Pilgrims E-Book

Matthew Kneale

• Herausgeber: Atlantic Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 555

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A The Times and Sunday Times Book of the Year 'An enthralling and wonderfully vivid novel from a master storyteller' Joseph O'Connor 'Kneale's medieval world is animated with a refreshing lightness of touch' Sunday Telegraph 1289. A rich farmer fears he'll go to hell for cheating his neighbours. His wife wants pilgrim badges to sew into her hat and show off at church. A poor, ragged villager is convinced his beloved cat is suffering in the fires of purgatory and must be rescued. A mother believes her son's dangerous illness is punishment for her own adultery and seeks forgiveness so he may be cured. A landlord is in trouble with the church after he punched an abbot on the nose. A sexually driven noblewoman seeks a divorce so she can marry her new young beau. These are among a ragtag band of pilgrims that sets off on the tough and dangerous journey from England to Rome, where they hope all their troubles and their prayers will be answered. Some in the group, however, have their own secret reasons for going. Others, while they might aspire to piety, succumb all too often to the sins of the flesh. A riveting, sweeping novel of medieval society and historic Englishness, Pilgrims illuminates the fallibility of humans, the absurdities and consolations of belief, and the very real violence at the heart of religious fervour.

Leseprobe

Also by Matthew Kneale

FICTION

Mr Foreigner

Inside Rose’s Kingdom

English Passengers

Small Crimes in an Age of Abundance

When We Were Romans

Sweet Thames

NON-FICTION

An Atheist’s History of Belief

Rome: A History in Seven Sackings

Published in hardback in Great Britain in 2020 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Matthew Kneale, 2020

The moral right of Matthew Kneale to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Hardback ISBN: 978 1 78649 237 1

E-book ISBN: 978 1 78649 238 8

Printed in

Atlantic Books

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

For my mum

CONTENTS

PART ONE – 1264

CHAPTER ONE – Motte

PART TWO – 1289

CHAPTER TWO – Tom son of Tom

CHAPTER THREE – Constance

CHAPTER FOUR – Warin

CHAPTER FIVE – Lucy de Bourne

CHAPTER SIX – Tom son of Tom

CHAPTER SEVEN – Matilda Froome

CHAPTER EIGHT – Iorwerth

CHAPTER NINE – Tom son of Tom

CHAPTER TEN – Constance

CHAPTER ELEVEN – Motte

CHAPTER TWELVE – Tom son of Tom

NOTE OF THANKS

NOTE ON LANGUAGE

Glossary of Middle English

Medieval place names

PART ONE

1264

CHAPTER ONE

Motte

I should remember everything that happened that morning, every tiny jot, but I can’t. I’ll just have to imagine. My mother-in-law Licoricia would’ve been sat in her big green chair like usual, waving apples at my little boys, Leo and Hame, to steal their eyes from me. Not that I’d have minded as I’d have been glad to have a rest from them. Or she’d have started on about what a good man her husband Elias was, going off to work before the sun was up. That had a barb in it like most of Licoricia’s talk did, and meant ‘my husband’s a far better man than any of the idle lollerers in your family’. Which was a black lie. Just because mine weren’t rich like hers didn’t mean they were idle.

Then came one thing that I do remember. Besse the maid was about to go out and get our morning bread when my sister Rosa told her no, she’d go as she felt like taking a little walk. ‘Une petite marche,’ she’d have said. I might have wondered about it, I probably did, but I didn’t say anything. Then I’d have been distracted. Leo was new on his feet, running and squealing till he’d fall down and cry, Hame was two years older and they were like two fish hooks, snagging my attention. Or I’d have been fretting about Benedict, my husband, who was up in Lincoln, where he’d gone to make new silver ends for the synagogue scrolls. He’d left just before the new troubles, we’d had no word for weeks and my heart missed a beat every time someone came knocking at the door.

All the while I’d have felt the moments passing by, till I thought Rosa’s taking her time. It’s not far to the baker’s so she should be back by now. Then I’d have told myself, stop worrying, Motte. There’s probably a big crowd in the bakery, as there often is at this hour, and she’s had to wait. Until so long had gone by that even if all of Pharaoh’s army were in there getting loaves she should’ve been back. Then I’d have said, lightly like I wasn’t much bothered, ‘I wonder where Rosa’s got to? I might go out and take a look.’ Of course Licoricia would’ve seen through that clear as through a pane of glass. ‘Let’s hope your sister hasn’t run off again,’ she’d have said, casting me a woeful look, as if to say, your family’s nothing but trouble. In her heart she’d have been pleased, as with me out of the house she’d have my boys all to herself to spoil. And then there’s the one thing that I wish I remember so bad that it burns me. When I went to get my cloak and my purse, did Hame run up and grab me, like he sometimes did when I was going out, squealing and laughing and saying I must stay, and did Leo, not wanting to be left out, totter over and do the same?

After that I remember it all better. That would have been from my anguish I dare say, as there’s nothing like fright to keep something in the mind forever. I walked over to the baker’s, thinking I was a daft fool for worrying, and sure I’d see Rosa walking back through the crowds towards me, a loaf under her arm, giving me an aggrieved look for chasing after her. But no, here I was by the baker’s and there wasn’t a hair of her. There were only one or two bodies inside, and when I asked, ‘Have you seen my sister Rosa?’ the baker shook his head. So Licoricia had been right and she’d run off again. I was breathing faster then, scared and angry for her both at the same time. What if someone knew her face from the Jewry? I just hoped she hadn’t gone all the way outside the city again. But she probably had. Last time she’d gone to Camberwell so I set off south across West Cheap.

