When Hugh re-entered the refectory he found Richard ensconced by the fire with Thomas and another man. Richard was leaning forward towards the man; his eyes alight with interest and a broad smile on his face. Thomas also looked amused by the tale the stranger was telling, his earlier disgruntled mood forgotten.
The stranger had to be at least sixty years old. His hair was completely white but there was still plenty left on his head. He was a large man, or he had been once, but time had weakened him, his muscles and stature shrunken with age. He wore a grey tunic, the embroidery around the collar stained with obvious age and wear. His boots though were well cared for, so he had obviously spent some time travelling and understood the practicalities. As Hugh drew nearer he overheard part of their conversation,
“Oh yes he fought with a lion’s heart and courage. He killed more Muslims that day than any other man. With one great swing of his sword he could slice through a man’s head right down to his teeth.” No wonder that Richard looked so interested, Hugh thought. His friend liked nothing better than a blood-thirsty tale about old battles. Perhaps if he had been in one, he would not find them such appealing conversation. Richard became aware of Hugh’s presence and gestured towards him, his voice loud and cheerful,
“Come over here Hugh. There’s someone you should meet.” Richard stood up, making room on the wooden bench for his companion. “Hugh Mansel, this is Stephen Causton.” Hugh nodded at the older man. “He fought with King Richard on crusade.” Richard’s tone conveyed his awe for the man sitting before him. As Hugh sat he noted the sharp and flinty nature of the old man’s blue eyes. There was something unnerving about his piercing gaze. Hugh could not shake the feeling that they saw everything.
“Now Richard, he was certainly a fine king. Not at all like his conniving brother John.” Hugh fidgeted uneasily at Stephen’s comment. It had not been many years past since the country had been engulfed in civil war, and he certainly had no wish to see the situation once again ignited. There was the chance of stability now under the new king, though Henry was but a child still. Richard however was unfazed, having little interest in politics. He continued to question Stephen eagerly,
“Acre… now that must have been a great battle.”
“Aye. God was certainly on our side that day, shining approval down on the righteous.” Hugh was unable to stop himself from interrupting,
“But I heard the king ordered the slaughter of over two thousands Muslim prisoners that day. Would God approve of those actions I wonder?”
“The Muslims are ungodly. They get what they deserve.” Even Richard blinked at the hissing fanaticism colouring Stephen’s words. There was a lull in the conversation before Stephen continued in a more moderate tone. “I’ve seen the delights of the Holy Land and Santiago de Compostela. Canterbury will be my last pilgrimage.”
At least he would not find any Muslims in Canterbury, Hugh thought gratefully, wondering to himself if all Stephen’s pilgrimages had been motivated purely by religious hatred. Hugh sensed that the old crusader was still a dangerous enemy to have, and that he would have to keep his easily impressed friend away from the man’s malicious opinions.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Sunday, 8 May 2011
From: Heloise@hotmail.com To: P.Abelard@gmail.com Re: I Luv U
I’ve been re-reading this week the Letters of Heloise and Abelard. Revision is the main motivation behind this, as Peter Abelard was a controversial twelfth-century theologian twice accused and put on trial for heresy. However I’m also intrigued by this rare personal story. History can be considered ‘dry as dust’ or concerned only with people dead and buried. Well perhaps that is true. But it ought to be remembered that those people who are dead and buried, were once living and breathing the same as you and I. The world they lived in may have been different, but their aspirations and dreams, love and lust, laughter and tears were not so very different to our own.
Heloise was an uncommonly bright young woman who had an affair with her teacher Abelard. They had a child and were married secretly. However on discovery of this Heloise’s family were enraged. Heloise was taken to a nunnery, and Abelard was castrated and sent to a monastery. Despite this the two lovers continued to communicate to each other through letters.
Heloise was an uncommonly bright young woman who had an affair with her teacher Abelard. They had a child and were married secretly. However on discovery of this Heloise’s family were enraged. Heloise was taken to a nunnery, and Abelard was castrated and sent to a monastery. Despite this the two lovers continued to communicate to each other through letters.
