The Black and the White

by Alis Hawkins

  Did he say those words to Beatrice? Did she ask the saint to reach out a tender hand to her, in love?

  He has not mentioned Beatrice’s miracle. Not a word has been spoken about soft hands or special blessings.

  Symond has been home to fetch his family. His wife, like him, is in the early part of middle life, a stout kind of woman whose straining seams speak of abundant food and prosperity. They have three children with them, two girls about my own age and the boy who was with Symond when we first met.

  He introduces his wife. ‘This is Margery.’ The lady and I bow pleasantly to each other. ‘And these are my treasures,’ he rests a hand on each blond head in turn, ‘Avice, Agatha and Alan.’

  Alan grins and dips his head. Avice glances at me with a sly smile and I feel myself blush, remembering Christiana. I am almost glad of Agatha’s indifference.

  ‘Your saint,’ Margery begins, folding her arms comfortably beneath her ample bosom.

  ‘Yes?’ I try to give my attention to her rather than to Avice who is trying to hook my eye.

  ‘Her statue shows no tokens. What do folk know her by — just the whiteness of her gown?’

  I think of other English saints — Edmund with the Danish arrows of his martyrdom, Dunstan with the tongs he used to hold the devil by the nose while he shod his cloven hooves.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her, ‘her whiteness. She’s the White Maiden.’

  ‘So — have you got anything for us to remember her by? Anything that’ll keep us mindful of our prayers to her?’

  Hob, shaking his head sadly, fixes his eyes on me. ‘No, we have nothing.’

  Two days later, I wake to a morning of blustery chill. Lying wrapped in blankets, my hood pulled down over my brow, only my face is cold and I am loath to get up. Being buffeted by the wind until your whole body is as cold as your face is an unhappy way to begin the day.

  Through half-open eyes I see Hob sitting at the fire, his cloak pulled around him, hood up. Though his back is to me, I can tell that he is working at something.

  I slide out from under the cart, pulling the blankets with me and subject my straining cock to the cold damp air, feeling the chill on the sensitive skin, remembering for the ten dozenth time Christiana’s hand and the gasp that came from me when she wrapped her fingers around me.

  I look up, away from the base of the ash-sapling where I am directing my piss. Off to my right, the sun is rising through heavy clouds. Ahead of us, a steep scarp rises to travel long miles into the distance, into the country between here and Salster.

  The strong, steaming arc falls to away a dribble and, as always, my body gives a shiver. As I shake myself off, I wonder whether such a quantity of heat leaving my body draws in an equal quantity of cold. Then another, similar thought slips in on its heels. When Saint Cynryth drove the pestilence out of me, did something else rush in? Can it be that the Devil’s demon lives, not in the air about me, whispering in my ears, darting in to seize control of me when I sleep, but in my very being? That, as the pestilence which should have killed me was banished from my body, the demon was drawn in?

  My cock is shrunken and shrivelled in my hand. I tuck it into my braies and pull down my tunic but I cannot tuck my fear away so easily; suddenly my soul feels as poor and weak as my piss-withered cock. Is that the price I am to pay for my life — that, for the rest of my days, this demon will live, curled like a basking snake within me, taking my unconscious limbs at night time and using them to do whatever his master wishes?

  Or, if I fulfil the task for which I was healed and restore the saint to her shrine, will the demon be driven out?

  I look over my shoulder to see whether Hob has heard me stir. He shows no signs of it, his back still bent over whatever task he is about. I stare at him, at the movements that shiver the surface of his golden cloak.

  All day yesterday, after we had left the hospitality of Symond’s village, I bit back the questions that were pushing at my lips to be asked.

  I thought you were going to ask for money?

  Why didn’t you tell them about Beatrice?

  Why are you content to go so slowly?

  The track we followed all day was uneven, canting the cart to one side, and, wary of damaging the wheels, I kept the mare to a pace that would usually have had Hob gnashing his teeth. But not only did he keep a civil tongue in his head, he urged me to let the mare graze at every opportunity.

