Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  Yet the greatest honour was still to come. One day You came to her ghostly eye like usual and You said, ‘Dear Matilda, you are so pleasing to me that from this day in my sight you will be my virgin of godliness. You must have no fear ever again, as I tell you now that you won’t spend even one year in purgatory, nor one day, nor one hour, but you’ll come directly to sit by my side in heaven. And as my virgin of godliness I want you to clothe yourself always in white.’ So your creature had a beautiful white dress made, such as a novice nun might have, and she wore it each and every day. And even though she wasn’t a virgin she felt clean and pure almost like she was.

  Of course like always there were some whom the devil kept blind and when your creature went by they’d call out, ‘Look at Matilda Froome in her white dress, trying to catch everyone’s eye.’ But your poor dear creature paid them no heed, not even if they sang songs that made unkind rhymes from her name, or if small boys threw pebbles at her, or pieces of dung, like they sometimes did. As though ire welled up in her at the dishonour that they showed, not to your creature of course but to You, then You’d tell her, ‘Don’t feel hurt for me, dear Matilda, as I’ve been wounded a thousand times worse than this, as you very well know.’ So your creature would clean her dress till every mark was gone and she was your virgin of godliness once more.

  And often they didn’t get the chance to insult her as she wasn’t there. You would send her to pray to Little William in Norwich, whom the wicked Jews killed, or Little Hugh in Lincoln, or Frideswide in Oxford or some other saint. And then one day, after your creature had given birth to her eighteenth, of whom only four died and fourteen lived, which everyone said was a great blessing, You sent her much, much further. As your creature prayed one night You came to her ghostly eye and gave her two most sweet commands. ‘Dearest Matilda,’ You said, ‘from this day, as my virgin of godliness, I ask that you and your husband live chastely like a brother and sister.’ Nor was that all. Next You commanded your creature to go on a great pilgrimage that would take her far away from the blind sinners of Bishop’s Lynn, all the way to your holy city of Rome, to visit the famous saints and the sacred places, and become known to your servants there. ‘Because, sweet Matilda,’ You said, ‘I have plans for you. When you reach my city of Rome I will give you a great gift.’

  The very next day after she heard this, your creature started making herself ready. Friar Alan was eager and ready to help, as he always was when your creature went on a pilgrimage, sweet clerk that he was, and that very same morning when she told him of your command, he wasted not a moment but wrote out her testimonial, and he blessed her scrip and her staff the instant she had them. Roger was more difficult, of course. He grew quite sour when your creature told him You’d commanded him never to dirty her secret thing again. ‘I’m your husband,’ he said. ‘It’s my right.’ And he moaned about her going away. ‘To Rome? How many months will you be gone this time?’ But your creature was helped by his poorness at trading, which had become her best friend. By then he had so many debts that it was a wonder he hadn’t been thrown into jail, while your creature, her father having died some years earlier, now had her heritance, which was no small one. When she’d gone on her pilgrimages to Norwich and Lincoln and the rest, she’d got Roger to give his accord by giving him a shilling or two and now she did the same but much more. ‘If you give your agreement to these two things,’ she told him, ‘then I’ll pay off your debts right down to the last penny.’ She saw a hunger come into his eyes and sure enough a few days later, and before witnesses, as she didn’t want him going back on his word, he promised he’d never trouble her private thing ever again and he gave his assent to her journeying to Rome.

  And just after then and with more joy in her heart than she’d felt for many a year, your poor dear creature said her farewells and set out for London. It would have been easier to take ship from Yarmouth, which is how any trader would’ve gone, but by the king’s law all pilgrims had to leave his realm by way of Dover. Walking at your creature’s side was her foot maid Ostrid as, the pilgrimage being so very long, your creature wanted her for company and to carry her things. Ostrid was a strange one, though. She’d been with your creature since before her first was born and yet your creature sometimes felt like she hardly knew her well. Often her eyes had a strange, still look to them, as if she wouldn’t blink even if the fiend himself jumped out at her. As we walked down to London and then to Canterbury and on to Dover, your creature, being so full of joy, said to her many times, ‘Isn’t this wondrous, Ostrid? Here we are on our way to the city of Rome,’ but all she ever got back was, ‘So we are, ma’am.’ Your creature laughed at the time, thinking it most sportful, but of course she knew better later, when she saw Ostrid’s rightful nature.

