‘She asked you to spend the night with her?’ I suggested softly.
The priest bent his strong neck, and nodded again.
‘But you refused?’ I asked.
‘Of course I refused!’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She … she laughed in my face. She told me that if I were fool enough not to take her honey pot when it was offered, there were others who be only too eager to seize the opportunity in my place. I thought, at the time, that she was only saying that – as wicked as it was – to save her face.’
‘But she wasn’t?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Certain. I slept badly that night. I was tormented by what had passed between us, you understand, because even though I had not agreed to do as she wished, I had wanted to! Finally, unable to fall asleep even for a short time, I rose from my bed and went to her chamber.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I wanted us to pray together for guidance and forgiveness. As I was about to knock on the door I heard a cry from within – a cry such as I have never heard before – and I knew that she had done what she had threatened she would do.’
‘What did you do then? Go back to your own chamber?’
‘Yes. It was weak of me, but I did not know what else was I to do?’
‘And that is why your three nuns were up so early in the morning? Because they hoped to catch sight of a man leaving their prioress’s chamber?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Do you know the identity of this man?’
Again, the priest shook his head. ‘I could not even begin to imagine who he might be.’
And perhaps, cloistered cleric that he was, he was telling the truth. But I had seen enough of the world - and of these pilgrims - to believe that I could be almost certain who it was that had made the prioress scream in a way that the priest had never heard a woman scream before.
*
What a picture the knight and squire had presented to the world as they had ridden out of Southwark side by side at the start of our pilgrimage! It must have been clear to all who saw them that they were two men bonded not just by blood, but also by love and respect. It must have been apparent to even the dullest of minds that they were comrades in arms, and that each would put his life in the other’s hands without a moment’s hesitation. But much had happened since that first hopeful day – much which could drive a wedge between any two men, however close they may have been – and now, while they could not in truth be said to be riding apart, neither, with any accuracy, could they be said to be riding together.
I reined in my horse beside the squire’s. ‘Are you surprised to see me here?’ I asked.
‘Not particularly, but then…’ the squire began.
‘Or is the only surprise the fact that it has taken me so long to realise that you are one of the keys which will help to unlock the mystery?’
The squire looked around him wildly, to see if the knight was close enough to hear.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ he asked, almost in a whisper. ‘I think you must have, for all you speak now is gibberish.’
‘If you are going to lie, then at least study the pardoner first, so you can learn how to do it well,’ I told him.
‘I have told no lies,’ the squire protested.
I sighed. ‘What would you rather do, young sir?’ I asked. ‘Talk to me now? Or talk to me later, when your father is present?’
The squire rocked in his saddle, as if he had been struck by an invisible bolt of lightning. ‘I … I…’ he gasped.
‘The choice is yours,’ I said.
‘What is it you wish to know?’ the squire asked, defeated.
‘You seem to me to be a young man who will plough a new furrow whenever you are given the chance,’ I said. ‘And on the night we spent in Dartford, it was the wife of Bath’s field you turned over, was it not?’
A sullen expression came to the squire’s face. ‘What has that got to do with murder?’
‘Perhaps more than you think,’ I said darkly. ‘Did you take the widow to bed?’
‘It would be nearer to the truth to say that she took me.’
‘You are certain that it was she who made the first move?’
A hint of the squire’s normal good-natured grin flashed briefly across his face.
‘No, I am not certain,’ he said. ‘It is always difficult to guess a woman’s true intentions, and perhaps, when she grabbed me by the crotch and suggested we went up to her chamber, I read more into her words and actions than I should have done.’
I grinned back at him. I could not help it. ‘Did you spend a pleasant evening together?’ I asked.
‘Very pleasant,’ the squire told me. ‘The widow is like an old war horse which has lost some of the power it has known in its youth, yet has learned enough tricks in its time to still be able to outpace a younger beast.’
‘So I take it that you would have been quite content to spend another night with her?’
‘More than content,’ the squire agreed.
‘Then why did you not do so?’ I asked, allowing an inquisitorial edge to slip into my voice.
‘Did I not spend a second night with her?’ the squire countered, challengingly.
‘No, you did not. And since it would be so easy to prove that is the case, it would be pointless to pretend any longer.’
The squire nodded. ‘Very well, you are right,’ he said. ‘I did not sleep with her because my father forbade it.’
I laughed. ‘Bull’s pizzle!’
‘I did not sleep with the widow that night in Rochester,’ the squire said stubbornly.
‘I know you didn’t. But it was not your father’s words which prevented you from ploughing into her afresh. The reason you did not sleep with her was because you got a better offer!’
‘You cannot prove…’ the squire said, suddenly fearful.
‘I can prove all I wish to prove, if I am pushed to do so,’ I lied. ‘But perhaps such proof will not be called for,’ I continued, allowing a softer, more conciliatory tone to seep into my words. ‘I do not think you are a murderer…’
‘I swear to you I am not!’
