“I recall some far-off thing –”
“The churchyard has now been hemmed about. Where the houses stand in that part of Candlewick, there was once a good fair space. It was Midsummer Eve, some two hundred years ago, when certain young people of that parish began their revels in the churchyard there. In those days, as in ours, dancing and jumping were forbidden in the ground of the church; yet they were busy with pigs on the back, tugs of war and other such flim-flams. The priest came out among them and commanded them to bring their unholy assembly to an end. ‘Have peace!’ he called to them. ‘Have peace!’ They were as hot as toast, but he determined to cool them. He reminded them that they had strayed into a churchyard with their noise and banners. ‘Hold your tongues,’ he said, ‘and let our neighbours under the soil continue their rest.’ But these buffoons, these gay horses, held hands and danced around him. They mocked him as the Jews once did Christ. The poor priest then took a crucifix from his bosom and, holding it before them, solemnly cursed them to the effect that they would dance all summer, and all winter too, handfasted until the end.”
“It was a strange curse.”
“Yet it was efficiens. The youths could not stop their dancing. They could neither eat nor drink, but they could kick and leap. They cried out for rest, but their legs and feet still moved in faster and faster measures. So their nights and days passed. They wailed like the wind, but they could in no wise help themselves. A father of a dancer made to pull her away from the ring, but his arm was wrenched from his body. The year passed, but the priest’s malediction did not pass. They were still in continual motion. The dancers gradually sank up to their waists in the ground. The clay was clinging to them. The earth of the churchyard was soon over their heads, yet still the people could hear them dancing. Some say that the dead had joined them in their revelry.”
“Terrible indeed.”
“Others say that they are dancing still.” The monk paused in order to turn a page of De situ et nominibus, and examined an illumination of some ancient walled city. He noticed in particular a procession of its citizens issuing from one of its gates, holding aloft gitterns and cymbals as if they were on their way to some sacred shrine. “That is what I hear wherever I go, Sir Miles. The dancing under the ground.”
“Is this held to be true, or commonly reported as a fable?”
“Who can say?” The monk turned the page again, and saw the outline of a beast tale. Reynard the Fox had been tied by Couard the Hare, and was now being dragged to judgement before Ysangrin the Wolf by Chanticleer the Cock and Pinte the Hen. The wolf held up a spherical object, like an astrolabe, in which a spiral pattern seemed to circle endlessly. “If the past is a memory, it partakes of a dream. If it is a dream, then it is an illusion.”
Sir Miles Vavasour left the abbey of Bermondsey soon after, turning his horse north-west towards London Bridge. He was jostled by crowds as he went across the bridge, and their smell seemed to linger above the river; his horse had difficulty in moving between the carts and wagons, but when it reached the road on the other side it broke free. Quite by instinct Vavasour galloped along the bank to Old Swan Stairs, and then continued northward up Old Swan Lane towards the church of St. Lawrence Pountney. He had barely recalled the legend of the doomed dancers; it was for him one of those dim far-off things which he associated with his childhood, like those stories which began “In old days there was a man . . .” He came out at the corner of Candlewick Street, which Jolland had described as part of the old churchyard. In its place now was a row of houses, a stable owned by a hackney-man, a saddler’s shop, and a tavern called the Dog on the Trot. He could hear music in the air, and the sound of someone singing “This world is but a whirligig.” The noises were coming from the tavern. Vavasour rode up and bent over his horse to look through a little mullioned window; he saw a circle of revellers, holding hands and dancing in a ring.
Chapter Twelve
The Manciple’s Tale
“There shall be youth without any age. There shall be fairness without any spot of filth.” It was Lammas Eve, the last day of July. “There shall be health without any sickness. There shall be rest without any weariness. There shall be fullness without any wanting. There shall be worship without any villainy.” William Exmewe was addressing the predestined men, in the style which he had subtly fashioned for them.
