south-western water-tower of the town wall and could see the whole western sweep of the wall from the outside, with the towers and barbicans before the gates. Soon the roofs of the Knights Templars’
prœceptorium
appeared above the trees.
Olav had never been out there, but Galfrid said he ought to go on a Friday morning. Then they carried out into the field an immense red cross, and while a priest preached to the people, the knights stood around, clad in mail with drawn swords in their hands, the points raised to heaven; they stood as though cast in bronze. And their priest must be the most powerful of preachers, for the people wept and sobbed, both men and women.
Olav’s thoughts were busied, half toying, with this monastery of warriors. He had heard that the Pope had given their Grand Prior the same right of loosing and binding as he had himself. Before a man was admitted to the brotherhood he had to confess all the sins he had committed in his life, both atoned and unatoned—and of the severe penance he had to undergo the world heard no more than it hears of what is done in purgatory. They had strangecustoms, folk said—he who would enter their ranks was compelled to strip naked and lie thus for a night in an open grave in the floor of the church, as a sign that he was dead to all his former life.
He had seen the Templars ride through London more than once; they were clad in chain armour from the throat to the soles of their feet, with a red cross on their white tunic, which they wore over the shirt of mail, and on their white mantle; their great battle-maces also bore the sign of the cross. He had heard of the warrior monks before, but never seen them.
Then there were the anchorites. There were so many of them here in London; some dwelt in cells within the town wall and some in little houses that were built against a church with an opening in the wall between, so that the hermit might see the altar and the ciborium that held the body of the Lord. Some had a lay brother or a lay sister to do their errands for them, but many, both men and women, had caused themselves to be walled up, that they might share the lot of the most wretched prisoners. One of them dwelt in the wall close to a dungeon—till the day of his death he was to live there in a cold, black hole into which the water dripped, in his own stench and in his sour and mouldy rags; he was crippled and paralysed with rheumatism. And this man’s life had been distinguished by great holiness even as a child and while he was living as a monk in his convent. When men who were to suffer punishment were led past the orifice of his cell, the anchorite cried out: “Be merciful, as your Father in heaven is merciful!”
Of late years Olav’s thoughts had now and then been drawn toward the monastic life—whether it might be the end of his difficulties if he adopted it. But not for a moment had he believed it in earnest. Whatever might be God’s will with him, he was surely not called to be a monk. Of that he had the most certain sign—for it was not the hardships of the monastic life that he shrank from. On the contrary, to let fall from his shoulders all that a monk is bound to renounce, to submit to the discipline of the rule—for this he had often longed. Nevertheless no man was fit for this unless God gave him special grace thereto. But now Olav had roamed long enough as an outlaw on the borders of the realm of God’s grace to perceive that when once a man of his own will surrenders himself to God and accepts what is laid upon him, God’s power over him is without limit. And in the long, sleepless nightshe had often thought: “Now they are going into the choir in their convents, men and women, standing up to serve their Lord with praise, prayer, and meditation, like guards about a sleeping camp.” But it was all the things that were included in the rules for the relief and repose of man’s frail nature that
he
could not think of without distaste: the
prœceptorium
appeared above the trees.
Olav had never been out there, but Galfrid said he ought to go on a Friday morning. Then they carried out into the field an immense red cross, and while a priest preached to the people, the knights stood around, clad in mail with drawn swords in their hands, the points raised to heaven; they stood as though cast in bronze. And their priest must be the most powerful of preachers, for the people wept and sobbed, both men and women.
Olav’s thoughts were busied, half toying, with this monastery of warriors. He had heard that the Pope had given their Grand Prior the same right of loosing and binding as he had himself. Before a man was admitted to the brotherhood he had to confess all the sins he had committed in his life, both atoned and unatoned—and of the severe penance he had to undergo the world heard no more than it hears of what is done in purgatory. They had strangecustoms, folk said—he who would enter their ranks was compelled to strip naked and lie thus for a night in an open grave in the floor of the church, as a sign that he was dead to all his former life.
He had seen the Templars ride through London more than once; they were clad in chain armour from the throat to the soles of their feet, with a red cross on their white tunic, which they wore over the shirt of mail, and on their white mantle; their great battle-maces also bore the sign of the cross. He had heard of the warrior monks before, but never seen them.
Then there were the anchorites. There were so many of them here in London; some dwelt in cells within the town wall and some in little houses that were built against a church with an opening in the wall between, so that the hermit might see the altar and the ciborium that held the body of the Lord. Some had a lay brother or a lay sister to do their errands for them, but many, both men and women, had caused themselves to be walled up, that they might share the lot of the most wretched prisoners. One of them dwelt in the wall close to a dungeon—till the day of his death he was to live there in a cold, black hole into which the water dripped, in his own stench and in his sour and mouldy rags; he was crippled and paralysed with rheumatism. And this man’s life had been distinguished by great holiness even as a child and while he was living as a monk in his convent. When men who were to suffer punishment were led past the orifice of his cell, the anchorite cried out: “Be merciful, as your Father in heaven is merciful!”
Of late years Olav’s thoughts had now and then been drawn toward the monastic life—whether it might be the end of his difficulties if he adopted it. But not for a moment had he believed it in earnest. Whatever might be God’s will with him, he was surely not called to be a monk. Of that he had the most certain sign—for it was not the hardships of the monastic life that he shrank from. On the contrary, to let fall from his shoulders all that a monk is bound to renounce, to submit to the discipline of the rule—for this he had often longed. Nevertheless no man was fit for this unless God gave him special grace thereto. But now Olav had roamed long enough as an outlaw on the borders of the realm of God’s grace to perceive that when once a man of his own will surrenders himself to God and accepts what is laid upon him, God’s power over him is without limit. And in the long, sleepless nightshe had often thought: “Now they are going into the choir in their convents, men and women, standing up to serve their Lord with praise, prayer, and meditation, like guards about a sleeping camp.” But it was all the things that were included in the rules for the relief and repose of man’s frail nature that
he
could not think of without distaste: the
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