A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  “Oh, come on now, the Prior of St. Dunstan’s liked it well enough when we were there last Michaelmas. Of course, he was tipsy, and I had made the friar a Dominican.”

  “You tell awful jokes like that in an abbey?” I could not restrain myself.

  “Of course. Monks need to laugh too. At least, some do. They pretend it’s for their tenants, but they come too. Some of these houses are strict, but not many. Floggers and hermits, now, they can’t see the joke in anything.”

  “But you say dreadful things. You make fun of people in high places. You imitate them in your dialogues. Sooner or later you’ll be in the stocks.”

  “The stocks? That’s for ordinary mortals,” said Little William. “Some tavern keeper who insults an alderman, or peasant who says a coarse word about the sheriff. We jongleurs are never punished, no matter what we say. That’s because we’re damned already; the Church says so. So they always laugh and let us go. Well—almost always. Robert, there, had a friend who got too fresh with the king, and he put out his eyes. But me? I’ve insulted dukes, earls, bishops—oh, just about everyone. And here I am!”

  “Yes, a prince among players, our Little William,” intoned Brother Sebastian. “So now it’s settled, isn’t it, Margaret?” he added. “You’ll come to London with my newly found Jewel of the Shining Eyes”—here Mother Hilde simpered—“and these joyful comrades here”—he gestured expansively—“and make your fortune!” It amazes me how mushy people get when they fall in love. Hilde was far gone. But when I thought about the alternatives, they were more unpleasant than going with these people to London.

  “It’s agreed, then,” I said. They all cheered and embraced me, which made me feel very embarrassed. But then something more troubled me, and I had to ask, “One thing still bothers me about all this. If you’ve never been to Navarre, how do you know so much news from abroad?”

  “The Underground, Margaret,” answered Maistre Robert. “We jongleurs have our trade, which is spreading news, and we go everywhere. So when we get together, we swap stories. What we don’t know, we make up. Sins of foreign kings, languishing foreign lovers, you know the sort of thing. Everyone likes that, and you can just change the names about.” Maistre Robert looked at me as if he couldn’t believe I was that gullible.

  “Do you mean all those things that pleased Lady Blanche so—?”

  “Little country bumpkin, most of our songs, and some portion of our news, are like the padre’s indulgences over there. They’ve got a blank spot in them for the proper names to be filled in—you know, black eyes for blue eyes, Spain for France, this hero for that hero. That’s how we stay in business.”

  Somehow I’m always disappointed when I hear the real story of how things are done. The illusion seems so much prettier if you don’t know. But there was no doubting their skill in pleasing. They stayed on until the weather had broken and it was safe to go wandering. Sir Raymond didn’t want to let them go until he had heard their store of jokes several times through, and Lady Blanche kept us until she felt better—a process that was hastened by Maistre Robert’s rolling eyes and flattering songs.

  We begged our leave and left well rewarded, walking through the main gate and over the drawbridge onto the muddy road in a light spring rain. Our next destination was Bedford, a little town with a decent inn and a bored population. Life seemed full of hope.

  If I was somehow under the impression that we were going directly to London to make our fortunes, I was soon disabused, for we traveled in a most circuitous path, first through the Midlands, and then south. Towns, abbeys, and castles all opened their gates to us. We were especially welcome on feast days, for no matter how high and holy the occasion, people always want to have fun. In each place it always began the same way: the drum called attention, the juggling held it, and then they began the patter—jokes and stories—which they shrewdly interrupted at critical moments to collect small coins, many of them, I fear, badly clipped. The dogs jumped through hoops, walked on their hind feet, and begged for coins, bowing their thanks afterward. If it was a tavern, Peter would be used to tell fortunes. He earned better than Mother Hilde, and she earned better than I, for I soon found that I was a failure at selling things and could not make any money at all.

