A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (20 page)

The market was just a little way up the road. People pushed past us, laden with baskets of produce. Two men pulled a handcart filled with cow’s heads and hooves. A cloud of flies hovered above them. Just a little way off, a man was extolling the virtues of his cooking pots at the top of his voice and vigorously banging one with a wooden spoon, just in case anyone was in any doubt. Coils of rope lay on the ground outside a chandler’s, neatly stacked for inspection. A chicken ran past, squawking madly, closely pursued by two laughing children.

The road was thick with dust, scraps of vegetables, and dung – animal and human. A pack of dogs squabbled over something purple and wobbly that had been tossed into the gutter.

The smell was – robust.

This was the Dover road, running south through Canterbury, so it would have been busy, anyway. And it was market day. Add in the hundreds of people setting off for, and returning from, their pilgrimage to the tomb of St Thomas; thirsty sailors on leave from their ships anchored not so far away; young bloods in search of a good time and finding it in the many inns and taverns lining the road; ladies who probably charged by the minute – it was just chaos. Every now and then, a group of drinkers would lurch from one of the many hostelries and stagger through the crowds, singing and shouting and making things even worse.

You couldn’t hear yourself speak. You couldn’t even hear yourself think. People shrieked in each other’s faces. Livestock bellowed, bayed, and clucked at the top of their voices. Somewhere, I could hear the ring of an anvil. A horse neighed and another answered.

The Tabard, favoured starting place for the pilgrimage to Canterbury, was up the road and on the left.

I pointed and mouthed, ‘This way,’ to Peterson, who nodded, and we set off.

We never reached The Tabard.

We never did see Geoffrey Chaucer.

Peterson and I had a major argument in the middle of the street and then he got the plague.

Apart from that, the assignment was a huge success.

He caught my arm.

‘Just one warning. I meant what I said about access to the pod. You don’t have any. So if you had any thoughts of making a run for it and abandoning me here, forget them.’

I was so fed up with this. ‘What a coincidence – I was about to say the same to you.’

‘What?’

‘Well, isn’t that why I’m here? Oh, I acquit you of outright murder – you’re not actually going to kill me, are you? But in a minute, I’ll look round and you’ll be gone and I’ll go back to the pod and that’ll be gone too, and when Leon turns up you’ll all look sad and tell him there was a tragic accident. Isn’t that the plan? There’s really not much to choose between you and the Time Police, is there?’

I have no idea what thoughts ran through his head. His face showed nothing. However, the strength of his grip on my arm told its own story. He pushed me back against the wall, and right in the middle of an assignment, before we’d got our bearings, when we were at our most vulnerable, and with most of the 14th century cursing as they tried to get past us, we had it out. There and then.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Words fell from my mouth. All the things I never meant to say. All the things that should not be said.

‘Weren’t those your instructions? A tidy end to an untidy problem. And no blood shed. Let’s face it, if you walked away from me now, there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it, would there? I don’t understand why you didn’t save yourself the effort and just open the door and throw me out.’

I didn’t actually believe any of it, but I was so fed up with all of this. This was Tim Peterson, for crying out loud. I had a sudden, aching vision of the last time I saw him …

‘Is that what you think? You think that I would …? You’re not Maxwell. I don’t care what you say. She would never think … never believe …’

I knocked his arm away.

‘Well, there you go then. I’m not Maxwell. Happy now? Just walk away, Peterson. Go on. Look, I’ll even turn my back and make it easy for you. Don’t worry – I’m not tagged. No one will ever find me. You can tell whatever story you like.’

I turned and walked away, so buoyed up with rage that I had no idea where I was going. I shouldered my way through the crowds, back the way we’d come, until I suddenly realised that instinctively I was heading towards the pod. Without thinking, I wheeled right and found myself in a narrow alleyway running between two inns.

Suddenly, the street noises disappeared. This place never saw the sun. It was cooler here and the stones were damp. Green patches showed on the walls, even in the height of summer. I could hear my own footsteps. I felt very much alone.

