Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  But over the next days, as we went through empty country, where we’d hardly pass three villages in a whole day, which was hard on my begging, the crack grew a little longer and then a little longer still, till the bowl didn’t feel solid any more but like two halves creaking together. The truth was I needed that bowl as much as I needed my own legs and arms, as if I couldn’t beg I couldn’t eat. Up ahead we saw the first of the mountains, which were called Juras and which were a hard climb, though there was worse to come, Oswald told us. After the Juras it was easier and I begged some French ha’pennies in Geneva but then I had to spend most of them on the boat we took across the lake. If I’d had a choice I’d have saved the ha’pennies and walked round even though it was longer, but the rest were all for the boat and I didn’t want to be left behind. Then we were climbing and climbing for days and I felt lightheaded from famishment. Alwyn would ask me to lend a hand pushing Dame Lucy’s cart, which the horse couldn’t manage alone, the way being so steep and stony, and it was a sufferance giving it my shoulder and finding my nose so close to her sacks of bread and grain and apples and cheese. I know they smell good, Sammo, I thought, but I can’t ask my angel now. Not me, who shamed himself pawing at Lisa the nun. Being so starved I’d sometimes slip and fall and Oswald, who saw how I was, would give me some of his bread and cheese though he had little himself. Brigit sneaked me some apples from her mistress a couple of times, and others who helped me were Constance and also sweet Helena, who’d quietly hand me some bread and cheese, and when I tried to thank her she would slip away without a word.

  Finally, though I’d thought I’d never see it, we reached Saint Bernard’s Hospital, which was where we came across Matilda and the strange fellow who’d spurned us. The rest of them were all praising themselves and saying they must have God’s blessing seeing as there’d been no snow but all I could think was, thanks be to this wonderful stew. The first taste made my head spin so that I feared I might swoon and knock over my bowl and spill the rest, so I held the edge of the table tight to steady myself. I swear it was like God himself was in there it was so fine and though I didn’t like to seem greedy, I couldn’t help myself and when my bowl was empty, which it soon was, I asked the monk for more, and I must’ve looked properly starved to him I dare say, as he filled it up right to the top.

  After that I vowed that the very first chance I had I’d carve myself another begging bowl and a good one too, that I could rattle seven times louder than this poor, broken thing, so I wouldn’t go hungry again. I’d need help, as I had no tools besides my dinner knife, which was too blunt to carve porridge, but God gave me his helping hand. A couple of days after the pass we reached a good-sized hospital and when I asked the monks, one said he did carpentry for the place. ‘Go into the forest just behind here,’ he said in French, which Father Tim turned into English for me, ‘find a piece of wood you like and I’ll carve it for you.’

  So I went off to do as he’d bidden me. We’d stopped walking earlier than usual that day, being tired after Saint Bernard’s pass, and it was still afternoon. Though it was cold from being up in the mountains, the sun was peering at us just above the peaks and still had a little warmth in him yet, and Lionel and his man Dobbe were lying back on a big stone with their faces in his glow, such as it was. Nearby on a patch of grass Sir John, who never tired of showing off his soldiering days, was teaching the two lads, Peter and Paul, how to fight with swords. Not that they had real ones of course but sticks with smaller sticks tied crossways with twine to make hilts. Sir John was showing them how to parry and the rest and they were both laughing and smiling like they’d never had such joy.

  It wasn’t easy finding the right piece of wood. The monks must’ve been through the forest not long before as the ground had been cleaned of every twig. I went higher and then higher again till finally I found a horse and cart track which, just like I’d hoped, led to a little shelter with a big pile of wood beneath, all chopped to dry for the fire. Those cloisterers won’t miss one piece now will they, my old beastie? I thought. Let’s make sure it’s a handsome one that will last. After a time I found one that wasn’t too big nor too small and that didn’t have any crack or weakness that I could see. This’ll do, Sammo, I thought, and back down I went.

