Now Dame Lucy, wanting to raise Constance’s spirits, called out to Jocelyn, ‘Poor Constance is fretting about her boy. Come and cheer her up?’ which Jocelyn happily did, gabbling away and telling her sportful tales till she laughed and showed her pretty smile. Oswald was side by side with Mary while I was happy enough with Dobbin. Until, after we’d walked a mile or two, Dame Lucy rode over and asked if I’d mind keeping Joan company, as it was a shame to see her all by herself. Anything for my angel. ‘Come along now, Dobboes,’ I said and I put some pace in my legs to catch up with her. Though I soon wished Dame Lucy had let me be. When I asked Joan, ‘How now, cousin?’ she answered with a little snort like she wasn’t any cousin of a low grub like me. When I tried again and asked her, ‘Are you looking forward to praying for your poor husband?’ she answered, ‘More than I would be praying for a cat.’ Which seemed an unneedful and unkindly thing to say, I thought.
By good fortune I was spared having to try any more. I heard a cry of, ‘Wait, wait, I beg you,’ and looking round I saw, coming along the road behind us, and red in the face from hurrying in the cold, was Mary’s daughter Helena. Mary looked scared as could be and called out, ‘What’s happened, my love? Are you all right?’ but Helena answered, ‘Nothing’s wrong, Mother, don’t you worry. I just wanted to join you and pray for Father.’ Gawayne won’t be pleased she’s got away from him, I thought, because he was always hanging about her, smirking and chattering. ‘Please, Dame Lucy, I beg you,’ Helena said, ‘don’t be angry and send me away.’ As if she would? Though in truth she didn’t look happy to see her. I supposed it was because she wasn’t a proper widow or widower, and had no cat to mourn like I did.
So on we went, eight of us now. Mary and Helena walked together, murmuring to each other in low voices like they always did. And I was happy to find that I didn’t have to keep Joan company any more as she’d found her own. She was now walking with Constance and Jocelyn, who had one sister on each side of him, though he didn’t look too joyed about it and nor did Constance. As for me, I walked with Oswald and we had a merry game of looking at faraway trees and guessing what kind they were, which I won after getting two oaks, an elm and a chestnut one after the other.
Then poor Dame Lucy had another thing to irk her, which was our road. Because the three Frenchwomen had told her it wasn’t far to Saint Joseph, but it turned out that what they’d meant was that it wasn’t far for them. I thought we all walked at a good pace but we were snails compared to those little widows. For a time they kept with us, though they were always getting ahead and having to stop themselves, till finally they tired of being slowed and away they went like hares, and all I could see of them was a smear of dust on the way far ahead. On we walked and on we walked. After what seemed like an age we met a fellow coming the other way with two donkeys, so loaded up with straw that they looked like great hedgehogs, and when Mary asked him in French how far it was to Saint Joseph, he shook his head and said it was miles off still.
By then we were all wondering if we’d get to Rains before the gates were locked. When Dame Lucy asked us if we’d like to stop and have some lunch by the road, with ale and mead, which was only kindly of her, everyone said no, thank you very much, even though we were all getting hungry, as we needed to keep going. After that we met the three Frenchwomen again, as they’d finished praying for their dead husbands and were on their way home, and though they said we were almost there that was no truer than what they’d told us before, and by the time we finally got there most of the day was gone. I wanted a good long pray to Saint Joseph for my Sammy, seeing as that was what I’d come all this way for, but the rest hurried me on and I’d barely started, so I couldn’t believe Saint Joe would have heard my beseeching, when we were back on the road again, taking the fork for Rains.
After we’d walked a mile or so the afternoon was losing its light. Oswald was the one who stopped. Till then I’d only ever seen him tranquil but now he looked quite annoyed. ‘We’ll not get to Rains today, Dame Lucy,’ he said. ‘That’s another day lost and we’ve had a good few now, what with looking round London and then resting after the sea crossing. I worry about getting over the Alps so late in the season.’ Constance was troubled too. ‘What about my little boy?’ she said. ‘I didn’t think I’d be leaving him alone all night.’ Jocelyn did his best to comfort her. ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Try not to worry.’
