The Powder of Death Page 7

  ‘That any villein as can stay abroad for a year and a day, the law says gains release from his lord. When you get back you’ll be a free man!’

  CHAPTER 16

  The sun was out, the smells of the open country pungent on the air, the song of birds carefree and sweet – and every step put a distance between Jared and his hurts. It was going to work!

  ‘Master, where are we headed to?’

  ‘Why, the Holy Land of our Lord Jesus.’

  ‘I mean, are you sure and all, that this is the way?’ Perkyn asked nervously.

  Jared gave a small smile. A villein never saw anything but his village so Perkyn’s ignorance was understandable, but he had once travelled with his father nearly all the way to Tamworth and therefore was a man of the world. He’d spoken to Father Bertrand and a friar from the next village who knew pilgrim matters and they had set him straight. To Banbury and then on to Woodstock near Oxford where he’d no doubt find others on their way south on the Pilgrim’s Way to Rye, avoiding London. At that busy port he would take ship for Venice and from there direct to the Holy Land itself.

  ‘Yes, the high road to Banbury, next—’

  ‘Is this it?’ Perkyn asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘It must be,’ Jared said irritably. Hadn’t it always been pointed out to him as such?

  But this was nothing more than a cart track in a grassy way, winding along the side of a slight rise, and since leaving Hurnwych they’d crossed a stream and seen several cattle trails wind away on their own. But didn’t drovers go direct to market, to Banbury? If so, they were going the wrong way and would have to spend the night in a ditch.

  They stumped on but as the sun lowered Jared stopped and sat on the side of the road. To be lost on the very first day! If only—

  On the air came a faint jingle and a string of four packhorses and a driver came into view. It drew closer and the sun-reddened man doffed his hat to the pilgrims.

  ‘Saint Christopher’s blessing on you both,’ he said respectfully.

  ‘God’s favour on you, good driver. Are you bound for Banbury, by chance?’

  ‘I am that. Salt and wool, has to be there by sundown.’

  Relief flooded Jared. ‘Then we’ll walk together.’

  The spire of St Mary’s was a welcome sight above the hills and the little party wound down into the town.

  The driver pointed. ‘Yonder is Banbury Cross and over there your inn, The Blue Goose.’

  A wave of fatigue and reaction washed over Jared and the thought of a good meal was irresistible.

  ‘Let’s get ourselves a bed, then,’ he told Perkyn.

  It was a market day and the inn seethed with humanity.

  ‘Yo, the innkeeper!’ he called against the noise.

  A short, surly man appeared.

  ‘Two o’ your best ales, and we’ll sup and have a bed for the night.’

  ‘A bed? That’ll be a penny from each o’ you.’

  ‘We’re pilgrims, Master Innkeeper. Can you not—?’

  ‘A penny, pilgrim or saint, all the same to me.’

  This was steep – a free ploughman might toil half the day for a silver penny.

  ‘A penny for both?’

  ‘Each. It’s market, I can fill a bed without trying. Take it or leave it.’

  The ale was good, and they found a place at the end of a table and readily quaffed it with their stewed mutton.

  There were one or two curious glances but Jared was too footsore to join in conversation and demanded his bed.

  It was in an open space on the upper gallery around a central well and one of a tight-packed row of cloth-covered straw mattresses in a rope-strung wooden frame.

  There were already several occupied with sleepers snoring drunkenly but Jared was too tired to care.

  ‘Hey, you share!’ growled the innkeeper when Perkyn made to take another.

  Jared shrugged. Finding refuge in his wrapped sclavein he felt Perkyn ease in beside him and with a whiff of musty straw he composed himself for sleep.

  The night was not pleasant: so much humanity, coughs, muttering, the barking of dogs, late arrivals – it was something to be endured.

  The morning brought grey skies and threatening rain but impelled by the far-distant calling they tramped off down the road, which they were assured would lead to Woodstock.