  When I asked him why he was suddenly so careful of her welfare all he would say was, ‘You’ll see.’

  I walk around to the other side of the fire to see what is occupying him. I would not have guessed at his occupation in a hundred years.

  He is making braids.

  His fingers flip the strands over, pass them under, pull them tight, flatten the braid and start again. Next to him are three braided strands a handspan long; each has a loop in one end, a carefully-worked knot at the other.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

  He shows no surprise at the question. ‘My mother took finger-braid to market every week. It’s not as good as woven but it’s quicker and cheaper.’ He glances up. ‘So it sells.’

  I look at the finished braids. They are clearly designed to circle a wrist, knot passing through loop as a fastener.

  ‘Are you planning to take them to market?’

  He shakes his head, his eyes on his working fingers. ‘These are tokens of the White Maiden,’ he looks up. ‘You heard that dame in the village — people want tokens to remind them to offer the saint prayers.’

  Now I see the care with which he’s chosen the colours for his braids — white with a thread of gold for the Maiden’s braided kirtle, white with green for the trees of her home.

  ‘Where did you get the silks?’

  ‘Agnes and her husband. You took the book, I took the silks.’

  ‘And you’re going to sell them to people?’

  ‘Yes. Prayers we’ll give for free. Blessings we’ll give for free. But tokens’ll have to be bought.’

  We have been walking only a short time when we see a solitary monk coming towards us. Unlike every other traveller we have encountered he walks right up to us. Hob moves smartly to one side and the monk grips my arms with strong, blunt fingers.

  ‘Are you headed for Guildford?’ he asks. ‘Or are you making all haste to Salster with your saint?’

  He smiles at my surprise. ‘Your fame has gone before you. I’ve just come from a village this side of the ford. They’re waiting for you.’

  Once the monk is safely on his way to Farnham, Hob grins. ‘That’s why we couldn’t hurry yesterday,’ he says. ‘The boys from Symond’s village needed time to run all the way to the next manor and tell them about the miracle-working saint who’s coming along the road.’

  Sure enough, a mile or two further on, the lookouts appear. Children too young to be useful in the fields are sitting like a flock of meadow-pipits on the common grazing of the hillside above us and, as soon as they see us, they spring to their feet and fling themselves up a cow-track towards the village.

  ‘They’re here! They’re here!’

  ‘They’ve come with the saint!’

  ‘The saint’s here! She’s come!’

  Hob turns to me and I cannot keep a grudging smile off my face.

  ‘A peddler told me something once,’ he says, all easy pride now I have acknowledged his cleverness. ‘If you’ve got uncommon merchandise, make sure news of it goes ahead of you. It’s better to arrive when people are already agog to have what you’ve got than to turn up and set about drumming up business.’

  He holds his hand out towards the slope we will have to climb. ‘Behold. A village all agog for our Maiden.’

  Agog indeed. And well informed by the hares sent running.

  Quickly surrounded on all sides, we answer a gabbled question here, confirm a detail there, as we make our way into the village.

  At the church, we are treated as long-awaited guests and given fresh bread and good, we
ll-flavoured ale. The wife who brings the bread is full of apologies for not having anything else to bring us — ‘But, with it being Lent...’

  I wait for Hob to brush aside her objections but he assures her that fresh bread is treat enough for men who have been cooking pottage for themselves every day.

  When we have eaten and drunk, Hob stands.

  ‘It seems you all know how Cynryth came to be the White Maiden,’ he says, ‘but something I haven’t heard anybody mention this morning is Beatrice’s miracle — can it be that you haven’t heard about Beatrice and the saint’s hand?’

  He knows full well they have not: he said nothing of it in Symond’s village and I followed his example. Faces look up at him; a new story is always welcome and, with the pestilence threatening, a story of the miraculous is preferred above all others. I watch the listening faces as Hob speaks. To my surprise, though he tells the story well, he does not gild the lily.

