The Town House (13 page)

‘I am sober,’ I said. ‘I am lame without my shoe.’

‘And you have some tale to tell. What is it?’

‘Are you my Lord Abbot?’

‘No. But you must make do with me. I am the Prior.’

It took all my courage to say again, ‘It is a matter of importance. It should be for my lord’s ear alone.’

‘I
am
his ear. Come now, I am waiting.’

I gave in and told him all that I knew. Except that his eyes narrowed a little as he listened I might have been telling him that the weather was cold. When I had done, he asked one question.

‘Why have you turned traitor to your fellows?’ His tone was curious rather than accusing or malicious, yet it shamed me.

‘I bear them a grudge for several wrongs they have done me. I was well treated in the Abbey Infirmary when my leg was broken. And I hope for a reward.’

His glance brightened.

‘I see. Well, rest assured that if your tale is true you will be
well
rewarded.’

‘It
is
true. Why should I come and tell …’

‘I have no time for that now. Wait here.’

He went away, swiftly and silently. Soon the door opened again and Brother Justinius entered. Behind him were two men, servants, one of whom carried my shoe.

‘Brother Anthony says that the upper hardly justifies a new sole, but it will last a little time. Put it on. Then these will show you the way.’

He left us and when my shoe was on one of the men said, ‘This way’ and went ahead, the other fell in behind me. I suspected nothing. The two men might be on their way to town on some business, they might even have homes there and be about to return to them. I did notice that we were not going along the cold passage that led to the Alms Gate, but there was nothing strange about that either. The Abbey had many entrances and the Alms Gate, so far as I knew, was only used for its special purpose. Once we emerged into the day-light and crossed a paved courtyard and I noticed that even out-of-doors the short winter light was waning. The next passage into which we plunged was almost dark. The man ahead of me stopped suddenly and threw open a door, and instead of going through the opening himself, stepped aside and waited. The man behind me gave me a slight push and I went through the doorway, not into the twilit street as I expected, but into the pitch dark, full of a stench which even I, accustomed to the Town Ditch, found sickening. Before I could turn the door behind me slammed to with a horrid, final sound.

Stupid bewilderment was, for a long time, the only thing I could feel. Why do this to me?

Afterwards came terror. I had heard – as who had not? – of the deep dungeons under great castles where men were thrown and forgotten, left to starve to death or be eaten by rats or go mad and beat their brains out against the walls. Those dungeons had a Norman name,
oubliettes,
sinister indeed. Somehow I had never dreamed that an Abbey would have such a place. Even when Jack Noggs and the others had been dragged off and imprisoned I had imagined them in a less comfortable infirmary. Now I knew. I was in even worse case than they were, for they were accused of an offence, they would be brought to trial. I might very well just disappear and never be heard of again. Nobody outside these walls knew where I was.

Sweat of fear streamed over my body and dried cold as I thought about Kate and the children. I had never supported them, but there had never been a day when I had not somehow managed to contribute something to the household, even if it were only a bundle of firewood; and I had kept the hut standing and moderately weatherproof. Apart from that most material consideration there was Kate’s anxiety to worry
over. Our first fond love had worn away, like the nap from a woollen garment, but below the fabric of unity was still strong; if she had failed to come home one evening I should have been distraught; I credited her with full as much concern for me.

I should have said that it was impossible to find any spot in Baildon out of the sound of the Abbey bells, but here the silence was as complete as the darkness. The cold had driven me to burrow into the heap of stinking straw and I lay there for hours wishing with all my heart that I had kept clear of this business, imagining Kate going home and waiting and wondering, waiting and worrying. For a long time misery kept me from feeling hungry but as the slow hours dragged by the gnawing began in my vitals. I was schooled to the feeling of not having had enough to eat, it was almost a constant state with me since my accident, but this was the painful urgent need to eat
something,
anything, the need that will drive a man to beg or steal. Presently, useless as I knew it to be, I was beating with my hands on the door and shouting.