He praised Garret Barton for his pinning of the Eighteen Conclusions on the Si quis? door; the killing of the scrivener was an unlooked for benefit, since the words would be easier read by the light of his death. “The floodgates are up,” he told them, “and all goes forth. When the pattern of the five wounds is complete, then shall we see the day of challenge and of wretchedness, the day of darkness and of mist, the day of high cloud and whirlwind, the day of trumpets and noise. He shall come in majesty; that is in great brightness, full comfortable to His friends and His darlings. But where shall we fix our sight next? In St. Sepulchre the doom is to be delivered.”
St. Sepulchre was the popular name of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre Without Newgate; it was the largest parish church in all London, even though it stood close to the prison of Newgate. Newgate was so noisome itself that, it was said, the rats ran from it; it had acquired a strange power over its neighbourhood, and its stench lingered in the alleys and doorways as a continual token of the gaol fever. It made the bones ache. The cries of the prisoners could sometimes be heard, and the whole area had become known as “the assize.” It was no wonder that the church beside Newgate should bear the name of the sepulchre – but from this tomb no one could be resurrected.
“This is our text,” Exmewe was saying, “all is well that ends well. The first two wounds have been opened with the help of Almighty God. Now, with the help of the same, go to the third. The oratory was wonderfully burned by hand; this one must be engined.” He showed them a manuscript, entitled The Book of Fire for Burning Enemies, in which was explained the means of fashioning a balle de fer which would cause a great explosion. A hollow lead sphere was filled with gunpowder, and then wrapped around with leather; this ball was then placed in a box or chamber which contained the charge and was kept in place by a wedge. It were necessary only to remove the wedge and, lo, Greek fire would spread within the church. There was little danger. “Yet you know,” Exmewe continued, “that we are eternal in the knowledge of God. We are materia prima created in the beginning of the world. We are freed from all harm. Robert Rafu, God is here! His will is that you have the chief governance of this matter.”
The manciple sighed, and looked at the others as if for mercy. “This comes sooner than I looked for.”
William Exmewe saw the fear on Robert Rafu’s face, and exulted. He had chosen well.
After the predestined men had departed, he walked back with Rafu to the common stable where their horses were tied and watched. “Be comfortable, Robert. God will be with you.” He observed the manciple carefully. “Are you comfortable?”
“Is the moon made of calves’ skin?”
“This is a hard matter.”
“As hard as adamant.”
“But it can be softened somewhat.”
“Signifying?”
“What is done can be undone. If the shoe does not fit, it can be slipped off.” Exmewe had baited the trap, and now stepped back.
“Whoever can relieve me of this burden is my good friend.” Rafu stopped in the street. “If my fate is ordained then I will suffer it, but I can serve the faith in many other ways.” He spoke more eagerly now. He was wearing the hood of his habit over his head, but now he shook it off. “If I were to be destroyed in this matter, there would be a huge din and much searching after causes. The manciple of Paul’s is a high office –”
“I know it.”
“Any moot or inquest would be a long one.” He stepped aside as two men crossed between them with a ladder. “Will you show me your will in this matter?”
“There is a boy of mine. One Hamo. One of God’s simple creatures, without t
hought. He may be persuaded to carry the mechanism to St. Sepulchre and to unlock the fire. Would your mind be easier then?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then you must speak with him. We will meet this evening, before the sun declines.”
Exmewe had known that the manciple would wish to avoid the task that he had set him. Despite his brave faith as a predestined man, Robert Rafu was of a fearful disposition and easily discouraged. He was a heretic, but no martyr. Exmewe had already decided that Hamo must be sacrificed. The boy knew too much. Exmewe’s fears had in recent days been mightily increased, ever since he had learned that Hamo had visited the nun of Clerkenwell. Exmewe knew this because he had been informed by the bailiff of the House of Mary, an acquaintance who had been seasoned with gifts of cloth and pottery from the abbey’s store. Exmewe did not know what had passed between boy and nun; but he suspected much. They were both children of darkness, born out of wedlock, and there was no doubt a bond of secret sympathy between them. If Hamo had mentioned the death of the tooth-drawer, would she have told him that the man still lived? Or had Hamo sought for simple absolution? Had he betrayed the predestined men? Had he overheard secret matters concerning Dominus? The sweat came out of Exmewe’s body, hot and pungent before turning cold; it poured from him, as if he wished to be dissolved.
