Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  Never in all my life was I so glad to hear my own tongue spoken as I was later that morning. First I heard a rattle of wheels in the distance, then the clop of horses’ hooves and finally, just as I’d hoped, I heard voices that had a dear, familiar drone to them. The moment I saw them I called out through the little barred window with all the voice I had, ‘Stop, my friends, I beg you. Come and help me. It’s Simple Tom and I’m to be burned as a heretic.’ I feared that, still angry I’d sneaked out in the night and left them behind, they’d pass me by but no, up they all came to the window. Even my angel Dame Lucy was friendly and, looking at me through the bars, she laughed and said, ‘Oh Tom, what have you done now?’

  Best of all it turned out I wasn’t a heretic after all. Father Tim talked in Latin to Beady Eyes, who had me brought out of the cell and pick out my hat and my cloak, which Beady Eyes had scissored open like all the rest, and I was let go. ‘Your friends are traders pretending themselves pilgrims so they don’t have to pay customs dues,’ Father Tim told me. He said the yellow stones weren’t false gods but a jewel that was called amber. ‘They shouldn’t have kept you,’ Father Tim said, ‘seeing as you had no amber hidden in your clothes.’ So I wouldn’t have been burned after all but just hanged perhaps. That was a gladful moment. Though, looking back, and seeing the mopheads all peering out of the little barred window, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them, who were still in jail and in fear when I was free.

  But what a joy it was to be back among my own fellows. I never even minded when Hugh made a sport of me, laughing at my scissored gear, which they all did, saying it looked like feathers and that I was like a chicken, and then telling me, ‘I swear there’s no end to your wickedness, Tom. First it’s lust with nuns, then it’s lying and now it’s journeying with felons and cheating the customs.’ I told Dame Lucy I was sorry I’d fled from them. ‘Now you’ll know not to do so again,’ she answered, quite kindly. And so I did. Nor was she the only one who was welcoming. Oswald said he’d been worried for me. But the best was Brigit. As we walked out of San Donen she took me a little away from the rest and told me in a quiet voice that she’d never much liked Lionel, though she’d tried her best to, as she’d wanted her mistress to have a righteous paramour for once, and not a low cur like all the rest. Then she said that when Lionel and Dobbe had first come to Dame Lucy’s manor, covered with mud and bruises, Lionel had said they’d both been chucked from their horses after a bolt of lightning struck a tree close by them. ‘But I thought it strange,’ she said, ‘because I heard no thunder that morning.’ And their horses were never found. Brigit said she’d half expected him to show a malign side like all Dame Lucy’s other curs had, and be found groping a brewster or bordel woman, but he’d stayed always very clean, and wouldn’t even lie with Dame Lucy, saying it wasn’t righteous, not till they were wed, which kept her famished for him. ‘But I saw him once in one of the inns,’ she said. ‘He’d caught a mouse from the straw and with one hand he was holding it by the tail and with the other he was pricking it with his dinner knife, making it squeal and squirm from the blade. I know it was only a mouse, but the way he smiled as he did it I didn’t like at all.’

  I hope Dame Lucy knows what she’s doing with him, Sammo, I thought. Then all I could think of was the climb, because I’d reckoned we were finished with mountains but it turned out that we had to go over some more now, which were called Apennines, Oswald told me. These weren’t so high as the Alps, which we’d got over easily enough, so I wasn’t much troubled, at least not at first, but as the hours passed I wasn’t so sure. It had been chilly down below in San Donen and with each step we climbed it grew colder. Then the sky turned dark, an icy breeze blew from behind us that I felt all the sharper because my cloak and hat were scissored, so it blew through three dozen holes, and I was shivering and my teeth were chattering. Oswald said there was a hospital on the pass, which couldn’t be too much further, so he thought, and I hoped he was right.

