The Outcasts of Time

by Ian Mortimer

  ‘Did no one try to stop him?’ I ask.

  ‘Who would dare? If the constable acted, he would find himself the next victim. Truth is, there are just two sorts of men around these parts: those that served Baldwin Fulford and those that kept their mouths shut.’

  ‘But what about the Earl of Devon?’

  Master Ley lowers his voice. ‘Baldwin Fulford and the earl are close friends. As a matter of fact, it was their friendship that proved to be Fulford’s undoing. But no doubt you’ve heard that story. The case went all the way to the King’s Bench.’

  ‘I know nothing about it.’

  ‘It began with Margaret Gybbys. You might remember her? A pretty young woman. Her husband was a good, hard-working man, Thomas Gybbys. One of Fulford’s rogues, a man called John of Storryge, decided to try his luck with young Margaret. One day he waited for Thomas Gybbys to leave his house and then he broke in. He found Margaret alone in the hall and forced himself upon her. Of course Margaret, being still very young and dutiful, did not speak to her husband about what had happened, for she feared that he would seek revenge on Storryge and be killed by Baldwin Fulford and his smiling cutthroats. So she did nothing. John of Storryge took this as encouragement to do the same again. Eventually Gybbys found out. He was so angry to be the last to know that none of Margaret’s tearful imploring made the slightest difference to him. He went to seek revenge. Sadly, God was looking the other way that day, for in the ensuing fight, the seducer smashed Gybbys over the head with an iron crock and broke his skull. And that . . .’ Master Ley shakes his head. ‘That was just the beginning of young Margaret’s troubles.’

  The servants place before us three piles of fish on three large silver dishes. One is a roast salmon, another a large dish of baked lampreys and the third is a very large white fish. The servants also lay three steaming bowls of sauces before us: one is a mustard sauce, the other two are unfamiliar. Master Ley gestures to one of the servants. ‘Philip, would you be so kind as to break the fish? Now, where was I?’

  ‘John of Storryge killed Gybbys with a blow of an iron crock.’

  ‘Ah yes. Poor Margaret’s woes. She decided that the best thing for her was to marry a man from a distant town and leave Moreton. So she went to Ashburton—’

  ‘Could she do that? Did not the bailiff direct the portreeve to find her a new husband?’

  ‘Oh, that sort of thing does not happen any more. No, Margaret decided to marry a prosperous fellow called William Dolbear. The banns were read three Sundays in each parish church, Moreton and Ashburton, according to the tradition. But when John of Storryge, on a rare visit to Moreton Church, heard them read aloud, he grew angry. He went to Baldwin Fulford and asked for his help in putting a stop to the marriage. When Fulford learned they were to wed in Passion Week, he declared, “We’ll be showing her some passion then.” The day before the wedding, Margaret travelled the thirteen miles to Ashburton with her mother and friends, and stayed at an inn there. After dark, Fulford and his gang rode into town, torches blazing. His sworn men told him where the bride could be found and he forced his way into the inn. The gang found her already in bed. I heard that Fulford himself was the first to defile her, declaring it no sin as she was not yet married. After he had finished, his men all took turns. One was instructed to go around the town and find more men – to the number of eighty – who would come and shamefully use her. Not one of the good men of Ashburton would consent to do such a foul deed, however. They said that they would not hurt the betrothed bride, as Dolbear was a much-respected and wealthy man. So Fulford, angered by their refusal, went to Dolbear’s house. He broke in and beat Dolbear within half an inch of his life. He then pillaged the house and burned it to the ground. And he took Margaret back to Fulford. But that was a great mistake. Sir William Bonville hated the Earl of Devon and persuaded the king to set up a commission to inquire into the stealing away of Margaret. That’s the only way to get justice in these parts – to play powerful men off against each other.’

  ‘I fear the girl he has taken back there today has no such powerful friends,’ I say.

  ‘He’s still at it then, is he?’

  ‘We saw him, at the cottage in the woods on the west side of the Wray Valley, above the ruins of Wrayment. Just this morning, didn’t we, William?’

  ‘We did,’ William replies, with a mouth full of fish. ‘While her father was in church. It is appalling. An abomination.’

