I immediately fall foul of Martin the gaoler through my poverty. For I find I am not only to be held against my will, but that I am expected to pay for the privilege a delivery fee of two whole shillings, and contribute to the cost of candles, my bedding and beer, and victuals for my captors.
‘But I have no money,’ I say. I spread my open, empty palms. For the small funds I have are banked privately within my person, where I hold them for extreme and terminal need.
‘Then you will have to board with the paupers …’ He spits.
He puts a hard hand in the small of my back and propels me into the large, straw-strewn cell, empty of any furniture or bedding.
There is one other pauper, already there.
He is the young, spotted boar. At first he seems alarmed by my presence, retreating to a corner, snorting disgruntled. But shortly, while never meeting my eyes, he sidles out sideways, as if by accident, until he is close enough to sniff at my leggings. And, finding me harmless, maybe palatable, gently chews on the toe of my boot.
‘Oink,’ say I.
‘Honk,’ says he. Or some such similar, slithery, hungry-sounding and dripping spittle. And brings his damp, pink, flat snout close to my face, to sample my scent. Then he moves alongside and suffers me to pat his firm, bristly back.
In the cell opposite is the man I knew before, from our earlier encounters, as Simon Mostly, only further damaged by bruising to his face. And he seems to have forfeited the tip of his nose, which is now reduced to an upturned crimson nub. And instead of two small nostrils and a divide, he has one larger, gaping hole.
In the cell alongside Simon is a masked man in sackcloth, who wears a bell on cord around his neck, signalling his movements, who I take to be a leper.
Leprosy is not an easy scourge to comprehend. Some say it is a stain. That the leper has been marked out by God’s displeasure to wear lascivious sin upon the skin. Others insist that lepers are souls bound for Heaven, no better nor worse than us, but suffering their Purgatory in this earthly life, rather than after death.
Some say that leprosy is simply a disease, not a state of moral impurity. But it is a disease that can be spread by touch or intimacy.
For this reason the leper must live outside the village or town. And the Church makes rules for him –
i. Always shout ‘Unclean! Unclean!’ wherever you go.
ii. Never enter a church, market, inn or any public place.
iii. Wear a mask, ring a bell, and keep your lips covered.
iv. Never wash in public water.
v. Never touch a child.
vi. Never enter a narrow lane.
vii. Never speak a word up-wind of the healthy.
viii. Never eat or drink with anyone save fellow lepers.
Simon Mostly says that the leper is called Lumpy John and belongs to him. He says he has bought him from an Irish horse-trader for the price of a donkey and seven shillings.
I ask him why he came to agree this purchase when you can ride a donkey all day, while a leper can never carry you half so far, and when so many other people choose to shun lepers like the plague, for fear of contagion.
Simon says that, well cared for and well used, a leper can earn a handsome keep for himself and his master, through spiritual service.
He says that if I give him only three pennies he will let me kiss his leper.
‘Kiss him?’ I enquire.
‘Or lick him, for four pennies, if you prefer, which is an opportunity denied to most.’
‘Yes?’ I ask. ‘To whose benefit?’
‘Indeed, it will help you,’ he says. ‘For it will signal to God Almighty your penitence and humility, and that you throw yourself open to His will, even to the extent of risking contracting leprosy yourself.’
‘Yes?’
‘And what nobler example can a man follow than that of Our Lord Jesus, who, it is told in the Gospel of Luke, reached out to touch lepers, and so cured ten on His way to Jerusalem, though only one ever returned to thank Him.’
‘That’s so,’ I remember. ‘Exactly so.’
‘And think too of the Gospel of Matthew, and how Jesus came down after the Sermon on the Mount, and a leper came and said, “Make me clean,” and Our Lord reached out and touched him, and cured him instantly.’
‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘it would be a fine thing to kiss your leper for myself … But, at present, I do not have the pennies to fund that ambition. And, as things have it, he is locked away, there, beyond reach …’
Then, to pass the time, Simon began to tell me what he’d learned of the pig, my companion behind bars.
He said that a man known as Richard Bacon had been arrested in Stoke Charnley by the sergeant of the manor, on suspicion of spreading the pox by poisoning wells. But as it was late and a storm was raging, they rested overnight, locking Richard Bacon in a secure barn, chained to a ring in the wall. But in the morning he was nowhere to be seen. And in his place was the young spotted boar. Nonchalant and cock-sure as you like.
At first it was supposed that the prisoner had escaped. But a search of the barn found it entirely sound and secure, with no gap, hole, or possible exit. And in the centre of the floor lay Bacon’s clothes, strewn here and there, quite emptied of their owner.
So then they understood. They supposed that Bacon, with magics and Satanic aid, must have transformed himself into a pig, to confuse or mock his persecutors. And that it was a deliberate provocation and crude pun upon his name. For, in reverse of the usual course of events, Bacon had turned into a pig.
And it was in this unchanged, porcine state that Richard Bacon was still being held. And folk said he showed his arrogant contempt for his captors, and fellow defendants. For he shat and pissed wherever, whenever the mood took him. Frothed at the mouth with excitement. Snorted rudely. And sometimes fell asleep, snuffling and snoring loudly, in complete disregard of the solemn proceedings, while appearing before his accusers and betters.