Nobody noticed, probably nobody heard me. I remained alone with my fears and my hunger and the deadly cold which bit deeper as my hunger increased. In the end I was driven back to the straw again, and comforted by the warmth, fell into a state which was neither sleeping nor waking. Sometimes I was almost asleep, my miseries of mind and body became a little blurred and behind my shut lids scenes from my past drifted by, small and very clear. Then I would be jerked back to the straw and the hunger and the terror.

Once, thus jerked back, I had a new thought. I was going to die, and I was afraid to die. Keeping alive had been such a struggle that I had spared little thought for the state of my immortal soul; even the Friar’s words about attending Mass while in a state of sin had soon been, if not forgotten, pushed aside. Kate and I could not suddenly absent ourselves, and we could not be married openly without putting the brand of bastardy on the children, so we had gone on as before and I had not worried about it until now. Now not only that great sin but dozens of small ones must be remembered in torment. The lies I had told, one way and another! All out of necessity one might say, but each one a handing over of my soul to the Devil, the Father of Lies. I had more than once stolen things in the market – and never given the matter another thought. It hadn’t seemed sinful then, merely common sense, two eggs slipped from a basketful while the owner turned her back meant a meal for Stephen and Robin; I’d taken the nails that held my hut together from Armstrong’s stock – we made nails in
slack hours at the forge and I had taken five from a chest containing hundreds. Such petty pilfering I had not even confessed when I might have done, they had weighed so lightly on my conscience. Now they loomed enormous, and presently, thinking of death and the Judgment I reached the point where even my running from Rede assumed the character of a sin. I was Lord Bowdegrave’s property and I had removed myself. …

Some remaining crumb of sanity became active then and I thought – How ridiculous! How can a man steal himself? And I laughed. The sound frightened me. I clapped my hand over my mouth. Mad, mad! Locked up in the dark, starving to death, and going mad. The next step was to beat my head against the wall and add self-destruction to my other sins.

I was at the door again, beating on it and screaming, not this time saying I was hungry, starving to death, this time begging for a priest, beseeching them not to let me die with all my sins unconfessed and unabsolved.

As before nobody came.

Beating on the door and shouting had been too much for me in my weak state; sweat poured off me again, my heart thudded so hard that it struck sparks from my eyeballs. Without knowing that I had fallen I found myself on the floor. Then the cold struck again and I crawled back into the straw, turned weakly warm, almost drifted into sleep again, and then was jerked back.

This time it was hope which tugged me. God was merciful. Jesus Christ, in His earthly life had been poor. Mary the Mother knew how one felt about one’s children and their hunger. I could pray for pity and understanding and forgiveness.

So I knelt on the damp stone floor and prayed, passionately. I mentioned every sin I could remember, even my running away from Rede which, I could see now
was
a sin, in that it was evidence of my discontent with the condition to which it had pleased God to let me be born.

I prayed for hours. I prayed until the sweat ran down my face and dropped on to the floor and as it ran I began again,

‘Sweet Jesus Christ who in Gethsemane …’ For He, too, knew the sweat of agony.

Then I swooned, or slept. From kneeling on the floor I was lying in the straw which had, all at once, lost its stench. I was waiting for something, something of which I had been given warning, a pleasant and comforting thing.

What did I expect? Some voice in the silence, something luminous in the dark?

When it came it was merely a thought in my head. I
had
no soul. Serfs had no souls. They were treated like animals and they were animals. The pretence that we were immortal, with Hell to fear and Heaven to hope for was simply a trick to make us well behaved.

How simple and how sensible, I thought. No master, no steward, however watchful, could keep an eye on us all the time, it is therefore greatly to their advantage to teach us, ‘Thou shalt not steal’ and make us believe that thieves go to Hell.

Priests pretend too; it keeps the churches full and Peter’s Pence rolling in. That must be true because monks are religious men and if they believed that I had a soul they would never dare leave me to die here with my sins unshriven.

Strange as it sounds, the thought that I had no soul was the most comfortable notion that I had ever had. It removed the fear of Hell; it lifted all responsibility. I had lived as an animal and I should die like one. Like an old horse or a dog, past all use and a waste to feed any more. All this fuss about marriage, I thought. We coupled like dogs who don’t expect to be chanted over; and as for those eggs … who calls it
sin
when a starving cat sneaks off with a fish head?

