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‘What did he do, Father?’ said a voice at my shoulder, so unexpectedly that I jumped.
I turned stern eyes upon my questioner, a youth from the village whose name I did not remember.
‘That is for God to know, and not for men to gossip about.’
‘It must’ve been something very wicked,’ he mused, as though I had not spoken.
I fixed him with a disapproving stare. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders and sauntered out of the church towards the great yew, where a clutch of young hatchlings gathered, lounging against each other and whistling at the girls who had flocked from the surrounding villages.
He pointed his finger at the retreating penitent and their heads drew close as they whispered who knew what sort of nonsense. I considered marching across and chiding them for treating this holy day with so little respect. However, when I raised my eyes to the west window, the Saint looked down with such loving kindness that I relented. I counselled myself that it might be better to bring them to godliness through mild words rather than cruelty. Perhaps kindness should be the watchword for my sermon.
The pilgrims were much affected by the agonising spectacle of the penitent on his knees. Their weeping increased in intensity, as if it was not already deafening. One woman fell to the floor with a particularly piercing wail. She was helped back up by her companions, but struggled against them, falling once more. They tried to lift her but each time were defeated.
I hurried to assist, for the disturbance was distracting the pilgrims from their devotions as they queued to touch the shrine. In the time it took to reach her, the woman had started to babble noisily and everyone was stretching their necks to get a better view.
‘This is not our doing,’ hissed one of her companions, before I had even had a chance to open my mouth.
‘She has been moved by the spirit of repentance!’ cried a stranger from a few yards away.
The noisy woman’s friends looked at each other doubtfully, weighing up if this might be the case.
‘Let me kneel!’ the woman yelled. ‘I beg forgiveness!’ She tore at her coif and a long strand of hair tumbled out, a fat black worm sprinkled with salt. ‘I am a sinner!’ she gargled, sinking to the floor.
Her companions glanced at each other over her head and frowned.
‘Come now, mistress,’ I said sternly. ‘The Saint does not demand that you shout. He can hear the quietest of prayers.’
One eye flipped open and peered at me. It looked me up and down, testing the weight of my words. Then it closed and she began to bemoan her sins even more fervently. I arched my eyebrow at her friends, who caught the significance of my gesture. They picked her up by the armpits and dragged her towards the shrine with as much grace as a sack of beets, her blubbering the whole while.
A number of pilgrims muttered complaints that she was carried to the front of the queue while they had to wait patiently. I made pious comments about the Saint’s ears being dinned in by the screeching, and how it would be a shame if he grew deaf to the prayers of others as a result. They saw sense straight away and helped her up the chancel steps.
She had fainted clean away by the time they brought her down; exhausted by her exertions or some kind miracle, I could not tell. She was carted out of the west door with much flapping of kerchiefs in her face.
Her bothersome performance infected the pilgrims: some fell to their knees at the west door, some as far back as the lychgate. Most contented themselves with dropping at the rood screen and made the last few yards of their journey grunting and puffing. An uncharitable part of my soul wondered if they thought the Saint could only see them after they passed through its thick gateway.
I told the first ones that it was not necessary; the Saint did not demand it of everyone. I was given looks of disbelief that a priest should ask for fewer penitent gestures rather than more. In the end I left them to it and counselled myself that if God willed this, then so be it.
I wondered if word would get around and at the next festival the whole lot of them would approach thus. Perhaps leaden tokens in the shape of knees would be sold; perhaps Brannoc would garner a reputation as a healer of ailments of the leg and there would be a rush of pilgrims afflicted with diseases of the ankles.
These were distracting thoughts. What might happen next year was in the hands of the Almighty. I sighed and rubbed my fingers on the point where my brows met. The commotion was driving a nail into my brains. William strolled by.
‘Why are you not at your post?’ I asked.
‘Clearing out a piece of rubbish,’ he laughed, clapping his hands. He dipped inside his tunic and drew out a small leather bag. ‘See?’ he said, waving it in my face.
‘What should I see?’
‘The ties are cut,’ he replied, slowly, and I had the strong sense he was speaking as you would to an idiot. ‘I found a lad lightening a gentleman of his possessions. Scabby little snip of a – begging your pardon, Father.’
