Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  The next morning when we broke our fast I asked the others if we might journey with them and, aside from sour Warin, they were all most eager. ‘It’ll be a great honour,’ said Sir John, and his little wife Alice gave an excited nod of her head. So our two fellowships became one. We followed the road to a town named Brouay, and along the way Margaret’s husband Hugh, the anoyful one, went to piss in a field and was butted by a ram so his arse was bruised black and blue, which I shouldn’t have laughed at but I did. Then we went on to another town named Arras, where Lionel’s glob of a manservant Dobbe lost his boot down the latrine, which I laughed at too. All the while I gave thought to Gawayne and Helena. If they were going to be wed soon, as Margaret thought, then why not do it in Rome? If I could win my divorce speedily, as I dearly hoped I would, then they could have a double wedding with Lionel and me. When I told Lionel he made a joke of it, of course, saying that one wedding was enough for him, but the more I thought about the notion the more it pleased me.

  Unless God wanted more weddings even than this? I’d had such joy finding brides for my wards back at Ropsley and I’d done it very well, as I thought. So my mind turned to whom else God might want married alongside us. Father Tim was no use of course and I had no wish to lose my Brigit, while there was no woman I’d want to torment with Lionel’s idiot lump Dobbe. Among our new travelling friends, though, there were a number who might be wed to one another. The pairing that struck me right away was Jocelyn the advocate and Constance, the mother of poor, sickly Paul. They had much in common after all. Jocelyn was a widower and Constance was a widow, each had a decent fortune, both were seemly looking and each had a sorriness of spirit to them, which was no surprise considering their sad tales. For that matter they were united also in their sin, both being fornicators. All in all I found it surprising that a bond hadn’t already formed between them.

  After that it was more difficult and yet, I thought, not beyond hope. Oswald was a bachelor and was well ripe for marriage, if not overripe. In truth I couldn’t see why he wasn’t already wed as he looked well past thirty. Margaret said he’d had a wife once who’d died but that had been many years back and was little excuse now. He had no money to his name nor any real work. Margaret said he had a trade as a carpenter but he hardly attended to it as he was always going as a pilgrim for dead folk. He was a funny-looking fellow with so little flesh on him that he seemed almost like a skeleton with skin, and of course there was his foul pipe playing, yet he was godly as well, seeing as he’d visited almost every saint in Christendom. Beatrix was too young for marriage and had that hateful father, Warin the tailor, but I might pair Oswald with Constance’s sister Joan. Though she was richer than him she wasn’t so very rich, and nor was she comely like Constance. Or I could wed Oswald to fair Helena’s mother, Mary. True, Mary was far wealthier than Oswald was, which would likely set her against him, and yet the anguished look I’d seen on her face told me she might find comfort in a husband, however poor and starved-looking he was. Of course then Joan would be left all alone, poor creature. What a shame it was that Warin wasn’t a widower too, as then, however irksome he was, he might be put to use. As things stood I saw no hope of coupling up Mary and Joan both at once.

  Or was there? On the morning we left the town of Arras Father Tim led us round the city, showing us the minster and the abbey and droning to us in his bee voice about how the town was well known for its tapestry makers. A boy was following us about begging and I opened my scrip to give him a small coin so he’d let us be, but then Lionel, who couldn’t abide beggars, told me I shouldn’t. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s throwing good money away, as no good will ever come of a misborn grub like that.’ Why Father Tim grew so warm about it all I can’t say. I suppose he thought Lionel had been uncourteous to interrupt his droning talk, while he’d never liked him. He stopped telling us about the tapestry makers and gainsaid Lionel instead. ‘That’s not true,’ he said. ‘Poor though he is, this little lad may find his way. If he follows God and keeps to the path of righteousness, he’ll find paradise before many an earl or king.’

  I slipped the boy a little coin but that didn’t stop their squabble, which took us right around Arras and which was about the moulding of man. Lionel said men were forged by their elders and it was God’s will that a child born of noble parents would be noble in spirit, while one born of rude, churl parents would grow up churlish and rude. Which was true enough, I thought. Father Tim, being riled, answered quite wildly and said that even the highest-born lord, if he followed a road of wickedness and sin, was lower than a beetle in the eyes of God. Though I didn’t want to provoke him worse I couldn’t help but laugh at that. ‘God will always love a lord above a beetle,’ I said, giving him a little look to remind him who gave him his supper and ale each night.