The way took me past Everard the candlemaker, who was one of my father-in-law Elias’s borrowers, and who knew Rosa, so I went in to ask. Everard was stirring a big steaming pot of fat that made the walls shine and filled the place with stink, while his boy was beside him ready to chuck in some more. Everard wasn’t the friendliest so I suppose I should’ve known how it would go. ‘Yes?’ he said, giving me a look. ‘There’s not a farthing I owe as I paid up yesterday.’ When I said I was looking for Rosa he gave a shrug. ‘I haven’t seen her.’ But then his boy, who was milder, said, ‘I think I did. Just now. I saw her through the door, walking by outside the shop.’ When I asked which way she’d been going he pointed south, like I’d hoped he wouldn’t.

Damn her, I’d have thought. That pitiless, singular child looking only to her own self. I pressed on to the bridge, which, like always, was tight with folk squeezing by. I wasn’t halfway across when I heard someone call out, ‘Look who’s coming down the river,’ and people started pushing into a space between the shops to peer down. Though it made no sense, as how could it be her, just for a moment I thought, what if it’s Rosa, and I squeezed through them to see. But no, thanks be to God, when I looked over I saw there were a pair of them, just about to slip under the bridge, both so swollen that they looked almost like playing balls. One had half his face gone and another had no head. ‘I wonder whose they are,’ said one of the crowd, ‘Montfort’s or the king’s?’ ‘The king’s,’ said another, ‘see how fat they are,’ which made the rest laugh. ‘Some of his Frenchmen,’ said a third. ‘Or his Jews.’ Which got another laugh. Somebody had found a big piece of stone and he lobbed it over, catching the headless one on the chest so he vanished under for a moment before bobbing up again, which got a cheer. No one was looking at me, thank heavens, and I edged back out of the crowd.

Reaching the Tower at the far end of the bridge I asked the guard, ‘I’m searching for my sister. Have you seen her go out? Black hair, green eyes, pretty-looking.’ Some of them can know you from half a mile off, don’t ask me how, it’s like they can smell you, and this guard was one. He gave me a look, not friendly, to show it. ‘See how many people go by here? As if I’d know.’ When I was small my father used to tell me, ‘Motte, when things look bad, as they will some days, remember this. For every unkindness there’s a courtesy, and for every wicked man there’s a good one too,’ and so it was that morning. I got out of the stream of folk and was standing there, wondering what to do, when I saw that a beggar, who was sat in a niche just out of the throng, was waving me over. He’d have heard me talking to the guard. ‘I saw her,’ he said. ‘A pretty thing. She had a funny look to her, sort of dreamy. I wondered if she was drunk.’

That was Rosa all right. I gave him a farthing and my thanks and then looked out through the gate towards Southwark. Just because she’d gone out there didn’t mean I had to go after her. But of course it did. I couldn’t turn my back on my own sister, however undeserving. So, though every ounce of me hungered to go back the way I’d come, I walked through the gate and into Southwark. I just hoped she’d chosen the same spot she had last time, as otherwise I’d never find her in a hundred months and I’d be risking myself for nothing.

At least there shouldn’t be many who’d know me out here, or so I hoped. Back in the house they’d be wondering where I’d got to, as I’d said I’d only be gone for a short while. I’d never forgive Licoricia if she got my little mites in a scare, which I could see her doing, just to make me look bad. I started down the Kent road. The way was crowded with walkers and riders, most of them going back towards London, and I could see the care on their faces. They’d be Montfort’s, frightened they’d be caught by some of the king’s. Montfort’s were worse. Not that the king’s were much better. I kept my face low, looking down at the ground, in case one of them might sniff me out like the guard on the bridge.

It was further than I remembered but finally I saw the tower of Camberwell church and then there she was. I swear she was in the very same spot she’d been the last time, sat on a tree root by the pond. For a moment I felt joy that I’d found her but that soon slipped away. I stepped up behind her and, not loud but hissing out the words, I said, ‘Vous truie.’ She twisted round then, her eyes open wide, at the vous, at being called sow, there being nothing worse, and most of all at the cold sound of my voice. ‘How could you?’ I said. ‘And now of all times.’ She gave me a pleading look. ‘Motte, please. I meant to get the loaf like I said, but then. . . I just can’t stand that house. I miss our home.’ ‘Come on,’ I told her, tugging her arm hard so she winced. ‘Let’s get back.’

Even then she was slow. I’d take a few paces and she’d be straggling behind me, looking at a cat lying on a wall or at some ducks flying by, or a tree in blossom. ‘I never see any green,’ she moaned, like I was being unfair making her hurry up. ‘You won’t see anything at all if you don’t come on,’ I told her. Finally we got to Southwark but I’d hardly had a chance to feel joy when I saw there was a crowd up ahead and I heard shouting. Rosa was in her dreams like usual and didn’t notice till we’d almost reached the Tower. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why’s the gate shut?’ ‘Because you’re slow and only think of yourself,’ I answered. Then I wished I hadn’t as she started crying and people were looking at us, which was the last thing I wanted. Someone called out to the guards on the Tower asking them to open up but they didn’t even bother to answer, and then I heard someone saying there was talk of conspirators with a secret purpose to let King Henry’s men into London and that was why the gates had been closed.

That didn’t sound good to me. Sure enough, we waited through half the day, but when the light began to fade and the gates were still closed I cursed my sister for the tenth time and led us back into Southwark to find an inn. And though they doubled their prices, like they always did when a crowd was locked out, I had just enough in my purse for us both, thanks be to God. The place was dirty like they were and as we ate our sops I was sure some of the other eaters at our table were casting us looks, as if they knew us. That night I got hardly a moment’s sleep. Every time I nodded off I’d come awake with a start, hearing voices in the street below, or someone riding by, and then I’d be waiting for the sound of footsteps thumping up the stairs. I prayed to God seven score times, not aloud but just opening my mouth without making a sound, please preserve us, I beg you. Or I beseeched Hame and Leo, please forgive me for being such a fool and going out of the city after my sister, and I entreated God, don’t let them lose their mother when they’re still just babies.

