Watch This

I would highly recommend tuning into BBC4 at 9pm tomorrow evening to catch the second part of ‘Guilty Pleasures’, a historical documentary written and presented by Dr Michael Scott.

I’m not typically a huge fan of documentaries because I get impatient and irritated by the general level of ignorance assumed of the viewer. However part one of this documentary was intelligent and interesting, and it did help that the presenter himself was rather easy on the eye. His over enthusiasm was occasionally irksome and there seemed to be a lot of justification for the study of history (with clichéd lines such as ‘by understanding the past we can understand our present’), but overall I was impressed.

The first part focused upon the various types of luxuries in Ancient Greece, such as fish, statues and even long hair, and also the different attitudes towards these luxuries. Part two promises to focus upon how luxuries conflicted with the teachings of the medieval church.

I’ve touched on the issue of luxury for the medieval church in the course of my own research. Wealth was one of the central problems for monastic communities and the issue which each new order vowed to eradicate but never quite succeeded in doing. The Cistercians, for example, abandoned traditional Benedictine monasteries to isolate themselves in uninhabited parts of the countryside around Europe. In doing this the Cistercians wanted to provide for themselves through their own labour. However the popularity of the order was to some extent their own undoing and the Cistercians became renowned for their wealth.

Rather than being biographical or focused upon a particular historical event, this documentary is intriguing for presenting a cultural history that spans centuries. At the very least this documentary is worthwhile watching for the beautiful historical objects and settings it showcases.

The Heretic's Curse...

Carcassonne, 1218

The Crow

I am a follower of death. I listen, watch and wait whilst it strikes, before I move in with claw and beak to prise forth its spoils. I am waiting now, sat amongst the wet leaves and branches, my gleaming eyes fixed on those below me. I have followed death to both man and beast, but it is man that interests me most. The death of man is so varied, but always hideous, always selfish. Nothing is more selfish than murder. Not that I am complaining, death is always generous to my kind, the carrion eaters.

 I watch those below me, unseen but all knowing, my black body shrouded in darkness. The night echoes with my mocking laugh as I crow over these humans. I cannot understand what they are saying, just as they do not understand my call, but still I know their deaths. All men die puking, shitting and crying. It is ugly. But the motives for death are uglier. Whether it is for religion or for revenge, it is still murder.

These men should have listened to my warnings, for I know how they will die.

The Newcomer

                “God’s teeth that is a foul brew!” The Newcomer choked, wiping his mouth distastefully with the sleeve of his tunic. “Tastes more like piss than wine.” His companions chuckled as the skin continued to be passed around the group. Each man took a deep draught, hissing with bared teeth as the fiery liquid trickled through their systems. Foul the drink may well have been, but the five men huddled round the fire with the Newcomer were hardened to the taste. The inner warmth kindled by the rank liquid had helped stave off many wretched nights spent battered by the elements.

                Nightfall had caused them to halt their return to Carcassonne, forcing them once more to camp outside under a thunderous sky. Each man sat hunched in his cloak with body bent towards the meagre warmth offered by the fire. The rain spat down on them, just as the occupants of the nearby town had spat at them. These men after all were no heroes. Perhaps their cause had once been a pursuit for divine retribution. Perhaps a decade earlier when the fighting had started that had been their incentive, but these men no longer cared. They killed people. Men, women and children. Heretics or not. They killed people who defied the Catholic Church or who defied the King of France. Even the Newcomer lacked the religious fervour of a new crusader. Perhaps he too had merely been attracted by the opportunity for steady employment. For in truth they were fighting for themselves.

                The flickering of the flames cast dancing shadows out into the midnight gloom of the forest. Trees loomed tall and straight in the darkness, their leaves dripping wetly onto the group. Mist rolled across the boggy ground, making the weary traveller damp and uncomfortable, whilst rendering a sentry’s watch pointless.

