‘I followed them and soon as I saw where they was headed I guessed where Robert had hidden it. We used that loose stone as a hiding place for our little treasures when we were bairns. I took the cross, afore they could find it, but I lost my way in the dark, ran right into Giles and when he bumped against me, he felt it under my cloak.
‘He tried to grab me and make me give it to him. I pulled out my knife. I only meant to drive him off, but he came towards me again. He must have tripped over a root or some such in the dark, ’cause he fell forward onto the knife in my hand and the next thing I knew he was dead. I ran and hid; saw them carrying the body to the chapel and knew they weren’t going to report it. They couldn’t, not without giving themselves away.’
‘How did you get into the chapel? The door was locked.’
Meggy gave Thomas a pitying look. ‘Door on the other side, small one. Wood was so rotten it was easy to chip a hole in it and put my hand through. Key was in the lock on the other side. Stuffed up the hole up again with a bit of wood and leaves. Who’s to see in the dark?’
She looked up at him from under the mob of russet hair. Her expression was almost calm now.
‘They’ll not be punished, will they, those priests? None of them. They’ll punish me, though. They’ll hang me. But not them, never them, though they took my sister’s life no different than if they’d strangled her with their own hands.’
‘Your sister took her own life,’ Thomas said sternly. ‘The three men have been on a diet of bread and water and slept on straw these past nights, and there will be other penances imposed on them when all this is reported.’
She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘There’s many a bairn in England who’d be glad of a bite of bread for their suppers and a heap of straw to sleep on and think it heaven. What are they doing penance for? What’s their sin? I’d like to see every last priest in England struck down. That’s what God wants to do: strike them down like the angel of death slew all the first born of Egypt.’
Without warning, she lunged for the knife and grabbed it. Thomas threw up his arms to protect his face and chest, thinking she was going to plunge it into him, but instead, he heard a scream of agony. Meggy was sitting on the bench, her eyes wide in pain, her fingers still grasping the hilt of the knife that she had plunged into her own chest. A crimson stain was spreading rapidly out over the front of her gown, like a rosebud opening. Then she crumpled forward, her head thudding on the table, her hair tumbling over her face and covering those dead eyes.
There was a silence in the inn as Randal finished his tale. He was staring at rushes on the floor. ‘I think,’ he added softly, ‘the days are coming when Meggy will get her wish. If the pestilence reaches our shores, priests will be struck down in their thousands, as they have already been beyond these seas. Perhaps God has finally woken from His slumbers at last and the punishment we priests deserve is about to fall upon us all.’
Prior Wynter snorted. ‘According to your tale it is the women who deserve punishment – luring a priest from his scared vows, desecrating a sacred and holy object by using it to murder a man of God, not to mention the wickedness of suicide. It seems to me you have shown us that lust was the chief sin in this fable and it was lust that was justly punished with the death and damnation of these two wanton females.’
All the women in the tavern bridled and there was an explosion of protests.
‘And I suppose the clerics received no punishment at all, just like poor Meggy predicted,’ Katie said indignantly, glowering at Prior Wynter, ‘in spite of the fact that they’d stolen and lied.’
‘There were penances,’ Randal said dully, staring at his hands. ‘The subdean decided his nephew was too much of a liability to keep him at the Cathedral. So he found Robert a parish on the edge of the fens far from the inns and stews of Lincoln. And he sent a comely housekeeper to cook and clean for him, knowing that even if the housekeeper found more ways than a heated stone to warm his nephew’s bed, at least the rumours would never reach as far as Lincoln.
‘But as I told you at the beginning, Prior Wynter, it is pride that is the father of the other six sins. Oswin was proud of his knowledge and talent for summoning spirits and demons. He exalted in the glory of driving out the Devil and wrestling with angels. He could control the ministers and minions of Heaven and Hell. But his pride was to sire its own punishment.’
With shaking hands, Randal unwound the long tails of his hood and pulled it from his head. His tonsure gleamed in the firelight. He lifted his head and for the first time met the gaze of his fellow pilgrims. This time, it was they who turned their faces away as they saw the wild and haunted despair in his eyes.
‘You see, I did summon spirits and demons, just as I boasted I could. But now they come whether I call them or not and I cannot stop them. I see them everywhere. Imps with leathery wings and cruel beaks peer down at me from the trees. Monstrous creatures with human eyes slither over the stones of the track towards me. Men, long dead, stretch out their rotting hands, trying to pull me back down into their foul graves. Giles and Eustace sit on each side of me at the table whenever I try to eat, the blood still running from their wounds. I see demons crouching on women’s shoulders, mocking me. I watch the birds of death hovering over the babies’ cradles. I am afraid even to look at a child, in case my evil eye should curse them. I am terrified to sleep, for in my dreams there is no escaping the wraiths that bite and tear and suffocate me.
