‘So I married Hubert,’ I went on, ‘and straight away I found I was with child.’ And though I prayed every day for it to be my husband’s, I knew my prayers hadn’t been answered that same morning when my little Paul was born and I saw my cousin’s eyes looking up at me. When I told Mark he said I mustn’t tell anybody, not even the priest, as then we’d both be undone, and he told me not to worry as he was sure Hubert wouldn’t guess. And though I feared for my soul, I kept quiet just like he’d said, and he was right, as Hubert was so joyed at having a child at last, to dote on and fuss over, that he never questioned if it was his. But what did that matter when God knew? Day after day I begged his forgiveness and I prayed to him, ‘Please God, I beseech you, don’t punish me.’
Of course I’d soon wish I’d never prayed that prayer. Because God heard my words and, being so displeased with my wickedness, he decided to chastise me with something that was a thousand times worse than what I’d feared. He let me be and had the devil torment all those that I loved most dear. First he struck my cousin Mark. Just a year after my little Paul was born Mark was riding into the town when a dog barked at his horse, which reared up and he was thrown on his head and died that same day. But that was only the start of God’s wrath. One year later he took my poor, goodly husband Hubert. He was skinning a rabbit and cut his hand on the knife, and badly too, then the devil put poison in the wound so it wouldn’t heal but grew worse, till it turned green, the green spread up his arm, and within two months he was dead. Which some folk in Thetford said it was only his due for being such a friend of a murderer of Jesus like Isaac. ‘And so it was,’ said Joan.
But then came the very worst of all. On the day poor Hubert was buried, at his wake, which was very fine as I wanted to honour my poor husband as best I could, I saw my poor boy had turned pale and he was holding his belly like it ached and he told me, ‘I don’t feel very good.’ He pulled off his tunic as he couldn’t bear to have it against him and I saw that the skin on his back had turned red and would give him no peace, so he scratched and scratched at it. Then he started spewing and his eyes swelled up so he couldn’t open them at all. I had him lie down on a bed upstairs where he was fighting for each breath. He’s dying, I thought. My dear boy, who’s everything I love most dearly in this world, is dying and it’s all of it my own fault. I prayed to God, ‘Please, I beg you, let my poor boy alone and punish me instead, as this wasn’t his sin but mine.’ But God didn’t listen. I stayed well and my poor boy suffered, and though his misery eased slowly as the hours passed, he was weak and broken for days.
I know I’d promised my cousin not to tell a soul about our fornicating but that didn’t matter now that he was gone, while I had to speak to somebody or I’d turn lunatic. ‘So she told me,’ said Joan, joining in. ‘By then I was a widow too, as I’d lost my Robert just a few months before. Of course my Robert wasn’t rich like Constance’s Hubert, being a poor, simple, godly Christian man.’ Joan had told me I couldn’t keep secrets from God, nor from his churchmen or from my fellow men. Even though my husband had been a friend of Jews, still my sin against him was wicked and I must confess it all.
I had tears in my eyes now. ‘So I did what Joan told me,’ I said. I shrived my dreadful sin to Father Henry, who gave me two days’ fasting a week for four months and made me pay three marks for a new altar cross. But Joan said that wasn’t enough, not if I was to have a clean heart. I must tell everyone in Thetford. Which I did too, and I didn’t mind the whispers and sniggering I got, or being called a strumpet and spat on by Mark’s widow, as what did any of that matter so long as my Paul was saved. But it turned out God wasn’t satisfied even then, and it wasn’t long before my boy was struck again, and worse even than the first time.
After that Joan said I should take him on pilgrimage as penitence, which I did. She came with us and as my Paul had done nothing wrong, the transgression being all mine, she said he must have only the best, staying in good inns and eating tasty food. So we went to Norwich to see Little William whom the Jews killed to show their spite of our faith, and then to Lincoln to see Little Hugh whom the Jews killed as well, as those two holy boys were the most likely to help my Paul, Joan said, both being young lads like him. ‘I had such high hopes,’ I told Margaret. ‘But then after we got back to Thetford he grew sick again, worse even than before. After that Joan said the only answer was to come to Rome and pray to Saint Peter, who could have God forgive anything. It would cost a good bit, of course, while Joan said we must travel commodiously for the sake of my poor boy, so I sold one of my houses in Thetford and one of the shops, and I gave a trader who was an old friend of Hubert’s money to take to Winchester Fair to get me a script from one of the foreigners there that I could change for silver on the road. Then I went to the priest, Father. . .’