  ‘That’s Mark the shepherd’s house,’ says the portreeve. ‘This was his daughter, Alice?’

  ‘They also hanged a boy by his hands,’ I say. ‘They abused the girl in her own house until we disturbed them, but they were stronger than us, and took her away.’

  ‘He should not have left them unattended,’ says Father Parleben. ‘It’s the father’s fault.’

  ‘Assuredly,’ says the canon precentor, ‘but not from negligence. Why would a God-fearing man leave his daughter unattended and not take her to church? Precisely so such a man as Fulford could help himself to her. As he was attending Mass, he could claim he was not to blame. It’s a common way among the peasants of paying their debts.’

  William licks some sauce off his fingers. ‘A man can never be sure he has done enough to safeguard his daughters, eh father? John, you are lucky you only had sons.’

  ‘I am. Very.’

  ‘The problem is the girls themselves,’ adds William. ‘Some of them don’t want to be quite as safe as their fathers would like them to be. When John and I were heading off to embark with the king’s men in France—’

  ‘William, I don’t think—’ I begin. But Master Ley cuts me off.

  ‘You were in the French wars?’ says Master Ley. ‘Were you at Agincourt?’

  ‘Where?’ William replies.

  Master Ley looks at him very curiously. ‘You jest, surely?’

  William shakes his head. ‘No, I do not lie. Not where women are concerned. Unless I am speaking to their husbands, of course.’

  ‘Cousin Walter,’ says Master Ley, ‘this man has never heard of Agincourt. Can you believe it? Is there really a man in England who does not know of King Henry’s most famous battle?’

  ‘Did we win?’ asks William, spiking a large piece of lamprey on his knife, dipping it in the sweet sauce and lifting it straight into his mouth.

  ‘That touches on treason,’ mutters Father Parleben to the portreeve.

  William looks at me and shrugs.

  ‘I guessed from their appearance that they were wastrels,’ says the portreeve.

  ‘I wager that that ring on his finger is stolen,’ adds Father Parleben.

  The canon precentor looks sternly from William to me. ‘Normally I would blame the moral corruptibility of the young. But you are not young. You should know better. God showed his judgement on Henry, our blessed king. He favoured all England that day. That you have already forgotten is truly lamentable.’

  ‘Father Canon Precentor,’ begins William, finishing his mouthful, ‘my brother John and I fought in France. You may have served as constable of Bordeaux but what did that amount to? Receiving written instructions from the king and giving orders. I repeat: John and I fought. We shot men in the face with our bows. We stabbed men though the breast and felt their bones breaking under our blades. We both suffered the cuts of swords and the blows of maces. When a battle was done, it fell to us to go among the dying, cutting their throats and gathering up their surcoats for the king’s heralds to count. Have you ever cut a man’s throat? It is so soft and tender – and yet there is no harder part to cut because you know you are taking a man’s life, and making orphans of his children. And yet, after you’ve cut ten, and felt the warm blood shoot over your hands, your spirit is so sore from so much killing that you think of it only as so much meat. After twenty throats, it is no more trouble than milking cows. After thirty, you start to enjoy it. Then you stop, and reflect on what you’ve done. And you stare at the last corpse – and that is when the dead speak to you in their terribl
e silence. Their lack of words resonates in your own conscience. And your conscience rings with their accusations so that, for your own piece of mind, you end up having to cut the throat of your conscience too. And then you are less than a man, and your only true company is other men who have debased themselves. As we endured the unending cold boredom of a siege, waiting outside the walls of Calais, while the French hesitated over whether or not to ride against—’

  The canon precentor slams down his fist on the table and with it his smeared linen napkin. ‘You are a liar as well as a thief. I have read my chronicles. The siege of Calais took place precisely one hundred years ago, in the year of Our Lord one thousand three hundred and forty-seven. Do you truly expect me to believe you were there? It would be ridiculous!’

  William wipes his mouth on the edge of his napkin. ‘The siege took place, if I remember rightly, in the twentieth and twenty-first years of the reign of our most excellent king, Edward, the third of that name since the Conquest. The manner of that other date is not something I recognise.’