What the hell was I doing? Of all the stupid, irresponsible …

I wheeled about and trotted back down the alleyway, hoping at every moment to catch a glimpse of Peterson. He was tall enough to show above the crowd. Especially in that hat. I gazed up and down the High Street. Surely, he’d be around somewhere. He hadn’t really gone back to the pod and left me. I was the stupid one, not him.

There he was. I caught a brief glimpse of him, conspicuous in his pilgrim’s hat, exiting The King’s Head. Wisely, since he was looking for an historian, he was starting with places purveying alcoholic refreshments. I could see him staring anxiously up and down the street. I shouted his name, but my words were lost amongst the day-to-day noises of 14th-century Southwark.

I had some difficulty getting across the street, but eventually emerged, breathless and tousled on the other side and headed down a passageway after him.

It all happened so quickly.

I opened my mouth to call his name. Two figures stepped out of the shadows. One raised a cudgel. There was a sickening noise and Peterson went down like a tree. They bent over him.

I shouted, ‘Hey,’ and went down that alleyway like a rocket. If they’d stood their ground there would have been two of us unconscious, but they didn’t. They grabbed his scrip – much good it would do them, being as empty as mine – and ran off.

I hurled myself to my knees beside him, terrified of what I might find, praying desperately to the god of historians that he wasn’t dead. That he couldn’t be dead. Not Tim Peterson. I think it’s to my credit that my first thoughts were for him. It was only much later I realised what a problem I would have had if he had been dead.

He wasn’t.

Not yet, anyway. He had a lump on the back of his head, but when I probed gently, nothing moved. His skull was intact. However, his face was white and his breathing ragged and heavy. I tried not to panic. Raising my voice, I shouted for help. And again. And again.

I don’t know why I did that. Surely, no one was ever going to hear over the clamour of the street, but someone did hear. A small figure clutching a basket of greens appeared at the other end of the alley.

I picked up Peterson’s staff and stood up, ready for anything, but it wasn’t needed.

A shabby Augustinian monk, with the sad remnants of a soft, brown tonsure and an even sadder, softer, brown face, put down his basket and knelt to take a look.

He probed the wound, as I had done, listened to his breathing, as I had done, and then stood up.

‘My child, can you understand me?’

He spoke in heavily accented English that I could barely make out. I had an idea.

I said, in Latin, ‘Yes, brother. I beseech you for aid.’

If he was surprised, he hid it well. ‘Wait here. I will return. Do not worry – they will not come back.’

I gripped my staff. ‘They had better not.’

He scurried away, leaving his basket behind.

I made sure Peterson’s airways were clear and checked him over for any further injuries. I’d only seen the one blow, but he might have broken an arm or collarbone as he fell.

The monk turned up only a few minutes later, pulling a flat handcart, and together we lifted Peterson onto it. He pulled – I pushed. We trundled down the alley, emerging seconds later into a wide sunny space, at the end of which was what looked like a church.

I felt a sudden excitement. I knew what this was. This was the famous St Thomas’s Hospital, named for Thomas Becket. It would be clean and safe. Just for once, we had fallen, figuratively speaking, on our feet.

No we hadn’t.

It’s hard for us today to understand the importance of religion to the medieval mind. Doubly so for heathens like me. I never gave it a thought.

They wouldn’t let him in.

They were very nice about it and I was reassured that as soon as he was able to confess, he would be admitted immediately.

In vain did I recklessly commit Peterson to the Catholic faith and promise he would confess as soon as he was actually conscious. In the same way that a modern hospital fears the contamination of superbugs, so did medieval hospitals fear the contamination of sin. In their world, the body and the soul were linked, with the soul taking precedence. Cleanse the soul and the body would follow. The first step was confession. They were very sorry, but they couldn’t take him in until he confessed. I begged and pleaded. I even cried a little. They were sympathetic but unmoveable. And while all this was going on, Peterson lay white-faced on the handcart and never moved.

I was frantic. What could I do with him? I had nowhere to take him. There were no relatives who could render assistance. I couldn’t even get him back to the pod because it wouldn’t let me in. I’d be stuck outside with an unconscious man on my hands and trust me, when night fell, this would not be a good place for either of us to be. And jolting him around in a handcart wouldn’t do him any good, either.

