I knew why he was so vexed of course. I’d seen him stealing glances at Helena when she wasn’t looking, and I’d seen how he’d been when she taught him his letters, joyed and anguished both at once. He was going a little demoniac with it now, though. He started murmuring to us about an evening in an inn where we’d stayed along the way, where Sir John had been tidying out his pack and Tom saw him take out a long dagger. ‘He only took it out for a moment but I saw it clear as day and it looked sharp as sharp could be,’ he said. ‘Now tell me this, what would a pilgrim be doing with a dagger when the priests say that we’re not to carry any such thing? And we all know he hates those two for saying no to Gawayne and for being Jews. He was the first to push them out into the snow.’ As if Sir John having a dagger proved anything? ‘He’ll have brought it in case he meets trouble on the way,’ I said. ‘That’s what he’s like.’ I told him not to worry. ‘Mary and Helena will walk in here in an hour or two, you just wait.’ Then, when he started telling it to me all over again, as people do when something gnaws at them, I told him, ‘I’m sorry, Tom, but we can’t keep here gabbling all day. We’ve got churches to go to.’
The next thing to slow us was Christmas, because everyone said we must go back to Saint Peter’s, as going to mass on Christmas morn was worth seven years and seven quarantines from purgatory. That took hours of course, as the place was crammed right to the walls with pilgrims, much worse even than it had been the last time. Then we had our feast at the English Hospital, which took up most of the rest of the day. Not that it was much of a feast. I’d been so busy with churches that I forgot to get any food till the market was almost closed, and the only thing we found that looked eatable was a big bunch of carrots. Dame Lucy had bought quails and a goose but her cook Jack boiled them too long and the vegetables too, so none of it had much taste. My Paul said it was slippery on his tongue and wouldn’t touch anything except the barley bread.
Nor was there much in the way of gifts. That was another thing I’d given no thought to, sorry to say, so all I had to give them was tiny slices from a smoked sausage that I still had in my pack from England. I tried to make it seem more special by saying I’d brought it all the way from Thetford, though that wasn’t rightly true, as I’d actually got it on the road near Ongar. The three Sir Johns, who I guessed were no readier with presents than I was, gave everybody a sliver of Roman cheese, Warin and Beatrix gave us each half a little hard biscuit, but Dame Lucy gave all of us a silver penny, which was welcomed by everybody and especially by Ragged Tom. His starved face, which had looked glum till then, lit up like a candle. I thought he’d have nothing for any of us but no, he gave us each a little piece of broken glass. ‘It’s ancient pagan, of that I have no doubt,’ he said, and though they looked like pieces of a broken bottle to me I didn’t say so, as it seemed unkind.
That same evening he came pestering us about his Jews again, as they still hadn’t shown their faces, so the clerk of the hospital had given away their bed and locked their packs in the storeroom. Tom was so pensive about them that he’d got the clerk of the hospital, who spoke Roman, to go round the nearby shops and stalls with him and ask if anyone remembered seeing them go by on Christmas Eve morning, which was when they’d last been with us. As if anyone would know? One said he’d seen a fair maid with long black hair go by with another woman who was older, though they’d been in a party with two men just behind them, one taller than the other. He only remembered because they’d stopped at his stall and the fair maid almost bought a little icon. That meant nothing at all as far as I could see, but it was enough for Tom. ‘Gawayne’s taller than Sir John,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see? It was them, following Mary and Helena.’ ‘Let it be,’ I told him. ‘I’m sure Mary and Helena just decided to stay somewhere else. They probably decided they’d had enough of us all.’ But Tom couldn’t stop himself, and he started grumbling about how, bound and low though he was, he had a good mind to stand up in front of our whole fellowship and point his finger at Sir John. ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Joan said, ‘or you might find you get another look at his dagger.’
But after that we had all the hours we wanted. We went to so many churches that I lost count, and to mass so often that I always had the taste of Jesus’ flesh and blood on my tongue. Until, for the first time I could remember in many long years, I found I breathed a little easier. Not that my boy was saved yet for certain, but he might be, and there was no doubting that he was a lot closer to being saved than he had been before we’d got to Rome. After another week of churches and masses had passed, and then three days more, I began to wonder if it was time to think of going home. Paul was ready. ‘I’d like to sleep in my own bed,’ he told me, looking cheerier than he had for a good long while. And though Joan thought we should stay for a few more days, just to be quite sure, even she came round.