  Most of the others aboard our ship to Calais were pilgrims from Yorkshire on their way to the three kings at Cologne, and though your creature was only friendly to them, the devil soon blinded their eyes and turned them against her, just like he had the folk in Bishop’s Lynn, and they smirked at your creature’s weeping and howling and her white dress. But if they were proud at first they lost their smiles when a great storm blew up, which got them repenting and praying and groaning that their lives were over. Your creature had no fear because You’d promised her she’d go to Rome to get your great gift, so she told them, ‘Stop your moaning as you won’t drown,’ and nor did they, though we were blown halfway to Denmark, so the shipmen told us, and it was all they could do to claw their way back south-westwards. By then we were so low on water and food that they didn’t put in at Calais like they should have, but at Antwerp in Holland.

  Never mind, your creature said to herself. The more miles I have to journey, the more I’ll honour You and the happier I’ll be. On the evening she landed she walked around Antwerp City, her legs feeling drunken as if she were still aboard ship, and knowing that she was in a foreign land and that her journey was truly begun, she became filled with great joy so it seemed like she was floating and that every fleck of light was golden with your smile. Then, passing near the harbour she saw a poor beggar woman who had a sweet, sorry face, and at that instant a great feeling of love rose up through your poor dear creature and she knew straight away what she must do to show You honour. From her belt she took her heavy scrip and, keeping back a few pennies, she gave all the rest to the old woman, who looked up at her in wonder.

  But how meanly your creature was thanked for her kindness, and by the very one who should have kept loyal to her. That evening at the inn where we were all staying, when she told Ostrid about the loving thing that she’d done, instead of being full of joy Ostrid gave her a foul look and, not calling her ma’am like she should have, she said, ‘I’m not coming with you to Rome now.’ Then she went and talked to the Yorkshires and, as if she hadn’t been currish enough already, she said that they all thought your creature was demoniac, and as they felt sorry for her they said she could go with them to Cologne, and that they’d pay her to wash their clothes and make them their dinner as they journeyed. After all these years of giving her a livelihood your poor creature could hardly believe Ostrid had said such words. But the cruellest blow came when your creature asked her, ‘What about when you get back to Bishop’s Lynn? Because I tell you, I won’t take you back,’ and she answered, ‘I’m glad of it as I wouldn’t work for you again, Matilda Froome, and look after your foul rabble of children, not if you paid me a hundred pounds.’

  Never mind, your creature said to herself. Let her go, as she’s nothing to me. And early the next morning your poor dear creature set off alone towards Brussels, which the shipmen had said was the right way to get myself back onto the road from Calais to Rome where other English would be journeying. Not that the going was easy. Your poor creature’s pack was heavy on her shoulder now that she had to carry all her own things. And though there were a good number of pilgrims on the road she met not one Englishman or Englishwoman. She dearly wished she’d learned French, which she would have if her m
other had known it, or if her father hadn’t been so scarce, because he’d had her brothers taught it but not her. Or Latin. Most folk on the road were Dutch, she guessed by the sound of their talk, and were going to Spain, as they’d tell her in that throaty way of theirs, ‘Santiago.’ They weren’t unfriendly but, being in parties, they kept to themselves and they’d look at your creature strangely so it grieved her that she couldn’t tell them all about herself. When she saw them staring at her white dress she’d say, ‘God’s son said I was to wear it as I’m his virgin of godliness,’ but they’d just look confounded. When she remembered her vision of You and burst into sobbing they’d look sorry and perhaps put an arm round her to give her comfort. And when she roared they’d grow angry and scold her and one tried to push her into a ditch.

