by James Meek
The gravity of Hugo’s face is replaced by serenity. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I have rarely heard such decisive proof of divine justice.’
‘Justice?’ I say. The effect of the sudden application of intense emotion to my voice, combined with my feeble condition, is to create a sinister tremor in the word, like the afflatus of some funereal reed instrument. I am gratified that Hugo blushes, genuflects and stammers an apology.
‘Pardon me, master,’ he says. ‘I ne intended to suggest there was any punishment associated with your …’
‘We’re all sinners,’ I say. ‘Your notion of the pestilence as divine punishment is uncontroversial. My impression is that on this occasion God has decided to increase the quantity of Noahs who will survive to repopulate the world. This has consequences. He has divided humanity for ever into two sorts, the guilty and the proud. The first will be tormented by the notion that they, the survivors, are less deserving than those who perished. “My children were innocent,” parents who have lost sons and daughters will say. “They were punished for my sins. I should have died in their place.” The second will take their survival as confirmation that they are God’s favourites. Whatever doubts they may have had over their own conduct will disappear; their every action will be validated. The definition of virtue becomes their own gratification. To be is to be good.’
I pause, becoming conscious I have moved from my subject, and how nothing is more miserable than the digressions of a dying man. And no sooner do I think this than it occurs to me that nothing is more expressive of human vitality than the mind’s power to wander in the face of such a powerful call on its attention as its own extinction.
‘I digress,’ I say. ‘The fact is that to speak of justice in respect of Hayne’s company is problematic. Removing my own situation from the history, there remains the case of another archer, Longfreke Gilbert Bisley, who succumbed to the pestilence on Sunday. Of all the archers, it was he who attempted most vigorously to secure the release of Cess.’
‘But perhaps he made a satisfactory confession?’
‘What does “satisfactory” signify here? Is it more satisfactory for an expiring sinner to repent, confess and be absolved by God through the agency of a priest, or to make their penance to the person they sinned against?’
‘A priest,’ says Hugo, without hesitation.
My heart beats irregularly. I sense that were it to fail the words would continue to emerge, regular, precise, expressing the absent consciousness of a non-existent being. ‘But there was no priest, only me. And I reasoned that were God to hear an archer sincerely request Cess’s pardon, it would assist in his appeal for entry to paradise.’
I have noticed a certain disgust, a certain impatience, form on Hugo’s face. Now it erupts. ‘I ne comprehend your concern with the consciences of these people,’ he says. ‘They are an inferior sort. Brutal, savage, emotionless. And the French virgin, had she been of gentle origin and virtuous, I doubt they would have considered her vulnerable to their purpose. They’ve gone. Be grateful you no longer need concern yourself with them.’
‘Were I a doctor of philosophy, I suppose I would take as reasoned an attitude as you,’ I say. ‘As it is, in my irrational way, I cannot put them out of my mind, or regard them as unimportant. Oblige me. Let me tell you what I find most difficult to comprehend.
‘To Hayne, any archer who travelled to France this time was as guilty as any other. Each accepted the abuse of Cess as if it were normal. In Hayne’s eyes even young Will Quate acquired guilt by entering the company’s service. When I joined their company I think Longfreke made a distinction between his own conduct and that of Softly’s; he preferred to see himself as a warder conveying Softly and his confederates to their place of punishment. But finally he concurred with Hayne, that they all progressed to the same destination. Do you observe what is absent from this portrayal?’
What gentility Hugo has demonstrated so far has been more from his notion of appropriate personal conduct than from compassion. The old autodidact’s fastidiousness is tedious; only custom requires. Now his scholarly mind engages.
‘If Hayne judged the entire company of archers to be mortal sinners for their complicity in the treatment of Cess, where does that place him?’ he says.
‘Exactly. It was in his power to control the archers in Mantes. It was he who mediated between the careless command of Haket to make destruction in Mantes and the archers who would give form to that destruction. It was he who tolerated the abduction of Cess, when he could have forced Softly to release her.’
An unexpectedly penetrating look of realisation, as gratifying to me as it is agonising, appears on Hugo’s face. ‘Do you mean that you reproach yourself for not perceiving the importance of Hayne’s responsibility earlier? Is that the source of your obsession with these people?’