I must’ve dropped off in the end, though, because I found myself awake, it was fully light and looking round I saw half the beds in the dormitory were already empty. I got up and leaned out of the window and saw people hurrying by below, and sure enough when I craned my neck I saw the gate to the bridge was open. ‘Come on, up you get,’ I said to Rosa, giving her a smile, as my anger at her was all gone now. Down we went and as I stepped through the gateway, for the first time since I’d left the house the day before I felt my breath come out slow and calm. There was the same beggar in his spot so I pointed to Rosa and said, ‘See, I found her.’ He just looked at the ground like he hadn’t heard. Still I didn’t think anything of it. But then, just after, I passed the same unfriendly guard whom I’d asked the day before and I saw the look he gave us.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Rosa. ‘There must be somewhere we can get something?’ I got her wrist and pulled it sharp so she let out a little cry. ‘Why d’you do that?’ she bleated. I didn’t answer but pulled her again. We’d hardly started over the bridge when I smelt smoke. The further we got, and the closer to Jews’ Street, the stronger it was. It was strange, though. As we walked, I could feel my heart beating fast, but still things felt so usual. I thought, just keep going and do what you must. When I turned the corner to our street and I saw it was all gone, and that where our house had been, where they’d all been, there were stumps of timbers, fallen beams and the stubs of stone fireplaces, all black, I just thought, well, that’s no surprise. It’s what you thought it would be. It was still smoking and I could feel the heat. In the road there was a heap of things – a stool missing a leg, a broken mirror, a dead dog. Rosa let out a kind of whimper. ‘But. . .’

Do what you can, do what you must. Don’t ask me why but I thought, Everard the candlemaker, he’ll know. So back we went. The door to his shop was open but he wasn’t boiling fat today. There was no sign of him and I had to call three times before he and his boy came in from the back. When they saw us they stopped still for a moment like we were a pair of ghosts. Then Everard righted himself. ‘Yes?’ he said, unfriendly like usual. His boy had a black eye and was looking at us as if he might cry. Another thing was their clothes, which I’d never seen them wearing before. They were too good for work clothes and they didn’t fit right. Everard’s shirt was long in the sleeves as his hose were too big. ‘Where are they all?’ I asked. Now Everard was almost friendly. ‘They’ll be over in the Tower,’ he said. ‘That’s what I heard.’

So Rosa and me started out for the Tower. We’d only gone a couple of streets when I sat down on a doorstep, dropping down heavy like a sack. ‘Why have you stopped?’ asked Rosa. ‘They’re not there,’ I said, not crying because it was like there was nothing in me, even to cry. ‘I know they’re not. They’re all gone. I saw it in Everard’s eyes.’ Rosa sat beside me on the doorstep. ‘You can’t be sure,’ she said. ‘We have to find out. Come on, get up.’ And so I did.

PART TWO

1289Twenty-five years later

CHAPTER TWO

Tom son of Tom

In the village they called me Simple Tom as they thought I was a witless dotard and they thought it twice over because I was so lovesome for my Sammy. Then you never saw another like him. Others were standoffish, going their own way, but not Sammy and wherever I went he’d follow. If I was in the field picking weeds he’d be there beside me come rain or snow. If I was up a ladder slapping daub on the wall where the damp got in, as our little house was so old we should’ve let it rot as an outhouse except we didn’t have the money to build a new one, then Sammy would be lying on the grass looking up and watching me work. And it was this that took him, sad to say. One day I went to fetch some water, he ran after me like usual and then jumped onto the ledge of the well, which was slippery from the wet, and though I reached out to stop him so I almost went over myself, in he dropped. The bucket was down and I pulled it up quick as I could but he must have hit his head falling and it was no use.

If anything sent me as a pilgrim to Rome City at the very ends of the earth, that was it. I felt like a black cloud hung over me, as I couldn’t see any use in anything without Sammy. My brother Hal and his new wife Sarah, who I lived with, father and mother having died years back, tried their best to give me comfort. ‘It’s time we saw you smile,’ Sarah said when I still had a long face weeks later. ‘Yes, come on, Tom,’ said Hal. ‘After all he was only a cat.’ Only a cat? I felt it so strong I could hardly speak. ‘He was a friendlier, cleverer and more trustable God’s creature than any human I ever met,’ I told them.

I couldn’t stop thinking of how he used to curl up by my feet when I went to bed, or patted me with his paw to wake me in the morning, or brought me a dead mouse, which, though it wasn’t anything I much wanted, was kindly meant and given with love. Most of all I remembered when he’d jumped on the ledge of the well. If only I’d been quicker to stretch out to catch him. That thought gnawed at me every hour, like death worms eating you from the inside. I’d often babbled to him when he was alive and I still did now he was gone, telling him little things in my day like, this is a hard rain falling on us today, isn’t it, Sammy? Or, I swear this fire will never take, my old beast, which was another name I called him by. I didn’t care if others heard me and laughed. Don’t take any notice of them, Sammo, I’d say, as they’re just churlish grubs.

Then a month or two after he was taken he started coming to me in my dreams. I’d wake with a start, shaking and sweating, and it was always the same. There he was among flames and din and screams, looking up at me with his frightened eyes. I’d try to shout out, don’t you worry, I’ll get you out of there, Sammo, but it was like I couldn’t open my mouth. Hal and Sarah said it was nothing to get troubled about. ‘Cats don’t go to purgatory,’ Hal said, shaking his head. ‘Just because he was in your dreams doesn’t mean anything.’ ‘But then why does he come back to me again and again?’ I answered. Because I knew my Sammy and from the way he looked at me I saw he was in torment, the poor little mite. What I couldn’t understand was why he was down in purgatory. At least I hoped it was purgatory and not hell, because the two looked much the same so I heard, and if it was hell there’d be no helping him as nobody gets out of there. It was true that he’d slain bagfuls of mice, and he had a temper and would get into fights with other toms, while he’d done his share of swiving so there were plenty of little tigers round the village that were the very spit of him. But how could he be blamed for any of that when he didn’t even know it was a sin? It wasn’t as if he could’ve got wed and done his fornicating godly.

