The Deadliest Sin (56 page)

All divination had to be performed before a consecrated altar. Some churchmen denounced such practises, but many advocated them, seeing no difference between divination and trial by ordeal,
which in previous centuries had been the principle form of determining the guilt or innocence of the accused.

Crackpole, or krakepol, which gave the area of Lincoln its name, is thought to come from the Scandinavian
kráka
, meaning crow and pol, which in Old English means
a small body of water. Crackpole lies just north of Brayford Pool. Clergy were often disparagingly referred to as crows by the laity because of their black robes and the fact that they made a
profit from the dead. A crow feeding in a churchyard or sitting on the roof of a house was an omen of death.

In the Middle Ages, most churches had an Easter Sepulchre built into the wall on the left-hand side of the altar. This was a long low recess between two foot and six foot long.
At the end of the Good Friday services, a statue of Christ was placed in the tomb and kept there until Easter Sunday morning, when the sepulchre would be uncovered and the tomb revealed to be
empty, showing that Christ had risen. Many churches bricked up their sepulchres during the Reformation and many more were lost due to rebuilding in later centuries, but some still remain, such as
at St Mary the Virgin in Ringmer, East Sussex, and All Saints Church, Hawton, Nottinghamshire. In some old churches, if you examine the wall you can still see the outline of where the recess used
to be.

Clergy, even those in minor orders who did not take lifelong vows, were granted benefit of clergy, which by this period had been extended to include anyone who could read. This
meant that, except for those accused of treason, monks and clergy could only be tried in the far more lenient ecclesiastical courts, which did not impose the death penalty, even for murder.
However, there were cases of clergy being defrocked in the ecclesiastical courts and then handed over to be tried again in the civil courts, which could hang them, but this was rare.

Punishment, even for serious crimes, usually took the form of penances, such as fasting, pilgrimages or incarceration in a carcer, an ecclesiastical prison, where monks and priests were
imprisoned in solitary confinement for misdeeds ranging from breaches of the religious rule to criminal offences. Often, confinement would be for just a few days, though, for serious offences, such
as murdering another cleric or monk, it could be a year or more, and after that the offender might be banished to a parish or monastery considered to be particularly austere or remote.

With the tale of pride, the seven deadly sins were finished. Although at the beginning of their stay the landlord of the Angel had suggested that the pilgrims might like to
debate which of the sins was the worst, the very worst, there was a general feeling that such a difficult question was beyond the reach of human beings to decide. This was a matter best left to
God. Besides, it was late and they were tired. In front of them, the pilgrims had the immediate prospect of a second night in the not uncomfortable beds of the inn and then, on the morrow, a
resumption of their journey towards Walsingham.

Yet, tired as they were and even before the start of the next stage of their journey, they had been looking at each other with new eyes, a consequence of the stories that they’d heard.
There was respect and pity for Janyn the veteran soldier and his tale of lust, and some amusement at David Falconer’s account of the man who’d been tricked into eating himself to death.
The prior’s condemnation of sloth pricked the consciences of some. The misery and confusion produced by sin had been amply demonstrated by the stories of greed and envy, anger and pride.

The next day dawned bright. The sky had cleared and the rain-soaked ground was already drying out in the midsummer warmth. Rest, refreshment and a sunny morning gave new heart to the travellers,
despite the tales of death and suffering that they had been hearing for the last two nights. Even the spirit-haunted Randal looked, for the time being, if not cheerful then at least not so
despairing.

Perhaps the pestilence would never reach this corner of England, they dared to hope. Perhaps the intercession of Our Lady of Walsingham would protect them, each and every one, from the wrath of
God, whether they counted themselves among the deserving or the . . . less deserving. There was a new vigour and determination in their movements as they prepared to set out once more for the
shrine. The exception was Katie Valier who, with her young companion, was not bound for Walsingham at all but going in search of her de Foe ancestors in the area round Bishop’s Lynn.
Nevertheless, she intended to keep company with the group for a while longer. And Prior John, of course, though travelling to the shrine, was making the journey not to atone for his own sins but to
pass judgement on those of others in his order, a prospect that he relished.

