Preface.

There are differences of opinion as to Bishop Bitton’s share in the transforming of Exeter Cathedral, and I have followed that expressed by Archdeacon Freeman, who, after speaking of the prevalent idea that the present choir was the work of Stapledon, states that, from the evidence of the Fabric Rolls, it was done by Bitton, whose episcopate lasted from 1292 to 1307. After noticing the facts which point to this conclusion, Archdeacon Freeman adds: “We thus establish, as I conceive, with absolute certainty, the date of the completion of the eastern half of the choir, a point entirely misconceived hitherto. To Bitton and not to Stapledon it must be ascribed. And we shall see reason presently for ascribing to him all the substantial features of the remainder, and the vaulting of the whole.”

With regard to the story itself, no one can be more conscious than I am myself of the dangers inseparable from attempting to place it at so early a date, when the author is at once plunged into a very quagmire of possible anachronisms. I can only ask the indulgence of those who, happening to cast their eyes upon these pages, detect there the errors in manners and customs which I am too conscious may exist.

It may be convenient, for the unlearned, to notice that the value of coins was about fifteen times as much as in the present day. Thus one pound equalled fifteen pounds, and one mark (or shilling) fifteen shillings. A groat contained four silver pennies, and there were two hundred and forty pennies in a silver pound.

Chapter One.

At Stourbridge Fair.

“Have at him, Peter!”

“Roll him in the mud!”

“Nay, now, ’twere rarer sport to duck the lubber in the river!”

These and a hundred other taunts were hurled with entire freedom at the head of a sturdy boy, to judge from his round and rosy face not more than eleven years old, by six or eight urchins, who were dancing round him with many unfriendly demonstrations. Apparently there had already been an exchange of hostilities. One of the half-dozen had received a blow in the eye which had half closed that organ and another showed signs of having suffered on the nose, much to the damage of his clothing; these injuries had evidently enraged and excited the sufferers. Prudence, however, was not forgotten. They egged each other to the attack, but at the same time showed signs of hesitation, perhaps for want of a leader who might organise a simultaneous rush.

The boy, meanwhile, though he too bore marks of the fray, for his clothes were torn, and a streak of blood on his cheek showed where he had been hit by a stone or a stick, kept a valiant front. He stood with his back against a fine oak, and flourished a short stout cudgel.

“Come on, come on, all of you!” he shouted. “A broken crown the first shall have, I promise you!”

“He’s threatening thee, Jack Turner. Hit him over the pate!”

“Look at his jerkin—he’s one of the Flemish hogs.”

“Flemish!” cried the boy indignantly. “Better English than all of you put together. No English that I know are cowards!”

The dreadfulness of such a charge overcame all fears of broken heads. With a yell of rage the urchins rushed pell-mell upon their foe, and battle, indeed, arose! He defended himself with a courage and vigour worthy of all praise, hitting at weak points, and bestowing at least two of his promised broken heads. But numbers will prevail over the most determined bravery, and here were at least a dozen kicking legs and encumbering arms. Do what he would he could not shake them off, blows rained upon him under which he turned dizzy, and his evil case would soon have been exchanged for a worse, if an unexpected ally had not rushed upon the group. A splendid deer-hound crashed in upon them, upsetting two or three of the boys, though more as if he were amusing himself with a rough frolic than with thought of harm. The urchins, however, did not stay to consider this, for, picking themselves up with cries of terror, they fled as fast as their legs could carry them, leaving sundry spoils behind them in the shape of apples and a spice-cake, which latter the dog, doubtless considering himself entitled to his share of the booty, gobbled up without a moment’s hesitation.

The boy who had been the object of attack was the only one who showed no sign of fear. He stood, breathless and panting, his cheeks crimson, his clothes torn, but with so resolute a determination in his face as proved that he was ready for another fight. Seeing, however, that the hound had no ill intentions, he straightened and shook himself, picked up the cap which had fallen off in the fray, and looked round to see who was near.

He saw for the first time that two persons were watching him with some amusement. One was a boy of about fourteen, the other an elderly man in the grey dress of a Franciscan friar.

“Thou art a sturdy little varlet,” said the friar, coming forward with a smile, “and held thine own right well. But I doubt me how it would have gone, had Wolf not borne in to the rescue. No shame to thee either, for thou wast sorely overmatched. What had brought such a force of rascaille upon thee?”

The boy had grown rather redder, if that were possible, but he spoke out bravely.

“Holy friar, they were angry because this morning I saved a monkey out of their hands. Its master, an Italian, had died, and they called the poor beast a devil’s imp, and were going to stone it to death.”

“I would Wolf had served them worse! But why did they not fight with thee at the time?”

“They were but three then,” said the boy with a laugh.

“Hum. And who are the little varlets? Give me their names, and they shall have a goodly thrashing.”

The boy for the first time hung his head. The other lad, who had been listening impatiently, broke in in French.

“Set Wolf at them in another sort of fashion. I see them still skulking about, and peeping at us from behind the trees—the unmannerly loons! They need to be taught a lesson.”

“Gently, Edgar,” said the friar, laying his hand on his young companion’s arm, “Wolf might prove a somewhat dangerous chastiser. Come, boy, let us have their names,” he added, turning to the other.

“Holy friar,” said the boy eagerly, “I know the French.”

The friar lifted his eyebrows.

“I thought thy tongue had a strange trick about it, but I could have sworn it was Flemish that it resembled.”

“We have just come from Flanders.”

“Not English,” cried Edgar angrily. “If I had known he was one of those blood-sucking foreigners, who fasten like leeches upon our poor country, Wolf should never have bestirred himself to the rescue.”

“Peace,” said the friar more sharply, but before he could say more the younger boy broke in indignantly—

“We are English, good English! My father has but been in Flanders perfecting himself in his trade of wood-carving.”

“And