My Auntie Eva was the one who said I should go and see Father Will. Though she could be crabby she always watched out for me. Then she had no choice, so she told me herself and often. Because when my poor mother lay dying in her bed she’d made Auntie Eva promise out loud in front of witnesses to look after me. ‘That’s a lesson for you,’ Auntie Eva would say. ‘Be careful who you visit when they’re breathing their last, as you never know what troubles you’ll get.’

Her thought was that Father Will would make me see sense and snap me out of misery. Some in the village didn’t much like the man and preferred Father Dan who we’d had before, and who’d been happiest perched on the bridge fishing, or gulping down an ale at Jenny’s. Father Will, who’d learned all his lore at Eynsham Abbey before he came to us, was just the contrary and he loved nothing better than sticking his nose in a book. If he could get the Eynsham cloisterers to lend him one, that was. He was always going over there, though it was a good step from Minster, to beg another from their library. Some in the village said he was demoniac and that the abbot had sent him to us to be rid of him and it was true that his eyes had a wild, popping sort of look. But if you needed to know something about the world there was no better man to ask than him. And he had a cat himself, who he loved dearly, a comely little black and white creature called Prince.

So I told him about poor Sammy coming into my dreams and instead of laughing at me and telling me it was just foolishness, like Auntie Eva had said he would, he thought my dreams were so strange and uncustomable that they must have some meaning. He was no scholar when it came to animals in purgatory, he said, but he could find out and that was what he’d do, not just for Sammy and me but for his own lore too. Soon afterwards he took himself off to Eynsham to talk to his cloisterers and to read their books, and when he came back he’d scholared himself all about creatures going to heaven and purgatory.

The wise men of the world were in two minds, so he told me. Some said there were no beasts in heaven but only folk, who had no flesh on them and floated about lighted up like little candles. But other wise men of the world said this couldn’t be right, because when the saints of ancient times had got a look at heaven in their visions, they’d seen all kinds of beasts up there. They all lived together mildly, the saints of old said, never eating each other, so wolves and lions would chew down grass like sheep, and at night they’d all be tucked up together in their straw side by side as dear friends. Father Will said that if there were animals in heaven then it stood to reason they must be in purgatory too, and some wise men of the world said they were there to bite and scratch all the wicked sinners. I couldn’t imagine my Sammy doing that seeing as he was just a little cat. But then I didn’t much care what he got up to. I just wanted him out of there.

Father Will said I should go to Saint Frideswide in Oxford, who was famed across the land for curing every kind of mischief, from warts and bad eyes to mislaying your horse, so she shouldn’t have any trouble getting my Sammy up to heaven. He got Sir Toby’s accord for my going, which I needed, being bound. And then he wrote me a script for the road, which I needed too, so people would know I was a pilgrim and not a thief or a vagrant to be hanged. I loved watching him write his letters so fine and handsome. The month being January when the fields were bare and there was next to no labouring to do, I didn’t wait but went soon afterwards. My brother Hal wanted to come with me, which was kindly, but he’d promised to help our neighbour mend his outhouse door that wouldn’t shut, and though his Sarah wanted to come too, she had to comfort her sad friend. So in the end the only one who came was Auntie Eva. As we walked out of Minster, feeling the ground hard like stone under our feet, as it was bright and cold with a frost, she told me time and again that she couldn’t believe she was going all the way to Oxford to pray for a cat. Then she said that Hal and Sarah were a pair of lazy slugs for not coming, which wasn’t right, as like I said they would’ve come if they could’ve.

It was a long mile to Oxford and it was close to sunset when we finally got there. I’d never been before and it was a comely place. It had a high wall and big strong towers so it made Burford, where we went to market when we went, which wasn’t often, and Witney, which I’d also been to, look like a pair of dirty pimples. When we walked in through the West Gate Eva said we must be careful of getting caught in wars, which they had sometimes in Oxford between the scholars and the town folk, but thanks be to God they didn’t have one that day, though I saw lots of scholars, as I guessed they must be, through the doors of the alehouses, drinking and talking loudly.

The other thing Auntie Eva said we had to be careful of was Jews, as there was a good crowd of them in Oxford and to reach Saint Frideswide’s we had to go right through their nest, which was called the Jewry. We must walk fast and not look at them let alone talk to them, Auntie Eva said, as they might put a curse on us, or magic us with a spell, as they were famous magicians. Or they might take us off and crucify us like they had Jesus, which was another thing they loved to do to godly Christian folk, to scorn God’s true faith. So I walked fast and with one hand I held tightly onto my cross and with the other I held tightly onto Auntie Eva. Though, being curious, I did throw a few glances at them as they stood in their shops and leaned in doorways talking to each other. I’d thought they’d have red faces and horns like the devils in the paintings in our church but they didn’t have either. Another thing I expected was that they’d have gold hanging off them by the pound, being so rich from stealing good Christians’ money, as Auntie Eva said they were. I thought they’d have gold necklaces and brooches and even gold hats, but they had nothing much. The men Jews had funny little round caps that sat on their heads but otherwise they looked much the same as all the other Oxford folk and some had almost as many patches on their clothes as me.

