It is usual, you must admit, for confession to be attended by shame and followed by penance. Yet in the case which I am about to relate to you, the penance preceded confession and its fruits were perfect bliss not only to the penitent but to divers others as well. Before I relate these extraordinary events, I must introduce to you that creature who was the very cause of our tale. Born to a wealthy merchant and his wife on the feast of St. Peter, young Peter Ironheart grew into a handsome youth and, to his father's joy, was never so happy as when he could assist and advance the family business. Whilst he was yet young, his father, now widowed, arranged for Peter to wed Isobel, an heiress of considerable wealth, whose beauty and gentle spirit delighted all who met her. At first all went well and Isobel was soon mother to a baby girl, named Marguerite. Soon after, the merchant died bequeathing to Peter his business and all his wealth. Alas for Peter, these riches served only to whet the seed of avarice which had laid dormant in his breast. As week followed week, it sprouted into covetousness. As month followed month his parsimony budded into avarice. By the time young Marguerite was toddling about, her father's bitter harvest of frugality, cheeseparing and hoarding had so shriveled his soul that the only characteristic that he shared with his saintly namesake was the large bunch of keys at his waist. Alas, not only miserly with his money but niggardly of his affection, he jealously kept lovely Isobel at home that none might covet her. Poor Isobel! imprisoned and yet neglected, having nothing else to give, she poured out all the sweetness of her loving nature upon little Marguerite who drank in her mother's stories and poems of chivalry and romance as a traveller in the desert drinks of a fount of clear water.

In the tenth year of her age, Marguerite's mother, broken hearted and weakened with fasting and drudgery felt her life ebbing away. As she lay dying, untended by any nurse, she called Marguerite to her and said, "Dearest daughter, I give you my blessing and entreat God to provide for you what I cannot. All I have, I give you: this jewelled girdle and purse and a small quantity of coin which was all I could keep from your father's grasp. Would that they could buy you happiness! My dearest wish is that you, flower of my heart, should marry an open handed, open hearted man who would love you as you deserve. So saying, she gave up her spirit.

His wife dead, the miser dismissed all their few servants save Deirdre, an old woman with a poor appetite whom he retained to chaperone his daughter. Now Marguerite must serve her father as housekeeper and maid, their home ever colder, dingier and more threadbare. Her soul yearned for beauty and she found it where she could. Their walled, locked and neglected garden ran into a wood, too small to be of commercial value and left derelict and overgrown. Wandering here alone, to listen to the birds, Marguerite found a little fountain of clear water, almost lost under the thicket. Carefully she cleared the weeds and planted whatever flowers she could find, tending it as an oasis of beauty. Her only other pleasure was to go to the cathedral and all the city churches where besides praying for her mother's soul she could drink in the beauty of carved screens, fine paintings, gilded statues, windows of coloured glass and soothe her ears with glorious music. No one paid heed to the young girl in her shabby dress and threadbare cloak and as one invisible she followed the bustling life of the city with hungry eyes. One day she was in the little church of St Barnabus when she beheld a stranger leaving the vestry: a young man of such beauty that she stared open mouthed in wonder and felt her heart leap with longing. Recalling her mother's wish, she resolved to find out if his heart was as fair as his countenance and so, tugging at old Deirdre's sleeve, she followed him from the church. Greeted familiarly by some young noblemen of the town, the young man paused to converse and laugh with them before taking his leave and passing into an alley where a beggar woman was sitting. Marguerite saw him press something into the woman's hand, closing her fingers about it. The beggar opened her palm and there glimmered a gold coin. But when Marguerite and the beggar looked after the benefactor, he had vanished from sight.

Always on the look out for the object of her affections, Marguerite eyes grew brighter and her pale cheek flushed with rose. Her father, sensible of her burgeoning beauty but afraid of losing her services was careful to keep her as shabby as he could to discourage any suitors. Soon Marguerite had discovered that her young man was very friendly with the simple friar who was priest of St Barnabus and, having given the matter careful thought, she hit upon a plan. One day, taking four of the gold coins her mother had left to her, she went to the friar and begged him to hear her confession. "My dear, what terrible thing is burdening you?" the friar asked.

"Dear Father," she sobbed, "Yesterday I was resting beside the fountain in the square outside this church when a young man came and pressed this coin into my hand as if I were a beggar! It is true that I dress simply, despising luxury, but I am deeply aggrieved for by this action he shamed not only me but my father who is a wealthy merchant. I have seen this same man in your company. He is tall and fair and wears a cloak of deep brown wool, embroidered and lined with yellow silk. If you know him beg him not to shame me again and return his coin to him. Look, here are three more which I give you to say masses for the soul of my dear, dead mother." And having completed her confession, she took her leave. Luck favoured her that day, for as she left the church she saw the young man approaching and he went in.