In fact the boy and the nun had said little to one another. The mystery of their lives was too great for many words between them. The nun knew of Hamo’s origins, and had asked for his blessing. This had astounded him but, before he could stammer out a reply, she put her finger to his lips. “Not from your mouth,” she had said. “From your loneliness.”
“How do you know of me?” he asked at last.
“Your sorrow is the angel that I see. You do not know why you came into the world.”
“And do you?”
“I was summoned, Hamo Fulberd.”
They had sat in silence for a while. “There is a place called Haukyn’s Field,” he said. “A great bare field only –”
“Where you walk the ground and weep? It is the place of your conception.” She bent over and touched his knee. “It is said by some, Hamo, that God has given life out of forgetting or neglectfulness. That He is bored by his Creation. Others say that He multiplied humankind so that He might outwit the demon, like a gamester who piles up lead tokens in a game of hazard. The more souls, the harder the labour to ensnare them.”
“I am like to be ensnared. There is one called William Exmewe –”
“Hush. I know of him.” Once more there was silence between them. “We say in English, Hamo, that we feel a man’s mind when we understand his intent or meaning. When the same is very dark and hard to be perceived, we do commonly say ‘I cannot feel his mind.’ That is not my case. I can feel your mind.”
“How do you, when I cannot find my own mind?”
“Feel.”
“When I cannot feel my own mind? All is in darkness.” And, with these words, he left her.
Now Exmewe was planning his fate. If Hamo were successful in the firing of St. Sepulchre he would be a wanted felon; if he were taken in the attempt, Exmewe would cast blame upon the nun. If Hamo were to die, well, what cannot be mended must be ended. Need knows no law. And so he invited the manciple to have conference with Hamo that evening, at dusk, by the bank of the Fleet.
Robert Rafu rode along the Thames to the meeting place. The wives of the citizens were fetching and taking up water, or washing their clothes, as they had done for time out of mind. Children stripped and plunged into the river, their harsh shrieks leaving Rafu uneasy. There were two or three groups of foreign merchants talking earnestly to one another. But Rafu did not need to approach them to understand their expressions and their gestures. In the last several days Henry Bolingbroke had ridden across the north and had acquired a great army; the keeper of England during Richard’s absence in Ireland, York, had surrendered to him in the parish church of Berkeley. A week ago King Richard had finally landed in Wales, but his support was weak. Would battle now be joined? The merchants were concerned for their ships, already sailing towards the Port of London. One of them spat upon the ground, but it seemed to Rafu that the man was spitting at him. He hastened north towards Clerkenwell.
When he arrived by the saffron fields on the west bank of the Fleet, he saw William Exmewe holding the arm of a young man and remonstrating with him. Exmewe noticed Rafu and waved. The young man had his back turned and was staring down into the running water.
“Here is Rafu,” Exmewe said. “One of the good men.”
Rafu dismounted, and they started to talk intently.
Exmewe put his hand upon Hamo’s neck. “I have told Robert Rafu that you are as fit for this purpose as any man I know. That is the truth, is it not?”
“William Exmewe tells me, Hamo, that you are a faithful man.”
Hamo looked from one to the other, and said nothing.
Exmewe was angered by his silence. “What else is there for you upon this earth? You are already marked.” The boy was silent. “The tooth-drawer rots in his grave. If I were to surrender you, your life would be forfeit.”
Then Hamo smiled. It was a smile of recognition. Suddenly he saw the shape of his destiny. He saw the whole web of his fate shimmering before him. What had seemed hard now became simple; what had been confused was clear. The nun had told him that she had been summoned. And this, too, was his purpose. He must accept his hard fortune: that was all. He had been born for trouble in this world, and must embrace it. There was no more to say.