‘And certainly I have no wish to see you hanged for a crime that you did not commit. If you are honest and open with me now, it may be possible to let matters rest there. On the other hand, if you choose to hide the truth from me…’
I said no more to the young squire - for no more was necessary.
‘That night in Rochester I was crossing the inn yard when I saw the prioress and her priest,’ the squire said, almost gabbling his words. ‘It seemed to me that they were standing closer together than a nun and priest properly should. Then I saw it was all the prioress’s doing – that the priest wanted no part of it.’
‘Explain yourself,’ I commanded.
‘The priest took a step back, as if he were trying to escape. But then the prioress took a step forward, so they were as close as they had been before. Another step back, another step forward, and the priest was trapped, with his back to the stable wall.’
‘But the prioress did not keep him trapped for long, did she?’ I asked. ‘After a few moments she laughed, and then allowed him to make his escape.’
‘How, in the name of all that is holy, could you possibly have known that?’ the squire demanded, astonished.
‘There are many things I know which would surprise you,’ I told him. ‘What happened after the priest had walked away?’
‘The prioress noticed me standing there, and came over to me. First she said that I was a fine figure of a man, and then she asked me if my soul was pure. I said that I thought it was as pure as most men’s are, and she said that for a man in my position – a man who would be a noble Christian knight one day – that was not enough. And all the time she was speaking, she was moving in a way which ensured that I would become aware of her as a woman, rather than as just a nun. Do you und
erstand what I mean?’
‘Yes, I understand,’ I told him. ‘What followed next?’
‘She said that she would be willing to give me spiritual instruction, but that it must be at a time when all the rest of our company was sleeping. She told me that such instruction would be carried out in her chamber. I knew by then what she had in mind, and, believe me, I was not averse to being given such instruction.’
‘But there was still the problem of the widow of Bath,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ the squire admitted, his powers of feeling surprise at my constant stream of disclosures beginning to fade. ‘I had promised the widow that I would spend the night with her, yet who would … who would…’
‘Who would willingly partake of old, familiar mutton, however good its flavour, when offered a plate of fresh succulent lamb?’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ the squire agreed, slightly shamefacedly.
‘So you went to the widow and told her that you would not be visiting her in her chamber that night?’
‘I did.’
‘Simply that? Did you offer no explanation?’
‘I … I said that I had a headache.’
‘And was she angry to hear that?’
‘No. To my amazement she was not.’
‘She believed your lie, then?’
The squire frowned. ‘No, and that was why I was so amazed. Whether she had seen what passed between myself and the prioress in the yard, I have no way of knowing. But she did know it would not be a headache which kept me from her bed that night.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘As she listened to me explaining about my pains, she was smiling knowingly. And when I had finished, she bade me take care. “Take care?” I asked. “What do you mean?” “There are those who have been burnt at the stake for doing what you have in mind,” she told ne. “But still, you will be safe enough if you do exactly as I say”.’
‘And what was it she told you to do?’
‘She said that, by all means, I should have my night of pleasure with the prioress, but that I was to be sure to rise early in the morning – long before the cock crowed. That way, she assured me, none of the prioress’s party would see me leaving the room, and neither the prioress nor I would be forced to face the terrible consequences of our sins. And so that is what I did.’
‘You left the prioress’s bedchamber just before dawn, and soon after you had gone - before she even had time to cleanse herself of the juices of your night of passion - someone else went into the room and murdered her?’
‘That is exactly what happened,’ the squire said desperately. ‘I swear I am telling the truth. You must believe me, Master Thatcher! You must!’
‘I do believe you,’ I assured him. ‘But let us return to the question of the widow. You say that you were amazed that she not only accepted rejection but also gave you advice on how to handle your new conquest.’
‘And so I was.’
‘Amazed – but not curious?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘It is the very foundation of a man’s nature to attempt to make sense of the world – to find an explanation for the as-yet unexplained. Yet you did not. The widow did not seem to mind that you intended to lie with the prioress, and you made no effort to discover the reason for this remarkable generosity?’
‘No … I … I didn’t think to.’
Of course he didn’t think to. He was young, he was vigorous and his blood was racing. There was no room in his fevered brain for thoughts beyond skewering the prioress.
The wife of Bath would, of course, have known that he would think in such a way. With her wide experience of men, she would have been able to predict, with absolute certainty, how the squire would behave. In truth, I believe she had been so sure that the squire would seek no explanation for her tolerance and generosity that she had not even taken the trouble to construct a tale with which to hide her true motive for propelling the squire – for that is what she had done! - towards the prioress’s bed.