"Ah Deirdre," she sighed "The day is so warm ands I so weary and thirsty, let us sit awhile by this fountain to refresh ourselves." Deirdre was happy enough to comply and soothed by the warm sunshine, she soon dozed. After a while the handsome young man came out of the church gazing towards the fountain in a puzzled manner. He saw a figure in faded rags whose eyes blazed with some strange interior fire. As he approached she blushed crimson and shook Deirdre. "Come, we must go home at once." Intrigued, he followed them across the town to the merchant's house. The shop was crammed with all manner of fine merchandise and the pale, wizened merchant returned the young woman's respectful greeting with, "Good evening, daughter." When Marguerite returned to St Barnabus the next day, the priest beckoned her aside. "Trouble your heart no more, my dear, I have spoken to my friend who was mortified by his mistake and when I tried to return his coin, he insisted that I keep it that I might add more masses to placate your dear mother's soul." Marguerite thanked him and both to pursue her plan and deflect any suspicion on Deirdre's part, she kept away from that part of the town for several days afterwards. At last she returned and again asked the friar to hear her confession. But even after he had pronounced absolution she continued to kneel, wringing her hands. When he gently inquired what troubled her, she sobbed, "Dear father, I know not what to do, for that same young man, of whom I complained to you before has done nothing but follow me since. When I kneel to pray in church, he kneels behind me. When I rise to leave, he stands in my way. He follows me about the town and walks about beneath my window. Is it not enough for him to have shamed me once but now he must trouble me continously, and risk sullying my reputation? I have done nothing to encourage him but if my father hears of it, he will surely believe that the reverse is true! Help me, please, good Father!" The simple friar promised to speak severely to his friend. "Roger," you have sorely disappointed me," chided the friar when he met his friend later. What do you mean by following that poor young woman about? It is of no avail to deny it, for I have had it from her own lips." So saying, he repeated Marguerite's complaint in every detail. Now Roger, though a good and straightforward man was a little more worldly than his friend and he divined the import of the charges made. Accordingly he began to follow his instructions and kneel behind her in church where he could well hear her sighs. He would stand in her way as she left and saw well her lowered gaze and her blushes. As he followed her about he saw the slight turn of her head and when he walked below her window, he was rewarded with a smile. What with the transparency of her amorous feelings and the beauty of her slender form, he was soon as well trapped in love's traces as she. But how could he speak to her, when she had made quite clear that her name must not be soiled? Happily, Marguerite, responding to his ardent looks, was only too ready to provide the means. Again she hied her to the priest for confession. Again she had cause to complain indignantly of his friend's unwanted attentions. "You will never guess the lengths he has gone to this time," she wept, "Last night by mischance, the gate to our garden was left unlocked and under cover of night your friend entered. This morning when I took my customary stroll into the woodland where plays a little fountain, he must have followed me. I looked up and there he stood and without a word pressed this purse and jewelled girdle upon me and fled away before I could protest. You know well how much I despise such baubles and how it distresses me to think that my father might hear of these importunities and blame me. Please return this unwanted gift and here are five gold coins to say masses for the troubled soul of my dear mother who haunts me in my dreams, always fearing for my immortal soul." Thus she cleverly gave Roger the chance he needed. The very next night, bearing his belt and purse as proudly as any trophy, he tried the garden gate and, finding it unlocked, hid within the garden. True to her word, at dawn young Marguerite went out, as was her wont, to the fountain in the wood. Her joy on finding herself enfolded in her sweetheart's arms defies description. They declared to one another their undying love and sealed it with many kisses. But soon Marguerite must bid him let her speak, "You must know," said she, "that my father is such a miser that he will never let me marry for he relies on me to keep house and cook for him. It pleases him to let me go in rags since no one looks as such at such a beggarly creature. Dear heart, please save me from this life of dreary drudgery while I am yet young and my ardent spirit unbroken by hardship for I fear that if I cannot enjoy your love my life will be extinguished by a tissick as was my dear mother's."

"No, no, don't die, my dearest love," cried Roger, "Your mute love for me found means to appraise me of it, surely my love for you will find some means to unite us! Be patient, dear, and meet me here at next full moon and I will instruct you how things go."

As good as his word, Roger soon had formed a plan as neat as Marguerite's own. The first part of it he put into action at once by paying a visit to her father's shop. "I never saw such handsome merchandise," he murmured as he handled the foreign silks and jewels in the miser's hoard.