“See,” the manciple said. “You are already of good cheer. God give you grace, and all will be well.”
“This boy is as still as a lamb which recognises its master,” Exmewe said. “It is time, and more than time, to requite me for all my past kindness to you. I pray God, Hamo, that you bring this matter to a good end.”
Hamo walked away from them and once more looked at the course of the Fleet, as it flowed down to the Thames before it reached the open sea. “Well,” he said. “He must needs swim that is borne up to the chin.”
The manciple rode back to St. Paul’s in high spirits. He had been relieved of a difficult and dangerous task. There had been the prospect of death or maiming. If he had been taken up, there would have been the certainty of Murus, the wall or perpetual imprisonment. As a predestined one he knew that he was part of God’s breath and being, but this knowledge was tempered by the painful experience of the flesh in which he presently served. Robert Rafu was a practical man, or a “useful man” as he was called by the canons, but his successful conduct of the cathedral’s affairs was based upon indifference and dislike. He despised the beliefs of the Church. He knew that its pardons, and other of its trumperies, could be bought and sold in Lombard Street as you would buy and sell a cow at Smithfield. You could pay for time in purgatory as men bought twopenny pies in Soper Lane. As for the sacrament of the Mass, well, the little mouse will eat the wafer and profit nothing from it. The so-called sacred wine waxed sour and stank, just as the holy water which had lain too long in the font.
He had ridden close to the north gate of the cathedral, when he saw the glare of torches raised in the air; several clerks and canons had gathered in the churchyard, and were examining something lying upon the ground. Their voices were raised; whether in excitement, or fear, the manciple could not tell. He dismounted and walked over to them with his usual soft tread. A pit, or hollow, had opened in the ground a few yards from the north porch. The master of the novices came up to him and murmured, “A child fell. The earth suddenly gave way and behold –” Rafu stepped closer to the pit and could see the outlines of a shallow walled grave. Lodged within it was a coffin of ancient shape, some eight feet in length. The upper part had decayed, and a great skeleton could be seen. At first sight, it seemed to be the skeleton of a giant that roamed the earth before the Flood. Yet on its right side lay a small chalice, covered with a patten, and a piece of silk or linen wound around its stem. On its left sid
e were the remains of what was clearly a bishop’s crozier. But what giant bishop was this? Rafu peered into the dust around the thigh-bone of the body; there was a ring, glinting in the torchlight. He lay down upon the ground, and reached into the pit. When he had retrieved the ring, he saw at once that the emerald stone at its centre had been embellished with a curious device; it was that of five circles within a circle.
Chapter Thirteen
The Summoner’s Tale
The physician, Thomas Gunter, observed the Mother of Christ presented pleasantly by the Kings of Cockaigne. A gallant young man, piping and singing, was standing on a cloud called Spring. A verse, painted in red letters upon a long strip of parchment, was hanging from this cloud:
“With these figures showed in your presence
By diverse likenesses you to do plesaunce.”
On a gaudily painted stage, carried by six porters, were two citizens playing Providence and King Richard II; they were embracing and kissing as they processed down Cornhill. The stage was followed by a pageant wagon, drawn by two horses with gay gilt saddles and shining bridles. Gunter, his eyes alert and bright, saw everything clearly. The wagon contained a great coloured model of the cosmos, with naked boys positioned upon the glittering circle of each sphere. Close behind them was a young man riding upon a platform with his arms and legs tied; he was wearing a white leather costume, borrowed from Adam of the mysteries, upon which numbers had been painted. Beside him stood one dressed as an astrologer, in long furred cloak and hood, who sang out to the crowd, “What solemn subtlety is this? It is the subtlety of figures.” Gunter could scarcely hear him, however, above the din of the minstrels who walked between the wagons and the stages with harps and fiddles, bagpipes and gitterns, strings and trumpets, bladders and tabors, hurdy-gurdies and pipes. It was the feast of the midsummer watch, on the Vigil of the Assumption, when the might and glory of the city were celebrated.
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