                The Newcomer nevertheless surveyed the scene with flinty eyes. His face impassive, the only sign of his unease was the reflexive clenching of his fist against his thigh. He had joined the group only a few weeks before, replacing their dead comrade who had fallen prey to some of the heretics. They would not tell him any details, for the five men that sat beside him did not like the Newcomer. At less than thirty summers old he was too young to be fully trusted, and his handsome and unblemished face was unnatural. His grey eyes were as cold and hard as steel and seemed to pierce through those he fixed his gaze upon. Taciturn and solitary, the Newcomer made no attempts to ameliorate their dislike.

                “Ain’t no use lad.” A mocking voice spoke from the shadows. “The forest plays tricks with you. Makes you see things that aren’t there. The best thing you can do for your sanity is just not to look.” This advice was given by a burly man, his face made ugly by a liberal collection of battle scars. The Newcomer’s gaze slipped once more to the forest before moving back to the burly man who was using a dagger to remove the blood and dirt encrusted under his fingernails.

                “What do you think is out there?”

“Wolves.” “Heretics.” “Beasts.” The muttered replies came variously from around the fire.

“Demons?” The Newcomer offered. Silence descended over the group broken only by the sound of the rain slapping against leather boots.

                “And what makes you say that lad?”

                “I’ve heard stories.”

                “Ahh stories.” The man’s tone caused his companions to laugh derisively, but the Newcomer continued to hold his gaze steadily. “And is that what brought you here to us lad...stories?”

                “I suppose you could say it was fate that brought me to you. Fate and a curse. And of course the poor skills and luck that saw your friend murdered by peasants.” More than one man round the fire tightened the grip on his sword, but the Newcomer continued with uncharacteristic verbosity. “But I do have a story to tell you. One that some of you might already know.” Like any good story teller he stopped letting an unconscious hush descend over the group. When still he did not continue one of the men prompted sarcastically,

                “We’re all ears now pup. Tell us your story.” The Newcomer’s lips curled sardonically,

                “Certainly.”

The Crow

The instinct for survival is strong in all animals. But man goes to the greatest extremes to avoid death. He will push the capacity of his endurance in order to escape what is inevitable. She had stared death in the face, but still she ran.

It was winter some ten years past now, when this woman made her flight. I was able to follow her progress that night as the moon shone brightly down, filtering through the trees barren of leaves. Her journey through the forest was slow and arduous. The landscape through which she ran was bleak, the ground solid and crisp with frost, and the wind an icy blast. I called at her to hurry, for death was gaining on her. But my cries only seemed to make her more fearful and her movements more erratic.

Why would she not heed my warnings?

The Heretic

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest the sound crashing in her ears like waves hurling themselves against a rocky shore. Her breath whistled through frozen lips and muscles screamed from overuse. But still she did not stop. She could not stop whilst the hand of fear pushed her ever forward through the forest. Frost bitten branches tugged at her billowing dress and snagged the unbound mess of her dark hair. They scratched at her face and hands as she hurried onwards. Tears of fear and desperation clouded her vision and as her foot caught on something she cried out. She fell forward the world spinning momentarily. The impact on the frigid ground jarred her hip and sent ribbons of pain down her leg. She muffled a sob and pushed herself up, leaning heavily on the gnarled stump of a tree. Breathing unevenly, her hands trembling, she caressed her swollen stomach. Relief washed over her as she felt the determined kick of her unborn child against her palm.

                In the frozen stillness of the night, over the sound of her panting breath, she heard the gurgling of water. Was it a stream? Or perhaps it was a river? Whatever it was the sound also heralded a settlement of some kind. She was almost free, for surely it would not pursue her there. She hurried towards the sound, stumbling in her haste. She could see the water now and she could hear the grinding of a mill wheel. Hope flared in her heart, easing the fatigue of her body. She gathered her skirts in her hand preparing to cross over to settlement and safety.

                But there it was blocking her path, thwarting her escape. A horrid, black and faceless demon, clawing at her dress. She screamed, backing away from its tearing grasp, her feet slipping over the ice covered stone. Her balance precarious, she gasped in fear, as the demon abruptly released her dress. Her struggles propelled her backwards and she fell endlessly down.

 She heard a laugh, twisted and cruel, just before the water rushed into her ears, enclosing her in its icy embrace.