  Brother Sebastian would set up apart, for the sacred character of his work required a number of excuses for having been seen in our company. He did especially well in the season of penance, before Easter. That was an especially busy time on the road, for many are sent on pilgrimages as punishment for some crime. This keeps them out of their home district for a while, but it does not improve the quality of tourism. Once, too, we met a man in his undershirt, carrying a large cross. He was on his way to abjure the realm after having murdered a man in a fight over a woman. When his sanctuary in the parish church ran out, then he had to leave. He seemed in need of cheerful company, and when he was far enough out of town, he dumped the cross in a ditch and went off to join the local outlaws.

  When the weather gets better, then the pleasure pilgrims, as I like to think of them, prefer to travel. That is the best time for jongleurs, for many of these parties like entertainment as they travel, and will pay for it. Besides, if the weather is good, one may camp out-of-doors and save the fee at the inn. Then if you plan your route correctly, you can make money all along the way, traveling from summer fair to summer fair. But Master Robert complained that it wasn’t as easy now as it had been before the plague, because so many villages on our route had been left empty or half empty. Some places once cultivated had returned to the wild. Wolves had returned closer to the towns near the forests, and one had to be very careful. And many a soul whom my friends counted on for a welcome and a good meal had died.

  “Still,” said Brother Sebastian as we sat around the open fire one starry night, “you must always remember that the other side of disaster is opportunity. Look at it this way: if a town burns, somebody has to get paid for rebuilding it; if the water is poisoned, then there is a lot of money to be made selling wine; and when the plague strikes, then everyone is more disposed to buying remedies, as well as insurance for their souls.” (And here he tapped his bag.) “Understand this principle, and you will never grieve and always prosper. It is the way the world works. Everything always has two sides, even disaster.”

  “Ah, Brother Sebastian, it’s such a delight to hear the intelligent conversation of a philosopher,” sighed Mother Hilde with pleasure.

  “Philosopher? I know a good one about a philosopher,” said Tom le Pyper, the long bony one. When Little William donned a kerchief to play the woman in “The Greedy Prelate,” Tom was the deceived husband and Robert the wily priest. “It seems there was this old, ugly philosopher, who sold his soul to the Devil in return for youth and good looks enough to seduce a pretty little girl that lived next door, and he—”

  “Stop! We’ve all heard that one, and it turns out badly—” Brother Sebastian put up one hand.

  “For the philosopher only,” grinned Tom.

  “That’s bad enough, in my opinion,” answered Brother Sebastian loftily. “So I’ll tell you instead of a jongleur who died and went directly to hell, as happens to all such fellows. He was such a scurvy fellow that when the Devil went off to earth on a business trip, he asked him to mind the gate. Well, you know jongleurs—they never keep their minds on their business. So when St. Peter came down for a good game of dice, the jongleur never hesitated. First he bet his lute, and lost it. Then he bet his underdrawers, ‘for it’s warm enough here without them,’ says he—and St. Peter won those too. Then, since he had nothing else to bet, and never knew when to give up (you have to admit that’s another characteristic of jongleurs) he staked a couple of souls from inside the gate. With typical jongleur’s skill he lost. They played all afternoon, until hell was half empty. When the Devil came back and saw what was done, he stamped his cloven hoof in rage. ‘Never again will I let any jongleur in here!’ he vowed, and that’s how it’s been, from that day to this. Jongleurs
aren’t welcome in either place.” Everyone laughed heartily.

  “Ho, Brother Sebastian, when you decide to be a jongleur, look us up, for you’re a talented man with a story,” laughed Master Robert.

  “When I can balance on my tippy-toes and blow on a pipe, I’ll think about it,” said Brother Sebastian with a mock-snobbish sniff. The vision of the rotund figure of Brother Sebastian balancing like an acrobat made everyone laugh again.

