Part 16

A little later they went to bed together, and the husband, who was cunning enough, questioned his wife indirectly, and asked if the other women of the town paid tithes as she did?

“By my faith they do,” she replied. “What privilege should they have more than me? There are sixteen to twenty of us who pay brother Eustace. Ah, he is so devout. And he has so much patience. Brother Bartholomew has as many or more, and amongst others my lady (*) is of the number. Brother Jacques also has many; Brother Anthony also--there is not one of them who has not a number.”

(*) The wife of the Seigneur.

“St. John!” said the husband, “they do not do their work by halves. Now I understand well that they are more holy than I thought them; and truly I will invite them all to my house, one after the other, to feast them and hear their good words. And since Brother Eustace receives your tithes, he shall be the first. See that we have a good dinner to-morrow, and I will bring him.”

“Most willingly,” she replied, “for then at all events I shall not have to go to his chamber to pay him; he can receive it when he comes here.”

“Well said,” he replied; “give it him here;” but as you may imagine he was on his guard, and instead of sleeping all night, thought over at his leisure the plan he intended to carry out on the morrow.

The dinner arrived, and Brother Eustace, who did not know his host’s intentions stuffed a good meal under his hood. And when he had well eaten, he rolled his eyes on his hostess, and did not spare to press her foot under the table--all of which the host saw, though he pretended not to, however much to his prejudice it was.

After the meal was over and grace was said, he called Brother Eustace and told him that he wanted to show him an image of Our Lady that he had in his chamber, and the monk replied that he would willingly come.

They both entered the chamber, and the host closed the door so that he could not leave, and then laying hold of a big axe, said to the Cordelier.

“By God’s death, father! you shall never go out of this room--unless it be feet foremost--if you do not confess the truth.”

“Alas, my host, I beg for mercy. What is it you, would ask of me?”

“I ask,” said he, “the tithe of the tithe you have received from my wife.”

When the Cordelier heard the word tithes, he began to think that he was in a fix, and did not know what to reply except to beg for mercy, and to excuse himself as well as he could.

“Now tell me,” said the husband, “what tithe it is that you take from my wife and the others?”

The poor Cordelier was so frightened that he could not speak, and answered never a word.

“Tell me all about it,” said the young man, “and I swear to you I will let you go and do you no harm;--but if you do not confess I will kill you stone dead.”

When the other felt convinced that he had better confess his sin and that of his companions and escape, than conceal the facts and be in danger of losing his life, he said;

“My host, I beg for mercy, and I will tell you the truth. It is true that my companions and I have made all the women of this town believe that they owe us tithes for all the times their husbands sleep with them. They believed us, and they all pay--young and old--when once they are married. There is not one that is excused--my lady even pays like the others--her two nieces also--and in general there is no one that is exempt.”

“Marry!” said the other, “since my lord and other great folks pay it, I ought not to be dissatisfied, however much I may dislike it. Well! you may go, worthy father, on this condition--that you do not attempt to collect the tithe that my wife owes you.”

The other was never so joyous as when he found himself outside the house, and said to himself that he would never ask for anything of the kind again, nor did he, as you will hear.

When the host of the Cordelier was informed by his wife of this new tithe, he went to his Lord and told him all about the tax and how it concerned him. You may imagine that he was much astonished, and said;

“Ah, cursed wretches that they are! Cursed be the hour that ever my father--whom may God pardon--received them! And now they take our spoils and dishonour us, and ere long they may do worse. What is to be done?”

“By my faith, Monseigneur” said the other, “if it please you and seem good to you, you should assemble all your subjects in this town, for the matter touches them as much as you. Inform them of this affair, and consult with them what remedy can be devised before it is too late.”

Monseigneur approved, and ordered all his married subjects to come to him, and in the great hall of his castle, he showed them at full length why he had called them together.

If my lord had been astonished and surprised when he heard the news, so also were all the good people who were there assembled. Some of them said, “We ought to kill them,” others “They should be hanged!” others “Drown them!” Others said they could not believe it was true--the monks were so devout and led such holy lives. One said one thing, another said another.