Nor was it only us, as it turned out. Oswald was ready to go home too, having done his praying for Damian the tailor. Not that he was glad about it, as he didn’t much like going back, so he told us. ‘I never know how long it’ll be before I find another poor fellow who wants me to go as a pilgrim for him,’ he said. ‘And it’ll probably only be to Canterbury or Durham or Oxford, which will seem a poor sort of journey after Rome.’
The others who were ready to go were Hugh and Margaret. I hadn’t been counting purgatory time but Hugh had. ‘Five hundred and ninety-three years and twenty-four days I’ve got now,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure I won’t even need half of that,’ though Margaret gave him a sideways sort of look. As for the road back, he’d heard we could take a way that kept to the coast, and though it was longer it would be safer, as we wouldn’t have to risk freezing to death on any mountains, which I’d be more than happy with, even if it meant more days of sore feet. So the six of us agreed to set out in a couple of days, when we’d got ourselves ready for the journey.
Dame Lucy was sorry. ‘I so hoped you’d all be here for our wedding,’ she said. But I was glad we were going and I was all the gladder the next day when sourness fell on her fellowship. The first I knew of it was when we got back from our last day of wandering round the city of Rome. We’d had new soles sewn on our boots, which they needed, being worn down almost to nothing from all those miles we’d walked, we’d got some grain and nuts for the road, and we’d managed a couple more masses too, and when we stumbled back, tired once again from all our walking, I saw Dame Lucy’s maidservant, Brigit, was sitting on the steps of the English Hospital, looking sad and sour. When I asked her what was wrong she just jabbed her thumb towards the hospital. ‘They’ll tell you,’ she said. Inside the hall Jack was cooking supper like usual but there was a foul feeling in the air that you could have cut with a knife. I heard Lionel murmur to Dame Lucy, ‘You had no choice, my sweet. You had to.’
When Margaret told us what it was all about I wasn’t surprised Brigit had looked sour. That morning when we’d been out, Dame Lucy hadn’t been able to find her favourite necklace, which was gold, so it was only natural she was troubled. Her party began searching round her bed and then when Lionel was moving Brigit’s pack out it fell. Of course Brigit denied it like they always did but then she made it worse for herself by trying to throw the blame on Lionel, saying it was all his doing, and that Dame Lucy shouldn’t trust him, as there was no good in him and he was like a sorcerer who had her under his spell. As if her mistress would look kindly on that. Dame Lucy demanded she beg Lionel’s forgiveness for saying such a wicked thing about him and, when Brigit refused, Dame Lucy told her she was no longer her maidservant and was no longer in her party, so she’d have to beg her way home.
Still it could’ve been a lot worse, as I told Margaret. ‘At least the necklace was found. And Dame Lucy didn’t call in the watch, which would’ve meant burning on the pyre for Brigit, or whatever the Romans do.’ I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her even after what she’d done. ‘They all do it,’ I told Margaret, ‘so it’s like they can’t help themselves, though it isn’t usually gold
necklaces.’ Then I told her about one whom Hubert and I once had, who ate a whole cooked partridge from the larder and then said that it had been devoured by mice, though we found all the bones under her bed. ‘We sent her out of the house that same day,’ I said. And Margaret told me of one she’d had who secretly ate two turnips and half a loaf of bread, though she and Hugh hadn’t sent her away but settled with giving her a good, sound beating and then starving her of food for a couple of days, so she paid them back in kind.