Saint Frideswide’s was as fair as any church could be, painted lovely colours inside and with pictures in the windows that were lit up by the last sun. Dear Saint Frideswide’s tomb was covered with jewels and little hanging silver hands and feet, which were thanks from those she’d cured, so I heard the monks telling some other folk. There were four more already there begging for her to help them, which made me worry I should’ve got there sooner, as Saint Frideswide might be so busy with them that she wouldn’t have time for Sammy and me. One was an old man with a canker in his neck that was half the size of his head, and that he kept rubbing on her tomb as he moaned. Another was a wild man who laughed and twitched till he’d manage to stop himself and pray to stay tranquil. There was a woman who prayed and dabbed blessed water on her eye that was all red and swelled up. And there was a younger one who kept very quiet, and who’d cut her wrists and tried to die, so I heard the monks say to someone else. They didn’t say much to me. I suppose they didn’t like the look of my rags and when I told them about Sammy they just sort of snorted, as if I should have had a more rightful cause like the canker man and the rest.

Auntie Eva, being tired from the walk, lay down on a bench nearby and was soon snoring away. I started to pray, ‘Dear Saint Frideswide, I beg you please, ask God to get my poor Sammy out of purgatory and up into heaven, which is where he belongs, as I swear you never met a finer, friendlier cat than him.’ I’d heard the monks say Saint Frideswide was more likely to help if you prayed all night so I decided that’s what I’d do, though it was hard to just keep praying and praying. Sometimes I’d stop for a moment and ask the canker man, ‘Is your wound getting better?’ and he’d answer, ‘I think so,’ which was good to hear, though it didn’t look different to me. Or I asked the woman about her eye and the wild man if he was less demoniac and the younger woman if she still wanted to cut her wrists. Till finally the monks made me stop, telling me that wasn’t how Saint Frideswide did her curing.

In the end I managed to stay awake, praying right through till first light, which was when a lot of noise started up. The monks gathered round the canker man and made him and his kin pray louder and then louder again, till one of them called out to him, ‘Does it still hurt, Ben?’ and he answered, ‘Not so much, I’d say,’ and they all cheered and said it was Saint Frideswide’s miracle. After that they did the same with the wild man, who shouted out that he wasn’t demoniac any more, and the woman with the eye said she was better too. The only one Saint Frideswide didn’t cure was the one who’d tried to murder herself, and who didn’t pray with them but just looked at the ground making little whimpering noises. I hoped they’d come and pray with me and Auntie Eva, who’d been woken up by then from all the shouting, but they didn’t. I suppose they didn’t like the thought of praying for a cat. And then they were busy with their book, where they wrote down how Saint Frideswide had cured the canker man and the eye woman and the demoniac, and how she was better at curing mischiefs than Tom Becket or any other saint.

I gave them my farthing, which was all Hal had said we could spare, and afterwards, walking back to Minster, and having had no sleep, I felt light and dreamy. You’ll be all right now, Sammy, I thought. Saint Frideswide remedied three out of the four of them while the fourth was a sinner past hope, so I don’t doubt she’ll look after you, Sammy, especially seeing as I kept awake and prayed all through the night. Come into my dreams soon, my little beast, I thought, and show me how things are in heaven, as I’d dearly love to see what it looks like up there.

But then as we got near to Minster Auntie Eva grouched that Hal had been scarce only giving me a farthing to give to the monks. ‘I saw their crabby faces,’ she said. ‘Mark my words, Saint Frideswide won’t be content with one little farthing.’ The canker man had given her tuppence ha’penny, she said, and even the demoniac gave tuppence. ‘And you know how saints get if they think themselves slighted.’ Which I did, as everyone had heard tales of folk who’d been cured but then hadn’t given the saint what they’d promised, and who found their misfortune came back a hundred times worse than before. That was when I felt my joy dribbling away. And then that very same night I woke with a start, gasping for breath, as I’d just seen Sammy mewling worse than ever, poor little beast, surrounded by fire and smoke and screams.

After that I truly was lost in darkness, as the thought of Sammy being stuck down there for years and years tormented me worse than I can tell. But then, just when I’d almost given up all hope, an answer came and from one I’d never have guessed, which was Hal’s Sarah. ‘I know what you should do,’ she said one morning when we were breaking our fast, dipping our bread in milk from the neighbours’ cow. ‘You should go as a pilgrim to Rome. Never mind Saint Frideswide as Saint Peter’s the one you need. He has the keys to heaven and can whisper in God’s ear and have him forgive anybody’s sins, however bad. If he can get murderers and fornicators out of purgatory then he’ll have no trouble with your little cat. I heard there’s a pair over in Asthall who are going. You could go along with them.’

My Auntie Eva said it was the giddiest, most brainless idea she’d ever heard in all her life. ‘Sarah and Hal just want you out of the house,’ she said. ‘They want you out of their bed. Sarah’ll be after your end of it so there’s room for her baby.’ Because she was with child by then. Besides, I’d never get to Rome, Eva said, not a witless dotard like me. Of course I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I asked Father Will about the way and he said I’d have to go across the sea, which I’d never set eyes on and couldn’t imagine except that it must be like our pond but going on forever. Then I’d have to go through foreign lands where nobody spoke a word I’d understand. And I’d have to climb mountains that were so high they reached halfway to God’s kingdom. All the while with every mile I might be set upon by robbers and murderers. But God would help me, Father Will said, as he loved pilgrims.

The more I thought about it the more I thought perhaps I should go. True it was far. Oxford had seemed a long way and that had only been one day’s walking, while Rome would be dozens and dozens of days. Yet folk went and most came back home again. As Sarah said, if anyone could save my poor Sammy it was good Saint Pete. For all of its fighting scholars and magician Jews I’d liked seeing Oxford, while going as a pilgrim to Rome would be something to talk about, no mistaking. A few in the village had been to Canterbury or Norwich or Lincoln, and Sir Toby’s father had gone all the way to Saint James in Spain once, but none of them had ever got to Saint Pete in Rome. If I managed that I wouldn’t be just Simple Tom any more. I’d be Simple Tom who’d gone to Rome.

