Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  Go all the way to Rome? I’d never contemplated such a thing. But I thought on his words for a few days and the more I pondered them the more they seemed to make sense. If there was one lesson I’d learned over the past years it was that there was little use taking a case to the courts of Lincoln unless you went yourself. It would be a hard journey and long, and perhaps dangerous, too, but it would be worth it if I’d finally see Walter thrown out of Bourne Castle, like he should have been years back. For that matter it could serve me well in another way, too. Alongside going for my cause I could also go as a pilgrim. I’d always hoped God would show me forgiveness for my little transgressions with my husbands and Everard and Fulke, seeing as I’d done them all only for love, but there’d be no harm in asking good Saint Peter to put a word in his ear for me. And it could be a joyous thing. I’d take Peter, of course, as I wasn’t leaving him behind, and though he was still only four I felt sure he’d like to see all of those fine places. For that matter I’d like to see them myself as, what with all the wrangling I’d had in courts swallowing up my days, the only time I’d stepped outside Lincolnshire was when I’d gone to London to see Earl Henry.

  So I made up my mind and started getting prepared. First I chose who should come with me. I’d need Brigit, of course, and Alwyn the steward, who could arrange our wants and drive the cart, which I’d need for my gowns and for food, as who knew what there’d be along the way. Father Tim would be useful for his Latin, which would be understood wherever we went, and he’d be useful again when I made my plea at the papal court. Finally there was Jack our cook, who’d be most helpful if we met trouble. With Peter that made six of us altogether. I had Father Tim write out our testimonials and then I rode to Lincoln and had cloaks and hats and scrips and a stout pair of boots made for us all. And I thought of what foods I might buy to carry in the cart, in case we strayed into a land struck by famine. Grain, certainly, and nuts, and some jam, too, as that would keep.

  I was still in the midst of making everything ready when, one August morning, I heard shouting and the watch said there were two fellows outside calling for help. Fearing it might be a trick by Walter I didn’t let them in but sent out all my thralls to see, yet Alwyn said they seemed true enough and so I had them brought into the hall. One was a young gentleman named Lionel. He was only just of age by the look of him and was very seemly with a great mane of blonde hair, though he was in a poor way, with a cut to his head and mud on his clothes. The other was his manservant, Dobbe, a big hulking fellow with slow eyes. Lionel was most courteous, repenting that he’d troubled me and for bringing dirt into my fine home. He was from Nottinghamshire, he said, and was a second son, younger brother to Gilbert of Barnby, a name that meant little to me. He’d been on his way to Norwich to visit some kin when a bolt of lightning struck a tree close by the road. ‘Our horses reared and we were both thrown,’ he told us. Though his leg wasn’t broken it was too bruised for him to walk. Nor could he ride, as, though Alwyn and Jack the cook went out searching for their horses, they were nowhere to be found. So I told Lionel he must stay at Ropsley till he was healed, for which he gave all of his thanks. His manservant Dobbe I had put in the barn behind the house and, to show rightful concern, I had Lionel put in the chamber next to mine.

  Peter didn’t like him, but then he wouldn’t, as he always wanted to keep me only to himself. As for the others, I saw them rolling their eyes, especially Father Tim, though he had no right to. I told him myself, ‘You’re wrong to look so stern, Father Tim, as I know what you’re thinking and it isn’t so. There’s not a thing I need to confess as you won’t find a godlier and more righteous man in all Lincolnshire than this poor, injured fellow.’ Which I’d found out myself, because I’d thought it only hospitable to pay him a visit or two in his chamber to make sure he was comfortable, and somehow it happened one evening, when I brought him some mead to ease his pain, that we got to talking, and he listened most sorrowfully as I told him about my struggles to win my divorce from Walter, and how I’d soon be leaving to plead my case before the pope’s court in Rome. Then I offered him my sympathy for his mishap and somehow our comforts to each other became holding hands, and then our holding hands became embracing, and then our embracing became kisses, and I could feel through the bedclothes that his fellow was up and eager. All at once he let out a little cry, making me fear I’d leaned on his bad leg, but it wasn’t that at all. ‘Lucy dear, we can’t,’ he said. Then he confessed to me like a sinner to his priestess, and told me he’d been much taken with me from the moment he’d first set eyes on me, and that he now desired me as much as any man with hot blood in his veins could do, ‘but it’s not right,’ he said. ‘What will God think if I couch with another man’s wife, even though she’s pleading in the courts for a divorce?’ There was no moving him. When, just from merriment, I took his hand and pressed it to my belle chose, I heard his breath come quick but then he pulled it back. ‘We mustn’t, Lucy,’ he said. ‘It’s sinful.’

