Immediately to the left as they entered the hospital was a small chapel with a window facing onto the street. It was for the specific use of pilgrims, but Hugh noted wryly that it was empty. Despite their recent arrival nobody had thought it necessary to throw themselves immediately into prayer or thankful rejoicing after a safe journey. Heloise led the two knights on into the large refectory, where most of the pilgrims had instead gathered for the comforts it offered. The refectory was brightly lit with cheap tallow candles and rush lights. Hugh felt a rush of warm air from the fire that was crackling on the other side of the room. It was only the beginning of autumn, but the weather had been unseasonably cold, especially for those travelling across the country. He flexed his toes in his worn leather boots, and he reminded himself sardonically that he was no longer a young man.
Loud laughter drew his attention to a group of four people standing close to the fire. Adele stood in the centre, holding court, as three men hung on to her every word and gesture. Heloise turned to Hugh and Richard, her voice hushed.
“You’ve met Adele already of course. The man to her left is her husband Sir Henry Woodville.” Hugh studied the short, balding figure with a leather belt straining to hold in his large girth. It was unsurprising to find such an oddly matched couple, as most marriages were entered into out of practicality and advancement. Heloise’s next comment confirmed this. “I understand that he has a great deal of land in the north, and of course a town house in London. They have a young son, but he was too sickly to make the journey with them. He’s been left with his nursemaid, and they’ve come here to pray for his recovery.” It was hard to imagine Adele as a mother, as her attention seemed devoted solely to making herself pleasing to others.
“Aye, you can understand why they would be willing to travel such a distance. The health and survival of a male heir is of the greatest importance to a wealthy man.” Heloise turned at the interjection made by a deep voice.
“Father, please.” Her tone was weary as if the comment had been made many a time before, but her grey eyes were as bleak as a winter fog as they rested upon the barrel-chested man standing beside her. “Here are two more pilgrims, Father, who will be staying with us. Richard Siward and Hugh Mansel, this is my father, Thomas of Monmouth.” Hugh found himself being studied by a second intense grey gaze. That was however the only physical trait father and daughter shared. Thomas had the recognisable bearing and muscular frame of a knight, though his body had thickened around his middle with age. His thick curly hair was steel grey, but a hint of unaltered ebony remained. Hugh noted the way in which Thomas stood, and guessed it to be caused by a wound of some age to which he had adapted but undoubtedly still caused him pain.
“Knights are you?” Thomas asked speculatively, his tone provoking Richard to answer sharply,
“We’re members of the Earl of Pembroke’s household.” Thomas grunted,
“William Marshal. Now there was a man who knew the right way of things. Ten children he had, five of them sons to inherit his wealth and lands when he died.” Heloise shifted uncomfortably but Thomas continued regardless of his daughter’s embarrassment. “All I wanted was a son. But God did not think it right to grant my prayers. And now the lands that my family have had charge of for generations will go back to the crown.” The last words were almost spat out. Hugh understood the vehemence of Thomas’s feelings, for his own father had owned estates on the Welsh March. The Welsh Marcher lords valued highly their independence and were loath to lose it.
“Your daughter could marry and provide an heir to your lands, sir. All does not have to be lost.” Hugh spoke before he had thought through the full meaning of his words. Heloise flushed at his comment, but Thomas merely stared hard at Hugh, his eyes alight with interest. Richard watched the exchange with something akin to amusement, before responding to the desperate glance from his friend.
“Would it be possible to find this Brother Benedict? I’m in need of a good drink and some dry clothes.” Heloise grasped the opportunity with a grateful smile and replied readily,
“Yes of course, forgive me. He’ll be in the undercroft with his patients I expect. I’ll take you too him directly.”
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Mad Matilda: A Real Miracle Of Saint Thomas
I have decided this week to take a small diversion away from my own fictional writing, and instead relate one of the ‘real’ miracles of Saint Thomas Becket. Stories of miraculous cures and healing show how important the cult of relics and saints were to the medieval laity. In this context it is not unsurprising that a group of pilgrims, made up of people from all walks of life, might make the journey to Canterbury.