‘That night, in the disused chapel outside Lincoln, as I prostrated myself before that altar in front of my friends, I prayed that St Guthlac and St Hugh and all the Saints would give me the power to summon the spirits of the air and earth, of the living and the dead, and they heard me. They granted me what, in my pride, I most desired. And that was my punishment. They are dragging me down into their kingdom, the kingdom of the dead. I am already in purgatory and I do not know if I will ever escape it.’
He gazed around at his fellow pilgrims, his face contorted with despair. ‘If I die at the holy shrine of Walsingham, will the spirits leave me then? If the pestilence comes to take me, will I finally be free from my torment? For that is my only prayer now.’
Historical Notes
Dean Henry Mansfield died in post in Lincoln Cathedral on 6 December 1328. The position was finally filled in the February, not by the subdean but by Anthony Bek, who had previously been elected Bishop of Lincoln, though he never served as such because the result of the election was quashed. However, he subsequently became Bishop of Norwich.
Divination was practised by trained priests within the Church for a variety of purposes. The instructions they were to follow were carefully written down. There were many methods, but they basically fell into three types. Sum mon ing – the calling up of spirits, angels or demons, to question them directly about the future. Scrivening – where, after fasting, purification and mediation, a priest would attempt to read patterns in smoke or in blood, oil, wax or other substances dropped in water. Casting lots – after fasting and saying Mass, the priest was instructed to sprinkle himself with holy water and ensure that six poor people were being fed as he cast his lots. He would then ask a series of yes/no questions such as: Will this sick person recover? Should this journey be undertaken? Should the building work be begun on this day?
All divination had to be performed before a consecrated altar. Some churchmen denounced such practises, but many advocated them, seeing no difference between divination and trial by ordeal, which in previous centuries had been the principle form of determining the guilt or innocence of the accused.
Crackpole, or krakepol, which gave the area of Lincoln its name, is thought to come from the Scandinavian kráka, meaning crow and pol, which in Old English means a small body of water. Crackpole lies just north of Brayford Pool. Clergy were often disparagingly referred to as crows by the laity because of their black robes and the fact that they made a profit from the dead. A crow feeding in a churchyard or sitting on the roof of a house was an omen of dea
th.
In the Middle Ages, most churches had an Easter Sepulchre built into the wall on the left-hand side of the altar. This was a long low recess between two foot and six foot long. At the end of the Good Friday services, a statue of Christ was placed in the tomb and kept there until Easter Sunday morning, when the sepulchre would be uncovered and the tomb revealed to be empty, showing that Christ had risen. Many churches bricked up their sepulchres during the Reformation and many more were lost due to rebuilding in later centuries, but some still remain, such as at St Mary the Virgin in Ringmer, East Sussex, and All Saints Church, Hawton, Nottinghamshire. In some old churches, if you examine the wall you can still see the outline of where the recess used to be.
Clergy, even those in minor orders who did not take lifelong vows, were granted benefit of clergy, which by this period had been extended to include anyone who could read. This meant that, except for those accused of treason, monks and clergy could only be tried in the far more lenient ecclesiastical courts, which did not impose the death penalty, even for murder. However, there were cases of clergy being defrocked in the ecclesiastical courts and then handed over to be tried again in the civil courts, which could hang them, but this was rare.
Punishment, even for serious crimes, usually took the form of penances, such as fasting, pilgrimages or incarceration in a carcer, an ecclesiastical prison, where monks and priests were imprisoned in solitary confinement for misdeeds ranging from breaches of the religious rule to criminal offences. Often, confinement would be for just a few days, though, for serious offences, such as murdering another cleric or monk, it could be a year or more, and after that the offender might be banished to a parish or monastery considered to be particularly austere or remote.
Epilogue
With the tale of pride, the seven deadly sins were finished. Although at the beginning of their stay the landlord of the Angel had suggested that the pilgrims might like to debate which of the sins was the worst, the very worst, there was a general feeling that such a difficult question was beyond the reach of human beings to decide. This was a matter best left to God. Besides, it was late and they were tired. In front of them, the pilgrims had the immediate prospect of a second night in the not uncomfortable beds of the inn and then, on the morrow, a resumption of their journey towards Walsingham.
Yet, tired as they were and even before the start of the next stage of their journey, they had been looking at each other with new eyes, a consequence of the stories that they’d heard. There was respect and pity for Janyn the veteran soldier and his tale of lust, and some amusement at David Falconer’s account of the man who’d been tricked into eating himself to death. The prior’s condemnation of sloth pricked the consciences of some. The misery and confusion produced by sin had been amply demonstrated by the stories of greed and envy, anger and pride.
The next day dawned bright. The sky had cleared and the rain-soaked ground was already drying out in the midsummer warmth. Rest, refreshment and a sunny morning gave new heart to the travellers, despite the tales of death and suffering that they had been hearing for the last two nights. Even the spirit-haunted Randal looked, for the time being, if not cheerful then at least not so despairing.