I wish to quote from several of Heloise’s letters to Abelard, (from the most recent Penguin translation), to show how sentiments of love and lust in particular have gone unchanging. You can almost imagine, with a few shortened words, incorrect spellings and grammar mistakes, this as a text message or a post on Abelard’s Facebook page.
Tell me one thing, if you can. Why, after our entry into religion, which was your decision alone, have I been so neglected and forgotten by you that I have neither a word from you when you are here to give me strength nor the consolation of a letter in absence? Tell me, I say, if you can – or I will tell you what I think and indeed everyone suspects. It was desire, not affection which bound you to me, the flame of lust rather than love. So when the end came to what you desired, any show of feeling you used to make went with it. This is not merely my own opinion, beloved, it is everyone’s. There is nothing personal or private about it; it is the general view which is widely held. I only wish that it were mine alone, and that the love you professed could find someone to defend it and so comfort me in my grief for a while. I wish I could think of some explanation which would excuse you and somehow cover up the way you hold me cheap.
In my case, the pleasures of lovers which we shared have been too sweet – they cannot displease me, and can scarcely shift from my memory. Wherever I turn they are always there before my eyes, bringing with them awakened longings and fantasies which will not even let me sleep. Even during the celebration of the Mass, when our prayers should be purer, lewd visions of those pleasures take such a hold upon my unhappy soul that my thoughts are on their wantonness instead of on prayers. I should be groaning over the sins I have committed, but I can only sigh for what I have lost. Everything we did and also the times and places where we did it are stamped on my heart along with your image, so that I live them all again with you.
As I sit here reading through these letters, it occurs to me how little has really changed through history. Kings, war heroes and great inventors may come and go, but human emotions remain constant. Having suffered from a broken heart, and during these consecutive days of revision convinced that I might be locked in a nun’s cell, I feel now almost a sisterly bond with Heloise, regardless of the 900 year age gap.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Telling Tales
After having written a whopping 13,000 words this week for my dissertation, I’ve decided to cheat on this week’s blog and just focus on what I’ve been writing academically.
So my dissertation is about medieval anti-Semitism. The dictionary definition of this word simply says ‘hostility or prejudice towards Jews’. Everyone knows this term when used in the same sentence as ‘Hitler’ for example. After World War Two Christian historians tried to define anti-Semitism as a secular phenomenon that acted contrary to the faith. Thus anti-Semitism could be disapproved of, whilst anti-Judaism was theologically justified. Christians could believe that Jews were inferior because they did not believe in the divinity of Christ, because this was based upon the truth of Jewish practice. Anti-Semitism however was when Christians began to make stuff up about Jews that were not based upon actual Jewish behaviour. These have been rather snazzily termed ‘chimerical fantasies’. These fantasies included accusations of ritual murder, causing the plague by well-poisoning and attacking the Eucharist.
Okay there are a bunch of different arguments for why anti-Semitism developed which I won’t bore you with. But the thing to take note is the almost general consensus that anti-Semitism actually originated in the eleventh or twelfth century, not the nineteenth century. My particular interest in this debate is trying to explain how anti-Semitism came about by looking at medieval Christian behaviour, rather than looking at Jewish practices. It was after all the Christians in the medieval west who created and told the various tales about ‘the Jews’. By telling fantastic tales about Jews medieval Christians were constructing their own identity as a unified faith.
