Pilgrimage of Death

by Sally Spencer

  So put yourself in their place, dear reader. Would you have been able to find the enthusiasm to tell an amusing tale to your companions when you knew full well that a murderer was riding no more than a few yards from you – and possibly no more than a few feet?

  Thus it was that the squire never told the tale of Canacee, nor did the manciple amuse us with his story of the white crow. Yet that is not to say that the final day of our journey was uneventful - at least as far as I was concerned. In fact, it was the most interesting and intriguing day of the entire pilgrimage to me. For having spent the previous days accepting events at face value, I was finally coming to see that very little was as it appeared to be.

  As I rode along, morsels of the truth – each as small and insubstantial as a dandelion seed – began to float across my vision. These I collected assiduously in my mind, and the more of them I had, the more I came to see them as individual parts of the whole. Thus, by the time we rode into Canterbury late that afternoon, I had almost the complete picture.

  *

  God truly moved in mysterious ways, I thought, as our caravan left Ospringe behind it. He could smite the wrongdoer from afar. He could cause a heart to cease beating at will. A plague of frogs descended on Egypt not because He had tipped the frogs out of a large celestial collection sack, but simply because He wished it to be so.

  Man, on the other hand, had nothing god-like about him. His mystery was no more than an unexplained truth. He smote not from a distance, but from so close that he could hear his victim’s gasp of terror. And being so close made him detectable. For however careful he was, he must leave a trail behind him as clear as any snail’s sticky slime.

  Who had left such a trail behind him the previous evening, I asked myself. At least three men had been absent at the latter end of supper – the friar, the monk and the summoner. There had been no sign of them, either, when the pardoner’s scream had brought the other pilgrims scurrying to his bedchamber door.

  The friar’s absence was easily explained – he was not there because he was fully occupied with being dead.

  But what of the others?

  *

  As the column left Ospringe, the monk, as befitted a man of his athletic disposition, was riding near the head of it, close to the knight and his squire. He did not seem particularly surprised to see me, but neither did he show any enthusiasm at my arrival, and when I signalled that we should detach ourselves from the caravan, he complied, but made it plain that this would not have been his choice.

  ‘Soon after supper last night, you left the inn,’ I said.

  ‘What of it?’ he demanded.

  ‘You know what of it,’ I said. ‘You are no fool. You must realise that when another man is found murdered and you cannot account for your movements, you must inevitably fall under suspicion.’

  The monk glanced down at his saddlebag. ‘I did not kill the friar,’ he said. ‘Nor did I kill the prioress or the miller.’

  ‘Then you can have no reason for objecting to answering my questions, can you? Where did you go when you left the inn?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular. I walked for a while. I like to walk when I am meditating.’

  Meditating, I repeated silently to myself. Meditating! It was very difficult for me to imagine a hearty, worldly man like this particular monk wasting any of his time on meditation.

  ‘What time did you return to the inn?’ I asked.

  ‘About midnight.’

  ‘But that was long after curfew. Weren’t you worried about being detained by the night watch?’

  ‘I did not even think about the night watch,’ the monk said. ‘My mind, as I have already explained, was on higher matters.’

  ‘And you are sure it was around midnight that you returned?’

  ‘Yes,’ the monk said, glancing down at his saddlebag again.

  ‘Then it is strange that I did not see you,’ I told him. ‘For I myself was keeping watch in the yard at around that time.’

  ‘Perhaps you fell asleep for a while, and did not even realise you had done so,’ the monk suggested.

  ‘The knight’s yeoman was also posted in the yard.’

  ‘Perhaps tiredness overcame him, too.’

  ‘If you were in your chamber at the time the pardoner was attacked, why did you not immediately come running to find out what had happened, as all the other pilgrims did?’

  ‘I am a sound sleeper,’ the monk said.

  And for a third time he looked down at his saddlebag, almost as if he felt compelled to check that it was still there.

  ‘What was this problem which taxed your mind so much that you did not notice where you were going, or even what the hour was?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a theological question which is probably beyond the grasp of your understanding,’ the monk lied.

  *

  The monk had been less than honest with me, I thought as we parted company, yet I could see no reason for him to have killed the friar.

  The summoner was another matter entirely. It was he who had argued with the friar during the wife of Bath’s tale. It was he, according to the pardoner, who was hoping to ingratiate his way into the widow’s bed. Was it possible, then, that killing the friar was no more than another step in that campaign?

  (‘The friar will insult you no more. Reward me for my pains by lying down on the bed and spreading your legs.’)

  Such a course of action seemed extreme, even for a man like the summoner, who dwelt permanently on the edges of extremity. Besides, I was convinced that all the killings had been delivered by the same hand, and when the miller was killed, the summoner had been with the pardoner - who himself had been the victim of the third attack

  My head ached with the complications that all these thoughts brought me, yet I could not help feeling that I was very close to an answer, if only I could point my mind in the right direction.

