Pilgrimage of Death

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Why did you stay behind at the inn on the road from Ospringe this morning?’ the franklin demanded aggressively. ‘What did you learn why you were there? You are not denying that you did learn something, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am not denying it.’

  ‘Then tell me what you discovered, and in return I will tell you what new things I know,’ the franklin said, infusing his voice with a wheedling quality. ‘If we share our information, we may still solve the murders.’

  ‘Why was your chamber so brightly illuminated last evening?’ I countered.

  ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  I sighed at the man’s folly in attempting, even at this stage in our adventure, to deceive me.

  ‘We met in your bedchamber after the attack on the pardoner,’ I said. ‘It was as light as day. There was so much smoke from torches and candles that my eyes wept. If you wish to learn more from me, you must first tell me why that was.’

  The franklin looked down at his bridle.

  ‘I was afraid,’ he muttered.

  ‘Afraid,’ I repeated. ‘Afraid of what?’

  ‘That I might be the next to be murdered. The light gave me courage.’

  ‘But you had told no tale of death,’ I said. ‘The pardoner had – you had tricked him into it – so, by your own theory, he was the only one with anything to fear.’

  ‘It is easy to hold a theory in the cold light day, but a man’s faith in his own ideas can be sorely tested once it is dark and he is alone,’ the franklin said bitterly.

  So that was what it was! There had been no secret meetings in his chamber – no counter-plots which were being kept hidden from me. The franklin, for all his bluster and arrogance, had merely been afraid.

  The confession revealed more to me than the franklin realised. For if he had feared for his own life then - whatever he might now claim – he had no new information to trade for any I might have acquired. In fact, he was not only facing in the opposite direction to the truth – he was leaving it further behind with every step he took.

  I felt sorry for him, and for a moment I was tempted to tell him what I had learned. But I resisted that temptation, for were I to point him in the right direction he would soon be his old self again – dashing blindly ahead of me in an attempt to snatch whatever glory there was available.

  ‘Tell me what you have discovered!’ the franklin insisted.

  ‘A man wears a mask to disguise his face,’ I said. ‘What, do you think, he might use a pilgrimage to disguise?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ the franklin asked.

  ‘I mean just what I say,’ I told him. ‘Here is another hint. What possible interest could the miller, the prioress and the friar share? Why did it take three of them to pursue that interest? And for what reason might there be others who wished to deny them success?’

  ‘You are trying to mislead me!’ the franklin said angrily.

  ‘Indeed I am not,’ I assured him. ‘Find the answers to those questions and you will know as much as I do, which is to say you will not only know why the victims were killed, but also who killed them.’

  ‘I demand that you tell me more,’ the franklin said.

  ‘A lion may demand that a deer throws itself at his feet, but it is unlikely ever to happen,’ I said. ‘Goodbye. We shall not meet again.’

  And with that I wheeled and rode away from him.

  I have asked myself many times since then why I should have said even as much as I did. When I choose to take a charitable view of myself, I argue that it was because I felt I should at least give the franklin a chance to solve the mystery. But the truth, as my reader will no doubt already have calculated from what he knows of me, is that I wished to take my revenge on him for all the times the landowner had annoyed and tried to outmanoeuvre me in the previous few days.

  He will, I am sure, have struggled with my hints without success. He is probably still struggling with them to this day.

  *

  The square began to empty the moment that the monk and his armed escort had disappeared through the gate. The host, having already made his bitter parting speech before the incident with the soldiers, was the first to go. The guildsmen, with their drunken cook reluctantly in tow, followed almost immediately. The poor parson and his brother set out in search of modest lodgings in the poorer part of the city, the rogues in search of the nearest tavern. The nuns’ priest shepherded his charges towards the priory. The franklin gave me one last reproachful look, then joined the knight’s party. Finally, the ‘professional’ men, after conferring together for a few moments, signalled to the wife of Bath - who for once was looking lost and forlorn - that she should follow them to an inn close by the cathedral.

  Alone on the square I reflected on what had just occurred. To anyone else observing the scene, such alliances as had been formed would seem perfectly normal. For the clergy, bound by their dedication to God, would naturally be drawn together – just as the professional men, united in their worship of mammon and self-imposed dignity, would form an exclusive clique as a matter of course.

  Yet the group with the strongest bond of all – a bond as strong as the one soldiers learn to form during long and bloody campaigns – had given not the slightest indication that they had any special interest in each other at all. But of course they could not have afforded to - for whilst seeing two of them together would have gone largely unnoticed, the addition of the third would first have drawn comment, and then suspicion.

  Yes, they were wise to keep apart from each other for the moment. But they were bound to meet later. And when they did, I would be there to witness it!

  Day the Fifth

  Evening

  The centre of Canterbury was as busy as is a beehive at the height of summer. The rich and the poor, the young and the old, merchants and craftsmen, pilgrims and clerics, shopping wives and errant children, all hurried down the streets or crossed the market square. None of them showed the least curiosity in either of the figures who had been standing motionless at opposite ends of the square since the church clock last struck the hour. And why should they have done, for were not such people – in this case, myself and the woman – a common enough sight in every town the length and breadth of the country?