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales is one of those books that pretty much everyone had to study at some point during school. The chivalry of the Knight’s Tale is well known, as is the bawdy humour of the Miller’s Tale. But how about the lesser-known Prioress’ Tale? In the course of my research I found that this was a fictional version of some of the anti-Semitic tales that actually circulated in the Middle Ages. The Prioress’ Tale ends with “O Hugh of Lincoln, likewise murdered so / By cursed Jews, as notorious.” Hugh of Lincoln was a Christian child who was popularly believed to have been murdered by Jews in 1255. A hundred years later and this tale was still well known enough to be included by Chaucer in his Canterbury Tales…
So my dissertation is about medieval anti-Semitism. The dictionary definition of this word simply says ‘hostility or prejudice towards Jews’. Everyone knows this term when used in the same sentence as ‘Hitler’ for example. After World War Two Christian historians tried to define anti-Semitism as a secular phenomenon that acted contrary to the faith. Thus anti-Semitism could be disapproved of, whilst anti-Judaism was theologically justified. Christians could believe that Jews were inferior because they did not believe in the divinity of Christ, because this was based upon the truth of Jewish practice. Anti-Semitism however was when Christians began to make stuff up about Jews that were not based upon actual Jewish behaviour. These have been rather snazzily termed ‘chimerical fantasies’. These fantasies included accusations of ritual murder, causing the plague by well-poisoning and attacking the Eucharist.
Okay there are a bunch of different arguments for why anti-Semitism developed which I won’t bore you with. But the thing to take note is the almost general consensus that anti-Semitism actually originated in the eleventh or twelfth century, not the nineteenth century. My particular interest in this debate is trying to explain how anti-Semitism came about by looking at medieval Christian behaviour, rather than looking at Jewish practices. It was after all the Christians in the medieval west who created and told the various tales about ‘the Jews’. By telling fantastic tales about Jews medieval Christians were constructing their own identity as a unified faith.
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales is one of those books that pretty much everyone had to study at some point during school. The chivalry of the Knight’s Tale is well known, as is the bawdy humour of the Miller’s Tale. But how about the lesser-known Prioress’ Tale? In the course of my research I found that this was a fictional version of some of the anti-Semitic tales that actually circulated in the Middle Ages. The Prioress’ Tale ends with “O Hugh of Lincoln, likewise murdered so / By cursed Jews, as notorious.” Hugh of Lincoln was a Christian child who was popularly believed to have been murdered by Jews in 1255. A hundred years later and this tale was still well known enough to be included by Chaucer in his Canterbury Tales…
Sunday, 17 April 2011
IX. A Monk’s Habit…
The sound of footsteps echoed around the shadowy undercroft. Hugh looked up and caught a glimpse of a hooded figure moving swiftly past the piers of rounded stone. He tensed expecting further trouble, his hand resting on the sword still at his side.
“Brother Robert tells me we have more guests, my child.” A disembodied voice cut through the darkness. Heloise turned toward it with recognition. The tension that had been evident in her features when talking to Philip disappeared and was replaced with a genuine smile of affection.
“Brother Benedict you’re back! Yes, two men were looking for a bed for a few nights. And as I knew there was space…”
“Quite right. Quite right.” The figure stepped forward into the light pushing the hood off as he spoke. “An unpleasant night to be outside. You’re most welcome.” Feeling somewhat foolish Hugh nodded to the monk in acknowledgement. He could see now that the man was wearing the dark brown robes of a Benedictine. Hugh was surprised by the youth of the figure, and supposed him to be around the same age as Richard. Yet they could not have been more dissimilar. Whereas Richard had the compact and hardened body of a warrior, Benedict was lanky and skinny, his movements almost clumsy. This caused Hugh to wonder if he had been a child oblate, promised to the church since birth. Despite his evenly cut tonsure, Benedict’s brown hair still managed to look wild as it stuck out at various angles. However the green eyes that returned his curious study were calm and unflinching. Though on outer appearances he seemed a youthful stray unsuited to the cloistered life, it appeared that his soul was well tailored to a monk’s habit. There was something reassuring in his frank green gaze and the crumpled Benedictine robes he wore. It was easy to see why Heloise had warmed to him.
