Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  Never mind, your dear creature thought. What does it matter so long as I have your sweet love, which I have more than any of these poor sinners. And then recalling her days back in Lynn, she thought of something that she might do. What this party needs most of all, your creature thought, is to be raised up to pure white godliness. The kindest thing I can do this day is to pray for them all and guide them to better ways, just as I used to do for my neighbours in Lynn. And so, in good strong voice that all might hear, she prayed to You that Sir John might fight the fiend and not give in to his worst vice, of anger, that had caused him to strike a poor servant of God. Next she prayed that Hugh should strive not to be sour minded and grasping, that Margaret should try not to be so vain and eager for baubles, that Mary and Helena shouldn’t be so strange and secretive, that Oswald should overcome his hunger for dead men’s silver, that Lionel should staunch his greed for great fortune, and that Beatrix and Warin should guard themselves against being lulled by the fiend into false prophesies. Finally your creature prayed that any in the party who were fornicators should find the strength to overcome their foul and abominable lusts, though she didn’t trouble to say who they were as there seemed no need, seeing as half the company was guilty.

  But though it was all done from kindness, to help them find their way to your heart, they weren’t grateful at all. None of them said much and some rolled their eyes and others scowled. The only one who seemed understanding was Constance, who had tears in her eyes. And how unfriendly they were. When your creature walked beside Beatrix and showed her loving nature by asking how her ass Porker was today, as he’d been a little lame the day before, she wouldn’t even answer but turned her face away. And when your creature asked Oswald about his neck, which had been marked by pustules and pocks ever since he’d been nipped by biters in a dirty barn a few days before, he slung his pipes over his shoulder and let out a horrid blast. Finally when your creature went up to Dame Lucy and said, ‘How now, ma’am?’ which was only friendly, she didn’t even look down at her from her horse but just said, ‘I think you’ve said enough for today, Matilda.’

  But your creature knew she’d done right, and that it had been your own wish because soon after that You showed her your sweet blessing. We were passing by a little woodsman’s cottage when your creature’s eyes chanced upon a dog beside the road that had a sore on his side and all of a sudden she recalled her vision of You lying on the ground on your day of torment, then she felt a shudder rise through her, from her eyes poured wet tears and she fell into a great weeping. When Constance asked if she was all right your creature laughed through her sobs and told her, ‘Don’t worry, dear friend, as I’m not sad,’ and she explained how a great wonder had come to her, as You’d given back her passion. Better again, the very next morning she was blessed with her roar, which was so loud that Lionel’s horse, which your creature happened to be walking beside, reared up and Lionel was nearly thrown into the dirt. Thank You, my dear friend, your creature thought, smiling to the heavens.

  But the fiend was closer than your poor dear creature knew. Our party walked on for several more days, which weren’t easy, as the rest of them were no warmer than before, even though, filled with joy by her weeping and roaring, she did her best to bring them cheer. We stayed the night in the pilgrim hospital in a little town named Champlitte and in the morning your poor creature came awake and, like she always did, she reached out for her white dress from the floor beside her bed. She knew right away from the weight of it that something was awry. Sure enough when she held it up she was aghast to see that half of it was gone. It had been scissored and she could see the cut marks. Getting up from her bed, she held it against her and saw that it hardly reached to her knees, so it looked like a bordel woman’s gear. Hearing her cry out, the others sat up in their beds and sorry to say some of them, including Dame Lucy’s cook Jack and Lionel’s manservant Dobbe, laughed most cruelly, like they’d never seen anything so game, and though Dame Lucy and Lionel didn’t join in, being gentle folk and so more courteous, even they smiled. Peter and Paul smirked and looked at each other and seeing them your creature, who’d had a house full of brutish boys herself, guessed the truth right away. Who else would do such a wicked thing but those two?