  When we stopped at Abingdon, things went very well for the entire day, until on the second, Master Robert, having observed the town well, changed the format of “The Greedy Prelate.” He took the role of the deceived husband and played him with the exact mannerisms of the mayor of the town. Everyone present dissolved in laughter, and we did far better than usual when we took up the collection. The next morning dawned clear and bright, and we were a happy crew as we trudged out of the town gate, laughing as Maistre Robert told an extraordinary piece of gossip he had heard about the mayor’s wife at a tavern. But too much laughter dulls the senses; we did not notice until too late the sound of hoofbeats in hot pursuit of us on the road. Before we knew it, a group of armed men on horseback had surrounded us, and as we stood staring, wondering what it might mean, the leader wordlessly pointed out Maistre Robert with his horsewhip to his henchmen. The others held us at swordpoint while two of them dismounted and grabbed Maistre Robert by the arms. As the leader dismounted and sauntered over to Maistre Robert, I felt a sudden terror of what was coming and averted my face as I prayed in silent horror that his sight might be spared. But though I covered my face with my hands, I could not shut out the heavy, monotonous crack of the horsewhip and the terrible screams of my once joyful friend. When the sound ceased, I saw him writhing in the dirt, his gaudy, particolored coat in shreds, and he within it. The leader gave him a kick that turned him onto his back, inspected his handiwork with a satisfied nod, and the party mounted and rode off like the wind. Blood was gushing from his nose and scalp, and one eye was shut with a bruise, but the other opened and looked pitifully up at his friends as they surrounded him. They tried to pick him up, but he just lay there, moving his bloodied lips, saying, “Don’t touch me. Everything hurts too much. Just leave me here to die. It’s the fate of all players: to die in a ditch.”

  Hilde and I knelt beside him. He looked up at me and said, tragically, “Don’t look at me like this, Margaret. I don’t want you to remember me like this—all spoilt. When I’m dead, remember me laughing.”

  “You’re not going to die at all, Master Robert. You’re just bleeding badly, and your head’s broken. But there’s no death on you.”

  “How would you know?” said Little William.

  “I don’t feel any black, sucking feeling around him. That’s how I know.”

  “Well, we can’t pick him up, and he can’t walk, and we’re certainly not welcome back at the inn in Abingdon, so what’s the difference? These cuts will just fester, and he’ll sicken out here. That’s the drawback of the free life, Margaret. You can’t go home when you’re sick.”

  “Let Margaret help,” suggested Mother Hilde. “She has a trick with these things.”

  “Margaret? Useful? Amazing!” said Brother Sebastian.

  “Bring me some water and we’ll wash everything off first,” I said. Gently I sponged off the dirt and blood, some of which made me shudder, and placed my hands on each bad spot in turn. I closed my eyes and fixed my mind in the special way that is both everything and nothing, until I could feel warmth coursing into my palms, and my spine felt like a hot steel rod penetrating all the way to the base of my brain. First the close-cropped scalp, then the blackened eye, the shattered jaw, the ragged torso…

  “What in the hell are you doing, Margaret?” Master Robert asked. “It doesn’t hurt so much where you put your hands.”

  “Sh! Sh! Let her finish,” whispered Mother Hilde.

  “Why, look at that, the bleeding’s stopped. That one over there looks almost closed,” said Little William. I was done. A terrible lassitude seized me, as if I had put my strength into Master Robert.

  Master Robert sat up and felt himself gingerly. He was not totally himself, but the new bruises were green, as if they were a week old, and the other wounds, too, looked as if he had been in bed to heal for many days.

  “I don’t suppose you can use the same trick on my coat, too, can you?” he asked hopefully, rubbing his jaw and looking regretfully at his shredded sleeve at the same time.

  “No,” I answered. “It doesn’t work on coats. It doesn’t always work on people either.”

  “You look all pale, though, Margaret. What was it you did?”

  “I don’t really know. It just came on me a while back. It’s something that comes from somewhere else, and goes through me, and helps people heal themselves.”

  “Why, Margaret’s a faith healer! Who would have thought it?” Brother Sebastian was cheerful. “Just think, Margaret, you’ll be rich! At the next town we’ll beat the drum and you can cure people. Crippled folks will shout and throw away their crutches! Precious, pretty little blind girls will shout, ‘I see! I see!’ Everyone will weep and shout, and we will collect money, money, money!”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Brother Sebastian; it doesn’t work that way at all.” I was dreadfully weary.