  ‘But it is the year of Our Lord,’ says Father Parleben. ‘The number of years since Jesus Christ was born.’

  ‘You have heard of Our Saviour, I presume,’ adds the canon precentor, ‘or have you been consorting with godless Mohammedans on your journeys? In fact, where have you been, to take you so far from fraternising with honest English householders?’

  I try to calm the tension. ‘If we were to tell you, you’d not believe us. We’ve seen the dog-headed men on the far side of India. And the Sciopods south of the great desert. We’ve shared bread with the pagans of Lithuania and the Seres of China . . .’

  Master Ley leans towards me and says in a low voice, ‘I think you should know that the Lithuanians were converted some years ago. Our good king, Henry the Fourth of blessed memory, the grandfather of the present king, himself played a conspicuous role in their subjection to the Cross.’

  ‘How do you know when Christ was born?’ says William.

  ‘Enough of your ignorance!’ shouts the canon precentor.

  William leans forward and spears another piece of lamprey. He points his knife at me with the eel stuck on the end, wobbling and dripping sauce on the tablecloth. ‘What is the year of Our Lord now?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s one thousand four hundred and forty-seven,’ answers Father Ley.

  William takes another swig of wine. ‘But how do you know? You weren’t there when He died, let alone when He was born, and how many men truly know when they were born?’

  The canon precentor looks at me. ‘Tell me, John, if you are not such a fool as your brother, were you in the company of Duke Humphrey of Gloucester?’

  ‘Who is Duke Humphrey?’ says William.

  I can see William has had too much to drink. ‘Brother, you are busky-eyed.’

  My brother holds up his knife. He leans forward and skewers another piece of lamprey. He puts the fish in his mouth, chews, swallows, and then speaks.

  ‘Have you ever seen a chevauchée?’ he asks.

  ‘I know perfectly well what a chevauchée is,’ replies the canon precentor.

  ‘That was not my question. What I asked was, have you ever seen one? Have you seen a force of fifteen thousand men spread out, so it covers all the country for eight or ten miles on either side of the vanguard, marching forward across the land? Every house to which we come is set alight. Likewise every barn, granary, henhouse and pigsty. The animals are all slaughtered. The people run away for the most part. If any choose to make a stand, every man and boy over the age of fourteen is killed, and every woman and girl over the age of twelve is given to the men for their pleasure – even the oldest and ugliest – and not only one or two men but dozens, like a piece of meat thrown between dogs. Only the churches are saved. And do you know why that is?’

  ‘Because they are God’s holy property,’ suggests the portreeve.

  William shakes his head. ‘Because they’ve got high towers from which the commanders can see all the land burning for miles around.’

  Everyone stops eating. The moment of quiet weighs on us like a lead coat.

  ‘That was what the war in France was like, oh great constable of Bordeaux.’

  The canon precentor has a cold fury in his eyes. ‘Agincourt was different,’ he says. ‘King Henry was a godly prince.’

  ‘And you would know, would you? Were you present?’

  ‘No. But I have read the Gesta Henrici Quinti.’

  ‘And to judge from the Latin name, that’s a book written by a clerk – and if I recall rightly, clerks do not fight battles. Husbandmen and labourers, bakers and smiths, wool merchants and stonemasons – men like us do – alongside knights, kings and noblemen.’ William glares at the canon precentor. ‘If you take pride in a battle then you should recognise the truth of it. And the truth of any battle is in the fighting. King Edward – the greatest warrior our kingdom has ever seen – led many chevauchées to lure the French king’s army to attack us. To send all his thousands of knights, counts and bannerets charging at us on their destriers. The king’s fine notion was that, at the last moment, when all the French knights were within two hundred feet of our front lines, we would shoot them. With our bows.’