  I knew something was stirring even before I got out of the forest, from the shouts I heard, which sounded like the two boys. Sure enough, when I walked out into the open I saw Sir John was gone and the younger one, Dame Lucy’s Peter, was squealing, ‘I won’t be the Welshman. You’re the Welshman,’ and though he was only a little mite he was thwacking away at Paul with his wooden sword with all the strength he had. As for Paul, knowing himself bigger, he wasn’t striking out but just stopped Peter’s blows, though even that was hard for him, Peter being so worked up. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it except where they were. Don’t ask me how but they’d fetched themselves away from the grass and were on the rocks right above the river. It flowed through a little kind of chasm there, like a worm in a hole, and if either of them lost his balance he’d be over, I could see, to drown in the cold water or bash his head in on a rock, like my poor Sammy had in the well. The surprise, though, was Lionel and Dobbe. The two of them were laying back on their stone in the glow just as before, like nothing was amiss, and I swear Lionel had a smile on his face like something had made him laugh. I could hardly believe that, as though they were facing a little away they must’ve heard.

  ‘Stop that,’ I shouted out to the boys, but they were too riled to notice. So I ran towards them as quick as I could, shouting again, ‘Stop that fighting this moment.’ Now they heard me, or Paul did, and he turned towards me. Little Peter, though, seeing him look away, grabbed his chance and whacked him with all his strength right on the knee. My heart was in my mouth as he’d struck out so hard that he looked like he might tip himself over the edge. That gave him a scare and after that they were both shamed and still.

  It was only now that Lionel paid any heed. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked like it had only just begun. I could hardly look at him, gentleman or no. Back in Minster there was nothing folk were more watchful of than little mites getting up to trouble near the river or the well, as everyone knew how that could end. Even being watchful we’d lost several, including my poor Sammy of course. So, though I was only Simple Tom, poor and bound and of no highness at all, and the boys were seven times gentler of birth than me, I cried out at them, ‘You two, come inside right now.’

  They both got an earful from their mothers. Paul had it worse and Constance quite shrieked at him, ‘Can’t you see I’m already worried to death about you, and now you do this.’ Though in truth it hadn’t been him at fault so much as the other. Then isn’t that just the way? The worst churl gets off light if he has a fine name. The mothers both thanked me for stopping them and bringing them in, though they thanked Lionel more, seeing as he was the gentleman.

  I dare say it shouldn’t have, but that gnawed at me. It wasn’t that I cared who got thanks. It was the thought of him sitting back on his stone and doing nothing when those two fellows were close to murdering themselves. I took my piece of wood to the cloisterer who carved it into a bowl, which he did nicely, but the thought of it all was still working away inside me. I had to tell someone and so, as we waited for our supper, I told Oswald, seeing as he was the one I was most amicable with in the party. He was as anguished as I was. ‘You’re sure they heard the boys?’ he said. Of course they had, as those two had been squealing loud enough to wake a man from his grave. Oswald gave me a dark, knowing look. ‘Perhaps Lionel wasn’t troubled if one went over,’ he said. ‘Especially Dame Lucy’s boy. She’s his betrothed, after all. He could be happy to have the road clear for any progeny she bears him.’ But then right away he gainsaid himself. ‘That makes no sense, though,’ he said now. ‘Lucy’s boy Peter was born out of wedlock so he’s nothing to Lionel.’ Which was true. If Dame Lucy bore Lionel’s child then he’d be heir. ‘Unless he just thinks Peter’s in his way,�
�� I said, ‘and he’s happy to be rid of him.’

  The truth was that anyone with a beating heart would’ve shouted out. There was something awry here, no mistaking, and though I wasn’t one to go poking into the doings of high ladies and lords it didn’t seem right to do nothing either. Oswald was clear. ‘You have to tell Dame Lucy, and Constance too,’ he said. ‘All the more so seeing as Lionel and Dame Lucy are to be wed. Who knows what he might do. Saying nothing is the devil’s road, no mistaking.’ It did seem the right way to go. And it would show me better in my angel’s eyes and help make up for my having pawed at Sister Lisa.

  Or so I thought. By then it was almost dinnertime and the rest of them were already gathering in the hall with their bowls, waiting for their bread and stew. Seeing Lucy and Constance were sat side by side, which seemed a blessing, I plucked up courage and started telling them about Lionel and Dobbe doing nothing, and though I tried to do it quietly somehow the place fell into a hush and everyone began listening. Dame Lucy and Constance were looking at me with wide eyes. Dame Lucy didn’t let me finish but turned to Lionel. ‘Is this true?’ she asked.