Perhaps the pestilence would never reach this corner of England, they dared to hope. Perhaps the intercession of Our Lady of Walsingham would protect them, each and every one, from the wrath of God, whether they counted themselves among the deserving or the . . . less deserving. There was a new vigour and determination in their movements as they prepared to set out once more for the shrine. The exception was Katie Valier who, with her young companion, was not bound for Walsingham at all but going in search of her de Foe ancestors in the area round Bishop’s Lynn. Nevertheless, she intended to keep company with the group for a while longer. And Prior John, of course, though travelling to the shrine, was making the journey not to atone for his own sins but to pass judgement on those of others in his order, a prospect that he relished.
The sense of kinship that had grown between the pilgrims at the Angel – or between most of them – during their two days and nights in Mundham was strong enough for the landlord to mention casually to his wife that he had it in mind to accompany the group to the shrine. What did she think? But, as far as Agnes was concerned, Laurence was required to stay at the Angel. She did not say this straight out but instead remarked that business was good. As long as summer lasted, and as long as the pestilence did not draw near, they might expect to host other passing groups of pilgrims. Perhaps Laurence would have the chance to exercise his storytelling skills again? All these things were true, but it could also be that Agnes was worried about what – or who – her husband might be tempted by once he’d escaped the bounds of home. Not all of the Walsingham pilgrims were pious or preoccupied with sin and salvation; some of the women were young, or at any rate not so old.
In compensation, Agnes arranged with Nicholas Hangfield, the shipping clerk, that he would bring them back a souvenir from Walsingham: it might be a wax effigy of the Mother and Child, blessed by the monks, or a flask filled with water from the Holy Well or, best of all, a little leaden pouch in which was sealed the sacred water mingled with a drop of the Virgin’s milk. Nicholas, who was a helpful sort of fellow, promised to do this. God willing, he was planning to pass through Mundham on his return to London, once he had paid his respects at the shrine.
So, bidding farewell to Laurence and Agnes Carter as they stood at the arched entrance to the Angel yard, the motley band moved off down the principal road through Mundham. Not for the first time, Laurence observed to his wife how remarkably sure-footed the blind man was. Until you got close to Master Falconer, you’d never have suspected his condition. Meanwhile, some of the inhabitants of Mundham came out of their houses or straightened up from working in their cottage gardens to stare at the passing parade. A few waved and others called out requests to the pilgrims to put in a good word for them at the shrine.
Soon, the road narrowed until it was more of a path, and they entered the woods that lay to the north of the village. Usually, this would have been a rather forbidding place – hadn’t there been some mention of outlaws hereabouts? – but this morning, the birds were singing and the sunlight spilled out in bright patches on the forest floor. Maybe some of the men touched the hilts of their knives more frequently than they would have done out in the open, even as the women chatted or laughed more insistently while they paced through the woods. But they all emerged safe and sound on the other side and breathed more easily because they now had a view of the road before them and the country on either side.
By the early afternoon, they reached Thetford. There, they heard that the group that had departed from Mundham almost two days before had not been so fortunate. This first group had been set on by outlaws in the very woods through which the pilgrims had just passed. No deaths resulted, but several of the party had been wounded or badly beaten by thieves taking advantage of the poor weather and fading light. The injured were being cared for in the infirmary at the Cluniac priory in Thetford. For the Mundham pilgrims, this sad story was a reminder of the perils that surrounded them on all sides, as well as of human wickedness, which had been their theme. Some felt sorrow but most experienced at least a moment of relief and thankfulness that they had not been part of that earlier company. They had chosen to stay behind and to talk and listen. Perhaps God was looking on them with favour after all . . .
Thetford was a meeting-point for other pilgrims and, as they all pressed forward towards Walsingham, the number of companies grew, so that if you had been able to fly up into the air and then look down from a sufficient height you would have seen them like a skein of streams and tributaries coming together in a greater river flowing towards the shrine of Our Lady.
Who knows how many will have their prayers answered at Walsingham, prayers for themselves and their families, for their towns and villages. Some will return home to find their kin or neighbours already struck down, as if in mockery of their
piety. Others will survive the worst of the pestilence and count themselves lucky, only to fall victim as it seems to be in retreat.
One in three of the population will be dead by the end of 1349.
And what of the Mundham pilgrims, the tale-tellers? What of Janyn and Katie Valier, of blind Falconer and the stern-faced canon? Did Laurence and Agnes Carter continue to trade under the sign of the Angel? And Nicholas Hangfield, did he survive to call on them, as he’d promised, on his return to London? Was Randal, once a novice priest and now a broken man, to find any relief from his torment?
We cannot know. Their history stops here.
We have kept company with them long enough. They are part of that great crowd flowing towards Walsingham now, and not to be distinguished from the thousands of others making the same pilgrimage. All we can do is wish them Godspeed.
The Deadliest Sin Page 43
