Now an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. The lake was far too deep to punt in, and they had no oars. For the next hour their progress would be slow. Cerdic came to the rescue. With his knife he cut a foot of wood from each punt pole, with infinite labour; then he fashioned the tough wood into four stout pegs. Gurth drilled two holes in the gunwales of the punt, with the dagger which had been taken from Pierce. Then they hammered the pegs into the holes and made rough rowlocks. There were no seats in the punt, and the thin poles did not catch the water very well, but by standing with their faces towards the bow they were able to make slow but steady progress.
It was a little unnerving. They could not be sure of their direction except in a very general way. It was chilly on this great lake, and very lonely. Hyla, and Gurth also, began to think of the great black hand.
Who knew what lay beneath those sombre waters?
Never before in their lives had they spent such an exciting day. Hardy as they were, inured to all the chances and changes of a rough day, they began to be rather afraid, and their nerves throbbed uncomfortably.
Indeed, it is little to be wondered at. They were men and not machines of steel. Once a great moth, which had strayed far out over the waters, flapped into Hyla"s face with an unpleasant warmness and beating of wings. He gave a little involuntary cry of alarm, which was echoed with a quick gasp from the other two.
"What is that?" said Cerdic.
"Only a buterfleoge," Hyla answered him. "For the moment I was fearful, but it was nothing, and as light as a leaf on a linden tree."
The other two crossed themselves without answering, and strained their eyes out into the dark.
"Hist!" said Gurth suddenly. "Listen! Cannot you hear anything? Wailing voices like spirits in pain!" They shipped the poles and bent out over the boat listening intently.
Something strange was occurring some half a mile away, judging from the sound. A long musical wail came over the water at regular intervals, and it was answered by the sound of many voices.
As they watched and listened in terror, they saw a tiny speck of light on a level with the water, which appeared to be moving towards them. The voices grew louder, and then with a gasp of relief the fugitives heard the tones of men singing.
"They are the fathers from Icomb," said Hyla; "they are looking for us, and have come out in their boats."
In the still night a deep voice chanted a verse of the sixty-ninth psalm. The sonorous words of comfort rolled towards them:
"_Deus in adjutiorum meum intende: Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina._"
Then came the antiphon in a great volume of sound: "_Confundantur et revereantur: qui quaerunt animam meam._"
The single voice complained out into the night: "_Avertantur retorsum, et erubescant; qui volunt mihi mala._"
The many voices replied in thunderous appeal: "_Avertantur statim erubescentur: qui dic.u.n.t mihi, euge, euge!_"
Then the cantor sang with singular and penetrating sweetness: "_Exsultent et laetantur in te omnes qui quaerunt te: et dicant semper, magnificetur Dominus, qui diligunt salutare tuum._"
And the poor monks answered him of their estate: "_Ego vero egenus et pauper sum. Deus adjuva me!_"
The boat of the fathers was now quite close to the serfs. The lantern in the bows sent out long wavering streaks of light into the dark, and the many voices were full, and clear, and strong.
"Ahoy! ahoy!" shouted Cerdic in tremulous salutation.
The singing stopped suddenly, save for the cantor, who quavered on for a word or two of the _Gloria_. "What are you?" came over the water.
"Hyla of Hilgay, with Cerdic and Gurth."
There was a full-voiced shout of welcome, and the great boat came alongside with a swirl of oars.
The lantern showed many dark figures, some of them wearing the tonsure, and rows of pale faces gazed at the three serfs with eager interest.
A tall man in the bows of the boat, with a thin, sharp face peered at them. "We expected you," he said simply, "and we prayed that you might come, Benedicite! What news bring you? What is done? Christ be with you!
Have you struck the tyrant and avenged the blood of the saints whom he slew?"
"Father," said Hyla, "I did kill the divell, sure enough. With two arrows--"One for Frija," I said, and "this for Elgifu." I have blood guilt upon me."
The man in the bows lifted his right hand and stretched out two fingers and a thumb. They saw he was a priest. Then he said the _Confiteor_:
"_Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam._"
And every man in the boat answered "Amen."
Then the priest changed his tone, and became brisk and business-like.
"You have lost your oars, fools," he said. "Or, perhaps, you brought none. Should"st have remembered the lake. Take a stern rope and we"ll tow ye home like knights. Now then, brethren, ye have heard the news, G.o.d in His mercy hath sent power to these poor men and aided their arm, so that they have slain the burner of His priests and ravisher of poor maids. G.o.d has answered our prayers. Sing we to Him then a song of thanksgiving. Sing up every man-jack of you, for G.o.d has wonderfully dealt with these poor men."