  Another thing that was hard was keeping fed. With her last penny your creature bought a begging bowl that she’d rattle at anyone going by but there weren’t many who’d stop and drop in a coin. Even then your creature didn’t lose heart. She said to herself, don’t you see, Matilda Froome, this may seem like hardship but in truth it’s a blessing? After all the fine living you had when you were young, growing up in your father’s house, which was one of the grandest in all Bishop’s Lynn, it’s only right that you should live without comforts, in righteous poverty. But she was often hungry. And when she stayed the night in barns, which were all she could afford, she hardly slept as she would start at every little noise, thinking, some wicked felon has come to ravage me, though in the end it would just be a mouse or other tiny beast.

  For a time she walked in the company of some poor Frisians, and though your creature couldn’t understand a word they said, she found them much more lovesome than Ostrid or the Yorkshires had been. But they were very dirty. Before they reached a town they’d stop to pick fleas and lice off one another, though these were so plentiful that their labouring did little good. By the time your creature reached Cambrai she had fleas and lice too and she was glad that the Frisians were going to pray to the saints in Paris so their way parted from hers. It was hard for your creature to get pure again, though she bathed in cold rivers and she washed her clothes many times, and dried them over smoky fires, and as there was no getting them out of her hair she ended up cutting it all off with her dining knife. Sometimes You would come to your creature in her ghostly eye and tell her, ‘I know this is hard for you, my sweet Matilda, but I love you all the more for it.’ Yet even this dear comfort seemed sorrier than before. It was the strangest thing but your sweet voice, which had always been so clear, sounded fainter now and smaller, almost as if You were speaking from inside a wooden chest.

  What joy your creature felt when, with tired, aching feet, she finally reached the town of Saint Quentin, which lay on the pilgrim way from Calais to Rome. Now I’ll meet some English, she thought, as by then she felt a great hunger to talk again in her own language. But when she hobbled into the pilgrim hospital she found there were only the usual Dutchmen and Germans, most of them bound for Spain, while there weren’t many even of these. One of the monks spoke a few words of English and when she asked him why there were no Englishmen he said it was because she was walking so late of season. It was true that it was getting cold now, so your creature wished she’d brought warmer clothes, as she had only a shawl and her cloak, which she didn’t like to wear as they covered up the lovesome whiteness of her dress.

  Never mind, she told herself. I’m sure I’ll meet some of my own people soon. But when she walked on to Lauon, which was the next town on the way, the strangest thing happened. It was a bright, fine autumn day but to her it seemed as if all the colours were faded away to grey. Another strange thing was that her sweet sobbing and roaring left her. She’d see a lame dog or a man beating his mule and she’d be ready for her tears to flow, but nothing would come. Your poor dear creature found this very troubling, as it felt almost like she’d been robbed of her godliness.

  From Lauon to Rains was a long day’s walking and when she finally reached Rains, just before sunset, her feet were so tired that she could hardly stand. And then, the next morning, and barely an hour out of Rains on the road to Chalons, where she was to spend her next night, your creature was walking so hastily, seeing as she knew she had another long day’s journey, that she didn’t notice a hole in the path and she twisted her foot, and when she tried to stand she fell back to the ground. I won’t be able to go another yard this morning, she thought, nor for several days most probably. Then she sat and waited by the empty road till finally a merchant with a cartload of skins came by and offered her a ride. And though she was full of fear that he would ravage her, he never did. Instead he helped her hobble into the pilgrim hospital in Chalons, where she took to her bed.

  But all of the troubles she’d had till then were like nothing compared to what came next. Because it happened that your poor creature had another eclipse, which she hadn’t for years, and this one was worse than any she’d had since after she first gave birth. All through the night she was troubled by a foul, coaxing voice. ‘What a fool you’ve been, Matilda Froome,’ it told her. ‘All these years you thought it was God’s son coming to your ghostly eye, and instead it was me.’ Your creature shouted back, ‘That’s a lie, fiend,’ even though her noise made the Germans and Dutch and French in the dormitory wail that she was keeping them awake. Worse, folk in Lynn used to say the very same dirty slander, that it wasn’t You who made your creature weep and howl, but the devil. Ten and twenty times your poor lost creature called out to You, ‘Speak to me, I beg you. Come to my side. Silence this fiend,’ but you said not a word.

