by Paul Doherty
‘And the old church?’ someone asked.
‘As I have said,’ the Cook replied, ‘the old church has gone. A community of friars now occupy the site. Prayerful, holy men,’ he added, glancing sly-eyed at their own friar now filling his mouth with bread and meat.
‘And at High Mount?’ the Lawyer asked.
‘A beautiful, greystone church with a spire reaching to Heaven,’ the Cook replied. He waggled a dirty finger. ‘And, before you ask, Lord Richard lies buried before the high altar. As for the curse.’ He shrugged. ‘Lord Henry and Lady Isolda are in the best of health and the proud parents of five vigorous children.’ He paused, his face screwed up in puzzlement. ‘So, I am not too sure, Sir Priest, if your story is true. However, I do remember how Lord Henry and his young wife went on pilgrimage to France. They were gone for months.’
‘And the village?’ the Ploughman asked.
The Cook looked at this grey-faced labourer and then the ascetic face of his brother the Poor Priest. Were these really the two young priests who had come so many years ago to Scawsby? The cook’s memory had dimmed but sometimes he caught a glance, a look which jogged his memory, but he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to embarrass them. He smiled at the Ploughman.
‘Scawsby is a pleasant place, happy and prosperous. Father Melitus has been with us for many a year. A good shepherd who looks after his flock.’
‘Do you know something?’ The Wife of Bath got to her feet and put her broad-brimmed hat on her head. ‘When I was on pilgrimage to Cologne, I did hear about a famous veil which held the image of Christ’s own face. But,’ she gave her gap-toothed smile, ‘they are only stories.’
‘Well, come on.’ Sir Godfrey brushed the crumbs from his travel-stained doublet. ‘It’s time we were gone. We have to find the road again and, after such a chilling tale, perhaps the Miller can tell us a funny story?’
‘Yes,’ the Reeve snapped. ‘About a friar, hot and lecherous as a sparrow!’
Another squabble would have broken out but Sir Godfrey clapped his hands and Mine Host intervened. The fire was doused, the church combed to ensure they had left nothing. The pilgrims, chattering noisily, went out to collect their horses, already arguing over who would tell the next tale. The Poor Priest and the Ploughman remained by the fire, staring down at the blackened ash. Sir Geoffrey Chaucer came across.
‘You are, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘The priests, Philip and Edmund? Please!’ His merry eyes were now clear and solemn. ‘I won’t tell the rest.’
‘We are what you think we are,’ the Poor Priest replied. ‘More importantly is what we have become. My brother and I now live by digging the soil. We fast, we pray. We serve Christ and our flock. We turn no man away.’
‘Reparation?’ Chaucer asked.
‘Yes.’ The Poor Priest smiled, picking up his threadbare cloak. ‘A life of reparation for the sins of many.’
Chaucer nodded and, turning on his heel, went out to join the rest.
‘They were here last night, weren’t they?’ the Ploughman murmured.
‘Yes, indeed, I know they were.’
‘You know!’
The Poor Priest took his brother over to the far wall. The Ploughman looked at the pair of eyes which had been drawn in charcoal on the fading plaster; beneath were scrawled the words: ‘Spectamus te, semper spectabimus te! We are watching you, we shall always be watching you!’