"Ah, but business is so bad," returned the miser, "For all I display these costly goods, for which I owe a fortune, I have scarce food for my table." "Well tonight you may eat handsomely," responded the young man, "For this casket is just the perfect gift for my mother, and this silk will make a fine dress for my sister. I cannot give to them without offering something to my honoured father, so for him I take this fine ring." And without haggling in the least, he paid promptly in gold coin and took his leave. But he returned again and again for this aunt had admired the casket, that cousin the silk and Roger could not bear to leave them longing. Up went the miser's prices but never once did his rich customer quibble. And whereas most folk shrank from the miser's pinched features, Roger always greeted him with perfect cordiality and treated him as if the merchant were his bosom friend. Not even Philip's iron heart could withstand such warmth, though never a word of his good fortune reached his daughter's ears. She, for her part, had grown quieter than ever and never stirred from home except to purchase a little bread for Deirdre and her father. Though she glimpsed her sweetheart nearly every day, she scarce ate enough to sustain a sparrow. One day Roger came to the merchant's shop with a troubled and distant look, his smiles all gone. He fingered the merchandise with an abstracted and undecided air. Fearing that he would not make a sale, the miser unctuously inquired what ailed his good friend. "I am deeply troubled," replied Roger, "to learn that shortly after my tailor died, his good wife was robbed of everything she possessed. She has told me that she is now so poor that she would be willing to work for anyone without asking any fee beyond shelter and a crumb to eat so as to preserve her good name. I offered to send her to my parent's estate but it is distant and she is loath to leave her gossips. Since she is yet quite young and comely, I dare not employ her in my bachelor home for fear of scandal. I know not what to do. Her talents are so great she can make a meal fit for a king from a leftover morsel of mutton; her skill with a needle is unsurpassed; her darns are invisible and yet I cannot think how to help her." Peter Pinchfist pricked up his ears. Even he was growing tired of plain bread and water whilst his daughter languished and Deirdre could no more cook than fly. "Perhaps I could offer her shelter," he shrugged, "It is true, I am hounded for payment by my suppliers abroad and haven't a penny to spare on a servant but if the young lady is so accomplished she might very well find haven in my house." Roger was so relieved that he bought half a dozen items at greatly inflated prices and left the merchant's shop wreathed in smiles, to return later with the comely young widow, Mary, who was always known to her gossips as Merry for so she was. She took Roger's request in very good part, loving romance and intrigue above all else but not despising the handsome salary and supplies which Roger had promised to her in return for working for the miser. Who knows, she mused, I might reel in more than Roger's own fish if I play my line cannily! From the first, the merchant was amazed at Merry's skill. He would give her two groats and she would create a banquet. When he questioned her, ther was always some butcher for whom her husband had done a favour and who would put by a tasty morsel as a treat, or a grocer whose wife she had tended in sickness who gave her fine spices. The miser was astonished: never before had he supposed that generosity might bring greater rewards than miserliness. So pleased was he with his new helpmeet, that he even lowered his prices to Roger! With a full belly, a fire in his hearth and a blanket on his knees, no man was happier than he when one evening, Merry and Deirdre broke in upon him crying, "Quick, master, fetch the friar of St Barnabus, your daughter wishes to make her last confession!" The miser stomped upstairs to his daughter's room where sure enough, she lay as pale as a ghost her, voice a mere whisper, "Please father, do not deny me absolution and unction before I die..."
"Will not the local priest do?" he grumbled.
"But the friar has been so kind..." and she turned her face to the wall. So the miser goes puffing across the town and beats on the friar's door. Soon the honest man has reached the girl's bedside.

"Father," she said,” I cannot endure the weight upon my conscience. The last time I confessed to you, I told a dreadful lie. Your young friend's unwanted attentions brought him ever more to my notice until I fell so deeply in love that I am brought to my grave." "How so?" begs the friar. "I know I shall never marry," sighed Marguerite,” for never once has my father broached the subject of marriage and I know my duty far to well to broach it myself. Besides I have never dared to breathe a word of my affection to the young man, though he is a frequent customer of my father's. No, no, it is better that I die a chaste and dutiful daughter than languish for ever tormented by glimpses of my beloved..." Now the friar knew full well that Roger was deeply in love with the mysterious merchant's daughter for he could speak of nothing other than her loveliness, grace and goodness and how he, too, had no means of communicating his love to her since she had expressly forbidden his approaches. His slow mind began to form some plan of his own, for, having pronounced absolution and given her the last rites, he begged her to cling to life a little longer for he would save her if he could. The miser was waiting below for news of his daughter. She heard the creak of the stairs as the friar descended and the long, low murmur of voices far into the night. Nor had she yet given up the ghost when at midnight the door opened and not only the friar but her father, too, departed the house. Had they looked up they would have seen the dying girl and Merry watching from above. Nor could Marguerite be persuaded to return to her bed until the two returned towards dawn with a third figure that of Roger. Her eyes closed and her skin icy cold, they took her for dead, but Roger, chafing her frozen fingers between his warm, broad palms cried, "Oh dearest lady, do not die. I love you truly and have done for many a month." Marguerite's eyes fluttered a little. "Dear daughter," mumbled her father, gruffly, "Come to, my dear. Why didn't you tell me you had fallen in love with my best friend?" "Is he?" she whispered, closing her eyes again.

"He wants to marry you, you know," said Peter Pinchpenny. She opened one eye and sighed, "and you've my blessing if you'll agree." So she opened the other. "Dearest father, nothing would content me more if I only live long enough," she murmured, weakly. But by the grace of God, the speed of her recovery proved to be quite unusual and before the month was out she was made a blushing, beautiful bride. As for her proud father, between them Roger and Merry had cracked that iron portal of his heart and discovered a softness within that had been hidden since his boyhood. It was not long before Merry landed her fish, too, and a second wedding party walked to the door of St Barnabus church to celebrate their nuptials. And what with all the riches they had between them, and the good friar's counsel, even Peter thought it would pay to part with a penny or two now and then if by this means he could buy his way into heaven at such time as he might meet his namesake who keeps the keys to eternal bliss!

© R. M. Moss 2004