‘I was preoccupied with Hayne versus Softly, instead of attending to the arena of Hayne’s contempt for Cess.’
‘There’s nothing you can do now.’
‘The giant survives, I’m certain. He is present. He persists. He menaces. If I rode furiously …’
‘For what purpose?’
My fingers make contact with the cup of wine. He has identified the obstacle. ‘A second part of my confession concerns the fact that I am a veritable coward,’ I say. I drink.
Hugo is pleased to be placed in the position of reassuring a man older and more experienced than himself. ‘You’re too feeble to consider a journey to the cloister, never mind Melcombe,’ he says.
I am lachrymose. Why? Hugo assumes I weep for the archers, for Cess. No. I weep for Will and Madlen and Bernadine, for their courage in abandoning their former lives.
More honestly: I weep for those they abandoned.
More honestly still: I weep for my own courage, that I dared relinquish the country of my birth.
With absolute honesty: I weep for the brutality of the courage, the courage of the brutality, of he who steals himself away from his origins.
Oh mother, forgive me!
WILL AND MADLEN, and the three carts driven by Cess, Fallwell and Miredrum, left Cerne on Wednesday morning. The rim of hills about the abbey shifted to gold in the early light. Softly lay sick in the old cart. They went south over the tops of green downs that trundled in tight waves like to a great woollen in its spring shake. In the narrow vales below them bells rang, the toll of the church’s, the ring of the priest’s as the gangs hastened to the dying, and the steady tinkle of cowbells as cattle shifted their graze.
They came on a shepherd with his flock in a high bare spot. A small girl lay on the ground next to him, writhen in the sun. The sheep tore at the weeds that grew at the roadside. The shepherd beheld a town far below, half in shadow, half in light. One line of smoke rose of a smithy, white and straight in the windless air. When the carts and horses stinted they could hear from far away the sound of the smith’s hammer.
Will came down of his horse, went to the shepherd and greeted him.
‘Heal?’ asked the shepherd.
‘Out-take one in the cart,’ said Will.
‘We lose many, but the smithy ne lets,’ said the shepherd. ‘I haven’t been down there since folk began to sicken. I keep watch from here.’
‘How white this land is.’
‘It’s chalk,’ said the shepherd. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Cotswold lime,’ said Will. ‘Good for dykes, hard on the plough.’
They spoke of husbandry a while. Down in the valley the smith stinted his hammering and a knave led a new-shod horse away down the street.
‘How clear the sound,’ said Will.
‘Sometimes I make out what they say, all but it’s further than a mile,’ said the shepherd. ‘Last night I saw the priest go to the butcher’s, and later a body was borne away. I thought me, be it so to sit in heaven, to see all that goes on down below and lack the means to help? I looked for heaven to give me rest, but how might I rest there if the plight of those I left behind be always befor
e my eyes?’
Cess came up to them and greeted the shepherd. They heard Softly call her name of the cart. Will asked after him.
‘He’s weak,’ said Cess. ‘He mayn’t stand nor lift his arms. It won’t be long.’
She asked the shepherd what ailed the girl.
‘Nothing,’ said the shepherd. He knelt and shook the girl’s shoulder mildly. She rubbed her eyes, opened them, looked about and got quickly to her feet. Cess stroked her hair and asked her name.
‘Trude,’ said the girl. ‘Where do you go?’
‘France.’
‘Take me with you.’
‘You must bide at home,’ said Cess.
‘I shan’t go home again,’ said Trude.
‘Her father was taken to Christ last week, God keep him,’ said the shepherd. ‘He used to beat his Trude when she vexed him. Some old fool told the mother she owed not to be soft on the child out of mild-heartedness over these wretched times, else the girl would be spoiled. So her mother, who was always kind to her before, began to beat her too, and ne knows how to mete it right, so it’s either too much or too little.’
Softly cried for Miredrum and Fallwell to help him learn Cess her stead. But the new archers ne stirred.
Cess bade the shepherd care for Trude till she was ready to see her mother again. She said: ‘Her mother owes to know that if she loses her daughter to the wide world now she’ll be spoiled too deep to be right again.’