And I could ask Saint Peter to have God forgive my own sins. I’m not saying I’d done much, not compared to what most of them in the village had got up to, but I wasn’t spotless white either, and you never knew how things might go on Judgment Day. There’d been the time at Meg and Stephen’s wedding when Hare Lip Joe kept singing, ‘Ragged Tom, Ragged Tom, he’s a slutty witless grub,’ till I got a stick and whacked him so he fell in the river and his mother screamed I was a murderer. And though he was all right in the end, just wet with a bloody ear, that was anger, clear as day. There were times when I’d sneaked a scrap from the pork that was being smoked above the fire, even though I knew it was a fast day, which was gluttony. And there was the summer’s day when Pale Liz had been thrown over by her sweetheart Rob, and I saw her sitting in the meadow all by herself and she waved me over saying, ‘Even you’ll do today, Simple Tom.’ And though she sobbed through it all she kissed me and had me touch her and then played me off with her fingers very sweet. Which was lust of course, and fornication, and spilling my seed, while it was worse again for being done on a Wednesday, which was sinful even if you were married. Not that it stopped me from walking down to the meadows and hoping I might find her weeping there again, though I never did.

So, although I still hadn’t yet made up my mind if I wanted to go, one morning that was so foggy I could hardly see my own feet, I went over to Asthall and paid a visit to the two who Sarah had said were going, Hugh and Margaret. They were a funny pair, though. He was a little stick of a fellow with eyes that were so narrow and squinting it was a wonder he could see out at all, while she was a big marrow of a thing, bursting out of her gown. Yet they seem kindly enough, Sammy, I thought. Hugh gave a hard look at my rags and asked me, ‘Are there any real clothes under there?’ which was right, though as they were so patched I could hardly remember what they’d been in the first place. But he gave me hospitality, inviting me inside his house, where his three sons were crouching by the fire, and he told his thrall to get me a cup of water. Then he told me how he was going to Rome to have good Saint Pete get his poor dear mother and father out of purgatory, and then Margaret told me she was doing the same for her mother and father, and when I said I was going for my cat they laughed like everyone always did.

But the strangest thing was how short of silver they were, which I’d never have guessed in a hundred years. They were delvers, not bonded like me but free, and their house was quite a palace, with an upstairs, which I didn’t get to see, and a storeroom, which I saw through the door and which had a plough and a cart. Through the fog I could hear hogs snorting and cows lowing and cocks crowing, which Hugh said were his and were in an outhouse. Yet he hardly had a penny to his name, so he told me, which was because his neighbours were cheating thieves who never paid him what they owed. ‘Don’t listen to what anyone says,’ he said, leaning close to me and looking at me with his little squinty eyes. ‘The truth is you’ve probably got more than I do.’ So I told him, ‘A penny and three farthings, that’s what we’ve got in our box in the house,’ and he clapped his hands. ‘There you are, see, Tom. I’ve only got two farthings.’ Now he gave me a smile like he was telling me a secret and said, ‘So I hope you’ve got a begging bowl as you’ll need it. Because if you run short, though there’s nothing I’d like better than to help you out, I won’t be able to, see?’ ‘Don’t you worry,’ I said. ‘If I go, and I still haven’t fixed myself on it, then I’ll take a begging bowl, no mistaking. I’ll carve it myself.’ Then Hugh slapped me on the back and said, ‘I can see we’ll get along nicely.’

After that he started telling me how he didn’t want to go till after the harvest was brought in, as he didn’t trust his three boys, who he called his idiots, which they didn’t seem troubled by, being accustomed to it as I supposed. But he never quite finished because then something strange happened. I’d been looking towards the front door and I saw the boards below it went dark from a shadow. But instead of someone shouting hello cousins and stepping inside like I expected, the door clattered on its hinges and sort of shivered for a moment and the shadow was gone. Then one of the sons jumped up calling out, ‘Not again,’ and they were all running outside. I stayed crouching by the fire where it was warm, and then the little thrall female came over to take my cup. She was a sportful one, though. ‘Don’t you believe a word they say,’ she told me, ‘as it’s all lies. Margaret’s not going for her parents’ souls. She just wants to have more pilgrim badges to sew on her hat when she goes to church on Sundays. She and the miller’s wife are in a war over them, see, and they’ve both been to Canterbury and Lincoln and Walsingham and goodness knows where else. Last year the miller’s wife went all the way to Saint James in Spain, so of course Margaret has to vanquish her now by going to Rome. As for Hugh, he’s not going for his mother and father but for his own soul, which is. . .’

I’d have liked to hear the rest but that was when Hugh and Margaret came back. ‘I almost forgot about you, Tom,’ Hugh said, slapping me on the back again. ‘Like I said, we’ll set off after harvest, as I’m not going till that’s safely in.’ It seemed like we’d reached the end of our talk so up I got. And there was another strange thing, because when we walked outside I smelt a strongest stink of shit, and I saw one of the sons was rubbing away at the door with an old rag. ‘What’s all this?’ I asked Hugh and he laughed like it was the gamest thing. ‘They love a bit of play here in Asthall.’ And how right he was, as just then something flew right out of the fog – from the shape of him he looked like a big fat turd – that hit the wall and then bounced off onto the ground.