‘Where is the boy? I must counsel him.’
‘He doesn’t need any more of that, Father. I’ve given him a right good counselling.’ He laughed again. ‘He’ll not be back.’
He sailed out of the west door, tall and straight as a mast. He waved the money bag above his head and bawled for its owner to claim it. I leaned against the rood-screen to gather my tattered senses together. I still had no sure theme for my festival sermon and there was very little time left.
Two young women giggled and clutched their kerchiefs to their noses as they passed. For a moment I wondered if I was giving off a noisome smell, but it was only the silly shyness of girls when faced with a man.
‘Do not jostle me so, Margret,’ hissed one of them. ‘Father Thomas,’ she cooed, dropping a curtsey.
The female called Margret cupped a hand round her friend’s ear and whispered something too quiet to overhear. Whatever it was, it earned a fierce glare from her companion.
‘Father Thomas,’ said Margret. ‘We should like to welcome you to this parish. Shouldn’t we, Anne?’
‘Yes,’ agreed the maiden named Anne, in a flurry of further curtseying.
‘The new priest is a blessing, is he not?’
‘Yes,’ twittered Anne. Her cheeks flushed so pink it was little wonder she attended the shrine. Such an excess of choler was not healthy in a woman. Much as I applauded their modest blushes, I wearied of their chatter, so with a polite God be with you, I stepped away. But the encounter had not been without value: modesty in women was the perfect subject for a sermon.
Finally, I had my theme, and not before time, for I must be quick and deliver the Mass. I hurried to the treasury. A boy was there, William’s son, I didn’t doubt. He held up the festival cope with as much grace as you would a day-old herring.
‘Higher, boy,’ I said. ‘I can’t get into it if you drag it across the floor like that.’
He huffed, hoisted it and I poked my head through the narrow opening. I declare I staggered under the sudden weight, although I hid it well and he did not notice.
‘You are an idiot,’ I muttered. ‘You may as well send your sister next time. She’d do a better job.’
He bore my terse words meekly, but his lips were tight, and angry spots reddened his cheeks. No doubt he would grumble about me to his companions.
‘Go to, go to,’ I commanded in a kinder voice, for he was not a bad child, merely untutored. ‘Tell the choirboys we are ready.’
I smiled, but of course the lad did not understand such niceties. I wondered briefly if he might be worth instructing; he seemed attentive. He could hardly be worse than the previous boy, who sang in the bell-tower and was found in the churchyard with his hand inside a girl’s bodice.
I wriggled inside the fussy cope. It was ballasted with gold stitching and pearls, heavy as a stack of logs. I did not hold with all this panoply. If I had the choice, I’d leave that to peacock priests. But I did not have a choice: the Bishop made that clear when he heard – I know not from whom – that I conducted my Christmas Mass in plain shirt and hose. I endeavoured to explain I meant no disrespect: I wished to emulate the simple dress of our Lord, not to ape my poor flock. He lectured me with some force that I had no idea how Christ clothed himself and I would dress as commanded. Grandly, as befitted my station.
He told me that I insulted my parishioners by pretending to be the same as them. You’re a priest, by God, he thundered. Act like one. I could not believe he should so mistake my humble intentions. So today, I sweated in gold and garnets. I contented myself with the knowledge that God saw my inner humility. If men needed pomp to bring them to penitence, so be it. I was commanded, therefore I would obey, uncomplaining as a lamb.
The procession began. The choirboys tumbled in through the west door, picking their noses and gawping at the pilgrims. They sang lustily, but to them the words were sounds only and they quacked them with as little comprehension as ducks. I strode ahead, robes trailing behind me. I tolerated their rude manners, their cracked voices that tore the psalms to shreds. I calmed myself with the knowledge that my reward was to read the Divine Office in solitude, tomorrow and every day after it.
I breathed relief. A high Mass such as this took place mercifully few times in the year. And at last, I had my sermon.
ANNE (#ulink_2b92b441-86e3-5c85-8855-1a4cf2a25436)
For three days, we are a city. The world comes to our hamlet and brings its finery, its marvels, its smells, its terrors, its tragedies. For three days I stretch my eyes wide open and do not close them once, not even to blink. A handful of days, but crammed with a year’s worth of new sights and sounds, fresh riddles and do-you-remembers unsurpassed. These days supply me with every tale with which I’ll entertain myself for the remainder of the year.