*
Though I had never myself been a pilgrim before, still I had seen other pilgrims reach the end of their journey – had studied them as they gazed at the shrine which was the object of their undertaking. They glowed – there are no other words to describe it. They sat astride their horses, their faces filled with serene smiles, their hearts beating faster with pride and holiness. Their initial impetus for their journey may have been both mercenary and miserly (since such undertakings earn the traveller remission from purgatory without any need to enrich the church’s coffers). Yet despite that, they have about them, for one moment, a purity which a saint might envy, were saints allowed such human failings!
Our caravan, as the reader can well imagine, experienced none of that purity. It was indeed far from a triumphal entry which we made through the newly built West Gate and into the city of Canterbury. Our pilgrimage had been sullied - stained, defiled, call it what you will - by three cold and brutal murders, and even the loving God we all worshipped would have found it difficult to extract any good or virtue from the previous five days.
It was our host who put the thoughts we all held in our minds into words. Gathering us together in front of the Westgate Church, he looked around with tears in his eyes.
‘Well, this has been a sorry journey indeed,’ he said, ‘and though each of you pledged to tell four tales before our time together was out, I will not attempt to hold you to your bargain. Indeed, even if you were willing, I have no stomach for it myself. I shall leave you now. I will find myself lodgings, and once inside my bedchamber I will securely lock the door – which it would have been wise for other poor souls before me to have done. And tomorrow I intend to travel back to the Tabard alone! - for it is surely safer that way. Should any of you have cause to pass through Southwark again, I would request you to put up at another of the inns. I wish well to all those who are innocent of bloody murder, and promise those who are not that - according to what I have been told by holy men - they are already condemned to burn in hellfire for all eternity.’
It was a fine speech and one which, my reader will agree, would have made an excellent point at which to end a section of this work. Indeed, the poet in me wanted to do just that, but the fumbling writer of the first who-hath-done-it is allowed no such artistic luxury, for the moment the host had said the word ‘eternity’ we all became aware of the sound of pounding horse hoofs, and a moment later, four mounted men in livery thundered through the gate and into the square.
Seeing us gathered in front of the church, the horsemen reined in their steeds and, while the dust still swirled around them, reached down to their scabbard and pulled out their swords!
A wave of fear ran through us pilgrims. We had not expected this. We did not know what it portended. The men did not look like robbers, and even if that had been their trade, they would not have practised it in within the city walls. So why … what … how could we…?
As most of us stayed clamped to our horses, paralysed with fear, the knight cut free from the bunch and rode a few paces towards the armed men.
‘Put up your swords!’ he ordered with authority. ‘For if you do not, then I must draw mine, and once it is in my hand, I will not answer for the consequences.’
A look of uncertainty came to the faces of the liveried men.
‘Good sir knight, excuse us,’ said the one who appeared to be their leader. ‘Our swords are drawn because we seek a heinous criminal who we believe may be one of your company.’
‘Then mayhap you will need to use those same swords in the fullness of time,’ the knight said. ‘But that time has not yet arrived, and your weapons are no more than an affront to me. Therefore, sheath them quickly - before I am forced into an action you will soon regret.’
The three other men looked at their leader, who nodded. All four slid their swords back into their scabbards.
‘Who do you serve?’ the knight asked.
‘May it please you, sir knight, we
are the bishop of Rochester’s men.’
‘And you are about his business, with his full authority?’
‘We are.’
The knight nodded. ‘You spoke of a heinous criminal just now. Why should you think he is a member of our company?’
‘Were you lately in Ospringe?’
‘We were. Last night.’
‘Then you were in the town when the crime was committed.’
They knew who the murderers were, I thought. Yet how could they, when no one from the bishop’s palace had taken part in any investigation?
‘You are here to arrest the villain who killed the friar, are you?’ the knight asked.
‘Killed the friar?’ the other man repeated. ‘What friar? I know nothing of that.’
‘Then what is the heinous crime of which you speak?’ the knight asked, confused.
‘My lord bishop, being a keen hunting man, maintains an aviary in Ospringe,’ the other man explained. ‘Yesternight, some foul thief broke into it - and stole his prize peregrine falcon.’
More than two dozen pairs of eyes immediately fixed on one particular man, and, as the pardoner would no doubt have commented if he had been recounting this tale, ‘What need is there to say more?’
Though the monk protested, his saddlebags were opened and a drugged peregrine falcon was removed from one of them.
There was no wonder that the monk had been unwilling to account for his movements the previous evening, I thought, as I watched him pass through the gate again – under armed escort – on his way to face the towering wrath of the bishop of Rochester.
‘Kill a man and you will, in all probability, get away with it. Steal an expensive falcon and its owner will hunt you to the very ends of the earth,’ said the voice of the franklin to my left.
‘Indeed,’ I agreed.
‘But it is still not too late to stop the killers getting away with these particular murders,’ the franklin said.
‘Is it not?’ I asked innocently. ‘I would have thought that since we will all have gone our separate ways in less time than it takes to peel an apple, there is nothing more we can do.’
Pilgrimage of Death Page 19