  I’d hoped that would be the finish of it but no, now all the rest joined in. Sir John, being a sensible fellow, for all his rough ways, favoured Lionel, while of course Warin the tailor spoke with Father Tim, and then Hugh the planter added his usual idiot trespasses. ‘Would you say a bailiff has a noble sort of labour?’ he asked. Lionel shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s ignoble.’ ‘And what of a poor bondsman?’ Hugh asked next. ‘There’s nothing lower than that,’ Lionel answered scornfully. Which was true, no denying, though I felt a little sorry he’d said it in front of the rag boy Tom, who was a bondsman himself, and who looked like he’d been stung on the nose by a wasp. ‘Well, here’s a thing,’ said Hugh with a little goading laugh. ‘You see, my grandfather was a poor bondsman while my eldest son is a bailiff who can read and write as well as any man. And for all that we know his son or grandson may become lord of his own manor.’

  As if that proved anything at all? But Father Tim clapped his hands like he’d won a great victory. ‘You see,’ he said. And so our war moved to a new battlefield, which was learning. Father Tim said that anyone, however poor and low he was, could become a great philosopher if he was taught well enough, which Lionel said was pure folly. ‘I tell you now,’ he said, ‘a bondsman in rags who spends his days digging up parsnips and shitting in his own strips can never be a philosopher. He’d never even be able to learn his letters, because God, who knows the rightful order of all things, wouldn’t permit it.’ And that was how we came to a wager. ‘I’ll show you you’re wrong,’ said Father Tim, his eyes burning, ‘and I’ll take your silver doing it, too, unless you’re scared to risk your money. I bet you thruppence that by the time we reach Rome I’ll have taught this little fellow to read and to write.’ With that he pointed at the ragged boy Tom, who looked confounded like he didn’t know what to think. Lionel was so handsome when he was angry. He had to accept the wager, of course, after being taunted like that. ‘I accept your bet,’ he said. ‘And though I’ll be sorry to take thruppence from a poor clerk who has hardly a penny in his scrip, I’ll have it.’

  So it was agreed. Father Tim would try and teach the rag boy Tom his letters by the time we reached Rome. Though my heart was with Lionel I’ll own that a part of me rather hoped Father Tim might win the wager, if only because it could be very useful for my pairing plans. As I saw it, if Tom could be schooled to read and write then even he might find a bride. Joan, being ten years older, not rich and the most unlovely in our party, might take him. Of course being a bondsman he couldn’t wed without his master giving his accord, but a way might be found. I counted them out on my fingers. Lionel and me, Gawayne and Helena, Oswald and Mary, and then Tom and Joan. That would make four weddings in Rome. Lionel and mine would be the finest, of course, and the rest would be quite simple, but having so many would be a most merry thing.

  That very same morning when Father Tim and Lionel made their wager I saw a way I might help advance matters and which, at the same time, would answer a little conundrum that I’d been having with myself, which was how Tom would look if he was cleaned up. We were about to leave Arras when we came to a clothes market and, feigning that I couldn’t bear to think of Tom freezing to death in his
rags when we crossed the great mountains that lay ahead, I said I wanted to buy him some new attire, and though Lionel scowled, I suppose because he felt I was favouring Father Tim’s side of the bet, and Tom said no seven times over, I insisted, saying he must take them or he’d be gainsaying a lady. So I got him a simple shirt and a tunic and a new pair of hose. I made him wash in the river, which he did most anxiously, as he probably hadn’t bathed properly since he’d first come into this world. Being so used to his familiar rags, he seemed scared of his new gear, putting it all on slowly and suspectingly like it might take a bite out of him. Even then he still didn’t seem finished. When my eye fell on a barber’s stall close by, I knew what must be done and, though by then the rest of them were impatient to be on their way, I was steadfast that Tom must have his hair cut as well, as it was now out of step with his clothes. I swear that changed him more than his new gear. Before then he’d had a delver haircut that looked like a hat made of mud, but now his hair sprang up like grass. For a moment we all stood staring, amazed. As I’d thought he might, Ragged Tom looked handsome and, if not a gentleman, he seemed at least like a gracious, honest fellow.