  Some miles further they reached a river, broad and rush-fringed. The muddy road led into the water but there were stepping stones to the other side and they hopped and leapt across, laughing like children.

  The going was better – gently rolling pastures and fields, woodland and the occasional village.

  At one Jared decided to beg for alms. He sat cross-legged by the stone cross at the centre of the common. With his bowl before him he self-consciously assumed an expression of saintly resolve. Many village folk passed but none so much as threw him a glance.

  He took to loudly blessing the passers-by and then began to sing psalms but as he didn’t know many he tailed off and simply held up his bowl. By the afternoon he’d acquired two farthings and a foreign coin.

  Perkyn had taken a position on the other side of the common and was now surrounded by a knot of people. Jared got to his feet and went to see what the attraction was.

  He heard a heart-rending tale of woe, and the piteous sight of the crippled pilgrim Perkyn supporting himself on his staff would have moved the hardest of hearts.

  And it did – five groats, thirteen pennies and two loaves of bread.

  ‘For all love, Perkyn! We eat well tonight by your good grace.’

  It was not to be. Some miles further on, the rain spattered then sheeted down and a fast run to a field barn saved them a soaking. It didn’t ease off until evening and there was little for it but to stretch out in the hayloft, making the best of their loaves and a little hoarded cheese before settling down for the night.

  They were discovered in the morning and sent off after a fine mess of pottage and with apples for the road.

  ‘We must be close to Woodstock,’ Jared grumbled after some hours of trudging along a windswept ridgeway.

  The trail descended into a valley and a gently wreathing fog. Its cold, clammy embrace enveloped them and the meandering trail was hard to follow without being able to see ahead. They stumbled on, not even the sun’s direction to aid them, but then came the sound of church bells right ahead.

  It was the church of St Mary Magdalene, Woodstock.

  Jared and Perkyn were weary and their feet ached but they had arrived. They had but to find the hospice to join the main route for pilgrims to the south.

  Woodstock was a pretty town, the highway and square clean and well found.

  A friendly passer-by told them that their hospice was further down the road. It was a substantial, stone-built churchly structure. They pulled the bell rope and were met by a lay brother and welcomed in. A milestone on the road to Jerusalem had been reached.

  Inside there were fellow pilgrims – men and women, old and young, and from the evening meal tables they called a welcome.

  Now part of a pilgrim band they would never be alone again, nor be lost or fear for robbers.

  They were on their way!

  CHAPTER 17

  Rye, south coast of England

  The pilgrims reached the outskirts of Rye with mounting excitement. This was where they would take ship to foreign parts and adventures unknown – two souls from the deep countryside whose acquaintance with great waters was no more than the village pond. As they topped the last rise into the town the sea spread out before them, sparkling and immense, stretching completely across their vision from one side to another and out to a fearful empty horizon.

  The little band paused to take in the sight before heading down the hill to look for the Mermayde Inn where the shipmen were to be found.

  Jared kept close to his new friend Dickin of Shrewsbury who’d been in a ship before, on pilgrimage to Santiago of Compostela. His advice was to closely question the hard-
eyed seamen, so different to the land folk, with their muscled upper bodies and hands like claws.

  There was indeed a ship about to sail – Winchelsea, a cog loading for Lisbon in wool and pewter. There would be no lack of traders from there to Venice.

  An alternative was the hulc Judith of Romney, larger and travelling direct to Venice, but this would not arrive here for a week, days in idleness that would cost them dear.

  Down at the wharf the ship looked huge; a single mast nearly as high as a church steeple and a fat hull that was fast filling with square packs of wool and wooden cases, which was then planked over. A raised deck aft formed a wide cabin beneath, the whole ship giving an impression of stout but plain utility.

  ‘When can we get on it?’ Jared asked, excited at the impossible thought that this entire little world would move across the ocean and then appear in a foreign place just as it looked before him now.