With a pale arm Benedict gestured towards the back of the undercroft. “Some of my charges also sleep here. They were all monks at the cathedral before they grew to infirm to continue their duties. I look after them as best I can and keep them comfortable, but it is now simply a matter of time. There are also eleven of you pilgrims in total at the moment. You’ll be able to meet the rest of them later at supper in the refectory.” Hugh regarded the monk wearily, as he heard the slight amusement in his tone, and wondered if Benedict had witnessed the earlier scene between Richard and the relic-seller. His green eyes however remained steady and gave nothing away as he continued, “For now I suggest you unpack, rest and give thanks unto God for your safe arrival.” One of his charges gave a weak cough, and Benedict’s attention shifted. “You’ll excuse me,” he said softly as he hurried over to his patient, his long habit brushing across the stone floor.
“Brother Robert tells me we have more guests, my child.” A disembodied voice cut through the darkness. Heloise turned toward it with recognition. The tension that had been evident in her features when talking to Philip disappeared and was replaced with a genuine smile of affection.
“Brother Benedict you’re back! Yes, two men were looking for a bed for a few nights. And as I knew there was space…”
“Quite right. Quite right.” The figure stepped forward into the light pushing the hood off as he spoke. “An unpleasant night to be outside. You’re most welcome.” Feeling somewhat foolish Hugh nodded to the monk in acknowledgement. He could see now that the man was wearing the dark brown robes of a Benedictine. Hugh was surprised by the youth of the figure, and supposed him to be around the same age as Richard. Yet they could not have been more dissimilar. Whereas Richard had the compact and hardened body of a warrior, Benedict was lanky and skinny, his movements almost clumsy. This caused Hugh to wonder if he had been a child oblate, promised to the church since birth. Despite his evenly cut tonsure, Benedict’s brown hair still managed to look wild as it stuck out at various angles. However the green eyes that returned his curious study were calm and unflinching. Though on outer appearances he seemed a youthful stray unsuited to the cloistered life, it appeared that his soul was well tailored to a monk’s habit. There was something reassuring in his frank green gaze and the crumpled Benedictine robes he wore. It was easy to see why Heloise had warmed to him.
With a pale arm Benedict gestured towards the back of the undercroft. “Some of my charges also sleep here. They were all monks at the cathedral before they grew to infirm to continue their duties. I look after them as best I can and keep them comfortable, but it is now simply a matter of time. There are also eleven of you pilgrims in total at the moment. You’ll be able to meet the rest of them later at supper in the refectory.” Hugh regarded the monk wearily, as he heard the slight amusement in his tone, and wondered if Benedict had witnessed the earlier scene between Richard and the relic-seller. His green eyes however remained steady and gave nothing away as he continued, “For now I suggest you unpack, rest and give thanks unto God for your safe arrival.” One of his charges gave a weak cough, and Benedict’s attention shifted. “You’ll excuse me,” he said softly as he hurried over to his patient, his long habit brushing across the stone floor.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
VIII. That Bastard Frenchman…
Hugh rubbed his eyes, in an attempt to push the impending headache back towards a dark recess, as fatigue had combined fatally with bleak remembrances and difficult introductions.
“I do not trust him either. I caught him attempting to look through Adele’s belongings, though he denied it of course.” He had almost forgotten Heloise’s presence in the undercroft after the altercation between Richard and the relic-seller. Her comment drew his attention back to her. Hugh noted that she was not shocked or offended by the physical violence or curses that had been bandied about. He supposed if she had been living alone with her father on the Welsh border then she had probably grown up in a fully male world. He thought back to their quick dash from the refectory to the undercroft and the easy way she had gathered her skirts, which suggested much practice.
“I agree.” The Frenchman’s quiet drawl interrupted Hugh’s thoughts.
“Then why intervene?” Heloise responded, heat colouring her words.
“It would hardly have been right to allow him to strangle the man half to death before he could even defend himself.”
“This is Philip D’Aubury, a vassal of King Philip.” Heloise made the curt introduction, and Hugh gained the impression that she did not like the Frenchman.
“Hugh Mansel. And it was my companion Richard Siward who you met earlier.”
“A pleasure of course…” He murmured amusement evident in his tone. Neither Hugh nor Philip needed to explain the reasons behind Richard’s explosion of temper. A Frenchman in England so soon after the battles of 1217 was bound to provoke a fierce reaction.
