truth and 
 honesty stands clear in the eye of the living 
 God, before whom no thought of the heart is 
 veiled." 
 
 There was a solemnity in the voice and manner 
 of the palmer, as he made this appeal to a higher
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 259 
 
 power, which struck with an involuntary convic- 
 tion of its sincerity the mind of Sir Henry. He 
 fooked up, and in the countenance of his strange 
 visitant he no longer saw the indications of any 
 struggling emotions ; they had passed away, and a 
 settled calm once more prevailed in every feature. 
 It was evident that the angry spirit slumbered 
 again within his breast, after having been fearfully 
 aroused by some sudden sting of the passions. 
 Yet, notwithstanding that almost irresistible con- 
 viction which a solemn declaration of what is true 
 seldom fails to produce, engaged as he was in 
 one of the darkest intrigues of the day. Sir Henry 
 de Pomeroy did not think himself warranted to 
 promise that he would satisfy the interrogatories 
 of the stranger without having some proof stronger 
 than a mere assertion, that he was authorized 
 to make them. Once more, therefore, did he 
 press on the palmer to declare himself openly. 
 
 " It may not be," he replied ; " seek not to 
 know me ; I should be injurious to you did I 
 linger near you. May be you have yet to learn,
 
 260 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 for you are young in life and all its sorrows, that 
 a mind ill at ease with itself saddens other minds 
 that come in contact with it." 
 
 " It may be so/' said Sir Henry de Pomeroy ; 
 " but still, to me you are a stranger, and even 
 now you answer wide from the mark ; but I am 
 resolved, and ere I entertain further parley with 
 you, I must be better satisfied." 
 
 " It must be told then," said the palmer, 
 in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, rather than 
 speaking to another. " Young sir, know you 
 this token ?" He placed his hand within the 
 folds of his gown as he spoke, and, from some 
 pocket concealed under the drapery, drew forth 
 and presented to Sir Henry de Pomeroy a silver 
 spur. 
 
 Had the palmer been a magician, presenting 
 to the youthful knight his fabled glass, in which 
 the events of a whole life are said to be made 
 to pass before the sight in their shadowy out- 
 lines of fear and wonder at a glance, it could 
 not have produced a greater or more instan-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 261 
 
 taneous effect. He started like the affrighted 
 deer roused by the bugle of the hunter ; he 
 turned pale as death, trembled, doubted, looked 
 at the palmer, stretched forth his hand, and 
 grasped the silver spur, as he exclaimed in a 
 voice that had in it a tone of awe, " Hea- 
 ven ! my father's token ! " 
 
 " Ay," said the palmer, " it was thy father's 
 token ; that token on which he gaged a life, 
 and lost it." 
 
 " And who art thou, who art now possessed 
 of it ? Oh ! tell me, tell me, if you have pity 
 on the feelings of a son, tell me more ; you, who 
 possess that token, you must know the fearful 
 tale of his death, — the awful nature of his accu- 
 sation, — the horrid doubts of his innocence, — 
 the shame, — do I, his son, do I still live to 
 speak it.^ — the shame, the dishonour that clings 
 to his memory, unredressed ! Give me, then, if 
 it be in the power of man to give it, give me 
 but so much knowledge of the facts as may enable 
 me to do him justice ; to clear away the cloud
 
 2G2 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 that has darkened the lustre of his once honour- 
 able name? Do this, and I will fulfil your 
 bidding, and bless you as my father'^s friend." 
 
 " Thus far have I suffered you to give vent 
 to the feelings of your soul," said the palmer: 
 " now listen, and mark me well ; for every word 
 I utter is of import. How many years have 
 passed since you last saw your father ? " 
 
 " More than seventeen," replied Sir Henry 
 de Pomeroy ; " I was but a child when he 
 quitted England for the Holy Land. Where 
 or how he fell I need not say, since the pos- 
 session of that lost token assures me all the 
 fatal tale is known to you." 
 
