'The Clerk of Netherfield said he was well known by repute for twenty years as a witless man that journeyed without rest to all the shrines of England. The old man sits, Saxon fashion, head between fists. We Normans rest our chin on our left palm.
'"Who answers for him?' said I. "If he fails in his duty, who will pay his fine?"
'"Who will pay my fine?" the pilgrim said. "I have asked that of all the Saints in England these forty years, less three months and nine days! They have not answered!" When he lifted his thin face I saw he was one-eyed, and frail as a rushlight.
'"Nay but, Father," I said, "to whom hast thou commended thyself?" He shook his head, so I spoke in Saxon: "Whose man art thou?"
"I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King's Jester," said he after a while. "I am, as I suppose, Rahere's man."
"He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh, coming up, read it.
'It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere's man, and that Rahere was the King's Jester. There was Latin writ at the back.
'"What a plague conjuration's here?" said Hugh, turning it over. "Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?"
'"Black Magic," said the Clerk of Netherfield (he had been a monk at Battle). "They say Rahere is more of a priest than a fool and more of a wizard than either. Here's Rahere's name writ, and there's