  The woman was somewhat less than thirty years old, I would guess. Her head was covered by the striped hood which it was obligatory for prostitutes to wear. Earlier, she had merely stood there, waiting for men to come to her. Now, as the hour of the curfew bell approached, she began – at least as far as she dared – to importune passers-by.

  I understood her desperation. Life would be hard enough if she found a customer to take back to her room in the brothel. If she did, she would still have to pay for the room, yet be compelled to return to her lodgings (since in Canterbury, as in many other places, prostitutes were not allowed to live in the same building as the one in which they plied their trade).

  I glanced at the inn across the street. My whole body was starting to itch, though I was unsure whether that was due to the rough material of my gown or because I was nervous. Like the prostitute, I was only too well aware of how close it was to the sounding of the curfew bell, and knew that if my suspect did not emerge from the inn soon, then nothing of any significance could occur until the next morning.

  The crowd had begun to thin out, and the prostitute gave up hoping. She began to walk in my direction, though – naturally enough – she made sure that when she did pass me there would be some distance between us. She stopped for a moment as she was level with me, took a coin out of her pocket and threw it across the street so that it landed at my feet.

  ‘It’s not much, you poor man,’ she said compassionately, ‘but it’s all I can afford.’

  I mumbled my thanks and resolved to seek her out the following day and repay her kindness tenfold – if, that is, I was still alive.

  I bent down, making a show of the effort it was taking me, and picked up the coin. Straightening ag
ain, I looked once more at the inn.

  Could I have been wrong? I asked myself.

  Could all my suppositions, which had seemed to fit so neatly together, turn out to be, in truth, very far from the mark?

  Like the prostitute before me, I was within moments of giving up – and not only on my vigil, but on my entire quest - when the woman I had been hoping to see emerged from the inn. And seeing her, I felt fresh confidence gush through my body like a stream breaking through a dam.

  The woman – who I may as well tell you now was the so-called widow of Bath – glanced cautiously to the left and then to the right. She could not fail to notice me, but since I had adopted the ruse previously employed by one of her fellow conspirators - dressing up as a leper - she was not in the least concerned by my presence.

  The widow set off briskly down the street in the direction of St George’s Church, then took a sharp left turn towards St Andrew’s. She walked with the determination of one who knew exactly where she was going. That she did so came as no surprise to me, for I had already calculated that, although a great deal of what had happened over the previous few days had been improvised, much of the rest had been well planned in advance.

  The widow – if indeed that was what she was in truth – reached an inn called the Moors’ Head, glanced around her once more, and passed through the archway into the yard.

  I paused, not only to give her time to join her friends, but also to allow myself time to consider my choices.

  I had already learned enough to piece together a general picture of the conspiracy which had led to the deaths of three of my fellow pilgrims, I told myself. Was it then worth bearding the lions in their den for the sake of sketching in the few remaining details? Should I risk my life merely to satisfy my curiosity – for satisfying my curiosity was the only reward that I could ever hope to draw from such an encounter?

  Of course it wasn’t, and of course I shouldn’t.

  Yet was I going to do it anyway?

  Of course I was!

  As I stripped off my leper’s gown to reveal my normal clothes beneath, I heard a loud gasp - and realised I was being observed. I turned. An apprentice, wearing a leather apron and stinking of cowhides, was standing a few feet from me. His mouth was wide open with amazement and his legs seemed so rooted to the spot that even though he clearly wished to run away, he was unable to.

  ‘A miracle!’ I said, holding out my arms for him to see that they were unscarred. ‘By the blessed St Thomas, a miracle! I am cured.’

  My words seemed to break the spell which held him paralysed, and the boy dashed off down the street. He would tell everyone he spoke to about what he had seen, I thought. And probably enough folk would believe him for this spot on which I was standing to be pointed out to future pilgrims as the place where the leper had been cured. I smiled at the idea for a moment, and reflected that in one of bedchambers of the Moor’s Head another sham miracle was probably being enacted at that very moment.

  I strode through the archway and into the inn yard just in time to see the widow of Bath disappear into one of the bedchambers. I climbed the steps to the gallery myself, came to a halt in front of that same chamber, and rapped loudly on the door.

  ‘Who is there?’ someone called from the other side of the door.

  I smiled again, this time in acknowledgement of my own cleverness, for though the voice had lost the squeakiness which its owner had so earnestly infused it with during the pilgrimage, I still recognised it as belonging to the pardoner.

  ‘Speak! Who are you?’ the man demanded edgily, when several seconds had passed, and I had still made no reply.

  ‘Why such concern?’ I asked, unable to resist the temptation to tease him. ‘Who were you expecting to be knocking? The hue and cry – come to imprison you?’

  The door opened a crack, just wide enough for the pardoner to peer out.

  ‘Thatcher!’ he said accusingly, as he adopted once more – and far too late to ever be convincing again – his former squeaky tone. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes, I am alone,’ I replied. ‘But I am no more called Thatcher than you are who you pretend to be. And you know it! For even had you been in ignorance of my identity at the beginning of the pilgrimage, I am sure your rearguard would have informed you of it by now.’