Another odd thing was that though I still hadn’t made up my mind to go to Rome, it turned out I had after all, without even deciding, just because everyone supposed it. All of a sudden people started knocking on our door to give me little cloth pretties or crosses or dolls that they wanted blessed by Saint Peter, and then Jenny of the alehouse said I wasn’t to worry about money as she was making a collection and everyone in the village had said they’d give something. With them being so kindly and needing me to get their cloth pretties and such blessed I couldn’t very well say no, so that was that. When I told Auntie Eva she gave me one of her crabby looks. ‘That’s all I need,’ she said. ‘But then I’ve got no choice, have I? I promised your mother. I’ll have to come with you.’ If truth be told I wasn’t sure I wanted her grumbling all the way to Rome so I told her, ‘Don’t you worry about me, auntie, as I’ll be all right.’ But she shook her head and said, ‘You’re a witless fool, Tom. Everyone knows it and you know it yourself. You wouldn’t last a day.’

It was as well Hugh wasn’t going till after the harvest, as there was plenty to do. Auntie Eva got Uncle Bill to give his accord to her going, which wasn’t hard as he did whatever she told him, and then she set about getting us our clothes and such. With her own hand she made both our pilgrim cloaks, which she sewed from an old piece of cloth she found in the house, and then she made our hats, which had a red cross on the front and a long scarf hanging off the back, like all pilgrims had. After that she had Uncle Bill, who worked leather when he wasn’t delving his fields, put two new soles on our boots, which made them so high I felt like I was walking on stilts, though I’d need them if they were going to see me all the way to Rome and back everyone said. He made our scrips, too, and as he was busy with his fields by then, the sewing was done by Auntie Eva’s girl, my cousin Mabel, who was a goggle-eyed squinter but kindly. I needed a pack, too, for all the cloth pretties and dolls and wooden crosses, and though Hal’s Sarah said she’d make me one, she couldn’t find her cloth nor her thread so in the end Mabel did that as well.

Father Will wrote us our testimonials so we wouldn’t get hanged as robbers. Rightfully all pilgrims had to write a will too, he said, but I was lucky and had no need, seeing as I had nothing to my name, aside from what I’d be wearing or carrying in my scrip. Being bound, I went up the manor house to ask Sir Toby for leave to go, which he gave readily enough, all the more so as he had some favours he wanted me to do for him in Rome, as he told me. Father Will blessed my scrip and my staff, which was a stick I’d found in the wood and smoothed down, and he blessed my begging bowl, which I carved myself from a log. And a good piece of news was that Father Will had told his churchmen friends about us going and they found some others who were going at the same time as us, and who’d join us. We’d meet some at Witney, he said, and then some more at Oxford, and the churchmen would spread the word so we might have more after then, too. That way we’d be a proper party and would be less likely to be stabbed or robbed or cudgelled to death along the road.

Then one afternoon, when we were in the middle of the harvest and it was getting close to the day when we were to go, I was scything the crop in our strip by the river with Hal and Sarah, who was so swelled she looked ready to pop her baby that very day, when Uncle Bill came running over and called out to me, ‘It’s your auntie, Tom. You’d better come right away.’ The three of us followed him to their house and there was Auntie Eva sat on the ground with a black scowl on her face. It turned out she’d been up on a ladder roping sacks of grain from the rafters so the rats couldn’t get them and she’d missed her balance and come crashing down. ‘My leg’s broke, that’s all,’ she said, almost like it was my doing. ‘There it is. You’ll just have to wait till next year going to Rome.’ As if I could leave my poor little beastie burning for another twelve months. ‘I’m not waiting, I’m going now,’ I told her, and Hal and Sarah were with me, saying, ‘So you must, Tom, for your Sammy.’ ‘Don’t you worry about me, auntie,’ I told her. ‘I’m doing God’s pleasure and he’ll watch after me. Father Will said it so I know he will.’ Not that she believed me. ‘Go then if you must, you great jobbard, as I can’t stop you,’ she said. ‘But it’ll go badly for you, that I promise.’ And of course it wouldn’t be long before I’d think back to her words.

Just a few days later I set out. How proud I felt when I went down to the green at first light and found every single body in the village had gathered to see me off. Father Will was there with his cat Prince running along beside him. Sir Toby and Dame Emma had come too and Sir Toby gave me six shillings, one to help me with my journey and five for the favour he wanted from me, which was to buy him a silver cross and a vernicle, which he said was a likeness of Jesus from a famous one they had in Rome. Dame Emma gave me a little cloth with a picture of the Virgin holding baby Jesus, which she’d sewn herself very prettily, and which she wanted me to take into every church in Rome and rub against the saints’ tombs, or as near as I could reach. What with all the cloth pretties and crosses and dolls I could hardly close my pack.

Then Jenny from the alehouse had me open up my scrip and she poured in all the money that she’d collected, which, along with Sir Toby’s six shillings, looked a handsome little heap. My brother Hal gave me three farthings and Auntie Eva, who Uncle Bill wheeled over in their barrow, gave me four. ‘Quite a crowd you’ve got here,’ she said and then, being the kind who loved to point out the one dirty cloud in a sunny sky, she told me, ‘Of course most of them have come from curiosity as they don’t expect to see you ever again.’

As for Hugh and Margaret, the only folk who turned up to say farewell to them were their three boys, the idiots, and a fourth, who wasn’t such an idiot, as Hugh had had him taught his letters and who was bailiff at Asthall, which was another reason he had only two farthings to his name, so he’d told me, as it had cost him a pretty sum. And his tiny crowd said their farewells on Minster green and then turned back home while I had half of Minster walking with me on the road, all the way to the big oak tree on the Witney fork. When I bade them farewell Hal shook me strong by the hand and they all cheered so loud and hearty that I hardly knew where to look I felt so warmed.