For my part, I was never convinced that the pig was a philosopher in disguise, or otherwise possessed of a demon.
I believed there was a mistake in identity. The pig was most likely a pig.
There is no sure, established scientific method for rooting out if the soul of a man has taken its possession of the body of a pig, but Brother Fulco had always taught me the power of evidence. So I observed my cell-mate as fairly and scrupulously as I could.
Richard Bacon, I was told, was a former monk, an all-chemist and astrologer.
If so, he would surely know Latin. He would speak some Greek. He would be cognisant of algebra, and conversant with the physics. He might well be familiar with German too.
So, I tried testing his understanding of various tongues.
‘Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei,’ I said.
But no sign of recognition played on his sly, porky face. I got no more in response than a casual grunt.
‘Sus magis in coeno gaudet, quam fonte sereno,’ I said, but detected no sign of understanding. He just raised a leg and languidly passed water in a spreading, frothy, yellow puddle.
Then, I tried being sly, and sought to surprise him, with unexpected riddles. Then, I would sidle close to his side and whisper to his ear –
‘I have a heart that never beats,
I have a home but I never sleep.
I can take a man’s house and build another’s,
And I love to play games with my many brothers.
I am a king among fools.
Who am I?’
And, when that failed to evoke any interest, I tried the simpler conundrum –
‘Say my name and I disappear.
What am I?’
But, if he knew, he wasn’t saying. Or maybe that was just his subtle way of answering truly.
I understood the proper concerns of the court. If the animal was possessed of the malignant soul of a man, or some demonic force, he must be thwarted and the possession must be exposed.
And even if the pig was just a pig, it still could
not go unpunished.
For if the demons saw that animals could evade the sanctions of a proper trial and retribution, they would surely start occupying animals the more often, to perpetrate their evil work, knowing they would escape unchallenged, unpunished.
It would not be fair for the farmer, small-holder, or the beasts themselves, to make the everyday animals of the field empty vessels for Satan, to be the shell of his demons.
If the maleficence of one pig was allowed, all pigs would be at greater jeopardy. A moral pollution would surely spread. And then all animals would come under greater threat of possession – cows, chickens, ducks, goats and sheep. Once the possession was allowed to pass unpunished, the very ground would be tainted and tarnished, for those devils and demons would claim squatters’ rights, then tenure, and thereinafter could only be expelled by exorcism. Thus any acts of criminality, or offence against the Lord, committed by animals, had to be ruthlessly prosecuted, for the protection of us all. Which was why the infamous Cockerel of Baden-Baden had been throttled for laying an egg, in defiance of his God-given masculinity and the natural division of the sexes, consequent on some intercourse he’d had with a demon, from which the offspring would surely have been a sinister cockatrice.
And a hive of bees were smothered for stinging to death their keeper.
And a sow that had killed a child was hanged, along with her litter – for all the piglets had just watched the slaughter of the infant without intervention, complaint or comment.
Yet there was mercy. For others were acquitted. Like the she-ass who was caught in flagrante delicto, in an act of coition with her keeper. For many witnesses came forward to speak of her good character and said she was a demure and modest ass, more sinned against than sinning.
Then there was a flock of starlings who were called to appear before the court to answer to eating a field of barley. But, though they never came to face the charge, their attorney gained them full pardon, arguing they could not be expected to make the journey, given a fear of being attacked by birds of prey on the way.
XIX. Telling Stories
I grasp your conjecture.
You suppose that since I have written this story down, years after the events described, I have survived my incarceration and imminent trial, and emerged from this jeopardy unscathed, to sit here, now, before this roaring fire, at my oak desk, scratching my mature and ample rump, perhaps with a jug of mulled Frenchy wine at my elbow, with a plate of piquant, roasted crow giblets to snack upon, with a goose-feather quill to dip into my marble ink-well, to scrawl on the finest parchment, a penny a sheet, maybe having become a mature man of wealth who has fared well in life, being favoured for his good looks, and rewarded for his talents and labours, perhaps fathering seven children, while outliving four wives.
And you may think that because I write of myself as the hero of my own story, I must have a high regard for myself, to place myself alongside other protagonists of literature such as Saints, Apostles, Prophets, Pharaohs of Egypt, Monsters, Angels, Cannibals and Monarchs, just because I have become well known for my skills at physic, and as a purveyor of poultices, and the author of two celebrated texts on medicine, respected master of four domestic servants, and elected member of the Guild of Surgeons, welcomed as friend to the homes of well-known nobles.
But I must tell you now that nothing is so simple, for this story-telling opens up a sackful of frogs, all leaping out in their different directions, while croaking discordant.
You would not believe the armies of people involved in any tale. Nor the profusion of occasions that arise in any story.
For a start, the me now is not the me then. And the me that writes this down is not the me he observes, for the see-er and the seen have to stand apart and separate, with different perspectives. And, besides these two wastrels, tied up in past times, in the labyrinth of stories, is another me, as I live and breathe, who goes about his everyday tasks, and has no truck with gossiping on shadows. In fact, he despises the wasted effort and idle supposition.