As if it was Dame Lucy’s fault that the three little widows had set us so wrong. I knew our angel wouldn’t let us down and nor did she. ‘Here’s a thought,’ she said, smiling at the notion she’d come up with. ‘I’ll ride to Rains now. Passenlande’s fast so I’ll easily get there before curfew. I’ll make sure your Paul is being looked after, Constance. And you can all go over to that farm.’ She pointed to a stone building that was half a mile or so from the road. ‘They’re sure to have a barn. I’ll come back first thing in the morning with all the horses. We have eight, which is enough for every one of us. That way you’ll be in Rains early and will have time to reach our next halting place tomorrow night, so we won’t have missed a day after all.’ I didn’t much like the thought of her riding off by herself. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, ‘I can ride Brigit’s rounsey,’ but she wouldn’t hear of it. ‘He’s too slow,’ she said. ‘Now don’t you worry about me as I’ll be all right. Just go and enjoy yourselves. There’s plenty of food in those packs, and lots of ale and mead, which is all for you, so I don’t want to see a drop of it left over in the morning, d’you hear?’
That was that. Away she rode and we started down a path towards the stone building, just like she’d said we should. But that was a sorry surprise. I swear I’d never thought the folk I’d been pilgrimaging with all this time might be so currish and unthankful. Poor Dame Lucy, who’d showed us only kindness, ordaining that we should go and pray for our dead dear ones, and even giving us dainty victuals to eat, was hardly gone from our sight when they started. Joan was the worst. ‘I don’t know why she made us all come out here anyway,’ she said. ‘God told her, remember,’ Constance answered, ‘though I wish he’d said how far it was,’ which was unkindly, too. Now Joan scoffed, ‘Of course. God talks to her in her dreams.’ It was said in such a foul, unbelieving voice that I had to speak up. ‘If Dame Lucy said it was in her dream then it was in her dream,’ I said, ‘and that’s the end of it, d’you hear?’ But rather than shaming them, my speaking up just brought their meanness onto me. ‘Is that you talking, Tom,’ Joan asked, ‘or is it your new clothes?’ I tried to answer but I’ve never been good at quick, clever chatter and I was still confounded when I saw a wicked look come into Joan’s eyes. ‘You’ll never guess what Hugh said. Last night he had some ales with Dame Lucy’s cook, Jack, who told him his mistress is quite the wild woman. She’s couched with half the gentle folk of Lincolnshire, so Jack said.’
‘Stop it now,’ I said. ‘You’re doing Satan’s bidding, can’t you see?’ But I swear it was like trying to stem a river with a stick, as now that Joan had given them some poison they were all hungry to hear more, while Joan was only too happy to oblige. According to Jack the cook, she said, Dame Lucy had slain her first husband by throttling him as he ate his dinner and then, though she still wasn’t divorced from her second husband, she’d lived sinfully with two dozen lovers, one being the father of her boy Peter, and another that she’d murdered with spells. ‘That’ll be why she wanted you on this venture today,’ said Joan, looking at Jocelyn, Oswald and me. ‘So she can start on you three.’ Jocelyn and Oswald, who should have known better, both laughed and even Mary and Helena were smirking.
That’s enough, Sammy, I thought. No more devil talk for us. I stuck my fingers in my ears, humming loud, and I walked on just as fast as I was able. They’re dead to me now, every one of them, my old beastie, and they’ll not hear one more word from Tom son of Tom till we reach Rome City, that I vow. But vows aren’t always easy to keep. As to what came next, I’d have noticed it sooner except that, ha
ving my fingers in my ears, my elbows were sticking out forwards, so I was blinkered like a horse. Finally, even through my blocked ears and my hums I heard a little shriek and, looking round to see where it had come from, I saw there was a tree with a ladder against it. Up in the branches was a female picking apples and down below were two more holding a net to catch them. Though they weren’t troubling with apples now, but were all staring at me. I dare say I made a strange sight, what with my elbows and my humming. But the thing I noticed most about them wasn’t their apples or even their shrieking, but their gear, as they weren’t wearing ordinary delvers’ clothes but nuns’ wimples. It seemed this wasn’t a farm after all.
So much for my never speaking another word till we reached Rome City. I stopped, the others caught up with me and we all watched as the nun in the tree flung herself down the ladder as fast as she could and then all three of them flew back to the stone building, which must be their convent. After that we were all wondering what we should do, not that there was much to choose from. ‘We have to stay there, if they’ll take us,’ Jocelyn said. Which was true enough, because this was the place where Dame Lucy was coming to fetch us in the morning, while by the looks of it there was nowhere else nearby. I couldn’t see another roof in any direction.
