Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  We carried her into the house where she came round, though when I asked her what had happened she looked at me all confounded. ‘How did I get here?’ she said. ‘I was washing myself down after the hens and then I can’t remember a thing.’ When I told her that God had spoken through her mouth she was shocked to her bones. ‘Me?’ she said, all humble. ‘God’s mouth?’ Then she shivered. ‘I feel so tired. Can I go to bed?’ So I carried her to the bedroom and when I came back the rest of us got talking. Reynilda still thought she was feigning it all but she was the only one. Ida moaned that she wished none of this had happened as she had no doubt it would go badly for us, while the others looked scared as could be.

  As for me, I had no doubts. I’d heard him loud and clear telling us, ‘I am the father of him who gave his life to save you all.’ What could be plainer than that? It was a miracle, nothing less. God had come and out of all the folk in Margate, of all the folk in Thanet, of all the folk in all Christendom, he’d picked me Warin the tailor as his torchbearer. But then why not? I might not be a thieving lord or abbot or alderman but I was a Christian and no sinner, or no worse than most of them. Warin the tailor, God’s torchbearer? I felt a cheer in my belly that I hadn’t felt in many a year. It was as if all those days of injury and insult just melted away, like salt in boiling water. ‘That was God’s voice no mistaking,’ I told them. ‘He’s chosen our family for his mysterious ways and we won’t let him down.’ We shouldn’t worry, I told Ida, but should be joyous. The end of days were coming, multitudes would perish and never mind if they were Satanist Jews or grasping rich or fat churchmen stealing farthings from the poor. Best of all, God had blessed us by picking our own dear daughter to warn the world. Which stood to reason seeing as we were good, poor, meek folk who didn’t go stealing from our neighbours. I said they must all gather round me, and though Reynilda rolled her eyes, she did as she was told, and then I prayed, ‘Great Lord, I’ve heard your words and I’ll do everything you ask of me, and I’ll do it with joy. As your torchbearer I’ll go tomorrow to the church and tell them to repent before it’s too late.’

  Not that it was easy warning them. I had to threaten Reynilda with a slap to get her out of the door. Then there was the weather, as though it was July the day was cool with a rain falling so there weren’t many folk about. Not being accustomed to preaching, I found it hard to shout loud and some of those who went by thought I was just saying hello or making a little friendly gabble. ‘Who did you say came to Margate?’ asked Simon the fisherman. ‘Bob?’ ‘No, God,’ I told him and though I’d been filled with strong intent at first it was hard not to feel a little foolish. ‘Did he now?’ said Simon, smiling and not understanding at all. ‘He came to us just last week. I must’ve told you. Because I was sure that our poor Troy was breathing his last and three days later God cured him and he was off catching rats again.’

  Nor was it much better when they did see. Wallace the carpenter smiled like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long while. ‘Your Beatrix? Well, that’s a surprise. I’ve hardly heard her say a word all these days and now God’s talking out of her mouth.’ A few were curious but most just laughed while it didn’t help that more kept drifting by, so I had to go back to the start of explaining it all when I still hadn’t got to the finish. And then, if things weren’t wrong enough already, who should walk by but Father Adam? He’d never liked me, not since I’d made a fuss about my tithes. Though I hadn’t owed him that ha’penny, that was God’s truth, and why should I have to pay out anything anyway, just to make a fat cleric fatter, because Father Adam was no starveling. ‘What d’you think you’re doing, Warin?’ he asked. I started telling him what had happened but it was all coming out wrong and getting tied in knots and then it didn’t matter as God answered himself. Beatrix started humming and staring straight ahead of her so I knew what was coming. Sure enough here was her scream, which made Father Adam jump, and then out came God’s croaky voice, telling us he was the father of him who’d given his life for us. If the folk going by hadn’t listened to me, they listened up now.