  But I saw no sign of any pass nor any hospital. The way grew so steep that the riders had to come off their horses and walk and then we were struggling with Dame Lucy’s cart just like we had at Saint Bernard’s pass, getting a second horse tethered to the front to pull while a crowd of us pushed from behind. And then it started to snow. D’you know, I think I laughed. Isn’t that just all we need, Sammy, I thought, which I shouldn’t have, I dare say, as it was just the sort of thing that will goad the devil. Before long it was coming down quick and thick, the horses were slipping and so were we. We stopped to change one of the two pulling the cart for another who wasn’t so spent. And don’t ask me how but nobody remembered to hold the cart from behind, and next thing I knew the beast who was still fettered was getting dragged backwards and reared up, the shafts came off him and the cart started rolling back down the road, slow at first but then faster till it was making a great rattle. And though we all ran back to try and stop him it was too late and he crashed clean into a tree.

  ‘You know what,’ said Dame Lucy, ‘we’ll just leave it. We’ll load everything onto the horses.’ Which hardly needed saying as the whole rear part was broke and both the back wheels were smashed to splinters. So we set to work in the snow getting everything onto the horses’ saddles, which wasn’t easy. What a lot of stuff she has, Sammo, I thought. She can’t ever have used half of it. Under the sacks of apples and such there were Jack’s pots and pans and there were boxes of plates and pretty knives and forks and spoons, which we had to tie on the saddles as best we could. There were two heavy little chests, which were bowls and plates Alwyn said. Worst was a huge one full of her gowns, which would have sunk any horse, so we had to empty it and put them all in sacks, though Dame Lucy wasn’t happy at all. ‘They’d better not get spoiled in the wet,’ she said.

  Finally it was done and on we went. It was easier without the cart but not much, as by then the snow was coming down so bad that we could hardly see a thing and I had little notion if we were on the road or no. Then, though, the slope ahead grew lighter with more sky showing, giving me hope, and Jocelyn, who had the sharpest eyes of any of us, for nuns and anything else, shouted out, ‘Look, over there.’ Following the point of his finger through the snowflakes, which were flying about like mad things, I saw a straight line going crossways, and then another straight line at the end going down. It’s the hospital, I thought. We’ll be all right now, my old beastie. Let’s hope they’ve got a good fire going and some stew hot and ready for our supper.

  I soon saw I was wrong. It was a building all right but the nearer I got the smaller it looked, and then I noticed a kind of dark smudge in the roof. ‘It’s a shepherd’s hut,’ said Sir John crossly. It wasn’t much of a hut either. The door was gone and the smudge in the roof was a hole, so when we got inside we had snow whirling down through it and there was quite a covering of it on the floor. If it had been left to me I’d have gone on, as all I could think of was that tasty stew I’d been dreaming of, while by then I was so cold that it was like I was wild and happy with it. But the moment Margaret got out of the wind she sat down in the corner. ‘I’m not taking another step,’ she said. Then Alwyn said we were probably so far off the road that we’d never find our way and might wander for hours and freeze to death in some hollow. His notion was to try and light a fire. He had a set of fire irons and a box and so did Oswald. There was some wood piled up in the corner and some kindling. We tethered the horses and Beatrix’s donkey and then piled up Dame Lucy’s things in the doorway to try and block it, though they didn’t make much of a door being mostly sacks. Alwyn climbed onto the roof and put some sackcloth over the hole, with stones on it to hold it down, though it flapped so loud that I was sure it would soon blow off, while we still had snow coming round Dame Lucy’s things and through the doorway.

  Alwyn and Oswald started working away with their fire irons, trying to strike a spark. They wanted some scorch cloth to catch, and can you believe it, Hugh said they should use bits off my shirt. ‘Just because it’s rags do
esn’t mean I don’t need it,’ I said, through my chattering teeth. The one who had plenty of cloth to spare was Dame Lucy, of course, and though she wasn’t keen, saying it was fine gear, in the end she gave us a couple of pairs of worn-out stockings, and Lionel, though he wasn’t eager either, gave us a set of his toe rags, which Oswald cut up into pieces with his dinner knife. Still I couldn’t see it going well. Whenever one of them struck a spark and it looked like the cloth had caught, the wind and snow would put it out.

