Chapter 6 A PENITENT.

Fulke de Breauté had been in earnest when he had allowed his wife to go to the retreat at Elstow, on condition that she should try to set matters straight between himself and the Church; and she had no sooner gone than he set to work to think matters over, and to consider how best he could reinstate himself in the ecclesiastical good graces which he felt he had entirely forfeited, but, however, without expending any of his worldly wealth in restitution or reparation.

In those days there were two acknowledged ways of making peace with offended ecclesiastical authority. One of these was the endowing, building, or otherwise pecuniarily assisting religious foundations, especially monasteries.

But Fulke had no notion of spending his ill-gotten gain in such a manner.

There was another plan which he could adopt, and for which he had the highest precedent. Just half a century before the date of our story, no less a personage than the King of England himself, Henry II., had submitted to the penance of corporal punishment in the chapter-house of Canterbury, in expiation of words spoken in hasty anger which had indirectly brought about the death of an archbishop.

The idea seized Fulke of a similar form of reconciliation with Holy Church.

Accordingly, the day after his wife's departure he set off for the abbey of St. Alban. His dress was of studied simplicity. He wore no armour, but was clad in the ordinary long robe or gown which was worn in civil life by all above the rank of labourers and manual workers, and a plain cloak, fastened by a buckle or brooch on his right shoulder, fell over his left side.

The gowns or cloaks of the upper classes at that time were richly ornamented with deep borders of embroidery, but Fulke had carefully selected garments free from any such adornments. He had also removed his gilt spurs of knighthood, and any who met him riding along the road might well have taken him for a physician, notary, or some professional man of the laity. The grooms who followed him also wore the plainest attire; and the whole party were mounted upon mere hacks or palfreys, very unlike the ponderous war-horses usually bestridden by men in armour.

By the afternoon Fulke had reached St. Alban's, and saw before him rise the abbey towers.

"Once resplendent dome,

Religious shrine......

Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistered tomb.

Years roll to years, to ages, ages yield,

Abbots to abbots in a line succeed;

Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed."

At the abbey gate he made known his name and rank to the astonished porter, who failed to recognize in the unobtrusive figure requesting an audience with the abbot the dreaded leader of the murderous attack upon the sanctuary but a few weeks before.

The abbot came hurrying out. He, too, was amazed that the sacrilegious robber who had lately extorted from him the sum of one hundred pounds, under threat of destroying the town, should again pay him a visit, and in such a guise.

Fulke was well acquainted with the etiquette necessary on such occasions. He dismounted, went down on one knee before the dignified ecclesiastic, and raised the hem of the latter's habit to his lips.

"Thou seest in me, reverend father," he exclaimed, "a humble penitent come to offer submission to his holy Mother, and to crave thy gracious absolution for misdeeds committed!"

The abbot was well aware how to deal with such cases. Penance he knew he could enjoin; restitution he hoped he might suggest.

"My son," he said, "Holy Church ever receives back into her fold those who have erred and strayed. But follow me," he added; "I, the humble servant of the Church, will call my brethren together to treat with me of so weighty a matter as concerneth this visit of thine."

Consigning Fulke to the care of the guest-master, the abbot went off to give directions for the immediate summoning of a chapter, and the Robber Baron was left swearing, in his usual brutal way, at his men for some carelessness as to his orders.

Wondering much for what cause a council was assembled at so unusual an hour, the monks came streaming into the chapter-house. The long, narrow, barrel-roofed apartment opening from the east walk of the cloister on the south side of the transept was soon filled, and the chapter duly opened according to the usual custom. Then the abbot announced the purpose of the assemblage.

"My brethren," said he, "we are here gathered together upon no slight matter. The prayers of this poor house have been heard, and God and our holy Alban have stretched forth their power and moved a heart of stone deeply sunken in iniquity. But even now came Fulke de Breauté to our gates, and came, not as before, an impious marauder, but as a penitent and a suppliant craving absolution."

A great sigh of amazement floated from the lips of the assembled brethren up to the vaulted roof.

"Brothers," added the abbot, "I beg you to grant me the benefit of your wisest counsel in this matter."

There was a silence. Advice is a thing usually to be had for the asking. But the abbot of the great house of St. Alban was a personage of much power and importance, and accustomed to rule with a high hand, and no one seemed at this moment in any way inclined to grudge him his supreme authority.

"By the holy rood," exclaimed the father almoner, breaking the silence at last, "this is no easy task. The French tyrant is even within our gates, say you, reverend father? Would he had stayed in his own ill-gotten castle! The lion is dangerous even in a cage, and Sir Fulke respects not even holy places, we know. We have e'en heard of a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"But he cometh as a penitent, we are to understand," put in the prior.--"Brothers, we see the finger of God in this matter. He hath delivered this Philistine of Gath into our hands. Praise be to him!" And they all crossed themselves devoutly.

