The man shook his head petulantly. ‘The pestilence, Father. Are his relics proof against the Great Dying?’
The crowd hissed through their teeth at the dangerous words. Inch by inch they drew back, clearing a circle of mud around him. One old female muttered under her breath and made the sign of horns with her fingers. I glared at her for indulging in such heathen tomfoolery. She ignored me and spat at my feet. I closed my eyes and called upon the Lord to plant the right words into my mouth.
‘Only God knows the workings of His will.’ There was a groan, and not a little sucking of teeth. ‘The pestilence is His will. It is punishment for our sins,’ I continued, gathering strength.
‘God forgive me!’ sobbed a man from somewhere in the mob.
He was hushed swiftly, and for once all ears turned to me with full attention.
‘But,’ I cried. ‘But,’ I repeated, for it was a good word and had captured them. ‘The Saint is a strong protector. Not one goodman or goodwife of this village has perished since the Great Mortality came to this land.’
My words stirred up a hubbub of excitement: they hung on to my coat, pawing at my arms, heaping thanks upon my head and calling down the blessings of the Saint for some miracle they thought had taken place. I wriggled free of their clinging and hurried to the church, its hulk looming out of the drizzle like a monstrous bull. I patted its flank and let myself in by the small north door; laid my back to the wood, closed my eyes, stretched out my hand and brushed the plaster of the wall, warm and soft as a child’s cheek. Oh Lord, behold Your servant.
What a dungheap you go to, John had said when the Bishop divided up the parishes between we new priests. He was given the Staple with its fine harbour and cobbled streets; its church with silver and gold and paintings on wood and wall. I had laughed then, and I laughed now, joyful in my heart to be amongst simple, unlettered folk. Did Our Lord not do the same? My church boasted no pillars, nor aisles, nor benches. A barn of a place rather, fit for gathering a harvest of souls who offer fruits of praise. I smiled at the neat thought: perhaps that would suit today’s sermon. The Lord had not seen His way to giving me a theme as yet.
Besides, my church had its own prize: the shrine of the Saint, hallowed with his bones. My feet whispered a path to where it swamped the chancel, pinnacles piled up like sugar loaves nibbled by greedy children, pierced with windows through which could be seen the plain grey hulk of the tomb. I spat on my sleeve-end and rubbed at a thumb-mark, no doubt left by a careless pilgrim.
‘Guide me, oh Lord,’ I prayed. I heard God knock at the door of my soul once, twice, and I shouted, ‘I am here, Master!’
‘Father?’
I twisted about. A man stood at the rood-screen, banging his knuckles against the wood.
‘Father!’ he bawled. ‘Shall I ring the bell? It is time.’
I blinked myself back into this world, waited until I was sure my voice was steady.
‘Edwin, you do not need to ring the bell. I am content to do it myself.’
‘I am the bell-ringer. Father Hugo chose me. I cannot be unchosen. Do I not do it well, Father Thomas?’
‘Yes, Edwin, you do it very well,’ I sighed.
He folded his arms. ‘You have chosen no deacon yet, Father? You have been here this quarter-year.’
‘No deacon, Edwin.’
‘Not even a chaplain? A priest needs a chaplain.’
‘I strive for God,’ I said. ‘It is my joyful duty to be about His work, however humble.’
‘Father Hugo had a chaplain. And two church-wardens.’
‘That Reverend Father was content to let others toil for him,’ I said. And he did many other things I would not, I thought privately. ‘I will not set myself above you.’
‘But you’ve made William your steward. And Lukas. Do you favour them?’
‘I do not,’ I sigh.
I had had little choice in the matter, although Edwin did not need to know about those colourful discussions.
‘You work too hard, Father,’ he muttered; disappeared up the tower steps and the bell clanged out its welcome.
Soon, I must open up to the pilgrims. I propped the ladder at the west window and peeped out. Even through the glass I could hear them, buzzing like bees in a pot. Like bees to the hive for the honey of the Saint and his sweet miracles. Perhaps this was the right idea for my sermon. I let it bloom in the soil of my mind, planted there with God’s grace. It came to me that a honeycomb with its many cells was like a psaltery, each of the cells a psalm dripping with the treacle of God’s word. The hive was the community of this church, the congregation bees who laboured for their queen, bringing tithes of nectar and offering them freely.
I was delighted with these clever notions. Here was a fine Saint’s Day sermon to instruct as well as dazzle the people. But a worm twisted in my mind: if the priest was the queen, then that made me a female. If I saw it, so would they. I imagined them snickering behind their hands and my enthusiasm stumbled.
I revived myself hastily; the remainder of the idea was sound, especially the part about the tithes. Then I remembered that bees had stings and used them on whoever tried to take the honey. Also, they were as like to desert a hive and fly to a better place if they had a mind to it. My idea, so clever, crumbled. Perhaps God did not speak to me after all. I shook off the prick of disappointment.
An idea would come to me. The pilgrims were here. They had heard of the pious priest who tended the relics. I would make them love me, would take the leaden blank of this day and stamp my impression upon it. I wanted them to carry away a clear picture of their new priest, not Father Hugo. I was tired of hearing how bold he was, how strong, how jolly, how wild. I wanted them to return home with my name on their lips and in their hearts. Oh, that Father Thomas, they would say round their hearths. You should have heard him preach! Not like Father Hugo, and that’s a good thing. Next year, I would be greeted like an old friend.
I sighed. I could delay no longer. I climbed back down, pulled open the great west door and turned to greet the pilgrims with a broad smile.
Straightaway, they swarmed towards the shrine: clawing the stone, kissing and licking and begging to be cured of the itch, the flux, the ague, the earache, the falling sickness, the fever. All of them weaving their limbs in and out of the openings until the shrine could barely be seen for the bodies wriggling upon it, the onion reek of their breath so strong it heaved my stomach.
One man, very grandly dressed, approached the shrine on his knees. It was only when he passed that I noticed that the flagstones behind him were smeared with blood. Exhaustion had ploughed deep furrows upon his face. When he reached the chancel steps he paused and lifted one leg in an effort to climb the step. I approached and took his arm. He shrank from the contact.
‘Don’t touch me!’ he growled, only then noticing my liturgical garments. ‘I beg forgiveness, Father,’ he moaned, balled his hand into a fist and clouted himself on the side of his head.
‘My son,’ I said. ‘I offer succour. It is Christian charity.’
‘I said, do not touch me,’ he replied, only a little less angrily. ‘I have vowed to undertake this pilgrimage with no help from any man. Do not thwart me when I am so close.’
Tears rose in his eyes and spilled down his cheeks into the grim stubble of his beard. I made the sign of the Cross over his head.
‘The Lord forgives you, my son.’ I spoke most earnestly, for his pain had moved me.
‘How do you know?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you speak for God?’
I gasped at his intemperate speech, only to gasp louder