The following story (translated by Dr Gerald Colson) was recorded in the twelfth century by Benedict of Peterborough, a monk of Canterbury. It is also depicted in the stained glass of the Trinity Chapel (my own photo). The windows acted as a visual guide to pilgrims who were waiting to get close to the shrine. It told them how to act when they got there and what might have been expected of them in return. The windows were also a way of publicising (in a time before mass media) the effectiveness and popularity of Saint Thomas.
“We saw a little woman, by the name of Matilda, who was brought from Cologne; she was possessed of a devil and we shrank back in horror at her madness within our midst. She had torn into threads her linen smock, the only garment with which she had covered her body and she struck out violently at anyone who wanted to bring her forward. She would even have strangled a young boy, who ran up to her, had he not been quickly snatched out of her way by those standing near her.
Bound hand and foot, she raved for some four or five hours before the tomb of the Martyr until he offered her healing. The evil spirit was indeed driven out of her but it left behind foul traces. Gradually Matilda regained her normal self and the next day she had completely recovered.
Her speech was scarcely intelligible to us but she said that she had seen in dreams the Martyr, clothed in pontifical vestments, with a streak of blood across his face, such as we have described in the account of his passion. He asked her about the cause of her illness and she informed him that her suffering was in both her body and her mind. Then the blessed Martyr had promised her healing on condition that she went on pilgrimage, either to Rome, the land of the Apostles, or to the church of Saint James at Compostella; on these terms she would receive absolution.
When we asked her how she came to be insane, she said that her brother had killed a young man, who loved her dearly, and that in a fit of madness she had struck with her fist her baby son, who had been baptised the previous day, and removed him from this world.
So it was that the woman left the tomb of the Martyr, healed and joyful, concerned now about nothing but gaining forgiveness for her crime.”
Sunday, 13 February 2011
III. The Die Is Cast…
With so many pilgrims making the journey to Canterbury, despite the unseasonable weather, the two knights found upon enquiry that all the inns were full. Richard stood holding the reins of both horses as he watched Hugh talking with one of the towns’ tavern keepers. The man shook his head, and Hugh turned away walking back towards Richard.
“Nothing here either. He suggested trying near Westgate. St Thomas the Martyr’s hospital is meant to have a couple of spare beds still.” Richard sighed as he turned the horses.
“Well let’s hope he’s not leading us on a wild goose chase like our last helpful guide. Little bugger.” A child dressed in ragged clothes, so covered in dirt from the street that it was impossible to tell whether it was boy or girl, had clearly been making a living from sending desperate pilgrims in the wrong direction in return for a few coins. Hugh however did not resent the loss of the coins, for he knew what it was like to be cast into the world penniless. The child would at least have a warm bed of his own that night. They continued to walk in silence, both men wrapped in their own thoughts as the last dregs of daylight disappeared.
The hospital became clear to see from a distance, for the building front was made of small grey stones, which was unusual in a street where most of the buildings were simple wooden structures. The building had three windows on the highest floor, each with intricate tracery, and a plain lower window. The open wooden door was surrounded by the additional detail of an arch of white stones. As the knights stopped they saw two women standing in front of the hospital’s entrance.
“How difficult can it possibly be to get these bags inside?” This exasperated question was asked by a woman of striking beauty. She stood with a hand on her hip whilst the other was flourished in the air emphasising the tone of impatience in her voice and the elegance of her poise. She had a slender figure, emphasised by the richly embroidered belt that encircled her waist, and her auburn hair was elaborately arranged to expose the long line of her pale neck. Her stance and the cut of her gown were obviously meant to elicit the admiration of men. Aware of the attention of the two knights, she tilted her head as if in consideration. Clearly their mud stained clothing and travel weary expressions did not win her approval, for her green gaze became once again fixed on the second woman. “Oh never mind. I’ll just have to do it myself. Give me that.” She said as she snatched one of the bags and went inside the hospital. Richard watched her disappearing figure in admiration, but Hugh’s attention was focused upon the woman left struggling under the weight of what remained. “Here, wait. Let me help you with that.” He said quickly dropping the reins of his horse and grabbing some of the bags before they slipped out of her grip.
“Oh thank you.” She said laughingly as she tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “I’m not sure that Adele taking only one bag counts as ‘help’, but it’s as much as she done during the entirety of the journey here I suppose.”