 " But how know you," said the palmer, in 
 a manner the most emphatic, — " how know you 
 this is the true token, seeing you were so young 
 when your father died ? " 
 
 " The fellow of that spur, which my father 
 retained when he pledged the one you have 
 this night produced as his gage of honour and 
 of battle, is still in my keeping."
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 26S 
 
 " One question more," said the palmer : " know 
 you the history of this token, long held so pre- 
 cious by your father'^s house ?" 
 
 " I do," replied the youthful knight. " The 
 silver spurs were won in battle, by our renowned 
 ancestor, the brave Sir Ralph de Pomeroy ; who, 
 at the battle of Tours in France, took them 
 from an infidel leader whom he slew, when he 
 seized the crescent, the standard of the Moors. 
 He laid both crescent and spurs at the feet 
 of his commander, Charles Martel : both were 
 restored to the brave warrior, who was long the 
 glory of our race ; and as Charles Martel himself 
 buckled them on Sir Ralph's feet, after the vic- 
 tory, he vowed that ever after the silver spurs 
 should be the pledge of honour with all the 
 descendants of his house, and that if any one 
 bearing the name of De Pomeroy should be 
 accused of a breach of loyalty, or of good faith, 
 he should instantly give in token one of those 
 silver spurs, and either retrieve it with his 
 honour, pure as the virgin ore of which it is
 
 264 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 composed, or forfeit his life in the attempt. 
 Now know you wherefore I can recognise the 
 token ? It is also of matchless workmanship. 
 At the Castle of Berry Pomeroy, there lies the 
 other spur, tarnished and dishonoured, wanting 
 its fellow." 
 
 " Thy father lost it," said the palmer ; " he 
 was accused in a point most vital to his honour 
 — he pledged the silver spur that he would dis- 
 prove the charge in single combat. The combat 
 was allowed, — he drew the sword to redeem 
 his pledge, and lost his life in the attempt." 
 
 " But I, his son, live to do justice to his 
 memory," replied Henry de Pomeroy ; " and 
 though his cruel adversary who slew him, is now, 
 also, no more, yet let but a man of his blood, 
 having the heart of a man within his bosom, — 
 let him but now aver my father perished justly, 
 and I will meet him, and never part till one of 
 us bites the dust." 
 
 '' There spoke the spirit of a Pomeroy," ex- 
 claimed the palmer, surprised into admiration
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 265 
 
 at the gallant demeanour of tlie young knight 
 in support of his father's honour and his fame. 
 
 " Yet, one thing I would ask/'' said Sir Henry 
 de Pomeroy ; " how came 3/0M by the spur ? 
 There is the wonder ; for he who slew my 
 father, it is well known to all men, is dead. 
 How came you by such a token ? did you know 
 the man who vanquished a De Pomeroy ? or did 
 you know my father ?''"' 
 
 "I did,'** replied the palmer; "your father 
 was once my most trusted friend. I — but my 
 vow ; — did I speak more I should infringe on 
 that. Rest, therefore, satisfied with what I have 
 already said. The time may come when I may 
 be at liberty to speak freely ; when mystery 
 shall no longer hang upon my words, to cloud 
 their import. My vow expires on the eve of 
 St. John's day. It binds me to pass that clay 
 in penance, at the shrine of St. Michael, in the 
 chapel dedicated to him in the far-famed Cornish 
 Mount. Till the eve of St. John I must say 
 no more. Restore to me then the lost token ; 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 and most solemnly do I pledge my word, as 
 a man who has known gentle nurture, and the 
 noble strife of arms, that you shall then, if you 
 will, have the opportunity you so earnestly de- 
 sire to do justice to your dead father's name.*" 
 
 " On these terms I herewith restore to you 
 the token," said Sir Henry de Pomeroy, as he 
 once more put the palmer in possession of the 
 forfeited silver spur. 
 
 " It is a compact,'"' said the palmer ; " I will 
 not fail you. Now will you answer to such 
 questions as, on this night with so much peril 
 to myself, I have sought you purposely to have 
 answered. Will you make reply ? " 
 
 " I will, and resolutely," said De Pomeroy ; 
 " for I have now neither doubts nor fears, but 
 such as my sword must satisfy hereafter." 
 