“I will tell you,” said the Seigneur, “what we will do. We will bring our wives hither, and Master John, or some other, shall preach a little sermon in which he will take care to make allusion to tithes, and ask the women, in the name of all of us, whether they discharge their debts, as we are anxious they should be paid, and we shall hear their reply.”

After some discussion they all agreed to the Seigneur’s proposal. So orders were issued to all the married women of the town, and they all came to the great hall, where their husbands were assembled. My lord even brought my lady, who was quite astonished to see so many persons. An usher of my lord’s commanded silence, and Master John, who was slightly raised above the other people, began the address which follows;

“Mesdames and mesdemoiselles, I am charged by my lord and those of his council to explain briefly the reason why you are called together. It is true that my lord, his council, and all his people who are here met together, desire to make a public examination of their conscience,--the cause being that that they wish (God willing) to make ere long a holy procession in praise of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and His Glorious Mother, and from the present moment to be in such a devout frame of mind that they may the better praise him in their prayers, and that all the works which they do may be most agreeable to God. You know that there have been no wars in our time, and that our neighbours have been terribly afflicted both by pestilence and famine. Whilst others have been cast down, we have nothing to complain of, and we must own that God has preserved us. There is good reason that we should acknowledge that this is not due to our own virtues, but to the great and liberal mercy of our Blessed Redeemer, who cries, calls, and invites us to put up in our parish church, devout prayers, to which we are to add great faith and firm devotion. The holy convent of the Cordeliers in this town has greatly aided, and still aids us in preserving the above-mentioned benefits. Moreover, we wish to know if you women also perform that which you have undertaken, and whether you sufficiently remember the obligation you owe the Church, and therefore it will be advisable that, by way of precaution, I should mention the principal points. Four times a year,--that is to say at the four Natales (*) you must confess to some priest or monk having the power of absolution, and if at each festival you receive your Creator that will be well done, but twice, or at least once a year, you ought to receive the Communion. Bring an offering every Sunday to each Mass; those who are able should freely give tithes to God--as fruit, poultry, lambs, pigs, and other accustomed gifts. You owe also another tithe to the holy monks of the convent of St. Francis, and which we earnestly desire to see paid. It greatly concerns us, and we desire it to be continued, nevertheless there are many of you who have not acted properly in this respect, and who by negligence, or backwardness, have neglected to pay in advance. You know that the good monks cannot come to your houses to seek their tithes;--that would disturb and trouble them too much; it is quite enough if they take the trouble to receive it. It is important that this should be mentioned--it remains to see who have paid, and who still owe.”

(*) The four principal festivals in the life of Christ-- Christmas, Easter, Whitsuntide, and Ascension.

Master John had no sooner finished his discourse, than more than twenty women began to cry at the same time, “I have paid!” “I have paid!” “I owe nothing!” “Nor I,” “Nor I.” A hundred other voices chimed in--generally to say that they owed nothing--and four or six pretty young women were even heard to declare that they had paid well in advance, one four times; one, six; and another, ten.

There were also I know not how many old women who said not a word, and Master John asked them if they had paid their tithe, and they replied that they had made an arrangement with the Cordeliers.

“What!” said he, “you do not pay? You ought to advise and persuade the others to do their duty, and you yourselves are in default!”

“Marry!” said one of them, “I am not to blame. I have been several times to perform my duty, but my confessor would not listen to me: he always says he is too busy.”

“St. John!” said the other old women, “we have compounded with the monks to pay them the tithe we owe them in linen, cloth, cushions, quilts, pillow-cases and such other trifles; and that by their own instructions and desire, for we should prefer to pay like the others.”

“By Our Lady!” said Master John, “there is no harm done; it is quite right.

“I suppose they can go away now; can they not?” said the Seigneur to Master John.

“Yes!” said he, “but let them be sure and not forget to pay the tithe.”

When they had all left the hall, the door was closed, and every man present looked hard at his neighbour.

