Authors: The Medieval Murderers
Not far from the north coast of Norfolk stood a famous shrine to Our Lady. Inside the priory at Walsingham was a chapel that sheltered an image of the Virgin and the Holy
Child. The light of many candles was reflected in the offerings of gold, silver and jewels that bedecked the image. Though made only of wood, she was capable of working miracles. Everyone knew that
prayers at Walsingham were especially efficacious, for the shrine possessed relics beyond compare, such as the Virgin’s milk preserved in a phial on the high altar of the priory church, or a
finger joint belonging to St Peter. The Virgin herself had commanded a healing spring to flow forth near the chapel. It was not only ordinary folk who journeyed to pay their respects there; it was
often visited by Edward III and the kings of England before him. If there was any single shrine in England that might be propitious for those hoping to ward off the pestilence, then it was surely
Walsingham.
So it was that, in the spring and summer of 1348, streams of people made their way from all over England to this sacred site. Most made careful preparations before embarking on their pilgrimage
to ensure their families and homes, their farms and other businesses were in good hands. In return, they promised to pray for those left behind and to bring back some protective token. Routes had
to be planned and stopping-places decided in advance; the devotion of the pilgrims would be increased if due reverence was paid at the churches and lesser shrines on the way to Walsingham. There
were even a few, particularly among those dwelling not far from the shrine, who declared they would walk the entire distance on bare feet.
If you could view these pilgrim parties from high above, you would see them moving along different tracks with a single-minded discipline and shared sense of purpose, moving like currents of
water until they converged in larger streams and then in still larger ones before turning into a river that, flowing in from the south, overwhelmed the little town of Walsingham.
But if you were to come down and observe them at eye-level, if you were actually to walk with them and listen for a time, you would soon realise that not all of these good people were driven by
a sense of devotion. Indeed, not every man and woman was going to Walsingham but simply happened to be travelling in the same general direction and was staying with a group of pilgrims for
companionship and safety on the road. Among the pilgrims, not every man or woman’s purpose was a holy one. Even at this moment of great peril, with the pestilence beginning to stalk across
the land, there were those who treated the pilgrimage as a fair-weather jaunt or a chance to escape their domestic obligations, or perhaps an opportunity to keep company with a neighbour’s
wife under pious cover. And the many groups of pilgrims would, for certain, have included a few individuals hoping to profit by the whole enterprise, since souvenirs brought back from Walsingham
– or supposedly brought back – would have an especial value to those who stayed behind at home.
One day in early July, a certain group of pilgrims, made up of several smaller bands and numbering altogether about three dozen people, was still several days’ journey
away from Walsingham. Some had come from places to the south and west, such as Cambridge and Newmarket and Bury, but others had travelled much further.
Now they were not so far from the town of Thetford, which is just over the southern Norfolk boundary. The pilgrims were at a point in their journeying when many would have welcomed the chance to
stop for rest and refreshment, particularly as they were on the outskirts of a town that, though not large, still boasted an inn. This establishment, called the Angel, was known to two or three of
the group, who were busy recommending it to their companions. The food and drink were reliable, they said, and the landlord was honest and friendly. Another reason for making a halt was that a
storm might be on the way. For some time, the travellers had been aware of whispers of thunder beyond the level horizon.
Yet, because several hours of daylight remained, others in the group wanted to press on to Thetford, which was much larger than this place – called Mundham – and therefore offered
more possibilities for overnight lodging. Thetford was also a desirable spot in itself because, like Walsingham, it contained a shrine to the Our Lady at the Cluniac priory.
As they entered Mundham, a bank of dark cloud suddenly welled up above the forest that lay on the far side of the straggling town. Thunder boomed, this time from nearby. The day was warm, and
the pilgrims were dusty and sweaty, but within moments their garments and exposed faces were buffeted by gusts of colder air and drops of rain driven sideways. In a few more moments, it was as if a
dark blanket had been thrown across the sky and the drops turned into a downpour. The few people loitering in the main street of the township and idly observing the arrival of the pilgrim party had
already run for shelter, together with the dogs that had been enjoying the late afternoon sun.
