Crossing To Paradise (3 page)

Lady
Gwyneth stood up. “Nakin!” she exclaimed. “At last! And Everard!” Then she turned to all the other pilgrims. “At last!” she said again.

Nakin the merchant bundled over to Lady Gwyneth. He got down on one knee and kissed her right hand, and Lady Gwyneth lowered her eyes and almost smiled. Gatty saw that his brow was damp, and the whites of his eyes were slightly pink.

“Now come and sit down,” said Lady Gwyneth. “And you, Everard.”

“Dear me!” said Everard, and he patted himself. He was as fine-boned as the merchant was fleshy, a little man, with smooth pink skin and not a great deal of hair.

Nakin plumped himself down on the bench across the fire from Gatty, and immediately pointed at her. “Who's she?”

“My new chamber-servant,” Lady Gwyneth said.

“Chamber-servant!” exclaimed Nakin, looking very surprised. “She's not coming with us.”

“I need to talk to you, Nakin.”

“The sums don't add up,” Nakin said at once. “They don't begin to. We need three armed men, not chamber-servants.”

Lady Gwyneth's long neck turned slightly pink. “I need two chamber-servants,” she said in a level voice. “Nest and Gatty. Gatty is traveling on behalf of all God's people in the manor of Caldicot.”

“Whatty?” asked Nakin.

“Gatty,” said Gatty.

“Strange,” said Nakin, wrinkling his nose.

“So's Nakin!” Gatty retorted.

Lady Gwyneth took a deep breath, and sat down in her fire-chair. She looked fondly at the eight women and men sitting on the long log-benches on the other three sides of the fire. Around them, candles burned.

“God the Father,” Lady Gwyneth said, “has at last granted me my greatest wish. Well! God the Father…and the Bishop-of-Asaph-and-the-Prior-of-Spon-and-the-Earl-of-Chester!” She laughed and shook her head. “My wish to go on the great pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the forgiveness of my sins. All our hands will be full between now and then.”

Gatty gazed up at Lady Gwyneth. Yes, she thought. She looks like some saint come alive again. Like Saint Mary Magdalen.

Then, and all on two low notes, she began to sing-and-say:

“Saint Mary, you save us from the cold.
You feed us and clothe us
From cradle to mold.
Guide your pilgrims to Jerusalem. Amen.”

The silence that followed was broken when Nakin harrumphed. “What was that, exactly?” he asked.

“What?” asked Gatty. The back of her neck began to prickle.

“That prayer.”

Gatty frowned. “You could hear me?”

“Well, of course. We all did.”

Gatty's cheeks flamed. And then her ears.

“I thought,” she began in a low voice. “I thought…” She looked up, and her eyes were blazing. “I thought as when I pray—when I pray—no one can't hear—except for Jesus and Saint Mary.”

Nest pointed her forefinger at Gatty and laughed, and then several other pilgrims laughed too.

“I understand,” said Lady Gwyneth.

Everard smiled at Gatty and his cheekbones seemed to shine through his pale skin. “Only Saint Mary heard your true meaning,” he said gently.

The priest Austin licked his thin lips. “According to Saint Everard,” he said.

Lady Gwyneth leaned forward. “Gatty,” she said, “when you
pray, you must speak the words inside your heart, inside your head, if you don't want anyone else to hear them.”

Gatty lowered her eyes, and looked at her lap.

“Now then,” said Lady Gwyneth, and she edged right forward. “I've waited many months for this moment when we pilgrims would all meet for the first time. We might not have chosen each other as traveling companions. We're all different, we all have our preferences. But here, around this fire, are the people God has given to us as our partners. Our sisters and brothers.”

“The list, my lady,” said Austin.

“I was coming to that,” Lady Gwyneth said. “We'll leave on Saint David's feast day. He went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and he will guide our footsteps.”

Gatty drew in her breath, sharp as a sob. Saint David's feast day was Arthur's birthday.

“Yesterday, we had thirty-five days left. Today, thirty-four. Those days will fly, they'll fly like…”

“Geese,” Gatty said at once. “Wild geese.”