  Your creature, hoping she might yet find the missing part and sew it back, which wouldn’t look handsome but would be better than nothing, put on the remnant and hurried through every room in the hospital. In the hall her eye was caught by a glimmer of white in the fireplace, which she found was a tiny shred of cloth, burned at the edges. That brought tears to her eyes. The fire was almost cold so it must’ve been done hours ago. When she went back the only one who showed her any care was Constance, while even she didn’t show very much. So your creature knew she had only one true friend in this world, which was You.

  Your creature did what she could. She went to the market and bought a blanket for tuppence, which she cut in two parts, one that she’d use as a scarf and the other that she sewed to the bottom of her dress so she didn’t look scandalous, and though it seemed a little strange she didn’t mind. After all, what did it matter to You if your creature wore fine clothes? All You wanted was that her soul was clean as clean could be. Perhaps there’s blessing even in this horrid affront, your creature thought, because after Champlitte the road climbed steadily and she could feel the cold closing in around her, so she was glad to be warmed by the blanket sewed from her skirt, and the part that she used as a scarf.

  Your creature thought that would be the finish of it all, but no, sorry to say there was no end to the foulness the devil would put into her fellow creatures’ hearts. After two days’ walking we reached a place called Besantion, which lay in a curve on a river and was a fair-looking city, though it would be only monstrous in your poor creature’s remembrance. It was All Hallows’ Eve so everyone went to mass and then Dame Lucy said we should have a game of apple bobbing, like was done by the young folk back home, when they’d give an apple a name and if they caught it that would be their sweetheart for the evening. But your creature said it wasn’t righteous seeing as there’d been more than enough dallying in this fellowship already, and on God’s holy road, too. So we had a quiet evening, as they usually were now, what with the sundering of the party between the Sir Johns and Mary and Helena and nobody speaking to your creature any more.

  Your creature slept well and when she woke in the morning in the dormitory of the hospital, this being All Souls’ Day, she could hear the others praying for their lost ones, whether it was parents or children or husbands whom they’d cuckolded with their whoring. Your creature prayed for her father and mother then her uncles and aunts and grandparents and the four mites she’d lost, too. She told them she was sorry she couldn’t go to any of their graves but she knew they’d understand seeing as she was on God’s adventure. All this while she’d noticed a nasty reek in the air but she thought little of it as it was a dirty place like they mostly were. She pulled on her dress, got up from the bed and then slipped her feet into her boots, only to find that they didn’t seem to fit her right any more. Pushing harder, she felt her toes press into something smooth and soft. That was when your creature guessed what this was and let out a screech.

  Constance called out, ‘What’s wrong?’ but your poor dear creature couldn’t even answer. Your creature took off her shoes and sure enough it was just what she’d thought. Peter was looking at her laughing to his lungs and so was Paul, as were most of them. Carrying her shoes she went through that place, paying no heed to them all, and going at a run, barefoot, she took herself all the way to the river. There she did her best to wash her feet and then her boots in the water, though she doubted they’d ever be clean again, not properly, not in her mind. I know who did this, your creature thought. It was the same ones who cut my lovely white dress into two and burned it in the fire.

  Stay quiet, sweet Matilda, You told your creature. You don’t know for sure that it was them. That’s all very well for You to say, your c
reature answered, but You aren’t here by the river washing it out of your boots and getting it all over You. So your creature, having cleaned herself as best as she was able, walked back to the hospital, her feet squelching in her boots as she went. By now they were all down in the hall, breaking their fast, and though she could see some of them had been laughing they fell silent when they saw her. Your creature looked at Dame Lucy and then at Constance. ‘I know who did this,’ she said. ‘It was your two boys. I want them given a lashing, and a good one too. I’ll do it myself. And after that I want Father Tim to excommunicate them both.’ Father Tim held up his arms like he had some clever holy reason why he couldn’t do the thing your creature had asked, but he never had the chance to speak up as his mistress cut in. ‘Did you do this?’ she asked the boys. ‘No,’ wailed Peter, pretencing himself scared, the little shit. As if he’d say anything else? ‘There you are,’ said Dame Lucy. ‘It wasn’t them.’ My sweet Matilda, You urged, don’t do anything rash now. Think of your own good grace. But I must, your creature answered, for the sake of truth, which is your own friend. Then she said it, loud and clear so all would hear. ‘It’s no surprise they’re sinners seeing as they’re both bastards born from the foulest adultery.’

