by Max Gilbert
Ever since the prior's decision five years ago, they had traipsed from shrine to shrine around the country in hope of miracles. 'This year, we been to Saint Thomas and Saint Winifred and Saint John and Saint Edmund.'
'Any luck?'
'Taint luck! Tis Grace of God, shown through Is blessed saints. But well, no, we ain't ad any luck this year.'
Now and then one of them actually did improve. In the five years of their wanderings, two had got better. And sometimes they died, or sickened with other ailments. 'Fevers, coughs, agues, you know.'
'Are they troublesome?'
'What d'you think? Course they are. Not always, but they needs watchin. William, now, you seen im brandishin is bum, and e shouts rude things, and people laugh, and e waves is cock at em. And there's Alice, always pullin er frock up. Sigbert ere can't be trusted with a knife, e cuts imself up, silly sod. Cuthbert there, e as fits. Walter thinks e's John the Baptist and dunks folk in water, only e olds em down too long. E drowned is wife and kiddies. That Maudlin steals babies if she gets arf a chance. It's all go with this lot, but the poor buggers can't elp it. They're not too bad, as long as folk don't tease em, but folk will, and once they're upset it's a long job gettin em settled. Nor we can't beg proper, not if one of em's displayin is bum, or oikin er clouts up, or chuckin turds at folk, or pinchin their babies, or pissin in their washtubs.' 'So you beg.'
'Between shrines, a course. We gets fed at all the proper oly places, we're proper pilgrims. I got my prior's token, and most of em as word of us by now. And sometimes we earns a bit. They be'aves emselves quite nicely when they wants to. Walter, if e gets a chance, can play the bagpipe jaunty as ever you card. Tom's a wonder with beasts, ain't you, Tom? Cattle, orses, sheep, pigs, dogs, they do anything e wants. E can whistle just like a bird and birds'll come and sit on im. E does it sometimes to cheer us up, if everything's quiet.'
Walter had a small sack hanging at his belt from which he produced a folded wad; this, opened, became a large-brimmed shapeless hat studded with badges, which he identified for Bane, with pride. 'This is Saint Thomas of Canterbury, we been there, thass where Brother got is bell. This one's Saint Winifred, we been there. This is Saint John, we been there, too. This is Saint Dunstan, we was there last summer. And Saint Cuthbert.' He frowned unhappily at Cuthbert's badge. 'We went there, but we couldn't go in, cos e don't let women in, and we can't leave our women outside. Thass where Pernella died. We cried. Brother cried too. You cried, dint you, Brother? This one's from somewhere foreign; I swopped it for another Canterbury one.' He spat on his finger and rubbed the dull lead badges tenderly, humming; then abruptly stuffed the hat back in its bag, glaring suspiciously at the others. 'It's my at,' he said, low and urgently. 'My at!'
'No it ain't, Walter,' chided the monk. 'That at belongs to all of us, you knows that. But it's you what takes care of it, ain't it, cos we all knows you'll look after it proper.'
They made their way back to the road, collecting Bane's horse on the way, and headed for Altarwell at an easy pace, passing between them a bottle of ale from Bane's saddlebag.
'They does dreadful things to loonies,' Celestius said, 'cos they say God's punishin em for great sins. But I thinks they're just sick, like anyone else. Like fevers, or lung rot. Sort of mind rot, maybe, poor sods. Just sick. And sick folk should be elped, not urt. Look at Millie.'
Millie shuffled along behind the rest, both hands to her face, holding her cheeks. A greasy stained cloth cap was pulled well down over her forehead and ears, and her eyes looked up nervously beneath its floppy overhang.
'Millie,' said the monk, 'show Master Bane your poor ead.' She shook her poor head violently and began to cry.
'E won't urt you, Millie, will you, Master Bane?'
'Of course not,' said Bane, gently.
Millie slowly untied the capstrings at the back of her neck and pulled the thing off. Her head had been shaved recently and was a mass of bristles, jagged shallow cuts and great scabs, some still angry, with clots of unguent here and there. She wiped her eyes on the cap, fumbled it back on and pulled its strings tight again.
'That's supposed to cure madness,' said Celestius angrily. 'They ties em down and shaves their eads and burns em with of irons. I'd like to put the irons to their eads. God forgive me, I'd like to stick the irons up ... Oh dear, mustn't think uncharitable thoughts. They means well, but it's ard to remember that when they dumps these poor buggers after the doctors and priests ave been at em. Dumps em, they does, at the nearest monastery if they're lucky, or just any old where, so long as they gets rid of em. So ere we are, tryin to find a saint as will be merciful to us.'
'Aren't you afraid of them?'
'Lord no! They won't urt me, won't urt each other neither, not now. We been on the roads a long time together –me and William and Maudlin and Tom the longest –we been together five years. Some dies, and every now and then we gets a new one tagged on. We got Millie last month. We looks after each other. I keeps em out of trouble, and we keeps moving. There's always ope over the next ill.'
Chapter 16
The door of Prioress Rohese's chamber burst open without ceremony admitting a flushed dishevelled young nun who, before the irate prioress could utter her rebuke, gasped, 'Madam! The lord king is here!'