‘I told her so,’ said the shepherd. ‘I’ll take Trude down tomorrow. I mayn’t bear to stand aside up here another day.’
‘Bide your time,’ said Cess to Trude. ‘A bad home’s better than none.’
‘I’ll find another. Take me with you.’
‘I mayn’t take no one’s child away,’ said Cess, shaking her head.
IN THE MIDDLE of the day they came of the high downs to a ford over a stream that ran down the middle of a shallow valley. Cess drove the cart over the ford and steered it upstream to a clump of alders. The others followed. She bade Fallwell and Miredrum lift Softly and lay him under the most alder and folded a woollen under his head.
‘Let me go,’ croaked Softly to his new men. ‘Do as I bid. I shall be borne to the haven and take the ship.’
The new bowmen ne heeded him. They laid him down where Cess showed. Madlen and Will rode up, came down of their horses and stood with their hands on the bridlethongs, like to they ne knew whether to listen or to ride away.
‘The alder’s an evil tree,’ said Softly. He made to rise, but lacked the strength, and only trundled on his side and again on his back. ‘Judas hung himself of it.’
‘Was he your friend?’
‘Set me in the cart again, or I’ll give you such a beating you’ll not have one white spot.’
‘You’re too weak to beat me, John.’
Softly took in breath and grabbed her wrist. Will would help her but there wasn’t no need. Cess looked down at Softly’s fingers, which were grey and thin like to bird’s claws, and lightly pulled them of her. Softly’s arm fell on the ground again like to it were already reft of life.
‘You die, John,’ said Cess.
‘I’m not ready,’ said Softly.
‘No one ever was.’
‘I shall be ready,’ said Softly. ‘I’ll be shriven in the great church in Bristol.’
‘That’s no shrift, John,’ said Cess. ‘More like a wedding. But you won’t be wed now.’
‘You ne know aught of how worthy folk are shriven,’ said Softly.
‘Shrift is when a man lists the wrongs he’s done, and shows he’s sorry, and begs forgiveness.’
‘Of Christ alone,’ said Softly. ‘I shan’t beg of no other.’
‘And yet you die. It’s time.’
‘I mayn’t die, for there’s no priest to shrive me.’
‘And yet you die.’
‘Would you have me list my life to that fool proctor?’
‘Thomas is gone, John.’
‘Who’s left? The green knave who sold me, Player Will? I’ll not tell him no wrongs of mine.’
‘There’s only me, John. Cecile de Goincourt.’
Softly was still a while. Then he would call Will’s name, but couldn’t lift his steven higher than a croak. ‘Help me,’ he said. ‘Ne leave me with this witch. Were I shriven by a woman at the last I were stripped of all my worth.’
‘Come now,’ said Cess. ‘We’ve been together long, you and I. Let me help you confess.’
‘I’ll have none of your beshitten “confess”. Let me be shriven like an Englishman.’
‘We’re all Christen, John, be we English or French. Shrift and confession are two words for the same thing. I know your wrongs better than I know my own. Let me make it light for you. I’ll confess like to I were you and you need do not but say it’s true, and beg forgiveness.’
‘Christ shield me,’ whispered Softly.
‘You mayn’t ask Christ to shield you of yourself.’
‘I must be aneled,’ whispered Softly. ‘Where’s the oil?’
‘There’s no oil,’ said Cess. ‘Yours is a poor man’s death.’
‘I’m not poor,’ said Softly. ‘My mouth is full of gold.’
‘A good stead to begin. Listen now while I speak as you. Jesus Christ Almighty, Lord of Life, maker of all things, who bought us on the cross, forgive me, John Fletcher of Bristol, Softly by ekename, my sins. Forgive me that in my lust for wealth and holy things I slew the hermit Alan Weston, took his book of saints’ tales and golden cross, and had that holy rood melted down and made into teeth, for my own were rotten. I’m truly sorry I slew him while he prayed, while his back was turned, and that he died in fear, for my first blow wasn’t true, and I struck him again when he lay on his side, and his eyes were open, and he begged me to spare him. Forgive me that I struck that second blow, for I ne feared him alive nor dead, but I feared him wounded by my hand, and I would that I hadn’t struck him, but I had, and I ne might make him whole again, and besides, I would have the cross. Forgive me that I put stones in his clothes and cast him into the sea. Forgive me that afterwards I gabbed of what I did to my friends and to Cecile de Goincourt, the woman I stole, that they fear me and worth me as a strong man and grim.’