  “Sebastian, dear, she can’t do it that way—the bigger the hurt, the more it drains her. A day or two of faith healing would kill her. Besides, I’ve never seen her do it in public before. It might vanish if she shows it off.”

  “And there flies away our first fortune,” sighed Brother Sebastian ruefully. “I should have known it was too good to be true.”

  “Well, then, whom shall we carry?” broke in Tom. “Robert or Margaret?”

  “Neither!” we both said together.

  Maistre Robert got up and dusted himself off with the greatest dignity, retrieved his short cloak from the ground, and put it on with a flourish. Then he bowed, and gestured to the pommel of Moll’s pack saddle. “Après vous, madame,” he said. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady myself. He stood on the other side, leaning on her pack, for he was still limping. As we set off together, we could hear Brother Sebastian still grumbling to himself.

  “I still say it’s a great opportunity lost. We could have hired a trumpeter and made a large banner. Why, there’s no end to what we could have done—kings, princes, foreign places…to say nothing of how it would enhance the sale of relics….”

  We made slow time. The next village was abandoned, and it was a long time until we found a place to eat. Then we continued on, until we were not that far from the Forest of Rockingham. Everyone agreed it would be better to pitch camp a good distance from the forest, rather than risk having to spend the night near it or in it—an unsafe proposition in these unruly days of brigandage and runaway serfs.

  “Minstreling is just not the same,” grumbled Master Robert at the fireside that evening. “All these dead people spoil it. Now it’s all sourpusses, religious fanatics, mayors who can’t take a joke—England’s just not the same. It’s not so merry anymore. I tell you, the old days were better.”

  “The old days are always better,” replied Brother Sebastian. “The older they are, the better they get. That’s because you don’t remember them as well. Now, if you understood that the other side of adversity is opportunity, a point that I have made before, you would realize the future is much more interesting than the past. There’s positively no limit to the opportunities there, these days, if we measure it by the level of disaster that has already happened.”

  “Brother Sebastian, you’re completely insane, if you’ll pardon my saying so. The more we travel into the future, the closer we get to the end of the world. I, for one, am not anxious to face the Last Judgment. I fear I’ll come off even worse than I did at the hands of the mayor’s bullyboys,” responded Master Robert.

  “Come, now,” I said. “You have no proof of that.”

  “Margaret, you’re a dear l
ittle country ninny, or you wouldn’t say that. I get my living by lying and fornication. Even the Church says I won’t be saved.”

  “Maybe I’m stupid, Master Robert, but it seems to me you haven’t added murder to that list. So you’re considerably ahead of most people these days. And maybe God will count the fact that you’ve made a lot of people laugh.”

  “Margaret,” he answered with a flash of his old smile, “you’re much too serious. It’s a bad attitude to have. It will get you in trouble long before the Judgment Day.”

  “Yes indeed, Margaret,” admonished Brother Sebastian. “It’s definitely a bad attitude. It will lead you to hold on to things you want too much. It’s holding on that causes the trouble. You know my saying, ‘Light feet and light hands.’ Never stay anyplace too long, and never hold on to anything too hard. Otherwise something nasty may catch up with you.” He shook his finger at me in mock admonition.

  Something nasty did catch up. Maybe it’s impossible to have light enough feet sometimes. For no sooner than we were all rolled up asleep that night, we were awakened rudely by someone shaking us and asking for our valuables. We all sat up to see, in the bright moonlight, that we were surrounded by a dozen tough-looking men armed with longbows. Master Robert, who had the coolest wit of anyone I had ever seen, scrambled up out of his blanket and bowed, as he did when introducing his players.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Maistre Robert le Taborer, and these good people here are my players. We are rich in songs and joy, but, alas, not in worldly goods.” He swept his arm with a grand gesture. His ragged coat hung in shreds about him; we had all slept in our clothes.

  “Migod. Idiot minstrels. And a raggier-looking bunch I’ve never seen,” said the apparent leader of the group.

  “Just cut their throats, then. They’re no good for ransom,” suggested another.

  “Not just yet—one of them’s a girl. I want her first. Then cut throats,” growled a third.

  “What makes you think you get her first? I want her first.”