  ‘The truth is, neither of us —’ he turns to me, bolstering his story with my wordless evidence — ‘saw the miracle taking place. No, we were talking to Beatrice’s father and brothers. And then … we heard her give a little cry.’ He pauses, his eyes everywhere in the crowd, fastening on each person, tightening the thread by which he is drawing them in. ‘“Oh, oh!” That’s all she said.’ He pauses again, then repeats, ‘Oh, oh!’ more slowly, and, this time, it sounds — even in my ears — like the annunciation of a miracle.

  ‘When Beatrice raised her head beneath the saint’s hand for her blessing,’ Hob says, ‘what she felt on her head was not the dry, hard benediction of a wooden hand,’ he thrusts out his arm towards them, fingers stiff, palm up in the reaching manner of the saint, ‘but the warm, soft blessing of a woman’s living hand.’ As he speaks the words, his hand turns over, his fingers lose their rigid hardness and curl downwards, like a mother’s hand resting on the head of an infant. ‘The saint’s wooden hand became flesh.’

  He holds his hand there, for a moment or two, and every person watches, rapt, as if each one of them is there, beneath those warm, curled fingers. Then, he drops his hand to his side.

  At once, there is a great outbreak of murmured astonishment, neighbour turning to neighbour in scarcely-contained amazement, mouths and eyes equally wide.

  ‘Wood turned to living flesh!’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Beatrice.’

  ‘Beatrice.’

  Soon, her name is as familiar to them as their own and they begin to wonder whether they, too, might feel the hand made flesh. A line of people eager for the saint’s blessing begins to form before the font, some on their knees, some preferring to wait their turn standing. And, as at Tredgham, I stand, the saint in my arms, and lower her hand on each supplicant head.

  A yard or two away, Hob has gathered a crowd about him and, out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the young wives put a hand on his arm. ‘How did you come to be in that village where the saint did Beatrice’s miracle?’

  And as I pronounce, again and again, St Cynryth bless you, today and always, Hob tells the story of how the mare threw her shoe and we ended up coaling in Tredgham so that it could be replaced.

  ‘And, while you were there, the miracle was done and scores of people blessed,’ she says, her hands clasped in wonder.

  Hob nods. ‘Yes. The saint caused the mare to throw her shoe at the very place where the miracle could happen.’

  The young wife pulls in a breath, looks around at their companions, then back at Hob. ‘So there were two miracles at Tredgham,’ she says, ‘not one. The miracle of the saint’s hand and the miracle of the thrown horseshoe.’

  While the older folk discuss this second miracle, the girls are more interested in the braids that Hob has brought out. All the blessings sought having been granted, I watch him lacing a white and gold braid between his fingers while the prettiest maid in the church stands at his side.

  ‘If you do this before you sleep, then the saint’ll protect you all night,’ he says, weaving the braid under one finger and over the next. ‘Having this bound to your fingers will remind you —’ he glances into her eyes — ‘of the saint’s hand reaching out in tender love.’

  ‘Show me how to do it,’ she commands, clearly used to having young men do her bidding.

  ‘Must I bow while I’m at it?’ Hob asks, mocking.

  The girl blushes but holds her ground.

  Hob nods and holds his left hand out, to demonstrate. ‘As you lace,’ he tells her, ‘you say this prayer. White Maiden of the well —’ he passes the braid under his second finger — ‘daughter of King Halstan —’ over the ring finger — ‘betrayed lover of the exile —’ the girl’s blush deepens at these words as Hob passes the braid under his little finger — ‘faithful bride of Christ —’ the braid comes back — ‘protect me now —’ under the ring finger — ‘and all those dear to me —’ over the next finger — ‘this night and every night.’ He pulls the braid tight and meets her eye.

  ‘And then, during the day —’ he slides the laced strand from his fingers and wraps it around her wrist, careful not to touch her, lest anybody see — ‘you wear it fastened up, like this.’

  As knot passes through loop with the merest resistance, the girl gazes at Hob, her face pink, her lips parted.

  Now, after Christiana, I know what that look means.

  I look away, at the crowd of people in the church and, again, I am reminded of the vision the Maiden granted me at Tredgham: an army under her protection. And there, in the midst of them, stands Hob.