“Well!” said the Seigneur. “What is to be done? We know for certain what these ribald monks have done to us, by the confession of one of them, and by our wives; we need no further witness.”

After many and various opinions, it was resolved to set the convent on fire, and burn both monks and monastery.

They went to the bottom of the town, and came to the monastery, and took away the _Corpus Domini_ and all the relics and sent them to the parish church. Then without more ado, they set fire to the convent in several places, and did not leave till all was consumed--monks, convent, church, dormitory, and all the other buildings, of which there were plenty. So the poor Cordeliers had to pay very dearly for the new tithe they had levied. Even God could do nothing, but had His house burned down.

*****

STORY THE THIRTY-THIRD -- THE LADY WHO LOST HER HAIR.

By Monseigneur.

_Of a noble lord who was in love with a damsel who cared for another great lord, but tried to keep it secret; and of the agreement made between the two lovers concerning her, as you shall hereafter hear._

A noble knight who lived in the marches of Burgundy, who was wise, valiant, much esteemed, and worthy of the great reputation he had, was so much in the graces of a fair damsel, that he was esteemed as her lover, and obtained from her, at sundry times, all the favours that she could honourably give him. She was also smitten with a great and noble lord, a prudent man, whose name and qualities I pass over, though if I were to recount them there is not one of you who would not recognise the person intended, which I do not wish.

This gentle lord, I say, soon perceived the love affair of the valiant gentleman just named, and asked him if he were not in the good graces of such and such a damsel,--that is to say the lady before mentioned.

He replied that he was not, but the other, who knew the contrary to be case, said that he was sure he was,

“For whatever he might say or do, he should not try to conceal such a circumstance, for if the like or anything more important had occurred to him (the speaker) he would not have concealed it.”

And having nothing else to do, and to pass the time, he found means to make her fall in love with him. In which he succeeded, for in a very short time he was high in her graces and could boast of having obtained her favours without any trouble to win them.

The other did not expect to have a companion, but you must not think that the fair wench did not treat him as well or better than before, which encouraged him in his foolish love. And you must know that the brave wench was not idle, for she entertained the two at once, and would with much regret have lost either, and more especially the last-comer, for he was of better estate and furnished with a bigger lance than her first lover; and she always assigned them different times to come, one after the other, as for instance one to-day and the other to-morrow.

The last-comer knew very well what she was doing, but he pretended not to, and in fact he cared very little, except that he was rather disgusted at the folly of the first-comer, who esteemed too highly a thing of little value.

So he made up his mind that he would warn his rival, which he did. He knew that the days on which the wench had forbidden him to come to her (which displeased him much) were reserved for his friend the first-comer. He kept watch several nights, and saw his rival enter by the same door and at the same hour as he did himself on the other days.

One day he said to him, “You well concealed your amours with such an one. I am rather astonished that you had so little confidence in me, considering what I know to be really the case between you and her. And in order that you may understand that I know all, let me tell you that I saw you enter her house at such and such an hour, and indeed no longer ago than yesterday I had an eye upon you, and from a place where I was, I saw you arrive--you know whether I speak the truth.”

When the first-comer heard this accusation, he did not know what to say, and he was forced to confess what he would have willingly concealed, and which he thought no one knew but himself; and he told the last-comer that he would not conceal the fact that he was in love, but begged him not to make it known.

“And what would you say,” asked the other, “if you found you had a companion?”

“Companion?” said he; “What companion? In a love affair? I never thought of it.”

“By St. John!” said the last-comer, “I ought not to keep you longer in suspense--it is I. And since I see that you are in love with a woman who is not worth it, and if I had not more pity on you than you have on yourself I should leave you in your folly, but I cannot suffer such a wench to deceive you and me so long.”

If any one was astonished at this news it was the first-comer who believed himself firmly established in the good graces of the wench, and that she loved no one but him. He did not know what to say or think, and for a long time could not speak a word. When at last he spoke, he said,

“By Our Lady! they have given me the onion (*) and I never suspected it. I was easily enough deceived. May the devil carry away the wench, just as she is!”

(*) i.e. “they have made a fool of me.”