The churchyard is too small to encompass these wonders, so the field behind Aline’s alehouse blooms thick as daisies with tents, blankets, fires. Every trestle for five miles about finds its way there; tables spring up and are loaded with bread and cheese. The air is riotous with the scent of bacon, for John the butcher always has a pig fat and ready for the Saint. In return the Saint makes sure his purse is heavy afterwards, and the world carries away the memory of the best pork in the shire.
So tumble in the girdlers, purse-makers, skinners, tanners, cap-makers, smiths, pewterers, glovers and net-makers; behind them the scullions, reeves, nuns and shoe-makers, brewers, cooks, archers, glass-blowers, knights, goldsmiths, silversmiths and gem-polishers.
Next come in the ploughmen, the sailors, the sea-captains, fishermen, pig-men, shepherds, dairywomen, alewives, spinners, weavers, high ladies and low women. Here are the barbers, the saw-bones, men of physic and midwives, wise women and charlatans. We have fools, clerks, schoolmasters, pullers of teeth, bone-setters, knife-grinders, matrons, virgins, peddlers, tinkers and trench-diggers.
It is a small Heaven upon earth: a lion of a soldier fresh from the war comes to thank the Saint for his deliverance and lies down with the lamb of a carpenter come to pray for the soul of his son, who was not so lucky. The crook-legged man upon his wheeled tray prays for the straightening of his limbs. He slumbers chastely beside the beautiful young wife, who aches for her husband’s seed to take root in the parched earth of her womb. For three days no one is troubled by lustful dreams.
Margret and I walk through the crowd. Heads turn, but I am grown enough to know that none of them turn for me. Margret is the lady now and I am the wench dragged in her wake. There is whispering also, and not all of it kind. I catch snatches of it, sticking to our skirts like teasels.
That is John of Pilton’s woman.
A priest’s woman is no goodwife, but a harlot.
You hold your tongue in check, Edwin Barton. You are the bell-ringer. Have some respect. This is the Saint’s day.
Mama, what is a harlot?
I hear it; Margret hears it. When the sneering grows too loud to ignore, Margret stops and stares down the man who called her harlot.
‘Why, Edwin,’ she says, all kindness.
‘Good day,’ he mutters.
‘How fares your mother, Edwin?’ she enquires.
‘Well, missus. Well,’ he mumbles, tugs his cap so hard it slips over one eye. But there’s no hiding from the press of Margret’s courteous questions.
‘And your brothers?’ she continues. ‘How fare they?’
‘All well, to be sure, missus.’
‘The Saint be praised.’
Margret’s smile is so sweet I am surprised butterflies do not alight upon her head and lick her with their coiled tongues. But it is too early in the year for butterflies. ‘Let me see,’ she muses. ‘Tell me if my recollection falters. There’s Arthur?’
‘Yes, missus,’ he says.
‘Bartholomew? Sam? Peter?’
He bobs his head at each name, declares each brother hale and hearty.
‘I have forgot none, have I, Edwin?’
‘Oh no, missus. None.’
‘All of you so different in looks. By the Saint, who would have thought one father could bring to bear a redhead, a black-haired lad, one tall, one short.’
Her face is all concern for the welfare of Edwin’s brothers. Yet I know the truth of their parentage, as does every man and woman here, their mother being an accommodating woman. Edwin grows red in the face, so dark a hue I think he might burst. Margret pauses for a long moment, her eyebrow lifted. Then she picks up the corner of her skirt and folds it over her arm. It is fine kersey, more shillings to the yard than I could hope to afford in a year, and exceeding beautiful. She bows her head politely and Edwin bows in response. She walks on without another word.
I pause for a moment, less time than it takes to pour a cup of beer, but time enough to hear the giggles begin. I watch them, helpless with the need to keep respectful silence within sight of the church door, yet burdened with the equally pressing need to void their laughter at Edwin’s expense. John the butcher chokes on his mirth and must be thumped on the back.
‘She’s got you there, Edwin, and right enough,’ he splutters, to much cheerful agreement.