“Where have you travelled from?”
“As a group we’ve travelled from London together. But before that we all travelled from different places. My father and I came from Wales. I’m Heloise by the way.” She smiled up at him, her grey eyes wide and disarming. Her beauty was quiet in comparison to the carefully studied elegance of Adele. She was a petite woman who did not even reach the height of his shoulder, and her features were delicate and elfin. Her hair was the colour of polished oak, and that which had not been confined to two thick braids framed her face in thick curls. Hugh greeted her in Welsh and she laughed in surprised delight. He found himself smiling with her, before remembering a sodden Richard standing bad temperedly in the street.
“We were told that there might be room for another two pilgrims here at the hospital. Do you know if that is still the case?”
“You’re in luck. There are just two free beds left in the undercroft, as we were rather a large group. It made it safer for travelling on the roads around London. It’s different to Wales.” She added with a note of wistfulness. “Ah Brother Robert, you’re back. Wonderful. Would you be so good as to take the horses? They will need stabling, as these two knights will be staying here.” Heloise’s voice was firm, and the burly lay brother quietly assented to her gentle authority. Hugh and Richard shouldered their saddlebags and followed Heloise as she entered the hospital. “Come.” She beckoned with her infectious smile and a tilt of her head, “We can go tell Brother Benedict that you’re staying. And then I’ll introduce you to the rest of the group before supper.”
“Nothing here either. He suggested trying near Westgate. St Thomas the Martyr’s hospital is meant to have a couple of spare beds still.” Richard sighed as he turned the horses.
“Well let’s hope he’s not leading us on a wild goose chase like our last helpful guide. Little bugger.” A child dressed in ragged clothes, so covered in dirt from the street that it was impossible to tell whether it was boy or girl, had clearly been making a living from sending desperate pilgrims in the wrong direction in return for a few coins. Hugh however did not resent the loss of the coins, for he knew what it was like to be cast into the world penniless. The child would at least have a warm bed of his own that night. They continued to walk in silence, both men wrapped in their own thoughts as the last dregs of daylight disappeared.
The hospital became clear to see from a distance, for the building front was made of small grey stones, which was unusual in a street where most of the buildings were simple wooden structures. The building had three windows on the highest floor, each with intricate tracery, and a plain lower window. The open wooden door was surrounded by the additional detail of an arch of white stones. As the knights stopped they saw two women standing in front of the hospital’s entrance.
“How difficult can it possibly be to get these bags inside?” This exasperated question was asked by a woman of striking beauty. She stood with a hand on her hip whilst the other was flourished in the air emphasising the tone of impatience in her voice and the elegance of her poise. She had a slender figure, emphasised by the richly embroidered belt that encircled her waist, and her auburn hair was elaborately arranged to expose the long line of her pale neck. Her stance and the cut of her gown were obviously meant to elicit the admiration of men. Aware of the attention of the two knights, she tilted her head as if in consideration. Clearly their mud stained clothing and travel weary expressions did not win her approval, for her green gaze became once again fixed on the second woman. “Oh never mind. I’ll just have to do it myself. Give me that.” She said as she snatched one of the bags and went inside the hospital. Richard watched her disappearing figure in admiration, but Hugh’s attention was focused upon the woman left struggling under the weight of what remained. “Here, wait. Let me help you with that.” He said quickly dropping the reins of his horse and grabbing some of the bags before they slipped out of her grip.
“Oh thank you.” She said laughingly as she tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “I’m not sure that Adele taking only one bag counts as ‘help’, but it’s as much as she done during the entirety of the journey here I suppose.”
“Where have you travelled from?”
“As a group we’ve travelled from London together. But before that we all travelled from different places. My father and I came from Wales. I’m Heloise by the way.” She smiled up at him, her grey eyes wide and disarming. Her beauty was quiet in comparison to the carefully studied elegance of Adele. She was a petite woman who did not even reach the height of his shoulder, and her features were delicate and elfin. Her hair was the colour of polished oak, and that which had not been confined to two thick braids framed her face in thick curls. Hugh greeted her in Welsh and she laughed in surprised delight. He found himself smiling with her, before remembering a sodden Richard standing bad temperedly in the street.