  Don’t folk say if the devil’s bit you once he’ll bite again and then again? We’d lost the cart and lost our way, it was almost dark, the snow was coming down thicker than ever, so it was hard to think how things might grow worse but then they did. The first I knew of it was a shriek and then I saw Constance kneeling over her boy, who was lying very still and moaning, poor mite, and I saw he’d spewed on himself, his face was all swelled up so his eyes were closed and I could hear him struggling to breathe. ‘I can’t believe it,’ Constance moaned. ‘I was so sure he’d be all right till he got to Rome and could be saved.’ She started praying, Joan joined her and then everybody was, and not only for little Paul but for ourselves, too. I was as loud as any of them. ‘Please God,’ I called out, ‘make the poor lad better. Save our poor souls and don’t let us freeze to our deaths. All we want is to get to Rome and to do it for you, seeing as it’s your own holy spot. Please God, let me save my dear little beastie.’ Father Tim was praying in Latin, which God would like, I thought, seeing as that was what he spoke to his angels.

  And then, just when everything seemed so dark, something gave hope after all. I heard another sound beside moaning and praying, which was one note hummed again and again, and which I knew right away. It was Beatrix getting ready to be God’s voice. God’s help, that’s what we needed now all right, and if anyone would bring it to us it was her. Everyone stopped praying to listen and, aside from her humming and the roar of the wind, the hut fell quiet, and even Father Tim, who’d always sneered at Beatrix before, looked at her with wide, hopeful eyes. And there it was, his lovesome, sweet, croaky voice. ‘My dear children,’ he said, ‘I wish I could help you but I can’t.’ Everyone gasped and I could hardly believe it. Why have you come then? I thought. To scold us? But he wasn’t finished. ‘Because,’ he went on, ‘there are some here among you who pretend to love me but they lie. In their secret hearts they scorn me, and my dear son who gave his life for you all, and the sweet virgin too. Their curses have led you to this place and have made this poor boy sick. Until you cast them out from your fellowship I cannot help you.’ I was looking round now, trying to think who could do such a thing, and Constance said it aloud. ‘Who?’ Then the strangest thing happened. Though the light was dim I saw Beatrix’s finger point straight up at the ceiling and then come down again, moving this way and that ever so slowly, till it finally pointed at Mary and Helena. ‘Here,’ said God. ‘These aren’t my children. They’re Jews.’

  Jews? My thoughts were in a swirl like the snow. Mary let out a shriek. ‘That’s a lie,’ she cried out, but then Beatrix’s father shouted her down. ‘No it’s not. I saw you, Mary, early that morning on Saint Bernard’s pass, over by the latrine, arguing in foreign words with those two travellers who knew you. And they were Jews just like you. The clerk said so.’ Now Mary was spluttering. ‘Yes, they were Jews and we knew them long ago, but we’re not Jews, not any more. That’s why they were angry with us. We converted. We’re as Christian as any one of you. I can tell you my catechisms and prayers as I’ve learned them all, every one. And. . .’ But she got no further as Sir John let out a roar. ‘Jews! And you almost tricked us into letting my boy marry your godless daughter.’

  Now God was speaking again. ‘You must save yourselves and cast them out,’ he croaked. ‘And take their food and their cloaks. They won’t need them, as Satan will keep them fed and warm.’ That was enough for Sir John. ‘Out you go,’ he shouted, giving Mary a little shove, which made her shriek again. Jack the cook was at his side, Warin too, and I heard some others, I think it was Hugh and Margaret and Joan, add their voices to Sir John’s. ‘Out with you, out.’ I didn’t know, I just didn’t. It didn’t seem right but then God himself had said we must. Mary was wailing, ‘Don’t do this, I beg you,’ but Helena was strangely calm. ‘It’ll do no good, Mother,’ she said. Then, giving Beatrix a long, hard stare, she let her cloak drop from her shoulders and stepped round Dame Lucy’s things and out of the door, and Mary followed her.