  I tried again. It would have taken two people to kill the miller – one to hold him down and a second to stick the red-hot iron up his arsehole. It would have taken two men to deal with the pardoner, one to carry out the actual attack, the other to deal with the yeoman.

  But which two?

  And why?

  The franklin drew level with me, and gestured that we should move a little away from the main party.

  ‘I am troubled by the death of the friar,’ he confessed, his usual complacency - for once – absent. ‘Why should he have been killed? He told no tale which involved death. He mentioned no stabbings. He should not have died.’

  ‘Perhaps the beadle was right, and his murder had nothing to do with the other deaths,’ I suggested, for though I was far from believing that myself, I was no longer sure that I could trust the franklin.

  ‘The pardoner should have died,’ the landowner said, more to himself than to me. ‘The pardoner was meant to die.’

  But was he? I wondered. The killers had effectively dispatched three of our party, so why had they botched their attempt to murder the pardoner?

  Perhaps because they had never intended to kill him – had staged the attack for some other purpose entirely!

  And it was at this point, I believe, that I first grasped the loose thread which was to lead me to the heart of the conspiracy.

  *

  The wife of Bath rode a little apart from the pack. I would once have found it strange that such a sociable woman would act in this manner, but the further I descended into this mystery, the more I was able to draw a distinction between what was strange and what was merely unexplained.

  She must have noticed that I had drawn level with her and was matching the pace of my horse to hers, yet she chose not to acknowledge the fact.

  ‘You cannot ignore me forever, madam,’ I said.

  Nor could she. She knew that as well as I. But yet she was not yet prepared to surrender without at least some show of defiance.

  She glanced at me for no more than the briefest of moments, then turned haughtily away.

  ‘Afte
r what occurred between us last evening, I am surprised that you would allow yourself to get so close to me again,’ she said disdainfully. ‘Are you not afraid that I will try to force my unwanted affections on you again?’

  ‘Not while we are surrounded by so many people,’ I replied. ‘Besides, there are questions I need to ask you.’

  The widow flicked her head back. ‘And if I refuse to answer them? What will you do then?’

  ‘Then the moment we reach Canterbury, I will ask the beadle to take you into custody.’

  ‘And you think he will?’ the widow asked, putting on an unconvincing show of scorn and indifference.

  ‘I am sure of it,’ I told her. ‘For you are not important enough to be above the law, and any beadle worth his salt would relish the possibility of claiming the glory for solving two murders.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with the deaths!’ the wife protested.

  ‘Perhaps that is true,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps you didn’t – at least, not directly. Yet though you may not even know it yourself, you hold part of the solution in your hands.’

  The widow’s shoulders sagged a little. ‘What is it you wish to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Why did you seem so confused when I said you had spent two nights with the squire?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Perhaps it is because I had forgotten for a moment that we had spent two nights together,’ the wife of Bath said hopefully

  ‘Or perhaps it is that you have a big heart.’

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ the widow said, without much conviction.

  ‘The night the miller was killed, the squire was with you,’ I explained, ‘and so it is not possible that he could have had anything to do with the murder. But he was not with you the night the prioress was killed, was he?’

  ‘No,’ the wife of Bath agreed reluctantly. ‘He was not.’

  ‘Nor was he with his father, the knight. So where was he?’

  ‘I don’t know for certain,’ the wife of Bath said.

  ‘That is probably true,’ I replied. ‘But he did speak to you about it, didn’t he?’

  The widow sighed. ‘He came to me after the prioress’s body had been found and asked me to say, if it proved necessary, that we spent the night together,’ she admitted. ‘And I agreed to do it, because I did not think that a sweet boy like him could have had anything to do with a cold-blooded murder. Is that all you wish to know? Are you content now?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Why did you try to coax me into your bed?’

  ‘Most men would not have asked that question,’ the widow replied. ‘Most men consider themselves so attractive that it seems to them perfectly natural that any woman they meet should want to bed them.’

  ‘But I am not most men,’ I countered.

  ‘Yes, I am coming to realise that,’ the widow said thoughtfully.

  ‘So why did you set your cap at me?’

  ‘I do not like to be an empty well, and any man’s bucket being, more or less, like any other man’s, I am not over-particular who dips in me. I thought that you would serve my purposes, and that you would have no objections, since your bucket must have been dry for quite some time.’

  ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘I assumed that since your wife is in Spain…’

  The widow stopped suddenly, as if she thought she had said too much.

  Which indeed she had!

  ‘How did you know that my wife is in Spain?’ I demanded.

  ‘You must have told me.’

  ‘I am sure that I did not.’

  ‘Then perhaps I overheard some of the other pilgrims talking about it.’

  ‘They could not know either, since I have mentioned to none of them that my wife is travelling.’

  ‘You must have mentioned to one of them,’ the widow insisted. ‘For how else would I have gained the knowledge?’

  ‘How else indeed?’ I agreed. ‘You have been truthful with me concerning the squire. Do you not think you should be truthful with me about the other things as well?’

  ‘I have told you all I know,’ the widow said stubbornly.

  ‘I do not think that you have.’