  William looks from one man to the other. He holds up a finger and speaks very slowly. ‘Have you any idea what it is like to stand and watch the greatest army in Christendom charging towards you, with all their banners flying and their weapons drawn, their lances sharpened? The ground shakes so much beneath the hooves of twenty thousand charging horses that you can barely stand up. The sound is deafening. And then you see all that sharpened steel aimed at your throat. Only at a hundred yards can you hope to pierce their armour and visors with an arrow. At that range, you have time left to loose just two more arrows. Both have to hit – or you are dead. But I tell you all, frightening though it was for us at Crécy, it was worse for those French knights, hardly able to see through the narrow eyeslits of their visors. Some reached our lines – you could see the resolve in their raised shoulders and arms. All the time there came the explosions of the cannon, ribalds and other machines called gonnes. They were deafening so that even our own horses reared up and came crashing down on the archers. This was the war that John and I saw. Not pushing about pieces of vellum with numbers on them. Not receiving and passing on orders. So, do not tell us that we should feel ashamed for not knowing the name of some battle that this other king fought. War is a sanctified and glorified terror in which frightened men cause death and tragedy to other frightened men and women. And I say again, the truth of it lies in the fighting, and the suffering of it – not in the proud boasts of clergymen who were not there.’

  There is silence.

  Master Ley clears his throat. ‘Well, this is all most interesting. On reflection I suspect I might have been a little rash in inviting the two of you here to share this celebratory dinner. For it is said that it is the height of bad manners—’

  ‘Be quiet, Master Ley,’ snaps the canon precentor. ‘These men are leaving.’

  ‘Father Colles,’ replies Master Ley, ‘I was about to say that, although it is the height of bad manners to demand anything from a guest—’

  ‘Either ask them to leave or I will send for the constable,’ says the canon precentor firmly.

  But Master Ley raises his own voice, continuing what he was saying. ‘However, out of respect to our rector, my munificent and kindly employer, and on top of the respect we all owe to his station in this world, I must demand the truth of you two, despite you being my guests. On your oaths, where do you come from and where have you been?’

  ‘Do you truly want to know?’ I ask.

  ‘Very much so,’ replies Master Ley.

  ‘Master Ley,’ says the canon precentor, ‘I want to see these thieves swinging from the gallows.’

  I turn to Master Ley and address him alone, although everyone else listens. I tell the story of the terrible plague of our time, and of finding the couple dead on
the highway and their baby screaming, and my trying to save the child. I mention the voice I heard on the cathedral screen that night, and the warning that I had but six days to save my soul. I explain that I did not understand this at the time, and that William and I embarked on our homeward journey in ignorance of our own infection, but when we discovered the truth, we prayed hard. I do not mention that we went to Scorhill but I say that our prayers were answered by an angel, who told us we would live one day of the six remaining to us every ninety-nine years. I conclude by saying, ‘So the answer to your question as to where we come from is that we were born in this parish. But in truth, although this is our home, we are not at home. Home is not a place but a time.’

  Master Ley looks from me to William and back, most solemnly. The portreeve is looking down at the straw on the floor. The canon precentor stares down the hall, ignoring me as if I were one of the Satellites of Satan. Father Parleben looks stern. ‘Have you finally finished your blithering?’ he asks. ‘I’ll call the constable myself.’

  But Master Ley is not happy to see us treated thus. ‘No, Father Parleben. I will not have it, not at all. This may be a miracle.’

  ‘Pah! Miracles!’ snaps the canon precentor. ‘Country credulousness.’

  Master Ley replies calmly, ‘You may have your doubts, Cousin Walter, but there are many marvels in this world that are beyond our comprehension. We read about them in the Bible and in the pages of the works of our most learned men. Surely as an educated man you’ve delved into the works of Roger Bacon? He writes of the possibility of building machines with wings that can beat the air and propel a man in flight as birds do, and of protective suits of armour that allow a man to traverse the seabed with no danger of drowning, and of bridges that can cross great chasms without anything to support them. If these things are possible, as Friar Bacon says they are, then why should not men traverse periods of time? Friar Bacon also wrote of chariots that could move at the most incredible speeds without a single draught animal, and ships of vast scale that likewise could cross the world’s seas in a few days, with just a single man to steer them. One might declare that these are the fictions of an old friar too fond of fathoming the future, but this was the same friar who described such previously unimagined marvels as your spectacles, without which you would be less sure of many things.’