  ‘Be warned, my children,’ the voice said. ‘The last days are coming. Stop your sinning and repent before it’s too late.’ I thought Father Adam would be pleased to hear the voice of his master, but no. ‘Stop this at once,’ he said, wagging his little fat finger at us. ‘This isn’t our Lord speaking. This is Satan.’ The fiend in my girl? I could have slapped him, priest or not. As for God, he didn’t take kindly to be told to quiet his mouth. ‘Satan’s here in Margate,’ he said in his croaky way. ‘He walks among you every hour.’ Now Beatrix’s pointing finger started slowly moving back and forth from one spot to another, like it wasn’t sure where to settle, aiming first at Kate’s alehouse and then at Ben the blacksmith, and I could see the folks’ eyes watching. It finally stopped on Father Adam. ‘Here are devils,’ said God and then out came a shriek so loud that everyone started. That gave me warning and when Beatrix swooned I was there ready to catch her. Father Adam gave me a glare and I gave him one back. As we helped poor Beatrix homewards he called out after us, ‘Abbot Nicholas will hear of this.’ ‘So he should,’ I answered. ‘It’s not every day that God comes to Margate.’

  Ida fretted of course. ‘This’ll be our ruin,’ she said, and it was no surprise that Reynilda was in accord with her, saying I’d been a fool for taking any notice of Beatrix and that we should never have gone. As if we could have done anything else? ‘Remember Jonah hiding in his fish,’ I said. ‘When God calls you, you can’t shut your eyes and plug your ears. You have to do as he tells you.’ Nor was it only me as it turned out. Our neighbours, or some of them, saw the truth too. Later that same afternoon Old Sybil came tapping at our door. She’d brought her cow, which was sick, and she wanted Beatrix to put her hand to the poor beast and cure her. Over the next days a number of others came by and not just from Margate either. One sad female came across the water from Richborough, hobbling as she had a warty foot that she wanted Beatrix to put her hand to. Some called me Lord, which made me laugh. But then why not, I thought, seeing as God himself had given me his blessing? And the ones who knew our tale well called me Torchbearer.

  As for Beatrix, being such a quiet little thing usually, I wondered if she’d baulk at having strangers come to her, but no, she didn’t seem troubled at all. When the weather was fine she’d take them behind our house where she made a special place for herself, sitting on our best stool with Clarice and Avice and Edith standing beside her. Because though Reynilda was still sour about the whole business, the other three were sweet about it now and I swear they were like Beatrix’s servitors. If one of them was very bad, like the warty foot woman, Beatrix would take them down to the stream where she’d rinse their sores and then sprinkle their heads like it was holy water.

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before we had the abbot troubling us, and sure enough, four days after I’d preached outside Saint John’s, a snorty-looking monk came to our house and told Beatrix and me that we must come to the abbey first thing the next morning. I wasn’t much troubled. What we’d done was God’s own bidding, after all, which was no sin but the finest and holiest righteousness. ‘We’ll be there,’ I told the cloisterer, holding my head high. But then that same afternoon Beatrix broke into more humming and staring and for the third time that week we were blessed with God’s words. This time he’d come to warn us. ‘There’s no use trying to fight fair with the fiend,’ he told us in his croaky voice. ‘You must answer his slyness with slyness of your own.’ Because, God said, if a poor soldier found out that his own captain was a traitor and was secretly serving the enemy, it stood to reason that the lowly soldier couldn’t fight the wicked captain all alone as he’d be destroyed. The soldier’s only hope was to feign obedience so he wouldn’t be suspected, and then to go to the highest in his host, being the king himself, as only he had the power to crush the captain and end his treachery. And so it was with us, God said. Father Adam was full of devils and so was his superior, Abbot Ni
cholas, so we must go above him, far, far above.

  But where, I thought? To a cardinal, or the Archbishop of Canterbury? Yet it was neither. God’s next command made me gasp. ‘I want you to journey to the city of Rome,’ he said, ‘and you must see the pope.’ When we did, God would speak through his mouthpiece and warn him that the last days were coming. And he’d tell him that Abbot Nicholas and Father Adam were Satan’s creatures and must be cut out from his church like the cankers they were. He’d tell the pope of our own good service to him as his voice and his torchbearer, and he’d have the pope honour us both as we deserved. In the meantime, though, we must be careful or the devil would thwart us from righteously doing his work. With Abbot Nick and Father Adam we must be like players putting on a play, he said. We must tell them that our doings in front of the church had just been a foolish game that we were sorry for.