  Hob Cleve. Despite all that I know of him, all I suspect, can it be that the saint has chosen him — just as she has chosen me — to bring that vision to pass?

  CHAPTER 26

  Guildford behind us, we follow the track along the towering scarp as it runs eastward. The going is slow today and the view that stretches ahead of us seems unchanging, however long we walk.

  I believe we must be on the cusp of April, today, for the sun is hot when the clouds part in front of it and the breeze is warm. Soon, if the warmth persists, bees and butterflies will appear and the swallows will bring summer with them.

  Around us, leaves are already showing on the smaller saplings — the may and sycamores are the furthest advanced but the hazels are not far behind. Blackthorns are already in bloom and the abundance of their white flowers reminds me of snow.

  Is Hob expecting news of the saint to have raced ahead of us again? This is sparser, hillier country than we had before Guildford; if we want to find a village, we shall have to go further down, into the vale. These slopes are good for sheep-grazing but a plough-team would be hard-pushed to turn much of the land for crops.

  As the sun sinks and dusk approaches, I think of the bread that we have packed into the flour chest along with a good half-pound of cheese given to us by one of the village’s woman. She may have hoped that we would save it until after Easter but she did not require our promise to do so and I am glad of it.

  When we stop for the night, Hob takes the mare’s hobble from me as I come around the cart. ‘There’s something I want to do while it’s still light enough to see,’ he says. ‘Can you go and see about firewood this time?’

  I have no wish to sour the good humour he has been in since he conceived the notion of the braids, so I do as he asks.

  Hob does not look up when I let the unwieldy bundle drop from my shoulders at the side of the cart and untie the cord. He is working away with that knife of his on what I take to be our pilgrim’s staff; but when I look more closely, I see that he has helped himself to a coppice pole from somewhere and is notching one end of it, as if it were an outsized arrow.

  I look about for some indication of what he is doing and see a horseshoe lying at his side. My first thought is that the mare must have thrown another shoe but, when I peer at her in the half-light she is standing four-square.

  I do not need to go many paces toward the cart before I see the empty corner-joint at the front. A fine
sweat breaks out on my back. The horseshoes fixed to the cart are all that prevents the demon from forcing me to do his bidding while I sleep under it. Hob knows that.

  I stoop and pick up the horseshoe.

  ‘Hey, put that down!’

  ‘You can’t take the horseshoes off the cart!’ What is he trying to do, drive me to my death at the demon’s bidding?

  He flares up, leaping to his feet. ‘And you’re going to stop me, are you?’

  I take a step backwards, cradling the horseshoe against my chest. ‘No wonder you wanted me out of the way, you knew I’d never let you leave me unprotected.’

  ‘Oh, stop squealing like a girl, Martin!’ He throws the staff to the ground and sits again. ‘You’re not unprotected, are you? I’m here to stop the demon harming you. And what about the saint? Don’t you trust her to keep you safe?’

  I stare down at him.

  ‘You don’t, do you? You have more fear of the demon than you have faith in the saint. Shame on you, Martin. Shame on you.’

  I feel my heart thudding in my chest. Is he right? The fears that plagued me at night before Hob rescued me from Edgar have not entirely left me. They are lodged in me like the demon. But Hob is right — surely the saint will protect me? I walked on the hearth at Tredgham and did no harm to myself or others. And Hob was able to bid the demon in me lie down again.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doing.’ My voice sounds weak and I cough to clear the hard lump of fear siting in my throat.

  ‘Light the fire before the embers cool too much and then I’ll tell you.’

  Apprehension makes me cack-handed and it takes me twice as long as usual to get the fire going. With every breath I examine my conscience. Has Saint Cynryth found me wanting in my devotion — has she seen in my inner heart a lack of faith, born of Master William’s doubt about her? Has my weakness of faith been allowing the demon to grow strong?

  Finally, the fire alight, I take the peas and beans and garlic we were given in the last village and set them to boil for a pottage. ‘Now,’ I say, trying to sound calm but only succeeding in sounding querulous, ‘tell me what you’re doing.’