  Already I was beginning to wonder if I’d been a proper fool, and I thought of the old saying, rich folk’s justice is a penny to pay, poor folk’s justice is dangling from a rope. Lionel frowned like he was amazed. ‘But we all ran to the boys together,’ he said, giving a look that wasn’t angry but more sad and puzzled. ‘I’ve never done Tom any harm,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand why he’d say such a thing about me.’ It would have been better for me if he’d raged and shouted, as that would have made him seem guiltier. For a moment I had hope, when Constance asked her boy, ‘What happened, Paul? Did they all run to you together?’ but Paul just waved his arms. ‘I didn’t see,’ he said. Nor would he have. He’d have been too caught up in their fighting.

  ‘Well, Tom?’ Dame Lucy asked, looking at me. Somehow everything had turned around and now I was the one with fingers pointing at me. ‘Did you make all of this up?’ Dame Lucy asked. I tried to answer her, truly I did, but somehow all that came out was stammering, and though I hadn’t confessed one thing, I could see it looked like I had. What a fool I am, Sammo, I thought. As if Dame Lucy would take kindly to me slandering her beloved paramour. Now she gave me reasons for doing it. ‘Is there something you have against poor Lionel?’ she asked. ‘Or did you hope that by reviling him like this you’d make yourself look better in my eyes, and that I’d forgive you for what you did in the convent and give you back your fine clothes?’ That was worse for having a scratch of truth in it and I was stammering even more than before.

  If there was one blessing, and it wasn’t much, it was that there was nothing more I could lose seeing as I’d already lost it all after the sisters. But there was what I gained, which was shame. I swear as I sat at the table eating my stew and sops with the rest of them, I had my head bowed and felt like I really had told foul lies about Lionel. What if I’d been wrong about it all? What if the boys had only just gone close to the river a moment before I’d come out of the wood? Then it would be no wonder he hadn’t paid them heed. He was cheery enough now, making a great fuss of Dame Lucy, whispering in her ear, wicked things as I guessed, as she shrieked with laughter and pretenced to look shocked. Trust Hugh to make me feel worse. ‘Who did you think you were, King Edward?’ he asked me with a smirk. ‘A nobody, a poor planter, and bound too, pointing your finger at gentle folk.’ Oswald murmured that he was sorry, blinking and looking down at the ground. As if that was much use.

  That night I swear it was like I had a fever. I couldn’t bear the thought of walking on, shamed though I’d said nothing but the truth. I lay awake till at some hour in the dark I knew my mind. If she wants to believe Lionel then she can believe it without me, I thought. I don’t care how alone or in danger I’ll be, as it’s better than going on like this. I’d seen there was a fair moon shining so I took up my scrip and pack and staff, I went quietly from the dormitory and then I started down the road, and I never cared when clouds hid the moon’s face and I stubbed my toes on stones I couldn’t see.

  I don’t need any of them, Sammo, I thought. Though it was hard being alone. I’d never thought I might miss the sound of Oswald’s bagpipes but when I reached the next town I did. Waiting to fall asleep in a barn that night I had a little fight with myself. Perhaps they’ll all stop here, part of me thought, and they’ll be sad that I went off, and will be friendly now. But the other part of me said no they won’t. You’ve walked too far, having started so early, and they won’t stop here but at the village you passed through three hours back. And even if they did come here they wouldn’t be friendly. Dame Lucy will still think you a liar, Lionel will still give you sorry frowns, Hugh will still smirk at you and the ones who say they’re your friends will do nothing, just like before.

  At least begging was a little easier, as folk were sorrier for me now I was all alone. Not that I was rich but after a couple of days my scrip had a bit of weight to it, which was the first time in a good while. It wouldn’t pay back Sir Toby’s shillings nor anything like, but it was something. And in the end I wasn’t alone for long. By the second afternoon after I’d set out by myself the mountains were well behind me and the hills were growing rounder and softer looking, while the air had lost its cold touch. I walked into a village beneath a great castle and a local fellow pointed me towards a barn to sleep in, where I found six pilgrims already there, and so I met my new fellow journeyers. They all had mops of hair that were pale as straw and where they’d come from I couldn’t say as I couldn’t understand one word they said, nor they me, yet it didn’t seem to matter at all, as they were the friendliest folk you could meet. Instead of sidling away at the sight of my rags, like most folk did, they shook my hand and greeted me in that strange tongue of theirs, saying – so I imagined, as there was no way of knowing – ‘Good day to you, cousin, and how are you?’ They had a fire going and they made a place to warm myself and even gave me some bread and nuts and berries they had.