“I'r dim,
” said Lady Gwyneth. “Exactly. So Austin has written a list of everything we need.”

Austin held up a piece of folded leather. He opened it with a flourish and inside was a tile of slate.

“Austin!” exclaimed the wisewoman Tilda, gazing at the priest with her staring eyes and shaking her straggly brown hair. “You're a conjuror.”

Austin held up the slate. “A cooking pot,” he said.

“It's not!” exclaimed Gatty. “It's a slate.”

Everyone laughed.

“A cooking pot,” repeated Lady Gwyneth. “Snout, you must ask the blacksmith.”

Snout sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yes, my lady,” he said.

Austin laid the slate across his knees.
Snout,
he wrote, after the first item on his list.

“Next?” asked Lady Gwyneth.

“Cloaks,” said Austin.

“Yes,” said Lady Gwyneth. “We each need a cloak of strong, grey cloth.”

“Not grey!” said Nest, lifting her hands to her swept-back hair and fingering her pretty hair-clips.

“Jerusalem pilgrims wear grey,” Lady Gwyneth said, “with a red cross sewn on to the right shoulder. Nest, I want you to ensure that each pilgrim has a cloak. A long one. Below the knee. A strong one.”

Nest,
wrote Austin. “And a broad-brimmed hat with a scarf sewn to it.”

“I want you to be responsible for the hats as well, Nest,” said Lady Gwyneth, “And they must also have a red cross sewn on to the front of them. You're a good needlewoman. You can get Gatty to help you with cutting the felt and the loose stitching.”

“I can do it myself, my lady,” said Nest.

“No,” Lady Gwyneth said. “I'd like you to work on the hats and scarves together.”

Nest narrowed her eyes at Gatty.

“What's next, Austin?” asked Lady Gwyneth.

“Flasks,” replied Austin. “Leather flasks…Stockings…Knives…” One by one he named each of the items and noted the name of the pilgrim responsible for them.

“Next?” asked Lady Gwyneth.

“Scrips.”

“What's a scrip?” Gatty asked.

“A leather pouch,” Austin explained.

Gatty looked mystified.

“For your bits and pieces.”

Tilda laughed.

Austin shook his head, and his eyebrows twitched as if they had a life of their own. “A coin or two. I don't know! A charm. An apple. Each of us must carry our own passes and letters of commendation.”

Everard cleared his throat. “I just may be able to help,” he said. “I know a young man…”

“Eek!” squealed Nest. “A rat! Look!” She grabbed Lady Gwyneth's arm.

“Give me that!” Gatty told Nakin. “Your stick.”

“No!” barked Nakin. “The knob's silver!”

“Yours, then,” said Gatty, and she picked up the stableman Emrys's staff.

“She won't get it,” said Emrys's wife, Tilda.

“I will and all,” Gatty called out.

She chased the rat into the kitchen, cornered it, thumped it, and broke its back, and then she finished it off with a second blow.

When Gatty reappeared at the door, all the pilgrims were standing up.

“Well?” Lady Gwyneth called out.

Gatty nodded, with that quick upward tilt of her chin.

Emrys gave her a thoughtful, warm look. He was a big broad-chested man. He stood at ease, but whenever he spoke, he thrust his head forward as if he were ready for an argument.

“We don't want a rat in here,” Lady Gwyneth said.

“Unless it was warning us,” said Tilda. “The soul of my father got into a rat and warned me my mother was going to die.”

Lady Gwyneth clicked her tongue. “Come on. Let's finish this list. Where were we?”

“Pouches,” said Everard.

Then Everard volunteered to supply soft leather for the pouches from the cathedral tannery. Emrys said that he would cut willow staffs about five feet long and ask the blacksmith to tip each of them with a doublepronged iron point. And his wife Tilda undertook to fill one scrip with the most essential medicines—powdered geranium to quieten headaches, masterwort to reduce fever, horehound for soup to ease blocked noses, and the like.

“Nakin will carry our gold and silver coin,” Lady Gwyneth said. “Many abbeys and monasteries will give us alms and lodging in the name
of God, but we'll need money in taverns and pilgrim hostels, and we'll certainly have to pay for our places on the boats from Venice.”