On we went. The three sisters must’ve warned the whole convent against us and we had to knock at the door half a dozen times while Mary and Jocelyn shouted and begged in French, saying, ‘Pelegrans, pelegrans,’ which even I knew meant pilgrims. When they finally opened up, the prioress peered out from behind a little crowd of nuns and looked at us like we were a set of dirty grubs. Though she softened a bit when Mary opened the packs on Brigit’s rounsey and showed her we had our own food and drink. Even then she wouldn’t let us inside till we’d heard her rules, which Mary made into English for the ones of us who didn’t know French, though there were only two. Firstly for dinner we must eat along with all the sisters and secondly the females among us could sleep in the convent but us males must stay in an outhouse nearby.
We agreed and after that a pair of sisters took Oswald, Jocelyn and me to our sleeping place. Those two were as different as sky and cabbage. One was sour like her prioress and hardly spoke while the other was a smiler and wouldn’t stop gabbling, chatting away in French to Jocelyn, who knew it. Though I couldn’t understand a word, when we got to the outhouse I guessed from the sound of her voice that she was being sorry about it, which was only right as it was cold and damp and had nothing for bedding but a few pieces of straw that wouldn’t soften the floor for a whelp. Standing there, getting goose pocks from the chill, for once in my life I felt a little envious of Sammy. We’ll wish we had a few of your flames in here tonight, my old beastie, I thought.
The smiling sister said we could go back to the hall, which we were glad to, crouching as close to the fire as we could. As I’d had nothing to eat since I’d broken my fast at first light, my stomach was rumbling and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the tasty-looking bread and ham and cheese that I’d watched Dame Lucy get at market that morning, and how fine it would be to feel warmed by the mead and ale she’d got too. All in all I was more than ready when we were called into the hall to eat. So you’ll well imagine my feelings when, after the prioress led everyone in prayers, all that was brought to the table was a pot of cabbage stew and another of barley paste and not very much of either. We all looked at it and then looked at each other. Not that anyone spoke up, as complaining to that prioress would be like poking a lion in his eye.
When we’d finished our sorry repast the three of us slunk back to our quarters. I lay down and wrapped myself tight in my cloak, though it did little good, as it was one of those spots where the damp gets into your very bones. And whenever I began to drop off, Jocelyn started up again, as he couldn’t let go of the dinner we’d had. ‘It’s just not right,’ he’d say. ‘That was our food. We’d have shared it with them, of course we would, but for her to take it all and just give us cabbage stew and barley paste, that’s plain wrong.’ Finally, just when I was nodded off for the seventh time, he said, ‘D’you know what? We should go and get our redress. We should find their pantry and take back our food and drink.’ ‘What if we run into the prioress?’ said Oswald, which was my thought exactly. ‘We won’t,’ said Jocelyn. ‘They’ll all be fast asleep by now and won’t stir till nocturnes, which is hours away. It’s not like we’ll be doing anything wrong, seeing as it’s our own meat. And what can she do? She can’t put us in a worse place than this.’ Which was true enough. And there was no denying that a little mead would be warming, and might help me get to sleep in that cold hole of a spot.
So up we got and we crept back towards the convent. Wish me well, Sammy, I thought. It seemed like God was with us as the sky was clear and there was enough moon to light our way. Though the main door was locked from the inside there was another at the back where the bolt hadn’t been pulled true and with a shove it opened nicely. It didn’t take us long to find the pantry, which was right by the kitchen. But then we struck trouble. There was a lock on the pantry door. ‘Looks like there’ll be no mead for us after all,’ I said, but Jocelyn wasn’t giving up. ‘One of the sisters must have a key,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see.’ Oswald said that was lunatic. ‘You’ll wake them all,’ he said, which I thought too, but Jocelyn was already going off towards their quarters. I expected to hear the prioress’s voice screaming out next but instead after just a few moments there were footsteps and here came Jocelyn, with not one but three sisters. There were the two who’d taken us to the outhouse, the smiler and the snarler, and another who I’d sat opposite at dinner and who’d kept very quiet as she maunged down all the cabbage stew and barley paste she could get. ‘I woke Rosalind here,’ Jocelyn told us in a low voice, pointing at the smiler. ‘But she didn’t have the key, which took us to Lisa,’ who was the snarler. ‘And by then we’d woken Georgette,’ which was the third one, ‘who said she wanted to come along too.’