  ‘Then I have told you all I am going to tell you,’ the widow said. ‘If you wish to have me arrested once we reach Canterbury, there is nothing that I can do to stop you. But neither you, nor anybody else you might employ to question me, will get one drop more of information out of me.’

  And having had her say, she prodded her spur into her mount and pulled ahead of me.

  In my youth. I might have pursued her and demanded an answer then and there. In middle age I had acquired enough wisdom to know that such a course of action would be pointless, for while it is sometimes necessary to lay siege, the wise commander does not do so until his catapult is supplied with sufficient ammunition - and at that moment I had not a rock to call my own.

  From where then, would I find the ammunition I needed?

  From the other pilgrims? That seemed unlikely, for those who could help would say nothing, and those who could not would know nothing.

  I needed to go beyond the pilgrimage, I decided. I needed to break away from this tight-knit circle in which I had been living, and take what I was coming to regard as my ‘investigation’ out into the wider world.

  And how could I hope to do that, reader?

  You already know the answer, if you will only pause and think about it for a few seconds.

  *

  It was half an hour before we came upon an inn. The host suggested that we break our journey there, and while none of the pilgrims showed much enthusiasm for the idea, neither did they seem to have the will or the energy to oppose him.

  We sat outside again, but though we shared tables, we shared nothing else. It was as if each pilgrim had become a little city-state and, fearful of his neighbours, hunkered behind his walls in the hope that he would go unnoticed.

  Another half an hour passed, and the host announced it was time for us to move on. The pilgrims rose from the table and walked back to their horses. Several of them had already mounted when they noticed that I had remained where I was.

  ‘We go on, Sir Geoffrey,’ the host said.

  ‘Perhaps you do,’ I agreed. ‘For myself, I have a bubbling gut again, and will tarry here a little while longer.’

  ‘Is this, then, goodbye?’ the host asked.

  ‘No, I will catch you up further down the road,’ I told him.

  How many of the pilgrims believed me? Not more than I could count on the fingers of one hand. To that point I think I had avoided their suspicion as much as any man might. Now, by appearing to be making ready for my dash for freedom, I had all-but confessed my guilt.

  I was the murderer, they told themselves. I had completed my bloody task, and now I was about to cut and run.

  ‘We will wait while you visit the thunder-box,’ the host told me.

  ‘Then you might have to wait for some time,’ I answered, ‘for while I plan to purge myself, my body is not yet willing to work with me.’

  From the expressions on their faces, it was clear that several of the pilgrims contemplated insisting I remain with them. But their resolution did not stay with them long, for they soon realised that if I refused, there was nothing they could do. Besides, they had no real faith that even were I the murderer, I would ever be brought to justice, so perhaps it was just as well that I leave them now.

  The franklin, of course, was the exception to this line of thinking, and as the rest of the pilgrims set off again, he trotted his horse over to the table.

  ‘What game do you think you are playing, Sir Geoffrey?’ he demanded.

  ‘Game?’ I repeated innocently. ‘It is no game. As I told our worthy host, my stomach is upset.’

  The franklin shook his head in disbelieving disgust. ‘I am gravely disappointed in you,’ he said. ‘To have worked as a team thus far, yet to have you abandon me now, shows v
ery poor spirit on your part.’

  As if he had never sought to steal a march on me! I thought. But it would have served no useful purpose to point it out then.

  ‘As I said, my bowels are on fire,’ I told him.

  Was it only pique which made me exclude the franklin from my new line of investigation?

  No – although I will not deny there was a slight element of pique present.

  The fact was that I had decided that if I worked with anyone, it would have to be a man with flexibility of mind. And the franklin, obsessed as he was with the idea that those who described death in their tales would die themselves in a similar manner, did not possess such flexibility.

  In truth, I would no more have thought of including the franklin in my plans than I would have left the guildsmen’s cook to guard a brewery or charged the wife of Bath with protecting my nephew’s virginity.

  Day the Fifth

  Afternoon

  It was only a short time after the pilgrims had departed from the inn that - as I had anticipated - I saw the two riders approaching. One had fair hair, the other’s was dark. I had seen both of them at close quarters, of course - in Dartford - but then the dark haired one’s face had been hidden within a leper’s hood. Now that it was not, I noted that, apart from hair colouring, there was very little to distinguish them from each other - for both rode with the assurance of professional horsemen and both had the large noses and curl of the lip which denotes men who have been born into privilege.

  At first they pretended not to notice me, but when I stepped out into their path that was no longer possible.

  ‘Why do you block our way, fellow?’ the dark-haired one demanded haughtily.

  ‘Why have you been following our pilgrimage ever since we left Southwark?’ I countered.

  ‘You are mistaken, good sir,’ the fair-haired one said, speaking more gently than his companion had. ‘We have not been following you at all. Now please let us pass.’

  I did not yield ground, but glanced down at the dark-haired man’s saddlebag. ‘What have you got in there?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘A change of clothes. My tankard. A book of poems. Nothing more.’