  ‘We’d not be welcome yet. And we’ve things to do – you’ll be needing a few items for a sea journey as they won’t give you on board,’ Dickin said.

  When they struggled back later each carried a mattress, a thick wool coat and a supply of foodstuffs.

  Eventually they were let aboard.

  Jostled by sailors and dockhands they were shown to the side of the vessel and sternly cautioned to stay there until told otherwise.

  From the raised deck a torrent of foul-mouthed abuse had the seamen clap on to lines and heave ropes in a confusing pell-mell of rushing feet and curses. With a bumping and lurch felt through the decking a giant mainsail suddenly blew free, banging and thundering as it was brought under control and the ship took up a definite lean to one side.

  The swish of water past the hull told Jared that against all reason the entire structure must be moving. He dared a quick look above the bulwark and with a fearful thrill saw that the waterfront was separated from them by fifty feet of dark water and houses were sliding past, already faster than a man could walk.

  The distance widened, the buildings diminished and by degrees the world of land grew less real as their wooden one became their only existence on the widening waste of water. The mouth of the river took a sharp turn to the south – and there was the open sea.

  The great bulk of the ship that had seemed so secure and solid alongside the wharf was now jibbing and bucketing with a liveliness that had them hanging on for dear life. Perkyn slid down the deck, eyes bulging with fear. Jared yanked him up again.

  The pilgrims looked back at the line of the shore as the familiar trees and fields slipped away. Some mumbled prayers and petitions, for this was an experience unimaginable to honest countrymen. They could only seize a rope and stare hopelessly at the immensity of water – now as far as the eye could see in every direction except the receding shore.

  Sailors came around and showed them how to tie their mattress rolls and bag of possessions to the side. They were also at pains to explain what to do if a sea serpent appeared and threatened to swallow the ship and gave many other useful tips.

  Further out to sea the winds blew flat and hard. Stinging spray was driven back at every plunge of the bow but Jared was getting used to the roll and heave and determined that he’d tour the ship. Passing from handhold to handhold he found that the only enclosed space was the cabin at the after end of the ship, which was barred to travellers. Above it was an open deck with a rail, which he wasn’t about to try to reach.

  He lurched forward under the huge straining sail and reached the sharp prow with its ropes soaring up, then returned to where Perkyn was hunched miserably.

  ‘Not as if there’s much to see,’ he muttered while Winchelsea continued its wild dance with Neptune.

  In all there were five pilgrims and a chapman trying to make themselves comfortable against the hard side of the ship, out of the wind, blankly enduring.

  Jared pulled his coarse greatcoat around him – how could they exist like this for the weeks to Lisbon?

  Evening approached. The crew brought up buckets, effortlessly coping with the heaving deck. Their evening meal: sausage and hard biscuit. It was fusty, plain and little enough but he was hungry and devoured his, and was ready with his pot when the ale came around. It was only half-filled but he soon found out why, it sloshed about maddeningly as he tried to drink.

  Night drew in and the travellers could do nothing other than to take to their tiny beds under what covering they could find and wait for the dawn.

  Stiff and cold, Jared sensed a lightening and saw the sea slowly take form and shape, a sullen grey emptiness without limit until he made out a vague rumpling of coast far off to the left. It didn’t register at first that something was wrong – it was on the other side of the ship.

  Dickin explained he was now looking at France and that after they turned the corner to the left then he’d see some seas that would make this look like a duck pond.

  Hollow-eyed, Perkyn lolled listlessly against the bulwark.

  The size of the seas increased by the hour, long murderous rollers came on with a malice that was almost personal, and when they shaped course south they took these at an angle, producing an awkward screwing motion.

  With the jerking swoops and lifts Jared lost his grip on what was up and what was down and joined the others in helpless retching, watched by a mocking crew.

  They suffered for four more long days until they raised a headland. In its lee was a town and ships similar to their own, but nearer dead than alive they took little interest in hearing that this was Corunna in the Spanish kingdom of Galicia.