  Rather than taking pity on your creature in her need, the monks grew sour at her and over the next few days one kept coming over to her bed and pointing at her foot, by which she knew he meant, it’s surely better by now? When he brought her bread he’d scowl and shake his head like he was saying, we can’t keep feeding you forever, you know. And when she railed at the fiend and begged You to come to her aid, he’d tell her shhh and point at the other beds. Yet how could she keep quiet when Satan provoked her so? ‘You thought he was guiding you to Rome where he’d give you his great gift,’ he’d say, ‘when all along it was me guiding you, and not to Rome but to this dirty place, and not for any gift but to meet your own death. This is where you’ll die, Matilda, and then you’ll come down to dwell in my fiery realm.’ ‘It’s not true,’ your creature cried out to him. ‘Jesus promised me I wouldn’t spend even an hour in purgatory, let alone go to hell, and that I’d be taken straight up to his side in heaven.’ But the fiend just cackled. ‘That wasn’t his promise but mine. And sorry to say you can’t set much store by any promises I make.’

  By the third day your poor dear lost creature felt a weakness come upon her, as if life was seeping from her soul. Worst of all, she felt her very faith was become fragile, like a glass goblet with a crack through it, so one tiny knock might shatter it into pieces. But then, at her very lowest moment, help finally came. As your creature lay moaning and trembling in her bed she heard noises down in the courtyard. There was a clatter of horses’ hooves and a drone of bagpipes, played not well, and voices chattering, and though they were too faint for her to hear their meaning, the very sound of them was wondrously familiar. Sure enough the unkindly monk came into the dormitory and told her, ‘Anglais, Anglais,’ so your creature knew that, just as she’d hoped, the arrivals were from her own land. And that same moment she saw You in her ghostly eye, come at long last, and You told her, ‘You see, Matilda, I didn’t desert you. You have passed my test. Now all will be well.’ And though your creature was still angry she murmured, ‘I forgive You. I knew You’d come in the end. Though I wish it might have been a little sooner.’

  Now the monk brought them crowding into the dormitory, a whole lovely throng, and your creature was weeping, not for You for once, but from pure joy. How sweet it was to talk and to be understood. So your creature told them all in a rush that she was from Bishop’s Lynn from a good trading family,
and how You’d come to her in her mind’s eye many times till You told her she must go to Rome. And she told them she’d given her money away to the beggar woman in Antwerp, and how ungrateful Ostrid had left her to journey on alone, till she’d sprained her ankle and had to stop here, where the fiend had driven her almost to lose her wits, and how You had gone from her till You’d returned just now. She saw them looking at her like she was a strange thing. Of course they would. ‘I know I must seem a little wild,’ your creature told them, with a laugh to calm them, ‘but my journey’s been hard and I had to cut off my hair to get rid of lice I got from some dirty folk I walked with.’ All at once a great fear came over her. ‘You won’t leave me here, will you?’ she asked. ‘You’ll let me come with you?’

  One of them, a delver by the look of his sunbrowned skin, squinted at your creature with his little eyes. ‘If your foot’s bad then perhaps you should stay on here till it’s fully right,’ he said, but then a gentle lady whose face was all sweetness gave your creature a kindly look. ‘Of course you must come with us,’ she said. ‘You can ride in my cart.’ And though the one with the little eyes said, ‘But where will your boy go?’ she answered him, ‘He can ride with Lionel,’ pointing at her husband, or so your creature thought he was then, and though Lionel looked none too pleased he said nothing and so, joy of joys, your poor dear creature was saved.

  The gentle lady, whose name was Lucy, said it was a wonder that You came to speak to your creature, because it happened there was another in their party who’d also been chosen, though not by You but by your father, who had chosen her as his voice and spoke through her. ‘How blessed we are,’ Dame Lucy said, ‘having one pilgrim who’s visited by God and another by Jesus.’ This other’s name was Beatrix and your creature couldn’t help but smile because she was just a little foolish child of a thing. ‘How often has he come to you?’ your creature asked, and when she said he’d come half a dozen times your creature smiled and told her that You had been coming to her for many long years before Beatrix was even born, and that your creature couldn’t count how often You’d spoken to her, as it was many score times.