I stopped because Paul had come back and was rattling his drinking cup. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I begged two farthings.’ ‘We told you not to,’ I said, and Joan was shaking her head, but when I looked at his angel face so thin and drawn, I couldn’t feel annoyed for long. By then the others were all drifting back and saying they wanted to see more of London. So we set off for Saint Paul’s but somehow we took the wrong road and found ourselves in quieter streets. I was glad of it after the crush we’d been in before. Oswald, being the one who knew London best, asked somebody in a shop, who put us right, and then a strange thing happened. I’d noticed that the mother and daughter Mary and Helena had drifted a little behind the rest of us and were having a hushed sort of chat, just the two of them, and then the next thing I knew I heard a cry. It was Helena and she was crouching over her mother, who was lying flat in the dirt. Everyone hurried back to them and when I saw Mary’s face was white as snow I worried something awful had happened to her, but then she opened her eyes. Helena said she’d got into a swoon. Mary kept saying how sorry she was, though it wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. ‘I saw something that gave me a scare,’ she said. ‘It looked like a big grey rat.’ Though that was strange too, as I hadn’t seen any rat or anything else like it and nor had anyone else. Mary thanked God and Jesus and Mother Mary ten times over that she hadn’t hurt herself falling and then she said she felt better and on we went.
Londoners always boasted about how noble Saint Paul’s was but I couldn’t see what the fuss was about. It had a tall spire, I’ll own, and it was long inside with a big round window, but I swear that Lincoln Cathedral, which I’d seen with Joan, was bigger, while Norwich was comelier. After that Margaret wanted to go to Westminster Abbey, so we went through Ludgate to Westminster, which I’d hoped would be quieter than London, though it was hardly less busy at all. In the abbey we prayed to Edward the Confessor at his tomb, which was fine enough in its showy London way, covered with gold and pretty gems, though I’d have preferred our Saint Mary the Less in Thetford any day. I hadn’t meant to stay for long but once I started begging Saint Edward to ask God to forgive me my transgression and to release my poor Paul from his torment it was hard to stop, and I kept thinking, if I pray just a little bit more then who’s to say if he won’t hear me at last?
Finally Margaret said she wanted to buy a badge for her hat, so I went with her, and she and Hugh got into a big noise, as she wanted the best they had, which was a pretty thing of Saint Edward riding a horse, but which Hugh said was too dear. ‘If you want one like that then you should go out begging for it,’ he said. She gave as good as she got and told him, ‘You can pay for it out of the pennies you saved getting my boots so cheap,’ which she’d told me about when we had our gabble. So she got her badge in the end. Joan said I should get one each for her and me and Paul, as they’d look handsome on our pilgrim hats, which only had Will of Norwich and Hugh of Lincoln, but Paul said it was a waste and in the end I just got one for her.
All the while, Satan was secretly watching and making up his cruel intents. There I’d been, praying from my very heart root, begging good Saint Edward to forgive me my sins and free my Paul from torment, and then, as
we stepped out of the abbey, he looked up at me with scared eyes and said, ‘Ma, I don’t feel well. I’ve got a bad ache in my stomach.’ In an instant I was on my knees hugging and kissing him and crying out, ‘Please God, I beg you, spare my boy. Punish me instead.’ Now Joan and Paul were praying, and when they saw what was happening the others in our party all did too. Mary was crying out, ‘Sweet Jesus, help our little Paul,’ and even strangers joined in.
All I could think of was, we have to get home to the inn right away so he can lie down before he gets worse. Back we started, past the grand houses and through the gate into the city, going as fast as we could. If I hadn’t much liked Londoners before, now I hated each and every last one of them, as they pushed and barged and slowed us. The others in our pilgrim group did their best to help, especially Sir John, whose riotous nature was my best friend now, as he bellowed and waved his staff in the air to clear the way. All the while I was gabbling everything that flew into my poor dizzy head, telling the rest of them that the blame was all mine for the wicked sin I’d done, and saying that we probably wouldn’t be walking with them to Rome after all, as if Paul had his sickness bad again then he’d have to lie quiet in bed for a few days. Joan said no, we must go anyway, for Paul, as otherwise I’d never be washed clean of my sins and he’d never be cured. We should buy a cart, she said, with a good strong horse. For that matter we could all ride in it. So we should, I thought, but then Paul said he wasn’t going on any bumpy cart when he was sick, as he’d never last the journey, so I didn’t know what to think after all.
