Pilgrims

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘Gentle folk by the look of them,’ said the advocate, Jocelyn. Which was right, as even from this distance off I could see their clothes were too well cut for normal pilgrim gear, and the woman’s cloak was very seemly around her shape. Three others, who were riding little rounseys, would be their servitors, and there was another who looked like a priest. Beside the cart driver sat a little lad who must be their boy. Of course the others in our party were looking at them with wide eyes like they were God’s gift to us all. Then there’s nothing your Englishman loves like a great lord, and even my Beatrix, who should’ve known better, was lost in smiles. ‘I wonder who they are?’ said Sir John like he couldn’t wait to learn. ‘They don’t look like French or Flemings.’ ‘Germans would be better attired,’ said Oswald, ‘as they like to travel looking well. And they wouldn’t be coming down the road from Calais.’ I knew they were all praying to God to make these fine noble folk be English. Of course none of you stop to wonder, I thought to myself, how hard they’ve squeezed their tenants and their bondsmen to get those fine horses. You never ask, have they paid the tailor who stitched those handsome cloaks?

  But they had their wish. One of the gentle folk’s party, the priest, cantered over to us and called out in English, ‘Lady Lucy de Bourne gives you her greetings.’ ‘And John of Baydon gives our greetings to Lady de Bourne, and most heartily, too,’ answered Sir John, and then they were both smiling and smirking at finding that none of us were foreign. The priest asked where we were on pilgrimage to and when Sir John told him Rome they both smiled and smirked all over again, as it turned out that was where Lady de Bourne was going as well.

  It wasn’t that I wanted to put an end to their merriness but I had been wondering why their party had been introduced in the name of the lady. As the priest was about to ride back to his party I asked him, ‘Tell me, Father, is that gentleman with the fair hair Lord de Bourne?’ My supposing was right as it happened, and the priest looked awkward now. ‘No, that’s Lord Lionel,’ he said, ‘Lady Lucy’s travelling companion.’ I’d thought as much from the way he’d hung back as they rode, so he was always a little behind her. If he’d been lord he’d have been ahead of her or at least beside. He looked younger than her, too. A travelling companion, and what was that? I wondered. Had these fine, gentle folk been fornicating together? Were they going to Rome to ask forgiveness of their wicked sin? For that matter, were they sinning still? As the priest rode away I saw the rest of our party looking a little sorry. What did you expect? I thought. Did you think that your fine folk would be pilgrimaging to Rome white as snow?

  But there was a blessing here, I saw. There was no doubt about it, God was looking out for his voice and his torchbearer. If we ended up travelling with this crowd to Rome, as we might, then my marks would be safer for sure. One of the thralls was a big, strong-looking fellow who’d be handy in a skirmish. I saw their cart was piled up with sacks and barrels that looked like food and drink, so we wouldn’t starve with them alongside us. For that matter the cart could come in useful for Beatrix if Porker went lame. I stepped over to the rich delver. ‘Now you have your answer, Hugh,’ I said, giving him a hard slap on his back that made him miss his step. ‘Here’s the great good fortune God promised us.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lucy de Bourne

  Sometimes in my darkest moments when my life seemed cursed I’d tell myself, don’t feel neglected, Lucy. It’s no surprise that God doesn’t always hear you. Think how often you see folk praying to him, at home or in church or as they’re taking a rest from tilling their fields. Think how many voices beseech him every hour. Think how deafened he must be by all that clamour and how hard it must be for him to hear one entreaty from another. If I woke in the depths of the night and couldn’t sleep I’d tell myself, this tossing and turning may seem like torment, Lucy, but it’s also a blessing. It’s a chance to be seized. Now that everybody else is asleep God will hear your prayers more easily. So I’d pray and pray. But then my doubts would creep back. I’d wonder, what if many others are also being kept awake by their troubles and are praying just as I am, as then he may not hear me after all? Or what if God himself is asleep? Once, when I was especially anguished and I prayed every waking hour, begging God to show me a little kindliness and take my husband Walter from this earth and throw him down to hell to burn, I asked a priest, ‘Father, tell me, does God sleep in the night like we do?’ I’d have been wiser to ask a scholar. He squinted his eyes and said that the ways of God were a mystery not known by men, which seemed no answer at all.