“We were told that there might be room for another two pilgrims here at the hospital. Do you know if that is still the case?”
“You’re in luck. There are just two free beds left in the undercroft, as we were rather a large group. It made it safer for travelling on the roads around London. It’s different to Wales.” She added with a note of wistfulness. “Ah Brother Robert, you’re back. Wonderful. Would you be so good as to take the horses? They will need stabling, as these two knights will be staying here.” Heloise’s voice was firm, and the burly lay brother quietly assented to her gentle authority. Hugh and Richard shouldered their saddlebags and followed Heloise as she entered the hospital. “Come.” She beckoned with her infectious smile and a tilt of her head, “We can go tell Brother Benedict that you’re staying. And then I’ll introduce you to the rest of the group before supper.”
Sunday, 6 February 2011
II. A Most Wondrous City…
Hugh gazed at the two tall rounded stone towers stretching upwards, flanking the wooden gates of the city. All towns were encircled by a wall, partly for defensive purposes, but also as a means of keeping outsiders apart from the town citizens. For this reason the king’s officers lived within, looking down through the narrow slits in the stone at those approaching the entrance. At Richard and Hugh’s appearance, a solider stepped forward blocking their path into the city.
“What is your business here?” Hugh’s hand went to his scrip, pulling out a coin which he handed to the solider.
“My friend and I are here on pilgrimage to visit Saint Thomas’ shrine.” The solider pocketed the coin and nodded his grey head.
“Aye, you and thousands of others have come to visit our blessed martyr.” He leant in towards the knights, his tone hushed reverentially. “He saved my little girl from death. Sick with fever she was, so bad the physicians gave up hope. But I went to his shrine and I prayed to Saint Thomas. The monks there gave me a vial of his holy blood, which I gave to my girl and the next morning by a miracle she awoke healthy and whole again. I defy you to find a saint in England as powerful as Saint Thomas.” Hugh nodded agreement and thanked the soldier, who moved aside to allow them past. He called after the knights, “It really is a most wondrous city!”
As Richard and Hugh stepped inside the city walls they were assailed with the stench of human and animal waste dumped in the river or on the street. The heavy rain of the last few days had turned the streets to streams. Water cascaded across the flat areas of road, causing the fetid waste dumped at one end of the street to slide wetly down to the other. The deep ruts marking the path of many trundling carts were full of muddy water that splashed up on to Richard’s fine woollen cloak. He scowled, brushing uselessly at the dirt.
“A wondrous city indeed. Place smells worse than a castle’s latrine.” As Hugh and Richard continued to amble down the street, the citizens of Canterbury strode purposefully or bustled hurriedly to get out of the rain. Down small cramped side streets scurried the poorest citizens dressed in dull homespun brown. Brightly dressed merchants stood along the edge of the widest and cleanest streets. They stood in the doorways of their houses shouting in the hope of attracting custom. The blues and greens of their tunics were gaudy beacons in the bleak grey of the day. Finally there were the monks and canons moving in packs, their plain robes seeming to shine with prosperity. “Mind where you’re going!” Richard suddenly yelled as a figure shrouded in a grey cloak knocked into him. The stranger turned. His features were bloated and reddened from a clear over indulgence in good wine. His voice when he spoke was sneering and matched his unpleasant expression.
“Move a little faster then. Some of us don’t have all day.” The grey-cloaked figure must have noticed Richard’s unconscious movement towards the hilt of his sword, for he said no more but moved away and disappeared into the crowd. Richard turned to Hugh,
“What’s the hurry? The guy’s been dead for decades, I doubt he’s going to go anywhere fast.” Thomas Becket had been dead fifty years, murdered by four knights in the Cathedral, but his cult continued to grow stronger with time. In 1174 there had been a fire, which had destroyed the eastern part of the Cathedral. Over time this had been rebuilt in a glorious new style that had spread from France across Europe. The Trinity Chapel was the pinnacle of the project, and it housed the new shrine for Saint Thomas. In July his holy relics had been translated from their burial in the crypt to their new jewel encrusted shrine, which had provoked new waves of devotion. The Pope had granted this year as a jubilee in celebration of Saint Thomas. Anyone within Europe who visited the new shrine at Canterbury Cathedral during the year could receive an indulgence of five hundred and forty days.