And then, just when I felt all hope was slipping away, a most wondrous thing happened. ‘You know I don’t feel very good either,’ said Oswald. ‘Nor me,’ said Dame Alice, and right then I felt a queasiness in my own gut. The joy, the joy. I could’ve sung. ‘It must’ve been those pies,’ said Hugh. ‘And after all we paid for them, too.’ He was right, though, as the rag boy Tom, who hadn’t had one, was fine as could be, and so were Mary and Helena, who hadn’t had pork like the rest of us, but fish. Which had Mary repenting to us. ‘We love pork usually,’ she said. ‘We’re always chopping it in the butcher’s shop. We just felt like fish today.’
As if I cared about who’d had what pie? All that mattered was that my boy wasn’t in one of his torments after all. We hurried off to the nearest latrine, which was on poles above the river, we took it in turns, and it wasn’t so bad in the end. The only one who spewed was Joan, I suppose because she’d had half of Paul’s too, while it was only once, and the rest of us just had squirts. Thank you, God, I thought as I squatted there. Thank you, dear Jesus. Tomorrow we’ll be on the road to Rome and the sooner we get started the happier I’ll be.
CHAPTER FOUR
Warin
Then just when I feared that God had turned his back on us all, he came to me once again, and out of the mouth of my own daughter Beatrix.
Who’d be a tailor in Margate? Though I worked hard I had few thanks and less regard, especially from the ones who had gold not love in their hearts. If Abbot Nicholas of the Augustines wanted new vestments, or Sir Timothy’s wife wanted a handsome new gown, or if Samuel Harrison the clerk wanted one for his daughter who was getting married, they’d call on me quick enough, but if any of them passed me in the street I wouldn’t even get a ‘Good morning to you, Warin, and how do you do today?’ They’d just give me a little nod that said, ‘I know you, Warin the tailor, and I know you made me some thrifty cloth but you’re low kindred and well beneath my dignity.’ Let’s see how you fare at the end of days, Abbot Nick and Sir Timothy and clerk Sam, I’d think. Then you’ll have no fine robes or pomp or rank but will be as naked as the rest of us. There’ll be no boltholes for false priests and rich leeches then.
In the meantime, though, I wished God could’ve made them better payers. I’d wait weeks, sometimes months, while I didn’t dare chide them for fear they’d take offence and I’d never get another task out of them again or from their high friends. Nor was it better with the poorer ones who were most of my trade. They were friendly enough on the street but then it was always, ‘Can you wait another week, cousin?’ or, ‘I’ll have it next month for certain, when the porker’s fattened and ready to sell.’ All the while in our house we had hungry bellies, supper was porridge and cabbage again and my Ida was grouching at me, ‘How are we going to pay for five dowries, answer me that?’ Which was another reason I felt God had turned his back on me. Because what love was that, giving me no sons but five daughters living and two to mourn?
But then he hadn’t forsaken us after all so it turned out. He’d just been biding his time. If I’d had to guess which of my poppets he’d choose as his voice I’d never have picked Beatrix. I’d have guessed Reynilda who was the oldest and the most earnest, always shouting out commands to the rest as she helped out my Ida, so she was almost like a second mother. Or Clarice who was the seemly one with her pretty blue eyes. Or Avice who was merry, always smiling and making us laugh. Or Edith who was the baby loved by all. Beatrix was so quiet that I didn’t notice her half the time and I hardly knew if she was inside the house or out. Except when she had to clean the hens of course. They all had their chores that Ida gave them, from scrubbing the floors to fetching water from the well, and I’m not saying any of the others would have loved to wash down the chicken coop, which was dirty work no denying, but no God’s creature in all Christendom could have hated it as much as Beatrix. It came once a month and each time she’d fill the house with her noise, right up to the rafters.