Freed from the fear of Hell I curled up in the straw and made ready to die.

Everything rocked a little, the darkness lifted, the walls melted away and I was lying on the grass under the little crooked hawthorn tree, freshly green and white, just breaking into blossom. I could smell it, cool and full of summer promise.

‘You,’ I cried. And all at once I understood everything. Nothing to do with priests or sins or being forgiven, nothing to do with anything there are any words for. Just the beauty of the tree and my acceptance of it, promise and fulfilment all in one. And what there are no words for.

Now I could die.

All nonsense, of course.

The voices reached me first.

‘Complete misunderstanding. “Hold him safe,” I said. The order was perfectly clear.’

‘A gross mistake indeed; but that can wait. Brother Sebastian …’

‘Hold the light a little closer.’

Hot tallow dripped on my cheek; I opened my eyes and closed them again, the light struck so painfully.

‘Why, this is the man Martin whose leg I mended. Give me the cup.’

Something wet on my lips turned to fire in my mouth.

‘Come, rouse yourself, man!’

‘… to reach such a state in little over twenty-four hours.’

‘Probably he was fasting when he was thrown in. Come, drink properly, wake up and drink. You waste more than you take.’

The cool voice, which I recognized as the Prior’s said,

‘This noxious air as much as the fast, is responsible for his state. Unless we move soon we shall all be insensible.’

I made a great effort and mustered my voice.

‘Why?’ I cried. ‘Why did you leave me to die? I came to bring you warning.’

‘Drink,’ said Brother Sebastian, pressing the cup to my mouth again.

‘Everything shall be explained presently,’ said the Prior. ‘Get him out of here, give him food. Then clean him and dress him anew. When he is ready, bring him to the Abbot’s Parlour.’

Whatever it was they had given me to drink had gone to my head, so that my ears rang, and when at last they heaved me to my feet the floor seemed soft and yielding and a long way away. Brother Sebastian, carrying the candle, moved ahead, murmuring gentle encouragements. One of the men who ordinarily collected the market dues helped me along.

In a small warm room they sat me down and brought a basin and towel so that I could clean my hands before I ate. They served me barley broth, a roast capon, dried figs. Gradually my head cleared and my spirits rose. They seemed, after all, well disposed towards me. I had done them a service, been ill-used. … I began to think about reward, began framing in my mind the plea for my little hut. Surely now that would not seem much to ask.

‘Now, Martin,’ said Brother Sebastian, ‘having restored the inner man, let us attend to the outer. That dungeon reek clings hard.’

He led me to the laundry, where stone slabs, hollowed into basins, ran the length of one wall, and a great fire burned, with huge iron cauldrons swinging above. Hot water, tempered with cold, was poured into one of the basins. Brother Sebastian handed me a square of strong lye soap.

‘I should get right in and wash all over, hair as well, if I were you. Our Abbot has a fastidious nose. Clothes will be brought you. I must get back to my duties. Fare you well.’

The clothes, brought by a servant as I towelled myself, were such as I had never dreamed to wear, a rich man’s clothes. Soft woollen shift, clinging close and warm from neck to knee and down the arms to the
elbows, a fine linen shirt, hose and tunic of smooth grey cloth. The touch of them against my freshly-scoured skin gave me a sense of well-being, of bodily ease that I had never known before. I had known its shadow once or twice, back at Rede when I was very young and a few of us boys had stripped and plunged into the river on a very warm sunny day, but we had come out and donned our creased, dirty clothes.

I remember thinking that the clothes themselves were a kind of reward and that the shift was big enough for Kate to cut up and shape into warm garments for Stephen and Robin.

I was stooping to put on my old worn shoes when the door opened and there was a young monk, with a pink, girlish face and his sleeves rolled over his elbows. He had a pair of shoes in his hand.

‘Made hurriedly and from memory. We trust they will fit.’