  When I was younger, only twelve or thirteen or fourteen years old, and nobody in the world thought that one day I might be heiress to a great fortune, let alone two fortunes, of course I loved God, as every good Christian must, but the one who was oftenest in my thoughts was brave Lancelot. That was all thanks to Eleanor, my little brother Hugo’s betrothed. It was she who said to me one day, ‘Lucy, wouldn’t you like to learn reading and writing like your brothers and the wards?’ I wasn’t eager if truth be told, as my notion of joy wasn’t to sit staring at letters but to go riding Pomley over the Wolds, as fast as he’d take me. But Eleanor was my best friend, being the only gentle female in the castle who was close to my own age, and I could see she was keen. So, thinking she’d soon lose curiosity, I gave my accord. We went to Father Tim as he taught the boys and he agreed readily enough. Then he’d always been a little soft for me, and he would be more so again later, when I was grown. He found us both wax tablets and each day except Sunday we’d go to him in the hall around noontime, when the boys were out riding or practising swordsmanship. And strange to say, though it had all been Eleanor’s notion, I was the one who took to it quickest and liked it best.

  Once we could both mumble out our words our next thought was what we should read. Father Tim gave us our catechism, which was no use as we knew it already, and then he gave me Saint Catherine’s life, but I can’t say I loved that either. So I went to Father, who had several books. They were all tales of King Arthur and his knights, Father said, these being his favourites. All were in French but Eleanor and I both understood that well enough as Mother spoke to us in it when she remembered, like gentle mothers will. So we took one and mouthed it in turns, and after that I’m sorry to say that poor Pomley was quite neglected as all I cared about was those stories. I adored every one of them, whether they were about Tristan and Iseult, or Percival and Blanchefleur, or Merlin and his wicked enchantress Viviane. My favourites, though, were Lancelot and Guinevere.

  Poor Lancelot, I felt sorry for him. He was so lost in his passion that he was like a man in a trance, forgetting everything, even his knightly vows, so he betrayed his own lord, Arthur. Guinevere could be cruel, making him into her slave, but then she had to be sure he was worthy of her love. Eleanor liked those tales as much as I did and sometimes we’d go up the east tower where hardly anybody went and act them out together in play. Eleanor was no good at Lancelot as when she tried to make her voice deep it sounded foolish, while she’d get scared of her quests, even though I only gave her easy ones. So she was always Guinevere and would sit on her throne, which was an old chair that we’d found up there, and tell me I must show my valour by sneaking into the pantry to get her a wafer, or I must bring her a beetle in a goblet, or a frog from the moat.

  I never failed once but still there was no telling how she’d be. Sometimes she’d smile and tell me I’d proved my love very well but other times she’d look annoyed and say I hadn’t done it right, so I must beg her forgiveness and do another. I never gainsaid her, as how could I when I was a poor knight lost in passion? So I’d kneel down, beg her forgiveness and then go off to fetch another frog or whatever it was. Once, when she’d made me get her a flask of mead from the pantry that we both drank, she said I’d proved my love so well that I might kiss her. And so I did, there and then, right on her lips and for the longest time too, with my arms round her neck so it was like we really were Lancelot and Guinevere. What a funny thing that wa
s. I often wondered if she’d tell me I might kiss her again, especially when I’d done well with a quest, but she never did.

  When I was almost seventeen and was to marry Geoffrey I prayed to God, please Lord, make him my own Lancelot, though I didn’t think it was very likely. I’d met Geoffrey several times and he was two years younger than me and short, so I could look down at the curly hair on the top of his head. And though he tried to be courtly with me, asking me if I was hungry or thirsty or if he should have something fetched for me, his voice was so high and chirpy and his aspect was so timorous that I swear I’d been courtlier myself when I was Lancelot to Eleanor’s Guinevere. My father, who was always kindly to me, as I was his favourite of the three of us, said I mustn’t worry, as my wedding was only the beginning. With time Geoffrey would grow taller, most likely, and we’d become accustomed to each other.