  Now it’ll be easy, I thought. All I needed to do was praise them to one another. Gawayne and Helena I didn’t trouble with, as by Margaret’s account they were as good as betrothed already, but over the next days, as we journeyed on, sometimes dry and sometimes soaked by the rain, passing through more dreary, flat country then through cheerier, hilly land, and as they all moaned about their sore feet and the sneezes they’d got from being so wetted, all the way I told Constance how handsome Jocelyn was, and how full of grief, and that what he most needed was a good woman to bring joy back to his life. To Jocelyn I said how fair Constance was and how she wanted for a husband who’d help her and her son. To Mary I said what a fine, godly man Oswald was and how helpful he’d be around the house, making a chair or a table or mending things that were broken. To Oswald I said how warm-hearted Mary was, and how lucky any man would be to live in her big home in Gloucester, and to eat any tasty pieces of meat that found no buyers at her butcher’s shop. Finally to plain Joan I said how handsome Tom looked in his new clothes, and how young and healthy he was, and how he’d bring warmth to any woman’s marriage bed. And to Tom I said how lucky any man would be to have as much ale as he pleased from Joan’s brewing. I swear, though, it was like herding a flock of sheep that all scampered away the moment your back was turned. Though they all listened to me patiently enough, I didn’t see them talk to each other, let alone gaze into each other’s eyes.

  What was needed, I decided, was to take all my paramours away from the rest of the party so they’d be more alone. Constance wouldn’t look at anybody if her boy Paul was nearby, nor would Mary if she was with her daughter Helena. The problem was how it might be done. Then, at the pilgrim hostel at Lauon, which was a dirty place like they usually were, we met three Frenchwomen, and when I asked if they were going to Rome like us they laughed and said no, they were only going to Saint Joseph’s church, which was very close by, so they’d be there and back tomorrow. All three were widows, they told us, and as Saint Joseph was the saint of husbands and families they were going to pray to him for their dead spouses. That very moment I saw it clear. This was what we all had in common. The two sisters, Constance and Joan, were both widows, I was a widow, and Mary was a widow twice over, while Jocelyn was a widower and so was Oswald, if from years back. Tom wasn’t, of course, but I was sure there’d be a way I could sneak one more aboard.

  That night I lay awake in my bed in the dormitory, fighting off biters and thinking. The only way I could see it might be done was with a little lie, which wouldn’t be sin seeing as it would be told out of goodness. The next morning, as I heard them all stirring awake, I called out, ‘My dear friends, I’ve just had a most wondrous dream.’ Then I said that God had come to me and told me that all the widows and widowers in our party must go to Saint Joseph’s church and pray for their poor dead spouses. After that I went through everyone who was a widow or a widower, pretencing surprise that there were so many. Finally I gave them something to make it a little sweeter for them. ‘We’ll need food for lunch,’ I said, and then I told them I’d get some tasty things from the market, which would be carried on Brigit’s rounsey. She could walk to Rains, our next halting place, with the others. ‘I’ll get some bread and cheese and ham, and we can have some of the apples from the cart.’

  Even then it wasn’t easy. The way to Rains was long and Oswald worried that we wouldn’t get there before curfew. I calmed him down by telling him the three Frenchwomen had said Saint Joseph’s church wasn’t far at all and was very close to the Rains road. Next, as I’d guessed would happen, Constance wanted to bring her boy Paul, and she wasn’t happy when I said no, God had told me it must only be widows and widowers. ‘I’m not bringing my boy, either,’ I told her, and she softened when Sir John and Dame Alice said they’d watch over them both. And in the end I managed to sneak in Tom, too. Just when we were all set to go I squinted a little like I’d had a grave thought. ‘Now I think of it, there was one other whom God said should come,’ which was Tom of course. I said it was for his cat, as though he was only an animal Tom mourned him almost like a spouse. And though some of them didn’t seem convinced they didn’t fuss, as by then we were almost on our way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tom son of Tom

  I knew what nobody else knew about Dame Lucy. She wasn’t just a dear and seemly gentlewoman. Dame Lucy was God’s angel sent secretly to earth. I swear once I saw a sort of shimmering behind her back that looked like a pair of wings. Most of all she was God’s own lovesomeness. Thanks to her I was like a worm who weaves himself into his nest and then creeps out a butterfly. When I’d worn rags I was hardly seen by people passing on the road but with my new clothes and my hair they’d look me right in the eye and give me a smile and perhaps a ‘bon jour’, which is French for ‘and good day to you, cousin’.