“And what brings you to Canterbury?”
“The indulgence, after all the Pope did offer it to everybody in Europe.” Hugh felt that his tone was too reasonable and his posture too relaxed. His dark eyes however were sharp and unreadable. Hugh could not help but question his motives for being in Canterbury, but quickly berated himself silently. He was no better than Richard in judging this man. His nationality did not necessarily make him the enemy.
“Did you not regret leaving your wife behind?”
“I am unmarried, Lady Heloise.” She seemed to regret once more the words that had escaped before she had fully thought them through. Hugh wondered curiously what had provoked such hostility between them. The Frenchman had the appearance and tone of one well versed in courtly affectation. The scarlet robe decorated with intricate embroidery that he wore marked him as a man of some status. If he was a vassal of King Philip, then he was probably land rich as well. Hugh could only suppose that some incident had occurred on the journey from London to Canterbury, or one had some knowledge of the other that made them uneasy.
Either way it was none of his affair. With Richard’s short fuse and his own melancholic memories coming to the fore, Hugh had enough to be dealing with. His fellow pilgrims’ business was their own and he intended to keep it that way.
“I do not trust him either. I caught him attempting to look through Adele’s belongings, though he denied it of course.” He had almost forgotten Heloise’s presence in the undercroft after the altercation between Richard and the relic-seller. Her comment drew his attention back to her. Hugh noted that she was not shocked or offended by the physical violence or curses that had been bandied about. He supposed if she had been living alone with her father on the Welsh border then she had probably grown up in a fully male world. He thought back to their quick dash from the refectory to the undercroft and the easy way she had gathered her skirts, which suggested much practice.
“I agree.” The Frenchman’s quiet drawl interrupted Hugh’s thoughts.
“Then why intervene?” Heloise responded, heat colouring her words.
“It would hardly have been right to allow him to strangle the man half to death before he could even defend himself.”
“This is Philip D’Aubury, a vassal of King Philip.” Heloise made the curt introduction, and Hugh gained the impression that she did not like the Frenchman.
“Hugh Mansel. And it was my companion Richard Siward who you met earlier.”
“A pleasure of course…” He murmured amusement evident in his tone. Neither Hugh nor Philip needed to explain the reasons behind Richard’s explosion of temper. A Frenchman in England so soon after the battles of 1217 was bound to provoke a fierce reaction.
“And what brings you to Canterbury?”
“The indulgence, after all the Pope did offer it to everybody in Europe.” Hugh felt that his tone was too reasonable and his posture too relaxed. His dark eyes however were sharp and unreadable. Hugh could not help but question his motives for being in Canterbury, but quickly berated himself silently. He was no better than Richard in judging this man. His nationality did not necessarily make him the enemy.
“Did you not regret leaving your wife behind?”
“I am unmarried, Lady Heloise.” She seemed to regret once more the words that had escaped before she had fully thought them through. Hugh wondered curiously what had provoked such hostility between them. The Frenchman had the appearance and tone of one well versed in courtly affectation. The scarlet robe decorated with intricate embroidery that he wore marked him as a man of some status. If he was a vassal of King Philip, then he was probably land rich as well. Hugh could only suppose that some incident had occurred on the journey from London to Canterbury, or one had some knowledge of the other that made them uneasy.
Either way it was none of his affair. With Richard’s short fuse and his own melancholic memories coming to the fore, Hugh had enough to be dealing with. His fellow pilgrims’ business was their own and he intended to keep it that way.
Sunday, 3 April 2011
VII. The Relic-Seller…
Hugh followed Heloise down the steps which led to the hospital’s undercroft. After the warmth of the refectory’s blazing fire the undercroft felt cold and dark, lit only by a few rush lights. His eyes began to adjust to the gloom and the shadows cast by the flickering lights. A series of pallets stretched out between the supporting rounded pillars. The arrangement appeared temporary, undoubtedly due to the influx of pilgrims since the opening of St Thomas’ new shrine in July.