  There, have that with your bread and milk, your creature thought. They were all staring. Warin and Beatrix had the strangest little smiles on their faces. Mary and Helena were looking down at the table, Constance was blinking like she might cry and Dame Lucy gave your poor dear creature a face that was harder than white stone. ‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘You’ll not walk another step with this party.’ ‘I’m glad of it,’ your creature answered. Then she looked round to see if anyone would take her side and when nobody did she said to them all, ‘Better and better. I’ll walk alone.’ Up to the dormitory she went to fetch her things and when she went back through the dining hall they were all busy with their food, or so they pretenced, and they didn’t pay her much heed. So she said again, ‘I’m glad of it, very glad,’ and she put on her dripping, stinking boots and out of the hospital she strode.

  It’s a blessing and I thank you for it, your creature told You as she climbed the steep hill out of the town. Not only will I be purer, I’ll be faster too without those transgressors slowing me down. As she walked through fields and then into forest, your creature counted her coins and found she had eightpence left from what they’d given her. That’s more than enough, she told herself. I’ll beg better than ever without those sinners putting folk off. Still it felt strange being alone again. She could have sworn the birds were singing louder and more harshly now, the wind was blowing harder through the trees, and her boots were noisier as they squelched on the ground. The way was narrow and winding and the tree trunks seemed very close around her, squeezing her in.

  Around noon your creature ate one of the pieces of bread that she’d snatched from the dining hall as she walked out. Her feet felt tired so she sat down to rest for a moment in a little clearing in the wood. She hadn’t meant to but she must have dozed off for a moment as she came awake to the sound of footsteps coming up the path behind her. It’s them, she thought. They’ve repented their hatefulness towards me, I’ll bet, and they’ll all beg me to join them once again. Will I forgive them? I suppose I must, seeing as it’s your way. Though the footsteps didn’t seem very many. Perhaps one of them has got ahead of the rest, your creature thought. She peered through the trees but they were so thick and tangled that all she could see was a glimpse or two of garments between the trunks. She didn’t remember any in the party wearing those colours. And then, just as she started to grow uneasy, she saw, walking out onto the path just a few yards back along the way, and looking at her, surprised and not pleased at all, was the bearded ravager.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Iorwerth

  I don’t know what you’re fussing about, Iorwerth, you’ll all say. What could ever be wrong with a gift? A gift is kindness and love. A gift warms the heart. So it can be, I’ll answer, but a gift can also be a chain that binds a man and drags him down. Accept that gift, feel it in your hand, and straight away you’re a debtor with a new shadow cast over you, of your own bad conscience. Who knows where that gift may lead you?

  Of course I’m not saying all gifts are trouble. The first I took that mattered was given sweetly enough and wanted little back from me, though it set me on the way to all the rest. It was given to me by Uncle Rhodri. My father was a blacksmith and not a rich one, but Uncle Rhodri had married well and owned a herring salting yard in our town, Llan Ffagan Fach. Uncle Rhodri always had a soft spot for me, perhaps because he had no sons himself, only daughters, and he’d often tell my father, ‘Your boy Iorwerth has a quick head on his shoulders. That shouldn’t be wasted.’ Till one day he made sure it wasn’t, and put in a word with the Bishop of Bangor, who was a cousin of his wife’s. So I said my tearful farewells to my family, I took the ferry to the mainland and walked along the shore to Aberconwy Priory to begin my schooling. Uncle Rhodri was right as it turned out. I learned my letters and numbers and catechism so well that I was given another gift. Prior Hywel kept me on to study scripture and to learn Latin and French and Saxon. When I’d finished I was made a lector at the priory. Next I’d be taking orders and then who knew, one day Iorwerth ap Rhys, son of a poor blacksmith from Llan Ffagan Fach, might be a bishop or a prior. Or so I thought.