The Crow

Religion is not something I or my kind understand. We’re elemental creatures governed by the simple needs of existence. But men are more complex, with belief systems that require absolute conformity.

They dragged her from the river the following morning. I watched as they gawked at her lifeless body, grotesque in its distorted features. Her face was a frozen mask of terror, with eyes wide open, fixed in fear upon the figure of death, and mouth gaping in a silent scream. Her hands were curled into talons as if scratching at her tomb.

The priest refused to house her in his church. He pronounced her a heretic. She did not conform to his beliefs. Whether she conformed to anyone else’s beliefs was of no accord. The priest was the figurehead of the community. His word was their will.

I am a part of nature. My role is necessary in nature’s cycle. But what they did to that woman was unnatural. They hacked at her body and burnt it so that she could not harass the living.

As they burnt the woman a great scream was heard far and wide. It was louder and more terrible than any of my warnings. She was cursing the demon who had laughed down at her, that he would suffer one day for his actions.

The Newcomer

“But I imagine you do not believe in demons or curses. After all you are practical battle hardened men.” No one contradicted the Newcomer’s mocking statement, but the fear and doubt in their eyes was plainly evident. “But I do not believe in demons. Or at least not the imagined denizens of hell. The real demons are men. For it was at the hands of a man that the woman lost her life.” He paused, “The faceless demon that she thought she beheld was but a monk with hood drawn over his face.”

                “And is that it? I have to say I had hoped for better.” There was a collective laugh from around the fire, as pent up tension was released. The Newcomer snapped angrily,

                “No. That is but the beginning.” His audience were unintentionally transfixed by his tale. Having before that night never heard him speak two words together, his voice was strangely hypnotic in the flickering darkness. “This monk was sent to preach in several villages suspected of harbouring heretics. Away from his monastery he began to be wracked by temptation, and nothing tempted him more than the woman. One night, when he was so drunk he could barely remember his name, he took the woman in force. He moved on from her village with no further regard for her, but when he returned he found her great with child. The full weight of what he had done that night crashed down upon him and he buckled under the pressure. He had to kill her, wipe out his crime and the accusatory look in her eyes. Sensing the danger the woman fled into the forest away from him. There was no need to follow her, no need to silence her, but reason had escaped him. She was a heretic and had used her demonic wiles to tempt him. And so when his chance came, he took it, he killed her.” The Newcomer stared hard into the fire, “The monk knew he could not return to his monastery and so he let his tonsure grow out and became a soldier, a crusader, one of us. He could not convert the heretics and so he would kill them. It would be his penance.” The Newcomer lapsed into silence as his story ended. The men around the fire began to shift and move,

                “You need a better ending lad.”

                “You are right. It does need a better ending. It should end with revenge, justice for the life that was taken. His penance was not complete.” The Newcomer smiled cruelly as he continued, “I said I do not believe in demons. But I do not doubt that the power of a curse is strong. Neither time nor distance weakens it.”

The Crow

I am not alone in my watch. One man remains alert as his companions drift into sleep. He rises, withdrawing from the fire with fear in his eyes. I watch silently as the shadow follows him. The darkness swallows them up as they move deeper into the forest. I have followed death long enough to know where this will end.

I cry out as something flashes in the gloom startling me. My cry drowns out his desperate pleas and death rattle. The shadow moves silently and swiftly away from the avenue of trees. He walks out wiping the long blade on his tunic before sheathing it at his side. He glances back at the guttering fire before stalking away into the night. The penance was complete. Justice had been served. The curse was fulfilled.

 I watch no longer. Swooping down I smell the cloying scent of blood and piss on the damp ground. Secretively I look around. Good, he is all mine. My beak snaps in anticipation.

Historical Note

The Albigensian Crusade was fought in the south of France between 1208 and 1229. It was launched by Pope Innocent III and supported by the kings of France. The target was the Cathar heretics sheltered by the southern French nobility. The Cathars were thought to be an organised church that opposed Catholicism. Their dualist beliefs led them to reject many important Catholic doctrines such as the Trinity and Baptism. The Catholic Church tried at first to suppress the heresy through preaching before resorting to a crusade. The Crusade led to the massacre and destruction of many Cathar centres, such as the city of Carcassonne. However the Crusade was ultimately a failure. A few years after it ended the papacy invented another solution, the Inquisition.