  My mother told me I must obey him and I mustn’t fuss if he beat me, as that was what husbands did to keep their wives on the right path. Then she told me what I must do on my wedding night, which seemed so foul and strange that I could hardly bear to think about it, but she said it was God’s will so I must welcome it as my joy. Finally she gave me a gift of a little paring knife with a sharp pointed end and she told me how to counterfeit that we’d done it, in case it didn’t go right, because Geoffrey’s mother might look for signs afterwards. And it was as well she did as, despite all the mead we drank on our wedding night, Geoffrey was more anguished even than I was and in the end his ugly mushroom squirted out its grease before I’d touched it, let alone had it go anywhere. I used Mother’s paring knife to spill a little blood from my finger onto the sheets and Geoffrey was so thankful he cried.

  It was hard living among his kin. The only familiar face there was Brigit, our cook’s daughter, who was made my foot maid and who was always trying to cheer me up. ‘Look on the bright side, ma’am,’ she’d say. ‘With time he’ll learn how to get his load into port before it spills.’ And if he was a milksop and no Lancelot, at least I could rule a milksop with ease. ‘In time you’ll get used to being among his folk,’ she said, though I wasn’t so sure. Geoffrey’s mother, who was also his guardian, his father being dead, was a stony woman and even when she tried to be friendly I felt a little scared of her. She was always telling me how lucky I was to have married her boy, what a good marriage gift I’d got, and what a fortune he’d have when he came of age. But then my father had said Geoffrey, whose family had been bailiffs and not gentle folk at all, should think himself lucky to marry a de Bourne, whose great-grandfather had sailed with King Richard to fight the Saracens.

  And then in the end I didn’t need to grow accustomed to them after all. My mother once told me, ‘Death has always been your best friend, Lucy de Bourne,’ which was a hateful thing to say but it was true. I’d been trying my best and every morning and night I prayed, please Lord, give Geoffrey’s mushroom more patience, as each week his mother would look at my flat belly and ask, ‘No news for us yet, Lucy?’ Geoffrey did seem to be getting better, though he still hadn’t made it all the way to harbour. Finally at Christmas his mother had a feast for all her tenants. I was seated next to Geoffrey and, seeing a sweet-looking piece of meat on the platter in front of me, I thought I’d show myself the goodly wife. I took his knife, I stuck the piece and popped it into his mouth. He smiled at first and started swallowing but then I saw his eyes open wider, his hand went to his throat and though I screamed and everyone jumped up to help, knocking over the chairs and plates, it was no good. He’d choked.

  I’ll always owe Brigit for that time. She heard all the news from her gabbling with the other servitors. I’d seen the foul looks Geoffrey’s mother gave me but it was Brigit who told me what she was telling everyone, which was that I’d choked him not by mistake but purposely so I could get my dower. That was a wicked lie. He hadn’t been much but I’d done my best by him. I was sorry he’d gone and my wailing and tears were heartfelt enough, mostly, while it wasn’t my fault that he hadn’t troubled to chew. ‘You must get away from here right away,’ Brigit warned me, ‘or something bad will happen to you, mark my words.’ I’d find myself pushed down the stairs, she said, or I’d taste ground glass in my stew. So we made up a tale that she had to visit a sick cousin in Lincoln and instead she went to my father. He’d have come to Geoffrey’s burying anyhow but he took care to bring most of the thralls and a cart for my marriage gifts. I left with him.

  As we rode homewards he surprised me with his laughter. ‘I shouldn’t, I know,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry for poor little Geoffrey, of course I am, but still I can’t help but smile.’ Though he’d thought it a good match, he said, which would serve me well and give me a commodious life, he’d never liked Geoffrey’s mother, whom he’d found a hard, greedy sort of woman. But now, instead of giving her grandchildren de Bourne ancestors, so they had proper, worthy kin, she’d yielded up half her fortune. Which was quite true, because when you added together my marriage gift and my dower, which I’d have when I came of age, and was a full third of Geoffrey’s kin’s estate, it came to nearly half. ‘You’re an heiress,’ Father said.

