“Is that not how we address beggars, Coke Bateman, when we are not minded to give them alms?”
“Very well, Sister Clarice. I wish you great abundance of ghostly comfort and joy in God. Does that please you more?”
“It is sufficient. Sit down beside me and talk. I have not seen you in a long time.”
So for a while they conversed upon the little affairs of the mill and the convent. Then Clarice tapped his hand with the shell of a pea. “You have come to confer with me concerning your daughter’s case. Is that not so?” The miller was not surprised by her remark, since he suspected that the nuns had been discussing his daughter’s obvious condition.
“I have been considering upon it,” Clarice said without waiting for his answer, “and I have been thinking of this. When the Virgin was swollen with child, did anyone know or guess its father?”
“It must have been commonly known to be Joseph, sister.”
“Yet in the Clerkenwell play Joseph denies any such matter.” The miller was not clear what Clarice was supposing. “If Mary claimed that God had entered her, who would have believed her? So she was mocked. God loves abasement, you see. And we poor women are frail of kind.”
“What are you telling me?”
“Sit closer, and I shall whisper. I have seen the Questions of Mary. The Genna Marias has been revealed to me in golden letters as I slept. She was taken to the temple as a sacred priestess, a maryam, and there she did copulate with the high priest Abiathar. Do you know the Latin meretrix?” It was, as the miller discovered later, the term for a harlot or courtesan. But he had already heard and understood enough to be profoundly shaken by Sister Clarice’s words; to him it seemed to be a great storm of uncleanness.
“Bring Joan to me,” she said. “She will become my loved sister in Christ. I will drop sweetness in her soul.”
He muttered something about his daughter’s coming confinement, and then left the nun still shelling peas in the kitchen. He guessed that she had spoken plain heresy, but he decided to say nothing. The nun was travelling down strange paths and, from that time forward, he vowed to avoid her company. He did not wish to be in any way tainted by her blasphemies.
As he knelt before the Jesse window in St. Sepulchre, he heard a movement in an aisle behind him. A young man was crouched in front of a side altar dedicated to the saints Cosmos and Damian, and seemed slowly to be moving towards it; he was holding something beneath his cloak. Coke Bateman thought that he was creeping to the cross but then, suddenly, the young man rose to his feet and walked quickly towards the west door. There was a sudden loud explosion; the banners and cloths about the side altar began to burn, and a fierce blaze started in front of the tabernacle. A wax image of the Lamb of God had melted in an instant.
Two days earlier William Exmewe had brought Hamo Fulberd to this church. St. Sepulchre was only a short walk from the priory of St. Bartholomew the Great in Smithfield, and they had crossed the market without talking. The noise of the animals filled Hamo with alarm, however, and he put his hands to his ears. When they came up to the steps of St. Sepulchre, Exmewe whispered to him, “I will show you the stage of your action. Come withinside.” Hamo climbed the steps slowly, looking down at the worn stone.
They entered by the west door and Exmewe led him towards the altar of Cosmos and Damian. “This is where you set the fire,” he said. “I will draw your mark for you. Here.”
There were polished floor tiles surrounding the altar, and Exmewe took out a sharp knife used for cutting the lead badges purchased by the pilgrims to St. Bartholomew; he knelt down and neatly cut the shape of a circle into one of the tiles, so subtly that it might have matched its pattern of diamonds and lozenges. “Are you watching this, Hamo? We are not playing blind man’s touch.”
Hamo was looking apprehensively at the Lamb of God upon the altar.
“The wedge goes here.” Exmewe cut another circle. “A small spark can kindle a great fire.”
After the explosion two or three people ran into the church, shouting and calling out for help. One woman cried, “Havoc! Havoc!” Hamo Fulberd was already making his way down the steps and yelling, “Alarm! Alarm! Each man preserve his own life!” It was the ritual shout of danger, uttered by him as if he were an innocent witness of the event.
The miller had been too surprised by the explosion to say or do anything; instinctively he looked up at the Jesse window and, to his relief, it was intact. As soon as he saw Hamo rushing out of the church, however, he rose from his knees and screamed, “Him! Him! It is him!” He was the first finder, after all, and it was his obligation to raise the hue and cry.
He ran out in pursuit, and saw Hamo turning the corner of Sepulchre Alley; he called out “Smite fast!” as a signal to anyone close by, and then ran after Hamo as he passed Pie Corner into the open ground of Smithfield. Two citizens joined him in pursuit and in their sudden excitement were calling out “Slay! Slay!” and “Give good knocks!” Hamo had reached the stalls where the swine were shown for sale, and turned round for an instant; Coke could not see the expression upon his face. Hamo then swerved to avoid a cart and knocked over a wafer-seller; he hesitated, but then ran even more quickly past the bulls and the oxen towards the gate of St. Bartholomew. Coke Bateman now knew his course: he was about to enter the church and there claim sanctuary. The wafer-seller and a farrier now joined them in this fierce chase; the farrier took off his leather apron and whirled it above his head. Their cries mingled with the noise of the sheep and cattle, so that it seemed as if the whole market were in violent uproar.