There was no discussion now about whether to stop or continue walking and, as one, the pilgrim group made for the Angel inn whose wooden sign rocked in the wind. The company scrambled beneath
the arched gateway and into the courtyard, already turning into a mire, and then inside the shelter of the hall that lay on the far side of the yard. A couple of locals were already sitting
drinking at the long trestle table that occupied one side of the high, spacious chamber. They looked up from their mugs with a mixture of smugness and annoyance at these new arrivals.
The landlord, whose name was Laurence, was a cheerful man, not only for professional reasons but by nature. He and his wife made the pilgrims feel welcome straight away, congratulating them on
their piety in making the trip to Walsingham and saying that after a long day’s journey they must be ready to take the weight off their feet and to sit down and be refreshed. The couple
ushered the pilgrims to the long trestle table, indicating to the two local drinkers that they should budge up, and swiftly pressed a second table into service because there were so many guests.
The newcomers were served bread and cheese and wine or ale by a boy and girl whose resemblance to the landlord and his wife showed plainly enough whose they were. All the while the rain rattled
against the high-beamed roof and draughts of wind penetrated ill-fitting shutters to lift the rushes strewn across the floor. A fire was going and some of the travellers clustered near it to dry
off their clothes.
Now Laurence was faced with a problem, even if it was quite a desirable one for an innkeeper. This was not the first party he had hosted on its way to Walsingham and he welcomed this influx of
potential overnight guests but could not accommodate them all in the timber-framed wings that flanked the courtyard of the Angel. How to encourage some of the pilgrims to stay, others to go? In
this situation, Laurence thought of business and not of the purpose of the pilgrimage. Like everyone else he feared the pestilence and its effect on trade, if it struck, to say nothing of whether
it might touch him and his family personally. But so far the plague had worked to his advantage because the general alarm it produced somehow seemed to shake people up and to provoke more coming
and going than usual.
As they helped to serve the food and drink, Laurence and his wife swiftly sensed which of the pilgrims were inclined to turn this halt into an overnight stay and which of them wanted to brave
the weather and reach Thetford before darkness fell. With hints and nods, the husband and wife – well-practised in this kind of quiet persuasion – agreed with the desires of each group.
Yes, madam, it does make good sense to remain here at the Angel in Mundham where your comfort and security are guaranteed. Indeed, there have been recent whispers of thieves and outlaws operating
in the woods between here and Thetford. And to others they said they admired their devoutness in wanting to get on with their journey to Walsingham as speedily as possible.
Sometimes it was possible to tell just by looking at people which ones were not likely to stir any further that day. For example, there was a white-bearded man in the company of a younger one
and, though the older man seemed very alert, something about the way he turned his head to catch at sounds suggested to Laurence that his eyesight must be very imperfect. He surely would need to
stay the night. Then there was that attractive woman – not English, Laurence thought – who definitely wouldn’t wish to expose herself or her well-cut clothes to the mercy of a
violent summer storm. And there was a hatchet-faced churchman – a prior, no less – who looked unlikely to put up with a moment’s more discomfort than he had to.
In a short space of time the band of pilgrims split into two, half waiting only for a pause in the downpour before resuming their journey, and the remainder, complaining of tiredness or sore
feet or just wanting the certainty of a bed for the night, deciding to stay. It helped that they seemed already to have sorted themselves instinctively into different groups, one at one table, one
at the other, with a group also clustered about the fire, and another two or three who seemed to prefer their own company on the fringe of each party. Laurence rubbed his hands with pleasure,
calculating how he would fit those who looked likely to remain into the beds in his two chambers.
So it was that after an hour or so the pilgrim band divided, with the leavers retrieving their bags and staffs and picking their way across the Angel yard, now sticky with mud, and out into the
main street of Mundham. The rain had ceased for a moment, though there were still rumbles of thunder in the distance. The rays of the evening sun shot through ragged holes in the cloud.