“And the Venetians,” added Nakin, “drive hard bargains. Some weeks ago Lady Gwyneth and I agreed that I should place a large amount of gold and silver coin in the hands of a Venetian company with a trading-house in London—I've traded with them for seven years now—on the understanding we'll be able to collect the same amount when we reach Venice.”

“What's the point of that?” Nest asked. “Why not just take the money with us?”

Nakin fixed Nest with his beady little eyes. “If you're not carrying money, there's no danger of losing it,” he said. “Armed bands of robbers. Sneak thieves! Sharp-eyed pickpockets. Holes in your pockets. Sweet-tongued stallholders. There are all kinds of ways of losing your money.”

“Why are you paying for us, then?” asked Nest. “So you can sell us as slaves or something?”

“I'm not paying for you,” Nakin replied, and he nodded to Lady Gwyneth.

“I'm not wealthy,” Lady Gwyneth said, “but I can afford to pay for each of my people. And in return, each of you is bringing a skill to our pilgrimage.”

“But so far as I can see,” said Nakin, “no one here has the skill we need most. Skill with sword and dagger and shield. Skill to defend and protect us.”

“Is it that dangerous?” asked Everard.

Nakin parted his puffy lips and gave a vulpine smile. “Yes,” he said. “It is. Look at you! Cooking and needlework and praying and singing: What are they worth when a bandit's holding a knife across your throat?”

“What are we to do, then?” Lady Gwyneth asked. “If I pay for more men…”

“No!” said Nakin sharply. “This party's large enough already. We don't need more people. We need different people.”

“We don't need Gatty,” said Nest. “My lady, I can easily look after you.”

“Or I could stay here,” said Snout. “I mean, I could teach Tilda to cook…”

“I've got a better idea,” Lady Gwyneth said. “Let's do it the other way round. Snout, we'll get my armed men to teach you swordplay.”

Emrys guffawed and all the other pilgrims laughed and slapped their knees at the thought of Snout becoming a swordsman.

“Sir Snout!” proclaimed Emrys. “Sir Snout of the Spit.”

“You too, Emrys,” Lady Gwyneth said. “You can learn to thrust and parry.”

“My husband!” Tilda exclaimed. “God help us!”

Nakin shook his head, unconvinced. “I'll have to see,” he said. “Above all, we have to be well defended.”

“You can begin your lessons tomorrow morning,” Lady Gwyneth told Snout and Emrys. “So! Is that all?”

“Flints!” said Austin. “For the fire.”

“Me!” cried Gatty. “I done that all my life.”

Nest looked down her nose at Gatty.

“Very good!” said Lady Gwyneth. “Gatty will strike sparks for us.”

Austin added the word
Gatty
to his silvery slate.

“That's it, then,” said Lady Gwyneth.

“An altar,” said Austin in a dry voice.

“
Neno'r holl Saint,
” said Lady Gwyneth, and she crossed herself. “In the name of all the saints, how can I have forgotten our Lord's own table?”

“I will bring it,” said Austin.

“Nature herself will show us altars along the way,” Tilda added.

“And there's another thing,” Lady Gwyneth said, banging her forehead with her little white fist. “Boots! I've told Gruffydd each of us will need stout new boots. Look at yours, Gatty. They're falling apart.”

Gatty shrugged. “All I got,” she said.

“My lady,” Lady Gwyneth said. “Go and have Gruffydd measure your feet.”

“I'm sure Mansel will,” Nest said quickly. “Gruffydd's son,” she told Gatty.

Lady Gwyneth smiled. “You're spoilt for choice then, Gatty.”

Gatty lowered her eyes.

“Remember,” said Nakin, “we've got to walk all the way to London.”

“That's all, then,” said Lady Gwyneth. “Isn't it, Austin?”

“The wills, my lady,” said the priest.

“Oh yes! Yes!” said Lady Gwyneth. “Each of you must make your will with Austin. Name each item of your property, and name your heirs, and he will write them down for you.”

“Come to the vestry one by one,” Austin told the pilgrims, “and come this afternoon. I will prepare a good supply of parchment and ink.”