We’re started now, I said to Sammy when we passed over a rise in the land and they were all lost from sight behind us. I took my steps carefully, as it would be just like the devil to make me stumble and twist my ankle, so I’d never get to Rome and get my Sammy into paradise after all. After the crowd we’d been it felt quiet walking with just Hugh and Margaret. Worries gnawed at me. I hope we have God’s blessing, Sammo, I thought, as we’ll not get far on this long, hard road without it. I couldn’t feel it, though. Hugh and Margaret were brawling as she grouched that her boots hurt, which she said was his fault for going to the cheapest cobbler in Burford, though he said that wasn’t right at all and it was only that her feet were too big. After a while we stopped so she could take them off and give her feet a rest.

‘You’ve got a lot of friends, haven’t you?’ said Hugh as we sat there, shaking his head like I should know better than to have so many. ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Margaret. ‘He just likes riling people.’ I won’t let him rile me, my old beastie, I thought. Though he tried. He started with my pilgrim gear that Auntie Eva had made. ‘That’s a strange-looking cloak,’ he said. ‘I hope it’ll keep the rain off you. And your hat’s all lopsided while that pack’s bulging fit to burst. What’ve you got in there?’ ‘I’ll be all right, don’t you worry,’ I answered. Then he wanted to see how much the others in the village had given me. ‘They gave me plenty,’ I said proudly, remembering all the coins that had been poured into my scrip. He said I should count them, which I was happy enough to do being curious myself, and I poured them into my shirt, but I didn’t find God’s blessing like I’d thought, more was the pity. Aside from Sir Toby’s five shillings for the silver cross and the vernicle, which weren’t mine to spend, and his shilling, which was, all the rest were farthings, and though there were plenty of them altogether they only came to a shilling and sevenpence ha’penny. That made Hugh laugh. ‘This won’t get you very far, Tom,’ he said. ‘I heard the sea crossing to France alone is sixpence.’ ‘I’ll manage, don’t you worry,’ I told him, though the truth was I didn’t rightly know how. So I suppose he’d riled me after all.

But I felt God’s loving eye on me when we got to Saint Mary’s church in Witney, which was where we were to meet two of the others who Father Will’s churchmen friends had found for us to go journeying with. They must’ve been peeking out of the door and watching for us, as when we walked in I heard bagpipes playing, not handsome at all and sounding much like the groaning of an afflicted beast, but very loud, which was their greeting to us as it turned out. The piper, whose name was Oswald, was a little smirking fellow with a long curly beard, though what you noticed most about him was his hat, which had so many saints’ badges sewn onto it that there was hardly space for one more. Hugh’s Margaret couldn’t keep her eyes off them.

As we all set out onto the road to Oxford Oswald told us he hadn’t gone to all those saints for himself but for other folk, most of them dead. He was going to Rome for Damian, a tailor from Banbury freshly buried. Years back this Damian had made a vow to go as a pilgrim to Saint Pete, Oswald said, but he never had and so, being fearful he’d have God’s ire on him, he’d left money in his will for somebody to go in his place. Oswald had a trade as a carpenter, he said, but he hardly picked up a block of wood these days as pilgrimaging was like a livelihood for him now. It had taken him to almost every spot you could think of, from Lincoln and Durham to Norwich and Walsingham, and to the three kings in Cologne and to Saint James in Spain. He’d even been to Saint Patrick’s Purgatory in Ireland where he’d been walled up in the cave all night, like all pilgrims were there, so he hadn’t been able to see even his fingers for the dark and could hear nothing but the sound of his own breath.

Rome, and Jerusalem too, were about the only places he hadn’t been to and he couldn’t wait to get to Saint Peter’s city. He’d heard a lot about the road, from others he’d met who’d been there, and his main care was the mountains that we had to cross, which were called the Alps. Because we’d left it late in the year to set out, he said, which meant we might well strike snow and blizzards. We should rightly have gone in August, as that was when most Rompetae – which is what Rome pilgrims call themselves – set off. He’d wanted to go then but Damian the tailor had been slow breathing his last breath, and when he finally had and his will was read his kin had grouched and made trouble, so several weeks had passed before Oswald finally got his shillings for the journey. That was often the way, he said, and many a time he’d been cursed and spat on by kin who said he was stealing pennies from their portion. Still he didn’t mind, as there was nothing he loved better than to go journeying as a pilgrim, striding across some piece of land he’d never set eyes on before, or walking into a town playing his pipes. And of course he found joy praying for the poor dead unfortunates who’d sent him, begging the saints to let them out of purgatory and up to heaven, which was a rightful deed. Here’s God’s blessing, I thought. He’ll look sweetly on us for having a good man like this in our party. And Oswald will guide us rightly on the road and help us stay clear of trouble, seeing as he’d been to almost every spot in God’s Christendom.

I felt God had given us his blessing with the other newcomer, too, for all his sad looks. He was an advocate from Northampton named Jocelyn and it was no surprise he seemed doleful, as his reason for going as a pilgrim to Rome, which he told us as we plodded along, was as sorry as could be. Two years back the fiend had seized him, he told us, and held him tight between his finger and thumb like a little helpless grub. Though Jocelyn had a new young wife who was a sweet poppet of a thing, and was with child too, all that Jocelyn could think of was sin, and he’d couple with any pert female who was willing. ‘My eyes were blinded to godliness,’ he told us, sorrowfully. He’d swived other men’s wives and he’d swived brewster women and bondswomen and women delving the fields, and if he couldn’t find any who’d let him have his way he’d reach into his purse and give out to a bordel woman. He’d entice females with fine gowns or hats or pretty brooches and to pay for these he did every kind of unright in his advocating, lying and having his clients lie, taking bribes from his clients’ enemies, and getting judges to tarry over a case so he could squeeze out a few more pennies. He didn’t even care when his wife guessed it all and begged him to stop. Worst of all he didn’t shrive one word of it to his priest. ‘When I went to church,’ he told us with a doleful shake of his head, ‘and I heard what waited sinners who didn’t confess, I took no heed but laughed to myself, as if such talk was meant only for other men and not me.’