  My head quite spun. Rome? I’d been to London once and Canterbury a good few times but never any further. ‘But dear Lord,’ I asked, ‘how will we get ourselves there?’ ‘You must find your way,’ God answered, ‘that is my command,’ and before I could ask him anything more Beatrix shrieked and swooned and he was gone. I tried to think through what he’d said. It wouldn’t be easy, I knew. We’d have to beg our way there. But there was no gainsaying God. And it might be joyous too. I liked the thought of stepping into the pope’s palace and meeting the man who was prince of all Christendom. How amazed he’d be hearing God’s own voice and learning about the coming of the last days, and Abbot Nick and Father Adam being Satan’s chicks. For that matter, seeing as God had chosen me as his very own torchbearer, there were a few other things I could warn him about while I was there. As I saw it, it was my rightful duty to tell him all about those fat, idle clerics who fed themselves off the labour of honest Christians. And I should tell him about the rich lords and merchants and aldermen who were no better, stealing bread from others’ mouths. He should excommunicate every last one of them and cast them off from sucking at the sweet paps of the church.

  In the meantime we did just as God had told us. The next morning all seven of us set out for the abbey and I made Reynilda, our troublemaker, promise to sit quiet through it all and never say a word, which she did. Abbot Nicholas looked stern and said it was wicked to make a game of God’s voice but all he gave us in the end was fifty Hail Marys each and tuppence for the abbey roof, which by God’s blessing I had, as Dame Celia had finally paid for her gown just two days before. After that I set to work getting us ready. I borrowed six shillings from my cousin Daniel, who’d been lucky with his fishing lately, though he wasn’t eager to give it over. Then I got Ben the blacksmith to lend me his horse so I could ride over to Canterbury and get some good cloth for our cloaks and such.

  I would have bought enough for seven of us, as I supposed we’d all be going, but it so happened that early on the very morning when I was to set out, Beatrix hummed and stared and God spoke to us once again, and he told us that, our journey being long and hard, it was his wish that only his voice and his torchbearer should go and the rest should stay in Margate. That troubled my wife and my other four daughters. Clarice and Avice and little Edith all sobbed and said they wanted to come to Rome too and Reynilda kicked up a real noise, saying it wasn’t right at all. As for my Ida, she moaned that we might never come back, and even if we did, how would she live for months and months on nothing? I was sorry for her, of course I was, but what could I do? As I told her myself, there was no gainsaying God. Besides, as he’d told us to go it stood to reason he’d take care of them all in his mysterious ways. So I got just enough cloth to make cloaks for Beatrix and me, along with something heavier for our hats, and then I had Tom the tanner make us some good boots and scrips.

  Of course most folk hadn’t heard about our visit to the abbot, especially those who were far away, and all the while they’d still come tapping at our door. And though I knew that would make new trouble for us if the abbot heard, I couldn’t bring myself to turn them away seeing as they’d come to honour God. What’s more I was soon very glad that I’d let them come. Though most were poor folk who wanted Beatrix to cure their sores and warts and such, one was a merchant and a rich one, who had a big bald head like a shiny egg and who’d come all the way from Sandwich. He’d heard about our wrangling with Father Adam and Abbot Nicholas and he told us how he too had been tormented by false clerics possessed by the devil. His foe had been the prioress of a convent next to his storehouse, Lady Clara, with whom he’d got into a quarrel after she said the storehouse was on their land, which was a barefaced lie, he said. He took his satchel from his shoulder, which I’d seen was heavy from the way he’d carried it, and he took out four purses. Each had two and a half marks, he said, and he’d give them all to us and gladly, if we’d only tell the pope that Lady Clara was in the devil’s palm and must be flung from the church like she deserved.