  And soon I’d be one twice over, sorry to say. I was happy to be back at Bourne Castle, at home among my family and the wards and Eleanor. She was pleased to see me but also a little anguished, as my brother Hugo was fourteen so they’d soon be wedded rightfully and she’d join him in his bedchamber. I tried to soothe her by telling her about Geoffrey. Though I felt troubled too, wondering what kind of husband I’d have next. My father was already searching. ‘With half Geoffrey’s lands due to you when you come of age, you’ll have your pick,’ he said. ‘I’ll find you a fine fellow, don’t you worry.’ I told him, and firmly too, what manner of man I wanted. He must be a little older than me and taller. He must be seemly but lovesome and mannerly. And he must be gallant and manly too. Father gave me a look like he knew what was in my thoughts. Then he knew me well enough. ‘A Lancelot, eh?’ he said.

  But he never did find me a husband, Lancelot or otherwise. One day at the start of spring our steward Ralph, who’d been to Lincoln to get spices for the cook, came back with news that there was more trouble in Wales, and after then it seemed that all I heard about was Wales and war, Wales and war. The Welsh were cheating, treacherous devils, so everyone said, and there was no treating with them now except by the sword. Whenever we had visitors in the hall there’d be songs and toasts with everyone jeering that the Welshmen, being savage woodsmen, would be crushed to dust in a week. But my father, who’d fought them in the last war, wasn’t so sure. Welshmen had a way of making themselves look just like trees, he told me, so you couldn’t see them till it was too late. ‘We’d be marching past a forest and there might be a hundred of them in there, or a thousand, and we’d never know till they rushed out at us with their long spears.’ Another thing he told me about was the damp. ‘I swear it rains like no rain you’ve ever seen. There’s fog too and sometimes it rains through the fog.’ If his squire forgot to polish his sword and his mail, he said, within days it would be black with rust and there’d be mould on his clothes. ‘Everybody grows sick. I swear you could lose a whole army to Welsh fungus.’

  It wasn’t long before King Edward sent out writs for a levy of the host. Father wasn’t eager. ‘I’ve done my warring,’ he said, and Mother was with him so he’d have paid his fee instead if it hadn’t been for my little brother Hugo. He was fervent to go and said he’d be shamed if he didn’t. In the end Father agreed and said he could ride as squire to one of his vassals, Arnold de Thurlby, whom Father had fought alongside in the last war and who’d been assured enough then, Father said. But then Father, and my mother too, didn’t like the thought of Hugo going with no kin to watch over him, and Father decided to go after all. So we said our farewells to them both as they rode away with Father’s little party of warriors.

  They’d hardly gone when the most worrisome news came to us. A horde of Welsh devils had trapped the Earl of Gloucester and his army i
n an ambush and many a good Englishman had perished. After that I prayed every morning, noon and night, please dear God, I beg you, keep my father and my brother safe from Welshmen pretending themselves trees. Bring them both home safe. It was quiet for us who were left behind with nothing to do but wait and hope. With Eleanor’s betrothed gone and my father and many of the young men, too, there’d be no weddings for us till they got back home. I rode over the Wolds when I could, though Mother was steadfast that I must always go with Ralph the steward and three of the thralls, as she feared that, as an heiress, I might be seized by some malefactor and forced as his bride.

  But it wasn’t me whom Mother should’ve feared for. One December afternoon I’d been out riding like usual and as we came back into the castle yard I heard a wailing that I knew at once as my mother’s voice. So it was I learned that God had taken my littlest brother, Edward. He’d been as hungry as Hugo to go off to war but was too young. That day he’d been playing battles with one of the wards and to make it more real he’d put on some old, half-rusted armour he’d found, though it was far too big for him. They’d been chasing each other about, stabbing and clouting one another with their wooden swords, till Edward ventured too near the moat, over by the postern where it was slippery, and in he’d gone. The ward had done his best, jumping in after him, but it was deep there and the weight of Edward’s armour gave him no chance. My mother was beyond all comforting and shrieked blame at anyone she could: the ward, of course, and also me for going off riding with Ralph and the thralls, who might’ve saved him if they’d been about. That cut me deep and it wasn’t right, either, I thought. If anyone was at fault it was the Welshmen, as if it hadn’t been for their treachery that forced war on us then Edward would never have been playing at battles in the first place.