  One bright spring morning when I’d just finished reading in the chapel, Prior Hywel called me over and I could see from the sly look on his face that something was up. ‘I have great news for you, Iorwerth,’ he said. ‘Dafydd ap Gruffudd just sent word to me. His scribe died of fever a few days back and he’s looking for somebody to take his place. I thought of you. You’re well schooled and able and you have a fine, clear hand. What d’you say, Iorwerth? Here’s honour for you.’

  There was no doubting it was honour, at least of a kind. Who didn’t know about Dafydd ap Gruffudd? Dafydd ap Gruffudd the great man, lord of two cantreds and younger brother to the Prince of Gwynedd, Llewelyn. Dafydd ap Gruffudd the traitor, who’d plotted to murder his brother and had turned against his own people. One winter’s night at Prince Llewelyn’s court, so the story went, Dafydd had kept watch through the dark hours, waiting to open the gate and let in his brother’s enemy, Owain and his followers, who were to murder Llewelyn in his bed. After that Dafydd would become Prince of Gwynedd and Owain would marry his young daughter. It would have happened too, no doubting, except that Owain never showed his face. God saw the wickedness that was purposed and sent a snowstorm that was so strong and blinding that it forced Owain and his men to turn round and go back the way they’d come. Dafydd waited through the night in vain to do his evil.

  When the plot was discovered Dafydd fled to England where King Edward gave him his protection, and gladly, as there’s nothing Saxons love better than to set my poor countrymen at each other’s throats. And when war came Dafydd thought nothing of fighting with the Saxons against his own people. The strange thing was that, given time and a little good fortune, Dafydd would likely have become Prince of Gwynedd anyway, seeing as his brother Llewelyn had no wife or heir. Many put blame on Dafydd’s Saxon wife, Elizabeth, saying she was the one who’d pushed him on, but knowing Dafydd as I do – and there’s no man still alive who knows him better than I do – I’m not so sure. The man had no patience, you see, not a hair of it. And there was his pride.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Back on that bright spring morning it wasn’t for me to judge Dafydd or what he’d done. Prior Hywel gave me a careful look. ‘The priory often has dealings with Lord Dafydd,’ he said. ‘You won’t forget where you were schooled, will you now, Iorwerth?’ That was clear enough. This wasn’t a choice for me to make but a command to obey. Like I said, beware of gifts. I owed Prior Hywel for the learning he’d given me and now I must pay my debt and go to Dafydd and, if the chance came, I must use my place to serve the priory.

  So I gathered up my few possessions, I said my farewells to
the other brothers and set off on the road to Denbigh, which was a sorry little place, with a castle that was always being repaired and a hall that leaned to one side like a lame man. As I walked through the gate it was only natural that I should worry what might befall me here. From what I knew of him, I guessed Dafydd would prove a mean master. I’d probably be mocked and scorned and perhaps beaten. What I never expected, of course, was that I’d be given another gift that I wouldn’t seek or ask for, and that would take me down a road that I couldn’t begin to imagine – a gift of confidences. Looking back I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I swear there was something about my face, so it was as if letters were scrawled across it that read, ‘Here’s one who’ll sit quiet and listen as you moan about your woes.’ I might be sitting in Aberconwy cloisters mouthing my reading for the day, so I’d say it better, when a stranger would stop and ask what I was doing, and though I never urged him, in two moments he’d be sitting beside me telling me how he missed his wife who’d fallen in a river and drowned. Or I’d hear all about some fellow’s neighbours, and which one of them he suspected had cursed his cow and made her sick.