 "Tell me then," continued the palmer, "is 
 it not your purpose, and as Abbot Baldwin was 
 proud to intimate, at his suggestion, to endea- 
 vour to win for your bride the rich Norman heiress, 
 Adela de Marmoutier.'^"
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 26*7 
 
 " It is," replied the youthful knight. 
 
 " What know you of her ?" inquired the 
 palmer. 
 
 " Nothing more," said De Pomeroy, " than is 
 known to all men ; that the Lady Adela is young, 
 good, beautiful, an orphan, an heiress, and ward 
 to her kinswoman, the Lady Alicia de Beaumont, 
 the right of her guardianship being purchased from 
 the king." 
 
 " Did you never hear," said the palmer, 
 " that in Normandy, where she was born, there 
 was some mystery about the fair child Adela — 
 about her mother's sudden death on the day 
 of the child's birth ? — ay, and that strange sus- 
 picions were whispered about a Jewish nurse ?" 
 
 " A Jewish nurse! — a Jewish nurse to the 
 child of a Christian baron, and he one of the 
 noblest of Normandy ! I will not believe it. It 
 cannot be true. It cannot be that a Christian 
 infant was ever intrusted to the care of an Israel- 
 itish woman — to draw life from the bosom of one
 
 268 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 of that accursed race now loathed and trampled 
 on by all the world." * 
 
 " Yet are there those in Normandy,'' said the 
 palmer, ''who will tell you that this lovely 
 Adela has some taint of the blood of Israel, by 
 such a means ; that no gentleman would match 
 with her. If you wed her you are undone, a lost, 
 a ruined man." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Sir Henry de Pomeroy, 
 " because some idle tale has gained ground that 
 this lovely creature was nurtured by a Jewess, — 
 in a time, may be of necessity, when the child's 
 mother, who died in the hour of her birth, could 
 not sustain her infant at her own bosom, — shall 
 I be affrighted so as to give up my hopes and 
 my suit ? And now I think again, grant that it 
 
 ''^" At the date of our narrative (when the cruelest per- 
 secutions of the Jews were at their height) so great 
 was the spirit of hatred and superstition, that any child 
 (though of Christian parents) suckled by a Jewish woman, 
 was held as tainted, and unfit to match with a family of any 
 rank.
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 269 
 
 were true, I might apply to Rome, state the cir- 
 cumstances, and obtain a dispensation to wed by 
 the power of the church."' 
 
 " It could not be. Oh ! there is more in this 
 — more than you may know, or I may tell," re- 
 plied the palmer ; " but as you value peace and 
 conscience, — as you would have a heart at rest 
 within itself, — seek not this lady. Shun the path 
 that would lead you to the bower of this fair one, 
 or more fatal will she be to you than were the 
 poisoned fang did you take to your bosom the 
 silver spotted snake." 
 
 " These are fearful warnings, — there is some 
 mystery here," said Sir Henry de Pomeroy. " I 
 do beseech you, tell me more ? Reveal to me 
 the truth ; for there is that in your manner, that 
 will not let me doubt. I do believe you speak 
 on more assurance than the report of idle tongues. 
 Satisfy my mind ; give what you so darkly sha- 
 dow forth, a form and shape, or let it no more 
 appear." 
 
 n3
 
 270 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 " I must not speak more plainly," replied the 
 palmer ; " yet know, brave youth, marvellous, 
 incomprehensible as it may now seem to you. yet 
 on the eve of St. John, when I shall fulfil to you 
 my compact respecting the silver spur, what I 
 shall then reveal touching that pledge of honour 
 lost, will also fully disclose to you those things 
 to which I have but darkly alluded, concerning 
 the Lady Adela. In the interval, let not a 
 thought wander towards her; seek her not; expose 
 not thyself to a danger that may destroy thy 
 peace ; for all men say she is lovely beyond all 
 compare, pure in innocence, sweet as the summer 
 rose in beauty. Shun, then, her presence, or that 
 beauty may become to thee, as an inauspicious star, 
 thy destiny for evil ; she may remain to thee 
 through all thy after years, but as the dream of 
 thy early life, when all its hopes are dead. Be- 
 lieve me, I speak this for thy good alone ; believe 
 me, I am not thy enemy. I am no man's enemy 
 now. 
 