Hamo could hear them as he passed through the gate, ran down the cobbled path and pushed open the great door of the church itself; he raced down the aisle and then, fighting for breath, slumped against the high altar. He put his head against the cold stone, and wept. He could smell the stone around him; it smelled of forgotten things, primeval stone quarried from the bedrock of ancient seas. The world was of stone.
The constable and beadle of Farringdon Without had been summoned, and informed of the great and cruel offence against the peace in the church of St. Sepulchre. They in turn had called upon the alderman, Christian Garkeek, who was at the time busily engaged in the Custom House where he was controller of the wool custom. They told him that the malefactor was now claiming sanctuary. They also informed him that the prior of St. Bartholomew knew the accused man: he was one Hamo Fulberd, an illuminator in the service of the priory.
“Is he a clerk?” Garkeek had asked them.
“By no means. He is half-witted.”
“Then he can be hanged.” Garkeek looked out at the dock, where several ships were now being unloaded. “Yet my lord bishop may prefer a burning.”
There were now many citizens watching the church; they were ready to take Hamo if he should come out, or to seize him if he should try secretly to escape. The rules of sanctuary were known to them all. While he remained in the church, no man might hinder anyone bringing food or drink to him. He could remain within the safety of the church for forty days, after which he could formally be expelled by the archdeacon. If Hamo wished, however, he could choose to abjure the realm within this period.
As soon as Hamo had claimed sanctuary the prior summoned William Exmewe and the oldest monk to the chapter-house.
“There is a storm of trouble come upon us,” Exmewe said to the prior even as he entered the chamber. “How did the boy fall among abominable heretics?”
“He must needs walk in the wood that may not walk in town.”
“Meaning, father?”
“There was a wildness in him. He was born for grief.”
“Now,” the elderly monk murmured, as if he were in danger of being overheard, “he has become a wolf’s head that everyone may cut down.”
“Do you know what he said when he claimed sanctuary from me?” The prior bit the inside of his mouth.
“What?” Exmewe was quick to ask the question. He could feel the sweat gathering within him.
“
‘God has ordained that I should suffer. So this is my house.’ ” The prior crossed himself. “Poor boy. Listen. Can you hear them?” He opened a small door at the back of the chapter-house; outside, in the churchyard, there was a tumult of singing and shouting. “Some wicked aspect of Saturn has given us this.” The prior believed in the efficacy of the stars and planets. “I have dark imaginings. Could there be others in the abbey who are casting some plot?”
“Oh no.” Exmewe was again quick to speak. “I can smell a Lollard in the wind. There are no others here. Hamo was alone in this.”
“Then how did he contrive the Greek fire?”
“He is skilled in all workmanship, father. I have seen him build quaint devices.”
“Is it so? Well, he has created infinite harms. Why have I lived so long to see the abbey desecrated? My grass time is done. My white top writes my old years.” The prior sighed and walked about the room. “We will shrive him and then urge him to leave of his free will.”
“If he leaves here,” the old monk said, “he will be engined and pained. Perhaps he will die in the pain.”
Exmewe smiled, and then wiped his mouth with his hand. “Certainly he will be in woe and not in bliss.”
The prior was growing impatient. “If he has committed sacrilege then he has no place here.”
“He may cry innocence, father.”
“He must go. Otherwise our souls are in jeopardy. How can we harbour a burner of churches? It is a thing impossible.”
“Leave him a little,” Exmewe urged. “Let him sleep upon the altar tonight. The sun may bring back his wits.”
“I doubt that. But give him barley-bread and water from the brook. Let him drink with the ducks. We will challenge him at daybreak.”
William Exmewe was perturbed and angry. He had never expected Hamo to flee for sanctuary and return to St. Bartholomew in so open a fashion; the boy was like a mad dog running to his kennel. If the prior heard his confession, he might tell all.
So, later that night, in the silent time between vespers and compline, Exmewe walked quietly down the stone stairway which connected the dorter to the church; there could in any case be no devotions while Hamo remained beside the altar. He went up to the boy, who was already watching him with wide eyes.
“How now, Hamo. How have you fared?”
“Badly. I am spilled.” He seemed to be fighting for breath still, as if he had just escaped pursuit.
“Checkmate?”
“So it seems.”
“Have patience, Hamo. The sorrows of this world are short. They pass like shadows on the wall.”
“It is easy to say. Hard to endure.”
“Go on. Make your moan. But consider this. You have not served me well. Could you not accomplish your purpose without all this noise and clattering?” Hamo said nothing. “Have you filed your tongue? You are dumb as any stone.” The boy began weeping silently. Exmewe wiped his eyes, as clear and as trusting as those of a child, with the sleeve of his gown. “You have caught a thorn, and I cannot prise it loose.”
“You have taken away the key of my world,” the boy whispered to him.
“Am I to blame? Did I mar all? I might as well hold April from rain as keep you steadfast. Your wit is overcome, Hamo. I give you up for now and evermore.” The boy looked at him in shock. He had been Exmewe’s shadow and had not expected this last dismissal. That was perhaps why he had fled to St. Bartholomew – to be protected by Exmewe. But now his protector had cast him out. “Fortune has thrown the dice for you, Hamo.”