                There was a popular medieval tale that told of a monk who was visited by the devil. The devil asked him to choose one of three sins; drunkenness, adultery or murder. The monk chose drunkenness as the least sinful. However he got so drunk he lay with the miller’s wife. Unfortunately the miller caught them and the monk was forced to kill him. The devil thus had outwitted the foolish monk.

                It was commonly thought by medieval people, and recorded by medieval clerics, that a stake through the heart, dismemberment or burning would stop a corpse from rising from the ground and attacking the living.

A Pair Of Shoes...

There is a pair of shoes in my wardrobe that I bought on a whim. One of those moments that I got sucked into an advertiser’s con and thought to myself, “I could be THAT woman”. But of course I wasn’t and they have been resigned to the depths of my wardrobe ever since. On occasion they venture out of that dusty realm as I strut across my room, do an admiring twirl in the mirror, before tottering straight back and putting them safely into the box that is their home. Were they worth the expense? Probably not. But for those odd five minutes their vertiginous heels and colourful beading allow me to pretend to be a different woman.
     What’s any of this got to do with medieval history or fictional writing? Well when I sit to down to write I often find myself assuming a character depending on the style of the words I'm putting on paper. Just like I might assume a character according to my footwear. Comfy slippers are a bit like a character’s internal monologue, black shoes with a shiny buckle are a little like formal essays, and red stilettos are definitely perfect for murder.
     History is without doubt my first love, but there are so many different genres of historical fiction to choose from nowadays. You could go for a ‘swords and sandals’ historical adventure like this...

His blood coursed through his body, as his grip tightened on the hard unyielding metal of his broadsword. The sun glinted off the blade as it swung in a great arc at his opponent. Blood gushed from the wound he had opened and splashed bright scarlet onto his surcoat. With a roar that rumbled through his chest he viciously hacked at the men that surrounded him. His muscles burned from the constant exertion, and sweat blurred his vision, but he was driven onwards by instinct and by fear.

     Of course there is on the other end of the fictional scale the good old historical ‘bodice-ripper’ as it were...

     "You can’t go.” Her voice quivered with emotion as she looked up at him, vulnerability sketched across her features. He reached out tucking an errant curl behind her ear, before trailing a hand down her cheekbone. His dark solemn gaze swept across her face before he replied,
     "I have to.” She bit her lip and looked away from his penetrating study. His hand moved to her hip guiding her closer to the warmth of his body. Her breath jilted as their bodies collided and her eyes flew to his. “I’ll be back in the winter. The Earl wouldn’t be foolish enough to risk an attack then.” He lent forward, his lips brushing hers in a gentle caress. “Wait for me.” She sighed softly, her eyes fluttering closed as she leant forward allowing him to deepen the kiss. His hand moved to her neck, tilting her head and drawing her closer.

     Alternatively my own current favourite book of choice is the historical crime novel...

Death had certainly not come easy to him. His face was frozen in a mask of panic, eyes staring in a desperate plea for help and mouth open to emit his last struggles for breath. His nails had scoured deeply into the wood of the table as he had thrashed around in his death throes. A metal goblet lay overturned beside him, the russet colour of the wine staining the wooden surface. The stranger surveyed the scene with cold unfeeling eyes before announcing to the room in a deep accented voice,
     "It seems that this man was poisoned.”

     Where is all this going you might be asking yourself. Well it is by way of excusing myself from my current storyline and opening up the opportunity for variation and experimentation. After all writing is a bit like buying a pair of shoes. You’ve got to try different styles on before you find a comfortable fit.

