I let out a kind of howl and then the others all hurried round me to see what was up. And though I asked them all if they’d noticed any coins on the road and picked them up, none had. The last thing I wanted was to go down that hill again but I had no choice. ‘I’ll have to go back and look,’ I said. Some offered to come with me, though I could see they didn’t much mean it, being tired, all except Oswald, while even he wasn’t eager. ‘You can’t go off alone,’ he said grumpily. ‘You don’t know where you are. Come on, I’ll keep you company.’ So the two of us started back down and all the way it was like I had a little scream inside me that wouldn’t stop. I kept my eyes on the path, telling myself, who knows, perhaps they all fell out together and you’ll find them in a little heap, though I knew in my heart it wouldn’t be so. Every time I saw someone coming the other way I asked them, ‘Have you seen any coins dropped, farthings mostly?’ but they all answered no. All the way Oswald tried to keep friendly but I could see he was annoyed. Once he stumbled and cursed and then said to me, ‘If you’re going on a pilgrimage to Rome you need proper gear,’ only to stop himself and give me a kindlier look. ‘Never mind, Tom. That was just my foot talking.’ Finally we got to Tetsworth, which I’d been dreading, as I remembered sitting on the wall when we’d had our bread and cheese and looking down at my purse and it had been full.
‘That’s that,’ I said. ‘It’s lost.’ So we started back. My feet ached and my shoulders ached where the straps of the pack dug into them and I kept thinking, how could I have been such a fool? I remembered Auntie Eva telling me I mustn’t go. Or I remembered the wild man’s curse, ‘May the stones in the road swallow you up and drag you down to burn.’ But mostly I thought about the five shillings Sir Toby had given me to buy his vernicle and the silver cross.
When we finally reached the inn at Wycombe it was almost dark. We found the others in the hall having their supper and I was so tired I could hardly even speak and just slumped into a chair. Oswald told them I hadn’t found anything and only had a farthing left and they all looked at me, sorry but also a little irked, I suppose at my being such a dotard and making myself so needy. ‘Have an ale,’ said Sir John. ‘You’ll need one.’ ‘I can’t,’ I told him. ‘I’ve nothing to pay for it with.’ ‘I’ll get you an ale,’ said Oswald, looking like he’d rather not. ‘And I’ll get your dinner,’ said Jocelyn, looking the same. ‘Of course you’ll have to go back to Minster,’ said Hugh, shaking his head. ‘You can’t go all the way to Rome on a farthing.’
So we ordered a round of ales and Sir John was right as I swear in all my days I’d never needed one more. ‘But he can’t go back to his village,’ Jocelyn said now. ‘If there’s one thing I know in this world, it’s the law. Just think of how it’ll look. If Tom’s Sir Toby thinks he stole those shillings then he’ll be hanged for sure.’ It’s all I deserve, I thought, as it was my doing that they were lost. But then, as we gulped down our ales, everyone grew a little cheerier. ‘Don’t you worry, you’ll get to Rome,’ said Oswald. ‘I’ll see to it myself. I’ll teach you how to beg. It’s not so hard.’ He was quite a master at it, he said, because though he was given shillings by the dead folk who sent him pilgrimaging, they were never enough so he always had to crave more along the way. He even gave me a little of his lore there and then. He said I mustn’t be too happy nor too sad, and that I should look folk right in the eye and tell them that giving alms would get them God’s blessing, which blunted the prick of parting with their silver. ‘Those rags of yours will help,’ he said. ‘But take care you don’t get so slutty that nobody wants to go near you.’
Seeing all their faces, looking at me friendly now, gave me hope. Perhaps God hadn’t turned his back on me after all. Of course there were still Sir Toby’s five shillings, as I couldn’t see how I’d ever beg them back, not in a hundred years. But one thing at a time. What matters now, I told my Sammy that evening as I lay on the straw in the barn next to the inn, is that we keep going. London next, my old beastie.
CHAPTER THREE
Constance
I was woken by voices and then an awful drone of bagpipes and just for a moment the thought that came into my foolish head was, what in heaven’s going on in my orchard? Then I opened my eyes and knew I wasn’t in my snug bed back in Thetford but in the pilgrim dormitory of the Southwark hospital. Was that din the ones we’d been waiting for? I dearly hoped so. They were supposed to have been here yesterday and I’d spent half the night fretting, wondering what could have become of them, and if they’d ever show themselves.