I was surprised Lisa the snarler had come at all, but when Jocelyn got the pantry door open she was inside quicker than any of us. Dame Lucy had done us proud all right, and as well as plenty of ham and cheese and bread and apples there were two skins of ale and a whole cask of mead, no less. It was too dark and cramped to stay in the pantry so we took it out to the cloister nearby, where we sat side by side on a bench like six little rabbits all in a row. For a time nobody said a thing and we just chewed it down. ‘I suppose we should leave some for the others,’ said Oswald, though he didn’t sound keen while it was so tasty and we were so hungry that it was hard to stop, and before we knew it we’d finished every crumb. ‘Now for something to wash it all down,’ said Jocelyn. He pulled the stopper from the mead, filled a big goblet he’d got from the pantry and passed it round. It was lovely and sweet and I could feel my head grow light.
Then Jocelyn started gabbling away to the three sisters in French. The only word I understood, and which he said a dozen times at least, was Ongliter, which I’d heard before and meant England. Whatever he was saying was strong, though, as Rosalind squealed and giggled, so did Georgette while Lisa looked sour and said, ‘No, no.’ Then Rosalind and Georgette were whispering to Lisa both together and they kept saying Ongliter too. Whatever they said won the day as Lisa gave a shrug like she wasn’t happy but she wasn’t saying no.
I could see Jocelyn was fighting not to laugh. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked him. ‘I told them that in England we have a custom,’ he said, ‘that no woman can have a swallow of mead unless she’s kissed afterwards.’ ‘Kissing nuns?’ I said. It didn’t seem godly. ‘Why not,’ he answered, ‘if they’re all right with it? It’s just a little kissing.’ So the flask started going round. Lisa got it first and she giggled and took a good taste. Jocelyn, who was beside her, gave her a quick kiss on her cheek but then he caught her out by giving her another right on the lips, which made her squeal again. Next was Georgette, and though Oswald seemed like he wasn’t sure what to do, he gave her a
peck on her cheek and then she gave him one back on his lips. Finally it was Lisa and me. I looked at her, and even though she didn’t have her wimple on, still it didn’t seem righteous to kiss God’s wife. But the rest were all watching so I felt I had to do something. I supposed there was no great harm in just a little kiss. And it wasn’t much of one in the end, as Lisa gave a quick turn of her head so all I got was hair.
The mead went round a second time and then a third and a fourth. By the fifth time Jocelyn and Rosalind didn’t take any, as they were locked together by the lips, tight as could be. Georgette and Oswald were hardly different, though with them it was her who was doing most of the work and she had him pushed back against the wall. Lisa, though, just showed me her hair to give a peck to each time. It’s probably all for the best, Sammo, I thought, as it wouldn’t be right. Though what with the mead warming me, and having her right beside me, so warm and soft, it was hard not to want to pull her a little closer.
Jocelyn left off his kissing for a moment. ‘We need to split these three up,’ he said in a low voice. Oswald looked quite feared. ‘But it’s not right,’ he said. ‘They’re nuns.’ Jocelyn shook his head. ‘I knew you’d be no use,’ he said. ‘At the very least can’t you take yours somewhere else? There’s the pantry. Give her some of the ale.’ Still I wasn’t sure and as Oswald and Georgette went off I said to Jocelyn, ‘It does seem wrong, though. What’ll God think?’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘you just don’t understand God. I know exactly what he’d say if he were here. He’d say good luck to you, Tom, that’s what.’ Because, so Jocelyn told me, though everyone said he was a god of love and a jealous god and the rest, which was all true enough, that was only half the story. ‘The real honest truth,’ Jocelyn said, ‘is that God’s an advocate. I should know, being one myself. Just look at all the laws he has. He can’t be anything else.’ And one of God’s laws was that if we went as pilgrims to Rome and prayed to Saint Peter and said mass at the shrines and repented our sins, then our punishment in purgatory would be undone. ‘Which means,’ Jocelyn said, ‘that God’s telling us, go, my good friends, go and have some joy along the road as it’s what you deserve and it’ll all be forgiven anyway. It stands to reason he must mean that, or why would he have set his laws that way?’
Pilgrims Page 14