“Austin!” said Lady Gwyneth. “Will you say a prayer?”

Everyone got up and bowed their heads.

“Saint Mary,” he began,

Saint Mary, you save us from the cold.
You feed us and clothe us
From cradle to mold.
Guide your pilgrims to Jerusalem.
”

“Amen,” chimed all the pilgrims.

Austin smiled at Gatty.

“Amen,” he said in his firm, warm voice.

Gatty
dawdled on her way over to the vestry. She kicked through two molehills. She picked a white berry, she picked a scarlet berry.

“Bring?” she said out loud. “Me? What skills could I ever bring? I haven't got none.”

Between the east wall and the old yew tree, right next to the lychgate, there was a little gravestone, a new one, Gatty could see that. It had gathered no moss, and the lettering was young and sharp. Gatty squatted beside it. With her right forefinger she traced the characters, shook her head and sighed.

Down on her knees Gatty dropped, wet as the grass was, and wet as the grave-soil beneath it. What can I offer God, she thought. What can I offer anyone? She closed her eyes, and after a while she began to intone in a low, steady voice:

“
Jesus of Ewloe,
spring in my heart
and speak in my head.

Little Jesus,
sharpen my eyes
and sing in my ears.

Jesus of everywhere,
dance in my heart
and teach my thick tongue.
”

Where such words came from, Gatty had no idea, though sometimes, when she sang, she was aware of how her mother had sung to her when she was a baby.

Then Nest and Snout came in through the lych-gate and Gatty scrambled to her feet.

“Whatever are you doing?” Nest demanded.

“This grave—whose is it?” asked Gatty.

“Griffith.”

“Lady Gwyneth told me about him dying,” said Gatty. “What was it?”

Nest shrugged. “Very sudden.”

“She tends his grave every day,” Snout said thickly. “I don't know what I'd do if I lost Hew. He's five now.”

“She loved him so, she almost devoured him,” said Nest. “She didn't even give him to a wet nurse, and she always brought him to sleep in her own bed.”

“When Griffith died, Lady Gwyneth stopped eating,” Snout told Gatty. “I made her favorite delicacies, but she wouldn't touch them.”

“Worse!” said Nest. “She wouldn't get out of bed. For weeks she didn't even wash. Still, that would scarcely bother you, would it?”

“She looked like a moldy skeleton,” said Snout.

“What about her husband?” asked Gatty.

“Sir Robert,” said Snout. “He died three months before Griffith. He was fifty, twice as old as Lady Gwyneth, and had scabs and weeping sores all over his body.”

“So she's a widow,” Gatty said, almost to herself. “She's all alone.”

“And she owns Ewloe,” Snout added, “every stick and stone of it.”

“I didn't know a woman could own a castle and land and that,” said Gatty.

“Her overlord is the Earl of Chester,” Nest told Gatty. “She has to swear fealty to him, even though he's English.”

“I'm English,” said Gatty.

Nest made a face as if she'd just eaten something rotten. “Austin saved her,” she said. “He told Lady Gwyneth it was only natural to grieve for the death of her baby, but not to go on as if there's no life after this life. He said she should make Ewloe shine, shine in memory of Griffith, and shine to the glory of God.”

“That's when it all began,” said Snout.

“It is,” Nest agreed. “You know those tapestries in the hall? Lady Gwyneth shipped them from Arras.”

“What's Arras?” asked Gatty.

“A town in France. Harpists and bards came to Ewloe. And a schoolman from Oxford. And an astronomer who could read the map of the skies…”

“You mean the stars and that?” Gatty asked.

“He came from Malvern,” said Nest. “And he said that compared to what the Saracens know, the English and Welsh are like babbling babies.”

Snout sucked his cheeks. “You say it was Austin saved Lady Gwyneth,” he told Nest, “but I say it was you. Partly you. The way you cut and sewed dresses for her, and braided her hair, and got her to work with you on that tapestry. For season after season, while she waited for permissions to go on this pilgrimage, you were at her side and helped her.”

Nest gave Snout a half-curtsy.

