Kate Sedley: The Wicked Winter

I heaved a sigh of relief at the conclusion of my ordeal just as my daughter stirred and opened her eyes, blinking placidly.

'Heigh-ho, lass!' I said and swung her on to my back, her little arms clasped trustingly around my neck. I turned to Margaret. 'Can you tuck the shawl around her?' But my mother-in-law had disappeared. Moments later I saw her stooping over the friar who had lowered himself to the ground, exhausted by his labours, his emaciated body hunched against a wintry blast of wind. She was smiling triumphantly, and I guessed correctly that she had beaten the two other local matrons who crowded at her heels in their bid to offer hospitality to the preacher. I sighed resignedly. I had hoped for a quiet dinner, during which I had intended to break it gently to Margaret that her suspicions, voiced earlier that morning, were well founded: I had to get away soon from the stifling domesticity of the cottage and travel the road for a while; not for long, only a sennight, or a fortnight at the most.

The need to go had become overwhelming. I had been fighting it for days, knowing from past experience that when the longing grew to be as powerful as this, God had work for me to do. Of course I argued with Him about it. I always did, although I knew that any priest would tell me that it is wrong to address oneself directly to the Almighty. He is too awesome, too clouded in glory, to be approached by lowly sinners. The multitude of saints, the Virgin Herself, are there to intercede on our behalf, to take upon their own shoulders the trivial burdens of our days. But I had always secretly rebelled against this notion. Throughout life I have found it better to speak directly, wherever possible, to the head man.

God, as usual, listened patiently to everything I had to say and then proceeded with His own plans as if I hadn't spoken. Naturally I'd known what the outcome would be, but protesting gives me a sense of independence and the prospect that one day I might even win.

Margaret retumed, the friar walking beside her.

'Roger, Brother Simeon has done us the honour of agreeing to share our dinner. Brother, this is my son-by-marriage, Roger the chapman.'

'Master Chapman!' The pale blue eyes regarded me fiercely as if he knew that of all that crowd I was the only one who had paid his words scant attention. Fortunately, as my gaze shifted guiltily under his, he was diverted by the approach of one of the congregation, a fuller whom I knew by sight, bearing a purse full of money.

'A collection taken up amongst us, Brother,' the man said respectfully, 'to help you on your way.'

'Thank you, my son.' Friar Simeon stowed the purse away in the shabby leather pouch which hung from his girdle. 'And now, Dame Walker, shall we eat?'

An hour later, as the pale winter sun rose towards its zenith, Friar Simeon scraped the last drop of stew from his bowl and drained the last dregs of ale from his cup before giving a contented sigh.

'That was an excellent repast, Mistress Walker.' They were the first words he had uttered since saying grace, a silence which had inhibited both Margaret and myself from speaking throughout the meal. The only noise, apart from the sounds of eating, had been Elizabeth's baby prattle, which no one but her grandmother could understand. She sat, as good as gold, in her own little chair with the high carved back which a neighbour and friend, Nick Brimble, had made for her, sharing the contents of Margaret's dish. She was a quiet, mannerly child even at that young age.

'I'm glad you found it to your liking, Brother,' said my mother-in-law, preparing to rise from the table. 'If you've finished, perhaps you'd care to draw nearer the fire. It's a bitter day.'

The friar needed no second bidding, dragging his stool closer to the hearth and pulling up his shabby gown so that the warmth could seep into his bony knees. Margaret sat beside him while I lowered myself to the floor, among the rushes, cradling Elizabeth, now released from her chair, on my lap.

'Do you come from these parts, Brother'?' I asked, thinking that I had detected a trace of local accent in his speech, but he shook his head.

'I'm from the north, the far north. From the ancient kingdom of Northumbria.'

His tone was abrasive as though I had somehow insulted him with my suggestion that he was from the south, where existence was safer and softer than in those harsher regions, governed solely by the laws of survival.

Margaret asked placatingly, 'Do you tarry long with us in Bristol?'

He shook his head. 'I slept last night with my fellow Dominicans beyond the town, but tonight only Our Lord knows where I shall take my rest.' Simeon crossed himself. "His Will be done.'

Margaret was horrified. 'Surely you'll tarry another night at the friary in the broad meads? It would be most unwise to set forward with the day so advanced and the weather so inclement and, above all, yourself so exhausted from your morning's labours!'

The friar turned his burning eyes upon her. 'What God wills for us we must do without question, nor with any thought for our body's needs.'

I shifted a little uncomfortably at this, causing Elizabeth, who was crooning to herself and making a bed for her wooden doll among the straw, to glance up at me inquiringly. I bent my head and kissed her on one velvety cheek before asking boldly, 'What is your mission from God, Brother?'

Again the eyes glowed like coals in a furnace. 'To bring back sinners into the fold! This is a godless age, Master Chapman, but what can you expect with a king upon the throne who thinks of nothing but bodily pleasures, and a queen whose family are eaten alive by greed? The court is a stinking cesspit of iniquity and only one member of it, My Lord of Gloucester, seems immune from its cupidity and licentiousness. He at least has the sense to stay away, living as he does on his own estates and visiting London as infrequently as possible. His, if report is true, was one of the very few voices raised against this late ignominious débacle in France. The roads of this country are even more unsafe to walk than they were six months ago because of the disbanded troops, who are all working off their frustrated martial spirits by murder and highway robbery.'

There was a great deal that I could have said on that subject had I been so minded, but I kept my counsel. Instead I reminded Brother Simeon that King Edward, far from spending his entire time in 'bodily pleasures', had been travelling the length and breadth of England meting out summary justice to the offenders.

The friar snorted. 'Maybe, when he can tear himself away from the embraces of this new leman of his, Mistress Jane Shore.'

I could not help retorting, 'You appear remarkably well informed.'

'I've come from London,' he hissed, 'where the talk is of nothing else. It seems that Lord Hastings and the King's elder stepson, the Marquess of Dorset, are also besotted by the creature, and are only waiting for His Grace's affections to wane before snapping her up for themselves.' He reached down and laid a claw-like hand on my shoulder. 'You think it wrong for a man of God to be concerned with such things? You fool! How else can I identify the evil which must be overcome? How else can I root out the sins which are destroying men's souls?'

His thin features which, in repose, looked like a parchment mask, were transformed by the light of reforming zeal. I recalled stories of the early Dominican friars who, in their fanatical determination to stamp out heresy, had forced families to testify one against the other, who had burned the unrepentant at the stake and who had even exhumed the bodies of those found guilty after death and burned them also. Their Chief Inquisitor had been Saint Thomas Aquinas, whose words Friar Simeon had quoted in his sermon this morning. Plainly, in the same spirit, he was carrying out his own crusade against lechery and debauchery, the sins which gave him most offence.