'Here, now?'
'He's at the gate, Madam.'
'With what company?'
'Well, none yet. He's alone, he's left them behind.'
'Just like Father,' muttered the prioress. 'Tell cellaress to prepare for twenty attendants, that's his usual lot. The rest of his household will have to quarter in the will. Have fires lit in the refectory. Send to the will for kitchen help; and make sure the silver candlesticks he gave us last year are somewhere he'll notice them. Prepare the guest rooms, put two braziers in his, and hang the Penitent Thief tapestries in there. Oh, and make sure there's a tub ready, and plenty of water heating, in case he wants a bath.' As she snapped her orders, the prioress swept the clutter of parchments, rolls and books off her table into the document chest, locked it and pocketed the key. The flustered nun sped off on her errands, and the prioress just had time to set two cups and a flagon on the table when once again the door was flung open and the king bounced in, beaming. His face was nearly as red as his hair and glossy with perspiration. He was clad all in reds and purples, and brought with him a strong smell of horse, leather, perfume and sweat –not unpleasant but shockingly male and startlingly vivid in the pale quiet room. His colour and scent filled the place and seemed to use up all the air. The prioress felt breathless just looking at him and had a headache coming on even before he swooped to one knee before her, grabbed her hand to kiss her ring, then bounced up again and embraced her fiercely.
'Dear sister,' he said, letting go and smiling broadly as she smoothed her rumpled veil and adjusted her wimple.
'I wish you wouldn't do that,' she said.
'Ah, rubbish, you know you're glad to see me! Breath of fresh air in this arid sanctuary. All the news, all the gossip, a damn good dinner; I've got a present for you.'
'I don't want your present,' she said ungraciously. 'What are you doing about this damned Interdict?'
'Ah! That. Well. Exploring all avenues of mediation, of course....'
'That means you're doing nothing at all and waiting to see what'll happen next,' she snapped. 'Have you any idea what a nuisance it all is?
'Of course, of course, but it's not my fault, Rosy. Even you must admit I've done my best. Anyway, I didn't pop in to discuss politics.'
'What did you "pop in" for, then? And don't call me Rosy!'
'To cheer you up. Break the monotony. Give all your hens something to talk about. I'm on my way to Arlen, and Holystone is only a step out of the way.' (The 'step' was a detour of some forty miles all told. 'I've got some fellows coming along behind with stuff for the Priory: fish and flour, and wine, and oranges, and some cloth –I think –and some splendid venison. Rosy, I had good hunting yesterday ... I hope you'll find it useful.'
For a moment he looked oddly anxious, and the prioress, who had never needed to complain of his lack of generosity, said sincerely, 'Thank you, My Lord, you have always been a loving patron to our house.'
'And I brought this for you,' said John, flinging himself down on the window seat and rummaging in pockets and layers of garments, eventually fishing out a small jewelled bauble on a heavy gold chain.
'What am I supposed to do with that?' The prioress sounded cross. 'I can't wear jewellery.'
'It's all right. It isn't jewellery, it's a relic. Look.' He held it up, a square gold locket set with a large emerald that caught light from the window and gleamed green flame. 'See, it opens.' He pressed a catch, the locket sprang open and something small fell out and rolled across the floor.
'Oh bugger,' said the king. 'It's come loose again!' And down he went on hands and knees, crawling across the floor patting the boards. 'Where did it go? Did you see? Under the table?'
'I didn't see anything. What is it?'
'Get round the other side.' He had his head under the table now and, furiously, she stalked round the other side and got on her hands and knees, peering back at him underneath the table. 'There it is!' He pointed. 'Look, under your chair.' She saw a small grey object like a little stone and picked it up. 'Give it here,' said the king, and she handed it to him between the table legs. He scrambled backwards awkwardly and got to his feet panting. 'John,' she said, exasperated, 'whenever you come here, it's just like being back in the nursery! What is that thing?'
'A tooth of Saint Ursula.' He beamed at her. 'I knew you'd love it. It cost a fortune!' He fumbled with the locket and the blue-grey much-decayed tooth. 'See, here? It fits in this setting. One of the claws has pulled away a bit. I thought I'd fixed it.' He pressed the claw setting hard with the royal thumb, squashing it well down on the saintly tooth. There! It can't come out again now.'
He took her hand, turned it palm up and dropped the locket and chain into it. She looked at it and at his flushed face, and down at her dusty creased skirt, and began to laugh.
After dinner, the lord king sent for his sister to attend him in his chamber. He had bathed. All had been cleared away but the room was still steamy, and heady with scents. The sturdy plumpish royal body was comfortably enveloped in an elegant dressing gown. The king's short curly hair was still damp, and he sat in his chair with his feet on a stool while his bath woman cut his toenails. 'Come in, come in, no ceremony,' he cried cheerfully as the prioress hesitated in the doorway. 'Sit down, make yourself at home. You've heard all my gossip at dinner, now it's your turn. What have you been up to lately? Give Madam Prioress a cup of malvoisie and some macaroons. Dinner was splendid, Rosy! Squabs in honey and almonds, delicious. You must give my cook your recipe. Here, have a cushion.' He pulled one from the pile behind him and tossed it to her. She caught it and held it on her lap.