And then with a sudden crash of sound they began to sing the greatest of all hymns, the _Te Deum_.
"_Te Deum Laudamus: te Dominum confitemur_," pulsed and rang through the night in glad appeal. So fervent and joyous was the song, the monks sang it so merrily, and withal it was to such a good and jocund tune, that Hyla was overcome entirely. He knelt in the swiftly-moving punt sobbing like a little child. Once he raised his face to heaven, and behold, there was a bright white moon silvering all the sky!
Very soon they came to the opposite sh.o.r.e of the lake, indeed, before the final "_In te Domine_."
The sh.o.r.e sloped gradually down to the lake"s edge in a smooth sweep of gra.s.s sward which met the water without any break. A few yards up the slope high trees fringed a road which led to the Abbey on the hill-top.
Icomb was, in fact, a low island about half a mile square. Its highest point was hardly out of the fen mists. Round about in the county, the place was always spoken of as an Abbey, though it was, as a matter of fact, no more than a Priory, and of no great importance at that.
Icomb was a new offshoot from Saint Bernard"s famous Abbey of Clairvaux.
Very little was as yet known of the Cistercians, and the monks of Icomb were regarded as mysterious and not altogether desirable people by the great religious houses at Ely and Medhampstede.
It was part of the Cistercian rule that the founders of an abbey should choose some lonely, dismal place for their home. The idea was not entirely that of the eremite, for the Cistercians were improvers as well as colonists.
Icomb was the most lonely place in all the Eastern counties that the monks could have chosen for their retreat from the perils and unrests of this world. The low, tree-crowned island hill, surrounded by vast waters, protected by savage swamps, hidden in the very heart of the fen, was ideal for their purpose.
In that time not even churches were safe from lawless bandits like Geoffroi de la Bourne or Roger Bigot. Although men like these were belted knights of n.o.ble family, and still kept up much of the ceremonial of their position, they were little more than robbers, and instances abound of their sacrilege.
But as yet none of them had troubled Icomb. The place was very inaccessible; it was excellently protected by Nature, the defences were very strong, and the garrison a fine one.
The lay-brothers or _fratres conversi_ were l.u.s.ty and used to arms. Many of them had borne a pike in battle before entering into the peace of the Church. Then there were a goodly number of serfs and fenmen employed on the daily business of the Priory, who would all fight to the death if it were attacked.
No better sanctuary could be found for fugitives. Richard Espec, the prior of Icomb, was always ready to extend the hand of welcome to the oppressed. The time was so black and evil, such a horrible cloud of violence hung over England, that he felt it his bounden duty to make his house a refuge.
The Priory, like all Cistercian monasteries, was surrounded by a strong wall for defence. The buildings, though large and well built, were of a studied plainness. No glorious tower rose into the sky, but little ornament relieved the bareness of the walls. By the rules of that order only one tower, a centralone, was permitted, and that, so it was ordained, must be very low. All unnecessary pinnacles and turrets were absolutely prohibited. In the chapel the triforium was omitted, and the windows were of plain gla.s.s with no colour. The crosses on the altars were of simple wood, and the candlesticks of beaten iron. Lewin would have been absolutely disgusted with Icomb.
The buildings consisted of the chapel, a chapter-house adjoining, connected with the church by a sacristy and a cell, the refectory and monks" dormitories, and the calefactorium, or day-room. Here the monks met in the daytime to gossip and to grease their sandals. In winter it was warmed by flues set in the pavement. The centre of the block of buildings was occupied by the cloisters and a gra.s.s plot.
The two boats were hauled up the slope, and the party went singing up the hill in the moonlight. The dark trees which lined the road nodded and whispered at their pa.s.sing, as the holy song went rolling away among the leaves. The three serfs felt wonderfully safe and happy. The dark depths of the thicket had no suggestion of a lurking enemy, the moon shone full and white over the road, and above, the tall buildings of the Priory waited for them. The hand of G.o.d seemed leading them, and His presence was very near.
They came to the gateway and the priest beat upon it with his walking-stick. In a moment it swung open, and they heard the porter say "Deo gratias," thanking Heaven that it had afforded him the chance of giving hospitality. Then, according to use, he fell upon his knees with a loud "Benedicite."
The priest who had met them went at once in search of the prior. In a minute or two he returned, saying that the prior was praying in the chapel, but that he would see them in the sacristy when he rose.
They were shown into a low, vaulted room with oak chests all round, and lit by a horn lantern. A half-drawn curtain separated it from the church, and through a vista of pillars they could see the high altar gleaming with lights, and a bowed figure on the steps before it. The rest of the great place was in deep shadow.