“She has fooled the two of us,” said the last-comer;

“at least she has begun well,--but we must even fool her.”

“Do so I beg,” said the first. “St. Anthony’s fire burn me if ever I see the jade again.”

“You know,” said the second, “that we go to her each in turn. Well, the next time that you go, you must tell her that you well know that I am in love with her, and that you have seen me enter her house at such an hour, and dressed in such a manner, and that, by heaven, if ever you find me there again you will kill me stone dead, whatever may happen to you. I will say the same thing about you, and we shall then see what she will say and do, and then we shall know how to act.”

“Well said, and just what I would wish,” said the first.

As it was arranged, so was it done, for some days later it was the last-comer’s turn to go and visit her; he set out and came to the place appointed.

When he was alone with the wench, who received him very kindly and lovingly it appeared, he put on--as he well knew how--a troubled, bothered air, and pretended to be very angry. She, who had been accustomed to see him quite otherwise, did not know what to think, and she asked what was the matter, for his manner showed that his heart was not at ease.

“Truly, mademoiselle,” said he, “you are right; and I have good cause to be displeased and angry. Moreover, it is owing to you that I am in this condition.”

“To me?” said she. “Alas, I have done nothing that I am aware of, for you are the only man in the world to whom I would give pleasure, and whose grief and displeasure touch my heart.”

“The man who refuses to believe that will not be damned,” said he. “Do you think that I have not perceived that you are on good terms with so-and-so (that is to say the first-comer). It is so, by my oath, and I have but too often seen him speak to you apart, and, what is more, I have watched and seen him enter here. But by heaven, if ever I find him here his last day has come, whatever may happen to me in consequence. I could not allow him to be aware that he has done me this injury--I would rather die a thousand times if it were possible. And you are as false as he is for you know of a truth that after God I love no one but you, and yet you encourage him, and so do me great wrong!”

“Ah, monseigneur!” she replied, “who has told you this story? By my soul! I wish that God and you should know that it is quite otherwise, and I call Him to witness that never in my life have I given an assignation to him of whom you speak, nor to any other whoever he may be--so you have little enough cause to be displeased with me. I will not deny that I have spoken to him, and speak to him every day, and also to many others, but I have never had aught to do with him, nor do I believe that he thinks of me even for a moment, or if so, by God he is mistaken. May God not suffer me to live if any but you has part or parcel in what is yours entirely.”

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “you talk very well, but I am not such a fool as to believe you.”

Angry and displeased as he was, he nevertheless did that for which he came, and on leaving, said,

“I have told you, and given you fair warning that if ever I find any other person comes here, I will put him, or cause him to be put, in such a condition that he will never again worry me or any one else.”

“Ah, Monseigneur,” she replied, “by God you are wrong to imagine such things about him, and I am sure also that he does not think of me.”

With that, the last-comer left, and, on the morrow, his friend, the first-comer did not fail to come early in the morning to hear the news, and the other related to him in full all that had passed, how he had pretended to be angry and threatened to kill his rival, and the replies the jade made.

“By my oath,” said the first, “she acted the comedy well! Now let me have my turn, and I shall be very much surprised if I do not play my part equally well.”

A certain time afterwards his turn came, and he went to the wench, who received him as lovingly as she always did, and as she had previously received her other lover. If his friend the last-comer had been cross and quarrelsome both in manner and words, he was still more so, and spoke to her in this manner;

“I curse the hour and the day on which I made your acquaintance, for it is not possible to load the heart of a poor lover with more sorrows, regrets, and bitter cares than oppress and weigh down my heart to-day. Alas! I chose you amongst all others as the perfection of beauty, gentleness, and kindness, and hoped that I should find in you truth and fidelity, and therefore I gave you all my heart, believing in truth that it was safe in your keeping, and I had such faith in you that I would have met death, or worse, had it been possible, to save your honour. Yet, when I thought myself most sure of your faith, I learned, not only by the report of others but by my own eyes, that another had snatched your love from me, and deprived me of the hope of being the one person in the world who was dearest to you.”