  It felt strange, though, as in all my days I’d never had one who’d said no. Even Geoffrey, my poor rabbit, who’d had no craft for it, would wake me in the night sometimes and have me touch his mushroom and make it squirt. I was used to being the doe and now I was the hunter. Lying in my bed, knowing he was there next door, warm and comely but not to be had, I could hardly sleep, and over the next days the more he said no, the more I wanted him. His leg was mending well and I dreaded the moment when he’d go. But it wasn’t only me, as it turned out. After a week Lionel was strong enough to get down to the hall by himself and I saw tears in his eyes. ‘I can’t bear to leave you, Lucy,’ he said, looking at me so sorry and handsome. ‘I’d marry you here and now if only you were free.’ So we kissed and wept and then I saw he was wondering. ‘Here’s a mad, wild thought,’ he said. ‘I have no duties to bind me. I have no kin who need me. What if I journey down to Rome with you? I’d like to go as a pilgrim, which I’ve never done till now, and to confess my sins before Peter and the other great saints there. I could watch over you on the road, which would be a great joy to me, as there’s no work I’d love better. And who knows, if you still feel warm for me when you’ve won your divorce, as I dearly hope you will, then we can be married rightfully and lawfully in the eyes of God, and in Rome, too, that noble, holy city.’

  Of course I said yes and so we made our accord and sealed it there and then with a long, sweet kiss. How modest he was. As Alwyn never had found his or Dobbe’s horses, Lionel said he’d walk to Rome, as humble pilgrims did. ‘That way I’ll be more virtuous and I’ll better show my love of God,’ he said. But I told him no, I’d buy two horses for him and Dobbe, and likewise, as Lionel’s clothes, though they were handsome enough, were not the kind of gear he’d need for a great journey like this, and as he clearly had little silver about him, I got them both new attire, too, and their pilgrim cloaks and scrips. And when he protested that as an honourable man he could not accept such gifts from a lady who was married to another, however much he adored her, I laughed and told him, ‘They’re not my gifts, then. I’ll lend them to you. And when we’re married they’ll be a part of my wedding gift to you.’

  I’d have liked to take him to meet Uncle Marmaduke and other kin of mine but he had to go and tell his brother of his new plans, while it was already almost harvest time, which was late in the season to leave. I’d feared we’d be slowed even more, as I was sure that Walter would’ve heard word of my journey and would put in a plea to the king’s court to stop me going, on the grounds that I was still his wife and needed his accord, but no, for once he left me be. One late September morning, a week after he’d gone, Lionel came back to Ropsley and the very next morning we all set out. What a strange feeling it was to be with a man who wasn’t hated by all of my household. Brigit, who’d loathed every fellow I’d been with, seemed quite tranquil about Lionel, while Father Tim, though he didn’t much like him, was still in wonder that he hadn’t had to confess me a score of times. Even my Peter didn’t scowl at
him much. When we rode out of Ropsley and I turned to give the manor house one last look, I vowed to myself, when I next see this view I’ll be riding beside my handsome new husband, and all the afflictions I’ve endured over the years will be remedied once and for all.