Those left behind ordered more food and drink and talked a little more loudly or rapidly, perhaps to reassure themselves that they were doing the right thing in staying behind. There were
several hours of daylight left, no need to go to bed yet. Besides, it was pleasant to be warm and fed and to talk at leisure while receiving the hospitality of these excellent innkeepers. Whether
it was because the remaining pilgrims were generally more cautious and reflective people, or had other reasons for not travelling on, the general conversation soon took a more serious turn.
Although you might try to forget the pressing matter of the pestilence, you could not do it for long, and so it was here at the Angel inn at Mundham. Once again the same questions came up, as they
surely recurred in thousands of conversations and exchanges taking place across the country every day.
Why was God allowing the pestilence to attack His people?
How might it be evaded?
Or, if it could not be escaped, how might its effects be minimised?
Someone had heard of a most infallible method, involving the gathering up of the contents of piss-pots and privies and the pouring of the mixture into a great brass cooking pot. Drape yourself
with a towel, said this individual, and hang your head over the cauldron. Breathe deep and long until your gorge rises. Then, as soon as you have recovered, repeat the treatment. The noxious
vapours will not only harden you against the pestilence but the vomiting that will likely result has the benefit of purging your body of any dangerous elements. The more fastidious pilgrims turned
up their noses at this treatment but, even so, a number of them made a mental note of it.
From physical remedies the talk turned to spiritual ones: to human sin and divine salvation. There was discussion about which sin, out of the seven deadly sins, was the worst and so the most
deserving of God’s punishment. Some said it was pride, others wrath or envy. Gluttony was scarcely mentioned – after all, the pilgrims were still eating and drinking. Lust was referred
to, but in passing, and with an embarrassed snigger or a wry look. Rather in the way that the original pilgrim party had divided in two by instinct, so now it seemed that there was a natural
tendency for this woman to denounce one particular sin, or that man to turn his attention to another, until not a single one of the seven was left unmentioned and commented on. Settling in for a
longer session, several of these same pilgrims indicated that they might have stories to tell, each of which would prove the wickedness of the sin that he or she was proclaiming as the very worst,
the most damnable.
Seeing an opportunity, their host, Laurence, who had by now made himself one of the party, suggested that the guests should tell their tales. After all, the long summer evening had scarcely
begun. (There was plenty of time to purchase more refreshment, he might have added.) ‘Why don’t we have a proper contest?’ he said. ‘As they do in universities and such
learned places, but not all dry and dusty. A contest of storytelling, told by people with real knowledge and experience of life. As,’ he said, looking round with a beaming smile, ‘I can
see all of you ladies and gentlemen have knowledge and experience.
‘Yes, let us tell stories of sins, and then it might emerge which one is the best. That is, the worst . . .’
Though the idea was received with enthusiasm, there seemed to be a reluctance to go first, as if each speaker feared being judged not for his storytelling but for the sin that was its subject.
Then from the group clustered around the fire came the sounds of urgent discussion . . .
He had listened to the anecdotes and rumours told by the other travellers with half an ear while they were trudging along the road, but once they reached the inn, Janyn
Hussett glanced about him and shook his head as he settled himself near the fire, trying to ignore them.
These folks were all full of piss and wind. They wittered on about their feelings, their lives, as though nothing else mattered, but they were shallow, insubstantial people. If he had any
choice, he would leave them. He wasn’t one of them. They had no idea what life was like for men like him, for men like Bill and Walt and Barda. For those who had died.
He sat and stared at the fire. Flames were licking up the faggots from the twigs beneath, and he was reminded again of the fires about Caen after the terrible sacking of the city, the wailing
and weeping. And those horrors were early in the campaign, long before the astonishing victory at Crécy, and then the capture of Calais itself. His was a life of horrors: war and bloodshed,
power and fear.