Another thing Dame Lucy demanded was that Brigit leave the English Hospital, though it turned out that wasn’t up to her but the hospital clerk, who said no, Brigit could stay if she wanted. That made for a sorry farewell feast for us, with Brigit sitting at the end of the table, looking doleful as she maunged on a sad bowl of gruel. But if the air felt murky from her misery at least the food was good. I’d bought some ham and cheese and fruit, including a strange Roman kind of pear that had little juicy red seeds inside that tasted sweet and bitter both at once. We had white wheat bread like gentle folk eat and Dame Lucy had got some eels and sausages, which we didn’t let Jack boil but cooked ourselves in a pan with oil so they came out very tasty, and Paul had seconds and thirds. That’ll keep him going for the journey, I thought. We said a good few toasts and I was nicely warmed when I went to bed, my head spinning a little but a smile on my face. As I lay down I thought, you’ve done well here, Constance. You did a wicked thing once but you’ve made up for it and repented. Now, finally, you can rest easy.
I swear it was as if the devil had been listening. I was just falling into sleep when I heard a groan from Paul in the bed beside me. It’s nothing, I thought. He’s just having a nightmare. ‘Calm now,’ I told him in a murmur, not wanting to trouble the others. ‘It’s only a dream.’ But he murmured back, ‘Ma, I don’t feel right.’ ‘It’ll just be the wine,’ I said, because he’d had a few swallows to join in with the rest of us and he wasn’t used to it. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘It feels more. . .’ ‘Then it’s the eels,’ I said firmly. ‘Eels can be trouble. They’re so rich.’ I’ll make it clear, I thought, and then I got up and I didn’t care who I woke. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked, shaking Hugh awake. ‘Not right in your belly after all of those eels?’ ‘I was fine until you woke me,’ he growled. Next I tried Joan and Margaret but they were both right as rain. ‘You’ve got a nasty cold,’ I told Paul, quite sternly. ‘It’ll pass.’ ‘It’s not that,’ he said, and then he was wheezing and gasping for breath as bad as I’d ever heard him. Don’t ask me why, as I couldn’t tell you, but I shouted out just as loudly as I was able, and not once but half a dozen times, ‘My boy is sick, my boy is sick.’ Joan jumped to her feet. ‘Not again, is he?’ said Hugh with a groan for my spoiling his night. I could’ve struck him.
Twice I feared my dear little lad was going, his wheezing was so strong, but in the end he lasted the night. Of course that was the finish of our leaving Rome. The next morning Hugh and Margaret and Oswald went and we stayed. I should have gone down to see them off but I preferred to stay in our bed where I could keep my eye on my Paul every moment. It just seemed right lying there. And it wasn’t like I missed them as they all came up to say their farewells. Oswald said how sorry he was that Paul was bad again and that he hoped he’d be well soon. Then they were all sorry, Warin and Beatrix, the Sir Johns and all the Dame Lucys. Which is kind of them I thought, though I didn’t love the way they’d crowd round talking so loud. I liked being alone and quiet now.
Joan didn’t think my staying in bed was right. ‘I don’t know why you’re still there,’ she told me a few days later. ‘Your boy’s almost himself again now.’ She said I mustn’t let myself feel cast down. ‘No sin is so wicked that it can’t be forgiven. You just haven’t tried hard enough, Constance, that’s all.’ I just needed more even than Rome could give. ‘Jerusalem, that’s your answer,’ she said. ‘Jerusalem’s seven times better than Rome. Here a pilgrim hopes that Saint Peter might get God to show him kindness but in Jerusalem it’s a promise made by God himself. Go there and your whole tablet will be wiped clean and you’ll start fresh again, like a newborn babe.’ Seeing me close my eyes she told me, ‘It wouldn’t be so hard. We’re already halfway there, remember.’ It turned out that, just from her own curiosity, she’d been asking about the journey there from pilgrims on the road who’d done it. It wasn’t dangerous these days, she said, even though the Saracens held the city, and there were plenty of pilgrims who went. There were two ways we could get there. We could walk on south to Brindisi, which was in the right direction for Jerusalem, and we could take a ship from there. Though the way she liked better was to go back north and go on a Venetian boat.