  The flint-hearted captain would not listen to their pleas to be allowed ashore to die on dry land. To avoid landing taxes he took on their water by boat and put to sea again without delay.

  Thankfully, three days later it was Lisbon and Winchelsea was squared away for the run upriver to the city. Even more wonderful was their release from a watery hell to the delirious feeling of solid ground under their feet, and a kindly innkeeper who would take in voyagers unwashed for many days and weak with privation.

  Perkyn begged that they continue their pilgrimage on foot, as nature intended, but was persuaded by the sight of another ship.

  A much larger cog, this had a splendid castle with battlements standing proud above the afterdeck and another, smaller, set right out over the prow. From its lofty single mast fluttered pennons of some noble order of chivalry and well-dressed people strolled her deck. And yes, there was room for worthy pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land.

  Guglielmo di Venezia was returning merchants to Venice along with a contingent of knights to Malta, and was victualling for a comfortable journey. As they watched, wine, poultry, barrels of seafood and fruit were loaded aboard. An altogether different experience promised.

  They sailed with the tide. However, the lavish cabins aft were provided for the knights and merchants; theirs were little more than stalls and bare timbers, even if these were below, sheltered from wind and sea.

  On deck they were ordered to remain right forward, out of the way of the higher class of passenger and when the fragrant odours of cooking drifted down, for them it was only cheese and salted meats.

  At night, packed in below in stifling darkness, there was nothing to do but lie awake with the sound of great creaks and grinding, the sea swashing past in thumps and gurgles and the droning of sleepless conversations.

  The stench of the confined space was hard to take. Bilge, stale urine, rat droppings. The lurching movement of the ship in the airless and oppressive dimness brought on seasickness in several and the fetor of vomit had its inevitable effect on the others, transforming it to a hell of misery.

  Jared felt the light scutter of rats running over him and gloomily questioned why he’d undertaken this nightmare of a journey. A cooler voice told him that the ship was moving along as fast as he could run, day and night, and these were all miles that he did not have to walk.

  Later they passed a massive lion-shaped rock and then the nature of the sea changed. No longer t
he long swells and hard westerlies, the waves were shorter and steeper and the glittering expanse of water was agreeably sun-drenched.

  They had left the cold northern lands behind and now – some weeks directly ahead in the direction of the rising dawn – was the Promised Land, the birthplace of the Christ-child. Against this tawdry reality it seemed too fantastical to be true.

  CHAPTER 18

  Time passed slowly. They touched at ports for resupply of fresh victuals and wines but if he wanted any variation in the repulsive ship’s food on issue Jared found it was yet another demand on his fast diminishing store of coins.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, the ship slewed out of its track and sailors raced to bring down the big sail. In a few minutes the vessel had come to a standstill and was drifting aimlessly.

  It made no sense, and looking aft Jared could see figures peering down over the stern-quarters and shouting.

  ‘Wonder what happened,’ he muttered to Perkyn.

  The sail was half-raised again and this time there was a long oar tied to one side, which was used to turn the vessel so it fell before the wind and headed toward a distant hazy coastline.

  The mystery deepened.

  Just before the evening meal Perkyn returned with news. ‘I’ve a friend, Master, and he’s page to a knight and hears it all. He says the rudder’s broken and they need to get into a port to repair it, and that’s where we’re going.’

  Later, Perkyn heard that the captain was much worried. If they couldn’t get the rudder back in working order the voyage would be at an end. No longer could they sail in the right direction, and worse, if it came on to blow there was every prospect that they would be driven on the rocks, unable to steer away from them.

  In the morning the land was much closer and they crabbed along the coast.

  A little village of white and terracotta buildings with a single jetty nestled at the foot of a scrubby hillside, encircled by a bay. Guglielmo di Venezia came to anchor offshore, too big to come in further, and the captain and others took to the boat.