There was my little lad Paul and there was my sister Joan, both still fast asleep. Just seeing my Paul made me smile. How tranquil and handsome he was lying there beside me in the bed lost in his dreams. What an angel. It was a wonder he could sleep so sound with all that noise coming in through the window. If he was asleep, that was? Now my pulse was racing. But no, it was all right. When I leaned over I saw his chest was rising and falling just like it should.
A moment later the clerk of the hospital came up and told us that, just as I’d hoped, our fellow pilgrims had arrived. I woke Joan and Paul and as Joan pulled on her clothes she was wondering what her three were getting up to back in Thetford. ‘I hope Dave and Emma are looking after them,’ she said, which was her in-laws, who’d taken them in. ‘I hope they’re both behaving themselves. And I hope they’re not too sour at their mother for going away and leaving them behind.’ I knew she didn’t mean for me to feel sorry but I did, and though I’d already said it dozens of times before now, I said it again. ‘It’s so good of you to come with us, Joan, really it is. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.’ She gave me a smile. ‘Don’t you even think about it, Constance. Anything for my little sister and her poor boy.’
From under my pillow I took my pouch. Before I tied it beneath my gown, where it would be safe from thieving Londoners, I opened up the buttons and looked inside just to be sure, as I was always anguished that something might be amiss. Lose this and we’d truly be stranded. No, there was my testimonial and the money scripts, there was my purse, where I kept most of my coins, aside from a few that I put in my scrip, and which was as full with silver as it should be. And there was the other little purse with my jewels. I would’ve left those back in Thetford if it hadn’t been for Joan. ‘It’s best to be safe,’ she’d said, ‘and to have something spare just in case, as you never know what might happen.’ So I’d brought every one of them, all of my Hubert’s loving gift. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured to him. ‘If you’re already up in heaven, which I do believe you are, as you had no wickedness to you, then I beg you, forgive me. Don’t go whispering foul slanders in God’s ear. Tell him how sorry I am. We need all his help just now.’
We found the others in the hall, sitting round the table with their staffs and hats, and when I told them who we were they all got up to greet us. There were ten altogether, so thirteen with us three. Not a godly number. But then more might join us later, and at least we’d be crowd enough to keep safe on the road. They were a proper mix from fine clothes to rags. One who had dozens of pilgrim badges in his hat, and whose name was Oswald, had seen I was aggrieved at their being late and he said how sorry they were. ‘We were all right till yesterday,’ he said, but then, as they came up to a village called Ealing, it seemed like Satan had sent a mob of his fiends to slow them. The last two days had been all rain, so they were coughing and sneezing from getting so soaked, and just outside Ealing the way was worse than stew so if you stepped wrong you’d find your leg stuck right up to the knee. One of them, named Margaret, who looked like a rich delver, had had a cobbler stretch her boots, which he’d done too much so they kept coming off and she had to reach into the slobber a dozen times to pull them out.
Then they had to search for the ragged boy, Tom, who’d gone off by himself to beg pennies at Ealing market as he had none left. And after that they were slowed again when the manor lord among them, Sir John, accused a stranger of winking at his wife, though the fellow said it
was just his trembling eye. It came to fists, which brought half the village out, and in the end Sir John only got away by paying the man a ha’penny. After that they’d all walked as fast as they were able but still they missed the London gates. They’d stayed the night at a Westminster inn, Oswald said, and then, knowing they were late, they’d risen at first light, hurried through the city and over the bridge to Southwark. It’s all very well, I thought, but you’d better not be slow all the way. The last thing my poor Paul needs is to be walking to Rome with a crowd of snails.
If I’d had my way we’d have set off for Rochester right away as why tarry, but Oswald said he wanted to spend an hour or two on West Cheap begging, as that was the finest begging spot in all England, so he said, and the ragged boy Tom was eager too, while the rest, including even my Paul and Joan, wanted to look round the city. So we were to have another day here, another day squandered, which was all that I needed, but what could I do? Nothing, was the answer.