  Ten marks. Here was joy. With that we wouldn’t have to beg our way after all. Ida was full of gladness, saying we must leave half of it with her, and I would’ve given her some of it, but then God came to us once again and he said that those ten marks were his own gift that he had contrived for us to have and we must use them all for the great task we had of going to Rome. Though he said Ida could have the four shillings and thruppence that were left over from what I’d borrowed from my cousin Dan. Another command God gave us was that we must get a donkey for his voice to ride, and a good strong one, too, seeing as she was so dear to him and he didn’t want her too fatigued on the way. That was because, as she was like his daughter now, he wanted her to ride into Rome just as his dear son Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem. Here’s honour, I thought. Our little Beatrix is like God’s own daughter. It so happened that Ben the blacksmith’s wife, who’d died not a month earlier, had had a donkey that she’d ridden everywhere because of her bad feet, and who was a healthy, good-natured beast, so I bought him off Sam and for a good price, too. His name was Fawn, this being his colour, but we called him Porker instead, which was because he was a greedy beast who’d sneak any food that was left nearby, and he snorted when he ate just like a porker.

  Then, just when it seemed as if all was ready, trouble struck. I’d told Father Adam that we were going to Rome, saying we wanted to repent our pretencing of God’s voice, and he’d given his accord, but now when I asked him to bless our scrips and staffs and to write out our testimonials, which we needed for the road, he gave me a crabby look and said he’d heard that folk were still coming to see Beatrix with their warts and sores and such, which broke our promise to Abbot Nicholas, and he said he wouldn’t write a word for us till we’d stood in front of his church and told all Margate that Beatrix’s voice wasn’t God’s but Satan’s. That was a bitter laugh, to have one of the fiend’s own ordering us to confess that we were his creatures.

  I thought we should do as he asked as otherwise we’d never get started, but Beatrix said that would be a betrayal of God. Besides, she said, what if news of it followed us to Rome? We’d never get the pope to listen to God’s words if he knew that we’d told all Margate that they were the devil’s. I don’t know what we would have done if God hadn’t shown us a way. A couple of days after we had our words with Father Adam a little cloisterer with a big thick beard came knocking on our door. I wasn’t eager to let him in the house, having no great fondness for clerics as you’ll imagine, and especially one who smelt ripe, like this one did. So I stood there, blocking the doorway, and though it was raining he didn’t seem to mind and stood in the wet and told me his story. Dennis was his name, he said, and he’d lived for years as a hermit in the woods, eating berries and roasting acorns and feeling God in his heart every hour, till finally he’d joined some cloisterers out beyond Canterbury who had a friary in the woods that I’d never heard of. Just a couple of days back word had reached them that God was speaking his truths through the mouth of a little maid in Margate called Beatrix. Dennis hadn’t waited even a moment, he said, but had filled his pockets with bread and tur
nips – he offered me some though they looked very well journeyed – and he’d set off down the road. All he asked of me, he said, was to let him kiss the hem of the gown of God’s voice on earth.

  So I let him in, as it seemed unkindly not to when he’d come so far. Being one of those changeable days when nothing stays for long, the rain was soon gone, the sun came out and Beatrix received him by the stream, sitting on the stool with her sisters to either side. Dennis dropped to the ground and kissed the hem of her gown and he couldn’t have looked happier when she sprinkled water on him and gave him her blessing. It was only when we went back into the house that he saw our pilgrim hats and asked where we were going. I told him how God had told us we must go to Rome and as he seemed friendly I said that Father Adam wouldn’t give us testimonials. From the way Brother Dennis’s eyes glittered I knew he’d had a thought. Sure enough he started railing about false priests who slept on soft beds and who drank wine and ate meat for their dinner, calling them Satan’s poppets. ‘Come with me to my friary,’ he said. ‘Come right away. My abbot will write testimonials for you both.’

  So, in the blink of an eye, what had seemed just an ordinary day became the day of our leaving. It was just as well we had our cloaks and scrips and hats and staffs ready. I gave Ida the four shillings and thruppence that God said she could have and, having spent sixpence on nuts and such for the road, I put the other nine marks, twenty-nine shillings and sixpence in my scrip, which hung heavy round my neck from the weight. Ida begged us to come home soon and save them from hunger and want. I promised I would, and then, with tears in our eyes, Beatrix climbed onto Porker, we all said our farewells, and I made sure to take the little path that led round the village so we wouldn’t run into Father Adam.