Edwin smiles as best he can. He is not a bad man. It is only his tongue that runs forward and escapes his mouth. I quicken my pace to catch up with Margret.
I find her within the church, gazing up at the painting of the Saint. He is planted on his knees before the Virgin and wears a look of avarice. Mary is the size of a child’s poppet. She floats on a cushion just out of the Saint’s reach, throwing sticks out of the ends of her fingers and aiming them at the Saint’s head. I know they are supposed to be shafts of heavenly light, but they look like the poles you set up for beans. When I share these thoughts with Margret, she smiles again.
‘Shh,’ she whispers. ‘That is the Virgin.’
‘I do not insult our blessed Mary,’ I hiss, curtseying as I say her name. ‘I insult the hand of Roger Staunton, who imagines he can capture her on a cob wall. He is not as good a limner as he thinks.’
Margret heaves her shoulders up, then down.
‘I hear those words wherever I go,’ she says, and I know she speaks of Edwin Barton, and not the painting. ‘Most of the time, they keep their foul opinions quiet, although I know what they are saying. It is like the sea: however far the tide is out, you can still hear it murmuring, waiting for the hour to turn so it may come back to land.’
Margret was always the poet. I have as much poetry in me as a pound of pickled pork. She shakes herself, as a horse does when plagued by insects.
‘The tide of harsh words is high today, yet I prevail.’ She straightens her back and tips her chin at the wall. ‘I thank you, blessed Virgin, for your blessings.’
‘Blessings?’
‘She has given me two. Greater than I could ever hope for. My dear son Jack, my dear John. He is a pearl of a man. I have not met a kinder, Anne, unless it be your father.’
I nod my head and do not disagree, for my father is the sweetest man ever to break bread.
‘John serves God and man, and declares he does far better with me at his side. If God did not bring us together, then it must have been God’s mother. It is to her I shall turn on Doomsday to pray for forgiveness. I have great hope for mercy,’ she says firmly. ‘John and I may not be chaste, but we love each other with a fidelity I defy anyone to condemn.’
My heart swells. At that moment, I would take up sword and buckler to defend her honour.
‘It is strange,’ she muses. ‘They envy me my gowns, my furs, the cup from which I drink, yet they scorn me at the same time.’
‘It is jealousy,’ I say.
I do not tell her that I am envious also. Since she left for the Staple, there has been a hole the size of a door in the wall of my life. I guard that door. I did not know her love brought such comfort until she took it away and gave it to another. I see her seldom and the wind blows leaves into my empty heart. Today, she is by my side. For these few hours the breach in my soul is filled.
She clasps my hand and leads me through the pilgrims to a spot where we might have the best view of the Saint as he passes by on his wagon. He is carved from oak, face battered as a gate that has been swung on by a lifetime of rowdy boys. But he is ours, and we will have none other; not even the new one made of pear-wood and so beautiful he could make a cow weep. Our Lord Bishop gifted it to us, told us it came from Germany, and very costly too. But he’s too pretty to be a man who yoked stags to a plough. So he stands on a pedestal in the north corner and bides his time, while our beloved tree trunk of a Saint protects us and favours us with miracles.
The new priest passes by, a hop in his step. He is nothing like Father Hugo, who could scarce pass through an alehouse door save sideways and whose voice could be heard in Hartland. His chin is unshaven and I wonder when he last took the razor to it. He takes his place on the chancel steps and clears his throat, which bobs with a sharp Adam’s apple. We fall into a respectful silence, the better to hear the sermon. He lifts his arms.
‘I speak of Solomon,’ he begins. ‘And the Queen of Sheba.’
There is a rumble of surprise, for we are expecting a tale of the Saint. Father Hugo always told a fine tale about one miracle or another and most amusing they were too.
‘Wise King Solomon,’ he continues. ‘A lion amongst men.’
‘What’s this new man talking about?’ murmurs Margret. ‘Where is our Saint?’
She is not the only one to be asking that question. Some of the bolder lads shuffle towards the door muttering thirsty excuses, when Father Thomas raises his voice.
‘Solomon had a hundred wives. A hundred to one man.’
Those halfway gone pause. Their heads turn: perhaps this sermon is not so disappointing after all. I look about. He has everyone’s attention.