The little plump monk found an acceptable compromise.

There was an old shed behind the kitchen gardens, empty at present. He would bring a mattress and blankets. There was a well. He would see some food was sent over.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and we bumped Peterson through rows of beans and peas to an old wooden shack next to three magnificent compost heaps.

The little monk was as good as his word. We laid Peterson out on an old straw palliasse and covered him with coarse brown blankets.

He lay like the dead. I tried not to panic.

The little monk smiled at me.

‘I am Brother Anselm, child. What is your name?’

If in doubt, always take the name of the ruling king or queen. The year was 1383. Edward III was king and his wife had been Philippa of Hainault.

‘I am Philippa. Philippa of Rushford. This is my husband, Thomas.’

He smiled. ‘A fortunate name. Fear not, he will be admitted as soon as he wakes, which will be soon, I am sure. Rest and quiet are all he needs for the present. There is a well, over there, by the wall. I will return after Vespers, when, I am sure, with God’s help, he will be waking.’

I nodded.

‘Thank you, brother.’

‘Do not thank me, child. Thank God who saw your need and guided my steps to you.’

‘I will, brother.’

Left alone, I took Peterson’s pulse, checked his breathing, tucked the blankets around him, and sat in the open doorway, looking out to the big, grey stone building across the kitchen garden.

This was the famous St Thomas’s Hospital, named after the martyr, Thomas Becket, who was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral more than two hundred years ago. And I should know – I was there. And so was Peterson.

If I could have got him into the hospital, he would have had a bed, clean linen, good food, and a safe place until he regained consciousness. Instead, he was lying on the ground in someone’s garden shed which smelled of earth, dung, and wet sacks, and there would probably be rats.

He hadn’t moved at all. Or made a sound. I checked him again, but there was nothing I could do except wait for him to regain consciousness.

The afternoon shadows lengthened. The hour of Vespers was upon us. Through the open door, I could hear the chanting, drifting across the garden in the late afternoon sunshine.

I thought he might send a servant, or a sister, but Brother Anselm came himself, bearing a bowl of thick vegetable broth and a heel of bread. I ate while he examined Peterson again.

‘Has he moved at all?’

‘A little. About an hour ago. And his breathing is better.’

‘Yes, it is. Tomorrow, I will bring a poultice. He may well be awake by then.’

‘With God’s good will,’ I said, getting into the swing of things.

‘Indeed.’

He sat himself down on the dirt floor, and looked at me. I hoped he was only waiting for the bowl back, but I knew he was curious. Like a bird. Indeed, his bright eyes, coupled with his habit of asking a question and then waiting for the answer with his head on one side reminded me of a small, brown sparrow, except he was clothed in shabby Augustinian black. He smelled strongly of musty cloth, earth, and incense.

‘You speak in Latin, my child?’

I nodded, and taking care to make a few simple mistakes, said. ‘My father had dealings with the monks of the Great Hospital in Norwich. He taught me so that I was able to assist him when my brother died. And after my father died, I helped my husband.’

‘Ah. You can read, then?’

I shook my head. I wasn’t going to be dragged into the deep waters of women’s education. ‘But,’ I said, proudly, ‘I can write my name.’

‘Why that is excellent, my child. Your husband – he is a pilgrim?’

‘Yes.’ I mopped up the broth and swallowed the last of the bread. ‘He will journey to the shrine of St Thomas to ask him to intercede for us. These last years have not been good for us. Always, the plague comes back.’

‘It does indeed, child. But God and the saints hear every prayer. Place your trust in them and all will be well.’

I nodded, vigorously. His simple faith shone from him like a beacon and, for a moment, even I believed all would be well.

‘You will be safe here, tonight. The gates are locked at dusk. No one will approach. I will come back tomorrow, at Lauds, when, no doubt, your husband will be awake. I must caution you, however, it will be some time before he will be well enough for his pilgrimage. You would do better to return to Rushford and wait until he is recovered.’