“Yes, it was Nest brought Lady Gwyneth back to life,” he told Gatty.

“You know what a Book of Hours is?” asked Nest.

Gatty shook her head dismally. Somehow, the more Snout went on about Nest and Lady Gwyneth, the more worthless she felt.

“No, well, you wouldn't,” said Nest. “All I can say is that we decorated this place as no man could. With care and love. People are happy when they come to Ewloe and sad when they go away.”

“The will,” said Austin. “And high time too.”

Gatty nodded. “Lady Gwyneth says I must.”

“I say you must,” said Austin, busying himself at the chest, taking out parchment, weights, quill, ink, and setting them on his writing desk. “Everyone else has made theirs already.”

“I haven't got nothing,” Gatty said.

She stared at the priest and found herself thinking that he was as unlike Oliver as chalk was unlike cheese. Oliver was fat; Austin was thin.
Oliver had poor eyesight and blinked a lot; Austin had keen eyes and bushy eyebrows. Oliver loved the sound of his own voice; Austin said very little.

“
In the name of Almighty God,
” Austin wrote, enunciating each syllable as he did so. “
I, Gertrude
…”

“Gatty,” said Gatty.

“I, Gertrude,” Austin repeated, “
hereafter known as Gatty, on the eve of my pilgrimage to Jerusalem, do in this document declare all my property and all my possessions, and I acknowledge they will be handed to my heirs if I fail to return to Ewloe within one year and one day. First
…” wrote Austin, and then he looked up. “Well? What's first?”

“Nothing,” said Gatty. “I told you. I haven't got nothing.”

“But before. When you lived…where was it?”

“At Caldicot, you mean?”

“Caldicot, yes. Your cottage there?”

Gatty shook her head. “That's Sir John's.”

Austin knitted his thick eyebrows. “Well, what about…I don't know. A cooking pot?”

“No one won't thank me for that,” said Gatty, pursing her lips.

“A saddle? A bridle?”

Gatty clucked. “Sir John borrowed them to me.”

“I see,” said Austin. “What about animals, then?”

“Hopeless!” cried Gatty. “How could I have forgot her? Hopeless and my seven chickens. I borrowed them to Sir John.”

“Hopeless?”

“My cow. She's a good milker, and all.”

“I'm sure she is,” said Austin. “There, then. A cow and seven chickens. Now who are your heirs?”

Gatty slowly raised her shoulders and, with a sigh, let them drop. “I haven't got none,” she said.

“Your father's dead and your mother's dead?”

Slowly, very slowly, Gatty drew in her breath. “I know!” she said in a low voice.

“Who?” asked Austin.

The priest stared at Gatty. She had looked quite lost, but now she looked found!

“Who, then?” Austin asked.

“Write this,” Gatty instructed him.

“
I grant my cow Hopeless
…” the priest wrote, “
and my seven chickens
…”

“Well?” asked Austin. “To whom?”

“Arthur!” cried Gatty. “I grant them to Arthur de Caldicot.”

Gatty watched as Austin wrote down her words. “You written them all?” she asked suspiciously.

“You can trust me,” said the priest. “Now, you must sign your name.”

Gatty shook her head. “Can't,” she said.

Austin took a lump of chalk and a piece of folded leather out of his chest.

Gatty grinned. “I seen that before. Your cooking pot!”

The priest unfolded the leather and held up his slate tile. “I'll write out your name,” he said, “I'll write out the letters and you can copy them.”

“Characters,” said Gatty. “That's what Oliver calls them.”

“Letters!” repeated Austin. “That's good enough.” And on the slate he chalked g. a. t. t. y. “Now copy each letter onto the parchment,” he told Gatty.

“I haven't wrote with a quill before,” Gatty replied. “I haven't wrote with nothing before.”

“Lightly now,” said the priest, “or you'll splay it.”

Some while later, after a fair deal of sighing and clicking and inksplodging, Gatty looked up at Austin, alight.

“I done it,” she announced. “My hand don't always do what my head says, but I done it.”

Austin inspected her writing. “Not bad, not good,” he pronounced. “We'll do more—reading and writing—when we're on our pilgrimage.”