  Down went Beatrix like a doll as she did when God had left her, and then in a confounded voice she was asking where she was and what had happened, so Warin told her. After that everyone sat there, very quiet. Alwyn scratched away with his fire irons to try to get a spark and the wind howled and moaned. Till somewhere in the din of it I realized that there was something else, a little whisper that might have been going on before, but had been too weak for me to hear. It was Constance’s poor boy, Paul. ‘It wasn’t them,’ he murmured. ‘They’re nice. They weren’t with us when I was sick before so it can’t have been them.’ Constance tried to soothe him. ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ she told him. ‘You’ll be all right now. Just lay still and rest.’ But he wouldn’t stop. ‘It’s not right,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Fetch them back.’

  And all of a sudden, don’t ask me why, but even though God himself had said so, I knew that Paul was right. ‘I’m going out to find them,’ I said. ‘No you’re not,’ said Sir John, but here was an odd thing, because his voice, which was usually strong as stone and had no doubt in it, didn’t sound sure of itself any more. It was like a little door had opened and let something in. ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Oswald. ‘And so will I,’ said Jocelyn. So it was the three nun treaders all together. Next it was Father Tim. ‘And me,’ he said. ‘They’re as Christian as us, whatever they used to be.’ He might’ve said that before, Sammo, I thought. But then I might’ve too. It just hadn’t come to me. It was like a kind of wave rushed in and swept you up. Then it was Brigit, as well. ‘I’ll come too,’ she said. And though Lionel said to Dame Lucy, ‘D’you think she should?’ Dame Lucy didn’t answer and Brigit went to the door with the rest of us.

  Oswald took Helena and Mary’s cloaks, which Beatrix had been using as blankets, and out we went. The wind hit me hard. The snow was still coming down fast and it was deep to step through, though the cloud had thinned so at least there was still a glimmer of light in the sky now. ‘Here, take this,’ said Oswald and he gave me Helena’s cloak. That’s a good warm bit of gear, Sammo, I thought, as it was better than anything I’d ever worn. But we could see no sign of them. We all called out, ‘Mary, Helena, where are you?’ as loud as we were able but the wind snatched the words right out of our mouths. This won’t do, I thought. We’ll never find them.

  Then Oswald tapped my shoulder. ‘Wait here,’ he shouted above the wind. ‘I won’t be long.’ You’d better not be, I thought, or we’ll all be snowmen when you find us again. The three of us stood there, getting colder and colder and wondering why, but then I heard a faint noise through the howl, and I swear that though it sounded like a moaning donkey, I never loved any sound better. There he was, blowing on his pipes and on we went. And though it took a good few steps, after a time we saw them, stumbling through the dusky white towards us. Though they were half frozen, and Helena said she didn’t even want to come, we gave them their cloaks and coaxed them back. And there was another miracle. You see, Sammo, I thought, that proves that God didn’t want them cast out. Because when we stepped back into the hut I saw a lovely red glow. Alwyn had got a fire burning.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Constance

  Of all the times God had punished me by striking my poor boy with sickness he’d never been so cruel as this. By dawn, as we made our way into the snow from that broken cottage, Paul seemed a little better, giving me hope. Dame Lucy put him on one of her horses, even though that meant her cook Jack had to carry some of the packs, which she said he must, God bless her sweet heart
. But then after half a mile Paul was tearing at his back again with his fingernails because it was so burning, he could hardly swallow a crumb of the honey biscuits I gave him so he’d have some strength and when he started wheezing bad we had to take him down from the saddle again and set him down onto the snow. I could hardly bear to look at him as he sat there, spluttering and gasping for his very life. Till slowly he grew better and we could go on.

  And at least God didn’t let us get lost. By midmorning we’d reached the hospital on the top of the pass and the moment we were inside I put my boy to bed, where he seemed tranquil. But within the hour he was retching and trying to catch his breath for wheezing worse even than before. Mary and Helena came up to see how he was, so I supposed they’d heard how he’d spoken up for them both, and though he smiled at them, Joan told them, and not friendly at all, that he was weak and must be left alone, so away they went. Then she told me that it was their secret magic that was keeping him sick, and she said something that was hard for me to bear, which was that my boy’s affliction was my fault, as if I’d only been sterner with Paul and done God’s bidding, and the Jews had been kept outside like he’d asked, Paul would be well again by now.