Walking out into the street I thought, not for the first time, how could these Southwark folk stand it? It seemed that every step we took there was somebody begging or trying to sell us trinkets or shouting that we were blocking their road. Or we had to squeeze past a crowd watching a juggler throwing balls in the air, or a big pig that scampered by and almost knocked us down, or we were nearly murdered by a cart racing past, driven by a boy no older than my Paul. And London, where we were going to, was worse again. What I’d have given to be back in dear, quiet Thetford. But there was no use thinking on that now, not till I’d done my penance and set my poor boy on the right road with God.
The three of us hadn’t broken our fast and nor had any of the rest, and Joan, who hated being late with her meals, said we should go to the same pie shop where we’d gone the day before. The pies were tasty enough, though I’d thought them a little dear. Oswald with all the badges said he knew of another place that he liked and I was happy to give it a go, but then the others wanted to show themselves friendly to us newcomers so they all said no, let’s try Joan’s. Right as we got there the baker was putting out his first batch, hot from the oven. I felt a little shamed as I could see some of them were troubled by the prices, though in the end they all had one, except for the ragged boy Tom, who said he just wanted a bit of bread from a bakery next door. That was enough to get my Paul started. It didn’t surprise me as I’d seen trouble on his face. ‘I’ll go with Tom,’ he said. ‘All I want is a little bread.’ ‘Have a pie, go on,’ Joan told him. ‘Only the best for our Paul. You need to keep up your strength for the journey.’ ‘Joan’s right, Paul,’ I told him and strongly too, as it didn’t seem right for him to go elsewhere when we’d made all the rest have pies. ‘You can’t just have bread.’
So he took one in the end but he only ate half and then he held out the rest to Joan who’d already finished hers. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough.’ I didn’t like the way he watched her as she ate it down and, sure enough, the moment she’d finished he started up. ‘Have another,’ he said. ‘Have two. Have three. Go on, only the best for Auntie Joan.’ The others were all looking at us and if it hadn’t been for how he was, I’d have given him a good slap. ‘Paul,’ I told him, ‘show respect to your aunt who’s coming all the way to Rome just for you.’ Even then he just shrugged. I said to her, ‘I’m so sorry, Joan,’ but like always she couldn’t have been sweeter. ‘Don’t you worry, Constance,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what goes on so long as I can help my little sister and her poor tormented boy.’
I paid for Paul’s and Joan’s and mine and then on we went. With each step he took, the ragged boy Tom rattled his begging bowl, which he’d filled with pebbles to make it louder, shaking it at everyone we passed and shouting out, ‘Alms for a poor pilgrim going to Rome. Alms for God’s blessing,’ till it gave me quite a headache. When we reached the gate to London Bridge I said, ‘What do you say we take a ferry over,’ which was because Paul and Joan and me had crossed over the bridge once already when we first arrived, two days back, and I wasn’t eager to do it again. It was so piled with shops and houses that I’d feared it might come crashing down and drop us into the river to drown. And there were the heads stuck on their poles above us, too, which I tried not to look at but I couldn’t stop myself, while the road was so narrow that it was hard to fight your way through the throng. But the ragged boy Tom looked anxious at the thought of paying out a ferry fare and none of the others was keen either, so the bridge it had to be. When we were halfway across, the manor lord Sir John almost got into a fight with someone he said had shoved him, though I’m sure it was only accident. I gripped my Paul’s hand tight as I could and when he moaned, ‘Mother, you’re hurting me,’ I answered, ‘Better than losing you, any day.’
On the other side we went to see the Tower. As we stood by the moat looking across, Oswald said if we listened carefully we might hear roaring, as the king kept wild animals there including a lion, though we couldn’t hear anything except Londoners gabbling at each other. Then we had a little disputation, as Sir John said it had been put up by William the Bastard while Oswald said no, it was Julius Caesar the Roman. Then Hugh the rich delver said, ‘No it wasn’t. It was built by King Arthur the Unready.’ Here we go, I thought. Because on every pilgrimage I’d done there’d always been one like him, who thought there was nothing finer to do than say witless things and vex everybody.