  South we went, along Ermine Street. Father Tim was most knowledgeable and wherever we stopped he’d tell us, in his voice that sounded like bees humming, all about the town we’d reached, how many towers and gates and churches it had and what crafts it was known for. I’ll confess I hardly heard a word, as I’d be watching Lionel, and my remembrances of each spot were all of him. Alconbury was Lionel on his horse as we rode into the town, the evening sun catching his comely blue eyes. London was Lionel puffing out his chest on the ferry over the Thames, which we had to take as Alwyn the steward said London Bridge was too crowded and narrow for our cart. Canterbury was Lionel springing off his horse and giving his seemly arse a slap to get the dust off his hose. As for the Channel crossing, which wasn’t so bad as I’d feared, as we left Dover at first light and were in Calais well before dark, while the only one who was seasick was Father Tim, that was Lionel standing in the rowboat as we were taken across Calais harbour from our ship, and his flicking his long fair hair out of his face as the wind blew it this way and that.

  So we’d reached France. How strange it was to find French, which I’d only ever heard from the mouths of gentle folk or churchmen or advocates in Lincoln courts, spoken by every soul, low and high. ‘Here we are at our first French inn,’ I said to Lionel that evening. Then a notion came to me. Because it happened that, rather than having dormitories, like most of them did, this inn had little rooms. What was more now that we were gone from England it struck me that all those court rulings didn’t matter so very much. How could they, seeing as we were in a different land? So, after we drank down our sixth ale and I toasted our arriving in France once again, I said to Lionel, ‘Here’s a thought, my dear love. We have two little rooms. Why don’t we put Brigit and your man Dobbe in yours, my Peter can go with them, and we can take mine, not to do anything wicked but just to lie together side by side and perhaps have a kiss or two.’ Which got me a scowl from Brigit, who didn’t want to be with that big glob of a fellow, Lionel’s manservant. But she needn’t have worried, as then Lionel smiled sorrowfully and shook his head. ‘Lucy, you know that’s not right,’ he said. ‘When we lie together it must be as man and wife, with God’s smile shining on us both. Nothing else will do.’

  How righteous he is, I thought as we rode on the next day, my head sore from all the ale I’d drunk, and as thin drizzle stung my face. How very noble and godly and pure. The country here was so dreary. Though it seemed like we’d already been travelling for an age since Ropsley, I knew we’d hardly begun and I found it hard to imagine how I’d endure journeying all the way to Rome. Brigit, riding her little rounsey beside me, kept singing a foolish song that made my head ache worse, and then Father Tim droned in his bee voice, telling us all about our next stopping place, which was called Taruenna, and which had a fine cathedral, he said, along with several churches and which was home to a good number of cloth makers. As if I cared a worm what wretched trade was done there? All I wanted was that it should hurry up and show itself. Mile after mile of flat we rode through and there was no sign of anything but rain, till finally we came in sight of a crossroads. ‘It won’t be far now,’ said Father Tim, looking anxious, as I’d scolded him for being wrong before. ‘Remember the fellow with the pig? He said it was soon after a crossroads.’

  ‘Look,’ said Alwyn the steward. ‘Another party of pilgrims.’ Following the point of his finger I saw a group of walkers were making their way towards the crossroads from one of the side roads and though they were still a way off I could make out their cloaks and hats. They were a good-sized fellowship, all on foot except one little maid who was riding an ass. ‘They’re sure to be dreary,’ said Lionel. ‘Let’s hurry on.’ But what did he know about these folk? ‘D’you know,’ I said, ‘I’d like to meet them. It would make a change to see some new faces.’ And though Lionel rolled his blue eyes I paid him no heed and sent Father Tim over. A few moments later he came back with the news that they were all English. None were gentle folk aside from one fellow who had only one manor, they were bound for Rome like us, they hadn’t come from Calais, as we had, because their ship had been blown off course, and they were most eager to meet me. ‘I think we heard about them,’ I said, because I remembered that at Canterbury and Dover there’d been talk of another Rome party that had gone by just before us. ‘At the very least we should travel with them to Taruenna, seeing as we’re almost there,’ I said to Lionel, and though he gave me a sorry look to say, must we really, that was what we did.