‘I won’t do it,’ she’d howl. ‘Why is it always me? Why can’t it be Reynilda, or Avice or Clarice for once?’ Which I wondered of too, as it would’ve made my days quieter, but like I said Ida had her ways in the house and I wasn’t one to meddle. Beatrix would go in the end, though that didn’t quiet her and we’d hear her screeching at the poor hens, ‘I hate you and your stink and your muck. I wish the fox would take every one of you.’ All the while her sisters would be smirking and giving each other looks and though I told them to stop it did no good. Females can be cruel.
It was on one of the hen-cleaning days that God first came to us. I was working on a cloak for Guy the dyer when Beatrix started wailing like usual, saying she didn’t want to go, then the door slammed shut and I heard her scolding the hens. Finally I heard the bucket clanking, which meant she was cleaning herself off with water from the stream, which always took her a while. Chicken shit is strong and however much you work at it, it’ll leave a whiff on you for a day or two. Then all fell quiet and I was listening for the door to slam a second time so I knew she was back in the house but there was nothing. After a spell passed I called out to Ida, ‘Is Beatrix back?’ and when she told me no I went out to see.
There was Beatrix, sat on her haunches on the ground. It was her eyes that caught me. She was looking straight ahead of her, staring fixed. Another thing was her humming, which was loud but wasn’t a tune, just one note over and over. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, but she didn’t move or look up and it was as if she couldn’t even hear me. Fearing that she was sick or that the fiend had taken her, I shook her by the shoulders, calling out, ‘Beatrix, stop this,’ but there was no fight in her and it was like shaking a doll. By now the others had heard me shouting and they all stepped out of the house to see what was what, and I was just wondering if I should have Reynilda run and fetch Father Adam when Beatrix turned her head towards me, slow and strange, and out of her little mouth came a voice that wasn’t hers, nor was it like any voice I’d ever heard in all my days, but was low and croaking like a frog. ‘I am the father of him who gave his life to save you,’ it said. ‘I’ve come this day to warn you all. The fiend walks among you in Margate. Beware, time is short. Beware, the last days are coming.’
I didn’t know what to think. A part of me thought, she’s just playing at this. It’s just because she’s angry at doing the hens. But another part of me thought, that’s not like her, though. What if it’s true? As for the rest of them they we
re in two tribes. My Ida, who always got into fright over things, had turned pale as death and our littlest one Edith was covering her eyes with her hands, but the other three were looking at each other and smirking. Clarice said, ‘Let’s test her,’ and then they were like cats playing with a beetle. Clarice put her hands over Beatrix’s staring eyes, Reynilda pinched her cheeks and Avice tickled her. I thought Beatrix would squeal or laugh but no, it was as if she couldn’t feel or hear them. And then, just as they were starting to lose heart, Beatrix let out a howl, so sudden and loud that it gave us all a start. Her eyes fixed on Clarice. ‘Don’t you see him? There’s a devil right there in your blue eyes. The fiend has you.’ ‘She’s just pretending,’ said Reynilda, ‘don’t be fooled,’ though she didn’t seem so sure any more, while Clarice looked downright scared. It was like her fear was catching and I could feel my heart jump. ‘And you,’ said the voice next, as Beatrix turned her eyes on Avice, ‘the devil’s there in your laugh.’ Edith had a devil in her smile, so the voice said, and Reynilda had one in her throat. But worst was my Ida. ‘You have twenty devils in you,’ the voice said. ‘You’re full of them. They make their home of you.’ Poor Ida let out a little mewl.
Now Beatrix turned to me. I didn’t like to think what devils I might have, but no, her face broke into a strange, staring smile. ‘From this day you, Warin, will be my torchbearer,’ the voice said. ‘And your daughter Beatrix I will make my mouth, just as she is now. Listen well, as this is my command. Tomorrow morning you must all go and stand in front of Saint John’s church where you, my torchbearer, must give the folk of Margate my warning. Tell them that the last days are coming and if they don’t change their ways and repent their wicked sins then the fiend will have them all, every last one.’ I wanted to know when the last days would be on us, and I tried to speak up but I got no further than ‘Dear Lord,’ when Beatrix let out another great howl and then tumbled onto the ground in a dead swoon.
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