X. A Dent In His Armour...

Heloise took pity on Hugh. His face was lined with exhaustion, his eyes creased in an expression she recognised as pain, and he still wore his saturated cloak. After however long he had been travelling he deserved a few moments rest and peace. She did not think that his bellicose friend was easy company. Tucking an errant curl behind her ear Heloise straightened. With the quiet command Hugh had noted earlier she managed to shepherd Philip out of the undercroft. As they left she turned back concern evident on her features as she gave him a small smile.
     Hugh watched her retreating figure thoughtfully. From what he had seen of her father she had previous practice of caring for stubborn wounded men. He was too weary though to feel affronted by her actions, and so gratefully moved to the pallets where Richard had left their belongings. With some relief he finally shrugged off his woollen cloak. He continued to disrobe, cursing with the effort of pulling off his mail and gambeson single-handedly. He left the remainder of his clothes on to ward off the chill in the undercroft. They would dry soon enough when he returned to the warmth of the refectory. He also replaced the long bladed knife, pushing it through the belt slung around his waist. He could not leave a sword at his side when in a building full of monks. It resonated uncomfortably with the martyrdom of Saint Thomas. But Hugh felt uneasy going completely unarmed when he did not trust his fellow pilgrims.
     Hugh sat down heavily on the pallet wiping a weary hand across his face before reaching into his bag. He pulled out a package carefully wrapped in a linen shirt as protection from the elements. With slow movements he unwrapped it and placed it on the bed, contemplating it with saddened eyes. It was his wife’s Psalter. His touch on the cover was light, almost reverent. He was grateful that Richard had been alert to the relic maker’s nefarious intentions. Books were costly objects and certainly a possible target for thieves. The Psalter was a devotional book, intended to aid lay prayers. However it was also a symbol of wealth and status. Literacy was highly prized quality, especially in the household of magnates such as the late William Marshal.
     Hugh opened the book, his eyes skimming the first elaborately illuminated page. Beatus vir. As Hugh intoned the familiar Latin words quietly, he knew that the book symbolised more than his status or knowledge. It was one of the last links to a past from which he had been running. He laid a hand once more on the vellum page, remembering another smaller hand that use to rest beside his. He closed the book suddenly, attempting to close off his emotions and remembrances.
     Returning the book to the safety of the linen shirt and leather bag, Hugh reached for his mail. Though his body ached for rest and his eyes itched from exhaustion and emotion, Hugh knew there would be no respite from the memories he had dredged up that day. He needed a task to focus upon, and his mail needed cleaning. With a scrap of cloth he began to scrape each of the individual rivets clean of dirt and water. Armour was expensive to replace and any rust could weaken the metal, making it easy to break and endangering the wearer. The repetitive nature of the work quelled his agitation and he became lost in the movement of his hands.
     After some time bent patiently over his mail, Hugh became aware that he was being scrutinised. He looked up and saw a large man standing by the pallet opposite him. He had been so engrossed in his work he had not heard the stranger’s entry. He wondered fleetingly if there was more than one entrance to the undercroft.
     “Don’t you have a squire to do that for you, or can’t you afford it?” The words carried a trace of sneer, but Hugh continued to quietly study the man unprovoked. The stranger spoke French, but the words sounded thick and awkward, as if the language had been learnt later in life rather than naturally as a child. He had an ugly face, marked with the scars of a childhood pox. His double chin folded into his tunic made of finest green cloth. His wealth was also gaudily displayed in the glittering cross that hung around his neck. His attitude suggested to Hugh that he had only recent come into wealth, and felt the need to advertise his superior position.
     “I did have a squire. But a pilgrimage is about penance and humbling oneself. And I would not be a very good knight if I could not clean my own equipment.” The stranger’s expression had visibly darkened at the word penance. Hugh found this quite odd as the man was obviously a pilgrim. Curious he asked lightly, “And you friend, what brings you to Canterbury?” The man scowled at Hugh, his posture turning belligerent.
     “That’s none of your business friend.” Hugh’s attention returned to the mail in front of him, unwilling to get into a conflict with yet another of the hospital’s guests. The stranger sensed that the knight was not going to respond to his threatening advances and so ground out “You’re wanted in the refectory.” Errand complete he stormed out of the undercroft his large clenched fists swinging menacingly at his sides.