“Mind your own business you French bastard!” Richard’s harsh voice bounced loudly off the stone walls. Hugh felt impatience twist with anger in his gut. He had left his friend alone for less than five minutes and already he was in trouble again. Hugh swore that this was the last time he’d bail him out. Stepping around Heloise, Hugh strode towards the commotion, his tone even but commanding.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Richard stood muscles tensed and braced for a fight. One hand was clamped around the throat of a thin bird like man with a prominent nose. To his right stood a tall elegant figure that Hugh guessed to be the ‘French bastard’. His thick black hair and rich colouring spoke of possible Aquitanian roots. The tableau remained frozen as Hugh approached. “Richard.” Hugh snapped, exerting his position of authority over the younger knight.
“I caught this snivelling wretch searching through our belongings.” Richard indicated the man he had grip of, a globule of spit falling to the floor beneath his dangling feet.
“I tried telling him there were better ways of resolving this.” The Frenchman’s tone was smooth and reasonable.
“And I told you to mind your own business. I don’t need some cock-loving Frenchman telling me what to do.” Richard bellowed, his temper boiling over. The Frenchman merely raised an expressive eyebrow which infuriated him further. Letting go of the man’s throat Richard swung a fist at the Frenchman, only to be blocked by Hugh.
“Christ’s wounds Richard. Use that thick head of yours for five seconds and consider.” Richard straightened, his eyes remaining fixed on the Frenchman, hatred turning his blue gaze to ice. The calm and authoritative presence of Hugh in the undercroft was like a bucket of cold water thrown on the flames of Richard’s temper. Never one for backing down or apologising, he wheeled around muttering “I need a drink”. He left the undercroft barrelling into the startled but curious figure of Heloise.
Silence descended on the group, punctuated only by the raspy and gulping breaths taken by the hunched figure Richard had attacked.
“Did you do it?” Hugh asked wearily, “Did you search our bags?” The man looked up from beneath a fringe of lank greasy hair.
“No sir. I thought I had a placed something there earlier and that it might have gotten mixed in with your things.” It was a poor excuse and fooled nobody, which was clear even to him as his gaze nervously flicked from one silent figure to the other. Hugh had no wish to further exacerbate the situation created by Richard’s short temper. Their stay in the hospital and in Canterbury was to be short and he would keep a close eye on the man and his wandering hands. There was no need to do anything more for the moment. Hugh leant towards the man, the mundaneness of his words belying their threat.
“I hope you found whatever it was you had misplaced. I do not think it wise to look for it again. Do you?” The man shook his head uneasily. The quiet menace of Hugh was just as dangerous as the physical strength and brutality of Richard. “And what is your name? As we shall be staying here together it is best that we are acquainted with one another.”
“John. John of Tewkesbury.” Hugh studied the nervous figure before him. The hunched shoulders, thin limbs and sharp nose did give him a bird-like appearance, as did the voluminous grey robe he wore. John smiled ingratiatingly, revealing a set of blackened teeth. “I am a relic seller. Perhaps I could offer you something. At a cut-price rate, of course.” Hugh regarded him in distaste. Relic sellers, like pardoners, preyed upon the needy and desperate. People seemed willing to swallow whatever stories a relic seller concocted, but most relics he thought should have been approached with caution. If everyone possessed a true finger of Saint Peter, then Saint Peter had more than the requisite ten fingers. “Or perhaps you already possess a relic you’d like to trade?” John’s eyes were locked acquisitively on the amulet that hung around Hugh’s neck. “What does it contain? A piece of the Virgin’s shift?” He trailed off, noticing the tension that had infused Hugh’s body. John rubbed his hand across the red marks left by Richard’s chocking grip, he had no wish to repeat the experience. Shrivelling somewhat under Hugh’s narrow gaze, John stammered, “Yes…Well…I better…Yes.” With a last furtive glance around he sidled out of the undercroft, leaving a pungent smell of unwashed clothing in his wake.