‘Their ships are famously commodious,’ Joan said. What was more their voyages included everything in one price, from the meals, which were very tasty, Joan had heard, to the poll tax that had to be paid to the Saracens, to hiring a donkey, to a guide to show you around all of Jesus’ holy spots and even to a little journey off to the River Jordan. ‘So though you pay more at the start you then have the gladness of knowing you’ll not have to give out a farthing more. And the Venetians are safer too. Because the Genoese and Pisans sometimes sell their pilgrims to the Saracens as slaves, so folk say.’ As for the cost, Joan knew it would be a good deal more than I had left on my money script from Winchester Fair but that wouldn’t matter. ‘Thank goodness I told you to bring your jewels,’ she said. ‘Sell those and you’ll easily have enough. And there’ll be nothing lost either, because when you’re back in Thetford you can sell another house and another shop and then buy some new jewels in their stead so the whole voyage won’t have cost you a thing. If you get a good price, you could even buy a horse and cart like Dame Lucy has, for us all to ride in.’
She said if we didn’t go then we’d be letting Paul down. ‘It wouldn’t be right,’ she said, especially after coming all this way. ‘If you don’t go on to Jerusalem then all your travails journeying here will be wasted.’ So I agreed we should go, though it was mostly so she’d stop talking so loudly in my ear, and I agreed we should go with the Venetians so we’d not be sold as slaves, which put a smile on her face. ‘But not just yet,’ I said then, ‘as I’m not ready.’ Though if truth be told I couldn’t have said when I would be ready as the thing that seemed rightest was to keep here in my bed. I dreaded having to get up and go down to the latrine and I’d put it off till I was close to bursting. When I finally went it felt like each step was taking me further from where I should be, and when my purging was done I was famished to get back to my place. Afterwards I’d just lie there for a long while, not moving even a finger or an eyelid, as there was nothing I wanted more than to keep absolutely still, with not a thought in my head.
More folk came to say their farewells to me, as our fellowship shrank ever smaller. Sir John finally got his script though it hadn’t taken a week, like the monk at Saint Peter’s had said, but almost a month and it hadn’t cost him sixpence but ninepence in English coin. ‘Now I’ll find out how much more land Abbot Simon has stolen from me while I’ve been away,’ he told me sourly on the morning the three of them set off. ‘Let’s hope there’ll be none stolen,’ I said, though it was hard for me to push the words out of my mouth, let alone feel much care. A day or two later Warin and Beatrix came up too, looking crabbier even than the Sir Johns had. They’d finally got what they’d sought and met a high cleric of the pope. Just like they’d hoped, God had spoken out from Beatrix’s mouth and told the clerk that the end of days were coming, and that he needed to tell the pope that his church was wicked and stinking, especially in Margate, where there were plenty who should be cast out as Satan’s chicks. But instead of being full of wonder and taking Warin and Beatrix to see the pope, like they’d expected, the high cleric told them it wasn’t God talking out of Beatrix’s mouth but the fiend, that Satan had them both in his paws, and that they must renounce everything they’d said and pay a fine for their slanders or they’d be tried for heresy an
d burned. Warin tried to argue but, not wanting to be burned, he’d paid up in the end, though the fine was so high that he had to hand over all of their silver and sell Beatrix’s donkey, Porker, too. No wonder they both looked crabbed. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I told them, wondering how long it would be before they left me in peace.
The ones who truly wouldn’t leave me in peace, though, were my own kin. ‘You can’t just lie there,’ my Paul would say, with tears in his eyes. ‘You have to get up.’ I was sorry he was anguished, of course I was, but I wished he might be less noisy, as his talking and talking gave me a headache. ‘I’ll get up in time,’ I’d say to quiet him, ‘but not today.’ Then he’d go on about how I wasn’t eating enough. ‘You’re wasting away,’ he’d say. ‘You can’t go on like this.’ Which wasn’t right. ‘I had some soup earlier,’ I’d say, as Dame Lucy was always getting her cook, Jack, to bring something up to me. True I hadn’t had much but then I found it hard to feel hungry. ‘You don’t know how thin and drawn you look,’ he’d say. ‘You need to eat and get stronger so we can get back on the road. Don’t you want to see your dear house in Thetford?’ What a lot of nonsense this was. ‘Of course I do,’ I told him, ‘and I will, too. But I’ll stay a little while longer here first.’
Pilgrims Page 26