‘He behest me those things,’ said Softly.
‘You’ve no use of your pride no more,’ said Cess. ‘It’s left behind with your body and your lies when you fare to the next house. Speak the words. Say “Yeah, that’s how it betid, I’m truly sorry, and I beg forgiveness.”’
‘If it were to Christ I might.’
‘He hears.’
‘He never hung about no beshitten field in Dorset to hear no French cow swike her master into saying unworthy things.’
‘Time’s short, John, fare on. Forgive me, Lord, that I yielded to my lust on king’s service in France. I knew I did wrong to lead my friends to the mason’s yard in Mantes. I hadn’t no right to find nor take no maid against her will. I would be free to dight anyone as it liked me, reckless of their wishes, and that was wrong. I would find a maid, any maid, and have her. Were she fair, so much the better, for it would show me and my friends what good hap I was sent. Should she yield to me without no struggle, good, for it would show she saw I were strong and handy, even as it show she fear me, which were good, for it show my might. And if she ne yield, but fight, so much the better, for it would show I had the strength to turn all to my will, and I’d win the mirth I love that comes of the pine of soft mild beasts – for it likes me when they ne know which way to run. It likes me to see in their eyes how they ne understand what drives me to hurt them.
‘Forgive me, Lord, for I’m not wicked all the way through, and now I know I did wrong, and am truly sorry. What’s worse, and makes my need for forgiveness great, is that I knew when I went to the mason’s yard I’d tell you I was sorry one day, and believe it. As much as it likes me to have against her will a maid I choose, so it ne likes me to be unworthed by my fellows for doing it. I’d hav
e all worth my manhood as one who may take any maid by strength, and all worth my manhood as one who ne needs to take no maid by strength. Forgive me my pride.
‘Forgive me that when I came to the yard I ne heeded the fullth of holy likenesses of saints and angels. Forgive me that I ne bade my friends turn and go again the way they came when we saw the stead was dight for God’s work. Forgive me that I let my friend Dickle stab to death the good and worthy master-mason Maurice. I ne heeded his body, and took his daughter, who was bent over him crying “Papa, Papa”, and dragged her away. Forgive me that I ne heeded the life-blood come of him, and his legs kick twice as he lay on the ground, in full sight of his daughter. Forgive me that this man, whose hammer and chisel quickened fair flocks of angels out of stone, was slain and left without no priest to send him forth.
‘I knew she was afeared, and it pined her horribly that she lacked the means to shield herself against me and my friends. Her helplessness made me bold. Each freedom we took with her made us thirst for another. We knew we were strong, right and handy men and would not dare to dight an English maid so. We made a stead in our rightness to do wickedness in and having made that stead we’d know how deep our wickedness might go. Her helplessness made us feel mighty but even so we helped each other hold her down. We felt bold but even so we cursed and mocked her and made each other laugh at her to make us feel the bolder. Forgive me, Lord.’
‘Enough,’ whispered Softly.
‘Will you take these words as your own, every one?’
‘No.’
‘I go on. I am John Fletcher, and I have sinned. In the beginning a spot of shame was left in me, but in the end there wasn’t none. I would slake my lust on Cecile de Goincourt, but the more I took what I sought, the more I hated her. Forgive me, Lord, for I’ve lied. I made myself out to love England and to hate the French when Hayne led me to shield Southampton. I called the French un-Christen when I saw them be free with the Hampshire maids. But in the dern hollows of my heart I envied them. I yearned to have such freedom. Again, when Cecile de Goincourt lay half dead and blooded after me and my friends shifted to have her, I made out that my heart softened, and I minded my mother, and took her under my wing. Forgive me, Lord, for it was a lie, and the truth was that in my heart I envied my father, who took my mother against her will. I would be that grim and ruthless freke who used my mother, and I would be the stepfather who took me in, all at once. I was all lies, lust and pride. Proudly I raped her, and proudly I came forward as the man who’d shield her of rape’s cruel afterclaps.’