“Mind your own business you French bastard!” Richard’s harsh voice bounced loudly off the stone walls. Hugh felt impatience twist with anger in his gut. He had left his friend alone for less than five minutes and already he was in trouble again. Hugh swore that this was the last time he’d bail him out. Stepping around Heloise, Hugh strode towards the commotion, his tone even but commanding.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Richard stood muscles tensed and braced for a fight. One hand was clamped around the throat of a thin bird like man with a prominent nose. To his right stood a tall elegant figure that Hugh guessed to be the ‘French bastard’. His thick black hair and rich colouring spoke of possible Aquitanian roots. The tableau remained frozen as Hugh approached. “Richard.” Hugh snapped, exerting his position of authority over the younger knight.
“I caught this snivelling wretch searching through our belongings.” Richard indicated the man he had grip of, a globule of spit falling to the floor beneath his dangling feet.
“I tried telling him there were better ways of resolving this.” The Frenchman’s tone was smooth and reasonable.
“And I told you to mind your own business. I don’t need some cock-loving Frenchman telling me what to do.” Richard bellowed, his temper boiling over. The Frenchman merely raised an expressive eyebrow which infuriated him further. Letting go of the man’s throat Richard swung a fist at the Frenchman, only to be blocked by Hugh.
“Christ’s wounds Richard. Use that thick head of yours for five seconds and consider.” Richard straightened, his eyes remaining fixed on the Frenchman, hatred turning his blue gaze to ice. The calm and authoritative presence of Hugh in the undercroft was like a bucket of cold water thrown on the flames of Richard’s temper. Never one for backing down or apologising, he wheeled around muttering “I need a drink”. He left the undercroft barrelling into the startled but curious figure of Heloise.
Silence descended on the group, punctuated only by the raspy and gulping breaths taken by the hunched figure Richard had attacked.
“Did you do it?” Hugh asked wearily, “Did you search our bags?” The man looked up from beneath a fringe of lank greasy hair.
“No sir. I thought I had a placed something there earlier and that it might have gotten mixed in with your things.” It was a poor excuse and fooled nobody, which was clear even to him as his gaze nervously flicked from one silent figure to the other. Hugh had no wish to further exacerbate the situation created by Richard’s short temper. Their stay in the hospital and in Canterbury was to be short and he would keep a close eye on the man and his wandering hands. There was no need to do anything more for the moment. Hugh leant towards the man, the mundaneness of his words belying their threat.
“I hope you found whatever it was you had misplaced. I do not think it wise to look for it again. Do you?” The man shook his head uneasily. The quiet menace of Hugh was just as dangerous as the physical strength and brutality of Richard. “And what is your name? As we shall be staying here together it is best that we are acquainted with one another.”
“John. John of Tewkesbury.” Hugh studied the nervous figure before him. The hunched shoulders, thin limbs and sharp nose did give him a bird-like appearance, as did the voluminous grey robe he wore. John smiled ingratiatingly, revealing a set of blackened teeth. “I am a relic seller. Perhaps I could offer you something. At a cut-price rate, of course.” Hugh regarded him in distaste. Relic sellers, like pardoners, preyed upon the needy and desperate. People seemed willing to swallow whatever stories a relic seller concocted, but most relics he thought should have been approached with caution. If everyone possessed a true finger of Saint Peter, then Saint Peter had more than the requisite ten fingers. “Or perhaps you already possess a relic you’d like to trade?” John’s eyes were locked acquisitively on the amulet that hung around Hugh’s neck. “What does it contain? A piece of the Virgin’s shift?” He trailed off, noticing the tension that had infused Hugh’s body. John rubbed his hand across the red marks left by Richard’s chocking grip, he had no wish to repeat the experience. Shrivelling somewhat under Hugh’s narrow gaze, John stammered, “Yes…Well…I better…Yes.” With a last furtive glance around he sidled out of the undercroft, leaving a pungent smell of unwashed clothing in his wake.
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