"And a penitent beseeching absolution," said another brother, the old father cellarer. "He must show his repentance in works. A tree is known by its fruits. Let him give back the hundred pounds he hath taken from Holy Church."

"And furthermore," added the father sacristan, "let us do even as the Israelites were commanded when they left the land of Egypt. Let us spoil him of silver and gold. He owes us not only our own, but some reparation."

The discussion grew. The assembly seemed of many minds. At length, in the hope of arriving at some conclusion, the prior made a suggestion, an unfortunate one for the abbey, as matters turned out.

"By the mass, reverend father and brothers of the order of Holy Benedict, we waste our time. Were it not well to have this penitent before us, and to question him as to his purpose of showing his repentance?" he said.

In an evil moment the motion was carried, so to speak, and Fulke was invited to enter the chapter-house.

Unarmed and alone though he was, the monks began to tremble visibly as their grim visitor strode into the assemblage, and a silence fell on all the tongues so ready to wag but a few moments before.

The Robber Baron made obeisance to the abbot, who began by delivering a suitable homily, adorned with texts and quotations, on the special subject of the readiness of the Church to receive sinners back to her arms. It concluded with a broad hint that the abbey should be compensated for the harm done to her; but it was a guarded discourse, for the abbot could not tell how the dreaded tyrant might receive his suggestion.

The Robber Baron making his peace with the Church.

Fulke ignored it.

In a reply full of proper respect and deep humiliation, he brought forward the leading case of Henry II at Canterbury, and expressed his willingness to submit to like discipline as full and complete satisfaction for his crime.

He chose his words carefully. The discipline was to be complete satisfaction. There was no mistaking the drift of his meaning.

Feeling that they had indeed been foiled, the chapter requested the penitent to withdraw, and deliberated again.

"By the light of Our Lady's brow," muttered the prior, under his breath, "had I been the reverend father, I would so have spoken that the knight could not fail to see that reparation was essential to repentance, as well as penance."

"Tush!" answered the old father cellarer; "we want not a martyr here in the abbey, even as the poor bailie (God rest his soul!) hath been martyred for the town."

"Methinks it was evil counsel that was given when we decided to let the penitent appear before us and choose his own punishment," said the abbot, with a scowl at the prior. "But, my brethren, we must even be content. As the humble ruler of this house, I think I may say that what was not thought too heavy a censure for the King of England, in the holy church of Christ at Canterbury, for the fearful crime of the murder of a minister of Christ, will be sufficient punishment for the sacrilege of this nameless Norman knight against our house. Is this the counsel of the brethren?"

Perforce every one agreed.

Accordingly, next morning a solemn conclave again assembled in the chapter-house. First came the brothers in their cowls, two and two; then the prior, sub-prior, and other officers; and, lastly, the father abbot himself in his robes of office. One of the officers, the master of the novices, carried in his hand a scourge of cords.

The chapter assembled, Fulke was introduced between two of the brothers. He had passed a not uncomfortable night, for though, as a penitent still under the displeasure of the Church, he could not be admitted to the abbot's table in the latter's lodgings, he seemed in no wise to feel the indignity, and had done ample justice to the guest-master's entertainment.

The abbot pronounced the sentence of the chapter, and Fulke, stripping himself to the waist, knelt down, and leaning forward, presented his bare back to the lash.

Round him in a circle stood the abbot and the monks, and from one to the other the brethren handed a discipline or scourge of small cords, and each monk in turn stepped forward and struck De Breauté a blow upon his naked shoulders.

We need not inquire with what force the lashes were given. The humiliation and the obedience were sufficient without taking into consideration the actual pain inflicted. The Church triumphed in the indignity of her enemy's position, and her ministers in avenging her insulted honour.

The penance over, Sir Fulke rose and kissed each monk present. His punishment was complete, and he left the chapter-house absolved. It did not, apparently, occur to him that any act of restitution should accompany the outward form of penance, for, as the chronicler pathetically remarks, "Christ's faithful poor stood at the door of the chapter-house expecting that something would be restored to them; but in vain."

It may seem inconsistent in such a brutal and godless man as Fulke to have submitted himself to this ignominious punishment. He acted, however, from mixed motives. First, it was a little bit of religious feeling, very small indeed, and call it superstition if you will, such as caused him uneasiness the morning after his dream, which led him to pay this visit to St. Alban's. Excommunication he feared, if indeed his brutal nature could feel fear. But he dreaded it quite as much for its temporal consequences as for those of the future; for it was apt to affect unpleasantly a man's social and worldly position. Secondly, Sir Fulke reflected that King Henry had certainly greatly strengthened himself by that visit to the chapter-house at Canterbury. With such an example, no one could aver that Sir Fulke's penance was unknightly or derogatory to his position. Further, he was obliged to confess to himself that he had much greater need of a coat of moral whitewash than had Henry; and, lastly, there was what he considered the great advantage of making his peace with the Church by an act of submission which did not necessarily involve any restitution--a matter so alien to his greedy disposition.