  And she gave me learning my letters. Because if she hadn’t joined us then Lionel and Father Tim would never have had their wager. In all my days I’d never dreamed that such a thing might come to be. It’s a wonder, Sammy, I thought, Tom son of Tom getting schooled in his letters. I wished I could’ve told Auntie Eva and Hal and Sarah and all the rest. Who knew, one day I might be able to read clever books like Father Will. Hugh was quite sour about it. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one,’ he said. ‘I had to pay out a small fortune to have my eldest schooled.’ But the rest of them couldn’t have been kindlier and Constance said, ‘Just think, Tom, one day you might be able to buy your freedom.’ It was like wonders were coming so fast I couldn’t catch them all.

  I suppose I should have known. As folk say, when fortune’s with you take care, as the fiend’s not far away, and I swear I could feel him sniffing about, conspiring to do me ill. First he tried to set my letters against me. I’d be looking at Father Tim’s wax tablet and it was like they’d all go dancing about, so a B would shape himself like a D, or a P made himself a Q, or an M and an N pretenced themselves a U or a W, till words were just squiggles. Father Tim grew quite crabbed. ‘You’re just not trying,’ he said, which wasn’t right, as I couldn’t have strived harder.

  Then the fiend tried to spoil my new clothes. A good few times I caught him out just in time, as he coaxed me to trip on a stone in the road or snag my hose on a nail. In truth, much though I liked having such handsome gear I sometimes wished I could keep it safe in my pack and wear my old rags, which I’d washed in the river and kept, though they made my pack so full and swelled it was like a ball with straps. For one thing my rags were better for begging. In the days since I’d had my new clothes I’d seen how folk looked at me when I rattled my bowl, like they were thinking this one doesn’t look so needy. And though I craved alms every hour that I could, as we walked the road and wherever we stopped for the night, I got less than I had before, and it was hard to fill my stomach. Another thing was that in my pack my new gear would b
e kept perfect. Because I did wonder if Dame Lucy mightn’t mind if, when we got to Rome, I sold the new clothes, as that was the only way I could think that I might buy Sir Toby’s trinkets and so not be hanged after all.

  Then Dame Lucy had showed herself an angel all over again, as God came into her dreams and told her anyone who’d lost kin should go and pray to Saint Joseph to help get them into heaven. And though Sammy wasn’t rightfully my kin, being not of humankind but a little cat, Dame Lucy said he was as good as being my kin because I was so very mournful for him. Who knows, my beastie, I thought, we might get you out of purgatory early, even this very day. I’d still have to go to Rome, seeing as I’d promised everyone back home, while I wanted to go having started. But how I’d love to see my little Sammy in my dreams, sunning his belly in paradise.

  After the big party we’d been till then, we were just a little clump of folk now, with Dame Lucy looking like an angel princess on her high horse and the rest of us walking. She asked me to lead Brigit’s rounsey who was carrying our food and drink and you never saw a beast led more carefully. ‘This way, Dobbin,’ I’d tell him, steering him away from any holes in the road where he might catch his hoof. Dame Constance looked anxious, being fearful for her little boy, and Dame Lucy, angel that she was, tried to give her comfort. ‘Don’t you worry about Paul,’ she told her. ‘Sir John and Dame Alice will look after him, and he has my Peter to play with.’ Not that Constance seemed much cheered. Then Dame Lucy’s little Peter wasn’t easy, as I’d seen myself. He wanted to play with Constance’s Paul every moment and when Paul had had enough and needed time to himself, Peter, knowing he was the high, noble one, would cry and wail and say he must play with him. Their mothers, being friendly with one another, would grow abashed and would each tell their boy to do as the other asked, but Constance would say it stronger and in the end Paul would play with Peter, but sulkily.