  These are kindly fellows, Sammo, I thought. I can’t see these coaxing me into wickedness with nuns or making me out a liar when I was telling God’s own truth. So we all had a most merry evening in a way, sitting round the fire, sipping a little kind of wine they had, which was sweet and tasty as could be. When we all got ready to sleep I thought, these fellows love their gear all right, my old beast, because they lay down all in a row with their cloaks rolled up as pillows and their hats above their heads by the wall, where nobody could reach them without stepping over and waking them. Then again it was nice-looking gear, no denying. Their cloaks looked thick and warm and so did their hats. Mine wasn’t up to much I knew, having been sewed by Auntie Eva, and Hugh had laughed at how it was all skewed, but, being taken with their ways, I followed them as far as I was able, making a nest for myself in the corner opposite.

  Waking up the next morning I dearly hoped they might let me tag along with them, as I liked having company even if I couldn’t understand what they said, but I needn’t have worried. They shared their bread with me as if I’d been with them for weeks and then we all walked together. So we passed the next few days, going through land that was hilly and then flat as a table. We took a ferry over a wide river whose name was Po, as I guessed, as that was what they said when I pointed at it and shouted, ‘What’s that?’ Though of course they mightn’t have understood and Po could’ve meant water, or river, or even fishes. Everything was growing different by the day and the game I’d played with Oswald wouldn’t have done now, as we passed trees I’d never seen before, let alone could name. The food was strange, too. In my stew I’d find little black fellows with pips in them, which were sharp and sour to the bite, and though I didn’t like them at first I grew used to them with time, till I quite liked their foreign taste. ‘Olivy,’ they were called, so said a monk when I asked him. It was often foggy in those parts, especially in the early morning, not so thick that I couldn’t see my way and would lose my step, but enough
that you couldn’t see far. This is good robber weather, I thought. Not that I had anything that anybody would much want. But, so you heard, if you had nothing some robbers would cut you just for thwarting them. So there was another reason I was glad to have company.

  We reached a place called San Donen, where there was hardly a house that wasn’t burned down so there must’ve been warring not long ago I guessed. It was no place to stay and we were just coming to the gate to leave, which was one of the few things that hadn’t been wasted, when three fellows who looked like they were the town watch blocked our way. I thought nothing of it, as all they wanted was to see our scripts, which happened often enough, when we were going over a bridge or into a town, and was to be sure we were rightful pilgrims. The mops handed them theirs, I did the same, the fellow with little beady eyes looked through them and gave them all back, and that’s that, so I thought. It nearly was, too, and who knows how the rest of my journey might’ve gone if it had been. But then I saw Beady Eyes was squinting up at one of the mopheads’ hats. Next he was holding out his hand to be given it, which the mophead wasn’t keen to do, but did. Beady Eyes started feeling the cloth with his fingers and then he had a wide smile on his face. Now he was shouting, the mopheads were protesting but they handed over their hats and their coats and so did I. Beady Eyes cut one of their cloaks with his knife and pulled out a big pebble of pretty yellow glass and then he started doing the others, too, till he had a whole bowlful of them. The mopheads went quiet then and we were all steered into the gatehouse and locked into a little room with one small barred window.

  I just wished I could understand what was going on. The mops were shouting at each other and especially at the one whose hat Beady Eyes had picked out. Then I had a worrisome thought. Back in Minster Father Dan told us once of the wicked folk in long-past days who worshipped stones and other devilish things, while Father Will had warned me that when I was in these foreign lands I must be watchful for folk who said they were Christians but who were really Satan’s whelps, having been lured by the fiend into devilish ways. Heretics and Cathars, they were called. Oswald had talked about them too, and had told us we must be careful who we talked to on the road. ‘You don’t want to end up being burned on a pyre,’ he’d warned. Had I been walking with a crowd of them? I wondered. That might be why they’d been so very friendly. As they all argued with one another I crouched in the corner, trying to keep as far away as I could, though, being a very small room, it wasn’t easy. I didn’t sleep much that night. Have they got my soul now, Sammo? I wondered when I woke. Have they given it to Satan and am I one of his own creatures? That put fear in me. I didn’t know how I’d even know.