  Just as Father Tim had said, none were of high parage and the one gentleman among them, John of Baydon, could have been one of my tenants, swaggering about and looking like he’d fight anyone who so much as brushed against his elbow. Yet I rather liked this fellowship, even though they were little folk of no rank. As we rode the short distance to Taruenna a rich delver named Margaret trotted along beside my horse, eager to make herself my friend, and she was very jolly as she told me about all the others in her party. ‘Whatever you do, take no notice of him,’ she said, pointing at a weaselly fellow with tiny eyes, ‘as he’s an idiot. I should know as he’s my husband,’ which made me laugh. She was right, though, as he was most anoyful, asking me three times over if I wasn’t fearful that all the fine things in my cart might be stolen by robbers. Another one I didn’t much like was the Margate tailor, Warin, whose daughter rode the ass, and whom God had chosen to make her his voice, as Margaret told me. My father always said that tailors were trouble. ‘Just because they know how to sew a seam they think they should rule the whole world,’ he’d tell me. Though Warin’s daughter seemed amicable enough and she complimented me on my gown, saying how very seemly it was.

  I laughed out loud when Margaret told me the boy Tom was going all the way to Rome for his dead cat. Yet if you looked past his rags and the dirt on his face he was quite comely in a way. The one who was handsomest was the sorrowful advocate, Jocelyn, who’d been a famous fornicator, Margaret said, which I could well believe. What really caught my notice, though, was when she told me about the amour that was going on in her little fellowship. ‘Just look at them,’ she said, casting a glance behind her. ‘We’ll have wedding bells soon, mark my words.’ Sure enough there they were, walking side by side, Sir John’s son Gawayne and the butcher’s daughter Helena. ‘Their parents are most eager,’ said Margaret, which I could see was right, as I saw Helena’s mother Mary was gabbling away with Gawayne’s olders.

  Margaret had the weather of those two all right. ‘Sir John’ll be after Mary’s silver,’ she said, ‘as he looks like he has little enough himself.’ She told me he was going as a pilgrim to Rome as penance for punching an abbot, and all over a quarter of an acre of meadow. I had tenants like him, abiding in their little dark manor houses with rain coming through the roof and mould on their hangings. And Mary was rich, Margaret said. Her dead husband’s butcher’s shop was the best in Gloucester and she lived in one of the finest houses in the city. ‘She’s strange, though,’ said Margaret. ‘There’s something not right about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it but it’s like she’s not natural.’ There was an anguish about her, certainly. It was there in her smile that never seemed to leave her face. I couldn’t stop myself from looking back and taking another glance at the two sweethearts. How attentive Gawayne was, chattering to her and casting her little glances as they walked. As for her, she was all modesty, not saying a word and keeping her comely eyes down on the ground.

  What I liked best about this party, though, was little Paul, the adulteress Constance’s boy. Though Margaret told me he was very sick he seemed well enough to me and, finding there was another boy in the party, he hurried over to Peter, riding in our cart. That Peter was just four and Paul was twice his age didn’t seem to matter, they
got to talking and before long my Peter asked, shyly being the younger one, if Paul wanted to join him on the cart, which Paul did, and in a moment they were laughing and making foolish sport like they’d been best friends for years. Paul and Peter. Peter and Paul. The very thought made me catch my breath. It could hardly be chance that they had the very same names as Rome’s great saints, whom we were journeying to visit.

  We reached Taruenna, where we were greeted by a low fellow who was so offended by the pilgrimager Oswald’s pipe playing – and I’m not saying it was good – that he pulled down his breeches and showed us his arse. Otherwise, though, it was a fine enough place. That evening in the hospital where we all stayed I sat watching as Peter and Paul scampered about, laughing and shrieking as they played chase. ‘I like this party,’ I said to Lionel. ‘I think we should keep with them.’ He frowned. ‘But my dear, sweet love, just think how they’ll slow us down,’ he said. ‘We’re on horseback and they’re on foot.’ Which wasn’t rightly true, as with our cart we’d travel hardly faster than they could. ‘We’ll be safer with them,’ I told him, ‘and the journey will pass more quickly if we have some company.’ Then I told him how it could be no accident that the two boys had the same names as Rome’s saints. ‘That’s a sign if ever there was one,’ I said. ‘It’s God telling us we should journey with them all.’ Which he had no answer for as there’s no gainsaying God.