 " Yet when I first beheld you, this night,"
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 271 
 
 said Sir Henry, " you looked upon me, holy 
 palmer, with a countenance that spoke a tale 
 of fearful passion. What am I to think of 
 this." 
 
 "^ Think," replied the palmer, " that there 
 are moments when sudden feelings, called forth 
 by those inexplicable links of circumstance that 
 connect the present with the past, will arise with 
 fearful power within the breast; such feelings 
 were mine when I first, on this night, stole upon 
 thy rest. I looked on thee sleeping, and thought 
 thou didst resemble — no matter whom I remem- 
 bered — but no more of this. Wilt thou mve 
 
 o 
 
 me thy word, never to seek the Lady Adela de 
 Marmoutier till our conference shall be past 
 on the eve of St. John." 
 
 " Never ! " exclaimed Sir Henry ; " I will 
 never give a promise, that I have no purpose 
 to fulfil. I will see Adela, — it may be woo her, 
 win her, wed her. Who shall say me nay ? " 
 
 " That would I," said the palmer, " did she 
 stand with her plighted hand in thine, even at
 
 272 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 the altar's foot. But words boot not. Thou wilt 
 keep the appointed time ? In peace, or in war, 
 over land, over sea, through calm or in storm, 
 thou wilt meet me in the chapel of St Michael's 
 Mount, on the eve of St. John. Thou wilt 
 there maintain what thou hast this night spoken, 
 in vindication of thy father's blighted fame ; or 
 thou wilt yield him to have been justly van- 
 quished, slain by the judgment of God ; for it 
 was to the judgment of God that he referred his 
 cause in that most fearful quarrel." 
 
 "I will do this," replied Sir Henry de Pome- 
 roy, and then, according to the custom of the age 
 in matters of solemn compact, he repeated exactly 
 the words of the other party, saying — "At the 
 appointed time on the eve of St. John, in peace 
 or in war, over land, over sea, through calm 
 or through storm, I will meet thee in the 
 chapel of St. Michael's Mount, and there will I 
 avouch, even at the altar's foot, my father's 
 honour as untainted, and will afterwards main-
 
 HENRY DE POMEROY. 273 
 
 tain the same with lance or sword, in any way of 
 battle.*" 
 
 "It is well," said the palmer; "and that 
 you may do this without let or hinderance, beware 
 of Abbot Baldwin ; trust not that wily monk with 
 the subject of this night's conference. Name me 
 not to him more than as his pilgrim guest. And 
 oh ! brave youth, — you, who have so free a spirit 
 to peril life in the defence of a father's blighted 
 memory, do not cast away that life as a thing 
 of little price. You are leagued with dangerous 
 men ; with those who will employ you for their 
 own ends, but when such ends are once gained, 
 will cast you off even as they would a worn piece 
 of armour that is no longer needed for their use. 
 Whilst, if they fail, be sure of it, the Earl of 
 Mortaigne would send your head, were it de- 
 manded, as a peace offering to his brother Rich- 
 ard, (should Richard once more return to rule 
 over his own realm,) as freely as he would cast *he 
 head of the commonest criminal to the carrion
 
 274 HENRY DE POMEROY. 
 
 birds around the block. His self-love is absolute. 
 Believe me, the ungrateful scruple not to become 
 the betrayer ; and is not John an ingrate to his 
 noble brother ? Trust no such man. Farewell ! 
 keep my counsel, act upon it, and till the eve of 
 St. John, again farewell." 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLBV. 
 
 Bangor House, Shoe Lane.