The Bestiary

There is an animal called an ELEPHANT, which has no desire to copulate.
     People say that it is called an Elephant by the Greeks on account of its size, for it approaches the form of a mountain: you see, a mountain is called ‘eliphio’ in Greek. In the Indies, however, it is known by the name of ‘barrus’ because of its voice – whence both the voice is called ‘barritone’ and the tusks are called ‘ivory’ (ebur). Its nose is called a proboscis (for the bushes), because it carries its leaf-food to its mouth with it, and it looks like a snake.
     Elephants protect themselves with ivory tusks. No larger animals can be found. The Persians and the Indians, collected into wooden towers on them, sometimes fight each other with javelins as if from a castle. They possess vast intelligence and memory. They march about in herds. And they copulate back-to-back.
     Elephants remain pregnant for two years, they do not have babies more than once, nor do they have several at a time, but only one. They live three hundred years. If one of them wants to have a baby, he goes eastward toward Paradise, and there is a tree there called Mandragora, and he goes with his wife. She first takes of the tree and then gives some to her spouse. When they munch it up, it seduces them, and she immediately conceives in her womb. When the proper time for being delivered arrives, she walks out into a lake, and the water comes up to the mother’s udders. Meanwhile the father-elephant guards her while she is in labour, because there is a certain dragon which is inimical to elephants. Moreover, if a serpent happens by, the father kills and tramples on it till dead. He is also formidable to bulls – but he is frightened by mice, for all that.
     The Elephant’s nature is that if he tumbles down he cannot get up again. Hence it comes that he leans against a tree when he wants to go to sleep, for he has no joints in his knees. This is the reason why a hunter partly saws through a tree, so that the elephant, when he leans against it, may fall down at the same time as the tree. As he falls, he calls out loudly; and immediately a large elephant appears, but it is not able to lift him up. At this they both cry out, and twelve more elephants arrive upon the scene: but even they cannot lift up the one who has fallen down. Then they all shout for help, and at once there comes a very Insignificant Elephant, and he puts his mouth with the proboscis under the big one, and lifts him up. This little elephant has, moreover, the property that nothing evil can come near his hairs and bones when they have been reduced to ashes, not even a Dragon.
     Now the Elephant and his wife represent Adam and Eve. For when they were pleasing to God, before their provocation in the flesh, they knew nothing about copulation not had they knowledge of sin. When, however, the wife ate of the Tree of Knowledge, which is what Mandragora means, and gave one of the fruits to her man, she was immediately made a wanderer and they had to clear out of Paradise, Adam did not know her. But then, the Scriptures say: ‘Adam went in to his wife and she conceived and bore Cain, upon the waters of tribulation’. Of which waters the Psalmist cries: ‘Save me, O God, for the waters have entered in even unto my soul’. And immediately the dragon subverted them and made them strangers to God’s refuge. This is what comes of not pleasing God.
     When the Big Elephant arrives, i.e. the Hebrew Law, and fails to lift up the fallen, it is the same as when the Pharisee failed with the fellow who had fallen among thieves. Nor could the Twelve Elephants, i.e. the Band of the Prophets, lift him up, just as the Levite did not lift the man we mentioned. But it means that Our Lord Jesus Christ, although he was the greatest, was made the most Insignificant of All the Elephants. He humiliated himself, and was made obedient even unto death, in order that he might raise men up.
     The little elephant also symbolizes the Samaritan who put the man on his mare. For he himself, wounded, took over our infirmities and carried them from us. Moreover, this heavenly Samaritan is interpreted as the Defender about whom David writes: ‘The Lord defending the lowly ones’. Also, with reference to the little elephant’s ashes: ‘Where the Lord is present, no devil can come nigh’.
     It is a fact that Elephants smash whatever they wind their noses round, like the fall of some prodigious ruin, and whatever they squash with their feet they blot out.
     They never quarrel about their wives, for adultery is unknown to them. There is a mild gentleness about them, for, if they happen to come across a forwandered man in the deserts, they offer to lead him back into familiar paths. If they are gathered together into crowded herds, they make way for themselves with tender and placid trunks, lest any of their tusks should happen to kill some animal on the road. If by chance they do become involved in battles, they take no little care of the casualties, for they collect the wounded and exhausted into the middle of the herd.

(Text from T H White's 'Book of Beasts'; image own).

XI. The Old Crusader...

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.

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.

     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.

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.