“Is fortune the cause, then?”
“The far cause is Almighty God, that is the cause of all things. But fortune is your foe.” Exmewe smiled. “How do you like the foul prison of this life?”
“I would that I were out of this world.”
“Then I may help you a little.” Swiftly he took a long dagger out of his belt, and put it through Hamo Fulberd’s heart. “Hoo,” he whispered to the boy. “No more. It is done.” He drew out the dagger and replaced it in his belt.
When he was sure that Hamo lay dead, Exmewe walked softly to the porch and unbarred the main door.16 He opened it very slightly, so that those on watch outside would eventually notice the faintest glimmer of churchlight. Any one of them might have entered and murdered Hamo upon the altar.
Chapter Fifteen
The Wife of Bath’s Tale
As soon as he learned about the explosion in St. Sepulchre, Thomas Gunter rode out to the church; he had been intrigued by the summoner’s murmurings about the conspiracies of secret men, and wished to examine the remains of the latest fire. When he saw the tumult he dismounted, and gave his horse in keeping to a porter. A large crowd had gathered on the steps. According to custom, the body of Hamo Fulberd had been removed from sanctuary and returned to the place where he had committed sacrilege. Here he could be viewed as an object of God’s vengeance. He had been stripped of his clothes, and various devils’ heads and zodiacal signs had been daubed upon his naked corpse. He had been placed in the aisle, in a square cart made of wicker, with a cross placed upside down upon his chest. The coroner had already declared that Hamo Fulberd was lying dead, but no one had seen the wrathful agent of his killing; this was considered to be an image of divine justice, and the empanelled jury had decided that they did not wish to meddle further in the matter.
Thomas Gunter made his way through the press of people in order to view the body; and, when he examined the face for signs of injury, he experienced the faintest tremor of recollection. Where had he seen this poor boy? In what previous scene had he played a part? And then the physician noticed five small circles painted above his left breast. They had in fact been placed there by William Exmewe who, on the discovery of the body, had pretended to share in the feverish joy of the people; he had also feigned the same delight in daubing the corpse with the devil’s emblems. Thomas Gunter drew back at the sight of the circles. He had not expected this sudden confirmation of Bogo’s claims, and was shocked by it. There was some sorrowful mystery here. He had the ghostly impression of many human lives crowding around this corpse. Darkness was calling to darkness.
He walked towards the altar of saints Cosmos and Damian. It had been badly damaged by fire, and a small child carved out of lead was lying upon the blackened tiles. He knelt down to retrieve it, when he glimpsed a strange white marking standing out upon the floor; he brushed away ash and debris, and there in calcined form was the circle which Exmewe had carved with his knife.
“God be merciful.” In his surprise the physician had spoken out loud. He picked up the lead image of the child, and placed it gently upon the altar. He had no doubt now about the summoner’s suspicions; there was some deep plot concerning this device of the circles, but how could he proceed? In the mayor’s court or the bishop’s court he might be derided as a jangler; he might have carved the circle with his own hand. Yet Bogo himself had suggested one way through the maze. In five days’ time Gunter would be eating supper with Miles Vavasour, on the anniversary of his fistula in ano, and he might break his mind to him on that occasion. Vavasour was of high degree and pleaded before the king’s bench; he was familiar with the great ones of the city, and would know how to fare forward with this matter.
On the following morning the body of Hamo Fulberd was carried in triumph up Snow Hill and across Holborn Bridge. Having been judged corrupt and abominable to the human race, it was taken to the area beyond the walls known as “Nomanneslond” where it was buried in a pit of lime.
Five days later Thomas Gunter rode out towards Scropes Inn, where Miles Vavasour had his chambers.
“Welcome, master leech.” Vavasour spoke as one who enjoyed speaking. “For three years now I have sat without flinching.”
“I have brought you some fresh ointment, to curb any effusions of blood.”
“No blood, God willing.”
They were standing in a small parlour overlooking Trivet Lane, as one of the servants brought them Rhenish wine in cups.
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br /> “What is new?” Thomas Gunter asked the sergeant.
“You mean, what is new concerning the king? These are days of bale and bitterness, Master Gunter.”
Henry Bolingbroke was moving from Chester, with King Richard in his keeping; Henry’s forces had already made their way from Nantwich to Stafford, and were soon expected in Coventry. Henry had issued a summons, in the king’s name, for a parliament at the end of September. Miles Vavasour was a burgess of London and would have to travel to Westminster Hall for that assembly. “I would rather be a world away from the parliament house,” he confided to Gunter. “It is no easy thing to rid the realm of its lawful king. Yet I am Henry’s servant. I have worked for him in the courts –” He broke off. “Well, I stand in doubt whether I may say yeah or nay.” In this, of course, the sergeant spoke less than the truth; he had long been set against the king. “Can we wash away the name of Richard?”
“Surely it may not come to that?”
“It will come as certainly as tomorrow.”
“But will Henry not maintain the king, and rule beneath the cloth?”
“One swan is enough to fill a charger. Only one man can govern.”
The Clerkenwell Tales Page 13