  ‘Rearguard? You speak in riddles.’

  ‘The two young men who have been following us ever since we left the Tabard in Southwark?’

  ‘You make no sense.’

  I sighed. ‘Why continue to lie when you can see that the game is up?’ I asked. ‘I am, as you well know, Geoffrey Chaucer - poet, servant of the crown, diplomat, sometime spy and, above all, John of Gaunt’s man. And surely the fact that I am here at all proves that you can no longer hide your secrets from me.’

  A look of indecision crossed the pardoner’s face. Then the look disappeared, and the expression which replaced it was as cold and determined as I have ever seen a man wear.

  My instinct screamed that I should flee whilst I had the chance, and its warning was reinforced by my gut, which began to turn cartwheels as well as any street tumbler. Yes, that was what my instinct and my stomach said, but my mind, now in the tight grip of my curiosity – and perhaps, also, of my arrogance – would not allow my feet to move.

  The pardoner flung open the door, grabbed my arm, and hauled me roughly through the doorway. Once I was safely within, he released his grip, pushed me to the centre of the room, and slammed the door behind us.

  It took me a moment to regain my balance, but once I had done so, I quickly surveyed what the old soldier in me saw as enemy territory.

  It was a large room – probably the best the inn had to offer – and though it was not yet dark outside, the fire blazing in the hearth was already throwing flickering shadows against the walls.

  Of the three people I found there, none came as a surprise. Nor did it shock me that they were all much changed from the last time I had seen them.

  I turned around to examine the pardoner first. He seemed taller than he had formerly, his hair was suddenly less wispy and his weedy body much more muscular. Though the transformation was not yet fully complete, he was already well on the way to casting off the role of religious charlatan and returning to his former existence as a dashing courtier and ladies’ man.

  The wife of Bath was standing by the window. Though dressed as she had been earlier, she now had a bearing about her which made her look less like a middle class strumpet and more like a true lady – albeit a lady who was not averse to making use of her sexual attributes when such a course of action was called for.

  But it was the summoner who had undergone the greatest change. He was sitting at a table, on which rested a bowl of water and a small mirror. The left side of his face was as grotesque as it had ever been, but the boils and carbuncles which had once disfigured the right side lay beside the bowl.

  ‘Who taught you how to disguise yourself so skilfully?’ I asked. ‘Was it perhaps a professional beggar?’

  ‘Is that why you are here?’ the summoner asked in disgust. ‘To learn the tricks of the beggar’s trade?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I am here to learn the tricks of a team of assassins – a very excellent team of assassins.’

  ‘Step further away from the door,’ the summoner said.

  I did as I was ordered - and heard the pardoner slide the bolt home behind me.

  ‘Who knows you have come here?’ the summoner demanded. ‘Have you told your good friends, the knight and the franklin?’

  ‘Indeed I have. I would have been a fool not to,’ I said.

  The summoner sneered. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘If you had told the knight, he would never have allowed you to venture forth alone. And as for the franklin, you would rather have confided in the devil himself than have told him your thoughts.’

  I could have protested that he was wrong, but there seemed little point when we both knew that he was not. So instead I said, ‘I cam
e with some questions. Will you provide me with the answers?’

  The summoner’s grin would have been unpleasant under any circumstances, but given that the skin on one side of his mouth as clear as a virgin’s, while the skin on the other was festering with scabs, it was positively grotesque.

  ‘Will I answer your questions?’ he repeated. ‘Why not? After all, a dying man is entitled to one last wish.’

  It is said that the worst mistake a man can make when facing a wild beast is to show fear. Thus, though I had heard the summoner’s threat – though it had chilled me to the very bone – I affected the air of one who has taken it as no more than a joke, and so was actually smiling when, uninvited, I moved closer to the assassin who had all but promised me that I would be his next victim.

  ‘I expect you are all quite surprised to see me here,’ I said, keeping my tone light and sociable.

  ‘More than surprised,’ the pardoner replied from behind me. ‘Concerned would be a much better word – for, as you have already pointed out, the very fact that you are here at all tells us we have made mistakes.’

  ‘But only a few,’ I said generously. ‘And even those were scarcely noticeable.’

  ‘Yet noticeable enough,’ the wife of Bath said. ‘What first made you suspect that we were not what we seemed?’

  ‘In your case, my lady…’ I stopped short. ‘I am right, am I not? You do have a title?’

  ‘You may call me Lady Elizabeth,’ the woman who had been Alison, the wife of Bath, replied.

  ‘In your case, Lady Elizabeth, I began to suspect when you reminded me that I had not had carnal knowledge of a woman for some time, because my wife was in Spain,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, I see!’ Lady Elizabeth said.

  ‘Well, I do not,’ the summoner said, continuing to work at removing his scabs.

  ‘If I knew where his wife was, then I must also know who she was, that is to say, a lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Lancaster,’ Lady Elizabeth explained. ‘And if I knew who she was, then I must also know who he was. And how would a saucy widow of Bath ever have come by such knowledge?’ She turned towards me, and smiled. ‘Anything else?’