'My Lord,' she said, 'I must thank you for your generous gift of provisions. The waggon arrived while we were at dinner. The oranges especially, a great treat for our sick and infirm. It was very thoughtful of you.'
'Well, there you are; I'm a very thoughtful man,' said the king, and, to his bath woman, 'Have you done? Right, sling me my slippers and you can clear off.' He pulled his jewelled velvet slippers on and admired his feet. 'You must tell me if there's ever anything you need, Rosy. You're not wearing your reliquary.'
'It's in my prie-dieu,' she said. 'I can't walk about jangling with gold and emeralds. It is a rich gift.' She eyed him cautiously.
'Where did you get it, My Lord?'
'The Archbishop of York had it from a relic-pedlar, who got it in Naples from the Count of Ischi,' said John. 'I bought it from York. I intended it for my Halidom, but then I thought of you. I know you have a passion for relics.'
'Passion? Hardly. The priory has a decent collection, of course. We add to it from time to time.'
'Got any new ones lately?' The king was peeling an orange, on his face a look of innocent unconcern which didn't deceive his sister for a moment. Something was up.
'No, I haven't. What are you on about?'
'Oh? I heard –just heard, you know, can't recall who mentioned it –that you'd hired some relic-merchant to find you something choice.'
'Well, you heard wrong,' she said, annoyed that his spies had been, well, spying, but aware that all his friends, lovers, relatives and of course enemies, as well as anyone who caught his interest, were under constant surveillance. 'I haven't hired anyone. Sir Richard Straccan very courteously did an errand for the priory, that's all.'
'Straccan! That's the fellow! One of the best in the business, I'm told. Turned dealer when he came back from the Holy Land. Funny thing for a knight to do, but then, live and let live, that's what I always say. It was him went to Naples to get that tooth, what a coincidence! A busy man. A man whose time costs money. How very kind of him to be your errand boy.' He was still smiling but the gooseberry-coloured eyes were hard.
The prioress kept her hands relaxed on the cushion. She wanted to say, testily, What's worrying you, John? But dared not. She said nothing and stared at him.
He let the silence go on, stopped smiling and began to clean his fingernails with a small jewelled pick. She noticed he was getting long-sighted, holding his hand away to inspect it. After a while he said, 'We have reason to distrust this Straccan of yours.'
'We' was a bad sign. She arched her brows enquiringly at him and waited.
'Damn it, Madam! He consorts with the usurper Langton! Don't deny it!'
'How can I deny it? I don't know anything about it. It's no business of mine.'
'Right,' said the king, 'but it's very much my business. I'm keeping an eye on Straccan: where he goes, who he meets.' His expression softened. 'Rosy, can't you see how it looks? The man visits Stephen Langton, is privately entertained. Visits you. Visits the Countess of Arlen, who then makes over some of her revenues to you!'
So that's what's got him going, she thought. Julitta. Him and his spies! Spying on his half-sister; spying, of course, on his mistress. Spies everywhere. 'My Lord King,' she said, 'I know nothing about Langton. I know Straccan because his young daughter has been lodged with us since her mother died. His errand to the Lady Julitta was a priory matter. We did her a service, she thanked us appropriately. It's nothing to worry about. I promise.'
'You always kept your promises,' he muttered, nibbling at a hangnail. Then, jumping up, again the jovial beaming brother, 'Well, well, let's forget all that, shall we? Have an orange. I'll peel one for you.'
She stood up and laid a hand on the silky velvet of his sleeve. 'My Lord,' she said, 'let me tell you about Straccan's errand. It's a strange story. I think you'll be interested.'
Chapter 17
Saint Felicity's holy spring at Altarwell had brought prosperity to the monks, their abbey and the neighbouring town. Pilgrims came in a never-ending stream, gifts and legacies with them, and twice a week the well chamber in the crypt was opened to give the faithful, sick and supplicant, access to the blessed water. Evidence of its healing power was there for all to see. The walls of the crypt were festooned with discarded crutches, hand-trestles, soiled dressings and bandages, and hung with wax models—some lifesize—of legs, feet, hands, arms, hearts, ears and eyes, all representing the once-diseased but now cured, bodily parts of the grateful and fortunate. Rank upon rank of candles burned in the low arched chamber, giving a queer flickering realism to the wall paintings scenes from the life of the blessed martyr, Saint Felicity, whose holy power had caused the spring to burst forth from a rock five hundred years ago.
The main door stood wide open to admit the crowds, but not much daylight reached the far end of the crypt where a low stone basin caught the steady flow channelled through three lead pipes. The basin was on a stepped stone dais, and on the Watering Days, relays of sturdy monks in pairs dealt with the sick and infirm, helping them up the steps, sitting them on the parapet or leaning them over the edge in a proper and respectful manner—no
spitting or splashing or acting the fool—and baling the water over them with wooden dippers.