And, forgive me for saying, there are at least two of you. For the you I suppose as my reader cannot be the you you are. For everyone is different some ways from everyone else. Yet I cannot write a separate narrative for each and every one of you, to match your peculiarities, for vellum is too pricey, and ink would run dry, and eternity would come to an end.
So I have made some polite surmises regarding your character, that I may guess what you care to hear.
I have supposed you like visiting other people’s business, and hearing their intimate thoughts, peering under their beds, and knowing their most private moments, all the while condemning them religiously for their flaws and sins, perhaps figuring yourself their moral superior. But, perhaps I have judged you wrong.
Then, when it comes to time, we are hopeless tangled. For there must be a long succession of thens, as the sequence of events in the story, each with a later-on when their effects find fruition, and a string of after-thats as I write it all down, followed by that string of nows, including this one, now just gone, linked but separate, like a string of beads, as you read it. Never mind the endless what-ifs that we can only guess at. So soon you have as many parallel lines of time as furrows in a newly ploughed field. So you are trudging up and down, down and up, pulling a dead weight, like a team of oxen, through the stony ground of the reader’s indifference.
So I ask you politely. Bear with me. For this is no easy task. Pray don’t jump to any hasty conclusions. There is a deal of ploughing still to come. And boulders to be cleared by hand.
I saw matters were coming to a head when the sergeant bundled in with two other burly fellows to dress Richard Bacon, the pig, in human clothes – collared shirt, red woollen jerkin with wood toggle-buttons, breeches that reached past his hocks, and leather boots.
It was a struggle for all, with wrestling about in the straw, biting, blows, tugging of ears, squealing, threats, snorts and curses. For the pig preferred to stay naked, seeing the clothes as an affront to his candour, an imposition upon his will, an encumbrance to his freedoms, while the sergeant insisted he be clothed. Not cower behind the hide of a pig, but stand trial as a man.
They wanted him to be dressed so he could enact what they supposed him to be. A wilful human, masquerading in a beast’s body. And, in his full attire, still squealing in protest, he was led away, with a rope around his lace-collared neck, leaving me alone in the pauper’s cell.
But it is not long before I too receive a visitor. He is a tall, thin-faced man with a staring expression that couples a wince with a smile. He says he is my attorney. Paid for by the public purse. And that he’ll represent my cause in court so justice can be done.
‘Court?’ I say.
‘The assize,’ he says, ‘today. Presently. To answer to a judge and jury. But mostly to God.’
‘The charges against me?’
He unrolls a sheet of vellum and starts to read. ‘Witchcraft and diabolism … intoxicating … bewitching and poisoning.’
‘Truly?’ I frown. ‘Surely not … me?’
He holds a finger to his lips, to silence me, to convey that he is not finished yet. ‘Imprisoning spirits against their will … Entrapping the soul of a man in the body of a pig … Conspiring with said pig … Poisoning the wells and waters to spread the Great Pestilence.’
We consider this in silence for some moments.
‘If you are to be my attorney,’ I say, ‘what do you advise?’
He thinks an instant, then issues a quicksilver smile. ‘It is certainly better to hang than to burn,’ he says.
‘Meaning?’
‘I can plead for you. If you admit to the poisoning but deny the witchcraft, you will earn some credit for honesty. The court may believe you. Then you may earn a kinder end.’
‘And if I am to plead innocent of all these charges? For I am innocent.’
He shakes his weary head. His dull grey eyes, with their pink whites, avoid mine, staring past my shoulder. �
��Then I cannot save you. For the evidence against you is awful strong.’
‘Evidence?’ I say.
‘The jury are twelve good men and true. Fair-minded and self-informing,’ he says. ‘They have investigated the case already and discussed it in every small aspect. I have talked with them. No one speaks a good word for you. I believe they will surely convict. I think they mean for you to burn.’
When I appear before the court, I am led out with my hands bound, as though I am already a guilty man. The steward and a priest sit behind a raised desk. To the side sits the jury of twelve good men and true. They are surly and unfriendly to a man, and return my smiles with stubborn glares.
Then a scowling attorney begins to harangue me with questions, posed in hostile and suspicious terms, seeking to contrive the most damning construction on my conduct.
Question: Is your occupation that of a witch, necromancer and diabolist?
Answer: No.
Question: Are you in league with the Devil? Do you not conspire with Lucifer, Satan or his lesser demons?
Answer: I do not. I would not. I never have.
Question: Have you not entrapped the soul of a man within the body of a pig, and engaged in other demonic transformations?
Answer: No, I have not. Not once. Never.
Question: Are you not yourself a demon, hiding in a man’s body, behind the manners of a fool?
Answer: No, sir. I am not. I swear it.
Question: Do you travel with a black cat as your familiar?
Answer: Cats? No, sir. I do not travel with them. Not me.
Question: Do you not travel this land bringing the Great Pestilence in your wake, visiting it upon those you meet?
Answer: It is true I have been unlucky in this regard. For wherever I go, the pestilence follows. So far, I have lost thirtytwo brothers in Christ, a wife, three ladies of the bed-chamber, and two fellow pilgrims to this Great Mortality, the pox.
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