The sense of kinship that had grown between the pilgrims at the Angel – or between most of them – during their two days and nights in Mundham was strong enough for the landlord to
mention casually to his wife that he had it in mind to accompany the group to the shrine. What did she think? But, as far as Agnes was concerned, Laurence was required to stay at the Angel. She did
not say this straight out but instead remarked that business was good. As long as summer lasted, and as long as the pestilence did not draw near, they might expect to host other passing groups of
pilgrims. Perhaps Laurence would have the chance to exercise his storytelling skills again? All these things were true, but it could also be that Agnes was worried about what – or who –
her husband might be tempted by once he’d escaped the bounds of home. Not all of the Walsingham pilgrims were pious or preoccupied with sin and salvation; some of the women were young, or at
any rate not so old.

In compensation, Agnes arranged with Nicholas Hangfield, the shipping clerk, that he would bring them back a souvenir from Walsingham: it might be a wax effigy of the Mother and Child, blessed
by the monks, or a flask filled with water from the Holy Well or, best of all, a little leaden pouch in which was sealed the sacred water mingled with a drop of the Virgin’s milk. Nicholas,
who was a helpful sort of fellow, promised to do this. God willing, he was planning to pass through Mundham on his return to London, once he had paid his respects at the shrine.

So, bidding farewell to Laurence and Agnes Carter as they stood at the arched entrance to the Angel yard, the motley band moved off down the principal road through Mundham. Not for the first
time, Laurence observed to his wife how remarkably sure-footed the blind man was. Until you got close to Master Falconer, you’d never have suspected his condition. Meanwhile, some of the
inhabitants of Mundham came out of their houses or straightened up from working in their cottage gardens to stare at the passing parade. A few waved and others called out requests to the pilgrims
to put in a good word for them at the shrine.

Soon, the road narrowed until it was more of a path, and they entered the woods that lay to the north of the village. Usually, this would have been a rather forbidding place – hadn’t
there been some mention of outlaws hereabouts? – but this morning, the birds were singing and the sunlight spilled out in bright patches on the forest floor. Maybe some of the men touched the
hilts of their knives more frequently than they would have done out in the open, even as the women chatted or laughed more insistently while they paced through the woods. But they all emerged safe
and sound on the other side and breathed more easily because they now had a view of the road before them and the country on either side.

By the early afternoon, they reached Thetford. There, they heard that the group that had departed from Mundham almost two days before had not been so fortunate. This first group had been set on
by outlaws in the very woods through which the pilgrims had just passed. No deaths resulted, but several of the party had been wounded or badly beaten by thieves taking advantage of the poor
weather and fading light. The injured were being cared for in the infirmary at the Cluniac priory in Thetford. For the Mundham pilgrims, this sad story was a reminder of the perils that surrounded
them on all sides, as well as of human wickedness, which had been their theme. Some felt sorrow but most experienced at least a moment of relief and thankfulness that they had not been part of that
earlier company. They had chosen to stay behind and to talk and listen. Perhaps God was looking on them with favour after all . . .

Thetford was a meeting-point for other pilgrims and, as they all pressed forward towards Walsingham, the number of companies grew, so that if you had been able to fly up into the air and then
look down from a sufficient height you would have seen them like a skein of streams and tributaries coming together in a greater river flowing towards the shrine of Our Lady.

Who knows how many will have their prayers answered at Walsingham, prayers for themselves and their families, for their towns and villages. Some will return home to find their kin or neighbours
already struck down, as if in mockery of their piety. Others will survive the worst of the pestilence and count themselves lucky, only to fall victim as it seems to be in retreat.

One in three of the population will be dead by the end of 1349.

And what of the Mundham pilgrims, the tale-tellers? What of Janyn and Katie Valier, of blind Falconer and the stern-faced canon? Did Laurence and Agnes Carter continue to trade under the sign of
the Angel? And Nicholas Hangfield, did he survive to call on them, as he’d promised, on his return to London? Was Randal, once a novice priest and now a broken man, to find any relief from
his torment?

We cannot know. Their history stops here.

We have kept company with them long enough. They are part of that great crowd flowing towards Walsingham now, and not to be distinguished from the thousands of others making the same pilgrimage.
All we can do is wish them Godspeed.