earl-Marshal. There was hardly a sign of it in Oxford, where nothing of
moment was going on but the establishment by the King of a hospital for pilgrims and the sick, near the bridge; but the roads
became less safe than ever, and in the north and in Ireland the whole countryside was said to be smoking with pillage and
slaughter. At the beginning of November the whole of England was assaulted by thunderstorms more clamorous and violent than
any man could remember, so that the serfs began again to mutter that old saw, ‘Weep not for death of husband or childer, but
rather for the thunder’; and on
St.
Catherine’s Day, November twenty-fifth, the King’s forces met Richard’s before Monmouth in a battle that left the earth deep
in slaughtered foreigners, yet gained the earl-Marshal nothing except to preserve him a while. There was another such blood-letting
on Christmas Day, equally indecisive; and the word from elsewhere in the kingdom was that the holdings and estates of the
rebels were being vengefully put to the torch and their people cut down, freemen and serfs alike, by French-speaking bands
with letters from Henry, It was not a good season for pilgrimages.
Yet, by March, Adam had brought Roger warning to prepare to attend at Westminster, where the King on the ninth of April would
at long last have the assemblage of his full court, saving only those who still cleaved to the earl-Marshal and to de Burgh.
The meeting had evidently been arranged by Edmund Rich, perhaps the only man in England still fully trusted by both sides.
Roger was not overjoyed, nor did the possibility of seeing his London brother after the meeting was over tempt him even slightly;
but Grosseteste would be there, since he was soon to be elevated to the bishopric, vacated by Edmund a year before; and Adam
would have no other familiar with him but Roger, which ended any argument Roger was empowered to offer to the contrary.
The trip to London was long, and Adam had seemed both elated and secretive about some matter which, since he could not penetrate
it, soon had Roger miserable with mixed curiosity and boredom; attempts to produce conversation on any other subject ran up
against the blank wall of Adam’s preoccupation:
‘Adam, what thinkest thou of the
intelketus agens?
Of the nature of it?’
‘Hmmm? Why, ‘tis the raven of Elias.’
‘But the raven was not
of
Elias himself. What is the signification? That the active intellect is more of God than of man?’
‘No, not exactly.’ And that was all. Or:
‘Whom shall we see at Westminster? Hath thy friend de Montfort been confirmed in the earldom of Leicester?’
‘Yes, two years ago. Nay, not properly confirmed, but the land and appurtenances of his father were conveyed to him.’
‘Then we shall see him?
‘Nay, an God willeth. He’s abroad, I trust, or else will need to be.’
Obviously nothing was to be learned from such scraps of enigmas, and Roger had retreated, at first sullenly, then with an
increasing preoccupation of his own, into theinterior composition of the
Liber de retardation,
about the possibility of which he was then only beginning to become aroused; and so they jogged the rest of the way in a
mutual silence, broken only by the commonplaces of journeying, of which Adam seemed wholly unaware and to which Roger eventually
became quite accustomed.
London itself had proven to be overwhelmingly like a gigantic Ilchester in the midst of a perpetual market day, a seemingly
endless labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys choked with stinking ordure and with stinking people. The rain, which fell
every day and night that Roger was in London, did not the slightest good, for it was accompanied by no slightest breath of
April breeze; the stench simply rose a little distance and then hung in the fog, refusing to disperse, while below on the
cobbles, the sludge thrown down from the second-storey windows was spattered impartially upon
moment was going on but the establishment by the King of a hospital for pilgrims and the sick, near the bridge; but the roads
became less safe than ever, and in the north and in Ireland the whole countryside was said to be smoking with pillage and
slaughter. At the beginning of November the whole of England was assaulted by thunderstorms more clamorous and violent than
any man could remember, so that the serfs began again to mutter that old saw, ‘Weep not for death of husband or childer, but
rather for the thunder’; and on
St.
Catherine’s Day, November twenty-fifth, the King’s forces met Richard’s before Monmouth in a battle that left the earth deep
in slaughtered foreigners, yet gained the earl-Marshal nothing except to preserve him a while. There was another such blood-letting
on Christmas Day, equally indecisive; and the word from elsewhere in the kingdom was that the holdings and estates of the
rebels were being vengefully put to the torch and their people cut down, freemen and serfs alike, by French-speaking bands
with letters from Henry, It was not a good season for pilgrimages.
Yet, by March, Adam had brought Roger warning to prepare to attend at Westminster, where the King on the ninth of April would
at long last have the assemblage of his full court, saving only those who still cleaved to the earl-Marshal and to de Burgh.
The meeting had evidently been arranged by Edmund Rich, perhaps the only man in England still fully trusted by both sides.
Roger was not overjoyed, nor did the possibility of seeing his London brother after the meeting was over tempt him even slightly;
but Grosseteste would be there, since he was soon to be elevated to the bishopric, vacated by Edmund a year before; and Adam
would have no other familiar with him but Roger, which ended any argument Roger was empowered to offer to the contrary.
The trip to London was long, and Adam had seemed both elated and secretive about some matter which, since he could not penetrate
it, soon had Roger miserable with mixed curiosity and boredom; attempts to produce conversation on any other subject ran up
against the blank wall of Adam’s preoccupation:
‘Adam, what thinkest thou of the
intelketus agens?
Of the nature of it?’
‘Hmmm? Why, ‘tis the raven of Elias.’
‘But the raven was not
of
Elias himself. What is the signification? That the active intellect is more of God than of man?’
‘No, not exactly.’ And that was all. Or:
‘Whom shall we see at Westminster? Hath thy friend de Montfort been confirmed in the earldom of Leicester?’
‘Yes, two years ago. Nay, not properly confirmed, but the land and appurtenances of his father were conveyed to him.’
‘Then we shall see him?
‘Nay, an God willeth. He’s abroad, I trust, or else will need to be.’
Obviously nothing was to be learned from such scraps of enigmas, and Roger had retreated, at first sullenly, then with an
increasing preoccupation of his own, into theinterior composition of the
Liber de retardation,
about the possibility of which he was then only beginning to become aroused; and so they jogged the rest of the way in a
mutual silence, broken only by the commonplaces of journeying, of which Adam seemed wholly unaware and to which Roger eventually
became quite accustomed.
London itself had proven to be overwhelmingly like a gigantic Ilchester in the midst of a perpetual market day, a seemingly
endless labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys choked with stinking ordure and with stinking people. The rain, which fell
every day and night that Roger was in London, did not the slightest good, for it was accompanied by no slightest breath of
April breeze; the stench simply rose a little distance and then hung in the fog, refusing to disperse, while below on the
cobbles, the sludge thrown down from the second-storey windows was spattered impartially upon
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