“The relics won’t be going anywhere no, but for those who want their penance remitted this year is a good opportunity. The only other way to have so many of your sins forgiven is to go on crusade to the Holy Land. And I doubt your new friend would have been so eager to hurry there.” Hugh paused, glancing around at the mingling crowds of pilgrims and town citizens. “But come, we must obtain lodgings. With so many pilgrims in the city we’ll be hard pressed to find a decent bed for the night if we don’t find something soon.”
“What is your business here?” Hugh’s hand went to his scrip, pulling out a coin which he handed to the solider.
“My friend and I are here on pilgrimage to visit Saint Thomas’ shrine.” The solider pocketed the coin and nodded his grey head.
“Aye, you and thousands of others have come to visit our blessed martyr.” He leant in towards the knights, his tone hushed reverentially. “He saved my little girl from death. Sick with fever she was, so bad the physicians gave up hope. But I went to his shrine and I prayed to Saint Thomas. The monks there gave me a vial of his holy blood, which I gave to my girl and the next morning by a miracle she awoke healthy and whole again. I defy you to find a saint in England as powerful as Saint Thomas.” Hugh nodded agreement and thanked the soldier, who moved aside to allow them past. He called after the knights, “It really is a most wondrous city!”
As Richard and Hugh stepped inside the city walls they were assailed with the stench of human and animal waste dumped in the river or on the street. The heavy rain of the last few days had turned the streets to streams. Water cascaded across the flat areas of road, causing the fetid waste dumped at one end of the street to slide wetly down to the other. The deep ruts marking the path of many trundling carts were full of muddy water that splashed up on to Richard’s fine woollen cloak. He scowled, brushing uselessly at the dirt.
“A wondrous city indeed. Place smells worse than a castle’s latrine.” As Hugh and Richard continued to amble down the street, the citizens of Canterbury strode purposefully or bustled hurriedly to get out of the rain. Down small cramped side streets scurried the poorest citizens dressed in dull homespun brown. Brightly dressed merchants stood along the edge of the widest and cleanest streets. They stood in the doorways of their houses shouting in the hope of attracting custom. The blues and greens of their tunics were gaudy beacons in the bleak grey of the day. Finally there were the monks and canons moving in packs, their plain robes seeming to shine with prosperity. “Mind where you’re going!” Richard suddenly yelled as a figure shrouded in a grey cloak knocked into him. The stranger turned. His features were bloated and reddened from a clear over indulgence in good wine. His voice when he spoke was sneering and matched his unpleasant expression.
“Move a little faster then. Some of us don’t have all day.” The grey-cloaked figure must have noticed Richard’s unconscious movement towards the hilt of his sword, for he said no more but moved away and disappeared into the crowd. Richard turned to Hugh,
“What’s the hurry? The guy’s been dead for decades, I doubt he’s going to go anywhere fast.” Thomas Becket had been dead fifty years, murdered by four knights in the Cathedral, but his cult continued to grow stronger with time. In 1174 there had been a fire, which had destroyed the eastern part of the Cathedral. Over time this had been rebuilt in a glorious new style that had spread from France across Europe. The Trinity Chapel was the pinnacle of the project, and it housed the new shrine for Saint Thomas. In July his holy relics had been translated from their burial in the crypt to their new jewel encrusted shrine, which had provoked new waves of devotion. The Pope had granted this year as a jubilee in celebration of Saint Thomas. Anyone within Europe who visited the new shrine at Canterbury Cathedral during the year could receive an indulgence of five hundred and forty days.
“The relics won’t be going anywhere no, but for those who want their penance remitted this year is a good opportunity. The only other way to have so many of your sins forgiven is to go on crusade to the Holy Land. And I doubt your new friend would have been so eager to hurry there.” Hugh paused, glancing around at the mingling crowds of pilgrims and town citizens. “But come, we must obtain lodgings. With so many pilgrims in the city we’ll be hard pressed to find a decent bed for the night if we don’t find something soon.”
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