After that we walked all the way across to West Cheap to the Conduit. That was a thing to see I dare say, as it was like half a river was pouring out from it and there were Londoners by the score lined up with buckets to take their fill, but if it had been crowded in Southwark it was three times worse here. The din filled my ears, the stink filled my nostrils and it seemed like every breathing Londoner was shoving past me or calling out over my head to someone they knew.
This was where Oswald and Tom and Hugh wanted to go begging. Seeing as I was here I thought I might have a try, as why not if it could get us a penny or two. I could see Paul was keen as well but then Joan said we mustn’t, as it would be too wearying for him. ‘He’ll get tired out,’ she said. So we sat on a church wall. Margaret came over to keep us company, which got her a dirty look from her husband, who was scarce with his money, I could see from the very look of him, and who’d have wanted to set her begging too. But I was glad of it as she gave us news of all the rest in our party. She told us how the ragged boy Tom had lost all his money on the very first day when he hadn’t noticed that his scrip had split open. Then she told me something that made me laugh out loud, which was that he wasn’t walking to Rome for his own soul or the souls of his kin but for his cat. Sir John was doing penance for punching an abbot, which was no surprise when he had a temper that snapped like a dry twig. ‘That’s a fellow with no money I’ll bet,’ Margaret said, because what got him angriest, she said, was if someone didn’t bow and scrape to him. Oswald was one of those who do pilgrimages for other folk and was going for a dead tailor from Banbury. Jocelyn the advocate was a fornicator going for his blackened soul, and Mary, the mother with the fair daughter, was going for her dead butcher husband.
I could see where this was taking us and I tried to put us on a different road, asking Margaret about herself and her family, though it did no good. ‘So how about you, Constance?’ she asked at last. ‘What’s taking you to Rome?’ My Paul, who till then had been sitting beside me, chucking a pebble in the air and catching it with one hand, didn’t want to hear it told, of course, and he got up, saying he wanted to take another look at the Conduit. ‘That’s a long story,’ I said, hoping to put Margaret off, but then my sister Joan broke in, as I knew she would. She was always telling me that confession was part of my penitence and that I must do it as often as I could, the more the better, if I hoped to stand with good Saint Peter and be washed clean. ‘Go on, Constance,’ she said. ‘You must tell Margaret everything, every little bit.’
So I did, starting at the start, as there was nowhere better, and saying how blessed of God I’d b
een, wooed by Hubert, the wealthiest man in all Thetford. A widower with grey hair and no brood of his own, as God hadn’t blessed him with children, he owned two taverns, two shops and four houses in the town, including the fine big one that he lived in. And he was a good, kindly man, humble in his attire and his tastes, though some folk in Thetford said he was too friendly with the Jews. That had Joan cutting in again, ‘Which he was, too.’ Because he’d done business buying and selling hides with one in Norwich named Isaac, and they grew so warm that Isaac asked Hubert to his daughter’s wedding and Hubert would’ve gone, too, except that somebody told the bishop, who said he’d excommunicate him if he did.
Hubert asked for my hand, I answered yes, ‘and that should’ve been the end of my tale,’ I told Margaret, ‘and a happy end it would’ve been, too.’ But then the devil came tempting me with my cousin Mark, whom I’d been friendly with ever since I was young. Though Mark was married with two little boys, the fiend sent him calling on me just days before my wedding, when my poor mother was upstairs sick in bed, which of course the fiend would’ve known. Mark took me into the storeroom and told me he loved me to his very heart root and he said it wasn’t right that a comely young female like me should spend all her nights with a dried-up old prune like Hubert. At the very least, he said, once in my life I should feel the touch of one who was as young and fresh as I was. ‘Seeing him so sad and so handsome confounded me,’ I told Margaret, ‘and so, sorry to tell, the devil got his way and I did what I shouldn’t have.’
I half expected Margaret to turn haughty on me now, as folk often did when I told them my trespasses, but she gave me a tender look. Then she could hardly expect saintliness from her fellow pilgrims. If we’d all been angels we wouldn’t be going to Saint Peter to be washed clean. And Joan tried to make me look a little better. ‘It wasn’t that my sister was wicked,’ she said. ‘It was Satan, tempting her. No, my sister was just foolish and weak like so much dough in his hands.’
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